I should be working on After Effects right now, but I just spent the day down at the beach with my awesome best friend, Captain Evil. What can I say? The sand and surf where highly inspirational. This little seaside place is entirely fictional, but loosely based off a similar place that's along the northeastern coast in the US. Hope you enjoy!
John stretched and smiled as he turned his face up to the sunshine. He closed his eyes and took a moment to enjoy the beautiful warm weather and fresh sea air.
Mycroft had called in a favor, asking for them to track down some missing documents. That's how they ended up in this gorgeous little seaside town, home to miles of pristine beaches and relatively calm ocean waves. Never one to do anything half way, the elder Holmes had booked them a stay for the next seven days at a beachfront property just a twenty minute walk to town. They even had their own private stretch of beach.
"Well, that about does it," Sherlock stated as he watched the thief being taken into custody by the local police force. The detective turned to his blogger and frowned when he realized the older man wasn't paying attention any longer. He cleared his throat until John looked back at him, flashing a brilliant smile. The genius felt his stomach do a little flip but ignored it.
"As soon as I text Mycroft to inform him that his papers are safe, we can be on our way home," he declared.
A horrified expression crossed John's face and he cried out, "What—no! We just got here, Sherlock! It's only been four hours!"
"Yes, I know but the case is now solved," the consulting detective reasoned. "There's no need to stay here for the entire prescribed duration."
John huffed and crossed his arms in front of his chest and leveled his companion with a murderous glare. "Come on, Sherlock! I haven't had a proper holiday since before my last tour in Afghanistan. And God knows we've been running ourselves ragged lately. A bit of a rest would do us both good. Besides—Mycroft rented the beach house for the next seven days. The least we could do is put his expense to good use…"
Sherlock's laser intense gaze deduced all he needed to know about his flat mate within seconds. John was right—they had been working themselves pretty hard as of late and his blogger was showing the signs of that wear more heavily than the genius himself. If he kept pushing John as much as he had been recently, the doctor would soon be of no use to anyone—and he needed his blogger to be on top of his game. With those final thoughts, he made up his mind and gave a curt nod of ascension.
"Fine," Sherlock replied, "if nothing else, only to put my brother's fat bank account to good use. You are right—it would be a shame to let the house go to waste."
John grinned, resisting the urge to jump for joy. "Right. Since we now have the time to actually enjoy our private beach, let's go get some supplies for the week. Mycroft gave you his credit card, didn't he?"
Oh, the good doctor was devious—he liked it! With a matching smirk of his own, Sherlock answered, "Of course! Excellent idea, John."
Several hours later, they returned to the house with a few extra provisions that Mycroft had not provided for them already. Sherlock had no idea why they needed roasting sticks and marshmallows, but he refrained from commenting.
The doctor grabbed a plastic bag full of supplies off the kitchen table and thrust it in Sherlock's direction. "Here—bring this, we'll need it."
The genius peered inside the bag and raised an elegant eyebrow in silent question. He personally didn't see the need of any of the things currently in his possession, but if it made John happy, he wouldn't say anything. His partner was too excited by whatever he had planned that Sherlock couldn't find it in him to be ostentatious about it. Over the last three months, there had been a infinitesimal shift in their relationship, one that wasn't visible to the naked eye and Sherlock had been entirely unaware of it himself until one day John had leaned over him to grab something while he was sitting at their small kitchen table working with his microscope. When the doctor's body unintentionally brushed up against his, it had caused a chain reaction that the consulting detective hadn't felt for a very long time.
So now, here they were with their own private beach for a week long holiday. Alone. Together. Sherlock had no idea how he was supposed to survive the next seven days without a case to occupy his mind. This unsettling attraction he was starting to have towards his blogger was not likely to go unnoticed the entire week. As much as he remarked on John's lack of intelligence, the genius knew otherwise. It was just force of habit that had him insulting his flat mate, but the older man was a doctor after all, and one does not become a fully trained medical expert without having a considerably high IQ. It was really only a matter of time before his companion noticed certain increased attentions.
When the rest of their purchases had been put away, John ushered his flat mate out the backdoor and onto their little stretch of sand. He had been so pleased earlier to note that the owners of the property had a bonfire ring set up just far enough away from the water that it would remain dry at high tide. Someone was also kind enough to have left a fully stocked woodpile near the house. The doctor ordered his best friend to sit on one of benches near the fire pit as he unceremoniously dumped the armful of firewood he was carrying.
