A/N: School sucks, I can't sleep, AP Literature was a fatal mistake, and my coach decided that having practice six days a week for three hours is reasonable. I don't know what I would do if I didn't have writing to lean back on, so thank you guys (both new and old readers) for being so lovely. This is unbeta-ed because I wanted to put this up the very second I finished it, because I've felt super terrible for not posting anything lately and I needed the instant gratification (?) of knowing I added a new story. Anyway, I had a blast writing this, and I hope you guys enjoy it too!

Enjoy!

Sherlock practices saying it in front of the mirror every morning. It's something he does before showering, before hair styling, before teeth brushing and face washing, and all other important rituals. It's something he does before he even thinks about anything else.

Raptly, he watches his lips move as he forms the words, listening carefully to the sounds the consonants make when they tumble off his tongue. It's a decadent phrase that spills forth like dark chocolate and red wine and liquid gold. It leaps past his lips and grows larger and larger in the ensuing silence, until it's so big that it fills the entire room.

"I love you, John," he tells his reflection. "I love you."

Then he clears his throat and moves away from the mirror, ready to go about his day.

He wonders if he should try to slip it into casual conversation. Perhaps when John says:

Sherlock, have you tried these new biscuits Mrs. Hudson brought?

Sherlock could casually reply:

No, John, I haven't, but I love you and they look delicious, so I'd like to try one.

Or, when John says:

Sherlock, would you do the dishes?

Sherlock could offhandedly return:

Of course, I love you, which dishrag should I use?

"Sherlock, are you even listening to me?" Real Life John asks, from where he stands across the kitchen, holding a melted spatula in one hand and a scorched dinner platter in the other. "Because I've been lecturing you about your sodding acid experiment for ten minutes and you haven't said a word."

"Oh, that, right," Sherlock nods, as if he recalls which specific acid incident John is referring to (there are really far too many to keep track of these days). "I'll tidy up next time, John. Apologies."

John narrows his eyes. "Really, now."

"Mmhm."

The words are there, waiting on his tongue, but right now doesn't feel like quite the right moment. There are far too many burnt appliances and reprimanding frowns crowding the kitchen for a heartfelt confession of love, so Sherlock decides to revisit the notion some other time.

Maybe getting pissed and falling into bed together would be the best solution. He can picture the two of them in their respective chairs in the sitting room, empty bottles of wine strewn about the carpet, giggling and bumping into each other like teenagers.

Perhaps when John leans his shoulder against Sherlock's and drunkenly announces:

Bugger, I'm bored. Sherlock what should we do?

Sherlock could grin and leap forward and kiss his cheek, playfully enough for it to be construed as a joke. And if John didn't laugh, it would be the easiest thing in the world to kiss him again on the nose, then the dip above his mouth, then his top lip, and before long, he'd be straddling John and John's hands would be twisted in his hair, and his strong, burning palms would be running up and down Sherlock's back, his waist, his hips—

"Bloody buggering hell, why are there animal livers all over the kitchen table?!" Real Life John's cry of disgust rips Sherlock out of his daydream and brings his attention to the pile of organs spread out before him. He is wearing his gloves and his goggles, and there is a scalpel in one hand, so it appears he yet again became distracted mid-experiment.

"It's for a case, John."

"Sherlock," John says in his 'my patience is thinning and this twitchy eye is because I'm feeling homicidal' voice. "Can't you cut up dead pigs in your room? Or better yet, at the sodding lab where things like this are meant to happen?"

Sherlock frowns. "If I dissected a pig in my room, I'd never be able to air the smell out. And I can't go to the lab because Molly talks too much and distracts me."

John pinches the bridge of his nose and sighs. "Sherlock, I don't want the one room in the house where we eat to smell like dead pig. Besides, can't you just tune Molly out?"

"No."

"Why not?" John cries, throwing his hands up. "You tune me out all the time!"

Only because I'm too busy day-dreaming about you, Sherlock thinks with an internal sigh. Since there doesn't appear to be an organic way to move from the topic of pig innards to love confessions, Sherlock decides now is not the proper time to say those three little words and resolves to figure something out later.

Sherlock spends weeks and weeks thinking up the loveliest settings for his confession to finally take place: an intimate dinner, a walk in the park, a trip to St. Bart's moonlit rooftop.

He imagines himself saying the words around a kiss, a laugh, a smile, clinking his champagne glass against John's and leaning their foreheads together and whispering the words like a secret. He thinks that when the moment finally arrives, it'll be breathtaking and romantic, and that it will forever be the best, most heart-warming moment of his life.

None of that happens.

