Words Are Not My Strength

I'm aware that the world sees me as strange,
but never once have you wanted me to change;
you take me as I am...

I've grown to finally understand
that someone could love me as I am
and I can finally be
Free.

-"Free" by Stuart Matthew Price

Note: This is for my best friend and platonic soulmate, Alicia (Roses_by_the_Sea_11). Our four year friendaversary was on Friday, and this is one of my gifts to her. She loves the song "Free" by Stuart Matthew Price, and thinks it is perfectly Johnlock. So the title is from there. Go and listen to the song if you have a chance, it's pretty and the lyrics really are very much Sherlock and John.

Also, I am now on AO3 as imatrisarahtops. Find me.

It was comfortable, this. Even with the doubt that sleep would actually come, and the knowledge that he'd slip out of bed at an impossibly early hour, leaving an understanding John snoozing in tangled blankets. Still, it was a ritual that Sherlock didn't mind taking part in, this post-coital holding and nuzzling until John was overtaken by sleep. Sherlock had perfectly calculated how long after John's breathing evened out that he could extricate himself from the man's hold without disrupting his slumber.

He was approximately two-thirds through his count when John sighed contentedly and burrowed his nose more deeply into Sherlock's curls.

"Mmmm…" he hummed, and Sherlock could feel the smile on his lips, pressed into his scalp. "Love you, Sh'lock."

Immediately, Sherlock froze completely. He opened his eyes, glancing up at John in the darkness. He swallowed, his heart hammering as he debated his next course of action. John said he loved him. Of course, this wasn't the sort of thing that John would lie about. Still, in what could technically be considered a haze of afterglow, blissed out and half-or-more asleep, (not to mention the fact that he was the recipient) Sherlock thought the words must be considered cautiously, taken with a grain of salt.

He realized, then, he had been silent, mulling things over, for several long minutes. He no longer had any idea where he was on the don't-wake-John timeline. His data was now all skewed, uncertain about John's likeliness of being at least semi-conscious during the statement and, now, whether or not to respond.

Nevermind what he would actually consider for his response.

A quick test was in order, then.

"John?" he breathed out, quiet enough that his partner would not notice if he were truly asleep.

John remained undisturbed and Sherlock let out a small huff. Nothing else he could do now, then. Not until morning. At least, he decided wryly, this gave him time to properly formulate a plan of action…

"Mm… did you stay all night then?" John asked sleepily, and Sherlock blinked in response.

Ah. Yes. Morning. He'd been too busy to notice.

"Not complaining," John added. "I must admit, it's a pleasant sight to wake up to."

Sherlock merely hummed in response.

"Did you sleep?" John asked. He pulled the other man slightly closer.

"No," Sherlock muttered in admittance. John let out a small sound of disapproval but the subject was dismissed all the same. Instead he had settled one hand firmly on the small of Sherlock's back, steadying and grounding him as the other hand combed its way through dark tangles, fingertips cascading over his ear and down his cheek and along the curve of his neck, then performing a small, curling loop before making their journey back up to his hair again and restarting the cycle. It gave Sherlock goosebumps and he mentally filed the sensation away as an incentive for staying in bed until John awoke—or, at least, to return to bed before he did. This level of affection was agreeable, all sensual but lazy touches. Yes, this would stay.

This, then, may be a good moment to address John's confession from the night before.

"John?"

"Mmm?"

Sherlock looked at the man's face as he continued to caress the slopes of the detective's skin, and he couldn't help but revel in the way sparks of gentle electricity jolted through him as he did so, pulsing from John's fingertips and humming through Sherlock's entire body.

"I…"

But what could he say? Yes, he was rather content with his ability to bluntly state facts, to bring up any matter he so wished without any regard for the consequences.

But this was different.

Sentiment.

"Yes Sherlock?"

A different approach, then, was necessary. He needed for John to make his statement once more. Then it would be logical to merely speed up the process. He'd made the confession once; surely it was only a matter of time before he did again. He just had to reduce that time, to influence John that making such an admittance was appropriate. What did people generally do in cases like this?

"I was merely wondering if you wanted some tea before you had to leave for the surgery," Sherlock said.

John's hand stopped its motions and he stared at Sherlock. "Are you offering?" he asked cautiously.

"Of course," Sherlock responded in mild offense.

"Well, I didn't know if this was a 'get on it, 'cause I'd like a cuppa, too,' sort of thing," John said. "But if you're sure, then, yes. I'd love one." He grinned.

Sherlock smiled in response. For a fleeting moment he did regret the offer as he at last had to pull himself away from their comfortable next, but he reasoned that, all the same, there could potentially be a more valuable and rewarded result if he succeeded in this mission.

Shortly after, John came into the kitchen, showered and dressed. Sherlock pressed the mug into his hands. John opened his mouth to speak, a little wary and skeptical, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No sugar, just a spot of milk," he assured him.

"Just how I like it," John responded, impressed.

"Naturally." He brushed the comment off, picking up his own cup of tea, and looking at John expectantly. John took a sip of the tea and raised his eyebrows in surprise.

"That's good," he said, the tone in his voice taken aback, much like his expression of mild astonishment. "Really quite good. Why is it that you don't make the tea more often, then?"

