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For two incredibly intelligent men, it took quite a great deal of time before Sherlock and John finally realized that they were absolutely in love with each other. If you ask Sherlock to tell the story he’ll scoff and claim that they had always known, and that he had simply been waiting for John to come to his own conclusion. If you were to ask John, however, he’d chuckle and tell you that Sherlock was actually in fact, a huge idiot when it came to that sort of thing, and John had to tell him. Both stories are not the entire truth, however, but the two men are both so equally stubborn, that no one will ever be able to get the whole story out of them.
In truth, it was a little bit of both.
Sherlock has been back from the dead for about three months, and things were starting to get back to normal (if you can call anything having to do with the pair of them normal). Sherlock’s name had been cleared, Moriarty’s web taken down, and John (after dozens of cups of tea and several weeks of ignoring him) had forgiven Sherlock. Although Lestrade was no longer at the Yard, the two had gone back to poking their noses in crime scenes and chasing criminals across London. They had slipped back into a familiar regularity, everything as it should be.
John still drank tea and blogged while Sherlock perched in his chair and texted.
Sherlock still liked to lie about on the sofa in his dressing gown with nicotine patches stuck to his arm.
John still found fingers in the fridge and rolled his eyes at his ridiculous flatmate.
Sherlock still asked John to hand him his phone even if it was in his jacket pocket.
Everything was back to normal (John and Sherlock normal, not regular normal), up until Sherlock and John realized. This however took much longer than it should have, because the two are both stubborn about many things, and failed to realize what was happening between them before it was too late.
They were in the taxi on the way back to 221B after a particularly annoying case (annoying for Sherlock because everyone at the Yard was an absolute moron, and annoying for John because he had plucked away from a card game with some of his mates), when Sherlock subconsciously slid his hand across the seat and gripped John’s.
John at first didn’t notice Sherlock’s hand on his own, or perhaps he just didn’t mind it being there, but it was several moments before he turned his head from looking out the window to Sherlock. “Sherlock… what-?” John asked, interrupting himself, per usual.
Sherlock looked down at their hands, which were now twisting together, entwining, despite John’s confused expression.
“I am… I am glad that we’re back to solving cases.” Sherlock confessed.
And it was true. Despite the simplicity of the case, and unintelligence surrounding him, he had enjoyed being out and about, solving something that didn’t involve taking down Moriarty’s men. In short, he had liked saying impressive things and getting John’s admiration.
This made absolutely no sense, however, because why would he care if John voiced his impression of how marvelous Sherlock was? Sherlock knew he was clever, and he knew that John knew. He somehow still liked hearing it, anyway.
Sherlock realized that he was still touching John’s hand, and a warm feeling in his stomach was forming. Sherlock, embarrassed, took his hand back quickly. “I uh- thank you, John. For accompanying me on the case. I realize that you probably had better things to do.”
John smiled at him, his eyes crinkling. “Of course, Sherlock. I’ll always come with you on cases. Er- I mean, I won’t always be able to drop everything and run away with you, but I’ll almost always try to.”
Sherlock couldn’t understand why such a silly statement made his insides flip about.
“That’s er- as long as you still want me to, Sherlock.” John suddenly looked unsure.
“Don’t be ridiculous. I would be lost without my blogger.”
-------
“Dinner?” John asked, looking up from his newspaper. Sherlock never understood why John insisted on reading the newspaper, when he could have access to the news, instantly on his laptop or phone. They had argued about it several times, always ending with John insisting that he simply liked sitting down to read the paper, and nothing would change that. Sherlock found it endearing, although logically, he should be annoyed by John’s refusal to succumb to technology.
Sherlock, who was stretched out on the sofa, grunted non-committedly.
“Is that a ‘no’, then?” John asked, amused. “Sherlock, you must be hungry, it’s nearly six, and you haven’t eaten all day.”
Sherlock grunted again, and rolled over so that he wasn’t facing John, and wondered why he wasn’t annoyed by John’s pestering that he ate. When Mycroft nagged at him to do things, he found nothing but irritation. When John did it, he found himself delighted that John would even remember the last time that he had eaten, although he did force himself to feign annoyance, anyway.
“Sherlock… use your big boy words,” John teased.
“Shut up. I’m thinking.” Sherlock told him.
“About what, Sherlock? We just finished a case; you can’t possibly be on another one.”
