Y/N opened her mouth and several little words wobbled their way off of her tongue: "You want to?"
Sherlock was staring at her. "Yes. Very much."
A drop of rain landed in Y/N's eye. She blinked.
Suddenly, it was pouring down. Literally pouring, so much so that Y/N was almost tempted to tilt her head up, to check that they hadn't somehow stopped under a fountain. Does Regent's Park even have fountains? Y/N wondered.
The man she has secretly been in love with for an embarrassing amount of time had just confessed that he might have feelings for her, and she's thinking about local water features.
Because of that word.
Might.
He wants to be in a relationship with her, but that doesn't necessarily mean he wants to be in a relationship with her. He might just want to be in a relationship. He might just want everything that comes with a relationship, the cuddling, the kissing, sex, sharing your life with someone---
Might.
Y/N's clothes are sticking to her, already drenched. She should have grabbed her coat. The rain is throwing itself from the heavens, cold and unforgiving, as if each drop thinks it's a meteorite whose sole purpose in life is to hit Earth with such force it causes the next mass extinction event. It wakes Y/N from her stupor like a bucket of water rather than droplets and she realises Sherlock has moved. He's no longer watching her, waiting for her to say something, anything---why hasn't she said anything?---he's taking off his coat, squinting to see through the sheet of raindrops that hung all around them like a violent beaded curtain. Before Y/N even had time to be surprised, he was hurriedly draping the material around her shoulders.
He had to get close to her to do so, leaning over her a little as he reached around quickly, bringing the collar to meet under her chin. Dark spots had started to flower all over his now unprotected purple shirt, wet, rich violets blossoming and merging and multiplying. Despite his metaphorically exposed heart, despite the rain, despite everything, the corner of Sherlock's lip was twitching into a smile. He liked how Y/N looked wearing his clothes.
It was difficult to run for shelter in Sherlock's coat. Mainly because it was too big for Y/N. It weighed a ton just as it was, but the wool was now so thick with moisture it flapped heavily around her ankles, her arms grabbing bunches of it to prevent the hem from scraping on the floor. It was warm, though, still warm from Sherlock's body, and it kept the rain off Y/N's goose-flesh-freckled skin. Sherlock's hand was at her back, warming her too, guiding them to the bandstand Y/N could just about make out in the distance. She knew it was there from memory more than the fact that she could see it. Usually, it's full of people, so naturally, her crowd-averse companion avoids it like two magnets repelling each other, but now it's pleasingly empty. The park is empty, patrons having fled for home under umbrellas or portable shelters they'd devised from their jackets.
In a way, the rain was almost beautiful. It made a nice sound as it pierced the puddles growing rapidly in little hollows in the lawn that had been pressed into the grass by thousands of feet. It made Sherlock and Y/N's own footsteps loud, the soles of their shoes slapping the ground, Y/N's rapid, Sherlock's strides longer and further between.
Their footfalls changed from wet spatters to the solid echo of trending on concrete as they finally entered the band stand, panting between huffed-out giggles. There's just something about being caught in a storm, something about the comradery of trying to outrun it that makes your blood suddenly flush with adrenaline.
They'd run for Y/N's sake. There's no way Sherlock could get any soggier, it's too late for him; it looked more like he'd swam there; leapt into the lake and front crawled across the park. Y/N tugged his coat tighter around herself, grateful for its protection and his sacrifice. His shirt was soaked through, clinging to him like a second skin.
Y/N tried not to look---the material temptingly transparent---so focused on something else: the trees bowing to the wind, visible over one of Sherlock's broad shoulders, Sherlock's broad shoulders, the sweep of them, shoulder, shoulder, shoulder, neck, so much neck, then his hair. Weighed down with water, the curls had turned a rich hazelnut colour---like dark chocolate that had melted in its packet---and had unravelled and were now hanging in little limp waves.
She wanted to touch it.
That was no improvement, so Y/N wrangled in any thoughts she was having about pushing his wonderfully fit body up against the railing, and instead put her mind to forming some words. She really did need to find some words. It was difficult. There were many things she wanted to say, like 'thank you' and 'aren't you cold?' and 'did you mean it?' but the syllables kept getting clogged up in her throat that was raw from the cold. She was still breathing a little heavily---but she had to say something---so she just jammed three letters together: "Why?"
"Because you were already cold. It started to rain and I feared you'd get hyperthermia," Sherlock answered. That hadn't been the one Y/N wanted, and she thinks he knew that. His chest was rising and falling, but Y/N knows he's ran further than that before without breaking a sweat.
