Even filtered through the heavy draperies, the requisite sunlight and bird noises are jackhammers to his delicate senses. They could have taken it a bit slower last night, so as not to look like they needed the devil alcohol to be with each other, but some celebrations are lifetime events and you want to make sure everyone present has a good time. Tasks like these fall into Victor's hands, because even if Sherlock is aware of social correctness, he wouldn't care enough to uphold it.
Victor thumbs the unfamiliar weight on his ring finger, still not quite believing the implications. He's used to jewellery, but this one's special: a union of titanium and palladium to please Sherlock's scientific interests, with a Japanese cut to combine their artistic ones. A matching band adorns Sherlock's finger.
He still considers himself to be daft, but, now that the excitement's over, no longer feels like fleeing. Even if, Sherlock is dead on his arm, snoring softly, keeping him in place. How symbolic, really. Victor smiles, kisses his shoulder, and runs his fingers down the length of Sherlock's arm. Slowly, Sherlock stirs. He groans and rocks against Victor, inviting.
Victor is hard in two seconds flat, residual alcohol notwithstanding. Before they get anywhere, however, poor Sherlock heaves himself up and retches in front of the bed.