Trying to hide the fact that this had made his stomach do a backflip, Sherlock nodded. "Okay. It's cold, though, so you should get in the bed first."
Y/N visibly wavered. "I'm scared that if I do, once I've told you, you'll kick me out."
Now he was scared. What could she possibly have to say that makes her think he'd ever do such a thing? "You didn't... kill Tom, did you?" He asked, not really believing that she had (and yet still mentally crossing his fingers just in case). Wouldn't it be typical if his best friend turns out to be a murderer?
Thankfully, Y/N's worried expression briefly dissolved, giving way to a nervous giggle. "No, no, no, nothing like that." She crossed the room to the bed, Sherlock's heart in his mouth as he watched her.
He'd imagined her doing that God knows how many times. Now it was happening, but not in the way he'd envisioned.
The mattress dipped in a pleasing way as Y/N climbed onto it, Sherlock thinking he should move up to give her more room but not really wanting to. It's amazing how simply having someone else---having Y/N---in his bed made it instantly more appealing. He'd been struggling to sleep for weeks, and yet he felt that if he laid down right now, with Y/N's scent filling his brain, her warmth caressing his skin, he'd probably drift off within a matter of moments.
"Sherlock...you know how I hadn't been on a date in a while?" Y/N was fiddling with the sleeve of her pyjama top, picking at a loose thread.
Sherlock stayed silent, letting her continue. He sat up properly and crossed his legs so she knew she had his full attention. Whatever she was going to say was obviously bothering her. He wanted her to know that if she had a problem, he would solve it. He wanted her to know that if something was weighing her down, she could put it at his feet and he'd carry it.
"Well, I told you---I told myself---that it was because I needed to settle into my new life, but that's not true. The truth is... I didn't want to find someone else to fall in love with."
"Someone 'else'?" Slipped from Sherlock's lips before he could grab it.
Y/N had her gaze fixed on a point just to the left of Sherlock's knee. "Yeah. I'm already in love with someone. I've been in love with him for a while, but he won't feel that way about me. I haven't told him yet because I don't want to ruin the relationship I have with him."
'I know that feeling," Sherlock thought to himself.
"I hoped I could just...ignore my feelings for him. I tried to move on by going out with Tom, because he'd be good for me, but the whole time I was there I couldn't stop thinking about the other man. Every time Tom did anything, said anything, I found myself mentally comparing it to the man I'm in love with." She laughed damply at herself. "Like, he stood in front of me when he kissed me on the cheek to say goodbye---" If she noticed Sherlock tense she didn't mention it. "And all I could think about while he was doing it was how my eyes lined up to the wrong place on him. It sounds stupid, I know, but it was then that I properly realised I can't ever date someone else while I'm still completely obsessed with this man."
Sherlock turned this information over in his head several times, examining it like it was a bomb he wasn't totally sure how to diffuse. On one hand, he wanted to help Y/N, of course he did, the thought of her being in any kind of uncomfortable position physically pained him. But on the other, she was in love with another man---obsessed with another man---which was so much worse than her date with the barley-acquaintance-Tom that the very thought of it made him want to have a fatal aneurysm. "Okay."
"I didn't really know what to do about it. I mean...I can't spend my whole life pining over him, and yet I can't stop doing just that. I ended my date with Tom early; I didn't want to string him along, obviously. I explained why it would never work between us and he was really understanding and supportive. We talked about it as we walked around the park a few times."
Sherlock noted, with embarrassment, that despite Y/N having just said she wasn't interested in Tom, that feeling of jealousy had still curled its way around his brain at her compliments. Was it going to be like this with every man Y/N talks about? Every time she thanks a male cashier, every time she tells a male taxi driver where to drop her off, every time a man so much as happens to be in her general vicinity, Sherlock's blood would boil with resentment?
"Okay," Sherlock said again, hoping he didn't sound like a stuck record. He just genuinely didn't know what to say. He didn't if he was honest, really know why Y/N was telling him all this. To ask for advice? Surely she knows better than to come to him for things of this subject. To vent? They often did vent to each other, but never in each other's beds like teenagers at a sleepover. They'd never woken each other up to gossip well into the night.
"In the park, Tom gave me some advice... He thinks I should tell the man that I'm in love with that I love him. He said that I don't know for sure that he doesn't love me back, and even if he doesn't, even if it makes things weird, at least I got it off my chest. Got closure, you know?"
Still feeling a little lost, but glad to be entrusted with Y/N's personal issues (despite how he'd treated them before) Sherlock tried his best to look supportive. Y/N's happiness was, and always would be, his paramount concern, even if it did mean possibly flinging her into the arms of another man. "That sounds like a good idea."
