Disclaimer: After all this, Sherlock still doesn't belong to me. How sad.

The first thing John thinks when he opens his eyes and sees the broken lampshade, the bedspread on the floor, and what appears to be the remains of a radio, he thinks there's been a burglary. The moment he rolls onto his side and collides into someone warm, slightly angular, and very much naked he dismisses the thought and instead, remembers last night's events.

"I think we destroyed most of the flat," John says. He tries to sit up to inspect more of the damage but is brought down by Sherlock who insists on wrapping his gangly arms around John to slowly squeeze him to death. Normally, he wouldn't mind this. But the thing is they're on the floor, and well, John remembers that they were nowhere near the floor last night. Rather, he remembers pushing Sherlock down the bed and…and, well, things just went crazy from there. He remembers the sex—and the one after that and the one after that and the one after that. What he doesn't remember is how they managed to destroy nearly every breakable thing in the bedroom.

"That was wild."

Sherlock's only reply is to mumble and bury his face in the crook of John's neck, his nose digging uncomfortably in the fresh bite. John sniffs the top of his head. You smell like me, he thinks and the smug Alpha part of his brain is quite pleased. Only for a second, though, as the satisfaction makes way for jealousy/protectiveness overdrive. John does his best to tune out the more idiotic thoughts, the ones that go I'm going to kill every Alpha within five feet of him he's mine no body better bloody lay a hand on him I will kill anybody who tries to hurt him I'll fucking murder them.

This will be hard.

He tightens his hold on Sherlock involuntarily, earning a sharp wince from the other. "Hurts," Sherlock complains and John quickly jumps away, instinct getting the better of him. His leg screams in protest and other parts of him follow but John does his best to pay no mind to them. He knows he's covered in bruises and he probably looks like shit, but he can't focus on that, not when Sherlock's also covered in dark bruises that John knows with one glance will take weeks to heal.

"Shit!" John yelps when he sees the damage he's done on Sherlock's neck. He didn't just get carried away. He turned into a bloody zombie. You're supposed to break the skin, that's true. You're not supposed to treat your lover's neck like a fucking chew toy. It's not a deep wound and it's stopped bleeding, but there's dried blood smeared on Sherlock's neck, and while John isn't squeamish, blood and Sherlock just isn't a good combination. "Shit," he says again. "What did I do to you?"

"You shoved your cock in my arse. Repeatedly." Sherlock looks at him blankly, still very much himself despite the fact that he's nude and covered in bruises. "It was nice."

John stares at him, baffled. "Nice?" he nearly yells. "You look awful."

"Your pillow talk needs some serious work," Sherlock sneers.

"Can't you stop being sarcastic for just one second?" John mutters as he searches for last night's clothes. He only manages to find his pants and trousers. His shirt has chosen to play hide and seek and John can't be bothered to go looking for it right now so he just puts on the others. Dimly, he thinks about taking a shower, but he smells quite nice. Alright, probably not nice to other people since he smells like sex and Sherlock and oddly enough shoe polish (why though, he doesn't know nor does he want to know). But it smells nice for him and Sherlock seems to like it so he decides to go against the idea. He has bigger problems in the meantime and it's staring at the ceiling with a bored expression.

"Sher, get up. I'll put something on that wound of yours."

"No. Hurts to walk." Sherlock rolls onto his side, grabs one end of the rug, and wraps it over himself so that he resembles a sushi roll. John could hit him. Only right now all he can think about is that Sherlock's hurt (okay, not as much , but he's not himself until the novelty of bonding wears off), and he'll be out of it for the whole day which is why John needs to take care of him, and he can't do that when Sherlock is currently impersonating Japanese food.

"Is this a ploy to get me to carry you again?" he asks and Sherlock, damn him, unrolls himself, snatches a shirt from under the bed (The Lost But Now Found Shirt of One John Watson) and a pair of pants that John is sure belongs to him—though why it's under the bed as well is a mystery. He quickly puts these on, then, to John's amusement reaches to him.

"You have got to be kidding me."

"I don't kid."

"Why do you keep insisting that I carry you?" John asks though he's already doing it anyway. This shouldn't be so easy, John thinks a little worriedly as Sherlock wraps his legs around his waist. It's a bit awkward what with Sherlock being nearly a head taller than him, but it's too damn easy. John thinks he can lift him over his shoulder but as soon as the thought crosses his mind, Sherlock digs his fingernails into his nape.

"Don't you dare."

"Lazy sods who can actually walk have no room for complaint."

"It's a turn on," Sherlock explains. "The lifting."

"We just had sex for eight hours straight!"

"And?"

