Sherlock’s breath is sweet with ginger biscuits and warm milk. It wafts gentle over John’s forehead, his eyelashes, his lips.
“Anything?”
John nods. To speak now would be…
“Why now?”
John shakes his head, eyes still closed, grips the sheets beneath him in white-knuckled fists, and fights the urge to arch his body upward, to meet Sherlock halfway, and never let go again.
Why? Why now? Why not years ago before the world fell apart around and between them? Why not afterwards? Why not last year? Why not last week? Why not this morning when Sherlock had looked at him across the breakfast table as he fed Rosie, a smile on his lips, and a warmth in his eyes?
“Couldn’t do it anymore.”
Sherlock seems to understand. Fingers ghost along the line of John’s jaw. “I know.”
Why now?
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