At 1:37 am it began to rain. Sherlock was awake to hear it. He's one of those people that struggles to submerge himself in subconsciousness; not necessarily an insomniac, but close. He can't switch his brain off. It's always thinking.
When it started to rain at 1:37 am, he was thinking about three things.
The first was about how the sky didn't seem to be raining, just leaking; like a tap you can't properly turn off no matter how many times you turn it. He can't usually hear the rain from his bedroom; there's nothing for the droplets to land on and the window is too tucked away for them to be thrown against the glass. Y/N's bedroom window is around the front of the house, though, facing the street. Two floors below, and a little to the side, is Speedy's Cafe, the stretched fabric of the striped awning out the front acting as a giant drum.
Sherlock had never slept in this room before, even when it was unoccupied. He'd barely been in it at all, really, in all the years he's lived here. He'd thought it best to let his flatmate, whomever they were at the time, have the best room in the apartment. He'd hoped the view and pleasingly airy space would make up for the various shortcomings of his personality that they'd have to put up with while living with him.
The second thing he was thinking about was how he couldn't get to sleep (which, ironically, wasn't helping him achieve his goal). This usually bothered him---those endless hours crawling by---but this time it didn't, due to the third thing he'd been thinking about:
Y/N.
Sherlock layed, curled around her back for quite some time, trying to shut his multitudinous thoughts down for the night. He'd held his breath when he'd moved up against her, waiting for the inevitable disgusted scolding, the hands pushing him away, the humiliating stammering as he tries to explain himself. He'd stammer not because of embarrassment (although God knows he'd have his fair share of that too) but rather because he didn't actually have an explanation planned. He'd tried to formulate one, carefully slotting some words together to form sentences, but once he mentally tried to test them out they collapsed and buckled like poorly-designed railway tracks. There was no excuse, no reason for cuddling up to his friend besides the fact that he wanted to.
But he hadn't needed an excuse, thankfully, because Y/N had just silently let him. She even---to Sherlock's delight---pushed her body backwards slightly, mouldering the curve of her spine into his lanky figure. He continued to hold her long after she'd fallen asleep. Partly because he didn't want to let go yet, and partly because Y/N was sort of unconsciously gripping one of his arms so he couldn't, even if the mood had taken him.
Which it didn't, even when the arm he'd snaked under Y/N's pillow went from prickly with pins-and-needles to so numb he forgot he had fingers.
...
When morning came you couldn't really tell. The inside of Y/N's room, despite the curtains being closed, had the same tenebrosity as the outside. A stodgy brick of cement-coloured clouds had hardened in the sky, hanging low and heavy, threatening to fall out of the air all together.
The sound of a car honking its horn at a cyclist several streets away woke Y/N up roughly an hour before the time she would have prefered. Usually she's immune to the restless muttering of the city, but she'd fallen asleep with a head full of grassy knolls and countryside cottages, so maybe her brain thought the sound didn't belong.
She'd also fallen asleep wondering what it would be like to be married to Sherlock Holmes, so maybe that's why it didn't come as a shock to her when she realised she was up against his chest; in her dreams, she'd been there too.
He was laying on his side, facing her, and she had one arm draped lazily over the curve of his waist as if, at some point in the night, she'd tried to get him closer (she had, and it had made him smile). He had both his arms around her, one under her head and the other over her hip, bent at the elbow, his forearm travelling all the way up her back so his hand rested somewhat level with her shoulder blades. Y/N felt as though he were some kind of plant that had grown around her in the night.
She decided to sleep in a little longer, if she could (because wouldn't you?) and deal with the inevitable awkwardness of waking her friend later.
...
'Later' came around much faster than Y/N would have liked. The length of time between the car horn and 'later', in fact, was a mere seventeen minutes. Seventeen minutes of Sherlock's steady heartbeat at Y/N's forehead where it lay against his sternum. Seventeen minutes of his torso softly inflating and deflating with each long, drawn out breath. Seventeen minutes of how it felt to simply be held by him. Granted, she had her arms around him as well but he was definitely the one doing the holding.
