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John doesn’t move when Sherlock falls asleep. Instead, he sits with one hand draped over his love, and the other in those dark curls he loves so much.
The heart in his chest beats just a little harder when Sherlock is around, and somehow just a little softer. Like a loud whisper in a quiet room, when there’s still so much to say.
The breath in his lungs tastes a little sweeter when Sherlock is around, and somehow just a little more sour. Like the first bite of hot apple pie with ice cream on top, when you can’t decide if it’s hot or cold or both all at once.
The feeling in his stomach is just a little hotter when Sherlock is around, and just a little colder. Like the excitement that comes with swimming in the ocean on a sunny day, when you’re too hot and too cold and just right.
The nerves in his skin are a little more sensitive when Sherlock is around, and just a little more numb. Like all the days and all the scars are finally overcome by the tingling sensation of being in love.
He doesn’t move when Sherlock falls asleep, laying on the couch with the telly on in the background. He doesn’t worry about any little thing at all.
Instead, he sits with one hand draped over his love, and the other in those dark curls he loves so much.