Chapter Text
John opened the door and his eyes fell on his flatmate, laying on the sofa, wrapped in his robe. Sherlock's chest rose and fell slowly, a sure sign that he was asleep. Finally; John was fairly sure that Sherlock hadn't slept in days. He shut the door as quietly as he could, wincing at the click the lock made as it slid into plays. He placed the keys gently on the counter and slid his jacket off of his shoulders. He crept into the sitting room until he was standing beside Sherlock's form.
Sherlock had been awake since the door opened. While he had been chasing Moriarty, he had become a very light sleeper. Even the slightest noise made him awake with a quick heartbeat and straining ears. After he had woken up, it took him just a few seconds to remember where he was.
Baker Street.
John.
Coming home from the pub, no doubt.
His breathing slowed.
Safe.
John looked down at his sleeping flatmate. His face was so peaceful. All the stress of their most recent case had melted off, leaving a decidedly less intense view of his features. Prominent cheekbones seemed somehow softer, those perfect lips slack in sleep. Long lashes fluttered against his cheeks. John's eyes roved over that familiar landscape that looked so different when it wasn't carrying the responsibility and stress of whatever case was on. He realized he must look rather creepy just standing beside the sleeping form, and dropped down to a crouch.
Sherlock knew that John was standing over him. But for the life of him, he couldn't figure out why. John was just looking. Sherlock could feel his eyes roam over his face and resisted the urge to move away from the peircing gaze. He felt the brush of air as John crouched down beside him, but why?
Why?
John was very cautious and calculated with his movements. A caloused hand reached up and gently pushed the raven curls from the detective's face. God, they were soft. John had never conciously dreamed about doing that, but know he realized that he had, in fact, entertained the notion. His fingers brushed the tendrils behind the man's ear and trailed down, curling around his jawline before pulling away at the chin. Sherlock's eyelashes fluttered minutely, but his breathing remained steady.
God, what was John doing? No, he knew what John was doing. But why was he doing it? It took all of his willpower not to shiver when those steady fingers grazed his skin. He had never experienced anything like it. It was. . . interesting. John was pushing his hair back. It tickled, it really did. He breathed in and out as evenly as possible, hoping that John hadn't noticed the minute hitch in his breath when those fingers brushed his face. He had known for quite a while that he had been in love with John, but had always assumed it was one-sided. John was straight, he was only interested in a platonic relationship. But John was certainly contradicting all of those "I'm not gay"-s. Unless, of course, this was a platonic act. Do friends do things like this? Sherlock certainly didn't know. Friends, among other things, were definitively not his area.
John contemplated whether or not what he was about to do was a good idea. Sherlock was asleep, right? So it couldn't be too bad. With a shaky breath, John ducked his head and brushed his lips quickly against Sherlock's.
Sherlock couldn't take it anymore. He opened his eyes.