Archive of Our Own

One look, dark room meant just for you
Time moved too fast, you played it back
Buttons on a coat, light-hearted joke
No proof, not much, but you saw enough

And for once, you let go
Of your fears and your ghosts

And you understand now why
They lost their minds and fought the wars

You, you can see it with the lights out, lights out
You are in love, true love

- You Are In Love by Taylor Swift

Started With A Kiss, Oh, We Must Stop Meeting Like This 

Wording it logically, scientifically, would be the best way to appeal to Sherlock Holmes’s inner romantic. So, when you took three separate components - namely, his return from a two-year-exile to the smoky city that held his heart and the subsequent reunions with the few beings he called his friends (of which I was one); the relief he felt at saving John Watson from a bonfire and the ex-army doctor patching matters up with him the next day; and the euphoric high of solving a case and saving a life - When you took those three separate components, and put them together, the scientific result was an explosion of chemicals masquerading as affection.

Which was what propelled Sherlock Holmes across the room towards me, when I crossed the threshold. It was what drove him to put one warm palm on my icy, wind-stung cheek, fingers tangling through my hair, while his other arm wrapped around my waist and pulled me against him. It was what sent all those little neurons firing in his brain that told him it would be a good idea to give me the most breathtaking, heady smile, and then drop his head and kiss me before I could get a word out edgeways.

So that was where we found ourselves, fifteen seconds into my arrival. My back against the doorframe, his hand migrating to hold the back of my head. With the hand that was around me, he lifted the back of my shirt until his palm was against the small of my back. My hands were in his hair, which was surprisingly soft and fluffy - too early for him to have brushed it yet.

He pulled back, eyes wide, panting slightly. “I…” he began, voice rough.

“No,” I said firmly, and then I tugged him back to me. Questions later. Talk about this later. Two years is a long time to not know if someone you care about is alive or dead, and the fact that Sherlock Holmes had returned with a gentler voice and his edges softened over had done a lot to resurrect that crush I’d had. Which, in the space of thirty seconds, had turned into something approaching full-on love.

He groaned as I twisted my fingers through the curls at the back of his neck. He tasted of Mrs Hudson’s tea and something slightly sour and the stray hint of faded toothpaste, all blended together into something wholly Sherlock.

I missed you, I missed you when you left me for two years, I tried to communicate.

He responded by pulling me closer. He was here. He was real. I’d never found the idea of drowning, even metaphorically, pleasant before. Turns out it was. The whole world was Sherlock, and he was the only real thing. Maybe drowning wasn’t the right metaphor. We were shipwrecked, flotsam and jetsam clinging together, saving each other.

Sherlock let out a tiny gasp as I wound my other arm around his neck, the warmth of my skin against his. I wanted him to make that sound again. I wanted him to pull back and look at me with those beautiful eyes, but I didn’t want him to go that far away. I wanted him to keep kissing me, but I wanted him to stop and tell me the words I wanted to hear, in that wrecked baritone. His fingers curled through my hair, tilting my head away from the doorframe, towards him.

A door, opening.

“Oh, my God.”

I flinched back, and Sherlock pulled away, straightened, glancing past me with an expression that would’ve been annoyed if he hadn’t looked so completely ruined. I peered over my shoulder. John Watson stood in the bathroom doorway, hands on his hips, shaking his head.

“Oh, my God. You do that now, do you? Jesus, Sherlock. What else.” He shook his head. “Whoa. Never thought I’d see that. The great Sherlock Holmes, snogging his friend.”

“Shut up, John,” Sherlock growled, attempting to tidy his hair, rub his mouth, straighten his jacket and steeple his fingers, with the five hands he didn’t have.

I stepped away from the doorframe, my skin burning hot and cold. Waited. Say something, Sherlock. He’d been the one to kiss me. I didn’t know what was going on in his head. I didn’t even know why he’d wanted me to come here so urgently.

The silence stretched on, John looking between us, a frown pinching his eyebrows.

I dared a glance up at Sherlock. He was now staring somewhere just above my head. Stunned. Unresponsive.

Something cold curled through my belly. “Right.” I breathed out a laugh. Suddenly, pulling him in for that second kiss seemed like such a huge, huge mistake.

“Y/N…” John began. I shook my head, my words riding on another brittle laugh.

“Sorry, sorry, that wasn’t…” Sherlock was still tall and aloof and barely a metre from me, but it felt like he was in Alaska. I could still feel his palm on my back, his fingernails against my scalp. “I just. Shit.”

John’s confusion was turning to pity. My embarrassment was turning to anger. Sherlock was an automaton, standing there.

I took one step towards the stairs, then another, and then I fled.

*

My phone stayed silent. This wasn’t a romantic drama. Sherlock was Sherlock. Why the hell did I expect anything different? I didn’t. I didn’t expect so much as an apology.

But it would’ve been nice.

Instead, I simmered in my own hurt and confusion and outrage for a solid thirty-six hours. Went to work. Returned books to the library. Pretended I wasn’t thinking about him, that his sceptre didn’t loom behind me as I made myself meals in my tiny kitchenette. Pretended my lips weren’t still tingling.

I pretended, basically, that I wasn’t falling in love and absolutely furious with the same person simultaneously. I pretended so well that I even fooled my cactus.

My friendship with Sherlock had always been based on a ‘how absurd a thing can we say to each other while still respecting the other’ basis. Then he’d died. I’d known he wasn’t dead, because he stayed at my flat, the night before he went overseas. Then he was gone; and for two years I tried hard to get over my crush.

Didn’t work. Because the moment he was back, he was there, walking me home from work with a smirk and a few casually-tossed sentences. Then, to add insult to injury, he texted, told me John had nearly been burnt alive and to get to 221b immediately. And then he kissed me.

And then he let me walk away, feeling like this.

But what would I even have said to him?

The knock on my door came at 11.11pm, or so my phone said. Make a wish. I threw off my sofa blanket and crossed to the door, peering through the peekhole. A blue scarf, a coat collar. I resisted the urge to smack the door with my hand.

“Y/N!” Sherlock called impatiently.

“Bastard,” I grumbled, and twisted the lock.

Three things happened at once, in that millisecond. One, I realised I was wearing faded joggers and a huge t-shirt and fluffy socks, and that my hair was probably a disaster. Two, a crack of lightning struck the sky, bright and vivid, followed by a peal of thunder.

Three, Sherlock Holmes kissed me.

He leant back against the door, effectively locking it, pulling me into his arms. The last kiss had been urgent, desperate; but this kiss scorched. It was like making out with a campfire.

At some point he swayed off the door, and we made our way through the room. His coat got abandoned along the journey. He sunk onto the sofa, lying down , pulling me over him, his hands on my waist. Then he seemed to slow down, breaking away to pepper my cheeks and jaw with littler kisses instead.

“What…are you doing?” I whispered breathlessly.

He nuzzled my temple. “Indulging both of us, obviously. Your sofa is extremely comfortable, by the way. Mrs Hudson should really do better with her upholstery choices.”

It took effort, but I pushed away my bubbling protestations. Focus. Thunder rumbled again, further away. “Indulging?” Then, “Both of us?”

Sherlock pulled a face. “Of course both of us, do you really think a high-functioning sociopath would kiss someone out of pity?” Seemingly content with the point he’d made, he tried to tilt my head back down to his.

I averted my face. “No, I mean…” I sighed, trying to unscramble all my thoughts. “Why…I thought you regretted it. The other day.”

He furrowed his eyebrows. “I wouldn’t be here if I had regretted it, would I? Use your common sense. Why would you think that?”

I huffed. “Maybe because I left, and you didn’t stop me, and you didn’t text me or call me or do anything to prove that you’d actually, you know, not regretted it!”

“Busy. There was a near-fatal terrorist attack. Underground train - a carriage filled with bombs. Essentially, the carriage was the bomb. Had it gone off, the whole of Parliament would have been obliterated.”

I gaped. “What?”

“Yes. So John and I disarmed the bomb. Rather tricky, since the man responsible for it started the countdown while we were in the carriage. John thought we were going to die. Actually, I did as well.”

“What?” I gripped onto his shoulders, my face inches away from his, horrified. “You nearly died, again? Ohmygod. That’s…Shit.”

“Yes. So, I was busy. I just got out of the debriefing.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Mycroft was being his usual pedantic self. And John may never forgive me for tricking him into thinking I couldn’t turn the bomb off…”

“You did what?” I started to sit up, to shift off him.

His hands tightened on my waist, keeping me there. “Why are you trying to go?”

I looked down at him. It was odd, seeing his curly head framed by the cherry red of my sofa. It was even odder to be almost fully lying on him, his arms around me, like this was something we did every day. His lips quirked briefly as he caught me staring.

“You don’t want to move.” It was a statement.

I pressed my lips together. “I need to, though.”

“Why?”

“Because…Sherlock, this isn’t what people do.” He looked genuinely confused, so I softened my tone a little. “We’re not…We aren’t…”

“We aren’t what?”

