Work Text:
Sharing a living space with Sherlock came with both - pros and cons.
Sherlock, of course, would deny that there were any cons. She claimed to have a system but Wato would say she was simply messy. She left her things everywhere, socks especially. Moreover, she never washed the dishes. She refused to do any house chores unless it was absolutely necessary. Wato found it infuriating. She fought with her flatmate on multiple occasions about nuances such as a coffee mug left untouched on a table for days or boots dropped in the middle of the corridor.
And some days, Wato would let it slide. She would clean after Sherlock, do the house chores for her, iron her fancy shirts - because as much as she despited some of the detective’s habits, she really wasn't that bad of a flatmate.
Sherlock rarely got in Wato's way in the flat. She wasn't loud and the sporadic cello concert was more soothing than enraging. She never left hair or other questionable things in the shower drain. Sometimes she would even share her food with Wato.
Then there was the pro, a very particular advantage of living with Sherlock that Wato felt embarrassed even admitting to herself.
Undeniably, the best part of living with Sherlock was being able to watch her.
Not in a creepy way of course. Wato would defend herself to her own mind that it was more sad and pathetic than creepy to have feelings for your flatmate. That is, of course, if she had any feelings for the detective, which she does not have, of course.
Mhm.
Right...
Anyway.
Wato secretly adored watching Sherlock. She loved seeing her work. Loved it when her eyes got all absent or hyper-focused. Loved it when she scrunched her nose while thinking about a case, mind reeling in search of answers. She loved watching her slim fingers type swiftly on a keyboard writing one or another important email. Wato loved watching Sherlock do the most mundane things. Drink coffee in the mornings, file her nails (even though she never cleaned after), lie on a sofa with a book in hand, fix her clothes in the hall before going out. She loved it all. It felt... domestic. Homely. Made her heart feel a bit too full.
Made her want to grab Sherlock's face and kiss her. And kiss her. And kiss her.
Just like she wanted right now.
They were both in the living room. Wato was sitting on the sofa, a long-forgotten book (a tragic romance borrowed from the library) in her lap. Sherlock was at her desk, reading online something analytical and probably crime-related based on the intensity of her expression. Not that Wato would be able to read her expression from all the watching she did, of course. But she could. She could yes, and she would, maybe, if she wasn't so taken with Sherlock's dainty fingers sweeping her overgrown hair as it got in her face. The long, but not long enough, hair was resilient and Sherlock kept trying to tuck it behind her ear. Wato was mesmerized. Completely charmed by such a small action. So charmed in fact, that before a coherent thought caught up with her again, she had blurted out: "Let me brush your hair back."
And her only coherent thought was cursing at her. 'Can't leave you for five seconds without you running your gay mouth and making things awkward!' it whined. 'Why not confess and ruin the almost friendship you had going on altogether?'
Wato cringed at it. Her cheeks felt hot and she - embarrassed. There was no response, however, and a hope flood her poor heart. 'Maybe Sherlock didn't hear it. She doesn't mind the outside world when she's very focused on something,' Wato reasoned. And as she was letting out a relieved sigh, she heard: "Well? Are you going to brush my hair from the couch or will you come here? This research is important, can't exactly leave it."
Wato looked up (when did she look downwards anyway?) to see that Sherlock's eyes never left the monitor. (That was not true. If Wato was not focused on an internal rebuke she might have seen Sherlock glance at her questioningly and her lips twitch upwards for a moment.)
As if on autopilot, Wato came to Sherlock (as she had done and will do many times in life). She stood behind her chair. Her fingers trembling. She often thought about touching Sherlock’s hair. Was it soft? I looked soft. She often thought about touching Sherlock. Would she mind? She would, wouldn't she? She often thought about Sherlock, just in general. Did she like me? Am I her friend? She keeps denying it. She is my friend. Does she like me as I do?
Before Wato could brace herself, take a few breaths, you know, prepare emotionally to brush her crush's hair; Sherlock grabbed her by the wrist and placed Wato's hand on her head.
Soft. It was soft, was the first registered thought in Wato's short-circuited brain, then "I don't have a brush."
"It's okay."
Sherlock was looking at the monitor, reading what was, in fact, crime-related chemistry research. She was also pretending not to be stifling a huge grin.
"Okay."
Wato hesitated in words yet gently touched a strand of silky brown hair. She tucked it behind Sherlock's ear. The other side untucked. So she brought her other hand up. For a while, she was brushing the hair with her fingers. She marvelled the feeling its softness and the permission to play with it. Wato's own hair was quite long and sometimes even fun to style, although, naturally, it was not the same. And Sherlock always styled her hair the same way so-. At this, a quite silly, a bit indulgent idea came to Wato as she swept all the hair back.
"Can I try something?" she asked politely, a small smile on her face at the sheer thought of what she was planning to do.
Sherlock shrugged (Wato took it as a confirmation). She kept the indifferent attitude but a smile of her own flickered on her face every now and then. She liked the feeling of Wato's careful fingers messing with her hair. She enjoyed the attention Wato always spared her. Sherlock didn't mind Wato's touch. She didn't mind anything Wato did. One would say she was quite smitten but Sherlock would object. No one would ever believe her.
"...and finished," Wato said, pleased with her work.
She french braided Sherlock's hair. A few (a lot) shorter bits were sticking out but the hairstyle would keep the hair away from the detective's face.
"Hold it for me for a second, please. I need a hair tie."
Sherlock cautiously grabbed the end of the braid with one hand while the other came up to stroke the plait in wonder.
Wato took the hair tie out of her own hair and secured the braid with it.
"Do you want me to grab a mirror?" she asked.
Sherlock's arms went down.
"Ah, no, it's alright. I-" I trust you stayed unsaid.
Sherlock spun around on her chair so that she was face to face with Wato now.
"Does it look good in front?"
Wato stared. Gazed. Like at the most beautiful, brightest star on the night sky. She could see Sherlock's forehead that was so often hidden behind the fringe. She looked at her lovely eyes. Her lips. And she wanted to touch. To kiss her. And kiss her.
"Yes," her voice sounded hoarse.
And kiss her.
“Is that all that you wanted to try?” Sherlock asked, adorably tilting her head.
And to be kissed in return.
“No.”
Sherlock smiled.
“What else do you want to try?”