Sherlock stopped himself from giving his usual response of 'boring' in favor of a non-committal noise that wouldn't give off a total air of inconvenience. John seemed appeased by it, and shortly after he finished draining his tea and took the mug to the sink, quickly rinsing it and then leaving it there for a proper wash later.

"I'll see you later, then," he said, turning back to Sherlock. "Try not to blow up the flat while I'm gone, yeah?" He smiled teasingly, leaning in to give the other man a quick peck on the lips.

"It'll be in one piece when you return," Sherlock assured him, which only caused John to raise his eyebrows—probably from the lack of a cheeky response, or a casual 'no promises'. However, he gave no other reply and simply grabbed his jacket and left the flat.

Sherlock frowned once he was gone. Tea wasn't enough, then, and neither were the more appeasing responses. He glanced at his watch. He had approximately eight hours and fourteen minutes to up his game. Better to start sooner rather than later, then, he supposed, if he really meant to impress John.

When John returned at six twenty-two that evening, as per usual, Sherlock was immensely pleased with the sight that greeted the other man. All of his experiments were cleaned up from the kitchen, equipment relocated to what was now the spare bedroom, but primarily the location Sherlock was supposed to conduct said experiments (part of John's request because the kitchen was meant for food, and potentially hazardous chemicals didn't really mix well with that notion). He'd even scrubbed down the kitchen counters and table with disinfectant. He had collected all of the dirty mugs scattered about the flat and washed them all. He had even done laundry—well, rather, he'd insisted that Mrs. Hudson do the laundry, but as he pointed out that it was to appease John, she'd gladly agreed with a sigh and a murmur of 'you silly boys'.

He was just finishing up dinner when John reached the top of the stairs. There was a pause in his steps—taking in the cleaned living room, then. He listened as the footsteps continued into the kitchen.

"You cooked?" he asked Sherlock, unable to keep the surprise out of his voice.

"It's simply some pasta Bolognese," Sherlock said dismissively.

"Yes, but, well—you made that from scratch, didn't you?" John said, and Sherlock nodded.

"And?"

"And I'm impressed is all," John continued. "This morning you made tea, and now you're cooking me dinner. I didn't know you could cook. The amount of take away we get says otherwise."

"It's simple chemistry," Sherlock reasoned, spooning the pasta and sauce onto a plate, then sprinkling a small amount of cheese on top. He turned and handed the plate to John.

"Thanks," the man murmured, taking the plate and setting it on the table. "And you've cleaned this up, too," he pointed out. "That's, erm… that's great of you. Thanks."

Sherlock nodded as he gave himself a portion of pasta as well, though it was a bit smaller than the one he'd given to John. He didn't feel incredibly hungry, but he wasn't on a case and John did seem to like it when he ate with him. He turned off the stove and took a seat at the table across from John's, as the other man grabbed two wine glasses from the cupboard.

"Just water for you?" he asked.

"Yes, thank you," Sherlock said, and John went to the refrigerator, pulled out the pitcher of water and poured it for him. He set it in front of Sherlock, then returned to the fridge and pulled out the cheap wine from Tesco and helped himself to a small portion. He returned the wine and the water to the fridge before taking his seat.

Sherlock watched him expectantly as he took his first bite of pasta, and again his eyebrows raised in astonishment. "This is—wow, this is fantastic, Sherlock," he said.

Sherlock shrugged half-heartedly at the compliment and took a bite of his own helping. He didn't want his face to betray him and show how pleased he really was with the words.

The next half-hour was filled with mindless chatter about John's day—at this point, they both knew that Sherlock could easily deduce what had happened during one of John's shifts, but John for some reason liked to tell him. Something to do with sentiment and domesticity, he supposed. But if it made John happy, then Sherlock obliged him on occasion.

Sherlock cleaned the plates and pans in the sink as John put away the leftovers, pleased that he might be able to take some in for lunch the next day, instead of running out during his break. When he finished, he appeared at Sherlock's shoulder at the sink and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

"Thank you, again," he said. "It was a good surprise."

Sherlock hummed in response as he turned off the tap and dried off the last dish, then set it aside. As he turned slightly, John took the opportunity to place his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, using them to pull himself up to the other man's height and place a proper kiss on his mouth. Sherlock quickly complied, his own hands falling to John's waist and reflexively pulling him closer. It was sweet, and it tasted like Bolognese sauce and cheap wine and something else that was unmistakably John without a distinct reason as to why.

After a few moments, John pulled away and smiled up at Sherlock. And for a brief moment, Sherlock knew that it would be then that he told him.

"How about some crap telly?" John said. "I'll make tea and get some biscuits."

But, Sherlock reminded himself, even he was wrong on occasion.

"I'll get a blanket," he said in response and John's smile widened into his beautiful open-mouthed smile, the one so genuine that Sherlock knew he'd never be able to fake it, even if he wanted to. So, he reasoned, even if John hadn't said the words, he was still making progress.

However, as days went by, Sherlock found himself growing gradually frustrated. He was, at this point, running out of ideas for other ways that he could convince John to make his confession.

