Author's Note: I received quite a few requests for an additional scene where John and Sherlock say "I love your fine, glorious arse" for the first time. I always had trouble imagining how that shit would go down, so I tried to let the confessions of TSoT and the "Sherlock is a girl's name" code of HLV drive my fic. What I ended up with is...bizarre. Fricka frack here's some crack.

The First and Last Trilogy Appendix: Part Two

More Than Tequila

Admittedly, John had contemplated the moment when he'd finally tell Sherlock he loved him many times. Though he'd wordlessly affirmed the sentiment practically every day since they'd met, there was still something daunting and unique about actually verbalizing the words "I love you." While he would never expect Sherlock to say them in return, he liked to think that when he finally did confess his truest feelings, vulnerable yet fearless, the detective would quietly accept them. And maybe even blush a little.

On accident he'd almost blurted them out countless times over the course of their romantic relationship. Once when Sherlock casually handed him a cup of tea without ulterior motive or goading, made perfectly to his liking. John had only just managed to drown the confession in a gulp of scalding Earl Grey before it had broken free. And again when Sherlock was luckily unconscious post-case, sprawled on the sofa with his head pillowed on John's lap. The unheard words had been carried on a breath, but they were still loud and startling in the silence of their sitting room.

Another time, which was by far the most incriminating, was when Sherlock was moving deep inside him, panting against his mouth with his silver eyes penetrating and open. "I luh—ube—" John had croaked, just barely morphing the word at the last second. The roll of Sherlock's hips had halted instantly.

"You need…more lube?" he'd asked, perplexed, talking to John as though he'd spoken in an alien language. More lube was hardly a bad thing, but it certainly wasn't what John had intended. He imagined he was probably one of the few people in history, if not the only person, to interchange one word with the other.

Still, regardless of all the scenarios John had imagined or almost experienced, he'd never fathomed what actually ended up happening.

They were on a decent case, interesting but nothing special, when a dwarf popped up from behind a wheelie bin and shot Sherlock with a blow dart. Literally.

It was one of the most surreal moments of John's life, which was really saying something when you considered his track record. It wasn't even a modern blow dart, but rather a tribal looking thing with a bamboo shaft and decorative feathers. John was so dumbfounded that he stood, frozen, as the man scurried off down the alley.

"What in the—" Sherlock gasped from beside him. John glanced over just in time to watch him pluck a red-feathered dart from where it had imbedded in his neck. "Interesting," he murmured.

"Oh my God, Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Don't be silly, John. It should take at least thirty seconds for the toxin in this dart to have any effect on me," Sherlock lectured condescendingly, before his eyes glazed over and he stumbled into John's side.

"Oh for fuck's sake. It's okay, you're okay," John stammered. He gripped Sherlock's coat and steadied him. "Damnit, a blow dart? Really?" John shouted at no one in particular, lowering Sherlock gingerly to the ground with panic blooming in his chest.

Sherlock, with his legs folded beneath him, sniffed the tip of the dart. His head bobbed slightly. "Smells organic, some sort of plant extract. Causes delirium, mild paralysis, dizziness…hmm…insufficient data to draw a definitive conclusion." He met John's eyes dreamily. "Ohhh, and hallucinations as well."

John ripped his mobile from his pocket, dialing Lestrade as fast as he could.

"Greg!" he yelled when the line picked up. "Sherlock's been shot with a blow dart."


"A bloody blow dart, damnit. Get an ambulance here now. We're on Lisson St, off Bell."

"Fuck. Be right there."

"Sherlock, Lestrade's on his way, alright? You're gonna' be fine." John spoke as calmly as he could manage, stuffing his mobile back into his pocket and sitting on the cement beside the detective.

Sherlock smiled dazedly at him. His eyes were soft and fond, coloured cyan from the clouded light of the sky. He pressed his palm to John's cheek.

"John John John," he slurred, punctuating each word with a light slap to John's face.


"Shhhhh, come here, I have to tell you a secret." Sherlock grabbed his lapel and pulled him so close that cool lips grazed his ear. "Did you know that your face is glowing?"

