I Know Your Face

All Because Of The Omelettes

John woke with the morning sun, streaming in through the same window he had arrived in not ten hours ago. He was huddled underneath the warm blankets, his bare shoulders chilled with the cold morning air that still hung in the bedroom. But it wasn't the bedroom that made him smile, nor the sunlight, nor the wig on top of his head. It was the boy he held in his arms, it was the thin back that was pressed firmly against his chest, and the slow rising and falling of his breath. Sherlock. John waited for a long while for Sherlock to finally wake up, appreciating every aspect of the back of the boy's curly hair while he waited in the morning sun. As soon as Sherlock started to stir John pressed kisses to the back of his head, burying his face momentarily in the soft curls as Sherlock finally woke.
"Victor." Sherlock breathed, finally turning over to face his nighttime companion. John smiled lovingly at him, letting one of his fingers run across Sherlock's smooth cheek, skirting gently around his beautiful red lips, which were curled into a beautiful smile.
"Good morning." John whispered, pressing another kiss to Sherlock's forehead softly.
"Can you even see me?" Sherlock wondered. John blinked at him in confusion, but then realized with horror that his glasses weren't on his face. He dove desperately to the side of the bed, seeing those pair of thick, idiotic glasses lying on the carpet near the bedside table. He snatched them and put them back on his face, blinking a little bit and 'fixing his hair'. That, of course, means making sure the wig was still in the right place. Thankfully the wig was still there, and he was able to rejoin Sherlock in the warm morning cradle of blankets and pillows.
"There we go." John muttered, lying his face back down and wincing as the glasses cut into the side of his face. Sherlock nodded, not looking the least bit suspicious, or ever curious. Maybe love was blinding him, not letting him realize the true face that lay before him. But then again, maybe that was a good thing.
"I don't even know what to say." Sherlock admitted with a very awkward little laugh, looking positively radiant. What was there to say?
"Then don't say anything." John assured, lacing his fingers with Sherlock's and bringing their faces closer.
"This is all just happening so quickly, I feel as if my heart can't take it all." Sherlock admitted in a breath.
"I thought we agreed you weren't talking?" John wondered, and Sherlock just laughed again, an adorable little wheezy laugh, as if he were trying to suppress it.
"The world would be a much better place if I quieted." Sherlock decided.
"No it wouldn't be, of course not. Unless your beautiful lips have anything better to do." John insisted, leaning ever closer and pressing another kiss to Sherlock's lips, just as a little good morning greeting.
"If you pay for my silence with kisses I'll never speak again." Sherlock promised, and now it was John's turn to laugh.
"Look at you, being all flirtatious. Who are you?" John asked with a laugh. Sherlock just shrugged, ducking his head down guilty with a small little smile.
"I have no idea." Sherlock admitted. Join the club Sherlock. That morning was to go on forever, if the universe let it. It was to be gentle, simple, and sweet. But then again, the universe was always thwarted in some sort of horrible mishap. That mishap, of course, came in the form of a mother.
"Sherlock honey, I'm making omelets do you OH MY GOODNESS GRACIOUS!" Mrs. Holmes exclaimed, throwing herself into the far wall when she realized that her son wasn't alone under the blankets. John couldn't help but panic as well, trying to untangle himself from Sherlock and the blankets at the same time.
"MOM GO AWAY, ARE YOU SERIOUS, JUST LEAVE!" Sherlock screeched, also panicking a little bit as well. By panicking, of course, Sherlock resorted to screeching out insults and threats, insisting that his mother leave, insisting that she leave them alone, while all making this scene more and more public. The peaceful morning was disrupted by the screams of three terrified people, and soon John ended up sprawled out onto the floor, desperately pulling his sweatshirt back on while huddled in a ball on the carpet.
"Sherlock what's going on here?" asked another stern voice, as all of the screaming had finally subsided. John stayed hidden underneath the bed, hoping that they would forget he had ever been spotted at the scene of the crime. John recognized that voice, and he knew that nothing good could come from its presence. He made sure that his wig was set properly on his head and his glasses were fixed firmly on top of his nose, and then slowly let himself sit up. Mycroft stood at the doorway, fully dressed in a suit and tie dispute this hour of the morning. Mrs. Holmes was sporting a fluffy pink bathrobe and matching pink hair curlers, clutching her heart and leaning against the closet door in horror. Sherlock was still sitting on the bed, pulling the sheet up over top of his bare chest as if hoping no one would notice. His cheeks were glowing a shade of red John could only ever have imagined, and he looked as if death would be a better alternative for this ghastly scene unfolding in his own bedroom. John could only smile innocently, met with Mycroft's disapproving glare.