It’s one of those mornings where they are lying in bed, nothing going on, nothing scheduled. Outside the city is roaring and beating and rushing, but in 221B, or to be more specific, their bedroom, the world stands still.
They are both awake. Not quite awake, it is still early after all, but awake enough to hold each other, both on their sides and with their hands in each other’s hair. Awake but still sleepy, blinks still slow, minds not fully present, but their hearts all the more open.
They are looking at each other, sky blue eyes meeting ocean blue. They are staring at each other for a long time, an amount of time somehow lost in the universe, could’ve been minutes, could’ve been hours, and behind their eyes lies sheer amazement, lies wonder, lies warmth that makes the heart glow.
John stretches out his hand and places it on Sherlock’s cheek, lazily stroking his thumb over one sharp cheekbone and his palm over the slightest bit of morning stubble. Sherlock smiles shyly and closes his eyes as he presses his face closer into John’s hand. With his eyes closed, he feels him more intensely, feels the carefulness of his touch. It should be unreal, unbelievable. It has not been long since they have become this.
He concentrates on his own heartbeat, on John’s palm that is a little bit rough, the sensation making it feel a little less like a dream. He shuffles closer to him and John meets him halfway. Sherlock’s own hand raises, he lines it up against John’s chest. Hand to heart. He feels so very warm. He knows this is real then, somehow he knows. It’s the heart that beats beneath his touch, the softness of clothes as their bodies press against each other.
It’s the pair of lips, gentle, hot, close, that meets his own. Sherlock opens for him, gasping as John’s tongue finds his own and they are kissing, snogging the time away. It slows the wheels spinning in his mind, it’s like a strong drug but better, and he feels high, high above the clouds.
“Seven years ago we met,” Sherlock whispers when they part.
“You changed my life,” John whispers back. “Saved my life. Did I ever tell you that?”
Sherlock smiles against him, sadly. “You didn’t have to.”
“Hey.” John lifts his chin a little, locking eyes with him once more. “We’re still here together. And you know what’s so unbelievable about that?”
Sherlock blinks, waiting for an answer. For once, he doesn’t know.
“Seven years? And I still love you more every day, ever since.“
They skip the talking from there before one of them cries. Instead they pour all they want to say into kisses. They kiss and kiss for a long time. As, for them, it is always January 29.
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