CONTEXT:
Sherlock can draw. Rather well, it turns out. Y/N didn't know about her friend's uncharacteristic hobby until she accidentally stumbled upon some of his sketches.
_________
It is said that everyone, on average, has about seven secrets. Main secrets, genuine secrets, things they've never even uttered to a best friend or shamefully whispered to a partner.
This story is about a couple of Sherlock's secrets. What is the opposite of a secret? Whatever it is, three of Sherlock's became it on the same day, roughly ten minutes apart.
The word 'secret' brings to mind affairs, twisted kinks, embarrassing moments, and that one thing you don't ever want to think about. In contrast, the three of Sherlock's secrets that this story is about are innocently refreshing.
One of them is that he can draw. Rather well, it turns out. Not only can he draw, he enjoys it. Sketching calms him, and 'sketching' really is the best word to describe his style; quick, darting lines overlapping and overlapping and overlapping until a picture materialises from the chaos. Kind of like a metaphor for the way he sees the world. Why is that a secret? He'll explain later.
The second secret is that he's in love. I won't tell you with whom. You will probably be able to guess.
The third secret sort of intersects the previous two.
...
There are two kinds of people when it comes to keeping something hidden.
The first are very promising when they start off, and become even more promising with every close shave they encounter. Narrow escapes sharpen their caution and cause them to tuck their secret even closer to their bodies than before. Their secrets tend to remain that way until the day they die, and, often, even more days after that.
The second kind seems to go the opposite way. They buckle under the pressure and eventually get lazy. The grip on their secret loosens and loosens until they drop it, naked, for all the world to see. They almost beg for close shaves, for someone else to pry the secret from them so it at least looks like they put up some kind of fight.
There were three times in total that Y/N almost unearthed Sherlock's secret, and one time that she did. The one time that she did occurred because he is very much the second kind of secret keeper.
The only way to become good at drawing is by doing it again and again and again and again, and then repeat those steps for many years. If you love to draw, which Sherlock does, this won't be seen as a chore. In fact, a lot of people draw because they love to draw, and are not even trying to become 'good'. They are then pleasantly surprised when 'goodness' seems to just happen; a pleasing byproduct of their hobby. Sherlock wasn't trying to become 'good' when he picked up a crayon as a toddler, a felt-tip as a child, a pencil as a teen, and (metaphorically) never put it down. He just...likes to draw.
The first time Y/N almost found out about his secret was because of this.
...
"You drink hot chocolate?" Y/N had asked, turning her face to give an inquisitive look at Sherlock who was walking next to her. He was watching a whirlpool of leaves skitter around their feet like brittle ghosts. He'd suggested they visit a cafe Y/N was surprised he knew about; He didn't seem the type to visit a place called the Pink Giraffe. It brought up mental images of lazy days meandering about the London sights, sugar-filled nibbles, and gaggles of friends. All things Sherlock had never really shown an interest in. Apart from the sugar-filled nibbles. Maybe that was why he wanted to go.
"Sometimes. We don't have to, it's just they make really good brownies---"
Of course.
"---and I just thought that because we're nearby---"
"Yeah, that sounds nice." It did sound nice. Anywhere indoors sounded nice. "I can't feel my fingers."
Sherlock moved his arm, the one hanging between them, and for a small second Y/N thought he was going to take her hand.
But he didn't, instead he drew his wallet out from his pocket. It's made of black leather and looks like it's been beaten up. Literally, beaten up; as if it had gotten into a fight once and lost. He doesn't seem to have respect for it or its contents. On the very second day of Y/N having moved in with him, she'd mentioned she was going to go and buy groceries and he'd tossed it at her, along with the digits of his bank account's pin code. Y/N could have taken the plastic and the numbers and never returned. Maybe that was the idea; a test, of sorts. Obviously, she hadn't stolen anything because she's not that kind of person. And, frankly, this experience had only made her new roommate more intriguing. She didn't want to run away with his money, she wanted to stay and get to know him better. So she did. She'd split the shopping bill between them and brought Sherlock home a Cadbury's Marvellous Creations bar. He'd liked that a lot. If it was a test she'd passed with flying colours.
