Characters owned by the BBC, Messrs. Moffat and Gatiss. Love your work, guys. I don't own anything except perhaps the notion behind this story. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental and unintentional.

Warning: M for mature adult themes, two men in love, and so in my traditional heart this is true 'slash' - a non-canonical pairing within a fandom. This is based on my favourite of all Sherlock Holmes quotes. This chapter is relatively safe, future ones might not be.

"When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth" even when it is right in front of your eyes and you're guilty of missing the obvious.

"John?" The loud voice came as a shock in the silent bedroom, even though it was muffled by being on the other side of the door. John Watson opened an eye and wished he hadn't. Hazy recollections of the previous night came back to him slowly. The dark room, himself alone with his thoughts, pills and a bottle of whisky. Single malt too. Good vintage. Oblivion in a bottle.

"John!" Same voice, a little more insistent. "John, it's gone midday. Are you alright?" Alright? No, I'm not alright, he wanted to scream, but he wanted to scream what do you care? even more. But he didn't. Resentfully, he glared at the wall as it were to blame for his misfortune. His arm, where the bullet had grazed it, was aching. No, amend that, it was hurting. Like hell, actually. His head even more so. "John, either come to the door and let me in or I will break it down!" Damn it all.

"Am fine!" he lied, hoping it would work, knowing it wouldn't. Maybe he didn't want it to. If he was honest... He was realizing he wasn't honest with himself much these days. There was a pause. He'd only slurred his words a little bit. He was undecided on whether he ought not to slur them at all or slur them a bit more.

"Well, clearly you're not fine otherwise you would let me in. So, let me in. Right now, John." The voice was dispassionate, emotionless, but still quietly insistent. He wasn't going to let this one go easily. Ignoring the voice, John closed the offending eye again and tried to sink back into the stupor he had been rudely awakened from but it wouldn't come. Sleep evaded him.

"John, I won't ask again. Let me in, now, or I break this door down."

"What do you care!" Silence. Finally. He hadn't enjoyed raising his voice though. His head throbbed, the blood pounded in his temples, his neck muscles had seized up. He felt like vomiting. Not a good idea. His roiling stomach threatened to overcome his strength of will, which was about nil right now.

"John, there is only one person I care about right now." Now that was a surprise. Conversation stopper, that one. Sherlock did not care. He didn't do emotions. He was, in his own words, "a high-functioning sociopath" and, in Watson's medical opinion, displayed symptoms of Asperger's Syndrome. He didn't have friends, as he had spat out to Watson during the Baskerville case.

I only have one... The words rang in Watson's head relentlessly. One friend. Him. Captain John Hamish Watson, RAMC. He opened his eyes and stared regretfully at the wall.

"Watson, get this door—" the door opened, startling Sherlock with it's suddenness. "—open. Oh..." Sherlock didn't usually startle but he had honestly not expected Watson to open the door and certainly, for all his deductive skills, he had not foreseen the man standing there looking both vulnerable and ill on the threshold of his room, dark circles beneath his eyes and a feverish glint in them. The doctor blinked in the light from the hallway, squinting a little.

"What d'you want?" Watson's tone could only be described as churlish and that wouldn't really do justice to the way he spoke those few words. He loaded quit a bit of venom into them; enough, say, to kill a horse had the dosage been real. Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he peered past his one and only friend into the dark room beyond. There was the distinct smell of alcohol-whisky, single malt, 25 years old-and other less savory smells. The windows were closed, the room had not been aired and John had not bothered to wash. Sherlock resisted the urge to wrinkle his nose and frowned, his delicate brows meeting in the middle. Watson looked shocking. There was a slight tremble his right hand as he held the door open-Sherlock couldn't see the other one properly, it was tucked away in a sling, but if it had been his left hand, Sherlock might have discounted it as part of the previous trauma from Afghanistan. John had his head down, shoulders hunched a little—tension in the trapesius muscle of the neck and shoulders probably brought on by the excessive absorption of alcohol and resulting dehydration—whole body posture defensive. He stank too; thankfully only of stale sweat, but it was not right for John. He was always clean, always clean-shaven, always practical. Personal hygiene had slipped, always a bad sign. Of course, he was injured, possibly feverish-flushed complexion, photophobia, muscle pain—and the alcohol would not have done him any good at all. He would, of course, lack the energy required to take a bath. Sherlock could forgive him due to his suffering, but he could not and would not forgive him for putting himself at risk, yet again.

