Lips on the back of his neck. Sherlock holds still and fights the urge to smile into his pillow like a lovesick fool. He won’t be that ridiculous, he refuses.
Victor’s mouth forms a smile against his nape. “I know you’re awake, you tosser. You went all tense.”
Sherlock turns and presses his face against Victor’s chest. His sweatshirt has been washed within the past twelve hours; it smells fresh and clean, like soap.
Only a little bit of Victor slips through--deodorant and old books and pencil shavings--and Sherlock inhales it all deeply.
“Are you sniffing me?” Victor asks, sounding amused.
“No,” Sherlock lies. A year ago, he would have been mortified to have been caught doing anything so sentimental as this--lying in bed with someone he cares about, comforted by their scent.
Somehow, all the banalities of love that used to annoy him have become endearing, familiar. How...average. If he weren’t so content, he’d be miserable.
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