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Fresh from the Police Academy, Y/N did know things wouldn’t be easy. She was well aware of the risks of her job, she knew very well she wasn’t a sheriff from the Far-West neither a super-hero, she wasn’t about to forget to call for backup when it was needed, yadda, yadda; the instructor had really well done his job, namely ram those concepts in her head as deeply as he could without using a bludgeon so that the new recruit she was wouldn’t make herself kill as soon as she would put a toe on the field.
But there were two things Y/N’s instructor - as skilful and dedicated as he was - couldn’t have prepare her for: firstly for having to work with a bunch of nutcases led by Sherlock Holmes and, then, for her greatest challenge to be finding a place to sleep which wouldn’t cost twice her pay AND wouldn’t be at three hours away from Scotland Yard.
To be fair, this problem had been quickly solved after she had complained about the four busses and metro she had to take to negotiate the distance between her friend’s couch and her office at the Yard to Mrs. Hudson while she was waiting for the Detective to put on some pants for her to drive him to a new crime scene: a week later, Y/N was moving in Baker Street.
Nobody would be able to guess which of Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock had been the more surprised: Sherlock for Y/N to be willing to move in with him (well, not technically “with him”, but in the same flat, under the same roof, sharing a kitchen, and a living room, and a freaking bathroom... All of those mundane things) and Mrs. Hudson for Sherlock to agree this easily when she had asked his opinion about Y/N becoming his new flatmate. Anyway, Y/N was downstairs with all her belongings and a new problem had raised: with his ongoing case, Sherlock hadn’t had the time to move all the shit he had stored in John’s old bedroom elsewhere... That’s how poor Y/N ended up sleeping on another couch - Sherlock’s this time - surrounded by her boxes.
It hadn’t been a problem, at first, Y/N was well placed to know Justice couldn’t wait and quite happy about the ten little minutes between her new couch and the Yard. Two months later, it had become a problem. Sherlock kept finding all kind of idiotic excuses to NOT vacate Y/N’s room; because, yes, it was Y/N’s room, even if Mrs. Hudson had kindly reduced her rent because of the lack of the bedroom Y/N was paying for. It could have not become a problem, Y/N could have left the flat and almost all of her Sherlockian problems behind her, Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t have hold it against her but... Well... Maybe there had been third things the instructor couldn’t have prepare Y/N for, the third would be the soft feelings the police officer was cultivating towards the detective.
And it was stupid, really, it was very clear Sherlock didn’t want her around since he was stubbornly refusing to let Y/N integrating her new bedroom. But you know what? You don’t become a police officer at Scotland Yard because of your outstanding tastes in donuts. Sherlock didn’t want to share is flat with Y/N but let her believe otherwise and pay for a bedroom she couldn’t sleep in? OK, fine. Very well. He would - at the very least - be forced to face his own assholery.
This time, when Sherlock went to leave the room, he found himself back to a very pissed off and dishevelled Y/N roaring “Walk out that door and we’re through”.
oOo
When Sherlock was going to Scotland Yard headquarter, it wasn’t exactly for the charming companionship. Well, that was maybe a little too harsh, Georges has a least half of a brain and was always doing his best; but, otherwise, if Sherlock was going to Scotland Yard, it was because he wanted a case. Or for an emergency, just like right now. What an emergency? No idea, but it has to be something quite pressing or the officer Y/L/N wouldn’t have thrown him out of his bed while yelling at him to put on some pants before storming out of his bedroom.
When Sherlock left the flat to climb in the cab waiting for him, Mrs. Hudson’s knowing gaze told him he had been spotted. To be fair, he hadn’t been quite subtle, the fact he had obeyed to the officer Y/L/N - and hurried to do so! - told a great deal about how he felt toward her. And, indeed, the next morning, the landlady had suggested a new flatmate to Sherlock.
Ah! What could have he answered to that? He has a soft spot for the officer Y/L/N, not only because she wasn’t afraid to shake him out of the bed, but also because she listened to him. She wasn’t settling for hearing him in awe, in shock or in disgust like all the others did, no, she listened to him. She genuinely listened to him. He had quickly discovered that fact, which had offset his own awe, shock and disgust towards the... The feelings he couldn’t help but have. He had agreed to share the 221B Baker Street with the officer Y/L/N which had become Y/N.
When she had arrived with all her belongings to move in, Sherlock hadn’t honestly mean for her room to not be set, he would have been ready to swear it and had profusely apologized, he had really been caught in the last case and just never thought about tidying John’s old room at all. The incredulous smile Y/N had thrown him before bursting of laughing and telling him it was ok, she would sleep on the couch, just bolstered Sherlock in his first idea: he had been right to accept Y/N as a new flatmate.
