Why is Sherlock so nervous, she's just a person. He had decided after all not to cancel the meeting (he didn't dare call it a date, even though he really wanted to. He'd never had one of those before). This morning he'd been wracked with anxiety, but now felt a little excited by it---more than a little---he could feel his heart beating quickly in his chest as he pushed the door to the tea shop open, entered timidly, eyes scanning the slightly crowded room. He stopped as they fell on Y/N, sitting at a two-person table in the corner, a thoughtful look softening her face as she daydreamed. She looked even nicer than Sherlock remembered. Pretty. Too pretty to look at. Well, He wanted to look at her, but he was afraid that if he did he'd do something stupid like blush. And he was determined not to do that.
"Y/N," Sherlock greeted as he approached, smiling genuinely for the first time in a while. He's blushing already.
"Sherlock! Hi, it's great to finally properly meet you." Y/N held out her hand for him to shake, her soft fingers curling around his own sending a tingling sensation shooting up his arm.
Had it not been so pleasant he may have wondered if it was a heart attack.
Y/N gestured at the seat opposite herself, a steaming mug of tea and plate of ginger snaps set out on the table. "I ordered for you, I hope you don't mind."
"No, I don't mind, they're my favourite," Sherlock said in quiet bewilderment "How ever did you know?"
Y/N's lips tugged up at the corners in a way that made Sherlock's stomach do some kind of backflip. "I noticed you eating one at the cafe yesterday."
Surprised: "You noticed me in the cafe?" He didn't feel like the kind of person people notice (especially not people like Y/N). He hadn't felt noticeable for a long time. Hadn't bothered to try to be noticeable, even gone out of his way to not get noticed. He didn't know why, he wouldn't say he was socially anxious, per se, he'd just rather people didn't look at him too much. It was easier to be someone people don't notice when it was your choice not to be noticed. He'd rather elude people's notice then be starved of it.
"Yes." Y/N's cheeks turned a pastel pink and Sherlock felt comforted a little that he wasn't the only one that was nervous. "That's one of the reasons why I was so glad you invited me here. I have to admit that I may have been sneaking peeks at you over my novel."
Sherlock didn't know what to say to that. 'Would you like to move into the spare room in my apartment?' sprang to mind, but he didn't want to scare her off. That always happened; he'd meet someone actually worth talking to, open his mouth and they'd leave. He didn't want that to happen with Y/N.
There were lots of things he didn't want to happen with Y/N. Like not being noticed. He wanted her to notice him, that he was wearing a brand new jacket, was clean-shaven and had spent fifteen minutes this morning doing his hair.
Accidentally being rude. That's another thing he didn't want to happen. Sometimes he can't help it, he'll say something he shouldn't to someone who didn't deserve it, their smile fading and being replaced with hurt, then anger as they tell him to fuck off. Which he usually deserved. He didn't want that to happen, he didn't want his stupid mouth to say something horrible to Y/N (not that he could ever think of something horrible to say to her) and her to walk out of his life forever. There's a lot more, but the point is, he had a mental list of things he didn't want to happen.
His list of things he did want to happen was even longer.
Sherlock joked, not believing what she'd been implying for a second: "Did I have ginger snap crumbs on my face or something?"
Y/N didn't return his chuckle. "What? No, I was looking at you because I found you attractive. Do find you attractive. Very in fact." Her whole face had gone tomato coloured and not only was it the most endearing thing Sherlock had ever seen but also she thought he was attractive. Very, in fact.
He'd be lying if he said he hadn't imagined marrying this woman just then. Not even in a 'I want to marry you one day' way, more in a 'I could happily spend the rest of my life in your presence' kind of way. She'd move into his apartment and they'd go on cases together and split the rent and have both their names by the doorbell. He pictured himself cooking her dinner, them chatting on the sofa well into the night, helping her paint the spare room, and realised he was getting ahead of himself. Ahead of everyone; he barely knew anything about her. Well, he knew some things. He knew that she found him attractive. That's a start.
"You...find me attractive?" He'd just been sort of staring at her for a good thirty seconds, opening and closing his mouth like the goldfish his brother used to have in his room when they were kids.
She wasn't meeting his eyes. "Yes. I wanted to ask for your number but I was too shy. Imagine if your friend hadn't made you chase after me and ask for mine."
Sherlock did, and hated it.
" I would have never got to look at you again. So I'm trying to be braver. Speak my mind, so I don't miss any other opportunities. I do find you attractive."
"Thank you. I find you attractive too." Lips curving into a smile at the stupid romantic thing he was about to say. "Very. In fact."
Y/N glowed. It was so pleasant Sherlock had to change the subject quickly, so he didn't lean over right then and there and kiss her:
"It's funny because I'd made a mental note to myself not to speak my mind. I'm always pushing people away by saying things I shouldn't. I don't know when to shut up." It happened again, just then, where he thought he was going to make her laugh but instead she looked sad.
