*Well after some very nice reviews and the realization that my life is really quite boring without Sherlock, I decided to wrap this baby up with one last chapter. VERY fluffy. Complete Johnlock by the end. Not what I'd initially had in mind, but I still like it for selfish reasons. Hope it meets everyone's expectations! Feedback appreciated, Probably minor plot spoilers, I own nothing, you all know the drill...

A fire crackled in the fireplace, and the two men sat comfortably in its warmth, John relaxed into the folds of his chair (it practically fit him like a glove by this point: four days of sitting and playing maid to Sherlock, and he felt as though he had seen nothing but this tiny room in years), and Sherlock once again glued to the laptop, fingers clicking across its keys. The blood scare had indeed ended up being no more than a scare, and John was relieved to find that it was not tuberculosis or pneumonia, but just a bad cough with minor infection and little or no long-term effects. By this point it had died down to something of a wet cold, and although there were now heaps of used tissues and empty tea cups, John complained only in jest, and was unbothered by the constant sniffling from the sofa and demands for various things from the grocery store.

Sherlock looked up from the screen to find John brandishing a glass of water and some cold medicine. He flashed a look of deep disgust, taking the water but allowing the purple liquid to stay in its container.

"Must you torture me?"

John rolled his eyes: they had been through this twice in the last six hours alone. "Could be worse. Think of it as an experiment in endurance."

Sherlock scowled, but took the bottle- measuring out the proper dosage and swallowing in revulsion. John grinned, taking the bottle back to the kitchen. The distinct buzz of a phone resounded through the flat, and Sherlock grabbed it as though his life depended on it.

New case. Details in the e-mail I sent you. Don't do anything stupid- if you die we will have to shut down the entire police force. -Lestrade

Sherlock made some sort of impatient sound which came out more as a cough, and then managed to sneeze a few times into his arm before groaning.

"John..." He whined, "I can't do this anymore."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestured dramatically around the flat. "This whole... being ill.. business. I'm not cut out for it. It's unnatural."

John shook his head as he rummaged through the fridge, returning with a foil covered bowl of leftover soup from Mrs. Hudson. "It's not forever. You'll be fine in a few days, and by next week-"

"Next week!" The look on Sherlock's face clearly said that he'd rather of died while hacking up his own lungs than be stuck on the sofa for another second, but was too tired and drugged to do much about it except sneeze again and look irritable. If nothing else, the good thing about having Sherlock stuck in the flat at this point was that he was still recovering from being completely bed-ridden, and although the scarring image of his fevered body brought no positive connotations to heart, John was relieved that he had not yet recovered to the point of being able to resist the coddling with much gusto. An occasional snarky comment or two, a weak attempt at refusal to take medication- had all proven fruitless, and he seemed to have accepted his temporary fate with, if not enthusiasm, at least tolerance.

Sherlock turned back to the laptop and began to scan through Lestrade's e-mail with a most aggressive hunger, and John could see the mechanics of the keen mind begin to work again.

"Hmm..." Sherlock scrolled down quickly, obviously enjoying this new material in a way John could only begin to understand. "The sister did it" he finally said in his usual bored voice, closing the laptop. He sighed contentedly and stretched out along the sofa. "Next please." He looked at John expectantly, who was privately thinking it was a bit sad that one man recovering from a fever which could have put him in the ground had solved a case based off of little more than two photos and a twelve paragraph e-mail, which would have taken god-knows how many weeks in the hands of the police alone. Then again, that was Sherlock for you.

"Well good job. Not bad for someone who spent two days delirious with fever." Sherlock shot John another irritated look, as though annoyed that John had mentioned some irrelevant personal matter. John handed him the bowl of soup, and Sherlock actually accepted, sniffing it slightly before taking a small bite.

"What am I supposed to do now?" He said, looking back to the closed laptop forlornly. "I can feel my brain rotting as we speak."

"Rest." John said firmly. "Take it easy."

"'Easy' is not in my vocabulary."

John chuckled at his innuendo, and Sherlock huffed.

"Grow up John."

They looked at each other, and after a moment of stare-down they both cracked up, an actual smile breaking across Sherlock's face for the first time in far too long. John liked seeing him smile. It was sort of beautiful and rare and unexpected all at once, and he wished it could happen more than a few times a year. They both settled back into their previous positions in the living room, and John had nearly forgotten there was anyone else in the room when Sherlock broke the comfortable silence.

"I meant what I said."

"Sorry?" John looked up from his book.

"About Irene." It was the first time that name had been spoken in months, and John was knocked rather off guard by this spontaneous statement. He had not imagined that Sherlock was even close to lucidity when he murmured the comment about wanting Irene to leave him alone. That he only wanted John. "I know you think I loved her." He scoffed. "Or something stupid like that, I don't know. You really shouldn't have been so jealous though," He added, those sapphires flashing most delicately once again in John's direction "It didn't help too much with our 'public image'."