John could hardly see in the bright light, after the soothing darkness of his room. He was irritated and went about proving that Sherlock wasn't the only one who could be obtuse when he wanted to be. He wanted to be left alone to suffer in silence, to feel sorry for himself without being guilt-tripped about it, but that was a pipe dream. Judging by the immovable stance of the man who faced him, he would have a hard enough time convincing him to go away.

"Can I come in? I..." Sherlock stopped, uncertain how to continue. He wasn't good with people in the first place. Dead ones were fine. They yielded up all sorts of useful information without contributing a word from their own lips. Live people were fine when they shut up and didn't talk incessantly, but caused all kinds of other problems the moment they opened their mouths. He could ignore them, he was practiced in it, unless he wanted something from them. But sick people left him confused. He had no idea where to start with them, he had no trite words of comfort or condolence, nor did he have any empathy. He battened any feelings down tight in favour of cold hard deduction and thus he was most certainly not used to this friend business. Despite knowing that John was one. His friend. His only friend. Hadn't been lying when he had said that.

John hesitated to reply. Sherlock asking to come in and not pushing past without regard for his wishes? He blinked, confused. "Who are you?" he asked and saw the brief flash of something— uncertainty?—in those grey eyes. "Where's Sherlock and what have you done with him? You've obviously kidnapped him and replaced him with a clone." Watson scowled and turned to go back in the room, intent on seeking his bed. He felt terrible. "The Holmes I know doesn't care," he shot back over his shoulder.

"That's not true, John." Sherlock found his voice again, albeit a little husky. "Why else would I be here? To enquire of your availability to join me for cocktails? A round of Bridge maybe? To discuss the weather? I haven't laid eyes on you for two days. Well, 35 hours and-" he checked his watch "—forty three minutes. This is ridiculous."

John sighed. He was too tired and dispirited for verbal sparring. His small sigh and the slump of his shoulders gave him a crestfallen appearance. Sherlock frowned. "What's wrong? You've not been yourself since...well, I'm starting to...to worry, about you..." Sherlock was worried? Now John was convinced he had been kidnapped and replaced by a clone who looked identical to the consulting detective but had no idea how to behave convincingly. Possibly kidnapped by aliens... Maybe by mad scientists. That admission—"I'm starting to worry about you"—was unheard of. However, it did not change the situation.

John was exhausted. He was a mental wreck. He was a physical one as well. Never mind Sherlock showing his feelings, right then John Watson would have given anything not to feel the out-of-control emotions tumbling through him. He wanted to run screaming in the opposite direction but he was just too tired. He had so nearly been killed. A couple of inches to the right and he probably would have been. The bullet would have hit him in the chest, most likely ricocheting like a high velocity ping pong ball inside his ribcage, swiss-cheesing his heart and lungs, not to mention pulverizing his internal organs with hydrostatic shock. Pleasant thoughts. He made it to the bed and sat back down, battling down the nausea.

Close brushes with death had happened plenty of times before, so what made this time so spectacularly different? He had, after all, come much closer to it than this. This should class as a mere flesh wound to his bicep, but was rapidly turning into the straw that broke the camel's back. He clambered back onto his bed and lay there, gazing unseeing at the dark ceiling, in pain. By that point in time he was making little distinction between mental and physical discomfort.

"John?" Sherlock came over to stand by the bed, dragging the bedclothes up to cover the man and stop him from getting cold, then he loomed over his friend and frowned down at him. "Tell me what's wrong?" While he spoke, his eyes were flicking elsewhere, noting the abandoned cup of...something, possibly tea, on the bedside table, a rather impressive growth on the congealed surface. That was something else John was fastidious about, always drinking his tea and never leaving the dirty cups about.

"It won't change how I feel."

"Talk about it."

