The stars shine into Sherlock's hair.
The light ricochets between the curls, endless, and just as silver as the nape of Sherlock neck.
John wants the catch the light, and hold it in the palm of his hand. It looks like he could make wishes out of it, and send them off into the universe for some hidden deity to grant.
Sherlock's humming to himself as his hands are dug deep into his pockets.
When he looks up at the night sky, John can see the stars in his eyes. They look like galaxies. Like, the Milky Way, and the trillions of dying planets encompassed in it.
When Sherlock speaks, John thinks, it's like a supernova.
But God, does John love him.
John loves him with every ounce of his being. Every atom, every nucleus, every codon and nucleotide in John's body breathe Sherlock's name.
When John touches something, he relates it to the infinite softness of Sherlock's skin.
When he watches the moon, he finds its colour dull in comparison to Sherlock's skin, and the midnight blanket of the sky is nothing next to the dishevelled void of his hair.
When John hears people speak, his head hurts unless it's Sherlock's voice.
When John breathes, he breathes in the scent of peppermint, and smoke, and rain.
And when John tastes something, it's never as good as what he thinks Sherlock would taste like.
Like, salt water, and smoke, and the dust after rain.
Sherlock's looking at the stars, and John's looking at Sherlock.
"Do you think we'll ever reach the stars?" Sherlock asks. He's soft, and reminiscent, and his walls are all down as he looks towards the universe.
"Yes," John says. "But not yet."
"Why not yet?"
John pauses for a moment. "I think we are too busy reaching ourselves."
Sherlock nods, and shifts his coat around his shoulders. "Do you think we will ever reach ourselves?"
John isn't sure Sherlock wants an answer, but he gives one anyway. "No," he says. "I don't."
"Why not?"
John doesn't have an answer this time, so he shrugs his shoulders and looks towards the sky.
*
The starlight plays in John's hair like it's spun gold. Or wheat. It traipses along the strands and Sherlock wants to run his fingers through it, ever so gently.
The night air is soft, and slightly crisp. Enough so that Sherlock's hands are deep in his pockets, and John is shrinking into his jumper.
Sherlock breathes in, and imagines breathing in stardust.
John, he thinks, is stardust.
The kind you think you know all about until you come face to face with it, and start asking questions. He looks like sunlight, and stardust, and the shatters of the universe.
Sherlock wants to kiss him.
Wants to see what the golden light tastes like. Maybe honey, he thinks, or raw sugar. Sherlock hopes he tastes like caramel.
There's an equal chance he will taste like strawberries. The ripe ones, that burst in your mouth, and drown your tastebuds in their juice.
Sherlock wouldn't mind that, either.
"John?"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock stops walking, and John takes a moment to realise. They're standing together, under an infinite universe and countless stars, and it all feels so meaningless that Sherlock wants to say something. Something profound.
But the words run dry on his lips, so he holds his hand out to John, who takes it, and looks at Sherlock with confusion in his eyes.
"I apologise, John," Sherlock says, and steps closer so that their bodies are nearly touching.
He can feel the warmth emanating from John, and he wants to scoop it up and bathe in it. John's pulse is racing in his neck, stuttering out a frantic tune. His pupils are dilated, and Sherlock can see all the signs, but he's still unsure. "But I'm afraid I really do have to do this."
*
When Sherlock kisses John, he thinks all the air has been sucked into a black hole.
He tastes like the ocean, and starlight.
*
When Sherlock kisses John, he's worried for a moment that John isn't there. Like, he's dissipated into the universe to float free as stardust. But John breathes against Sherlock's mouth, and he tastes like caramel.
