Chapter 4

*Author's note: thank you so much everyone who has read this far :D I didn't think my writing would have such an impact on people, it's really wonderful to know that there's people who are actually reading this ;) Also, it should be noted that it is in fact the 14th of February in this fic. Just sayin' ;)*

John surprised Sherlock by launching himself towards him and latching onto him desperately. He clung to Sherlock as a dying man clings to life and sobbed uncontrollably, his tear-stricken face burrowing into the detective's neck. Sherlock just held him, content to be John's pillar of support for as long as he needed him, stroking his soft, fluffy head of hair, keeping John grounded as his emotions spun rapidly out of control.

John needed to be shown that he was deeply loved; this much was very clear to Sherlock. He needed to be healed of his hurts, renewed, and brought back to reality. He needed to understand that he was essential to Sherlock's existence.

Sherlock picked John up in his arms, still swathed in the blanket, and carried him into the kitchen. John nuzzled into Sherlock's shoulder contentedly. Sherlock didn't know when John's heart-wrenching whimpering had stopped; he absentmindedly brushed a long finger just under John's eyes and over his tear-stained cheeks, wiping the offending rivers away for good, which earned him a weak smile from his doctor. He then placed John carefully on the sofa, encased snuggly in his blanket and surrounded by union jack pillows.

Sherlock proceeded to make tea for himself and John, taking extra care to brew it exactly how John liked it.

John watched curiously from the settee, his mind racing from all that had happened in such a short space of time. He was loved. He still couldn't get his head around the idea, it was so ridiculous. Sherlock must have seen something desirable in him though, otherwise he wouldn't have bothered to wake John up with such a fantastic kiss. Maybe John wasn't actually as repellent as he had previously thought.

John mused on the idea, biting his lower lip slowly out of habit.

Whatever the reason, it filled John with an unusually fuzzy warmth that radiated from his heart and was beginning to bring some colour back to his skin. Did this mean they were boyfriends now? Wow, boyfriends… John thought, his eyes glazed over in bliss as he daydreamed about Sherlock and the implications of their new relationship.

Just then, said detective appeared with a coy smile and a breakfast tray in his hands, his gorgeous black curly hair dangling haphazardly in his face, his pyjama top riding up ever so slightly – which made him all the more attractive. John couldn't help but gaze at him dreamily, letting a soft sigh escape his lips.

Sherlock coughed and suddenly John came to his senses, a bashful blush staining his cheeks as he realised that he had been caught staring. He instinctively half-hid his face in the blanket again for good measure.

Sherlock laughed in that deep baritone voice of his, sat down beside John, and set the tray on his lap.

"Is this all for me?" John whispered disbelievingly. "Oh Sherlock, you really didn't have to go to so much trouble…"

Sherlock was practically bouncing off his seat in excitement and anticipation of John's reaction.

"You like it, though, don't you? I've cut your sandwiches into quarters and left out the crusts, just the way you like them. There's orange juice, milk, broccoli and cheese. Have I left anything out?"

His face was so cute and hopeful looking that John just didn't have the heart to tell him that broccoli, sandwiches and cheese weren't really breakfast foods. But the effort that Sherlock had made was clearly evident, and the care he had taken while preparing it was obvious. It warmed John's heart to think that Sherlock – someone who's probably never attempted to make a meal before in his life – would eagerly delve into the unknown just to please John. Butterflies fluttered happily in his stomach.

It wasn't fried eyeballs or stewed hands, though. That was reassuring. John was relieved that it was edible.

He chewed a piece of broccoli, gave Sherlock the thumbs-up and plastered what he hoped was an enthusiastic and eager-looking expression on his face.

Sherlock seemed to buy it.

And suddenly, without any forewarning, Sherlock picked up a sandwich quarter and began to feed John slowly. John moaned irresistibly. It wasn't even the taste of the food that was so delicious; it was the way Sherlock was picking up the food and delicately putting it between John's parted lips; it made John feel important, adored and looked after.

John had never felt so cared for in all of his life. Strong affection for the detective flooded through him, and he surrendered himself to Sherlock's babying. He had to admit to himself that he loved it.

"You're doing it again," Sherlock teased, his voice velvety and soft.

John cocked his head to the side.

"Doing what, may I ask?"

"Your cheeks are overheating, causing that adorable pink glow to form. You're blushing, John."

At this revelation, John Watson turned tomato red.

"Awwwwhhhh…" Sherlock cooed, nibbling John's ear slightly and making him whimper. "You are beautiful, my dear Watson… so beautiful… don't ever change…"

When John had eaten all he was given, Sherlock scooted up to John on the couch, leaned against him and draped the fluffy blanket around them both.

John Hamish Watson's heart was erratic, his breathing hitched. He was lightheaded with happiness.

They began to watch The Great Gatsby, which was John's favourite movie (Sherlock had planned this). He was taken aback by the iridescent colours that graced the screen and the exceptional cinematography used in the making of the film. He had never before understood why his blogger loved the film so much, but now he was captivated by it.

As the enthralling story-line played out in vivid imagery, Sherlock's hand drew lazy yet intricate patterns on John's pale skin, and his bow-shaped lips sought out John's attention. Enveloped in a bubble of comfort, they let themselves be taken away by the film as the miserable English rain spattered against the window in large wet sheets.

John took in a breathy gasp and shuddered as Sherlock's lips explored new territory around his neck. His head was thrown back in ecstasy and his eyes fluttered shut, his mind spinning from all the new exciting experiences that he was having with the detective – experiences that he had told himself he would never get to have, because he didn't deserve them.

"Sherlock," John gasped, "Please don't leave me… at this point I don't think I could bear the pain."

Sherlock's lips found John's nose.

"I'd be an idiot if I left you, John. Do I look like an idiot? Do I look like I would willingly destruct myself?" Sherlock said, seeming almost offended by the thought.

John laughed gaily and held Sherlock tighter, looking down at him. Gazing in wonder at his rock.

After a minute of comfortable silence, Sherlock spoke.

"…John?"

"mmhmm?" John sighed, his eyes closed in bliss.

"Ehm, well… I was wondering… I mean you don't have to, but… err…"

Sherlock's mind palace shrieked at him. 'Just spit it out, you coward! This is supposed to be romantic!'

Sherlock took a deep breath.

"…John Hamish Watson, will you be my valentine?"

"Oh Sherlock..." John almost whispered. "I thought you would never ask! Of course!"

John broke his usual routine and didn't cut that night. Nor did he resort to the use of the blade in the days that followed. It was the longest he had ever lasted without self-harming.