You and Sherlock

In Which Y/N Actually Gets To Eat

You were thankful the day was done. It had been a little grueling. John was in the flat and you gratefully handed Sherlock over to his care before going downstairs to shower and eat.

You took your time washing away the day and grime of the city. And you tried not to think about how it felt to have Sherlock at your back, whispering in your ear. The hot water on your back did nothing except remind you of Sherlock's warmth, and you shook your head decisively, changing the water to cold. You didn't want to think about this. Sherlock was your neighbor and perhaps more to the point, Sherlock was invariably Sherlock. He was your friend, and you cared for him deeply. And the only reason today stuck out in your mind was because Sherlock was never one to share physical contact. Shaking your head again, you turned the water nozzle off and wrapped a towel around your body, shivering slightly. The rent may have been fantastically priced, but Mrs. Hudson always seemed to forget that the flat under the stairs – your flat – was prone to being unseasonably cold.

Dressing in comfortable clothing, you rang for Chinese takeaway – appropriate, you thought to yourself with a note of irony, given the nature of the Chinese characters scrawled all over the case. You gathered up some paperwork and your laptop and carefully walked out your door, resolving to replace those ruined picked locks soon. Padding quietly up the stairs, you listened for the soft commotion of Sherlock on the case. You poked your head into the kitchen curiously.

John was making tea, and he gave you a welcoming smile.

"Hi, Y/N," He took the kettle off and poured the water into two mugs.

"Hey, John," you peeked into the living room, setting your stuff down on the kitchen table. "Do you mind if I work here for a while?"

John shook his head.

"Not at all, Y/N. Sherlock --" John shot a glance at the man in question, who was staring at the mirror above the fireplace, "Hit a bit of a snag. Tea?" He held up the kettle invitingly.

"Sure," you stood up and took it from his hands. "I've got it. Go... I don't know, help Sherlock?" You smiled awkwardly and the two of you looked at the dark-haired man who definitely didn't need either or your help.

"Er, right," John scratched his neck awkwardly. He shot you a sarcastic look. "I'll just go use my genius and, er, genius him into solving the case." He ambled over to the fireplace to stare at the mirror, where pictures of the shelf from the library were posted.

You sat down at the table, keeping the duo in full view as you cracked open your laptop and prepared to work. It was silent for a while, but comfortably so. And then, eventually, Sherlock spoke.

"So, the killer goes to the bank, leaves a threatening cipher for Van Coon; Van Coon panics, returns to his apartment, locks himself in." He tilted his head thoughtfully, and you watched him, curious. "Hours later, he dies."

"The killer finds Lukis at the library; he writes the cipher on the shelf where he knows it'll be seen; Lukis goes home." John nodded, extrapolating.

"Late that night, he dies too." Sherlock steepled his fingers.

"Why did they die, Sherlock?" John's question was so soft you almost didn't catch it. Sherlock ran his fingers over the line painted across the portrait of Sir William's face.

"Only the cipher can tell us," He thoughtfully tapped his finger against the photo and tilted his head and even with his dimly lit silhouette, you could see the way his expression sharpened. Eyes narrowing, mouth growing taut.

"Fancy a trip?" He whirled toward John and caught you in the kitchen shadows. "Y/N! I didn't realize you were here."

You waved gently and your phone buzzed. The takeaway was here. Finally.

"Yeah – I'm going to run downstairs," Get the food. But Sherlock wasn't listening. He was already grabbing his coat, running to his bedroom and you had long since lost his attention.

Sighing, you stacked your papers and shut your laptop. You swung down the stairs and thanked the delivery man profusely, absently pressing a tip into his hands and praying that Sherlock would need enough time to get ready that you could stuff a few egg rolls down.

But you'd no sooner shut the door and turned around to find Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs. Eyes bright, scarf wrapped, and with John in tow, he was ready to go.

"The game, Y/N, is on," Sherlock smirked. "Come along."

You shot John a helpless look, glancing wistfully down at your dinner, and he shrugged.

"Bring it along?"

"Ugh. Fine. Yes, yes, let's go catch a killer."

"Cipher," Sherlock corrected idly. You stuck your tongue out at him, defiantly reaching into the takeaway and stuffing an eggroll in your mouth.

The cab ride was... stuffy. You thought it would have made sense if someone sat in the front but noooo. John slid in, and you followed, and then Sherlock stuffed himself in the backseat.

So one-gangly, long-limbed man in a ridiculous overcoat (that took up an obscene amount of space FYI), a very average-sized woman with a very large bag of Chinese takeaway, and a slightly smaller man with a very hard gun hidden in his jacket made for an uncomfortable ride. You couldn't move very much. Sherlock was on one side, crowding you in and John was on the other, his gun digging into your ribs, and the food was on your lap.

So you made do. Food on the go in a cramped backseat was better than no food at all. And you studiously ignored the cabbie's judgmental looks through the rearview mirror.

***
By the time you made it to the square, it was late enough – and dark enough – that nobody was rambling about. The three of you zigzagged through towards the National Gallery, where you supposed this cipher would be. A museum. Actually, you'd be impressed if Sherlock even managed to break in, given the hour.

"Right," you turned to Sherlock. "So... the cipher is here?

Sherlock's stride didn't falter as he replied.

"The world's run on codes and ciphers, Y/N. From the million-pound security system at the bank, to the PIN machine you took exception to, cryptography inhabits our every waking moment."

Beside you, John nodded.

"Yes, okay, but ..."

"But –" Sherlock shifted his gaze to John. "It's all computer-generated: electronic codes, electronic ciphering methods. This is different. It's an ancient device. Modern code-breaking methods won't unravel it."

John's brow furrowed.

"Where are we headed?"

This, you thought, was fairly obvious. The National Gallery was the only major source of information in this area.

"I need to ask some advice."

John laughed incredulously.

"What?! Sorry?!"

Sherlock glared at John as he smiled in complete disbelief.

"You heard me perfectly. I'm not saying it again." Sherlock said stiffly, and you stifled a giggle. In spite of yourself, you egged him on. Just a little.

"You need advice?

"On painting, yes. I need to talk to an expert."

The three of you paused and looked up at the impressive entrance. Into the next rabbit hole you go, then. You sighed mournfully and discarded the rest of your Chinese food in the nearby trash can. Food wasn't really allowed in museums anyway. 

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A/N: Thank you for reading! I hope you enjoyed!