Sherlock ignored him.
“Sherlock. You’re not on a case, right? You could tell me if you were on a case.”
Sherlock ignored him.
“Alright, well, I’m going to go out and get some takeaway. I’ll bring you some, yeah?”
Sherlock ignored him.
------
John returned twenty minutes later, to find Sherlock perched in his chair, with John’s laptop balancing on his knees. His eyes were glued to the screen, reading intently. John set the takeaway on the table, and shrugged of his coat.
“Sherlock, you do know that you own your own laptop, don’t you?” he asked, walking over to him to see what he was up to. “Although I’m not sure what I think I’ll accomplish anything by reminding you of that, you’ll just borrow mine anyway.” John acted put-out, but he wasn’t actually annoyed, and they both knew that. “What’re you up to, anyway?”
John stood behind Sherlock’s chair and before he could see what Sherlock was reading, the laptop was slammed shut, and tucked under the chair. John shrugged, turned on the TV, and settled on the floor next to Sherlock’s chair. Sherlock unfolded his legs from his birdlike stance, and stretched them out on the floor. They ate their takeaway in silence, save for the sound of the telly, a few laughs from John, and disapproving comments from Sherlock when he disagreed with something from the show. Come to think of it, it wasn’t that silent of a meal.
“All I’m saying is that this show is completely unrealistic! It claims to be science-fiction, yet there is no solid basis for any of the science!”
“Sherlock, it’s Doctor Who. Just because it’s science fiction, doesn’t mean it has to make sense.” John countered, handing him one of the takeaway boxes.
“Oxymoron. If it is science, it would be logical. Science is logic. A space ship that is bigger on the inside is not logical, John.” Sherlock argued, taking the box from him.
John rolled his eyes, and patted Sherlock’s foot. “Has it ever occurred to you to just turn off your brain and enjoy the program?”
“Impossible.”
If Sherlock’s leg happened to lean against John, and if John happened to lean his head against Sherlock’s knee, well, neither of them appeared to have noticed.
Later, when John would retrieve his laptop, he would find that Sherlock had been on Web MD, searching heart palpitations, sweaty palms, and loss of breath.
________
About a week later, John came home from one of his dates earlier than usual, appearing quite sullen. Without looking up from his microscope, Sherlock stated, “Date was unsuccessful.”
John slumped into his chair. “You could say that again.”
“She wasn't interested.” Sherlock said, again without question.
John sighed, exasperated. “I wish Oh, she was interested. Interested wasn't the problem. The woman was bloody married! I can’t date a married woman! And she didn't even work that hard to hide it.”
Sherlock hummed, still looking into the microscope. He didn't understand why he felt joy over John’s failed date. This was the first date that John had gone on since Sherlock’s return, and Sherlock knew that John hadn't had much dating success while Sherlock was away. As a friend, he was supposed to want his happiness. If this were true, then why was he secretly pleased when his dates failed? Even before his fall, he wanted nothing but failure from John’s dates.
“I mean, if you’re going to go out and cheat on your husband with some bloke, at least have the decency to hide the ring in a better spot then your wallet!” John ranted, getting up to walk into the kitchen. “I could see the ring in the coin pouch of her wallet; it was pressing against the fabric.”
“It could just be a ring that she wants to get refitted.” Sherlock offered, glancing up from his experiment.
“No, no, it’s not.” John told him, starting to heat up some water. “She had a line on her ring finger. The rest of her hand was tan, except that line. So she was wearing a ring, and recently. And don’t say that she’s recently divorced, because otherwise she would have told me. People don’t hide divorces, they hide marriages. Tea?”
Sherlock looked up from his microscope and stared at John. “Brilliant, John. Most men wouldn't have noticed any of that, and would have been strung along for weeks- months even, having no idea that their girlfriend was in fact, married. Well done.”
“Yeah, well, knowing you for so long. I've er. Picked up a thing or two. Have to be daft not to, listening to your genius self blather on all day.” John told him, rather grumpily. “Do you want tea or not?”
Sherlock had never felt happier or more proud in his life.
-------
Sherlock stayed up the entire night, unable to sleep. Sure, sleep wasn’t something he was particularly fond of in the first place, but after returning home to London, he found sleep to be more of a comfort than a necessity. The notion that he could simply lie in his own bed, and become unconscious for eight hours without fear of assassins or trouble harming him was a comfort. The idea that John was simply twenty feet away, sleeping safe and sound, was so beautiful that he couldn’t help but sleep as well.
