CONTEXT:
Sherlock is in love with his flatmate, Y/N, and accidentally misreads some signals.
__________
Sherlock flipped his coat collar up against the already bitter winds of November as he walked, head low, down the soaking London streets. Rain spat from the sky in a furious sheet, turning the view in front of him a miserable grey; despite the orange street lights. Tucking his arms closer to his body, he shoved his hands deeper into the depths of his pockets, balling them into fists to try nurse any sense of feeling back to the tips of his chill-kissed fingers.
He couldn't wait to get back to the flat, where his flatmate was undoubtedly waiting for him. Always compassionate for others, Y/N would welcome him home and be at the ready with a thick blanket, which she would proceed to wrap around Sherlock's sodden and aching shoulders while telling him he should have got a cab even though the store was just down the road, that he shouldn't have gone at all.
And Sherlock would shake his head, a smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he placed the milk on the table and told her it was really no trouble.
Sherlock smiled now, at the thought, and quickened his pace as a bristle of excitement fizzed up his spine when he wondered if his best friend might offer him a grateful hug or one of those special smiles she does just for him, for braving the weather just so she would have milk for her hot chocolate and breakfast tomorrow.
Sherlock has had a crush on his flatmate for a while now. They'd lived together for over three years, but it was only now that he really started to realize that maybe he wanted to be more than flatmates. More than friends. It had happened slowly, and then all at once. Like he was walking down a gentle slope, then suddenly tripped, and was rolling down, faster and faster, head over heels, and couldn't stop no matter how hard he had tried.
He'd tried at first, when the feeling had shocked him one day; a slight tugging deep in his chest for apparently no reason other than the fact that Y/N was smiling at him; her grin creasing the corners of her eyes and framing the hues of her iris in a joy-filled crescent moon shape. Sherlock had just stared, and a look of confusion crossed Y/N's face. She'd asked him if he was alright ---features laced with so much genuine concern--- and Sherlock had felt a strong urge to lean down that little bit to close the gap between their lips.
He hadn't done that though. He'd shaken his head as if to clear it and offered Y/N a wobbly smile and a 'Yeah, I'm fine'. Then he'd forced himself to look away, Y/N shrugging and deciding to cook dinner while the confused detective laid on the sofa and contemplated what that feeling had meant. He'd deemed it a fluke, a one-off, and doubted it would happen again.
But then it started to happen a lot.
Then all the time.
At first, it scared him. What if he gets so distracted by how Y/N's hair was reflecting the light that he missed a vital clue in a case? What if he was so immersed in what she was saying about the latest book she was passionate about that a criminal got the upper hand and they both suffered for it?
But then he realized that it wasn't just up to him to keep them safe. If he let his guard down, Y/N would prevent anything bad from happening. She would have his back. Be there for him. Plus; it felt really nice. Those moments when tingling sensations licked at the tops of his legs and crept up his stomach. When his heart fluttered each time Y/N touched him; graced her elbow against his accidentally as they crossed in the hall, sat close to him in a cab so their hips pushed together. Sherlock loved it, relished it, and slowly his crush festered itself and after months, he knew it was more than that.
He was in love.
It was because he was in love that Sherlock had offered to go to the store at midnight, in the pouring rain and the icy chill that came with the first dusting of winter. Y/N had opened the fridge to make hot chocolate and noticed they had only a few drops of milk left. She'd put on her coat to get some, but Sherlock had cringed at the thought of Y/N having to brave the weather (and he wanted her approval), and offered to go in her place.
Presently, Sherlock fumbled with his numb fingers to try fit the key in the lock, then dropped them, cursing, and bent to pick them up. The door opened and he slumped in relief when his landlord---Mrs Hudson---bundled him into the foyer, closing the door behind him. The ringing of the wind still sounded in his ears and he slipped off his coat, handing it to her as she fussed about him.
"You shouldn't have gone out there! You're freezing! And look at your hair! Practically dripping wet! Let's get you a towel." The older woman took his sodding coat into her small but homely kitchen, spreading it out on the radiator while the detective stood in the doorway, rubbing his hands.
A singular droplet of water rolled off his head and over his eyebrow, landing on the floor.
Mrs Hudson handed him a towel from her airing cupboard and he buried his face in it, scrubbing it over his hair and soaking up the dampness.
"Thank you. Is Y/N still awake, do you know?"
Mrs Hudson's face turned to a fond smile, "Yes, I think so. That's why you went out, isn't it? To get the bloody milk for her?" she chuckled and had crossed her thin arms over her boney chest and raised her brow. She knew about Sherlock's smouldering passion for his flatmate and had warned him that if he didn't tell Y/N about it soon, he may very well burn out.
Sherlock had denied all of it, but half-heartedly.
She saw right through him.