'Later' didn't so much 'come around', it snuffled and nuzzled the shell of Y/N's ear.
She almost giggled, the sensation startling her---does it make her a bad dog-sitter; that she'd forgotten Basil existed for a few minutes? Sherlock was all Y/N had been able to focus on, had wanted to focus on. Nothing else existed to her, not even the large ball of fluff at her feet. He'd rolled over in the night, then rolled over again and again until he was at the foot of the bed, which is where he remained.
Until now. Now he was awake and wishing he'd gotten up to use the dog-version of a loo before everyone went to bed. He prodded Y/N again with his nose, exhaling a little huff of air as he did so and she batted him away, although she knew what he wanted, and knew that she'd have to heed his wishes at some point. She mentally willed Basil to settle back down, to hold on for another five minutes, but of course he didn't, he just got more and more restless.
Y/N didn't want Basil to wake Sherlock. She hoped she could maybe pad downstairs, let Basil wee up against a lamppost, then slide back into her friend's embrace as if it was her favourite sweater. From experience, she knew Sherlock was capable of sleeping the sleep of the dead. He struggles to reach unconsciousness but has no trouble remaining that way. She really doubted that once he'd woken up she could suggest they spend the morning snuggling and get a positive answer, but maybe she could leave and return without him knowing?
Carefully, she extracted herself from Sherlock's tangle of limbs, at which point Basil perked up considerably and leapt from the bed. He didn't seem to understand the shushing motions Y/N sent his way when they were in the hall, because he sprinted down the stairs so fast Y/N worried his front legs wouldn't be able to keep up with his back ones. Then his claws clicked chirpily on the hardwood floor of the corridor. Then he almost tumbled down the other set of stairs, and barked at the door as if that would somehow speed up the process of unlocking it.
When Y/N returned to her room, of course, Sherlock was awake. He'd opened the curtains and was leaning against the radiator, watching the fat little raindrops chase each other down the window pane.
Y/N guessed he'd only just gotten up because his hair is still more fuzzy than curly, and his pale eyes reflected the sight of the sky rather than absorbed and processed it. Y/N couldn't help noticing how, now that he's standing up rather than huddled on her bed, the elastic of his pyjama trousers has long since expired, the band hanging low around his hips. She didn't know where to look, his hair made her giggle, but anywhere near that slither of alabaster skin visible just below his belly button made her blush.
She decided to simply not look directly at him, and started picking out some clothes for the day instead, explaining as she did so:
"I had to let Basil out." She wasn't really sure what else to say, she just knew she didn't want him to think she'd sneaked off---as if she was ashamed, or embarrassed, or something. She wasn't any of those at all.
He gestured to the window, or, more accurately, the curtains, to show her he hadn't been watching her intentionally. "I saw. Did you get wet?"
"I took an umbrella. Basil didn't, obviously, so I put him by the fire to dry off."
Sherlock's lips tugged into what could be mistaken for a smile. "You make him sound like an item of clothing."
"Well, he would make a good fur coat."
That did make Sherlock smile, and he chuckled as he stretched his arms above his head with a yawn.
"If I had muscles like that,"Â Â Y/N thought, "I wouldn't wear long sleeved shirts and suit jackets."
...
After some more pleasantries like the usual 'did you sleep well?'s and 'what do you want for breakfast?'s, Sherlock departed to his own section of the apartment to get ready for the day. Last night's cuddle wasn't mentioned, nor was the unexpected fact that Sherlock had wanted to spend the evening watching films in Y/N's bed. Y/N didn't mind, really. There wasn't much to say about it. If he had wanted to leave at any time he could. He'd willingly spilled his soul about one day wanting to have a family, Y/N hadn't pushed him to. And it didn't have to mean anything when he'd held her close as she drifted off to sleep. Their relationship had advanced to a new level of trust. The reason why, or how, does not need to be examined.
