John lay still, the trapped breath and strained hearing an old reflex from the army. In Afghanistan, it might have been something critical that woke him – incoming wounded that meant he was in for a bomb blast, gunfire, a midnight shift in surgery.
Drunk and raucous soldiers had been equally as likely, of course, but there was none of that here.
The flat was silent, the night wrapped around him so securely that he might have been in the middle of a desert rather than the heart of London; sounds from the city didn't make it up here unless he was on the balcony or the windows were open – something they were decidedly not in an unusually chilly late December.
He exhaled slowly, realizing he was holding his breath only when the dull ache in his chest warned him he needed more oxygen. An answering breath ghosted across his skin at his shoulder, the only other sound in the otherwise still flat.
Sherlock's breathing was deep and rhythmic, undisturbed by whatever had shaken John from sleep. The doctor listened carefully for a few moments; Sherlock was adept at feigning sleep but rarely used it against John. Especially at this hour. If he weren't asleep, he'd more likely be up and working than lounging in bed, pretending to sleep for his sleeping partner's benefit.
It must have been a dream, John decided, or nothing at all. Too close to the surface of some sleep cycle, maybe. He didn't feel jarred or unsettled, just awake.
It was too dark to see anything – the blackout blinds Sherlock had always used saw to that, and no light crept in from underneath the bedroom door. In the living room, the lights on the tree would flicker on, casting a warm red-and-gold glow across the room, but not until the timer hit six in the morning.
At the moment, John was the only thing stirring in the flat.
It was a pity he couldn't see – he was so rarely awake when Sherlock was asleep, and watching the unconscious ease on Sherlock's features was something John enjoyed immensely.
But there were other benefits to being Sherlock's partner (many of them, John thought with a quirk of his lips), including the fact that Sherlock loved to experiment with sensation and had a particular fondness for blindfolding John and making him use his other senses.
John might not be able to see, but he could feel.
The steady brush of breath on his bare skin was only part of it – Sherlock was asleep on his side, one hand resting lightly against John's ribs, the ridges of his knuckles making tiny dimples of warmth. One long leg was hooked over John's at the knee, the top of Sherlock's foot pressing against the sole of John's. The silk pyjama bottoms were warm but Sherlock's foot was (of course) cold.
John closed his eyes, focusing on the points of contact between himself and his partner. Unconsciously, his breathing matched Sherlock's, a slow pattern that made him comfortable but not drowsy. By rights, it should have put him to sleep but he was too alert and enjoying the sensations too much to want to succumb.
He could smell Sherlock too – a combination of scents he rarely took the time to break down anymore: expensive shampoo, mostly faded, leaving only the faintest trace of something sharp and spicy, the dull, warm smell of another body next to him, mixed up with the lingering hint of lavender from freshly washed sheets. It smelled of home and comfort, a tiny oasis of peace in their normally hectic lives.
John wondered if Sherlock would taste just as warm right now, or if he'd be able to catch long-gone traces of the wine they'd had with dinner on his partner's lips and tongue.
Sherlock stirred and John caught his breath again, stilling his thoughts as if they could have disturbed his partner. He could feel the tickle of breath against his jaw and cheek now, and Sherlock's hand twitched against John's side, his arm snaking out to cover John's bare waist. Sherlock's fingers curled, thumb tracing a faint line across John's skin, before settling again.
John waited a long moment, counting Sherlock's slow inhalations and exhalations, then laced his fingers through his partner's lightly, turning small circles in Sherlock's palm with his thumb. Sherlock hummed, a small, contented sound, shifting slightly closer to John in his sleep.
John smiled, turning his face toward his partner's, feeling the breath on his lips and nose now. Moving ever so slightly let him rest their foreheads together, an errant curl prickling slightly. Sherlock sighed again, and John kept himself still but relaxed, conscious that any more movement might disturb his partner enough that Sherlock would roll away, bundling himself under the duvet as a defense against being bothered.
When John was sure Sherlock had slipped back into a deeper sleep, he let go of his partner's hand, moving to stroke the thin skin on the inside of Sherlock's wrist, keeping his touch so light it was almost not there.
The goose bumps that sprang up on his partner's skin caused the same reaction on his own, and John felt a dull thrum of warmth settle in his stomach, one that had nothing to do with being curled up under a downy duvet with another person next to him. He shut his eyes, trying to breathe the sensation away.
No, he told himself, not harshly. It was tempting, but sleep was something that Sherlock never got in large enough quantities, and John forced a resoluteness not to disturb his partner now.
He could be content to lie here in the warm darkness, having this small, private moment, enjoying Sherlock just as he was, without waking him up or asking for more.
You'll be back asleep soon enough anyway, John thought.
In the darkness, John turned his attention back to what he could feel; the warmth of Sherlock's hand where it met his own skin, the fine hairs of the back of that hand, the way skin crinkled and coarsened slightly at the knuckles before smoothing back out.
He loved Sherlock's fingers, and chided himself gently for not taking the time to appreciate them properly. A faint smile twitched on John's lips as he swallowed a chuckle; he regularly had very good reasons to really appreciate Sherlock's fingers and what they could do – it wasn't just the violin that his partner could play so expertly or with such finesse.
Shameless, John thought, another chuckle humming through his chest, making his grin grow wider, if only because Sherlock had accused him of the same thing more than once, his caramel-rich baritone deliberately dropped down an octave to take advantage of the way that tore apart John's self-control.
Really, he'd been in the army.
He ought to be better behaved.
But, John had to admit to himself, he was shameless, especially when it came to Sherlock. And Sherlock was shameless at exploiting that particular weakness.
