Sunlight came pouring in through the window, soft and bright. Puffs of dust meandered through the beams, making their way to some unknown destination. The linen fibers of the half-drawn shades were illuminated, a hazy glow diffused around the edges. The dawn made everything golden, ethereal, heavenly. A steady warmth radiated from the light, banishing the chilled midnight shadows.

Sherlock squinted through the early morning brightness, allowing himself several moments of uninterrupted quiet. He wiggled his toes in the rays of sun, shadows dancing along the baseboard. Each movement roused another part of his brain, another portion of his body. Slowly he strummed his fingers along the carpet beneath him. Focused on this moment, regulating his breathing, his chest rose and fell in steady rhythm with his heartbeat. His bare skin relished the kiss of heat emanating from the captured sunlight in the room. Sherlock found the stagnancy surprisingly acceptable in this rare moment of blissful peace.

He allowed himself to listen to the increasing silence. Each miniscule sound seemed to echo in the early morning stillness. His solid heartbeat, the blood coursing through his veins, dust drifting to and fro, far-off cab horns, cathedral bells clanging out a wake-up call, a small bird chirping in a nearby bush. Lazily, he opened his eyes fully, optic nerves twitching in the bright light of day. He could count the specks floating above his nose, see the small cracks in the ceiling. Moving only his eyes, he examined his surroundings once again. Lucid, in daylight, it was just as he had remembered it. Warm, inviting, spacious yet still somehow cozy. A grand open floor plan that he had preferred to one with walls that would only serve to separate he and his flatmate.

The reverie was broken by a single ragged breath beside him. A small smile perched itself upon Sherlock's lips. Moving slightly, he was suddenly aware of the legs that had been intertwined with his own. Their warm weight was not at all unpleasant on his naked flesh. Sherlock stilled, inhaling deeply in preparation. Turning his head to the left, Sherlock expelled the lungful of air in ardent wonder of the being laying next to him.

"Oh, my doctor, I've been dying without you"

John Hamish Watson was the most singularly breathtaking creature Sherlock Holmes had ever laid eyes on. If Sherlock hadn't feared waking his subject, he would gladly trace the dips and curves, the seams and peaks, the shadows and highlights on John's body. Unable to coerce his hands to touch the sleeping doctor, Sherlock resigned to memorize John's features as he laid beside him, alight with the clear morning sun. Burnished strands of blonde hair stuck out at odd angles, a testament to the events of the evening prior. Paper-thin eyelids covered the ever-searching blue eyes that, once opened, would burn brightly with truth, searing through all of Sherlock's layers right down to his soul. Pale lips, parted by slumbered breath, twitched slightly. A day's worth of stubble covered his jaw, his chin, his upper lip. The near-translucent wisps of blonde hair that spread over his extremities shimmered in the morning gleam. Curly tufts of chest hair danced in the glow, softening the hard definition of pectoral and abdomen muscles. Soft beige flesh covered sinew, lean muscle, and solid bone. Conscious of his own body's response to this examination, Sherlock debated on continuing.

Passion outweighed logic, tugging his attention to the very part of John that would bring the detective to his knees without a deduction or explanation. Dense blonde curls surrounded the base, contained only by John's meticulous diligence to hygiene. Satin-soft skin sheathed John's manhood, delicate shades of pinks and purples interwoven along the shaft. The blunt, wide head balanced out the thick root, its continuity ending only where it split to spill the devious results of pleasure. Sherlock felt wanton and voyeuristic, appraising John like this for his memories. His own cock rested heavily along his stomach, twitching as he allowed one last glace at John's delicious body. He wasn't sure how long he had been laying there, but he felt certain his reprieve from last night would soon come crashing through his veil, crumbling any pretenses he had in the beginning. He gave a deep sigh, languidly extracting himself from John's legs in an attempt to stand. He quickly snatched up his t-shirt and jeans from the day before, dragging them on in haste. John stirred, and Sherlock prepared himself with a neutral position in his chair, gazing at the empty fireplace.

John groaned, then swore loudly as he rolled over onto his stomach. John raised himself on all fours, gingerly kneeling on the carpet, leaning back on his heels. Sherlock restrained himself from making any snide remarks. Silence was going to be his ally this morning. John gathered the remaining blanket around himself, rising like a timid, faltering phoenix from the proverbial ash. His taut frame stretched, some of the stiffness ebbing away. He halted his movements, gazing around his feet for some unknown article of clothing or personal item. His gaze moved up from the floor to the spaces around him. He seemed to be inspecting the flat, just as Sherlock had done minutes before. His eyes seemed void of recognition, however.

