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It tore something inside of him every time. For without fail, every single time he and Sherlock slept together, Sherlock would tell him thank you before sliding off into an after glow induced sleep. It drove him crazy. He just couldn’t figure it out. Why would Sherlock say thank you to him, John Watson, every time they had sex.
It was almost like he was grateful that John slept with him, like John was doing him a favor. Which was patently ridiculous, after all, Sherlock could have anyone he wanted so how could he possibly be thankful. John was the one who counted his blessings every time they ended up in bed together. Worried that each time would be the last, not knowing of anyway he could keep it from it ending. Yet each and every time Sherlock told him thank you.
He wanted to tell him that no thanks were necessary. That he wanted this just as much, likely more, than Sherlock. He wanted to tell him that he was the grateful one, grateful that Sherlock let him touch him, bring him pleasure. He wanted to tell him that there was nothing Sherlock could ask for that he wouldn’t give, nothing he wouldn’t do. He wanted to tell him that he loved him, that he would never leave him without a fight. He wanted to, but John didn’t.
He didn’t like to admit, even to himself, that there was a deeply buried part of him that liked it. It wasn’t like Sherlock expressed gratitude any other time. For the most part he seemed to take John for granted, so it was nice to have some way to tell that Sherlock did feel something for him. Even if he wasn’t sure what. John was afraid to question it though, afraid to find out that the motivation behind it wasn’t what he hoped it was.
It tore something inside of him every time, and healed something else.