He wakes up once more that night, three o’ clock in the morning; the flat seems turned into a darkroom, red heat spread out across the walls from the side lamp. He is lying on the sofa between John’s thighs, the back of his head resting in the furrow between John’s hip and leg, and John’s back is bowed as he leans over him. He’s keeping Sherlock’s camera between his hands. Sherlock blinks back slowly, which draws a shaky, sharp breath out of John.
"What are you doing," he asks, throat raspy. His lungs are buttery-soft.
John pulls the camera away, smiles, and frames Sherlock’s face between his hands. “Immortalizing you,” he says. “Don’t move.”
Johnlock for ohsweetcrepes, who is a total sweetheart and without whom I would have never gotten my copy of Reapersun’s “Wreck”.
The piece is my interpretation of the last bit of the fic "The Grand tour of Europe”, so I took some liberties with it ;)