Chapter Text
Their week at the beach is lazy and indulgent, the mornings filled with sleepy sex and long, drawn-out showers. They spend the afternoons in town, poking around in dusty souvenir shops and wandering through deserted museums and dank cathedrals, and when it gets too hot they go back to the resort and lay by the pool or on the bed with newspapers and used books. They pass quiet evenings curled together in lawn chairs with mugs of steaming coffee drizzled with the local liqueur, and they watch the purple and orange hermit crabs click across the patio, hidden in the dark from the seagulls. Sometimes John tries to point out the constellations and unravel Sherlock's understanding of the solar system, but Sherlock will have none of that. Instead, Sherlock reads a battered copy of Meisser's Latin Phrase Book and tries to teach John how to say, "Seize the penis," but John will have none of that.
They eat when they feel like it, occasionally in the suite, sometimes on the terrace, frequently on the beach. Sherlock discovers the culinary bliss of fresh oysters, fried plantains, and lobster dripping with melted butter, and John discovers the bliss of licking said butter off of Sherlock's fingers and lips. Sherlock orders baskets of tortilla chips and guacamole and chases them down with pink, frothy cocktails adorned with flimsy, blue umbrellas. He basks in the way John grins whenever he orders something else to eat or drink, but refuses to pass over his desserts because it becomes quickly apparent that John will come over and straddle his lap and let Sherlock feed him spoonfuls of flan, and tres leches cake, and chocolate mousse. He gains four pounds.
They swim in the ocean together and float on their backs, arms linked like otters, and let the current move them about. They climb rocks, and hike dunes, and in short order Sherlock, ever coated in SPF 110, is slightly less cream colored and John is even more golden and brown. They carry the heat of the sun back into the cool darkness of their suite and lick the salt off each other's skin, letting gooseflesh rise up in the wake of tongues and fingers. They explore each other's bodies in the shower, on the sofa, against walls, and on the piles of bed pillows that Sherlock keeps tossing on the floor.
Everything previously buried and hidden is awakened. Sherlock feels himself being remoulded under the force of emotions and sensations that bubble to the surface, and trusts John to show him how his wants and desires can be strengths, can round him out and add complex layers to who he already is. Every time he is sure that he has said too much, or touched too much, or stared too much, John wraps him up in warmth and acceptance and grins at him like he's the most brilliant-emotionally-repressed-idiot-savant on the planet. Sherlock is tempted to ask, constantly, really? but John's kisses give him the answer before he has time to shape the word on his tongue.
On the fourth day John turns to Sherlock where they are stretched out on striped beach towels like starfish at the edge of the water and says, “Why aren't you getting bored of this?”
Sherlock slurps down the last of his pomegranate margarita and adds the tiny umbrella to his growing collection, then replies, “Bored of what?”
“Not being you. Not being Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective.”
“I'm still Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective, aren't I?”
“I have never, in my years of knowing you, ever seen you this happy doing so little for so long. Surely you are itching to solve a case, to flap around in your coat, to call someone – everyone – an idiot. You're eating and sunbathing. You haven't sulked once in four days.”
“Hm. You may have sucked the sulking right out of me, John.”
“I find that highly unlikely. You love a good sulk.”
Sherlock turns over onto his side and inches himself further into the shade of the umbrella, sifting his fingers through the sand in search of shells and sea glass. He makes a small pile of them on his towel and sorts them into categories of ascending size and color: white sea glass first, then pale pink, amber, light green, and dark green. He puts the violet colored glass off to the side, because it's rare and he only has one. It's like John Watson, he thinks. Rare. Only one.
“I'll have you know that I've been solving cases since I got here. I'm just not telling anyone about them because that would seriously detract from necessary snogging time. For example, the woman who cleans our suite is having an affair with her sister-in-law, but they only get to see each other on Sunday afternoons. The people staying in the rooms next to us are celebrating their divorce after thirty-six years of marriage. The waiter who served us last night has a serious crush on you and is trying to find a way to slip you his phone number. And you, John Watson, are currently obsessed with the idea of performing penetrative anal sex on me.”