“Dating,” I said, voice small.

“Oh, is that all?” Sherlock said, a flash of relief in his eyes. “Let’s do that, then.”

Which was as effective a way of wiping all the air from my lungs, as a punch would have been.

“But…but,” I stammered. “You’re making it sound easy.”

“You’re the one complicating it.”

I bit my lip to hold back some rather unfavourable expletives. His eyes dropped sharply, tracking the movement.

“It’s not as simple as that, Sherlock. You know…Do you even know what dating means?”

“Yes, of course I do. It means that we get to do this,” Sherlock said, waving his hand impatiently at our bodies. “I’m slightly hazy on all the other aspects, but it shouldn’t be too hard to learn.”

“Sherlock…” I could feel cold prickles running down my spine. I tried again to sit up, and this time he let me, sitting up as well. I scooted back to the other corner of the sofa, pulling my knees up to my chest. “There’s more to it than, you know, just making out with someone. It’s like…You have to actually…”

“What?” Sherlock said impatiently.

“Want them!” I burst out. “Like them! Actually want to date them!”

“And?”

I stared at him. “And that’s a pretty crucial part of dating!”

“I’m still not seeing the…Ah.” Sherlock busied himself with straightening his shirt collar. “You aren’t interested in dating me. Strange, my hypothesis had led me to believe…But-”

“What? No!” I couldn’t believe how wrong this was going. Sherlock made to stand up, arm extended for his coat, and I panicked. I threw myself across the sofa, crashing into him with a tackle that would have made a professional rugby player proud. He let out a startled “Fuck!” as we clumsily landed in a horizontal position. His feet were on the floor, one of my knees was still drawn up to my chest, and we were both winded.

“I’m…” Sherlock took a deep breath. I could feel his chest expanding underneath my palms. “Getting mixed messages…”

“Of course I want to date you, you dumbass!” I said ungracefully. “I wouldn’t have let you kiss me if I didn’t! But I don’t - I’m not sure that you want to-”

I faltered, and Sherlock reached up, tangled his hand through my hair, and kissed me again.

This one was more gentle. I melted against him, both of us readjusting until we were resembling our previous positions. Then he broke the kiss, brushing his lips across my chin.

“Is that clear enough?” he murmured. “Are we daters now?”

I blinked at him hazily. “There’s…no such thing.”

“Oh, for God’s sake…” He trailed off, blue eyes irritated. “What do you mean now?”

“There’s not really the term daters.”

He pressed a kiss to the edge of my jaw, and I shivered. “Why not? Honeymooners, newly-weds…but not ‘daters’? That’s absurd.”

“Well…I didn’t make the rules.”

Sherlock huffed. “About time someone with an ounce of common-sense did.” His hand swept over my back, fiddling with the hem of my shirt. “I’m starving. Mycroft was being stingy with the gingernuts. Takeaway?”

****

I Just Like Hanging Out With You, All The Time

State the obvious, but dating Sherlock Holmes wasn’t, in my admittedly limited experience, much like dating anyone else. That first night, when we had takeaway, it was like having a night in with a friend. Then there was silence from him for a few days, during which I sternly told myself not to panic. Sherlock Holmes never did anything by halves. If he wanted to date me, he would. I was being silly by assuming he’d suddenly be…What? What did I even expect? There was no point having a self-esteem crisis. One thing I knew, just as well as I knew my own face, was that Sherlock would not know how to cope if I went all insecure on him. So I ploughed on with my normal routine, dragging out my winter jumpers and listening to colleagues chattering about their Christmas plans.

Christmas plans, and a certain resurrected Hat Detective. He was everywhere, theories and conspiracies following him around on the internet. Apparently he had a twitter account. I didn’t know what to think of that.

Friday afternoon, I stepped out of my workplace, wincing at the thin, ice-sharp breeze that got right between my teeth, and smiled.

Just like two weeks ago, Sherlock was standing there, by the grubby waist-high brick wall, his hands tucked into his pockets. Only two weeks ago, you hadn’t seen him for years, and now… I brushed my fingers across my mouth reflexively. “Hey!”

He inclined his head. “Hello. Lunch?”

“Sure, I’m off to-”

“Your usual café, yes, I know.”

“Of course you do.” I grinned, falling into step alongside him. “I want a coat that’s all swishy and flares dramatically.”

Sherlock cocked his head at me. “Christmas present?”

“...Maybe.” Though I wasn’t sure if I’d actually have the ability to flourish and flounce around in a coat like that. I patted my burgundy bomber jacket. “I might just stick with this.”

“Probably wise. The paps would have far too much fun if you had a Belstaff. They’d want you in a deerstalker next.” Sherlock made to step into the road, saw my caution, and hesitated. “We could have made it.”

“Some lunch date, hanging out with a flattened mousse of a man who got run over by a truck.” A bin-lorry thundered past, proving my point. When there was a pause in the traffic, thanks to the traffic lights further down the road, we crossed over, wending between metal tables and into the shadow of a stripy green and white awning.

The door jingled as Sherlock pushed it open. Then held it. For me. I smiled my thanks, ducking past inside.

“Oh, thank God it’s warm.”

“Your coat and jumper should provide ample warmth.”

“I’ve been stationary for too long, and someone else is hogging the electric heater.” I pointed to a corner table. “Go snag that. D’you want anything?”

Sherlock hesitated, blue eyes flicking up to the blackboards behind the wooden counter. “No. Yes. A tea, maybe.”

I went and ordered, trying not to drool over all the cake-slices on display. Sherlock was tapping irritably at his phone when I came back over. He slid the phone away as I pulled out my chair and sunk down.

“So,” I said cheerfully.

“So…” Sherlock drawled, scanning the café. There was a continual hum of voices, picking up with the occasional shout of laughter from the group of old men on the window-side stools. “How…has your day been?”

Something was slightly off. I wrinkled my nose. “Fine. How’s yours been?”

“Double decapitation, murder weapons left at scene, three traumatised witnesses who haven’t been able to get a coherent statement out yet…” Sherlock steepled his fingers, gazing dreamily at the sugar sachets. “It’s at least an eight. Probably a nine. Just in time, too. John insists on planning his wedding, and he wants me to be involved, which will be utterly tedious.”

“One hot chocolate, one tea?” The waiter had arrived, looking between us.

“The tea’s his. Ooh, thank you.” I grinned at my swirl of marshmallows and cream. “Ahhh, the sugar in that is calling to me.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock was peering out the window again. “It’s going to snow tomorrow, according to the - probably inaccurate - forecast.”

“I…okay.” I slid my spoon into the hot chocolate, then frowned at Sherlock. He hadn’t taken off his coat, but he’d loosened his scarf. Now he reached up, unlooping it, and tucked it over the back of his chair. “Are you okay?”

His eyes flashed to me. “Yes. Yes, why wouldn’t I be?”

“You’re…I dunno, kind of acting…”

My lunch arrived at that moment. Sherlock watched me crunch on a few crisps.

“Go on, tell me about your case,” I said, through a mouthful of salt-and-vinegar splinters.

He looked surprised. Then I saw him do a mental-shrug.

“The CCTV cameras showed the first victim, Laura Carroll, walking down an alleyway between her apartment block and the neighbouring one, at precisely two AM this morning…”

He carried on, painting a vivid enough scene that any lesser person would’ve been put off their food. I had a strong stomach, luckily. But when he got to the bit about the decapitation of the second victim, and the exact way the weapon must have been wielded, I noticed something.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as I stifled a laugh. “What.”

“What?”

“What is it?” he demanded. “Unless you are showing hitherto hidden homicidal impulses, you aren’t one to laugh at murder. What’s funny?”

I pressed my lips together, going for a serene smile. Another laugh bubbled out. “You’ve got a few eavesdroppers,” I said, dropping my voice.

“What? Oh, yes, I know. So?”

I shook my head. “No, nothing. Just…”

“Stop smiling.” The corner of his lips twitched. “Bit not good?”

“For them, yeah, a bit. I’m pretty sure this entire café thinks I’m, like, on a date with a serial killer.”

On a date. That’s what you just said. ‘On a date’. I swallowed, ready to take it back. But Sherlock just reached for his cup, raising it and downing the rest of his tea.

Slowly, the hot tingles down my back subsided. “Well, if you’re not so busy running around, being the dashing Hat Detective…” I grinned at Sherlock’s warning glare, “Then maybe…d’you want to come over for dinner on Sunday night?”

Both Sherlock’s eyebrows shot up, his lips parting slightly.

“...I’ve seen this recipe on the internet, for a veg lasanga. It looks really nice. They’ve got an interesting way of doing the cheese sauce, which, to be honest, is where I always go wrong, but - maybe this time I’ll get it right. You can be my trial subject…Why are you laughing?”

It was Sherlock’s turn to shake his head, smirking. “Never mind. I had expected your sentence to be somewhat different. Lasanga?”

“Vegetables and three-cheese, with basil.”

