It was well into the morning when Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes; he was marginally surprised at the feel of a warm body curled up against his chest, but that was only for a moment before his brain promptly clicked into gear.
Memories of the previous night flooded back to him, and a wry smile tugged at his lips; for all that he'd always claimed the superiority of the brain over the body, he had to admit that sensual pleasures could maybe hold a candle to intellectual ones after all.
Slowly he ran a finger down her shoulder blade, his mind cataloguing every small detail provided by his senses before committing them to memory. His wife stirred in her sleep, murmured his name drowsily and shifted closer; it was only when he dropped a tentative kiss on top of her head that she finally woke up.
"Good morning," he greeted her, his tone betraying the slightest hint of vulnerability. All of this was completely new to him, and he wasn't entirely sure how to handle it.
Jane offered him a smile, then leaned forward to meet his lips.
"Good morning, darling," she said, and he was sure she meant it.