"I don't see the point of this," Sherlock Holmes grumbled, angst coating every word and action as he flung himself dramatically into one of the plush, extremely comfortable seats of the private jet they would be travelling in. Mycroft snorted, and Lestrade just shook his head as the two of them took their own seats, as far from the consulting detective as possible. On a jet with eight seats, set in pairs of two with a table between them, that was not very far, and they could still clearly hear him.
They could also hear John, who sighed, brought a hand to his forehead for a moment, and then settled into his own seat, hoping that he could somehow transfer his own secret glee to the other man… or perhaps beat it into him.
"Sherlock, the point of this is that vacations are fun. It's like rewarding yourself for doing hard work, taking time away with people you care about so you can enjoy them, and yourself, outside of the usual setting."
"But I like my cases." Sulking, Sherlock actually let his lower lip extend just a bit, knowing John wouldn't fail to notice it. It was his version of punishment for making him agree to this… vacation. Ugh. How he hated vacations. Dreadfully dull, boring things, if they were anything like they'd been when he and Mycroft were children. He still hadn't been told where they were going, but if he had to go on one more carefully structured tour, or visit one more thing of "significance" and be forced to memorize every insignificant fact about it, he was going to make the entire trip unpleasant for all of them.
"Yes, I know, but what's wrong with taking a break? Relaxing for a bit. I know we don't know where we're going, but I'm sure there'll be a beach or a pool around, or Mycroft wouldn't have suggested we bring trunks to swim in. We could just spend the whole day lounging on beach chairs, or explore, or do whatever it is you want to do."
Sherlock made a very undignified noise and turned toward the window, and John gestured helplessly for Mycroft, Lestrade—hell, the pilot would do at this point—anyone to help him out here. Lestrade just looked amused, but Mycroft looked thoughtful.
"You know, Sherlock, our parents did not arrange this trip. As such, you won't have to give any sort of report when you return home… unless you want to, anyway."
That perked Sherlock up just a little, and he was at least made him not quite so miserable as the four men flew to he-didn't-know-where for an entire week of "fun." That, he decided, remained to be seen. Were there going to be dead bodies? He somehow doubted it. No fun cases, no reason to sling insults and laugh at Anderson's incompetency… Clearly, his and John's idea of fun were very different creatures. Then again…
Looking over at John, who was now staring out the window, the aggravated expression he sometimes wore when dealing with Sherlock firmly fixed on his face, he realized something important. Despite the fact that he wasn't looking forward to an entire week with nothing to do, at least the company would be good. And maybe this would make John happy. That, more than anything, was what the consulting detective wanted. Thinking about this, he reached out slowly to where John's hand lay on the table, fingertips tapping in an absent rhythm, and threaded their fingers together.
John stilled for a moment, then slowly started to smile again. Sherlock, relieved that he hadn't screwed up the other man's day once again, let himself study the land beneath them. No, he had no clue where they were going, or what he would do for the next week, but as long as he had John by his side, and was able to hold his hand and kiss him, things were looking up.
About an hour after they landed—some small island with a beach and a sprawling, luxurious beach house—Sherlock flopped down on his bed, thinking back over the past several days.
His relationship with John was new, so new, and fulfilled all his wildest dreams despite the fact that they hadn't done much more than kiss and hold hands. Affection was all but unknown to him, unless he was using it to get what he wanted, and John had told him that that was not why couples did things like cuddle and make out and have sex. He'd said that they would go slow, so Sherlock could learn the difference.
Sherlock only had one speed in anything in his life, and that was fast. Now that he knew that by some miracle, the doctor returned his affections, he wanted to rush straight into life together. He knew that since John actually knew how to be in a relationship, he should follow his lead. It was just difficult, when for so long, he'd wanted this man all to himself. Now, when he finally had him… it just seemed like half a decade of yearning should have culminated quickly, instead of at what he considered a glacial pace.
A knock at his door made him sit up hopefully, but when it was just Mycroft, he flopped back down, sighing. He hadn't seen John since he and Lestrade had gleefully gone exploring the beach palace Mycroft had somehow wrangled for them, and he'd noticed the second's hesitation John had displayed before inviting him to join them. He'd been jealous that John had gone off with Greg, no matter that what he wanted to talk about with the cop was him. They were spending time together, and Sherlock was ever possessive of that which was his.
"What's the matter, brother dear?" Mycroft and Sherlock had a very different relationship than most brothers, but underneath their usual rivalry was a vein of caring that ran deep. Neither of them could ever forget that, although Mycroft hadn't been very old when Sherlock had been born, he'd pretty much been both mother and father to him, considering their own parents couldn't care less. Their children had been trophies, nothing more, and Sherlock hadn't held up quite as well under that lifestyle as his older brother. He wondered if that explained his former aversion to touch, or the reason for his sudden touch hunger when it came to a certain army doctor, but dismissed the thought as unimportant.
"What time do I have to be up in the morning?" Sherlock countered the other man's question, earning him a small smirk that said Mycroft knew something that his little brother didn't. That was irritating, but not as irritating as the sudden sparkle of laughter he heard from somewhere down the hallway.
