It’s a Tuesday morning. In the grand scheme of things, it matters naught. But this Tuesday morning is anything from typical. This Tuesday, John wakes up warm and languid in a bed not his own. Oh, it’s still in his new-old home, but it’s not his bed. Well not yet, he supposes. He stretches. propping himself up on his good arm, and does his best not to rouse the most beautiful man in the world. Looking at Sherlock, his mouth slightly open, softly snoring, hair tousled, love bites peppered down his neck and across his shoulders, John thinks, yes most beautiful man in the world is an apt title for Sherlock. He can’t quite bring himself to leave the bed yet, as the sunlight plays across the sheets and Sherlock’s half-bared form, dappled by clouds moving through the atmosphere. It’s a lovely sight and one that John knows he will have a chance to revere again and again in the coming months, no years. But he will never have this first time again. He drinks it all in, savoring it; this heady cup of visual wine. He resists the urge to kiss those dark curls, knowing that both he and Sherlock are absolute beasts until they’ve had their morning cup of tea. He eases out of bed, finds his t-shirt and boxers, pulling them on as he pads quietly to the kitchen, only to find the kettle and cups ready to go when they’re ready, a plate of Mrs. Hudson’s best scones, and a note reading “Congrats to my boys, now go back to bed. You only get this once.” He smiles and peels out of the clothes. As he eases back to bed, Sherlock rolls over and traps him under one of his long, sleek arms, snuggles (my God Sherlock Holmes is a snuggler!) and drifts back to sleep. John traces slow, drifting circles along his back, finally submitting to the urge to kiss the curls, and falls back asleep smiling.