But not that night. That night, he couldn’t sleep, at all. It was irritating, to Sherlock. Turning off his brain was usually a problem, but he almost always had the will power to force it to shut down. That night, however, he wasn’t thinking about murderers, or poison, or crime scenes. He was thinking about John, and he didn’t understand why. He never understood his fascination with the army doctor, or why it was suddenly heightened.
Anyway, his thoughts surrounding John weren’t about anything in particular. Just John, in general.
The next morning, Sherlock rolled over, blinked several times, before realizing it was in fact, not morning. It was late afternoon. For the first time in his life, he had slept in. Burying his head in his pillow, he listened to the sounds of 221B. John. John moving about the flat. Making tea. Speaking. Speaking to whom? Speaking to Mycroft. Sherlock groaned. What the hell was his brother doing at the flat?
“Well, Mycroft, while I’m sure Sherlock would just love to visit with you right now”, John was saying, sarcastically, “He’s sleeping. Still. And I don’t think either of us would like to wake him, now would we?”
Sherlock could hear Mycroft replying, drawling out his words in a patronizing tone. He didn’t pay attention to what; he was too busy cataloging the sounds of John.
“I don’t care if the bloody Queen Herself asked for him, HE. IS. SLEEPING. Sherlock never sleeps, so we’re not going to interrupt him the one time he actually does.” John was more than annoyed now. Sherlock smiled to himself. Since when was John so wonderful? Sherlock didn’t leave his bedroom until he heard the sounds of his older brother leaving the flat, and when he did, he took care to pretend that he had no idea that John had just sent Mycroft away.
--------
Sherlock came home a week later from Bart’s to find John drunk, sitting on the sofa.
“Sherlock. Hullo. You were gone when I got home so I opened our wine and drank… a lot.” He was swaying back and forth, and smiling.
“John. You… you’re drunk.” Sherlock was shocked. Although John wasn’t one to turn down a beer or two with friends, he rarely got drunk. Alcoholism ran in his family, and John had told him once that he never wanted to end up like his sister or his father.
“Well. Yes. Drrrrrrunk. That would be me. Drunk ol’ Captain John Hamish Watson!” He was laughing now, as if he had made a funny joke. “I’m sorry, I did- didn’t mean to. I was…” he trailed off, not finishing his sentence.
Sherlock sat down next to him on the couch, approaching him carefully. He had never seen John drunk before, and wasn’t sure how to handle it.
“You were what, John?”
“Hmm…?”
“You said you had drank a lot. Why?”
John just smiled at him sadly. “Harry called me. She’s getting’ married! She told me that, and then I felt sad. So I drank a lot. I’m really sorry. I’m bad.”
Sherlock frowned. “Why are you sad, John? Are you not happy for your sister?” Sherlock knew how to handle people who were high; he had done it countless times, being an ex-junkie. He even had been around his fair share of drunks, although he didn't particularly like to, but being around John drunk, now that was a new experience.
“’Cause. You!” He poked Sherlock’s chest, and then laughed, sadly. “You make me sad.” Sherlock didn’t respond, he simply rose to get John a glass of water.
“I used to be a lot worse, you know!” John called after him. “I was really, really, really…sad. I was going to die, you see. And then I met you, and then I was happy.” Sherlock walked back in with the water, and handed it to John.
“Drink.” He instructed.
“I thought I already did!” John joked, laughing at himself again. He gulped down the water.
“Anyways, where was I? Oh yeah, you! You made me really happy, did I ever tell you that? Like, loads happier. Then you died! Why did you have to go off and die, Shhh’lock?” He was slurring.
“You know why I had to do that.” Sherlock told him quietly.
“Oh yeah. To save my life. Thanks for that, mate.” John patted his shoulder clumsily. “So you died. And I was sad again. Sad like before. You. I was going to die again.”
Sherlock didn’t know how to respond to his friend’s drunken confession, so he didn’t.
“Anyway, you’re back again,” John told him, grinning, “and now I’m only a little bit sad. But s’okay, I ‘spose it can’t get any better than this.” He laid his head against Sherlock’s shoulder.
“Holmes and Watson! On the cases again! Look out London’s criminals!” John was giggling again, holding up his glass. “Sherlock?” He asked, looking up at him.
