John woke up and blearily rubbed his eyes. It was clearly still the dead of night, and he was about to go back to sleep when he noticed Sherlock curled up on the far edge of the bed, still wrapped in his dressing gown.

"Sherlock."

Sherlock turned and blinked at him, and the stoic mask had disintegrated into something more vulnerable, a soft expression that made John's heart ache.

"You've got to be freezing. Come here."

"I'm fine."

"You can't fool me."

"I wouldn't bet on it." Sherlock said, but when John opened his arms, he didn't hesitate to go into them. John brought one arm up around him and kissed his forehead, stroking soothing patterns into his back until he felt Sherlock relax a little. This was the drill. Wake up from a nightmare, comfort each other, go back to sleep. Except John wasn't sure Sherlock had gone to sleep in the first place.

"You can't blame yourself for the Garrideb brothers' deaths." he said softly, pushing Sherlock's curls back from his face.

"Everything in there was about me." Sherlock said, both annoyed and grateful that John could practically read his mind. "All those deaths - "

"No." John said swiftly. "She's the one who pulled the trigger, cut the rope, whatever. Not you."

"Yes, but if I had just - "

John stopped his lips with a kiss. "No buts." he said firmly. "I don't care how neglected or isolated she felt, and I won't let her make you doubt yourself. You didn't kill anyone."

"You're right. Of course, you're right, logically I didn't. But Eurus - I promised her I'd bring her home. I went back on my word, didn't I?"

"You can't possibly bring her home. She knows that, too. You've already seen what she can do. Er - " John hesitated. "Can she really control minds? Reprogram people, as Mycroft keeps saying?"

Sherlock scoffed derisively. "No. Mycroft just likes being overdramatic. She influences people to a very high extent, absolutely, but mind control? This is real life, not a science fiction movie."

"Then how did she - "

"I don't know." Sherlock said. He sat up, agitated, and pulled John's blanket tightly around himself. "I don't like not knowing."

"Maybe it'd help if you talked to her. I'll come with you."

Sherlock stared at him, completely taken aback.

"You'd come with me? But Sherrinford - the - you hate it."

"I know. But if you need me, I can put that aside."

"I don't understand why you would do that."

"Don't you?" John said, sitting up to face him. "It's a funny little thing called sentiment."

"Thank you."

"Sherlock, it's fine. You're not supposed to thank me for stuff like this."

"What did I ever do to deserve you?" he asked, pulling John into a hug. John paused for a moment, surprised at the sudden show of affection, but then squeezed Sherlock so tightly that for a moment he almost couldn't breathe.

"Just - everything, Sherlock. You deserve to be loved. You are...hell, I don't know, the best man I know. I should be asking myself what I've done to deserve you."

"I love you." Sherlock said.

John pulled away, searching his eyes. "You've never said that before. It's always 'I'm in love with you', or - "

"I know. It seemed like a good time to tell you."

"Oh." John shifted closer. "Is it also a good time to do this?" He pressed a small, fleeting kiss to Sherlock's lips. Sherlock smiled and shrugged.

"It's always a good time to do that."

"I love you too, Sherlock. I just wish I'd told you earlier. Then we wouldn't have wasted so much time."

"Time is an illusion." Sherlock said, trailing his fingers up John's arm and leaning in for another kiss.

"I don't know." John murmured against his mouth. "You're so transient. Here one day, gone the next. Every moment with you could be the last."

"Then let's make it count."

"Do you think it would be different?" John asked. "If I had told you before you jumped?"

Sherlock pulled away for a moment to consider this. If he had known John loved him, would he still have jumped? Absolutely; there was no question about it, not with John's life on the line. But watching John's world fall apart would've been twice as hard. On the other hand, if he had known that John cared that much, he might even have told him about the fake suicide plan. He would've stayed in touch, at least...

"Why talk about what could've happened?" he finally said. "It doesn't matter."

"Can I see your scars?"

"W - what?" Sherlock asked, caught off guard. "You've already seen them."

