John woke up slowly, pleasantly warm and comfortable, if a little sore. He smiled sleepily at the messy head resting on his chest, which was eventually attached to the long arm draped over him (and the even longer leg wrapped around his lower half). He gently ran a hand over the curly, dark mop, causing Sherlock to give an indecipherable mumble and snuggle closer to him. He tried not to laugh so as not to wake him.

A little over twelve hours ago he had come running up the stairs of the flat, partly wanting to kiss Sherlock and say he loved him too, and partly knowing that Sherlock would say anything to get what he wanted. As he'd opened the door he'd been ready for a serious conversation about Sherlock's motivations and emotional manipulation. Then Sherlock had scrambled around from his position on the sofa to face the door, and John's stern resolve crumbled at the look on his face. It was the most genuine expression John thought he'd ever seen Sherlock wear, a pitiful mixture of despair and hope and fear and longing. Sherlock was perched, frozen, on the edge of the sofa, as if he was terrified to move or speak or do anything that could in any way compromise John's presence in the flat. His eyes were begging John for an answer.

After barely a moment's thought, John had held out his arms and said, "Come here, you big idiot."

Sherlock had practically thrown himself at John, latching onto him like a six-foot limpet. He had rambled almost incoherently against John's neck, a mixture of apologies and ridiculous analogies in which John thought he had compared his feelings to a Trojan virus that refused to be deleted, until John had gently guided him back to the sofa and hushed him. There had been a brief lecture on John's part, something about emotions and the truth being good and cocaine being bad, but John had to admit that part was a little fuzzy because he had been more than a little distracted by the rather intense way Sherlock had been staring at him.

Sherlock gave another mumble against John's chest, and then opened his eyes. He looked up at John and said, sleepily, "You're here."

John smirked. "Observant as ever."

"Shut up. I thought I might have..."


"Thought I might have dreamt you."

"I imagine your backside says otherwise."

Sherlock snorted with laughter. "You old romantic."

"I love you."

Sherlock's eyes snapped back up to John. He quite obviously knew what was expected of him in return. He slithered down the bed, pulling the quilt over his head like a child.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, as he disappeared.

"They're just words, John," came the muffled voice from under the covers. "They don't mean anything!"


"I love you too, John."

"That's cheating! Get up here and say it!"

With a frustrated huff, Sherlock reappeared above the covers. John tried not to smirk at his messy hair.

"I. Love. You. John. Hamish. Watson. There! Is that sufficient?"

John grinned. "See, it wasn't that hard."

"Must we become one of those horrid couples who feel the need to reaffirm their feelings verbally every few minutes?"

"I bet you can't say it again."

"I love you."



"One more time."

"I love you! I'll tell the whole bloody world if it will keep you here."

John smiled at him in silence for a moment. Then he frowned at the glint in Sherlock's eye.


Sherlock slipped out of bed faster than should have been possible, and before John could blink was out of the room shouting, "Mrs Hudson!"

"Sherlock! At least put some bloody clothes on!"

He jumped out of bed and ran after Sherlock, noticing as he looked over the stair railing that Sherlock had at least had the sense to grab his dressing gown on the way down, and was pulling it around himself as he ran down the stairs.


"Mrs Hudson!"

Mrs Hudson emerged from her flat as reached the top of the first flight of stairs.

"Sherlock? What's the matter?"

"Nothing's the matter," Sherlock replied, grinning. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I just have to tell you that I love John Watson."

"That's nice, dear. Now go and put some more clothes on, it's a bit chilly this morning."

John was waiting for Sherlock on the landing outside their living room as Sherlock ran back up the stairs.

"Was that really necessary?" he asked, smiling at the ridiculous detective.

Sherlock kissed him hard and fast, pushing him up against the wall.

"I love you," he said, for the sixth time that morning. John laughed.

"Ok, you can stop now."

"Ohh, no, no, no, John," he said, in that tone of voice John had come to learn meant he'd been carried away with an idea. "I have to tell the world."

He slipped out of John's grasp and ran through the living room to apparently struggle with the old, rusted locks of the living room window.

"Sherlock," John said, in a warning tone.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder at him and gave a slightly demented grin before the latch finally relented and he pushed the window up.


"I love you!" Sherlock bellowed from the window, in a voice that simultaneously made John feel both extremely embarrassed and extremely aroused. "I love John Watson!"

John was about to yank him back inside when he heard a voice from the street below.

"Are you doing drugs again?"

"Oh, God..." John moaned.

Sherlock looked down to where Lestrade was standing, clearly about the ring the doorbell. He smiled. "Certainly not, Detective Inspector. Just a little bit in love."

He turned back to John.

"Now," he said. "Where did I put my phone?"


A/N: Right, that's it! Hope it wasn't too disappointing for you all! Writing my first Sherlock fic has been enormous fun and I will definitely be doing it again shortly, although I should probably attempt to actually do some of my university work first...