Sherlock was restless. He and John were on a case, but he couldn't stop his mind drifting back to this morning, no matter how much he scolded himself.

He'd come out of the shower this morning to find John asleep on the couch, clutching the Union Jack pillow like a teddy bear. Sherlock had smiled as he noticed that the smaller man's mouth was slightly open. He looked so peaceful. Sherlock had never seen John look that way, because the only cause for him to see John sleeping was when John was screaming and needed to be woken up.

Sherlock attempted to slip past the couch and grab his coat, planning to go on the case alone and leave John to sleep, but as he passed, John's eyes opened slowly, a sleepy smile playing at his lips as he blinked repeatedly, trying to clear the sleep from his eyes. John's gray tee shirt was riding up slightly, displaying a small portion of his stomach, and Sherlock glanced away.

And here they were, a few hours later, with Lestrade, crouched over a dead body.

"It looks like the shot was taken at an upward angle..."

Pay attention, Sherlock.

John bent over the fatal wound a little more, and his back peeked out a touch.

He really needs a new shirt.

"...Directly into the abdomen..."

In an almost unthinking manner, Sherlock nodded absently and tapped out in Morse code on the linoleum floor:

I love you, John.

He felt better after he tapped it, even though John wouldn't know he ever said it.

John continued his examination of the body without the slightest reaction, completely oblivious to Sherlock's confession. But Sherlock had forgotten that John, being a soldier, had used Morse code more than a few times. As he reached for his medical bag, still talking, John tapped out on Sherlock's leg:

Took your damn time, didn't you?

They left the crime scene earlier than planned.