She was blushing now, a tingling sensation radiating from her stomach. She's wearing Sherlock's coat. The coat she'd daydreamed God knows how many times about climbing inside. She's wearing Sherlock's coat and he looks sinfully attractive for someone who'd just been heavily rained on.
"Thank you. I didn't mean that, though. I meant---"
Sherlock met her eyes and it felt like sitting too close to a fire when it suddenly blazes up. "Because I like you. A lot. More than a lot. I like your personality and your face and your body and how it feels when you touch me." His brows had furrowed as if all of this puzzled him, but his smile was still there. He laughed at himself, he's found a momentum and he's not going to let go of it now that he's finally grabbed one. He'd been searching for one for so long. "I liked doing coupley things with you, sharing a bed and having you rub patterns onto me as I fell asleep. I liked being close to you, comfortable enough with you to mess around and be unconscious in your arms. All of it."
The flush Y/N's cheeks had acquired was a strange contrast to the frigid wind. January kept trying to numb her skin, but Sherlock kept inadvertently reviving it, sending hot little prickles of electricity between her nerve cells. He didn't even have to touch her; just graze her with his eyes, grate against her with his voice. She's so electrified it's a wonder her hair isn't standing up on end. Maybe it would, if it wasn't currently plastered to her head.
"I'd understand if you don't feel the same way, I just thought it's worth asking, it's worth trying, just in case---somehow---you...liked me too," Sherlock's smile fell from his lips like the last leaf of summer giving in to the pull of autumn. It sounded somehow more impossible out loud; 'Somehow you liked me too'. Out of everyone in the world, why would she like him too?
Suddenly, scared to lose her, he reaches out with one hand as if to take some part of her; clutch her arm or submerge his fingers in her hair---but caught himself, thinking better of it, and ran it through his own instead. The movement slicked the dark waves back as if they had been gelled.
Y/N realised that's what he'd look like getting out of the shower. Given what he was saying, she wondered if he was thinking the same thing about her.
"The lady in my dream," He added, desperately throwing out sentences like a man hurling water from a sinking canoe with a bucket. "I know who she is now." He's afraid to stop talking, he doesn't want to stop talking because then Y/N will have a chance to talk, and who knows what she'll say.
It made Y/N want to take his hand. "The faceless lady you have sex with?"
Sherlock's lips pressed together, his shoulders setting below his sodden shirt.
If Y/N let her eyes lower she would be able to follow the lines of his muscles as they did so.
"I wish you hadn't phrased it like that." His cheeks are pink. "Because it's you."
A breath of wind rattled its way through the park once more, so cold that Y/N's breath seemed to freeze inside of her.
"It's been you for a while."
Her brain felt like a computer when you hit the mouse too many times; Sherlock's confessions stacked up, the cogs of Y/N's mind churning, trying to keep up, to process them with the same speed.
A second passed of Sherlock just watching her, chewing his lower lip. Then another second. He was being incredibly brave, some small, distant voice in Y/N's head pointed out. If Y/N were in his position she probably would have made a break for it whilst she was admitting her undying love, let alone stand around long enough to witness the person she was admitting it to's reaction. He must really want her to like him back. Or he's so cold his blood has crystallised, freezing him to the spot.
"Sometimes we're not even..." Ah, so he's not frozen. His cheekbones are suffused with red, now. He's still alive enough to deepen a blush by several shades. "...Quite often you're just there. With me. I like you being with me." Gaze retreating sheepishly, Sherlock's now-not-so-shiny Oxfords toed at the floor. A crumb of gravel was caught between the sole of his shoe and the slick concrete, making little scratchy noises as he dragged it about.
Y/N's face split into a grin.
It was bright and beaming, so beaming it may have caused a rainbow, had they not been sheltered by the gazebo-like roof overhead. Y/N wanted to leap on him, this rain-drenched man before her shyly divulging his affections. She wanted to tackle him in a bone-crippling hug and capture his mouth for a passionate kiss.
She would have done, had he been anyone else.
But something stopped her.
He's new to all this.
'You've never...?'
'No.'
Gently, Y/N removed Sherlock's coat, feeling lighter, as if she'd float away, but it had nothing to do with shedding the saturated wool's weight. She gave it back to its rightful owner, tenderly wrapping it around the broad stretch of Sherlock's shoulders that she hadn't been able to stop staring at and likely never would. He blinked down at her, a droplet of water leaking from his temple and running down the side of his face. He watched as Y/N got into the coat with him, stepping up against his body, cocooning them both inside.