"Whenever you would like. I told you on the plane, this is not like one of the lovely 'family vacations' we took in our youth. Your time here is yours, to do with what you will. I don't care if you spend the entire week here in your room sulking, but I, for one, am going to go find Gregory and go find the kitchen in this place. And you needn't worry about cooking or cleaning up after yourself, not that you actually do those things anyway. We have a full staff here, including two chefs and a small army of gardeners, in addition to several maids and the pool boy."
Sherlock heard, in his brother's little jibes, suggestions. Undoubtedly they were ones he was meant to hear, and that rankled a bit, though he realized that if he wanted his relationship with John to change, he might try taking on some of the chores he normally dismissed as too boring. Perhaps if he showed that he was willing to help out more often, John could be convinced to touch him.
Mycroft walked out without waiting for a thank you, because he knew better, and found Greg and John discussing all the different rooms they'd found, standing in the hallway between their rooms. When Lestrade saw him, his eyes lit up.
"Hey, My. Want to head to the pool or the beach after we eat?" That crooked grin already sat on his lips, knowing that Mycroft would say yes. Predictably, the younger man stepped closer and placed an easy, affectionate kiss on his lips. Both men missed the flash of emotion on John's face as they gazed into each other's eyes.
"I think I'm just gonna go back to my room, maybe see how Sherlock's doing. I'll see the two of you later!" Keeping his tone of voice cheery, so as not to alarm them and ruin their moment, John waited until he'd shut the door to his room to sigh and slide to the floor, tired and sad.
It had been only a couple of days since those kisses on the roof, but he could still almost taste them on his lips. That, of course, was why it hurt that, ever since their talk about taking it slow, Sherlock had made no advances whatsoever. That moment when he'd taken his hand on the jet had been the first time he'd so much as touched him since then, and John had no illusions that Sherlock had done it because he wanted to. No, the gesture had been for John, because the curly haired genius knew he'd irritated him.
John still remembered the look on Sherlock's face when he explained that he wanted to move at a slower pace so that Sherlock had plenty of time and would feel comfortable exploring those aspects of a relationship. He'd looked like a child whose favorite toy had been taken from him. Instead of being happy that John cared enough about the fragile relationship they were forming, he'd been upset, and then angry. The consulting detective had acted as if, if John wasn't interested in rushing straight into sex with him, he was an experiment that had displayed disappointing results.
That, more than anything, was what had hurt. Was that all this was to the other man? An experiment would certainly explain his behavior… but no, there were genuine emotions behind his strange behavior that had led to the scene on the roof of St. Bart's. That part, at least, had been real. John had to believe that, because it would hurt too much to think he'd been manipulated the entire time.
While John was in his room, trying to fight his doubts, Sherlock was taking a deep breath in his own room, trying to work up the courage to ask John to do… something. It didn't matter what. He supposed he could offer to go for a walk on the beach as that was exactly the sort of thing that John would enjoy, but he wasn't sure if he could be alone with John and not try and jump him right there on the sand.
Deciding that it was worth the offer, even if he was almost certain it was a bad idea, he checked his luggage for appropriate clothes. Mycroft had somehow procured more casual clothes for him, replacing a few of his button downs with ordinary tee shirts, and even slipped in a few pair of khaki shorts. No doubt his assistant had made the changes, but it didn't matter. Those were the appropriate clothes, after all. He might as well make a good showing of it.
Changing into a dark purple shirt, because John seemed to like him in purple, he regretfully removed his tailored slacks and put on a pair of the shorts, feeling horribly underdressed as he left his room and went to John's, knocking gently on the door.
"One second!" A vaguely panicked voice came from the other side, and he heard a string of curses that were an unexpected turn-on before the sound of sliding fabric distracted him in an equally pleasant way.
John cursed when he heard the knock at his door, because he was smack in the middle of changing to go down to the beach and try to salvage the night with a stroll over the dunes. He figured that if Sherlock was going to ignore him the entire trip, there were worse things than spending a week on a private beach. Assuming the person knocking was Greg, he hastily pulled on trunks before making his way to the door.
When he whipped the door open, he wasn't sure who looked more surprised to see who. Sherlock's eyes were wide as they scanned him, and John felt curiously exposed, once he got over the realization that Sherlock had approached him. Sherlock, who'd made an art form out of making other people come to him first. He'd made more than a small effort, judging by his wardrobe, and the nervous expression on his face was oddly reassuring. Yes, there were feelings there. They were just being displayed in the usual bizarre, Sherlockian manner. But that was okay. They could work through it together.
"Hello there." Smiling in relief, John looked up at the consulting detective, who was still staring. It took him a few moments to collect himself, caught off guard as he was by the doctor's naked chest, but John's words reminded him that he needed to say something. He felt incredibly stupid as he scrambled for words, a condition that the shorter man often inspired in him.