"What's that supposed to mean?" John said, "I'm not-"

"I already know, John. You don't have to hide it."

John's heart was hammering so loudly he could practically feel it shaking the floor. "What are you talking about?"

Sherlock set down his phone, eyes locking with John's in a way that was far more human than usual, and sent an electric field through the living room which probably could have powered the entire city. "You love me." It was less arrogant that most of Sherlock's comments, which was surprising, seeing how telling someone they love you is not exactly a selfless act. Sherlock cocked his head, eyes not leaving John's as he continued. "You have for a long time." His tone was neither mocking nor irritated, simply matter-o-fact. He continued on with the serious expression John had grown so accustomed to, but was half-wishing he could have thrown a fit of rage instead.

John felt his mouth open and then shut, words seeming beyond functioning capacity at this point. "How..."

"Come on John, it's really quite obvious."

John could feel his stomach shoot through the floor, the ringing in his ears growing more loud by the minute. This was not how he had planned on the evening playing out. This wasn't something to be talked about, and it wasn't for Sherlock to go and throw onto the floor for the world to see. It was a mutually accepted fact, but he had been under the impression that this particular piece of evidence would never see the light of day. It wasn't supposed to be discussed. It wasn't supposed to be acknowledged. And it most certainly was not something for Sherlock to casually throw into an afternoon conversation. Sherlock was still eying him, with something teetering on tenderness. John only saw pity. And if there was one thing John hated, it was being pitied.

He cleared his throat, shaking his head as though they were simply discussing the weather forecast, and Sherlock had mistaken the temperature for the day. "I don't know what you're talking about."

Sherlock leaned forward in his chair so that his arms were resting on his thighs, his face only about a foot away from John's chair. "So you don't love me?"

"Well, I...I.. I mean, not like LOVE, as in... well LOVE, but... I.."

Sherlock stood, his long frame daunting as he towered over John, bending down so they were at eye level, faces very close. He could count every freckle, every hair, every fleck of gold in the depths of those blue eyes. "Say it then." John could taste the fainting hint of smoke on his breath, although he couldn't remember the last time Sherlock would have had the opportunity to smoke. "Say 'I don't love you.'" The blue was mesmerizing. The perfect lips, the flawless skin. John swallowed, trying to clear his head. Just say it, dammit he though. Just say it. It's just four words. Just say it and this can all be gone. Never mentioned again. But maybe he didn't want it to be forgotten and shoved back into the corner. Did he really love Sherlock? I mean he cared, certainly, cared about him in a way that he could not even describe, in a way he had never really cared about anyone else before. But was that love? He had thought to have loved plenty of women in his lifetime, and this.. THIS wasn't love. It couldn't be. It simply couldn-

A pair of honey soft lips met his own, and John felt his breath pulled away in shock by the kiss. Their kiss. It wasn't exactly smooth, but their lips met at just the right places, both individuals matching their breath to meet the others. After a moment Sherlock pulled away rather suddenly, a look of sheer amusement splayed across his pale face. He licked his lips and ran a hand across his face, as though reassuring himself it was still there. John simply let his mouth blubber in shock, unsure of what exactly he was supposed to say. He opened his lips to speak, although still uncertain of what would come out once he did.

"Shut up John." The words were so normal, so Sherlock, that John momentarily found his voice and snapped back to real life.

"I haven't... exactly said.. anything yet.."

Sherlock met his gaze once more, and this time neither looked away. "You were going to say you were sorry. Don't be." He leaned back for more, and this time they met hungrily, feral, the breaths becoming faster, more ravenous with each bite. They fell into the chair, Sherlock's silken robe billowing around them like an erotic tent, his eyes closed as the kissed deepened, richer, until.. John pulled gently away, his hand coming up to cover Sherlock's mouth. A deep flush crept over his neck, the bullet-proof wall which was constantly on guard piling back up as quickly as John had knocked it down. Sherlock pulled away, embarrassment exploding through his every cell, until John pulled him back, a mischievous look on his face.

"You need to go back to bed."

Sherlock blinked a few times, until the words meaning fully hit him.

"Perhaps you should come with me?"

The two practically ran to the bedroom, and the crackling of the fire was nothing compared to the fireworks which would ensue far into the night.

When Monday rolled around and John called Lestrade to inform him that "Sherlock was taking a few extra days to recover, and needed some more time off", he just laughed quietly to himself, secretly glad that his two best detectives had finally solved their most important case.

THE END.

Hope the end was not too horribly sappy. Thanks for reading and/or reviewing!

I have four more stories very closely on deck, so I should have more stuff up in the next couple days. This was my first Sherlock fic, so I hope it turned out satisfactorily.