What happens is, he and John get locked out of the flat one rainy, dark night, because John was pickpocketed and robbed of their house key earlier that evening, and Sherlock does not own a spare. To make matters even worse, Mrs. Hudson is currently out of town at her sister's, so she cannot let them in either.

"C-can't you just p-pick the lock?" John stutters, shivering in the freezing downpour.

"I d-don't have my kit," Sherlock replies tersely, nearly strangling himself with his scarf in an effort to keep his neck warm. "Besides, my hands are too cold to function."

"M-maybe if we bang on the door loud enough, some of the other tenants will c-come down?"

"Doubtful. Two A.M., e-everyone's sleeping."

"Well, then wh-where the bloody hell are w-we supposed to go?"

"Well, the r-rain is bound to stop eventually…"

"Sherlock H-Holmes, there is no way in sodding hell I'm s-sitting out here in the rain all night," John snaps, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

"We could find a restaurant, perhaps."

"They're all cl-closed."

"Sarah's flat?"

John just gives him a dirty look.

"Fine, the library?"

"Wh-why the hell would that be open at t-two in the morning?"

Sherlock makes a loud noise of exasperation. "Well, I d-don't hear you coming up with any b-bright ideas!"

…

After more debating and angry commentary, they finally end up taking refuge in a seedy pub on the end of the block.

"This is your fault, you know," John says, once they're sitting side by side at the empty bar. "If you'd just listened to me when I said that bloke was leading us on a goose chase, we wouldn't have wasted two hours tracking him."

Sherlock scowls. "No, it's your fault for losing the house key."

"I lost the—you were bloody there when I was pickpocketed, Sherlock! It's not like I misplaced the sodding thing!"

"Well, either way, we're sitting in a filthy bar with wet clothes thanks to that fact," Sherlock snaps.

"Wow." John shakes his head in amazement. "You're a real git, you know that?"

"So you've said."

"Not enough apparently."

"Oh, you've said it plenty, John," Sherlock snipes. "It's practically my nickname."

"Well maybe I wouldn't say it if you didn't act like it so bloody much!"

"And maybe I wouldn't call you an idiot if you didn't do idiotic things!"

John scoffs and looks away. "Right, yeah, silly me. I forgot we live in a world where the Great Infallible Holmes never makes a mistake, and the rest of us are just bumbling, useless idiots running around like chickens with our heads cut off."

"Careful, John, that bitterness won't pair well with your whiskey," Sherlock bites, grabbing a fistful of beer nuts so he can have something to do with his hands.

"Oh, and there's that sharp wit again," John snarks back, taking a long pull of his drink. "Here's an idea: why don't you show it off to someone who doesn't have to deal with it twenty four hours a day? Plenty of unsuspecting patrons around here for you to deduce and offend."

Sherlock scowls. "I know you find yourself feeling emasculated because you were jumped and pickpocketed tonight, but that doesn't give you the right to take out your annoying, misplaced aggression on me. Oh, and please don't complain about dealing with my 'sharp wit', because you certainly got the better end of that deal; I'm the one who has to endure day in and day out of your endless, idiotic, civilian behavior. If it weren't for the fact that I love you, I doubt I could even stand to spend a single week with you, John Watson. Hell, a single day would probably be enough to put me off." His chest is heaving by the time he finishes speaking. Angry, suffocating adrenaline kicks through his veins like a drug.

"You finished?" John says flatly, not looking at him.

Sherlock opens his mouth again, ready to say a whole slew of offensive, petty things, when it dawns on him that he just unwittingly confessed his feelings for John. Right here, in the middle of a stupid fight, a seedy pub, and an angry sentence.

"…you heard what I said, didn't you?"

"Bit hard not to."

Feeling suddenly quite disoriented, Sherlock turns away from John. "I will be sitting at the other end of the bar if you need me."

"Fine," John retorts, and takes another drink of whiskey. "Knock yourself out."

…

After thirty two minutes of deliberation, Sherlock decides he feels more offended than anything else. He completely understands that John might not return his feelings—he gets that. But for John to not even acknowledge them? To just breeze over them as if they were nothing? Especially since Sherlock has spent months mapping out exactly how he would confess his love?

No. That is something he simply will not stand for. He refuses to go down quietly.

"John," Sherlock says, when he rejoins John at the bar. "I wish to speak to you again."

"Still haven't got it out of your system, then? Well, go on. Give me your worst."

"No, I don't want to say anything mean. I just want to talk."

"Well, I'm still very cross with you," John says curtly.

"And I you."

"So then why are you over here?"

Sherlock tries to keep his anger going, otherwise he's going to start feeling very vulnerable. With false insouciance, he says, "You didn't acknowledge what I said earlier."

