Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock Holmes, but I really wish that I did...
A ray of light landed on Holmes' sleeping face, rousing him from his slumber. Watson must have opened the curtains in their bedroom once again, something Holmes specifically told his companion never to do. The detective enjoyed the dark.
Now awake at a rather ungodly hour, Sherlock rolled to his side to scold his partner. But John was already awake, surely roaming the flat the two men shared. No matter. It would be much easier to chide Watson in a less compromising area of the house.
Sherlock stood, rubbing his tired eyes as he dressed himself in clothing from the previous night. The detective scooped up a white dress shirt, immediately realizing that it belonged to Watson. It smelled strongly of tobacco and a tasteful cologne, mixed with the faint stench of rubbing alcohol that burned Holmes' nostrils. Unable to let go of the garment, he threw it on and fixed the buttons. The shirt's perfume made his anger subside ever so slightly.
Holmes walked into the living room where his lover was perched in the red velvet armchair. Tea and breakfast sat on the table, John politely waiting for his partner before eating.
"Good morning," Watson said in a chipper voice. He smiled at Holmes, who glared in return.
"Watson, did you happen to know that I love you?"
The doctor raised an eyebrow. It wasn't something Holmes said often, and never out of the blue. "Well, I assumed so, but I'm beginning to worry that my assumption was wrong."
"Oh, on the contrary. I love you dearly, John." Sherlock sat in the taller man's lap, giving his clean-shaven cheek a quick peck. "But if you would like for my love for you to continue, I suggest you never open my godforsaken curtains again. Do you understand?"
Watson chuckled, pressing his forehead against the detective's. "I missed you! Besides, if I hadn't opened the curtains, our breakfast would be cold when you decided to wake yourself."
Holmes couldn't help but smile now, all anger gone. At the sight of his grin, Watson too began beaming.
"What is it, Watson?"
"Your smile. It reminds me of the sun."
Holmes' face fell. "That beast that woke me this morning? How is my smile even remotely similar to that... demon." He glared out the window and spit his words, an angry gesture that John found quite comical.
"Simple," he said, pulling Holmes close, "They're both quite effulgent."
Sherlock smirked. "If you think so, old chap. Now come and drink your tea, but draw the goddamn curtains first!"