Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Cure For Insomnia (Part 4)

Sherlock turns onto his other side, sleep falling sideways like a heavy blanket.

"Good morning," a voice behind him greets, a hand in his curls giving a lazy stroke.

Sherlock's mouth broadens into a grin. "Hello." When he opens his eyes, he finds his nose millimeters away from Y/N's on the pillow.

On her pillow.

She gives him a smile. "I think we're a bit past that now, don't you?"

Sherlock laughs, stretching like a pampered cat, then retracts his arm back into the warm covers. If he had the ability to purr too, he knows he would be.

Y/N's arm is comfortingly heavy over his shoulder, her nails catching his head occasionally. She seems to be collecting up bundles of his hair and threading the springy coils through her fingers.

He hums. "That feels really good."

Y/N is a little fuzzy, their noses almost touching, but Sherlock knows she's smirking. The white of her teeth is almost as bright as the sun outside. "Not so shy admitting it now, huh?"

Sherlock colours. "No. I think you might have been right; I did need to be more...open."

Y/N moves up, closer to him, getting into his arms and caging them about herself. "I'm always right."

The corner of Sherlock's lip twitches as he squeezes her closer. "Hm, debatable." He can feel her laugh against his chest, then her teeth giving his neck a playful nip.

Sherlock's grin faulters; he'd like to do it back, but he doesn't know if he should.

His mouth opens to ask if they'll be more of this---of last night, of kisses and her being close enough to touch. The words form on his tongue and they taste bad; petty and pathetic.

He swallows them.

"I woke up a while ago but I thought I'd let you lay in," Y/N is saying. "How did you sleep?"

Sherlock thinks about it, and realises he doesn't know.

He can't remember sleeping.

No hot pillow flushing one side of his face, no waking every now and again to untangle his feet from a knot of bunched-up duvet.

No dreams, fitful and irritated, fizzing just behind his eyelids.

No stretched out hours spent writhing on the edge of REM.

Just nothing.

A big blank stretch of sweet, wonderful nothing.

His smile returns and he kisses Y/N's cheek. "Better than I have in a long time. "Thank you."

"Any time," she says easily, and he wonders if she means it.

...

That evening, Sherlock flicks off his bedside light with confidence, and settles down in the darkness. Sleep will come quicker tonight, he knows:

Yesterday, he had slumbered in Y/N's sheets all night, and carried on, unperturbed, well into the afternoon.

Y/N had solved his little problem.

Sleep will find him again.

...

His right arm prickling with pins and needles, Sherlock turns onto his left side.