Sherlock lay, out of breath, on Watson's bed, his arms wrapped around was the best sex he had ever had in his whole life.
It was the first time Sherlock had ever thought it as anything more than "intercourse that his body and mind needed to function at optimum level". This wasn't just sex, it was love making.
Looking at Joan, lying naked in his arms, her soft hair tickling his chest, he realised this was the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with.
He never thought he would fall for somebody like her; she was so different to any girl he had ever lusted after in the past, especially Irene Adler. There was something special about her, something Sherlock could not deduce however hard he tried. A spark that made him feel almost magnetically attracted to her.
He wished that she felt the same way, but he couldn't imagine Joan ever loving somebody like him fully. She knew him too well; his struggles with addiction, his arrogant self absorbed ways and his odd obsessions.
He could only hope that one day she could understand how deep his love was.
Joan loved the feeling of Sherlock's chest muscles pressed against her back, and his strong arms wrapped around her slim frame.
She traced her finger along one of his tattoos.
"They're beautiful," she breathed.
"What is?"
"Your tattoos..."
"Thank you Watson," Sherlock said, kissing her neck. "However, they are not even comparative with your outstanding beauty."
"Im not beautiful." Joan sighed.
Sherlock sat up, shocked.
"Poppycock! You?! Not beautiful? Why, Watson, you are the most radiant, enticing, angelic, magnificent woman I have ever met."
"Really?"
"Really."
Watson reached over and kissed Sherlock passionately, running her hands down his back.
"And you, Sherlock, are the most fascinating, handsome, wonderful, alluring man I have ever met."
"Really?" said Sherlock, looking pleased.
"Absolutely." replied Joan, laughing.