"Nothing." Y/N shrugs and Sherlock stares flatly at her. She cringes away from the blue of his eyes because both they and his mouth say:
"Obviously it's not nothing." He always looks at her so deeply; deeper than anyone has ever looked at her.
She doesn't want him looking at her like that in her moment of self-loathing. She sighs. "It's stupid."
"Tell me anyway."
"I'll sound like a prick."
"What else is new?"
"Sherlock."
"Just tell me."
"Fine. It's just...I know it's selfish but I...like it when you don't have a case. I liked doing stupid things with you."
His eyes widen as if that's not what he'd been expecting. Then his face softens. "Y/N, just because I have a case that doesn't mean I won't do things with you. I actually...prefer doing things with you. While I was out today I kept wishing you were there with me."
She smiles at him. "I wished I was too."
There's an awkward little silence Y/N doesn't know how to fill. Disinterestedly, she picks up the box of sea monkeys on the table and turns it over.
The bubbly red and yellow font looks childish now.
Almost shyly, Sherlock sidles up to her, his hand reaching out like he's going to place it on her shoulder.
She waits for it, wanting it, but he pulls it away.
His fingers fiddle with a loose thread on his shirt instead. "Hey...I was going to try to make lasagna tonight. Like we had at Riccardo's. Do you want to make it with me?"
"Don't you want to get started on your case?"
"The case can wait: they pay me by the day and I've been out of work for a week." He'd been giving her his trademark, mischievous smile but it falls when he catches her face. He nudges her side with his elbow. Gently:
"And...I'd rather spend time with you."
...
The Sea Monkey tank sits on the shelf above the microwave between two mugs, one celebrating the diamond jubilee, and the other patterned with a humorous map of Devon. They'd filled it with water Sherlock had purified over a bunsen burner, then, when it had cooled, Y/N tipped in the first little sachet.
The lasagna cooking away in the oven, Sherlock distractedly wipes the soapy saucepan Y/N had handed him with a teatowel. This had been helpful three minutes ago but now a pile of other saucepans, wooden spoons and knives are building up on the draining board, slowly oozing Fairy-scented water onto the countertop.
He keeps looking sideways at Y/N as she draws a scourer over a chopping board. Eventually, he says, quietly and more serious than she's used to hearing him:
"Y/N, you know I'd always rather spend time with you...don't you?"
She smiles, slotting the chopping board onto the crowded dish rack. "You don't have to say that."
"No, but I want to. I mean it." He hesitates then leans forwards and kisses her cheek.
He kisses her a lot. Usually in excitementâan easy peck to her cheek to welcome her home, a rushed press to the top of her head in celebration of a breakthrough in a case.
But he's never kissed her like this.
It's slow enough to feel the warmth of his lips on her cheek. The shape of them. The point of his nose nudging her cheekbone.
And he's stepped close to her. Close enough to smell his aftershave and feel his breath grace her ear; if he had been breathing. He's holding it, the air suspended in his chest.
Y/N isn't breathing either, her heart thrumming away like a bird's wings, tickling the inside of her ribs.
He starts to pull away but stops.
As if drawn back in by the sensation of it, he kisses her again, setting her skin tingling.
When he does pull away, his cheekbones are dusted pink. He smiles sheepishly, blinking as if he's confused by his own actions. "Sorry...I didn't mean to kiss you twice."
"It's okay. I didn't mind. It was nice."
His eyes widen almost hopefully, the saucepan and teatowels abandoned on the countertop.
Something starts beeping.
He doesn't seem to notice. He's still just sort of staring at herâas if he can't even hear it.
"Sherlock."
"Hm?"
The thing is still beeping, incessantly like a heart rate monitor. Y/N had wondered for a strange few seconds if Sherlock had managed to link her up to one without her knowingâsomehowâand his kisses had all been part of some bizarre (and cruel) experiment.
It isn't though. She knows that sound, the little red light blinking over Sherlock's shoulder.
"Sherlock, the oven timer is going off."
"Oh!" He falls back to reality, the light switching back on behind his eyes. "I'll get it." Whirling around, he hastily opens the oven and reaches in, the air vibrating with heat about his pale handsâ
"Sherlock!"
Y/N reaches out, trying to grab him but his fingers touch to the baking dishâ
"Shit!" He yelps, pulling his hands away, flapping them, panicked. He looks like he's trying to physically shake the heat off, and Y/N stares at him, flabbergasted.
"Oh my GOD what were you THINKING?!"
"I don't know!" He whines despairingly, cradling his hands. "I wasn't thinking!"
"You're so stupid!" Y/N growls in disbelief, but she's ripping off her washing-up gloves and taking his arms, dragging him over to the sink. She turns on the tap quickly, checking it's running cold. "Here, leave them in there for a bit you absolute bloody numpty."
"Why are you so mad?! I'm the one that got hurt!" Sherlock protests, put outâbut he obeys all the same, letting Y/N guide his hands under the rushing water.
