I write slashy fluff because I can, and I fully believe it's a Reichenbach defense maneuver. Nothing graphic. Just pretty images and snuggles and introspection. Most likely a one-shot. S/J.

These characters are not and will not, sadly, ever be any possession of mine. They are the original creative property of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and are currently being leased to the lovely Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss.

John loved waking up before Sherlock.

It wasn't as if Sherlock didn't allow physical affection. That was about as far from the truth as you could get, even if he only indulged himself in the privacy of Baker Street or in their rare moments of solitude anywhere else. But a good, long snuggle had never been in his repertoire. Much to John's dismay.

The beauty of waking up first was just this: Sherlock could do nothing about it.

The light would seep in through the drape that hung over the only window. A single bar, the sliver of glass that the curtain had missed, would rise across the floor and eventually hit John full in the face. He'd stir. Still both floated and pinned by half-sleep, he'd roll out from under the covers, work his unsteady way over a floor still littered with discarded clothing from the night before, and yank the curtain shut.

Then, when he turned back to the bed, he'd stop.

No matter what his position was, the picture was always the same. Sherlock's leg might be bare, hooked up above the fold of the comforter. A single arm, long, slender, almost glowing in the dimmed light from the window, might be hanging off the edge of the mattress. His head might be planted in his pillow or tilted to the side or not on the pillow at all, bent at an odd angle as he lay sideways across the bed.

But it was always the same picture. Always. John's perfect picture.

He'd rolled out of bed carelessly to start simply because he hadn't been awake enough to think about it. When he returned, he was always hyper-aware of his every move. He picked up the sheets as little as possible, shifted his weight on the springs so they moved evenly. He even held his breath, as ridiculous as it was, just in case the noise alone was enough to wake Sherlock and spoil his chance.

When he was settled back in, he shifted himself as close to the warmth of Sherlock's body as caution would allow. For the first few minutes, John would grasp the opportunity to scrutinize his face.

This was the forbidden Sherlock. The Sherlock that a mask had been fashioned for, so no one could ever get a good look at him. The Sherlock only John was allowed to see.

Sherlock breathed heavily in his throat when he slept, his mouth just barely parted to let the air go. Against the sheets or against the pillow (or, when John was very lucky, against his own chest), Sherlock's face was that of a child. The knob of skin at the bridge of his nose, almost perpetually stressed in waking life, was smooth. Flawless. Even though they weren't visible, his eyes were relaxed, his brows blissfully flat. Black curls fell over his smooth forehead, against the fine line of his cheekbones. Everything was open. Unguarded.

John wondered who'd been responsible for protecting this peaceful Sherlock before he'd been around to keep watch every night.

As time wore on and Sherlock still didn't stir, John got brave. He allowed more and more of himself, first a leg, then a shoulder, then the belly, then everything else, to press gently into the contours of Sherlock's body. That type of contact was by no means unfamiliar. It was simply the context. The stillness. The quiet existence of nothing but the warmth from Sherlock and the warmth from John and the gradual inability to tell the two apart.

There were painful finds in this treasure trove, too. Yes, he got to cup a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck, entertaining himself by stroking the feathery fluffs along his hairline. But then there were also the arms he scrutinized. The way his probing doctor's fingers played over Sherlock's bird's-wing shoulder only to reach hell when they fell into the pit of his forearm.

John had the user's scars memorized by now. A different mental map for either arm. Sherlock's dark suits and long shirts always succeeded in hiding them during the day, but the thin blue causeways were always luminescent in the early morning light.

Every little ridge was another collapsed vein. Another event that simply had to be escaped. Another bored, hopeless moment. Everything that had ever been wrong with Sherlock Holmes, scrawled across his skin in permanent ink.

John received one comfort from this, and only one. He'd know if another scar was added to the family. Instantly. Without a flicker of doubt. But he never found one.

Only one other thing was memorized as clearly as this, and that was the moment.

The moment Sherlock's breathing changed and his eyes, his damn watchful, impossible to evade eyes, began to shift under their lids. John was used to it. He found himself hating it. Or rather, he hated it for the first few seconds and then, remembering the Sherlock that was coming back to him, felt the rage completely vanish.

With his last precious sleeping breaths, he'd pull in as close as the laws of physics would allow. He'd feel the shift of Sherlock's awakening eyes against his cheek. His own heart would pick up in rhythm with Sherlock's, only a few inches away and separated by nothing except skin and muscle.

That last second was used well, and always in the same way. A kiss.

He'd kiss Sherlock and just barely say the things that, even now, he couldn't bring himself to speak aloud, face-to-face. He'd kiss him, that way the words were slipped directly into his lungs.

Thank you.

Thank you for being real.

Thank you for being here.

Thank you for staying.

And

I love you.