"I was thinking you might like to… well, take a walk on the beach with me." Judging by his state of dress, John had obviously been planning to hit the water, and Sherlock cursed himself as he realized that he'd probably made plans with Greg, and that was probably why he was dressed. "Unless you're busy…" he tacked on, wondering if the earth could possibly take it upon itself to open up and swallow him whole.
"That sounds fine. I was just heading down there for a walk myself. Your company would be nice."
Stepping into the hallway, John shut the door, very aware of how close they were when he had to turn to the side to get around the consulting detective who was still frozen in place. Slowly, he moved back, biting his lip, and John smiled at him, heading for the doors. He let his hands dangle loose at his sides, but even though the backs of their hands occasionally brushed, Sherlock didn't take his hand. He felt a little sad at that, but he'd already made up his mind that he wasn't going to push Sherlock into anything. The pace was his to set, and at least they were spending time together.
The air was warm and tropical, despite the lateness of the hour, but there was a pleasant breeze coming off the ocean that made it feel perfect. Neither man had bothered with shoes, so they walked barefoot until John took a seat atop a sand dune, where he could watch the sun set and the stars come out.
"Do you ever feel small and insignificant, looking up at the sky?" The words slipped out without thinking, and John cursed himself. This was exactly the sort of romantic thing he could feel free to say in front of his former bevy of girlfriends, but this was Sherlock. He was probably going to snort and make some crack about how they were all small and insignificant compared to the cosmos, but it was too late now to recall his words.
Sherlock lay back on the sand, staring up with one arm behind his head, the other resting on the warm sand. He'd curled one knee up, and the edge of his shirt had slipped up to reveal about an inch of skin at the bottom of his torso. John had to remind himself twice not to look before deciding it was hopeless. Normally, this man looked like some kind of god, completely unapproachable with his tight shirts and tailored pants. Seeing him like this was indescribable, and for a moment, he almost thought of him as a normal human, like him.
"Yes." The answer caught him completely off guard, and John blinked at him. Sherlock sighed a little, the expression in his eyes almost sad, as if he was thinking deep thoughts instead of getting irritated with John. Slowly, he reclined, leaning on his elbow so he could look at Sherlock.
"Sometimes I feel very alone, John. I used to wonder if I was the only person in the world who would ever be able to understand me. Mycroft was always so… he fit, into the world our parents wanted for him. He made them proud, you see, and what little bit of distant affection they could offer up, he received. I was the second born, so I was… not as important. Mycroft did the best he could, to be there for me, but once he went to college… I was alone."
His need for touch was very much on his mind, and though it was pure coincidence that John had made a comment that tied in perfectly with that train of thought, he felt almost as if John could understand what he was saying. Honesty was important to the doctor, after all.
"I know I'm probably terrible at this relationship thing. I think… perhaps it would be better if you were to guide me, because I find myself unsure of what I need to do to make you happy." Frowning, Sherlock kept his eyes on the darkening sky, but the rest of his senses were so attuned to John that he couldn't fail to notice the sharp inhalation, probably followed by a furrowing brow and a frown that turned the corners of his mouth down.
"Sherlock…" Realizing now that his decision to give Sherlock space must have alarmed the other man, who he suddenly understood wouldn't see the gesture for what it was, John reached out and turned Sherlock's head so they could look into one another's eyes. In Sherlock's, he saw a deep yearning, as well as uncertainty, doubt, affection, and even fear. For a genius who never questioned his decisions, not even when they led him away for two years without letting John know that he was still alive, he was surprisingly insecure.
Giving him all the time in the world to pull away, John carefully shifted to their mouths were only an inch apart, watching him all the while to make sure he was okay. When his tongue darted out to lick his lips, John understood, for the first time, that Sherlock hadn't known how to make the first move. So he decided to show him.
It wasn't a kiss, at first. It was barely contact at all, just lips brushing against lips in a touch that could barely be felt, despite the way both men felt it to their cores. The next pass was a little firmer, the next one better still, until his tongue darted out and brushed over Sherlock's bottom lip, asking but not demanding.
Sherlock went still, and for a moment, John considered pulling away, trying again in a few minutes. He had a feeling that the consulting detective's sensation processing centers, so much more powerful than most people's, were struggling to process every feeling, catalogue it and save it for later review.
But then Sherlock started kissing him back, hungrily, and long, strong fingers tangled in his hair as he found himself flat on his back with the other man half over top of him, kissing him as if his life depended on it. John moaned as the consulting detective clumsily but enthusiastically kissed him, using a little too much of his teeth and a little too little of his tongue at first. Eventually, though, he started copying John, and it wasn't long before the kiss turned into one of the best John had ever experienced.
When after several minutes, Sherlock, pulled back, he was frowning. John was confused, until he saw Sherlock's tongue dart out, licking his lips and making a face.
"I'm afraid I made you bleed a little." He mumbled, cheeks turning ever so slightly pink as he collapsed back onto the sand, breathing unsteadily and dissatisfied with his lack of skill. To his surprise, John laughed, shaking his head in a way that could only be described as affectionate.
