"Speak to him, John."

Greg's words echoed through his mind as John walked into 221B. They'd been discussing Sherlock's moodiness, and it was clear that Greg knew more than he was letting on.
John wasn't even sure if Sherlock would talk to him.

He opened living room door and, finding the sofa empty, headed into the kitchen.

"Sherlock?"

The kitchen was also empty, but John was fairly certain that Sherlock was home.
Maybe the bedroom.
John wrestled with his conscience, unsure whether it was really necessary to intrude on Sherlock's personal space or if it could wait until morning, but he found himself unconsciously taking steps towards Sherlock's door.
Slowly, he pushed it open, careful not to disturb his flatmate.

As the consulting detective came into view, John stopped, quiet breaths catching in his throat.

The sleeping form was beautiful.
He was elegant even in slumber, and John noticed that he had something in his hand, something he was holding close to his chest as he slept.

Hesitantly, John stepped forward to look, curiosity driving him on.
Maybe it had something to do with Sherlock's recent behaviour.

Sherlock groaned, his fingers absent-mindedly stroking the item in his hand: a photo of he and John together.

At that moment, John really looked at Sherlock, and he knew.

Smiling, he approached the bed...