Sherlock turns onto his other side, sleep falling sideways like a heavy blanket.
"Good morning," a voice behind him greets, a hand in his curls giving a lazy stroke.
Sherlock's mouth broadens into a grin. "Hello." When he opens his eyes, he finds his nose millimeters away from Y/N's on the pillow.
On her pillow.
She gives him a smile. "I think we're a bit past that now, don't you?"
Sherlock laughs, stretching like a pampered cat, then retracts his arm back into the warm covers. If he had the ability to purr too, he knows he would be.
Y/N's arm is comfortingly heavy over his shoulder, her nails catching his head occasionally. She seems to be collecting up bundles of his hair and threading the springy coils through her fingers.
He hums. "That feels really good."
Y/N is a little fuzzy, their noses almost touching, but Sherlock knows she's smirking. The white of her teeth is almost as bright as the sun outside. "Not so shy admitting it now, huh?"
Sherlock colours. "No. I think you might have been right; I did need to be more...open."
Y/N moves up, closer to him, getting into his arms and caging them about herself. "I'm always right."
The corner of Sherlock's lip twitches as he squeezes her closer. "Hm, debatable." He can feel her laugh against his chest, then her teeth giving his neck a playful nip.
Sherlock's grin faulters; he'd like to do it back, but he doesn't know if he should.
His mouth opens to ask if they'll be more of this---of last night, of kisses and her being close enough to touch. The words form on his tongue and they taste bad; petty and pathetic.
He swallows them.
"I woke up a while ago but I thought I'd let you lay in," Y/N is saying. "How did you sleep?"
Sherlock thinks about it, and realises he doesn't know.
He can't remember sleeping.
No hot pillow flushing one side of his face, no waking every now and again to untangle his feet from a knot of bunched-up duvet.
No dreams, fitful and irritated, fizzing just behind his eyelids.
No stretched out hours spent writhing on the edge of REM.
Just nothing.
A big blank stretch of sweet, wonderful nothing.
His smile returns and he kisses Y/N's cheek. "Better than I have in a long time. "Thank you."
"Any time," she says easily, and he wonders if she means it.
...
That evening, Sherlock flicks off his bedside light with confidence, and settles down in the darkness. Sleep will come quicker tonight, he knows:
Yesterday, he had slumbered in Y/N's sheets all night, and carried on, unperturbed, well into the afternoon.
Y/N had solved his little problem.
Sleep will find him again.
...
His right arm prickling with pins and needles, Sherlock turns onto his left side.
Outside, a car crawls down Baker Street, the pavement wet with rain.
A dog barks.
A siren screams somewhere in the tight knot of the city centre.
Sherlock finds himself wondering, absently, if it's an ambulance or a police car.
Probably a police car, the wails fast and urgent.
A cat yowls.
It almost makes Sherlock jump, the sound horrible and haunted and shrill.
He can't remember which house owns a cat.
It might be the one with the yellow door across the road. The woman who lives there often has fluff clinging to her corduroy skirts when he goes out to collect the paper---Sherlock ponders---although, it could be from knitting wool.
Maybe he could take up knitting during these early morning hours; seeing as his body has apparently decided it is no longer interested in sleep.
His grandmother had tried to teach him as a youth, but the complicated arrangement of knots kept sliding off his needles, and he couldn't pick them back up again
Mycroft had made a jumper.
Sherlock had made a thin, knobbly scarf.
If he bought some yarn and spends all the hours he struggles to sleep mastering knitting, Sherlock could give Mycroft a jumper for Christmas---out of spite.
A spite-jumper.
A really ugly one, but with better, more skilled stitching than Mycroft's, and buttons and a fancy pattern.
The clock on the bedside table's numbers shine red in the dark.
Sherlock witnessed the eleven morphing into a twelve an hour ago, and now he watches as it blinks into a one.
Irritated, his hand crawls out of the covers and turns it around.
The glow just illuminates the wall.
He should buy an alarm clock that has hands, Sherlock thinks, pushing the clock down onto its face irritably. They don't light up---
---but they do make an irritating ticking noise.
What would he prefer? Numbers seeping tauntingly through his eyelids, or slender hands audibly hammering away at time?
Probably the glowing digits; noises are harder to shut out.
Some noises Sherlock wants to shut out: dogs barking---bored of the confines of their stuffy apartments---sirens howling as though the very city is crying. Tiny humming motorcycle engines buzzing about like flies, delivering late-night party pizzas.
Some sounds are okay, though.
He can hear Y/N still up and about.
She's a night owl.
Sherlock knows her routine by now.
She'll say she's going to bed, but it'll be a good few hours after she climbs onto her mattress before the light is actually clicked out.
