The night before was fantastic. Of course it was - any first time with John would seem so even if it wasn't the best sex in the world (which Sherlock knew it wasn't; they had barely begun to learn each other. The best was yet to come). But everything that happened afterwards, so much more intimate in every way but the physical than the main event, could not possibly be improved.
John lying half sprawled over him, feeding him lazy kisses as they caught their breath.
Rolling out of bed to clean up, returning to John's smile - tired, inviting, euphoric.
John resting his head on Sherlock's chest, cuddled up against his side - Sherlock's fingers threading through the slightly overgrown blonde hair, gently lulling John to sleep.
Sherlock was glad that John didn't bother with the typical praises and I-love-yous and sweet-talk, in those fantastically intimate hours. The silence was probably intentional for his sake, John knew him well enough to guess that he preferred to bask in the afterglow and useless words then would have been annoying and detracted from it.
Unfortunately, their doorbell rang early the next morning. Sherlock was already awake so stumbled out of bed with muttered curses on their visitor's life, leaving John to take his time in yawning and sitting up to face the world.
Sherlock returned to John's room a few minutes later and paused in the doorway, a slow smile coming to his lips. John was facing the bed and stretching, Sherlock's open shirt riding up in the process to show a tantalising stretch of skin.
"If you're planning to greet Lestrade like that, I worry for his heart," Sherlock commented, making John laugh and turn to face him.
"Says the man who greeted Lestrade wearing only his boxers and his lover's jumper," he pointed out, padding over to Sherlock and dragging him down for a kiss. "The poor bloke's scarred already,"
"Nevertheless," Sherlock purred, his right hand stroking John's back. It hovered where the fabric ended, the very tip of his little finger tickling John's skin. "Whilst you are more than welcome to parade around in nothing but my shirt when we're alone, I'm sure he would appreciate it if you were wearing boxers. The idiots at the crime scene would likely hope for trousers too, as ridiculously overdressed as that is,"
John hummed, kissed him again and then murmured against his lips: "Jumper suits you, but I preferred it on the floor."
Sherlock's laughter drifted down to be heard by Lestrade, who eyed the stairs with a suspicious smile.
Yes, Sherlock thought. This is just as good as the sex.