Newshirted John, cobalt linen, wriggles his toes into warm sand and meets cold sand beneath. He struts, clutching the straps of his sandals; keeneyed and searching for one perfect spot on the empty beach.
Small cove - Sherlock likes it.
Behind he follows, looking from sand to John to sand. His soldier's hair is shades darker than this sand, more like Thames' bank. Pretty rock driftwood rope shell later I'll bring John the prettiest beachthings rock shell driftwood rock.
Here, Sherlock.
Little run to catch up, put down the towels. I'm going in the sea! Eyes on me, colourful low shorts. Luminously pale, I know. Quick kiss, slow kiss. Long and half-bare embrace; stirring. Come with me.
Jog to the surf, laughing; me first, chase me! Catch me and hold me.
Shoulders under, turn to watch him. Naked John running: bronze and laughing and gleeful and shameless. Jumps in. Splash him! Sherlock sends sea skywise and John gigglesqueals and feigns anger, stretching to capture his big white seal making mischief with the waves.
Pull him close, feet don't touch the bottom; strange grinding weightlessness. His hand on us, undoes my shorts; hard.
Oh please, oh, turn around softwethotcold tight tight tight. All of his back pressed against my front, me in him. And in him. And in him. John!
Empty beach.