"And was I complaining? I mean, you were a little more aggressive than I'm used to, yeah, but it was actually really good for your first attempt at controlling a kiss. And you improved really quickly. So yeah, you made my lip bleed, but it's not the first time, and sometimes that's hot. Biting isn't an uncommon part of kissing."
"It isn't? I was unaware. They don't do that in the movies." Contemplating this, Sherlock thought of everything he knew about John and decided that no, the man wasn't lying when he said he didn't mind. And the coppery taste on his tongue wasn't unwelcome, though why drawing even such a small amount of blood should be a pleasant experience he couldn't quite understand, logically. Still, if John was amenable…
"Can we try that again?"
Mycroft let out a laugh as Greg wrinkled his nose, the sound startling both of them a little, in the best way. It was still rare for Mycroft to react to things like a normal person, and to hear him laugh, really laugh, was an extraordinary gift. Sure, he had made an art out of the "polite chuckle," but it was somehow different when he meant it, and Greg could always tell the difference.
"So you seriously told Sherlock to go jump in the Thames?"
"Well, yeah. I mean, Anderson's a git, that's true enough, but it hardly matters when he's actually paid to be a forensic tech, while Sherlock just consults with us. We both know who the higher ups will listen to if they get into it, and Anderson's constantly threatening to get Sherlock's permission to work with us revoked. I don't want you having to deal with getting that situation resolved. It's easier to just avoid it entirely."
"I'm touched that you think of me, Gregory, but you really needn't. I am more than capable of fixing my brother's screw ups, no matter how extraordinary they may seem at the time."
"I know that. But you're so busy already. I just hate to think of you wasting time playing nanny when we could be doing so much more interesting things." Winking at him across the table, Greg felt completely at ease, and Mycroft wondered, not for the first time, at the easy acceptance the DI offered him. From the beginning, he'd attached no strings to his affection, and though that had been beyond strange to Mycroft, he'd welcomed it.
Smiling back, because Lestrade was irresistible when he was being naughty, Mycroft rounded the table, dinner forgotten, and leaned down for a kiss, which melted into several more before Greg stood up and tugged him down several hallways, laughing each time he got a little lost, until he finally found the room they were sharing.
Sherlock and John, who'd just gotten together, had their own rooms, but considering Mycroft and Greg had been sharing a flat for the better part of a year, they hadn't seen a point in pretending they wouldn't be sleeping together. They fell into that bed now, tangled up in one another. For a long time at the beginning of their relationship, Mycroft had been wary of physical affection, both because he was unused to it and because he was extremely self-conscious. It had taken a lot of coaxing, but now, he trusted Greg, and that trust meant everything to both of them.
"I love you so much," Greg whispered in his ear before nipping at his neck, loving the way it made the politician moan, nails sliding down his back as he lost himself in the passion of their kiss. It was almost always Greg who initiated the words, but he knew it wasn't because Mycroft didn't feel it. He showed it, with every touch, every smile just for the cop that made heat pool low in his gut, and every phone call when he was going to be late, his voice filled with regret.
"And I you, my Gregory." The answer came without hesitation, now, because although the words used to make him uncomfortable, he knew Greg would never use his emotions against him, as so many others had tried to do. Even his own parents had manipulated him through praise, offering him parental affection only when he performed according to their expectations. Even years later, that had made him careful, so much so that Greg was the only person he'd allowed to get that close to him. He was glad, now, that he'd waited.
They made love slowly, something they hadn't been able to manage back at the beginning of their relationship. They lingered, tasting and touching and worshipping each other's bodies as if they had all the time in the world. After what must have been an hour, they brought each other to climax, and curled up together, gasping for breath, until Mycroft groaned and forced himself to get up and go get a cloth to clean them off.
Once he was able to rouse Greg enough to get him to stand up, the two went out to the balcony, looking up at the moon and stars and holding one another tight. Rarely did they have time to be romantic, but when they did, it was always nice to take advantage of it. They didn't feel a need to talk, as all the words had already been said. They simply savored the moment, and the connection between them, stronger even than the pull of gravity on the sea.
The next day, when Sherlock woke up, there was a smile on his face, though his lips were a little sore, and he had a feeling that vague tingling on his neck signaled a bruise. He and John had made out like teenagers on the beach, and even though they hadn't touched one another, they'd done enough kissing for him to become comfortable with it.
If he hadn't spent years lusting after John, it might have been enough. But he'd have been lying if he said that he didn't want more, didn't want to know what it was like to have that powerful body moving over his, claiming him, branding him with touch until his pale skin showed obvious signs of belonging to the one person he could never live without.
And yet, any time his hands had started to wander up, to caress the former soldier's skin, John had shaken his head, saying they needed to take it slow.
A part of the consulting detective wondered if John wasn't afraid to take the next step. As far as he knew, the doctor had never been with another man, and no matter how many women he'd bedded, that would probably make him feel a little wary. Sherlock supposed he couldn't blame him. The situation would be new to both of them, because while kissing was done the same way, touching was a little different.