Sherlock watched with no small amount of fascination as John meticulously placed the logs in the pit in a teepee formation. The older man pulled something out of his pocket—a lint packet? Really?—and placed it in the center of his construct. If nothing else, this week would be an excellent opportunity to gather more information on his blogger, and any opportunity where the detective could do so was to be taken. He assumed that the army must teach its soldiers wilderness survival skills, but never having been in the military himself, Sherlock was unsure. The adept and self-confident way John went about his task suggested that he had received training for this somewhere.
When he had a proper fire going, John reached for the forgotten plastic bag next to Sherlock and fished out a pair of roasting sticks, one for each of them. He handed one to the genius and then dug out the rest of the supplies and arranged them on one of the free benches. Then he gave his flat mate a marshmallow and instructed him to skewer it on his stick.
Dumbfounded for once, Sherlock looked at his blogger for direction. "And what am I to do with this?"
John perched on the seat beside the younger man with an incredulous expression on his face. "Are you serious? Have you never toasted a marshmallow before?"
"No, I have not."
"What was your childhood like?"
"Do you really want to have that conversation now?"
John sat back and blinked. "Well—not what I meant, but yeah, if you want to. I simply was wondering what your childhood was like that you never had the chance to roast a marshmallow."
"I was far too busy with lessons, violin instruction, and riding that I didn't have time for such boyhood frivolities," Sherlock offered with a shrug.
"You never, um, went camping? Swimming starkers in a lake? Nothing?"
"Well, I was rather fond of climbing trees in my youth," the consulting detective answered with a smirk, "especially to escape from my tutors. And yes to the second. The lake was bloody cold."
Startled, the doctor locked eyes with his best friend. They both began to giggle uncontrollably. After several minutes they finally calmed down enough to speak again.
"Well then," John replied after clearing his throat. "Now this is a very delicate operation—the proper toasting of marshmallows. Like when you were trying to melt that…thing…last week over your Bunsen burner. Too short of a time over the fire, it's just an ordinary sugary confection. Too long, it will be burnt blackened to a crisp. Just right, its browned nicely and gooey in the center."
"Time sensitive experiment, I see…" Sherlock responded with a hint of amusement echoing through his deep baritone.
They sat in companionable silence for several long moments, with nothing but the crackling logs of the fire and the roar of the waves crashing on the shore as their music. John finally pulled his stick back and inspected his marshmallow, which was toasted to a perfect brown. Following his best friend's lead, the detective also examined his own—which was on fire. Being the good mate that he was, the older man laughed as he tried to blow out the flames engulfing the glob of sugar.
Grinning, Sherlock declared, "Maybe I like mine a little burnt."
John just shook his head and reached for a couple of digestives and two pieces of a broken Cadbury dairy milk. He demonstrated that the genius should place the chocolate on one of the biscuits then use the other to sandwich the marshmallow between the pieces.
"What in God's name is this?" the consulting detective demanded, intrigued and repulsed at the same time.
"It's a s'more, Sherlock. Try it—you might actually like it."
"Was this one of those camp things?"
"Yes, actually."
The genius regarded the treat thoughtfully and suddenly all the pieces fell together. John watched as comprehension dawned on his flat mate's face.
"Ah—I see! You were a Boy Scout, weren't you, John?"
"Why—what's wrong with it? And yes I was."
"I didn't say there was anything wrong with—it's merely an observation," remarked Sherlock. "You have obviously received some sort of wilderness training which is evident by the skill that you used to create the fire—could have received this training in the army but there are other things. You went camping as a boy where you and undoubtedly a group of friends decided to try your hand at a nude bathing—probably away from the watchful eye of your assigned adult supervision… ergo at some point you were a Boy Scout."
"Brilliant as usual, Sherlock," John told him with a smile.
With a sense of smug self-satisfaction, the younger man bit into his s'more. It wasn't bad—the marshmallow was a little overdone for his liking, but not too bad. He paid more attention the next time to how close the sugar got to the flames.
