He'd just turned off his bedside lamp when he noticed the LED of his Smartphone flashing, indicating that he'd received a text message.
"You were right. SH"
John blinked at his phone disbelievingly. He was right? What about, exactly? He was a bit surprised that Sherlock had even noticed his absence already - about twenty minutes ago he was having a massive sulk, draped dramatically over the sofa, and he'd completely ignored John's "Good night". Not that John had expected him to notice, but it still stung. Like Sherlock rejected him every time, over and over again. How had he let himself become so oversensitive?
He shook his head. He should really stop thinking so much about it. This was Sherlock after all. Who could ever begin to understand what was going on in that brilliant brain of his? Who - if not John? He was the closest to Sherlock these days, the one who was always around him, the only one who was following him around chasing after criminals, the only one who was ready to protect him with his own life. Probably the only one who was spending too much time staring at him, wondering how those cupid's bow lips would feel when pressed against his own, how they would feel on his-
Right. Where was he? Oh yeah, text. From Sherlock. A cryptic one. Task at hand: answer. Ask what he meant.
John's fingers hovered over the touch screen, thinking about which words to use, when three dots appeared, indicating that Sherlock was typing again. So he decided to just wait for his text before answering. He didn't need to wait long.
"It hurts."
John's heart clenched painfully. There was only one possible conversation this could refer to.
"It hurts, you know?"
It was a month after Sherlock had unveiled the fact that he wasn't actually dead and two weeks after John had moved back into 221B. He'd tried to disguise that his break-up with Mary was the direct result of Sherlock's return by inventing some huge row that had seemingly destroyed the foundation of their trust in each other and thus their (his) love. He'd made it very clear to Sherlock that he was the one who'd decided on breaking up and that he wasn't heartbroken about it.
He'd been honest with Mary, though. He'd told her that his heart belonged to somebody else. He hadn't clarified exactly whom it belonged to, but Mary understood it all the same.
John didn't really expect Sherlock to regard him, but when he lifted his head from the microscope and fixed his gaze on John, he couldn't help but feel a little triumphant.
"What does?"
John could feel Sherlock scrutinizing him, trying to deduce the meaning of his statement. He wondered if he was easier to deduce in his inebriated state than he was when he was sober. It didn't matter - there was nothing he could do to change it anyway.
"Unrequited love."
Sherlock let go of his microscope and straightened his posture. John had his full attention now. Good.
"How so?" His voice was carefully neutral.
"Being around that person while knowing you'll never become a couple. It hurts so much."
God, was his voice shaky? Was he close to crying? Well, considering that he was on the brink of confessing his love, it wasn't really that important.
Sherlock sat down at the kitchen table, facing him.
"John... I thought you were the one who broke up with Mary?"
His eyes widened and he stared into Sherlock's like a deer in headlights. How could Sherlock be that dense? How much more obvious could he possibly be?
"I'm not - this is not about -" he gulped, his tongue felt swollen and so dry - 'It's about you, you daft git.' He wasn't sure whether or not he'd managed to say that aloud or not. "It's just... it feels like... daggers, piercing your heart over and over again." Damn, did he really have to drink that much? Was he slurring? Was he making sense? He wanted Sherlock to understand, he needed him to.
"Don't be stupid, John. If somebody pierced your heart with a dagger, you'd be dead."
He opened his mouth to protest but he was quite sure that what came out of his mouth weren't proper words. A moment later he felt his head hit the tabletop.
He faintly remembered Sherlock heaving him upstairs and putting him to bed before his vision blackened out.
He'd woken the next day with a throbbing headache, a bottle of water, and paracetamol on his nightstand. He could still remember their short conversation all too clearly and wanted to bury himself alive for it.
They'd never talked about it again or acknowledged it had even happened. Maybe Sherlock believed that he'd forgotten about it, given how wasted he was. John had been happy to go along with it.
Without thinking, he scrambled to his feet and not ten seconds later he was standing in the entryway of their sitting room. He'd half expected to find Sherlock still draped dramatically over the sofa, Smartphone lying discarded on the floor or the coffee table, ordering John to hand him something he was too lazy to get by himself, implying that the text was just meant to lure him here faster - but the sitting room was dark and empty. Memories of what had happened on this threshold thirty minutes earlier flooded his mind.
