Sherlock had managed two hours sleep before he was woken up because his arm had gone numb. For the briefest of moments whilst the part of Sherlock's brain that could be considered normal was still in charge he thought he might have had a Stroke. Then the analytical part of his brain kicked back in and he realised he had lost all the feeling in his arm because John Watson had been sleeping on it. John was heavier than he looked.
Very carefully he slipped his dead arm out from behind John's back, flexing fingers that seemed to be made of Play-doh in the hope of getting the circulation back some time in the near future. John carried on sleeping, a peaceful expression smoothed across his face. Even more carefully he stood up, letting John move backwards until he was resting against the arm of the sofa. Sherlock moved silently away, as John burrowed up against the cushions, probably wondering where the warmth had gone.
It was nearly six in the morning. The Stars had been replaced with the glorious boiling pink and orange flames that heralded the dawn. The buildings of the city were glowing and the streets were beginning to fill with cars, people, the early morning crowds. Sherlock couldn't remember how many times he had watched this. Each and every time looking down from his window and seeing everything. Being able to look at the city coming to life and from the briefest of glances, knowing what was going to happen, as though the city and Sherlock Holmes were joined together. This was his moment, his own private ceremony; the dawn was for him alone. But he suddenly felt an overwhelming urge to show John. Because maybe John would understand?
Part of him hated to wake him. But part of him couldn't do anything else.
"John?" He shook his shoulder gently.
"Uh?"
"John, wake up."
"Eh?" He buried himself deeper into the sofa.
"John. Please wake up. In need to show you something." John suddenly sat upright. Sherlock only just managed to avoid getting a mouthful of the top of John's head.
"What's the matter?" John had swung off the sofa. Ready for action.
"I wanted to show you... Look out of the window." Sherlock was feeling slightly foolish now, an emotion that was a rare visitor to planet Holmes.
John padded over to the window, stretching the stiffness from his muscles as he walked. He looked out of the window. There was silence. He didn't move. Sherlock couldn't even be sure either of them was still breathing.
John turned from the window, a huge smile on his face. A face that the fingers of dawn, Sherlock's dawn, were gently stroking.
"That's amazing. Brilliant!" he turned back to the window and the burning city.
They stood side by side, silently watching. Silently sharing. Eventually John turned slightly and looked up at the taller man.
"Sherlock? It really is all fine. Really." And then he turned his attention back to the window and the waking of the sleeping city.
