A/N: Hey, it's Saturday! *looks around to see if anyone is buying it, nope, shakes head* In my defense last week was a complete clusterfuck for me. The internet went down, my husband had to help his parents move and I was stuck watching the two year old, which even when did have time, I didn't have the inclination because my depression decided to sneak up and bite me in the ass and add to that having to work while trying to get over bronchitis and you can maybe see why this wasn't up last week.

That said, I had my beta help me edit this on Wednesday but because of a little snarl in the story it took a while to get it whipped into shape. But here it is, can anyone spot where I stopped for a few weeks before starting back up again? ;)

Sherlock was starting to notice small changes in John's behavior.

The doctor still ran his fingers through Sherlock's curls, but John had begun doing other things. He would bracket Sherlock's waist with his hands as he squeezed past the dark-haired detective in the narrow confines of their kitchen. Or John would run his fingers across Sherlock's shoulder blades as he went to start the kettle if Sherlock was bent over his microscope. Or he would walk so close to Sherlock that their hands and shoulders brushed.

Then there was this look that Sherlock kept catching when the doctor didn't realize Sherlock was paying attention. Sometimes it was fond, other times it was this expression that Sherlock didn't have a basis for. He would like to say that it was warm, but it transcended warm. But it wasn't hungry or heated, just... John.

There were other things that seemed to change, in Sherlock's opinion, for the better. John would no longer run away when their arguments got heated, like he did before the Fall. It had hurt Sherlock when he had done that, and to see that John was trying to make concessions gave the taller man less desire to start arguments out of boredom.

They would watch telly together, and sometimes John would let him put on a documentary or historical drama that John used to say bored him to tears.

He never pestered Sherlock to eat, but he always made sure his pockets were filled with something that Sherlock could devour on the run.

Sherlock enjoyed it all so much. He just wished he knew what he was doing to make John want to do these things or what he had stopped doing. It was all very confusing, and time spent in his mind palace had yielded no answers.

It all came to a head one night after a case. They had chased the robber through a couple of blind alleys and when the Met had caught up to them, John and Sherlock were chatting over the bound criminal.

There was this pretty blonde PC who had been flirting with John throughout the case, and Sherlock hadn't meant to eavesdrop on them, he was just coming to get his blogger so they could go home. Oh, all right, he could have left; but if John went out with this vile creature then his life would go back to the way it had been when John first moved back in, only with dating this thing! That terrified him.

He could only see John's back, but he had a clear view of the PC. She smiled at his John and said, "So I was wondering if you wanted to go and grab a bite to eat. I'm really starved."

John shook his head, "I'm too knackered. This case has been hell. And nothing against you lot, but no one worked as hard as Sherlock and I."

The officer simpered. "Oh, come on," she implored. "I'd make it worth your while." She put her hand on his arm.

John took a step back, allowing her hand to drop naturally. "No, seriously. All I want to do is go home, put my feet up, maybe order some take away, and spend the rest of this miserable night in some good company."

Her laugh rang loud and shrill. "That's what I was suggesting, only with me and not Sherlock," she said with a wink.

Sherlock watched as John's shoulders squared. He had seen that pose often enough to know that his friend was well and truly upset.

"I'm flattered by your interest. I really am. But it hasn't even been a year since my wife died and I'm-"

She put her hand back on John's arm and squeezed it in a way that Sherlock assumed she thought was reassuring.

"I heard. It was tragic, but Sherlock is a bit of cold fish, isn't he? He couldn't have been much comfort for you, I could, maybe..." she trailed off, biting her lip suggestively.

Sherlock winced when John's spine straightened. He didn't have much sympathy for the blasting he knew she was about to get, however.

"Now, listen here," John said, his voice cold and piercing as steel. "Sherlock has been nothing but supportive and he never faked sympathy to get in my pants."

True, Sherlock thought wryly. But only because I didn't think it would work.

"I'm not interested," John was continuing. "Nor will I ever be." The doctor leaned in close. "I'm a wounded vet with an adrenaline addiction. My best friend is a consulting detective, my wife was a former assassin. I have friends in the army, the Met. I even know the government himself. If you as so much as whisper anything ill about Sherlock again, I'll make sure you disappear." She squeaked and removed her hand.

"Now run along. And take this to heart: pushing yourself on someone who isn't interested is disgusting no matter the gender of the one doing the pushing."

She nodded and ran off.

Sherlock came out of his hiding spot just as John turned around, shaking his head.

"Sherlock!" he called. He jogged up to his friend. "How much did you hear?"

"Why?" Sherlock asked bitterly.

"Christ, so all of it." John ran his hands over his face. "Because, you git, no one should have to stand there and hear someone talk about them that way."

Sherlock shrugged. "It's not anything people haven't said before."

"And that makes it worse. You are brilliant and magnificent and you deserve all the praise in the world."

"Only from you," Sherlock whispered.

John beamed up at him and began soothing away Sherlock's fears by running his fingers through his dark, curled locks.

"You touch me a lot," Sherlock said, leaning into the touch.