"I can't."

"Why?" Sherlock gazed intently at him as if he might deduce the reason by observation alone, although knowing him, he just might manage it. "You're embarrassed," he declared. "There is a slight blush to your skin, just above your pajama jacket collar." Delicate fingers twitched the cloth of his collar aside. "Not down to the fever, that flush just appeared. You're exhausted, that much is evident. You haven't bothered washing, which might be what is causing your embarrassment, but I would hazard a guess it's something else. You've been drinking—whisky to go by the smell. That would suggest to me that you are seeking to escape something. Why not merely give yourself a sedative? You could have asked me, I would have helped you administer it if you so wished. It's not like I don't know how, after all." Sherlock received a glare for that but he ignored it. "John, you've been in scrapes before that have done more damage but... something is different about this one. You're experiencing something new, something you've not felt before. So what does John Watson experience that is new to him? Guilt? That's not new. Regret? You have some new motivation..."

"Leave it be!" The anguish in John's voice was a surprise. "Please?" A plea. Close to the nail with that last observation then.

"So, you regret something? Done or not done, I wonder," Sherlock carried on, relentless. He saw the flicker in John's eyes and Sherlock's delicate brows drew together again, almost touching across the bridge of his nose. "Ah, something not done but you feel a need to complete before you die..."

"I'm an open book to you, aren't I?" The voice was weary, resigned.

"Pretty much, but then, pretty much everyone is. You knew that though. Why has it started to trouble you now?" Sherlock was met with silence. "Because I'm going to deduce something you don't want me to know?" Sherlock's brain was whirling. What did John Watson not want him to know that was so damned important? What secret was he trying to keep? He wasn't seeing anyone at the moment. That last woman... What was it that he felt he needed to do? Probably something unsaid, some opportunity that would be missed. What a conundrum. Sherlock smiled. Something to keep him occupied for a while... Unraveling the mystery that was John Watson. He stopped, gazed at the man on the bed. John was ill, that much was evident. Had he taken his antibiotics? Sherlock inspected the strip of pills on the bedside table and rapidly calculated that, knowing when they were prescribed and how many he was supposed to take, he had missed four. Good job on one level, considering the alcohol would have rendered them well nigh useless. "John? You've missed taking four of these pills."

"What?"

"You need to take these. You of all people should know that." Cool fingers rested briefly on his forehead, brushing the short fringe away from his damp skin. "Your temperature is elevated, you're suffering pyrexia. Are you in any pain?"

"A little..."

"Liar."

"If you know so much, why ask?"

"It's the polite thing to do. Why are you being so bloody minded?"

"I'm hung over and I've been shot... Oddly enough that can make a person more than a little irritable."

Sherlock laughed at that. "Not lost your sense of humour then."

"Who said I was laughing?"

"John, you're a doctor. What would you do if one of your patients did this to themselves?"

"Hopefully they wouldn't be so bloody stupid," John snapped. "I can't take painkillers or antibiotics until the effects of the alcohol have worn off. Another twelve to twenty four hours, otherwise they won't work, or at the very least their usefulness would be impaired. At worst they could induce side effects. I know what I've done to myself," he admitted softly, with a forced smile. "I've been a naughty boy and I'll just have to take the consequences. It's hurting—a lot actually—but I'll just have to manage that."

He looked defeated, Sherlock thought, but this wasn't a minor-setback-get-back-on-the-horse-that-threw-me sort of scenario. John looked lost, betrayed and any one of a number of undefined but negative emotions. Sherlock pondered the conundrum. John was sliding into depression, but the great consulting detective was at a loss to surmise what had triggered it. This was exactly why he remained detached, distanced himself from destructive and negative emotions. They got in the way, they messed with one's head, they insinuated themselves into one's brain and lurked there, like a computer virus, interfering with one's work and one's state of health. The doors in Sherlock's brain began to close, shutting one after another on the emotion that threatened to block out his powers of reasoning. And the harder he tried, the harder it became. Desperately he slammed them, every last one of them, barring them against the insidious onslaught of the need to care. He had a friend. The truth, the absolute truth of it was that he—the great Sherlock Holmes—had to care, or he would lose the only true friend he had ever had.

