Sherlock doesn't get it.

Around the middle of January, when the discounted fairy lights, tinsel and baubles had been removed from the shelves, the shops start selling glittery, tacky, satiny, obscenely red things. There were cards with insipid poems written with a questionable rhyming scheme, cheap chocolates wrapped in scarlet tin foil, plastic heart shaped doodads, sparkly cupid shaped whatsits and deranged looking teddy bears holding little signs with incredibly creepy sentiments stitched on to them.

'I Wuv You Bear-y Much'.

Sherlock actually had to repress a shudder.

It left him cold, because all this garish pomp and circumstance, gilded and overly fluffy sentiment is completely not him, and it certainly isn't John. He tries to picture John's reaction upon receiving the teddy bear, and he rather imagines he'd laugh in Sherlock's face or pull out his gun and shoot the cuddly monstrosity.

But he honestly, for the first time in his life, wants to be able to celebrate Saint Valentine's Day. Before he'd seen it as an arbitrary holiday for unimaginative, dull people to express their unimaginative and dull emotions for one another. Now, of course, he sees it for what it really is; a chance for him to show John how much he means to Sherlock.

It's not like Sherlock ever lets John think he's not appreciated; he thanks him for the tea he makes, for the tending of wounds and for saving his life. He shows John that he values his opinion by asking for his thoughts at crime scenes and during Coronation Street (although on the latter account he usually gets shushed). He's also shown that he cares about John deeply, for instance after the Swimming Pool Incident (forever capitalised in his mind), through his jealousy over John's thankfully now ex-girlfriends and eventually when he admitted his feelings.

That had been on Sherlock's birthday, January 6th, when John had given him a new pair of gloves and a new boiling flask (his previously owned gloves and boiling flask had bit the dust in the same experiment/ accident) as well as a beautiful vintage notebook, which he had found in a second hand shop. The initials SH were engraved on its leather jacket, and only a few pages had been written on, some interesting notes in sweeping script about bee-keeping and the structure of honeycombs.

"Do you like it? The bloke said it was turn of the century, someone had found it in their attic in their house on the Sussex Downs ...it was when we were on that case and got stuck in East Grinstead and you were trying to get signal on your phone and you were pissing me off so I went off round the shops? I was going to give it you for Christmas but then, well, the samurais happened and there wasn't really time... Sherlock?" John was licking his lip, like he did whenever he was nervous.

They'd been in Sussex in June and John had bought him a Christmas (now birthday) present. Something heavy and unexpectedly pleasant shifted in Sherlock's chest, making him feel light and anchored at the same time, giving him courage. He really had to tell John the truth.

That had been difficult. And John has been remarkably understanding with him; Sherlock had admitted (by turns stammering and then speaking in an overly eloquent fashion) about his affection and desire for John. John had replied in kind, eyes crinkling up at the edges and his lovely smile playing on his lips as he leaned in to kiss Sherlock.

Which led of course, to another, even more embarrassing and painful discussion about Sherlock's lack of experience. Oh, he wasn't a virgin, but the couplings he had been involved in had been so dreadful and so long ago (a few times at University and one horrid New Years about nine years ago when he'd fallen off the wagon so spectacularly that when he tracked him down a few days later in a squat in Shoreditch Sherlock thought Mycroft was going to tut his tongue clean off) that he may as well as have been. And those experiences, as he'd explained to John, whose mouth had turned down in sympathy and whose brows furrowed in barely suppressed rage, hadn't always been as consensual on Sherlock's part as they probably could have been. In short Sherlock was more than just a little bit alarmed about the whole sexual aspect.

And John, who had slept with a fair amount of people, across three continents no less, was suddenly saddled with a partner who was skittish, nervous and so bloody unconversant in sex that John might find parallels with dating a Victorian maiden aunt. It wasn't that Sherlock didn't want to have sex with John, he did, of course he did, sometimes he wanted to have sex with John so much he was willing to just shove the corpse off the bloody slab and have him right there, Lestrade and Molly be damned.

It was that when he and John actually started down that road towards sex, through kissing, (so much kissing Sherlock started to feel drunk on the swipe of John's tongue against his, the press of lips at the base of his throat, the tingle of teeth on the shell of his ear) and touching (gentle fingers tracing his jaw, teasing through his hair, warm hands sliding under his shirt, stroking his stomach) that Sherlock would reach a point where everything would become too much, and, if he admitted it to himself, slightly frightening.

