Sharp

Sherlock is sharp so many places John's not.

Drifting soft as shadow through the sitting room at 1:00 am, regretting their foolish fight about a foolish thing, John settles beside the sofa carefully, runs a gentle finger across his sleeping sweetheart's temple.

Sherlock's mind.

Sometimes John's sure he can feel heat coming from the blaze in that brain, other times he's as light-blinded as everyone else by Sherlock's flashes of brilliance.

John tut-tuts softly when Sherlock's brows draw down as if even in sleep he's thinking hard about some hard thing.

Sherlock's body.

He was too thin for too long, and though those days are long gone there's still so many edges to the man, cheekbones like blades, a jawbone made for geometry.

Over the years John's seen to his sweetheart's softening, feeding Sherlock between kisses, before cases, in their bed. Then John devours the new flesh rounding a bum, a belly, feasting where hungry shadows used to be and are no more.

Sherlock's eyes.

Sherlock's gaze is a blade, cutting through the distraction of a crowd, erroneous clues, he sees—*flick*flick*flick*—what everyone else sees, and then he sees everything they miss.

John feathers the pad of his thumb across one of Sherlock's eyelids, wonders that he doesn't flinch during the light of day, when the light eyes beneath look at and see him.

Sherlock's mouth.

For years Sherlock honed the razor of his tongue and grew keen to cut first, before a stranger could take pieces out of him.

Sherlock's now learned to use that tongue for more tender things, and even after a half dozen years John's pulse still thrums when with that mouth his true love loves on him.

Sherlock's hands.

John's seen those big hands perform the most delicate of experiments, tempering a chemical brew with the whisper of a catalyst, wielding a scalpel with a surgeon's deft touch.

Like his mouth, Sherlock now turns the precision of these instrument to softer pursuits and some nights John swears the man is more magician than scientist, conjuring sensations in John's body that leave him grin-silly and sated.

Sherlock's dreams.

John watches Sherlock's eyes dance beneath closed lids. This sharpness is John's favourite, because this is the one they share.

For Sherlock dreams of many things, mysteries over which to puzzle, darkness that he can through deduction bring light. Since that night in the back of a cab bound for Brixton, John's wanted the same, and between them they've built a business—some might say a legend—that allows them to again and again do just that.

Amidst John's reveries Sherlock sighs himself awake, then sighs out apologies for a fight neither will remember come morning.

He tugs John onto the sofa and together they close their eyes. Pretty soon Sherlock will start dreaming again, though the dreams won't be about cases or clues. His dreams rarely are.

No, Sherlock will dream of peace, and tea, and the time to enjoy them in. Sherlock will dream of John.

I wrote for chapter thirty two of this series "Soft," a short tale about John. It seemed far past time that a companion piece about Sherlock was in order.