Colorblind (A Johnlock Fanfiction)

Thirty-Three; Mauve

A/N: sorry about the inconsistent updates, guys.

John woke up too early. In the dim light, he could make out the small analog clock next to Sherlock's bed.

Sherlock's bed.

His eyes shifted to the blue-lit form crumpled up in the sheets, only his shoulders bare. Sherlock was snoozing lightly. His skin looked like marble, or robin's egg blue tissue paper. John needed to use the bathroom but he didn't want to move.

Sherlock was sleeping so peacefully; John felt guilty as he lifted his limp arm off of his stomach so he could slide quietly out of bed. The hardwood floor, perfectly constructed, made no sound as he padded out of the room and into the bathroom.

It was incredibly cold. John regretted not putting on any robes but was unwilling to go back into Sherlock's bedroom to gather his clothes off of various parts of the floor and put them on. He resolved to piss, take a quick shower, then run downstairs to grab a piece of toast as quickly as possible.

The bathroom was as artfully crafted as the rest of Sherlock's mansion. Made of what seemed to be marble, it was half the size of Sherlock's bedroom but still significantly larger than John's. There was a large bath in the center of the room with a collection of soaps on a counter next to it. The toilet was in the corner, and just as luxuriously made.

John was amused at how a twenty-two year old came into possession of something as inconsequential as an enormous mansion with fifteen gourmet soaps. Someone like Sherlock, no less. And he was here, about to take a shower with those soaps, and then he was going to slip back into bed with him and sleep the morning off. It was too good to be true. A few hours ago felt a dream he didn't want to let go of. A haze of emotion and euphoria, something John wanted to have and hold for the rest of his life, short as it could be.

Even in the dim light, Sherlock had looked like a demigod. Carved and lean and so satisfied in his pleasure, so smug with the knowledge that John wanted him. He kept replaying moments in his mind. The look in Sherlock's eyes - complex and almost obscure - as John told him how amazing, how unbelievable he was. John was clinging onto the memory of Sherlock's skin, although he didn't need to.

This was all his.

***

The sounds of silence were rising as dawn lit Sherlock's curtains with a cool, deep winter cold blue. John slipped back into bed, coveting the warmth that Sherlock's limp body provided. His hair was damp, getting a little too long to slick it back with any manner of success. Untamed, it shagged over his left eye in a straight mass. When he leaned in to get warm, Sherlock stirred and halfheartedly turned his head to look at John, like he'd forgotten why he was here. John smiled at him encouragingly. Sherlock closed his eyes and blindly tried for John's hand under the covers.

His voice was slurred and groggy, heavy with sleep. "Where were you?"

"Taking a shower." Under the covers, John's hand looped over Sherlock's hip and slid to the base of his belly. Sherlock entangled their fingers together and John's chest swelled like a plume of fire.

"I was thinking."

John scoffed. "When are you not?"

"Shutup," Sherlock murmured gruffly, in one word. John could feel Sherlock's back expand into his stomach as Sherlock inhaled, deep. The exhale was slow and loud, through Sherlock's nostrils.

"What?" John asked, more uncomfortable than curious. When Sherlock started to hold himself back, it was always a bad sign.

"You should move in with me," he said in a single exhale. The silence that followed his statement was awkward and uncomfortably empty. Sherlock didn't move at all.