"...What is this?"

"It's a heart, John. Obviously. A porcelain heart, if you want accuracy."

John sighed. "Yes, I can see that. But why would you give it to me."

Sherlock's gaze softened for a second, before diverting his attention to his current experiment. "It's Valentine's day today. I thought it would be fitting."

When John failed to answer, he continued, trying to hide his disappointment, "You don't have to keep it if you don't like it, I-" He was cut off by a pair of chapped lips pressing against his own.

"You're an idiot," John said with a smile, nipping lightly at his partner's lower lip. "I love it, so stop worrying. I was just surprised." He inspected his present, a frown forming on his face. "Is it hollow? It feels like there's something else inside, actually."

"Well," Sherlock squirmed on his seat, "there is. I put a piece of paper with something written on it. Molly gave me the idea. She said I could fill it with small, folded notes about things I think of you; things about us."

"That has to be the most romantic thing you've ever done. Or, well, the only one; but I'm certainly not complaining after this." He carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, unable to stop the grin spreading on his face. "But I'll never be able to see what you wrote," he frowned again, his shoulders slumping slightly.

It wasn't like he didn't know how Sherlock felt about him, but he had never been particularly straightforward about it. Knowing that Sherlock's thoughts and feelings would be inside the small heart resting on his hands, without being able to look at them...

"I was thinking you could use it as-" Sherlock furrowed his brows and took John's hand, entwining their fingers together. "If something happens to me, or if you ever feel particularly upset about something and I'm not there to comfort you -or if it's my fault, but I hope nothing I might do affects you that badly- you can break the heart and look at the notes. They'd hopefully make you feel better, at least a bit."

John, unable to form any coherent thoughts, merely leaned forward, tangling one hand at the nape of Sherlock's neck to pull him closer, and kissed him thoroughly, hoping to convey everything he was feeling into it. Needless to say, Sherlock's experiment was abandoned for the night.

Exactly one week after Sherlock's funeral, John thought about the heart again, remembering Sherlock's words. Now, with the crushed porcelain heart in front of him on their -his- bed, he carefully set aside its pieces and stared at the amount of folded notes that were inside on it. With his heart in his throat, he started to read:

'You're amazing.'

'I don't like it when you're not home. It's too quiet without you.'

'I hate it when you're upset, but it completely tears me up inside when I'm the one who caused it.'

'I love you.'

'Once, I thought the work was everything. But it's not. Not anymore.'

'I want to grow old with you.'

'I was so alone before I met you, John. I owe you everything.'

Unable to stop the tears from falling, John gave in and cried, curling up on their bed, until he finally fell asleep.

The notes ended up on a small box, hidden in the closet, to never be opened again. But weeks later, in the middle of the night, with John fast asleep on the sofa, the box was opened again; and another note, neatly folded, was added with the rest:

'I'll always come back to you.'

Author's notes:

Extremely short, extremely corny, but it wouldn't get out of my head. Apologies.

This was inspired by this post on tumblr: post/47388266745/i-own-misha-collins-butt-the-secr et-stache

Hope you like it x