Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words (Part 6)

Sherlock takes pride in his ability to plan ahead. He's very good at it. His brain works like a computer, able to simulate situations, play out different scenarios, watch them through like a film. He likes to enter every situation knowing roughly what's going to happen, and for every action, he usually predicts at least eight possible outcomes. It makes him feel safe; predictability like a warm, heavy blanket wrapped about his shoulders, foresight like a soothing hand gently stroking his easily-frayed nerves.

For this situation, however, he had no idea what was going to happen. He'd never tried to conceive what sequence of events might be triggered by his secrets ever getting out, mainly because he'd hoped that would never happen. He hadn't seen a need to plan ahead---to ready himself---because him telling Y/N he's utterly head-over-heels in love with her would never, under any circumstances, happen. Ever.

Well, that's what he'd hoped, anyway.

But now he's called her pretty, to her face. He's admitted that he finds her attractive, handed one of his secrets over, and Sherlock's brain is frantically trying to predict what might happen next.

Surely this day will end with him being hospitalised?

Or bankrupt?

Or with a criminal record stained with that dirty word, all grotesque and repellent; 'ASSAULT'.

He'd sketched his female flatmate without her knowledge, obsessed over her---basically. How many hours has he spent just staring her? Memorising every line, ever, curve, every dip and shadow and---

She doesn't seem to be as angry about the drawings as he thought she'd be.

When Sherlock had walked in and seen them spread out over Y/N's lap, he'd already started wondering what song his parents would play at his funeral. Something terrible, presumably. Although, he'd noted, that probably doesn't really matter because it's not like there will be many people to witness it; he guessed his funeral party would consist of only about five individuals; three will be relatives and the other two will only be there to make sure he's actually dead.

But he's not dead. He's still very much alive, he can tell because his heart is throwing itself about his ribcage as if it wants to escape. Y/N hasn't taken her soft, pretty little hands and throttled him, or picked up some kind of blunt, heavy instrument and beaten him to death with it. He won't have to be walked down the centre of a church in a box to the sound of Eric Clapton---at least not soon, anyway.

Surely if the drawings aren't some form of offence, his attraction is. A man like him, playing host to a crush on a woman like Y/N? Any woman? Who gave him the right? He doesn't deserve---

Why hadn't he tried to stop himself? Why hadn't he done anything about it? When that shy little sapling started to sprout deep within his heart, why hadn't he crushed it underfoot like any respectable gentleman---respectable human being---would and should have done? He'd let it fester from mild infatuation to a crush to full-on love. That one stupid tiny sapling had grown and multiplied and expand and now its an entire garden; blossoms of endearment blooming in his lungs, vines of attachment winding in and out of ribs like a trellis.

Selfishness, that's why he hadn't put a stop to it. He'd noticed how his chest would do a little fluttery thing every time Y/N smiled at him, how her casual touch would leave his hungry skin prickling. He'd noticed how picturing Y/N's lips pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, his neck, his belly---down lower--- had set his whole body on fire and he'd---God dammit---he'd liked it. And fantasising about him dotting kisses all over her body? Well, that felt so absolutely heavenly he'd had to take a shower so cold his toes turned blue.