For a moment, he weighed the possibilities, and, Sherlock being Sherlock, teetered on the edge of whether or not it was worth tempering his intellectual judgement with that of retaining his one and only... no, not friend. Soul mate. John Watson might be many things—infuriating, frustrating, and exasperating to name only a few. Yet he was also loyal, funny, compassionate and caring. He would make any woman a very good husband; he was a loving, gentle, sarcastic and... with a shock, a piece of the jigsaw fell into place. He would make any woman a very good husband. That's the bottom line, Sherlock thought. He didn't want John Watson to make any woman a good husband, he wanted John to be his husband, his friend, his soul mate. Sherlock's eyes slid shut. Oh. My. Good. God.

"Sherlock? What's wrong?" John was looking at him strangely.

"Nothing," he replied and forced a smile.

"Now I know there's something wrong. You don't smile like that..."

"I do smile, I smile all the time..."

"Yes, but not like that!" John retorted.

"Like what?"

"Like there's... something bothering you. Like you've thought of something to tell me that you know I'll hate. You're like my mother."

"Your mother?"

"Yes, she had that smile when my rabbit died and she didn't know how to tell me. I already knew though. She didn't know that. She was all for protecting me from the worst, trying to soften the blow. Truth to tell, it didn't do any good. I was upset and would have been whatever way she had told me. If you have to impart bad news, then do it simply, honestly and with respect. There is no other way." John's eyes betrayed his feelings. He was expecting the worst. "So, what's so bad you can't just come right out and tell me?"

That I want you, John, you above all others, to have and to hold, for better or worse? Sherlock sighed. I want us to be together. How do I tell you that? You'd run a mile and I would lose you. You're always so fond of telling people you're not gay, that we're not together. You mention it in passing, you affect unconcern-it's no big deal, you're not a homophobe, you want people to know you care and you're concerned and you couldn't care less if they are gay-but you hate the very idea that anyone should think it of you. You and your labels; nice little pigeonholes for everyone and everything, categorise and organise and file. That's what you do, you're a doctor, you diagnose illnesses and assess injuries and carefully triage every one you deal with based on the available data. That's how you work.

That's why we're alike; we assess, we judge, we diagnose the problems, the patterns, the threads in the tapestry, the interconnecting links and the six degrees of separation. We establish the links and draw the possible conclusions from the evidence. You might diagnose malaria because a woman has just returned from a holiday hotspot and is displaying a fever, headache, chills, diarrhoea, nausea. I divine that a man died by being hit with his own boomerang because a car-not his own-backfired in the middle of nowhere and took his attention away at the crucial moment. No matter the details, we each accomplish the same thing, in the long run. And yet... I deal with grey areas. I look at possibilities, potentials, permutations. There are infinite possibilities and combinations so I tend not to label. Labels are useful in their way but they pose limitations where there are non. When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. I deal with improbabilities on a daily basis.

"Sherlock? Sherlock!" John was agitated. His friend was not responding, merely staring off into the middle distance in some kind of trance. Damn it all, he is downright impossible sometimes but he's my friend, John thought, and I love him, and despite the frustrations, I need him, I need him like the breath in my lungs, like the blood in my veins, but if I spoke of it, he'd run a mile and hide. He doesn't do emotions. They get in his way. They're limiting, superfluous, painful. Proof of life. Sadly John turned to the wall and hid his face. Presently, he heard the door close as Sherlock left. That hurt worst of all.

0o0o0o0o0o0

The strains of a violin wafted on the night air. John lay in his bed and listened to the lament. It was haunting and beautiful and it made his heart ache. He hadn't heard it before. He wondered if it was something Sherlock had composed that evening or if it was just John's ignorance of violin music that made it sound unfamiliar to him. Oh, he might recognise a Mendelssohn concerto when he heard it, but this... Whatever it was, the tune was lovely, the playing artful and accomplished. He was content to lie there and doze as the music provided a soundtrack to his current state. When it stopped, he was disappointed.

