Quick Author's Note: Short, I know, but rereading the last chapter, I felt the story didn't need much more. Might do an extra showing Kate and Irene in the future, but for the time being, anyway, this story is complete! Thank you again to all you reviewers, alerters, and favers. I really appreciate the feedback.
"One forgives to the degree that one loves." - Francois de la Rouchefoucauld
Chapter IV
Their relationship wasn't perfect.
Nobody who knew them would say that. Not Mrs. Hudson, who practically lived with them, and had to deal with their fights for ages. Not Lestrade, who was the one John poured out his drunken worries to, on late nights at the bar when Sherlock was busy. Not Mycroft, who had them both under surveillance and had a folder on his desk detailing exactly what John and Sherlock were fighting about.
Certainly not Irene Adler, or even Kate. Especially not them, and especially not since what John had started thinking of as 'The Wine Time I Cheated on Sherlock'. (Of course, he had been a bit sleepy when he'd come up with that - the whole story was typed up in his private files, sort of his diary, and he'd wanted to wait until Sherlock was asleep before writing it down. How was he supposed to know that Sherlock fell asleep at a time normal people were getting up? Or that his brain tended to become a bit funnier when he was half-awake?)
But while Sherlock and John weren't perfect, they were doing absolutely fine, thank you very much. It was exactly as Sherlock had predicted. Logical predictions were, after all, only conclusions based off of deductions, and the consulting detective excelled at those.
Sherlock had let John beg forgiveness for a few days, making him do things he normally wouldn't be able to get his sweater-wearing lover to do. John endured some 96 hours of cleaning up spilled acids, scrubbing pigs' blood off of the silverware, and other inanities he usually put his foot down at.
96 hours elapsed before Sherlock had hauled the doctor off the couch, where he'd been taking a much-deserved break, and carried him off to his bedroom. He had then proceeded to drop the man on top of his bed. Sherlock's coat had come off then, and Sherlock informed a baffled John that if he'd thought the physical part of his penance was over, he was sadly mistaken.
John was a practical man, never one to look a gift horse in the mouth. In this case, of course, it was a loving Sherlock, and of course he did want to look at him, and do some touching, too… The rational part of John's mind never did manage too well when it came to Sherlock.
This was the man who reduced his vocabulary to words like 'fantastic' and 'bit not good', after all. When you put brilliance, excitement, and danger together into one gorgeous package of a man, and dropped him in front of John Watson? Well, he was reduced to a lip-licking, trouble-seeking mess.
That was how John rationalized his current incapability of speech, at least. Because Sherlock was tugging his brand-new jumper off, and he couldn't even bring himself to care when it tore in his lover's eagerness. He was reciprocating (and wasn't that a summary of how their relationship worked, Sherlock running full speed and John panting to catch up?), running his calloused hands against that smooth, pale skin.
And then he couldn't even think of what he was doing, couldn't find the words for 'skin' or 'touch' or 'tongue'. It was all mmmm, yes! and SherlockSherlockSherlock and then love, love, love.
And after that, when they both lay in each other's arms, breaths slow and heavy and satisfied and mingling with the smell of their lovemaking, John honestly couldn't remember when his life had been sweeter.