"Look, when you're shirtless, I can't focus much on your scars. Let me see them. Please?"

Sherlock hesitated, but turned around. He let John slide off his dressing gown and help him out of his shirt. Even in the dim moonlight, the marks on his back gleamed angry and red against his porcelain skin. After all these months, they barely even bothered him much anymore, but then he'd always had a high threshold for pain. He heard a sharp intake of breath, then John's fingers ghosted over his scars, feather-light.

"That's a lot of scars." John finally managed.

"I know."

"How did you -" John started in an unsteady voice, "What was it like?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you must've been all alone for those two years. Nobody to watch your back and look out for you. Actually, never mind, I know you don't really care for companionship - "

"You." Sherlock said simply.

"What?"

"You're right. I do hate to admit this, but I was desperately lonely. I spent most of my time keeping busy and trying not to get caught, but there were nights - I wished you were by my side. The temptation to send you a message was overwhelming, but I didn't want to get your hopes up in case I...didn't make it back home."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's torso, leaning down to kiss his scars. "Go on."

"If I ever wavered in my resolve to catch Moriarty's men, I only had to remember that while they lived, you were in danger. The idea kept me going. Knowing that somewhere, somehow, you were waiting. It's foolish, I know - "

"It's not." John said swiftly. "Not even a little bit. Can you turn around?"

"John…"

"I need to look at it." he said firmly.

Sherlock turned around, and John's eyes fell instantly to the bullet mark smack in the middle of his chest.

"I don't know how you survived." John said, voice faltering. "Not that I'm complaining, but technically...your heart should've stopped."

"It did."

"What?"

"It stopped." Sherlock said, his voice barely above a whisper. "The doctors told me later - it stopped, but it started again on its own..."

"Sherlock."

"Fine. After she shot me, I was in my mind palace, and then I ended up in a padded cell with Moriarty, and I gave up, I let go. Until he said...he said that I was letting you down, that you were in danger. I couldn't bear the thought, and I fought again, and I suppose that's when my heart started up."

"So - so let me get this straight. You came back to life...for me?"

"In a nutshell, yes."

"Oh. Oh my god, Sherlock." John took his hand. "I - oh. Is that why you shot Magnussen?"

"Yes. I wanted you to be happy, you wanted Mary to be safe..."

"Before you got on the plane…" John closed his eyes, visibly more distressed. "That's what you were going to tell me, isn't it? You were going to tell me that you love me."

"I was." Sherlock admitted. "But I realized I wouldn't be doing either of us any favours, especially since I was going to my death - "

"You were going to die? I thought it was an undercover mission!" John said, practically tearing at his hair now.

"That's what you were supposed to think."

"Why didn't you tell me?" John asked.

Sherlock looked at him, so utterly morose and bereft that John instantly pulled him closer, wrapping his arms around him tightly.

"Sherlock?" he repeated, more gently. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because...you chose her."

Their eyes met, and John saw in them all the hurt and emotions Sherlock had spent years concealing. He wasn't the cold-hearted sociopath he pretended he was. Deep inside, he was just as broken and human as John was - he just did a much better job of hiding it. All the pain he must've gone through, the heartbreak, the isolation - John multiplied his own heartburn one, two, three times and knew it was still just a fraction of everything Sherlock felt.

"Look at me." he said, reaching out to caress Sherlock's cheek. "I choose you. I will always choose you. And if you doubt it, even for one second - I will spend my entire life proving it to you."

Sherlock scrutinized his face, as if searching for a lie, but John effortlessly closed the distance between them and kissed him. As he felt those deft fingers comb messily through his curls, he wondered how he'd lived without this for so long. Then he wondered if he could ever live without it again, which just made him kiss John even more hungrily. There was too much going through his brain, and he was convinced that if he opened his eyes, he'd see sparks.

Oh, what does it matter? he thought. I can study him later. Make another bloody encyclopedia, if need be.