It was four months after he'd moved back in with Sherlock, three and a half months after his drunken half confession. Sherlock's behaviour had changed, if only barely noticeable for anyone but John himself. He was more considerate about personal space between them and sometimes when they touched accidentally, Sherlock flinched slightly. His remarks regarding John seemed to become ruder by the time, although that could just have been his imagination.
John had concluded that Sherlock had indeed deduced the meaning of his drunken confession and wasn't comfortable with it. Thus the jumpy and aloof behaviour. He didn't want to risk their friendship but he still wanted John to understand that it would never be more than that. And John understood. It broke his heart a little more every day. He pretended to not be torn when Sherlock eyed him cautiously, probably wanting to predict his actions and planning to avoid him if necessary; he pretended not to notice when Sherlock brought just a bit more distance between them when they were sitting on the sofa watching crap telly; he tried very hard to pretend not to be hurt whenever Sherlock pointed out that a woman was flirting with John and giving him advice on how to go ahead with it - but he was pretty sure he failed to hide his inner turmoil on this one.
He'd never accepted Sherlock's advice, but after more than three months of constant emotional strain his nerves were blank and he'd finally snapped. When they were at a crime scene a few days prior, Sherlock had tried to set him up with a hairdresser who had found the victim dead in the customer's toilet. Instead of glaring at Sherlock and finding reasons why they wouldn't make a good couple, he just went for it. He knew how to flirt, it'd been easy for him to get her mobile number and invite her out for a movie.
The day of his date had come and he hadn't seen Sherlock's mood this bad since... forever. John was fed up with his constant changes of mood - it was worse than a teenager in puberty. So he hadn't paid any attention to Sherlock during the day, mentally preparing himself for the evening, thinking about how he should behave and how far he could allow it to go. She was a beautiful woman, small and lean with brown eyes and long brown hair.
The date had gone well, the movie hadn't been all that bad and he'd walked her home afterwards. They had a nice talk and laughed much, but every time John looked over to her, he just thought about what it would be like to spend an evening like this with Sherlock, to go on a proper date with him. When they'd reached her home, she turned towards John and looked at him expectantly. She was expecting a hug or a kiss, probably both. John stepped closer, placed his left hand on her right shoulder and with his right hand he stroked her cheek. He looked her in the eyes but all he could see was Sherlock begging him to stop. He gulped and stepped back, letting go of her completely. Her look was disturbed.
"I'm sorry." What was her name again? How could he forget the name of the woman he went on a date with? Because it's unimportant, a familiar voice in his head told him. He shook his head. "I just- I can't. I'm sorry." And with that, he turned around and didn't look back.
When he climbed the stairs of 221B, he felt hollow inside. He distantly noted that his eyes were wet, but he didn't care.
As soon as he closed the door of their sitting room, he found himself being pinned back first against the door, Sherlock hovering over him, taking in his frame, his face, probably also his scent, no doubt deducing what happened. John's heart rate picked up immediately and he closed his eyes, determined to not think about the closeness, to just get it over with, maybe listen to Sherlock destructive deductions and then go upstairs and cry himself to sleep like he'd done more often than not in the past few months.
Sherlock took John's right wrist and lifted it on eye level, inspected his hand briefly, then let go of him as suddenly as he'd attacked him, went straight to the sofa and slumped on it dramatically. John expected to be attacked by words next, so he waited, still leaning against the door and steeled himself for what was to come. It was not like there was anything left for Sherlock to break.
John waited patiently for the better part of a minute, but nothing happened. Sherlock just lay there, his eyes closed, his face scrunched up like he'd bitten into a lemon. John decided to just call it a day, so he said "Good night," was ignored, and left for the loo.
He washed his face and gave himself an internal motivation speech before the mirror. He didn't want to give in to tears in front of Sherlock. When he climbed the stairs, he was feeling slightly better than before.
It felt surreal that this happened only half an hour ago in this very sitting room. John closed the door, careful not to make a noise. Sherlock must've been in his bedroom and maybe he hadn't heard yet that John had come downstairs.
He didn't turn on the lights in the sitting room - the full moon illuminated the room enough so that he could move across to Sherlock's bedroom door without stumbling over the coffee table or discarded files or anything else that was scattered on the floor. He paused in front of Sherlock's door, unsure what he should do next.
