Sherlock takes pride in his ability to plan ahead. He's very good at it. His brain works like a computer, able to simulate situations, play out different scenarios, watch them through like a film. He likes to enter every situation knowing roughly what's going to happen, and for every action, he usually predicts at least eight possible outcomes. It makes him feel safe; predictability like a warm, heavy blanket wrapped about his shoulders, foresight like a soothing hand gently stroking his easily-frayed nerves.
For this situation, however, he had no idea what was going to happen. He'd never tried to conceive what sequence of events might be triggered by his secrets ever getting out, mainly because he'd hoped that would never happen. He hadn't seen a need to plan ahead---to ready himself---because him telling Y/N he's utterly head-over-heels in love with her would never, under any circumstances, happen. Ever.
Well, that's what he'd hoped, anyway.
But now he's called her pretty, to her face. He's admitted that he finds her attractive, handed one of his secrets over, and Sherlock's brain is frantically trying to predict what might happen next.
Surely this day will end with him being hospitalised?
Or bankrupt?
Or with a criminal record stained with that dirty word, all grotesque and repellent; 'ASSAULT'.
He'd sketched his female flatmate without her knowledge, obsessed over her---basically. How many hours has he spent just staring her? Memorising every line, ever, curve, every dip and shadow and---
She doesn't seem to be as angry about the drawings as he thought she'd be.
When Sherlock had walked in and seen them spread out over Y/N's lap, he'd already started wondering what song his parents would play at his funeral. Something terrible, presumably. Although, he'd noted, that probably doesn't really matter because it's not like there will be many people to witness it; he guessed his funeral party would consist of only about five individuals; three will be relatives and the other two will only be there to make sure he's actually dead.
But he's not dead. He's still very much alive, he can tell because his heart is throwing itself about his ribcage as if it wants to escape. Y/N hasn't taken her soft, pretty little hands and throttled him, or picked up some kind of blunt, heavy instrument and beaten him to death with it. He won't have to be walked down the centre of a church in a box to the sound of Eric Clapton---at least not soon, anyway.
Surely if the drawings aren't some form of offence, his attraction is. A man like him, playing host to a crush on a woman like Y/N? Any woman? Who gave him the right? He doesn't deserve---
Why hadn't he tried to stop himself? Why hadn't he done anything about it? When that shy little sapling started to sprout deep within his heart, why hadn't he crushed it underfoot like any respectable gentleman---respectable human being---would and should have done? He'd let it fester from mild infatuation to a crush to full-on love. That one stupid tiny sapling had grown and multiplied and expand and now its an entire garden; blossoms of endearment blooming in his lungs, vines of attachment winding in and out of ribs like a trellis.
Selfishness, that's why he hadn't put a stop to it. He'd noticed how his chest would do a little fluttery thing every time Y/N smiled at him, how her casual touch would leave his hungry skin prickling. He'd noticed how picturing Y/N's lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, his neck, his belly---down lower--- had set his whole body on fire and he'd---God dammit---he'd liked it. And fantasising about him dotting kisses all over her body? Well, that felt so absolutely heavenly he'd had to take a shower so cold his toes turned blue.
He couldn't bring himself to kill that feeling. Tranquilise it with frigid water, yes, but kill it altogether? Snuff it out? Exterminate it as if it were mere vermin? To do so would be wrong---morally and objectively---like drowning a newborn kitten or tearing off a ladybird's wing.
Although, he thought bitterly, he kind of wishes he'd killed it right about now. He wished he'd done it months ago. All those times he pulled a piece of paper towards himself, plucked up a pen in one hand and started those first few lines; the basic shape of Y/N's face, her pose, her gesture, he'd told himself 'This is the last one.' Like someone trying to finally get around to starting a diet or wean themselves off caffeine or alcohol: 'This is it now. No more after this.' But he didn't stop, couldn't and now look.
He's been discovered.