They walked Basil to Regents Park after breakfast. It was still raining but they didn't mind; they held out the palms of their hands to feel the raindrops. They beaded on Sherlock's coat, clinging to the fibers until he looked like he was covered in tiny orbs of glass. As he walked, some would fall off and shatter on the damp pavement beneath his feet, adding to the general sogginess of the London streets.
Basil didn't collect droplets, he absorbed them, the liquid seeping between his strands of fur steadily and persistently until he was dragging the added weight of a small paddling pool along with him (not that this---somehow---made him any less energetic).
Y/N brought a tennis ball and they took turns throwing it as far as they could, the luminous green of its nylon shell growing duller every time it bounced wetly on the gravel pathways or rolled through the saturated grass. Despite his days as a puppy being several years behind him, Y/N and Sherlock's arms tired long before Basil's legs. They'd hurl the (now slightly sticky) ball over a hedge, amongst a sodden flower bed, even uphill, and Basil would eagerly bound off before it had even left their hand.
"I guess they're called 'retrievers' for a reason," Sherlock had mused while they watched the tenacious hound disappear into a mass of shrubbery for several seconds, then reappear with the ball (and and a few leaves) held proudly between his jaws. He brought it back and dropped it triumphantly in Sherlock's palm, grinning when he pitched it for what had to be the thirty-fourth time.
"Careful you don't throw it in the lake," Y/N warned, and he gave her a look. One of those sort of sideways smirks, all narrowed eyes and one corner of his mouth tweaking upwards.
"Do you think if I threw it in the lake he'd go and get it?"
Y/N hummed. "Probably. Don't retrievers have webbed feet? Or is that Labradors?"
"I think all dogs have webbed feet, theirs are just bigger which makes them better at swimming." And then he said the words Y/N knew had been coming: "Shall we test it?"
They'd come to a stop, well, Sherlock had stopped and---as if they were joined at the hip---Y/N stopped too. The lake stretched out before them, freckled from the rain and reflecting the steely grey of the sky. Y/N chewed her bottom lip. "Isn't that mean? It's cold."
Sherlock shrugged his wide shoulders. "If he doesn't want to go in he doesn't have to. Dogs fur is insulated. We'll have to wash him when we get home anyway; he's soaked. Do I really need to persuade you?"
Y/N has always been a little more lenient with Sherlock's (often questionable) schemes and experiments, her curiosity so often getting the better of her, as it was doing now. The mental image of a dog paddling about in a pond, sending flurries of afeared ducks into the air was rather amusing. "Okay, fine. But if he doesn't go in, you have to."
"Why?"
"To get the tennis ball."
Sherlock weighed his options. He must have a lot of faith in retrievers' innate love of water because he said, sounding irritatingly confident: "Fine."
The unsuspecting Basil trotted over, his tongue hanging out the side of his mouth as he once again pressed the manky ball into Sherlock's hand. This time, though, rather than launch it ahead of them down the trail, Sherlock hurled it straight into the lake.
It hit the water with a satisfying splash, a brightly colored raindrop amongst thousands of smaller grey ones.
Then he turned to Basil to see what he would do. Y/N wondered if Sherlock was mentally crossing his fingers, willing the dog to chase after the toy, for the sake of his new trousers.
Or she would have done, if she had time to. Basil raced off, throwing himself with what appeared to be delight into the water, sending a small tsunami smashing against the swollen banks.
Sherlock cheered triumphantly, and Y/N crossed her arms in pretend irritation. Well, it was mostly pretend. She'd wanted to see him wade into a lake in January.
"Who's a clever boy?" Sherlock praised as he patted Basil's drenched head when he'd hauled himself out of the water, the drowned tennis ball in his teeth. Basil grinned up at him, knowing for a fact that he was a clever boy. His lips were pulled back in a grin and stayed that way as he shook himself, sending Y/N and Sherlock running in opposite directions. People always hold one arm up to shield their face when a dog shakes. No one knows why. It doesn't help.
...
Water leaked from the sky and from Basil's fur. The conclusion was mutually reached that he'd have to be smuggled into the flat so as not to give Mrs Hudson some kind of aneurysm.
