A/N: Apologies for lack of activity lately, but my laptop is away for repairs so posting is difficult. And according to Microsoft Word, it really is 221 words long.
The only light in the room is that of the fire - a soft, orange glow emanating out, casting Sherlock's face into half-lit shadows. Delicate eyelashes, gradually deepening wrinkles, soft curls nestling below his ears. John tightens his arms around his waist and sighs, heartbeat through Sherlock's chest a gentle lull.
The Rachmaninoff recording has long-since faded into the background, but they sway softly to it anyway. Sherlock's embrace is tight, yet reassuring. There are no complicated steps here - there is no need for them. There is only this - slow swaying, and soft piano music, and silky firelight dancing across their skin.
Neither speaks. Words have no place in this. The emotion is more important than any logic. Sherlock's body, pressed to his, says it all. The comfort, the warmth, the support, the sheer miraculousness of it. After everything, that they can have this, that this is even possible . . .
John's eyes burn, his throat aches, but they are not tears of sadness. For so long he refused to allow himself to imagine a night such as this. How could he, when Sherlock's fingers were so still in his and he wasn't able to breathe on his own?
Now, though. Now he can live such dreams by firelight. There are no words to describe such a blessing.