The following day was sunny and warm—the perfect summer day for a swim in the ocean. After much pleading and prodding, John was able to convince Sherlock to put on his swim trunks—which had been another provision they had acquired last night. The doctor had brought his pair from home, case be damned he would have made the time to take that swim regardless. He wasn't about to spend an entire week at a beach house without bringing the necessities. The thought had never crossed the genius' mind however. John doubted whether Sherlock even owned a pair of trunks before last night.
But for the moment, the battle was over and they were headed down to the water's edge with a set of lounge chairs they had discovered in the hall cupboard. The detective stopped about five meters from the wet sand and set up his seat. He was just about to sit down when John prevented him from doing so by grabbing his arm. Sherlock turned to him with a raised eyebrow.
"Wait," his blogger demanded. "You are as pale as they come, Sherlock. You will be burnt within half an hour if you don't put some sun block on." A bottle of the afore mentioned lotion miraculously appeared from the depths of the doctor's pockets.
"I'm fine, John," said the genius. "Besides—you don't seem to be in a hurry to put any on yourself."
"I put it on inside while you were getting into your trunks. Come on, let me get your back," the doctor insisted, stepping around his flat mate. He squirted a generous amount of the white lotion onto his hands and slowly started to rub it into Sherlock's shoulders and upper back. The detective bit his lip as those strong, calloused hands kneaded his flesh. He let out a small gasp and shivered when his blogger ran his fingers down his spine and fanned them out towards his hips. Feeling Sherlock tremble, John instinctually took a step closer and slid his hands up his best friend's side to rest at his waist.
"Th-thank you, John," the genius said unsteadily, feeling the older man breath on the back of his neck. "I think that shall do for now. I can manage the rest."
"Glad you see it my way," murmured John, just barely audible above the surf that Sherlock nearly missed his words. He stepped around the younger man, his right hand trailing across his flat mate's lower back and side before dropping his arms away. He turned to the ocean and strode across the remaining distance quickly, leaving the consulting detective to stare after him in amazement.
What the bloody hell was all that about?! Sherlock wondered as he continued to apply the sun block to his upper torso and legs. He was desperately willing his body to behave, but failed as he remembered the feel of John's breath on the back of his neck and those hands on his waist… With a frustrated groan, he flopped down into his beach chair and dug his feet into the sand. He fished out his sunglasses and made himself comfortable. Perhaps I am missing something—John had never been so forward before. Was it possible that whatever this was between them was mutual? The genius propped his elbows up on the arms of the chair and steeped his fingers beneath his chin before he slipped into his mind palace for further review of the facts.
John plunged into the water and resurfaced several meters away, feeling quite smug with himself. Did Sherlock not think he would notice? It wasn't just about the sun block—but oh, that little exercise had been very telling indeed! No, the doctor was aware of the thoughtful, lingering glances his flat mate had been giving lately when he was under the impression that John wasn't aware. But he had been aware, and it left him feeling slightly light-headed and confused. Sherlock was married to his work and didn't do emotions. While the younger detective might be convinced to have a quick shag, that wasn't what John was looking for. He wanted someone to be his other half, his life partner. And damn it if the genius wasn't almost all that already. But the doctor knew he could not go down that road without knowing Sherlock was capable of loving him. It would break John if he allowed himself to fall in love with his daft flat mate but not have the sentiment returned. So for now he would just wait and see what the next few days brought for them.
Some time later, John tried to get the detective to join him in the water. "Come on, Sherlock! Why don't you go for a swim?" he called out as he splashed around.
"No—the water's too cold. There is no way I'm going in," Sherlock stated.
With a shrug, the doctor responded, "Suit yourself, then." He ducked under the waves one last time and started making his way back to the empty chair next to his companion.
Sherlock swallowed reflexively as he watched John reemerge from the ocean. His tanned skin glistened as thousands of tiny water droplets slid down his lean, muscular body. The genius watched as one rivulet of liquid trailed down the side of the older man's right oblique to his hip. He looked up in time to see John reach up with both hands and push them through his hair, making the blondish-grey tendrils spike up. With his swim trunks hanging low on his well-defined hips, the doctor was the epitome of walking sex. Once again, Sherlock cursed inwardly, thinking to himself as he felt his body respond to the visual stimulus in front of him, Swim trunks weren't bloody well meant to hide an erection. Damn John and his blasted need for a beach holiday! The consulting detective squirmed uncomfortably in his chair, trying to conceal his body's reaction. He crossed one leg over the other and folded his arms in front of his chest in a defensive measure and looked down the beach—and away from John.
