Sherlock X Reader One Shots || 𝐹𝐿𝑈𝐹𝐹 + 𝑆𝑀𝑈𝑇

A Picture Speaks A Thousand Words (Part 5)

Y/N had entered Sherlock's bedroom casually, and gravitated straight to the chunky old wardrobe in the corner of the room.

Sherlock's room is simple and practical, with a few personal treasures dotted here and there, but, ultimately, nothing Y/N hadn't already seen before. She's been here many times, for various reasons---usually to wake her flatmate up for breakfast or because he'd forgotten he'd made an appointment with a client. She also strays into his space when she's just plain bored; seeking him out just as something to do.

Basically; Sherlock's bedroom is well-charted territory. He'd let her explore to her hearts content a while ago, and doesn't mind her popping by (so long as she knocks first). So Y/N was working on autopilot, mainly, as she unhooked a hanger from the wardrobe and turned around to head back to the kitchen. But then something caught her eye, something she hadn't seen before.

A white triangle was poking out from under Sherlock's bed.

Y/N stepped closer and found the triangle to be some sort of paper. It's thick, more like card than paper, and textured, the colour not quite pure, more like the off-white of your teeth.

It's sketching paper, Y/N realised upon further inspection. Curious, and checking that the door frame was empty of all Sherlocks, she set the clean shirt on the bed and knelt down by the piece of card.

Giving it a gentle pull, she found---as suspected---it to be just part of a much larger piece of sketching paper. And on it was...

Her.

Well, a romanticised, beautified version of her.

The card was A3, the picture of Y/N blown up so that her head and shoulders filled it. She was smiling but looking down. She didn't look like she was posing for the photograph, it was almost as though she's been caught unawares; laughing at something on her phone or in a book she's reading out of shot.

Why is it in black and white?

Then Y/N caught on. It's not a photo. It's a drawing.

She nearly dropped it the few centimetres she'd lifted it from the floor, but managed to hold onto it; curiosity tightening her grip. She couldn't let it go. It was too...

beautiful.

Breathtaking.

Literally breathtaking: she can't breathe, and remembered, suddenly, that that's something she should be doing. She let the air she'd been holding in slide from her lips in a trembling breath. They're parted in wonder, or awe, or fear, she didn't know what it was but it was making her stomach flop around her abdomen like a fish out of water.

There's another sheet under this one, and she tugs it all the way out from under the bed. Another comes with it, caught between it and another sheet, she's sliding piece of paper after piece of paper from the bed like it's a giant, silent printer, the only sound being her own too-quick breaths.

...

Concerned, now, and cold, Sherlock stood from his chair and wandered to his bedroom. Had Y/N passed out, somehow? Had she gotten distracted by a photo on the dresser she hadn't noticed before? He hoped it wasn't that one of him (seven) and Mycroft (fourteen) in their school uniforms. It was taken in summer and featured a pair of rather embarrassing shorts, and a goofy grin (well, on Sherlock's part; Mycroft's mouth was a perfect example of a line).

What's taking Y/N so long to walk five meters down the hall, select a shirt, and return so that he could cover his chilly shoulders?

As Sherlock approached the open door, he could see the top of Y/N's head; it appeared to be bowed to the carpet.