I wanted to write my take on what was going on in Sherlock's head and why he never told John he loved him. I was just having a lot of feels, man. Lot of feels. And I was itching to write a non-alternate universe story.
I love writing pining Sherlock, too.
It wasn't a slow progression, in the grand scheme of things. They only knew each other for a handful of months when he first felt it. It was acknowledging the feeling and being ready to confront it that took time. In the end, the pieces came together too late.
From the beginning, Sherlock grew more fond of John each day they lived together. John had a strong moral compass, but a quick, fiery temper, which made him fascinating to observe. For the first time, Sherlock was actually getting along with his flatmate. John yelled at Sherlock for his messy, unorthodox experiments, but also joked with him and seemed to genuinely enjoy his company. He was impressed by Sherlock's deductions, which never failed to stroke his ego. When John complimented Sherlock, he meant it. He wasn't just trying to get on Sherlock's good side for some ulterior motive. The way John treated him was friendly. Sherlock never had a friend before, but he liked it. Having a friend to live with made him look forward to getting up each morning. However, what he felt was definitely more than that. He couldn't be certain, for he had no previous data to compare what he was going through to a typical friendship, but Sherlock was an extremely intelligent man. He knew the difference between a simple friendship and...whatever this was.
Sherlock also found John attractive, in his own way. Something about the upturn of his nose and his soft jumpers made Sherlock smile. If he had been into such things back then, he would have considered John a fine sexual partner. But he didn't think of that. Often.
Sometimes, he thought back to the night they met when he had mistaken John's understanding for flirting with him. Had he truly been mistaken? Thinking about it made his gut swirl. It was strange, though, because when people thought he and John were a couple, Sherlock never bothered to correct them. He should have. He always corrected people when they were wrong.
What was more troubling was how he felt hurt when John felt the need to prove to others-including strangers-they weren't together. Why did the idea of being with Sherlock upset John so much? Was Sherlock really so repulsive? He didn't like to think about this, so he shut it out of his mind as long as he could.
Sherlock could pinpoint when he was able to acknowledge that he felt something more. It was when John, semtex vest strapped to his chest, grabbed Moriarty and yelled at Sherlock to run. Sherlock was so gobsmacked that his hands sweated and shook around the handle of the gun, and he was dangerously close to dropping the weapon.
"If your sniper pulls that trigger, Mr. Moriarty, then we both go up," John whispered fiercely as he struggled to keep his hold on Moriarty.
Sherlock's jaw dropped open and his eyes darted around the pool, but he couldn't see a single trace of any sniper.
John had just sacrificed his safety, his life, for Sherlock. He never thought anyone on the planet would value him and his existence so much. Sherlock had gulped and his chest tightened, heart beating wildly, and not just from the stress of the situation. He looked at John, courageous John, and felt words creep up his throat. But then, the sniper landed on Sherlock and John backed away from Moriarty.
"I will burn the heart out of you," Moriarty had threatened.
"I've been reliably informed I don't have one," Sherlock told him coolly.
"But, we both know that's not quite true," Moriarty smiled, almost patronizing.
Sherlock said nothing, because he didn't want to admit that he was wrong. He glanced again at John, standing there with the vest, and it became undeniably clear that if anyone's death were to upset him, it would be John's. An image of the vest exploding invaded his mind, and he swallowed past the bile that threatened to rise.
It occurred to him that Moriarty knew. He knew John was important to him. That's why he used John-not because John was a colleague, but because John was something special. Moriarty used that to his advantage. He threatened John's life to get at Sherlock. If Sherlock hadn't felt anything for John, this would not have happened. This was his fault.
After Moriarty left the pool, Sherlock needed to thank John for what he'd done for him. He needed to tell John that his death would devastate him, and that he had taken his presence for granted up until now.
"That, erm, thing that you...that you did-that you, um, offered to do-was...good."
That did not resemble what he meant to say at all.