In some ways, he was sure, it would be easier. They had the same parts, after all; surely John would know what to do with his penis, considering he knew how to get himself off. Still, Sherlock had to admit to himself that there were aspects of it he hadn't exactly been considering the night before.
Touching, he knew, led to nudity, which would inevitably lead to the question of sex. He hadn't brought any lube or condoms, and he wasn't sure he felt comfortable asking Mycroft or Greg if they had any extra. It wasn't like the two men would be likely to mind. It wasn't a secret that they had intercourse, or that they enjoyed it frequently, when they both had the time. It was Sherlock's natural reluctance to discuss intimacy of any kind that made bringing the topic up next to impossible, and he knew it was a bad idea for a virgin to attempt it without lube.
Scratch that. A really, really bad idea. He'd read that if a body was improperly prepared, tearing as a possibility, and the last thing he wanted was to be in the middle of things and start bleeding from places that would make continuing a bad idea. As a doctor, John knew too well what could happen—that story he'd told Sherlock about that rather unfortunate hamster illustrated that fact rather nicely—and he wouldn't consummate things if there was a risk to his partner. He was kind, loyal, and annoying like that.
That was why he'd sent Sherlock back to his own room with a long but firm goodnight kiss, ignoring his pleas for five more minutes. By that point, he'd been having a hard time walking, his erection rubbing against his pants uncomfortably with every step. He'd even gone so far as to lock his door so Sherlock couldn't get in. Not that a locked door would normally have stopped him from getting what he wanted, but he did try to respect John's wishes, usually.
He lay in bed for what must have been half an hour before deciding to forage for breakfast. John liked it when he ate, after all.
"Can I ask you an awkward question?"
"Do you have a minute to talk?" John and Greg spoke at the exact same time, and they both laughed for a minute, before sitting down on the veranda and sipping at their tea.
"You go first," Greg said, and John shrugged before starting. The two men had become good friends due to their relationships with the Holmes brothers, because they were able to offer each other a level of understanding that anyone who wasn't in love with a Holmes just couldn't manage.
"I mean, it's not… As a doctor, I suppose it should have occurred to me to bring condoms and lube, but Sherlock was being rather distant after I requested that we go slowly for his benefit, so I didn't imagine that I would need supplies. Did you and Mycroft happen to bring extra, or is there some shop I could take a boat to, or something…?"
"So you and Sherlock are going to have sex?" Pleased for his friend, Greg laughed a little when John blushed.
"God, I remember those days. It's all so strange and exciting at the beginning, isn't it? I mean, it doesn't get any less exciting, but I remember blushing like that whenever Donovan would tease me about the "new lady friend" in my life, and the first time I got up the nerve to tell her that it wasn't a woman who had me strutting into work after a long, mostly sleepless night."
Smiling at the memories, and feeling horribly nostalgic, Greg forced himself to focus on John's dilemma.
"Mycroft tends to overthink everything, and he did anticipate this. I think you'll find, if you check your nightstand drawer, that you're good to go as far as that's concerned."
"Oh. I, um… thank him for me, won't you?" Blushing a little harder, John decided that the only way to get past the embarrassment was to change the topic.
"So you said that you wanted to talk?"
"Yeah. I want you and Sherlock to come down to the beach for a fire tonight. I… I'm gonna ask Mycroft to marry me."
"Really? Does that mean he doesn't already know you're going to ask? How could he not know? He has surveillance on you every bit as much as he does on Sherlock." Delighted for his friend, both for the news and for somehow being able to keep a secret from a Holmes, John peppered him with questions, desperate for details.
"I had his assistant help me a couple of weeks ago while he was out of the country, and the two of us went out and picked out the rings. Mycroft doesn't suspect a thing because that woman is an incredible liar and I had her hide the ring here for me on her last security sweep. All I had to do from there was just not think about it around him, and today, I've just got to keep him out of my pockets until tonight."
"You think that'll be difficult?" John raised an eyebrow, but his eyes glimmered with mirth.
"Hey, obviously Sherlock's not quite hit that stage where he hangs off you constantly when he can, but they didn't… they weren't neglected when they were kids, exactly, but they certainly weren't given the affection that most children are. Mycroft couldn't get enough of touching me for the longest time, at the beginning of the relationship, and from what he says, Sherlock's likely to be even worse. Not being around you will probably actually be like a kind of torture for him. Being in a relationship with a Holmes pretty much means throwing out any rules of normal relationships and just kind of going with their flow."
"So that's why Mycroft thought we would be having sex." Frowning as he remembered the frustrated look on Sherlock's face when he'd left him the night before, he saw in those eyes, now, an emotion he'd somehow overlooked the night before: fear.
"Yeah. Mycroft explained it to me, though I'm still not entirely sure I get it. Basically, he said that because they were never really hugged or held like normal children, and touch is a cornerstone of development, they developed a little… strangely. Touch does weird things to them, and they hate being touched by pretty much everyone. But when they find someone they do trust, they never want to let go.