“Yes, John?” Sherlock took the glass away from him, and set it on the floor next to them.
“I’m sorry I’m drunk. I know you don’t like it when people are drunk.”
“When have I ever said that?”
“You haven't,” John said, closing his eyes. “I just can tell. It’s okay if you don’t like me right now. I don’t either. Tomorrow will be better when I’m sober and not as sad.”
“John.”
“What, my stupid, stupid, genius?” John had let his head slip off of Sherlock’s shoulder, and onto his lap. Sherlock didn't mind.
“I am sorry I made you sad.”
“S’not your fault. It’s mine. I know you can’t feel things like I feel things. I don’t hate you for it. You didn’t mean to be so damned brilliant.” John was sounding sleepy.
Sherlock let John head rest in his lap, while he absentmindedly ran his hands through John’s hair. He listened to John’s breathing, while he thought about how much he had missed John during his absence, and how unhappy he had been as well. Once John’s breathing evened out, and he was asleep, Sherlock slipped out from underneath him, and found a blanket to place over him.
Neither of them ever talked about it the next morning. Sherlock estimated when John would wake up, and made sure there was hot water boiling in time for John to get up and make his own tea. John was relieved that Sherlock didn’t mock him about the night he barely remembered, and Sherlock was relieved that John didn’t want to talk about it.
------
During Sherlock’s absence, Mrs. Hudson took it upon herself to force a weekly tea with John. She never really explained why, but John was sure that it was because she and Mycroft and Lestrade were all concerned about him.
Once Sherlock returned, Mrs. Hudson flocked John like a mother hen to its chick, and upped her forced social hour with John to twice a week, because then everyone was worried. John never really appreciated it until Mrs. Hudson fell, and got herself into the hospital. That was partially one of the factors that lead John to forgive Sherlock because Mrs. Hudson was a tough lady, and she wasn’t having any of that my-boys-aren’t-speaking-with-one-another-nonsense.
He still saw her for tea once a week, and even though the hospital was strict about not bringing outside food or drink to patients, John found a way to bring the tea in, and they had their tea. One week, John dragged Sherlock in, despite his protests that he was way too busy to be having tea with Mrs. Hudson. John of course knew the real reason was that he didn’t want to see her like that, but he never said so.
“Oh, John, you brought Sherlock with you! Hello dears! Sherlock, come here and give me a kiss!” She held her arms out warmly. Sherlock inched over to her tentatively, and reached down to her. Before he could place a kiss on her cheek, his face was met with a hand.
“Sherlock Holmes! I am surprised at you! Not only do you fake your own suicide like a bloody mad man, but then you have the nerve to not tell poor John! I could forgive that, but I am hurt that you never came to see me until now. I bet John had to beg you to come down here, didn’t he? Absolutely rude, is what it is.”
If you were to ask John what the funniest thing he had ever witnessed in his life before that moment, he probably would have told you that it was some film he had seen, or some prank he had done in Uni. If you were to ask after that day, he would most definitely tell you that the funniest thing he had ever seen was the world’s only consulting detective Sherlock Holmes getting shamed by Mrs. Hudson. He was a mixture of ashamed and terrified as he muttered
“Yes. I’m sorry. Yes. No, no. I’m sorry Mrs. Hudson. I’m not sure. I’m sorry.” Under his breath while she yelled at him.
“I may be stuck in this bed but mark my words Sherlock Holmes I will still give you a beating!” She finished with a huff. Sherlock nodded, turning red. John wondered if Mrs. Hudson may be the only woman who truly terrified Sherlock.
“Now that I got that over with, how are you, Sherlock?” Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling. “Sit down, get comfortable. How dare you pretend to be dead for three years and then think I wouldn’t want to have tea with you? Sit! John, is the tea ready yet?”
“Almost, Mrs. Hudson,” John called, grinning. He poured tea out of a plug-in water heater that he had snuck in. He handed cups to both Mrs. Hudson and Sherlock, before pulling up a second chair to Mrs. Hudson’s bed.
“Now, Sherlock. I don’t want to hear all of the gross details of your trip away, but you at least met a nice young man while you were gone, perhaps? Give me something to gossip about with the other ladies at bridge club!” Mrs. Hudson took Sherlock’s hand and gripped it tight. John knew better than to mention that Mrs. Hudson hadn’t gone to bridge club since she had fallen, over six months ago. Mrs. Hudson knew that too, but John thought that perhaps she just liked to pretend that she was going to leave the hospital.
