Anonymous asked: Prompt: "No, John. You don't love me. It's shock, of course. I never meant for you to see my scars or for Mycroft to give you the Serbia files, I should have been more careful. I knew you'd blame yourself for not having noticed, for not having asked - it's what you do. So this, this confession, let's just reset, okay? You don't love me, John. You just think you do because of whatever unnecessary guilt you're feeling right now." Sherlock walked back into his room and closed the door behind him.

mssmithlove1:

WHAT ARE YOU TRYING TO DO TO ME, ANON?!

Absolutely not, this needs to be fixed.

John watched in horror as the door to Sherlock’s room all but slammed in his face. Though he was several meters away he could still feel the sting of the latch clicking into place like a cool slap across his cheek, the pain of rejection sizzling hot in his veins.

After all these years, all this time, all these bloody emotions and finally, John had confessed. It was the only word for it. He’d confessed his deepest, darkest, most terrifying secret he’d help in for so very long, only to find that Sherlock didn’t want to hear it. Sherlock didn’t want his feelings. Sherlock didn’t want him.

Were those three words ill-timed? 

Perhaps. 

Did that make them any less true?

Not even in the slightest.

But seeing… Christ, seeing those white rivulets of healed skin scattered across Sherlock’s back like a map of horrendous tortures he’d endured during the years he’d been ‘dead’, all in the name of keeping John safe… God, if it wasn’t sickening. If it wasn’t the worst sort of guilt John had ever felt in his life. It had been an accident, of course. Sherlock would never willingly let John see them. Just a single slip of that ridiculous silk blue robe and John had caught the whole story in the blink of an eye. The pain of it burned harshly in the back of John’s throat.

But it wasn’t just guilt. It was… it was completely and utterly gut-wrenching to know the things Sherlock had been through. For John. To know he’d gone through the worst of it, walked into Hell and come out alive, John wasn’t so sure he could handle that knowledge. Not when that knowledge also came with truths. Truths about what Sherlock had done. Truths about what had been done to Sherlock. Someone had laid their revolting, worthless hands upon that perfect, perfect body and now-

No.

No, this is absolutely not how this ends.

And before any final decisions had been made, John was storming toward the door at the end of that small hallway just after the kitchen inside 221B Baker Street, and tossed it open without so much as a knock.

Sherlock sat perched on the bed, head in his hands, the top of his dark curly head all John could see of his beautiful face.

“Go away,” Sherlock growled, not moving from his position.

“No,” John bit right back, his tone harsher than he’d expected it to be.

Which seemed to snap Sherlock out of his own irritation, head rising from where it lay in his palms, eyes wide with surprise. “John-” he attempted but that was as far as Captain Watson planned on allowing.

“No, you listen to me, Sherlock Holmes,” John barked out, Captain voice in full effect now. “You listen good and damn well, because I have something to say.”

Sherlock’s lips flapped momentarily before settling into a thin line, going white as he pressed them together and nodded once succinctly. 

John dipped his head in reply. “Good. Now, I want you to exit that little room in your Mind Palace marked I Can’t Possibly Believe John Loves Me right this minute. Are you doing it?”

The twitch of Sherlock’s lips made John’s shoulders relax minutely. “John, I don’t have-”

“Have you done it?”

“John-”

“Answer me, Sherlock.”

Eyes twinkling slightly, Sherlock acquiesced with a lift and fall of his shoulder. “I’ve done the equivalent of what you’ve asked,” he replied softly, a small shift of his gaze alerting John to the fact that he did now have his full, undivided attention.

“Good,” John glared. “Because this is important and I won’t have you hiding away inside your head for it. Are we clear?”

A small stutter of his breath was the only reply Sherlock gave.

John took it and ran with it. “I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” he said softly, voice losing all the hardness it had held previously, instead coming out tender and kind, full of the adoration and love he’d held so deeply for this man for so so long. “I have loved you every day for years before this moment, and I will go on loving you for far longer. And it’s not because you were hurt, and it’s not because you came back. It’s because I love you. I have no rhyme or reason for it, I have no grand explanation. It just is. I just am. And if that big brilliant brain of yours can’t fully understand that, then it’s absolutely not as bright as you make us all believe it is, because what I am telling you now is fact. How can one argue with fact?”

Those soft, pillowy lips parted in an almost comical expression of shock as John spoke, ever-changing eyes trained on John, emotions flitting across them in quick, sharp bursts; fondess, confusion, fear, pain, hope, want. There were too many to count, but it was the most John had ever seen within them and it drew him closer, his feet planting firmly between Sherlock’s, body settling itself between Sherlock’s thighs, hands coming up to lay against Sherlock’s cheeks.

“I love you,” John whispered again, letting his features show every emotion he was feeling as well, eyes focused on Sherlock’s with certainty. “I love you,” he said again, tilting Sherlock’s face in his hands. “I love you.” Sherlock went willingly, drawing his head back, offering himself to John in clear surrender, the final thing John had been waiting for - trust - flitting across his face with a single blink of his eyes. 

“John,” he whispered so brokenly John had no other choice but to close the distant, sweeping his lips delicately across Sherlock’s in the tenderest of kisses. Sherlock made a soft sound, face straining upward for more, chasing John’s lips again and they met once more, mouths pressing together again and again in chaste but heated touches, the promise of them holding fast within each caress.

“I love you,” John went to say again, though the words seemed to escape him, sticking in his throat as the phrase rolled off another’s tongue, Sherlock’s breath ghosting into his mouth with the words falling inside. “I love you,” Sherlock murmured again and John moaned quietly, reaching down for another kiss as Sherlock’s fingers closed around each of John’s forearms in an effort to keep him near. “I love you, John Watson.”

John smiled against his lips, feeling the tension within both their bodies ebbing away and tightening with something else entirely. Something passionate and deep. “And I love you, Sherlock Holmes,” John murmured, Sherlock’s grip tightening on his arms. “And I love you.”