The doctor sighed as he took in Sherlock's sullen posture. It was a lovely day—couldn't the genius just enjoy it for once and not spoil this for John? He claimed his seat next to his flat mate and turned to look at him. Ah—so that's the problem then! the doctor thought with a grin as he realized what the real issue was. He slipped his shades on to hide the amusement in his eyes.
"What are you so happy about?" Sherlock demanded in a surly tone.
"Nothing!" John cried defensively. "It's just such a gorgeous day; I'm on holiday with my best friend on the beach—what else is there?"
The harshness was gone from the detective's expression when he faced his blogger. It was replaced once again by that thoughtful, lingering gaze. "You're absolutely right, John. There isn't much else…"
The rest of the day passed leisurely, with the Baker Street boys simply enjoying their companionship. Sherlock had retrieved a novel from somewhere inside the house and was nearly halfway finished with it by the time the sun started to set. John had to remind him several times to reapply sun block, but besides that, it had been a perfect relaxing and lazy day at the beach.
Day three of their holiday was much like the one preceding it. Sherlock had allowed John to drag him into the waves and spend a great deal of time splashing about like a little child. It delighted the doctor that his companion was able to relax and enjoy himself without some kind of experiment or case to occupy his mind. Although, for all John knew, he could very well could be performing some kind of silent tests on him—it definitely wouldn't be the first time.
It wasn't far from the truth. Sherlock was conducting an experiment of sorts, but it was more a self-reflexive trial than anything. The genius was closely monitoring his own responses to John's presence as well as his blogger's reaction to himself.
It was approaching sunset when Sherlock roused John from his nap on the reclining lounge chair in a shaded patch of the back deck. He really hated to wake the doctor, who looked so innocent and sweet—wait, what? Where did that come from? Alright, yes, I can admit that John is sweet…in the privacy of my own head. The consulting detective wasn't bored, per se—he was actually quite content to admire his best friend's countenance uninhibited. He did, however, want John to talk to him. There was something about the older man's voice that soothed him and helped to focus his mind.
"John? John? Wake up!" he commanded as he gently shook the doctor as he crouched next to him.
"Hmm? Whatdaya need Sh'lock?" was the drowsy answer he received.
He thought fast. What did he need from his flat mate that could possibly get him to wake up? "Do we have enough left over supplies for those s'more things we made the other night?"
"Mmmhmm. Why?"
"It's almost sunset. Will you show me how to build a proper bonfire?"
The corners of John's lips tugged up and he opened his eyes to find Sherlock's blue-green orbs staring back at him. The consulting detective heard the hitch in the other's breath as they sat there staring at each other as the minutes ticked by. Finally, the doctor licked his lips and sat up, forcing Sherlock to back away unless he wanted to fall over.
"Umm, what did you say?" John asked as he ran his fingers through his hair. "You wanted me to teach you how to build a fire? Why the sudden interest?"
"It's not something I've had to do before and it seems like a worthwhile skill to acquire, should the need ever arise," Sherlock answered truthfully. "And I want to toast marshmallows."
The doctor laughed and then leveled himself up out of his chair. How could he say no to that? He ended up learning quite a bit about his partner's childhood that evening. And he felt himself slip a little further down that path of no return.
The forth day carried on much like the previous two. As much as John was enjoying his flat mate's company—and he was—there was no way he was going to do the cooking again tonight.
"Let's go down to that little beach front restaurant we saw the first day we were here," the doctor suggested. "It'd be a nice walk into town; we can get ourselves a drink and have a good time."
"I thought we were having a good time," Sherlock countered without glancing up, flipping to the next page in his book.
"Well, yeah—we are, I mean—I am," John stammered. The genius looked at him in time to see the faint blush tint the blond's cheeks. He smirked but chose not to comment.
Trying again to explain himself, the doctor said, "Come on Sherlock—it's a new place full of people for you to deduce—quietly. That and I'm not making dinner again tonight—unless you'll be doing it then?"
"So when did you want to go out for dinner?" Sherlock asked as he set a bookmark in his text to hold the place.
