Do I do that? For you?“
“Put the kettle on for you without your asking?”
This has nothing to do with kettles, Sherlock knows all too well.
Am I enough?
Am I too much?
Was it worth it? All that suffering?
No. It’s much simpler than that.
Am I worth it?
The doctor stops what he’s doing to rest his thumbs in the hollows of Sherlock’s long neck. It takes nearly twenty seconds, but eventually, Sherlock draws a breath and opens his eyes to stare directly back into John’s.
“No, you don’t,” John says softly. “You hang the moon. Three hundred and sixty-five nights a year. All right?
— wordstrings, All the Best and Brightest Creatures