Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Blue Dream & A Blue Drink (Part 1)

CONTEXT: Someone requested...

🍁 a drunken confession from Sherlock

🍁 taking care of a sick Sherlock

🍁 Sherlock having a sexual dream about Y/N and feeling awkward about it the next day

So I thought, let's kill three birds with one stone :-)

___

Y/N is staring at him.

The sun has set quicker than usual---falling, almost---dragging the white counters and of the kitchenette into a ripe orange. Outside, the ocean roars, waves crashing against the sea wall, exploding in a plume of spray, turning the air salty.

Sherlock's mouth tastes sweet and, when he looks down, he's holding an apple. Half its yellow flesh is missing, its pitch-black pips exposed.

Y/N is standing, one hip jutting out, leaning leisurely against the fridge. She's in that dress. The one she wore to Mrs Hudson's Christmas party. Frost chewed the window panes but no one could tell through the condensation; she always keeps her heating up so high, the dial twisted right around to the red zone. 

Y/N's bolero had been slipped off and draped over a chair within ten minutes. 

He'd never seen so much of her back before. Smooth. A feminine curve. Shoulderblades where wings surely once protruded. Her earrings touched he shoulders, whenever she shrugged, her hair up, her neck sweet with perfume.

Sherlock had just stared at her, feeling things he'd never felt in his life.

She's staring at him, now, and he doesn't know what it means.

Whatever it is, it's making his voice come out all wobbly. "What are you looking at?"

"You."

His cheeks heat. "Why?"

"I was just wondering what it would be like to take you."

He chokes around his mouthful of banana. "Take me?"

"Right here. On this table."

"Take me as in...?"

"You know what I mean. You know what I want to do to you. And I know you want me to do it."

He hesitates. He's waited for this his whole life but now it's here...

It's terrifying. 

"Well...yes. I've wanted it for a long time. I just didn't think you---"

Softly, the tips of her fingers touch to his knees.

Perched on the table, he watches as they slide higher, closer, over his jeans. Prickles of interest shoot through his thighs, up into the pit of his belly.

"Y/N," he gasps. Not for any particular reason. He just likes the sound of it. 

He'd like to reach out and hold her. Any part of her. Preferably her waist, where her dress becomes taught over her hips. His blood warms, rushing somewhere, and he shifts uncomfortably. 

She must be able to tell, it must be written all over his face because his mouth forms an 'O' shape as, slowly, she pushes his legs open wide enough to get her hips between them.

A little moan rises in his chest and he blinks at her. She's so close he can't breathe. He can feel her warmth, her hands climbing his ribs, sliding over his chest, setting it tingling. They tangle in his hair and his eyes roll closed, his own hands finding the curve of her waist.