The two men ran along the street hand I hand, wedding bands gleaming softly in the dull streetlight. Their fingers laced together as they ran in pursuit, the world's first and only consulting detective and his blogger. Off to solve another puzzle, together.

A few hours later and they were back home, the case solved. From that point on it was like any other house – not doing not much of anything. The two of them were lounging on the sofa, absorbed in their own thoughts, content. John was typing, updating his blog with the events of the day. John was sitting on the couch, his legs almost falling of the other end. Sherlock sat behind him, his back against the arm of the couch, his long legs on either side of John's. He read over John's shoulders, silent apart from the suppressed laugh at the ridiculous title.

They stayed in this peace for ages, with only the sounds of breathing and typing to stop the scene from being perfectly frozen.

Sherlock bit down on his lip. He knew he was happy. With his arms around John's waist and his chin on his shoulder, he never wanted to move from John's side. He just wanted to stay there on the couch watching John's fingers move across the keyboard, for as long as he could. Staying in perfect peace.

But he wondered if John felt the same. There was something in his eyes that made Sherlock wonder. Wonder if he was truly happy. Wonder if he had regrets, about war, about Baker Street, about them. He wanted to ask him about it, but he couldn't find the words. As more often than not around John, Sherlock was speechless. Usually he had no problem finding words, being able to say something about and to everyone. But sometimes his mind faulted him when he looked at John, unable to function to allow him to move his lips and form words. He could still read him like he could read anyone else, but sometimes there were moments when he felt like he could barely understand him. But yet his curiosity fought through his fear and he was tried to say what was bugging him most.

"John." He half mumbled.

"Mmm."

Sherlock had lost the ability to form words again and was quiet for a few moments, searching his vocabulary for the words he needed to use to voice his question.

"What is it Sherlock?" John stopped typing and turned round slightly to face his husband.

"Are you happy John?" Sherlock could hardly breathe, the weight of the question dragging him down.

John blinked a few times and then cocked his head, trying to decide if Sherlock had gone mad or something. Then he shook his head at the insanity of the question, twisted round more so that he could kiss Sherlock lightly and then breathed deeply.

"Of course I'm happy, you idiot. What the hell are you even asking questions like that for?"

"Curiosity." That was the answer John got, but both of them knew that it wasn't the whole answer. It was the fears that come from looking in the eyes of someone you love with the fear that you could lose them, in any way, in all ways.

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned it."

John shook his head again. "No you should have, it's better that you have. You need to stop bottling things up." He kissed Sherlock again. "Ok?"

"Ok." John shifted again so that he had completely turned round and was facing Sherlock on the couch. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck and stared into his eyes, looking for the answer to the question. Sherlock moved his hands slightly so that they were resting along the back of John's spine. John's knees were resting against Sherlock's chest, as though he needed to be as close to him as possible to know that nothing could come between them.

"John?" Sherlock started again and begun to bite down on his lip before John stopped him.

"What is it? And this time, tell me?" Sherlock looked down, as though he was struggling to find the words again. John lifted Sherlock's head up so he could look in his eyes again. "Please?"

"Sometimes I wonder if there's something you want. Something that you can't have, not anymore, or at least not with me. I see it in your eyes sometimes, just in flashes. And it makes me wonder if…"

"If I really want this. Jesus Christ Sherlock, sometimes you are the stupidest person I know."

"Including Anderson?" Sherlock asked with a smirk of a smile.

"Excluding Anderson, naturally. But Sherlock I never intended to fall in love like this. But I have, I don't regret it, and I wouldn't go back on it for anything in the world. Ok? I love you and I don't care about what my life could have been, might have been. All I care about it is that this is my life. And if this is where it lives and dies, then so be it. I'm happy, you're happy and I don't care about anything else in the world. Do you understand?"

"Yes I understand but John do you never want children or anything?"

John stiffened ever so slightly; such a small moment that only a Holmes would pick it up.

"John." They stared at each other for a few minutes, letting their thoughts travel through their eyes, letting those wordless sentences be said.

"Maybe I did once Sherlock. Maybe once. But I've seen enough death to know that raising in a child in this world maybe isn't the best thing." Meaning: Yes, yes I do, but I know I can never have any with you so I'll pretend that I don't want so that I don't hurt you.

"Well, I can see why you would see things from that point of view." I see right through your thin lies and it hurts me, the truth and the fact that you hide it.

"Sherlock." I'm sorry, I shouldn't have lied but it felt necessary.

"John, it's ok. Anyone would want children, especially a doctor." But they frighten me, so much so that I can't the words to explain this stupid fear. Not children, but being a father of a child.

"Sherlock, there are ways if we really want one. I just want you to know that if you decide, I'll support the decisions." I know you have more doubts than I do, so I leave it up to you. You decide you want some, I'll be overjoyed. You decide you might never be ready and I'll get over it.

But John, I know that you secretly love them, really want one, and I'm too scared to let you have that. How could I ever admit that to you? "Thank you."

The conversation trailed off, left to fade out but not forgotten. All the hidden stories and secrets that they hid were so readable that for now, the other wouldn't see the obvious. They could just leave it as that and pretend that they had forgotten the conversation. But they hadn't, and they wouldn't. They would just leave that conversation fresh in their minds, mulling it over, thinking on how to give the other what they wanted, while not hurting themselves or the other. It would take a while to forget something that prominent and important. And they didn't want to.