"I know."

"Don't ever stop," Sherlock pleaded.

"Not ever, Sherlock," John breathed, his face coming close to Sherlock's. "Because I love you." He used his hand that was tangled in Sherlock's hair to bring the tall detective to his lips.

Sherlock sighed happily and melted into the kiss.

When Sherlock finally came up for air, he looked down at John, and there on his love's face what that expression that he had been trying to figure out. It was love. Pure, unadulterated love.

"You really do love me," Sherlock breathed.

John chuckled into Sherlock's chest, then he raised his head. "Of course I do."

Sherlock ducked his head and turned to the side. "No one has loved me the way you do," he admitted.

John's smile turned sad and he lifted Sherlock's chin up. "Hey," he said and Sherlock couldn't help but look up. "It doesn't matter if there was no one before me, all that matters is that you'll never have to worry about it ever again, because I will always love you."

Sherlock sighed and placed his head on the top of John's. "I don't feel confident about this, at all."

John lifted his head and grasped the detective's face to press their foreheads together. "I don't either." John kissed him. "But we'll figure it out together. You and me against the world. Remember?"

"Always," Sherlock agreed.

"Let's go home," John suggested.

Sherlock nodded. Yes, home. That sounded good. Away from this place, to where they could be alone.

Later, Sherlock lay curled around John on the sofa, their bodies barely fitting as they watching reruns of Connie Prince. Sherlock nuzzled John's ear, he felt a thrill that he was allowed to do this any time he wanted to now.

"I love you, too," he whispered.

John twisted to face Sherlock, slotting them together, chest to chest. Sherlock's arms wrapped around the doctor to keep him from tumbling to the floor. "I know you do. You've told me time and time again, if I only had listened."

"You did," Sherlock murmured. "It just took awhile to understand what I meant."

John buried his head into Sherlock's chest, the shorter man's arms tucked between them. There was silence for a few moments, before Sherlock spoke.

"We can't chase criminals forever," he breathed.

John's head shot up with a grin. "Has my 'everything is transport' lover actually been thinking about retiring some day?"

Sherlock nodded, he leaned back from John to press against the back of the sofa. He lifted his hand off John's back and then ran a hand over his own chest. "I have ever since- ever since that day."

John's grin slipped off his face and he shifted to free one of his arms to cover Sherlock's hand with his own.

"When Janine came and visited me in the hospital, she mentioned that she had bought a cottage in Sussex. My mind has kept going back to that. The thought of retiring out there when my body can no longer keep up with my mind."

John smiled fondly. "Yeah, I can see that, the two of you bickering over the fence about whose flowers are pushing the other's out."

"And now I want that with you, only you would be with me instead of on the other side of the fence."

John kissed Sherlock again and breathed, "You softy."

A couple of months later, John came home from doing the shopping to find his lover engrossed in his microscope.

"How's the toes?" the doctor asked as he brushed his hand across this boyfriend's shoulders on his way to the fridge.

The detective huffed. "Disappointing." He got up and binned them in the container that John had bullied him into getting especially for the dead things Sherlock brought home. Then once a month either Molly or Mike would stop by and take them to be disposed of properly. After the third call in a week from neighbors about Sherlock openly taking limbs and such things to Mrs. Hudson's bins, John and Greg had insisted.

"I'm sorry," John commiserated. And he was, if only for the fact that the experiment was supposed to last Sherlock a week. He began to put the food away.

"Guess who I saw today?" he asked as he put the eggs on the counter next to the fridge.

Sherlock turned around and raked his eyes over his lover's frame. "Janine."

John laughed and came up to kiss him. "I love it when you do that," he said against Sherlock's lips. He ran his fingers through those dark curls and the detective leaned into like a giant cat. John was sure that the man purred.

"I thought she had retired to Sussex," Sherlock muttered.

John laughed again. "Apparently it was too tame for her. She got bored. She missed the thrum and noise of London."

"Hmm..." Sherlock said as he pulled John close. "What's going to happen to the house?"

"She's not sure. She doesn't want to sell it. She might just rent it out to couples wanting to get out of the city."

"A couple's retreat," Sherlock groused. "I've seen pictures; that place deserves more than something as base and boring as that."

John ruffled his hair. "If only she would sell, I'd buy it for you."

Sherlock chuckled. "If only. You're the rich one, after all."

And their laughter filled the air of that tiny flat kitchen.

"Be that as that may, Mr Fancy Pants, your own bank account is nothing to sneeze at. Christ, Sherlock, you could buy Mrs Hudson out and own this place outright."

Sherlock shook his head. "I couldn't do that to her."

"You could let her live here and she could pay rent to you," John reasoned.

"Our rent is her only income. She doesn't have a pension, and all her husband's assets were frozen when he was arrested," Sherlock shook his head again. "No, John. I am quite happy to rent it from her until the day she dies."

John looked up at his lover. "You really are a softy, aren't you?"

Sherlock buried his head into John's shoulder, "I blame you for that."

John chuckled, "And for that I'm incredibly proud."