Over time, Sherlock had loosened his hold. His body filtered out the remaining adrenaline from his blood, leaving him fatigued and aching. Y/N noticed that she was supporting a lot of his weight now, and pulled out of the cuddle, taking the sides of his face in her hands. Sherlock gave her a lopsided sleepy smile, and she kissed his forehead again, him ready for it this time and tipping his head forward like a cat seeking out its owner's palm.
"Do you want to try to go to sleep now?" Y/N asked.
Sherlock still had one hand on her hip, and its grip tightened.
With one finger curled under his chin, Y/N directed his gaze back to hers. "I'll stay with you, if you want."
Besides the odd 'thank you' or 'I'm fine', Sherlock hadn't said very much, probably couldn't say very much, his throat recovering from its earlier workload. His voice was croaky at present; where usually it flowed like smooth silk, it now caught like brittle winter leaves, breaking as he twisted it around his tongue. "You don't have to." Which was a lie. He wanted her to very badly.
Sounding determined and confident, the first time she'd been those things in---well, ever, Y/N nodded conclusively. "I'm going to. Shall we keep the light on, or off?" Mainly for his benefit, she added: "I usually like them on."
The corners of Sherlock's lips twitched upwards gratefully as he replied, "On. Please." and settled down with his head on the pillow that Y/N had fluffed for him.
She mirrored his actions but on the opposite side of the bed, noticing something flicker over his expression as she did so, igniting like a lit match touched to the wick of a candle behind his eyes. "What's wrong?"
Cheekbones dusted with a hint of a blush, Sherlock cleared his throat, hesitating with a sweet mien of vulnerability. "Nothing's wrong. I just wondered if you...wanted to come over here."
"Over there?" Although she knew what he meant.
"Yeah. You know. To cuddle?" He choked out the last word, heart forcing it past the barrier his logic had built to try keep it in.
Y/N couldn't help smiling; he's being too cute. "Sure." She wasn't sure why it was so easy at that moment to shuffle closer to him, settle into the space against his body he'd created by lifting his arm. But it was, and she did so as if it were second nature.
. . .
The next morning, Y/N woke before Sherlock. She knew that it was morning because a weak line of watery sunlight was filtering through the gap in the curtains and faintly illuminating a narrow patch of the floor. It was not Y/N's floor. She knew this because his carpet is a little trodden down from extensive wear, whereas---because she hasn't been staying in the guest bedroom for very long---the carpet in her room was still plush and bouncy underfoot. Y/N watched a speck of dust flow lazily down the column of light and settle onto the floor.
Sherlock shifted behind her in his sleep. He'd curled himself around her back, one arm snaking under her pillow so his hand dangled off the side of the bed. He had his other one---his hand, that is---resting on her waist. Every time he breathed in, slowly and deeply, his chest nudged Y/N's shoulder blades under the covers.
Y/N stopped thinking about her bedroom carpet, and the speck of dust, and instead focused her gaze on this. The fact that she was being cuddled by her flatmate, in his bed, and she didn't mind. Her face wasn't uncomfortably hot with a flush, her lungs were maintaining a steady rhythm rather than erratically gulping for oxygen. She was not only content within his embrace, she...enjoyed it. Treasured it, the security of his strong limbs, the surprising heat of his body.
Despite the possibility of another nightmare, Sherlock had fallen asleep very quickly. He'd once told her that he struggles to become unconscious while on his back; but last night it had been a mere matter of minutes before Y/N's head was rising and falling on his torso with his deep, drawn-out breaths. He'd slept right through, too, and so had Y/N, which was new.
When she'd offered to stay in Sherlock's bed, she had had a passing thought that went along the lines of 'guess I'll just have to pull an all-nighter'. She hadn't expected to sleep, she'd imagined just laying next to the detective, guarding him like some kind of sleep spirit until the sun rose. Even in her own bed it was a kerfuffle to drift off, and then she would usually awaken every now and again if something makes a noise, like the fridge motor starting up, a car driving past, the pipes expanding.
This refreshed feeling was new to her.