Y/N visibly perked up at this, Sherlock's words seemingly having more effect than he had been expecting. "You really think so?"
"Yeah. I mean, I know relationships aren't really my area but that seems like a logical step forward." Yes, he had been internally calling himself a hypocrite the whole time he'd been talking.
"I'm glad you think that because..." Y/N met his eyes properly for the first time since she'd entered his room, taking a deep breath, filling her lungs with oxygen as if she was preparing to dive underwater for a long time. "It's you, Sherlock. The man I'm in love with."
Sherlock forgot how to breathe for a bit.
Y/N still had her eyes trained on him, gauging his reaction, waiting for him to say something.
Eventually, he managed to take a shaky breath in and pushed out a small: "Pardon?"
"I love you. I'm in love with you. God, earlier I used the word 'obsessed', that doesn't make me look crazy at all. Oh well, I've said it now---" she was rambling, filling the silence with nervous nothings, but Sherlock had stopped listening a while ago.
"You love me?" His voice was weaker than he'd like it to be, his everything was weaker than he'd like it to be; he felt as if his every blood cell had been turned to helium and he was flying upwards very very fast.
"Yes. So much that I've barely been able to keep it hidden, especially from you. You spot everything. Like this morning, when I woke up in your bed, that was too close. I freaked out because I'd wanted to be there for so long---I was terrified you'd notice I was enjoying it a little too much, or I'd do something stupid like melt at the sound of your morning voice." She must have noticed Sherlock's stunned expression because she added: "This doesn't have to change anything between us---"
Quickly, like a man trying to grab a branch protruding from the cliff he's falling off: "No! No...I want it to change things between us." The flying sensation was slowly being replaced by an overpowering sense of relief as his mind realised what this means. He took her hands, clasping them tightly in his own, maybe too tightly, but it didn't seem to matter because she gripped back with equal intensity.
"Hold on, what? What are you saying, Sherlock, because I swear if you're---"
"I'm saying I love you too." When he'd imagined saying that for the first time he'd seen himself grinning with euphoria, but in actuality, now that it was happening, he felt more like crying.
Y/N stared at him for a long time. To make sure he was being sincere? To process what he'd just said? "You do?" Her own voice was wobbly, unsteady like a person who'd just been knocked down by a massive wave.
"Yes. I have for months. I didn't want to tell you in case you stopped liking me."
Shaking her head slightly in disbelief, Y/N released Sherlock's hands (which worried him, before he realised she wasn't leaving) and pushed herself up into a kneeling position. "Sherlock."
Said man watched, his skin tingling in anticipation as the woman he loved moved closer to him, so close her breasts nudged against his chest, making him bite back a groan. He had to tip his head back to look up at her, curiously, expression bordering on begging, pleading her silently to go on. He didn't know what Y/N was about to do, but he did know that whatever it was he was ready for it. He'd been ready for it since he saw her beautiful smile, since he heard her addictive laugh, since the first time she'd called him brilliant.
"There's nothing in the world that could make me stop liking you."
This time Sherlock did have to blink back tears. He hadn't thought that was possible; that someone could just love him and love him and love him without having to put in effort. He didn't think someone could love him full stop.
Y/N slipped her fingers into his hair, her nails sliding along his scalp (heaven), her hand coming to rest at the crown of his head and he leaned into her palm. Just having someone touch him...wow. Her face was inches from his now, but he couldn't push that little bit closer because she was above him, she was controlling the situation, and she was going too slowly, teasing him.
Sherlock knew that's what she's doing; revelling in the moment, playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse before eating it. She'd wanted this for as long as he had, and she had the advantage of knowing what she was doing. It occurred to Sherlock that he was completely at her mercy, putting himself metaphorically in her hands, and he didn't mind at all. He'd let her do whatever she wanted to him, he realised with a blush. He'd give her his soul if she asked for it.
Y/N's other hand was at his chest, sliding at a painfully leisurely pace up to the side of his neck. Sherlock couldn't help taking her hips in his own hands, squeezing them experimentally, a small desperate noise pushing from his lungs.
She's so close.
How long had he wanted this? How many times had he played it out in his head? How many times had he tried to conjure up what it would feel like to hold her, to taste her, to have her love and body all for his own?
"Y/N," he managed, his voice guttural. "Please kiss me. I... need it."
...
Y/N was smiling as she pressed her lips to his, Sherlock would always remember. He'd always remember it, not just because it's his first kiss, but because it was his first kiss with Y/N. The curve of her lips, the fluttering of her breath as she chuckled at his neediness, would forever be etched onto his mind.
