Holmes can't argue with that; it's clear what they both need, and it isn't sex -- well, not just now. They need this intimacy, the absence of anything between them, to make this real, to cement their return to one another. No more tentative uncertainties between them. No more question of what's allowed.

He sheds his trousers and joins Watson in bed, tucking their bodies together, and he lets his kisses fall wherever they fall, feather-light against Watson's shoulder, his face, his lips. That moustache tickles his lip and it's glorious, and he snakes his arm around Watson's waist to hold them together.

"This is where we're meant to be," he murmurs, softly.