Sherlock Holmes was three tabs deep into something impossibly dull to anyone else—lines of code reflected blue-white in his eyes, fingers flying over the keyboard with sharp, irritated precision. The living room of 221B was otherwise quiet, save for the faint rustle of newsprint and the occasional sip of tea as John sat in his chair, pretending very hard not to listen to Sherlock mutter insults at the internet.

The quiet shattered when you walked in.

You didn’t say a word. No greeting, no commentary, no warning at all.

You simply reached over, snapped the laptop shut with a decisive click, and leaned in.

Sherlock blinked. Once. Twice.

“—What—” he started, brain clearly lagging behind the sudden loss of his research.

Before he could finish, your fingers were already at his jaw. Gentle, sure, tilting his chin up despite the fact that Sherlock Holmes did not tilt for anyone. You held a makeup wipe in your other hand, cool and faintly scented, and without hesitation began swiping it carefully along his mouth, his chin, the edge of his jaw.

Sherlock froze.

His eyes crossed slightly as he tried to look at you, confusion knitting his sharp features into something almost… boyish.

“Uhh—love?” he said cautiously. “What the bloody hell are you doing?”

You didn’t stop. Not even a little.

You hummed thoughtfully, concentrating as you wiped a smudge he hadn’t even known was there. “Making sure my seat’s clean for later,” you said casually.

Another swipe. Gentle. Thorough.

“I can’t sit on a dirty seat.”

There was a beat.

A long one.

John choked.

Tea went everywhere.

He coughed violently, newspaper crumpling as he scrambled for the table, eyes wide and watering. “—Jesus CHRIST,” he spluttered, half laughing, half dying. “I—Sherlock—”

Sherlock, meanwhile, had gone completely still.

Every deduction engine in his brain had derailed at once.

“…Seat,” he repeated faintly.

His ears turned red.

Not pink. Red.

You finally pulled the wipe away, inspecting your work with exaggerated seriousness before tossing it into the bin. Only then did you look at him properly, lips twitching with barely contained amusement.

“There,” you said sweetly. “Much better.”

Sherlock stared at you, mouth opening and closing once like a goldfish.

John wiped his face with the back of his hand, coughing out a laugh. “You know,” he wheezed, “I fought in a war and somehow this is still the most traumatic thing I’ve witnessed.”

Sherlock dragged a hand down his face, groaning. “Get out.”

John folded his newspaper, grinning like a man who’d just been given the greatest gift of his life. “Oh no,” he said. “I’m staying. This is important research.”

Sherlock shot him a glare, then looked back at you—still flustered, still flushed, utterly undone.

“…You’re impossible,” he muttered.

You smiled.

“And yet,” you said, leaning in just close enough to steal his breath, “you love me.”