Author's Note: Beta'ed by the wonderful lovely Miyako Toudaiji; eternal thanks sent her way.

Disclaimer: All characters and settings belong to Sir A C Doyle, the BBC, Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, Martin Freeman and Benedict Cumberbatch. Story is my own.

Sherlock paused, actually paused, when John didn't say anything.

He turned away from the (slightly horrifying) collage above the fireplace to look at John. Sherlock had just finished a five-minute explanation of his most recent deduction, and it was rather brilliant if he did say so himself. But John hadn't said anything. And if John wasn't going to respond, what was the point of Sherlock speaking in the first place? Why wasn't he responding?

Sherlock turned to see John standing near the doorway, a bag of groceries fallen from his hand, his jacket still on, mouth slightly open. He was looking at Sherlock like he'd never seen him before.

Honestly at a loss for anything more intelligent to say (and considering how blazingly intelligent that last deduction had been, he felt he could get away with sounding slightly average for the next few seconds), Sherlock said, "What?"

John blinked and said, "I think I just fell madly in love with you."

Sherlock just barely managed to not roll his eyes. "Yes, John. And I'm not in love with you. Now will you please pay attention and try to remember your medical training and tell me about these sutures in the victim's thigh?"

"Someone who's watched sutures being put in but has never done it themselves. Possibly someone who gets sewn up a lot. You aren't in love with me?" John was incredibly calm about the whole thing, Sherlock thought.

"No," said Sherlock, looking at a photo of the stitches in question. "Terribly infatuated, yes, but not in love. I'm going to fall in love with you tomorrow."

John didn't laugh. "Tomorrow, is it? Just because I told you today?"

"Oh, no," Sherlock said absently, "I've known for a while now when I would fall in love with you. The baker, John, the baker, don't you see?" Sherlock cried, whirling and almost running out the door, snatching at John as he went by. There was no time to explain how he knew it was the baker, he could do that tomorrow, what mattered now was that they get to him before he had time to run away to Istanbul. . .

The next day John was acting strangely. He kept starting a task and then not finishing (unless it was tea; he always finished making tea), and staring off into space, and staring at Sherlock (which was annoying), and sighing, and smiling for no reason, and finally after a few hours Sherlock was ready to strangle him and couldn't stop himself from snapping, "What, John? What are you so riled up about?"

John glanced at him, startled, from where he was standing against the worktop making yet another cup of tea. Sherlock was sitting in his armchair facing him, trying to sift through the detritus in his Mind Palace left over from the case yesterday, and when John glanced at Sherlock he was flushed prettily and his eyes sparkled and he grinned like he was going to be young forever.

"Well, you know," said John, glancing away and rubbing his hand on the back of his neck, "it's. . . weird, knowing you're going to fall in love with me sometime today. I keep thinking there's, I don't know, something I ought to do."

"Something you ought to do," Sherlock repeated, utterly confused.

"Yeah," said John, shifting, though there was still a smile lurking behind his lips, "you know, like I should, I don't know. . . pose, maybe. Or be particularly witty or tender or something. If you're going to fall in love with me I should probably do at least a little bit to deserve it."

As if John didn't deserve it already. As if any of the myriad little things John could do in the next five minutes could possibly stop Sherlock from falling in love with him, rather than reinforcing what he already felt.

"Oh," Sherlock gasped, staring at John, who was honestly the most beautiful man he'd ever seen. "Oh, bollocks."

"What?" John asked, face instantly looking concerned, just like he always did, didn't he? Every time something was the littlest bit wrong with Sherlock, John always looked concerned.

Sherlock couldn't stop staring at him. "I think I missed it," he explained, almost ashamed of himself. But John loved him, he'd told him so, so it was okay to be slow on the uptake in front of John.

"Missed what?" asked John, who apparently had always thought it was okay to be slow on the uptake in front of Sherlock. (And did that mean John had loved him right from the start, only somehow neither of them noticed?)

Sherlock shook his head and shook his head, eyes never leaving John's. "I missed it. I think I fell in love with you about five minutes ago."

He had intended to stand, to walk over to him, to- to do something, but the moment the words were out of his mouth John's face split in the biggest, most boyish grin of sheer delight Sherlock had ever seen, and suddenly his knees weren't working right and he flopped back down into his chair.

John took one step forward, paused, and (still grinning) said, "You're sure?"

Quickly, Sherlock took stock. He almost kept his observations to himself, but after all, this really wasn't his area, so at the last minute he said them out loud to get John's opinion. "You're the best man I've ever known. I want to kiss you all the time, even when we're arguing, even when you're drooping because you haven't slept or showered in days. I don't know if I could live without you, but I know I wouldn't want to. Sometimes I think no one actually sees me except you. I want to hold you down and scoop out everything inside your head and under your ribs and crawl inside and live in you, and I know that's a Bit Not Good, but I think I love you and you said you love me and I want to tell you everything, John, and just saying your name makes me feel safe."

When there was no reply, Sherlock studied John's face intently. His smile was gone. His mouth was open. He wasn't moving.

Finally, John's mouth started working. It closed and opened a few times before he said, "I. . . I love you. I love you."

It wasn't quite as thorough as Sherlock's declaration, but something in John's tone made all that unnecessary. Sherlock realized his cheeks hurt from smiling.

John closed his eyes. "Oh, finally!"

In just a few paces John was across the room, and Sherlock had barely managed to stand before John was winding his arms about his neck and kissing him.

His lips were soft, and slick, and moved in the most delightful way. And while the sensation was both utterly alien and the best thing he'd ever felt, Sherlock couldn't help but notice that the rest of their bodies- their arms and legs and necks and feet- had immediately slotted into optimum alignment; he and John had come together instinctually in the most comfortable way, as though they had embraced like this a hundred thousand times before. As though it was already familiar, and comfortable, and true.

Which, Sherlock thought dimly just before John's tongue breached his lips and coherent thought fled, perhaps it was.