The day passed as usual. When Y/N had moved into 221B it had become customary for her (much to Sherlock's delight) to assist him with cases. However, he had none to solve, at present, but wished he did because he would have been more than glad of the distraction.
He couldn't stop thinking about Y/N.
Sherlock had been to weddings before, overheard couples, seen movies, and he'd always sneered whenever someone would say they can't stop thinking about their partner. He'd look down his nose at them as if they were juvenile and silly, as if it was their fault. He knew now---now that he was experiencing it for himself---that it very much was not their fault, and he'd been unfair to judge them so harshly. Now, the way he saw it, they were all victims, at the mercy of a horrible betrayal by their own bodies.
Whatever he thought about, wherever he looked, his brain somehow found a way to link it back to his best friend.
He tried catching up on paperwork at his desk, but got distracted by Y/N's doodles, her drawing supplies and half-finished artwork spread over his things and didn't have the heart to move them.
He experimented with putting various crumbs leftover from breakfast under his microscope, but kept almost calling Y/N over to come and look how pretty sugar crystals were up close, or how similar bread looks to bark.
He opened the curtains, observing the sodden streets below and remembered all the times he and Y/N had walked through bouts of rain, how it made her cheeks rosy, and that one time she'd tucked herself into his coat to shelter when she'd forgotten her own. Her little body pressed up against his chest, his arms hesitantly coming around her, making him feel big and protective---
Hell, he couldn't even just pace irritably because objects around the flat that were her favourite colour caught his attention and wouldn't let go.
Y/N, however, seemed very much at peace. She had been reading for most of the day, having claimed Sherlock's chair at some time around Ten, and barely moving since. Sherlock was glad of this for two reasons, one being...
He always got a pleasant warm feeling in his chest whenever Y/N used anything that belonged to him, like when she'd used his coat as shelter. It was now half One, so he'd been experiencing this glow for about three and a half hours. He hadn't experienced prolonged happiness very much in his life, and now that he was---no matter how silly he saw its origin---he liked it.
And two: Reading meant sitting mostly still and not talking, which was good. Well, Sherlock would actually like her to talk to him very much, expressing herself with hand gestures and her cute little Y/N-isms that he'd become so bafflingly fond of, but not right now. Not when he was trying to get her out of his head, to fall out of love with her.
This morning had been a wakeup call for him, a bucket of ice water shocking him back into reality. When he'd first fallen in love with Y/N he had guiltily hoped that one day...maybe just one day he might get up the courage to tell her about his feelings. And maybe then she'd perhaps say she felt the same way about him. And she'd kiss him and take him to bed and from that day on introduce him as her boyfriend to everyone that she meets.
It was obvious to him now that that would never happen; earlier, her cheeks red with anger, her inability to even look at him---his hopes of romance had instantaneously evaporated.
...
Around Three in the afternoon, Y/N suggested they go to a little cafe they often frequent, about half an hours walk away, just to get out of the house. Sherlock agreed because he hoped being outside would give his mind something else to focus on, and he liked the brownies they sold there.
It was still raining, in a classically English way, fat, lazy drops of water landing dully on their umbrellas as they dodged puddles, splashes from cars driving through puddles, and other people dodging puddles. Sherlock wasn't complaining, though, and nor was any other British person; rain was good. Rain gave you something to talk about without having to talk about anything at all; small talk, people called it, and for the first time in his life Sherlock was glad to make use of it.
"A drop of rain just went down the back of my neck," He observed aloud, when what he really wanted to say was: 'Did you enjoy last night's cuddle at all? Even just a tiny bit?'
"I just got one in my eye," Y/N answered, but Sherlock wished she'd said: 'Yes, I loved it, I was just too shy to ask if I could stay.'
"I really should buy a more waterproof coat. I don't know why I insist on wearing this one all year round. It's soaked through," said Sherlock, which meant: 'You definitely could have stayed. You should come and sleep with me again tonight, if you want.'
"I need a new umbrella. This one has a broken rib." Which he wanted to mean: 'Would you really like me to?'
Sherlock stayed silent and thought to himself: 'More than anything in the world.'
...
They arrived at the cafe so dripping wet they must have looked like they swam up the Thames to get there. Luckily, there weren't many other people brave enough to tackle the weather, and the ones that were looked to be in just about the same state.
Sherlock waited with Y/N at the till, offering to pay for his half of the bill but she wouldn't hear of it, then offering to carry the tray for her to their favourite spot by the window, but she wouldn't hear of that either. Sherlock had always felt a certain pride in the way just his general aura and mood could easily slot the people around him into place; make it clear that he was in charge of this room, this situation, and they would usually just meekly accept it. Not with Y/N, though. Y/N just saw him as her... buddy. Her mate. Someone she would playfully punch on the arm, give him a light shove in the side when they're messing around, someone she could mess around with.