John blinked.

"You're high, aren't you."

"No, no, of course not."


"'Tripping' yes. Definitely tripping."

"Oh good," John said sarcastically. "So when Lestrade arrives I should probably tell him not to film you with his phone…again."

"Ick, Lestrade. What a ridiculous man. Wait, wait, come here; I am going to tell you another secret…"

There was a long pause.

"Uh…well?" John prompted.

"Oh! Yes. Lestrade is…just…one of the most honourable people I've ever had the privilege of…wait, that wasn't it."

"Yeah, probably not, since I think that's the only time I've ever even heard you compliment him in the history of our friendship."

"What I probably meant to elucidate is that Lestrade has an uncommonly large penis."

John's eyes nearly bugged out of his skull.

"Come again?" he chirped.

"You can tell by his gait. I've never seen it personally, but he walks as though he has a meat pendulum swinging between his legs."

John sighed the world's weariest sigh and raked his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Sherlock melted into the touch.

"Your penis is still my favorite though," Sherlock slurred.

"You might want to stop talking or I am going to start bloody filming you."

"John!" Sherlock yipped, scandalized. "Here? But you aren't a voyeur."

"No, Sherlock, that's not what I meant."

"Oh. Because we could if you wanted to."

"Jesus," John groaned.

Sherlock clumsily reached for John's belt buckle, making him nearly jump out of his skin.


"What? I know what I'm doing. And don't you dare tell me I don't. I'm a professional; I have an international reputation." He made another grab for John's belt and actually managed to unbuckle it.

"Knock it off!" John snapped, slapping his hands away. Sherlock pouted.

"This is the worst date I've ever had," he grumbled.

"Sherlock, this isn't a date. You've been hit by a blow dart and you're hallucinating."

"If that's a euphemism, Harold, you know I don't abide them on a Tuesday." Sherlock scolded him with a wobbly, slender finger, before keeling over into John's arms. He nuzzled at the side of John's neck. A sound that was remarkably similar to a purr rumbled from his throat.

"Erm…do you even know who you are right now? Or who I am, for that matter?

Though John was terrified that whatever was currently poisoning Sherlock's veins might potentially kill him, he couldn't help but be slightly amused.

"Sure I do; I am the very model of a modern major general."

"That's what I thought."

"And you are John Watson, the prettiest lady I have ever seen."


"It would be my honour to escort you to the ball."

"I'll bet it would."

"You smell like tea and wool and lavender and murder."

"Romantic," John snorted. He could hear sirens creeping closer.

"Do tell Mrs. Hudson to stop singing. She sounds like an ambulance."

"That is an ambulance."

"I wonder who for…?"

"It's for you, Sherlock."

"Is it? I can't imagine why. I feel wonderful. And also terrible." Sherlock rubbed a hand roughly across his face, and then snuggled closer to John's collar.

"You'd better not be dying on me, Sherlock. I'll kill you if you go dying on me." Though his words carried an edge, John rubbed Sherlock's back gently.

"Dying is for plebeians."

"And also mortals who get shot with poison darts."

"Shhh, John, I have to tell you another secret."

"What?" John said on an exhale.

Sherlock brought his face so close to John's that their noses were almost touching. His eyes were clouded but intense. John froze like a rabbit under the scrutiny.

"Did you know that Sherlock Holmes is in love with you?"

There was a long, heavy pause, filled only by the wailing of the ambulance and tires screeching.

Then, as though something triggered in his mind, Sherlock burst into a hysterical fit of giggles. He buried his face in John's shoulder and wrapped his arms and legs around John's torso, pulling himself into his lap. John just stared blankly, dumbfounded.

"John!" Lestrade called as he ran to them with paramedics in toe, choosing the worst possible moment to arrive. "Sherlock, are you alright?"

"Gertrude!" Sherlock bellowed happily, pushing off from John's chest and throwing out his arms in greeting. "How is your enormous penis doing on this fine day?"

Lestrade stumbled, almost falling on top of them before he caught his balance.

"W—what did he say?"

"He's off his face," John clarified tonelessly.

"Greedo, listen! Let me tell you a secret."