"I knew that would be your answer," John declared with a smug grin. "Come on, let's get ready and head out in an hour. Should be long enough for us both to get a shower." He reached for his water bottle and took a swig.
"It would be less time if we just showered together," the consulting detective stated calmly. The doctor choked on his water and started coughing.
"What?!"
"Oh, John, calm down. I meant it as a joke. Though it would save time and water," Sherlock reasoned.
Not bloody likely! The doctor though, aloud he said, "Umm, yeah, no. I'm going to shower first then you can have it." Without waiting for a reply, he stormed off to the bathroom.
Sherlock grinned to himself. Yes, definitely a mutual attraction then. He was at the door to the loo as soon as he heard the faucet shut off. When John tried to exit, the genius made it a point to brush up against John as he pushed his way in. The doctor flushed again, much to Sherlock's delight. Oh tonight will be so much fun! he thought to himself.
Within a short amount of time, both men were showered and ready for their evening out. They kept a leisurely pace as they made their way on foot into town. John chatted away about sea life and Sherlock quietly listened, casting sidelong glances at his flat mate when he knew the other wouldn't notice. The doctor looked very handsome. It was apparent that he had taken time to select his attire with care. He was in a light blue button down matched with a pair of khakis and black loafers. After seeing his best friend nearly naked for the past few days, it was almost a shock to see him back in clothes. Mental note to self: beach holidays should be taken advantage of at least one a year…
Dinner was entertaining in its own right. John had been correct—there were plenty of new people to deduce. They had a grand time with their heads bent together, whispering conspiratorially back and forth while they ate and drank glass after glass of a fantastic regionally made wine.
The doctor was well on his way to being drunk when they finally paid their tab and stepped back out into the beautiful summer night. The road back to their private beach house was deserted, leaving them in peace to admire the sounds of the surf and the starry sky above.
"That was amazingly extraordinary!" John laughed and gestured wildly with his arms. "You called it perfectly—did you see the look on the girl's face when her partner actually got on with it? Priceless. Think I would be too nervous to even eat if—when—I ever propose to someone." He giggled at the memory but stumbled over an uneven section of pavement.
Without thinking, Sherlock instinctually reached out to steady his best friend and grabbed his hand. The doctor murmured his thanks as he regained his footing. They both fell silent, unaware that they were still holding hands until John commented on it when they were half way back to their place.
"This is nice, would be romantic if it was anyone but you," he stated quietly.
The detective tilted his head to the side and asked, "So because you're with me, this isn't?"
John shrugged and interlaced his fingers with his partner's. "You just don't do sentiment."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well I haven't any information to the contrary," the doctor informed him. "And you are the one who always yells at me about theorizing before I have the facts. I don't have any facts to suggest otherwise. After all—you don't do things like that."
"Are you so sure?"
"Mr. Bloody it's All Transport—yes. Am I right?"
"I never said you were…"
"So—what? Does that mean that you actually do romance?" John questioned with a surprised expression.
"With the right partner, yes. I can be persuaded," the genius clarified with an amused smirk.
"Right. So…who would you consider 'the right partner', then?"
"Oh John, you're such an idiot…"
Sherlock had had just enough wine to make him feel brazen. He stopped walking and forced John to do the same by tugging on their joined fingers. With his free hand, the detective reached up and cupped his blogger's cheek before lowering his head to gently caress John's lips with his own.
The doctor was momentarily startled, but recovered quickly. He slid the arm not holding Sherlock's hand around the detective and pulled him closer. He parted his lips and allowed his flat mate entrance to his mouth. John sucked on Sherlock's tongue, caressing it with his own. Letting go of their joined hand, the older man gripped onto the genius' hips and pulled the young flush against him.
When John rocked their groins together, Sherlock moaned then broke away panting. He took a step back just to put some distance between them.
"I think—I think that's enough for tonight," the consulting detective huffed breathlessly.
"Is that all? Seriously?" John demanded with a frown. "We both want this. Don't tell me you don't. You're definitely turned on right now from our little snog session and you've been watching me all week."
"You're drunk John. I don't want to get you into any situation that you may regret tomorrow," answered that deep baritone.