He hadn't let himself really think about it, but if he didn't misinterpret Sherlock's text, then Sherlock was in love. Quite badly so, if he admitted that he was in pain because of it. And Sherlock was sure that it was unrequited... Which ruled John out, seeing as Sherlock knew that John was in love with him. He'd already accepted that the chances of Sherlock loving him back were discouragingly low. Just having it affirmed shouldn't hurt as much as it did. It felt like somebody tried to squeeze his heart until there was no more blood left inside it...
John let himself slump to the floor and clenched his fist in his pyjama top as if trying to shield his aching heart. Did Sherlock feel exactly like this, lying alone in his bed on the other side of the door? Imagining it only amplified his agony.
A muffled sob reached his ears and John was on his feet and had his hand on the handle in a matter of seconds. He managed a brief knock before he opened the door and let himself in.
On the bed, illuminated by the moonlight, lay a shivering and sobbing heap of blanket. John's body moved on his own volition - he sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled back the duvet, then slipped into bed next to Sherlock and pulled him into a hug so that his head was resting in the crook of John's neck and patted his back soothingly.
"Shh... It's okay, I'm here, you're not alone," John whispered.
Sherlock's trembling subsided after some seconds and he clutched at John's back as if his life depended on it.
"Sherlock... Do you want to talk about it?" he whispered, not trusting his voice to sound steady if he spoke aloud.
He felt Sherlock stiffen in his arms. He didn't get an answer until the sobs had ebbed away.
"How do you deal with this kind of -" Sherlock hesitated for a second - "feeling?" His voice was high-pitched and nearly cracked at the end of the last word. He was still on the verge of crying.
John patted the back of his back and moved one hand to the back of Sherlock's head, caressing the soft curls he always dreamed of touching.
"I don't deal with it. It's rather like enduring, suffering silently, trying not to succumb to the pain, trying to ignore it. It's not working, it never has. I seek distraction once in a while." His voice sounded shaky, but that was actually a good thing. He wanted to show Sherlock that it was okay to show weakness sometimes.
"Distraction? Are you suggesting-"
"I'm not suggesting anything, I just - well, you asked me how I..."
Or was he? Was he trying to suggest that Sherlock search for a distraction? Was he offering Sherlock to be his distraction? Could he handle that? Could his heart handle being Sherlock's fling? Probably not. But could he resist if given the chance? Definitely not.
"I mean, yes, you could try to... distract yourself with somebody else, if you think that could work. I could help you to find a woman-"
"I told you already -" with a swift motion Sherlock had John pinned on the bed, hovering over him - "that women are not my area, John."
John gulped. His heart was pounding heavily and Sherlock's hands were around his wrists, so surely he would notice. He couldn't make out Sherlock's expression as his face wasn't lit by the moonlight any longer, but he was sure Sherlock could see his face. He wondered what he could see there. Was John imagining things or was Sherlock really coming closer?
Sherlock's next words were barely audible but the reaction it caused in John's body couldn't have been more intense. "John. Just this once, will you let me...?"
Sherlock slowly closed the distance between their faces, but stopped about half an inch before John's lips. John's breath came out ragged and he could feel Sherlock's breath against his lips. He shuddered. His body was hot and cold at the same time, his mind blank and why weren't they kissing yet?
"John? Okay?"
Oh god, had he just let out a whimper? He managed to nod curtly and hoped Sherlock would notice it - when he felt soft lips on his and suddenly everything else was irrelevant. He closed his eyes and took in the incredible feeling of Sherlock's lips on his. He wanted to commit everything to his memory: the feeling of lips against lips, the smell, the gentleness of the kiss, Sherlock's breath on his cheeks, his hands on his wrists, the dip of the mattress beside his head and his hips. It was a chaste kiss and it lasted only a few seconds before Sherlock pulled back again. He hovered over John for a second more and then completely let go of him and rolled onto his back.
John just barely suppressed a disappointed sigh. When he touched his own lips with his hand, he noticed wetness on his nose. Sherlock was crying. He'd been crying while kissing John.
John propped up on his elbow, facing Sherlock. His heart was hammering in his chest and his thoughts were in complete chaos but he had to say something, he couldn't just leave Sherlock to his own, probably devastating thoughts.
"I'm sorry."
"What for?" came the broken answer from Sherlock.
Sorry for not being enough, sorry for abusing your emotional weakness, sorry for thinking I could distract you, sorry for making you feel like cheating, sorry for being in love with you... He couldn't make himself say any of that, though.