“I – I'm not obsessed, I hadn't really – you – the waiter last night? Really? He was actually pretty cute.”
“Your attempts at distraction are wasted on me, John. Whereas I appreciate you waiting until we'd explored all other manner of sexual fulfillment, I'm very much amenable to the idea of anal sex if you are.”
“Ah. Well then. I have been thinking about it, but I wasn't sure if you'd be alright with the idea. I imagine it's not for everyone, and the women I've been with –“
“The women you've been with are not welcome in this conversation. Why don't you just ask me?”
“And say what? Sherlock, would you mind if I fucked you up the arse?”
“Exactly.”
“Shit. Sherlock, would you mind if I fucked you up the arse?”
“I would love that, John. Thank you for asking.”
“Great. I'll look forward to that, then.”
Sherlock leans over and kisses John's laughing mouth lightly, rubbing his sun-blocked nose against John's stubbled cheek and chin. Above them a seagull squawks before plunging into the water, then pulls up again with a small, silvery fish in its beak. He kisses John again, deeply, and John tilts his head and leans into it, a soft mmm rising up between them as Sherlock pulls John's lower lip gently between his teeth.
“You smell like coconuts, John. Like coconuts and the ocean and salt and me. Let's go back to the suite.”
“Now?”
“Right now.”
* * * * *
John steps out of the bathroom, naked except for the towel wrapped around his waist and the drops of water trailing down between his shoulder blades, and finds Sherlock standing at the bottom of the bed, alternately toweling off his hair and drop kicking pillows across the room.
“For god's sake, again with the pillows, always with this preponderance of pillows. This isn't a bed, it's a pillow storage device, a pillow raft, a pillow breeding ground.”
“Leave a few of them, Sherlock, we may need them.”
“Need the – ? Oh. Yes. I see.”
John picks a pillow up off the floor and tosses it back onto the bed, then turns to where Sherlock is standing and runs his hands down his arms and around his waist. He presses his face into the curve of Sherlock's neck and inhales, then says, mouth pressed to warm flesh, “You smell like margaritas, and salt, and sex. You smell like sex.”
“Do I?”
“You've always smelled like sex to me, Sherlock. Not the aftermath of it, but the lead-up, the anticipation. Your scent has always been about sexual anticipation to me.”
Sherlock sits on the edge of the bed and pushes himself back with his feet and elbows, laying himself flat, then reaches out his arms to bring John down on top of him. John resists for a moment, stopping to undo his towel and toss it to the side. He braces himself on hands and knees over Sherlock's prone body, and traces the faint tan lines around Sherlock's thighs and arms and neck, his fingers cool on flushed skin. Sherlock sighs and bites his lower lip, then brings his knees up and lets them fall so that John can nestle down between his spread thighs.
John braces himself up on one forearm and runs his free hand down Sherlock's torso before turning his hand over and brushing his knuckles gently over Sherlock's still soft penis and taut inner thigh. The feel of John's bare skin against his is delicious, and he closes his eyes and thinks about all the years of skin-on-skin contact he's missed, all the ways he's closed himself off, locked up his transport. He thinks about how much he has to make up for, and wonders how long John will stay and touch him like this.
“You're so good to me. Why?”
“Because I love you.”
“You really do, don't you?”
“Yeah, I really do.”