John made a joke about Sherlock ripping off his clothes and they smiled at each other, almost flirtatiously. However, Moriarty came back, so Sherlock's window of opportunity closed. By the time he and John arrived safely back at the flat, the intense feeling that had flooded his chest was the last thing on his mind.
The next time he actively felt it was during the era of the Woman. John had been taken somewhere, and Sherlock would not sit quietly and wonder where he'd went. He was far too impatient for that, and John could get into trouble. The last time John was kidnapped, it was by Moriarty. Sherlock shivered.
Sherlock hailed a cab and ordered the driver to follow the car John was in as discreetly as possible. It must have worked, because Sherlock was able to get into the Battersea Power Station without a single issue. He hid in the shadows and heard two voices. One clearly belonged to John (so he was safe), and the other belonged to the Woman. She was supposed to be dead. Before Sherlock could analyze how he felt about that, John and the Woman began talking about him.
"We're not a couple," John protested.
There it was again: the shot of pain that hit Sherlock's chest every time John said they weren't a couple.
¨Yes, you are," the Woman replied, sounding like she was mocking John, which was completely unacceptable. Yet, Sherlock felt a surge of triumph at her words, although he had no reason to, because she was wrong. As much as he hated to admit it, she was intelligent. Did she see something he didn't?
Sherlock snapped out of his thoughts. He needed to listen.
John spoke, sounding exasperated, ¨Who the hell knows about Sherlock Holmes, but, for the record, if anyone out there still cares, I'm not actually gay.¨
Before John's words could cut Sherlock, the Woman said, ¨Well, I am.¨ A short pause. ¨Look at us both.¨
That was unexpected. So, she was interested in Sherlock on a solely platonic ground? But, more importantly, she believed that John was interested in him, despite his sexuality. Was she right? Was there a chance? Does ¨not gay¨ equate to being heterosexual? Sherlock was never good at figuring out these things. Was John just in denial about his identity?
Sherlock's heart thumped hard and he was able to feel the pulse in his neck. His palms began to sweat and he clenched his hands into fists.
John said nothing to the Woman's accusation. Why was John silent? Was it embarrassment, anger, exasperation, resignation? Sherlock wished he could have seen John's face. His expressions were usually easy to read. What was John thinking? Did he really feel something for Sherlock? Was he like the Woman and only thought of him platonically? Was there something more? A ball of anxiety settled in Sherlock's gut.
A text from Sherlock's phone startled him. It was from the Woman. They surely heard his ringtone. He was discovered. And suddenly, he couldn't do it. He could not face the situation. He could not deal with the possibly that John possibly wanted him. If he returned John's sentiment, what if Moriarty found out? What if Moriarty kidnapped John again? Sherlock could not risk that happening. Aside from the potential danger of a change in their relationship, Sherlock realized he would have no idea what to do. He didn't know if John would want to kiss, or touch him, or even...Sherlock gasped, heart pounding wildly. If John wanted to touch him, Sherlock would lose all control of his sense. He just knew it. He needed control. He couldn't do this.
He left the Battersea Power Station, his heart in his throat, terrified of what was happening to him. If he thought of John as merely a friend, he would have just politely turned down John's feelings, like he did on the night of the cabbie case. But his feelings had changed since then. That night felt like years ago.
On the journey home, he felt ashamed of himself for feeling the way he did, and not having the courage to face it. Until he could come to terms with it, he would have to pretend he didn't hear any of the John and the Woman's exchange.
On New Year's Eve, Sherlock was standing by the window, violin in hand. He knew John was behind him.
"So, she's alive, then," John spoke from a few feet away, testing the waters.
Sherlock said nothing. He didn't want to hurt John, but he just couldn't confront this. Not now.
"How are we feeling about that?" John asked hesitantly.
Anxiety swirled like a ball in his chest. He felt disgusted for treating John like this. John deserved more respect than what Sherlock was giving him. "Happy New Year, John," he said, completely avoiding the situation. He played his violin, ending the conversation. He was a coward.
