Watson shut his eyes, savouring this moment just as Holmes was, feeling how very right this was, how very perfect: possessed, and owned, and loved.

"Sherlock," he whispered, speaking it like a caress. He angled his head up, kissing him, one hand still resting, gently, on Holmes's cheek. For all the impatience, the intensity, the roughness of this evening, he wouldn't have had it any other way than this.