Sherlock closes his eyes again when John leans down and licks his lower lip, then his upper. He parts his lips and lets John's tongue run across his teeth, then slip inside. Of all the kisses they've shared, he likes these the best, these slow, lazy, caresses of tugging lips and darting tongues. He loves to rub his full lower lip between John's, loves when John leans in close and hovers, making Sherlock chase after it. They kiss until kissing is not enough – will kissing ever be enough? – and Sherlock lets his hands wander down John's back, lets his fingers trace the compact curve of John's sacrum before slipping down into the cleft of his arse. Jonn's arse. Sherlock loves John's arse. It's muscular and has broad dimples on the sides of each cheek and Sherlock can just about cup the entirety of it in his two large hands. John's arse is highly sensitive, too, and Sherlock could spend hours just squeezing, stroking, spreading those cheeks, but John would never let him do it for hours, because after just a few minutes of Sherlock's arse-worshipping John tends to go a bit mental with lust. Sherlock will take what he can get, though, and now his hands are gently stroking the swells of that delectable, rounded flesh, sliding down the sides and gripping from underneath, and when his fingers slip into the creases of John's inner thighs from behind John sighs and grinds that aggressive cock of his into Sherlock's belly, and moans, fuck, Sherlock, your hands, god.
Sherlock doesn't open his eyes when he feels John shift off of him, but he hears him walk into the bathroom and pad back a moment later. He doesn't open his eyes when he feels John's hands stroking his inner thighs, pressing his knees further apart, rubbing his thumbs against his perineum. He doesn't open his eyes when he feels John smack his arse lightly, lifting him up to slip one of those finally-useful pillows under his hips. He doesn't open his eyes when he feels John pulling his cheeks apart, feels John's breath low down on him, his nose pressing into his testicles.
He doesn't open his eyes when he feels the flat of John's tongue swipe against his perineum and over his scrotum, when he feels him pull his testicles, one by one, into his perfect mouth and roll them on his tongue. He doesn't open his eyes when he feels John's lips encircle the head of his now bobbing, leaking cock, when he feels his tongue paint broad stripes up and down his veined shaft. But then John is gone again, not touching him at all, and then the only thing he feels is the tip of John's pointed tongue, pressing directly against and into his anus.
Sherlock's eyes fly open, and his mouth goes wide in imitation of the sound that escapes it – ohhh. He instinctively grips the back of his knees with his hands and pulls, spreading himself open further, the lewdness of his position like an invisible hand on his hardening cock. John's tongue swirls and dips and prods, and Sherlock's cock swells harder again. He rolls his hips up slightly, causing his glans to rub gently against the soft skin his belly, then does it again, and again, his low, drawn-out moan joining the obscene sound of John's wet licking. It's filthy and wonderful and he wants to tie John to this bed and make him do it forever.
“You doing okay?”
“God, John, so good.”
“I'm going to use my fingers now, love. Have you ever done this to yourself?”
“No.”
“Alright. You have to let me know if this hurts, alright?”
“Okay.”
John lifts each of Sherlock's legs in turn so that his ankles rest on his shoulders. He looks away to pour lube on his fingers, but keeps his eyes on Sherlock's face as he reaches down and presses the tip of his index finger against that sweet spot, and slowly presses in.
“Take a deep breath and then exhale. You'll be more relaxed on the exhale.”
Sherlock does, and feels everything loosen as John's finger slips further inside him. It is unbearably arousing, and he focus on relaxing, on letting go, on welcoming John inside of him with each long breath. John reminds Sherlock to keep breathing, then he slides his entire finger in, then begins to make tiny circular motions inside of him. Sherlock arches his back and pushes into the sensation, already wanting more.
“I'm going to look for your prostate now, love. This can either be absolutely amazing, or absolutely too much. You ready?”
Sherlock reaches out and pulls gently on one of John's arms.
“Come down here and kiss me while you do it.”
John leans over Sherlock, shifting onto one elbow for balance, and kisses his way up Sherlock's neck. He waits until his lips find Sherlock's mouth, then crooks his finger and slowly draws it out, turning it as he goes. Just before his second knuckle slides out he hits it, and Sherlock thrusts hard, his calves pressing into John's shoulders, his hips and lower back curving up and off the bed.
“Oh! Right there –”
“It's good?”
“Oh god, oh god – yes.”
