Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words ((Final) Part 8) (WARNING: EXPLICIT)

Warning, guys: This chapter is smutty because I wrote it for my AO3 audience, so if that's not your thing just back away slowly 😅

___

Sherlock added a final little scuff of graphite to the paper before him, then raked it over one last time with his eyes. A smile curved his lips; he never thought he'd get to see this image completed.

Plus, that's Y/N's body he's staring at, and that flusters him like a schoolboy. His body still hasn't acclimated to Y/N's nudity. Yes, it had settled slightly after the effect of her touch wore off, but now, with the knowledge of what's to come, that buzzing sensation between his legs had returned with full force.

"Oh, you can move now."

She grinned, pushing herself up into a sitting position. "It's finished?"

"Yes." Slowly, as though approaching something forbidden and dangerous, he crawled up the bed, taking a seat by Y/N's side. Shyly, Sherlock transferred the paper over to her hands. "Here."

He knows the drawing is good---if it isn't good then it isn't complete---but handing it over to the person featured in it set moths fluttering about his abdomen. Big moths, elephant hawk moths, all massive, dusty wings tickling the inside of his ribs. What if, for some reason, Y/N doesn't like it?

Of course she likes it.

Letting her body lean against Sherlock's arm, Y/N's gaze slid over the drawing, over her own face, her own body, immortalised in gritty flecks of grey. Some of the flecks are densely clustered to form umbrae, others sparse and few between to give the illusion of light, the rest arranged in crisp, delicate lines. Detailed. Smooth. Perfect.

This picture is different from the others in Sherlock's collection of Y/N (that is what it is; a collection. He's accumulated snapshots of her expressions, her mannerisms, her features like a hoarder stock-pilling pretty bottle caps). It's in the same style as most of them, shaped from the same material, and yet---even without colour---it is unmistakably an outlier.

The first in many outliers. It marks the start of a new era, a cornerstone of some sort. Something has obviously changed in the way the artist views his subject. His work has taken a new direction.

Hunger, that's what's new. Unbridled, unrestrained desire. Everything about the sketch is moody, almost dark, Y/N's body laid out what can only be described as provocatively. The very way he'd pressed the pencil to the paper is different; all long, languid strokes and generously shaded shadows.

Before, he'd sketched Y/N with guilty bashfulness, each picture innocent and tasteful; his restraint and respect betraying his love-sick heart.

But he doesn't have to chain up his lust anymore like a savage wolf, keep it concealed as though it's an unsightly disease. No, now he can set his ardour free, and it has manifested itself in every stroke, Sherlock's emotional state having leaked down the pencil and laced itself into his drawing.

If this is how Sherlock sees her, then Y/N likes it very much. Never before had she felt like such a woman, so wanted, so needed.

"It's beautiful," She muttered, and Sherlock preened.

"You think so?"

"Yes. It's..breathtaking. Gorgeous.."

Smiling bashfully, dipping his head to hide under his fringe. Meekly: "Yes, you are."

This made Y/N laugh and she gave him a nudge from where she was still nestled up against his side.

He swayed, utterly pliant.