Work Text:
Sherlock doesn’t open his eyes when he wakes up. Instead, he simply lets a small smile cross his face.
The taste of John lingering on his lips mingles with the husky flavor of the room they share. His mouth tastes sweet, a reminder of the egg nog and cake they shared the night before, and very sour, a reminder of the alcohol.
He licks his lips slowly.
The warm scent of sweaty sheets and sticky skin brushes his nose, and the promise of a warm breakfast wafts through the room with the smell of cinnamon.
He breathes deeply.
Cool London air kisses his face as he reaches an arm out and feels an empty space in the bed beside him. The heat of a late-morning sun dripping through the window soothes his muscles and the soft pillows and blankets make leaving bed an entirely impossible option.
He curls his fingers deeply into the sheets.
The busy sounds of London traffic trickle by on the streets below, hardly making their way into the room. Much louder is his own gentle breathing. From the kitchen pours Christmas music and the various sounds that accompany one of John’s amazing breakfasts.
He listens closely.
But he doesn’t open his eyes. Instead, he simply lets a small smile cross his face.