"Nonsense," Watson scoffed, though he was admittedly pleased and flattered. "That's not a good word to use to describe me, but it's lovely to hear, all the same."

He turned, kissing Holmes lazily, curling close. He had to suppose they ought to get up before the fell asleep, or got a chill (they likely would, hanging about naked on the floor). Still, he felt so comfortable, and so relaxed, and so content, it was hard to summon the desire to move.

"You are not a Robert," he chuckled. "You are Sherlock, and you are mine."