One morning Sherlock woke up and half the summer had already flown by. He pushed the thought that John would be gone in a month to the back of his mind palace. He left it there for a rainy day in the winter when the snow would be melting and turning into slush because that was a sad time. And John leaving would be heartbreaking.

"What are you thinking about?" John murmured into Sherlock's clavicle.

"You."

"I figured," he chuckled. In the morning, John smelled like he had dipped his fingers into vanilla extract and wiped it behind his ears. Sherlock loved to nuzzle his nose into that tousled blonde hair.

"I think I love you," Sherlock whispered.

John's blue eyes searched the sculpted, alabaster face for some sort of lie, but Sherlock's stormy eyes were filled to the brim with honesty.

"I know I love you," John smiled, and so did Sherlock.