Sherlock shook his head, smiling down at her. “I’m sorry to say I did not. I didn’t exactly have time to date, Mrs. Hudson, I was a little busy trying to take down an international crime organization.”
She tutted at him. “There is always time for a little romance, Sherlock.” Sherlock sighed, exasperated, but then glanced over at John, who was chuckling to himself.
“John didn’t manage to have any romance while I was away! Why don’t you nag at him about it?” Sherlock protested, rather childishly.
Mrs. Hudson clicked her tongue. “Sherlock, you don’t get to say anything about John! You leave him alone, do you hear me? After all of that… well I never.”
John froze. He had told Mrs. Hudson many things that he didn’t exactly want to be repeated to Sherlock.
Sherlock only smiled. “Of course, Mrs. Hudson. I don’t really John.”
“None of us really deserve, John, my dear.” She replied. The two looked at John, who became suddenly very embarrassed. He was pretty sure it was the highest compliment he had ever received from either of them.
-----
Sherlock had never thought about physical attractiveness on anyone before Harry’s wedding. Sure, he had appreciated the occasional nice arse or two when presented, and he did recognize what was and wasn’t attractive in a person. He even had a general idea of what he liked. But he never truly thought about it, until he saw John in a tuxedo.
“What?” John asked a staring Sherlock in the cab.
“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed, turning to stare out the window. What had he been staring at? It wasn’t the first time that he had noticed that John was handsome. A strange knot had tied itself up neatly inside his stomach, refusing to budge.
“You look nice. New tux?” Sherlock asked, trying to sound nonchalant.
John chuckled at him. “Sherlock, I had to go out with my sister to pick this out, remember? She wanted me to match Rebecca’s brother Simon, because we’re being co-best men. That was the day I came home and we fought about your experiments with onions?”
“Who is Rebecca?” Sherlock asked, confused.
“Sherlock… that’s who my sister is marrying today. You’ve met her. For God’s sake Sherlock, she was a client! We were the ones who introduced her to Harry.”
“Hmm.” Sherlock replied, again relying on noncommittal noises to assist him.
“You don’t remember.” John was amused.
“Apparently, not. I apologize.”
“It’s not a big deal, Sherlock.”
“Regardless. You look nice.” Sherlock didn’t understand why talking about John’s appearance made him feel so nervous. Sherlock hated being nervous. He hadn’t felt it since he met John after his return, and then before that he hadn’t felt it since Uni.
“Oh. Well. Thank you, Sherlock. You look quite nice, yourself.” John was in a good mood, and it made Sherlock happy to see John so happy.
On the cab ride home from the wedding, Sherlock’s stomach took up gymnastics as a sport as John happily rested his head on Sherlock’s shoulder, letting his hand rest on his knee. He was asleep of course, so Sherlock pretended to be also asleep, so that he didn’t have to be appalled by John’s intimate touch, and push him away. It was absolutely illogical to be so affected by the touch of another human.
-------
Walking home from the grave yard, Sherlock stopped suddenly. “John.” He said.
John turned to look at him, his mouth turned down in a frown. “What’s up?”
“I. I really appreciate you. I don’t tell you that, ever.” Sherlock shuffled awkwardly.
John looked surprised. “Oh well. Thank you. I’m not sure what there is to appreciate other than me be a stand-in for you talking to the skull, but thanks Sherlock. I appreciate you, too.” He began walking again.
Sherlock growled in frustration, and then took a few long strides ahead of John so that he was standing in front of him, and stopped again. “No. You misunderstand. I am trying to tell you that you are of importance to me.”
John smiled, his eyes crinkling. Sherlock liked it when his smiled and his mouth took up his entire face, and his laugh lines were emphasized. He knew there wasn’t logic behind why he did, and he was starting to accept that.
“Sherlock, I know that. I was joking about the skull bit. I’m aware that we’re friends.” He tried to step to the side, so that he could continue walking. Sherlock just stared at him, almost sadly.
“Sherlock, what’s wrong? Sherlock?” John’s eyebrows knitted together. Sherlock’s throat closed up, and anxiety flooded his body. What the hell was wrong with him? He could feel his heart thumping in his chest, as if it was about to explode. But that’s illogical, science says that your heart has nothing to do with your emotions. He wasn’t sure what he was doing; only that it was terrifying him.
