"Hi, Y/N, at least you're dressed and getting on with the day." Greg gave her a warm smile which she returned through lips thin from holding in laughter at the look on Sherlock's face; he was glaring at the detective inspector, clearly affronted.
"You sound like my mother."
Greg had brought with him a thick bundle of papers and was now flicking through them with well-practised ease to find a specific page. "I've met your mother, a wonderful woman, that's a compliment."
Sherlock had opened his mouth to answer but Lestrade was already continuing:
"Anyway, the reason I came over is that I have something that might be of interest to you. Especially you, Sherlock."
Y/N and Sherlock exchanged a look. Y/N's look had meant:
'Unless I was very wrong about your sexuality, and you're an incredibly good actor, nothing Lestrade could give you is of interest right now, is it?'
And Sherlock's look had meant: 'There's only one thing of interest to me at this second and I can guarantee it's not in that pile of papers'.
Lestrade, luckily, seemed completely blind to this silent conversation because he was still hunting through his wedge of documents and eventually found the one he was looking for. Y/N moved up to the vacant chair at Sherlock's right, to get a closer look as Greg slid the paper over to their side of the table. Sherlock tried to ignore the fact that Y/N was so close he could smell her shampoo, and instead attempted to focus on the image before him.
It was an extremely close up photograph of someone wearing a necklace blown up to fill the entire sheet of A4. The necklace was clearly expensive, every centimetre of it encrusted with---what would be, if it wasn't printed with cheap photocopier ink---shining diamonds. The piece was a choker, fitting snugly around the neck of a woman with defined collarbones and dusky skin which contrasted with the little tendrils of yet more jewels that branched off from the front of the necklace like rays from a sun. The design was intricate and would be rather beautiful had someone's thumb not obviously smudged the photo, and the piece itself actually been in focus.
"This woman's necklace was stolen from The White Hotel," Lestrade explained, sliding another sheet over the top of that one. This picture, too, was of jewellery---a simple pearl earring worn by a woman with dark, choppy hair. It was also cropped from a photograph, the woman's ear enlarged to a point of slight pixelation. "This lady's earrings were taken as well. Different guests, different rooms." He looked up at Sherlock, smiling slightly. Clearly this was the part that was supposed to be 'of interest': "Same floor, though."
Sherlock lazily arched an eyebrow.
Lestrade's joy faltered and he cleared his throat, hurrying on like a performer afraid of losing his audience. He placed another picture down. Then another. And another. "All of these were taken from guest's rooms at The White Hotel on Tuesday night. We've got a watch, some diamond cufflinks, a bracelet---as you can see---plus thousands in cash and more jewellery---but these are the only ones we have pictures of. It was all taken from the fourth floor," he concluded with relish, leaning back in his chair like someone that had just told a particularly good ghost story and was ready to revel in the reactions of his peers.
His peers didn't react, though, maybe because they hadn't realised they should. Y/N was absently examining a burn mark in the table, and Sherlock continued eating his breakfast. He had a habit of drinking all the milk first, then consuming the cereal (which had gone soft by that point). He was still at the milk-drinking stage and gave up trying to spoon it, bringing the bowl to his lips as if it was soup instead.
Lestrade cleared his throat and Sherlock rolled his eyes so far back into his head he probably got a very good look at his occipital bone.
"Alright, Mum, don't give me a lecture on table manners, this is my flat so if I want to---"
"I don't care about how you eat cereal, Sherlock! I care about the case! Over twenty thousand pounds of goods stolen from a hotel, and it's all from the same floor."
"You're saying that like it means something," Sherlock said around his tongue that was attempting to lick away his milk moustache.
"It does mean something!" Lestrade exclaimed. He looked like a maths teacher exasperatedly trying to educate a group of seven-year-olds on fractions. He took a sip of his tea and changed tactics, swapping his tone to a more patient one: "Only one floor was hit, the one at the top of the building. We have no clues or leads."
When Y/N and Sherlock still looked baffled he pinched the bridge of his nose between his finger and thumb.
People seem to do that a lot around Sherlock, Sherlock realised. It kind of looked like Greg was trying to recharge himself; the cradle his finger and thumb made and the way the bridge of his nose slotted into it reminded the detective of one of those hand-held hoovers you mount on a wall. He had to try hard not to giggle. "And you're telling me because...?"
