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And then John reaches out as though he can't help himself, and fleetingly touches Sherlock's cheek with one calloused finger, soft as a whisper, a promise. His voice is very low and gentle, when he says, 'Sherlock, will you let me say it?'

Sherlock swallows hard, because it feels – everything feels full of weight, the very air between them still, momentous. He swallows, and watches his own hand flex on his lap, cramping and uncramping nervously, and hears his own voice say, 'Y-yes.'

John looks up at him. There's something like hope in his eyes – Sherlock feels an odd flush of glad warmth at that, that John can look hopeful, despite the grey of his hair, the way his eyes are wrinkled at the corners as though they have seen too much, these past months. He watches John, waits.

'Thank you,' John says quietly. 'The thing I wanted to say – God, I should have said it to you years ago. I'm so sorry – so bloody sorry, Sherlock.'

John takes a deep breath, rubs his face briefly with his hand. 'I was so afraid of the truth for so long,' he says, 'but – but. I'm not going to lie to you anymore, and if this is going to mean that – you need me to go, I will take that consequence. But I need to say this.'

Sherlock stares at him, hardly daring to breathe. He wishes that John would look back at him; and something wild and free and wondering is beating hard in his chest.

Then John – John is meeting Sherlock's eyes again, direct and earnest and full of something that Sherlock doesn't know how to name. And John says, soft and clear and shattering, 'I love you, Sherlock. I'm in love with you, and I have been for years, and I think I probably always will be.'

Sherlock's throat closes. He's looking – looking at John, looking and looking and staring – and John's eyes are so blue but so dark at the same time – and Sherlock's mouth keeps opening and closing without anything coming out – and he can't stop blinking, blinking.

Then John bows his head, breaking his gaze, head drooping. And just like that Sherlock's voice comes back, spilling out words locked in the core of him for so long. 'John, John,' he croaks, 'I do too – John, I love you too, I love you, I love you,' and he's grasping frantically at his hair, anchoring onto it with his fingers as he spins away.

Sherlock's hands are shaking. John. Impossible – John loves him. Stocky snub-nosed beautiful John Watson, everything Sherlock has ever wanted in every way.

John John John. It's always John.

And John's standing right there – just standing, patient, waiting, after a first, sharp, aborted little move towards Sherlock. John's head is still bowed.

Sherlock sucks in a harsh biting breath; makes himself go still, forces his hands down from his hair. 'John?' he gets out, and it's hesitant and tiny and sounds like a question, shameful. childish. It doesn't matter. The answer is always John.

John's head comes up; he's looking up at Sherlock, and by the rules of psychology that should be an imbalance of power with John at a disadvantage and Sherlock at an advantage because of his superior height, but it's – not. John's gaze is earnest, steady, grave; Sherlock trembles and blinks, fingers biting at the palms of his hands.

'Sherlock?' John's voice is so quiet. The beginnings of a smile are tugging at the corners of his mouth, joyous, happy. Sherlock licks his lips. His brain is a great spinning furry of confusion, and it shouldn't be a good feeling at all. He's not sure why he doesn't mind. It must be something to do with endorphins. Hormones. Something.

And – and then.

Then John is moving, fast, battle reflexes and set jaw, reaching up and grabbing Sherlock's shoulders and yanking him down firmly and what, what – Sherlock doesn't know what's happening. John. Angry? No. Not John's angry face. John's Captain face. The one that makes something quiver deep down at the bottom of Sherlock's stomach, odd and hot and excited. Captain Watson. Pulling rank. Taking charge. God, he's wanted, wanted, for so long…

'Sherlock, you idiot, hold still,' John says. Sherlock realises he's flailing, arms and elbows and what are arms even, arms.

John. John's eyes – warm, so warm. Looking at him. Affectionate. 'Christ, Sherlock, calm down. Just – hold... still.'

And what is John – what? What. What is he doing.

Mouth.

Lips. Covering Sherlock's own lips, warm and moving gently and very soft, and whatever Sherlock had thought kissing John would be like, it wasn't like – like this. Exploding stars. Bright colours. Where had the bright colours come from? Sunshine.

He can hear himself making little embarrassing noises. Kitten noises. Why kitten noises? Happy kitten John sunshine lips. Lips. Captain Watson. Hot heat lower intestine; lower lower lower. John: laughing and breaking lips away: no. Bad. John should bring his mouth back.

'Sherlock? You still with me, Sherlock?' Soft-edged John voice. Mmf.

