Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Chocolate Orange

CONTEXT:

Whilst wrestling with his girlfriend, Y/N, over the last piece of Chocolate Orange, Sherlock learns something interesting.

__________

It's only been December for just over a week, and yet the Christmasy tang of pine needles and cinnamon has already settled in nicely to most homes, clinging to England like a sweet perfume.

Every year, the 25th of the twelfth month seems to advance more rapidly than the last. Lights are strung up earlier than before, radios begin blasting 'Santa Baby' before November has even pootled past, and nightfall seems to bite its way further and further into the day with every passing winter.

Sherlock and Y/N are not complaining; they favour the darkened streets, the fuzzy lights, the world narrowed to their immediate vicinity; encapsulating them in their own little world. There's something about the comforting cloak of dusk that makes you feel less guilty about doing nothing at all. During daylight hours, Sherlock will be antsy and wriggling with boredom, and Y/N rushing about to complete this task or that. However, as darkness pulls in---like thick, heavy curtains drawn on the world---their anxiety appears to settle; as though silenced and stifled by the night.

Sometimes they'll read together.

Sometimes Y/N will pester Sherlock until he reads to her, his intoxicating rumble of a voice vibrating Y/N's atoms, drowning them in infinitely pleasant syllables.

Sometimes they will play board games, or word games, or any other kind of game, which will usually end in accusations of cheating, and the pieces/and/or cards being scattered and lost under the sofa.

Sometimes they will watch a film, which is what they are doing now, taking it in turns to pick from a Chocolate Orange sat squatly in its little nest of bright, spotted wrapping like an overweight bird.

At first, Y/N and Sherlock had been sitting up, propped against each other neatly. But, like a melting mound of snow, they'd slowly succumbed to the insistent pull of gravity, and now Sherlock is spread languidly along the entire length of the settee, Y/N nestled snugly under his left arm, the chocolate balanced on the plane of his stomach.

Despite the mildly cramped quarters, they had been rather content; lulled by the purring fire and soothed by the soft glow of the lamps. However, now they're both somewhat animated, Sherlock's eyebrows knitted into a baffled frown, Y/N's hand pointing persistently at the television screen as if that would somehow aid her case.

"He looks nothing like me," Sherlock stated, tilting his head a little in search of a new perspective. It didn't help; still, not a single smidgen if likeness presented itself. Dr Stephen Strange continues to appear as similar to Sherlock---in Sherlock's eyes---as a toaster does to a weasel.

"How can you say that?" Y/N protested, gesturing at the screen again with vigour. "Look at him! You're almost identical."

Sherlock didn't even dignify that with an inquisitive narrowing of his eyes. Blandly: "I don't see it."

Y/N let her arm fall across his chest, finally admitting defeat. How could he not see it? The narrow face, the colourless eyes, the cheekbones. They even share that arrogant, self-righteous hint of a sneer at the corner of their cupid's bow lips when they're particularly pleased with themselves. "Then you're blind."

"No, you're delusional."

Mildly nettled, now, Y/N decided to change tactics. She shrugged---as best she could with her shoulders wedged between Sherlock's side and the sofa cushions. "Oh, yeah, maybe you're right, he doesn't really look like you; he's clearly fitter." Smirking: "And has nicer hair."