And he wouldn't mean to but his brain would be saying 'Stop. Think about this. Too Much. Panic.' and he'd tense and John would feel him tense and would immediately stop kissing/ stroking / caressing/ nibbling and would start apologising for pushing too far, so Sherlock would insist he wasn't pushing and try to get back to kissing but John would now be worrying so it wasn't the same so Sherlock would get twitchy and John would get more worried and say something about therapy so Sherlock would say something derogatory about therapy, so John would get annoyed and go for a cold shower and come back remorseful and damp and Sherlock would feel awful and actually apologise. And they'd spend the rest of the night on the sofa or in bed watching an old film or talking and trying to forget their terminal frustration.

Sherlock eyed the shop display with suspicion: he wasn't sure there was anything that could express how grateful he was to John for his patience and understanding; glittery or not. John himself was off choosing a card for a friend at the surgery who was moving away and he'd told Sherlock, only half jokingly to 'Wait there and not deduce anyone or blow anything up.'

Surely John wouldn't want chocolate; he only liked the very dark, bitter chocolate the type that gave some people migraines, but to John it tasted like Sunday evenings when he and his grandfather used to sit in the living room, chatting about cricket and WWII, sharing a bar of Bourneville between them.  
And he'd already ruled out anything fluffy or stuffed and he didn't think their lifestyle would suit a pet. Maybe later, when they'd stopped running around London and shooting things in the flat, they could get a cat, a rescued tabby. The thought of John, older and possibly bespectacled, still in his ubiquitous jumpers, reading the newspaper and stroking a cat made Sherlock smile.

"Hello, what's that smile for, you plotting something?"John asked, appearing at Sherlock's side, holding a card with a drawing of a house on it.

"Nothing of the kind." Sherlock replied, and was annoyed to realise it was true. The Great Valentine's Day Plan so far consisted on being in the same place as John and showing him affection. Seeing as that was pretty much Sherlock's plan on any given day, it wasn't exactly a winner.

"Well good. Ugh, look at that stuff. Who actually buys that crap or even thinks it's romantic?" John queried, steering Sherlock towards the till.

Then he grinned up at Sherlock and they spoke in unison before collapsing into fits of giggles which alarmed the man at the counter:

"Anderson."

On the way home, John took them on a detour through Regent's Park, as it was a lovely spring-like day after a tremendously drizzly new year. Sherlock thought, rather fatuously, that it could be pelting down hailstones the size of grapefruit and he'd still want to take a stroll with John.

Sherlock had learnt that love turned one into a sentimental idiot, but by the time you actually noticed, you found you didn't care. Besides, he usually kept most of his less than prosaic comments under his hat, so that was a blessing.

John had taken Sherlock's hand quite easily as they walked through the park gates and Sherlock was once again struck by how easy John found all of this... relationship business that was so utterly baffling to him.

"Sorry." John said quietly and let go again, because clearly Sherlock had done one of his A Bit Not Good  stop.think.panic.Things, which meant he'd tensed up like a nervous animal and made John think he didn't want his hand held.

Idiot. They're in a park, John's not going to jump him here.

"No!"Sherlock exclaimed, a bit loudly. He blithely ignored the woman who was forcing her disinterested children to throw bits of bread at the already bloated ducks and had given him a sharp look for expressing negativity near her precious babies (she was one of those types, you could tell by the hideous earrings, distinctive waft of patchouli  and the ankle length skirt that looked like it had been knitted from hemp and then dyed a colour called ' Orange Failure ')

He grabbed John's hand. "Sorry, just need to disengage brain sometimes."Sherlock smiled and John smiled back, but it wasn't very convincing, the hint of tension was there, just around his eyes and more strongly in his jaw, the same tension that was visible whenever Sherlock pulled away from him on the settee or sat up and moved off him when they were in bed.

He smiled more broadly when Sherlock started to hum a rather fitting Beatles song and was downright laughing when Sherlock did his uncanny John Lennon impression.

"I didn't think you had a side like this." John admitted, his head canted slightly to the left, like he's admitted something embarrassing.

"How d'you mean?"