Reading, Sherlock knows.
Or sometimes watching the television in her room. It's pressed into a bookshelf opposite the bed, amongst a hoard of DVDs and colourful novels.
It'll mumble above Sherlock's bedroom, the voices muffled as they travel through the flooringâbut for some reason, it never keeps him awake.
It's when the mumbling stops that he finds it hard to sleep.
Well, usually.
He finds it hard to sleep all the time, now.
Apart from yesterday.
He'd like to be up there again.
That's what he wants, he realises, his eyes opening in the dark. He'd like to be upstairs with Y/N, next to her in bed, amongst her soft duvet and pillows that smell of that perfume she keeps on the dresser.
He'd like to be tucked under her arm as she reads, or cradling her with his as they watch some cheap Netflix production. Something he doesn't care about so he can rest his head against Y/N's warmth and close his eyes.
Or.
Or doing something else.
What they'd done yesterday.
He remembers, ghosts of sensation flittering about his body, and feels his cheekbones heat. A little smile quirks the corner of his lip.
That kept happening all day; he'd remember it, bits of it, little bursts of Y/N's expression, her moans, her skin. He'd remember it and flush, then his lips would stretch into a stupid, bashful grin.
He'd hide it quickly, stuff it away as if it's a secret only he has.
Him and Y/N have.
He had wondered if she'd bring it up during the day; poke fun at his innocence, his sounds. He'd expected something:
A 'Who knew Sherlock Holmes is so loud?' or 'I had no idea you were interested in that sort of thing'.
She didn't though. She didn't mention it at all, and for some reason that upset Sherlock more than if she'd made fun of him.
Had she meant it, earlier?
"Any time."
She'd said it. Maybe she had meant it.
Any time.
Now is a time.
...
Y/N's door is closed, a bar of fuzzy light glowing against the smooth floorboards. It draws Sherlock in like a moth, and suddenly he's given a little knock and then he's in Y/N's room and he's realising he hasn't brought any words.
Y/N has her knees tucked close to her chin, the television chatting away to itself on the far wall. It puts colours in her eyes, reflections of the moving screen, even though she's ignoring it now. Her gaze flows from his rumpled pyjamas to his eyes, hidden by a few pillow-mussed curls.
Sherlock knows she's waiting for him to say something---to explain why he's standing in her doorway in the middle of the night, probably. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, his bare toes subconsciously kneading the carpet. "Hello."
Y/N presses a button on the TV remote and the screen goes still. "Can't sleep?" She asks sympathetically.
To Sherlock's delight, she straightens her legs out and pats the space next to her.
His cheekbones turn into two pink lines as he eagerly joins her on the mattress. "Apparently not."
"Your brain is too busy," Y/N sighs, shuffling over to give him room.
Sherlock wishes she wouldn't; he likes the feeling of her shoulder against his arm. His weight causes a dip in the mattress, and he wishes she'd move close enough to fall into it.
Tugging some more duvet over to Sherlock's side of the bed: "You need more hobbies," Y/N instructs, as if he has no choice in the matter. "Exhausting ones. Why don't youâI don't knowâget into parachute jumping or train as a cave diver or something? Solving cases isn't the only way to feel satisfied and get some adrenalineâ"
A smile almost tweaks the corner of Sherlock's lip. He does know. He doesn't want to get excitement and satisfaction from extreme sports, he wants to get it from----
"Y/N," he cuts her off gently.
Perhaps if he'd still been standing in the doorway---Y/N's warmth just a memory---he wouldn't be brave enough to say itâ
But he is now. With Y/N's thigh against his own, goosebumps blooming below his pyjamasâsomehow words are falling from Sherlock's mouth:
"Remember yesterday? When...I couldn't sleep?"
Y/N's lip curls with a smirk.
He remembers how it had felt to kiss them, to catch them between his teeth.
"How could I forget?"
Sherlock scratches behind his neck. His t-shirt tag is bugging him again. It has a peculiar habit of annoying him whenever he's around Y/N; he's sure the back of his neck is pink with nail marks.
They're not all his own, though.
"Well, your method for solving the problem was...very effective."
Y/N raises an eyebrow.
The TV is paused and Sherlock almost wishes it was still playing; Y/N isn't looking at it, just at him.
She's not saying anything, and Sherlock wonders for a second if she hadn't understood.
"I was wondering if you wanted to do that again? With me." His eyes retreat under her heavy gaze, to the television, even though it's still showing the same frozen image. "We don't have to---you know. I mean I want to, but not if you don't. We could just kiss? Or just share a bed." Uncharacteristically shyly, Sherlock pushes himself to meet Y/N's eyes. "It...was brilliant. All of it."