"I'll buy if you order," Sherlock said, sounding pleased that she'd agreed to a snack. Home was too far away to make it there without one, but too close to call a cab without a lingering feeling of laziness. He was rifling through his wallet's contents and several notes peeked out from between the material. The sight of Her Majesty's shiny emblem reminded Y/N of the day the plastic five pound notes were introduced across England. She'd be lying if she said her and Sherlock hadn't spent several minutes holding one under the kitchen tap to see if they really were waterproof.
The cafe he'd suggested they visit was wedged between a bookstore and an apartment building. All three were made of smog-smudged bricks rounded with age, but the exterior of the Pink Giraffe had been cloaked in a thick, magenta spill of paint. 'Spill' is the only correct way of describing the decorator's process. They seemed to have stood on the roof and poured pigment down the cafe's face until it was completely swamped in liquid raspberry.
"Oh! I get it now!" Y/N exclaimed as they approached.
"Get what?"
"Why it's called the Pink Giraffe."
"Because the owner likes the colour pink, and giraffes?" Sherlock offered.
"No, because the building is tall and thin and pink."
"I think you're looking into it too much."
Sherlock held the door open for Y/N, the classically old-fashioned little bell making a delightful sound as if to welcome them. If it were a person, Y/N was sure it would be wearing a top hat that he would have tipped it at her.
Everything about the inside of the Pink Giraffe was warm. (You thought I was going to say 'pink', didn't you? Well, it's that too.) The air was rich and heavy with the tangy scent of roasted coffee beans, an old-fashioned open fireplace at the far end of the room flicked its flaming tongues, trying to taste it. Like the front of the building, the inside was also long and incredibly narrow, the deep wooden floor reaching off into the distance like a corridor rather than a room, cushy armchairs clustered around small tables placed in a crocodile line down one wall. The lights were just industrial-style bulbs hanging from the ceiling, the filaments naked and bare without lamp shades, glowing hot with embarrassment.
Y/N didn't know where to look first. Some of the bookshop next door's stock seemed to have crept through invisible cracks like spiders, stacks of paperback novels and heavy hardbacks having set up home on the various (and all unique) shelves that clung to the walls. Every meter or so, the paper that these walls were covered with changed into a totally new pattern, more zany and colourful than its predecessor. Framed pictures of---well, of everything, really---had been plastered at very much irregular intervals wherever there was space (and, often, where there was not) like extra stamps a child put on a letter to make extra sure it reached Santa before Christmas Eve. The entire establishment looked as if it had been designed by The Mad Hatter from Alice In Wonderland, if he'd been English and Victorian and had access to B and Q.
"I went here with my mum ages ago."
Y/N blinked a few times, having to search through the jungle of colours, patterns, and general chaos of the decor to find who'd spoken to her. It had been Sherlock, standing a little to her left, answering the question Y/N hadn't voiced but he knew she was thinking: 'How did you know about this place?'
"I was showing her around London and it started to rain so she suggested we go in here."
"Your mum seems cool."
He hummed, not really sure what to say to that. 'Cool' isn't exactly a word he'd use when describing Mrs Holmes, but, then again, name one son that does think his mum is cool. "I complained at the time, but I keep coming back anyway because---as I said---the brownies are good."
"Yeah, you mentioned. Hey, I think that seat is free, you should go get it before anyone nabs it."
Sherlock followed the line of Y/N's coat-covered arm to see where she was pointing; two squat little armchairs right at the opposite end of the room beneath a rather proud looking portrait of what appeared to be a meerkat in a wedding dress. "Here." He transferred some money to her hands. They really were cold. He wanted to take them in his own and heat them up. "Could you order me a brownie and a hot chocolate? They put cream on it if you ask."
Y/N was smiling at him but he didn't know what kind of smile it was. "Sure. Now quick, that couple looks like they want to take our seats."
...
Sherlock settled down into a chair that he was fairly certain was hand-made, and shrugged off his coat. Y/N was still in the queue to order, slightly crushed between a young woman with electric blue hair, and a tall old man who was sagging and wrinkled as if time had wrung him out. Y/N wasn't paying them much attention, though. She was staring at the multitudinous array of cakes and biscuits that filled the paisstire display next to the till. Each one was like a little work of art. Not the kind of art you find in upscale galleries full of perfect lines and exact proportions. Real art, with little personal-touches and mistakes. They were good mistakes, in Sherlock's mind. Too much caramel seeping out of the millionaire's shortbreads. A disproportionate chocolate chip to dough ratio in the cookies. Profiteroles like overstuffed pillows, fit to burst with cream. It was as if the bakers were eccentric millionaires who didn't give a toss about making a profit. Maybe they are?