The trouble was he wanted to hear more; every night, every day, whenever he could. He wanted to live at 221B forever, and he knew that was impossible. Sherlock was an accomplished musician, a brilliant man, and John Watson knew he paled into insignificance next to him. No woman would ever come as close to John as Sherlock had. With a shock, John knew it to be absolute truth. No woman would ever come close, because no one ever could, be they male or female. Moreover, he would never let a woman get close because he couldn't. It was already too late. No wonder they had never lasted more than a few dates. They were competing with a dream.

The door was open when Sherlock pushed it with his shoulder and hip. He carefully manoeuvred into the darkened room and put his burden down on the table near the bed. John looked as if he was asleep, the eyes closed, face serene.

"I like your playing."

"Thank you." Sherlock was unfazed by the fact that John was awake. His breathing had not been that of a sleeper. "You need sustenance. I brought you some soup and tea. Nothing special, just tinned. Mrs Hudson managed to heat it through without mishap." Sherlock sat down on the bed and laid a napkin across John's chest. "No, stay still, I'll feed you."

"There's no need—"

"Nonsense, there's every need. You're not well, one hand is trembling, the other is out of commission. You barely managed to hold the door open earlier, so I very much doubt that you could hold a spoon effectively. This is one less thing to worry about."

"Sherlock, why are you doing this?"

"Because you're...you need help...Let me help you, John? Please?"

John relaxed back onto the pillows again. "I'm perfectly capable of feeding myself, you know. I'm not disabled, just wounded." He waved his good hand. "Look, I'm capable—"

"I beg to differ."

"And just who is the doctor here?"

"It hardly matters if the doctor in question is not facing the truth!" John glared at him but chose, wisely, not to say anything more. "Besides, you took a bullet meant for me. How do you think I feel?"

John pretended to think about it. "Oh, I don't know. Guilty? Responsible? You mean you actually care?"

"Damn it, yes. I care. Now, can we get on?" Sherlock brandished a spoon.

"So you figure by helping me, you pay off your debts?" Sherlock stopped, spoon half-way to the bowl he had picked up and uncovered. He looked away. "I'm sorry," John said. "I hadn't meant that to come out the way it did."

"That's alright. You're probably delirious." It took John a short while to realize that he was actually joking.

"Was that... meant to be funny, Sherlock? Are you having a joke at the expense of a sick man?"

"Probably." The two men locked their gazes on each other. Afterward, they were never sure who chuckled first but both ended up shaking their heads in exasperation. Sherlock offered up the full spoon and John obediently opened his mouth to receive it. Sherlock was careful, watching John for any sign of distress or discomfort. He didn't eat much but it was enough and Sherlock did not force the issue when John held up his hand in mute appeal to stop.

"Still feeling a little dizzy," he said softly. "Think I've burdened my stomach enough. I need sleep."

"You need a bath."

John paused, not sure if he'd heard correctly. "Did you say bath?"

"Yes, John. It is my painful duty to inform you that you smell. Sweat and male musk only smell good on a washed body. You'll not stand a hope in hell with...anyone if you don't keep clean."

They smell good to him? Do I smell good? John wondered if Sherlock was admitting to what he thought he was admitting to. Couldn't be. Seriously? Doubtless it was simply that it was a small observation to encourage him not to be antisocial in his personal hygiene. But a bath? He shuddered. He never took baths, not any more. A shower, now that was fine. But a bath...

"John? John! What's wrong? John, talk to me..."

"What? What's the matter? I—"

"John, you're shaking. What on earth is the matter with you?" Sherlock ran back through possible triggers for John's PTSD. It had to have been verbal, there had been nothing else. You need a bath. Was that it? John has some issue... "What is it about bathing that you hate?" He saw John physically jump at the mention of it. "Surely you wouldn't object to me helping you with that? Or do you have privacy issues?" A minute shake of the head was all he got.

"Shower, I'll shower."