"Why? Drunk sex is fantastic! And for the record—I retain full memory of my drunken exploits. Believe me—I'll remember it in the morning," the doctor replied. "Besides—I've waited a long time for you to want this too."
"Then what's stopped you before?" Sherlock whispered, closing the distance between them again.
John gazed up at him with dark eyes, pupils blown with just a sliver of dark blue still showing around the outer rim. He licked his lips nervously and answered honestly. "I want you, Sherlock—badly. But I don't just want your body; I want your heart too. I can't do this if you only want sex."
Sherlock rubbed his thumbs down either side of his blogger's throat in a sensual caress. "It could never be just sex with you, John."
"Then I'm not that drunk right now, Sherlock," the doctor stated.
Oh how he wanted this! He was achingly hard and wanted John's body against his. The consulting detective grabbed John's hand again. They all but ran the rest of the way back to the house. The minute the door closed behind them, clothes were unceremoniously stripped off and left to fall where they may. Sherlock led his blogger into his bedroom and slammed the door shut behind them.
John shifted slightly and took a deep breath, taking in the salt air mixed with the sweet scent of rain. He opened his eyes to the pearl grey light filtering through the gossamer curtains. A slight sea breeze ruffled the drapes and sent a delightful shiver through him.
"Morning," Sherlock greeted with a smile. He rested his chin on the doctor's chest and gazed up at him with an unnamed emotion in his eyes.
Running a hand up the detective's bare back, John leaned up to capture Sherlock's lips. When they pulled away, he said, "Mmm. I could get used to waking up like this."
"It does have its advantages," the genius agreed. "I've never been one to cuddle, but I must say—this is rather nice."
"I think it's more about the person you're with than anything else," the doctor stated. Sherlock didn't reply, but he turned his head into John's shoulder and the older man could feel those cupid's bow lips smile before they placed soft kisses along his collar bone. They stayed like that for awhile, listening to the rain fall against the window pane.
"Care for a walk along the beach?" John inquired as he rolled them over onto their sides.
"In the rain?"
"Yes—in the rain, it'll be romantic," John insisted.
With a hint of fond amusement lacing his voice, the detective asked, "My, you are the sentimental type, aren't you?"
"Problem?"
"No. Just another observation, John. I wouldn't have you any other way." Sherlock leaned over and pecked his blogger on the lips one last time before rolling over and climbing out of bed. "So, what does one wear for rainy walks along the beach?"
John wrapped an arm around the genius' waist and kissed him between the shoulder blades before answering, "I think swim trunks and a jumper will do."
With a laugh, Sherlock stood and wandered over to his closet. "You and you're love of woolen goods. You do know that I don't actually own a jumper, right?"
"Well lucky for you I brought an extra one," replied John with a cheeky grin.
Fifteen minutes later, they were both adorned in their trunks and one of the doctor's jumpers. The weather had shifted from a downpour to a light, misty drizzle and it wasn't entirely unpleasant. They headed out in the opposite direction from the town, along a stretch of beach that was uninhabited. Both were bare foot and hand in hand as they sloshed through the water's edge, letting the waves lap at their ankles.
Sherlock was amazed that his mind, for once, was leaving him in peace. He still took in everything he saw and recording it and cataloguing it accordingly, but he didn't have the pressing need to examine hundreds of thoughts simultaneously. His brain was blessedly…silent. He supposed it had something to do with their fervent love-making from the night before. Sherlock was not a virgin, despite what his brother might think, but it had been a while since he had indulged in pleasures of the flesh. Though, as he thought back on those previous encounters, the genius realized that none of them had ever affected him this way. Maybe there was something to be said about sentiment after all—Sherlock was certain that part of it was definitely John.
Speaking of which, every once and a while the doctor would stop and pick up a shell or a rock from the beach and examine it. After this happened four or five times, the detective spoke up and asked about it.
"John—what on earth are you doing?"
"Didn't you ever pick up shells as a child, Sherlock?" the older man countered.
"No, not really."
"That surprises me," John confessed. "You examine everything. I would think that shells would particularly fascinate you on some level." He handed his companion what looked to be a black oyster shell. The outside was nothing spectacular to look at, but the inside was swirled with a beautiful dark grey mother of pearl shine.