"What? The bit about emasculation? No, I caught that just fine."

"No. I meant, the—the bit about how I feel about you," he falters.

John doesn't notice the stutter and rolls his eyes. "Right, the part about how annoying and stupid you find me?"

"No!" Sherlock cries exasperatedly, ready to start a whole new fight based just on this. "Did you really not hear what I said or are you just refusing to acknowledge it?" Without giving John a chance to reply, he immediately starts defending himself. "Because if that's the case, then fine, I don't care, I just blurted it out without thinking, anyway, I don't know what was going through my head at the time, so feel free to just disregard the entire phrase—"

"Wait, Sherlock, breathe," John interrupts, his expression now colored with confusion. He puts his drink down on the bar and faces Sherlock completely. "Okay, I genuinely do not know what you're talking about anymore, so you're going to have to slow down and explain."

Bugger it.

"I love you."

John's eyes go wide. "Sherlock—"

"No, shut up. I love you, John. Not in a platonic way. Not in a familial way. I love you, I love you, I love you." It feels so good to say it, he can't seem to stop. "I love your stupid jumpers and your obsession with tea and even those ridiculous Christmas jingles you play nonstop during the holidays. I love when you complain about your day at work and when you yell at me to do the dishes and I especially love when you knock criminals out with the butt of your gun during a case. I love your dry humor and your sharp wit and your unending loyalty. Even though I do find you terribly banal at times, John, I still love you. I love you when you're angry and happy and unamused, I love you when you think I'm a prat and when you think I'm a genius." Feeling a bit overwhelmed, Sherlock grips the edge of the bar to steady himself. "What I'm saying, John, is that I'm head over bloody heels for you."

John doesn't say anything for several long moments.

"John," Sherlock prompts eventually. It doesn't even occur to him to feel insecure about the silence, because he's so caught up in the fact that he finally told John how he feels. A strange weight lifts from his shoulders and suddenly makes him feel light as a feather.

"You love me," John repeats at last, in lieu of a reply. He sounds far less horrified than Sherlock expected, which is certainly a relief.

"Yes."

John peers at him almost skeptically. "And you're not just saying this to get out of the row?"

Sherlock fights the urge to roll his eyes. "No, of course not. If I were trying to do that, I'd just manipulate you in some other more convenient way."

John lets that comment slide. "For how long?"

"How long what?"

"For how long have you loved me?"

"Six and a half weeks after you moved into the flat."

John considers this. "And do you want me romantically or sexually?"

Sherlock gives him a baffled look. "Okay, I understand that you pride yourself on taking things in stride, John, but really, I was expecting a bit more…surprise right about now."

"Just answer the question."

Sherlock huffs impatiently. "John, I don't understand what the point of building suspense here is. I've just bared my soul to you, and you've yet to give me any kind of legitimate response."

John just gives him another frustratingly unreadable look. "I'll give you a response as long as you answer one quick question."

"Fine!" Sherlock says in exasperation. "Just stop being so bloody difficult!"

"Are you opposed to physical contact?"

Sherlock sighs, wondering where on earth this random inquiry is headed. "From you? No. From anyone else? Yes."

John's lips quirk up in a smile. "I suppose that means I can do this, then."

"Do what?"

John just hums and drops a short, sweet kiss onto Sherlock's mouth, catching him completely by surprise. His left hand lingers on the side of Sherlock's face, cradling his jaw.

Sherlock blinks. "Um. So. That…does that mean you…?"

"Yes, I love you too, you git," John says, and Sherlock doesn't mind the name this time. It actually sounds fairly affectionate in this context. "I have for a while now, but I didn't think you felt the same."

Sherlock feels as if he's in a daze. Is he dreaming? Is this reality? "Well, I do."

John kisses him again, this time a bit deeper, and smiles when Sherlock groans in displeasure as he pulls away. "Mhm, I can see that."

"Why did you stop? Kiss me again," Sherlock demands, sliding one hand to the back of John's neck and bringing their mouths back together.

John indulges him for another minute and smiles against his lips, before gently pulling back. "Sherlock."

Sherlock sighs, realizing with disappointment that the kissing portion of the evening has just been replaced by the talking portion.

"Yes, I know, talking isn't as fun as snogging," John says, because apparently Sherlock accidentally said those things out loud. "But it's probably best if we figure some stuff out first. You know, talk about boundaries and expectations and all that."

"Okay," Sherlock concedes. Anything to do with his and John's future relationship can't be too boring. "You can start."

"Well, I was going to ask my question from earlier again, but if the snogging just now was anything to go by, I suppose I have my answer."

