Well I guess this is it - this final chapter ended up being shorter than I expected, but the boys have said all they needed to say and I guess that's what's important. Do take a look at some of my other fics - I've got an extensive series of M- and E-rated kinky shorts, and also a good handful of standalones (some angsty and some not) I keep adding to on a regular basis. I'm also hoping to start on a longer D/s AU Johnlock piece sometime in the near future :-)

Three little words. They shouldn't be so terrifying. Sherlock closes his eyes – it doesn't stop the flood of data which is John, the smell of his skin or the sound of his breathing or the feel of his ejaculate not-quite-thoroughly wiped away from Sherlock's chest, but it allows him a moment of privacy to think.

I love you.

There's commitment in that declaration. John may not have actually asked for Sherlock to voice the trite return, the I-love-you-too, but the assumption is unspoken. And Sherlock isn't at all sure he's the kind of man who deserves what John is offering.

"Hey." John draws back, far enough to look into Sherlock's eyes, then brushes a kiss across the top edge of Sherlock's left cheekbone. "It's fine. You don't have to say it - I know anyway."

"I don't . . ." Sherlock hates this, hates feelings, but John deserves the truth. He takes a deep breath and forces out the "I-don't-know-if-I'm-capable-of-being-what-you-want" all in one long expirated word. And then closes his eyes against the inevitable pity or resignation or hurt he's sure to see in John's eyes.

"I do." There's a light pressure on each of his eyelids in turn - John pressing tiny kisses down on them, then on his temples and his forehead and his cheeks. "I'm not asking you to change, Sherlock," he whispers. "I want you right like you are now and like you will be a year from now and ten years from now and fifty years after that, assuming we live that long. I'm right exactly where I want to be."

"I blew up at Mycroft." Sherlock hadn't intended to admit that, doesn't know where the statement came from, but it's hanging in the air between them now and he can't take it back, so he pushes forward instead. "Called him a whole host of words I think I learned from you, actually, and told him to fuck off. But not so politely."

"Ah." John slides down Sherlock's body and nestles his head into the space between Sherlock's shoulderblade and his neck. It's surprisingly comfortable.

"I wouldn't have done that, before," Sherlock admits.

"I've seen you tell him off plenty of times."

"Not . . . not like this." Sherlock can't prevent his arm from stealing around John's shoulders, wrapping around his torso and pulling their bodies more tightly together. Warm and comfortable and right. "I've railed at him in the past, but I've never actually made him listen before. Never allowed him to see any emotion other than annoyance or anger."

"Ah."

"I told him I was raped." The words come out in an almost-whisper.

John stills, then emits a quiet murmur and presses in tighter against him.

"I didn't cry, not quite, but I know he saw anyway. I had a near-complete bloody meltdown in my brother's parlor. And he just stood there."

"Did he have anything to say?"

"I didn't let him." Sherlock closes his eyes, tries to focus on the soothing motion of John's hand as it rubs gentle circles against his chest. Tries to block out how Mycroft made him feel. "I just stood there and yelled. He had no right to use me like that. I was raped and I'll find a way to work through that, somehow, to deal with all the residual psychological trauma it left behind whether or not I want to just will it away. But Mycroft let it happen, practically dared him to try something, and I find that's even more difficult to recover from." The words are flowing out and he has no way to stop them, no way to stem the confession. "I may have called Mycroft my enemy before, but he was always my brother. He tried to protect me - suffocate me, yes, but protect me. He's been there to meddle ever since before I was old enough to remember."

"And now you can't trust him."

"I - fuck." A groan tears itself free, frustration made into sound. "He thinks committing murder will somehow fix everything that happened. He refuses to understand."

"No?" John levers himself up to press a kiss to the underside of Sherlock's jaw. "I think he does, and he was probably just trying to do whatever he could. Not that I'm excusing him, obviously, but . . . your brother is bloody awful at keeping his hands off, Sherlock. I've been here with you, getting to express my worry and my love for you directly. He hasn't had that. Revenge is the closest he's going to get. You don't have to forgive him, but I know you do understand."

There's that "love" again. It's not as awful the second time around.

John chuckles, low vibrations against Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock realizes he's probably gone tellingly still once more. "Want me to say it again? I love you." John repeats the kiss, ending it with a bit of a nuzzle this time. "I love you I love you I love you and I'm going to keep saying it until you can accept that you deserve it. I love you. You're amazing and utterly brilliant and I love you. Your brother is a conceited ass and is probably going to live the rest of his life alone and I love you. I love you and I want to be holding your hand at crime scenes and snogging you senseless when you make a particularly brilliant deduction and together we'll embarrass the entire Yard. I want everyone to know that I, John Hamish Watson, love the most fantastic man in the world. I. Love. You."

And suddenly, saying the trite words I love you too isn't so hard after all.