Sherlock returned at last, to find Tessa sleeping on their sofa. It made him realize just how long he'd been gone, and that he more than missed dinner. He walked quietly over to the sofa, sat on the edge of the coffee table, and paused a moment before waking her; she looked blissfully asleep and he wondered how she would react when she awoke. She stirred on her own, so he knew he'd have an answer soon.
Tessa opened her eyes and stretched briefly before focusing enough to see Sherlock was beside her. "What time is it?" she yawned.
"Just after 2am," he answered, "You waited for me." This was a novelty he didn't expect; Tessa didn't look angry and she'd stayed far beyond a reasonable time.
"Don't you know, Sherlock? I'll always wait for you." She said it softly and simply as a-matter-of-fact. "Did you find what you needed?"
He nodded the affirmative and added, "Look, I realize I spoiled our evening, but…" he trailed off, at a loss to adequately explain just how he had gotten carried away from her so thoughtlessly.
"The only thing I really missed was watching your marvelous mind work through the problem. You're damn sexy when you do that, and I hate to miss any of it." Tessa was smiling by now, completely disarming his self-defense of his boorish behavior. He couldn't help but give her that half-smile— the one he knew she adored, the one she'd said always made her want to kiss the corner of his mouth— "But maybe next time, you could keep me in some small part of that amazing brain of yours. That's not too much to ask for, is it?"
Sherlock tilted his head slightly, meaning to look self-deprecating, and tapped his right temple, "You're here already." But there was more; his heart suddenly felt very full. He took her hand, and before he realized he'd done so, placed it over his heart. "But it's here where you really live."
Tessa's eyes widened, and then she turned her head to face the wall. A few breaths passed—it seemed like longer to him, but it was truly only that—and she turned her head in profile to him. She looked as though she was reigning in some strong emotion or reply, finally saying in the softest of tones, "You really shouldn't say things like that, Sherlock. I might start to think you've fallen in love with me." She closed her eyes and a single tear rolled down the side of her face.
And then he knew, the moment was now, the time to face what he'd been denying and finally say it out loud. "You've made me feel things, Tessa. Things I'm can't….I'm not….things I'm not even equipped to describe." Sherlock looked at her plaintively, all but begging her to absolve him of saying the actual words.
Tessa understood of course. She couldn't love him like she did and not understand. "No need to say anything, my darling." She twined two fingers in the curls that framed his face, "My darling Sherlock." That she was claiming him so intimately made the center of his chest actually ache happily. "But you can take me to your bedroom right now and show me." The huskiness in her voice was the last tumbler totip before it all fell into place.
Tessa was right when she'd told him he needn't say anything. She always was, in regard to sentiment and other such crimes of the heart. Sherlock had learned early on that this was her particular gift—honest compassion and an almost instinctive understanding of what motivated and moved the human spirit. These, her truest talents, were the source that endowed her performances with the veracity which made them so compelling.
She had known he could not speak his feelings aloud; to say those three little words was an insurmountable hurdle. But he knew that to show her would be no challenge at all—for Tessa had taught him many things, both by her tender examples and by his amorous experiences with her. Sherlock was eager to give to her, by action, what he could not by speech. He undressed her very slowly, taking his time, touching and teasing her, lingering where Tessa was most sensitive, eliciting dulcet sounds of pleasure. She clung to him throughout, her body speaking the very same language, but he was ever in the lead.
This surely was a new experience for him, demonstrating the depth of his feelings in even the barest of touches. Sherlock kept the pace slow and steady, with a patience she herself had schooled in him, until Tessa couldn't take it anymore, practically begging him, "Now please, do it now." As soon as he entered her, Tessa began to orgasm, her hips bucking to meet his, her moans full and raw and so sweet to his ears. Sherlock slowed his movements, astonished that she had responded so strongly, so soon.
Tessa was panting beneath him, her eyes half-lidded. "Don't worry, there will be more," she told him, moaning again, softly this time. She pulled his face close and covered his skin with kisses tender as down, whispering his name, calling him darling, calling him hers.
Sherlock had already known, on the most fundamental level, that Tessa was his, known from their first intimacies. He realized now how fully he was hers; and even more, how much he had longed to finally belong to someone in this way. The physical pleasure he felt—delicious and deep and undeniably satisfying—could not match the euphoria of understanding how deeply she loved him.
Tessa was telling him as much, telling him she loved him again and again. Their many nights of practice now making perfect the act they were sharing, she spoke words he'd never dreamed of hearing. As she came once again, her legs wrapped tight around his, the waves of her climax pulling him deeper still, she was saying it over and over "Oh god, how I love you," her breath catching at times in her rapture, "Oh Sherlock, I love you so." It was that which finally sent him over the edge, to spend himself inside her, even as her whispered declarations made their home within his breast.
Then they were both catching their breath, inhaling in rhythm with one another in the aftermath. Tessa's mouth was against his ear, and she whispered "Stay inside me, please. Just a little while longer. I don't want to let you go just yet. Please." Sherlock's heart again felt full to overflowing.
Yet he still couldn't say the actual words, though he knew that he should. Tessa, gazing up at him, saw it writ on his features. She cupped his face in her hand, running her thumb across his lower lip. Her smile was serene and filled with understanding, "I know, my darling, I know." Sherlock closed his eyes, wishing he could give her that last measure she so deserved. Tessa waited until he opened them again, finally telling him "Just promise me you'll look at me again like you are looking at me now and that will be enough"
A little while later, as he lay back upon his pillow, Tessa curled against him, nuzzling his skin as they settled in to sleep, he spoke at last. Sotto voce, but with deep resonance of feeling, words he was sure fell short, but nevertheless came from his heart, "I adore you, you know." Tessa brushed her lips against his neck and murmured "Yes".
The gentle acceptance in her voice—and he had never expected any less—was a catalyst of sorts, and to his surprise he found he couldn't stop at simply that. These words came haltingly at first, but then began to flow as his certainty in them grew, "You've believed in me from the very beginning. You believed I have a heart. So many others—I've been told so many times I don't have one. Even John," he motioned with his head to the bedroom door, "has said as much a time or two. And there's times I more than half believed it. But you, you saw it from the first."
Tessa was so silent, he worried for a moment he had misjudged the right thing to say. Several heartbeats passed before he realized her answer-salt tears against his skin. She had never been shy about shedding tears before him—it was her way, for her heart ran deep—but Sherlock knew that these were of the happiest sort. She held on to him even tighter, sighing long and deep. It was the only encouragement he needed to continue, his voice now soft with wonder, "If anyone in the world had the power to break my heart, it would be you. But you never would."
"Never, my love," she answered, rising up so her face hovered over his. If Sherlock had asked, she would've told him the joy in her voice, the joy reflected in her eyes, was from seeing him at long last realize these truths, and finally speak them aloud.
It was when John carried his coffee mug into the front room, to drink while reading the morning paper, that he noticed several things. Tessa's clutch and light-weight coat on the chair where she'd left them when she first arrived the evening before. The afghan pushed carelessly to one end of the sofa, where she had waited for Sherlock to return. And her shoes sitting on the floor near the couch, where she'd placed them before curling up to go to sleep. John smiled, nodding his head approvingly, knowing the night must have ended more happily for the two of them than he ever would have expected.