AUTHOR'S NOTE: That really is a prosaic chapter title, isn't it? All of them are, tbh lol. I'll change it if I think of a better one.
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Arriving back at the flat was like slipping into clothes that had been warming on a radiator. The faint smell of pine hadn't left the furniture since Christmas, that sweet tang hanging in the air along with a pleasing heat from the now gently smoldering fire.
Twenty minutes later, Y/N had showered and slipped into bed, surrounding herself with thick blankets and pillows. Basil had followed close at her heels dutifully, and now stood by the bed, placing his head on it as a way of seeking permission, staring up at Y/N with those large begging doggy eyes. Not that it was necessary; Y/N, without hesitation, gave the duvet a pat, inviting him onto the mattress, and his tail wagged appreciatively as he hauled himself up with surprising agility.
Propped against the headboard, Y/N settled in with the intent of watching a film, her hand moving absently over Basil's temple, his long, butterscotch coloured body draped leisurely along the length of her outstretched legs. Despite the lingering thought that her bed will be coated in fur, the company was appreciated.
The movie hadn't been playing long, given the inordinate amount of time that had been required to find one Y/N felt like watching in the first place. And films always have those insanely lengthy credit scenes before the actual feature. By the time anything actually happened, Basil had dozed off and was already fully submerged in what appeared to be a rather vivid dream, the occasional, sleep-riddled bark beginning in his lungs then dying in his throat. He's imagining he's chasing something, Y/N guessed, because his legs would twitch every now and again, muscles feathering in his snout, nose hurriedly sniffing at nothing.
His ears flicked as if bothered by a fly when there was a tentative knock at the bedroom door.
"Y/N?" Sherlock called through the wood, a chink of warm light slicing the room in half as he opened the door a fraction so he could hear her reply.
"You can come in, it's fine," Y/N gave him a genial smile as he entered and made a beeline to the bed to pet Basil, who'd woken up now and rolled himself over to expose his tummy. This now seemed to be his typical greeting saved exclusively for Sherlock. Maybe because Basil sees him as entirely trust-worthy. Or maybe he's is just really good at tummy rubs.
The dog's tail had quickly begun beating the duvet and he grinned lopsidedly up at Sherlock as he approached, hopefully anticipating some more attention. Sherlock gave him what he wanted, saying as he did so:
"I was going to ask if Basil wanted to come and sleep in my room, but he looks more than happy here."
Y/N giggled and Sherlock furrowed his brows at her, unable to help his own lips tug up at the corners.
"What?"
Waving a hand dismissively, Y/N flushed a little at her childishness. And at the fact that Sherlock is in her bedroom. She began helping Sherlock stroke Basil's exposed belly as he rolled onto his back for them to do so. "Basil is such a human name it sounded like you were asking a man we---for some reason shared---to your bedroom."
Sherlock laughed and Y/N was sure she'd lit up like a Christmas tree.
"No, I wouldn't ask a Basil to my room. A Basilinna maybe. Is that a name?'"
"Maybe somewhere."
Although Sherlock was currently petting Basil with affection, Y/N had noticed his face soften into a slightly disappointed frown when he'd realised he'd be spending the evening alone. It twisted her heart a little, as if guilt was trying to wring it out. She said quickly: "Basil is happy here, but you can join us if you want."
Like most turning points in life, this one was completely unplanned, unexpected, and would only be recognisable as important much further down the line. And, like most turning points, it happened completely by accident.
The offer---the idea--- has slipped smoothly from Y/N's brain and out of her mouth. She'd handed it over as casually as she would a spare pencil or a tissue. But now, now that Sherlock had taken his gaze off Basil to regard Y/N, her brain registered that what she'd done carried a little more weight than she'd initially thought. Not that she had thought. She hadn't been thinking when she'd invited Sherlock---
"On the bed?" He looked pleasantly startled. His pale eyes flicked from Y/N, to Basil, then to the space he'd occupy if he accepted the invitation, and Y/N suddenly felt like tugging her shirt collar away from her neck which had suffused with a hot blush. Sherlock wouldn't even be able to reach Basil if he sat with them on the bed; Basil is on Y/N's side. So he wouldn't be joining them on the bed, he'd be joining Y/N, tucked up amongst a mass of blankets to watch a film, not even an educational film but---
"You don't have to if you don't want to."
