A/N – Summer(we don't have spring here) is in full swing, air conditioner is broken, windows are open, and it's wild fire season here in Florida so it smells like smoke. I wrote this in order to ward off heat stroke…No beta, no brit pick. Please let me know if there are any glaring errors or Americanisms and let me know what you think.

Warning – Boys in bed together and a kiss, or two.

Disclaimer – The only thing I own is a dog, and she isn't in this story.


"I do not like it when I don't know where you are?" Sherlock whispers the words into John's neck, both his right arm and leg thrown over the doctor. It is summer and much too hot in the flat to cuddle up much closer, but Sherlock has to fight the urge to squeeze John as close as possible. To verify, once again, that he is ok, at home, and in bed.

"I'm fine." John turns his head and places a kiss into Sherlock's curls. "I wasn't anywhere near that car when it ex…"

"Irrelevant," Sherlock interrupts. "I believed you to be right there, right where I left you. My concern is not based on my now rational and clear hindsight. The car exploded in the immediate area where I had last seen you and where I still expected you to be. Initial evidence clearly indicated that you had been killed instantly." John places another kiss among the mess of curls. "It took me almost 48 seconds to determine that you had not been harmed in the explosion. And then relief was tempered with the knowledge that I did not know your location." Sherlock squeezes, despite the heat. "I repeat. I do not like it when I don't know where you are?"

John swallows down a chuckle, Sherlock won't appreciate it. He has learned to pick his battles with the detective, he will concede this one. His voice is quiet as his lips brush Sherlock's forehead. "I apologize for trying to dismiss your concern. I'm sorry that you were worried and that I didn't text you that we were moving. I had no way of knowing that he had planted explosives. And if it is any consolation, I was pretty frantic myself when I heard the explosion."

Sherlock nods, accepting this as fact. He will not point out that he had been on the next block, behind the building. John knew this; it was obvious Sherlock had not been in danger. That too was irrelevant. He had learned that the doctor's emotions were rarely rational.

Sherlock is coming to accept that John - good, honest, genuine John - loves him. That he, a man of great intelligence and questionable morals, is worth loving. He knows that because of this love John is constantly concerned with his welfare, and not just as it pertains to cases. Sherlock is now vigilant at notifying John of his activities, location, and plans. And the detective is grateful that John does the same, usually.

He closes his eyes and buries his face into John's pillow. He can still hear the explosion and feel the building respond. He'd been in the process of breaking a window, but stopped dead. He'd started to run, but was unaware of it. There was a quick realization that it must have been the Volvo, before all of his thoughts and all of his brain power focused solely on John.

"Stop thinking about it," John says, drawing the detective's attention back to their bedroom and the incredibly warm, welcoming body next to him. The detective watches his finger stroke across John's chest. He notices the pattern almost immediately and lets out a groan.

"Do I always do it?" Sherlock asks. He was unaware, until John pointed it out a month ago, that his random post-coital tracings weren't so random.

"Usually." There is a smile in the doctor's voice and Sherlock can picture the face clearly. Satiated John.

Sherlock feels redness easing into his cheeks. It embarrasses him and if it was anyone other than John it would anger him. He doesn't like when his brain does things without his knowledge, even something like this, even about John. "What did I write?" he stops his finger moving, reluctantly. He's caught himself in the middle and has the overwhelming urge to finish tracing his name on John's chest.

"Nothing unusual, 'Mine' and 'Sherlock's', I particularly like it when you do the apostrophe." The doctor let's out a small laugh. Sherlock grunts and moves to hide his face in John's pillow again, but John reaches up and catches his chin. Their eyes meet. "I never would have pointed it out if I knew it was going to bother you. I meant what I said that night. I love that you do it. I love that you claim me unconsciously. I love you."

Sherlock wants to look away, wants to hide, but doesn't. He whispers out an, "I love you, too." He never lets John say it without returning it. Early on his online research helped him determine that this was the correct procedure. Now, however, he just likes to say it and even more to hear it.

"I am right here and I am yours. You know that, right?" John asks him and he nods. He knows. He doesn't always understand it. He is certain he doesn't deserve it. But he knows it.

"You know the sentiment is reciprocated?"

A huge small crosses John's face and Sherlock feels a warm sensation settle in his chest. He associates the feeling solely with John, having never felt it before the doctor came into his life. "Of course," John answers. He continues to hold Sherlock's chin as he leans in to place a kiss on the detective's lips. Their mouths move together for a long sweet moment, before they each pull back.

Sherlock pulls John close again, despite the heat, despite the sheen of sweat covering their bodies, despite John not being comfortable. John relaxes and settles in for sleep. He won't protest and is fairly certain that as long as Sherlock is involved he never will.