The muscles in his arms tense as the current slaps the raw tips of his fingers, and Y/N winces.
"Because I care about you, you stupid, stupid man."
"Oh."
"You didn't just fuck up one either, you had to do both of them, didn't you?" Y/N grumbles, examining his fingers, taking his palms so she can turn them this way and that.
He lets her, watching from over her shoulder.
They're glowing on the end of his porcelain-pale arms.
"They look okay," she sighs. "Just a bit pink. You're really lucky, you know. That could have gone really badly."
"Hm." He sniffs.
She looks up at him, surprised. "Are you crying?"
Defensively:
"No! I'm smelling. The lasagne is done."
"Fuck the lasagne, it hurt your poor little fingers."
"Don't fuck lasagna, I worked really hard on that. And they're not little," he mutters, his brows furrowing as if that hurt more than his literal scolding.
"Yeah, they're all long and stupid," Y/N snaps. "Why would you forget oven gloves? What's wrong with you?"
Sliding her own hands into the mitts, she hefts the lasagne out of the oven, shutting the door with her elbow.
It's beautiful, red sauce bubbling up through the golden cheese like lavaâ
âbut she barely pays it any mind. She slides it distractedly onto a chopping board with a solid thump sound against the wood.
"I told you, I wasn't thinking. Well, I was, but about other stuff."
"Clearly. How are your hands now?"
"Weird. They're all..." he makes a spidery sort of gesture with his thin, bony fingers. "...tingly. How's the lasagne?"
"Can you stop thinking about your stomach for two seconds?" Joining him at the sink, she examines his burns again. They're still pink but the pads are still swirled with fingerprints, even if they are almost the same colour as the lasagne.
"Are they done yet?" Sherlock asks, already sounding bored. He's sort of edged closer to the lasagne tray like a cartoon character led astray by the scent of a pie.
"Are they 'done yet'? They're not a fucking ham! You have to wait about ten minutes, I think. Then we'll put cling film on them."
"Cling film?"
"That's what my nana used to do."
"Y/N, I'm not standing here for ten minutes then sitting there with cling film gloves."
...
Ten minutes later, Sherlock is sitting at the table while Y/N gives him cling film gloves.
He'd resisted at first and she'd had to take his shoulders, forcing him down into a chair, but he's gone quiet now, his seafoam eyes just patiently watching her hands as they gently wrap plastic around his own.
"I'll just do the fingers," she says, snipping off the excess and beginning on the next one. "Otherwise your palms will get all sweaty." She rubs the pad of her thumb over a crease in his wide left one, her brows furrowing. "Although, they're already sweaty now."
His cheeks go a light shade of pink. "That's because you're touching my hands."
"Well, I'm sorry, would you rather do it?" she gestures to his burnt fingers, all pink and wrapped in plastic like sugar sweets.
"No, I like you taking care of me."
She looks up at him, surprised at his candour. "You do?"
"Yeah." He avoids her eyes, hiding under his curly fringe. "People don't usually do that."
"Well, they should."
They're silent.
Every now and again he splays his fingers further so she can wrap the cellophane all the way around.
She's wrapping the last finger; his pinkie on his right hand. It's his smallest finger but it's as long as her index. Trying not to think about itâbecause then her palms will go sweatyâshe turns his hands around to admire her work.
She's never held his hands this long before. She knew they were big, but not this big. She's used to them dwarfing books, pens, cutlery, his violin, but her own?
"You have nice hands," she says absently, then blinks. She's not sure where that had come from.
Then, moodily, Sherlock mutters:
"I thought you said they were stupid."
"They're not stupid, you're stupid. These are nice."
His cheeks are red again.
Then his hand is moving, turning slowly until it bashfully lines up with Y/N's.
They both watch as his fingers slide up, slotting into the gaps between hers. They close and he just holds them there.
"...Your hands are nice too." Smiling softly, he turns them around, bringing them up between them on the table. "They're tiny." He grins a little grin as if he's unable to help it. His tone has gone all mellow and dreamy.
Shyly, she squeezes back and it makes him smile.
There's a piece of cling film hanging off his forefinger and she leans over to reach the scissorsâ
âthen he's kissing her.
She's still.
Her whole world narrows to the feeling of it, his lips, his fringe tickling her forehead.
He's nudging her sort of shyly.
Has he ever kissed someone before?
'I don't mean to annoy people.'
How could this man possibly annoy anyone?
He's good at kissing, somehow. All latent strength, gentle and masculine.
Y/N's hand forgets the scissors.
He's still holding her other hand, clutching it as if for support.
Kissing back, Y/N nudges his jaw with her own, trying to show him she wouldn't mind if he'd like to deepen it.
He moans softly, his grip on her palm tightening.
They break apart and she stares at him.
It takes a moment to click together some words. Y/N's mouth opens and closes.
"...What was that for?"
Sherlock's eyes widen, something seeming to occur to him like a slap in the face. Where his cheekbones had been a pastel pink before they turn suddenly and violently white. "I...I thought you wereâWait, were you notâ?"