"Yes," Sherlock murmured, "it is rather beautiful." He ran the pad of his thumb over the fragile glossy surface, feeling its uneven texture beneath his finger. "This might be interesting to view under my microscope…"
John chuckled as the shell disappeared into his flat mate's pocket. Every so often, they would repeat this exercise which led to them collecting a decent amount of specimen for the genius to study later. The doctor found a smooth pebble, the color of jade, and inspected it thoughtfully for a moment. Sherlock waited patiently, knowing that there was something on his lover's mind.
"Did you know that penguins mate for life?" the doctor asked. The consulting detective shook his head, unsure where this was going.
"The male combs the beach looking for the perfect stone to give to his chosen mate," he continued. "Almost like an engagement ring of sorts, I guess. If the mate accepts it, then they are partners—usually for life."
"Interesting," Sherlock mused—and he meant it. He pondered over this for a moment before asking in turn, "Did you know that penguins are also a species that exhibits homosexual behavior? Actually, it's quite common in the animal kingdom. Dolphins and other primates have been known to take same-sex partners as well. It's common among social birds and mammals."
"I learn something new every day with you," John replied with a grin that the genius echoed.
Sherlock squeezed his hand and said, "This was an excellent idea. I would never have really considered taking a walk on the beach in the rain. Though I do believe that I am quite thoroughly wet at the moment and could use a nice cup of tea."
The doctor steered them back in the direction of their beach house and told his best friend, "Alright, when we get back, I'll make you that cuppa."
Forty-five minutes later saw them both changed into dry clothes and sitting at the kitchen table with a hot cup of tea each. They were angled so they could watch the surf from out of the sliding glass door.
"You know—I always thought that I would love to be married on the beach," John declared randomly after a few moments of watching the waves. Sherlock gave his blogger a sidelong glance and quirked a smile.
It was well past sunset on the sixth day of their holiday. John was sad it see it end. He had no idea what would happen between them once they returned to Baker Street tomorrow afternoon. They had yet to discuss the full ramifications of this shift in their relationship. Sherlock had fallen asleep several hours ago, leaving the doctor to his thoughts and worries.
As he gazed out the back door, he was mesmerized by splendor of the night surf. The storm had finally passed around noon that day and now the sky was clear, with thousands of stars glittering like diamonds off in the distance. The moon was nearly full and just as bright and it cast its light onto the waves. It called to him like the sweet sound of a siren's song.
Without thinking twice, John stripped out of his clothes and stepped out onto the beach naked. He didn't stop until he was chest deep in the water. The doctor swam a little further out and treaded water for several minutes before lazily splashing around into shallower depths. A short while later, he looked up and saw the silhouette of a figure approaching.
Sherlock stopped at the water's edge, just far enough into the surf to let the waves roll across the tops of his feet. John froze as he drank in the sight before him. The detective stood before him in all his nude glory, his pale skin glowing in the moonlight. Without hesitation, the doctor approached his lover and enfolded him in his arms. Sherlock gasped and shivered as John's wet skin pressed against his feverish body.
"I thought that since you let your swim trunks lying on the floor in the kitchen, I should do the same," he explained with a grin.
"You are positively brilliant," John stated as he pulled the genius' head down for a heated kiss.
The doctor forced his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, causing the younger man to moan obscenely. The noise went straight to John's groin and he found himself half hard within seconds. The detective could feel his lover's shaft touching his upper thigh and he thrust his hips against his blogger's. John reached down and grabbed his best friend's arse with both hands, causing a delicious slide of friction between them.
Before Sherlock could even register what was happening, he suddenly found himself lying in the wet sand with John pressed against him. He bit into his bottom lip as the doctor's pleasurable weight settled on top of him.
"God! I would have you right here," the older man growled as he bent his head to lap at one rosy pink nipple.
With another shiver, the genius whispered, "I prepared myself."
John jerked his gaze back up to meet Sherlock's. While still holding his blogger's stare, the younger man reached between their bodies and fisted his lover's erection and gave a few pumps, coating it in lube.
With a gasp, the doctor asked, "Is this what you want, Sherlock? Sex on the beach?"
"Yes!" he answered, wrapping his long legs around John's waist and dug the heel of his foot into the small of the older man's back. "Fuck me," the detective whispered.
