It's strange to come out of sleep to the sound of such a deep, rumbling voice singing like that, near his ear, but John, not quite sweating uncomfortably, finds himself not jerking away to nightmares, but rather called peacefully from them. He's never, incidentally, heard Sherlock sing before. For a man already musically and mathematically minded to be good at rhythm and meter with his own voice is not surprising and yet John, he turns on his back now to blink haphazardly through the darkness at skin so pale Sherlock might as well glow, is still surprised.

He draws up a hand, his left, chilled from being over his side rather than beneath it, lifts to touch Sherlock's face as the man's full lips come into view, peeking out of the glow of his flesh. John's eyes close again and he blinks twice, quickly.

John has calloused hands. Work, manual labour, they've done so much to toughen up his palms and fingers. It's not just where he'd hold the tools of a surgeon, or those of a soldier, any more. His entire swath of skin has thickened. It seems a terrible shame to touch something so soft -- stubble aside -- with something so rough. John does not drop his hand.

"Sorry-- Sorry." For the dream, only the dream. His eyes are liquid black and shimmering white in the darkness. "What were you singing?"