Determinedly ignoring the way Sherlock's brilliant eyes lit up gratefully, John kicked off his shoes, shed his jacket, and climbed onto the bed, wriggling under the covers and immediately turning his back to Sherlock. Not paying any heed to John's position or silent body language, Sherlock reached out and wrapped his slender arms around the doctor's waist.

"Hey—Sherlock!" John protested when he was drawn against the man's chest.

"Quit complaining," Sherlock said dismissively, his warm breath ghosting over the back of John's neck. "It's just for one night."

"But—"

"Please, John."

John stiffened. Sherlock's voice had trembled, only a little, but it was more than noticeable to John, at his plea, and in response John's hands clenched of their own accord. He didn't like hearing Sherlock like that. Sherlock was arrogant and self-centered and extremely sure of himself. He didn't beg; he didn't sound small. John was thinking more and more about how much he wanted to pull his friend out of this rut.

"Piss off," John muttered, but relaxed in Sherlock's embrace and even covered the pale arms with his own.

His fingers brushed over the rough bandages that now hid the detective's secret shame. An unexpected flare of pride welled up inside of John at the realization that he was the only one that Sherlock trusted with these scars, the only one who could make Sherlock give them up, and the only one that without whom Sherlock could not really be happy. It made him incredibly pleased that he was among the most important people in Sherlock's life, and most certainly the only one the detective trusted exclusively. He might be the only one who could influence this man of iron.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"Thank you."

Sherlock pulled John more firmly against his chest, nestling John's head beneath his chin. John sighed, giving up on fighting, and leaned back in order to be as comfortable as he could manage. His thumb began to stroke Sherlock's bandaged wrist, and the detective shivered.

John couldn't honestly say he disliked laying like this, with Sherlock curled around him, but something about it just felt…well, it felt wrong. This wasn't really Sherlock, and when the sun came around, he couldn't be sure that it would bring the consultant that he preferred to this one. The one who was too cocky and pushy, who was exceedingly childish and rather rude in his brilliance. This sensitive and affectionate Sherlock was honestly scaring him a little, because to be quite blunt, Sherlock Holmes was a self-assured prick, but it was because of that, and because of getting past it, that John had come to care about the man the way he had. Sherlock was supposed to be strong and Devil-may-care. He wanted that Sherlock back.

"Sherlock?" John said hesitantly.

"Yes?" Sherlock answered at once. His low bass resonated against his neck and through his torso.

"I need to know that this won't happen again," he said.

There was a slight pause. Sherlock sighed and leaned his forehead against John's shoulder.

"John, I—" he began.

"I don't want to see you like this," John interjected, cheeks very warm. "I never want you to feel like you have to do this. If you're feeling…bad…I want you to talk to me. I want to help you, but I can only do that if you let me."

Sherlock was silent for a short moment that seemed to stretch out into eternity. John wasn't sure if he felt the other man's chest move with a single breath in that time. Then that man's hands went to John's shoulders, and he was forcing him to turn around. Startled, all John could do was let himself be clumsily rolled over to face the consultant, whose face was so uncharacteristically soft, so strangely vulnerable, that it brought a new and different ache to John's heart despite it also sending uneasy chills down his spine. Those two-toned eyes seemed to glow in the semidarkness.

"John," he said, and his soft voice resonated through the entire room. He had one of those voices, John noted quite irrelevantly, that could command the attention of any person in any situation, no matter how noisy a room, and keep an audience perfectly silent until he was finished speaking. "Stay with me. If I have my blogger, I can swear I'll never do it again."

"And will you tell me beforehand if you feel like you might do this again?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"Thank you," John said in relief, a weight leaving him that he hadn't realized had been present.

"Smiling, Sherlock hugged John to him again. John returned his embrace cautiously, hiding his embarrassed expression in the man's chest.

"John, there's something I need to tell you," said Sherlock after a quiet moment.

His heartbeat was thrumming against John's cheek, and it could have been his imagination, but he thought it was a bit faster than it should have been. Sherlock's arms tightened around him.

"I love you, John."

Such a silence fell over the room that, for a split second, John could hear the virtually nonexistent breaths of his partner and the slight whistling of wind outside. Then the quiet was shattered by a thunderous noise in his ears, a cantankerous but steady pounding. What was that? Was it the roaring of his own blood? The pumping of his own heart?

"Erm, Sherlock," he asked unsteadily. "How much blood did you lose, exactly?"

"Not even a pint," Sherlock said at once. "Nowhere near enough for me to be hallucinating, as you clearly think I am."

"Ah—o—okay, then…" John bumbled. What was he supposed to say?

"Don't worry, John," said Sherlock, sounding faintly amused even as his hand slid up to cradle the base of John's head. "I know you won't say anything one way or the other. I didn't tell you because I expected an answer."

Still hiding his face, John's fingers tightened over Sherlock's bare back, his nails digging into his soft skin a little.

"You think you know everything?" he said.

"More or less," Sherlock affirmed, voice definitely amused now.

John groaned. "What does it matter?" he mumbled. "You already know how I feel, don't you?"

"I've made a sound deduction, yes," Sherlock responded.

John sighed and said no more. Very soon, and he was snoring softly, still wrapped in Sherlock's arms with his breath ghosting across his torso. The larger man, kept awake by his own will alone, looked down at his companion, his thumb stroking the doctor's neck. John looked much younger in his sleep, much more innocent.

Sherlock had never been in love before. He'd never even thought of being in love. It simply had never interested him. If caring about someone could interfere with a case, just imagine how loving a person would get in the way! And that was what Sherlock lived for, after all, wasn't it? Solving the case? Emotion, sympathy, caring; it just got in the way, clouded judgment, made everything more difficult. And yet, knowing and understanding all that had not prevented him at last from caring. It had not prevented him from growing entirely dependent on one person. It had certainly not been enough to keep him from falling in love with John, his flat mate and only true friend. There was something to be said simply for that: any man crazy enough to room with Sherlock Holmes and count him as a friend was bound by every natural law to make a space for himself in the detective hard, iron heart.

Sherlock, half exasperated with himself and half contented by holding John, curled himself around the other man, his heart expanding. For the first time in a very long while, Sherlock was able to fall easily into a deep, dreamless sleep. However, even in his sleep, Sherlock could sense the warmth of John's presence the entire time.

Alrighty, so here comes the make-your-own-story bit. Do you want more, or are you satisfied with this fluffy ending? Tell me soon, while I'm still focused on Johnlock!

Aren't simply beautiful? Don't forget to review!