"So," I said, with an attempt at nonchalance, "Do you plan on telling me how you survived?"
The bastard merely winked, "A true magician never reveals his secrets."
"Fine," I said shortly, "At least explain to me why you told me all those things before you did. You knew I wouldn't believe you."
Sherlock's face fell, "I had hoped you wouldn't. Thank you."
God the man was such a prat, if I didn't love him I dread to think what I'd have done. Woah woah woah Johnny hold up there. Love? I…oh my God. Crap. Um. Right. Okay. Love. Yes, I…guess I do. Huh, this is new. Isn't it? No, no not really. I love him. God everyone else was right all along.
"Yeah. Well I'm off to bed," I heaved myself out of my chair and made for the stairs.
"John, wait," Oh, "I'm sorry."
I walked back over to the sofa, now or never Watson.
"I missed you."
"Really?" Sherlock's eyes misted up again.
"Yes you moron, really."
Sherlock pulled himself up and dragged me close.
"I'm never leaving again," he muttered into my hair.
"Yeah, I'm never letting you go now," Come on, here we go John, "I…I love you Sherlock."
Right it was out there. Sherlock pulled away and studied me closely.
"Me too." He smiled and that was that. I don't kiss and tell.
Okay fine. I do on occasion, not now though, not with my sister reading this, and reporters just hanging on my every word. Be damn glad I'm telling you this bit.
Really though, it's not important, this isn't sixth form anymore, no one needs to know just how soft and tender that man can be, nor just how not soft and tender he can get. No one needs to know about…well. Like I said, you don't need to know.
Really what was important here was the fact that I love Sherlock and he loves me and that's great. I will admit that he wasn't best pleased at my calling him 'soft and tender'. Apparently he's not an expertly cooked cut of meat, he is a strong and passionate lover and maybe you should use those words in future, John.
I woke up the next morning, still unsure if the day before had really happened, opening my eyes I realised that either it had, or I was going insane again. Sherlock was indeed lying next to me, face slack, curls a mess, and utterly beautiful. Thank fuck for that. He opened his eyes at last, and while I felt more than a little odd (I had just been watching another man sleep) he seemed unperturbed.
"Hi," he mumbled, "Sleep well?"
Oh gosh, was the great Sherlock Holmes asking me how I was? This was very new.
"Yeah, not bad, you?"
"Better now…" he hesitated, blushing slightly, "…now I'm back. With you."
"Yeah. Me too." I remember confessing. Then there was tea and kisses and a day at the surgery. Honestly it's still all a bit of a fuzzy blur of feeling good. For the first time in three years I felt halfway decent again.