"You could carry him again?" Y/N suggested, mostly joking, as they stood on the doorstep staring down at the bedraggled dog before them. There were still bits of pond weed clinging limply to his withers.
Sherlock had, of course, said no to this idea, and they'd settled on simply leading Basil up to their apartment and praying to the gods that he didn't decide to shake himself along the way. Luckily, Basil is, after all, a Clever Boy, so seemed to have grasped the gist of the situation and held off from shaking himself dry until they were all three huddled in the loo next to Sherlock's bedroom. It would now need a good wash, but that would have to wait.
Basil didn't want to get in the bath, despite his apparent love of water. He just stood next to it, resting his head on the lip and watching the contents expand as the taps ran. Sherlock eventually lifted him in, at which point Basil looked slightly irritated, as if the whole ordeal was beneath him intellectually.
"He looks like you when Lestrade tells you to fill in witness forms at the end of cases," Y/N giggled, getting a single-syllable hum from Sherlock.
They were kneeled by the bath, using cups from the kitchen to pour water over Basil's fur. They had considered the shower--- it being one of those ones attached to a long bendy hose---but they didn't want to risk it. Basil suddenly deciding to exit the bath and run rampant around the apartment they could handle. Basil suddenly deciding to exit the bath and running rampant around the apartment while a shower head is also on the loose, they probably couldn't.
Laura and Ted had included some doggy shampoo in the multitudinous supplies they'd pressed into Y/N's arms what felt like weeks ago. The bottle was transparent, the pink liquid inside smelling pleasingly of 'clean'. Y/N squeezed a generous amount of pink onto Basil's back. He gave her a look that, had he been a human, would have made Y/N send him a formal apology card and some flowers.
"You need a wash too." Sherlock had turned to Y/N and cupped her jawline with one large hand, giving her a smile that could easily be mistaken for fondness.
Y/N wondered, for one strange, magical second if he was going to kiss her.
But he didn't, he ran his thumb over her cheek, smudging some dried flecks of pond water she'd been freckled with when Basil had drenched them earlier.
When Sherlock let her go, Y/N had to mentally put herself back together. Something about the gentleness of his touch, and the way he'd looked at her, had made her fall apart in his hand.
Trying to act like she hadn't suddenly realised what Roberta Flack had been singing about in her song 'The First Time Ever I Saw Your Face', Y/N forced a light-hearted laugh. "Well, I'm not getting clean in that." She gestured at Basil's bathwater, which, by now more closely resembled the lake he'd been in earlier rather than a bath.
She didn't know it, but Sherlock had suddenly felt the urge to playfully ask 'Why? What's wrong with it?' and jokingly pick her up as if he was going to dunk her in with the dog. He didn't act on it, though, just tried to hold in a laugh and turned his head away so she couldn't see the colour of his cheekbones.
...
Drying Basil turned out to be more of a challenge than cleaning him. He seemed to think Sherlock smothering him with a towel was some sort of game, because everytime the fluffy material enveloped him he wriggled free with his mouth pulled back in a beaming smile, and started running around the room. Eventually Sherlock managed to scoop him up and held him this time, rising to his full height.
"What if we use a hairdryer?"
Basil looked mildly afraid as he was carried to Y/N's room and placed down in the center of it. He looked properly afraid as she picked up the hairdryer.
Sherlock noticed. "I'll hold him, you dry him." He arranged himself to do so and gave Basil's shaggy coat an encouraging pat.
"Thanks for the help, by the way." Y/N slid the plug into the wall socket. Basil's ears pricked up as if he somehow knew what was going to happen and didn't like it one bit, and Y/N almost chuckled at the sight of him. He was sort of huddled in Sherlock's arms. Arms that Y/N had seen on more than one occasion punch a man out cold. She suddenly wondered why he was here comforting a damp dog rather than out in an alleyway somewhere doing that. "Don't you have a case you'd rather be doing? Lestrade always has a few the police are stuck on, even if they're easy it's something to stave off the boredom."
He looked up at her, confused. "I'm not bored. Why? Do you not want me to help?"
