[I love you,] says Sherlock.

[I love youuuu.]

He laughs and snuggles her.

Bite bite bite. Nice-bite.

[Nice biting,] says Sherlock, [is nice.]

[Isn't it? I love it, it's the best. It is good that you get to try it.]

[—yes,] says Sherlock, abruptly distracted. [But I think I've had enough of it for now.]

Juliet stops. She sits up with Slayer speed, eyes wide, and disentangles her synth from her boyfriend.

Hugs.

Yes. Hugs. Hugs are good.

"Sorry. I didn't think it all the way through."

"Neither did I, until just now. It's really not a strong association."

Hugs. "I love you."

"I love you too," he says, snuggling her.

Snuggles. "This a not-ever, not-till-further-notice, not-this-week...?" She does not consider it a desperately problematic gap in their sex life, but it's useful to know these things.

"Further notice. I'm not sure yet when that is."

"Okay." She sighs, she snuggles up.

He snuggles back.

Snuggling: also good. Something would be seriously missing if there were not that.

Snuggling is good. Snuggling is lovely. Juliet is lovely.

Sherlock is lovely. She loves him.

He loves her too.

That is good. It has carried them through a lot of crap.