A/N Tralalala~

Thanks to Hummingbird1759, ThisDayWillPass

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

XXXIV. Stars

"They really are beautiful."

Sherlock's voice is wondering, and it reflects his emotions—absolute amazement at the words coming out of his own mouth, and more so their complete validity. It's true—the stars splayed across the night sky are, by all definition, gorgeous. They spill across the silken black expanse like a silver veil, thick in some places and sparse and others, glittering coldly and distantly and playing out hundreds of constellations, all of which Sherlock can observe but none of which he can identify.

"Even more so when you realize what they are," John agrees softly from beside him. His quiet voice doesn't disturb the celestial perfection, but rather adds to it, somehow renders it even more enjoyable. "Suns—loads of them have got planets revolving around them, planets like this, and they're so far away… chances are that some of those planets have life on them at least as developed as us…"

"Don't mix up reality and fiction," Sherlock growls softly, but, though he doesn't say it, he himself is rather taken in by the thought. Life, at least as developed as us. Civilizations, perhaps, legions of intelligent beings, just waiting to be discovered… not that they will be, in his lifetime or any nearby one, but perhaps someday. It's odd—he's not used to appreciating things in the abstract, but doing so is calming somehow, refreshes his mind like a spritz of cool water. Appreciating things solely for their beauty… he's unfamiliar with it, but he likes it, it really does feel good.

And it's all John's fault, too. John's fault for dragging him outside of the flat tonight, insisting It's a clear night, the stars are out—just trust me on this. The street is silent now, the air crisp but not quite icy, just barely misting up where Sherlock's breath touches it. John didn't give him time to so much as pull on his coat, meaning that the chill soaks easily through the thin arms of his white shirt, causing goosebumps to rise up on his pale skin. He doesn't mind, though—he's too consumed by the stars, which seem to hum with a special sort of silence, deep and almost sacred somehow. In this moment, he can understand people and their stupid belief in magic, in love—two things equally foreign to Sherlock Holmes, but two things that seem utterly accessible right now, bathed in the cold of the winter and the glow of the stars.

"Thank you," he says softly, after a few more seconds of speechlessness. "For bringing me out here… it… it's gorgeous."

"You don't sound like yourself," John murmurs in an almost humorous way, looking up towards him. Sherlock doesn't turn to meet his gaze, even though he feels it—he's too busy drinking in the starlight.

"I don't feel like myself," he replies honestly.

"Mm… I like you this way," John whispers, brushing up against his shoulders, and Sherlock smiles, a tiny gesture that renders his face just as lovely as the skies.