He couldn’t have known that, a few hours later, seeing Y/N quietly asleep on the couch would stir something unknown inside of him, something which demanded him to protect and provide, something which made him sick at the idea of letting her go anywhere, something which couldn’t bear the idea of not enjoying the cute show of Y/N’s slumber every night. No, not even the great Detective Sherlock Holmes would have been able to know about this possessive side of himself as Lavoisier wouldn’t have known about the phenomenon of oxidation before burning some metal.
Sherlock knew his behaviour wasn’t worthy of a gentleman and he was secretly praying for his mother never discovering how he had addressed a woman, but it had been stronger than him and, yes, even stronger than the possibility of Mrs. Holmes’ wrath. Sherlock wanted to keep Y/N all for himself and it was already difficult enough to let her go God knows where every morning for the genius to be unwilling to divest himself of the few hours he could spend with her every day. Don’t get him wrong, Sherlock didn’t want to lock Y/N down, he was just... Aaaah! Police officer is a dangerous job and... No, it’s not because she’s a woman, God! He had been raised by Mrs. Holmes, remember? And he lived under Mrs. Hudson’s roof, how could he not know women are as strong as men (and maybe stronger, it wasn’t the point, so he didn’t care)? Don’t be ridiculous... What was his point, again? Ah, yes, the possessive side he had discovered the night Y/N moved in could hardly bear to know her in danger and not being with her to help and protect her (even if she didn’t need to be protect, sometimes it’s nice to be protected, ok? And... Not the freaking point!). Sherlock knew very well his behaviour wasn’t worthy of a gentleman, but he couldn’t help himself and kept finding stupid excuse after stupid excuse to not clear Y/N’s room.
But he was starting to run out of ideas, both for postpone household and for good reasons to not feel guilty about the disappointed looks Mrs. Hudson sent him on a daily basis. Y/N had suggested tidying the room herself, she had asked nicely, she had given him the cold shoulder, but nothing had worked, he had kept telling her he would do it. He had even used of his charm on her, playing lively tunes with his violin to make her smile and stop her from being angry at him. It had worked, maybe a little too well because she had started to dance around the living room and Sherlock hadn’t been sure about who was charming who anymore...
Sherlock knew he had to find a solution to keep Y/N around him which didn’t involve her sleeping on the couch, the faster the better, he was thinking very hard about it, his efforts renewed by the twinge in his stomach when he had come across the empty living room, when he entered his bedroom to discover Y/N asleep in his bed. To say he wasn’t expecting that would have been an enormous understatement, but he felt something deep inside him curl in satisfaction. Exactly. Yes, it was the very exact solution to everything. It was absolutely perfect, it was... Too much for him to handle all at once, as wonderful as it was. Sherlock was ready to make a beeline to the bathroom to get a grip on his feelings, the hand on the doorknob when a groan startled him: “Walk out that door and we’re through”.
Crap...
oOo
The week had been a hard one, Y/N was totally exhausted. She extracted herself from her nest of blankets and pillows to face the stunned detective, too tired to be ashamed of the shorts and the baggy t-shirt she was wearing as bed clothes, and, pointing an accusing digit at him, rasped “You have two solutions: either you immediately go clear my bedroom or you tell me you don’t want to live with me already and I’ll be gone in an hour, but I won’t spend the rest of my career sleeping on your couch. And, since you seemed unable to shoulder your responsibilities, I claim your bed as mine until my bedroom is ready. This is non-negotiable.”
And say that Sherlocked was feeling overwhelmed when he had opened his bedroom door... He could accurately perceive the warmth emanating from Y/N’s body and almost feel the softness of her worn-out t-shirt under his fingers. It seemed he wouldn’t have to find a solution himself, afterwards, Y/N had given him one on a silver plate. Listening to his bravery only, Sherlock just rounded the bed, getting rid of his suit jacket and toeing out of his shoes, to creep in the nest of softness and cosiness from the side of the bed Y/N wasn’t occupying. To answer to the silent question Y/N’s wide eyes were asking him, he just said, from his comfortable spot, “Why would I do such stupid things when you’re exactly where I have always wanted you?”
Kneeling on the bed, Y/N throw him a look full of disbelief. “Why... And you couldn’t tell me?” Sherlock answered with the simple, bare honesty only him could exercise “No. If I had been able to voice it, I would certainly never make you sleep on the couch for so long.” Y/N laughed and went back under the blankets, only to find herself immediately wrapped in Sherlock’s embrace. Home is not a place, it’s a feeling.
Alexithymia (n.): the inability to express your feelings.