"Well... fun. I suppose. Not that crime scenes and having my grammar corrected aren't fun, mind you." he added, raising his left eyebrow wryly.

"So I take it you don't mind this side of me?"

"No, of course I don't mind. I don't mind any side of you, I told you it was all fine." John squeezes Sherlock's fingers.

Yes, you did, Sherlock thinks, but that was back before you knew I was about an easy a lay as your standard Mother Superior. He squeezes back and pushes down that nearly ever-present ball of tension lurking in his stomach reminding him that every man has certain needs that need to be met. And John would never consider hurting Sherlock, so it may only be a matter of time before John regretfully decided that it might be easier on the both of them to get those needs met elsewhere.
***

A particularly gruelling case, which was solved by Sherlock having to be fantastically clever and realising that the murderer was naturally left handed by studying the wear on their laptop keyboard, but had been forced into a position where they had to use their right, which resulted in a rooftop chase and John having to fire his gun twice (once as a warning, once to shoot the murderer in the leg as he raised his knife to Sherlock's throat) brought them to February 12th with Sherlock still pondering what to do for Valentine's day.

He'd tried to ask the night before, but realised that John was already asleep (Sherlock had noticed that the combination of running and shooting relaxed John Watson like a cup of Horlicks did for a normal person). So he tried again, as John ate his toast and jam while reading The Guardian.

"John? About Monday..."

John's brow furrowed, seven new lines appearing at the top of his nose, each one utterly fascinating.

"What's Monday?"

"The 14th. Saint Valentine's Day."

John still looks nonplussed. "And...?"

"Well, is there anything you'd particularly like to do?"

"Um."John chewed his toast. "Not really. I've never really celebrated it."

"Would you object if we did this year?"Sherlock asked, wondering suddenly if he was being ridiculous to want to mark the date in such a fledgling relationship, which most people their age wouldn't even call serious due to the marked lack of sexual congress.

John's expression softened into that still rather new look of tender indulgence which Sherlock loves to see.

"No, that would be great. I'm afraid you'll have to organise it though, I'm working the next two days. I didn't realise you'd want to do something..."John trailed off, but he looked pleased.

"That's fine. So there's nothing you want to stipulate? If I want to go paintballing or caving you're not going to kick up a fuss?"

John grinned. "Nothing that requires body armour, please. I don't know... something quiet. Private. That would be nice."

"Alright then." Sherlock set his brain to puzzling out John Watson's ideal Valentine's Day.

By seven o clock on Monday evening Sherlock thought he'd more or less got it right. The curry had arrived from John's favourite Tandoori house, he had tidied up, a bit, and candles were lit in the kitchen. There were a few dvds on the coffee table in the sitting room, ones that he knew John liked or would like and the present Sherlock had bought him was resting in Sherlock's suit jacket pocket. He was wearing a suit of course, and the purple shirt that John seemed inordinately fond of.

John had texted twenty minutes before, sounding weary (Sherlock can deduce from a 100 character text that John is tired) that he was going to be late home because of tube delays. Sherlock told him not to worry and he put the curry in the microwave (the new one, the one that Sherlock wasn't allowed to put eyeballs in, or else John would sulk).

The door banged shut and Sherlock listened to John make his weary way up the seventeen steps to their flat.

"Evening." he called as he wandered in through the kitchen door and then stopped. And didn't do anything for a couple of minutes, except look. Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table suddenly aware that there was a positively lethal amount of candles surrounding them and if John didn't say something soon he was going to die of utter mortification.

John was still staring, taking in the candles, Sherlock's even more groomed than usual appearance, the smell of curry, the lack of mess.

"Happy Valentine's Day."Sherlock ventured.

That seemed to break John out of his mute contemplation. Surprisingly though he didn't say anything, he just dumped his bag and coat on the floor, walked around the table, placed his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and kissed him, long and deep.

When they eventually came up for air, John was grinning his delighted grin, the one he usually wore when Sherlock solved a case or Queens Park Rangers managed to win a football match.

"This is brilliant."John whispered ,and Sherlock wasn't sure if he meant the curry or candles or something else entirely. He decided to stop thinking about it when John leaned in to kiss him again, sweeter and softer this time.

"Does the curry need warming through?"John asked when he straightened up.