"You made mental notes of things not to do when talking to me?"
"Yes."
Y/N shook her head. "I'm not a butterfly that's landed on you, Sherlock. If you make a wrong move I won't fly away. I agreed to meet with you today because I want to get to know you, not some perfect version of yourself where some of your best qualities are locked away, stuffed in a crate."
"They're not my best qualities, though. You'll see, you'll probably say you like something like a book or a movie and I'll call it stupid and then---" He was rambling now, mad at himself because why had he even come here? Why had he even hoped he could befriend this wonderful woman? Be a regular person, do regular-person-things like have a relationship and go on dates? He's a pariah, he's always been on the outside looking in at normal life, he'd accepted that years ago so why was he here, now, trying to find the door?
Something warm was on his hand.
It was Y/N's hand, she'd placed it over his resting on the table.
Sherlock stopped talking abruptly. He'd lost his train of thought anyway, his brain was just Y/N, Y/N, Y/N, Y/N
"I meant it. When I said I'm not going to fly away. I want to get to know you. Really."
...
They talked for over two hours. It was the kind of talk they mention in old French romantic novellas, Sherlock thought---not that he'd read such things. Deep and meaningful and exhilarating, learning more and more about each other, so quickly that it was hard to keep track of where one person's information ended and your own bagun. He hadn't planned to say much, he didn't want to give too much away. And, rather sadly, it never occurred to him to talk about himself. But Y/N had this way about her, the way she asked him things made him feel she really cared, and before he knew it his life story was just spilling out.
"Sorry, am I boring you?" He'd asked, worried that his chances of a new friendship had evaporated during his account of his high school years, but Y/N shook her head, seeming confused.
"No, not at all."
He'd smiled, now even more smitten.
Sherlock found that Y/N was renting an apartment until she could find somewhere more permanent and affordable (this made his head spin with hopeful anticipation and he'd had to clamp his mouth shut so he wouldn't beg her to move in with him). She liked to read, obviously and enjoyed writing. Sherlock had been mentally noting down every new piece of information as if forming a Wikipedia page, but after a few minutes it had sort of spiralled into a messy pile of the way she laughed, and how it felt when she touched his hand.
His list of things he wanted to happen had grown even longer.
...
Sherlock went back to 221B when he had said goodbye to Y/N, having arranged that John would come over to discuss how the cafe had gone, but he wished he could cancel that now. He wanted to talk to Y/N some more, be with her longer. They didn't even have to be talking, he'd be perfectly content just sitting in silence at the cinema or something; just being close to her was enough. She had this addictive energy, this depth and kindness that made him reluctant to part with her.
John opened the door for him as soon as he knocked, ushering him into the room and settling him down on the sofa with a cup of tea. "So? How did it go? You were out for five hours, whatever did you do? If you don't mind me asking?"
"Really fond of this new more human me, aren't you, John?" Sherlock quipped, embarrassed that his friend---who used to quite look up to him---was seeing him like this. He would want it to go back to how it used to be, before Y/N, when John saw him as an unfeeling machine---but that was before Y/N. Sherlock would rather be seen as human than not have met Y/N. Which surprised even himself. "We met at the coffee shop, as planned. Then Y/N suggested visiting the museum down London wall; it had an exhibition on and she was eager to see it. Then we just wandered around for a while."
John scoffed "You? 'Wander around'? The day you just 'wander around' will be the day England falls."
"Well, I hope not, because we're doing it again on Wednesday," Sherlock tried not to smile proudly but couldn't help it.
John clapped him hard on the back and he nearly spilt his tea. "Well done! That's fantastic! So you had a good time, then?" John poured himself some more tea (like any Englishman would whilst listening to a good story).
"Yes, she was nice. I had a nice time. It was a nice day."
"You become quite the poet when you're in love, don't you?" John smirked, earning a disgusted look from Sherlock and an outraged cry of:
"I'm not in love!" Lies. Lies. Lies.
To say John didn't look convinced was an understatement. His eyes slid over Sherlock's face, taking in the sparks lighting his eyes and the blossoming of colour over his cheekbones.
Sherlock realised this is what it feels like to be on the receiving end of a deduction, and decided that he didn't like it.
"Uh-huh. But you do... like her?" John prompted, probably hoping a steady relationship would improve the taller's mood. Ever since he had known him, Sherlock seemed to live in a small world of irritation, tight suits and depression. Some oxytocin and serotonin from a caring individual might be just the thing he needs to lift that storm cloud away from his head.
Sherlock had gone a little pink and said with less confidence than he probably meant "Yes. Yes, I do I like her. Of course, I have only known her for roughly a day, but we did... get on."