Chapter Text
Sometimes, John will stir in his sleep at the slightest external stimulus. Other times, John’s face holds an inordinate amount of tension as he is tormented by nightmares, and Sherlock will just watch him, wishing he could soothe the painful workings of his subconscious but not knowing how. Hoping that just his presence and his good intentions can be enough.
Then there are times like today, when John sleeps like a log. His mouth, slack, hangs open, and he snores lightly on every inhale. The early morning sun streams through the bedroom window, bathing him in a warm, golden glow. It casts a highlight over the scar tissue adorning his shoulder; Sherlock only has to move a little to run delicate fingertips across the old wound. John is always a little self-conscious about it, but Sherlock can't imagine why. It tells his story, and it’s part of him, and he is beautiful.
The sheets have been strewn throughout the night, and they currently rest draped low across John’s hips. Their legs are tangled together, comfortable and warm, underneath. Sherlock curls his toes, and they brush against John’s calf. John’s nose twitches.
So Sherlock trails his fingers down, across John’s chest. The smattering of hair there is coarse and untamed. Manly. Wonderfully sexy. Keeping his touch light, Sherlock scratches through it with his nails, delights in how John is so full of sleep that he doesn't respond. Again, Sherlock scratches, this time dragging his nail off to one side, catching gently on the peak of a nipple. The texture of the skin there is different, somehow, and endlessly fascinating.
He rubs, watching John’s face. John huffs a little.
Sherlock could do this all day.
He shifts his upper body closer, feeling John’s radiating body heat against his torso. Feeling John's breath against his face. The tips of their noses touch, the faintest of contact. Sherlock’s hand trails back up, fingertips dragging, until it reaches the stubbly area where neck becomes jaw, and he lingers there. The scratchiness and shadow almost harsh in juxtaposition to John’s soft, lax expression. Strong and brave and not a care in the world.
This time, when Sherlock strokes his skin, the sound caused by the friction against those sharp hairs is stark against the stillness of the room. Sherlock swallows.
He runs a finger over John’s bottom lip. It’s dry, a little chapped, from his mouth breathing. But it’s also full and pliant, giving under the slightest pressure from his finger. This is vulnerability, Sherlock thinks. His heart swells, as it often does, at the demonstration of trust. A trust that Sherlock feels he’s not done a great deal to deserve from this man, but also that he intends to do everything in his power to keep.
To prove that he can be worthy of John.
John's face furrows slightly, and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, unknowingly catching Sherlock’s finger too. It makes Sherlock’s breath hitch in this throat.
He never wants to miss a moment.
Then John shuffles closer. Pressing their bodies together, tightening his grip with his legs, one arm snaking around Sherlock’s ribs to splay across his back. He’s still fast asleep, of course. And his face is now scrunched up on one side against his pillow.
Sherlock cradles his jaw. He can't help but press a kiss to his forehead.
Just for today, it might be nice if nothing happened.