Chin
John
John watched as Sherlock prattled on about the case, fully aware that he was meant to be paying attention but too hypnotised by the slow calculated movement of his flatmate's jaw. His fingers tingled with the desire to reach out and touch that soft, white skin; would it be as cold as it looked?
A pale digit tapped the chin and moved upwards drawing John's eyes with it. He gulped; he'd been caught!
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Sherlock
He's been having nightmares again, Sherlock thought as John strolled past into the kitchen.
He would have known even if he hadn't heard his gasping breaths over the past few nights, the stubble was a dead giveaway. That faint smattering of golden hair, a strange sight on the usually well-groomed ex-soldier, was only present when John wasn't sleeping properly.
Sherlock reached for John's wrists as he passed again but stopped just before he made contact, unsure of what he was supposed to say. His friend continued on oblivious as Sherlock decided to grab his violin instead, more at ease with the strings and bow than the rough state of his friend's chin.