Sighing the sigh of a man who was very, very tired: "I'm telling you because don't you think it's interesting? Why steal from just one floor? We checked the security tapes and there was nothing there. No one went in or out of the windows, obviously, because---well, as I said---the rooms were on the fourth level of the building. Someone would have noticed, and there's no ladder long enough to get up there. The windows were locked, there's no evidence of a break-in at all."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes as if Lestrade's point was a picture in a gallery that he knew was a painting but he didn't quite know what of. "...Okay?"
Greg was clearly irked now. "God, Sherlock, are you trying to wind me up, or are you still half asleep?"
"That was uncalled for," Y/N interjected quietly from the sidelines.
Flushing: "Yes. Yes, it was. Sorry. You just don't seem very switched on today."
"I did just wake up, what do you expect?"
"You said you hadn't been sleeping."
"I lied."
Lestrade filled his lungs with oxygen, decided that trying to be whimsical was getting him nowhere and dropped the act. "Look, just tell me what you think about the case, Sherlock, please. That's what I came over here for."
A light switched on behind the detective's eyes as the metaphorical gallery painting suddenly made sense to him. "Oh, I see! You want me to solve it for you!" He gave a little chuckle, the fact of whether it had been at himself for taking so long to figure out Greg's intentions, or that Greg needed his help, was debatable. "You should have said." Shoving the last of his breakfast in his mouth, Sherlock distractedly left his bowl in the sink and started tugging Y/N---who had got up to get something to drink---towards his room. "Obviously it was one of the staff."
"Hey, wait, you're leaving me here?"
Sherlock halted abruptly, his hand letting go of Y/N's and falling limply by his side. He turned back to the detective inspector who was watching them with his brows so furrowed they were now just one stubby monobrow of confusion. "...Yes? I thought we were done."
'Thought and hoped,' a little voice in his head muttered.
"Well, you thought wrong. We also assumed it was one of the staff that did it; we're not stupid, despite what you may think. However, everyone that works at the hotel has alibis, and there was no evidence against any of them so even if it was one of them we couldn't prove it. Which is why we wanted your help. Well, actually no one wanted your help but I thought I'd come get you anyway because usually you're bored out of your mind and jump at stuff like this. I thought you'd be all over it; a classic jewellery robbery, only the rooms on the top floor, no traces left behind---"
Sherlock: "But there are traces, you're just blind---"
"Well, maybe we are because we can't find them. So I'm standing there, surrounded by scared guests, worried staff, and a very angry hotel manager and I wonder: who do I know that would be able to find traces? Who do I know that would not only be happy to take this case off my back, but also be able to solve it in two minutes flat? You. So I come over here, under the impression it'll be right up your street, only to find that you seem...disinterested." If Lestrade was better at his job he would have noticed Sherlock's adam's apple bob, a tender---best left ignored---nerve having been touched.
That nerve was that Sherlock had realised this too---how his interest in cases seems to have...evaporated? Or has it been fizzling out over the past few months and he'd just not noticed? Not wanted to notice. It seems to have disappeared, but there's no gaping hole in his life where it used to be. His interest in cases has been replaced by an interest in Y/N. It was obvious to him now, but he'd put off thinking about it because...well because it scared him.
To add insult to injury, Greg carried on: "You aren't acting as if you care at all. I mean, I know dull cases don't catch your attention, but this one isn't dull. And you're acting odd. Well, odder than usual." He smiled to show he meant it in a friendly way, but it was obvious the matter was not casual to him. He was still holding Sherlock under a scrutinous stare, the cogs in his brain chugging away as he tried to figure out what had changed.
Sherlock would have made a friendly joke in return about how that's the most work he's ever seen those cogs do---would have---if the work they were doing wasn't trying to deduce him. He almost shivered, the probing way the older man's eyes were roving over his, trying to read his thoughts making him feel naked. And not in a fun way. He'd really like to be naked again. Naked with Y/N. The mental image of what they could get up to if Lestrade just left them alone made heat rise to the back of his neck. "I'm not acting odd. The case is dull, even if you think it isn't." He'd stood a little straighter, adding that bored undertone to his voice but Greg had heard it before, knew it was added, and fell for none of it.
"It is interesting and you know it. Why did you tug Y/N away a second ago? Why don't you care about---"
"I do care!" The burning feeling at the back of Sherlock's neck got worse but it wasn't from excited arousal anymore. Now it was from the fact that Greg was essentially stabbing that earlier-mentioned tender nerve with every word he said.
"Then help us solve it."
Sherlock chewed his bottom lip. "Okay. Give me the address and we'll follow you in a cab."
...
