Like an artist gently stroking a canvas, Sherlock slowly sweeps his bow across the strings of his violin, quietly humming along with the tune; his eyes closed lightly. The glow of the fireplace casts an orange aura over his serene face, darkening the once faint shadows of his eyelashes on his cheekbones. His hair, wet and curly, is glued in an odd pattern to his forehead, and the glow in his face illuminates the droplets of water that have gathered at the corners of his brows. The richness in his humming voice reminds John of cocoa and milk heated specially for winter nights like this. Sherlock hits a sweet note on the violin, and the corners of his mouth curve up, as he purses his lips ever so slightly.

Those lips. John cannot resist them; their fullness, the way they curve when Sherlock smiles, and their cupid-bowed shape. They're irresistable, and he knows it. He's seen them over and over before- mumbling, deducing, cursing, whispering- but it's only in precious moments that he ever gets to see them closed and pulled into the tiniest smirk, showing off how beautiful and wonderful they really are. John wants them. He wants to feel the contours of those lips with his own. He wants their soft sweetness. He craves them. And here they are, right in front of him, holding back the full rumble of Sherlock's voice, pursed and ready, as if they're telling John, kiss me. I want you to. Those lips taunt John. They tease him. They tempt him. He needs them.

Sherlock's eyes flutter open. In the brightness of the fire, the irises appear black, but John knows that even in their shadowy disguise, they are the icy blue that has kept him captivated from the start. Sherlock parts his lips subtly, and his eyes close. All John wants to do is look into those icy, steely, perfect eyes, close his own, and love Sherlock's lips with the passion and attention that they so deserve. He could do it now. It's so simple. All he has to do is pad along the floor the five steps he needs to reach Sherlock, set down the violin, and catch the man by surprise. He feels a burning in the back of his eyes as he thinks about everything he wants to do. He shifts in his chair. His body is set to go, ready to take those steps, cup the side of Sherlock's face, and love the man for everything that he is worth. It would be so simple, so perfect, but John can't move. Not yet.

He takes Sherlock in with his eyes; his long legs, his slightly muscled arms, the worn navy bathrobe that clings in all the right places. The front of the bath robe is open just enough to reveal a toned chest, and hints at a set of alabaster abs hidden beneath the thin satin. Sherlock turns a little in his chair, the bathrobe opening to one side, briefly exposing a nipple before he turns back and keeps playing the violin tucked snugly under his chin. John can feel his tongue dart out to graze his upper lip. He can hear his heartbeat in his head, and he knows that soon, the rest of his body will catch on.

Feeling as though he is in a dream, his legs straighten out, and he quietly stands up. Sherlock continues to play. John's footsteps are in time with every second thump of his beating heart. One. Thump. Two... three... four... and five. He reaches out slowly, so slowly, and pushes down the end of the violin with two fingers. Sherlock looks up at him, the fire in his eyes burning as brightly as the one beneath the mantle. He says nothing. John takes the violin and bow, and places them carefully on the ground. Not taking his eyes from the beauty before him, he rests a now trembling hand on the side of Sherlock's face, smoothing his thumb over a sharp cheekbone. He leans in close, closes his eyes, and closes the space between their lips.

It all seems so simple, so perfect. Because it is.