"It might need about thirty seconds."

"Bloody tubes .I'm sorry, I didn't realise you'd gone to such effort."

"It wasn't an effort, really. I just had to think about what you might like." Sherlock slid the small wrapped package out of his pocket and placed it next to John's cutlery while John was busy plating up the curry and rice.

"You ordered Sag Aloo as well, you are actually a legend."John said, as he turned with the plates, handing Sherlock his and then sitting down. Only then did he notice the parcel.

Sherlock was a little perturbed to see John's face fall slightly, he thought he might be pleased to see he had a gift.

"Sherlock...I didn't get you anything."John sounded upset.

"I didn't expect you to John, you bought me gifts last month."

"For your birthday."John sounds annoyed now. Bit Not Good.

"Yes, but I didn't get you anything for your birthday" Sherlock pointed out.

"Sherlock my birthday was two weeks after Moriarty. You were still unconscious."

"Yes, I know, frightfully neglectful of me, sleeping while I should have been shopping."

"Sherlock-"

"John, please. I wanted to give you a gift. I was told, by someone, once, that it was rather impolite to get angry with someone for giving them a present."

John looked like he was about to argue the point, then sighed, and smiled wryly.

"That is the last time you are ever allowed to lecture me on manners, Sherlock Holmes."

"Eat your curry, before it gets cold, John Watson."

They ate and chatted about John's day and the bizarre patients (a boy who'd sat on his girlfriend's hair straighteners and had a nasty burn on his backside but had been too embarrassed to tell anyone for three days until it had gotten infected, a woman who had made herself ill by trying to stick to the two litres of water a day guideline and had over hydrated herself, and a seventy year old with an STI.)

"Sorry, this probably isn't very romantic."John admitted, smiling self-depreciatingly.

"I imagine how he got the STI wasn't either."Sherlock observed dryly, making John giggle.

After the plates were cleared away, John's eyes returned to the wrapped present on the table. Sherlock couldn't help the nervous flutter in his stomach as John picked it up and looked at it contemplatively.

"It's not someone's appendix that you've gold plated is it."

Sherlock punched him lightly on the arm. "No."

"A thesaurus to help me write more interesting blogs about you?"

"Your blogs are too interesting already, most of England knows whenever I blow my nose. And no ,it isn't."

"Moriarty's head on a stick?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "God, I wish."

John looked up at him and the humour drained from his face.

"Sorry, I shouldn't have mentioned...him."

"No, it's fine John, we shouldn't be scared to say his name. I just wish they'd caught the bastard."

"You mean you wish you'd caught him."

"I couldn't care less who caught him, he deserves to behind drawn and quartered for threatening you."

John's eyes widened. "You mean that don't you." he breathed.

"Of course I do. Anyone who harms you deserves to be dropped from a very great height onto a very hard surface."

John licked his lip. "I think there's something wrong with me; I'm not sure anyone's meant to find their partner threatening a master criminal's life sexy."

Sherlock felt a blush crawl up his neck, partly from being called John's partner, and partly from being called sexy. No one had ever called him sexy to his face before.

"Open it, now. The suspense is irritating me."

John smiled. "Alright, alright."

John peeled off the paper, to reveal the leather covered box underneath. Sherlock found himself praying to a God he barely believed in that John would like the present. John opened the box.

"Oh, Sherlock. This is perfect."

Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief . He thought it was right when he saw it, a plain but antique analogue watch with a leather strap, to replace the one that had gotten its face smashed during a fist fight two weeks before.

"I, uh" Sherlock cleared his throat, "had it engraved."

John raised his eyebrows and flipped it over. Sherlock watched him read it a few times, and was about to ask if he liked it when John's arms were around his neck and he was being kissed like kissing was going to be prohibited nationwide in the next ten minutes.

"So... the engraving is good?"Sherlock asked a few quiet and rather enjoyable moments later, his hands resting on John's hips, his mouth ghosting over John's forehead.

"Mm .Can't believe it."John murmured.

"Can't believe what?"Sherlock asked, kissing his eyebrow.

"That you feel this way. About me."John shrugged and didn't quite look Sherlock in the eye, even when Sherlock dipped his head, trying to gauge his friend's expression.

"What? How could you doubt it?"

