Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Fruit Punch (Part 3)

They have to wait a little while before a cab rounds the corner, Sherlock supporting Y/N with a hand at the small of her back.

Spying potential customers, the black beetle-like car scuttles over eagerly as soon as Sherlock gives a wave. 

He regards the driver carefully before opening the door; a habit he seems to have developed after an incident that transpired about a year ago. It had to do with a cabbie, some pink pills, and Sherlock's previous roommate, who, thankfully, proved to be a rather good shot. 

That roommate had moved out several months ago---with a girlfriend Sherlock can't remember the name of---which is a shame. He'd been a valuable ally on cases but, most of all, Sherlock misses having company. 

For a flat in central London, it can get awfully quiet at night. 

Deeming the taxi driver to be trustworthy, Sherlock carefully directs Y/N's head away from the door jamb as he helps her into the back seat. 

Y/N tells the driver her address, stumbling over some of the more complicated syllables, and Sherlock tries to pull her seatbelt across her chest while she's swaying around. 

...

Sherlock had wanted to spend time with Y/N outside of work, but he hadn't imagined it like this; in the back of a taxi cab, riding in silence, Y/N staring blankly out the window. 

The streets slide by, neon signs of bars and restaurants, people laughing, huddled together against the cold---

Y/N doesn't seem to see any of them, their existence nothing but a brief reflection across her eyes.

Sherlock notices them; mostly couples, people his age walking hand in hand, snuggled up on benches to watch the traffic go by. A strange empty feeling begins to pool in his chest---

---but then he feels something warm at his side.

Y/N is leaning against him.

A smile ghosts his lips.

This is how he'd imagined it, he realises; when he'd pictured them spending an evening together. 

The back of his neck heats.

He'd like to put his arm around her.

...

The driver nods tiredly when Sherlock passes some notes through the window, then disappears into the night, leaving Y/N and the detective alone below a broken street lamp.

Sherlock had always wondered what sort of place Y/N lives in. He'd pictured one of those colourful rows of quaint victorian houses, Y/N's the brightly coloured one somewhere in the middle, squashed comfortably between its neighbours like books on a shelf.  

But, standing before Y/N's home now, he sees a block of unpainted flats, identical apartments stacked on top of each other like those grey sandwiches in Scotland Yard's vending machines. 

He doesn't like imagining Y/N here; hurrying down these dark streets at night to pop to the off-brand convenience store, being irritated by the footsteps from the flat above, and yelled at for having loud footsteps by the people in the flat below. He'd noticed on the drive here how far she has to commute to get to from work---and he doesn't like the look of that alleyway.