Her lips were warm against his, her nose just touching his cheek. She touched him with such care, he wasn't used to it and he hummed helplessly, one of his hands coming up to hold the side of her face. Y/N had Sherlock's bottom lip between both of hers, sucking, working his mouth, the sensation sending ripples of pleasure through him, unparalleled to anything he'd ever experienced. Why had he been chasing criminals for kicks, hunting for adrenaline in cases when he could have been doing this?
She pulled away after a few seconds, or maybe it had been hours, and---had Sherlock been capable of opening his eyes---he would have seen that she was grinning. "If that's how you react to a gentle kiss, just imagine what the other things I can show you feel like." She stroked her hand through his hair, curls catching between her fingers and sending explosions of sensation bristling down his spine; a hint, a taster of what's to come.
Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe. "What are you going to show me?" He was both being coy, and genuinely curious. What sort of person is Y/N like to date? What do couples actually get up to, when they're alone? Was it really customary to shower together? To cuddle well into the morning? To take each other in every room of the house, just for fun?
Y/N leaned down to press a trail of kisses from his neck to his cheekbones, smirking as his eyes slipped closed again. "I'm going to show you what it feels like to be loved." And with that, she took his lips again, for a different type of kiss this time. That one had been slow, gentle, soft like she was easing him in, introducing him to this new pleasure. This kiss was wetter, hotter, deeper. She'd caught his full bottom lip between both of hers again and used his answering moan to slip her tongue between them.
Sherlock let out a low groan. That's all his body seemed to be able to do now; high on Y/N, his every nerve yearning for her, his every neuron focused on her, he probably couldn't do anything else if he tried. And he was loving it. He had never encountered anything like this before in his life, and the sheer rushing pleasure of it made his brain stop thinking for once, and all he knew was how wonderful this was and that if she stopped kissing him he would probably die.
Then something amazing happened; as if she had read what little thoughts he had, Y/N put one leg over Sherlock's thighs and sat on his lap, still holding the back of his head with one hand, curls tight between her fingers. The inexperienced detective ached all over.
...
Y/N sitting on his lap had started a chain of events that had left both of them very out of breath, and with no clothes on. It hadn't meant to; Y/N had asked Sherlock if he wanted to stop there, to pull away and go to sleep, because he had just had his first kiss, after all. He might not be ready. Sherlock had then pointed out that he'd waited for so long for this that he'd actually been ready several months ago, so could she do that biting thing at his neck again, please.
Sherlock learnt what it felt like to be loved, that night. It had been amazing and then really amazing and then so amazing there was no word in the English language that could accurately encapsulate it all.
He realised he'd been stupid for thinking people were wasting their life by engaging in such an activity, as not only had it been the single best feeling in his whole life, some old wounds had healed with Y/N's touch. He had felt aroused and excited in ways he'd never been before, but he'd also felt wanted, like he belonged, in ways he'd never been before. That empty loneliness he'd harboured for so many years, that sense of being unlovable, an outcast, was washed away by the waves of satisfaction Y/N had sent cascading right through his core.
Over the course of his existence, Sherlock had been punched, cut, almost stabbed, and very nearly shot. He'd received hugs from so few people he could count them on two hands, and so few on-the-cheek kisses he could count them on one.
Never before had he experienced someone do anything like this. Have a woman trace the curves of his muscles folded neatly like wings by his shoulder blades, run her hands down his spine, her fingers sliding up to tangle and tug a little in his hair. Never before had he had someone map out his body as if they were trying to memorise every mole, every scar, every inch of him, as if remembering the exact layout of his freckles was the most important task they could imagine.
She'd let him touch her too, of course, begged him to, directing his hands, not that she needed to, it turned out. Sherlock was skilled at many things and understanding the human body was no exception. Although, admittedly, he'd found it hard at times to concentrate on what he was doing. He wanted to explore Y/N too, of course he did, he'd imagined it more times than he could count. But every now and again she'd do something, like take the sensitive skin at his shoulder between her teeth, or make a particularly luscious noise against his lips, and his mind would liquify instantly. Luckily for him, more often than not, he'd do something for selfish reasons---like fondle some part of her he'd wanted to put his hands on because it made him weak at the knees---and Y/N would moan in answer, begging him not to stop (hearing her do that, beg him, had nearly been enough to send him over the edge on its own).
Y/N had taken Sherlock's shoulders and manoeuvred him onto his back, and he'd looked up at her, nervously yet in his eyes begging her to go on. She had leaned close to his ear and kissed him where she'd realised he liked, nudging her nose behind the lobe to caress him, and told him again that she loves him.
He'd stuttered it back as her hand slipped up his pyjama shirt, gracing the pads of her fingers against each gentle ridge of his ribs, sweeping down over his stomach to explore the smooth arches of his hips.
He finally knew what it felt like.
To be loved.