Blushing like mad, he seemed to know what this meant---what this gesture represented---because he'd started tentatively smiling too. His arms slid about Y/N's waist, tugging her closer. He didn't even mean to, it just came naturally, he'd wanted to do it for so long---
Y/N moistened her lips with her tongue, even though they were slick with rain. Her mouth felt dry. "Can I kiss you?"
Sherlock's strange lovely eyes went as wide as saucers. "Because you're flattered but don't feel the same way, and want to make me feel better? Or because---"
"Because I like you," Y/N giggled into Sherlock's chest, having dipped her head forwards enough to lean her forehead against his sternum. One of his shirt buttons pressed a little circle into her temple. "I really, really like you."
Something touched Y/N's face, tenderly tilted her head up. It was Sherlock's hand, her jawline slotting neatly into the broad cup of his palm. For one heart-stopping moment, Y/N thought he was crying---but he was probably just still damp from the rain. He was giving her this look, he always gave her that look, how had she not seen it sooner? He's been in love with her this whole damn time, how did it take her so long to notice?
"You want to kiss me?"
"Yes." Yes yes yes yes Is that even a strong enough word?
Shy as a schoolboy, hiding beneath the limp swirls of his fringe: "I'd like you to kiss me too. If you really want---"
The rest of that sentence was going to be laced with insecurity. Insecurity in himself, in his capacity as a romantic partner---Y/N didn't want to hear it---it's all bullshit. Him thinking he's too strange to have a family is bullshit. Him thinking he's too weird for someone to fall in love with him is bullshit.
So she kissed him, quickly, the rest of the word 'want' pushed back into his mouth. Because his self-depiction makes her cry, because she wanted to shut him up, because she wanted to prove him wrong, because she likes him---
If Sherlock wasn't frozen before, he is now, just standing there stock still like marble. Y/N had pushed herself up to capture his lips, one hand cradling the back of his head guiding their mouths together. His hair was damp against her palm, sleek and silken like a magpie's breast.
His eyes slid closed.
When Y/N broke the kiss, Sherlock still had the side of her face in one hand. His skin had been cold before, like melting snow, but it had warned from Y/N's touch as if by the sun. He held her a few centimetres from his face, clearly not wanting her to pull away completely, not wanting her to go. He may not have kissed back, known how to kiss back, but he'd liked being kissed. Heart thrumming against Y/N's chest like an excited drum circle, he was already panting, soft and breathy and a little overwhelmed. Y/N didn't need to see the rest of his expression to know he was smiling.
Y/N was smiling too, she hadn't stopped smiling and wouldn't for a long time.
Softly, the word a little swirl of condensation against Sherlock's skin: "Nice?"
His eyelids fluttered open. He blinked and gave a feeble, quick little nod of his head. "Yes."
Y/N watched his adam's apple bob up and then down the long, tissue-paper-white column of his throat as he swallowed.
He could taste her on his mouth and he liked it. "Can we do it again?"
Of course, Y/N nodded.
Sherlock pushed his head forwards this time. Y/N didn't have to tug him down into a stooping position to reach her, he just fell, sought her out, catching her lips with eager intensity. He was bundling her up against the cool pillar of his body, collecting her, enveloping her further into his coat, but once he'd caught Y/N's mouth he quickly realised he didn't really know what to do with it.
Y/N could feel his hesitancy, so, unable to help the corners of her lips twitching into another smile, she took over.
He liked this much better, Y/N giving and him receiving, gingerly leaning into this new sensation. His lips were soft and uncertain, his grip tightening on the swell of her waist whenever she did something he particularly liked. Like when she caught the full curve of his bottom lip between her teeth. Or when she used her thumb at his chin to ease open his jaw a fraction, swallowing his answering bitten down sound of pleasure as he melted like butter between her fingers.
When she guessed he'd settled, gotten used to it, Y/N's tongue coaxed its way into Sherlock's mouth. He didn't protest. Rather the opposite, really. Her gentle licks and soft presses drew sounds from his chest so delicious Y/N wasn't even kissing him for the sensation of it, for a bit, she was just hunting for more of those moans, those groans that turned her blood to honey.