John pulls back again to sit on his heels and reach for the bottle of lube near Sherlock's hip. He holds up one hand, two fingers extended, and quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock. Sherlock nods, and John squeezes the tube, letting the viscous liquid run down over his fingers, dripping onto his palm and wrist. He leans down, partially to one side so that he can reach between Sherlock's legs, and presses a kiss to the corner of Sherlock's mouth. They lock eyes and hold the gaze while John pushes his fingers in, so slowly, and Sherlock thinks that John looks reverent as he does this, a look of awe on his face, as if it's the most important thing he's ever been allowed to do. He understands then that this is not just about the sex, that this is about making love, about claiming and being claimed, about doing physically what their very beings yearn to do: merge.
Sherlock's eyes roll back when John's two fingers are all the way in, and he pants into John's mouth in small gasps.
“I love you so much,” he hears John say, “so very much.”
“Show me. Show me now, John.”
He doesn't know if he's ready, doesn't know if it's going to be too painful, but he needs it badly, needs to feel John claim him like this, needs to give himself over wholly.
John takes a deep, shuddering breath, and swallows, bites his lower lip and says, “Sherlock, there's no rush, we can go slow.”
“I don't want to go slow. Show me. Show me how much you want me, how much you love me. Let me show you how much I love you.”
John lowers himself completely on top of Sherlock, his belly pressing Sherlock's cock flat between them, one hand clutching at Sherlock's shoulder. He spreads his knees a bit more and flexes his toes against the bed for more leverage before reaching between them with his other hand and gripping his shaft, sliding it under Sherlock's scrotum until he feels the hot, wet dip he's made with his fingers and tongue. He presses his glans there firmly, feels the give of the muscles, and tilts his hips until the entire head slips inside. They both groan in satisfaction, and John lowers his head to Sherlock's shoulder and presses his face into his neck.
“Okay?”
“It's good, it's really, really good, John. It's so good.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at the words he's saying, good, really, really, good, and marvels at his inability to be more descriptive, to pay proper homage to the unparalleled connection taking place between them. He imagines that he will continue to lose his vocabulary as John proceeds, that by the end he won't remember his own name, will be reduced to a bundle of quivering nerve endings and primal vocalizations. It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter if he melts or explodes or blacks out. It only matters that he gives this to John, that John is inside him, that John knows.
“John – before it's too late – I need to tell you now – right now – that you are everything to me – I love you so much – I want you so much, and no matter what happens – no matter what our future holds – I will always try to deserve your love. Now please, do it. I need it. Please.”
John smiles into his neck and murmurs, “Sherlock, love, beautiful, so good – you deserve love, you deserve this.” And with that, he rolls his hips, pushes in another inch, and then pulls out slightly, repeating the shallow thrust over and over until Sherlock is whining and begging, please, please, please.
They continue like this, John pushing in inch by inch, holding back, letting Sherlock's body stretch and receive while Sherlock whimpers and pushes back against him, trying to draw John further in. Finally Sherlock slides his hands down from where they've been resting on John's back and grips his hips, fingers digging into clenched muscle, and pulls him down and in as hard as he can.
“Impatient git, you beautiful fucking impatient git.”
John bites at Sherlock's neck, then leans up to lick into his mouth. They stay like that, mouths open, tongues flicking, while John slides out of Sherlock as far as he can without completely pulling out. He holds himself like that, shaking on his forearms, then pushes all the way back in, until he's fully seated, the two of them joined completely. Sherlock pulls at John's arse, spreading the cheeks apart, thrusting against him as if they could possibly get closer.
“God, John, fuck. Fuck.”
Sherlock is slowly unraveling, his entire body directing everything toward release, and he begins to lose awareness of his sweaty skin, his racing heart, his labored breathing. Everything is there, in the connection between the two of them, in the friction and tug and slide of John inside of him. With the last bit of focus he can summon he pushes himself up on his elbows and looks down between them, past his engorged, leaking cock, past his tightening scrotum, to where John's hips are tucked into the backs of Sherlock's thighs, just the base of his erection visible as he slides back in.
