I needed fluff (I know I should be updating my other story, shhhhh).
One thing needs to be made absolutely clear: Sherlock wouldn't trade his relationship with John for anything in the world. He waited long enough for John to be his and he wouldn't allow anything to get between them ever again, and their relationship itself was fine. It was better than fine, actually. John treated him like a precious gem, kissing and caressing his skin reverently, telling Sherlock how beautiful and amazing he was. Sherlock would squirm under John, embarrassed and delighted at the whispered sweet-nothings in his ear as John pushed into him slowly. What made Sherlock even happier (if it were possible for him to be happier) was how John held Sherlock close to his chest afterwards, stroking his sweaty skin as he came back to earth from his high. John always smiled and looked at him like he was the most incredible thing in the entire universe. Sherlock often tucked his face away into John's neck to hide his joy.
So, yes, their relationship was wonderful. John was caring, considerate, and….loving?
That was the the problem. Sherlock didn't know. He suspected that John may have loved him, but he didn't have proof. (Secretly, Sherlock considered himself rather unlovable, but there was no need to say that aloud.) John was always infatuated with him, but Sherlock knew that didn't necessarily mean love.
John had difficulty voicing his feelings, he had said it himself, and Sherlock couldn't really blame him since he wasn't much better. But in truth, Sherlock could go on for ages about how much he loved John, if he didn't fear ridicule. He had done exactly that, in fact, at times when John wasn't home to hear. He wasn't much of a poet, but he could write dozens of sonnets about John, if he had to. John was his world, his life, his reason, the yin to his yang. If Sherlock believed in such a thing, he would say that they were soulmates.
He was afraid to voice this. It was always there, right on the tip of his tongue. Sometimes, his heart would clench at just how perfect John was and Sherlock would have to bit his tongue to prevent the words from tumbling out.
Sometimes, he would actually start to say it, but abruptly cut himself off.
John always raised an eyebrow and asked, "You okay?"
Sherlock always brushed him off and fought his blush, his pulse hammering.
But he needed to say it, so he did the only thing he could do.
He declared his love while John was asleep.
He did this every night, or at least on the nights when John fell asleep before he did (John had a special talent for getting Sherlock into a deep sleep with a few caresses of his curls and his warm hand rubbing his back). When he wasn't too tired, Sherlock would wait until John's breaths slowed and deepened before he pressed a small kiss to John's chest. If John didn't respond to the kiss, he would whisper, "I love you."
It felt good to get the words out, but it wasn't enough. It would never be enough, but it was okay. Keeping quiet meant keeping John.
Tonight, they were entwined on the small sofa, kissing while the television murmured in the background. They had been at this for a while, but neither had much of a desire to move things further. While having sex with John was one of Sherlock's favorite things to do, he did enjoy kissing just for the sake of kissing. In a way, he liked it even more, because it meant John was kissing him just because he liked doing it, not because he wanted an orgasm. One of John's hands was in his curls and the other was cupping the side of his neck. Pleased little hums would occasionally leave his throat, making Sherlock's heart melt. After kissing for what seemed like an eternity, John pulled away and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.
"It's getting late. Want to go to bed?"
Sherlock nodded, his nose brushing John's in the process due to their proximity.
They crawled into bed and Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, his chest to his back. Normally, Sherlock preferred being the little spoon, but he liked to hold John against his chest, too. It made his heart feel…good. Sherlock frowned. That sounded stupid.
He was so absorbed in his thoughts that he didn't notice John falling asleep. He smiled and nuzzled the back of John's neck. The rhythm of the slow rise and fall of John's back against Sherlock's chest was lulling him to sleep. Feeling warm and peaceful, he kissed John's broad shoulder. "I love you," he mumbled and closed his eyes, drifting off within seconds.
The next morning, Sherlock was reading the paper on the sofa, clad in his red dressing gown and briefs, when John stumbled out of the bathroom, bleary-eyed from sleep and hair sticking up (god, sleepy John made Sherlock's heart pound). John looked at him and a warm smile spread across his face.
Sherlock smiled back, though he was a little confused. John was usually grumpy for at least fifteen minutes after he had woken up, and John had only been awake for seven minutes. John made his way over to Sherlock, took the paper out of his hands, and cupped Sherlock's cheeks, his thumbs running over his skin softly, touching his forehead to Sherlock's.
Sherlock swallowed, feeling his face heat up under John's gentle touch. "John?"
John placed a kiss so softly on his lips, so delicately, that Sherlock nearly whimpered.
He closed his eyes, but it was over before he had time to kiss back. He opened his eyes back up, his brows furrowing.
John still had that warm smile on his face. "I love you, too," he whispered.
Sherlock's lips parted in a gasp that didn't leave his throat, heat spreading down to a blush on his chest. "You," he croaked. He cleared his throat, "You were awake."
John rolled his eyes. "Clearly," he smirked and nipped Sherlock's bottom lip, teasing. "Come on, genius, time for breakfast." He stood, holding out his hand.
Sherlock grinned and took John's hand, allowing himself to be pulled off the sofa. John didn't let go of his hand all through breakfast, tightening his grip from time to time and smiling.
Sherlock felt utterly blissful. In a way, nothing changed, they went about their day as usual. But everything seemed lighter now, the tension gone.
Later in the day, Sherlock came up behind John as he was cooking and wrapped his arms around his waist, hugging him tightly.
"Hey," John smiled. "What's up?"
Sherlock shrugged. "Nothing. I just love you."
I am nothing but fluff and trash.