Anonymous: [mini-fic] John's fingertips trace faint lines along Sherlock's back. This is a mistake. He knows it and Sherlock knows it though neither speak a word. "I should go back home." John whispers. Back to Mary. She'd receive him with a kiss. He'd smile, though he wishes he could weep, place his hand on her swollen belly. Sherlock would stay in bed for hours, unmoving. Back tingling. Chest aching. "John John John John-"