And you're not supposed to think about that. You're supposed to think about how you never want to have sex again after that. Okay, don't think about that last one. But John doesn't voice his thoughts. It's likely that Sherlock's analysing the experience, no doubt making references for the future. John sets him down carefully on the sofa then goes to the bathroom to get the first aid kit. When he gets back, Sherlock's already sprawled on the sofa in his usual position. He looks lovely, even with his hair looking like something's latched onto his head and choked on his hair, and it's unfair and strange because John knows he shouldn't find him so mesmerising. But that's the thing about love. It screws with your mind so that even if your partner smells and looks like shit, all you can think about is how gorgeous that person is. He knows Sherlock's not the most handsome guy in the world and he's a bit too skinny and a bit too pale. Plus, he's got this weird fleck of a mole over his right bum that John secretly thinks is where Mycroft injected a microchip in him. And he has a sock index. A sock index. That's beyond normal, even for Sherlock.

God, love is dangerous.

"I love you," John blurts out. That wasn't supposed to come out either but Sherlock smiles at him. He knows he says it all the time. One day it's going to be a part of his day, like saying 'good morning' or 'hello'. It's troubling. It's troubling because this is what his parents did and this is what his friends' parents do, and when he thinks about it, he can really just see himself and Sherlock like them ten years in the future. It's normal and that's what's strange about it. Sherlock doesn't do normal. John does, but well, he's John. He's ordinary just like his name.

What if we have kids? Does Sherlock want kids?

Mum wanted that.

That would be weird, though. Can't imagine myself like that.

Crap, why am I even thinking about this?

Sherlock frowns at him. "What?"

"I'm wondering what you'll look like when you're older," he says quickly. Sherlock definitely won't react well to what he was really thinking of. He's sure Sherlock doesn't like kids. He doesn't like Cedric and Beatrice. Then again the twins are evil and not exactly loveable the moment you realise they slipped a spider inside your shoe or—and John remembers this and will probably remember it until the day that he dies—announced to everyone in Mycroft's stupid Christmas party exactly what he and Sherlock had done inside Judge Whoever's car. In John's defence, it was entirely Sherlock's idea and he had absolutely no idea how to unlock the stupid car which Sherlock had infiltrated in order to steal something (looking back, John thinks that it was just a front to experiment with car sex). Still, that didn't save John from a three hour lecture from Greg and a cold look from Mycroft which he easily translated into you're-a-dead-man.

Sherlock's still frowning at him. "If you get fat I'm leaving you," John adds, relishing the way Sherlock's face changes from neutral to horrified.

"Me? Get fat?" Sherlock says incredulously. He pokes John's middle with a finger. "You are the one who likes to eat so much."

"Shut up. Now hold still. I'm going to disinfect that."

"You'll get fat, John. Not as much as Mycroft, though. Nobody can beat him. Anyway, I can already see you like that. A tiny fat man drinking tea while watching crap telly—ouch!"

"Sorry."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You did that on purpose."

"Obviously. You're a rotten patient!"

"And you're a rotten doctor. I'm certain that it goes against the Hippocratic Oath to feel up your patients while you're examining them. If this is what you've been doing during Afghanistan, John, I won't hesitate to throw you out of this flat."

"I'm checking your bruises, idiot." There's a dark purple one on Sherlock's forearm. John kisses it gently, and smiles to himself when he looks up and sees Sherlock flush and look away.

"Still worried about what I did in Afghanistan?"

"No. I don't worry about you. Don't be ridiculous, John. I have other more important things to occupy my mind."

"Such as?"

"Experiments, cases," Sherlock replies, wrenching his hand out of John's grasp. "Speaking of which, fetch me my laptop."

"Get it yourself."

"But I'm injured!"

"You can walk."

"John," Sherlock says. He gives John that look, that you-know-you-love-me-so-do-this-for-me look that tied John to Sherlock's little finger since that little revelation during Mycroft and Greg's wedding night. John can fight it—he's not exactly Sherlock's servant despite what Harry thinks. But it's not easy when you're still more Alpha than normal.

"Just this once," John tells him even though they both know it isn't true.

"Cases are more important than your self-esteem, John," Sherlock says. "Surely you know that."

"I'm sure that you're doing your best to piss me off."

"You can't get angry with me. Later, perhaps, but anger is far from your mind at the moment." He peers at the screen of his laptop then rolls his eyes. "Idiot," he mutters in a fond tone that halts John's thoughts.

"Who's an idiot?" he asks. Sherlock has called nearly everyone he's met an idiot but no like that, not like how he calls John. It's weird that there's a spike of jealousy in his gut when he hears Sherlock call someone else an idiot in that way. Not to mention that it's kind of degrading but still, he's Sherlock's idiot.

"Colleague," Sherlock tells him. "You don't know him."

"Him?"

"Jealous," Sherlock says.

"Oh piss off and scoot over." Sherlock grumbles but moves aside, crowding John's space again the moment he's settled on the sofa. "Ouch! Your elbow's stabbing my gut."

"Well, you're fat."

"I am not. You can't be fat in the army. You'd get murdered for one thing." He peeks over Sherlock's shoulder. "What on earth is The Science of Deduction, anyway?"

"My website."

"You have a website…Since when?"

"Irrelevant."

"Who the hell is theimprobableone?"

"He's offering me a new flat."

"Oh."

