Sherlock lies back in his hospital bed and smiles. Yesterday's surprise visit from Janine and Irene Adler has really brightened his mood. The sheer audacity of smuggling Irene into the country, right under Mycroft's nose. Fantastic!

John, of course, knows Janine came to visit. They chatted outside and reminisced for a while, but as far as he is concerned her girlfriend is a mysterious French woman named Alicia. And that's another thing that's amusing Sherlock. Make-up, scarves, sunglasses and hair-dye can do a lot for a person. It's nice to see Irene using her old tricks again. She should have gone into the theatre. There was that one night in Barcelona, while he was Away, and they infiltrated an elite party in order to glean information on a man of Moriarty's.

But no. Now is not the time to remember that. He has larger concerns.

Sherlock Holmes has never been one to pay attention to birthdays and anniversaries. Frankly, he's never seen the point of them. John, though. These things matter to John, and this whole getting shot business has put John through far too much. Considering that they've been together for one hundred days, that seems like the type of milestone to celebrate.

But how to mark it? They can't exactly go out for dinner or something else that normal couples do, at least not when he's confined to a hospital bed. A gift, then. But what sort of gift? John doesn't wear ties, and all of his cuffs have buttons. There's no book that he's been lusting after, or DVD. Sherlock does all of the cooking these days – well, when he's not in hospital – so there's no point in investing in new knives when John would hardly use them.

What sort of gift says "I love you, John Watson" without being utterly ridiculous?

Janine stops by to visit while he ponders the matter, and she taps him on the cheek, waking him out of his thoughts.

"So how are you today?" she asks, settling into the chair and straightening the hem of her skirt.

His eyes glance over her and he smiles, the beginnings of a solution coming to him. "I have a problem, Janine, and I think that you can help me."

Janine giggles as she leaves Sherlock's room some time later. His lungs are not what they should be and he has gone back to sleep, but despite that she must admit that he has not lost any of his cunning with this latest mishap. If anything, he seems almost sharper than ever.

It is a simple part of the plan that she must carry out now – find John and send him back to his boyfriend's bedside. Easy. John is with Irene-as-Alicia having coffee. Sherlock will do the rest himself later.

She sights them in the hospital café and commandeers a chair which she pulls up to their table, dropping into it beside Irene. "I hope you two have had a good time," she remarks, taking Irene's coffee from her and knocking back a mouthful of it. "Sherlock was looking for you, John."

Perhaps she shouldn't have phrased it quite like that. John pales and sets his own cup back on the table. "Is he all right? Does he need anything?"

"Don't panic." Christ, she really shouldn't have phrased it like that. "He's all right. In fact, he was going back to sleep the last I saw of him. He probably just wants to see you."

John visibly relaxes and picks up his cup again. "Okay."

His eyes are still heavy with sleep as he pulls himself back to wakefulness. He's not alone in the room – he recognises John's grip on his fingers, John's lips pressed to his cheek.

"It's lovely to wake to you, John," Sherlock murmurs, not opening his eyes. Not yet.

"It's lovely to be here when you wake, Sherlock," John murmurs in response and kisses his forehead, causing Sherlock to smile and blink his eyes open.

"My mouth isn't that far up." He reaches up with his free hand and guides John's head down so that their lips touch, just briefly. "That's better."

"I didn't want to excite you in your fragile state." But John's grinning as he says it, teasing.

"I think I can cope."

They are quiet for a long time, smiling at each other, then Sherlock sits up, careful not to pull on his still-healing surgical wounds. Morphine is only so much good when it's as limited as he's been careful to keep it.

"There's a key in the top drawer of that cabinet," he says, nodding to the one at his bedside. "It's for a cottage in Sussex which belongs to Janine. As you and I have been a couple," his cheeks burn, though he is uncertain as to how much he might be blushing, "I negotiated with her. She's going back to Paris with Alicia, and considering my wound, she agreed that once I'm up to it we can go down there for a few weeks. The air will do me good, and there are beehives, John. Actual beehives!" At this his excitement bursts through, eyes sparkling, and John is hard-pressed not to laugh. "I mean, it would really help in my recuperation, and we could have a, well, I suppose it would be a holiday."

John's response is to giggle, and then laugh, and then kiss Sherlock when he looks concerned about this laughter. "It's a wonderful idea," he smiles, sobering up. "I look forward to our Sussex holiday."

Sherlock sighs and settles back into his pillows, the excitement draining him of energy as it leaves. "I was hoping you would say that." He takes John's hand, the one that has been holding his all of this time, and brings it to his lips. "I love you, John Watson."

And is it the morphine addling his brain, or do John's eyes really mist over? "I know. I love you too, Sherlock Holmes."

A/N: IT IS DONE. At last. Initially, I was going to add in another chapter or two, but I am a firm believer in knowing when to end a thing, and this is perhaps the best ending I could give it. Shout out to all of those who have favourited'd, commented and followed. You have kept me going through this. Thank you all so much! And particular thanks to EJBRUSH1952, merbirdgirl and elsarenard.

And a reminder - if you want to hear about any upcoming projects, random ideas, see fab pictures of cows, or even just chat, you can find me on Tumblr as ponderinfrustration.

Bye for now!