Gently he pulls her upright again, setting her lightly back on her feet. But his arm doesn't unwind from its place around her waist--instead he holds her against him, so he can lean down and whisper.

"Nor does anyone else."

Even John doesn't know about this. (And he's never really been inclined to share--at least not with the way John needles him sometimes about being, in his words, "a bit public-school".)

Another man might bring the woman he loves flowers. Sherlock, instead, offers her a secret, something tiny and precious and hidden.