Y/N blinks.
Sherlock's deduction skills must not be as good as he thinks. He must have thought she had been enviously gazing at the couples waltzing about the room---
---but they are not whom she had been admiring.
His invitation hovers between them like a moth, his eyes still on her expectantly, waiting.
"Yes please." The tips of her ears blush pink, for the first time in a long while feeling shy under his gaze. Not realising she's smiling, she nods. "I'd like to very much."
They stand and he holds out a hand, which Y/N takes.
The touch makes his cheeks turn pink but he returns her smile, obviously reassured by her enthusiasm.
Timidly, they stand together and for a moment Y/N dithers, not knowing what exactly to do.
Discreetly, she tries to glance over at The Colonel.
How is he moving his feet like that?
And his wife, she's matching his rhythm as though they're one person. When he steps forward she immediately steps back, their bodies like two quantum entangled atoms---
A strong palm takes her waist and she turns back to Sherlock, surprised. He's directing her other hand to the broad line of his shoulder and Y/N grips it, her world narrowing to him, his face so close he's a little fuzzy, all pink lips and chocolate curls and alabaster cheekbones.
His shoulder is warm and muscled below her palm, his other hand softly linking their fingers.
"I'll lead," he says quietly. "Just step where I step."
Y/N nods and they begin, Sherlock moving as though gliding over the carpet, Y/N stumbling to keep up. Ducking her head, she looks down at their socked feet for the first few rotations of the room, watching them carefully as not to tread on his toes. It makes Sherlock chuckle and she feels his finger curl gently below her chin.
Directing her eyes up, all the way up to meet his:
"It's easier without looking."
Moistening her lips, she nods. It's difficult because looking into his eyes is always difficult. They're sometimes green and sometimes blue, and sometimes, like now, mostly pupils, all black and focused wholly, sharply, intensely on her.
Submitting to him makes dancing easier. Trusting his competence, Y/N lets Sherlock lead entirely, his hand guiding where they'll go, his feet deciding when. They turn in sweeping circles, the red rug, the wallpapered walls, the books and curtains all merging into a shifting mosaic; time and space melting around them until all Y/N can feel is the squishy carpet below her toes, the latent strength of Sherlock's wide, strong hand smothering her smaller one.
His other palm supports the small of her back.
She's aware of its weight, its warmth, of each finger through the material of her shirt.
He seems unbothered, moving with fluid, instinctual steps. He doesn't need to look where he's going; he's not looking at anything besides her, his almond eyes creased at the corners with a soft smile.
The song has changed.
Y/N doesn't know when, but it's slower than it had been when they'd started.
They're moving slower too, their circles so small they're simply swaying from one foot to the other.
Sherlock has drawn her closer.
Inch by inch, until she can smell the shampoo he likes to use on his hair.
There are pins and needles in her arm, Y/N realises dimly. Held aloft for the dance, they prickle like peppercorns on the lips and, drowsily, she draws it in until their elbows bend.
Sherlock's grip on her hand loosens and cold air floods in---
Y/N's fingers tighten instinctually on his shoulder and, for a second she could have sworn the corner of his lip twitched with the ghost of a smile.
His hand that had held hers doesn't leave, but slides slowly down, joining the other at her waist. Gently, they come to rest at the small of her back. "Okay?" He asks, so softly Y/N feels the question brush her ear.
She nods, her own arms looping about his middle.
If she didn't know any better she could have sworn he's letting himself fall into her embrace.
...
The record ends with a crackle.
Peeling open her eyes reluctantly, as if waking from a pleasant dream, Y/N realises the room is empty.
One by one the other dancers seem to have gone to bed, the cottage, so vibrant and bustling with life, now silent. The curtains have been drawn for some time but there is no weak dribble of sunset just about peeking around the edges. Night has draped itself over the farmland, sweeping a hush over the woods and fields as though blowing out a candle.
Y/N suddenly becomes aware that they are quite alone.
Sherlock doesn't seem to have noticed, his pointed chin still resting contentedly on her shoulder.
Y/N is always taken with how heavy he is, how unexpectedly soft, how alive. He can sit so still sometimes, the angle of his jawline, the bones of his cheeks pale and still as though cut from marble---
But he isn't stone, he is a man, a man currently nestling the tip of his nose into her hair.
His breath is warm.
All of him is warm, his chest against hers, the firm muscles of his arms, the soft brush of his breath---
The floorboards squeak and they jump apart, startled.
"Oh, sorry my sweets, didn't mean to frighten you! You must have thought I was a ghosty in my old nightgown!" An elderly woman chuckles in the doorway. "I just came down for my reading glasses and my book." Sliding her bright red spectacles onto her pointy nose she squints at them through her thick lenses. "Shouldn't you two be in bed?"
"We're now going," Sherlock assures, having to clear his throat. Scanning the room, he locates a stray copy of Danielle Steele and passes it to her, stooping to give her cheek a quick kiss. "See you in the morning, Nana."
...
"Do you want to sleep? It's not as late as Nana seems to think; she's just used to going to bed at nine and getting up at five," Sherlock chuckles, drawing the curtains and climbing into bed.
Y/N joins him, wriggling under the covers. "I was thinking, actually....what if we read again?"
"You mean I read?" He jokes, nudging her side with his sharp elbow, but he's smiling.
She feels herself redden but she's not sure why.
He teases her all the time, why is this different? Why does all of this feel different, the cottage, his sleepy voice, the way he keeps smiling at her?
Flustered:
"Alright, I'll read to you if you're going to get stroppy about it." Leaning over him, Y/N plucks Anna Karenina off Sherlock's bedside table, spreading it resolutely over her lap.