John smiled at his feet, but it wasn't a very happy one. "Well...I suppose I'm just a bit insecure about this, with you."

Sherlock wasn't sure how it was so easy to go from feeling warm and safe to cold and afraid standing in his own kitchen, his arms still around John.

"How do you mean?"he asked.

John looked up sensing the tone of Sherlock's voice, and instantly started reassuring him.

"No. No, no, it wasn't that I was unsure about how I felt more about how you felt .I just wasn't sure...and if I'm honest, I'm still not, that you feel the same way as I do."

"John, I told you that-"

"You are immeasurably fond of me ,yes I know. But Sherlock, you don't have to. We don't have to. If you'd rather we didn't have a more sexual relationship then it's fine, really." John's voice was the exact one he used when anyone asked him why he wasn't in the army anymore, the Keep Calm and Carry On one that twists Sherlock's heart.

"John, I do want that with you." Sherlock can't keep the panic out of his voice.

"Sherlock, the last thing, the very last thing I ever want to do is force you into a position where you feel like you can't say no because you're frightened of losing me if you don't sleep with me. I know you've had some horrible experiences and that's part of it but really... You aren't going to lose me just because you aren't attracted to me." John stroked his arm soothingly then stepped out of Sherlock's embrace.

Hang on. Wait. What?

Sherlock actually couldn't move for a moment. Because. That. Was. Insane.

"It's a lovely present, really, I'll treasure it."John, John Watson who has stood wrapped in semtex and been treated like a puppet, who has served in Sierra Leone and Afghanistan, who Sherlock has witnessed pop his own shoulder back into place after a suspect got a bit shifty, actually sounded like he was about to cry because he had used his tiny little mind to get something so obvious completely and utterly wrong.

It was only when John looked like he might actually leave the room that Sherlock flew into action, catching John at the door, slamming it shut, and when John yelped in protest, grabbed him and shoved him against the closed door, blocking him in with his palms flat against the door either side of John's head.

"Right. You. Are. Going. To. Listen. To. Me."

John didn't reply verbally, but managed a startled nod of the head. Sherlock wasn't entirely sure that John would still want to be with him by the end of this speech, but he was damn well going to let John know how much he wanted to be with John.

"John. I love you. I believe you are aware of this. What you seem to think, though, is that when I said 'I love you' I meant 'I love you in some sort of weird platonic sense which means I love you enough to be willing to sacrifice my body to you but not to actually enjoy sex'.  Am I to take it that's what you mean?"

"I wouldn't put it quite like-"

"But that is the gist of it. You think I don't want to have sex with you because I don't find you attractive."

John squirmed uncomfortably and unhappily under Sherlock's stare.

"Well..yes. Sherlock, you never try to kiss me, it's always me that kisses you. You seem to have absolutely no interest in getting my clothes off. And I know this is me being selfish and that you're bound to be... well... damaged by the stuff that happened to you. But. It doesn't negate the fact that-"

"John, at the beginning of December you walked in to Bart's with your cheeks red and your hair full of snowflakes and I had to restrain myself from throwing you into a utility cupboard. A month before that we went to a fireworks display and I honestly considered dragging you into some bushes. I am stupidly attracted to you. My attraction to you makes me stupid. I want to own you, I want to possess you, I want to be with you in every way. When I gave you a watch inscribed 'Most sincerely yours, S.H' were you looking for some sort of footnote denoting terms and conditions? Because I assure you, you have everything, heart, body and soul, love, desire and affection.  I resent, no I hate, the fact that my problems make it difficult to disengage and relax, but that has nothing to do with you, you stupid little man."

With that, Sherlock leaned forwards and crushed his mouth against John's .Fortunately the doctor's mouth was still open from gaping at Sherlock since he started his little speech so it wasn't like kissing a brick wall, and John seemed to have a fairly automatic reaction to kissing. When they eventually pulled away from each other John smiled up at him.

"We still have things we need to work through."John pointed out.

"Yes."Sherlock started sucking gently at the tendon in John's neck.

"And I do want you to go to a therapist. Don't argue. I'll come to, make sure you behave."John took Sherlock's face firmly in his hands. "Are you listening to me?"

"Therapist. Yep." He leans in to kiss John's lips again.

"Sherlock?"

"Mm?"

"Sofa."