"I was getting the scissors. To cut the cling film."
He looks down at their hands, still clasped, and blinks at the cling film she'd been planning to trim away. A beetroot flush disappears down into his shirt collar, his brow furrowing.
"Well, why would you do it like that?! You could have asked! I would have got it for youâ!" He's rambling, throwing words at her defensively as if trying to scare a bear away from hunting him. "You know what?! This is your fault, you completely invaded my personal spaceâ!"
"Sherlock, Sherlock, stop." Y/N puts a hand on his arm and he grinds to a hault like she's pressed a button. "Just....Stop." She gives him a shy smile. "...You kissed me."
"Well, technically I thought you were kissing me."
"Well, if I was, you didn't stop me." A smile ghosts her lips as she realises something. "...You...kissed back."
He moistens his lips. They're pink from her kiss. Perhaps he can still taste her on them because he licks them again.
"...Yes, I did."
"...Did you like it?"
"...I think you know I did." He's red. "Sorry for liking it. Can't we just forget about it?"
"I don't want to forget about it, I want to know why you did it."
"I don't know." He scratches behind his neck, wincing as his tender fingers hit the back of his head. "I've always sort of...wondered what it would feel like. To do that. With you."
"Always?!" Her tone softens from shocked to sympathetic. "Why didn't you just ask?"
"Ask? I can't just say 'Hey, I really like you, what if we kissed?'"
"'Course you can. To me, anyway."
He looks at her like he's suddenly realising this is true. He could have just asked. She's Y/N. Struggling:
"Okay, I guess I didn't know what to sayâI mean, I knew what to say. I knew what I wanted to say. But I couldn't....not to your face." He flushes, shying away from her gaze. "Not when you look at me like that."
She's smiling fondly without realising. She can't stop smiling at him, whenever she looks at him. Whenever she catches his eyes that have no right being that pretty, his hair, his long limbs in those stupid faded pyjamas he refuses to throw away. "Well...how do you want me to look at you?"
"...I don't know. I mean...I like when you look at me. That way. But it makes it hard to talk to you."
"Maybe don't talk. Maybe just....do what you feel like."
"...What if I feel like...kissing you again?"
"That would be okay." She threads her fingers between his again shyly, relieved when he squeezes back. "More than okay."
Sherlock's smile bumps Y/N's mouth as he catches it again eagerly, his free hand rising as though it wants to bury itself in her hair. Despite his tender fingers, he lets it, humming contentedly as she tilts her head, wriggling closer on her chair.
Her knee has to slot between his legs and, when they part, he keeps her there, his lips straying to her cheek, down over the curve of her jaw.
His other hand has found her side, his nose nuzzling into the warm crook where her neck meets her shoulder. "This is much better than any case."
"I can't believe you just said that," Y/N laughs, her own nose submerged in his hair. Her fingers are gripping it, handfuls of chocolate curls and he makes a low sound as she tightens her grip, his exploring mouth finding the sensitive spot behind her ear.
"You really think I'd rather be chasing the scum of the earth rather than having a beautiful woman kiss my face?"
"You think I'm beautiful?"
He pulls away to stare levelly at her. His eyes are easier to meet now because they're all pupil and just a thin slither of bright, exhilarated blue. "Y/N, when I took you to Riccardo's and he asked if we were on a date...I didn't deny it."
Smiling a fond smile, Y/N places a hand on his knee. She notices his eyes widen, a redness tinting his cheekbones. "How about tomorrow we go on another date but this time we actually tell each other that that's what we're doing?"
He laughs, beaming. He keeps beaming, all white teeth and crinkly crescent-moon-shaped eyes. "Yes, please."
Epilogue:
Sherlock swirls his wine, watching the streeks of red creep back down into the bottom of the glass.
Y/N suspects he only ordered it because he's seen people do it on television. She'll order him something else when the waiter comes back over---probably some sort of sweet cocktail he can pick the fruit out of.
"So...what do people usually talk about on dates?" He asks, taking a sip of his expensive wine and, as Y/N suspected, appearing not to like it.
"We can talk about what we normally talk about; I don't think there's an agender we have to tick off, Sherl."
"No, but I want to do it properly." He flushes, his cheekbones turning the same colour as his wine. "It's my first one."
"Oh." Y/N thinks about it. "Okay, well, usually, in my experience, the guy tries to impress me with his salary, cars, and where he's travelled. This one guy wouldn't shut up about his trip to Hawaii."
Sherlock perks up, a light coming to his eyes. "Ah! I have been to Hawaii."
"Yeah? What island?"
"Comehereiwannalayya."
Y/N doesn't react besides fractionally inclining one eyebrow.
"...Imkindakinki? ....Wannaseemydickie?"
"....Are you done?"
"Yagotnicetitis."
"Sherl?"
"Yeah?"
"...You know that thing we do where we talk to each other about things?"
"Yeah?"
"Let's not do that anymore."