Sherlock slowly woke up, the morning sun on his face, apparently he'd fallen asleep on the couch. He grumbled to himself, but made no move to get up. From where he lay, he could see Molly stood in the open doorway of the bathroom, John in hallway. Apparently they thought he was still asleep for they spoke in hushed voices.
"Come here," Molly said and John padded across the flat to the bathroom. She patted the closed seat of the toilet. "Sit down, I'm going to shave you," there was a chuckle from John.
"What for?"
"I want to," was the simple reply. John complied, seating himself and she stepped between his legs to lather his scruffy face up.
"It's a good look on you," he said, plucking at the hem of her old camisole and very favorite flannel pajama bottoms.
For a while the flat is quiet again, the only sound to be heard is the sound of Molly carefully scraping the razor up John's chin, shaving away any hint of yesterday's beard growth. It took her twice as long as it would have taken John, but he didn't mind, clearly smiling beneath all that shaving lather.
"I trust you, don't worry, I've nicked myself plenty of times," he said when she worried she was taking too long.
"I'm just being careful,"
"Got shaving cream on your shirt," John said with a laugh.
"Then stop leaning forward," she replied, then gave a squeak, apparently John had pinched her.
Sherlock cracked his eyes opened, focused, and then lifted his head. From where he lay, he could see John sitting on lid of the toilet, head tilted up. His face was lathered and Molly was carefully shaving him. Still in her pyjamas, her bare toes scrunched then uncurled, revealing her bright green nail varnish. Apparently she was shaving John's face.
"Inefficient," Sherlock thought. It would take her twice as long because she wouldn't know how to do it, and she'd be afraid she'd cut John. Despite her knowledge of knives, Sherlock doubted her prowess with a straight-blade.
Still, John didn't seem to mind, in fact he seemed to be enjoying it. He studied his wife's face, looking at her in a way that Sherlock could only describe as reverent.
"Stop smiling," Molly reprimanded, though her tone was light.
"Sorry," and John sobered, the twinkle in his eye didn't dim though.
"Tilt," and he obliged. Sherlock watched with curiosity growing at this unusual moment. John always shaved himself in the morning. Were his hands broken? Molly worked slowly, rinsing the blade when she needed, humming over tricky spots, until she was done. Taking a clean towel from the rack she wiped the rest of the lather off his face.
"I love you," John said, quietly, but every word was confident and sure. Molly apparently responded by kissing him, after that Sherlock only rolled over, bored.
Eyes only for the other, warm smiles and shining features. Molly had done an excellent job, Sherlock would admit. For a moment he wondered if he should ask her to shave his face as well, after all she did such a neat job on John, and there is something pleasing about an old-fashioned shave. There was a niggling feeling that stopped him from asking though, and it was that perhaps it was something only for the two of them. Like sharing coffee, or holding hands or hair combing. Actually, no, Molly still combed Sherlock's hair, but that was only because John said it shut him up.
Still, it was something that Sherlock decided not to inquire on. He let them go on thinking he was asleep until he heard the kettle whistle before he went about his own morning routine.
Having looked over that memory thoroughly, Sherlock saw it had no redeemable value. Still. He found himself tucking it away in his mind palace, in the ever expanding room that belonged to John and Molly.