Chapter Text
“Fascinating,” Sherlock murmurs, his chin hitting John’s stomach with each syllable.
It’s late in the morning – almost noon, really. They’d stayed up late the night before, celebrating the success of another case, and, having no pressing matters to attend to this morning, slept in.
The softest, kindest sort of waking up, John thinks, is doing so in Sherlock’s company. He tries not to be a sap, tries to be so cool and smooth and otherwise composed – but sometimes, he can’t help it. His heart is so full of love for this man.
Sherlock is draped lazily over the bed, his chin resting on John’s stomach; scarred, splotchy, beautiful fingers trailing over John’s chest.
“Mmm - yeah, mate?” John sighs, relaxing in the absolute comfort of it all.
“The faint discoloration around the edges, here,” Sherlock explains, tracing the edge of John’s scars. “Dissolvable stitches.”
Shifting, John looks down at him, takes in the observation, Sherlock’s evident profound interest, the comfort of their closeness.
Sherlock is breathing against him, tracing him, studying him – and John...
…John loves him.
His heart swells, skips a beat with affection, and Sherlock smiles. It’s such a beautiful, rare thing, but it’s there and it’s lovely and it’s not just for John - it’s because of him.
Sherlock sees his love, recognizes it even when he doesn’t say it – and John feels like he’s on fire.
This impossible, incredible man.
It’s early and Sherlock takes him in like he’s the most important thing, like he’s beautiful, like he’s special, like he’s fascinating.
John’s breath hitches in his throat, and he reaches down, takes Sherlock’s face in his hands, trails his thumbs from Sherlock’s cheeks to the edges of his jaw. “They were, yes.”
Sherlock leans into his palm, lets John hold the weight of his head. “One of your school connections? Someone you knew, someone you trusted?”
“Well, Stammo knew her. Honestly, I would’ve asked him, but he’s more of a cosmetic surgeon, not a gender-affirming care specialist.”
“Mmm, I see.” Sherlock says, and his breath is warm against John’s chest. “They’ve healed well.” He’s tracing them again, eyes closed, learning the bumps and ridges with the tips of his fingers.
John watches him, takes it in, revels in the sight and feeling.
He holds Sherlock in his hands. Sherlock is here. Sherlock is close to him, breathes against him, loves him, loves to know him.
It’s almost overwhelming.
He wants to pull Sherlock up until their faces meet, wants to hold him and kiss him and melt against him and maybe cry about it.
Instead, he slides his palm down Sherlock’s arm, takes the wandering hand, and guides it to his lips to press a kiss against bony knuckles. “Yeah, mate, alright. Are you done?”
Sherlock smiles warmly, crawls forward over John’s chest, and presses his face into the crook of John’s neck. “Mmm, quite.”
They stay in bed late into the afternoon.