"No!" John snapped, deep and commanding. He clamped his hand over Sherlock's mouth. "Don't listen to a word he says," he told Lestrade.

"Did…did he just call me 'Greedo'? Like the green guy from Star Wars? There's no way he's seen it…"

"He doesn't know what he's saying."

"I should really be filming this," Greg said, with a light in his eyes that John didn't like in the slightest.

"Don't you dare," he growled.

"Fine, fine. Let's just get him the ambulance before his brain breaks."

Together, they gripped Sherlock's armpits and heaved him off of John's lap and onto his feet. With their arms around Sherlock's back, John tried to take a step forward, but Lestrade paused, holding them back.

"Is there a reason your belt is unbuckled?" he asked John with a smirk and arched eyebrow.

"Shut up or I'll let Sherlock talk about your cock again."

"My what?"

"Meat pendulum," Sherlock muttered. He swayed into John's side.

"Point taken," Lestrade groaned.

With the paramedic's assistance, they guided Sherlock into the ambulance and onto a stretcher. He lounged back on it like an overfed cat, stretching so that his shirt rode up and exposed the pale jut of his hips.

"Good luck with that one. I'll meet you at the hospital," Lestrade said as he shut the double doors.

After they turned onto the road, John handed over the blow dart and watched as Sherlock's vitals were taken and he was hooked up to the heart monitor.

"You're gonna' be fine, Sherlock," John said calmly, running his fingers through Sherlock's dark curls.

"Can I tell you a secret?"

John sighed despairingly, but nodded. He couldn't usually resist Sherlock at the best of times, let alone when he was drugged in the back of an ambulance.

"I love you more than I love chemistry."

John smiled.


"And my violin."


"And bees. And gangrene."

John noticed the paramedics look over at them quizzically in his periphery but he ignored them.

"Also heroin. And Mycroft. And antique medical instruments. Tequila, blood spatter, dancing, cigarettes, puppies, pyjamas, purgatory, pastries, plague—"

"I think you got stuck on the Ps there, Sherl—"

"There's only one thing I love more than I love you."

"Oh, really? And what's that?"

"John Watson."

John shook his head and huffed.

"Well then."

"My apologies. I endeavored to break it to you gently."

"That's quite alright."

"Did you know the paramedics are sleeping together?"

Both paramedics stammered and blushed, suddenly very intent on ignoring the strange things coming out of their patient's mouth.

"I do now."

"Don't tell anyone what I told you about John. Especially not him."

"Why not?" John did his best to keep a straight face.

"He'll get uncomfortable."

"Why would he do that?"

"He doesn't want us to say it. Whenever he starts to he stops himself, or he tells me when he thinks I'm sleeping."

John couldn't help but flush pink at Sherlock seeing through him so completely when he thought he was being discrete. He really should have known better.

"John sounds like an idiot," he muttered bitterly.

"Oh, he is. But he's my favourite idiot."

The following day found Sherlock home and sprawled out on the sofa with a virulent headache. John placed a steaming cup of tea on the coffee table and sat by Sherlock's stomach.

"Have some tea, it will help.

"I'd rather throw myself out the window," Sherlock grumbled, voice gravelly and low. He kept his forearm draped over his eyes.

"Have some bloody tea or I'll throw you myself."

"So aggressive," Sherlock moaned. He peeled his arm from across his face and blinked sluggishly before fixing a glare on John. "Where did your bedside manner fuck off to?"

Sherlock rarely swore, so John knew the pain had to be considerable. He tried a new tactic.

"Please have some tea? For me?"

Sherlock scowled at him for a few more moments, but soon pushed himself up against the armrest and accepted the mug when John handed it to him.

"This is repugnant," he groused.

"The tea?"

"Yes, but no. This whole scenario. I can hardly remember a thing after getting hit with the dart. Do you know how infuriating that is for me, John? For me, of all people, to have a lapse in memory?"

"Trust me, it's for the best."

Sherlock's eyes glinted and he fixed his sharp focus on John.

"Did Lestrade film me?"

"No, I wouldn't let him."