"No, I do." She smiled at him, his fringe still slightly damp and hanging limply in his eyes. She wanted to reach out and tuck some of it behind his ear. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay with helping. Today has been very...domestic."
Sherlock gave Basil's back a stroke, but he wasn't looking at him when he said:
"And yet I've enjoyed it."
"Me too."
...
Once Basil was used to the unnaturally warm air of the hairdryer and the obnoxious roaring sound it seemed to insist on making, he actually started to enjoy it. He opened his mouth and closed his eyes like he would while sticking his head out of a car window, liking the sensation of wind tugging his ears---or something like that.
Drying Basil's fur took what felt like an inordinate amount of time. The water seemed to have become a part of him, seeped into him as if he was paper mache rather than a dog. At first he'd stood up, ready to bolt if this new machine tried anything shifty. Then, once it had earned his respect by gently warming him to a pleasing temperature somewhat similar to fresh toast, Basil had deemed the situation safe enough for him to take a seat. Now, a good while longer than twenty minutes later, he was spread on the floor, a fuzzy pool of melted butter, a goofy grin plastered sleepily under his muzzle.
Y/N sighed, standing up and switching the hairdryer off (which had started to smell a little too much like burning for her comfort). "Well, that's one side done."
Sherlock stood too, wincing as he shook out one knee, trying to nurse some blood back into his oxygen starved veins after so long of sitting cross legged. His job had mainly involved ruffling Basil's fur enough for the air from the hairdryer to reach the deeper layers of fluff ('why does he have so much fluff?' had been asked about six times in the last ten minutes). His shirt and black trousers were flecked with gashes of butterscotch-coloured hair. "You're going to have a dog-shaped damp patch on your carpet."
Y/N sighed, more from exhaustion than irritation. The damp patch would dry eventually. As would Basil's other side, maybe not until North and South Korea join together again, but some day. "If we removed all of the fur from your clothes we could make a rug." She brushed one hand over the material at Sherlock's stomach but it didn't help, just sort of...spread the fur around a bit. Then she snatched her hand back as if it had been shocked, red suffusing her face. She needs to stop casually touching him (even if it feels heavenly).
Although, he didn't seem to mind. "Do we have a lint roller?"
...
Sherlock played his violin that afternoon while Y/N gave Basil a thorough brushing. Basil had picked the spot; his basket by the fire, and Y/N had knelt beside him, angling herself enough to be able to watch Sherlock play.
He has a habit of hanging his head when he's just navigating day to day life; as if avoiding people's eyes, watching his shiny Oxfords, searching for clues---or something. But, as soon as he slides his violin from its case, his spine straightens to its full impressive length, like it's a sheet someone had run an iron over.
Y/N likes to watch him play.
Some people make themselves useful by giving their flatmates home cooked meals.
Some give them their skills, fixing broken boilers and unclogging the sink.
Some give them use of their expensive video gaming consoles.
Sherlock gives Y/N music.
Granted, he doesn't give it to her. Probably. She just often happens to be around while he's making it, and snatches a little for herself. Grasps it, plucks it from the air as the melodies snake around her like ribbons as he plays.
And he really can play.
He settles the delicate instrument under his chin, arranging his equally delicate fingers along its narrow neck. Its wood, designed for projecting sound, does so with every movement, the hollowness of it echoing softly as he gets comfortable, brings the sinewy bow into position.
The violin is the smallest stringed instrument, and it looks somehow even smaller tucked neatly in the crook of Sherlock's neck, the hazelnut brown of its body contrasting with the hard white line of his jaw. He stands, looking out at the sopping streets below, the wide rectangle of the window framing him nicely, shoulders parallel to the ceiling, his lean figure all clean-cut angles and straight lines.
It would be poetic to describe the strokes of the bow as that; strokes. Smooth, sliding with ease back and forth. But they're not, they're not supposed to be; the violin relies on friction to create sound. Thus, as Sherlock drags the two wildly different types of string over each other they grate together, a proud, powerful note peeling from the contact and curling into the air with a flurry of resin.