"No, I want to."
...
There's something humbling about seeing someone---anyone---on a bed. It can be easy to forget that some people need to do things like sleep and eat just as much as the rest of us, but the sight of them surrounded by feather-filled duvet somehow reminds us that they're not only human, but also delightfully more so than we previously anticipated.
Sherlock had climbed onto the mattress sort of like how someone who'd never surfed before climbs onto a surfboard. Not because the mattress dipped under his weight, setting him off balance, but because the bed isn't his. He seemed to be weary of where he's allowed to go, the space he's allowed to occupy.
He settled himself neatly into his allocated spot.
He kept his long limbs to himself, tucking his bony knees to his chest.
It made Y/N wonder how many women's beds he'd been allowed on, then she remembered his earlier confession and realised this may be his first.
She didn't want him to be self conscious. Not just because it made her chest ache at the thought that he didn't feel he could relax, be himself, but because, mainly, it was really weird. The awkward first stages of friendship had passed Y/N and Sherlock by long ago, and yet, Y/N could have sworn that recently some of it had returned. They should be at a point where watching a film on one of their beds is just...something they do. Not something that makes them both sit there like bashful teenagers, blushing and keeping their eyes on the TV screen, scared to look at one another.
It took thirty-seven minutes for Sherlock to allow himself to melt into a more comfortable position, letting his legs unfurl along the length of the bed. Unlike Y/N's, his hands had nothing to do, so they settled onto his stomach, fingers interlacing with one another. Y/N mentally willed Basil to get up and relocate to the space between her and her flatmate, just so he had a reason for being there. Him wanting to pet a dog stirred up less emotional turmoil than the thought that he wanted to be here to be with Y/N.
Although, she was getting used to it now. Watching a film. On a bed. With her friend. Her sinfully attractive friend. What business does he have, being that pretty? It's nighttime, the end of the day, he should be groggy and weighed down by a need to sleep. Not sitting there with his perfect body all lithely stretched out like a Roman sculpture, hair just as thick and full as it was when he'd styled it this morning, mouth twitching when something amusing happens on screen. He looks as if he's trying to be gorgeous on purpose but he isn't. That's just his face.
Sherlock's eyes don't settle on the center of the television screen, Y/N noticed as she let her gaze drift discreetly over to admire the rest of him. They sort of dart about, taking in sections at a time, then probably piecing them together in his mind, she assumes. It must use a lot of effort to watch a film that way, she thought, fitting fractions of each scene together like they're clues at a crime scene. Does Sherlock see everything as a crime scene and apply the same techniques to movie scenes? Or does he see everything as a movie scene and apply his way of consuming television to crime scenes? Y/N made an educated guess that he'd been watching movies before he'd been solving crimes.
"You're staring at me," his baritone had dropped an octave from so long spent in silence, Y/N could almost swear she felt the vibrations of it thrumming through the springs in the mattress. It tingled up her spine.
She cleared her throat, averting her eyes back to the TV just as he turned his head to confront her curiously. He'd sounded curious, of course, she couldn't see his expression. He might be affronted by her ogling, for all she knew. "Sorry."
"Do I have something on my face?"
Y/N had to turn that question over in her mind several times before it made sense. No, he had nothing on his face, nothing but whimsy as he let himself be absorbed by what he was seeing on the tele. Surly he knew the only reason anyone would ever stare at him is because he's beautiful? "No. I was just lost in thought." Not exactly a lie; the way his cheekbones and the dim bedside light cast soft shadows over his cheeks was very thought provoking.
"Are you tired?" He flicked one slender wrist over to read the face of his watch. He always wears it on the underside of his arm, which seems counter-intuitive. It would be much easier to read on the back. Or maybe his wrists are so skinny it just sort of...falls the wrong way---
"Y/N?"
"Hm?"
Chuckling a mellow laugh, his smile fond and soft-centered and caring: "You were lost in thought again. I asked if you were tired."