Sherlock's mind is so doused in dopamine and oxytocin that he can't even remember John's question. "Right. What was it again?"

"It was, do you want me as a romantic partner, a sexual partner, or both?"

"Oh!" What a terribly easy question. "Well, if you don't mind, I would like to answer that."

John raises a brow, looking surprised. "Go on."

Sherlock folds his hands atop the bar and says, in a very businesslike manner, "If you must know, I'd like both. Especially the latter. To be frank, I'd like to experience all areas of sex with you, specifically the sort wherein you penetrate me, as I'm sure that'd be something we'd both enjoy. I've done extensive research and my learning curve will certainly make up for whatever finesse I lack due to my inexperience."

(The bartender's eyebrows shoot to his forehead at the word 'penetrate' and he unsubtly slides away from them, making Sherlock wonder if perhaps he forgot to use his 'inside voice' yet again.)

John chokes on his drink and nearly falls off his stool. "Christ, Sherlock," he coughs.

"What? I thought you wanted me to answer."

"You can't just tell the entire pub that you'd like me to bum you—which I am very amenable to do, by the way—and expect me not to react," John says defensively, clearing his throat and placing his drink on the bar where it can't be spilled.

"Amenable, are you?" Sherlock repeats, his mind already wandering off to gloriously explicit tangents.

"Very," John agrees. "Now, what else? I think it's important that I know what expectations you have for—this." He gestures between the two of them.

"John, for the sake of brevity, I will leave it at this: I want sex and affection and all of that terribly maudlin rubbish, but only as much as you'd like to give. The only requirement of mine is that you and I remain completely monogamous."

John blinks at him for a few seconds, before his eyes go all soft and sincere. "Okay, first of all, there's no way I'm ever sharing you with anyone, so the monogamy thing suits me just fine. And secondly, you are going to receive every single ounce of affection and sex I have to offer, Sherlock Holmes, so don't you dare ask for anything less. It's just me and you now, alright? We're in this together."

Under the bar, Sherlock pinches his forearm to make sure he isn't dreaming. "Yes."

"Don't get me wrong, we're still going to fight. We'll still have stupid rows over the milk and your experiments and how obtuse one of us is being, but that's all fine, okay?"

Sherlock swallows and nods. "Okay."

"We aren't always going to see eye to eye, either. Sometimes, we'll need to take a break from each other. We might even say mean things. But at the end of the day, we'll still love each other, alright?"

"Alright."

John leans forward and presses a short, affectionate peck to Sherlock's cheek. "I'm sorry for calling you a git."

"And I'm sorry for calling you an idiot. You're not an idiot, you're actually quite the opposite," Sherlock says, smiling when John rewards the apology with a deep, toe-curling kiss. "Mm, you're also—brilliant—and witty—and—Mmm—wonderful at everything."

"Laying it on a bit thick, are we?" John murmurs against his lips, his left hand twisting even further into Sherlock's curls. Without really intending to, Sherlock groans loudly at the sensation, drawing the unwanted attention of every patron in the relatively quiet pub.

John clears his throat and pulls away immediately, red-faced. "Right then. Er, what do you say we get out of here and find a diner somewhere nearby? It's been a few hours by now, something's probably open."

"A diner? What would we do in a diner that we can't do here?"

John gives him a meaningful look. "Tell me, which is more appealing to you, a 24-hour pub's bathroom or a freshly opened diner's bathroom?"

Sherlock tilts his head. "Why would we need to—oh. Oh." The moment John's intentions become clear to him, he can practically feel his pupils dilating and his face heating up.

"Exactly," John says, grabbing Sherlock's hand and pulling him off the barstool. He pauses to take in Sherlock's dark eyes, slightly parted mouth, and flushed cheeks. "Christ, and if you keep looking like that, we might not even make it past the alley out front."

Sherlock finds himself saying it to John every morning. It's something he does before showering, before hair styling, before teeth brushing and face washing, and all other important rituals. It's something he does before he even thinks about anything else.

Raptly, he watches John ease into wakefulness beside him, his sleep-mussed hair golden-yellow in the light spilling from the bedroom window. It's a decadent phrase that spills forth like dark chocolate and red wine and liquid gold. It leaps past his lips and grows larger and larger in the warm space between them, until it's so big that it fills the entire room.

"I love you, John," he says quietly. "I love you."

And it's the most beautiful thing he's ever heard when John says it back.

A/N: Thanks for reading, darlings! Let me know what you think in the comments, your feedback and opinions are food for my writer soul!

Find me on Tumblr at: sienna-221B

Much love! xoxo