A/N: Hello again! This was a prompt I received a while back from a lovely guest reviewer by the name of WeeCheerfulAmy. Who wrote, and I quote: "... But I'd like to suggest you do one based on "John's sexy eyebrow" pleeeeeeeease! For me? :)" Sweetie, this one's for you. Not entirely sure how sexy it is, or how much it had to do with his eyebrows, but I tried, I really did. I hope you still like it. I had fun experimenting with the second person.

Also, I feel the need to point out I'm American. And I wrote this in a single draft on my phone. If I screwed up... I apologize.

For now... enjoy.

DISCLAIMER: You see those lovely characters down there? Right down there? Yeah, they aren't mine. Probably a good thing they aren't too. If they were, I'd end up killing them all in a fit of pique, most likely.

You knew he'd always loved your face.

Well, he loved everything about you, your mind especially, because even though you were an idiot you were a special sort of idiot- the type of idiot who could understand him.

He could probably list each and every single thing he lived about you, but the main thing was he loved you.

And one of the many things he loved about you was your facial expressions. A twitch of your eyebrow could demonstrate frustration, amusement, anger, happiness, sorrow. He loved that about you, how you could just look at him, and he could tell what you were thinking without you having to say anything, because every thought you had was spread out on the lines of your tanned face. You often jokingly claimed he was psychic because of how well he could read you. "No," he would respond, smiling, "You're just far too easy to read." And he was right, the mad bastard.

God, you loved him.

You were laying next to him on the bed when he turned to face you, breath soft as it brushed across your face. You smiled, enjoying its warm embrace. It smelled minty, and like tea and home, if there was such a scent. There was for you.

He smiled at you, corners of his nebulous eyes who never could settle on one colour fill with concern and worry.

You looked back, unaware of what brought on this certain outburst of affection. Not that he didn't show affection, no- in fact, he was far more affectionate than you ever expected him to be. But being affectionate didn't come naturally to him, and he often didn't show it unless he was prompted to or had a reason. Or you initiated it.

"You okay?" you ask, drawing your eyebrows in with worry. "Nothing wrong?"

"No," he says, subtle sigh after the word betraying that there was, in fact, something wrong. Or not wrong, maybe right. Maybe neither. Something was off.

"Then what is it?" you ask, inching closer to his form , even though you had already been pressed up against him. Your nose and his nose bumped together, and you could feel his eyelashes flutter against your cheek as he blinked, slowly, drinking the sight of you in.

"Nothing," he mutters.

You sigh, and let your features adopt an expression of worry and disappointment. "Sherlock, tell me what's going on."

He's silent for a moment, and then you feel his fingers begin to touch your cheek.

You relax, exhaling heavily as he explores your cheeks, runs his fingers across the line of your eyebrows, gently skimming your eyelids, tracing the thin lines of your lips. He does this sometimes, when he needs to calm down, stop his mind. You don't mind. Everyone had their own way of coping when things become too much for them, and he is no exception. You'd much rather his relief come from examining you, letting thoughts of you fill his brain, then from illicit and illegal substances that he would put in himself, leaving scars in the crook of his elbow that still remain to this day.

Sometimes, when it's nighttime and you are exploring him, in your own way, you stop and grab his elbows and kiss his scars. A reminder of what he went through before he found you, a promise that he'll never have to face anything alone again, as long as you're by his side.

You let your breathing slow down to almost nonexistent as he continues his exploration.

You are eventually raised from your reverie by him gently kissing your nose. You open your eyes slowly, smiling at him as you notice that he's dropped the fake smile, but his eyes seem more peaceful. "Better?" you ask, burying your head in his shoulder.

"Better," he breathes, a slow exhalation that lets you know that everything is actually alright.

You never find out what causes these outbursts. You think perhaps even he doesn't know- he may be a genius, but he is far from completely in touch with his emotions. You're okay with this.

You let yourself show your emotions, so he doesn't have to. You let your face guide him through the appropriate responses sometimes, and when things become too much for him, you let him soothe himself, using you as a guide. You're happy to help him.

Because, you think, as you settle into bed with him once more, letting him wrap his long, pale arms around you, dark curls brushing your face, you love him, and that's what you do for the people you love. You help them.

FIN

A/N: You see, this is the part where I shamelessly beg for reviews (and maybe even a favorite, if you liked it that much) and you (hopefully) mercifully grant them. Please review. Please.

I love you all.

Goodnight, or good morning,

Love, RainyDays-and-DayDreams