Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

There's A Dog In This One (Part 6)

He didn't kiss her.

Basil stayed at 221B for five more days and for every single one it continued to rain, not that anyone minded (besides Mrs Hudson, who was concerned about wet-dog smell embedding itself in her carpets).

By the fourth day, Sherlock, Basil, and Y/N had settled into a comfortable routine that involved a walk each morning, amusing themselves inside for the remainder of the day, then, in the evening, another walk before tucking up in Y/N's bed to watch a movie.

At first, Y/N had been on the edge of her seat, metaphorically speaking. She half expected Sherlock to suddenly complain that their routine was too comfortable, that he'd gone too long without a case and would therefore deal with his boredom by pulling some kind of extravagant stunt to amuse himself. Like overthrowing the British parliament just to see what would happen. Or stealing the minute-hand from Big Ben just to prove that he could.

However, the days since he last solved a larger crime than Who Ate The Last HobNob (it was Basil) ticked by with nary a complaint. If anything, Y/N had rarely seen her flatmate so chipper. He held up his end of the agreement that had been made at the beginning of the week, aiding Y/N in Basil's general care and maintenance with the same level of eagerness as he'd started with. He was enthusiastic about every walk, despite the constant rain, and the fact that cleaning Basil's paws afterwards was less than an easy task. He volunteered to pop to the shops for another sack of dog food when the first ran out, supplying it with his own money. His face still lit up with joy every time Basil seeked out his affections, even if his timing was slightly inconvenient. Like when Sherlock was in the bath. Or submerged in a dream at 3am.

Something Y/N also anticipated was for Sherlock to guiltily confess to her that his earlier promise of a marriage pact had been a result of a dare, a prank, alcohol, recreational drugs, and/or an experiment. He was bound to realise what he'd done---what he'd agreed to---and retract every word of it at some point, Y/N was absolutely sure of it. Or embarrassment at showing his more vulnerable side would hit him all of a sudden, like a delayed reaction, and he'd deal with it by moving out all together (that last concern is a tad dramatic, but he is Sherlock Holmes, so Y/N wouldn't only not put it past him, she almost expected it).

But he didn't.

If anything, that uncharacteristically uninhibited conversation seemed to have pitched Y/N and Sherlock's friendship into a new tier of intimacy. By day three, Sherlock had stopped asking if he'd be spending the night in Y/N's room and just assumed he would be, gravitating to her bed whenever sleep was suggested as if it was second nature. It was clear that he'd adopted the right side of the bed as one of his Spots; little designated areas on the face of Planet Earth that he feels most at home. 

(Y/N is another one of his Spots, not that she knew it. He'd go anywhere if she promised to stand by his side the entire time).

Despite his aplomb when entering Y/N's room, climbing onto Y/N's bed, and submerging himself in Y/N's duvet covers, it took Sherlock a while to initiate any kind of contact with Y/N herself; even though God knows he wanted to. A lot. But he didn't want to wait until the film was halfway-over to shyly scoot up to Y/N's side, so close that she could feel his now slightly-less-pointy hip bone pressed against hers. He wasn't patient enough to make it look like an accident like the first time they'd cuddled at the begging of the week. His needy, yearning gazes over to Y/N's side of the mattress were so obvious that even Basil picked up on them. In the end, Y/N just laughed at him, (which made his cheekbones colour) and lifted her arm so he knew he could sink against her side. Sometimes Y/N would rest her chin on his head, his curls fluttering as her breath ran through them, like the wind through grass.