“I am. Upset about Mrs. Hudson. She was dear to me.” Sherlock told him, using a pretty good excuse for his ridiculousness. Perhaps John would just swallow that, shrug, and they could go back to a very empty 221B.
John put his hands on Sherlock’s arms. “I know, me too, mate. I miss her like hell. I was pretty sure she was going to outlive all of us, but I guess that didn’t happen. But there’s something else.” He studied his friend. “Are you…nervous about something? Is that it?”
(Damn John and his rare ability to actually be able to read Sherlock.)
“I am not. What a ridiculous notion. I am simply trying to make you aware of our important friendship.” Sherlock huffed, continuing to walk. He used his long legs to an advantage, and began to walk ahead of John. John rolled his eyes and jogged lightly to catch up.
“Sherlock, let’s talk about this! What are you doing?”
Sherlock whipped around dramatically, with a flourish of his jacket. “What are you doing John? What are you doing in my head? Before you I didn’t care about anyone, and now I find myself caring. Quite a bit, actually. About you.”
John gazed at him. “Sherlock… what are you saying?”
Sherlock growled again. “Ugh! Nothing! Everything! I don’t know John. I bloody don’t know! All I know is that I’ve always been able to understand everything. There is a logical science to everything, and you-! There is not logic. Only feelings, and emotions and I just do not understand.”
John chose his next words very carefully. “Sherlock… what don’t you understand?”
“My… infatuation with you. You seem to cloud my thoughts with your stupid face, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense. I have known you for the good part of almost five years, three of which we were apart, and for most of those five years, I have found you absolutely fascinating! And for no reason, whatsoever. Who are you, John, that you cling to me and force me to think about you?”
“Sherlock.” John whispered. “Oh, Sherlock.”
“I never felt fear or concern for another person in my entire life, not even my own family, and what do you do several weeks after you move in with me? You go and get yourself kidnapped, and suddenly I’m terrified for another human life. What did you do to me, John?”
“Sherlock, stop talking.” Sherlock did not.
“No one had ever even thought that my deductive reasoning was even remotely amazing. It was a far cry from that, most of my life! You were the first person to ever call me ‘fantastic’, and ‘amazing’, rather than ‘freak’. Why would you do that John? You did that and now I care about you far more than I have ever cared about anyone, and I do not understand why-“
“Sherlock! Shut up!” John demanded. Sherlock shut up. John paused, taking everything in.
“So… what you’re trying to say is that you’re in love with me.” It wasn’t a question, more like an observation.
Sherlock was taken aback. Love? That silly thing that small children felt towards their dollies and candy? Love? As in the fairy tale, princess, girly, love? He was in love? With John? Sherlock considered this. He did want to be around John as much as possible. He knew that he was attracted to John, in a definite, non-platonic way. He also knew that he didn’t want John to spend time with any of his girlfriends, and that he felt jealousy towards them. If he thought about it, he also couldn’t imagine a future of his that didn’t portray him and John spending their lives chasing criminals across London and then going home to watch crap telly. If that was love then yes. He was in love.
Sherlock opened his mouth to tell John what he had realized, but he didn’t get the chance, because John has grabbed Sherlock’s face, and had pulled him in for a kiss. For the first time in his life, Sherlock didn’t think. He just let his brain go, and kissed John back. He melted.
When the two broke apart, he became aware that his arms were wrapped around John’s body, and John’s arms were wrapped around his. “I’m in love with you too, you big idiot.” John told him, grinning breathlessly. “Fucking took you long enough.”
“I was waiting for the right moment!” Sherlock protested. No one had ever figured something out before him.
“Right, it’s only taken you five years, Sherlock.” John teased.
“Well, I didn’t see you confessing your love for me, years ago.”
“I’m straight.” John told him, in mock-seriousness.
Sherlock laughed, “Anyone could see that is a lie.” And Sherlock kissed him again to prove it.
It took Sherlock many months before he could openly tell John that he loved him. Once he was able to say it, he began to do it constantly.
“Pass the salt John, I love you.” And “We’ve got a triple-murder! I love you!” and “This show is terrible, but I love you.” And “You’re an idiot, I love you.” All became a part of Sherlock’s daily proclamations.
None of it made any sense to him at all, but for once, he simply didn’t care.