No Shit, Sherlock

Nervous

"(Y/n)?"

I open my eyes slowly, "Huh?"

"Could you get your hand out of my shirt?"

I'm laying on Sherlock's shoulder, my hand resting on his bare chest. I scoot away as far as I can, my face a bright red. Sherlock buttons his shirt up all the way, my eyes watching his fingers.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to fall asleep."

He stands up, his shirt pulls across his back tighter as he stretches. My mind can't help but imagine what lies beneath the shirt.

"You've been staring at me a lot recently."

"Because I'm developing a fever, I'm delirious," I say quickly.

He leans down and places a hand on my forehead. His face is dangerously close to mine, memories of his lips on mine flash behind my eyes.

"You're not running fever."

His hand moves down the side of my face, his thumb sliding across my bottom lip. "You should stop biting your lip."

"I can't help it. It's a nervous habit."

He pulls away, "You're biting it now."

I let go of my lip, still maintaining eye contact with him. He tilts his head, "Do I make you nervous?"

My breath hitched, I can feel my face heating up. "I'm not answering that."

"You don't need to."

A knock on the door grabs his attention, he looks at me one last time, nodding to himself, and then opens the door.

"I can't find, (Y/n)! She's not at her house, and she wasn't at the cafe. We've been looking for her for an hour!"

Sherlock opens the door wider, allowing me to see who it is. Enola and Tewkesbury stand there, along with Timothée.

"Good morning," Tewkesbury says, smirking.

I stand up, "Good morning."

"Are you in your pj's?" Enola asks.

I look at Sherlock, but he's staring at Timothée, the two of them glare at each other. Timothée breaks the eye contact and looks at me with a smile, "How are you?"

The three of them enter the apartment, Sherlock's eyes staying on Timothée the whole time. There's an obvious tension, but no one says anything.

"I'm gonna go get dressed," I say with an awkward smile.

I grab an outfit and walk to the bathroom. They weren't supposed to be back for another hour. When I'm done I step out to see Sherlock talking to Timothée.

"Do you live alone?"

"Yes."

Sherlock nods, "How old are you?"

"Twenty-seven."

"I'll need to go home to drop off my stuff," I say to Enola.

She nods, "I'll meet you at the office then."

"I'll walk you home," says Timothée.

"I need to have a word with you, (Y/n). So I'll walk you home."

I look between Sherlock and Timothée, the two of them glare at each other.

"Well, he needs to speak with me," I say, gesturing towards Sherlock.

Timothée nods, "Alright, I'll see you around. Maybe tomorrow we can go for a walk?"

"Sure, we can meet at the bookstore at nine," I say with a smile.