One night, Sherlock came home early from the morgue. He had expected to spend the whole night there, but the corpse Molly had for him wasn't nearly as interesting as he thought it would be, so he wound up entering 221B at 9:00 at night. Just as he noticed that the sitting room and kitchen were empty, he heard something coming from John's room upstairs. It sounded like John was moaning, but that didn't make sense, because he only did that during nightmares and he was never in bed this early.
Then, he heard it. Female moans.
The blood in Sherlock's veins turned to ice. He almost ran to his room and shut the door loudly, hoping they would hear it. He threw himself on the bed and held his ears. He felt childish, but there was no way in hell he would sit quietly and listen to some random woman have sex with John. Sherlock wanted to go up there and drag whoever-she-was out of bed and kick her out of the flat. The only thing that stopped him was the knowledge that John would punch him in the face.
Sherlock didn't have much of a right to be upset, though. He was the one who ran away from their relationship. John was an adult. He could have sex with anyone. Sherlock was the one making himself unavailable. Even now, the thought of entering a relationship with John was daunting. He wasn't ready, but he didn't want anyone else with John. He was selfish. Completely selfish.
He sighed into his pillow. He did want John. He just needed time.
As Sherlock looked down at John from the rooftop, the knowledge that he wouldn't see John for a long time hit him like a wave. He'd grown accustomed to John in his life. His lip quivered, and his faux tears threatened to become all too real. He didn't want to leave John, but there was no other option. He had gone through this with Mycroft and Molly. He was required to go through with the plan. He had to save John, and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He had to take down that madman's network.
This was his last conversation with John until god-knows when. Sherlock wanted to tell John how important he was to him. He wanted to tell John he was sorry for not being ready. But, he just said, "Goodbye, John."
He was wrong. He was completely, humiliatingly wrong. He truly believed he would come back to London and pleasantly reunite with John in Baker Street. As it turned out, John moved on. How could Sherlock have been so foolish? John Watson always managed to surprise him, so why would this time be any different?
Sherlock held the tissue to his bloody nose and watched Mary enter the taxi, John already inside. Sherlock was an idiot for thinking he could lie to John-and tell a huge lie, at that-and be forgiven. John had trust issues. He knew this since the day they met. He hurt John, so he supposed it was only fair that John physically hurt him. His nose stung. He could deal with that. But what he could not deal with was being replaced. The taxi drove away. Mary was going home with him. She was going to sleep with John and wake up with him the next morning. Sherlock felt ice form in his stomach.
But, Mary seemed like an interesting woman. Perhaps she would do John good. She wouldn't fake her death and lie to John for two years about it. She wouldn't hurt John. She was better for him than Sherlock.
Sherlock sighed shakily, his breath forming fog in the cold air. His chest was empty. He genuinely felt like nothing was there. After two years of torture and longing, it turned out his old life with John was gone forever. He hurt John. He was wrong. He had been replaced.
Sherlock took off his coat and shoes rigidly, his throat tightening. He sat in his chair, not bothering to take off his tuxedo, pain almost suffocating him at the sight of John's empty chair right across from him, likely never to be sat in by its owner again. He brought his knees to his chest and wrapped his arms tightly around them. His clasped hands trembled. The tightness in his throat became unbearable, and he let out a small sob. He thought to keep quiet, but why? No one was in the flat. Mrs. Hudson was still at the wedding. Everyone was still at the wedding, dancing and drinking and having fun. He was alone.
Sherlock let himself cry, his shoulders heaving. He buried his face in his knees and bitter tears fell down his face, dripping off his chin and wetting his expensive trousers. John was gone. He promised Sherlock up and down that things wouldn't change, but it was a lie, and they both knew it. Sherlock couldn't blame John for not wanting to stay with him, though, especially after all the pain he had caused him. John was going to have a family with perfect little Mary. She was everything he was not. She had the privilege of living with John, making him laugh, kissing him, sleeping with him (literally and figuratively), owning his heart. Those were all things Sherlock wanted.
