John had spent his entire life being picked last. For everything. At School he was always one of the last to be picked for the sports teams. Not because he was bad at sports, mainly because he was small. In the selection of the winning team it seemed height was greatly prized. Once people got to know him it changed. When people realised that on the Rugby field John Watson was the guy you most wanted on your team. Because he was fearless, calm under pressure and surprisingly strong.
It had been the same with girls at school. John was one of the last boys to get a date for the end of term dance. And it wasn't because he wasn't interested or bad looking. It was because he was ordinary. Nice. They all thought he was sweet, but unremarkable. That all changed when they found out he had been accepted into medical school, was going to be a soldier. Then they were all over him.
It had been the same with his duty rotation the day he was shot. That was by virtue of alphabetical order rather than someone's deliberate choice. But John had yet again been last choice on the list. Nearly the last time he was chosen for anything.
And then he had found himself in St. Bart's. Face to face with a stranger, who seemed to know everything about him straight away and still asked him to share a flat. No doubts. No questions. John Watson had been Sherlock's first choice. And John realised more importantly as he looked at the man sleeping beside him, he was Sherlock's final choice.
"Thank you for picking me first." He whispered. It was few moments before the sleepy reply came back.
"Thank you for picking me last."