'More,' Sherlock demands, stretching his neck out to try and reach John's lips again. 'John.'

'Easy, Sherlock. Okay?' John's hands, smoothing his shirt against his back. Gentle. Gentle is annoying, mostly, from most people. Patronising pity. But not from John. With John, gentleness is Captain Watson and being safe and not taking any shit from Sherlock, and Sherlock likes it, craves it.

Gentle. Gentle smoothing hands, lighting up swathes of Sherlock's skin. It's probably glowing, his skin under John's touch. Feels like it's glowing. Tingles.

No. Stupid.

Fanciful.

Sherlock says quickly, 'You do understand that this is merely a chemical response occurring in the brain, specifically in the raphe nucleus, ventral pallidum, nucleus accumbens and ventral tegmental –'

'Shut up, Sherlock,' John says. 'No, really. Shut up.'

And he kisses him again. And again and again and again.

'You make kitten sounds,' John says, a little while later, when they've melted down onto the side of the bed, tangled up in each other's arms. He noses into the crook of Sherlock's neck. 'Little sounds like a – goddamn – kitten, Sherlock, you ridiculous thing.' Now he's running his hand through Sherlock's hair, thumb stroking tenderly across his temple, into the delicate dip where a gun would go if one were to shoot themselves neatly. John wouldn't like that thought.

Feels good, John's thumb, John's hand in his hair. Good. So good.

'Notakitten,' Sherlock slurs, watching John through half-closed lids. John, warm and solid and cuddling against him. He looks like a kitten. His face is all soft and happy and relaxed. Hasn't looked like that for a long time, so long. Nice. Sherlock wants to touch. Tactile. Touching something he likes. Infantile reaction. He does it anyway.

John's face is fascinating, important, John. Sherlock touches. He runs curious fingers over John's cheeks, short round nose. Soft eyelids. Sherlock's finger strokes the silky smiley wrinkles at the corners of his eyes. Eyelashes: ticklish. Forehead, temple (never never never).

John's smile. Sherlock touches it, touches the smile (the smile he made. Himself, Sherlock.) Feels it widen, as he presses experimentally at the soft line of John's lower lip.

Oh.

Wait. What – John's tongue. Licking. Oh, God. John is licking on his, on Sherlock's fingers. Suckling warm wet firm oh oh God.

'I – what, John please, John,' Sherlock says desperately, and he's not at all sure what he's asking for and everything is sort of whirling and he's too hot and why has John stopped, John needs to go on doing that right now. 'John, John, please…'

But John shakes his head a little, eyes full of tenderness and apology. His fingers curls warmly around the back of Sherlock's neck, his thumb stroking small soothing circles into his skin. His other hand comes up and gently pulls Sherlock's fingers out of his mouth, positioning them on his shoulder instead.

'Too fast,' he says, and it's not really a question. 'I'm sorry.'

'No, no, no,' Sherlock mutters, because he wants everything, he wants it all, and he's trembling, his fingers shaking and clenching over John's shoulder, and he's got that strange sick feeling where he's not sure which way is up any more and he wants to crawl inside John's skin and scream and also shoot a gun with a loud crack, and why is he still trembling because it's not too fast, he wants and needs and.

'Sherlock, hey. Shhh,' John says, very gently. 'Sherlock, slow down, breathe for me, okay? You're hyperventilating. Breathe in – and out.'

Sherlock whimpers. He needs, he needs, and why does John want him to breathe, breathing is stupid. But John tugs him down, rearranges them both so that Sherlock's head is nestled into John's shoulder, and John curls around him and wraps both of his arms around Sherlock's body, holding him there securely so that the hot sick dizziness recedes a little.

Sherlock feels John's nose, John's lips in his hair, and shivers all over. After a moment John speaks, his voice quiet and steadying, a low note of sound against Sherlock's temple.

'Sherlock,' he murmurs. 'Sherlock, for this, you need to trust me. Can you trust me?'

His hand rubs in a slow circle on Sherlock's back, and then another; Sherlock breathes, and focuses on the feeling of it, John's hand. Short strong fingers. Broad square palm. Steady. Steady movements, calming. The feeling of unreality recedes further; there's just John's caressing hand, and the safe warmth of John's arms around him, and John's oddly gentle question humming softly in the air around them. Can you trust me?

Can Sherlock trust John? Of course. Of course he trusts John, has always trusted John, trusted him with his very life.