He's still sitting there, on the carpet, watching the woman he loves digest the syllables he'd fed her. Only half an hour ago all his secrets had been safely stuffed away in his pockets. Now they're spilt everywhere. He feels like he's just fallen over and dropped them; like a man carrying a box of dirty films who trips and they all fall out onto the sidewalk for everyone to see. It had happened so quickly: 'You're pretty', he'd never admitted to finding anyone pretty in his life---he hadn't prepared for this---
"What?" Y/N asked.
That's it; the moment he'd been waiting for; her reaction. The moment that defines the future of their relationship; will they part as awkward acquaintances? Or will Y/N use Sherlock's bedside lamp to send him to the River Styx?
He...couldn't tell. Y/N sounded like...well, she'd sounded like she hadn't heard him. But she definitely had heard him, she's right there. They're so close together her knees are almost touching his, bridging the gap between them. Sherlock suddenly got the strong urge to shuffle backwards a bit; he's too close.
Despite having absolutely no idea of what would happen, he hadn't thought that what would happen would be that.
"You're pretty," Sherlock stated again, carefully. It's too late to back out now. And if Y/N is going to murder and or file charges against him for sketching her likeness in secret over and over he might as well explain to her why he did it.
Swallowing what little saliva he had, Sherlock continued bravely: "I like to draw what I find beautiful. When I was younger it was butterflies, moths, birds, buildings. A few years ago it was things I saw through my microscope. Cells, etcetera. Now it's you." He'd lowered his eyes to his hands and muttered into them: "Since you moved in it's been you."
When he dared to glance through the curls of his fringe at Y/N's reaction, he saw not embarrassment, not disgust or discomfort, but...disbelief.
"You don't have to lie, Sherlock, I found your stash of drawings, I'm fine with it, you don't need to use flattery to---"
"I wasn't lying, I was trying to tell you how I feel about you," he snapped, almost curtly. This isn't the reaction he'd expected. He thought she'd report him to somewhere, move out, bruise the other side of his face---but not believing him at all? To think he's lying about his attraction---
Y/N appeared to catch on, Sherlock's clipped tone and general, terrified demeanour seemed to make her realise he was serious. Her eyes have gone all wide. "...How do you feel about me?"
Sherlock played those six words over in his head again, combing them for a tone, a hint at what Y/N might be thinking. Had she asked tentatively? Did she sound scared of the answer? Did she sound like she was mentally measuring how long it would take her to sprint to the door?
No, she'd sounded...curious. Was that curiosity? Or is Sherlock's poor, lonely heart just desperately scrabbling at any slight smidgen of hope it can find?
He licked his lips. He's surprised his voice is still working at all, seeing as everything from his tongue downwards is as dry as sandpaper. He half expected to try push some syllables through his vocal cords only for them to make a noise like a gust of wind whistling through a grate; like a broken air conditioning unit. Except he isn't a machine, he's a red-blooded, completely love-sick, touch-starved man, and he isn't cold anymore, he's burning hot with a blush as he hesitantly mutters:
"Lots of things. Mainly... fondness. Attraction." He'd just stuttered. Since when does he stutter? "But there's other stuff too. Like...I'd like to kiss you. You to kiss me." That blush is trickling down his body as if raspberry-coloured paint had been poured on his head. "Well, I'd like to do a bit more than---"
Y/N had pushed herself onto her knees and shuffled closer to him and he bit off the end of that sentence quickly, clamping his mouth tight shut, his eyes widening as he watched her. She kept getting closer until the soft curve of her breasts were nearly nudging against his chest and Sherlock----in a confusing state of fear and arousal---leaned backwards, flinching away as if he was looking directly at the sun.
But she kept getting closer, so he kept falling further and further back until his shoulder blades touched down on the carpet. He'd told himself he deserves whatever physical punishment Y/N throws his way, and yet---now the time has come to receive it---he can't help but cower. He's turning his head, not even in preparation of the pain, but because he doesn't want to have to look at Y/N's features---those usually soft, genial, subtle features he's so in love with---contorted into rage and abhorrence.
He squeezed his eyes tight shut as she leaned over him, waiting for that white-hot flash of a punch to land squarely on his not-already-bruised cheek---
But nothing happened.