"You let him film me the last time I was drugged. What factor changed? I said something you didn't want anyone to hear, didn't I. What was it?"

John swallowed hard, averting his eyes before he could cull the instinct.

"What?" Sherlock demanded, wincing when the volume of his own voice likely aggravated his headache. "John—what?"

"You were very…honest."

"Honest? I'm always honest."


John watched Sherlock's face drain of colour.

"To whom?"


"Oh. I suppose that's preferable to any known alternative," Sherlock said, though he still looked tense and uneasy.

"You, uh…made some rather interesting confessions."

"Oh...I promise I was going to tell you about the gall bladders..."

"It's fi—what? What gall bladders?"

"The ones I hid in the—oh, that's not what I confessed to."

"What bloody gall bladders!?"

"No particularly memorable ones. Nothing to worry about. Now, what was it I said?"

John glowered at him.

"You told me you're in love with me."

John watched Sherlock's reaction to his words carefully. He hadn't planned on informing Sherlock of his little dart-induced love declarations, but it had been impossible to resist upon discovering that rotting gall bladders were currently somewhere they really shouldn't be.

Sherlock's eyes had gone wide and blank. His lips were parted, his throat working. "Did I," he said flatly.

"You did. Several times, actually."

"I was drugged."

"So it's not true?" John tried to sound casual but his success was tenuous at best.

"Of course it is," Sherlock snapped instantly. He took a sip from his tea, put it back on the coffee table, and rubbed his temples with a few fingertips.

"So you are in love with me?" Part of John knew he should probably drop the subject and spare Sherlock (and himself) the torture, but for some reason he pressed on.

Sherlock blew out a deep breath before meeting John's eyes. There was a cold, terrifying half-second of silence before Sherlock gripped the front of his jumper and dragged him in close. John yelped in surprise, but didn't pull away once their mouths were a hairsbreadth apart.

"Don't be an idiot," Sherlock hissed against his lips.

"You told me I'm your favourite idiot. And that you love me more than chemistry," John teased. He slid his hand up Sherlock's chest to curl around the side of his neck.

"Fortunately I'll never need to choose between the two."

"Also tequila. And the plague."

"You must have swooned."

"Never in my life," John replied, feigning affront. Sherlock shot him a knowing glare but generously didn't bring up John's undignified reaction to their first kiss.

Adjusting until he was lying fully on top of Sherlock, John tangled their legs together. Though Sherlock held his fond gaze for a few calm moments, his brow soon twitched into a frown, as though he realized something unsettling, and he glanced away.

"What?" John asked quietly.

"Did you—when I— I am to deduce from your current demeanor that you-"

"Shhhh, I have to tell you a secret," John interrupted, sealing Sherlock's mouth with his fingers and leaning forward until his lips brushed Sherlock's ear. "This might be surprising, but I love you too." He pulled back and pressed a kiss to the scar at the corner of Sherlock's lips. "More than tea and jumpers and my gun and even tequila. But not as much as I love Sherlock Holmes."

"That's…what?" Sherlock asked, confused, but John noticed the high flush painting his cheeks.

"I'm simply returning the sentiment."

"If that's how I spoke, I'm never getting hit with a blow dart again."

"…But you would have wanted to otherwise?"

"I'd have considered it."

"I shouldn't find that surprising."

"You really shouldn't."

Gently, John kissed Sherlock's cheek, then his temple and the space between his eyebrows.

"My head hurts," Sherlock whined.

"I know, baby."

"We agreed; no pet names."

"It's not a pet name. You're being a baby."

"How cruel, doctor. I thought you said you loved me."

"You must have me confused with someone else."

"No, it was definitely you."

"How can you be sure?"

"Balance of probability," Sherlock declared, wrapping his arms around John's back and holding him tight to his chest. John tucked his head against Sherlock's clavicle, and together they took slow, deep breaths.

"I don't actually love you more than tequila," Sherlock grumbled, half-asleep, after a few moments.

"But do you love me less than tequila?"

"It's a tie."

"Fair enough."

Author's Note: *whispers* I love you more than tequila...but only just.