Sherlock had been lying there for barely two and a half minutes before the door opened.
He knew it was Y/N, because he recognised the rhythm of her footsteps as she crossed over to the bed. They made a soft sound on the carpet---as if they're socked---she must have gotten dressed.
Sherlock waited for her to say something, his eyes shut and facing the wall. Without meaning to, he'd pretend to be asleep. Perhaps it's better that way, he can guess Y/N's mood by how she chooses to wake him. He'll put on a show while he adjusts himself accordingly---yawning, stretching, pretending to wake blearily from a nap, and then...?
He didn't need to contemplate this, however, because something unexpected happened; the mattress dipped slightly, as Y/N climbed onto the bed.
Before Sherlock could assemble his bearings, she pulled off his duvet and took his shoulders.
Bewildered, yet, admittedly intrigued, he let her push him over onto his back, and watched---his eyes being very much open now---as she put one knee over him.
His breath caught as Y/N straddled his middle. "What are you doing?"
"Making sure you don't run away again."
"I didn't run away, I was having a shower," he retaliated defensively, but it was a lie and they both knew it.
It made the corner of Y/N's lip twitch into a smile, which looked out of place in her otherwise slightly nervous expression. She isn't on his hips---which, for his dignity's sake, Sherlock is glad for---she's a little further up than that, mostly on his stomach. It's not a bad feeling, quite the contrary; it's good. Very good. Too good.
Like a slow computer, his brain finally processed her words. "Why would I run away?" Is she going to give him a reason to run away?
"Because I want to try something, but every time we get close to the subject you freak out."
"What subject?"
"Can I?"
"Can you what?"
"Try something."
Every attempt Sherlock made at guessing what she wants to try drew up a disappointing blank. Maybe because this situation is most unusual---their current position utterly foreign and new---so who knows how it will play out. Or maybe because of their current position; having Y/N this close, on top of him, is making it incredibly difficult for Sherlock to focus on anything else.
He nodded anyway.
Y/N's throat bobbed as she swallowed, and, tentatively, she extended one hand.
Sherlock watched it curiously. He feels he should---he wants to---do something with his own hands, but he isn't sure what, so he just left them on the covers.
Y/N's palm has settled on his chest, in the centre of it. Then, seeing as he didn't ask her to stop, she slowly let her fingers splay themselves across his sternum.
That prickling thing happened immediately; a burst of light between Sherlock's lungs; tongues of fire lapping at the underside of his ribs, tickling them. He bet Y/N can feel his heart fluttering away below his pyjama top. The tips of his ears went pink, contrasting heavily with his white pillowcase and alabaster skin.
Of course Y/N saw, her eyes were flicking over his face. They'd narrowed as if in incredulity, and she said carefully: "...You meant it. Didn't you?"
"Meant what?" He exhaled as she removed her hand from his chest, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in. It's easier to pay attention to what she's saying when she's not caressing him. He missed the warmth of it, though. Please put it back.
"That you liked it. Sharing a bed with me. And that you think I'm pretty."
There's no point in denying it, and definitely no way he can do so convincingly, so Sherlock just nodded again. He had meant it, he still means it; even now as Y/N is trapping him, as he's unsure of what exactly is going on; he's still just happy to have her on his bed.
And, if he's completely honest with himself, he actually likes the trapping.
"I think you're pretty too."
Sherlock's brain did something peculiar, then, a sort of double-take, as if there had been a glitch in the matrix.
Y/N's cheeks are red. "Or handsome. Attractive. Whatever."
Yes, he had heard her right. And her pupils are all big, swelled wells of ink that don't seem to be able to settle on anything. They keep finding Sherlock's eyes, then darting away, as if startled by the transparency of them, the sharpness of his gaze.
It's very concentrated right now, as though his perception is a camera lens brought into focus. He's paying attention all of a sudden, on full alert---despite the rather distracting, pleasing pressure of a pretty woman straddling his waist.
The corner of his lip twitched. Sceptically: "You do?"