"We both need milk. Thank you for---this." He handed the towel back to her. "I'll be going up now. Good night."
Mrs Hudson sighed, tutting at his determination to keep his feelings hidden. "Sweet dreams, you silly boy."
The detective went upstairs to his flat on the first floor, picking up his feet happily at the thought of what might be waiting for him on the other side of the door; even if it was just a grateful smile. He opened it, already beaming, but the living room was empty.
Confused, and a little hurt that there wasn't a pleased and sympathetic Y/N to coddle him after his horrifying walk, Sherlock advanced further into the apartment, checking the kitchen.
Y/N wasn't there either. He put the milk in the fridge quickly, then went upstairs to his flatmate's room, knocking, then going inside. His abdomen curled into a tight and uncomfortable knot as rising fear leaked through him.
Where was Y/N?
Had she been kidnapped?
No sign of a break-in, a struggle. And Mrs Hudson would surely have noticed if someone came in and took her.
Panicking, Sherlock hurried back downstairs and checked the bathroom, then last, his room.
He didn't know why Y/N would be in his room. But when he opened the door ajar, it was dark, and there she was, curled up in Sherlock's bed, asleep.
Sherlock paused, still for a bit, thinking this over. The fear of his flatmate being hurt---or worse---lessened, then disappeared completely and was replaced by a hopeful thought that maybe she was in his bed because she wanted someone to sleep next to. Sherlock understood that; it was cold and miserable, and sharing a bed would be warm and comfy and safe.
Mind made up about how he was to proceed, Sherlock took his pyjamas off the dresser, tugging them on after visiting the bathroom quickly, and stepped back into his bedroom. Y/N hadn't moved, she was still on her side, back to the door, hair slightly fuzzy from where she'd been laying on it before.
Sherlock took a deep breath and clicked the hallway light off, plunging the room into darkness. When his eyes had adjusted, he felt his way over to the bed, and slipped into it, gently wrapping himself around Y/N.
Sherlock let out the air he'd been holding in. Y/N was warm. Wonderfully warm, it was heavenly after being outside, beaten by the elements. And she smelled nice. Sherlock nuzzled his nose into the back of Y/N's neck as he drifted off to sleep, feeling more content than he had in ages. He'd never cuddled anyone before.
"What are you doing?!" Y/N woke suddenly the next morning, feeling something weighing her down, something warm and moving, and sat up quickly, scrambling away from it. When she'd seen it was just her flatmate, groggy and tired from sleeping in his own bed, Y/N's anger and embarrassment had replaced the fear. She went red.
"Sleeping?" Sherlock offered, sitting up as well, rubbing the haze from his eyes and staring at her, confused.
"You have a lot of explaining to do!" Y/N had exited the bed, her clear distaste for the situation making something inside Sherlock crumble as he realized what was actually going on, and his face fell, cheeks heating from shame.
"I'm sorry! I thought because you were in my bed that that meant you wanted to cuddle--- or- or something---"
"Cuddle?! Cuddle?!" Y/N looked at the detective in disbelief, messy-haired and drowsy, oddly innocent looking. And hearing him say 'cuddle' in that way, the look as if---if she didn't know any better--- hope disappeared from Sherlock's eyes; it made her feel guilty. And ashamed. She'd actually quite like to get back in bed with him---
"To be fair, you were in my bed," Sherlock fought back, that look of disappointment gone now, and replaced with an offended and irritated frown.
"It was just there so I thought I'd have a nap! I thought you'd wake me up when you came back!"
"Yeah, I get no thanks for that, do I? Going out in a storm to get your bloody milk for you!"
"Thank you," Y/N snarled, too proud to show the wave of gratitude that nearly threatened to wash away her charade.
Sherlock stared at her, emotionless, expression a stony blank.
Y/N finally broke eye contact and left, muttering something about having a shower.
...
Breakfast was awkward that morning. Sherlock felt hollow and disappointed. In himself, and his stupid heart for wanting someone who obviously didn't want him. He remembered the cuddle, that night, how he'd woken up every now and again whenever Y/N moved; because it felt lovely against his body, and he wasn't used to someone next to him while he sat out the often sleeplessly lonely nights.
"Sorry I yelled at you," Y/N suddenly said, quietly as if he'd sensed his thoughts. Her gaze was fixed on her bowl of cereal.
'She can't even bear to look at me' Sherlock thought. "It's fine. Sorry, I didn't wake you."
"No. I shouldn't have been in your bed. And I wasn't as repulsed as I seemed---by the... cuddling. I was just shocked. Let's forget it, okay?"
"Okay."
Y/N offered Sherlock a tentative smile, which he tried to return. 'Forget it' kept replaying in Sherlock's head. He didn't want to forget it. It had been wonderful.