He glanced at the remaining half of my toastie, then up at me. “You do like warm and cheesy things, don’t you?”

“I’m going to be honest with you, Holmes.” I held up a crisp meaningfully. “There is an innuendo in there. It’s a bad one. It’s cringy. But it’s there.”

Sherlock’s face was utterly blank for one long moment before he let out an undignified snort. “Oh, shut up, Y/N.”

I grinned.

Once we were outside, the cold air hitting us like slaps to the face after the cosy warmth inside, Sherlock dithered. “I need to go to Scotland Yard,” he said brusquely. “Which is that way.”

“Okay.” I zipped my coat up as far as it could possibly go, but honestly, wasn’t far enough. I smiled up at him. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“I liked having lunch with you.”

He squinted. “Isn’t that what da…People do?”

“Yeah, it is, but.” No point trying, in the space of a few seconds, to explain that I hadn’t really expected him to do normal date-ish stuff. “Sunday night?”

“Sunday night,” he agreed, scanning the road for cabs.

I began to step away, then stopped. Slid my hand out of my pocket. Grabbed his surprisingly warm hand, entwining our fingers. Squeezed, for a long moment, long enough to feel the reciprocated pressure. Then I hurried away.

****

And Every Single One Of Your Friends Was Making Fun Of You

“Lestrade, I need your advice.”

“Well, that’s a new one. The high-and-mighty Sherlock Holmes, needing advice. What’s it for, huh?”

“Dating advice.”

“Wha-”

“Yes, yes, I know, you’re a frankly terrible person to ask, given your prior romantic history, but you impressed someone enough for them to marry you, so that’s a starting point. I need help with this. One sentence of advice. Nothing else. No trivia. Go.”

“I…bloody fucking hell, Holmes-”

“Lestrade.”

“Okay, okay, fine. You thought of a restaurant? Fancy restaurant, romantic night out, wear your best suit, pay the bill. That always charms the ladies.”

“...Mm. She’d loathe being called a lady, and she’s not susceptible to my charms-”

“I can’t believe this, Sherlock-”

“-But I’ll bear it in mind. Thank you.”

“Where you going? Wait! Who is it?”

“Oh, by the way, Gavin, you might want to let the flatmate go, they’re certainly innocent.”

“You…you…bastard.”

*

“-Molly, there you are-”

“Sherlock, not now, I’m a bit busy-”

“Yes, I can see that. Here, for goodness’ sake, pass me that bag. Someone of your stature can’t hold that many books at once, you know.”

“Thanks. Phew. What do you want, Sherlock? You’re being nice. You’re actually smiling at me. I can’t…You know I’m…”

“Yes, I know you’re engaged, to…Tim?”

“Tom.”

“Yes. Him. I need some advice.”

“Advice? From me?”

“Yes-”

“I can…Gosh. That’s not what I was expecting you to say. Okay. What is it?”

“Since you’re a woman-”

“Oh, very astute of you, Sherlock.”

“Shh. Stop being cheeky, Molly, it’s an alarming habit you’ve developed since my return. You are a female. What do you like, when a male takes you on a date?”

“Whu?”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake. I am dating somebody. I need advice.”

“I…I think I need to sit down. Right. You…You’re dating someone, Sherlock? Really?”

“Yes.”

“Ohmygosh. I - Ohmygosh. I’m happy for you! I really am. Who is she? Is she nice? It’s not that woman, is it? Irene?”

“No, it’s not her, and thank you for your felicitations, but some advice would be much handier.”

“Right, right, okay, silly me. Um. What kind of woman is she?”

“Unique.”

“Oh. That’s…that’s really sweet, Sherlock.”

“I am simply stating the truth. Continue.”

“Okay. Um, maybe a film?”

“The cinema?”

“Yes, though it doesn’t have to be. It could just be a night in on the sofa with some microwaved popcorn, you know?”

“Not Glee.”

“N-no, not Glee. That was…Wait.”

“No, no, carry on.”

“No, hang on a sec Sherlock. You read my blog?”

“Read it while I was away. During stakeouts when I was bored.”

“And…maybe lonely?”

“Stop it, Molly. You’re being too astute. So, films? Your great piece of advice?”

“Yeah. Yeah, films, movies, TV shows. Curled up on the sofa with drinkies and popcorn. Or out at a cinema, it depends what she likes. Who is she?”

“Well, thank you, Molly. I have to go now, got to see John before Mary gets back. That woman is entirely too smug for her own good. Don’t need her finding out who my girlfriend is just yet. Pass on my regards to, uh…Ti - Tom.”

*

“What is it, Sherlock?”

“I need your advice.”

“Oh, okay. With what?”

“With Y/N. We are…dating. As you might have guessed, after all, you witnessed the kiss.”

“Good for you, mate. I’m happy for you.”

“Yes, well, that’s all nice, but if I can’t make her happy, we won’t be dating anymore. I…John, I have never been in a relationship before. Admittedly, you are not the best person to ask, or you weren’t - You seem to be doing fairly well with Mary. What should I do?”

“Hmm. Uh. Let’s see…Um. Okay, look, you’ve got her to date you, and she already knows what an arsehole you are, so that’s half the battle won, I’d say.”

“Stop thinking so much, John, it’ll give everyone on the street a headache. What do you do, typically, with a woman?”

“I…am really not discussing that with you, Sherlock. There are boundaries. This is one of them.”

“Oh, shut up. I meant dates.”

“That can be a pretty crucial part of dates. Okay. God, never thought I’d see the day. You, dating someone. Like…Like a normal person. Wow.”

“When you’ve quite finished being a ridiculous spectacle, John…”

“Right. Look. Chocolates. Flowers. You can’t go wrong with that. Take her flowers and chocolates. Find out what her favourite chocolates are-”

“I already know.”

“Of course you do, you’re bloody Sherlock Holmes, I don’t know why I even said that. Yeah, so, chocolates, flowers, just be a gentleman around her. Probably hold back with the deductions. Especially the cruel ones.”

“She likes my deductions.”

“Just do the nice ones, then. Talk to her about her interests.”

“I do.”

“Well then, you’re doing good already.”

“Really?”

“Yeah, I’d say so - Jesus, you actually look surprised. Just. Chocolates, flowers. Can’t go wrong with those.”

“Very well. Thank you, John. I would prefer, for the moment, if you didn’t tell Mary.”

“Oh, mate, I already told her the second I saw you two kissing.”

“Hmph.”

“That’s a part of being in a relationship, actually. You tell the other person all the weird little shit-bits you see.”

“I…”

“Uh. Not that you two kissing was-”

“Probably best if we just end this conversation now, John.”

“Yeah. Yeah, that’s probably best.”

*

“Mrs Hudson.”

“Sherlock Holmes, get your grubby hands off my gingernuts!”

“I’m only taking three. I’ll buy you a pack later.”

“You’ll buy biscuits? Well, I never.”

“I can actually function like a human, you know, Mrs Hudson.”

“You wouldn’t know it, not with the amount of teas I have to bring up there for you. Now, what have you done, young man? You have that face.”

“What face?”

“That one, like a guilty little boy. You’ve done something, Sherlock. If it’s more fingers frozen to the back of my freezer…”

“No, no, it’s not. I haven’t got any body-parts yet, unfortunately. Give it time. No. I need some advice.”

“Well, dear, why don’t you sit down and tell me all about it?”

“No, it won’t take long. I have a girlfriend. What - Mrs Hudson - for God’s sake, woman, don’t faint.”

“Oh, goodness me - you? You have a girlfriend? Sherlock, I’m so…Dear, that’s wonderful news! First John getting engaged, then you…Oh, my boys are growing up. You’re such fine men, too.”

“Yes, yes. What should I do for this girlfriend?”

“Is that Y/N? It is, isn’t it! Oh Sherlock, you’re blushing! I knew there was something between you two! You were always smiling when she wasn’t looking-”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Hudson, to shatter your delusions, but we were certainly not in a romantic relationship two years ag - Why are you flapping your hands at me?”

“Pfft, silly boy. You liked her back then. Didn’t you?”

“I - Mrs Hudson. Really. This is irrelevant.”

“Fine, fine, deny an old woman her fun if you must. Well, if you want advice…I was always partial to a good compliment. Can’t deny that I still am, I suppose.”

“Compliments.”

“Her hair, her clothes, her smile, her intelligence; anything, Sherlock. Be nice. No double-sided comments. A good compliment can make a girl’s day, you know.”

“Compliments. Hmm. Interesting. Thank you, Mrs Hudson. I’ll bring more biscuits this evening.”

“Oh, look at you, Sherlock. Back from that nasty exile and such a hero to everyone now. Such a good man.”

“I can still hear you, Mrs Hudson.”

*

“Yes, what do you want, Mycroft.”

“I am offended, brother mine.”

“And you’ve also been exercising again. You’re entirely too short of breath for it just to be a quick wank.”

“Sherlock.”

“What do you want?”

“You have been asking all your friends for dating advice, and yet you have not come to me. Remiss, little brother.”