"Yes."
There was a moment of silence, heavy and laden with thought and tension.
Then, his mouth curving with amusement at her little squeak of surprise, Sherlock took Y/N's shoulders and pushed her down onto the bed.
She looked up at him from the mattress, and he's crouched over her now, smiling down at her wolfishly---although that part is completely by accident.
Sherlock isn't resting his full weight on her---for several reasons. One of them is because she looks so utterly small underneath him, her waist fitting easily between his thighs, his broad hands smothering the knotted bones of her shoulders. He remembered how it had felt to clutch her little body to his chest last night, the tiny, frantic beating of her heart---
And suddenly became overly conscious of intimidating her. Hastily, he released her shoulders.
Her wrists are either side of her head, and he takes them instead, softly, gently, tenderly. Hopefully, his latent strength, his hesitation, will show Y/N he's is only playing.
She doesn't seem to mind either way. She hasn't tried to wriggle free, or pushed him off her, even though he's keeping himself pliable enough for her to do so. She's just gone the colour of candyfloss, her lips parted to breathe.
Sherlock resolved not to look at her lower face. Y/N's appealing little mouth seems to have an annoying habit of not only threatening his composure, but shattering it, shooting it dead and dancing on its grave. One glance would make interrogating her with any conviction near-impossible. "What are you doing?" He asked. "Really?"
What is she doing? Coming into his room, climbing on top of him and calling him pretty? What kind of game is this, and is he playing it right?
Y/N took a second to speak, for some reason, and when she did it was breathy.
Inexperienced-and-very-much-in-love Sherlock will need to get off her and wrap his duvet around his waist if she doesn't stop doing things like that.
"I'm trying to tell you...that I didn't mind. What you said earlier."
There was another one of those silent stretches, but this time Sherlock's eyebrows weren't raised in pleasant surprise, they were pulled together tight in puzzlement.
Then he laughed, an almost bitter, single-syllable bark of irony.
Y/N frowned, but he didn't notice.
Seeping with disbelief: "Oh, really?"
"Yes."
"So---you wouldn't mind if I did this?" Before his good-judgment had time to catch up, Sherlock dipped his head and pressed a kiss to Y/N's neck.
As soon as his lips touched to Y/N's skin they both tensed up.
He'd been teasing her, really. It was quick and fleeting; a chaste press. He'd just been messing around, jesting, because she can't possibly mean---
Can she?
But the teasing had ended as soon as he'd gotten close enough to feel the feathery tendrils of her body heat caressing his cheek; as soon as her hair brushed the tip of his nose, her scent filling and fogging up his head. Sherlock's intentions may have been light-hearted, but there was nothing light-hearted about the way sensation pooled in the pit of his stomach, nothing funny about Y/N's gasp of surprise, audible and delicious and addicting.
It was as if a current had passed through the both of them, like the lightning that had speared the sky last night, bold, insistent darts of...something.
For Sherlock, that something had been instant pleasure.
However, Y/N is still breathing a little heavily below him, watching him with wide eyes, and he worried, for one heart-stopping moment, whether he's the only one enjoying himself.
Sherlock drew back immediately, hot and uncomfortable regret searing his conscience. He opened his mouth---still prickling and tingling---to fervently apologise for taking it too far, but Y/N beat him to it, her words pushing his own back down his throat:
"No." She moistened her lips, leaving them all glossy and shiny. "I wouldn't mind."
What?
Sherlock blinked at her. He's aching for close contact now---aching. He's tasted it, gotten an idea of what it would be like to mouth at Y/N's skin, caress her, draw out little sounds from her---and---by the sound of it...his wishes might actually be heeded.
Maybe he did manage to nap, and all this is a dream? That wouldn't be surprising, given some of the trips his unconscious brain has led him on recently. This is, pretty much---roughly---how they go.
"Really?" He couldn't hide that note of doubtful scepticism, the slight rise in tone that gave away the fact that he doesn't really believe her.