The tables were decked with extravagances too; books to read, magazines to flick though, a little bowl of mints, a jar of sugar cubes. Sherlock reached out to take one, with the intent of placing it under his tongue to suck, but changed his mind at the last second and took a paper napkin instead. Someone had left a Biro on top of a copy of BBC Science Focus from last August. Picking it up and drawing an experimental scribble on one corner of the napkin, Sherlock angled his chair just enough to have a clear yet not-so-obvious view of the rest of the room. Of one part of the room in particular. The part where Y/N was currently admiring a plate of cupcakes though the sneeze-guard. The corners of her lips were tugged gently up in a smile she probably didn't know she was giving the world. This is what Sherlock sketched first. That subtle curve of amused contentment.
He didn't know why he'd done it, but by the time Y/N approached the table, carefully supporting a tray of goodies, Sherlock had completed an ink illustration of her waiting in line to be served.
The Biro he'd found had been on its metaphorical last legs, the nib clogging every now and again with hardened ink, but that hadn't mattered. He'd used the sudden rushes of black pigment as shadows, the dry spells for areas that warranted more careful shading, the times when it worked perfectly to delicately etch the folds of her clothes, the creases in her cheeks as she thanked the waitress.
"You were not lying about the brownies," Y/N said as she set the tray down on the table.
Sherlock had stuffed the napkin he'd drawn on into his pocket, hoping Y/N just assumed he'd used it as a tissue or something. This isn't the first time he'd done a quick little sketch of his best friend, and it wouldn't be the first time he shows her the final results either.
She doesn't even know he can draw. No one does, really, apart from those that had lived in his house while he'd been growing up. For over eighteen years his parents had put his drawings on the fridge with a magnet. For over eighteen years his brother had called them a 'waste of time'. That does something to a person. Now Sherlock keeps his waste-of-times to himself. Especially when his waste-of-times are pictures of his female flatmate, who had definitely not given him permission to stare at her as he carefully inks every detail of her face onto serviettes.
"I didn't even ask for it to come with chocolate sauce, they just kept pouring it on and I was standing there, like, 'am I supposed to say 'when' or something?'" Y/N pushed Sherlock's plate under his nose , bringing him back to earth. The crockery was decorated with patterns like those you chalk onto your doorstep during Diwali, not that Sherlock had a very good view of them under all the aforementioned chocolate sauce.
His mouth had started watering and Y/N giggled at him from across the table. "I should have helped you carry the tray over," he apologised, cutting off a wedge of his brownie with the miniscule cake knife that came with it. The handle was decorated with intricate swirling patterns much like those he imagined adorned Queen Elizabeth's cake knives. Maybe it had been Queen Elizabeth's. One of them, anyway. This cafe, afterall, was full of a surreal amount of kooky antiques.
"No, you were doing the very important job of saving our table. That older guy definitely had his eyes on it before you sat down."
"Does that make us bad people? Because we nicked a seat from an old man?" Sherlock dragged the wedge of brownie around his plate, trying to encourage its spongy consistency to soak up as much sauce as possible.
Y/N had ordered a treat for herself too but set it aside, choosing to first wrap her hands around her hot drink, the tips of her fingers turning as pink as the walls as her blood cells rushed to soak up the warmth. "No, it's first come first served, finders keeper, survival of the fittest, all that stuff David Attenborough talks about."
"I think that law only applies in the wilderness, not independent coffee shops in central London."
"What do you know about the wilderness?"
"I'll have you know," Sherlock said around a mouthful of brownie, waving his cake fork like a pointer professors use to direct their student's attentions to various places on a blackboard. "I have been camping."
She raised her eyebrows. "Have you, now?"
"Yes, with my family, in Wales, when I was seven."
"I can't imagine your brother in a tent."
He went a little pink. "Well, we didn't actually get to spend much time in the tent; it started hailing so we found a Holiday Inn. But I did have to hike to the Holiday Inn."
"I think it only counts as hiking if you're going uphill."
"Oh." He didn't have to see her face to know she was smiling at him.
"You have cream on your nose."