Sherlock was vaguely aware he had not stopped staring at John since John first moved. He tore himself away from the spectacle, placing his interest in a volume of literature that had been tossed onto the coffee table. Ford Maddox Ford. Surely this isn't what you've been reduced to doctor? Tsk. Sherlock flipped open to a page near the middle and began skimming over some story of unrequited love, mistresses and government. He promptly ignored John's sporadic sighs and feet shuffling. His gut clenched in anxiety, an uncomfortably foreign feeling he wished would disappear. Only John ever gave him these psychosomatic issues, which annoyed Sherlock because he actually found it endearing. Only John. He began humming while he continued to thumb through he pages of this melodrama he had picked up.

John finally turned about-face towards Sherlock, slack-jawed and lost. He looked helpless, defeated by emotions and a rather large quilt. Acquiescing to Sherlock's embargo on conversation, John stumbled to the chair across from Sherlock's. Unceremoniously he fell backward onto the seat, huffing as his body weight collapse around him. The blue eyes that scorched Sherlock's soul squinted in confusion. Unable to contain himself any longer, Sherlock broke the silence.

"Feeling well, Dr. Watson?" Sherlock heard the tinge of laughter in his own voice. Internally he reminded himself that this was the man he loved, the man he lived and almost died for. The man who, against all odds, had not kicked Sherlock out of the flat last night. He deserved a bloody medal, not mocking judgment. Tilting his head to the side in a show of earnest concern, Sherlock warmed his voice.

"John, how're you feeling? Are you o-okay?"

For the first time since they both awoke, their eyes met. The hot coals of desire burned in Sherlock's abdomen as he stared unwaveringly into John's weary blue eyes. He felt his cheeks flush as love unfurled like a crimson banner over his cheekbones. Longing to feel John's hands upon him, Sherlock felt his skin tingle and his cock harden in anticipation. He knew he would have to stow his lust, he knew John would need time to talk and rationalize and accept this new reality. He could wait. He had waited too long before, but this time Sherlock knew the words to say whenever John gave him the opportunity. He could wait.


John blinked, once, twice. He needed clarity, he needed answers, he needed something to make sense. He was standing in the middle of his flat. Covered in only a large quilt. Staring at Sherlock Holmes. Flashes of the night before flicked through his mind, and he scrambled for the words to say. He shuffled his feet, wincing at the sudden pain. Oh, oh my. Dammit that's going to make things uncomfortable. John took the brief repose from thinking to simply look at Sherlock.

Bloody Christ he's just a beautiful as I remembered. And he was. Like Adonis embodied, sitting in the armchair paging through some novel John had tried to read a few months after Sherlock's fall. His chestnut brown curls had grown longer in the months he'd been away, curling down around his earlobes and the base of his neck. Sherlock had kept his smooth, pale skin virginal, no trace of tan lines to be seen. Jeans and a cotton t-shirt were new additions to a wardrobe that previously consisted of suits and scarves. The t-shirt was fitted, accenting the sharp planes of Sherlock's shoulders, the rounded biceps and sculpted pectorals. The jeans were a delightful bootcut that made his ass perfect, accentuated his long legs, and held his slender waist in place. John was surprisingly pleased with the look. Sherlock's body had slightly more mass to it than John remembered; soft fleshy bits that covers the ever-present lean musculature. He always thought Sherlock was a bit too skinny, a bit too slender for his own good, and now the softer parts of the detective sent pleasure signals directly to John Watson's cock. He was having a difficult time repressing the images from last night, and with shaky knees he hobbled over to the armchair opposite Sherlock. Shamelessly he fell into the chair, heavy-lidded with lust and overwhelmed with confusion. Sherlock asked him rather snidely if he was feeling well; John wasn't inclined to answer.

A warm, concerned baritone coaxed his wounded emotions to life. "John, are you o-okay?"

He balked as his eyes met the clear aquamarine stare. He almost came right there in the quilt. All the breath had escaped him, and his only response was a painfully slow nod. His mouth was dry, his tongue wide and flat and useless. He licked his lips in vain to supply some relief. He knew he had to speak to Sherlock, to hash out what had happened last night. But what had happened last night? What is there to discuss John? You know how you feel about this insane, insufferable man before you. What could you possibly need to say now in light of all that's happened? John shook his head, knocking the thoughts away. He fisted the quilt in his hands, tucked his feet under the edge of the armchair, and cleared his throat. Now or never big guy.

"Sherlock, we need to talk about last night".