"Yes. I want you to." Her chest is rising and falling quickly, still, but she dared to meet his eyes, now. They roamed over his face, probably to read it as she asked: "Do you...do you want to? Kiss me again, I mean."
The question was utterly unnecessary. The answer is obvious and plain as day and actually straddling her middle, blushing and clearly interested.
Sherlock smirked. "Among other things." It had slipped out all on its own, the line sleek and smooth, sliding through his fingers. He nearly tried to catch it again; retract it---
But the way Y/N's face blossomed scarlet was positively delightful; so he left it be.
She's serious? Isn't she?
Y/N had to find her voice before she could speak.
Sherlock would have filled the silence, but he wasn't sure what he could fill it with. He decided his best course of action would just to wait, and see how Y/N will react to his...flirtations? Had he been flirting? He didn't even know he knew how to do that.
He's still not looking at her mouth, he doesn't dare, but prolonged eye contact is beginning to take its toll, little needling sensations building in intensity at the back of his brain. He can't find anywhere else to settle his gaze, though.
Her hair? But that's all spread over his pillow, and has almost the same effect as peeking at her lips.
Her nose? Too close to her mouth.
Her chest, her exposed collarbones? Flowing up and down with her quickened breaths---
Why is Y/N so hard to look at? Most of her is forbidden, or too exciting, or just so intense he can feel the temperature of his blood rising with every beat of his heart. She's not just his friend, she's a woman, and every fibre of his being knows that and is both titillated and afraid of the fact. She absorbs photons and throws them back brighter, better, improved. It's like looking at the sun; he's drawn to its warmth and beauty, but after barely a second he has to turn away, hot and burning.
"Okay."
Sherlock's train of thought came to a very rough and abrupt halt.
Y/N's nervousness is different from her nervousness yesterday---her body is not brittle with terror this time, but pliant and yielding between Sherlock's legs. Welcoming, like arms spread wide, all shy smiles and eyes full of sparks. Not skittish; excited. Not scared; exhilarated. She...really does think he's attractive? She wants him to kiss her, she wants him to---
"What?" he'd said it like he was appalled, and Y/N must have grabbed the wrong end of the metaphorical stick because she scowled and said defensively:
"Don't pretend you were joking, I felt your pulse when I put my hand---"
"No," Sherlock cut her off, his mouth seemingly unable to stop smiling. "I'm just..." Astounded? Staggered? In a state of absolute and utter joy? "Finding it hard to believe." He's grinning, he can feel it splitting his face in two. Bashfully: "That you...want me."
Y/N ceased her attack immediately, her face softening. She's looking at him differently. Well, it's the same way she's always looked at him, but something has changed---something is missing.
Restraints. She's looking at him and not holding back, and the unbridled fondness is making it difficult for him to breathe. "I do want you."
It's a wonder Sherlock is managing to stay upright. Every atom of his being is telling him to lean down, catch Y/N's lips with his own, then do something with his tongue until she groans into his mouth.
He didn't though. Slowly, and with a shy smile ghosting his whole face, he released one of Y/N's wrists. The echo of her heartbeat clung to his skin as he tenderly cupped her cheek, the soft line of her jaw nestled in his palm. He felt Y/N lean into it.
She had meant it.
All of it.
Tentatively, Sherlock bent his head until his nose brushed the tender skin of her neck. He knows he's probably drowning her in need, in his desperation for contact, for love, and he paused, giving her one last chance to change her mind.
But she didn't.
So he kissed her.
In the same place he'd kissed her before, but for longer, this time, lingering there, long enough to feel her pulse point, just because he could.
Gorgeous.
Of its own accord, his hand still clasping her wrist slid languidly upwards, until it met with her palm, which he held, interlacing their fingers.
Y/N gripped back, her little hand engulfed, and, encouraged, Sherlock moved his lips further up the alluring collum of her throat, following the stretch of muscle to just below her ear. She gasped, a quick little inhale of air, and Sherlock's lips curved as he doubled back on himself, wanting to find that spot again. He did, and mouthed at it---
Then he felt something at the side of his face.