One of Sherlock's hands was at the back of Y/N's head. She didn't remember it getting there, he was just using it to sort of make sure she didn't pull away. Well, she could if she wanted to, it was more to show Y/N that he didn't want her to pull away. He just wanted more of this. More more more more. Sherlock had never really explored his sexuality, never had the chance to, but now that he is he's finding it delightfully addicting. Warm like a mug of coffee first thing in the morning. Sweet like the roof of your mouth after sucking gummy candy. And something else, something unparalleled that he couldn't quite describe. Sort of...achy. Like his whole body was hungry and nothing but Y/N was food. And parts of him were tingling, tingling like a current was being passed through his nerve cells, like thousands of minuscule wings were humming away in his veins.
Feeling wanted felt good. The slow, insistent push of Y/N's tongue felt good, the way she was trying to get closer, pressing all of herself up against his front felt good.
Y/N made a grateful hum of pleasure as Sherlock tilted his head, a silent, accidental plea to deepen the kiss. The sound shocked him because he tensed up, pushing away enough to ask:
"Did I do something wrong?"
This made Y/N laugh. It had stopped raining but she didn't notice. "No. No, not at all." She tugged him back, finding his mouth already open. Into it: "Do it again."
There goes Y/N's resolve not to go too fast. She hadn't meant to push him, to swamp him; he'd just had his first kiss, after all. But he's nudging her, using his weight to urge Y/N into a backwards walk until the small of her back bumped into the hard, cool edge of the band stand's railing. So needy. Sherlock had started to respond a long time ago, learning the rhythm of Y/N's movements and trying to match them (doing a breathtakingly good job at it too). Y/N's hand is holding the right side of his face, the sharp wedge of his jawline moving against her palm as he did his part for the kiss. There's the faintest hint of stubble there, gritty, scratching against Y/N's palm.
When they broke away for some more much-needed oxygen, Sherlock nipped at Y/N's bottom lip gently, drawing out a sigh from her opened mouth. He seemed to have had that one planned; as if it was something he'd wanted to do for a long time. He obviously approved of the result because he's beaming, his mouth all kiss-bruised, a dark pink.
"Sherlock," Y/N passed the syllables of his own name over to him in the form of little mist-filled gusts of breath. Despite the intimate heat between them, it was still January, and still rather cold. More than rather. "Days ago, in bed, when we were fighting over the chocolates...you wanted to kiss me then, didn't you?" Several things were starting to make sense, moments in time that had confused her at first slowly and neatly slotting into place.
He chuckled, the sound low and dark like the wood of a walnut tree. Can a laugh be a colour? "Y/N, I wanted to do more than kiss you."
Her cheeks filled with red blood cells. Sherlock found it very amusing. He tipped his head forwards, hoping Y/N's breath might caress the lower half of his face again.
Collecting herself, Y/N pulled the lapels of Sherlock's coat further around his shoulders. "If you would have done that---or asked me if I wanted to do that---I wouldn't have pushed you away. You know that, right?"
This time, Sherlock went strawberry-coloured. Someone wanted him, wanted his body, the things his body could provide---
He shivered.
Y/N must have mistaken it for the frigid winter cold setting into his damp attire because she said, running the pads of her fingers over his still-wet hair: "We should go home. Warm you up."
His smile turned into a smirk, curving upwards at one side. "It's strange," he mused, nudging the side of Y/N's nose with the smooth point of his. "I'm not actually cold anymore."
...
Sherlock slept in Y/N's bed again that night but for an entirely different reason this time.
There goes Y/N's resolve to go slow. Again. For the second time that day Y/N had found herself cursing at her piteously weak willpower.
But what was she supposed to do, when Sherlock was panting and turned on and excited beneath her, making the most mouth-watering noises at---well, at everything? Everything Y/N did got little pleased sounds, Sherlock's self-control clearly not being as iron-clad as he had everyone believe.
Clearly.
'More, please, Y/N'
'Don't stop, Y/N'
'That feels so good, Y/N'
So, yeah, what was she supposed to have done? Left his touch-starved skin untended to? Let him go another day without knowing what it feels like to have someone take him? Without knowing how it feels to have every centimetre of skin caressed, doted on, his body treated as if... well, as if someone is head over heels in love with him. As if someone loves him.
Because someone does love him. Lots of people love him, he needs to realise that.
Y/N loves him the most, and she hoped he understood that as she drew a trail of cherry-coloured love-bites from one side of his collarbone to the other. A necklace made of roses.