Y/N didn't know if she was tired. Her brain wasn't, not really, because she hadn't done anything that day to warrant fatigue, and it wasn't even that late. But they'd settled further into the bed as the film ran on, slumped and curled up, Sherlock's warmth at one side and Basil's softness on the other, so she'd grown drowsy from the pleasantness of it all. There's something calming about Sherlock's presence. Maybe because he's a man. Bigger than her, stronger than her. Or maybe because she loves him. Why deny it?
She had to fight the urge to lean against him.
"Yeah, I think I'll go to sleep."
She'd announced this plan and yet no one moved. Well, Y/N moved; raising an arm to switch off the television, but it fell straight back onto the covers. She was still running her fingers through Basil's coat, his fur silkier from the thousands of strokes of her palm.
Sherlock was the first to kick things into motion, metaphorically speaking. He looked too content (and a little timid, all of a sudden) to kick anything right now, so maybe 'nudged' is a more accurate description.
"...When you invited me to join you and Basil...did you mean for the night? Or just for the duration of the film?" His voice almost had the sweetest edge of uncharacteristic hopefulness, one pale, slender hand rubbing a duvet corner between finger and thumb. A nervous habit. Fiddling with things. Y/N had seen this man wrestle a gun from a serial killer's bloodstained hands. Now she was seeing him bashfully ask if he'd misread some signals, sitting there in his pajamas that were a little too short around the ankles, the curls at the back of his head slightly flattened from where he'd rested them against the headboard. Two sides of the same, complex, layered coin.
"Do you want to stay?" She'd said it slowly. She wanted the answer to be a positive one, and yet the thought of spending another eight hours so close to his sinewy body sparked a release of something close to adrenaline. How would she sleep when he's so near she can smell his cologne? Why would he even want to stay? Because his bed is cold and starchy? Because he's too tired to stumble back downstairs? Because he wanted company?
"Yes."
...
Y/N and Sherlock took turns using the squat little en-suite bathroom that branched off from Y/N's room, then reconvened besides the bed. Due to his original shyness, Y/N assumed that Sherlock would need some coaxing to get him beneath the covers, a formal invitation, or something. He didn't seem the type to just...make himself at home.
But apparently he is because Y/N's first sight upon leaving the loo with her mouth still vaguely tasting of toothpaste was her flatmate happily nestled under the thick winter duvet. She couldn't help the smile that suffused her face, playfully chiding:
"Look at you all tucked up in my bed."
He just grinned at her, his dark hair surrounding his head like a colour-inverted halo. The lightest shade of red touched his cheeks and the tips of Sherlock's ears as he watched Y/N get in next to him, something of an exhilarated light brightening his pale eyes.
Basil's toffee-coloured body hadn't budged since he'd done that thing dogs do where they circle a point several times then plonk themselves down like they're trying to wipe out the dinosaurs. His jaw had fallen open so his unnaturally long, pink tongue could loll lazily over the side of the bed. Y/N had wondered about taking him down to the street to let him relieve himself before the long eight hours of night, but he didn't look like he wanted to stand, let alone walk down two flights of stairs, so she let him be. Maybe she should try to move him over a bit, though? He's taking up a lot of room, room that has suddenly risen in value now that she was sharing it with a certain attractive-yet-off-limits detective.
She cleared her throat. "I usually sleep on this side, but we can swap if you want to be next to Basil."
He surprised her, though, by saying happily: "I'm fine here, thank you."
Y/N sneaked one last look at the pale oval of his face on her pillow before she leaned over to turn off her bedside light. He looked fine, too. Fine as in content and fine as in attractive as Hell. How'd he get there? In her bed, she means. Y/N had always wanted him to be there, but gave up even entertaining fantasies about it after he'd made it abundantly clear that he sees using a bed for anything other than sleeping as pointless. Now he's under her covers after sitting through an entire movie, walking a dog to nowhere, and helping Y/N cook dinner.
He really has been different recently.
Softer.
It's nice.
Y/N's thoughts were interrupted as Sherlock snaked one arm out from the duvet to turn off the bulb on his side, draping the room in darkness. The sheets rustled like heavy leaves as he got comfortable again, a sigh slipping from his lungs. Without the light, Y/N could hear it better, hear everything better. A car crawling down the road outside. A distant siren somewhere. Basil's breathing, the occasional scuff of his paws. Sherlock's breathing, so much longer and deeper than the dog's. His chest expanded with each one, of course, tugging the duvet fractionally in his direction, and Y/N followed the movement of it in her mind, feeling his body heat slowly reaching out to her side of the bed.
