Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

Thunder ((Final) Part 4)

Sherlock had been lying there for barely two and a half minutes before the door opened.

He knew it was Y/N, because he recognised the rhythm of her footsteps as she crossed over to the bed. They made a soft sound on the carpet---as if they're socked---she must have gotten dressed.

Sherlock waited for her to say something, his eyes shut and facing the wall. Without meaning to, he'd pretend to be asleep. Perhaps it's better that way, he can guess Y/N's mood by how she chooses to wake him. He'll put on a show while he adjusts himself accordingly---yawning, stretching, pretending to wake blearily from a nap, and then...?

He didn't need to contemplate this, however, because something unexpected happened; the mattress dipped slightly, as Y/N climbed onto the bed.

Before Sherlock could assemble his bearings, she pulled off his duvet and took his shoulders.

Bewildered, yet, admittedly intrigued, he let her push him over onto his back, and watched---his eyes being very much open now---as she put one knee over him.

His breath caught as Y/N straddled his middle. "What are you doing?"

"Making sure you don't run away again."

"I didn't run away, I was having a shower," he retaliated defensively, but it was a lie and they both knew it.

It made the corner of Y/N's lip twitch into a smile, which looked out of place in her otherwise slightly nervous expression. She isn't on his hips---which, for his dignity's sake, Sherlock is glad for---she's a little further up than that, mostly on his stomach. It's not a bad feeling, quite the contrary; it's good. Very good. Too good.

Like a slow computer, his brain finally processed her words. "Why would I run away?" Is she going to give him a reason to run away?

"Because I want to try something, but every time we get close to the subject you freak out."

"What subject?"

"Can I?"

"Can you what?"

"Try something."

Every attempt Sherlock made at guessing what she wants to try drew up a disappointing blank. Maybe because this situation is most unusual---their current position utterly foreign and new---so who knows how it will play out. Or maybe because of their current position; having Y/N this close, on top of him, is making it incredibly difficult for Sherlock to focus on anything else.

He nodded anyway.

Y/N's throat bobbed as she swallowed, and, tentatively, she extended one hand.

Sherlock watched it curiously. He feels he should---he wants to---do something with his own hands, but he isn't sure what, so he just left them on the covers.

Y/N's palm has settled on his chest, in the centre of it. Then, seeing as he didn't ask her to stop, she slowly let her fingers splay themselves across his sternum.

That prickling thing happened immediately; a burst of light between Sherlock's lungs; tongues of fire lapping at the underside of his ribs, tickling them. He bet Y/N can feel his heart fluttering away below his pyjama top. The tips of his ears went pink, contrasting heavily with his white pillowcase and alabaster skin.

Of course Y/N saw, her eyes were flicking over his face. They'd narrowed as if in incredulity, and she said carefully: "...You meant it. Didn't you?"

"Meant what?" He exhaled as she removed her hand from his chest, releasing a breath he didn't know he'd been holding in. It's easier to pay attention to what she's saying when she's not caressing him. He missed the warmth of it, though. Please put it back.