Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Fruit Punch (Part 5)

At home, Sherlock had meant to call his most recent client and tell him his findings. He had also meant to empty the dishwasher, hoover his bedroom, and get some things from the shop down the road. Laundry detergent? Custard Creams? Cheese?

Instead, he's perched on the back of his chair, his hands steepled under his chin.

He hasn't moved for twenty-three minutes.

His mind keeps gravitating back to Y/N and to her kiss and how she'd called him gorgeous.

Earlier, he'd wanted to ask her if she had kissed him because he's gorgeous, or because she felt sorry for him. Sherlock had just exposed himself as the lonely virgin that he is, so maybe he'd looked so pitiful she'd wanted to put him out of his misery?

Or she'd kissed him because she wanted to put herself out of her misery.

If one of the lab techs from Lestrade's party---Ryan or Ethan---had escorted her home, perhaps she would have dragged them down for a snog too. Perhaps she'd kissed Sherlock because he was just...there.

Even if that had been the case, he decides he doesn't mind. If that's what Y/N had needed, he had been happy to give it to her.

He'd be happy to give her anything else she needs.

He supposes, really, what she needs is one good night of mind-numbing passion.

He supposes he needs that too, but Y/N seems to need it more; she's so tightly wound; jumping at the slightest noise, stumbling over simple small talk, her calendar scribbled with a scramble of red Biro reminders because she's so terrified she'll forget to do something for someone.

The thing that bothers Sherlock most is, he could probably give her what she needs.

He's inexperienced, yes, but he would give it a damn good try---helping Y/N unwind. Sure, he wouldn't completely know how---but he'd thoroughly enjoy finding out. He'd like to lower Y/N down onto a flat surface and learn until she's cross-eyed with pleasure.

The question is, does she want him to?

If she does, she'd never work up enough courage to say so---even after an entire jug of Lestrade's potent punch drink.

That means the question actually is: does Sherlock have enough courage to tell her that he'd like to?

That he'd like to kiss her until her knees are weak.

To hold her in his arms until she feels safe enough to relax, to let him spread her out over the covers.

Would she want him to?

She'd called him gorgeous.

...

Sherlock waits for his breath to come back after climbing the flights of stairs leading to Y/N's apartment, but it's been five minutes and he's realising maybe his heart is beating like a fist in his chest for a different reason.

The front door to her flat stands tall and industrial before him, the steel knocker looking too cold to touch. It's heavy in his hand as he makes himself lift it, the sound ominously reverberating about the hall like something from a thriller movie.

He'd dabbed on some cologne before he'd taken a taxi over, and hopes the smell is still lingering.

He's in the middle of making sure his best shirt is all neatly tucked into his freshly ironed trousers when the lock clicks.