Autumn was warm and only a little bit rainy. The golden glow of the sun rested on the colourful leaves, a gentle wind blowing them off the trees and making them dance and swirl playfully in the air.

John opened his eyes lazily, seeing raindrops hit and then flow down the windowpanes, and damp, gold leaves stuck to the glass. His half-conscious mind instinctively headed to London, but then, as he fully woke up, he saw the narrow rooftops behind the window, and paintbrushes scattered on the windowsill.

The bed felt empty, so he rolled onto his stomach and propped himself on his elbows, looking around the atelier. Sherlock was sitting on the floor, curled in front of a canvas, with one paintbrush in his hand, and another stuck behind his ear. John looked at him for several minutes without saying anything. Sherlock's dark curls fell in front of his eyes, he bit at his lower lip, his fingers already dirty with paint. John thought that he was enchantingly beautiful like this.

"Why aren't you in bed with me?" John asked eventually.
"You seemed to have dozed off right after…," Sherlock smirked, not looking away from the canvas, "I got a bit bored. It's still early so I thought I could paint something. The light is good."

John crawled out of bed, wrapping the sheet around his naked body, and sat next to Sherlock on the floor.
"Something?" he said, looking at the painting, "it's me," he added with amusement, "so now you're not only staring at me when I sleep, but you also paint me like this?"
"Well… I liked how you looked. Besides, I still can't get over the one I had to sell," Sherlock explained, finally glancing at John.

John took a paintbrush from behind Sherlock's ear, dipped it in paint, and began to paint short, thin lines, narrowing his eyes with focus.
"Honestly, Sherlock, you have to be more realistic" John chuckled softly, "I have much more wrinkles around my mouth."
Sherlock let out a breathy laugh and put away his own paintbrush, taking hold of John's hand. He wrapped his fingers tenderly around John's and led his palm to smear the paint lightly on the canvas.
"Remember, John, a gentle movement of the wrist," the painter instructed as their joined hands moved slowly in unison.
"This one is actually pretty good", John smiled warmly, "maybe this time we will make it into the Louvre."

Sherlock looked away from the painting to gaze at John. He marvelled at how the other man's face lightened up, his eyes smiling along with his mouth, as always when they were painting together. Then he looked up, above John's head, to see the purplish shade of the evening sky through the window. He thought that somewhere out there, hidden behind the never-ending roofs of Paris, is the Louvre, and he honestly couldn't care less. He looked back at John, loosening his grip on his hand, letting him lead.

"I like what you did with the light here," John waved his other hand, gesturing towards the painting, "It looks so soft, I love it." He turned his head to look at Sherlock, their eyes met, "I love you."
Sherlock leaned in and pressed their lips together, tilting his head slightly. John felt Sherlock's fingers tightening around his own as they kissed, nipping lazily at each other's parted lips, breathing hotly into each other mouths.
"I love you too," Sherlock whispered when the kiss broke; and then he realized, with more than just a little surprise, that there are things that matter even more than art.

They were sitting like this for hours. Sun has set, and it got colder, so John settled himself behind Sherlock, and wrapped the sheet around the both of them. Leading each other's hands they were painting until the last candle burnt out, and the atelier sank into the soft darkness of a starry Parisian night.

THE END

oh my God, this is it.
the end of the story.

it's such a good feeling to have it complete, but i will also miss it greatly.
i fell in love with this universe...

thank you for reading, i hope you enjoyed it, as this fic has become my precious baby 3

okay. the end.

*cries*