conversationswithbenedict:

letthechoirsing:

Aesthetic : Sherlock stretching on the bed, naked, barely awake and his hair ruffled, and John watching him, leaning against the doorway, two cups of tea in hands and not quite believing he’s this gorgeous man’s husband

@letthechoirsing, I love this. It always reminds me of the start of Where Else Would I Be? Our aesthetics belong together:

John stops in the threshold of their bedroom and leans against the door jamb, two mugs of tea in his hands, and takes in the scene before him. The simple room is filled with evidence of lazy morning lie-ins and cosy late nights, testament to the two of them lounging with books and newspapers, crossword puzzles, and back copies of the Scientific Beekeeping Journal. There are stacks of books on the bare, wide-plank floor, an antique dresser against one wall, and loosely folded jumpers in an open chest at the bottom of the wrought iron bed.

The room is bright with diffuse, early morning light, and two sunbeams fall diagonally across the bed and the man still sleeping in it. There’s a bee outside now, one solitary bee, bumping gently against the leaded glass windows above the bed. The bee knows, he thinks. The bee knows where Sherlock is, and he wants in. The bee probably has a message that only Sherlock will be able to decipher, something about honey saturation levels or feuding nurse bees.

Sherlock lies on his stomach, asleep, unaware of his little bee messenger. The sheets are twisted around his splayed thighs, his curved bottom half-exposed. His arms are flung out to the sides, and he’s managed to burrow his face in both his and John’s pillows. Sherlock’s hair is spread over the linens in every which direction, curls of silver and sable and all the shades between sticking out in an unruly mess. He wears it longer now, and even after all these years, John can never stop touching it. The hair at the nape of Sherlock’s neck is still just as dark as when they first met, and John likes to burrow his nose there and imprint Sherlock’s scent in his memory. As if he could ever erase it.

He pads across the chilly floorboards now and sets the mugs down on the nightstand on Sherlock’s side of the bed, which isn’t really Sherlock’s side because Sherlock always takes up most of their bed, leaving John the sparse spaces that are left, usually curled around the taller man’s back or half underneath his star-fished form. God, this man, and all that he consumes.