The sun will rise soon, but Sherlock pays it no heed. All of his remarkable mind is focusing on John at this moment, imprinting this moment for future perusal. In the dim grey light Sherlock feels as if there is nothing hidden from him, no continual surprises (and oh, John is full of surprises), just himself and this man.
There is something on the tip of his brain that Sherlock cannot put a name to and it slips away before he has a chance to try. So instead he studies this man.
This gorgeously, simplistically human man.
His skin is a warmer, more golden tone than Sherlock's, as he lies on his back on the bed, sound asleep. The scar from the bullet wound that had put him out of commission is an angry pink against his flesh. The center like an impacted crater, lines of scar tissue spider-webbing away from it where John had been forced to do emergency surgery on himself and had subsequently gotten an infection. John doesn't talk much about the time he spent as a captive in Afghanistan, only speaks of Bill Murray with fondness (without him there wouldn't be a John for Sherlock to be fascinated with and Sherlock is so very grateful).
There are other scars, this one from a childhood tumble out of a tree, that one from a minor kitchen accident in John's univesity years. Sherlock feels briefly glad that he is the only person who has permission to sit here in the dawn hours and devour his lover with his eyes.
John's face is smooth and slack in slumber, the cares and worries that he carries in the day set aside. Peaceful.
He loves this man. For all his varied faults and vices, John Watson is the single most important (fascinating, intriguing, never boring) human being Sherlock Holmes has ever known.
The dawn light peeks through the curtains, sending a shaft of pale morning sunshine to play over John's chest. John grumbles a little and turns on his side, seeking the comfort of darkness and sleep. After a few seconds more contemplation, Sherlock joins him, curled around John's back with an arm resting possessively around his waist.
Two years later John Watson and Sherlock Holmes are married. It's a small, simple affair, as neither of them has that many close friends, and even less family. Bill Murray is John's best man and Gregory Lestrade is Sherlock's. Mycroft officiates the ceremony. Mummy and John's father are getting along in a grand fashion, which both of them are madly happy about.
John's sister Harry has been off the drink and making a concerted effort for the sake of her aging father and for John. She seems to be eying up Sally Donovan, flush from a well-deserved (not that Sherlock will ever admit it, he and Sally have far too much fun with their acerbic relationship) promotion to Detective Inspector. Sherlock idly thought that they would suit quite well.
Then all his observations are swept away by the sheer ebullience he feels. For some reason the ceremony itself feels somewhat redundant, but he is still nearly deliriously happy, John right alongside him.
They are official in the eyes of the law on this day. Swaying in a slow dance around the dance floor (first dance as an officially wedded couple) Sherlock realises, belatedly,that he has been John's husband since that sleepy day in early May. He smiles. John sees and smiles too, leaning up and pulling Sherlock down for a kiss.
'What's that smile for, my love?' He asks. Sherlock nuzzles the top of John's head in pure affection.
'It feels good,' he starts, and interrupts himself to lay a small, sweet kiss on John's mouth, 'it feels good to have confirmed what I have known for two years.' John looks sweetly puzzled. 'You are my husband and I am yours.' Comprehension dawns and John kisses him again.