Not that John ever really minded. It was hard to mind, when Sherlock was also so very good at turning that weakness into shuddering pleasure.
You're not helping here, John told himself firmly, smirking faintly in the darkness. As it was, he was surprised his body temperature or pulse hadn't jumped enough to wake his partner.
John sighed gently, close enough to his partner that he felt his own breath come back to him, brushing his lips.
He really should let Sherlock sleep. It would be selfish of him not to – the doctor in him would always be a touch concerned by how little his partner slept, despite the years of evidence that had proven to John that it wasn't a problem.
Then again, it could be argued that keeping a moment like this to himself was selfish, too.
John exhaled another slow sigh, wondering if he'd ever had any will power at all and, if so, where it had gone. Sherlock seemed to have dismantled that as expertly as he'd done away with rest of John's inhibitions, and the doubts he'd had about the whole thing in the beginning.
That seemed so long ago now, and so alien.
In a way, he supposed it was. Sherlock had turned his life upside down so entirely it still took him by surprise, and it was difficult – some days – to reconcile Bastion or the bedsit with the sprawling flat in the City that had so easily become home.
Beside him, Sherlock sighed in his sleep, stretching his long body gently before settling again with a contented hum. John let the moment pass, aware of the way his heart rate picked up when Sherlock's leg shifted to cover his more fully, when his partner's hand slipped down to rest against the elastic waistband of his pyjama pants.
It had probably been a losing battle since he'd woken up, John realized with a small, wry smile.
But he could probably count on both hands how many times he'd actually won out against Sherlock Holmes.
John closed his eyes, taking another moment to appreciate the stillness, the faint brush of breath on his skin, all the warm places of contact. He didn't feel rushed, just aware that his intentions not to wake Sherlock, while good, were futile. Left to his own devices, Sherlock would have woken sooner than most people anyway, but John could admit it wasn't soon enough for him.
He tipped his head slightly, hardly having to move at all, touching their lips together gently, still barely moving. Sherlock was still for a long moment, and John was ready to back off completely – a kiss was one thing, and he knew Sherlock had generous personal limits when it came to consent with John, but he wasn't about to do anything he'd consider crossing a line.
It might have been because of his hesitation, or just a sleeping mind playing catch up, but John felt Sherlock's lips move in response, the contact still light and tenuous. A sigh breezed between them when John broke the kiss, barely pulling away, and he felt the flutter of long eyelashes against his cheek, accompanied by a soft, sleepy hum.
Sherlock stretched, the hand on John's waist tightening slightly to pull them closer together, nosing John's cheek gently.
"You're awake early," his partner murmured, voice still thick and warm with sleep.
"Mm-hmm," John replied, raising a hand to card through Sherlock's sleep-rumbled curls before tracing his fingers down Sherlock's jaw to his chin, pulling him into another kiss.
Sherlock returned it, keeping it as light as John was, and the doctor thought he could taste a faint trace of wine on his partner's lips. It was probably only his imagination, but he was happy to indulge himself.
"Any particular reason?" Sherlock asked when they pulled apart, still close enough that it almost didn't count.
"It's Christmas," John replied.
"Mm," Sherlock sighed, stretching again, hooking his leg over John's opposite knee, coaxing him – willingly – onto his side. "So it is."
"I wanted an early present."
"Greedy," Sherlock commented, thumb turning circles on the small of John's back.
"Bit of a role reversal then," John said, feeling Sherlock's lips twitch.
"Not entirely," his partner replied. "Your greed is just more confined to certain aspects of your life. And less public than mine."
"Well," John said, snaking his arm around Sherlock's waist to trace his fingers up and down his partner's spine, "it's definitely not public in here."
"No indeed," Sherlock murmured, kissing John again. He felt the tip of a tongue against his lower lip and parted his lips obligingly, letting Sherlock deepen the kiss. Without really thinking, John shifted closer, fitting them more snugly together through long-practiced habit.
A faint shudder passed through him when Sherlock tugged lightly on his lower lip, the brief bite of his teeth so gentle it was barely there. John hummed approvingly, feeling the answering tug of a smile on Sherlock's lips. It faded when John deepened the kiss gently, Sherlock's fingers tightening on John's back.
John pulled away, tracing his thumb down Sherlock's jaw again, then across his lips, feeling their faint swelling. Sherlock kissed the pad of John's thumb, making the doctor chuckle quietly when he felt the tip of his partner's tongue flicker against his skin.
He kissed Sherlock again, gently, keeping them there, unhurried in the warm darkness. John wasn't alone in the way his body was reacting – he could guess at the increased heart rate by the faint stirring in Sherlock's groin, and if he'd wanted to take it further, he'd have slipped a thigh between those long legs, giving Sherlock some friction.
But they had the whole day ahead of them just to themselves; Sherlock had deliberately scheduled family obligations for Boxing Day, and Harry had taken their mother on a Christmas holiday somewhere warm, freeing John from a trip to the suburbs.
The idea of an uninterrupted day with Sherlock made John smile into their kiss; Sherlock hummed in approval, fingers trailing up and down John's spine.
"This is a good Christmas gift," John murmured when they broke apart, noses still touching, Sherlock's breath warm against his lips.
"Mm," his partner sighed, snuggling even closer to him. "There will be others."
"I look forward to them," John replied, and felt Sherlock smile in the darkness.
"As do I," Sherlock murmured. He paused, then kissed John again lightly, lips lingering. "Merry Christmas, John."
John smiled, giving Sherlock a last, quick kiss before he settled down, feeling sleep creeping back into his mind and muscles.
"Merry Christmas, Sherlock."