Y/N's hand had gravitated to his cheek. She waited, perhaps silently asking for permission.
Does she still think he's averse to physical affection? Even after his rant at breakfast, she's still under the impression that she has to ask to touch him?
She never has to ask to touch him.
He tried to show her that he wants it by nudging his cheekbone into her palm, as she had done when he'd cupped her face moments before. This seemed to be all the incentive Y/N needed, because she supported him for a moment, that ridge of bone, then---to his utter delight---pushed her hand up into his hair.
Sherlock kissed her more firmly, gratefully. The more he kissed her, the more Y/N's fingers submerged themselves in the thick coils, so, naturally, he didn't stop. He can't stop, he doesn't want to stop.
The strands of his hair slipped through the gaps between Y/N's digits as she sort of combed them through his curls. They got caught, they entangled, they tugged, and Sherlock's lips parted wetly, a shaky sigh breaking against Y/N's ear.
Y/N noticed. She must have done. She must have felt him go almost rigid in surprise at his own reaction, then slacken loosely against her at the pleasantness of it, his head having to rest against the pillow. Barley giving him time to recover, she did it again, clutching onto him harder this time.
Sherlock groaned.
He hadn't meant to. And it was so loud, so deep they both felt it vibrating the springs of the mattress. Immediately embarrassed, he paused to catch his breath, expecting Y/N to...laugh at him? Or...or something.
She just did it again, stroke and tug, getting another bitten down sound brushing against her neck.
Without his knowing, Sherlock had stretched out his legs and settled himself over her front, all along the length of her pretty little body. Her legs encircled his hips and he made that groaning sound again as he was pulled down and onto her, properly, full weight and all. The more he kisses her the more she clings to him, the more she tugs at his hair, the more she utters those little gasps he's become so bafflingly fond of.
Braver, now, he extended his trail, roaming over her forehead and down her cheeks. He's mostly feeling his way over her face, following a path that's more instinctual than pre-planned, setting alight each nerve cell individually, giving every centimetre equal attention.
His trail led him to Y/N's lips, where he came to a respectful halt, and drew back enough to gauge her expression.
Her eyes had fluttered open, flicking between Sherlock's now-mostly-black pupils and his chin. She's flushed, her breaths keep flowering on his lower face, sweet like peppermint toothpaste, coming to him through a grin.
He can't stand it anymore---that tugging sensation in his belly---and before he knew what he was doing, he kissed her.
Properly.
On the mouth, giving her bottom lip a quick little suck before drawing back, startled.
It had felt...amazing.
Like he'd burst into flame all at once, that fire in his chest overtaking his entire body, igniting nerves that he never knew were there.
Beaming, he did it again, eagerly, for longer. He caught her bottom lip, pulled away, caught the top; curiously, inquisitive, again, and again.
Then Y/N's jaw had fallen open and he could taste her---
A moan pushed it's way up from his lungs, and he didn't pull away fast enough, the sound vibrating straight into Y/N's mouth and he went crimson.
But she moaned back and it was the most delectable sound Sherlock had ever heard.
"Y/N," he gasped, forehead resting against hers, because his bones have turned to honey. He's worried he's crushing her, but he wouldn't be able to right himself if he tried; muscles limp and drowning in whatever this is. "I want you too."
She pulled him down for another kiss, and he shuddered as her tongue brushed his lips. Of their own accord, his body somehow knowing what to do, they parted, and she touched her tongue to his.
Sherlock gave a plaintive, helpless little moan.
She broke the kiss again, perhaps afraid he'd hyperventilate. "Sherlock."
Someone's heart is flurrying at an alarming pace where their chests are pressed tight together, but Sherlock isn't sure whether it's his or Y/N's. Probably his. His name in that tone, in Y/N's voice, skittered up his spine and he was so distracted it took him a moment to answer.
"Hm?"
"Do you want to get back in the bed with me?"