A week later, Sherlock flushed all of the drugs down the toilet. He had decided all he needed was John, and John was completely good enough for him.
A week later, John grinned, and it seemed that was all he could do. Well. Except kiss Sherlock like he was the final breathing human in the world, touching his cheekbones and his shoulders and his sternum and his stomach and his waist. John wanted to map out Sherlock's skin like Christopher Columbus, but never share it with anyone. He yearned to know where every freckle was placed on Sherlock's body.
He especially liked the small mole at the bottom of Sherlock's neck. He liked to lick it and then watch Sherlock's whole body careen with pleasure. And then he would laugh into that precious alabaster skin, and thank God that that gorgeous man was his.