John stops.

"What did you say?"

"Congratulations," Greg says with a knowing smirk. "I knew it already. Sherlock always texts back."

John laughs nervously. "Er, thanks I guess." He looks at his surroundings and takes note of three things. 1) There's a dead body in the middle of the parking lot. 2) There are officers looking at him suspiciously, making John feel like he's actually contributed to the crime. 3) There is an annoying constable eyeing Sherlock's arse, though it is hard not to eye said arse when Sherlock is currently on his hands and knees, staring intently at the pool of blood surrounding the body. John knows he doesn't belong here. He shouldn't have agreed to escort Sherlock to a crime scene. He feels a bit like ugly wallpaper, unimportant but glaringly, obviously there.

"Um," he says, "I shouldn't be here, right?"

"Mycroft insisted," Greg explains. "Besides, you two will be inseparable for at least a week. It won't do well to have you far away from each other. I do hope you aren't squeamish."

John snorts. "I was in Afghanistan and I live with him. I don't think I can be ever be squeamish."

"You going back then?" Greg asks. "And he's okay with that?"

"As long as I don't get shot," John answers grimly. A scowl crosses his face when the constable starts to talk to Sherlock. Greg notices and laughs.

"Hopkins," Greg says. "He's new. Got a huge crush on Sherlock but he's harmless, really. He's probably crushed now that he's officially off the market."

"Should I be worried?"

"Seriously, John? Sherlock hates him. Well, he hates everyone here except for me." Greg rolls his eyes. "Honestly, if he weren't so good I'd have kicked his arse long ago. Ah, wait, I think he's calling you."

"I'm allowed to go near the body?"

"Well, no, not really. But if it keeps him from causing a scene then sure, go ahead."

Eyes follow him as he makes his way towards Sherlock. It feels weird, feels like his graduation day, like he wants to run but at the same time he doesn't want to because there's a reward at the end. John scratches his nose and wonders why on earth he itches when he's nervous. Sherlock raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment on it.

"I need your opinion," Sherlock tells him.

"That's—that's something I don't hear every day. Why?"

"I just want a second opinion," Sherlock says. John can tell he's getting impatient. He's giving John that you're-such-a-bloody-idiot look which is much different from the I-know-you're-an-idiot-but-whatever-I-still-want-t o-have-sex-with-you which is slightly different from the your-idiocy-is-rather-endearing-and-it-makes-me-wa nt-to-kiss-you. John hates this look. He's sure everyone else hates this look because it makes them aware that they probably have the intellect of slugs when compared to Sherlock's genius. John's frowning and Sherlock, sensing his upset, gives him the please-do-this-for-me look.

"You're just going to make fun of me."

"I don't make fun of you."

"You call me an idiot on a daily basis."

"Because you are!" Sherlock groans.

"That's a bit not good."

"Yes, but—just listen, alright?"

John opens his mouth to protest but Sherlock cuts him off. "You are and you're not, because we both know I'm smarter than you and we both know you're better in dealing with people. But we share a flat anyway and you complain about my socks—"

"Sock index."

"Oh, shut up. Anyway, you complain about my socks and my experiments but you still make tea and cook dinner and you insist on watching crap telly and I watch it as well even though I hate it because you like it and—God, I'm blabbing. I sound like Rochewell."

John grins. "So you're saying you're an idiot as well. In a way? And that we fit because you're an idiot as well in some aspects?"

Sherlock scowls. "No. Yes. Damn it, John, just—We're wasting time." He looks over his shoulder. "And people are looking."

"Fine. I'll help." He crouches next to Sherlock and inspects the body. "Ballerina?"

"Yes." Sherlock smiles at him.

"I mean, it's obvious. Legs like that just shout it. I remember Patricia Rowley's legs—"

"John."

"Sorry. Long time ago. Before we became…you know."

"Right."

"Jealous?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes then returns his attention to the body. "I love you," he says and John nearly topples forward. It's a good thing he regains his balance because he's sure the officers won't take kindly to him being on top of the victim.

It shouldn't be romantic. There's blood for one thing and they aren't the only people in the room. There's a small frown on Sherlock's face and John can sense a hint of Sherlock's emotions. Nervous, he thinks, confirming it when he sees how tense Sherlock's hands are. John looks up and sees that everyone's attention has shifted to one of the officers who is boasting about some concert tickets.

"Love you, too," he says, leaning against him to quickly press a kiss on his temple. Sherlock smiles at him.

"Crime scene, John."

"I know. But, you know, I really do mean it."

"Okay."

"I really, really do mean it."

"Alright."

"Marry me, then."

Sherlock nearly chokes on his own spit.

"What?"

A/N: This is the last chapter. The series Days is divided into three parts. This is the first. The second is the mystrade-centric Venn Diagram. And the third is closer to canon than the first two. I hope you've had fun reading this. To learn more about Tomorrow Never Knows just go to the TNK posted in my archive of our own. There's a chapter 22 there that's just full of notes.