What time is it now? Sherlock wonders. He's been passed out since two o'clock in the afternoon, when he flopped down on the couch to think. It's dark outside now, and it's dark in the flat, too. He runs his tongue over his teeth. They feel fuzzy, and his mouth tastes sour. He sits up and runs his fingers through his hair, and few pieces of lint float down to the floor. Time for a shower, definitely. He stands up and wanders to the kitchen in search of John. John, he realizes, isn't home. Sherlock sighs deeply. These days, he hates waking up alone. Why wake up alone when he could wake up to John?

He stares blankly at the tea kettle for a moment, but decides against it. He doesn't feel like making tea. Too much effort. He picks up his phone from the table, and frowns when he realizes that it's dead. He looks up at the clock on the wall, and is almost surprised to find that it's close to nine-thirty. Five and a half hours? Really? Sherlock snorts. That's one of the longest naps he's ever had while on a case. Well, not that this case is particularly difficult. Someone had trespassed into Fitton airfield in the middle of the night and broke into a small plane, stealing a few documents and some money left on board and then breaking into the captain's office and vandalizing it. It was the CEO of the airline's ex-husband, Sherlock knows. Dull. Maybe I should get around to telling Lestrade. He doesn't understand why the flustered woman even consulted him in the first place. It didn't take a genius, Sherlock thinks, to figure out who had done that to her plane. If anything, the case was a three on the scale of one to ten.

He walks over to the window and pulls the curtain back. He peers out into the orange lamplight of the street, and wonders for a moment where John could be. He ignores the part of his brain that tries to scold him about sentiment and why he shouldn't feel it. This is the second time he's woken up without John, and he doesn't like it. He plugs in his phone, and when the battery charges enough for him to turn it on, he finds three missed calls and seven new text messages. Two of the calls are from Lestrade, probably wondering how the case is coming along. The other call is from John. Sherlock wonders if John left a voicemail. One of the text messages is from Lestrade, the other two are from John, three are from potential clients that Sherlock decides to ignore, and the last one if from a blocked number, which Sherlock also ignores. Lestrade's messages aren't interesting, and Sherlock deletes them without reading them all the way through. He stops and reads John's a few times.

I'm going out. Getting groceries. -JW

I got called into work. They need me in the emergency room. I might be back very late. Dropped off the shopping in the kitchen quick, but you were sleeping. Could you put them away please? -JW

Sherlock doesn't delete John's messages.

Completely out of boredom, Sherlock puts away the groceries: celery (dull), tomatoes (yuck), tea, jam, milk (boring), and a box of Arrowroot biscuits (finally, something good). He even makes sure he puts the vegetables in the crisper, well away from the severed forearm sitting on the bottom shelf. He should really get around to experimenting with that, before he has to get rid of it. Eventually, he calls Lestrade and tells him about the Fitton airfield case, and when he hangs up, he tosses his phone at the Chesterfield and sighs dramatically. There's nothing to do, and John's not here.

When John finally does come home, two hours and a nicotine patch later, he looks absolutely drained. The bags under his eyes are like shadows, and he slips out of his shoes and hangs up his coat with an air of exhaustion. He rolls his shoulders, and stretches his back. His back cracks loudly.

"Long shift," Sherlock notes. "Everybody picked a good day to have an emergency?"

"Not even funny, Sherlock."

"I'm sorry."

For a moment, Sherlock thinks John looks surprised at the two words.

"Your back and shoulders," Sherlock says. "They're sore. Am I right?"

John nods.

"Do you want me to help with that?"

"Help with that, as in a massage?" John asks. Sherlock can pick up the hopeful tone in the man's voice, even though it is barely there.

"You can lay down on my bed."

Sherlock starts by rubbing a little olive oil between his palms. He places one hand on the warm skin of John's tailbone, and the other hand rests between the shoulder blades. Slowly, he rubs the oil over John's back, and works it into his skin. He picks up John's undershirt and jumper, which are beside him on the sheet, and tosses them on the floor. This jumper isn't as ugly as the others; it would be a shame to get oil on it. Sherlock straddles John and sits as lightly as he can on the back of the man's thighs. John shifts underneath him slightly, and emits a little sigh. He likes it, Sherlock can tell.

Once he spreads the oil nicely over the skin, Sherlock uses his fingers to trace lines and patterns across John's shoulder blades. He draws out the water molecule, and then the more complicated Oxytocin molecule. John seems to like it. Then, Sherlock starts to map out the streets of London over John's entire back. He marks Baker Street with the firm pressure of his thumbs, and then plants a kiss where 221B is. John takes in a deep breath. Sherlock lets the corners of his mouth turn up. He presses his lips against a warm shoulder, and another one on the back of John's neck. John moans quietly beneath him.

"You are amazing," John whispers. A strange, warm feeling flares up in Sherlock's stomach.

"Thank you," he whispers. He didn't mean to say it. He wanted to say "I know", but when he opened his mouth, the other words came out instead. John takes a deep breath, holds it for a moment, and slowly lets it go. Sherlock makes circles with his fingertips over John's ribcage. John turns his head to the side, and closes his eyes. Sherlock watches his peaceful expression, and he can't stop the smile that comes over his face. Beautiful. The word floats into his Mind Palace, and rests there. John Watson, you are beautiful. He says it out loud. John opens his eyes.

"Sherlock," he says, half-whispering.

Not good, Sherlock expects to hear next.

"Come here. Lay down with me."

A better alternative, Sherlock thinks with an internal grin.

Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, and drops it on the ground next to John's jumper. He lays down next to him so they face each other. John reaches out a hand, and smooths it down the side of Sherlock's face. He shivers under John's touch. He's so warm. Lovely.

John's eyes look dark in the dim lighting of the bedroom. Sherlock places his hand on top of John's, and holds it there. His mind has gone silent, and he studies the outline of John's thin lips. He's kissed them before. He loves the way they feel against his own, and he wants them now, more than anything.

The kiss starts off coy and sweet, but heats up when Sherlock feels a hand running down his shoulder and across his ribs. He turns himself over until he is on top of John, and rests his elbows on either side of the pillow. He leans down and kisses John hungrily, savouring the feel of those perfect little lips and cataloguing the sensation in the back of his mind. He nips gently at John's neck, and tastes the salt on his skin. Slowly, very slowly, he leaves a trail of light kisses over his jaw and then nibbles softly at his ear. The soft groan from John travels through Sherlock's body like a ghost.

"You're perfect," John whispers. "You are so, so perfect."

Sherlock says nothing. He replies with a feather-light kiss to John's throat.

"Simply beautiful." John's words vibrate against Sherlock's lips, and Sherlock can't stop the moan rising from deep in his chest. John chuckles quietly, and tries to move. Sherlock gets off John and lays back down on the mattress.

"Turn over," John says.

"Hmm?"

"It's your turn."