John woke up cold. Sherlock was awake but hadn't retreated, although he was still visibly hostile. He was leaning against the wall, still wrapped in the blankets as he frowned down at John. "You trying to see if you can set me on fire with your mind?"

"That's ridiculous," Sherlock scoffed, resting his head on his knees. Even then, he didn't look away. "If I wanted to set fire to you I would resort to traditional means, rest assured."

John yawned, checking the clock. Sherlock had only been asleep for two hours, but he seems relatively well-rested. John climbed out of bed and stretched. "I'm going to shower," he muttered, and left the bedroom without further comment.

Sherlock hadn't moved when John re-entered, still damp and wrapped in his dressing gown, a towel draped around his neck. John tried to ignore him, but his gaze tracked his every move and was starting to grate on John's last nerve. "For fuck's sake Sherlock, what?" John finally snapped. "What? What do you want?" He sighed, rubbing his face. "Sorry, you're just...just say what you want to say. Please."

Sherlock pressed his lips together, shaking his head. His intense focus on him didn't waver and John dressed with sharp, efficient precision, his back towards Sherlock. "I will answer anything you ask of me. I will not volunteer any information you do not expressly request."

John tugged down his jumper, trying not to let his frustration show. By the slight antagonistic nature of Sherlock's smirk, John was certain he hadn't been very successful. "I'm not going to make you talk about anything you don't want to talk about, Sherlock. It's fine. It's all fine."

Sherlock threw off the blankets, revealing his hopelessly wrinkled clothes from the day before. He stood, snatched up John's abandoned dressing gown, and shrugged it on before going downstairs. John followed him a few paces behind as Sherlock spoke, his words rapid-fire. "You obviously feel unsure about the nature of the expectations I have concerning our...arrangement. If discussing it is what you find necessary to clarify my intentions towards your family, then by all means we will discuss it. Shall I make tea, or are you afraid I will attempt to dose you with hallucinogenics?"

"You wouldn't pull the same trick twice," John replied, waving a hand towards the kitchen, granting permission. Sherlock making tea was a familiar storm, throwing tea bags and violently spooning sugar into one of the cups and splashing milk into the other. John watched his sharp movements and something that Sherlock had just said hit him. "It's...it's not my family, Sherlock. I don't own it, all right? It was given to me by you, if I take your silence as assent. If it's easier for you to think of it that way, as something that's all mine, that's fine, but you should know that I don't see it that way. We are a family- you, me, and Jack. It's our family, all right?"

Sherlock slammed the kettle down on the hob, his shoulders tense. "I don't know what you want me to say, John. That isn't a question. I need questions."

John clenched his jaw. "You understand why I was okay with Mycroft talking Jack, right? Tell me what you deduced from my change of heart."

Sherlock didn't hesitate. "You are no longer suffering from crippling separation anxiety as you where when he was first yours. My leaving aggravated your memories of the war and not being able to save your men, and your mind worked out that the reason you couldn't save them is because you weren't there to protect them in the first place. Same with me. Therefore, if you were always there for Jack, you could protect him and thus he wouldn't need saving. You held on to that delusion for quite a while, too long, but someone convinced you that you needed to let go, just a bit. My guess is Lestrade, seeing as he has some experience with children, but there's no doubting that you knew how irrational your thought process was. So you took baby steps, little by little. Until you could suppress the anxiety enough to be able to concentrate on something other than how much you needed Jack back in the flat with you. The fact that I've returned and you no longer have the guilt of my death on your conscience only makes it that much easier for you to trust that Jack will be safe with other people. Even Mycroft."

The kettle screamed, and Sherlock carefully poured out the boiling water. "I didn't feel guilty when you died," John argued, but Sherlock leveled him with a glare. "Fine, of course I did. How could I have known you had it all planned out?"

Sherlock sighed and passed over the tea that had milk in. "You can't fix everything, John. In the grand scope of things, you can fix the vast minority of the wrongs that occur. Do stop worrying yourself into an early grave."

"Stop fussing." John sipped his tea and watched Sherlock stare down at his own cup, his fingers tapping the counter nervously. "Fine, you get it. That's good. All right, so-next, then. Do you want to be a parent to Jack?"

Sherlock blinked once. Twice. His gaze on John was level, and he said, "No."

"Why?"

"You're doing a well enough job on your own. I will assist you in any way you require, but I defy a title. The idea of being someone's parent is somewhat repellant. Any association with me when it comes to the general public will not be beneficial for a child. You are much more capable and well-suited for the job than I. Therefore you are Jack's father, and I shall be his Sherlock. As I am yours. Next question."

John sighed, dropping his head to the counter with a resounding thump. "You can't just...do you listen to yourself when you speak? You say the most devastatingly gorgeous things, did you know?"

Sherlock's cheeks flushed, and he frowned. "Next question."