Yes, he admitted it now. The feeling that had slowly consumed his entire being over the past few years had a name: love. It was so obvious, really. He loved John for a long time, but his stupid fears and insecurities prevented him from admitting it to himself. He was so fucking stupid. He should have just faced his fears and asked John about his feelings after the talk at Battersea. John wouldn't have done anything that was too much for Sherlock. He would have taken things slowly. John was always so considerate and careful with Sherlock's feelings. He hadn't been ready back then, but he was now. He was ready for John's affection, but it was too late. If only he told John all of those times before. He wanted to tell John on the dance floor, right after his vow. But that would have made John angry. He would have caused a scene. It would have been pointless, anyway. John was taken. Mary's pregnancy was the nail in the coffin.
Sherlock's sobs were so heavy they were making him feel sick in the stomach. He lifted his head and forced himself to take deep breaths. His eyes traveled to the skull on the mantle. Once again, he would have to resort to it for conversation. His sobs were dying down to shaky breaths, but tears still flowed steadily down his face. This was unbearable. He couldn't live like this. Perhaps he needed help. After all, drugs took away his pain in the past.
It was a quiet, insignificant night during his recovery. Sherlock woke up from a nightmare of Mary shooting him in her wedding dress, similar to the image in his Mind Palace, only this time, she had a large pregnant stomach. His hand flew to his wound instinctively, but of course, it wasn't bleeding. Shaken, he got out of bed. His bullet wound healed enough for him to be able to walk around, so he wandered into the sitting room. He was surprised to see the top of John's head over the back of his chair. It was 1:36 in the morning-much later than how late John usually stayed up. Sherlock saw the television was still on, so John must have fallen asleep. Sherlock tiptoed into in front of John's chair, warmth flooding his chest. John's head was tilted back and his mouth was open, snoring lightly, deeply asleep. Sherlock gently took the remote from John's hand and turned off the mind-numbing movie he'd been watching. Sherlock set the remote down and smiled at John. He looked adorable. Watching him sleep might have been considered creepy, but Sherlock was never one for obeying social conventions. He wanted to take John into his bed and hold him as he slept.
Maybe he should tell John now, just wake him and confess. Sherlock reached out his hand to do just that, but paused. John was back in Baker Street, but it was very possible that it was only temporary. John was furious with Mary now, but his feelings could change. She was pregnant, and John was not the type of man to abandon his child. Sherlock's hand fell to his side, and the warmth he felt in his chest evaporated.
Things were still rocky between them. Risking the state of their relationship now wasn't wise. He should wait. Maybe he'll tell John tomorrow. Or the next day. Or next week. In the meantime, he couldn't help but cup John's cheek, his touch feather-light. John's eyes darted beneath his lids, but he didn't wake up. Sherlock bit his lip. He never touched John like this before, and it was euphoric. He saved the image of his hand on John's face to his Mind Palace. There was a chance this wouldn't happen again.
His thumb gently stroked John's cheek feeling the soft skin, and John moaned in protest in his sleep, smacking his lips. Sherlock quickly moved his hand to John's shoulder, trying to appear causal. "John, wake up."
"Hmm?" John opened his eyes, blinking hazily.
Sherlock wanted to kiss his sleep-warmed cheeks. "It's late, John," he said softly. "You should go to bed."
John yawned and sat up, stretching. "You okay? How's your wound?"
"It's fine," Sherlock said. "Go to bed."
John nodded, yawning again. "M'kay. Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, John."
Sherlock watched John go upstairs to bed, wanting to hold him more than any other time in his life.
He was truly going to say it that time, and yet he completely backed out. But, he had a good reason. Sherlock thought he was leaving John forever. If he told John he loved him, John would have had to live with that for the rest of his life. He couldn't have done that to John Watson.
