Author: tigersilver
Pairing: S/J
Rating: PG
Word Count: 570
Summary/Warnings: Why Sherlock is become as schmoopy as any common silly sod. A follow-up of sorts to that other piece of schmoopiness herein committed recently, One More Mystery.
BBCSH 'Regret Nothing'
If life is a series of deduced decisions, then Sherlock is convinced he's been ninety-eight percent correct as a rule. The remaining two is not always negligible, but he can also apply his methods to self-correct, yes? In the future, in the present, starting now.
'No regret', therefore, leads to one more decision and this one is a bit momentous. Or not. It may only be intensely logical.
"I love you, John."
Sherlock resolves. There shall never pass another minute, day or feckless hour when he regrets holding his tongue and swallowing back the words. The words themselves are not particularly extraordinary, nor are they original, nor do they truly invoke much emotion when made use of by the great commonality. But they are magnificently grand and earth-shatteringly crucial when applied by one Sherlock Holmes to the person of a specific John Watson.
"John? John, I love you."
Sherlock doesn't need them to be parroted back at him, he doesn't wait to hear their echo with bated breath or soul-sweeping excitement, dread or fear of lack. It's not necessary at all; he only looks to John's eyes, crinkling kindly at the corners, or to the shape of his lovely hands, curving in as they are reaching towards him. Or Sherlock might simply shut his own eyes and luxuriate in the press of John's sweat slippery back against his chest and belly, and work out that he is loved in return by the fond knock-and-grind of one shinbone to another. Yes, the evidence is sufficient, surely. More than.
"My John, my own. I love you."
There's nothing difficult about it; these three require themselves to be uttered, often. And Sherlock must admit he is quite tickled by the surges of scarlet that tip John's ears when he hears them, and too, by the rapid blinking and the choked 'Ahem!' Those indicators are super, immensely marvellously meretricious to take note of, and he feels the rewarding rush through his veins like a blossom of purest cocaine. Only better. The best, really.
"I love, I love, I love you. I shall, John. This is deathless, here."
He touches his breastbone with the calloused tip of a finger and then extends it across the tiny gap between them, pressing hard enough into John's skin to produce a faint white-ringed indent.
He is in utter earnest, and the words are so ridiculously easy; they practically prostitute themselves upon Sherlock's tongue. The sigh of a sob that comes rising up his throat is perhaps a little surprising, but then again…not. Not when considering the sea of love in blue eyes reflected, or the fast grip John's got on Sherlock's upper arm.
"I love you." Just that, repeated. The phrase is a direct translation of the given-name-and-foolish-sounding-word 'John' into yet another language, the Queen's English, if one cares to be fanciful, which Sherlock generally shies far away from when speaking aloud. In this case, he chooses the exception, deliberately. 'I love you' is also a code, it's a signal flag, it's an invitation. Really, it's so practically tactical to deploy daily, as it services so many of Sherlock's purposes, pleases so many of his aims, he cannot help but feel great inner satisfaction every time he says it again. So, often.
Sherlock only wants the opportunity to say, to speak, and for John's ears alone. And in one hundred percent of these cases, his chances, their moments spent in company, he can now quite cheerfully state he's successful. No regrets, ever again; he'll regret nothing.
And that is remarkably…good.