[This fic swaps between John's perspective and 3rd person, I hope you can tell;) And I know I have only used the prompt loosely, but I hope you enjoy it all the same]

I have to do everything for Sherlock; he's like some sort of incapable, impatient child..Bloody hell! He can't look after himself. He wakes up in the middle of the afternoon if he doesn't hear me clattering about trying to sort out HIS breakfast.

He seems so ungrateful too, only grunting in reply sometimes.
But when he speaks properly…god, when he speaks…

That low, purring voice, rumbling through the flat. I hear him singing too, sometimes, under his breath.

It's beautiful.

He's beautiful.

I know, deep down that he's not ungrateful.
I know because sometimes I catch him looking at me, with a softness in his eyes, and a lust, and a contentedness.
Only for a second though, then he realises I'm looking at him and he goes about his work again.

I'm supposed to be reading, but Sherlock is filling my mind, once again.

One time though, Sherlock tried to cook for me, he wanted to do something that would make me happy.
I told him that everything he does makes me happy.

He didn't believe me.

John was in his bedroom at 221B Baker Street, reading..or trying to at least. Rambling thoughts of Sherlock and his unearthly, unconventionally beautiful face were infecting his mind.

It made it very hard to concentrate on the plot of the book.

Sherlock was in the kitchen attempting to make a meal for John. Spaghetti with tomato sauce. So simple. Sherlock wanted to be the reason the army doctor's soft, kind face lit up with happiness. Although this was something Sherlock was determined to do there were clattering of pans, spilling of sauces, loss of concentration, and bursts of unbearable boredom.
The unfocused detective finally gave in and revolved all of his attention around John. John and his ways, his beautiful face, those stormy, deep blue eyes.
This meant he burned his hand on some boiling water.

"Fuck.." He muttered under his breath. He didn't know what to do, Sherlock wanted to make this a surprise for John, but this hurt, a lot. The pain became too much..

"JOHN…JOHN!" Sherlock burst out, he heard John clambering down the stairs and saw him standing in the doorway with a highly concerned, but quizzical expression on his face.

"What have you done now?" John asked, exasperated.

"I've burned my hand on some boiling water! What do I do John?! TELL ME WHAT TO DO!…please" Sherlock whimpered, obviously in pain. Pleading with John using his eyes, those gorgeous ice blue eyes.

"Run it under cold water for 10 minutes." John replied, rushing to Sherlock's side to guide him to the kitchen sink. The army doctor's steady hand already on the small of the detective's slim, narrow back.

Sherlock did as John said and stood at the sink. He felt John's strong arms wrap around his waist, holding him tight. He entwined his free hand with John's and allowed himself a small, secret smile. Sherlock knew how stupid he was to ever doubt John's feelings, or his own for that matter. But what they both cared about right then was that they were happy. It wasn't in any way perfect, but they were happy.

"You tried to cook for me, you know you can't cook! Also, look at the mess on the floor..thank you though, it was a lovely thought. But Sherlock, next time you try to make a meal for us, ask me for help first, yeah?" John said, softly into Sherlock's neck. His breath ruffling the detectives soft curls and tickling his cheek.
John stood on his tiptoes so he could reach the soft patch just behind Sherlock's ear, he then lay a sweet kiss on the pale, flawless skin.
The softened army doctor sunk down onto the flats of his feet and stood there, holding Sherlock, breathing him in, feeling the beat of Sherlock's heart. So alive. So very much alive. It reminded John of when Sherlock jumped. When John took his pulse but there was nothing to take, nothing to measure. His arms tightened around Sherlock's waist and he felt the prick of hot tears in his eyes.

Sherlock sensed the change of mood, whipped around and held John, whispering "I'm sorry" and "I love you" over and over again. Making promises never to leave John alone again, promises he knew that he would keep.
Sherlock held John until there were no more tears, until all that was left was the present, and the love between them.
Sherlock had forgotten about the burn on his hand. All that mattered to him now was making sure John was ok, making sure he wasn't a broken man. Making sure John's heart was fully healed.

John suddenly remembered Sherlock's burn, stopped feeling sorry for himself, lightly took hold of his hand and planted a gentle kiss, a fluttering of soft lips onto the red patch of skin.

"I was going to ask you on a date, but seeing as you're injured and there's already been a lot of excitement tonight; why don't we order a takeaway? Thai?" John chuckled, teary eyed.

"Thai would be lovely, thank you John. Thank you for looking after me. I know I'm useless, I'm sorry. I just wanted to surprise you." Sherlock looked sad, but also had a look of such deep love in his eyes it made John's heart skip a beat.

"It's my pleasure to look after you, I love making you happy. I know I complain about it sometimes, but seeing you happy makes me happy in return. And Sherlock, love, you did surprise me. You burned your bloody hand!" John said with a loving, playful smile.

He shuffled closer to Sherlock and they shared a tender, kiss. A kiss full of love, no urgency. Lips fluttering over soft noses and lips alike. Shallow breaths. Eyelashes tickling tingling skin. Cheeks flushed with such tenderness. Heartstrings being tugged, and broken hearts being mended.

Sherlock was fixing John in his own special way.

And John knew he was going to be ok, as long as Sherlock was by his side.

His best friend, his companion, his other, and in his eyes, better half.

Sherlock makes me feel alive.

I'm his heart, and he's my head. We need one another and I can't function without him.

It scares me though, how much I rely on him. Because one day, if he's not there… do you know what? I don't even want to think about it.

I know that I love him though, the odd hollows, the protruding cheek bones, the prominent cupid's bow and ice blue eyes. His soft dark hair, the pose he takes when he's thinking. His narrow hips and flawless skin. The lonely moles on his neck. The look he gets in his eyes when he's excited.

He's like a child, but also at the same time, a man with such a big heart it hurts my own.

I love everything about him, even the annoying, ignorant side. Even the way he can't convey his feelings into words very well, the way I can tell what he's thinking by his eyes, and his facial expression. We know each other so well and I fully intend on spending the rest of my life with him.