"I remember Mycroft asking me not to go that first night, and when I asked him why, he said it was because he was terrified that if I got too far away, I'd come to my senses and never want to come back. Just like that. I think I fell in love with him that very night, holding him while he fell asleep so he wouldn't think I was going to abandon him. When I woke up in the morning, and we were all tangled together, I realized there was no one else I wanted to wake up next to for the rest of my life."
"That's pathetically romantic, Lestrade." Sherlock's voice broke into the conversation, and both men jumped, eyes flashing in panic as they wondered how long he'd been standing there, and how much he'd heard.
"Morning, Sherlock," Greg eventually said, and the consulting detective grunted in reply before sitting beside John. Close enough that he could feel his body heat, but not touching him. Keeping Greg's words in mind, as well as the uncertainty in Sherlock's eyes, John reached out and deliberately took his hand, bringing it to his mouth for a kiss. He held the taller man's gaze as he did it, making it clear that the gesture was done with purpose.
There was surprise in those grey-blue eyes, but also relief, and John smiled at him adoringly as he lowered his hand, twining their fingers together instead of letting go.
"Good morning, Sherlock." For some reason, when John said it, there was so much more depth to it, as if he was referencing some inside secret that no one else would understand. After so many years working together, they pretty much had their own language and methods of communication, but this was something new. Something that made Sherlock blush a little, a pleased expression on his face that made Greg grin as he watched them. He noticed they still hadn't broken eye contact.
"Good morning, Sherlock, John, Gregory." Greg grinned as he realized that Mycroft said his name much the same way John said Sherlock's. Love could change something as simple as a name to a declaration of devotion and love, and the way Mycroft said his name made him smile every time.
"Morning, My." The politician came over and sat on his lap to give him a kiss, ignoring his brother and John in favor of smiling lovingly at his cop. Sherlock made gagging noises until John squeezed his hand a little harder than was probably necessary, earning a scowl although Sherlock didn't pull away. In fact, he looked… almost hopeful. Guessing what he wanted, John tugged him in and gave him a kiss, which Sherlock melted into instantly.
"And you think that we are sappy, as they say, brother dear." Mycroft was teasing his brother, and it took everyone else a few moments to get that. Greg laughed, John chuckled, and Sherlock? Sherlock just looked as if he wasn't quite sure what to say, for a moment. And then he offered his brother a small tentative smile, which was returned instantly.
"So what do we want to do today?" John decided to speak before an awkward silence descended on the foursome, and Greg turned to Mycroft.
"Good question. What is there to do here, besides walk on the beach and get lost in this place?"
In the end, the men ended up taking a trip on a rather nice yacht, courtesy of a two minute phone call by Mycroft, before being dropped back on the island just in time for a beautiful supper served on the veranda, with stunningly lovely tables set for two, one on either end of the space, lit by long, tapered candles. The conversations were light, the food cooked perfectly, and there was light music filtering from somewhere, though neither John nor Greg could find a source. The Holmes brothers, who'd found themselves alone on the yacht for five minutes while their partners were exploring below deck, grinned throughout the evening.
Once their meals were done, they were cleared away by the efficient and silent staff, and Mycroft stood and cleared his throat, offering his hand to Greg.
"If you will, Gregory, Sherlock and I have arranged a little surprise for everyone tonight. It's just inside, in the ballroom."
Entranced, Greg let Mycroft lead him inside and guide him to a seat, while Sherlock did the same with an amused John. Mycroft walked to the beautiful baby grand piano while Sherlock produced his violin from out of nowhere, stroking the strings fondly while Mycroft flipped up the cover and nodded to his brother. They smiled at one another, tapped their feet in perfect time twice, and then were off.
When John thought to ask the name of the piece after a full minute of silence in the aftermath, Sherlock merely smiled, responded that the piece had no name, and took a bow. It was the kind of music that could bring the greats to their knees. John was used to hearing Sherlock abuse his violin while on cases, and downright torture the poor thing in between them, but this was different. It was emotion laid bare, transposed into notes, and set free to flutter around the room like butterflies, a swirling tornado of emotion, consuming the men it was created for and giving them a glimpse into the minds of their other halves.
The Holmes brothers switched leads effortlessly, one rising while the other fell then dying back so the other could take the spotlight, trading back and forth until it was nearly impossible to discern the change between one moment and the next, only possible to understand that somehow, it had changed. The tempo rose and fell with no visible signals, like the flame of a candle, influenced by a chemistry so complex and mysterious the explanation could never be fully understood even if it was given. Somehow, it didn't seem to matter, not when Greg and John watched, completely enraptured, as they finished with a flowing series of notes that petered off and disappeared on one long, dramatic shared note.
Greg tugged on his collar as he stood up, nervous despite the fact that he knew Mycroft loved him. This was important, and after the concert earlier, he was certain that he'd made the right decision. He wanted Mycroft, forever and always, with a passion that even his ex-wife had never inspired. This mysterious, brilliant man had brought him to life, and taught him what it was to live even when he thought the best years of his life were behind him and wasted. Mycroft was everything he'd ever wanted, and loved him with a kind of unconditional devotion that he doubted anyone else was capable of, where it came to him.
