Glancing over the top of his laptop, John Watson took in the wondrous sight that was Sherlock Holmes.

Curled up atop his designated armchair, Sherlock had draped a blanket over himself. "Thinking." was the only explanation John had gotten when the question arose. He had smiled, accepting the terse response with grace. Now, the flat was silent, punctuated irregularly by the soft clicking of the keyboard as John updated his blog, the last thing he habitually did before retiring for the night.

When he had finished, John stood, turning off his laptop and plugging it in to charge for the rest of the evening. His eyes flickered to Sherlock, still covered by the fabric. His outline was obscured a bit, but John could still see how Sherlock had folded himself beneath the sheet. "Well, good night, then." He said awkwardly, still unsure of how to respond to Sherlock's unusual tendencies, even after all these months. He paused, wondering if he would get a reply, smiling to himself when he did not and then left for his room.

John lay awake for a long time, staring up at the off-white ceiling. He didn't usually have trouble sleeping, but when he did, he thought of Sherlock. How long did Sherlock stay up at night? What did he do, in that strange, oversized head of his? He thought about the man often, bringing every miniscule detail, habit, and word that came from Sherlock back from memory.

John almost laughed, when he thought about how Sherlock must perceive him. That man, that man who thought himself above the gods themselves, that man who would risk his life just to show someone up, that man who spent half his life proving others wrong and the other half berating them for being so, how must that sort of man think of someone like John?

That he was boring.

Yes, that must be it. That must be what Sherlock thought. John sighed and closed his eyes, picturing Sherlock's face behind his eyelids. Sherlock, so tall, so smart and confident, so rude and blunt, his Sherlock, John smiled at the thought. Yes, his Sherlock.

When Sherlock solved a case, John was always the first person he looked to, to smile and celebrate with, not seeking John's approval, he knew, but simply to see if he was looking. And yes, John was. John always was- he could at least do that much.

…

One day, Sherlock had been sprawled on the floor of the flat; he had been quite cross with John that morning when he found that the doctor had removed the eyeballs in the microwave to warm biscuits for breakfast, and so broadcast his annoyance by lying on the floor like a child.

"But John, breakfast isn't important!"

"Don't be ridiculous, Sherlock, of course it is."

"John."

"Sherlock don't give me that patronizing tone; it is and you very well know it."

"It is not."

"It is."

Sherlock had groaned, and John smiled down at him. It was not the first time Sherlock had been angry with John, and it very well wouldn't be the last. But still, knowing that, John didn't mind Sherlock's temper, stepping over Sherlock's prone body without complaint.

…

John squeezed his eyes shut tighter as he remembered another scenario. It was after the visit to Irene Adler's apartment; Sherlock had been quiet for quite some time after that. During dinner that night, Sherlock had looked over at John and asked, "Are my cheekbones really that sharp?" John laughed at him, and Sherlock had been thoroughly confused.

"What? Why are you laughing? Did I say something funny?" Sherlock frowned across the table at John.

"No, no, well actually, yes. Yes you did 'Lock, but that's okay. Your cheekbones are quite prominent, I'll admit, but I suppose you wouldn't really give anyone a papercut."

"Well, of course not. That was an exaggeration."

"I know."

"I know."

John fought the urge to laugh as the memory came to a close. He turned onto his other side and tried to go to sleep, wondering if Sherlock would stay up too late tonight. One thing he was certain about, though, was that although Sherlock would most likely stay up well past midnight again, in the morning he would show not a sign of weariness.

…

On some nights John would daydream about Sherlock. He'd create imaginary scenarios in his head where- all of a sudden- it was John who had said something remarkable and witty and Sherlock who stood by and smiled proudly. He'd imagine instances where Sherlock would ask a question, and John would actually know the right answer. Though sometimes, in John's reveries, it wasn't about cleverness at all.

Sometimes the two would be walking down the street, and Sherlock would casually slip his hand into John's. Of course, John wouldn't question it, just enjoy the feeling. He knew Sherlock's hands were soft from a life of pampering, his fingers were long as those of a prodigious violinist tended to be, and John didn't know for certain, but he imagined that they were strong.

Or they'd be curled up together on the couch, Sherlock's head on John's chest with his fingers tracing the fabric of his jumper. John's hand would be tangled in Sherlock's mop of curls, twisting them between his digits.

This was the dream he chose to dwell upon, tonight.

The flat was quiet, nothing but the quiet humming of the AC and muted dialogues from the television were audible. John could feel Sherlock's chest rising and falling against his as they breathed. Sherlock had closed his eyes, but John had not. Instead, his glossy stare perused Sherlock's body, lying prone upon his, with his knees curled up halfway to his chest so that his entire frame could fit on the small couch.

John's fingers trapped some more strands of Sherlock's thick hair between them, gently pulling and twirling them. He loved Sherlock's hair. If John had not been so far in his lucid dream-within-a-dream, he might have heard it louder, that breath. Sherlock's breath, his sigh, breathed out of content and happiness, it made the pit of John's stomach tighten.

In the first plane of existence, the actual John smiled in his sleep. One thought was evident in his mind, plainly evidenced by a quiet mumble, a half-spoken word that brought all his dreams into light. No one but the dark could hear the word he whispered, "Sherlock."

Well, no one but the dark, and the lanky, curly headed man standing in the doorway.

He departed with a smile, or a twitch of his mouth, he would be quick to assure you. He was very pleased with the newfound knowledge, something he hadn't fully expected to receive that night- and yet was very happy he had.

For John thought that all of Sherlock was beautiful. Every single part, trait, word, everything.

All of him.

And now Sherlock knew that.