Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Holmes Family Reunion (Part 12)

Y/N blinks. "...I am?"

Sherlock nods, watching her with a sort of sharp anxiety. "I know I'm older now...and you've met my weird family, and you've seen me in ragged old pyjamas and looked after me when I was sick with flu that time, and you know I'm a bit..." he waves his hands as if searching the air for a word. Sighing, he settles for:

"...Peculiar. In general. But...if---by some miracle---the offer is still on the table..."

His eyes flick down to Y/N's mouth and she realises, distractedly, that they do that a lot. They find a grin there, and his own ghosts with a tentative smile. As if he wants to reach out and hold some part of her, his hands clutch tighter in his lap---as if he's making a great effort to hold them back.

"Sherlock," Y/N soothes, able to feel every beat of her heart in her chest. "You talk as though those things would make you less attractive to me."

He looks hopeful. "Do they...not?"

"Of course not. I like those things."

"...Even though I keep awful Tupperware boxes in the fridge and play my violin at two in the morning and drag you around London looking for murderers?" He spills his foibles out between them on the duvet and Y/N sweeps them away, taking his hands.

They're tense knots of muscle, but, under the pads of her fingers, they open to her. When she squeezes, Sherlock grips back as if he doesn't want to let go.

"More so because of that stuff. They're what makes you you. Without them..." Words fail her, this time, as she tries to picture William Sherlock Scott Holmes as 'Normal' and finds it cannot be done. "...You'd just be some shockingly gorgeous guy who's good at puzzles."

He blushes, a smug smirk curling his lip. "You think I'm gorgeous?"

Two patches of pink bloom on Y/N's cheeks. "...Stupidly so."

Sherlock has wriggled closer, nearer and nearer until his knees are almost in her lap. His gaze is doing that thing again, daring to dart to her mouth then retreating back to her eyes, abashed.

She looks at his hands, his hands entangled with hers and, not for the first time, realises she'd really like them on her. They're so large and wide when his fingers are spread. He's so large, tall with the muscles in his arms and chest showing through his pyjama shirt. She'd like him over her, his hips pressing her into the mattress.

Lazily, she realises she's wanted that for a long time.

Wanted him.

Every time they'd wrestled over the TV remote, she'd hoped they'd roll off the sofa and onto the floor in a giggling, panting heap.

Every time she's cooking, she's hoped he'd slide his arms about her waist and step up behind her, his chin on her shoulder.

Sometimes, when they're reading together, content in their comfortable silence, she'd put off going to bed for hours, just to spend another ten minutes with him.

He's staring at her, his strange beautiful eyes sparkling and she realises he's been thinking the same things.

He's been thinking about them for a long time.

Hesitantly:

"Y/N?"

"...Hm?"

They're huddled together, their voices low like children sharing secrets by torchlight, leaning closer and closer, his nose bumping hers.

When he'd muttered her name it had graced her lips like a warm breeze from the open window. It was sweet and minty like toothpaste. "...I really want to kiss you."