John took a long gulp of his tea before clearing his throat, watching Sherlock fiddle with his chipped saucer. "Why does this conversation make you so nervous?"

Sherlock's whole body tensed, taut like the bow of his Stradivarius. When he spoke his words were slow and measured. "Words are very limiting. I speak four languages fluently, and not one of them has the vocabulary to express what is in my mind with any accuracy. As to how I feel, feeling is a completely involuntary reaction to both external and internal stimuli. Feelings are irrelevant, John. Just think. What you think and know is what is important, not your inane feelings. I am uncomfortable because you don't understand that, and are constantly worried about how I feel about situations. Stop worrying and just ask. Next question."

"Telling me to stop worrying is like telling you to stop being an annoying dick, but I'll remember that. But asking you What do you think? is practically begging for you to call me an idiot. And you're pretty good at that without me prompting you."

Sherlock smirked. "I shall endeavor to restrain myself."

John returned the smile, but only just. He finished off his tea and pushed Sherlock's cup a bit closer to him. "Drink, before it gets cold."

Sherlock took his tea like a shot of alcohol, slamming the empty cup back down. "There, happy?"

John rolled his eyes and cleared away the empty dishes. "Ecstatic. I can barely restrain my joy. I may faint, I'm so overwhelmed with happiness."

"John."

John ignored the antagonism that saturated that single word, and turned back to Sherlock. "Fine. Are you in love with me?"

Sherlock huffed out a surprised breath. "What a ridiculous question. Think, John."

John licked his bottom lip, tilting his head to the side. "It's fine if you are, Sherlock. It's more than fine. Here, then, do I need to say it first? All right. I wasn't aware of how much I cared about you until you were up there on that roof. And for some reason, for some holy reason, I got another chance to tell you. I don't want another day to go by where you aren't sure that I love you, all right? You've probably deduced it, but there it is. I love you. And when I compare how much I love you to any of my past relationships, I can only conclude that I'm in love with you as well. You're it for me, Sherlock. And I'll take whatever you give me, however large or small, just for the chance to stay at your side. Forever."

Sherlock took a deep breath through his nose and swallowed thickly. He spread his fingers over the counter and watched his them curl around John's without his permission. John's hands weren't graceful, they were practical. Square and rough and darkened by the sun. His fingers were short and broad, but Sherlock fitted their hands together so that fingerprints aligned with fingerprints as closely as he could match. Sherlock finally cleared his throat, uncomfortable with the heavy silence, and said, "I'm not having sex with you."

John sat, baffled for all of a minute. Then he broke out in peals of uncontrollable laughter that Sherlock couldn't help echoing. When John had finally regained himself he wiped away his tears of laughter and said, "I know that, Sherlock. I don't expect you to. I think I can manage."

Sherlock tightened his grip on John's hand for a moment before he lifted it to his mouth, pressing a tentative kiss to John's knuckles. John watched him, curiosity mixed with happiness on his face. "Thank you John," Sherlock said against his skin before he let go of John's hand. His eyes were wide and bright, and most of the tension had drained from his body. "Your grasp of the language of...of affection is much more expansive than mine. You have those words at your disposal, you can understand..." Sherlock shook his head, as if shaking away an unpleasant thought. "I was kidnapped once. Stabbed, tied up and tossed in the boot of a car. I was alone, and no one knew where I was. And there was a moment, right before I lost consciousness, that I thought At least I can rest now. At least I'll be able to rest, and I felt such peace in that moment." Worry was etched on John's face, and Sherlock tapped the back of his hand gently. "I only bring up that incident because it was the first time outside of drugs that I had felt such...stillness. My mind went quiet and I could breathe. It saved my life, I could focus. I no longer need the danger to feel that way anymore. I just need Baker Street. I need you and Jack and a cup of tea and I feel as close to human as I ever have. What you have given me is extraordinary. I am content, John. I have never claimed to be before, never thought it possible for a man such as myself to be comfortable. But I am. You made the world a far, far easier place."

John pressed his lips together, narrowing his eyes as he stared at the wall. "Seems like you've got a pretty good grasp of it yourself then," He said before clearing his throat. "Right. I don't have any more questions at the moment."

"Nor I answers."

John started to speak but Sherlock's phone chirped. He read the text message in a flash and typed back a rapid-fire response, his smile growing in measured increments. "A case, John. Lestrade has a serial burglary. Stealing artifacts from museums in broad daylight!"

John nodded and wandered into the living room. Sherlock followed him a few paces behind, tapping the screen of his phone impatiently for a moment before bounding up the stairs to get dressed. When he returned John was typing away on his laptop and Sherlock had on his coat and scarf in a breath. "Coming?" Sherlock asked, almost apprehensively.

John looked up from his laptop, and held Sherlock's gaze. One breath. Two. In one motion he snapped his laptop shut and stood. "Oh god yes."

The left Baker Street behind together.