Do you remember when we met, John says, quietly, into the muss of Sherlock’s curls. Sherlock shifts, stretches, settles back into the curl of John’s body, back into the crook of his neck. The bedroom is dark, dove-greys and wine-dark shadows; the window is cracked an inch, letting in a breeze and the sound of the drizzling rain. It’s peaceful.
Sherlock’s lips pucker and soften against John’s skin; his hands tighten and loosen under John’s thin t-shirt. I remember.
I thought I must have imagined you. John’s voice is a whisper, a confession. You were - fascinating. Like magic. And you saw - his sentence cuts itself off. He swallows, swallows again.
I saw you, Sherlock finishes. He presses closer. And you were such a contradiction, you were so many things and there was so much to see, and I was already in danger of losing you.
John slides himself down, pulls Sherlock up; brushes a kiss over his forehead, his nose, his mouth, sleep-soft but alive with a desperation that sometimes goes dormant but never really dies away: I love you I need you don’t leave me. It’s the kiss John would have given Sherlock that first night, with the taste of garlic sauce and soy on their lips, you idiot I just got here you can’t leave, and it’s the kiss Sherlock would have given John that bright cold morning, with their tears on their cheeks and the crosshairs on John’s heart, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll come back for you, and it’s the kiss they would have given each other the morning of a wedding that was not their own if only they’d known it would have been accepted, drunk in, wanted, needed, please, oh god.
It’s the kiss that was the first kiss, full of tentativeness and fear, and it’s the kiss that was the hundredth kiss, full of comfort and familiarity, and it’s the kiss that is this morning, remembering their past, knowing there’s a future. Happiness and nostalgia and curiosity and certainty and joy. Possibility. Opportunity. Inevitability.
I’m here, John says, and you’re here, John says, and we didn’t lose each other. We made it. We’re going to be together forever.
Sherlock kisses him again, again. Draws his fingertips over the small of John’s back. Kisses John, and sees him with all five senses, and with the sort of sixth sense that means he is home.
Forever, he repeats, nudging his nose along John’s, breathing through a laugh. You know, it might not be long enough.