"I can't do anything else for you besides being there for you... I'll always be there for you when you need me, Sherlock. I wish I could do more. I hate to see you suffer; I really wish I could ease your pain."
Sherlock let out a sob and John couldn't stand it. He edged closer to Sherlock and stroked his tears away with his free thumb.
"You're always too nice, John. No wonder people get false hopes with you."
"Who's getting false hopes?" John breathed against Sherlock's lips. When had he bent over Sherlock? Why had Sherlock not pushed him away? Was it okay to kiss him again? He saw only confusion and shock in Sherlock's eyes, but he figured that he couldn't make himself stop now. Sherlock's lips pulled him in like a magnet. When their lips met for the second time, everything was different. This kiss wasn't chaste at all. Sherlock pulled John down right away and John landed with his chest on Sherlock's, his hands cupped Sherlock's head while their lips moved hungrily over each other's. This kiss was all teeth and tongue and wet and needy. John was about to crawl completely on top of Sherlock, intending to straddle his hips - when Sherlock suddenly pushed him away, retreated as far as he could without falling off the bed, and curled in on himself.
"Go away, John." His voice sounded shaky.
John was ruffled, confused, hurt. For a brief moment there he'd thought- but it would've been too good to be true. "I..." he started, but he couldn't think of anything to say.
"I can't, please go, leave me alone."
It felt like something was ripping his heart apart. There was only one option now: run before his emotions took over.
He got entangled in the duvet in his haste to obey and hit the floor face first. He uttered a "shit" before getting to his feet and hurried out of Sherlock's bedroom and up the stairs. Only when he'd reached his bed and had himself buried in his own duvet he allowed himself to cry. Heavy sobs shook his body and he pressed his face hard into his pillow to muffle the sounds. He cried until his pillow was drenched and his lacrimal gland couldn't possibly produce any more tears. He fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep when his body was too exhausted to even move a finger.
"Hey, what the hell? Let go, Greg," John demanded when he was pushed against the kitchen door that had been slammed shut just a second ago by a distraught looking Lestrade.
"You tell me what's going on and I'll let you go," he answered, his voice hard and relentless.
"What-? We're at a crime scene because you needed our help."
Lestrade's eyes narrowed. "John. Don't play dumb. You two are acting all jumpy around each other, you wouldn't meet the other's eyes, and you're not even friggin' talking to each other!"
John gulped. There was no talking his way out of this one, was there?
"It's... a long story."
Lestrade sighed. "Fine. Care to fetch a pint with me today's evening?"
"Actually-"
"Great. See you there at 6 p.m. at our usual place." With that, Lestrade let him go and went back to the sitting room.
"So? Trouble in Paradise?"
John clutched his glass with both hands and avoided Lestrade's gaze. Best get it over with.
"I'm in love with him."
"I know, John. You've been in love with him forever. What happened between the last time I saw you and today?"
Why was John still surprised that people knew without him having told them? Was he really that obvious? John let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Did you two get into a fight? Or... don't tell me you broke up?" Lestrade asked carefully, examining John's face closely for a reaction.
"Break up... why is everybody thinking we're a couple?"
Lestrade shrugged nonchalantly. John groaned in frustration.
"Last night... we... kissed."
Lestrade raised an eyebrow and waited for John to go on.
"Twice. We kissed... twice. On his bed."
Lestrade raised his eyebrow even higher. "But that's... good, isn't it?"
"He... pushed me away and kicked me out of his bedroom with the words 'I can't'." John lowered his head. The wound was too fresh. Talking about it hurt too much. He felt a hand pat on his shoulder.
"I'm sorry, mate. But that must've been a misunderstanding. He loves you."
"How can you possibly know that?"
"Because I have two functioning eyes. And if it hadn't already been painfully obvious until now, then today would've been the final proof. You should've seen the way he was looking at you today. The way he always looks at you. You're his whole world, John. I thought you knew that."
Tears were prickling in John's eyes. Oh, how he wished what Lestrade said was true.
"Then he wouldn't have-"
"Okay. Tell me exactly what happened, not what you thought or what you thought was implied or subtext or whatever. Just facts."
John looked up again. Lestrade's face showed no doubt or pity. Just determination. John sighed. Why did Lestrade have to be so damn stubborn?
"I confessed to him three and a half months ago. I was pretty drunk, but not enough to forget what happened."
"Tell me the exact words. Did you say 'I love you'?"
"No. But it was heavily impl-"
"John."
