When Sherlock got out of the cab he had to remind himself not to hold Y/N's hand.
He'd kissed her for most of the car ride, just pressing his lips to any part of her skin that was exposed and within reach, avoiding her mouth because he knew once he kissed that he wouldn't be able to stop. He'd either get the cabby to turn the car around and take them straight back home, or he'd tumble out of the car once they arrived at the crime scene, hair sticking up, cheeks red, lips swollen, and eyes so dazed he'd be taken in for a drugs test.
Resisting kissing Y/N proved to be much more difficult than Sherlock remembered. How had he gone all that time before they were dating without giving in, without weakening and just begging Y/N to touch him? It didn't help that she was touching him too, her fingers splayed against his chest. They caused prickles of sensation to burst from the spot, fanning out from the place of contact like those writhing beams of light inside plasma globes. Sherlock had directed her hand there as an alternative to where she'd actually wanted to put it; submerged in his hair, which he knew would remove all sensible thought he possessed in an instant.
Sherlock knew of The White Hotel, vaguely, and he'd expected it to be small since Greg had mentioned the highest floor it had was the forth. However, he was not quite prepared for how small it actually was. Nestled between two towering office buildings, The White Hotel looked like a fat little pocket dictionary stuffed between two ageing Atlases Of The World. Everything about it was white, not cream or sun-stained yellow, but white---a bold choice in smog-choked central London---like it had been given a fresh coat of paint as soon as it got dirty, rather than a wash.
Lestrade had been waiting for Y/N and Sherlock when they arrived, leaning against a lamppost, his black wool coat, silver hair, and bored expression making him look like a character out of a fifties spy movie. Sherlock couldn't decide what side of the law his fifties-movie-character would be on, it could probably go either way. If you imagine a fedora tilted low over his eyes he'd be an undercover detective waiting for his mark to make a drop-off. If you imagined a briefcase swinging from one of his leather-gloved hands he'd be the mark. His shoulders slackened when he saw Y/N and Sherlock approaching, giving them a where-have-you-been roll of his eyes. "You said you'd be behind me!"
Sherlock shrugged, glad for the brittle breeze that was rapidly cooling down his flushed cheeks. "We were behind you."
"I imagined you'd be right behind me."
"Evidently, you don't have a very vivid imagination."
This made Lestrade huff moodily, and Y/N gave Sherlock's side a warning nudge with her elbow meaning 'hey', but she was holding in a smile and he knew it, so he nudged her back, meaning 'hypocrite'. She'd been about to give him a playful shove into a nearby puddle when Greg turned to them, probably to say something related to the case, but caught the tail end of their stifled laughter so said instead with furrowed brows:
"What is going on with you two?"
Sherlock brushed imaginary dirt from his coat and straightened his scarf, clearing his throat a little. "Nothing." The fact that that was a lie caused a fluttering sensation in his chest. Nothing used to be going on between him and Y/N. Nothing. Not now, though. Now there was something. He attempted to settle his features into their usual neutral, bordering on mildly-disinterested, expression but it was like trying to wear a mask that didn't quite fit anymore. His lips kept wanting to widen into a grin, which pushed his glower away, his sparkling eyes shining through his bored scowl. He kept them on Lestrade because he knew if he glanced at Y/N even for a second he'd start giggling again. Start giggling, or break into some childish game which would involve him threatening to pick her up and dump her in that fountain over there.
Greg narrowed his eyes. "Hm. Well whatever it is, don't bring it in here. This is a very high-class hotel, so best behaviour."
"I'm always on my best behaviour," Sherlock said indignantly, and Greg muttered:
"Then God help me".
...
The door to The White Hotel was as white as the exterior, as, it turned out, was the interior. At first, glance, Sherlock assumed there was no furniture in the cramped little foyer, just several strange, spindly, amorphous statues, but then he realised the strange, spindly, amorphous statues, were the furniture, and he had to hold in another giggle. Several things in life did not make sense to Sherlock Holmes, and they were as follows:
- Putting raisins in cookies rather than chocolate chips
- Fashion
And
- Why anyone would want to be in love
(Although it has now occurred to him, with satisfaction, that that last one could be crossed off).
The point is: every high-class hotel Sherlock had ever solved a case for (for that is the only reason he would ever step anywhere near a high-class hotel) utterly and completely confused him. Why would someone want a chair shaped like a litter box on stilts? Or a table like a massive, bent butter knife? He could appreciate the fact that some saw it as...art? He wouldn't mind super-stylish-pique-of-fashion furniture if it at least served its purpose, but it didn't. It never does. It just looks strange, and if you touch it people tend to either go white, tell you the price, and ask you not to, or a smug smile comes over their face as they tell you the price, then lecture you on its origin for twenty-five minutes as if you're supposed to be impressed.
He wondered what kind of person the forty-something woman hurrying towards them would be. She's probably the former, if her appearance was anything to go on, Sherlock thought as his pale eyes slid over her creaseless suit, bleached bob cut, and perfectly manicured nails. Her gaze was fixed on Lestrade, completely bypassing Y/N and Sherlock as if they were simply not part of her own little personal reality. She'd probably be ignoring Lestrade too, if she hadn't met him before and knew him to be of use to her.