Without needing further encouragement, John impaled his best friend with one thrust, causing them both to cry out. He thrust his hips several times, just enough to drive Sherlock crazy without touching him in the one place he wanted.
"Come on, John!" the genius ground out, frustrated.
The doctor pulled almost all the way out before slamming all the way back in, nailing Sherlock's prostate. The detective screamed in pleasure and threw his head back against the sand, squeezing his eyes shut as his back arched. John kept up his relentless slaughter, causing Sherlock to drop his heels back to the ground and reach up to grip his blogger's shoulders tightly.
It wasn't enough, not yet. The doctor hooked his elbow under the genius' left knee and, effectively changing the angle of his thrusts.
"John! Ohmygod! Just like that!" Sherlock commanded. He curled the toes on his right foot in the wet sand. He was on sensory overload as he suddenly became aware of the water lapping against his foot. The heat from John's body and the contrast of the cool wet sand beneath him wreaked havoc on him.
The doctor leaned over a little more, bringing them closer together and causing a blessed friction to rub against Sherlock's neglected cock which was trapped between their bodies.
He sobbed in relief and then begged John to let him cum. The sea foam swirled around him and he couldn't stand it any longer.
"Sherlock," the doctor called out, demanding attention.
The detective opened his eyes and locked unto John's deep blue ones.
"I love you," the older man declared. And that was all it took.
He screamed John's name as he came, coating both their stomachs and chests. The doctor thrust three more times before he followed, his mouth open and gasping for air as waves of pleasure rolled over him.
They laid there in the surf for several long moments trying to catch their breath before John carefully pulled out and flopped over onto his side. It took a great amount of effort for him to get back up on his feet again and even longer for him to help Sherlock up. When they were both steady on their feet, the doctor pulled them out into the ocean to rinse off the sand.
Sherlock staggered a little and clung to John as he ducked under the water to cleanse his hair. The doctor pulled him closer. The younger man sighed and rested his forehead against his companion's.
"I meant what I said," his blogger whispered.
"I know you did," the detective answered. "And I love you too, John."
The doctor knew he was grinning like a fool, but he couldn't help it. They stood their basking in their mutual affection for one another for a few moments before John pulled them back to the house for a joint shower.
He yawned so hard his jaw cracked. John stretched and sat up, looking around the room which was now brightly lit by the morning sun. Sherlock wasn't in bed any longer and all his things were neatly packed into his traveling case that now sat near the door.
Not paying it any mind, the doctor padded into the bathroom to brush his teeth. In the middle of his final rinse, he glanced over and saw a thin spiral, cream-colored shell—which he later found out was a needle whelk—that was about eight centimeters long. He picked it up gingerly and examined it. No doubt it had been left there for him by Sherlock. John tried to swallow around the lump in his throat and rushed into the bedroom to dress in haste.
Moments later, he found his lover on the beach in a pair of black trousers and a white button down. The genius stood facing the ocean with his hands clasped behind his back. John stopped beside him and gazed out into the water, waiting for the younger man to speak.
"It took me awhile to find a shell that wasn't broken in some way or another," Sherlock stated without preamble. "I was about to give up when I saw that one. It reminded me of that jumper you're so found of."
"So…that is how you meant it?" the doctor hazarded, hope blooming in his chest.
The consulting detective turned to him with a soft smile and answered, "It seemed inappropriate to give you a pebble. We're not penguins, but I was hoping that a shell would get the point across nonetheless. I know you are rather fond of sentiment."
"And to think I once thought you didn't do romance," the older man laughed and wiped the moisture from his eyes. "So does this mean you're asking me to be your mate?"
"Hmm, I believe that was my intention, yes."
"You never cease to amaze me," John replied and pulled Sherlock down for a kiss. When they separated, he whispered, "That was a 'yes' in case you were unclear."
Sherlock slid his arms around his blogger and cuddled him closer. "You know—I've always been found of beach weddings…"
John laughed and kissed his partner again.
So I have obviously never been a Boy Scout-but I still am a registered Girl Scout! Not sure if the boys make s'mores, but they are the best thing ever (if you've never had them, try them-seriously. Just marshmallow, graham crackers, and milk chocolate. Their inventor should be given sainthood). And besides the need for additional kindling, the teepee construct is the best/quickest way to get a good camp/bon fire going. ;)