"Christ, fine. I told him that it hurts to be in love when it's one-sided. He asked me 'how so?' and I answered that it hurts being around that person and knowing that we could never become a couple. He was confused and said he thought I was the one who broke up with Mary, but then I answered that it wasn't about Mary- okay, no, I guess I was just slurring by that time. I'm not sure if managed to tell him that it wasn't about Mary. I said it felt like daggers piercing your heart. He said I shouldn't be stupid, that I'd be dead if that were the case. Then I passed out and he put me into bed."
"There you have it. He didn't understand that it was about him. You can't assume these kind of things with Sherlock."
John's head spun despite having only drunk less than half of his beer. Yes, it was true that he hadn't told Sherlock unmistakably that he was talking about him. He'd just presumed that Sherlock had understood but didn't want that kind of attention.
"So, what happened next?"
"We... didn't talk about it. Until yesterday evening. He sent me two text messages after I'd retreated for the night, the first one read 'You were right' and the second one 'it hurts'. Until yesterday I thought he wasn't in love at all, I didn't think he'd allow himself to be..."
John told Lestrade everything. When he reached the kissing part he blushed furiously, but Lestrade just gave him a warm smile. Retelling being pushed away and kicked out of Sherlock's bedroom was the most painful piece and Lestrade squeezed his shoulder gently.
"So you two basically just had a huge misunderstanding." It sounded all so easy and logical coming from Lestrade.
John hadn't touched his beer since he started telling Lestrade the whole story and now he felt the urge to get gloriously drunk and just forget about it all. He didn't let himself believe what his best friend was convinced of being true. Hope was a dangerous emotion. He didn't want to be hurt so badly ever again. When he lifted his glass with the intention of downing the rest of his beer at once, Lestrade caught his wrist and forced him to set it down again. He was about to protest, but Lestrade beat him to it.
"Don't make the same mistake again. Don't talk to him when you're drunk."
"But-"
"No 'buts'. You go home now and talk to him. Really talk, no prevaricating, no subtext. Confess to him, this time properly. Please, John."
"I... I can't..."
"I can tell you what it is you can't do. You can't go on like this, not talking, avoiding and ignoring each other... Don't tell me you liked the way you two behaved today."
"Well, no. No, I didn't like it."
"Then please go and set the record straight. You do trust me, don't you?"
Their eyes met and John couldn't help but admit that he indeed trusted Lestrade as much as he still trusted Sherlock. Sherlock...
"Y- yeah..."
Lestrade meaningfully nodded towards the exit. "I'll pay for you. I expect you to send me a message before midnight, telling me how it went. Go already!"
"Christ. Yes, mother."
John's stomach was in knots when he climbed the seventeen stairs of 221B. Sherlock surely already knew he was coming, he must've heard the front door and his steps. Although - no, scratch that. The closer he got to their sitting room, the clearer he could hear the violin. John didn't know much about music but the melody Sherlock was playing was a sad one. Maybe Sherlock hadn't heard him approaching after all.
He straightened himself, entered their sitting room as quietly as possible, and sat down on the couch. He didn't want to interrupt Sherlock's play. Sherlock regarded him with a quick glance but then turned towards the window again.
When he finished, he set the violin and the bow down and wanted to make for his bedroom. John stood up quickly and caught his wrist, causing Sherlock to stop in front of the couch.
"We need to talk," he said with a firm voice.
Sherlock tried to break free from his grip, but John was stronger.
"What do you want, John? Wasn't yesterday already enough?" Sherlock's voice dripped with venom. But John wouldn't back down. Not again. Lestrade was right - they needed to sort themselves out.
"I want to talk. Really talk about what happened yesterday... and the day when I got so gloriously drunk in our flat."
"What's there left to talk about? Do you want to humiliate me even further?"
Sherlock was struggling hard to free himself. John didn't give up and after some pulling and pushing and stumbling Sherlock was sitting on the sofa with John straddling his hips and effectively caging his torso with his arms. They were breathing hard and staring into each other's eyes.
"I don't know why you think that I want to humiliate you. That's not true."
Sherlock had given up resistance. He was sitting limply against the backrest of their sofa. The only thing that indicated that Sherlock wasn't comfortable with their current position was his face - and his voice. "Then maybe hurt me even further?" he spat out.
"Hu- hurt you? I'd never willingly hurt you, Sherlock, never."