She gave him a stiff smile in welcome, the corners of her lips drawn too far back, showing too many of her even little rounded teeth as if a puppeteer was controlling her face with string and doing rather badly. "Greggory, you've come back. I didn't think you would." Her tone was as neatly clipped as her hair and she ignored Y/N and Sherlock completely, besides occasionally glancing at their feet; her spine as taught as a bowstring as if she was afraid they'd tread mud all over the lovely clean cut pile carpet.
Lestrade laughed light-heartedly, but Sherlock could tell he's doing that thing where he tries no to lose his patience. He can tell because he'd done that very thing to Sherlock earlier. It was nice watching him do it because of someone else for a change. "Miss Levine, I told you we would try our best to---"
"And yet you have no leads, and you left," Miss Levine interrupted curtly, making Greg's shoulders tighten. "There's not a single policeman in this whole building anymore, no one looking for clues or interviewing the staff---"
"We did all we could, Miss Levine, I told you, we took prints from every room that was hit, we took statements from the victims, from every member of staff and all the guests that were around when it happened. There's nothing else we can do for you, so I said I'd bring in my colleague."
"Well, where are they?'
Greg blinked, then metaphorically gathered up the pieces he'd dropped and cleared his throat. "He's here. This is Sherlock Holmes, and Y/F/N Y/L/N." Greg gestured at Sherlock who smiled at her, holding out his hand for her to shake. "He's a private detective. Sherlock, this is Miss Levine, the manager of this hotel."
The hotel manager looked him up and down, not seeming particularly impressed, but took his outstretched hand all the same. She didn't shake, and now that her slender fingers were gripping his, Sherlock didn't think it wise to either; for fear of snapping, dislocating, or crushing something. "You're the private detective?" She asked, one tattooed-on eyebrow arched as she released his hand.
Sherlock slipped it back into his pocket. He felt very aware of his long limbs in this cramped little space, surrounded by expensive nonsensical pieces of furniture-art, and thought it best to tuck himself towards his centre as much as possible to minimise the chances of him breaking something. "Yes. And this is my assistant, Y/N."
Miss Levine glanced at her. "And what does she do?"
Sherlock didn't really know what to say to that. She's an assistant. That's fairly self-explanatory. "She assists."
Y/N shifted from one foot to the other self consciously as Miss Levine continued to look unimpressed, with Y/N this time, and Sherlock felt a bristle of anger. He'd not been angry for a while now. Just kind of lovesick, and a little bit sad, then after last night, extremely, unfathomably happy. But someone making Y/N uncomfortable? That made his previously good-natured smile turn into a glare. He wanted to place a comforting hand on her back but was scared to move his arm in case he elbowed something that would cost more than his rent to replace.
Blind to Sherlock's quickly dwindling estimation of her (not that it was very high to begin with), Miss Levine regarded his comfortable old coat, the slight tear in his faded scarf, the first few buttons of his shirt left undone lazily. "You don't look like a private detective."
Trying to sound amused, Sherlock feigned surprise. "What do private detectives look like?"
"How am I supposed to know?"
Cooly: "Then, as far as you're aware, I might look exactly like one."
A slight pink rose to Miss Levine's hollow cheeks, clearly not used to people---especially people that wore scarves with holes in them---addressing her in this way. Luckily, she must think scolding him for it as undignified as showing she'd been nettled by it in the first place, because she hurriedly changed the subject: "Follow me, I'll take you to the rooms that were---"
"Actually," Sherlock sliced through her order, making a muscle in her jaw feather, "I'd rather you take me to the surveillance room."
Lestrade's brows were furrowed again. "Why? I already told you the tapes are clean. Spotless, like, not even a guest goes up or down that corridor all night."
"That's why I want to see them." Sherlock would usually be revelling in his audience's confusion, eager to explain his methods and watch their reactions, however, today none of that even occurred to him. All that was on his mind at present was finishing this case as soon as possible so he and Y/N could get back to 221B, back to what they'd been doing, and away from this snobby woman and her collection of ugly furniture.
...
The White Hotel wasn't as small as it appeared, Sherlock realised as Miss Levine led the way to the surveillance room, striding ahead down the winding corridors unnaturally fast for someone in heels. The building was narrow but long, the group having to keep the back of the hotel manager's head in sight so as not to get lost. It was somewhat disconcerting how her helmet of hair, cut perfectly perpendicular to the angle of her shoulders, remained completely still as she moved. As if it was a single entity rather than billions of strands.
The surveillance room was located in the basement and turned out to be a cupboard rather than a room, about the same size as the loo in 221B. Just as there was just enough space for a toilet, sink cabinet, shower and a bath in 221B's loo, there was just enough space for a desk, filing cabinets, counter, and two chairs in The White Hotel's surveillance room. That's about it, really. Everything inside, like the rest of the hotel, was spotless.