“What advice could you possibly give me, Mycroft?”

“Oh, I could give you a lot, Sherlock. The question is, would you take it? But enough with the brotherly banter. If you want to give your…girlfriend…something, I suggest a punchbag.”

“A punchbag.”

“I must block your number the moment we finish this delightful phone call.”

“With your face on it. Personalised. If you wish, I can have it made.”

“Goodbye, Mycroft. Tell your goldfish hello from me, won’t you?”

“Sher-!”

****

We Are Alone, Just You And Me

Sherlock arrived exactly on time. Which was impressive, considering that my ancient clock was three minutes wrong.

“Ohhh, it’s cold out there,” I said, wincing as a blast of frozen air whipped into the warm flat. Then I frowned at him. Strait-laced, utterly upright, he stood there, one hand behind his back, looking down his nose at me. Not in a haughty way, just in…a…sort of way.

“Come in,” I said, gesturing.

Sherlock stepped in, his movements slightly stilted. “Here.” He whipped his arm from behind his back, shoving a bunch of beautiful red roses in my face. There were twelve red roses and a thirteenth white rose.

I blinked, hand still on the lock. “Wow. They’re - they’re beautiful, Sherlock, thank you.” I grinned. “Baker’s dozen. Or, unlucky thirteen. I like it.”

He smiled back stiffly. “I felt it would be more…interesting.”

“It is. Thank you.” I took the bouquet from him. The plastic binding the stems together was warm from his fingers. “Oh, look, there’s already a vase.” I plucked out a wilted bunch of dandelions from a small, ancient mug that stood on the coffee table, and placed the roses there, then stood back and crinkled my nose. “Hmm, I might need to find something a bit deeper. They look absurd in there. They’re too..glamorous. If roses could wear lipstick, they would be. And rouge, as well.”

Sherlock was silent. I glanced at him.

“You okay?”

He nodded, eyes downcast, studying the scratchy doormat. He hadn’t actually moved an inch from his original spot, just inside my flat.“Yes.”

No, you’re not. When the silence dragged on, I put my hand tentatively on his arm. “What’s wrong?”

His eyes flashed up, bright and blue and with a look that would have knocked me off-balance if he hadn’t, at that moment, put both his arms around me, pressed our bodies together, and kissed me.

His lips and face were cold from the icy temperatures outside. So was his left hand, from holding the bouquet. But his right hand, when he put it on my cheek, was warm.

He pulled back, pressing our foreheads together. “That was what was wrong,” he murmured. “I…am not the best at reading social cues, but I wanted to kiss you.”

A wide smile spread across my face, which would have made it pretty impossible for him to kiss me again. “You’re welcome to kiss me, you know. Whenever you want. Unless I’m like, very obviously not in a kissing mood.”

“Stop smiling, then,” he murmured, bumping his nose against mine.

“But you’re cute. It’s hard not to.” Sherlock dropped his gaze, and after a moment, I blinked. Then grinned, feeling wicked. “Ohmygod, you’re blushing. Is this what makes you blush, Sherlock? Being called cute?”

He let out a small strangled groan.

“What about if I call you…hmm. Hot? Gorgeous? Magnetic?” I could almost feel the heat on his cheeks. “Or. Maybe…sexy Hat Dete-”

“Shut up,” he said, and then forced me to.

This time I was the one to break the kiss, leaning back and wrapping my arm around his neck. “What about dinner? The lasanga turned out really good, even if I do say so myself.”

Sherlock stood fully away, putting both his hands on my shoulders. He pressed his lips together. “You’ve already eaten some.”

“Sampled. As I was making it. I had a slice of bread with the cheese sauce. Which is to die for, by the way. Inhale, Sherlock. Can’t you smell the cheesy goodness?”

Right on cue, his stomach let out an enormous rumble. We stared at each other, equally wide-eyed, before I burst out laughing.

“Ohmygod. When was the last time you ate? Come on before it gets cold.”

*

“So…” I swallowed, licking cheese sauce from the corners of my mouth. Sherlock was already on his second portion, shamelessly enjoying the cheese sauce and co, while I was shamelessly smug about my culinary achievements. “How’s the decapitated victims?”

Sherlock flashed me a quick grin. “Still headless.”

I rolled my eyes. “I mean, did you catch their murderer?”

“I did, yes. Unfortunately Lestrade doesn’t have any other interesting cases. The best he had to offer me was a three, at least. Hopefully Mycroft will hurry up and present me with some intriguing terrorist organisation to hunt down, or something similar.”

“Hoping for crime.” I shook my head regretfully. “Tis a poor state of affairs.”

“Hoping for crime to stop,” Sherlock shot back.

“Still hoping for crime, though.”

“Yes, but to disband it. To stop the evildoers.” He pressed his lips together.

“Sherlock,” I pointed my fork at him,  “no matter how you word it, you’re still hoping for crime that doesn’t currently exist.”

He sighed. “Touché.”

****

We're Gold As Long As We're Together

Sherlock’s parents lived in Kent. Just like the posh old people. I would have never known this little titbit of information, since Sherlock rarely talked about his parents, except for the fact that at noon on a Sunday afternoon, my phone began to chime with repeated texts.

The first one was a postcode and Come here and rescue me. SH.

Please. SH.

Are you on your way yet? SH.

I am being tortured. SH.

I may die. You are meant to care, aren’t you? SH.

Y/N. Y/N, are you there? SH.

Start driving. SH.

I have been stranded here. SH.

I blinked at the texts,  my brain slowly deciphering them. I couldn’t quite stop the small rush of adrenaline at the idea of him being tortured, but I was also taking these texts with an enormous pinch of salt. In fact, I was metaphorically scattering an entire bottle of Saxa and scepticism, and I told him as much.

I’m scattering a vat of Saxa salt and a swimming pool’s worth of scepticism on your texts, Sherlock.

I hesitated, then stood up with a long-suffering sigh.

But I’m coming.

*

It was a nice cottage, surprisingly big. I turned my car around first. Toyota, pale blue, older than the authorities approved of. I loved it dearly, even when it occasionally refused to start in the minus temperatures.

In the rearview mirror, I saw the door flying open. Sherlock strode out across the driveway before I could emerge, his coat whipping around him. He had a distinctly frazzled-cat expression on.

He entered the car, bringing with him a gale of cologne and…Yankee candles? My spine tingled. I smiled, “Hey-”

“I’m not kissing you,” he said curtly, reaching for his seatbelt. “My parents will be watching. Drive.”

Even a few years later, I still reacted automatically to the ‘passenger being my driving instructor’. I guess Sherlock just had that authoritative voice. The car crunched into gear and we coasted back down the drive, me sneaking glances in all the mirrors back at the house. Sherlock adjusted his sun-visor and muttered something under his breath.

“Your parents?” Greetings and trivialities clearly weren’t a thing we were doing right now. “That’s what your parents’ house?”

“Yes. Yes, I do have parents; no, I wasn’t born in a petri dish, the way John seems to think.” Sherlock cut himself off as I manoeuvred onto the bigger road.

“So why were you so desperate to leave?”

“They are insufferable,” Sherlock grumbled. “Especially since my resurrection. Mycroft stranded me there. Deliberately. He’s going to pay for this.”

I pressed my lips together to hide a smile. “Sherlock, you’re, like, an adult. You’re not exactly stranded anywhere, unless it’s on a desert island.”

“Desert islands are easy enough to leave, if you have the right materials. Anyone could fashion a crude raft,” Sherlock began imperially.

“Fine, then, the moon. You’d be pretty stranded on the moon, huh?”

“...Again, if I had the right materials-”

“All the materials and know-how and bit of good luck besides, to launch yourself back to Earth.”

“Stop being cheeky. I was effectively stranded. A cab would have cost a fortune, and I do not have a car. Could’ve stolen my parents’ car, I suppose, but then they would have had another excuse to visit me in London.”

I merged onto the motorway, and moved to the middle lane. After a moment’s consideration, I shifted into the fast lane, and put my foot down, zooming past a slow Ferrari.

“Let’s get the speed on, baby!” I cheered. I was addressing my car, by the way. Not my passenger. In that second, I’d actually forgotten his existence.

Movement, in my peripheral vision. Sherlock had lifted his arm to latch onto the grip above his door. I rolled my eyes, then hastily corrected myself before I ploughed into the divide.

“For God’s sake, woman-”

“Ah, ah, you can’t judge my driving. I’m your girlfriend. You’re legally obligated to like my driving.” I revved a bit more in emphasis.

In the past few weeks, we’d been on several more ‘dates’ - picnics, cafés, and once, for some reason, a cinema to watch a film that Sherlock seemed to have very little interest in. Sherlock had a tendency to be very stiff and formal, like he was acting the part of a perfect date. Though once I’d said enough unhinged things, he relaxed a bit and became more…himself. Which was good, because Sherlock Holmes being himself was the man I wanted to date, not a blank facade - even if that gentlemanly facade did know what my favourite boxes of chocolate was.

