Work Text:
Forelsket (Norwegian): euphoria you experience when first falling in love
***
John Watson woke up with a smile on his face. He was completely and utterly happy that morning, and it definitely had a lot to do with the wild-haired, sleepy detective draped around him.
Sherlock’s head rested on John’s chest, his lips almost touching the sensitive skin around John’s right nipple, and his left arm was holding John by the waist, a hand possessively holding onto the doctor’s side. John’s chest filled with warmth and fondness as he watched his partner — in every sense of the way now, finally, John mused with a smile — breathe in and out as he slept. Sherlock looked utterly beautiful.
Well, he was always beautiful, of course. John knew that even before It happened. Before they got together, that is, three weeks prior to that morning. Sherlock was peculiar looking, no doubt about that, but those oddities made him even more extraordinary. Those unbelievable cheekbones, the piercing, all-seeing eyes. His hands, the strong lines of his neck, those ridiculous lips that looked so soft and sweet as they spewed offences and orders.
But lying there, on top of John, it was an entirely different sort of beauty. He looked vulnerable, trusting and extremely young. His lips were set in a tiny pout that made John smile further. And now John could indulge in thinking about the beauty in other parts of him. His whole body, for instance. That lean yet somehow muscular torso, the legs — John had embarrassing dreams about those legs — and his hands. God bless Sherlock’s hands, John always thought, because they were divine.
However, and John thought that as he lifted his body slightly so his shoulder rested more comfortably, it was not only Sherlock’s outsides that were beautiful. Even though most people wouldn’t say so. But John wasn’t most people. John knew that Sherlock cared, that he felt things, even more so than most, which was way he tried to remain detached. John knew how Sherlock liked to pretend that he was a sociopath, but it was all bollocks. Sherlock was kind and caring in the privacy of their home, the way he acted around John (and Mrs Hudson, in fact) was clearly not that of a sociopath. Sherlock loved to lie in when there wasn’t a case on, preferably holding onto John, he liked to kiss John and to be kissed, he enjoyed being the little spoon (a fact which still had John gobsmacked, after three weeks). Sherlock ate if properly nagged and slept with the right encouragement (namely John, preferably in the nude), and John liked to take care of him. It made him feel like he actually did something in their partnership. And he liked the Sherlock let him take care of him. He liked the feel of Sherlock’s skin in his when they were lazying in bed on Sunday mornings. He liked the taste of Sherlock’s lips after he ate breakfast and thanked John with a quick kiss. He liked the way Sherlock’s hair felt on his fingers as John petted him on the sofa at night. All these new sensations kept the boredom at bay, even for Sherlock, as John noticed the lack of black moods, even though there hadn’t been an interesting case in over a week.
Sherlock sighed and nuzzled further into John’s chest. He hummed and sniffled. John tried not to giggle as he ran a soothing hand through Sherlock’s back, drawing delicate circles with his index finger.
God, he was so happy. He couldn’t believe how lucky he got, that he had this incredibly wonder of a man lying on top of him, being able to touch him and feel him whenever he felt like it.
But most of all, he loved that Sherlock did all those things as well.
He loved that Sherlock brushed past him on purpose when there was plenty of room not to, and that he always lingered for a few seconds longer whenever John handed him something. He loved that Sherlock kissed him with all the focus he applied to everything else, and that Sherlock trusted him enough to let himself be vulnerable.
Love. Love was a strange word. It felt different when one was feeling it. Feeling it? John wasn’t exactly sure what he felt for Sherlock. He had never felt in such depth before. It was probably love, then. He loved Sherlock. John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes. There. The thought was there. For the first time. Should he say it? Aloud? Sherlock wouldn’t hear it. He was going to try it out.
‘I love you, Sherlock,’ John whispered into Sherlock’s black curls. He planted a kiss on the top of Sherlock’s hair and didn’t wait for a reply. There wouldn’t be any. Of course not, Sherlock was asleep. And it was likely he didn’t feel it yet, anyway. But John did, and that was enough to make him happy.
Sherlock rumbled and moved his chin up a bit. John looked down at him.
‘Sorry?’ he asked. He thought Sherlock had said something.
After clearing his throat, Sherlock repeated, ‘I love you as well,’ he said, pointedly, sounding a bit annoyed at having to repeat himself. With that John’s heart leaped and his throat closed. His eyes widened, and he squeezed Sherlock closer.
‘Good,’ was the only thing he managed to utter from his daze.
And his happiness was even greater now. John felt he could jump on rooftops and scream at the top of his lungs, he could climb mountains and run for miles. But all he wanted was to be with Sherlock, in love, madly, completely, stupidly in love with this utter mad man. It was perfect. Perfect. Absolutely perfect.
***
“The greatest thing you will ever learn is just to love and be loved in return.” - Nature Boy, Nat King Cole