Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Cure For Insomnia (Part 2)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: I mean, if you had the chance to kiss Sherlock's neck, you'd do it. I know you would, don't even lie

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Y/N's elbow is pointy, digging insistently into Sherlock's person. She seems to know this, and repositions herself under the duvet, tucking both her arms neatly into her lap.

Sherlock tries not to smile. She's like a little bird arranging its wings in a nest, jiffling and fidgeting about until everything is to her satisfaction.

She's stopped jiffling now, having apparently gotten comfortable. There's no pointy elbow anymore, just the curve of her side, all pressed up against Sherlock's arm.

Comforting.

Warm.

Soft.

He'd almost rather her pointy bones; they'd kept him focused. Kept him alert so he doesn't...

Sherlock sighed contentedly, his body melting a little, like a heap of snow warmed by the sun; by Y/N, by the worn material of her pyjamas, the scent of her duvet. It's all flowery, and he's drawn to it in ways he can't explain. Tugging it tighter about himself, he wrangles in his long legs and pulls his knees right up under his chin.

He's glad he let Y/N pick the film. It's one of her favourites, and even though she's seen it God-knows-how-many times, expressions still flitter across her face every now and again as she shares her favourite character's emotions. She probably doesn't realise she's doing it---smiling, frowning, furrowing deep rifts into her brow.

Bittersweet hot chocolate runs smooth on his tongue as Sherlock finishes the last of his drink. He swirls the dregs around to collect up the goopy powder left thick at the bottom, then places the mug on the coffee table.

He had to wriggle his arm from the duvet to do so. Y/N had been leaning against it, and, with it gone, she fell against his side.

And didn't push herself back up.

Sherlock's breath catches in his throat. His whole body had sort of jerked to a halt, and doesn't seem to be able to get moving again, his arm still hovering just over Y/N's shoulders.

He's wondering if he should snake his arm back to where it had been.

But Y/N is nestled into the nook he'd inadvertently created, and he likes her there.

He'd decided that, just now; that he likes it. Her being this near to him, in his little personal bubble.

People don't seem to enter his personal bubble very often. He's not sure why, exactly, but he has theories.

He'd wondered, on occasion, if it's the way he looks; the hard lines of his cheekbones, his serious, pressed suits, colourless skin and even more colourless eyes.

Other times, he thinks it might be because of...the way he is. At home, he sleepily pads about in faded pyjamas, loose and limber as he sways to the music of his violin, curls in his chair with a plate of biscuits and a warm, milky tea. But then he'll go outside, with people, and suddenly his limbs get all stiff and his nerves go all coiled up. He can't un-muddle their words, can't catch their jokes, shrinks from their eye contact. Perhaps his clunky, awkwardness around others is what not only makes them incorrectly assume he wants to be left alone, but also makes them want to leave him alone?

Or maybe he's just cursed. Each time someone even gets close to his personal bubble---to jesting with him in a playful way, giving him a little shove, or a punch on the arm---they change their mind at the last second and retreat back into themselves. An invisible fortress he's always been locked inside, an aura Sherlock just can't shake.