"You just short-circuited my brain, but please continue." he managed to say, before John pushed him back into the sheets and proceeded to snog him quite thoroughly. He moved his hand down to John's chest and felt, to his disappointment, cloth. John broke away, and the gleam in his eyes sent a jolt of something inexplicable through Sherlock.

"Clothing." John said. "Unnecessary."

"Cumbersome."

"What do you say we get rid of it?"

"I say that's one of your better ideas."

John pushed a plate towards Sherlock.

"Eat." he said pointedly.

"No."

"You've skipped every meal."

"So?"

"So I don't want you to starve."

Sherlock just huffed, got up, and flopped down on the sofa. "I feel like I'm waiting for the other shoe to drop." he complained half-heartedly. "We don't have adequate data for this crime."

John cocked his head and scrutinised him. It wasn't like Sherlock to lie around and whine about not knowing enough. He usually just hounded Lestrade and everyone associated with the crime till he got what he wanted. But he'd been sulking all day, giving John weird, mooning glances from across the room.

"Did I do something wrong last night?" John ventured. "I'm sorry if - "

Sherlock sighed irritably. "It's not you." he said grumpily. "It's nothing. Can't a man sulk in peace?"

John held up his hands in mock surrender and retired to his armchair, too used to Sherlock's erratic mood swings to bother worrying about them. He immersed himself in writing a new blog post about their latest case - the theft of some precious painting which had baffled Scotland Yard, while Sherlock took a mere two hours to deliver the thief and the painting in one neat package. He was halfway through it when Sherlock finally spoke again.

"I'm not your first anything." he said.

"Sorry?" John asked.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated. "You really are painfully slow on the uptake. Am I your first boyfriend?"

"No."

"Am I the first person or even man you've fallen in love with?"

"No."

"Am I the first man you've had sex with?"

"No. Wait, am I your first? Because it really didn't seem like- "

"You're not my first." Sherlock interrupted. "But you are the first one it...meant something with. Any of it."

"So what's this about, then?"

"John, I've studied you. I've studied your habits when it comes to relationships."

"Are you sure?" John asked, moving over to sit beside him on the couch. "You couldn't even remember my girlfriends' names."

"Obviously not. Why bother with names? That's useless information. The point I am trying to make is that you know things, whilst I am painfully inexperienced."

"So what? You're a quick learner."

"But I have people to contend with."

"Don't be silly. It's not a competition. And I don't care if you're inexperienced - I like you the way you are."

"You do?"

"I'm still living with you, aren't I? Besides, nobody I've ever dated could possibly compare to you."

"What about Sholto?" Sherlock asked frostily. "Will he be attending your next wedding?"

"If he's up for it. If all goes well, I'm hoping you'll be there too."

"As your best man again?"

"No, Sherlock. As my groom."

Sherlock's face lit up with a half-smile which sent a warm tingle through John, reaching right down to his toes. Now that he was thinking about spending the rest of his life with Sherlock, he realized he had never really seen it happening any other way. Even if Mary hadn't died, they would've found their way back to each other. The distant future he pictured always culminated in them going off into the sunset together.

"I could live with that idea." Sherlock admitted, holding out his hand.

"You are one insecure sociopath." John commented, taking it and rubbing some feeling into his surprisingly icy fingers.

"I'm not insecure. Just doubtful. I'm not the one who moved out and got married."

"Last I checked, you were the one who spent half the night and the entire morning draped around me, refusing to let me get out of bed in case I didn't come back."

Sherlock looked mortified. "That's nonsense. I don't cuddle or cling."

"Yes, you do, you bloody octopus. But I don't mind."

"Take my phone out of my pocket, it's ringing."

"You're just looking for an excuse to have my hand down your pants."

"I won't deny that. Oh, it's Lestrade. Hello, Gerald." Sherlock listened for a while, and then his face lit up with intense excitement. "Good. We'll be right down."

"What's happening?"

"Nicholas just found a dead body in his backyard."

A/N: I spent FOREVER writing this chapter, and it somehow turned into 2300 words of pure fluff. Oh well, one can never have enough Johnlock fluff.

Happy Pride month! :D