“You feel amazing, Sherlock, so amazing. You're so tight, so smooth, so – fucking – hot.”
“So close, John, so close. Please, please, finish me, I can't...”
“I've got you, love, hold on. I'm going to try something, okay? Hold on.”
Sherlock flops back on the bed, his neck arched and his jaw slack. He gathers folds of the sheets into his hands and tries to tether himself against that wreckage that he so desperately wants. John pulls out slowly until the ridge of his glans finds the place his fingers sought out earlier. He knows that he's there when Sherlock moans incoherently and begins keening and flexing beneath him. He rubs the base of his glans over the gland repeatedly, using short, jabbing strokes that render Sherlock completely incomprehensible. Propped on one elbow, John reaches down and strokes his fingers lightly over Sherlock's cock, smearing the pre-come that's gathered on his belly down the shaft. He presses his thumb into Sherlock's frenulum and uses his fingers to stroke up and over the slit, watching Sherlock's face reflect his fall into ecstasy.
“Sherlock – Sherlock, love – you're there, you're right there, please, love, come for me –“
Sherlock's body gives one final tremor before he goes rigid under John, silent, and his orgasm begins. Streaks of fluid spurt from his cock, splattering high on his convulsing torso, pooling between his pecs and running in rivulets over his peaked nipples and contracted abdomen. John watches, awestruck, as wave after wave shoots forward, painting Sherlock in stripes, until the very last bit dribbles out into his belly button.
“Jesus, Sherlock. Fuck. Sherlock?”
Sherlock lays spent, his eyes closed, his breathing still erratic. He reaches up with one finger, unseeing, streaking it through the cum on one nipple, and then raises that finger to his mouth and sucks it clean.
John blinks at the spectacle beneath him, then licks his lower lip and starts moving again. He's tempted to stop and pull out when Sherlock moans a low fuuuuck, but Sherlock shakes his head and grunts go, go, do it, do it now. He's given Sherlock his pleasure, more than he would have believed possible, and now Sherlock urges him to take his own. He bucks into Sherlock, rutting hard, the slap of flesh on flesh rising over his own low grunts, Sherlock's body pulling him in, clasping him hard, and then it's on him, surging through him and into Sherlock with a force that causes his arms to give out below him. He collapses onto Sherlock, shuddering, and the two of them lie still for several, long, quiet minutes.
“Sherlock?”
“Mm?”
“You 'kay?”
“Not sure. May have pulled something in my arse. Spots in my vision, can't really feel my testicles.”
John giggles and soon Sherlock joins him, the two of them snickering against each other. John's cock is softening now, and it slips out of Sherlock with a squelching sound and release of fluid, and their giggles turn into raucous laughter.
“John Watson, look at what you've done. We are a disgusting mess.”
“S'true. We are.”
“You sound drunk.”
“I feel kind of drunk. That was spectacular.”
“It was truly outstanding.”
“Phenomenal.”
“Prodigious.”
“What?”
“Monumental, tremendous, immense. Where did you learn to do that?”
“I'm a doctor, Sherlock. I have information and I know how to use it.”
John rolls onto his side and Sherlock turns to face him. They are splotchy, stubble-burned, sweaty and stinky. Sherlock's hair looks like it's been through a blender and John has Sherlock's cum smeared all over his chest and through his pubic hair. They start giggling again, rubbing feet against shins and calves, until Sherlock goes quiet and kisses John gently on the mouth.
“John. That was the most intimate, intense, mind-altering experience I've ever had. Thank you.”
“I altered your mind?”
“You stilled it. Re-aligned it. I suspect we'll have to do this frequently for the sake of my mental health.”
“I think I'm okay with that.”
“I'm a bit afraid of your penis, though. It's very aggressive, you know.”
“Aggressive?”
