Observation

(Sequel to "Wings")

I have often had the privilege of watching John Watson sleep. In all honesty, it calms me down considerably. His breath comes slow and even, his fingers twitch when he dreams, and his eyes clench shut tighter when he rolls over or when he knows he has to get up but doesn't want to. But tonight, I am not the one watching John sleep.

Tonight, John is watching me sleep. Of course, I'm awake, but John doesn't have to know that. I'm a light sleeper usually and a deep one when I want to be, but I'm tending towards a light one lately because I feel I want to miss nothing that John has to offer me. Also because, even if I eat a good bit of dinner, I still feel incredibly hungry.

I realized quickly that John was not asleep (John snores, but not an obnoxious snore), so I sighed, relaxed my body, and waited, keeping my breathing soft and even. If John thought I'd woken up, he thought I was asleep now. The street lamp's golden light played across the bed, and I looked out onto Baker Street. But I wasn't focused on the dull goings-on outside, and not even the soft beginnings of snow caught my attention, no.

John. John Watson watching me sleep. First, he ran his fingers from my shoulder down to my hips, always pausing at my ribs, clicking his tongue with disapproval. He would rotate his fingers, his warm fingers, around my hip bone, always a calming circle. I had to bite back the pleasured sigh and stir just slightly under his touch. John's hands jumped up and away, as if he'd be ashamed if I woke up to find him touching me. But as I settle again, he touches me again.

He doesn't find my legs to be of interest, maybe because at his own orders we aren't to get physical. He wants the physical as much as I do, the carnal passions involved with making love and the act of pleasure itself, but knows that it will take my strength and drain me deep and he doesn't want me to be in pain. I would, gladly, to please him, but John insists.

Well. We'll just see how long that lasts. I stretch my legs, one after the other, in anticipation. John's fingers fly away, and I feel his body move just slightly away from me. Ah. He was close to me, very close. What is that term that they use? The common people? Is it…spooning? It is, yes. Was he spooning, and did he think maybe I wouldn't like it? Spoon away, John Watson. I don't mind. Anyway, as I settle, he does something I was waiting for.

The hair. John's wonderful hand is in my hair. I take a peek at the clock. Well, good morning to you, too, John. It's December 23rd, just barely. It's 2:30AM on December 23rd. I want John to know it's morning, but I stop myself. His palm stays warm on my head while his fingers entangle themselves in my curls. So it was a nightmare, then, one of his visions of war that so haunt him. However much he likes danger, he can't have liked watching his friends die, being able, even as a doctor, to do nothing. The poor man.

I should explain that John has many reasons for touching my hair. One is that it gives him pleasure, and another is that it gives me pleasure, but those are quite obvious reasons. Only Anderson would fail to read the clues. Another reason John holds my hair is that he wants to stop me from doing something or draw my attention to him, usually when I'm rambling on about something or I'm about to dash off without my coat or without breakfast. And yes, I have left the flat. Not often, and only to go with Mycroft, because no one else but John—I doubt even Mrs. Hudson—knows I'm back. I've had to leave only twice, and both were to collect clothes in a smaller size.

The last reason John touches my hair is for security. He wants to know I'm there, tangible, real, safe and sound at home in Baker Street and not on the pavement dead. John has had a nightmare tonight, and though I'm not sure if he's dreamt he's lost me or if he's dreamt of a dead friend dying (no difference?), I can tell his desperate gripping at my hair is an unspoken reassurance in his half-awake state. It's me, my voice, saying: It's all right, John. I'm here.

I'm about to actually comfort him, but then my stomach growls loudly and I bite my lip against the groan of pain. John sighs and lies down next to me, our bodies touching (spooning?). He wraps his muscular arms around my midsection and begins to massage my stomach with his fingers. I sigh, delighted, because everything feels better already, and I'm about to doze off when John whispers right in my ear: "You know, if you'd have eaten all of your dinner, you would've lasted till morning."

I turned my head over towards him as much as physically possible. "It is morning, John."

John let go of me and I rolled over as he looked at the clock, and then back down at me. "Yes, technically, but no one is awake right now."

I stretch my arms out over my head, my wrists pressing against the headboard. "We are," I yawn as he slides back down to join me under the covers.

"Normal people don't start their days at 2:30 in the morning."

"I'm not normal," I retort, frowning playfully.

John chuckles and kisses my forehead. "No, you're not. And I wouldn't have it any other way."

"Merry eve of Christmas eve," I giggle, "can you make me food?"

John giggles too. "Can't it wait? I'm tired."

"Cuddle me," I decide, and lay my head on his chest, listening to his heart beating. It is the heart of a soldier, and one that I nearly broke by doing nothing at all and everything at once. I wrap my arms around his neck and nuzzle against him. He sighs into my hair and begins sort of petting me to sleep.

I inhale the sweaty, primal scent of his nightshirt and press myself even tighter against his side. But I can't sleep, can't rest. I'm awake now.

But John has gone to sleep.

I wrestle my way out of his grasp and get up, stretching. The powdery snow won't stick, but by morning, London will have a fine white snow on her buildings and roadways. I suspect that, should any children still be in school, they will not have to go.

It's cold in the flat, too early for the heat to kick in. I wrap myself in my warmer robe and slip my feet into my cozy Persian slippers. Then, I pad into the main living area and pick up my violin. Being careful how I press on the strings, I play a quiet rendition of "White Christmas" as I stride round the flat. Then, I put down my violin and collapse into the couch. I'm hungry, and I honestly can't wait three hours for John to make me breakfast. I'm very tempted—very—to call Mycroft and make him make me breakfast, but I'm not that desperate. Mycroft will want to know how things are going, and it stings to know that he did a very stupid thing while interrogating Moriarty. Not that it matters. My brother is obtuse sometimes.

I sigh loudly, and then wonder if I can't just graze. There must be some sort of pre-prepared food that I can eat. I get up off the couch and flick on the light in the kitchen, peering up into the pantry shelves, being careful to avoid my own booby traps. I hum to myself, especially when I find Bakewell tarts.

I carry them to the living room and eat the remainder of them while watching some telly. Then, I drink a little tea without sugar because John always tells me I have to try to balance things. I eat a little bread, too, and then decide I'm sated enough to crawl back in beside John.

I slide back beneath the covers and curl up next to John again. Half-asleep, or maybe dreaming, he grabs at my hair and tugs me closer. I let him, and sigh when his fingers lay at rest among them. If John's fingers never left my hair for the rest of my life, I would be quite the happy man.

Yawning, and warmed by my early meal, I close my eyes and wait for John to wake up. And maybe, just maybe, I doze a little, too.

May your days be merry and bright

And may all your Christmases

Be white.