Experimental Comforts

Sherlock tucked her right hand up under her head and took the rare chance to look her fill at her blogger and friend. During the day, she couldn’t dare let her gaze linger too long, lest John learn the true nature of her feelings. Now, with John asleep, it was safe, she could look and watch without any fear. Sherlock let her eyes travel over John’s quiet form. If possible, she looked even more beautiful like this, relaxed and at peace, the usual frown of worry gone from her lovely face. Sherlock wanted to touch, to stroke her jaw, her shoulders, trail her fingers down that smooth flesh and feel all the mottles and softness. Fighting that urge caused her to dig her nails into her own palms, the pain a stabilizing force, keeping her from doing something colossally stupid. Like pressing her lips to that same skin, or attempting to learn what John’s lips felt like under her own. Sherlock took a deep, shuddering breath, trying to regain control over her rapidly-beating heart. Sleep. She needed sleep. Sherlock closed her eyes, and willed herself into slumber.