Sherlock came back, though. He came back and was given a second (third) chance. If he believed in such things, Sherlock would have thought the universe was trying to make him get over himself and confess.
Riding home to Baker Street in a taxi, Sherlock decided that he had to tell John. He was determined. Next time he saw John, he would confess.
He didn't have to wait long.
Two days after Sherlock's plane turned around due to the message from Moriarty, Sherlock was thinking in his chair, plucking his violin, when the door to the flat slammed opened. Sherlock jumped, but he relaxed when he saw John. Only, John looked troubled. There were bags under his bloodshot eyes and he was frowning deeply, looking five years older. Sherlock was so caught up by how distraught looked that it took him an embarrassingly long moment to notice the duffel bag in his hand.
"John?"
John sighed heavily. "I'm tired, Sherlock," he said sadly.
Sherlock set his violin down on the floor next to the chair, standing. "Tired of…?"
"Everything!" John burst out. He winced. "I'm sorry. I just-god, Sherlock, I can't live with her!"
Sherlock's heart jumped into his throat. "What?"
"She fucking shot you!" he dropped the duffel bag with a thump. "She shot you and she still thinks she's right! She nearly fucking killed you. I was there; you flatlined! She," John put his head in his hands, shaking his head. "What the fuck is wrong with me?" he mumbled. He lifted his head, and Sherlock was shocked to see John's eyes were moist. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I-"
Sherlock absolutely could not see John in pain. He crossed the room and took John by the shoulders, leaning down slightly so their eyes were on the same level. "John, do not apologize. There's no need."
John shook his head again, "No, Sherlock, it was wrong. It was wrong of me to go back to her." His eyes widened slightly, looking horrified. "What the fuck kind of friend am I?"
Friend. Not for much longer. Sherlock's grip on John's shoulders eased a little, and his thumbs rubbed small circles in his skin.
John looked a little confused, but didn't try to stop him.
"John, you want to move back in?"
"Yes," he said emphatically. "If you'll allow me, yes."
"Of course," Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "Why wouldn't I want you back here?"
"Because I'm a colossal arse," John said.
All this time, Sherlock thought that he was the only one hurting. But here John was, the .brave soldier, teary-eyed, and at the end of his rope. "I always want you here," Sherlock said sincerely.
John looked at him in disbelief. "You do?"
He had to convince John, make him feel better. The words were there on the tip of his tongue, and finally, he could say them. He took a deep breath, "John, you are, and always will be, the most important person in my life. I need you." John's eyebrows rose, but Sherlock was not discouraged, "You have made my life better, have made me into a better person. Of course I want you in my life. It may be very selfish of me, but I want you here, always. There is no other person I cannot be without."
John swallowed, "What are you saying?"
His heartbeat was so loud Sherlock was certain it could be heard in Norway. "I've always meant to say it: John, I love you." It immediately felt like a weight was lifted off Sherlock's shoulders.
John gasped. He shut his mouth and clamped his jaw, lip quivering imperceptibly. "Sherlock," he breathed, cupping Sherlock's jaw roughly, "God, I love you, too."
Throughout all of his pining, Sherlock never anticipated what it would be like to hear those words come from John's mouth. He knew John had feelings for him for a long time, but love? Love was different. Love was powerful. John said he loved him when he asked Sherlock to be his best man, but romantic love was much more intense than platonic love.
Sherlock must have looked surprised, because John gave him a watery smile with a snort, "What, you didn't think I did?"
Sherlock blinked rapidly. "I wasn't certain," he said.
"Well, I do," John's voice lowered to a near-whisper. "I love you. I shouldn't have married her. Can you ever forgive me?"
All of Sherlock's pent-up feelings burst and he pressed his lips to John's to prevent a pathetic whine from escaping his throat. John, thank god, kissed back, his lips warm and firm. It was just as amazing as Sherlock imagined it would be. Sherlock's heart was beating heavily and he felt his face get warm. John rubbed his sides gently and Sherlock realized he was shaking.
