The night air is cool, filtering in through the open window. The light breeze causes the curtains to flutter and allows the golden glow of street lamps to penetrate the otherwise complete darkness of the room. Beside him, John is sleeping deeply, curled up on his side, right arm dangling over the edge of the bed. Sherlock observes him in the soft light: sees the creases on his forehead and around his eyes; sees his eyelashes flickering against his face; sees the way his sandy hair is still damp from his shower earlier, and the way it's sticking up in odd directions.
He feels a tightening in his chest and rubs his hand absently over the place where he knows his heart is. The love and affection he feels for this man is almost overwhelming, and Sherlock would no doubt have locked it away inside his mind palace, only to be dwelled on during his most private moments of introspection had John not been...well, John. Because John, oh John (and his name spills from Sherlock's lips like a sigh of contentment), John is just as terrified as Sherlock. And knowing that simple fact somehow makes everything a bit more bearable. John is scared, and Sherlock is scared, but they can be scared together: they can navigate this uncharted territory together the way they always have. Firstly as flatmates and colleagues, then as friends, and now...something so extraordinarily exquisite it's almost undefinable. It's a relationship; they do all the things people in relationships do, and yet it's so much more. Sherlock's tongue hesitates over the word soulmate. He's not sure he believes in such a thing, but isn't it true that no one has captivated his attention the way John does? Isn't it true that he's never desired all the things he does with John with anyone else? That surely must mean something...
Sherlock is so lost in his thoughts of John and love and fate that he isn't aware that John is awake until he speaks.
"Sherlock? You okay?"
He glances down and sees John's heavy-lidded eyes tinged with concern staring back at him. He realises that he has been sitting up for a good few hours and that his back is starting to ache.
"Yes. Just thinking." He slips under the heavy down duvet and rolls over onto his side to face John.
"What about?" John reaches out and trails his fingers over Sherlock's bare shoulder.
"You. Us. Nothing bad." Sherlock notes the way John's mouth quirks slightly at the corners at his words and is overcome with a sudden impulse to kiss him.
John's lips are soft, and his mouth is impossibly warm and inviting. Sherlock kisses him slowly, deeply, trying to convey the words he cannot say. It seems John understands him, as he slides a hand into Sherlock's hair and attempts to pull him closer. Sherlock is only too happy to oblige.
They kiss until they are breathless, and even when they pull apart they stay close, breathing each other's air. There's still a tightness in Sherlock's chest, and he wonders if John feels it too. He knows the answer when John slides his hand over Sherlock's bare chest and leaves it spread over his heart, feeling the steady beat that reminds them both that they are alive. Sherlock moves his hand to rest on top of John's and finds himself powerless to look away from him, his eyes wide and expression open and trusting.
John smiles softly. "I know, Sherlock. I know."