It's a long note, but the next is quicker, brisk flicks of Sherlock's wrist pulling the bow back, forcing it over the strings, pads of his fingers teasing the neck of the instrument with instinctual ease. His fingers are calloused on that hand, Y/N has noticed before. Worn harder not from manual labour but gentle caresses of a tool as he attempts (and succeeds) to bring it to life.
He doesn't even have his eyes open anymore, and this is Y/N's favourite part of watching her flatmate play. Not just because his closed eyes means she can now watch him fully without his knowing, but because there's something almost spiritual about experiencing someone get so lost in something.
"I can feel sounds," Sherlock had once told Y/N, tentatively, as if he didn't think she'd believe it. " I think it's a type of synesthesia. Sound is physical for me, I can't just hear it I can feel it too."
Y/N had believed him, and does so even more now as she sits there, surrounded by the song he's quickly filling the room to the brim with. It skitters around the walls, slides over the furniture. He wasn't following a sheet, and, judging by the way he delivered each note, Y/N could only assume it was improvised. He swayed a little as he played, letting the music decide where it wanted to go, where it wanted him to put his fingers, how long it wanted the strokes of the bow to be.
After a little while, the room fell silent.
Y/N lifted her head. "Why have you stopped?"
"I'm hungry."
...
For dinner, they ordered takeaway, which was consumed at the kitchen table. Sherlock and Basil had had a sort of competition to see who could hear the delivery person approach the flat first. Basil won, obviously, letting everyone on the street know that there was an intruder amongst them by expelling a string of unnecessarily loud barks.
He shut up quickly when he realised said intruder brought gifts of food, and switched from guard dog to what Y/N had named The Good Dog Routine. Following close at her heels like a butler ready to take his next orders. Gently lick her palm, or, as she knelt down to get some plates from a cupboard, her face. Then, as she sat down to eat, he gives her those large begging eyes.
Which, for the sake of his health, she ignored.
"Last night was nice," Sherlock said after some time. He'd finished his meal and was now nibbling on some naan bread.
Y/N tried to look as if she hadn't just been so surprised by this statement that her fork halted halfway to her mouth. It had been nice, but she didn't know he'd also found it nice. For some reason she's assumed that last night, watching a film together, their conversation, and falling asleep in each others arms, would be one of those things that had happened but was never repeated, or even spoken about. Like an accidental kiss or an embarrassing confession.
"Yeah, I enjoyed it."
This made Sherlock's shoulders loosen and a relieved smile brighten his face. Hopefully: "You did?"
Y/N nodded enthusiastically, because her mouth was full. That was probably for the best; if she had been free to express how much she'd enjoyed it, he'd definitely be too freaked out to ever even consider doing it again, let alone continue this conversation.
Sherlock took another bite of his naan bread. He seemed to be skirting his way around the burnt bits, or the parts where the dough got thin, focusing on the puffier, softer regions of the flatbread. He'd accidentally cut it with his teeth into the shape of a dragon, Y/N thought, glad she was chewing because that made it easier to hold in an amused laugh.
"Would you want to do it again tonight?"
Y/N swallowed, pulling her mind away from naan bread dragons. "What? Watching TV in my room?"
Sherlock hesitated before he answered, maybe realising this is the last chance he has to pretend he'd been talking about something else. He looked like he was mentally weighing his options. He could say: 'No, I meant walking after dinner', thus keeping his reputation intact but his body starved of the affection it so obviously craves. Or admit to enjoying a cozy night in and risk damage to the emotionless-loner persona he'd worked so hard on, but get to cuddle up to his friend. "Yeah."
Y/N grinned. "Okay." She reached a hand down to ruffle the now more-or-less dry fur on Basil's wide doggy head, which he was resting on her lap. He just huffed at her; he hadn't forgiven her for not sharing her food with him. Or even letting him lick the plate. "That's a good idea---Basil seems to like the attention."
Sherlock looked momentarily confused.
He hadn't suggested it for Basil's love of attention.