But it was the first time I’d used the term ‘girlfriend’. I wanted to glance over and check his expression, but that’s a tad bit tricky to do when you’re flying down a road at over 120kph.

I uncurled my hand from the steering wheel and pressed the stereo on. After a moment, the song began, not quite loud enough. I turned the volume up.

“Y/N-”

I turned it up a bit more.

“Stepping out of the shade

I wanna bathe in the light

They’re giving us a bad name

Being good never felt quite right…”

I practically needed a sixth gear for this speed. My trusty car was making a valiant effort of it, though, bass beat vibrating through the speakers.

“We were born to run away,” I sung, grinning. “Top down, no doubt, we were born to run away, break out the blue horizon…” We shot past another slowcoach, a Mazda this time. “Come on, Sherlock, join the singalong. It’s a road trip now.”

“I should have just called a cab. You are surpassing road limits, by the way. And probably all road regulations.”

“I’m not, actually. Well, maybe the speed. But I’m being very safe. Motorways are the safest roads to drive on, did’cha know that?”

“Whoever thought that hadn’t taken into account tarmaciacs like you.”

I blinked. “What?”

Then I burst out laughing.

“Fuck, Y/N, watch the bloody road!”

“I am! But you made me laugh, and now - shit, I’m literally crying tears - Tarmaciac? What sort of an idiot are you, Sherlock?”

“The sort that might soon be roadkill. I jumped off a building and survived, but it seems it’ll be your driving that ends me.”

“Lighten up a bit, Sherlock. Oh, look, chorus.” If he wasn’t going to sing, I’d just have to sing with enthusiasm enough for both of us. “We’ll never settle, pedal to the floor-” I revved a bit, tapping my fingers against the steering wheel. “Got every day to live for - we were born to run away, oh yeah-”

Sherlock hated every second of that drive. I think he especially hated the fact that I played Runaway on repeat for all of our motorway journey. Anyway, we did get back to Baker Street in one piece, which just shows you, I suppose.

I pulled up outside, a few houses down, and switched the car off. “Free fare, but I bet you’re wishing you had stayed at your parents’, huh?”

Sherlock rubbed his ashen cheeks. “You possibly missed your calling as a racing driver.”

“Yeah, maybe I did.” I patted the steering wheel affectionately. “Me and Greige, conquering Formula One.”

“Your car is blue.”

“So?”

“You can’t call it Greige.”

“Why not?” I unlatched my seatbelt, rolling my shoulders. “I’m coming in, by the way. I’m dehydrated.” I was already half out of the car, but I didn’t miss Sherlock’s muttered, “I’m not surprised.”

He walked up to 221b in a manner mildly resembling a newborn Bambi. I led the way up the stairs into his flat. There was a faint smell of tobacco and a chemical stench of something I didn’t want to know the name of. Sherlock closed the door, and I turned and wrapped both my arms around his waist, resting my head on his chest.

He was stiffer than a plank of wood, to start with, but he gradually relaxed against me, lifting a hand to put it on my back. “What are you doing?” he murmured.

“I’m hugging you.” I nuzzled my face against his jacket in emphasis, dropping one of my arms and rewinding it inside his coat instead.

“In my experience, hugs aren’t usually so…prolonged.” The discomfort in his voice was contradicted when he put his other arm around my neck, fingers entangling in my hair.

“Who’ve you hugged?”

“John. And Gaylord. And Molly.”

“Man-hugs are generally more brief, from what I’ve witnessed. And I haven’t seen you for a few days, so I get a pass.” I punctuated my sentence with an inhale. “Your mum likes chocolate yankee candles, doesn’t she?”

“My father, actually, and if you value my presence that much, I suggest you stop driving so recklessly.”

“Hmmf.” I stood back, looking up at him. He arched an eyebrow at me. “Hello.”

I giggled. “Hey.” Then, as his expression began to soften, I reached up and kissed him.

****

And Trust Me, I'll Give It A Chance Now

When Scotland Yard bobbies wanted to have a party, they wanted to have a Party. Everywhere I looked, the pub was filled with drunken cops, in various states of uniform. And, by this point, various states of undress as well.

The only reason I’d agreed to come was because there was a live band. I’d heard they were good, and they were. There was a temporary stage over to my right, a boxy wooden thing with an illuminated background and several smoke machines. Not to mention the strobe lights. The actual lighting was dimmed, and the strobe lights swept back and forth across the crowd, occasionally blinding me with flashes of white and blue.

We were standing somewhere between the tables and the bar, along with Lestrade and several other detectives that I vaguely, vaguely recognised. John was on a stool at the bar with Mary and Molly.

Yeasty beer, too much aftershave, old wooden tables, the sharp lemon tang of a surface detergent, a fruity hint of a cocktail, body odour, a rich musky perfume…I exhaled slowly. Having a good sense of smell was one of my special talents. Sometimes it made me feel safer in my surroundings, to identify everything that I wouldn’t necessarily be able to see. Mostly it just made me feel like a bit of a superhero.

The band consisted of two male singers, a female singer, a female drummer, and an extremely punk guitarist who was having more fun than everyone else combined. Right now, they were playing an old song. What they couldn’t offer in authenticity, they more than made up with by giving extra enthusiasm.

Every strum of the guitar, every thud and clash of drums, reverberated through the walls, clinking between unused glasses, echoing through my body, collecting up into a fierce vibration right behind my sternum. My cheeks were flushed even though I wasn’t drunk. The adrenaline of live, loud music was a simple pleasure, an significant sort of high.

I loved it.

The man standing by my side put his hand on my waist. I didn’t look at him straight away, so he tapped his fingers on the edge of skin between my leather skirt and my crimson cropped blouse.

It was way too loud to attempt conversation. Not that was stopping anyone else. I arched an eyebrow at him. The lights swept back and forth, tinting his hair green, his eyes red, his skin a dark blue. He hadn’t even taken off his coat yet, standing there like a corseted Victorian rector.

“Bored!” he said. Presumably. I lipread it.

I gave him a shocked look. “Live music!” I shouted back. “How?”

He pulled a frustrated face. I turned back to the music. A tall man had moved in front of me, and I bit my lip in annoyance until he swayed off with his pint.

The song came to a close, and everyone applauded. Someone wolf-whistled.

“Anderson,” Sherlock muttered. I could hear the lip-curl.

The next song started, with a riff of guitars and a clashing of cymbals. The volume had gone up again. Smoke poured across the stage, a mystical blue in the strobe lights. I shifted from one buckled ankle boot to the other, grinning again.

The hand on my waist shifted slightly, his thumb stroking that sliver of bare skin. I couldn’t quite contain a shiver. The sensation, added to my adrenaline; the twist in my ribcage, added to the vibrations behind my sternum - it was like being overloaded. In a good way.

Then Sherlock stepped closer, his body pressing against my side for a moment. He turned me, pulling me close. I saw his face, caught in a lightning flash of purple, for a millisecond before his mouth dropped on mine.

His lips tasted of the single pint he’d had, earlier in the evening. His hands wound through my hair. It was not, in any way, shape or definition, a chaste kiss. Hot, heavy, heady. I melted against him, unable to contain a soft noise. Only he would have been able to hear it.

Then the chorus broke out, and I twisted my head to the side, putting my hand on his chest as I took a step back. No one seemed to have noticed. My cheeks were still flaring a furious red.

“What was that for?”

Sherlock’s gaze darted between my eyes and mouth. “I’m bored.”

“And snogging me is a good way of alleviating that, huh?” I was pretty surprised at his lack of shyness about the whole PDA thing. His kind-of-colleagues were all here. Along with plenty of strangers who would be able to recognise him.

Sherlock shrugged. “Yes.” He stepped in again. For a moment I let him. Beer tasted good, when it was from his mouth, and I liked the sensation of kissing him while music reverberated through our bodies. My hands on his shoulders, his on my waist; we were almost in a dancing position.

And then I stepped back again. “I want to watch the music, Sherlock.”

He narrowed his eyes. “You’d rather pay attention some strangers making a lot of loud noises than me?”

“What?” About eighty percent of our conversation was lipreading, and that was too rapid-fire for me to have any chance. He rolled his eyes and dropped his head to my ear.

“I said, you would prefer to pay attention to strangers than me. I phrased it as a question, but the answer is…” His teeth grazed my earlobe, and I suppressed a gasp. “Evident.”

With that he straightened, hands interlaced behind his back, and faced the stage, his face set like a statue. A regal Greek statue that had somehow found its way into a modern London disco.

I rolled my eyes and turned back to the stage as well. I could snog Sherlock Holmes whenever I wanted, but it wasn’t every night that I got to watch a damn good live show.

This song was Nothing Holding Me Back by Shawn Mendes. Their version of it was very good. Good enough that people started to dance. Mary slid off her barstool and dragged John along with her. I suppressed a chuckle, watching them flail around. Mary was a pretty decent dancer, even though she was tipsy, jigging around and throwing her hands up along with the chorus. John was less drunk, and less talented.