"John, you cannot stand in the shower for that length of time, and besides, I cannot support you unless I'm in there with you and...I doubt you'd appreciate that." There was no response. Sherlock frowned at that. Whatever the problem was with the idea of bathing, it was overriding everything else, all other possible responses. There was no twitch at his mention of being in the shower together, despite the almost immediate and unwelcome thoughts that it triggered in Sherlock himself. "If you're embarrassed about your scars..." Again the small negative twitch of the head. Scars. Was that it? "Let me see, why else would you not only hate the idea of a bath but feel physically repulsed by it? Negative associations with bathing. From Childhood maybe? No?" Again the shake. Sherlock observed John's convulsive swallow. The idea was making him feel physically ill. A stress response. Interesting. Time to push a little. Not too much, but a tiny amount, just to confirm something. "John, what's the first thing that comes into your mind when I mention the bath?" Eyes squeezed shut, John shook.

"Drowning," he moaned softly.

"Drowning? Have you almost drowned in the bath before?" A small almost imperceptible nod. "But not when you were a child? So it wasn't a childhood accident?" The negative shake again. Sherlock sighed. He had better things to do than play twenty questions. "Did someone try to drown you?" Ah, now we're getting somewhere. This time his whole demeanour changed. John's eyes were haunted as they turned to gaze at him. Sherlock could have kicked himself. "John? Were you ever... captured? Held against your will? In Afghanistan maybe?" Where else, after all. There was a long pause before John would meet his eyes again. There it was, the tiny nod. So there it was.

"Freezing cold, the water... made to... to strip..." Here we go, confession time. "We went to bring in some casualties but we were intercepted by a patrol, pinned down with gunfire. The rest of the lads were separated from us, then a car bomb went off and destroyed the vehicle we'd been using. My orderly, Murray, he got me out, but we were surrounded. They took us hostage..." As if the floodgates had opened, the story poured out. They had been lucky, held for less than forty eight hours before they were rescued, but in that time... Sherlock sat unmoving, listening as John described being thrown naked into a bath of freezing water and held under, nearly drowned and brought out to have questions about troop movements shouted at him. Then he would be held under again until he answered. "I didn't tell them anything because I didn't know anything." The treatment had gone on far too long, and he had been left freezing on the floor of his cell. They were rescued a few hours later, but the damage had been done. Hypothermic and wounded during the rescue, John had begun the steady decline in health that had led to his being invalided out and pensioned off.

"Come on," Sherlock stood.

"Where?"

"The bathroom. You still need a bath and this won't go away."

"I can't! Don't ask me to, please Sherlock, I—"

"John, do you trust me?" Watson stared at him. Uncertainty played across his features. Then he nodded, once, but firmly. "Good, then understand this. I will not let you fall. I will not let you drown but if you don't face this, then it is always going to haunt you. Do you understand?" John nodded. "And please don't tell me that this is not the conventional therapy. I do not work conventionally as you well know..."

"Sherlock? I...I don't care how you propose to do it, I just don't think I'm strong enough for this..." There was real fear in John's voice. He got up and stood by the bed, stoic and brave, back straight, but he looked as if he were walking out to face a firing squad.

"Well, if you're not able to face a bath yet, then you do need to shower." Sherlock paused. It was the one place he had desired to be with John for so long. He had fantasized about this, the perfect opportunity to get what he wanted, to be legitimately close to John, to hold him and support him and now it came to it, he could no more take advantage of the situation than fly. His sigh was heavy and resigned. What should he do now?

"Sherlock...I...I appreciate what you're doing, you know." He was rewarded with a rare smile and a nod. "But I don't think a shower is a good idea though. I might slip."

"I know... sponge bath then?"

"Why are you so damned obsessed with me being clean? I'm too tired for this shit!"

"I'm sorry, John. I just thought it would help you feel better, that's all."

"Well, if I was well enough, it might but not right now. It's all too much effort. My head is pounding, I ache, my arm hurts."

"I'm sorry. Get back into bed. I'll leave you in peace."

"No...I'm sorry too. I didn't mean to be rude or ungrateful, it's just that...I'm..." John took a shuddering breath and sat back down on the bed. "I'm near breaking point." He ran his good hand shakily through his sandy hair, unable to meet Sherlock's eyes. "I am going to lose you."

"Lose me?" All Sherlock got in reply was a mute nod. "How? I warn you, I am rather difficult to lose."

