Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits (Part 2)

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hey, you guys remember that one shot I wrote during lockdown because life was shit and we needed a nice chill little pick-me-up? It was called 'Biscuits' and, well, due to popular demand and life STILL being shit, it's getting another chapter! 

(And maybe a few more because oops I got a bit carried away 😅 )

I literally can't bear to read my own writing, so if I repeat myself, or the continuity is a bit off, I apologise---it has been a while. As always, any requests or suggestions as to where you want this story to go are appreciated :-)

___

Y/N and Sherlock sit in contented silence, Y/N's feet outstretched towards the fire. 

It's settled into a sunset sort of amber, the warmth wriggling through her socks and making her toes flush. The empty plate sits between them, and Sherlock dabs at the crumbs with the pad of his finger. 

Eventually, he stretches his arms up over his head, the joints in his shoulders clicking like popped bubbles, and his lip twitches as Y/N's face wrinkles into an unsettled grimace. "I've been inside all day, I need some air. Do you want to go out for dinner?"

"Still hungry?" Y/N gives him a teasing nudge as she stands, taking the empty plate to the kitchen. 

He has loaded the dishwasher at some point in the day. Sliding the plate into the wrack, Y/N can deduce he had a yoghurt for lunch, and some jam. She doesn't know if the jam was with something, she just knows there is a jam-smeared bowl inside, waiting for the rinse cycle. 

Knowing Sherlock, he probably ate it on its own, with a spoon. 

Oh yes. There is the spoon.

Unfolding his long legs, said detective follows Y/N to the kitchen, assuming a didactic tone:

"Biscuits and dinner are two very different things."

"Okay, Hesten, where do you want to go?" Y/N takes a step forward---to reach a glass on the shelf---and Sherlock steps with her automatically, as if they're joined at the hip.

"How about Italian?" He offers. "Riccardo's makes great lasagna."

"I remember you mentioning Riccardo's. Isn't it a bit expensive for someone who hasn't worked in a week? What's the occasion?"

"No occasion." He shrugs. "I just thought it would be nice. I could get out my posh jacket, and you could put on that dress you say you never get to wear."

"Which dress?"

"The black one with the straps that sort of go..." he hesitates, a small smile breaking on his lips. He gestures, sort of drawing imaginary lines vaguely down Y/N's sides. "...that go really low on your...on your back."

"You remember that specific dress?" Without warning, she turns to face him and he steps backwards, glancing at her narrowed eyes.

Collecting himself, Sherlock takes the full glass of water from her hand cooly and takes a long sip. "I remember lots of things."

...

In her room, examining herself before a full-length mirror, Y/N gets changed for a second time in half an hour. It takes her a few minutes to find the dress Sherlock had been referring to---but it does indeed exist, draped protectively in a white garment cover. The last time she had worn that must have been---what? A year ago? When she'd accepted an invitation to drinks from the tall, handsome man from the IT department.