Work Text:
John was always most beautiful in the mornings.
Sherlock knew, objectively, it wasn't quite true-- in the mornings John wasn't quite at his most appealing, as most humans tended to be, and if there was anything Sherlock could testify to be true about John Watson, it was that he was irrefutably and entirely human.
But there was something about John in the mornings: slightly smelly, sweaty, pajamas rumpled, his hair mussed into a spiky mess, his eyes blinking bearily at the newspaper as he pushed it aside to reach for his coffee. There was just something about the purely domestic sight that made Sherlock's chest constrict, his airways temporararily blocked as his mind, always racing, constantly in motion, finally, suddenly, came to an abrupt halt.
There wasn't a word for the flood of emotion that overtook Sherlock when he saw John bumbling about the kitchen for something edible until finally taking his rightful place at the table. It had been so long, so many years ago that Sherlock had been able to overlook such a sight as a banality, something mundane enough to ignore as a fundamental and intrinsic part of life; as disregardable as the earth moving round the sun.
But as he could no longer deny the earth's path around the sun, he could no longer deny the necessity of John. It had been a mistake he had too often paid the price for making.
The moment would pass, as it always did, but every morning that Sherlock turned from the window to find John sitting at his table still felt like a minor miracle. He carried those morning memories with him throughout the day, letting them sustain him as he rushed around London. John was not yet back on cases--it was too early for that. It didn't bother Sherlock, he knew that John needed his space and plenty of time before he was ready, time that Sherlock was willing to give him. Frankly, he was just glad that John even came back, that he hadn't stayed in the suburbs where he had lived with Mary, and that he had been able to forgive the memories that still lingered in Baker Street enough to consider living in the flat.
John never noticed him staring those sleepy mornings at Baker Street, or if he did, he never acknowledged it. He would continue to peer sleepily at the headlines, before sighing quietly and opening to the weather section, always predictable.
Sherlock couldn't help but notice every detail about him.
He never could.
He noticed the crinkles in John's pajamas--he was tossing and turning all night and hadn't gotten much sleep. He noticed the arch of John's eyebrows and how they were calm, not collapsing inwards the way they did in the stress of the day. He noticed how the corners of John's eyes and mouth curled upwards as he took his first sip of coffee, forgetting for a moment the shadow that followed his every step in the streets of London, the grief that haunted him in the dark of night.
John was always most beautiful in the mornings when he finally stood and came to where Sherlock was standing by the window and stared out with him, the light of the sunrise filtering through the dusty Baker Street air to alight gently on his weathered face. The soft rays would pick out the silver and gold of his hair, and the sapphire of his eyes. He would smile at Sherlock and say,
"Come and eat something, Sherlock. I swear you've lost at least half a stone after that case last week."
"A quarter."
"All the same, at least have some toast."
"Alright."
And everything would be fine, at least for a while.