Long, thin, pale fingers rest laced, webbed with another's, the afterglow of the burst of their supernova not reaching the white velvet of the skin on Sherlock's hands, while John radiates, shines from head to toe.
Between consciousness, that grey area where reality has become meaningless, Sherlock leans closer, not letting go of John, and brushes his nose against John's ear. The soft growl coming from deep within Sherlock's throat makes heat run up Johns neck; "Nothing but strangers in space. Nothing but a moment linking to a moment. Look at our hands. This velvet web. An inferno, John. Us."