John woke up with his hand on Sherlock’s stomach.
The bedroom was bathed in honey-pink morning light and the warmth of it washed over the bed, gilding Sherlock’s pale skin in gold and rose and butterscotch. His mess of curls caught the light and glinted back copper and chestnut, striking against the creamy pillowcase, and John didn’t think he’d ever seen anything more gloriously captivating in his entire life.
He never thought he’d see anything like this. He had lost his chance at this so many times.
But if life with Sherlock had taught him anything, it was that the impossible happened all the time. And John was here, waking up in bed with this impossible man whose sheer existence was a miracle three times over, and John knew down to the marrow in his bones that this was the way it was meant to be forever.
Under his palm, Sherlock shifted, stretching sleep-soft muscles as he began to wake. Low in throat, he hummed a deep, quiet noise of satisfaction. John rubbed his thumb in a small circle on his belly, reveling in the heat and vitality of him.
“Morning,” John murmured, quirking the corner of his mouth into a smile as Sherlock yawned himself awake.
“Morning. You’re still here.” His voice, a little rough with sleep, sounded a bit wondering, as though he had expected to wake up and find the previous night had been nothing but a dream. He had asked John to stay as they lay tangled in the aftermath and John was honestly just as pleased as he seemed to be to wake up with this undeniable evidence that he’d not imagined everything.
John leaned forward to press a kiss to his bare shoulder. “Yes, I’m still here,” he reassured. “I just woke up.”
The small answering smile on his lips was everything John could have hoped for. Sherlock rolled onto his side, rolling into John’s space, and John welcomed him in the fold of his arms. Lying nearly nose-to-nose on John’s pillow, his expression was fond but focused as he took in everything John knew was written on his face. After a long, contemplative moment, his eyes slipped closed again and he leaned in and kissed John’s mouth, soft and lingering.
They stayed that way for a long while, pressed up close to one another, brushing quiet kisses over mouths and cheeks and foreheads, until Sherlock fell back to sleep with his nose pressed into John’s clavicle and John thought his heart would burst from bliss and contentment.
He had lost this so many times and now Sherlock was heavy and warm against his chest, and this, John thought, this was what he’d been waiting for his whole life.
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