John pulled back, their breath mingling. "You okay?"
"Yes," Sherlock whispered. "I just never thought this would actually happen, I suppose. I've wanted this for so long and-"
John made a little shushing noise and kissed him again, arms wrapping around his torso. "It's okay now," he reassured him. "It's all right, Sherlock." He kissed Sherlock gently, coaxing Sherlock's lips open slowly. His hand moved to the curls at Sherlock's nape, holding onto them.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist, finally able to have the man he loved in his arms. He was so happy he could have cried. He kissed back with as much as he knew how. He didn't have many kisses in his life, but it didn't seem that hard. John was enjoying it. Their lips felt like they were made for each other, fitting together perfectly. John licked his bottom lip lightly and chuckled when Sherlock inhaled sharply. He nibbled Sherlock's lip and heat spread all over Sherlock's body. John put one if his hands on Sherlock's hips, gradually smoothing it over his trousers to cup his arse.
Sherlock moaned into John's mouth, his cock hardening. Their kisses grew hot and wet, warm tongues meeting and swirling, lips sucking. Sherlock never felt anything like this in his life. It was intoxicating. He sucked John's top lip, feeling like he could kiss John for hours. When John's hand moved to his bulge and squeezed, Sherlock bucked his hips forward. John smiled into the kiss and his palm rubbed Sherlock's bulge. Sherlock never got so hard so quickly before, but he also never had someone else touch him before. He was subconsciously thrusting into John's hand rhythmically. He groaned in protest when John's hand moved away.
"Sherlock," John said, "look at me."
Sherlock opened his eyes and realized he was trying to get himself off, fully clothed, into John's hand. He felt shame wash over him, but John touched his face.
"Let's slow down, okay?" John stroked his cheekbone with his thumb
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, unable to look at John.
"No, no," John frowned, "everything's okay. It's just...we've been waiting so long, yeah?"
"Unbearably long," Sherlock looked at him.
John smiled sadly. "Don't you want it to last?"
"But, don't we have a long time?" Sherlock asked hesitantly. "Can't we do it as much as we want now?"
John frowned even more. "Yes, we can. God, come here." He hugged Sherlock, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on his back, reminiscent of the hug at John's wedding. But this time, Sherlock hugged back, holding John close to him, their chests against each other. He sighed and nuzzled his nace into John's neck, a lump forming in his throat, their hearts beating together.
John stroked Sherlock's curls gently. "Oh, Sherlock," he whispered, "we're a right mess, aren't we?"
Sherlock nodded, not trusting his voice to be steady. He closed his eyes, savoring this moment. He pressed a little kiss to the side of John's neck, and John kissed his shoulder. They stood their for what felt like ages, just holding each other, feeling their chests rise and fall with each breath. Sherlock wanted to bury himself into John's skin and never return. By now, his erection had softened. They could do all that stuff later. They had time. He just wanted to cuddle with John. A few years ago, he would have been disgusted with himself for using the word cuddle in his mind, but he just didn't care anymore.
"John?" he whispered, opening his eyes.
"Yeah?"
"Can we...do this in bed?" He was okay with the word in his mind, but there was no reason to say it to John.
"You want to cuddle?" John asked, voice teasing.
Damn. "What if I do?"
"Then that's fine." John lifted his head from its place on Sherlock's shoulder, a soft smile on his face.
Sherlock smiled, too, and it was the most genuine smile he had in a long time. "Is it okay that we don't do...well-"
"It's all fine, Sherlock," John said. "Can I be honest with you? I think I'm too fucking tired for that right now. Mentally, I mean. I'd like it very much if we could just lie together."
Sherlock smiled wider. He knew John would understand.
"But," John's voice lowered and he stood on his toes, mouth brushing up against the shell of Sherlock's ear, "don't think I don't have plans for you later."
