The hardest part about loving someone is actually following through on those emotions. In the hospital, the two men could confess their love for each other. John had been at risk, they both had strong emotions, and it was a fairly detached setting. Back at 221B Baker Street, though, it was a bit more difficult. Sure, John was fully healed and all, but now they were faced with the hardest case ever- how to accept the fact that they both had feelings for each other, and what to do about said feelings.
The first night was awkward. They hadn't engaged in any intimate activity, and they weren't going to just plan it, so saying good night was a bit difficult.
John stood in the middle of the kitchen, watching Sherlock go about his business with an experiment.
"I'm gonna go to bed," he announced. Sherlock made a low humming noise. "Sherlock, did you even hear me?"
"Yes, John, good night," Sherlock snapped. John rolled his eyes. Some things never change. He turned away, sighing as he went. "John?"
He turned back, wondering what the detective could possibly want.
"Is it not customary to give your significant other a kiss before bed?"
There was a gleam in Sherlock's eyes. John rolled his eyes, that cute little smile appearing.
He walked back over, giving the man he adored a proper kiss.
"Good night, John."
"Night, Sherlock."
~xxxxx~
The first night they slept in the same area, it wasn't some romantic ordeal. It was a downtime between cases, and they were watching reruns of crap telly.
John managed to drift off, despite Sherlock's incessant yelling at the damned picture box. When he woke up, Sherlock's long, lean form was wrapped around him, both of them covered in a blanket from Sherlock's bed. He was warm from the shared body heat, and the man's dark curls were tickling his nose. He tried to move slightly, his arm being asleep after being tucked under the taller man for god-knows how long, but Sherlock mumbled something unintelligible before tightening his grip on the doctor. It was truly an adorable sight, the way Sherlock was precariously wrapped up in his dressing gown and as clingy as a puppy.
His face was relaxed, but his pupils were moving furiously under the closed lids, obviously far into the stages of a REM cycle.
John settled back, happy, content.
Maybe, the faces of Lestrade and Donovan were worth it when they barged in the next morning, worried (Lestrade was anyway) that Sherlock hadn't responded to a text late at night like he normally would. Maybe, seeing the slight blush on the Detective's cheeks was worth snogging him a good one when he was unprepared. And maybe banishing the police force so they could move to a proper bed ("After all, we've lived together for over a year, and we've slept together; would it really be so bad if we slept together?") was the best decision either man had ever made.
~xxx~
Harry's approval wasn't something John strove for, but he was still disappointed when he didn't get it.
"He's an arse," she had insisted. "Who the hell does he think he is, waltzing in here and telling me who I am, what I've done, what I've been through, and telling me to go back to rehab?"
"I'm your brother's boyfriend, and I'm tired of watching him go through hell, worried about his twin sister who won't pull her act together," Sherlock was too calm, gaze leveled on the lesser being.
She glared up. "You don't know him like you think you do; I've read the blog, I bet you just 'deleted' the information about my brother you didn't find important, which I bet would be the majority."
"Doubtful," he said.
"What's his favorite color then?" She smirked at the silence.
In the taxi ride home, Sherlock turned to John.
"It's green."
The doctor smiled. "Why didn't you just answer her?"
"I wasn't going to hurt her more than necessary. You were perfectly okay with me not knowing your favorite color, or that you adore that hideous jumper, or that you had an imaginary friend when you were younger named Teddy. What you weren't okay with was me acting like an arse to your sister."
John snuggled up close.
And it was definitely worth it, cursing in from of the minister years later, when John got to end his vows with, "Truly, Sherlock, you were never acting. You ARE an arse, but that's okay, because you're my arse, and as long as that's true, I can deal with the severed heads and the violin at 3AM, and the assorted criminals in the livingroom. And honestly, I would choose a wild life with you, knowing I'm going to have to save my arse, than a quiet life any day."
"Good," Sherlock responded with a grin. "If I weren't your arse, I would be so bored. And we all know what happens when I get bored."
John kissed the man before he could say another word.
And if the affection was a bit premature, well then- the world could get the hell over it. John was kissing his arse, and he damn well liked it.