Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Biscuits (Part 6)

Y/N dusts her hands and brushes Sherlock's shoulders with her palm.

A few stray strands flutter to the linoleum like autumn leaves, and Y/N shakes one off the toe of her sock.

"I think you should apologise."

"To whom?"

"I don't know. Everyone. Especially Mr Candicci—although I think I could give him a run for his money. Is he looking for an apprentice?" Y/N fluffs the back of his hair up with her fingers, admiring her work. 

"Right, I'll go ask Mrs Hudson if we can borrow her broom. Could you get the dust buster? "

Sherlock waves a hand. "That's broken, I tried to hoover lentils and it didn't like it." 

As Y/N turns towards the door, he catches her wrist.

"Wait, what about the front?"

"The front of what?"

"My fringe." Sherlock gestures to the chocolate-coloured twists of hair at his forehead. They're so long they're brushing his dark eyelashes, his bright blue eyes staring up at her from where he's perched on the bath.

Frustratingly, Y/N's cheeks pick that moment to turn quite warm. 

There's something about his eyes. They're so sharp she finds them hard to look at—like the sun—but they're so bluey-green she can't look away.

Like she's drowning.

"It's not that long."

Flatly:

"Y/N, I can't see."

"Yes, you can. How many fingers am I holding up?" 

"Eighteen."

Y/N rolls her eyes. "Fine." Crouching a bit, she leans back until her face is more or less level with his. Her hand wobbles as she tries to stay level, lining the scissors in a shaky line. She sighs, straightening. "How do you want me to...? I need to be at eye level."

Sherlock thinks for a moment then stands, his hand taking hers.

She stumbles along behind him as he leads her into the kitchen, and pulls out a dining chair. Spinning it to face her, he takes a seat. Briskly, both his hands pat his thighs. "Sit on my lap."

"Sherlock, I'm not doing that."

If anything, he looks affronted. "Why not?"

"Mr Candicci doesn't sit on your lap."

One of his dark eyebrows rises into his overgrown fringe. "Mr Candicci doesn't get inside my coat when it's cold, or fall asleep on me in cabs, or hide against my chest when we watch horror films—would you like to stop doing those as well?"

"You watch horror films with your barber?"

Flatly:

"You know what I meant."

Y/N's feet knead the floorboards, because yes, yes she had known what he meant. 

One of the boards is sticking up a little more than the others, the wood prickly. It catches a thread of her sock. 

"This is different."

"Bad different?" He's wearing an expression she doesn't recognise.

It makes her want to shake her head just so he'll stop looking at her like that. 

"No, not bad. Just...different."

He sighs and stands, and Y/N thinks he's going to take the scissors from her—