If he believed in soul mates, Greg Lestrade would have wholeheartedly screamed from the rooftops that Mycroft Holmes was his. And since the other man had come into his life, he'd come to believe that such a phenomenon was possible; if not in the usually intended sense of the term, than in a very important way that suited logic as much as emotion. They fit together, in every way that counted, and contrasted one another in small but significant ways that meant they were never bored. Greg was certain, dead certain, that this was what he wanted.
And when he dropped to one knee in the sand, back to the flames, and stared into Mycroft's wide, shocked eyes, he found himself laughing a little, at the thought of all they'd become from that first meeting, when Mycroft was just another posh bloke bailing his druggie brother out of jail.
"Mycroft Holmes. Ever since I met you, my life has become a roller coaster with crazy highs and lows I'd never dreamed could even be possible in this world. You have surpassed my every expectation in so many ways, and shown me how I can be more than I ever believed. With you by my side, I have found beauty in every minute, no matter how terrifying or dark, and I believe with my whole heart that there is no place I belong in this world if it is not by your side.
"If you would do me the honor of becoming my husband, it would mean more to me than anything ever has, because I have never felt as complete as I am when you are by my side, and you would make me the happiest man in the world if you would let me pledge, in front of our family, friends, and whatever gods exist, that I will spend the rest of my life loving you with every beat of my heart. You mean the world to me, Mycroft, and I love you. Please, marry me, and let me try to give you even a fraction of the happiness you've given me just by being a part of my life and becoming a part of me."
There were tears in both their eyes as Mycroft nodded, unable to find words because Greg had just said it all. He slipped his decoy ring off, perhaps a little too easily, because Greg raised an eyebrow, obviously trying to figure out why the ring was a bad fit now.
Mycroft set that ring aside until Greg slid the new platinum band on his finger, their initials linked together on the inside, before holding up his old gold ring, newly resized and engraved with their initials on the inner surface. Greg laughed, understanding even before his lover—fiancée, now—explained.
"My dear Gregory, I had planned to ask you to marry me at the end of this vacation. I was prepared to promise you a million vacations just like this, all the luxury you could ever want, anything you asked for, in exchange for making me the happiest man in the world. I guess we were thinking along the same lines, but anyway… this ring was, for many years, my decoy. I always planned to use it to symbolize the love I never dared hope for, holding a place on my hand because I feared that you, the person who was meant to have my heart, would never come along to claim it. I had this engraved the day after we first made love, because I knew it was meant for you. I love you, Gregory."
"No wonder your assistant helped me pick that particular combination of our initials," Greg said, his smile wide and gleaming in the moonlight. Mycroft kissed him, then, and he would have sworn that fireworks went off behind his eyes, fanciful though the idea undoubtedly was. Somehow, Gregory made magic happen, and he wanted to spend the rest of his life witnessing the miracle of Gregory Lestrade.
"She is good like that. Also, coincidentally, she has agreed to officiate our wedding."
"Brilliant." The two were beaming at one another when John, pleased for his friend and, erm, brother-in-law-ish-creature-thing, or whatever he was supposed to call Mycroft now, broke into their thoughts.
"So who actually asked whom?"
The two men looked at one another, then shrugged.
"Technically, Gregory asked me first. I did ask him second, essentially, but I believe that the credit would go to him, as I had planned to ask in a few days, originally."
"Right." Smiling at them, John grabbed Sherlock's hand, hauling the genius to his feet and earning a sharp look. "Well, we were thinking that we might go explore the beach house some more. See the two of you tomorrow?" Without waiting for a reply, John turned to lead Sherlock away and give the two some privacy.
"Wait!" Both of the newly engaged men spoke simultaneously, and John and Sherlock turned back, confused. Well, Sherlock hadn't understood why they were leaving in the first place, but as long as John was initiating physical contact, he was perfectly happy with it.
Greg and Mycroft shared a glance, both smiling a little.
"We want the two of you as our best men. Well, obviously John, you'd be mine, and Sherlock would be Mycroft's, but I guess we were both just thinking that we should, as they say, share the happiness. Now you two go have fun, okay?"
"We'd be honored. Thanks Greg, Mycroft. We'll be off now." John was smiling as he tugged Sherlock away, while the genius tried to figure out whether or not being forced to be in the wedding would mean having to deal with an overdose of sentiment, or if it would merely be a good excuse to sleep with the other best man, as seemed to be a wedding tradition.
Mycroft and Greg were wrapped around each other almost as soon as the other two had gone, lost in the moment, and Greg giggled when Mycroft bit his neck, making the politician ease back and tilt his head questioningly.
"It's only that I don't think any other vacation could ever top this one, My, no matter how many you planned to take me on."
Mycroft Holmes, reformed Iceman, threw his head back and laughed so hard he ended up on his back on the sand, which proved too great a temptation for Greg who, with a wicked grin, rolled atop him to make out with him on the sand, and then offer him great newly-engaged sex, possibility of voyeurs be damned.
