Lying in their bed, the feel of John's chest under his hand, Sherlock, rather groggily, frowns in response to the frown on John's sleeping face.
His bows are creased, forming a bump between them, and Sherlock can't drag his gaze away from it, wondering what terrors his love is reliving this morning, and spares a glance at the curve of John's lips, lopsided, readable, and clenching Sherlock's heart something fierce.
John had gotten better, with time, with having something to do, with fussing about Sherlock an his experiments, his life having a meaning again, but the most buried horrors always, always emerged, eventually.
Sherlock knew he should wake John up, to draw him away from the blood and gore, death and havoc, but, in a fit of pure selfishness, decide against it. For Sherlock, John, like this, was beautiful. Something that no one else got to see, no one else weren't allowed, and it was these moments that strengthened the bond Sherlock felt tugging at him, in his core, a bond that he silently vowed he'd never break.
These moments, they existed only for him.
As would the moment when he would eventually had his fill and did wake John. Would wake him as gently as he knew how, would cherish the smile on John's face and tuck it away right next to the frown, the two expressions contrasting each other into a form of private art.
Carefully sliding his arm around John, Sherlock shifted, giving in to the urge to touch, to feel, to break the moment, and, to the urge to stick out his tongue an lick that frown away.
As lightly as he could manage, Sherlock shifted himself half on top of John, reaching his forehead, and proceeded with his actions, pink tongue darting out to give a small swipe over the (delightful, really,) crease, then looking own to see if it had any effect.
It had no such thing, so Sherlock doubled his efforts, swiping his tongue more daringly on John's skin, twice, three times, while unwittingly tightening his hold around John's chest, his fingers caressing his side at their own will.
But that anticipated smile. That tentative smile Sherlock had put on John's face right there, the one Sherlock was lucky enough to know, was a sight to behold. And John wasn't even awake yet.
This had to be remedied post-haste, as the greediness to see that smile fully formed overcame Sherlock with a pang.
That, and he missed John. His kiss. Yes, his smile, and then the shuffling around until the men were entangled in an embrace for good morning, since Sherlock had gone all night without, and any more of it simply would not do.
He gave John's forehead another, slow lick, and chuckled when John reached an arm to gather Sherlock closer, cracking his eyes open, gifting Sherlock with a grin, before wordlessly pressing his lips against Sherlock's.
It was a good morning indeed as they both could feel the other smile.