They laid in silence, their eyes slowly becoming used to the dark, shapes materialising with the weak light of the streetlamps that seeped through the gaps between the curtains and the wall. Y/N hadn't heard Sherlock turn over. He's probably also still laying on his back, staring at the ceiling. Y/N wasn't ready to sleep either; having him so close was like an electric current, feeding her nerve cells with a steady flow of electrons.
"He's a very well behaved dog," Sherlock's voice broke the pregnant still of the room. With every hour his baritone seems to thicken with tiredness. Maybe the low vibrations of it will counteract the electrifying tingle of his presence.
"Probably because his owners are so nice," Y/N answered absently. "Nice people always have nice dogs."
"That's true. You can tell a lot about a person from how they treat their pets."
Y/N hummed, several real life examples lazily raising to the surface of her mind like milk in tea. The snappy little old lady down the road who owns a snappy little old chihuahua. And that man a few doors down who spends many hours just staring out the window, and his cats who also spend many hours just staring out the window. "Laura and Ted are just like that. Like, Basil is a reflection of their personalities. They're also gentle and quite quiet and good with people. It's rather sweet, actually. They worked at the same primary school, that's where they met." Sherlock didn't need to know this. She just thought it was saccharine. Something to talk about. "They became friends and decided to get married if they were still single when they're fifty."
"What, like a marriage pact?"
To Y/N's surprise, he actually sounded interested. She heard the silken sliding sound of his curls against his pillow as he turned his head to look at her. Not that he'd be able to see her, anyway. Maybe just the outline of her nose, the pool of streetlamp collected at her chin.
"People actually do that? They didn't look fifty when they dropped off Basil."
Y/N pushed herself onto her side so they were facing each other like children at a sleepover. Children that had been awake too long, their conversation dwindling to an end. Although theirs had only just started. His voice really was soporific. "They're not fifty. They fell in love and Ted took Laura to Paris and proposed."
There was another long silence as Sherlock mulled this over. Or thought about something completely different. You never really could tell, with him.
Apparently he hadn't mentally changed the subject because he asked: "...Have you made one? A marriage pact?" There was a teasing note to his tone, a mischievous edge as if he was about to make fun of her, but something else was there too.
"No," Y/N answered, matching his light-heartedness. "Have you?"
"I've never had a girlfriend, let alone someone that would agree to marry me one day," his teasing note had died and, like an ugly phoenix, self depreciation rose from its ashes.
Y/N thought about that for a second. The fact that he'd never had anyone casually kiss his cheek as they send him off to work. Bring him breakfast in bed after making him moan to high heaven the night before. Tell him they love him, make him feel loved. That must do something to a person.
Unless he's not interested in those sorts of things.
Although, Y/N guessed, by the tone of his voice, that he was. "Would you even want to marry someone, though?" she asked gently. She hoped he'd say 'no' because then she wouldn't feel compelled to wriggle to his side of the bed and give him an unsolicited (and probably unwanted) cuddle. Although, Y/N knew that that's what he needs; some kind of relationship. Not even destined to end in marriage, just a one amazing night with someone patient enough to help him unwind. Someone who makes him feel valued not just as a human being but as a male.
The annoying thing is, Y/N knew she could do it. She could be that person, easily, she'd like to be that person. The image of her giving Sherlock what would be his first kiss skittered through her mind, his eyes all alive with awe, lips and cheeks flushed an excited scarlet, and she pushed it back down.
"I mean...not now. Not soon. But...it's stupid forget it."
"No, I'm curious now, what were you going to say?"
"...Only that, well, you know how I grew up in the countryside?"
Y/N nodded. He doesn't talk about childhood that much. Or any of his past, really. Getting to hear about it, a glimpse into what made him him is a rare treat, in Y/N's mind, and the opportunity is as delicate as smoke. She didn't want to frighten him off. "Yeah?"
Encouraged by her interest, Sherlock continued, finding some kind of momentum. "I always thought I'd... kind of like to go back there one day. Not even to the county I grew up in, I just mean somewhere open and full of fields and little country lanes. The ones where they kind of go to nowhere and then when you try to find them again another day you can't."