A bark of laughter escaped but it was hollow. "I'm too emotional for you," John suggested. "I'm losing control of myself. Look, Sherlock, I have a confession to make to you... I must make it, but I can guarantee no good will come from it. The saving grace is that I won't have to carry the burden anymore."

"John, what the deuce is wrong with you? What confession?"

"I love you!" The words fell into the air like blessings, but they could have been bricks as far as John was concerned.

Sherlock froze. Had he heard correctly? His ears were playing tricks...but no, they were fine. John suddenly choked and began to cough, doubled over in pain with it. Sherlock was at his side in an instant, supporting him with an arm around his shoulders, waiting the storm out, letting it pass. He impulsively tightened his grip, mindful of John's injury but holding the man close to him, stroking his back in soothing motions.

Eventually, John realized that the arm around his shoulders belonged to the man he had just, foolishly, declared his love for. God, he must be delirious. He could blame it on that, he decided. He tried to extricate himself but Sherlock held on firmly. "Oh no, not letting you go now."

"What? I...what?"

"Hmm, you must still be feverish." The back of a gentle hand, cool fingers soothing to his brow, laid briefly on the hot skin. "You're not making any sense."

"You're still here."

"Why wouldn't I be?"

"I don't know. Might have something to do with me being stupid and telling you that...that I..." He faltered. He really didn't think he could say the words again.

"That you love me?" Sherlock was smiling.

"Please, don't mock. This is the stupidest thing I've ever done. I mean, why would you be interested? You're straight, you could have any woman you wanted."

"Except the only one I might be remotely interested in and that's only because she was the most intelligent woman I've met in too long a while. John, you are my friend. Why would I not be interested? Oh yes, because I'm straight...hmmm, that could be a problem. If it was true. Which it isn't. Although as I said before, I don't like labels, they limit one's potential. Do you really? Love me, I mean?" There was a look of wonder on his face that John did not expect to see. "Do you?"

"I must, I guess." Question is, is it returned? Sherlock was looking at him a little oddly.

"I can't believe it," he said softly. "Of all the things, John, I never saw this coming. Would it surprise you to know, I've thought about this moment a lot?"

"Worried I would proposition you?"

"No, not worried. Hoped, John. I hoped you would. You are my friend, John Watson. My best friend. I love you back, have wanted to for a long time. I'm sorry, we've wasted so much time." John gazed back at him, unable to quite believe his ears. Was Sherlock saying he loved him back? For answer, Sherlock leaned toward him, closed the gap between them and laid his lips on John's, exquisitely gently. A mere brush, but it set John's blood on fire. He moaned softly into the kiss, his good arm coming up to wrap around Sherlock's waist. They sat together like that for what seemed an age, neither wanting to move. "Besides, why is it so improbable that I could love you? You will not apply my precept," he said, shaking his head. "How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?"

"I guess I thought it was impossible, so I eliminated it."

Sherlock chuckled and pressed John back to the bed. "You need rest. This has been traumatic for you. Can I get you anything? Do anything?"

"I think I need to sleep. Feel like shit."

"I'll leave you in peace—"

"No! Don't go! Please?" John sighed and pulled back the covers in mute appeal. Sherlock took one look and balked.

"John, are you sure?"

"I've never been more sure of anything. Please. Stay with me?"

"Alright." He began to take his clothes off, acutely aware that John was watching him. Sliding into bed, clad in nothing but his boxers, he fitted himself alongside the man who had just opened his heart to him. There was an audible sigh as Sherlock's skin touched John's. Their eyes met from a few inches distant. It was John's turn to press a kiss to Sherlock's cheek, a brief touch, nothing more. "Go to sleep," Sherlock ordered and smiled as John rolled away and pushed back against him. A warm arm slid around him and drew John close, and a hand played with his hair, the delicate touch gentle and distracting. Spooning, they each relaxed into the warmth and comfort offered by the other. In moments, they were both drifting, worn out by the emotional stresses.

This is my first Sherlock fic, so hopefully I have got the characterization right. There may be more. We'll see what my reviews say…