“I thought maybe I could tame it, but it appears that interacting with it in any way makes it even more pugnacious.”
“Pugnacious?”
“Irascible.”
“My penis is not irascible, Sherlock.”
“Isn't it? I rather like it.”
“You're a complete git, and I am madly in love with you.”
“As am I, with you.”
“Shower?”
“Might need to call for more soap.”
* * * * *
He hears the front door open and close, and then John's footfall, his very own John Watson, making his way up the stairs. Sherlock imagines that the sound of those footsteps speak of peeling sunburns and frothy cocktails; of thunderstorms and rain and long, slow kisses; of dolphins and agents and whales. He listens for other layers of meaning as John gets closer, but all he can deduce is something akin to elation, and anticipation and … love. John Watson's footsteps coming up the stairs, coming home, sound like love.
Sherlock unfolds himself from his armchair and untangles his dressing gown from his thighs as he strides across the length of the room. He flings the door open just as John reaches for the doorknob, and John looks up at him, surprised, and smiles.
“Hey, you.”
“John. Thank god.”
Sherlock wraps himself around John and rubs his nose above John's small, perfectly shaped seashell of an ear, inhaling deeply and making small sounds of comfort. John came home, again, and Sherlock will never stop delighting in this, never stop feeling relief and awe that John keeps coming home.
“What's wrong? Sherlock?”
John is trying to peer over Sherlock's shoulder, trying to see if something is missing or on fire or otherwise destroyed.
“You've been away too long, John. It's altogether unacceptable.”
“I've been out a little over an hour, Sherlock.”
“I know, it was an eternity.”
“Can I please come into our flat now?”
Sherlock unwraps his arms from John's waist, but keeps him close, taking his face in his hands and tilting it up for a kiss. John blushes under the attention and clears his throat, glances down at his feet and then up again into Sherlock's unwavering, now suspicious gaze.
“You're self-conscious. Why are you self-conscious?”
“I'm not. Just... come sit down with me.”
Sherlock takes one step back and scans John from head to toe and back again. He quirks one eyebrow and purses his mouth in mock deduction, but lets John lead him to the couch.
“Maybe I am a bit self-conscious. I have something for you.”
“Is it a bag of petit four? I do love petit four.”
“A bag of –? No! Sherlock, please, this is serious.”
John sits on the edge of the couch and rubs his palms together, then rubs them again on his jeans. He still has his jacket on, and his shoes, and he looks like he's about to jump up and make a big fuss about needing tea. Sherlock is fully prepared to head off any extraneous tea-making nonsense, but John just sits, and rubs his palms on his thighs, and sighs.
“John?”
“Sherlock. Okay. Em, remember when you came to the hospital and I had – em, no. Okay. Remember when I said I had something – wait, no. Alright. See, I was thinking about – shit.”
Sherlock is delighted with this version of John, this stammering, skittish, shy, swain of a man. He watches John raise one finger in the air and open his mouth as if he's about to begin orating, then watches him lower it, and then raise it again. Sherlock takes that hand in his and twines their fingers together. He rubs his thumb over John's knuckles and waits for him to try again. He considers putting John out of his misery, but this is such excellent, awkward bumbling, and he wants to savor it.
“I have something for you.”
“So you said.”
“Well, I had something made for you.”
“I see.”
John sits back a bit and looks at Sherlock, his expression open and soft, a bit unsure. He moves closer and bends one knee so that he can shift on the couch and face Sherlock more comfortably. He takes both of Sherlock's hands in his and sighs, and licks his lips, and sighs some more.
Sherlock finds this all utterly beguiling. He is completely besotted with this ridiculous man.
“So, can I have it?”
“Hm?”
“This thing you had made for me. Can I have it, or are you going to keep it?”
“No. Yes. Yes, you can have it. I wanted to say something significant, to get this right, but maybe I should just give it to you before I bollox this up any further.”
“Don't say that. You haven't bolloxed up anything.”