They looked right together. They fitted together like two pieces of a puzzle, in my opinion. Mary’s spunk matched John’s satire. They’d be a good married couple, in my opinion. They were already good partners.

I turned to share my opinion with Sherlock, and blinked at the slot of empty space beside me.

“Huh,” I said, to no one in particular.

The song came to an end with a huge burst of smoke and an explosion of confetti. I cheered along with everyone else. Mary pumped her arms in the air. I saw Lestrade in the corner of my eye, taking John’s vacated barstool and sliding a drink along to Molly.

But still, no Sherlock.

I felt slightly alienated, standing here in the crowd by myself. The lead singers took a few sips of their drinks, and the chatter and laughter grew louder in the momentary quiet. People were pressing around, from all sides. Sherlock’s empty space was quickly swallowed up by other people - specifically, a young man, facing away, chattering along with his mates. I didn’t think any of them were the Scotland Yard group.

A few notes of music began, and a few people whooped. I recognised the song, but I was distracted by deciding who to go to. If I went to the bar and sat in Mary’s vacated stool, I’d be higher up and able to see over the crowd. Maybe I’d spot Sherlock. Pale face, messy curls, collared coat; he was hard to miss.

He wouldn’t have left, right? I was his plus-one. He couldn’t have been so piqued that he’d decided to just leave me there…

I turned to my left, preparing to carve a way through the bodies to the bar, and then I heard a woman say, “Who’s that?”

I glanced up to the stage and froze.

Sherlock strolled into view from behind a smoke machine, holding a microphone. I gaped.

What. The. Fuck.

“What the fuck!” Lestrade’s holler matched my thoughts exactly.

I changed direction and pushed my way through the crowd to John and Mary, who were both frozen, staring up at the stage in shock. Sherlock walked to the front, gave a cursory smile like a shark apologising before he ate half the ocean, and inclined his head to the band, who began the song again.

Mary grabbed onto my arm. “What is he doing?”

“I have no idea!”

She shook my arm, her eye-liner smudged and her face slightly sweaty. “But what is he doing?”

“I don’t know!”

“This fucking song - that fucking - I’m gonna…” John shook his head, trailing off as Sherlock opened his mouth.

“The club isn’t the best place to find a lover, so the bar is where I go, mm…”

Oh. Oh, yes, I remembered this song. And while Sherlock’s voice was deeper than Ed Sheeran’s, he was doing the song full justice.

Especially with the humming.

Mary was still gripping my arm in disbelief. “He’s singing.”

“He was bored!”

“He was what?”

“Bored!”

“Okay, so when you’re bored at a party, you don’t go and gatecrash the stage!”

“Tell that to Sherlock!”

“Fine, I will!” Mary took a step towards the stage, and John grabbed her other arm, holding her back. Sherlock’s eyes shot over to the commotion, to us. A strobe-light swung over to us, and I blinked madly against the flare of light. When my vision cleared, he was still looking at us.

“Girl, you know I want your love, your love was handmade for somebody like me-”

Correction. He was looking at me. My heart, already racing, did a weird little flip like someone had just electrified it. Bass beat behind my sternum, racing heart, prickles all through my body. I couldn’t have possibly felt more alive, more aware of my every cell, on a molecular level.

“Come on, now, follow my lead; I may be crazy,” Sherlock tipped his head slightly in a rueful admission, and in that moment, won the hearts of the entire audience, who cheered drunkenly. “Don’t mind me…say, ‘Boy, let’s not talk too much’…” He glanced away from me, scanning the crowd. “Grab on my waist and put that body on me, come on now, follow my lead…”

The other singers joined in for the final line of the chorus. “Come, come on now, follow my lead, mm…”

Sherlock ran a hand through his hair. Was it nerves? Or was it a sense of showmanship popping out of nowhere? I could hear girls screaming around me and some distant part of my brain realised that this would very definitely be in the papers tomorrow.

He took a step to the left, coat swishing a little. Continued. Watching, now, the ‘front’ row of the crowd.

“And last night, you were in my room,” then he glanced up and across. At me. Between smoke and people and flashing lights, our eyes met. “And now my bedsheets smell like you…every day, discovering something brand new…”

“OH. My God!” Mary shrieked. If I hadn’t already been nearly deaf, I would’ve been deafened.

“What?” I said automatically, not taking my eyes off Sherlock.

“John! John!” Mary tugged at him. “Sherlock is singing a love song!”

John wrinkled his nose, “Yeah, I know, it’s disturbing-”

“He’s singing it to Y/N!” Mary crowed triumphantly.

John blinked at the stage, then leaned forward to peer past Mary and blink at me.

Sherlock was still singing. How did he even know this song? When had he ever listened to it? My hands were tingling so much that I almost couldn’t feel my fingers anymore. I was torn between the urge to laugh-cry hysterically, collapse, or run onto the stage and rugby-tackle Sherlock and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. Because damn did he look extremely dashing, surrounded by the smoke, caught in the disco lights, holding the mic solemnly to his mouth, singing with just enough of a drawl to make it clear he was not even the slightest bit emotionally invested in this shit.

Then he straightened. Turned to me. I stared back at him, wondering what I looked like from his perspective.

Did I hallucinate the faint twitch of his lips?

“One week in, we let the story begin, we’re going out on our first date, mm…”

“I NEED to film this!” Mary yelled, and she began rooting through her pockets for her phone.

She wasn’t the only one. Sherlock sung his way through the second chorus, seemingly unperturbed. The other singers joined in, and Sherlock lowered his mic.

“Come on, be my baby, come on,” the others began their refrain; one of the male singers and the punk guitarist stepping up. Sherlock stepped back, vanishing behind the various equipments. They carried on, the drums clashing.

I pulled my arm away from Mary and wended through the drunken sloppy bodies. Two girls were ignoring the band entirely, peering at the sides of the stage, which were shrouded by big black curtains. I pushed past them.

Sherlock emerged, silhouetted for a single second by the searchlight of a sweeping orange light. I barrelled past two old men and came to a breathless stop in front of him, with absolutely no words available for usage in my mind.

Sherlock put his hands on my shoulders, his mouth ticking up. “I may be crazy,” he began, his voice deep.

A heady laugh bubbled out of me and I pressed our bodies together. “Boy, let’s not talk too much.” Then I crashed my mouth against his.

****

Inescapable, I'm Not Even Gonna Try

I shouldn’t have even been awake, but I was. The minute ticked over to 12.00am on my digital clock, the green digits shedding a faint luminescence over my bedside table. At that exact second, my phone, balanced against my knees, lit up, vibrating madly.

Sherlock.

I pressed ANSWER, clicking Speaker on, then turning the volume down. “Hey?”

There was a moment of silence. There was a faint hum. Then the creak of a door, and I winced and stabbed my finger against the volume button as crackly music and a roar of voices burst through my phone’s speaker.

“Sherlock?” I narrowed my eyes. It sounded like…a pub. Or a train station. No, too many people were laughing for it to be a train station. A pub.

Oh, wait. The stag night. The stag night for John’s wedding. That was tonight.

“Hello?” Sherlock’s voice was deep. “Hello?”

“Sherlock, hey, are you okay?”

“Hello? Why is this damned thing - John! My phone is-”

Then there was a noise, a dominoes’ like scuffle, as though someone had fallen over a stool. I waited, gripping onto my phone, grinning into the dark corners of my bedroom. I wasn’t sure, but it wouldn’t take a genius to deduce that Sherlock Holmes was drunk.

“HELLO!”

I nearly smashed my head against the wall. “Fucking hell, Sherlock!”

“Oh, you’re there! There was a - A problem with the wires - Me - Ma - My-croft’s doing-”

“Sherlock, I’ve been here since I answered. And phones are wireless now. Are you drunk?”

“Stop smiling,” he rebuked me. “You’re always smiling. It gets annoying. Makes - makes me want to smile as well, you know? Not nice. Not fair.”

I clamped a hand over my mouth. Don’t giggle, don’t giggle… “All’s fair in smiles and war.”

“That’s not the - No, it’s not. John! John, are you listening? What’s the - The - You know! The thing! The simile!”

There was a low slurred sound, and then Sherlock, still far too loud.

“Love! Yeah, that’s it! Love! Y/N, did you hear? It’s not…whatever you said. Love! Love and - something else.”

“War. Just how pissed are you right now, Sherlock?” I raised an eyebrow at my phone.

“’M not drunk,” he said, dignified. “Not even a squelch.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“We’ve been…crawling. That’s it. Not hopping, John, no one does a pub-hop-”

“You should probably go home soon. Can you make it?”

“Why aren’t you HERE?” Sherlock suddenly bellowed. “I can hear you but I can’t see you and I don’t like it, Y/N!”

“Because that’s how phones wo - ohmygod, why am I even trying to reason with an unhinged drunk? You know what? I’m hanging up now. Have a good night, Sherlock, and get home safely and drink water.”