He did have cream on his nose. And chocolate sauce on his lips, and his fingers were sticky from holding his glass of molten chocolate which had been topped with so much cream little dribbles of it had trickled down the sides. He didn't care. Everything tasted too good to care.
"Sorry, this is the last napkin," Y/N said as she handed him the remaining paper towel.
Without thinking, Sherlock drew the one he'd hidden in his trouser pocket out and dabbed at his face. "You have it, I took this one earlier."
For some reason, Y/N laughed at him.
"What?"
"It looks like your moustache is a ghost."
"I don't have a moustache."
"You do now. You have ink on your lip."
Sherlock's stomach turned over, the brownie he'd eaten doing a less than graceful summerault. Had she seen the napkin? Well, obviously she'd seen the napkin, rather, had she seen what was on the napkin (and now also smudged across Sherlock's face). If she had she would have brought it up, right? And if he'd managed to smudge it across his lip that must mean the picture was facing him, not her.
Trying to be discrete, Sherlock forced a chuckle, ignoring his ghost moustache and starting on cleaning up his hot-chocolate-coated glass instead. The sooner he'd used the napkin for its intended purpose the sooner he could scrunch it into a ball and hide it again---although he didn't know where. It was moist by now, the thought of cramming it back into his trousers was not exactly appealing.
"Why's there ink on the napkin?" Y/N asked, smoothly swapping her now-empty dessert plate for her drink, shuffling the saucers around like a magician about to ask you which one a ball is under, only to lift them up to reveal it had been behind your ear the whole time. "Did you get sudden inspiration for a haiku?" She was joking, and he was grateful for the tone because it gave him something to mirror.
In a way he hoped was equally lighthearted: "No, it was a shopping list."
The jocund rise to Y/N's voice died and was replaced by bemusement, her cake fork pausing just before reaching her mouth. "Since when do you need to write a shopping list?"
Sherlock shrugged because he didn't know what to say to that. Y/N had, more than once, walked in on him roasting eyeballs over a bunsen burner at the kitchen table, and said nothing. He does something normal, like write a shopping list, and that's what she finds strange? Although, he is him. So maybe it is.
"Is your food nice?" He asked, a sorry attempt to change the subject. He'd managed to turn the napkin in his hand so was mopping his glass with the side the drawing was on. The sugar had crystallized into gummy trails, running down onto the tabletop and they caught the papery fibers, ripping little pieces off and chewing them into gluey blobs.
This made Sherlerlock feel somewhat conflicted. He was glad the sketch was being eaten, smeared around until the picture was just an unrecognisable storm of ink and sucrose. That was better than Y/N possibly seeing it, and the inevitable bombardment of questions that would be flusteredly thrown his way.
However, it had been a nice picture.
...
They stayed for a few minutes more after they'd finished their drinks, a mix of reluctance to brave the cold, and a rapidly growing fondness for the quirky little cafe keeping them in their seats.
Y/N hadn't seen the drawing Sherlock had done of her while she'd been in the queue, but he didn't know that. He could only guess---from the way she hadn't brought it up---that he'd narrowly escaped, his hobby free to live another day in the dark.
Sherlock had wiped at his glass, the table, his hands, and only stopped when the napkin was a mutated, amorphous wreck, which he left on the plate that had once held his brownie. There was no chance of anyone figuring out what that spattering of ink had been. If anything, it just looked like a pen had exploded.
Even after all the times he'd had been to the Pink Giraffe, and how long he'd just spent there now, Sherlock still kept finding new things to look at. The decor reminded him a little of 221B; Nineteenth century wallpaper, several frames that housed taxidermied butterflies rather than photographs, mismatched furniture placed pretty much anywhere. Like him, the owners had probably gotten most of their belongings from antique stores. Or had items passed down from friends and relatives who couldn't be bothered to donate to said antique stores.
Despite this plethora of sights, Y/N's eyes had attentively followed Sherlock as he cleaned up, for the entire time he'd been doing it, as if he was a particularly interesting television show. He'd licked his finger (to rub off his ink moustache) and she'd turned the same pink as the walls. Sherlock had wondered what it had meant. He'd also thought it had been extremely endearing, and, despite the constant, nagging feeling that he's toeing some kind of line, took a quick mental picture of that expression with the intent of putting it onto paper later. He wanted to capture it just in case he never got to see it again. Maybe he'd use coloured pencils this time, so he could record the blush that had suffused her cheeks.