John huffs and gives Sherlock a small smile, then lets go of one of his hands and reaches into his jacket pocket. When he pulls it out again he keeps his hand folded in a loose fist, and then pulls Sherlock's right hand toward him, palm up, and squeezes his eyes shut.
“It's okay, John. It's fine, it's all fine. Breathe.”
John opens his eyes and smiles, then drops his fist into Sherlock's hand, slowly unfurling his fingers. Sherlock keeps his eyes fixed on John's face, but he feels the soft press of warm metal under John's hand, and he slowly slides his hand out from under John's and closes his own fingers over the small gift. He leans forward and kisses John, softly, just a breath of air and tug of lips, then settles back and looks down at his palm.
In it lays a wide, thick, platinum band, perfect in its circular infinitum, still warm from John's touch. The ring has a matte finish with one thin, polished line undulating through the middle, a subtle detail that brings to mind thoughts of waves, thoughts of the ocean. There's something engraved on the inside, and Sherlock holds the ring up between his thumb and middle finger and brings it closer, turning it slowly in the mid-afternoon light.
If the letters start to blur a bit it's probably because the light is waning, or because his hand is trembling ever so slightly, undoubtedly the result of too much tea. But then he feels a small tremor in his lower lip, and he has to raise his index finger to prod against it. He assumes it's just a twitch, but then something wet is sliding down his face, and John's eyes are welling up, and if he didn't know better he'd think that maybe he was crying.
“John?”
“Yes?”
“Am I crying?”
“I think you are, love.”
“Are you crying?”
“Yeah, I think I am, too.”
Sherlock sniffles loudly and rubs his nose on the sleeve of his dressing gown, then looks back down at the ring through his blurry vision and tries to blink the tears out of them.
“You remembered that?”
“I'll never forget it, Sherlock. You've sent me many auto-signatures in the last month, love, most of them ridiculous, but that was the one, the one that told me what I really needed to know. It gave me hope and the strength to finish what I had set out to do. You wrote CBTM. Come Back To Me.”
“I held my breath when I sent that one. No matter how clear you made it, I couldn't fully accept what I thought you were saying to me, that you wanted me. Even when you told me that you wanted me, I was afraid to say the wrong thing back, to ruin it somehow.”
“You said the right thing back. The absolute right thing.”
“Do you have one, too?”
“A ring? Yeah. I had the other three melted down and made into two.”
“There were three? Oh, of course. An engagement ring and two wedding bands. The engagement ring had diamonds, too, didn't it?”
“It did. I sold the diamonds and donated the money to a dolphin rescue organization.”
“Ah, very clever. Do they rehabilitate the dolphins so that they don't have to be snipers anymore?”
“There are no assassin dolphins, Sherlock.”
“I'm pretty sure there are.”
“No.”
Sherlock grins at John, chuckling at their inside joke, then abruptly turns serious again and says, “Where's your ring? Can I see it?”
John fishes it out of his other coat pocket and holds it up to Sherlock.
“Is it the same?”
“Almost identical. Only the engraving is different.”
“What does yours say?”
John rolls the ring in his palm and smiles, his posture more confident now. He licks his lips and studies Sherlock's face, his gaze now full of certainty.
“Mine says Always. Because I will, Sherlock. I will always come back to you.”
Sherlock sits with his eyes closed, tears running down his cheeks, shoulders shaking. He feels John move closer and cup his face in his hands, wiping the tears off his cheeks with the pads of his thumbs.
“Hey. Hey, there. You okay?”
Sherlock sniffles loudly and hiccups, looking down at the ring still in his hand. He wants desperately to slip it on his finger, but despite all the reassurances John has given him, he still isn't sure that this is real. He considers that there is at least a seventeen percent chance that he has misinterpreted the meaning of the ring. He has to ask. He has to be sure.
“John, are you – is this – are you asking me –?”
John smiles at him and wipes away some more tears. He starts to nod his head, but Sherlock isn't done.
