CONTEXT:
Sherlock is scared of spiders. Y/N finds this hilarious. (Pre-relationship)
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As well as love, the desire to impress also conquers all fear.
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The kitchen---of almost any home---is usually where things happen. It's the core, a hub, the centre, feeding the dwelling with sustenance from its fridge, its sink, its cupboards like a heart feeds a body with blood.
This is true of 221B, as any one of its slightly disgruntled neighbours---after many years of various bangs, thumps, thuds (and on one occasion: a fizzing noise)---can attest to.
One man, Sherlock Holmes, is responsible for all of these (apart from the times when he has company; usually an angry thug with a thirst for revenge who tries to murder him with one of his own vegetable knives). He's always doing something, staving off boredom with chemical experiments, slightly illegal target practice, and or letting thugs who want to behead him into his house just to pass the time.
It is because of this, the abundance of life, that Y/N had taken to reading at the kitchen table.
She used to read in her bedroom upstairs, but that felt too far away, so she moved to the living room. That still wasn't close enough, so now, whenever she feels the inkling to absorb herself in a fictional realm, she does so at the dining table.
The dining table is not comfortable, as anyone that has ever sat at one for even a minute will be able to tell you. The chairs are made of hard, stubborn wood that---for some unknown reason---always seems to curve at just the wrong place; right where your spine begins arching, the chair's rigid back forces it in the opposite direction. We no longer live in the middle ages; our furniture does not need to be made from misshapen sticks, and yet, that way it remains.
As anyone that has also read a book will be able to tell you, reading tends to be done whilst your limbs conduct some strange, slow form of yoga. You open the book whilst sitting with both feet planted firmly on the floor, your back straight, your arms neatly spreading the novel over your lap. Ten minutes later, you're somehow upside down, legs twisted like a pretzel, with one arm supporting your head by its temple; your body's attempt at getting comfortable. Why does reading come with an array of unnecessarily complicated sitting positions? More things we do not know.
Y/N has been reading for quite a bit more than ten minutes, so her reading position closely resembles that of a frog who's been perched on a too-small lilypad for much longer than it would have liked. She had the good sense to pre-prepare her selected dining room chair with pillows, which managed to make the unyielding flat surfaces marginally more tolerable, but that didn't change the fact that it was a dining room chair.
Sherlock would look up every now and again, take a brief hiatus from staring at colourful blobs through his microscope, jotting down numbers or scrawling words, to observe his flatmate with what could only be described as amusement. It was not just Y/N's more than imaginative arrangement of her own framework that caused a smile to tug at the corners of his lips, but the fact that she'd rather sit here on these horrible chairs, with him, than, well, literally anywhere else.
Even if that did mean losing all sensation from her thighs downwards.
Sherlock didn't even consider himself to be doing anything worth Y/N's time. If he'd been conversing with a client, piecing together clues, or even deciphering a code, maybe then he'd understand Y/N's desire to be close to him. After all, he too has a fear of missing out on anything remotely noteworthy, and action does tend to follow Sherlock Holmes around like a stray cat begging for food. By his side is a good place to be if you're looking for adventure.
But, most of the time when Y/N takes a seat a few chairs down from him; close enough to be a part of whatever he was doing, but not too close to crowd his workspace, she doesn't seem to do so in the hope for 'adventure'. Or even mild stimulation. She just likes to be close to him, which, in a way he doesn't quite yet understand, makes him very pleased.
So he's smiling.
But yes, of course she does also look slightly ridiculous, which was very funny.
She doesn't catch him regarding her, pale silver-like eyes melting with fondness, but she can feel his glances on the side of her face.
At present, Sherlock is lifting fingerprints from various things he'd 'borrowed' from a suspect's car. He'd insisted at the time to Y/N that he was in fact 'borrowing' them, not 'stealing' because he intended to give the items back one day. He pointed out that people, when they steal, don't do that. Y/N counteracted with the fact that, when he lacked permission, there really is no distinction, it really didn't matter if he returned them or not, he's still taking them in the first place which is, in fact, stealing. They'd then debated basic moral principles as Sherlock proceeded to break into the decrepit old Fiat.
The things he 'borrowed' are of no real value to anyone, and are actually in closer resemblance to litter than loot. They're not loot, really. They're barely even a haul. The only way this collection of mismatched items could be called a 'haul' is if it was being described as 'a large group of things', which it certainly was. There was a tub of Vaseline lip balm, a crisp packet, a bottle of Lipton's iced tea, an empty, unmarked glass bottle, a phone charger, a house key, and an almost full-drained lighter. These, and a fair amount of white dust, acetate cards, and tape are spread evenly on the table.
Sherlock quintessentially dedicating his downtime to mediocre cases to pass the hours.
Y/N quintessentially reading and wondering what people called pins-and-needles before pins and needles were invented.
Most evenings at 221B are spent this way, but this one was different, and what separated it from the other 'most evenings' was Sherlock going to the loo.
Or, rather, Sherlock going to the loo then running straight back out again.
Okay, he didn't run, but when Y/N tells the story later she will say he did.