Mrs Levine booted up the computer, several monitors mounted to the wall above the desk already showing low-quality live streams of various hallways.
Sherlock's gaze roved around the cramped space, as he asked, "Who has access to this footage?"
"Only the security man and myself."
"And where is he now? He's been away so long the computer wasn't even on. Thirty rooms and only one person watching surveillance?"
The computer had come to life by now, and Miss Levine's bony fingers set about logging on. "He's at home. His shift ended. We did have two employees on surveillance but one left our employment several weeks ago. We're still interviewing for a replacement. The thief must have known we were vulnerable."
Sherlock merely hummed in dismissal, taking a seat before the computer once Levine had stepped back to let him do so, a folder open on the screen showing rows and rows of security tape files.
"These are all for the fourth floor."
Taking off his coat: "Yes, I can see that. You can leave now. Y/N and I will come find you when we're done." If he had been facing the other way he would have seen Miss Levine's mouth open and close several times.
"Do you not want---?"
"Nope," popping the 'P', always finding a small amount of pleasure in telling a control-freak to sod off. "Y/N, could you close that door, please? Thank you."
...
Sherlock clicked on the file at the top of the list and a grainy black and white video of a hallway started playing. He hit the forward button several times, but the only clue that it was being played at three times its usual speed was the timer in the bottom left corner ticking away so fast the pixels could hardly keep up, the number just a white blur. Sherlock was watching the screen intently, eyes flicking around the image of an empty hallway with determined intensity.
Y/N came up behind him, her lips tugging up at the corners. "You seem to be fairly swept up by the case now. Was I right? That you're still interested even though you're 'distracted'?" She put emphasis on that last bit, teasing him, and he frowned.
"No. I'm not interested in the case, I just want to get it over with so we can go home." He'd been trying not to think about that. About how he still didn't care about this, about any of it. He'd been waiting for it to kick in, for that spark to come back to life but it hasn't yet, and he'd been trying to ignore the knot of anxiety that caused, shoving it to the back of his mind every time it pushed its way into his brain.
"Oh."
The first clip ended and he selected the second, speeding it up again. A few seconds passed of him just staring at the empty hallway, then he felt Y/N's hands gently come to rest on his shoulders. They instantly relaxed, soothed by her touch, and let his spine slacken enough for his body to lean against the backrest of the chair.
"Well, as I said, this is just one case. And you're not doing something particularly exciting right now."
Sherlock didn't answer. He appreciated her attempts at comfort, and they were kind of working. She did have a point; he shouldn't expect his blood to run thick with adrenaline from watching surveillance tapes.
Y/N's hands had started to gently rub through his jacket and Sherlock hummed gratefully. He didn't know if she was doing it to make him feel good, or because her hands were bored. Not that it mattered. All that mattered was that it was nice. His affection-starved skin soaked up the gentle pressure as she ran her thumbs along that long stretch of muscle connecting his neck and shoulders, his hum turning into a shaky moan.
"Is this distracting you?" She asked worriedly, her movements ceasing, and Sherlock shook his head quickly.
"No, it's nice."
"Okay, good." She continued, much to Sherlock's delight. The task he was so mind-numbingly easy it was actually useful to have Y/N touching him, keeping his mind in the real world rather than wandering away into a daydream. "Hey...now that we're alone," she said quietly, "I never got to ask you this morning if you enjoyed it."
"Enjoyed what?"
"Last night. I mean, I know afterwards we talked for a bit but you were all happy and sleepy then."
He was quickly becoming happy and sleepy now, his eyes desperately wanting to slide closed. Y/N extended the massage to the base of Sherlock's ears and could see his smile, almost going slack with pleasure, reflecting off the computer screen.
"You've had time to think about it now. I guess what I want to know is...did you like it? Sex. Kissing. Sleeping in the same bed as someone else. Being that close to another person. I just want to make sure you're enjoying it all; being in a relationship."
Sherlock would have laughed, if he wasn't currently feeling so mellow he could melt into a puddle on the floor. "Of course I did. Am. Can't you tell?" Dragging his mind away from Y/N's massage to concentrate on what he was supposed to be doing---for a second---he selected the next video once the one he'd been watching came to an end. This one was just the same as the last; an empty corridor. He relaxed again.
Y/N chuckled. "Yeah. I just wanted to be certain. Make sure you tell me if you do want me to stop doing something." She lowered her voice and her head, giving his neck a quick kiss. "Or do something."
Sherlock's hand stilled on the mouse, as Y/N ran her hands up and into his hair at the sides of his head. He couldn't help letting his head tip back now, resting it against Y/N's tummy as she stood behind him, letting his eyelids slip shut. If he'd kept them open he would have seen Y/N staring down at him lovingly, the corner of her mouth tugged up into a smirk.
"Is this distracting you?" She teased, not being able to stop staring at the soft pink curve of his full lower lip as his jaw fell open enough to let out a small moan.
"...A-a bit."
"Do you want me to stop?" One of Sherlock's curls got tangled with her fingers, but instead of wince in pain like she thought he would when she pulled it free, he bit back a groan. Her smile widened.
"No."