yellow

Starlord

At two, John led Sherlock up to his room. The grey walls were covered in posters of superheroes and musicians, and Sherlock loved it.

"Who's your favorite superhero?" Sherlock asked excitedly, bouncing on John's queen-sized bed. The sheets were charcoal and scarlet, silken to the touch.

"That's such a difficult question," John laughed.

"Judging by your posters, it's Captain America."

"I also like Starlord, you know, from Guardians of the Galaxy?"

"I've never seen it."

"What?!"

"I've never seen it," Sherlock giggled.

"Oh my god, we're watching it."

"Now?"

"Now."

So they watched Guardians of the Galaxy. John cried when Groot saved them all, and he laughed at all the jokes. Sometimes he would even quote entire paragraphs.

Sherlock adored the movie, even though he didn't watch it much. He enjoyed John's reactions, though, and that was all that mattered.

John made Sherlock coffee after the movie, and they headed back upstairs. John laid lazily on his bed while Sherlock sat cross-legged at his feet.

"You should play something." Sherlock nodded to the keyboard in the corner of John's room.

"What?"

"Mozart. Or Bach or Vivaldi or someone."

"I'm not that talented."

"I've heard you play Beethoven before."

"It's not good."

"You are correct, John. It's not good; it's fantastic. Now play me the Fifth Symphony."

"You're so bossy," John sat up and playfully pushed his shoulder before scrambling off the bed. He switched on the piano and positioned his fingers, like Sherlock had seen so many times before.

And then John Watson played.

And oh, it was beautiful.

It was one of the composer's most famous works, but John made it his own. Sherlock watched as his shoulder blades rippled under his jumper as he moved, and it's like he was transfixed on the way John's scapula moved, and he couldn't move...his...eyes...away.

The deep melancholy duhduhduhduh duhduhduhduh echoed in Sherlock's mind, and suddenly he was drunk on the beautiful crescendos and fortes and mezzo pianos and subitos, and it was so John Watson. So beautiful like John Watson.

"That was amazing, John. Amazing," Sherlock breathed when he was done.

"Thank you." John returned to his spot on the bed.

His skin was the color of the afternoon sunlight that filtered in through the windows. Sherlock decided it was beautiful.

A/N im crying they are so in love