What Sherlock had really done was stand, walk to the little bathroom tucked next to his bedroom, and close the door. Normal. So normal, the movement had barely registered in Y/N's consciousness. But then, not a millisecond after the lock had clicked, it slid back, the door was opened again and Sherlock hastily returned to his seat where he picked up whatever not-stolen object was closest to him and pretended to be doing something with it.
This had caught Y/N's attention and she raised her head from her book to furrow her brows at him. "I thought you needed the bathroom?"
Sherlock gave his best attempt at appearing confused. "No, I'm fine."
Y/N could tell it was an 'attempt' because his features had moved like they were being controlled, rather badly, by strings.
Something had jarred him.
"You ran into the loo and then straight back out again. What's wrong? Did you see a spider?" She'd been joking but something flashed behind his eyes and she was a little taken aback. By the fact that she'd guessed correctly on the first try more than his previously unheard-of fear, admittedly. She should learn not to doubt herself. "Wait, really?"
"It's fine," Sherlock said less than convincingly, busying himself with dusting the lid of the Vaseline tub. A small, white plume filled the air around his now more white than usual hands and began to settle on, well, everything. "I'll just wait until it's gone."
Y/N had to concentrate very hard not to grin. There are few things genuinely seen as scary to Sherlock Holmes, and even fewer things that are seen as scary and can be used as sticks to poke fun at him. You can not hide 'an office-based career' in a man's bed, or chase him around a room with 'boredom'. But you can do both of these things with an arachnid, so all Y/N had to do now was discover if the effects would be worth it.
"...Or you could just remove it?"
Sherlock shakes his head, giving a one-syllable laugh. Nonchalance is the hardest emotion to fake. "No, I'll just wait."
Placing her book down after marking her place, Y/N leans forward a little in her disastrously uncomfortable dining chair. "You don't have to touch it. Just get some paper and a cup and let it crawl---"
Are you aware of the saying 'someone walked over my grave'? It usually follows a violent, unintentional shiver. This is what Sherlock did, couldn't help doing, the brush in his hand sending up another flurry of dust with the movement. "Please stop."
"You're really that scared of spiders?" Y/N was grinning now because that's what you do when you discover your friend has a crippling phobia. You use it as a source of amusement, you exploit it, and you never let them forget it.
Sherlock must know this too because he pulled his nonchalant act even tighter around himself in a desperate attempt at self-defence. "I'm not scared, I'm just..." He mentally searched for the right word. It had to be the right word because one slip of the tongue could mean torment for the foreseeable future. "...weary. It's a perfectly natural instinct designed for our own protection because spiders are venomous---"
"In Australia, yeah." Y/N gave a laugh that Sherlock didn't like the sound of at all.
Why had he teased her about...well everything he'd ever teased her about? He'd only been playing. But, he realised now with a sick feeling, the way she sees it, she's only playing too. He's very rarely on the receiving end of teasing, and even though he's still seconds away from being so, Sherlock decided that he doesn't like it one bit.
"This is England, Sherlock. The most dangerous spider we have here are those ones that crawl into your mouth at night---"
"THEY WHAT?" Oops.
To say that had startled Y/N was an understatement. She just sort of gaped at Sherlock who was now wide-eyed and panicked, caught on her every word like a child who'd just been told of ghosts for the first time. His cheekbones had no colour, and he wasn't moving. Y/N wondered, for a horrible second, if she'd broken him so quickly offered him this nugget of information:
"I was joking! That's a myth."
Sherlock visibly relaxed, momentarily forgetting the onslaught of long-overdue joshing that is rapidly storming in his direction.
Meanwhile, Y/N's brain was recovering from the surprise triggered by her friend's obvious, uncharacteristic display of terror, and beginning to process what this obvious, uncharacteristic display of terror actually means.
In 1966, an animated television short was released, going by the name 'How The Grinch Stole Christmas'. In one particular scene, said Grinch's mouth morphs into a curling, wicked, evil smile so wide it lightly touches the tips of his ears. This is the kind of smile Y/N is now smiling. "Wow, you really are scared of spiders, aren't you? Like, really scared."
Sherlock shifted uncomfortably. "Shut up."
"Are you embarrassed or do you still really need the bathroom?"
A pregnant pause as Sherlock hopefully waited for something to catch fire and give him an excuse to never finish this conversation. "...Both."
Y/N's evil grin faltered. He'd given in so easily, admitted to two embarrassing things rather than just one. He hadn't even tried to stubbornly deny all of them as she had anticipated. She half expected him to storm to his room and lock himself in---pretending to be angry with her when actually he just wanted to be safe from any ammunition he'd accidentally thrown her way.
But he hadn't. He'd owned up. Hesitantly, yes, shamefully, yes, but he'd admitted defeat all the same. He now looked oddly small, sort of hanging his head, flecks of fingerprint powder clinging to his curls, making him appear to have wisps of grey; like early onset of salt and pepper hair.
"Do you want me to get the spider out?" Y/N's mouth had offered gently before she even knew why.
Sherlock had seen enough of the world to treat this kind gesture with caution. Before answering, he turned it over in his mind, analysing it like it was a bomb to be defused. Was this a new tactic? A new approach to see if she could needle out a little more mocking? Or was the offer sincere?
Her features had softened, her sharp smirk dulled to a subtle smile.
"...Yes please."