A/N: Hello, guys! This came to me at 2 a.m. after reading some sappy fanfiction. I can't be held responsible for the sentimentality that oozes from this webpage. You have been warned.
Warnings: Um, too much fluff. It might make you either squeal or run away in terror.
OoO
"En sa beauté gît ma mort et ma vie."
- Maurice Scève
In her beauty rests (both) my death and my life.
OoO
He turns to me, the barest hint of a smile on his face and a rare softness in his eyes. It makes him look warm and loving, and I lap it up like a kitten sips her cream. I memorize the feel of him, the way calloused hands wrap around my trembling wrists and his fingers stroke my pulse point soothingly. It's a rare moment, this softer side of Sherlock, and it's not one that many see. In fact, I believe I'm the only one that gets a glimpse into this facet of this being. Although usually perfection, this side punctures deep within my soul and makes my feelings well up to the surface. This man…this absolutely gorgeous and unattainable man. He is mine.
Sherlock is speaking. I listen. I always hear what he has to say, despite the current fixation of my eyes upon his lips. It just takes me a second to process the revelation in my hopelessly inferior mind. It takes a millisecond later to process this news; this is one of those moments where emotions leak into his voice and body and mind and I have to be careful or I'll ruin it. His shell, while born out of necessity, exists far too often for my tastes. I can't help it; I touch him like the delicate piece of porcelain he doesn't claim to be.
It's clear to all that we work together well: It's never 'Get Sherlock and John', but rather, 'Get Them '. But the outsiders only view a small piece of our relationship through their romanticized looking-glass. There is a Sherlock that only I know, the one that I glimpse from time to time when he's splayed out on the couch spoiling the telly programs, or the one in my bed after we've made love and all is calm and quiet and lovely. It makes the superficial put-downs, the rat-in-a-maze mental processes, so utterly worth it. I have each moment captured frame-by-frame in a version of my own Memory Palace, and I look at it when he's asleep and I'm not because sometimes, my leg actually does hurt.
I cry sometimes at night. I like to pretend that I don't, but I shed more tears sleeping than any other time. I have nightmares, memories of the war. There are recurring dreams of losing Sherlock, but they're different reasons every time. He leaves, I leave. He dies. But wait, that one actually happened. I'll awaken forcefully to a frowning face hovering over me, with a penetrating gaze piercing through my flesh-toned armor. He holds me tight as my sobs turn to gasping breaths and whimpers and hiccups. He has no words for this time; I have a book. I talk and talk until my throat is hoarse from crying and expressing everything I'm going through at that particular moment. He runs his hand through my sweat-logged hair and hums remnants of chords from some unknown symphony until I fall asleep.
I am John, but I am also Sherlock. I must look after both parties, lest the world fall into chaos and rampant idiocy. My world has died once already; the cause of my world also brought about the end of its existence. I will not doubt him. I will not leave his sight again. I will not let him leave my sight again. Finally: I will never, ever let him forget just how much I love him. I grasp his hands in mine, and I kiss the best and brightest man I'll ever know. He is my world, and he is my salvation.