Sherlock wakes slowly, the gentle patter of rain pulling him from an uneasy slumber. Wiping his eyes, he stretches, sheet pooling around his waist, exposing miles of pale skin mottled with blues and greens and purples from their latest case. The light filtering in through the window is steel grey and muted, painting his room in a hazy monochrome. John stirs above him, bed springs creaking and groaning through the thin plaster overhead. Looking up, Sherlock feels his heart give a lurch. He wants John to be waking beside him, his body warm and soft and pliant, wrapped up in Sherlock’s long arms or cradling Sherlock to his chest, lips pressed to his curls.
‘Sentiment,’ Sherlock chastises himself, brushing his fringe back from his forehead. The thrill of the chase has faded, the aches of age and the myriad of bruises littering his skin making themselves known. He could do with a shower, but more than anything, he wants John.
His feet move of their own volition, carrying him shirtless and shivering across the polished floorboards of their flat and up the stairs to John’s bedroom, his hand pushing the chipped wooden door aside before his brain can scream at him to stop.
John rolls over, giving him a sleepy look from his nest of blankets. He must see something in Sherlock’s face, something raw and needy, because he does nothing more than extend one hand out from beneath the covers, beckoning Sherlock forward. Heart beating a frantic tattoo against his ribs, Sherlock crosses the barren space, taking John’s hand in his own and sliding beneath the heavy blankets. The sheets smell of wool and John and soap and spice, John’s body warm and comforting beside him. He reaches out, cupping John’s face in his hand, stubble rasping against his skin, and laying their foreheads together.
You are important to me.
Tilting his chin, Sherlock presses dry lips to John’s brow, breathing him in.
I cherish you.
He runs his hand over John’s scar, never shying away from the ruined skin, but tracing it reverently, marveling in the changes in colour and texture.
You are so brave.
Sherlock loops an arm around John’s soft waist, pulling him closer, caging him in his long limbs.
I will protect you as you have protected me.
John slides one calloused hand around the back of Sherlock’s neck, fingers carding through the curls at his nape, and Sherlock follows his gentle tug, slotting their lips together.
I care for you, deeply and truly.
Sherlock lets out a whine, pressing closer, panting as John licks and nips at his mouth, their lips swollen and slick.
I need you.
John pulls back, staring at him with dark eyes, his deep blue irises nearly obscured by pupils blown wide with desire. He arches a brow and Sherlock nods emphatically, moaning as John kisses down his neck.
I want you.
Head thrown back, he shivers as John peels off their sleep clothes, slotting them together, skin to skin, heat radiating between them. Sherlock gasps, body throbbing, heart pounding, chest aching. John guides him through it, kissing him softly, grounding him in the here and now. Lashes damp, Sherlock reaches between them to splay his fingers over John’s chest.
You are my heart.
They shudder through their climax, breathing each other’s air, tasting each other’s skin. John cleans them with a discarded pair of pants, pulling Sherlock close to his chest and tucking Sherlock’s riot of curls under his chin. Breathing heavily, Sherlock taps his fingers against John’s chest, feeling the answering rhythm on his spine.
I love you.
Stay with me.
Forever.