John Watson sat at the bar, tipping down a row of shots, looking for all the world like a man with a problem. He was talking to himself, punctuating his thought process with each drink, like a child picking petals off of a flower.

"He'll never speak to me again. I still want to tell him. But what if he hates me? He might not. We've been friends for this long, put up with a lot stranger things than this. Of course, that's just my opinion. Oh, god, what if he already knows?! Damn him and his deductions! He can probably see it written all over my face! Then I must, I owe him that much at least, to come out with it. Face it like a man." He then dragged his heavy eyes up to the wall clock in front of him with a groan, Time to go home. He got up, staggered out the door, and called a cab. When he got home, there was Sherlock, reclining in apparent repose, his nose buried in a book. He glanced up at the sound of the door closing and looked startled to see his friend in such a state.

"Oh, dear. What have you been doing, John?" He got up to help his flatmate inside. After a brief struggle and gravity coming out the victor, he ended up catching Watson in his arms and holding him upright. They froze like this for a moment, then when he felt it was safe to, Sherlock took a step back, holding his friend at arm's length.

"I've been...thinking," Watson slurred, still wavering.

"Yes, obviously. You've been doing more than that," Holmes observed dryly. "You're not going to be sick, are you?"

Watson shook his head, running a hand nervously over his hair. "Look, hold on. I've got something to say. Just listen, it's important. I don't care what anyone says anymore, and I'm sure by now you already know anyway-"

"And you can tell me about it in the morning. It can wait, trust me," the detective assured him as he guided Watson up to his room.

"But by morning I won't remember," the doctor moaned as he was shoved into a sitting position on his bed. "And I'll have lost my nerve."

"Whatever you were going to tell me about drunk, I'd rather hear it from you sober. At least then you'll make a touch more sense. Just write it down to remind yourself if you must. Most of you people can't seem to remember anything unless they write it down, anyway, regardless of whether or not they've imbibed." His look then softened, his tone more soothing. "Get some sleep."

Obediently, he grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from his nightstand and started to write a note to himself. Then, wildly, he looked back up at his roommate and demanded loudly, "No peeking!"

Sherlock smirked, "I wouldn't dream of it. Good night."

Dawn found Watson blearily moaning in his bed. He rolled over and saw a few slips of paper on his nightstand, as well as a tray. Utterly confused, and with a pounding headache, he sat up and read the first one.

"Dear Sober John,

You had a few too many drinks last night and by now I'm sure you're paying for it. The only upside of it was that when Sherlock helped me in the door, I lost my balance and he caught me. For about thirty seconds, I was in his arms! It felt so good, I hoped he'd carry me the rest of the way. It was wonderful. I hope you can remember that. I tried to tell him that I love him, but he stopped me and made me promise to tell him in the morning. So, I leave it to you. Good luck!

Sincerely, Drunk John."

He shook his head, holding a hand to his forehead, wishing that he could clearly remember Holmes holding him like that. He had a vague notion of stumbling through the door, but nothing concrete after that. Then, he spotted the second piece of paper. It was in an entirely different hand than his:

"JW,

As a doctor, I'm sure you've been taught to adhere to the ridiculous notion that there is no cure for a hangover. It is with great authority that I say 'bullshit'. Just follow the prescribed treatment before you and with any luck, you'll feel slightly less like death than you do now. Meet me downstairs for breakfast when you've finished.

-SH"

On the tray was a pair of sunglasses, an antacid, some aspirin, a quart-sized bottle of water, a spoonful of crystallized ginger and a cup of strong, black coffee. Holmes must have just brought it up a moment ago, because the coffee was still hot. There was also a scrap of paper on which one word was written: "Slowly". Watson breathed a light laugh at this, imagining his austere friend as a sick-nurse. After he'd

finished it all, he put on his robe and sunglasses went out into the front room.

There was Holmes, just coming out of the kitchen to finish setting the table. For a moment, Watson wondered if he'd wandered into a parallel dimension, one inhabited by a nurturing, domestic Sherlock Holmes in place of the usual one. He shook himself and took a seat. He found his plate heaped with fried potatoes and onions, eggs, sausage, and toast. Near his elbow was a bottle of hot chili sauce. Obviously, Holmes was taking a page from the old-wives tale that greasy, spicy food was good for recovery. Still, he couldn't find any good reason to object: it certainly wouldn't hinder his improvement.

Sherlock looked at him over the rim of his teacup, as if watching for something. A silent question was in his eyes as he watched him eat. He then turned his attention to his own breakfast, both of them following their longstanding household rule that nothing alarming would be discussed at mealtimes. After they both finished, he rose to clear up. "Now, how do you feel?"