There was a squat cuboid-shaped clock on the bookshelf opposite Y/N, but it was at an angle that made it difficult to make out the numbers. She thought it said eight-fifteen, but she wasn't sure.
Straining her eyes to read the clock was giving her a headache, so she let her gaze fall onto something closer to herself; Sherlock's hand that was dangling off the side of the bed. Even for his height, his hands are large. They are mainly fingers, and those are mainly bone. Long, nimble. Good for sewing, and piano, if he could ever find enough interest in it to learn. Y/N has to admit that she likes his hands, watching them as they completed whatever task they'd been set with finesse and dexterity. She often gave him puzzles to play with, enjoying his confusion almost as much as the little dance his fingers put on as they flicked about the pieces.
Sherlock's fingers weren't dancing at the moment, though. Just twitching feebly with a dream every now and again.
As comfortable as she was, Y/N decided to get up. She told herself the reason for this was because she had had the genius idea of waking her friend with a fried breakfast, but it was actually because she was embarrassed of him waking up whilst cuddling her. While she let him cuddle her. She didn't want him to see her being so vulnerable, so relaxed. She's not sure why.
So she gently eased herself out of his bed and padded to the kitchen.
Y/N watched the eggs she was frying blister away in their pan, bubbles rising in the goo then popping with a crack. She hadn't noticed someone come up behind her, bare feet slapping unevenly on the tiled floor as they stumbled sleeping over to where she was standing.
Two long arms wrapped themselves around Y/N's waist, someone's body coming up close behind her, instinct causing Y/N's muscles to tense, although she knew who it was. It was because of this---her knowing who it was---that prevented her from smacking the assailant around the head with her frying pan.
She was being hugged.
By Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock felt her reaction against his front, and pulled away as if he'd been electrocuted. "Sorry. I did it because I wanted to say thank you. For helping me sleep, and comforting me...and everything. I thought that after last night that it would be okay."
Y/N swallowed the lump of embarrassment that had blossomed in her throat, and busied herself with flipping the eggs. The shock of the hug had been so distracting she'd left it a little too late, and had to unstick the eggs from the base of the pan with the spatula, making them hiss irritably. "It is okay. I just wasn't ready."
She didn't sound very convincing, so Sherlock wilted damply with guilt.
Y/N hated it, and tried to distract him. "I'm glad you slept well. Did I wake you? I was going to bring your breakfast in for you."
Sherlock's face lit up, the smell of eggs licking about the inside of his nose, down to the back of his throat and making him realise how empty his stomach felt. "That's for me?"
Y/N gave him a smile, the sight of his obvious joy washing away the awkwardness of the past few moments in a tidal wave of affection. "Yeah. Take a seat, it's nearly done."
Y/N sat opposite Sherlock once she had served him his meal. She was glad to see him eat, and watched with amusement as he consumed it, noticing a distinct pattern in the way that he did so. She liked how his eyes glowed with delight when he moved onto the next thing, as if he'd forgotten it was there and had just then suddenly remembered. She had set him some toast out on a separate plate, along with a saucer of honey comb that oozed it's contents slowly onto the china. Sherlock always saved this until last, spreading the honey onto his toast, finishing it, then ending the meal by popping the remaining comb in his mouth.
Waiting for him to finish his mouthful, she collected up the few dregs of courage that she owned, and asked, gently: "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sherlock looked up from where he was scraping his knife against the saucer that the honey had been on, trying to get the last remaining drops. "About what?"
"You know," Y/N prompted uncomfortably. "What you were dreaming about."
Sherlock watched the strands of honey stretch between his knife and the plate. "Not really."
"Okay. I understand."
A few moments of silence passed. Sherlock licked his knife, sliding his pointy tongue down the length of it in a way that made Y/N blush.
She had been distracted by this when he pulled her from her daydream with a quiet:
"Y/N?"
"Yeah?"
"Thank you. Really. It helped. Not just having you comfort me...or sharing my bed. But the...cuddling, too." His cheekbones had gone a light pink. "Please don't tell anyone about it."
"I won't. If you don't tell anyone I enjoyed it."