Oh, John's face... Sherlock etched that look into his mind, filing away into his mind palace so that he could pull it up any time. It had been golden and radiant and perfect.

Sherlock was quiet for a moment, before tentatively walking over to John, sending beside the bed but not sitting or laying on it quite yet.

He could smell John, sweat and sandalwood shampoo and musk and the salty excretions on his stomach. God, he wanted to dip a finger down, and taste it, taste John but once again he held himself back and watched the man as he came down from his high.