John Watson was pulled lazily into consciousness by the sound of the door opening. He stirred, and was greeted by a familiar baritone voice.

"Morning."

He groaned and stretched.

"Mmmmmorning."

He squinted into the daylight to see Sherlock in his navy, satin robe, holding out a cup of tea to him. He sat up and took it gratefully. His eyes squinted against the direct sunlight that shone through the curtains as soon as Sherlock moved to sit on his side of the bed.

They sipped their tea in silence for a while, until even Sherlock could sense the awkwardness. He did not understand it. However, before he could ask, John spoke.

"Sherlock, do you regret anything?"

"What?" His brow furrowed in confusion.

"I just don't... Want to ruin the platonic companionship we shared before this..."

"John, you didn't ruin anything."

The doctor looked at him uncertainly.

"Are you sure? You're not... Rethinking anything?"

Sherlock looked down into his tea to avoid John's gaze.

"Well... Rethinking? No. But there is something that's bothering me, John."

"Well... What is it?"

"You never said you loved me back." Sherlock lifted his mug to his lips and gulped down some tea. John sighed and set his tea on his bedside table.

"Is that truly bothering you?"

Sherlock mimicked his actions and put his tea down on the table next to the bed on his side.

"Yes, John. It is. It shouldn't, but it really is. Are you having second thoughts?"

John looked at him with an unreadable expression for a few moments before scooting closer.

He looked right into Sherlock's eyes, which were full of unease and that vulnerability that only John got to see, and he whispered:

"Sherlock... I love you."

He let out a breath he didn't know he was holding, and relief replaced the unease in his clear blue eyes.

John kissed him then, so softly, and Sherlock felt so many emotions he had no names for, but the result tightened his throat and made him want to hold the back of John's neck, which he did.

When he finally pulled his mouth free, Sherlock rested his forehead against the doctor's.

"Thank you for saying it." He whispered. John smiled.

"Anytime."

Sherlock and John sold both their beds and bought one large enough to hold them both. They still argued and shouted and got angry with one another, but that always meant great make-up sex. They didn't hold hands in public, but they occasionally stole kisses in restaurants or in Sherlock's lab, much to Molly and Sarah's dismay.

And John helped Sherlock to understand the 'common man.' He began to stop himself before telling Molly that her hair looked better long, started sympathizing with newly widowed women, and honestly understood the cost of every life lost in their endeavors. Sherlock could still be cold-hearted, when his mind was going a mile a minute, and he would yell at Mrs. Hudson, or tell everyone in the vicinity to shut up, and John would touch him somehow, or say his name quietly, and Sherlock would snap out of it. He would even apologize on occasion. Sally stopped calling him 'freak.'

And they loved each other until they died.