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"Sherlock, people have said that I'm a marmite person. Do you think I'm a marmite person?"
"What?" Sherlock asked from his usual position on the sofa.
"Do you think I'm a marmite person?"
"I don't understand." Sherlock's eyebrows were drawn together, and his mouth was a tense line.
"Ah. Well. Erm... Like marmite. The condiment."
"I don't see what a savoury spread that consists mainly of yeast and vegetable extract (and for some reason was banned in Denmark) has to do with anything."
"Ok. How do I explain this? Oh, I know. How do you feel about marmite?"
"I am perfectly indifferent to it. My life would be exactly the same whether marmite existed or not. Although, I suppose we wouldn't be having this particular conversation if it didn't exist."
"Oh... Well, most people either love or hate marmite."
"Who is it that hates you, John? I know you wouldn't think so from looking at him, but Mycroft has friends in high places. I'm sure he could... neutralise them if I asked him to. Well, if I asked him to after I had put him in a position in which he owed me something. Maybe if I take up that case he keeps pestering me about..."
"I don't think anyone hates me. No, no one hates me. Except maybe... No, she was just upset because I-"
"But you said that you were a marmite person."
"No, I said that someone, I mean, some people have told me that I'm a marmite person."
"It was Sarah, wasn't it."
"No. It wasn't Sarah."
"Who was it?"
"No one important."
"Donovan?"
"Leave it, Sherlock."
John glanced over at his flat mate, whose face looked conflicted.
"Well, I certainly have strong feelings about you." Sherlock said at last.
"Is that your way of saying you love me?"
He didn't reply.
"Sherlock?"
"What?"
"Is that your way of saying you love me?"
There was a pause of long enough duration that John was tempted to ask for a third time.
"Maybe."
John smiled widely.
"I love you too, Sherlock."