Disclaimer: nothing mine. Also, the site isn't behaving. In the end, between I and John I put the symbol of a heart. Since that didn't show, I tried the emoticon version with the symbol for lesser and 3. It shows only 3. I'm frustrated, but at least now you know what I mean. I (heart) John. Not I 3 John. Please keep it in mind.

Sherlock had been honestly surprised that John had decided to ditch Mary. "It wasn't just because she worked with Moriarty or got you in danger. You decided to abandon her the moment when – because – she shot me. Again. Why would you? For me?" he'd queried, looking baffled.

"I wouldn't have taken her back the last time in the first place if you hadn't twisted the facts in her favour, as I'm suspecting now. Even if I can't fathom why you would do so. Now I was there – and she did shoot the most important person in my life," John explained with a shrug.

"I thought she was the most important person in your life," Sherlock replied, with a trace of bitterness in his voice.

"I thought so too…before she shot you the first time. Then it was clear where my loyalties laid. Now I was staying with her just for the baby, and that, well…" the doctor admitted, making a vague, dejected gesture, "Do you think Moriarty was telling the truth?"

"I don't think he'd want to take care of a child not his, and if he wanted to hurt her, he'd let you know it's your baby he's tormenting to hurt you," the sleuth rumbled. He didn't add, "and me through your pain,"but that would exactly be Jim's style.

"Right. Of course," John agreed weakly. "You know, actually, we'd rather have to thank him though. I mean, between you and Mary, this time he took Mary out of my life. I was frankly terrified it would be the opposite, once again. Instead, we're still together."

"Of course we are," the detective replied, as if any other outcome was simply unconceivable.

"Forever?" John queried, with a sort of hesitant hope.

"If you want," was the soft reply.

"Oh, I do," the doctor said vibrantly. "I very much do. I love you." He bit his tongue. He hadn't meant to let it slip. It had just…happened. With the opinion Sherlock had about sentiment, he was in for a lecture. At the very least.

Instead, the detective only countered, "I know."

"Do you?" John asked quietly. Had he been so obvious? And why hadn't Sherlock mentioned it, or reacted in anyway till now? …Did he really know?

"I'm your best friend. Of course you love me. A bit," the detective huffed.

John should have retreated under the cover so gently offered to him, not upsetting the status quo, but that was suddenly inacceptable. Impossible. "Not a bit. A lot. More than a lot. You're not just my best friend – though you're still that, obviously. You're my beloved. I'm…well, I suppose the only word for it if I mean to be honest is I'm in love with you, Sherlock," he admitted hoarsely. It took all his bravery.

Thank God that after having asked him to be his best man John had a precedent to comfort himself with, otherwise he'd be panicking wildly, because his declaration had apparently broken Sherlock once again, making the sleuth go catatonic. Last time, the eventual reaction had been positive – so John reminded himself firmly to stop himself from assuming the worst when faced with the detective's vacant stare. He'd just surprised the man. It happened sometimes. (Only to John, to be completely honest.)

When Sherlock had figured out the sudden shift in his universe, seven and half eternal minutes later, he didn't just react positively. He dived in for an ardent kiss. (John should have been brave earlier. Much earlier. Years ago.)

Everything changed, and not much at the same time. They still went on cases, viciously protecting each other. John still had to cajole Sherlock into eating semi-regularly. The detective kept invading the kitchen with questionable experiments involving various body parts, making the doctor fear contamination of their food. But now, "You're amazing," was often followed by a kiss, the sleuth could be bribed into eating by promising sex, and the table would at times be cleared from experiments for reasons other than eating on it.

John had caught on quickly on the wings' sensitivity, and he never failed to involve them into foreplay, making them flail wildly. Sherlock hugged them both with his pinions while they cuddled on the sofa, and both of them absolutely adored the sensation. John made a point to tell the sleuth how much he loved him everyday. Sherlock was composing another violin piece – their song – which was not at all melancholic at heart like the wedding waltz had been but soared to heaven in pure happiness.

If Christmas saw Sherlock hiding how miserable he was, Easter saw him and John back at the sleuth's parents' house, both unable to stop grinning. Sherlock's parents were beyond glad that their boy had finally found his soulmate, as they insisted to call John, to the doctor's mild embarrassment.

The sleuth was giddy and insisted that he had something to show to everyone so if they could come out before lunch…His family obviously complied, in varied stages of curiosity and concern (mainly from Mycroft, who had a doubtful look on his face).

When Sherlock stripped his upper body, freeing his wings and flapping them experimentally, Mummy smiled widely. She had no idea what was coming, but her baby was the most beautiful in the world.

"I would never have discovered that I could do this – I would have never been able to do so – if not for John, so all credit goes to him," the sleuth started by saying. And afterwards he took to the air, flying smoothly. He still failed when he tried to draw a heart in the air – he wasn't that advanced in his flying technique (lack of exercise, surely), he'd overestimated himself.

Getting back, he fully expected Mycroft's mocking, but instead he found everyone looking at him with breathless love. When he landed, he was welcomed by a round of loud clapping. Sherlock blushed in embarrassed pleasure.

"That's great, love," dad remarked.

"So beautiful. I can't believe you're indeed flying, Lockie," mummy commented, sparks in her eyes.

"I do hope you're not making use of that while chasing criminals, or keeping your secret would become impossible," his brother warned him. God, Mycroft could already feel a headache forming for the need to manage this new Sherlock.

The sleuth couldn't reply to anyone right away because John had thought best to reward him for the show with a kiss. As soon as his mouth was free, he bit back, "Whatever you think of me, I'm not entirely an idiot, Mycroft. Of course I'm going to fly only here at home." Here the neighbours weren't at all that near, and there was almost no chance to be noticed.

"Then we will see you a lot more often, I hope," dad said warmly.

"I do love to watch you fly. It's magnificent," John added, smiling widely.

"And I do love to fly, so yes, we'll be probably coming round more often – compatibly with our cases, obviously," Sherlock promised. He needed to fly more often to perfection his technique if he wanted to be able to write "I 3 John" in the air for his lover's birthday in July. And he quite liked that project. John was a romantic – he'd certainly appreciate Sherlock wanted to make him happy more than anything. As always.