Maybe it was for the best that Basil had to go home; he wouldn't have enjoyed having to spend the night alone downstairs by the fire; because that's where he would have ended up. As soon as Y/N entered her bedroom to find Sherlock giving her a bashful smile from the mattress, she would have distractedly ushered the malcontent retriever off the bed and out the door. Basil would have looked to Sherlock for backup, but found him preoccupied. He had eyes only for Y/N.
"This okay?" Y/N asked as she immediately started pressing light kisses to his temple as soon as she had crawled next to him. She kept checking that the things she was doing were okay, that Sherlock was okay. She didn't need to, not really.
Sherlock made a small contented noise, tipping his head to the side as Y/N extended her trail to include the narrow strip of muscle tapering from his ear to the neck of his shirt. "It's better than okay." He found her chin with one finger, cupping it and using it to bring Y/N's head up so it was level with his own.
Y/N's bones turned to rubber as Sherlock's eyes met hers; an overused and archaic metaphor, but accurate all the same. He was giving her that look again. How is she meant to show him everything she wants to show him if she can't even look at him without quaking?
She sank down, her legs in no state to remain in a kneeling position for another second, and blinked in surprise to find Sherlock's lap below her. She hadn't meant to climb over him, to basically straddle the warm strength of his thighs. She'd meant to go slow.
He obviously didn't mind her being there, though, judging by the low little groan he made as her weight settled on his, pushing him into the mattress. Y/N felt the firm spread of his hand at her waist, dragging her closer to his stomach until her knees dug into the headboard. So sensitive. So needy.
And then they were kissing again. They'd done a lot of that, so much that their lips were raw and tender, not that they minded.
The pleased hum Sherlock's lungs pushed up at Y/N's fingers tangling into his hair skittered along her spine, making her grip tighten, making him hum again---and the cycle continued.
Pliant. That's the best---and strangely unexpected---way to describe Sherlock at present, Y/N thought vaguely to herself as he enjoyed the pleasant sensation of her mouthing at the lobe of his ear. Pliant and desperate, years of desires unsatisfied, ignored, bottled up and stuffed to some distant corner of his mind. Y/N was finding them---those neglected wants, those thirsts---and bringing them back into the light.
Like acorns that had been forgotten about, they had grown silently in the dark. So sensitive. How much he was enjoying this was embarrassingly obvious.
"Sorry," He apologised, breaking the kiss to shamefully dip his head. His voice was so guttural Y/N hardly recognised it.
When her lips parted to tell him it's fine, his wide pupils stayed on them, on the way the bedside lamp reflected off their shining surface, transfixed.
What was she supposed to do, then? Leave him like that? Tear herself away from his aroused and hungry body, flick off the light and settle down on her side of the bed to sleep?
That seems like a cruel thing to do.
That was Y/N's excuse, anyway.
Out of breath, hilariously out of breath considering they'd just been making out a bit, Y/N asked: "Do you want to stop?"
Stupid question. Look at him.
Sherlock's raspberry-coloured tongue ran over his bottom lip, lapping up the remnants of Y/N's kiss. He shifted below her and the consequence was spectacular, the pit of his stomach clenching as if electrified, his eyes sliding shut of their own accord. He'd rubbed against Y/N's weight experimentally, although he had no reason to experiment, to tentatively take a sample of what was to come if he asked to continue; he'd already made up his mind. He didn't want to stop. He'd decided that ages ago, before Y/N had straddled him, the curve of her hips fitting neatly into the palms of his hands, before the rain, the park, before Basil.
"No. Don't stop." He pushed his head forwards enough to graze Y/N's collarbone with the smooth edge of his teeth. "Please."
So she didn't. She nudged him down onto the bed, kissed him again until he was gasping beneath her, hair mussed and eyes alight with sparks. She teased him, going agonisingly slow just to hear him beg, then laugh at himself; at what he'd become. She did things that made his back curve into a lithe arc, groans tumbling from his jaw between panted, breathy attempts at her name.
Once Y/N had started letting herself touch Sherlock as a lover would, she found it increasingly difficult to stop. Maybe they would have hooked up a long time ago, had Y/N's self-restraint weakened enough let her press a hand to the small of her flatmate's back as they passed in a hallway, or pecked him good night on the lips when they were sharing a bed. It took so little to make her want him. Especially now, as he grew confident enough to explore, run his hands over the parts of Y/N's body that curved, trace the shape of her with his mouth.
He didn't need to trace the shape of her, he knew it by heart.
He'd loved her this whole damn time.