Cautiously, Sherlock peeked out from below his eyelids.
Y/N is almost crawling over him (which would make his skin tingle under any other circumstances), her face written with...
Confusion. Not anger, not rage, not with that look people get behind their pupils as they're calculating just about where they want their fist to meet with your face.
'Yes, definitely confusion,' Sherlock thought from where he's laying on the ground. It's scary being on the ground. He's too vulnerable, too small. It's too humiliating.
Y/N's brow is pulled together above her nose like there's a stitch there that had been tugged too tightly. She's looking down at Sherlock's expression, her eyes following the line of his alarmed frown with puzzled curiosity.
"Why are you wincing?" She asked, the words falling from her mouth and landing on Sherlock's face. A piece of her hair has fallen from behind her ear. If Sherlock wasn't petrified like a rabbit before a fox, he'd reach out and gently stroke it back behind her helix. He'd always wanted to do that; tenderly touch her just because he could. But now his hands are shamefully tucked up to his chest, his body subconsciously shielding his already wounded heart.
He cleared his throat, hoping it would sound more manly than his current position looked: "That is the usual reaction to being hit."
"What?! I'm not going to hit you! Why would I hit you?"
Sherlock's head tipped to one side. What the Hell is going on? He gestured at the pictures piled up by the bed. Uncertainly: "...Because of that?"
He still wants her to hit him, he's almost annoyed that she hasn't yet. It wouldn't make up for what he'd done, but it would be good for the both of them, Sherlock had decided; level the playing field a bit: 'I stalked you, you beat me up, shall we call it a draw and continue with our lives?'
Then something occurred to him: "You're...not going to hit me?"
Y/N looked, quite frankly, appalled. "Jesus, Sherlock no, I'd never---how could you even think I'd---? God, I was going to kiss you!"
Every cog in Sherlock's brain ground to a halt. He stared up at Y/N, not even daring to blink in case this was some kind of miraculous dream he didn't want to wake from.
Voice wobblier than he'd like it to be: "Kiss me? Why?" Even mentioning it---just the very idea of getting to kiss someone---sent a dart of sensation right through to him.
Y/N looked confused. "You just said you wanted me to. Sorry, did I get it wrong?"
Sherlock shook his head, feeling the coarse fibres of the carpet against the back of his skull. Quietly, averting his gaze shamefully: "No, you didn't get it wrong." She'd gotten it so right. He wants Y/N's affection---craves it---so much it's, quite frankly, embarrassing.
Shoulders visibly loosening with relief, Y/N smiled, smooth wedges of her teeth exposed, her eyes pushed into pretty little crescent moons. She seemed to be waiting for something, watching the man below her expectantly.
But Sherlock still hadn't moved. He hadn't taken the hint, and Y/N's tongue flicked across her lips to wet them.
"...So...can I kiss you?" Y/N's tongue is pink, all slick and appealing. It made the plush pads of her lips go shiny and glossy like honey drizzled over a strawberry.
An error message popped up in Sherlock's consciousness.
There was a pause while he just blinked up at her, his jaw opening and closing but no words coming out.
It was his body making it do that, not his brain. His body---his lust, his desire, his unsatisfied libido---is two steps ahead; it had processed Y/N's request and wanted very much to agree to it as soon as possible. His cheekbones had turned red with a flush, something stirring deep in his abdomen that made him his toes curl in his socks. Yes, his body understands, but his brain is still clogged up with a mixture of disbelief and euphoria; like a printer jammed with too many pieces of paper at once.
If someone was to walk into the room at that moment, they'd probably assume the two were reenacting a scene from A Little Mermaid; Sherlock, all sprawled on the floor gasping like a fish out of water, and Y/N crouched by his side, her expression written with concern as she watches him have some kind of stroke or aneurysm or perhaps both.
"You want to kiss me?" Sherlock eventually managed, the pale disks of his irises lighting up all of a sudden with hope and interest. His brain had caught up now. He's finding it difficult not to grin. He's so drunk on relief and delight he's forgotten the humiliating fact that he's cowering on the floor. Almost.
