Work Text:
He was silently, peacefully sleeping.
A sleeping John was a rare thing to behold. He was usually locked away in his room, or if they’d shared a bed the previous night, awake for tea even before Sherlock.
But now he was curled in front of the fire, his green army blanket covering his hips and a neutral expression on his kind face.
Ever so carefully, Sherlock placed his hand on his lover’s hip gently, so as to not disturb him by putting all his weight down, and bent over pressing a chaste flower of a kiss to John’s cheek.
The good doctor sniffed and shifted, waking from his slumber.
Damn. Sherlock’s intensions had not been to disrupt.
John turned his head and his body slightly to face Sherlock and his deep azure eyes fluttered sleepily open.
He did not smile, nor did he shout in anger. But the look on his face was one of such complete contentedness that it stole away the breath from Sherlock’s lungs.
There was a word for it, a word that Sherlock could not quite pluck out of his Mind Palace.
The military green blanket slid from John's hips slightly, revealing the very top of a bright pair of red pants.
Despite his breath having been stolen, Sherlock mused to himself that he might be able to find it again, and so leaned down once more, his lips meeting John’s half way as the other man rose, neck straining, to meet the press and slide of lips.
This was Doctor John Hamish Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
The missing link, the word, came to Sherlock in that instant and Sherlock felt it too.
Completion.