John looks down at his friend, colleague and lover, who’s head is in his lap, immune with sleep. He smiles, pushes his hands through the unruly black curly hair, and sighs, repeating the motion. He and Sherlock had been together for a while now, about a  month. That had been after the detective had come back after a three year hiatus. John had fainted, punched Sherlock in the face, and kissed him, all unconsciously under the eye of a certain Mary Morstan. Now, John had been dumped too many times for him to count, and he’d gotten Sherlock Holmes out of it. Sherlock Holmes, John thought, the name causing not-totally-unwanted shivers to run down his spine. As John pushed back the hair from his forehead again, he whispered,

“You’re so much more to me than you think.”