"Well, you have. Congratulations. Will you let me go now?" Sherlock's face was contorted into a facade of anger. John was starting to believe that the only explanation of Sherlock's behaviour was that Lestrade was right with his theory.
John clutched Sherlock's shoulders to emphasize what he was going to say next. "I'm sorry; I lied to you about the reason of the break-up with Mary. There was no row-"
"I knew that, John. She kicked you out and you were heartbroken. You still are. You were just trying to protect yourself, it's okay."
John let out a shuddering breath. Lestrade was right after all. How could he have been so blind all this time? All of the sudden he felt light-headed and a tingling sensation in his stomach, but now was not the time to let his hormones roam freely in his body, not yet. He hadn't confessed yet and Sherlock had neither, there was still a chance that it wasn't him, that Sherlock loved somebody else. Don't be ridiculous. Of course it's you.
"Are you making fun of me?" Sherlock's wary voice cut through his inner monologue and with a start he noticed that he was smiling.
"No! No, sorry, I just, uh. I'm not in love with Mary; I guess I never really was." John could hear his blood rushing in his ears. Now was the moment of truth. He gathered all his courage and locked his gaze firmly with Sherlock's. His pupils were dilated, his pulse was quickened, it was all right there and so obvious; why hadn't he noticed it earlier- "It's you, Sherlock. It's always been you. I'm in love with you. I thought you knew."
Sherlock's eyes widened and his gaze flickered between John's left and right eye as if searching for a hint of doubt in his eyes or anything that indicated that he wasn't serious. He wouldn't find anything of the like. John's gaze was warm and full of honesty and if there was a bit more moisture in his eyes than normally, neither mentioned it. Sherlock was caught in his state of shock and didn't look like he was going to move anything other than his eyes anytime soon.
"I told Mary that I can't be together with her any longer because my heart belongs to someone else. She wasn't surprised. She said she knew it all along. And she wished me the best of luck with you."
Sherlock blinked rapidly, once, twice, three times. "John... My deduction was wrong."
John's smile grew wider and the corners of Sherlock's mouth started to twitch upwards as well. His eyes lit up and filled with tears, but he didn't take them off John's. His hands came up to rest on John's shoulder blades. "I was wrong." He bit his bottom lip and tears broke free from his eyes. "I love you, too, John. I love you... so much."
John couldn't stop himself anymore. He shifted closer and pressed their chests together while his arms embraced Sherlock's chest. He buried his head in the crook of Sherlock's neck and inhaled deeply, then brushed the soft skin of Sherlock's nape with his lips. This action made Sherlock shiver and John would be content to do this all day long.
"Kiss me, John. Please." He was more than happy to oblige, so he quickly pulled back and laid his lips carefully on Sherlock's. The kiss was soft and slow, their lips moved carefully against each other's, savouring every moment of this. After a few seconds, John felt wetness on his cheek and wiped Sherlock's tears with his thumb while intensifying the kiss. John hesitantly nudged at Sherlock's lips with his tongue and wasn't disappointed; Sherlock let out a content sigh and opened his mouth for John to explore. He tasted like earl grey. John took his sweet time delving into Sherlock's mouth and elicited some small sounds from Sherlock's throat that sounded like whimpers. After a while, Sherlock pushed John's tongue back into his own mouth and explored the inside of John's mouth thoroughly.
When John pulled back, they were both panting and flushed. John wiped first the stray saliva off his own mouth with the sleeve of his jumper, then Sherlock's, and then brushed his thumb gently over Sherlock's cheeks to wipe away his tears. "Christ, Sherlock. If you keep on crying always when we're kissing, people might think I'm a bad kisser."
Sherlock smiled at this. "Shut up and kiss me more."
So John did. They kissed and hugged and caressed each other until it became obvious that their bodies craved for much more than just kissing. So they stumbled into Sherlock's bedroom.
Their first time was slow and sweet and loaded with love declarations and vows. John came inside Sherlock shouting his name and despite the fact that Sherlock, too, had already come once, they switched and about half an hour later Sherlock and John were trembling with their second mutual orgasm.
When they had finished cleaning up and Sherlock was waiting in bed for John to cuddle up to him, John went for his Smartphone and signalled Sherlock to wait a second. He typed out a "Thank you mate, you were right. I owe you one. It's perfect", pressed send and abandoned the Smartphone on the bedside table in favour of a warm bed and an even warmer body to curl up with.