The voice coming other room was enough to startle John, making him put down his tea before he spilled it.
"What was that, Sherlock?"
John turned back to the stove to stir the soup he was making. It had been cold and it seemed like a night for cozy food and cozy things.
No use in being cold if you can help it.
Sherlock stood in silence at the kitchen entrance, having made his way through the living room silently.
"I said, you held onto me."
"I always hold onto you." John didn't look up.
"Well, yes. But you held on to me when I fell."
John felt his breath catch in his throat, constricting and tight.
"I did. Yes."
Short answers. Always short answers.
Don't think about it, John. Don't think about those nights and days alone.
Don't think about the blame.
He came back to reality when Sherlock asked,
"Why?"
Why? Why not? Why would I leave you to die alone?
"You would do it for me."
"You went to help me...You're a doctor. An army doctor. You know-"
"Sherlock, you and I both know why I did. Can we please not talk about this anymore?"
Silence, Sherlock seemed to get it.
"I love you."
John's expression turned to surprise but not to shock, never to shock.
He was only surprised that Sherlock had said it first tonight.
"I love you too."
Sherlock stepped forward to where John was stirring the pot on the stove and wrapped his arms around his neck to lean on him a bit, lovingly.
It smelled like winter, and John, and soup, and all of the things that made baker street baker street.
It smelled like home.
It smelled like a life he wanted to live.
A life with no evil men or women or angry stares.
No "Hello, Freak."
No "What are YOU doing here?"
Just John and home.
John and home and warm socks and warm food.
He was home.
"Leave it at that?" A baretone echoing into the back of his neck.
John smiled, looking down at what he was doing. "Yes, Love. Leave it at that."
His free hand was on Sherlock's, an agreement to leave it at that.