“Wha-”

“Bye.”

*

I was almost asleep when my phone buzzed again; a shorter vibration, which meant it was a text. I should’ve just turned it off, but I was too soft-hearted. Also, kind of amused. I rolled over, extending my arm and swiping the phone on.

I know ash! SH.

I blinked. Then my phone vibrated again.

He thought I didn’t know ash!!!!! SH.

Thank God for auto-correct, I thought wryly. Although, who knew? Maybe a drunk Sherlock Holmes could type just fine.

Over the next half-hour, my phone kept buzzing and lighting up my room. In the end I gave up and grabbed it again.

I miss you. SH.

I have a reputation. SH.

I’ve lost it. SH.

What is it for? SH.

Why aren’t you replying? SH.

Then: You have eight new voicemails.

Sherlock’s voice was deeper still, slightly crackly, like a baritone piece of kitchen foil. “You’re not re - hic - plying, Y/N,” he said gravely. “Y/N. Y/N. Y/N? Oh yeah, this is a mail-voicey-thing.”

It cut off. The next message started playing.

“Why are you ignoring me? Don’t you love me anymore?”

The next message began before I could recover from the earthquake of that one.

“I miss you,” Sherlock said plaintively. There was a muted rumble in the background, like he was standing by a busy road. “Case gone wrong. Threw up or…something? It was a spinny-chair that you could sleep in, who has one of those? Dunno - maybe you’d like one? A koala curling up in the - TAXI!”

Next message. “Why aren’t you. Y/N? Y/N, you’re - Wait a sec. No, not that. Someone said to compliment you? Was it John? No, John did the thing with peas - No, it wasn’t him either. What does John do?”

I grinned into the dark, clinging onto my phone, luxuriating in my glee. This was hilarious.

“Anyway,” Sherlock continued, a low hum suggesting he was now in a taxi, “I may have been remiss. With the, the, yeah, compliments. You’re the prettiest person I - Pretty? No? Awe-striking. Beauti - hic - ful. Yeah, that. And your hair is - You know watching you brush it makes me think - No, shouldn’t say. Just drives me crazy. Wait, shouldn’t have-”

The message cut off. The next one played.

“I miss you.” Now Sherlock sounded on the verge of tears. “I want to - something. No. Y/N, are you listening? Listen to this, it’s - something not - Not like gold treasure - what’s the word. Important, yeah.”

I snickered into my pillow, then froze as his voice washed through the room, solemn and deep like he was standing right there in my doorway.

“I want you.”

That message ended there, leaving me helpless in the wake of drunk-Sherlock’s emotional articulation.

After that, I decided to switch my phone off and go to sleep. It was past 1am, and I was seriously tired - I’d been up for far too many hours.

I slid my arms under my pillow and smiled to myself as I closed my eyes.

*

There was a weight on the end of my bed. A heavy, breathing weight that had infiltrated my bedroom with the fumes of sour alcohol.

I lifted my head, blinking blearily. Thrown inelegantly over the foot of my bed was the one and only Consulting Detective, still clad in his coat, still wearing his shoes. His face was mashed against a bedpost, and he was asleep.

My head slumped back onto the pillow. I was too unawake to deal with this shit.

Oh well. It was high time Sherlock participated in my irritated misery. I wriggled my foot along under the duvet until it was near his stomach and then jabbed.

“Agh!” Sherlock woke with a flailing of limbs, nearly capsizing over the end of the bed. There were shadows under his eyes. He looked around wildly, then noticed me as I sat up.

“I’m taking back that key I gave you.”

“That hurt.” His voice was still hoarse. He rubbed his stomach, giving me daggers.

“That’s what you get for ending up on my bed like a grouchy misplaced cat.” I smoothed down my hair, then decided I didn’t give a fuck what I looked like; Sherlock, for sure, looked a thousand times worse than me. “Are you hungover?”

“I don’t know. Probably.” Sherlock huffed, then noticed he was still wearing his shoes and kicked them off. “I - I can’t remember. There was something. There was a case?”

“Ash?”

“No-o-o…that was the bar fight-”

“Bar fight?”

“There was a woman - It was a good case - A really good one! And I threw up on her rug! Wait.” Sherlock’s glacial, bloodshot gaze whipped to me. “Ash? You knew. How did you know?” His eyes roamed away, scanning my surroundings; straight to my bedside table, where my phone still lay beside my clock.

“Sher-”

“Give me that!” He launched himself up the bed with a screech of bedsprings and a flurry of Belstaff.

“No!” I managed to grab it first, holding it to my chest.

“I don’t remember! What did I - pass it. Y/N! Give it!” He scrabbled desperately for the phone. My knee shot up and landed somewhere just below his stomach. Low enough that he rapidly rethought the idea of hanging around for a second attack. He rocked back, glaring at me, and dug through his pockets for his own phone.

While he was busy finding it, I took screenshots of the texts he’d sent, just in case he managed to somehow delete them from his end.

Sherlock swiped through his messages, lips pursed. “Not good, not good,” he murmured, to himself, and then clicked on his call log. “Not good. Y/N, give me your phone.”

“No! It’s mine!”

“And they’re my voicemails!”

“Actually, they’re mine, you left them in my mailbox-”

“Stop shouting, I have a headache.” Sherlock took a deep breath, putting on his Reasoning And Logic face. It didn’t work, because he had cowlicks all over his forehead. “Please let me listen to the voicemails I sent you.”

“Do you promise not to delete them?”

Sherlock hesitated, his hand hovering between us. “…Yes.”

I handed the phone over. He didn’t put it on speakerphone to listen, but his face creased. I watched him wince and curl his lip at his own messages. His eyes went wide with horror at what I guessed was probably the “don’t you love me anymore?” message. Two minutes later - he couldn’t have listened to all of them - he threw the phone down on the bed with a twisted grimace.

“I…apologize,” he said, stiffly, formally. If he hadn’t been kneeling in the centre of my bed, and had a very poor sense of balance, he probably would have tried to interlace his hands behind his back. “That was…I was clearly…addled.”

“Oh, yeah, just a bit, huh? Where did John end up?”

“I…believe the police took him?” Sherlock’s voice lilted into a question.

“Police?”

“Tried to take me as well, but I evaded them.”

“And then you got a taxi here and stumbled in like some, some sort of dead fish?” I couldn’t hold back my snicker.

Sherlock glared. “It is physically impossible for a fish to stumble.”

“That was you, flopping all over the place like a Belstaffed drunk fish,” I continued, my grin spreading. “Ending up on my bed like a whale just sort of snoozing on the ocean-beds…”

“Your aquatic and marine knowledge is appalling.”

“Sure, Drunk Fish.” Sherlock opened his mouth in outrage, but before he could say anything I rose up on my knees and, shuffling over, put my arms around his neck and kissed him, stale alcohol breath and all.

****

'Cause When I Find You I Know, I Know I'm Gonna Be Okay

Sherlock came over one evening when I was making dinner, arriving in my flat with an aura of smugness.

“Solved it,” he announced, dumping his coat on the sofa and walking over to me. He pressed a cursory kiss to the side of my head, studying the pasta I was draining. “Not four murderers and six victims. Five murderers, and six victims, one of whom was guilty of murder. Lestrade could never have solved it. Don’t use that pasta sauce, it’s been in the fridge for almost two weeks, I’m surprised it’s not growing mould - Wait, don’t throw it away, I’ll take it back to Baker Street. Good experiment right there.”

I sighed. We’d been dating for…several months now, and yet sometimes it felt like we’d only known each other for a week (that was when Sherlock suddenly got what I’d dubbed a ‘fit of nerves’ and went entirely too formal, dumping flowers and chocolates on me at every opportunity). And other times, it felt like we’d known each other all our lives and been married for all eternity. Today was one of the latter.

“Sherlock, I know you’re high on the joy of solving your case and everything, but…” I left the sauce on the counter and reached for an unopened one. “I am definitely not a good audience right now. So maybe…maybe find someone else? John or…”

“What’s wrong?”

“Just. A bad day.” I shrugged, assiduously tipping sauce into the pan.

“It’s the anniversary of-”

“Yes.”

“But there’s something else.”

“Just a bad day,” I repeated dully. “And I’m so hungry, as well.”

I expected Sherlock to take his exuberance and post-case high away to someone who could marvel at his brilliance. Instead he reached for two bowls and then clinked through the cutlery drawer, selecting forks.

*

After dinner I decided that since Sherlock was there, he might as well become my beanbag. I came back from putting the bowls in the sink, and slumped down on the sofa beside him, pulling my knees up and curling into his chest.

Sherlock was stiff for a moment, but then like normal, he relaxed, putting his arm around me and tugging me closer. “In times like this,” he said quietly, “I am not sure what to say. What should I say?”

I shrugged, putting my hand on his knee. “You don’t need to say anything. Truth or dare?”

“...Truth. A dare would probably involve me standing up, which neither of us would appreciate.”

