Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

"Good Morning" (Part 4)

When Sherlock got out of the cab he had to remind himself not to hold Y/N's hand.

He'd kissed her for most of the car ride, just pressing his lips to any part of her skin that was exposed and within reach, avoiding her mouth because he knew once he kissed that he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd either get the cabby to turn the car around and take them straight back home, or he'd tumble out of the car once they arrived at the crime scene, hair sticking up, cheeks red, lips swollen, and eyes so dazed he'd be taken in for a drugs test.

Resisting kissing Y/N proved to be much more difficult than Sherlock remembered. How had he gone all that time before they were dating without giving in, without weakening and just begging Y/N to touch him? It didn't help that she was touching him too, her fingers splayed against his chest. They caused prickles of sensation to burst from the spot, fanning out from the place of contact like those writhing beams of light inside plasma globes. Sherlock had directed her hand there as an alternative to where she'd actually wanted to put it; submerged in his hair, which he knew would remove all sensible thought he possessed in an instant.

Sherlock knew of The White Hotel, vaguely, and he'd expected it to be small since Greg had mentioned the highest floor it had was the forth. However, he was not quite prepared for how small it actually was. Nestled between two towering office buildings, The White Hotel looked like a fat little pocket dictionary stuffed between two ageing Atlases Of The World. Everything about it was white, not cream or sun-stained yellow, but white---a bold choice in smog-choked central London---like it had been given a fresh coat of paint as soon as it got dirty, rather than a wash.

Lestrade had been waiting for Y/N and Sherlock when they arrived, leaning against a lamppost, his black wool coat, silver hair, and bored expression making him look like a character out of a fifties spy movie. Sherlock couldn't decide what side of the law his fifties-movie-character would be on, it could probably go either way. If you imagine a fedora tilted low over his eyes he'd be an undercover detective waiting for his mark to make a drop-off. If you imagined a briefcase swinging from one of his leather-gloved hands he'd be the mark. His shoulders slackened when he saw Y/N and Sherlock approaching, giving them a where-have-you-been roll of his eyes. "You said you'd be behind me!"

Sherlock shrugged, glad for the brittle breeze that was rapidly cooling down his flushed cheeks. "We were behind you."

"I imagined you'd be right behind me."

"Evidently, you don't have a very vivid imagination."

This made Lestrade huff moodily, and Y/N gave Sherlock's side a warning nudge with her elbow meaning 'hey', but she was holding in a smile and he knew it, so he nudged her back, meaning 'hypocrite'. She'd been about to give him a playful shove into a nearby puddle when Greg turned to them, probably to say something related to the case, but caught the tail end of their stifled laughter so said instead with furrowed brows:

"What is going on with you two?"

Sherlock brushed imaginary dirt from his coat and straightened his scarf, clearing his throat a little. "Nothing." The fact that that was a lie caused a fluttering sensation in his chest. Nothing used to be going on between him and Y/N. Nothing. Not now, though. Now there was something. He attempted to settle his features into their usual neutral, bordering on mildly-disinterested, expression but it was like trying to wear a mask that didn't quite fit anymore. His lips kept wanting to widen into a grin, which pushed his glower away, his sparkling eyes shining through his bored scowl. He kept them on Lestrade because he knew if he glanced at Y/N even for a second he'd start giggling again. Start giggling, or break into some childish game which would involve him threatening to pick her up and dump her in that fountain over there.