He blinks for a moment, taken aback, then shrugs, accepting this change of events, and gets closer, wriggling down the bed until his curly head is level with her shoulder---mirroring the way she sat nestled up to him the night before.
His hair tickles her cheek, his head heavy on her shoulder.
Y/N moistens her lips. "Comfortable?" She can't see his mouth but she knows he is smiling, probably smugly, his lip probably tugged up at one corner.
"Very much so."
The bookmark, patterned with one of the Oxford University crests, stands dutifully, marking their place, and Y/N tips it onto her lap. "Where did we get to?"
"The left page. Near the middle."
Y/N clears her throat.
At first, she is conscious that he is listening to her.
When Sherlock had read, he had pronounced each Russian name as perfectly as a native, his sentences flowing smoothly in his rich Baritone that set the bed springs humming.
After a few pages, however, the story rises up around her, ornate Russian buildings stacking themselves within the little cottage bedroom, the words coming more easily.
"Try and realise---" Levin is imploring to Oblonsky in the story.
Y/N likes Levin, she has decided. He is intelligent and capable, but also terribly romantic and thoughtful.
"---that this is not love. I have been in love but this is not the same thing. I had come to the conclusion that it was impossible because such happiness does not exist on earth---"
Beside her, Sherlock listens attentively. Comfortably, he stretches out an arm, flexing his fingers like a house cat and lets it fall, draped lazily over Y/N's middle. It draws in closer until he's holding the curve of her waist, gripping softly where the duvet has fallen away, his fingertips warm through her pyjama top.
"...Are you tired?" he asks gently, the words a deep hum against her chest.
Y/N pauses, puzzled. "I don't think so."
Teasing her with a warm note of fondness:
"You were getting your words mixed up."
Y/N blinks. "I was?"
He chuckles, a low sleepy rumble like far-off thunder, and takes the book from her with one hand. "We can continue tomorrow," he assures, noting Y/N's disappointed expression.
But it isn't the book she's looking at longingly as Sherlock pushes himself up to turn out the bedside lamp.
With a click, the darkness swoops in instantaneously, like liquid ink from a tipped-over pot, and Y/N can hear him lie down next to her with a rustle of sheets.
Her eyes adjust slowly, revealing the shadows of the room inch by inch; the fat oak wood dresser, the shiny little door handle, the fan-pattern ceiling. The countryside silence stretches out over the miles of farmland and sleeping fields, a single breath of wind tweaking the curtain.
Then, from his side of the bed:
"...Do you want me to protect you from foxes again?"
Y/N grins. "...Yes, please."
Right away, the mattress dips, a heavy arm encircling her waist, tightening to draw her up to the strength of his chest.
Y/N feels his legs draw up to fit neatly around hers. Somehow she can sense his smile through the darkness.
...
The next day the cottage is abuzz with talk of the bonfire to be held that evening and, when breakfast has been dished out, Mr Holmes assigns everyone their jobs.
Y/N and Sherlock had managed to rise early enough to nab some eggs, which they happily munch on cross-legged in the front garden.
Several of the other Holmeses had found lawn chairs to perch on, their empty plates balanced on their knees while others lounge on a checked cloth spread out over the sun-warmed grass.
They stand eagerly as Mr Holmes assigns little groups of them to different tasks.
Wilber and Digby leave to give the barbeque a good scrub and fill it with coals and lighter blocks.
The aunties herd themselves to the carport to visit the butcher.
Y/N can just make out one of them quipping something about a sausage, and the whole group cackles as they climb into a white Porsche.
Grandad George, The Colonel and Barcaly are given the very important job of preparing the area the fire itself is to be burning, and the gaggle of older women declare they are going to bake a tiered cake for dessert---a recipe Babs learned from her dear friend Maudy---and disappear into the kitchen.
Mycroft is still around---despite his objections last night---picking cornflakes distastefully from a bowl. He is put in charge of choosing and purchasing a nice wine to go with the meal---which he protests but only a little.
"And, obviously," Mr Holmes addresses the remaining few, "we'll need people to collect the firewood."
Y/N had admittedly felt a little deflated with disappointment at the prospect of spending the day foraging, but, as the baby-blue skies strengthened into a cloudless, searing afternoon, she found herself happy to potter amongst the cool trees surrounding the back of the house.
The sunlight filtering through the oak leaves, Y/N and Sherlock find their own little patch of forest and work together, hefting dry logs and fallen branches onto the heap of kindling. They chat while they worked, the bonfire growing steadily, swelling from a campfire-like hodge podge of twigs to almost an entire reconstructed tree.
They pause every now and again to show a critter or interesting leaf to Wilber, or to cool their toes in a stream from the hills. They came across a hedgehog curled amongst a den of logs they wished to use, so Y/N sealed it back up with dry leaves and made a little 'do not disturb' sign from twigs while Sherlock laughed at her.
Eventually, their clothes scuffed with algae and lichen, Sherlock stretches his arms over his head and insists they take a break.
Back at the cottage, they find Mrs Holmes struggling to provide the workers with a church-picnic volume of duck egg and cress sandwiches. Like a busy, flustered hawk, she spots Y/N and Sherlock draining a carton of orange juice from the fridge and grabs the backs of their t-shirts as they try to sneak away, dragging them back into the eggy little room.
Indigninanly, Y/N and Sherlock let her thread aprons over their messy clothes and stand them by the counter, and they pass slice after slice of fresh bread down the line like a conveyor belt.
When his mother's back was turned Y/N catches Sherlock scooping a spoonful of jam and eating it like yoghurt, but, when she narrows her eyes at him reprovingly, he only smirks and pops a spoonful between her lips before she can protest.