𝐒𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐨𝐜𝐤 𝐱 𝐑𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫 | 𝐎𝐧𝐞 𝐒𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬

𝐀𝐜𝐜𝐢𝐝𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧

This is a brilliant request from the lovely @June_On_The_Moon. I hope you enjoy this One Shot and that it's what you wanted.

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Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, an intellectual master mind with an IQ of no less than 190, was absolutely, mind-numbingly clueless when it came to love. Of course, after growing up with next to no friends would have its impact. He was about as experienced in the field of romanticism as an otter would be in neurobiology, suffice to say, he had naught.

But that was okay, he always told himself, for who could ever love him in the first place? Well, that question was answered just twenty-six days, fifty minutes and eleven seconds after Y/n L/n stepped foot in 221B. The attraction was almost instant, as if they were magnets, desperately trying to resist the pulling sensation between them.

Sherlock had berated himself for weeks, attempting to convince himself that he was just going through a phase or he was just bored due to the lack of murders or maybe Mrs Hudson has slipped something into his morning tea. But he could never find any scientific reasoning to explain why he was so much kinder to Y/n, why his cheeks burned red every time she smiled at him, why his heart felt light and soulful when she laughed. There was no explanation for the way he looked at her, as if she were that last tiny puzzle piece he had been searching for, there was no explanation for his desperation to hold her hand and kiss her lips. Well, to say that there was no explanation is a down-right lie. Because of course there was. Sherlock just refused to think about it.

But on the twenty-sixth day, Sherlock could no longer refuse the possibility. Because when Y/n crashed through the door, covered in mud and leaves, furious tears streaming down her flushed face, Sherlock didn't hesitate to pull her into his arms, calming and soothing her. After ten minutes of stroking her hair, he then found out that some idiot had cornered her, thrown her to the ground and stolen her bag. To which he was furious. Although, furious was a bit of an understatement; he had squeezed out every piece of information as gently as he could, while holding her hand, then abruptly left and using just the description of the idiot's right brown eye and big nose, he returned, half an hour later, dragging the bastard by his ear, forced him to apologise, return Y/n's bag and then threw him- literally- into the slammer.

And it took him three hours after to realise that he had hugged Y/n. And not just a quick embrace, but a warm, strong hold. He then realised that it took him so long because it felt so...familiar. Of course, he was afraid that she would react cautiously and would avoid him. But the next day, she looked at him exactly the same way he looked at her. And then, he knew, that there was an explanation. They loved each other.

From then, those small, romantic affections that one would witness only in romance novels and movies, became a monthly occurrence. Starting with the squeeze of Sherlock's hand when Y/n felt nervous. Then the soft embrace when Sherlock left to chase down a murderer. Then the grazing of his hand against her flushed cheek in the cold. Until those monthly occurrences became weekly. Then daily.

Every morning, when Y/n threw herself down into the chair, yawning and mumbling, Sherlock would brush that loose wavy strand of hair behind her ear. And after a breakfast of pancakes and syrup, Y/n would lean across and wipe the glob of the golden sticky sweetness from the corner of his lips. Before Y/n went out to work, Sherlock would brush his lips across her forehead while embracing her gently. And then when she returned, Sherlock would curl up with her on the sofa and stroke her hair or rest his head on her chest. Then finally, when the clock struck half past ten, Sherlock would carry a sleepy Y/n back to her bed, gently place her down and whisper goodnight.

It all felt so familiar. So perfect, as if they had always been so close and so loving. But then he began to panic. What if she didn't like him in that way? Or what if she did? He didn't know how to be a boyfriend! There was no way he could be a boyfriend, because boyfriends become husbands, then husbands become fathers...he needed to stop. It had to stop. Didn't it? But no matter how hard he tried, Sherlock Holmes could never resist tucking that dainty wisp of hair behind her ear every morning. So it didn't stop.