“Are you asking me if – if Mycroft can really be your brother-in-law?”
“You almighty git. Look at me. Give me your hands. I am asking you, Sherlock Holmes, World's Only Consulting Detective, if you'll be my husband, to have and to hold from this day forward, for better or for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish; from this day forward until death do us part.”
“Oh. Oh, god yes. Yes. I will. I do. Right now. Immediately. Quick, put your ring on before something happens.”
“Nothing is going to happen. Come here, let me put that on you.”
Sherlock watches as John places the ring on his finger, sliding it gently down and over his knuckle, giving it a little twist before letting go, and then Sherlock takes the other ring, holds it close to read the Always for himself, and slips it onto John's finger. They kiss, still gripping each other's hands, until Sherlock needs one to cup the back of John's neck and the other to brace against the couch as he nudges John down on his back, stretched out beneath him.
“Don't get too comfortable there, love, we have a reservation for dinner.”
“To celebrate?”
“Yeah, to celebrate.”
“What if I'd said no?”
Sherlock regrets it the second he says it, because he knows that there is no combination of variables, no alternate universe, no philosophical argument, that could have resulted in him saying no, and he's not sure if John knows this.
“Then I would have tied you to this couch and denied you all food, water, and sex, until you came to your senses and said yes. I estimate you'd be fine without food and water for a week or two, but after twelve hours of no sex you'd be begging me to ask you again.”
John knows. John knows that he would have been incapable of saying no. He breathes a sigh of relief and says, “I shouldn't have said that. I never would have said no, John, never.”
“I'm glad. Dinner?”
“Dinner. Angelo's?”
“Angelo's. Then we're coming right back here so I can take my husband to bed, properly.”
Sherlock grinds against John and lowers his mouth to his ear, his tongue flicking inside for a moment before he says, his voice a low rumble, “We'll have to book another sex holiday.”
“Oh god, yes. It's not legal until there's a sex holiday.”
“Do you want to make this legal? Should we have a wedding and all that?”
“If you'd like to. I'm not sure that I need the government's recognition of who you are to me, but if it's important to you, I'm fine with it. What do you want?”
Sherlock leans in and kisses John again, kisses his mouth and his nose and his eyelids. He doesn't care what the United Kingdom thinks about his marriage to John, or if it's recognized on a dime-a-dozen piece of paper in a registrar's office. He wouldn't mind if everyone in the United Kingdom knew that he's with John, that John chose him, but it doesn't matter that it's legal or labeled or licensed in anyway.
“I don't think I need any of that. Let's just wear our rings for now, and see how we feel down the road.”
“Sounds good to me.”
Sherlock wriggles down a bit so that he can lay his head on John's chest, and tucks his arms under John's sturdy shoulders, holding him as tight as he can while nuzzling into his soft shirt. They stay like that for a while, John's hands running slowly up and down Sherlock's back, and when he pulls back to look at John his expression seems wistful and young, almost innocent.
“Do you smell that, John?” he whispers, his voice soft in John's ear. “Oh. Can you smell it?”
“Smell what?”
“The roses, John. Almond, vanilla, anise, apricot... and pamplemousse.”
“Grand-mére? You can smell her roses, here?”
“I can. Oh, John. Grand-mére knows.”
Sherlock closes his eyes and rests his head on John's chest again, feels John's hands rubbing circles into his back and shoulders. She walks toward them slowly, a wide, open basket of tightly furled, peach-colored blooms looped over her arm. She looks happy, so happy to see him, so happy for him.
“Look at you, mon petit chou. Look at you and your John. He is lovely, Sherlock, he is perfect for you, and you for him.”
“That's what he says, grand-mére. He really loves me.”
“Of course he does, Sherlock. Why would he not? And you remembered, Sherlock, you remembered each of the unique scents of the rose. You got all of it this time, mon chat.”
“I did, Grand-mére, I got it all this time, every single thing.”