Sherlock was positive he turned into a tomato.
John, damn him, winked and walked off to Sherlock's bedroom.
They went into Sherlock's room and sprawled on the bed, right on top of the duvet. Sherlock spread in body atop John's, burying his face in his chest, feeling lighter than he had in years.
No. He felt lighter than he had in any other moment of his life. And now that he said it once, he wanted to say it every day.
"I love you," Sherlock mumbled into John's chest, kissing his collarbone.
John rubbed his back. "I love you, too," he buried his face in Sherlock's hair, inhaling. "I'm glad I came back."
"Me, too," Sherlock said honestly. "What about the baby?" he asked, although he didn't really care.
John sighed. "It's not even mine."
Sherlock's head shot up. "What?"
John didn't look very upset. "That bloke, David? Remember him? It's his."
Sherlock scowled. "How dare she cheat on you," he growled. How could one have the honor of being with John Watson and be unfaithful? What an awful woman. Trying to kill him was one thing, but hurting John? That was more heinous in Sherlock's book.
"I'm not really mad," John shrugged. "I was at first, but it just gave me a good excuse to come back to you."
Sherlock blinked in surprise and a grin lit up his face. "Oh."
John chuckled. "You're cute."
Sherlock's nose scrunched up in faux distaste.
John just tapped his nose with his finger, and Sherlock's facade fell. They giggled at their ridiculousness, feeling like teenagers.
John's smile faded a little, "What about Moriarty, Sherlock? What are you going to do?"
"Mycroft is concocting a plan. Whatever the plan is, you shall be a part of it."
John's features softened. "Yeah? Well, damn right, I'll be. We both know how keeping me in the dark went last time."
Sherlock had the decency to look abashed. "I'm sorry. Again. I've learned."
"I know," John brushed Sherlock's curls away from his forehead. "I know."
Sherlock kissed John chastely. "No matter what happens, I want you to be there."
"I'll be there," John confirmed.
If Moriarty resurfaced as soon as Sherlock came back, Sherlock would have been terrified. He was still worried, of course, but with the knowledge that John would be by his side, he felt better, safer.
Sherlock nuzzled kisses on John's neck, feeling giddy as John chuckled and thread his hand through his curls. "I love you," Sherlock murmured, "I love you, I love you, I love you."
"Will you get tired of saying it?" John asked fondly.
"Never," Sherlock said seriously, kissing John's forehead.
John smiled, eyes bright. He swallowed, "Well," he cleared his throat, "I'll never get tired of hearing it."
Sherlock kissed John's lips deeply and slowly, feeling like he was going to explode. This was the happiest he ever felt. Their lips slid together, a soft, unhurried glide, until Sherlock was smiling too hard for them to continue.
It was okay, though, because John had the same problem. "Why didn't we do this sooner, Sherlock?"
"Because we were both fools," he said simply.
"Very true," John kissed his nose. "It got to the point where I wasn't sure this would ever happen."
Sherlock stroked John's cheek. "I know. We shouldn't dwell on it, John."
"Yeah, we're together now, and it's going to stay that way for a long time."
"How long?"
"If you're willing? The rest of our lives."
Sherlock inhaled sharply and peppered kisses on John's face, mumbling yes, John, yes, I love you, I love you, I love you so much. It felt like sunshine was pumping in his veins. He shouldn't say that aloud. Even John would find that too sappy, but it was true. He felt incredible, like he could conquer the world with beautiful, amazing John by his side.
John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and rolled them onto their sides, claiming Sherlock's mouth, not driven by lust, only love. Sherlock held John's face in his hands and felt a tear escape the corner of his eye.
He was finally with John, and they were never going to be apart again. Tomorrow, they would make love, but for now, they just held each other and kissed, utterly at peace.
I like to think by the time they finally get together, Sherlock and John would just hold each other for a bit before having passionate sex. I do love stories that have them fucking, though :D
Thanks for reading!