But this? Can he let go, cede control, trust John with all the mortifying vulnerability of his inexperience? Sherlock tucks his face closer into John's neck and breathes in his warm John-scent, feels John's lips laying tiny kisses on his temple, his hairline, and abruptly wants to burst into tears.

'Yes,' he mumbles into John's skin, and John strokes the nape of his neck comfortingly.

'We're going to do this,' John murmurs. 'Christ. I promise you we are definitely going to do everything you want. But slowly, okay?' His lips are on Sherlock's eyebrow, now, a soft firm press that feels real, grounding, something to hold on to. Sherlock stays still, just breathing, feeling. Perhaps – it's just possible that he nestles a little bit into John's arms.

John's lips trail to the corner of Sherlock's eye, before he speaks again, his voice somehow aching, the words buzzing softly against Sherlock's skin. 'God, Sherlock, I know – I know how long we've – how long you've waited. And. And I don't want to mess this up. I've done so much of everything wrong. So wrong.' John takes a deep breath, shifting so that his head's bowed over Sherlock's, his face pressing into Sherlock's hair. 'You mean so much, so bloody much to me, and I. I, what I did…'

'Don't,' Sherlock mumbles. 'Don't, please. John.' He fumbles a hand up to find John's hair, John's face, to touch, to take care of John, and his fingers slip on wetness. John – John is crying. Crying!

'I'm sorry.' John's voice cracks. 'I'm so, so sorry. God, Sherlock, what I did. You should kick me – out of the house, you should…'

'No, no, no, John, never, how could you say that,' Sherlock says frantically. He sits up and snatches urgently at John, winding his arms around John's body. 'No, I – I love you, I would never…'

John makes a little snuffling sound, partway between a laugh and a sob. 'I know,' he says, 'of course you – wouldn't, you're a really bloody goddamn good person and don't – don't – deserve it.' He scrubs his face with his hands, choking back a little hitching breath.

Sherlock pushes John's hands away from his face, because John, John is labouring under a serious misapprehension that needs to be fixed right now.

'No,' he corrects, 'no, John, I'm really not a good person. I'm a high-functioning – '

John's whole body tenses in a single second. Then he's throwing his head up, glaring at Sherlock, the edges of his eyes reddened. 'Bullshit!'

Sherlock blinks, wary for a moment. But John's hands are on him, holding his shoulders, and John says, a bit quieter, 'Bloody bullshit, Sherlock. You were never a sociopath, high-functioning or otherwise, you hear me? Never.' And then he yanks Sherlock down, and his mouth crashes hot and forceful and urgent against Sherlock's, kissing fiercely for a few seconds, and – what. That. That was not expected. Sherlock's whole body is singing, fizzing, but then John pulls back, panting a little.

'I'm never going to stop telling you that until you believe it,' he says ferociously. 'You're the best person I've ever known, and I love you so goddamn much, and you love me back, God knows why, and you are not a bloody sociopath.'

Then John's arms come around Sherlock again, much more gently than Sherlock expects, John's hands smoothing and stroking and rubbing circles in Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock squeezes him back, loving him: his John, somehow, impossibly, in his arms. And John presses his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, and then he's shaking a bit with wobbly broken laughter.

Sherlock bends his head and murmurs into John's ear, 'Salty language, Captain Watson,' just to see what John will say.

And suddenly they're laughing, both of them, deep and helpless, clutching onto each other's shirts with their hands, and Sherlock sniffle-hiccups and realises he's crying at the same time.

It's just – he's so happy, so very, very happy; and he thinks suddenly that this, this is what it will be for the rest of his life – the rest of their life. John and Sherlock, the two of them against the world, laughing and crying and quite probably fighting sometimes, sharing the burden of their demons and traumas and difficulties, and living life together, always.

He looks down and meets John's eyes, crinkled with laughter and glossed with tears, full of something huge and glorious and wonderful. It's love, Sherlock thinks, that look in John's eyes, love, so much more than just a chemical reaction, and he knows John sees it mirrored in Sherlock's own eyes – his love, and the long years they will have together, stretching out like a shining road ahead of them.

And Sherlock smiles damply at John and sniffles and bends his neck to kiss him, sweet and a little shy and perfect; and John – John kisses him back, and he tastes like smiling tears and joy.

Please leave a comment below... and also, thoughts on another chapter? I'm wondering about something short and domestic and very fluffy to finish this off. :)