“That’s not very inventive of you,” I said with a small grin. “Let’s see. Cats or dogs?”

“Dogs. I’ve told you about my childhood dog, Redbeard…I like dogs,” Sherlock said wistfully. “Is it my turn?”

“Yeah. I’ll choose truth. Do your worst.”

“Which is more pleasing for you?” Sherlock dragged the moment out. “My voice, or my…posterior?”

I spluttered, trying to sit upright. Sherlock held me in place. I twisted my head to look up at him, snorting uncontrollably. “What the fuck?”

“I overheard Mary and Molly talking about various attributes they find attractive in men,” Sherlock said, like that was any sort of an explanation.

“Your…your…voice, I suppose, though…Damn, Sherlock…” I was still laughing, even though my cheeks were red. “Ohmygod. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Tell me one ridiculous thing you’ve done.” I craned my head back to meet his eyes. “I mean, I know you’re limited to only one thing, so you’d better make it good.”

“I pretended to be a Buckingham Palace soldier last week. Nicked a hat, mimicked the walk; I got through the gates despite the fact that I wasn’t wearing the uniform. Appalling security, really.”

“You…wait, what, you what?” I stared at him in disbelief. “You…you wore the hat?”

“Yes.”

“Those ludicrous fluffy black things?”

“Yes. They’re made of bearskin.”

“What? Ew. Moving on. Please please please tell me you took a selfie.”

“What? No, of course not. I was undercover.” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “What would have been the point?”

“So that I could see it! Fine, I’ll just-” I mentally visualised Sherlock striding around in a hat, doing the stiff march. His usual resting bitch face was just like a guard’s expression, without even trying. I started to laugh, and once I started, I couldn’t stop.

“It’s not that funny,” Sherlock huffed. “This is why I didn’t tell you last week.”

I glanced up at him, imagined a huge black hat above his pissed-off eyebrows, and carried on giggling.

“Y/N. Y/N, you’re being ridiculous.”

“I can’t stop!” I wheezed. “Ohmygod, you lunatic!”

“Hmph.”

“Oh. My. God! And did you get caught?”

“Eventually, yes, but they didn’t ask me how I got onto the premises to start with, which was remiss of them.”

I took a deep breath, sobering slightly. Sherlock watched me as I sat up and turned, bringing my hands up to cup his face. “Thank you.”

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “I’m confused.”

I mustered up all my sincerity and banished all thoughts of bearskin hats and Sherlock wearing said bearskin hats. “You’ve made me feel better.” Another deep breath. His eyes flitted across my face. “You always make me feel better, you know that?”

He looked down for a moment, at where his hand was resting unconsciously on the side of my leg. “I…admit to being surprised.” I could see the way he dropped his barriers, trying to match my vulnerability. The moment thickened, became something unguarded, as he met my gaze again, his expression suddenly raw. “After all, I’ve been known to do the opposite. To make people feel worse. On a lot of occasions.”

I ran my thumb along his cheek. His eyes fluttered shut for a moment. “But ,” he murmured, “I am glad.”

“Hmm?”

“Now that you feel better, shall I tell you about my case with the murderer-cum-victim, or should we continue Truth or Dare? I have quite a good dare, actually…”

****

Wreck My Plans, That's My Man

Sherlock was not one for being cutesy in public (or at all, really), or PDA. It wasn’t that he was averse to it, he just didn’t even consider it.

But on the flip-side, neither did he really consider it to be anything important when he did do PDA.

I’d been dragged into this case because it required a ‘female’s touch’, and apparently Mary was too ‘intimidating’. Which had pleased Mary, but annoyed both me and John. Anyway, here John and I were, sitting on uncomfortable plastic chairs in Scotland Yard, surrounded by a hubbub of police officers in their chaotic, messy-desked, teacup-filled, flickering-ceiling-lights natural habitat.

The door opposite, that lead to a forensics’ lab of some sort, opened and Sherlock emerged, hands in his pockets, glowering.

“Been kicked out?” John  asked.

“Hmph. Apparently I’m being a disturbance.” Sherlock huffed, walking over.

“How long they got left?”

“Don’t know.” Sherlock stopped in front of me. I expected him to take the empty chair to my right. Instead he sunk abruptly to the floor at my feet, his Belstaff puddling around him.

“Um…” John and I said simultaneously.

Sherlock leaned against my legs, tipping his head back into my lap. I exchanged a wide-eyed glance with John.

“What are you doing, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Sitting, obviously. Those chairs are terrible for your posterior’s bloodflow, you know.” Sherlock gazed up at the ceiling. One of his hands found my ankle and squeezed it lightly.

I took a deep breath, trying to dispel my embarrassment. One detective glanced over, then stared; another nudged someone else. “They’re all going to be looking,” I warned him.

“Oh, that’s all they’re good for. Give them gossip, and they thrive. Put a dead body within ten inches of them and-” Sherlock pulled a scornful face. “Toddlers could do better.”

“Shh,” John muttered.

I hesitated, and then reached out, my hand brushing across his forehead. His eyes fluttered shut. Emboldened, I pulled my fingers through his curls.

“Mm, that’s nice. Keep doing it.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “If you please.”

“Okay,” I said quietly. John was shooting glares at everyone who was now staring across at us. Sherlock seemed completely unbothered.

“Hey - hey, Greg!” John ushered Lestrade over. “Your boys are all staring at us.”

“Get back to work, you lot!” Daunted by the power of both John and Lestrade’s glares, some of the detectives got back to work, still sneaking glances. “Sorry, it’s just, you know. They’re still astonished to see him-” Lestrade gestured towards Sherlock, still with his head in my lap, eyes closed, apparently deaf to the world. “Being all…”

“I have a girlfriend. This is not news to anyone, thanks to the media,” Sherlock grumbled without opening his eyes. “Why is it so shocking that I might willing actually share the same two metres of space as her?”

“Dunno, probably cause you’re Sherlock Holmes or summat. Anyway, the results came through, so - you wanna hear?”

Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking up at me. “I recommend you and John both stand up before you lose your posteriors entirely.”

****

Seemed So Wrong, But Now It Seems So Right

I watched Sherlock descend from the little podium and make his way over to John and Mary; I watched them talking and then laughing, and I smiled as John gripped the back of Sherlock’s neck briefly. I knew how much Sherlock had been worried that he’d lose John, and Mary, when they married. But that wouldn’t be the case.

People were dancing, disco lights flashing. Mrs Hudson grabbed Lestrade’s hand and towed him out to the dance-floor. I stifled a grin, smoothing down my dark green dress. It’d been odd, watching Sherlock with Janine. I’d refused to be a bridesmaid, so I’d brought it on myself. But after he had saved Sholto’s life, Sherlock had ducked into the other room, looking around. When he’d spotted me, he’d smiled and winked before going back into the hallway. That smile and wink, plus how utterly gorgeous he looked, standing there playing the Watsons’ waltz, was enough for anyone.

John took Mary’s hand, pulled her into the crowd, and Sherlock stood there for a moment. Molly and her tall fiancée bobbed between us, and I lost sight of him for a moment. He was looking around, peering between dancers.

I stepped past two dancing bridesmaids and made a half-gesture. He spotted me, his face lighting up with a grin. My breath caught in my throat as I wended through the people. He met me halfway.

“I want to go outside,” he called. “Come with me?”

I hooked my arm through his. “Yeah.”

We walked through the quiet hallway, out into the even quieter night. It was cold, our breaths crystallizing on the air.

“Enjoying yourself?” I asked as we strolled down the asphalt path.

Sherlock snorted. I grinned.

We reached the little gate; turned around and walked back up. Faint flickers of disco lights played across the dewy grass.

“It’s a beautiful place, though,” I said, watching the bobbing figures through the latticed windows.

“For God’s sake,” Sherlock said suddenly, “let’s never go through this, let’s just elope.”

It was a clear night, so I knew the chances that I’d been struck with lightning were slim. My feet were physically glued to the spot, like the soles of my suede ankle boots had been coated with superglue.

“What?” Sherlock said, stopping and glancing back at me. Then, “Oh.” I watched the panic crossing his face.

Hand to my mouth, I shook my head. “You’re serious.”

“Yes?” Sherlock took a deep breath. “Yes.”

“About…about being with me.” Forever, I added silently.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows. “Of course I am. Seven months and you’re only working that out now? Really, Y/N. Did you think this entire…dating thing, our whole relationship, was just an elaborate prank or something?”

I started to laugh, a bit hysterically. December 1963 was just coming to its finish. Sherlock took a step towards me, silhouetted by the purple-lit windows. “Y/N-”

“Shut up,” I said, and then I threw my arms around him and hugged him, crushing his tuxedo. His body was warm against mine, his arms wrapping around my waist fiercely enough to lift me off my feet.

I pulled back and looked up at him. His eyes glittered as he cocked his head.

“Come on,” I said, holding out my hand. “We’ve gotta go back in there and show them who the best dancers really are.”

He smiled. Took my hand, and followed me back inside.