"We could have told him we were together if you really wanted to, you know." Y/N said, turning to Sherlock as soon as Lestrade had left the apartment. "Dating in secret is fun but not if you end up getting lectured on waking up late, and have to take cases you don't want to."
Sherlock was still nibbling his lip and Y/N reached up, cupping the side of his face with her hand and ran her thumb over his mouth. His lips fell open, the chewed one probably glad to have been freed. Sherlock sighed. "I don't mind the lecturing. People are always telling me to conform to mainstream society. I just didn't like how he said I don't care about the case."
"So you did want to take it?" Y/N clearly seemed confused. Probably because that contradicted with the way Sherlock had waved it off so quickly. And barely even glanced at the photos Greg had brought. And literally said out loud that it was boring.
"Honestly? ...No. I don't care about the case at all. That's what's bothering me." He ran a hand through his still-damp curls. "I used to solve crimes because I wanted that thrill...but now I have a new kind of thrill, a better kind. And I can't help thinking...what if this is how I am now? What if I can't find interest in my job anymore, you know? What if this case is just the beginning?" He began raising a hand to his face as if to nibble on a nail but Y/N kissed the corner of his mouth and the hand fell back to his side. Y/N's lips were better at easing his anxiety than nail-biting ever could be. He turned his head to catch them and she kissed back, slowly, the gesture instantly soothing him.
When Y/N pulled away Sherlock felt better. A bit better, anyway. The corner of his lips tugged into a smile; who knew kissing had so many uses? And that there were so many different types? He was about to consider finding and documenting all of them, then he remembered that that was exactly what had made him worried in the first place.
"I understand why you're worried, but I don't think being in a relationship will actually change as much of your life as you think it will. So far all it's changed is the fact that you don't wake up alone anymore. You finding cases boring isn't a new thing, is it? There's always been cases you didn't care about. Just because this one is dull that doesn't mean your whole job is suddenly boring to you."
She sounded so sure of herself, her argument was so sound and logical, that Sherlock almost believed her.
"But you heard Lestrade. That kind of case is usually the kind I'd be fascinated in; no leads, no suspects, no evidence. What if every case is like that now? I'll have to keep being a detective because there's nothing else I can do." He tensed as he realised something and he was sure Y/N could feel it where she was now holding his waist. He was grateful for her grip; it was grounding, the only thing preventing him from becoming properly sucked into a spiral of anxiety. "What if...what if I can't even solve crimes now that I'm so...distracted?"
Y/N laughed, the sound splitting the worry-filled air and Sherlock frowned down at her.
"What's so funny?"
"You." She shook her head, trying to get her giggles under control. "This is really bothering you, isn't it?"
Sherlock clearly couldn't find the humour of the situation. "Yes. It should bother you too, I might be out of work---"
This only made Y/N laugh harder. "You're not going to be out of work, you idiot." She noted his expression and pulled him down into a hug. He accepted it, confused. "You can still deduce just fine, you can still solve crimes better than pretty much anyone in England, and for Christ's sake, you're not 'distracted' or however you put it." Y/N broke the hug and gave Sherlock a friendly shove.
He just blinked at her. "I'm not?"
"No, you're not. You're just in love, and that's okay. It won't get in the way of anything important. If anything, it will be a benefit rather than a hindrance. We build bonds with other people not to hold us back but to save us if we fall, or help us climb higher. You had sex for the first time last night, it's only natural that that's all you can think about for a day or two. Honestly, Sherlock, you're fine." Y/N waited patiently while he processed this information.
It took a little while but then he smiled. "You think?"
"I know." She kissed him again, running her fingers through his hair, breaking the kiss when he moaned. "No, come on. You said we'd follow Lestrade in a cab; he's probably wondering where we are." As Y/N started to move away to get ready to leave, Sherlock gently took her wrist.
His pale eyes, creased with a smirk, slid over her and Y/N gazed inquisitively back.
"What?"
"I just realised that you're right.
"About?"
Coyly, in that tone he'd tried and very much liked when they'd been in bed just half an hour ago: "My power to deduce. You're right, I haven't lost it."
"No?"
"Nope," popping the 'p'. "Your heart rate, your pupils, your flushed cheeks..." His smirk widened to a grin. "I deduce that you're wishing I hadn't agreed to that case. Am I right?" Before she could answer, Sherlock slipped into his coat in one smooth motion. "This is payback. For teasing me earlier." He gave her a wicked grin that he knew made her weak in the knees. "Now get your coat on, it's cold out there and there's a crime that needs solving."