No one else seemed to see him as someone they could mess around with. Sherlock wished they would, it gets boring having to act so formally all the time. A lot of things get boring, he found. Like pretending you think relationships are stupid, and pretending to think movies are a waste of time, and that enjoying things that other people enjoy is a bad thing. Like hot chocolate. He's drinking a hot chocolate now, because it's a drink he secretly adores, and he knows Y/N wouldn't make fun of him for that. But if Mycroft was here he definitely would, and probably make some jab about how his little brother preferring a sweet sugar-filled drink to black coffee is a perfect metaphor for his life. Or something.
Y/N had ordered a millionaire shortbread, and Sherlock the brownie he'd been looking forward to since Y/N mentioned they go here in the first place. Y/N was still being abnormally quiet since that morning, Sherlock noted with a painful pang in his chest. He'd like to say he regretted not waking her last night, regretted wrapping himself about her, but that would be a lie. Despite how creepy he knew it sounded, and how it made his insides twist in on themselves in self-disgust, he didn't one-hundred per-cent regret it. Yes, he was horrified he'd made Y/N uncomfortable, but he was also glad that he'd managed to share a bed with someone he likes---the only person he likes---at least once in his life. He just wished time would go faster and start healing her wounds so they could go back to how they used to be; two best friends, no awkward rift between them.
For instance, usually, they would play a game called 'First One'. It was simple, really, easy if you knew what you were looking out for; you both stare out the window at the soaking Londoners passing by the cafe and try to be the first one to spot a pre-specified trait. For example, one person would say 'First one to spot...someone that owns a dog' and you'd both have to be the first to point out a person who was walking a dog, or had dog hair on their clothes, or a keychain saying 'I love my Dalmatian'---or whatever else you could see that indicated they owned a doggo. Whoever wins picks the next trait you have to spot.
Usually, the game would end over a dispute: 'You don't know that just because his shoes had mud on them that he's from the countryside! They could be second hand, or he could be borrowing them, or he has a community garden, or---' Something like that. Sherlock liked this part of the game more than the game itself because it always led to both of them having a rather fun pretend argument, and Y/N messing around with him in that I-see-us-as-equals way that other people just don't.
They weren't playing 'First One' now, though. They weren't playing anything, weren't even talking, and they hadn't properly since yesterday.
Sherlock had finished his drink and cake before Y/N and was now (accidentally) watching her try to stop trickling strands of caramel stick to her lips as she ate her millionaire shortbread. He subconsciously moistened his own lips, watching the sugar glisten on her mouth, and she noticed, raising an eyebrow.
"What are you looking at me like that for?"
He flushed a little, glad for the clouds darkening the sky so she (hopefully) couldn't see the colour of his cheekbones. "Like what?"
"I don't know. You're just looking at me oddly."
He didn't know how to reply to that, and he didn't trust himself to move, because instead of speaking, he thought he would probably be more likely to accidentally kiss her, just to lick that distracting sugary substance from her lips.
Y/N eyed his face, which was probably written with longing, and then down at her biscuit, an 'ah, I get it' expression tugging her lips. "You want some?" She asked, offering it to him.
Sherlock held in his surprise, because he hadn't been gazing desirously at the food. But he nodded all the same, and to his delight Y/N held the snack to his mouth so he could take a bite, pulling it away from his teeth after they'd delicately closed on it. He hummed, the shortbread surprisingly nice, and she chuckled, grinning, then leaned over the table and wiped the corner of his lips with her thumb. He went rigid, the feeling of her touching his face and taking care of him making little thrills of excitement shoot through his midsection
"You have some on your mouth," Y/N explained what she was doing distractedly, then placed her thumb between her own lips, licking the syrup away, the way she moved her tongue over the digit making Sherlock stare at her.
When his mind had dragged itself away from the thoughts he hoped no one would ever find out he had had, he wondered if they were out of the metaphorical storm. Y/N was talking to him, being friendly, almost as if last night had never happened. He began to relax back into his chair, wondering what he should pick for the game of 'First One' he was about to suggest starting---
"By the way, I'm going out tonight," Y/N said, suddenly.
Sherlock said nothing, waiting for her to continue. She didn't usually 'go out'. She prefered to stay in in the evenings, usually tucked up with a good book, doing some form of art, watching her favourite TV show---homey things, introverted things. Sherlock liked that about her; she was usually at home, and so was he, which meant she was with him. He liked her being there.
"I've got a date."
A lump formed in Sherlock's throat, the same feeling coming over him that he had once when a criminal he was wrestling had wrapped a power cord around his neck. "A date as in a date date, or a 'I need to meet a colleague on this specific day' kind of date?"
Y/N was tearing her napkin into small pieces absently. "Well, he is a colleague. But it's the first kind of date. Like, a date date."