She says nothing.
Then presses another button on the TV remote.
The screen powers off.
Sherlock's lips spread into a grin.
...
Softly, Sherlock nudges Y/N down onto the bed. His lips graze against her cheek, and he presses some words there:
"I've been thinking about this all day."
Yesterday, Y/N had taken his hand and led him up to her bed.
It was nice being led.
He's always the one doing the leading; through alleyways, down narrow roads, twiggy paths between thickets of trees. Chasing criminals---or running from them---danger snapping at the backs of their heels each and every time.
And, each and every time, Y/N has accepted Sherlock's hand without question; let him drag her anywhere, into anything.
Why hasn't he ever dragged her somewhere nice?
Yesterday, when she was leading him---
Has she ever felt that way?
Has she ever been as exhilarated as he had been, each of her cells fizzing with anticipation, her lips spread in an excited smile?
Probably not.
Guiltily, Sherlock takes Y/N's hand now, his fingers slotting between hers.
He's going to lead her somewhere nice today, he decides.
He nudges her down, all the way down until he's crouched over her, his mouth exploring her neck with soft presses. Gently: "Okay?"
Y/N's knees come up either side of Sherlock's hips, anchoring him between her thighs. She smiles at his little gasp, a clenching sensation shooting through him. A nod of her head. "Yes, it feels good. Keep going." The hand cupping his head guides it down and their mouths meet.
Sherlock relaxes, the familiar ground mellowing him.
When he breaks the kiss, Y/N is panting below him, her breath sweet on Sherlock's parted lips.
He feels himself swallow, his waist moving between her legs. The fabric of their pyjamas scuff uselessly against each other.
Y/N smirks, giving the tip of his ear a playful nip. "My 'methods' were 'very effective', were they?"
The place she'd nipped turns red, not from her teeth but with a blush.
"Yes. Sorry, I don't know how to...speak like they do in films." He nudges her pyjama top with his nose. "How to talk...sexy. I can't think of anything to say."
"Say what you feel like." Her leg comes up to hook around his middle.
He likes it there.
"...Just...tell me what you want me to do to you." She kisses him, so deeply he's pretty sure her tongue is touching his painfully sensitive, naked soul. "Or what you want to do to me."
He looks down at her, her little exhilarated smile. That same smile she wears when they're teasing each other, when they're on a case--- whenever she's with him.
"...Okay." He brings his hand up, cupping the curve of Y/N's jaw softly. Gently, he tips her chin up so she's looking into his eyes.
Her throat bobs as she swallows, and Sherlock's mouth twitches with a smile.
"...I want to kiss you. The way you kissed me yesterday." The pad of a finger touches to Y/N's bottom lip.
She lets her jaw part and it makes him hungry.
"Not just here. Not just your lips but...other places." Grazing her collarbone, his hand slides slowly down her body, her chest, to the side of her breast. "Here." He keeps going, reaching Y/N's waist. It rests there, heavy just above the band of her pyjamas. "And here." Dipping his head, the tips of his nose brushes her chest as he presses a kiss to her sternum. It's covered by a layer of cotton, her skin warm below, her heart quick.
It takes Y/N a little while to reply, and when she does it's breathy.
Sherlock allows himself a smug little smile.
"Please do." Her legs grip his waist, urging him closer. "Everywhere."
He parts his teeth to mouth at her neck. He knows what he wants to do now. All of it. He didn't before, he didn't yesterday, but he does now. He knows what he wants and what he needs.
"I want to make you make those sounds. The ones you pulled from me last night." He shifts between her legs, slotting himself there neatly and Y/N gasps at his weight. His hand slides down the hot space between their bodies. "Yesterday...I was the one to receive."
Y/N shifts below him as Sherlock's fingers edge towards the band of her pyjamas. Y/N's lip is between her teeth, and Sherlock eases it free with the pad of his thumb.
"You made me feel so amazing I didn't have a chance to..." He teases the fabric about Y/N's hips, "Explore."
Her eyes had kept flicking between his and his mouth, but they stay on his irises now, the pale seafoam green churning into restless ocean blue.
Sherlock feels Y/N's fingers grip his hair, sending delicious little shudders through him. He groans softly at her shoulder, his hand edging tauntingly lower.
The corner of Sherlock's lip curls; Y/N's skin is hot, flecked with excited goosebumps.
There it is again. That urge, that longing, deep and strong and persistent.
The reason he can't sleep.
His eyes follow the delicate, flustered blush gracing Y/N's cheeks, down into her pyjama top in fascination
Voice low with affection, gritty with need:
"May I?"