He noticed, too, that while John was still very pleased with the things that Sherlock was doing, he also seemed to be growing suspicious. So he was hardly surprised when John stopped in his tracks as he entered the kitchen to find tea and actual homemade biscuits.

"Is something going on?" John asked, and Sherlock turned to him. "I mean, not that I don't appreciate all this," he quickly clarified. "You make a fantastic cup of tea and your cooking is far better than take away, and actually having a place to eat, well, that's wonderful, but…"

"But?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know," John sighed. "I mean, you don't usually do these things. I feel like… I dunno, you're not about to break some bad news, are you?" He shuffled closer to Sherlock, taking a few steps into the kitchen instead of standing in the doorway. "I'm fairly certain you aren't breaking things off, so what? Are you secretly performing an experiment I wouldn't approve of, and you don't want me to know? Or did Greg cut you off of cases for a bit? Or—oh god, Mrs. Hudson isn't kicking us out, is she?"

"No," Sherlock said evenly.

"Then what is it?" John asked. "I appreciate it, Sherlock, I do, but… Just tell me what's going on, because I am lost."

Sherlock let out a frustrated sound, planting his hands firmly on the kitchen counter. "I just want you to say it again!" he said forcefully, and John raised his eyebrows.

"Say what?" he asked, utter bemusement etched into his features. "What did I say?"

Sherlock sighed, ruffling his hair with both his hands, then letting them fall back to the counter again for a moment before turning his entire body to John.

"Six nights ago," Sherlock clarified in the quick, factual voice that usually indicated he was giving a deduction, "you were falling asleep when you said—said something—and I was unable to tell whether or not it was intended to be said. I have been trying—" The even voice was gone now, again, and impatience crept into his tone. "—to create a favorable moment when you might be convinced to say it again. So I cleaned, I cooked—I even disposed of all of the body parts in the fridge and I bought milk. But still, you won't say it!"

John cleared his throat slightly. "Sherlock, what did I say?" he asked, and suddenly his voice sounded a little worried.

Sherlock straightened his shoulders. "You said you loved me."

John's cheeks colored slightly. "Oh," he said lamely. Again he cleared his throat, and he licked his lips nervously. "I—Sherlock, I—I didn't intend to… you know…"

"Oh." The words hit Sherlock harshly. So then he hadn't meant to say it. He had been more wrong than he thought. He lifted his chin slightly, hopeful that, for once, John wasn't reading him like an open book, though he knew he was—this was John and John knew him. He'd put space between them, then, until he could properly modify things in his head, rationalize it all with logic because sentiment was just as useless as he first thought. "Right." He made to move into the living room, but John caught him with two firm hands on his biceps.

"No, no, no," he quickly said. "That's not—I mean that I didn't mean to say it then," he clarified. "You know, half-asleep and all that, after—erm…"

"After sex."

"Yeah, after sex," John said nodding. "I wouldn't normally do that. Not that it matters to you, I suppose, but I generally try and make it a bit romantic, or at least sweet or intimate or something. Not when I'm half-asleep." His tongue darted out to wet his lips. "But that doesn't mean it's not true." He smiled a still beautiful but definitely forced, nervous, tight-lipped smile. "And you don't need to tidy the flat or make dinner or tea for me to get me to say 'I love you'. Because that's not you, and either way, whether there's toes in the fridge or not, it is true. I do." A deep breath through the nose. "I love you, Sherlock."

Sherlock stared for a moment, his mind trying to fully process the words.

John couldn't stop the small chuckle at the response. "You wanted to hear it, yeah?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said lowly. "Yes. Yes, I did."

"Good," John said, and he leaned up to press a chaste kiss to the man's lips.

And it was then that the reality of the situation and all of its details and implications struck Sherlock. John loved him. John—loved—him. And he had been trying for six days to desperately coerce the man into saying those words—words that he never really cared for before. And even then, even after John made his confession, he didn't look at Sherlock the least bit expectantly, like he needed to hear them back. He didn't care that he had just laid his own heart out for the other man by uttering three tiny yet somehow powerful words, words that he knew were probably unnecessary, especially with Sherlock, but he had done so anyway merely because he'd asked him to.

It was so John that it hurt. And not just John, the John he saw with women or even others at the Yard or Bart's. No, this was his John, the way he acted purely for Sherlock. And he didn't expect him to do anything differently, even if it meant it would make his own life easier. He just wanted Sherlock, no matter what that meant.

And it wasn't even just that.

"Then you know," Sherlock pointed out, and John grinned. "That… That I do, too."

"Yeah, I do," John said. "You don't need to say it."

"I want to," Sherlock assured him, and he let his hands reach up from his sides to grip John's waist, pulling him closer. John's hands reflexively went up to Sherlock's shoulders, and he pulled himself slightly taller with him, rocking onto the balls of his feet so that he could meet Sherlock's mouth in a tender kiss. "I love you, John," he whispered, pulling a few centimeters away to be able to look at the other man and calculate the reaction without having to relinquish his hold. "My dear John."

And there was a look of utter happiness on John's face, and he, in a way looked completely serene. It was an expression that Sherlock would be happy to put on his face again, whatever the cost.