Today, the sun had climbed high until Sherlock arose from his slumber, finally sleeping, exhausted.
Hissing, he gave a glance to John laying next to him, leaning to his elbow, mirroring the posture.
Eyes, sleepy as they were, shone brightly at the sight of his lover's fond gaze, relief obvious.
Pain had passed, the administrations of the good doctor had paid off, granting himself the preciousness,
Utter adoration of closed lids, the lashes laying dark against the pale skin, every detail etched lovingly,
Deeply, forever in that place where those thoughts could be summoned back when needed, craved.
Dainty artwork, carefully outlined, the contours on Sherlock's cheeks, hollow, always beautiful.
In the darker moments of time spent in the arms of his love, John, for his behalf, burned with passion
Nigh lost in his fantasy, until realizing this was real, he had hovered his finger gently, barely brushing…
Gleam, pale moonlight painting Sherlock with white colours never witnessed elsewhere, for none else.
Moments passed, wordless information passed between two hearts as the teo men lingered in bed.
Offering them a peaceful morning, time for themselves, for each other, to absorb and dwell, to
Leave the world behind for the sake of chemistry, the pheromones mingling, tingling on delicate skins.
Evermore, the present stretched, time itself dragging behind to allow them to live in a reality where
Streets weren't bustling with people, all wanting them something, phones nonexistent, no crime. Only.
The slow reach of Sherlock's hand to slide over John's arm, inviting him closer, safer, nestling together
Erupting the bottled up need which had possessed them, suddenly as love.
Right here, legs tangled, hard for each other, the perfect balance of peace and raging war.