"Bit better," Watson admitted, still sounding a little dazed as he brought his dishes to the sink as well.

"Now, what was it that you wanted to tell me about last night? You'll forgive me for making you wait, but I don't speak inebriate particularly well," Holmes said with a good-natured laugh.

They migrated to the couch and Watson steeled himself to his confession. He began with a heavy sigh and a long gaze at the man next to him. He felt safe to do so behind the sunglasses he had on. They at least shielded Holmes from the fact that he was staring at him longingly, at least reducing the chances of looking creepy.

"Look, we...we've been friends for some time now, haven't we?"

"Yes, I'd say so. Few years. I honestly never thought you'd stick around this long," Holmes admitted with a reluctantly fond smile. After battling his wills, he found himself reaching out to pat Watson's knee with manly affection.

"Well, I don't plan on leaving any time soon, unless you wish it."

"I don't anticipate that being the case any time soon. Seems you're the only person on this Earth who can stand me," Sherlock grumbled, half to himself. "I don't know how you manage it sometimes, but...I'm glad you do."

This brought a wellspring of hope to Watson's heart, he felt it bubble warmly all over his body. "Good, good. I just want you to know that in spite of your natural peculiarities, and in many ways because of them, I...I like sharing a flat with you. I like having you in my life, and everything that comes with it. Even when you're not acting all bizarro Stepford Wives like you were today." They shared a laugh over that, dissolving a layer of tension in the room. The odd consulting detective looked positively touched beneath his forbidding veneer. "It's home, with us. I've never had a home like this before, or a friend like you. I...I..." He took the sunglasses off, braving the ghastly light of day to look the man in the eye. "I mean, I...care for you immensely."

Holmes looked on, bringing a hand to his mouth. This was more than he ever expected to hear in his whole life. He thought back a few hours when he helped his friend in the door. How Watson had draped himself into his waiting arms. Wonderful! That sigh of content, the urgent, awkward stammering... Might he really? Slowly he dropped his hand back down, brushing Watson's as it settles back on his knee. "And I for you," he agreed. His face flushed, pondering what a treasure this man really was to him. He'd never dared to think of such things, of this being home. But it is. A real home. And John was his family.

The doctor gave a high shriek of nervous laughter at this, it instantly turned to tears as he grabbed his friend's hand and squeezed it. "I mean, I love you. I LOVE you-love you. Like, capital letters. Look, if you never want to speak to me again, I'll understand. I'll certainly never bring it up, I just...you're my best friend, I don't want to sacrifice that, but it's just been on my mind a lot and last night..." Once again, he wished fervently that he could remember being in the man's arms. He brought his hands up over his shoulders, looking completely downcast. He sobbed heavily, shaking off his nerves, hiding his face behind his hands.

Sherlock listened attentively, drinking in his every word, feeling the sharp stab of fear that Watson must be nursing, unsure if he was about to be cast adrift for his confession. He was stricken completely speechless, unable to know where to properly begin. So, he let his actions speak for him: As Watson sat with his head drooped down to his chest, the detective tilted his head back up with his hand, forced them to face each other, and kissed him.

As one, they moaned in delight, seizing each other roughly around the shoulders, Watson slid smoothly into his friend's lap. After a moment, they broke the kiss off as they both needed to come up for air, laughing hysterically. Together, they dragged their fingers through each other's hair, just staring each other down with matching ridiculous grins on their faces.

Watson gasped for breath in speechless joy, brushing their foreheads together, just staring at him in wonder. That this remarkable lunatic would even be his friend was something to be marveled at. To have anything more with him is nothing short of miraculous. Tears slide down both of their faces. After all of the teasing they'd gotten from the Yard about working and living together, hearing rude suggestions of what goes on behind closed doors, the doctor feels eager to experience it all and to flaunt it openly at the next given chance. He pondered walking into the next crime seen with Sherlock's hand in his. Silently, he blessed whatever circumstances had led them to being stone broke at the same time, in desperate need of a flatshare. At the time, they'd both agreed to it simply to get a roof over their heads. Little had they known that it would one day lead to this most wonderful morning. Watson had to know:"How long...?"

"You'll find out soon enough," Sherlock murmured naughtily, making Watson groan as he nuzzled in for another kiss. "But if you're wondering how long I've loved you, I really cannot say. To know you is to love you."

"Wow, gee, thanks, Madonna," Watson quipped.

"Oh, hush. Now, if you're still not feeling up to par, I happen to know of another excellent cure for a hangover."

"Mmm, do you?"

"I think you'll find it to be just what the doctor ordered."