Kindly, because there's that boyish joy he'd let slip earlier again:
"That's not stupid." It's not. That's Y/N's dream too, if she's honest with herself. Succulent homegrown food, flourishing honeysuckle crawling up garden walls, rolling English hills. London is wonderful, busy, happening, and alive. The country's beating heart. But there's no denying that the UK isn't about high-speed city life. Crumbling cottages with real log fires and unpaved roads leading to friendly little villages is where most Britons want to end up, even if they do gravitate towards skyscrapers in their younger years.
Y/N had to wrangle in her thoughts because Sherlock was talking again. She wanted to listen. He's never had anyone treat him like a lover, but at least he has people to treat him like a friend.
"I always liked the idea of having a dog and...a wife." He'd added 'wife' as if he'd had to push himself to do so, to uncover that particular part of him. Y/N knew his cheekbones were dusted pink in the dark. "We'd have a garden. And a car. When I moved to London I didn't really miss those things, but now I'm starting to. I'd work from home and only take important cases so I could be...with my family most of the time. One day... maybe I'd have children."
His tone dampened suddenly, the dreamy spell of his thoughts vanishing as if a brittle wind had blown in from the window and whisked them away. "I mean, I liked that idea when I was a kid... but now I know that's not really something I can do."
Y/N's mouth opened and closed several times before she managed to push out: "You could always adopt---"
Sherlock cleared his throat and said hurriedly: "No, I don't mean I can't...make children. I mean all of it."
Y/N's brow furrowed. It's curious how we still bother to arrange our features in expressions, even when the person we're talking to can't see them. "I don't understand."
Sherlock hesitated. "You know... I can't be normal because---well, because I'm not normal, am I?"
"No. You're better than normal. That doesn't mean you can't get married or have a family. If the court of law had any bearing over who can have children, there'd be a lot less people in the world."
Sherlock made a noise in his throat. "I mean more...finding someone who'd do that stuff with me is impossible. I...lied earlier when I said I'm not interested in meeting someone. I'm not keen on the thought of meeting someone new, that bit was true. Not any more. When I was a teenager I liked the idea of dating but then no one liked the idea of dating me, and time went on and I got to about thirty and I just...gave up."
Y/N didn't know what to do with this bare, vulnerable admission. She kind of wanted to move up close to his side and tell him that someone does want to date him, she does. But that was obviously a stupid fantasy---literally that; a fantasy--- so she opted for pressing her lips together.
He sighed and moved onto his back again. He probably thought the conversation was over, that he'd sullied it with awkwardness, because Y/N took a long time to formulate a reply. She wanted to say the right thing, hand him some kind, comforting, words to warm his cold, undernourished heart.
But she couldn't think of anything. Nothing that he'd believe, anyway, nothing that didn't sound like empty promises. So she settled for: "I don't think you should give up."
He did that sound in his throat again, a sort of dismissive grunt. Another siren wailed in the distance, a symptom of an insomniac city, and, although it had never bothered her that much, Y/N suddenly found herself wishing for silence. Silence besides maybe the shy whispering of nature. Like the susurration of a tree, perhaps. Or the wind singing her to sleep.
"That's my dream too, you know," she said quietly aloud.
"What is?"
"A cottage in the countryside. Being married...children. A dog, wild flowers, homegrown vegetables---all of that. I want that too. I mean, like you said, not right now but...later. One day."
When Y/N got no answer she assumed it was because Sherlock had fallen asleep. She moved onto her other side, facing Basil now, sort of curling her body around his, which he seemed to like because he pushed his head back enough to press his skull into her chest.
...
That's how Y/N stayed until her mind ebbed into unconsciousness. At one point, the mattress dipped as Sherlock shifted up behind her, tentatively taking her waist in one large hand. Y/N didn't stir---didn't push him away, anyway---so he let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in and let the rest of his body move up to encompass her back.
She let him.
The point of his nose nudged the top of Y/N's spine as he tucked it amoungst her hair, finding refuge in the smell of her shampoo. It tickled when he sighed, and, although Y/N was half asleep, she knew there was a smile on his face.
Of course he's a cuddler.
Why did she expected anything different?