Y/N gave a nod, her smile returning now that she knew she hadn't utterly broken him. "Yes. In fact, I want to---how did you put it?" The corner of her lip curled. It made that tightening in Sherlock's belly coil in on itself. "...Do a bit more than kiss you."
Sherlock can't say anything, but this time it's because he doesn't know what to say. This isn't how he saw this scenario playing out. It's not how he saw any scenario playing out. He's a bit out of breath and wildly unprepared and no matter how hard he tried not to he couldn't seem to stop staring at Y/N's mouth.
He wanted to say something sexy. Something smooth and coy and masculine. He wanted to sit up in one lithe movement, confidently take the subtle curve of Y/N's jaw, dip his head down and give her a kiss so wrought with potent male energy---
But he didn't. Couldn't, for several reasons. Instead, he asked, like the innocent, inexperienced bottom that he is:
"...So you still like me?"
Sherlock's shirt had fallen open when he'd retreated against the floor's comforting embrace, the pale plane of his torso exposed. He hadn't realised, really, not until now; Y/N has placed one hand on his sternum, running a teasing circle onto the hard ridge of bone with the pad of her finger. It's brushing over his nerve endings, lighting them up one by one. It's a wonder he's not physically glowing.
"Did you not hear what I just said?" She teased, her tone low and almost sensual, heat prickling from where she's dragging her touch over Sherlock's milky white skin.
It's suddenly very difficult for him to keep his eyes open. He'd just like to revel for a few moments in...what ever this is. Y/N's touch. Relief. He'd been so tightly wound for so long, so exhausted; secrets aren't that heavy on their own. They're like a glass of water; it doesn't matter if you see the glass as half-full or half-empty; if you carry it around for months it's going to weigh you down anyway.
Now he's free of that weight. And Y/N wants to kiss him. Does she?
Sherlock swallowed and shifted against the floor, noting Y/N's swelled pupils slide down and then up the exposed pillar of his midriff. So she's not joking? This isn't some cruel, twisted, confusing prank? She isn't mad at him, or embarrassed by his devotion, his affection, his obsession? She wants to kiss him?
A whole new fear blossomed in Sherlock's brain space like a thorny rose, bursting his elation with harsh, prickly spines:
This is really happening. Well, it's going to happen, and he has no idea what he's doing.
Sherlock has waited for so long, dreamed of this moment since...well, since he'd first noticed that the pleasing shape of the female form could set off an excited little string of nerves within his body. But the years dribbled by, and he began to think that maybe---for him---women will be one of those things he can look at but never touch. Socially awkward by nature, he was in his final year of university before he'd plucked up the courage to enter the world of romance. Very few girls showed interest in the quiet, unpopular, analytical boy at the back of the lecture hall, and any conversations he did manage to start didn't go well enough to lead to a second. He was twenty. Then twenty-five. By thirty he'd abandoned all hope of exploring his sexuality.
But he shouldn't have doubted himself. He should have researched, should have prepared because, even though the wait was painfully long, he's finally allowed to touch. And not just anyone. Y/N. The only woman he's ever loved, who has ever let him get close enough to love her.
"You look frightened again," she pointed out patiently. She'd probably pieced together the reason for his discomfort. She knows he's new to this, to everything, and although she doesn't appear to think much of it either way, it's painfully obvious that Sherlock is both intensely and deeply humiliated by it.
As not to overwhelm him---probably---Y/N ceased her stroking. Sherlock wished she hadn't; it had been so simple and yet, curiously, felt so good.
"I'm not frightened," he snapped almost curtly, but the apprehensive edge to his voice gave away the fact that that was a lie. He wants her to touch him again. "I'm confused because I thought you'd be angry about the pictures but you weren't, and then I thought you were going to hit me but you didn't, and now you're telling me you want to kiss me which is, quite frankly, baffling because look at me---"
He was cut off by Y/N's lips being pressed suddenly to his.