Watson smiled, sleepily, or as if one drunk. He felt very nearly drunk, come to it, drugged on nothing but Holmes himself. In his current state of mind, that made perfect sense to him. He sighed, a sigh of perfect happiness, contentment. It was not always a simple thing for him to believe that Holmes truly loved him with the same sense of utter desperation that Watson felt for him, but right now he had no such problem.

Words were entirely beyond him; he bent his head and pressed a long kiss to Holmes's mouth, not passionate or hurried or lustful, but loving and gentle. He believed him. He was in a similar position.