One night, a couple of days after he moved back in, they were sitting in their respective arms, relaxing. Just the two of them. Rosie had long since fallen asleep in her crib set up in John's room. Sherlock had been animatedly talking about his university days and early days in his career. John listened intently, loving the twinkle in Sherlock's eyes. He looked so young and lively as he gave the account of the very first case he was involved in. John could listen to him all day and never get tired. He couldn't believe that he had almost lost this beautiful and precious man. Thrice. John's heart clenched painfully at the thought. Something must have shifted in his expression, for he instantly picked up on it.
Sherlock stopped abruptly, mid-sentence and looked at John, a frown appearing on his face, "John, alright?"
At that moment, John's heart was ready to burst with all the love he felt for Sherlock Holmes, the man sitting across from him, so much so that his eyes welled up. After everything, the fall, the fiasco with Mary's past, the whole Magnessun business, they were finally here. Through everything, Sherlock has shown that he cares about John with his actions, the sacrifices he willingly made in order to protect John. Ever since his return, John knew deep down that Sherlock was a changed man; he was softer, much more considerate, open in a way he wasn't before the fall, willing to put others before himself and less hesitant to admit his mistakes. He was more human, the one that John always knew existed behind the mask of indifference and arrogance. That realisation hit far too late. He spent too much time being angry with Sherlock. Far too much.
"Nothing," John replied, clearing his throat, "It's just you." Sherlock's frown deepened, so John continued, "I missed this," John said, gesturing between them, "You."
"That's ridiculous," Sherlock said, "I have always been here."
But I wasn't, John wanted to say, "I know," John shrugged, "It's just. I am glad we are here."
"Me too, John," Sherlock said with a tiny smile playing on his lips.
John met Sherlock's eyes, and the open longing he saw in them took his breath away. Then Sherlock leaned in a little, placing his hand on John's knee, and John's heart skipped a beat. He was reminded of his stag-do, how the night had unfolded. For a brief moment, he had allowed his heart to hope that Sherlock reciprocated his feeling but back then, he had also convinced himself that it could only be his imagination. It had to be. Yet, at the moment, Sherlock was looking at him like he hung the moon, with raw love and affection that John was transfixed in his place by Sherlock's stare.
"John, please, tell me I am not reading this wrong," Sherlock said, his voice small and anxious, yet hopeful. But John understood that unspoken plea in it, too. The one that comes with baring your heart to another person, knowing you are giving them the power to stomp on it and shatter it in a million pieces. John swallowed but didn't look away, couldn't look away from Sherlock.
"I love you, Sherlock Holmes. I think I always have," John whispered, with a waver in his voice. The three words he was holding on to in his heart. Out. In open. He watched as Sherlock's eyes widened at the admission. He would have smiled at the look of surprise on Sherlock's face if he weren't being pulled into a kiss the very next instant.
When they broke apart, Sherlock looked at him with awe, "I wanted to do that for so long."
So, John kissed him again.
