At home, Sherlock had meant to call his most recent client and tell him his findings. He had also meant to empty the dishwasher, hoover his bedroom, and get some things from the shop down the road. Laundry detergent? Custard Creams? Cheese?
Instead, he's perched on the back of his chair, his hands steepled under his chin.
He hasn't moved for twenty-three minutes.
His mind keeps gravitating back to Y/N and to her kiss and how she'd called him gorgeous.
Earlier, he'd wanted to ask her if she had kissed him because he's gorgeous, or because she felt sorry for him. Sherlock had just exposed himself as the lonely virgin that he is, so maybe he'd looked so pitiful she'd wanted to put him out of his misery?
Or she'd kissed him because she wanted to put herself out of her misery.
If one of the lab techs from Lestrade's party---Ryan or Ethan---had escorted her home, perhaps she would have dragged them down for a snog too. Perhaps she'd kissed Sherlock because he was just...there.
Even if that had been the case, he decides he doesn't mind. If that's what Y/N had needed, he had been happy to give it to her.
He'd be happy to give her anything else she needs.
He supposes, really, what she needs is one good night of mind-numbing passion.
He supposes he needs that too, but Y/N seems to need it more; she's so tightly wound; jumping at the slightest noise, stumbling over simple small talk, her calendar scribbled with a scramble of red Biro reminders because she's so terrified she'll forget to do something for someone.
The thing that bothers Sherlock most is, he could probably give her what she needs.
He's inexperienced, yes, but he would give it a damn good try---helping Y/N unwind. Sure, he wouldn't completely know how---but he'd thoroughly enjoy finding out. He'd like to lower Y/N down onto a flat surface and learn until she's cross-eyed with pleasure.
The question is, does she want him to?
If she does, she'd never work up enough courage to say so---even after an entire jug of Lestrade's potent punch drink.
That means the question actually is: does Sherlock have enough courage to tell her that he'd like to?
That he'd like to kiss her until her knees are weak.
To hold her in his arms until she feels safe enough to relax, to let him spread her out over the covers.
Would she want him to?
She'd called him gorgeous.
...
Sherlock waits for his breath to come back after climbing the flights of stairs leading to Y/N's apartment, but it's been five minutes and he's realising maybe his heart is beating like a fist in his chest for a different reason.
The front door to her flat stands tall and industrial before him, the steel knocker looking too cold to touch. It's heavy in his hand as he makes himself lift it, the sound ominously reverberating about the hall like something from a thriller movie.
He'd dabbed on some cologne before he'd taken a taxi over, and hopes the smell is still lingering.
He's in the middle of making sure his best shirt is all neatly tucked into his freshly ironed trousers when the lock clicks.
"Sherlock?" Y/N appears surprised to see him, but she's smiling. She must notice him shift his weight onto his other foot because her eyes flick over his neat-styled hair, then flow down to his shiny black oxfords.
"...I know you wanted to forget...what happened....the other day," Sherlock begins, trying to picture his pre-prepared speech. He knows he has to say it now or he'll lose confidence, and throws out all the sentences together, like ripping off a plaster:
"But I don't want to. I...can't. I liked it when you kissed me. In fact---I've wanted to kiss you for some time."
A deep shade of pink crests Y/N cheeks and Sherlock hurries on, feeling a little like a panicked deer running into oncoming traffic:
"I just thought...because you kissed me, and we've both never...spent the night with anyone...but we want to...maybe one day we could have our first times... together?"
Y/N blinks, her eyes unsettlingly wide, and Sherlock wonders for a brief moment if he could reach the fire exit in one stride.
"We don't have to right now---I mean, if you wanted to I wouldn't stop you---" He really hopes she won't slap him. Or call the police. Oh wait, she is the police. "I just mean maybe we could go out to eat sometime, or have a coffee that isn't from a vending machine---"
"...I wouldn't be very good."
The words halt in Sherlock's mouth.
That isn't what he'd been expecting. He'd thought she'd slam the door in disgust, or get so embarrassed she'd turn so red he'd have to call an ambulance.
He'd expected burning, crushing humiliation---
Not this.
He shrugs, unable to help a tentative smile. "...I have no point of reference."
Y/N is biting her lip. "And...I wouldn't know what to do."
"Nor do I." He gives her a shy grin. "But we could have fun figuring it out."
She's gripping the door jamb so tightly her knuckles are a row of little white bones.
He wonders if she'll shut the door on him, her crippling social anxiety getting the better of her---
But her mouth opens:
"...Okay. I'd like that." With her socked toes she plays with the doormat, picking absently at the corner. "So...what do we do now?"
"I was thinking I'd just kiss you..." Sherlock meets her eyes through his fringe. "If you really want me to."
She nods but stays planted firmly to the doormat.
Realising she isn't going to move, Sherlock takes it upon himself to cross the space between them, stepping shyly up to her. Gently, he takes the side of her face like he'd done in the lab, and this time he doesn't pull it away.
Y/N leans into the simple touch, her eyes fluttering closed.
When he kisses her, a soft sound escapes her chest.
Sherlock makes himself pull back, that tiny, unintentional little moan touching parts of him he didn't know existed.
Y/N's eyes have opened. She's staring up at him, overwhelmed and a little awestruck, her mouth parted in a surprised little 'O'.
Sherlock licks his lips.
Even without the fruit punch, she tastes sweet.
"Okay?"
Swallowing, Y/N nods, her fingers sort of clinging to his shirt like little claws. She looks nervous, but she doesn't let him go. "Yeah. It's more than okay." Her breath is still too sharp and too fast, but when she speaks it is with surprising determination:
"Do you want to...do it again?"
Sherlock is grinning as he dips his head back down, catching her lips. As best as he can, he guides the kiss in a way he hopes she likes, gentle presses and slow exploration.
At first, Y/N leans into the sensation almost gingerly, but she tilts her head now, her body pliant and shyly eager in his arms.
When he drags a hand up to cup the back of her head, her fingers curl into his hair.
Encouraged, Sherlock dares to coax her jaw a little wider with the pad of his thumb. For a brief, wonderful moment their tongues meet, and they both moan, clutching onto each other.
Vaguely, Sherlock realised they're still in the hallway, and prompts Y/N backwards, guiding her into the flat. Distractedly, he kicks the door closed and nudges her shoulder blades up against it, and Y/N gasps, a little breathy intake of air.
Sherlock breaks the kiss, his cheeks colouring:
"Sorry."
"Don't be." Y/N tugs him back down. "I liked it."
Cautiously, Sherlock presses her against the door a little more with his body, and Y/N's fingers tighten in his hair. His eyes shut all on their own. "...That feels good."
Tentatively, Y/N's hand burrows deeper in his curls and Sherlock gives a broken groan.
He feels her smile against his mouth.
"That feels good. Your voice is..." she stops to gasp as his lips wander down to explore her neck. "...deep."
He smirks, the hard line of his teeth grazing her skin. "You like it when I talk to you?"
Y/N nods.
He kisses the shell of her ear, making her inhale sharply at the unexpected touch. Roving over to the angle of her jaw, exploring each dip and curve of her face:
"Tell me if you want me to stop."
Against him, Sherlock feels Y/N shake her head. She clings a little tighter. "I don't want you to stop."