kissed by the sun

John’s smiling, and there are eleven wrinkles on his face that the sun will never reach. The sun is at its zenith now, and John’s nose is getting pink, and so are his cheeks and his shoulders, and Sherlock’s fingers are itching, because he can almost sense the tension of the punished skin under his fingertips, and he knows that he could touch John if he wanted (and he wants, he wants as much as the Earth wants the Sun, as much as the Sea wants the Moon), but he doesn’t move. He feels like there’s something timeless and sacred about that moment, about the peace that’s wrapping around them both, and he doesn’t want to disturb it.