John, who was now in a very romantic mood considering what they'd just witnessed, held Sherlock's hand and didn't let go when they walked right past the genius's room, confusing him even more.
"John?" He asked, tentatively, not quite daring to hope that what seemed to be happening was about to happen.
"Yes, Sherlock?" He practically purred, a smile on his face the entire time that made Sherlock's eyes widen almost comically.
Opening the door, John tugged Sherlock in after him, only to shut the door, pin him against it, and kiss him in a decidedly adult way. Sherlock whimpered when John nipped his lower lip, and shivered when those strong hands, which had patched him up hundreds of times after scrapes and bruises from chasing criminals, slid in opposite directions, one up into his hair, the other making its way down his body.
Sherlock let out a strangled gasp and arched back off the door when John's fingers brushed over the bulge in his jeans, earning a low, frankly possessive laugh that made Sherlock's head fall back. He'd never seen this side of John in action before, but once, when he was smoking out the window, he'd heard one of John's girlfriends on the phone below, discussing it with someone in between puffs of her own cigarette.
"He's got this, like, totally normal way about him when he's taking me on dates or walking around London, but he's a totally different guy in the bedroom. Like some kind of conquering warrior or something. It's sexy as hell." Of course, that girl—Sherlock didn't even remember her name now—had had to go after saying that, and it had taken him all of two hours to run her off, never to be heard from again.
Still, he thought with the small portion of his brain that hadn't yet shut down, she'd been spot on. This was the John that had survived the army and come home to find him, save him from his loneliness and put the broken pieces back together. This was the John who went by "Three Continents Watson" with his friends, and he was looking at Sherlock in a decidedly predatory way, and it was a dream come true.
He knew nothing would ever be the same again, but he didn't care as John grabbed a handful of shirt and brought it up over his head, tossing it away as he stroked his hands down Sherlock's chest, using just a bit of nail, making the consulting detective shudder, his hips bucking as they tried to find friction. Knowing what he wanted, John reached down and cupped him through the jeans, earning a hissed out exhalation.
"So responsive for me. I bet you'd do anything I asked of you, just to get me to touch you…" Sherlock would have known John was just thinking out loud, were he not so far gone from the pleasure and need, but as it was, he didn't. And John learned something very interesting that would definitely be useful later.
"Yes, please, John. Please…" John blinked when he heard Sherlock begging, and thought back to what The Woman had said, years ago. She'd threatened to make him beg, twice, and Sherlock had had no idea what she'd really meant. Now, obviously, he understood. Either that, or his usual dominance gave way to an incredibly submissive personality in the bedroom.
"Don't worry, Sherlock. I'll take care of you." Murmuring the words lovingly, because he didn't want Sherlock worrying and because he was gorgeous like this, already half destroyed by desire, not even knowing what was coming next but not caring.
"The pants are going, if you're okay with that." When Sherlock nodded, not quite trusting himself to speak in any kind of coherent way, John slowly unbuttoned the trousers and dropped them… only to realize—
"Sherlock, you're not wearing pants."
The consulting detective shook his head, a small, desperate smile on his face.
"The more layers, the more friction, and I didn't foresee this happening tonight, and I don't…" Gesturing helplessly, because the words were too crass, Sherlock watched John fill in the blanks with surprising speed for someone who, by the looks of him, was more than a little aroused, too.
"So you've been walking around like this since last night? Well, I'm going to have to fix that, aren't I? You may want to hold onto something." With that last saucy remark, paired with a salacious wink, John Watson promptly fell to his knees and took Sherlock into his mouth, earning a small shout that was quickly stifled when Sherlock bit his lip, tasting his own blood while he struggled to get a grip. He had the feeling that he was about to embarrass himself by coming far more quickly than was the norm, but that mouth… Oh, that mouth, and then John growled, and everything turned white hot for a moment, while Sherlock screamed and John swallowed, milking it out until Sherlock was literally trembling, completely wrung out from the pleasure he'd never felt before.
John swung Sherlock up into his arms, not entirely sure he'd be able to make it to the bed, and judging by the way he went completely limp, the doctor was certain he'd been completely right.
Fortunately, he'd left the covers flipped back that morning, so he was able to lay Sherlock down without any kind of complicated maneuvering. Sliding in on the other side, he slipped his arm under the detective's head and Sherlock instantly cuddled in, head on John's shoulder, hand over his heart. His eyes had fallen closed, and his expression was peaceful.
At least for five minutes. After that, those eyes slowly opened, and a frown alerted John to the fact that rational, bossy, stubborn Sherlock was back, or at least partially so. He was saddened by this; he'd quite liked the boneless, wanton creature he'd been holding moments ago.
Still, the genius's next words caught him off guard.
"We didn't take care of you." Touched by the fact that Sherlock had thought of him, when he rarely thought of anyone but himself, John kissed him gently, playing absently with his curls while he shrugged with his free shoulder. He knew, now, that touch would ground Sherlock when nothing else would, and he could remember, just barely, the way it had felt the first time he'd gotten himself off. It was an incredible moment, true, but that level of pleasure was sometimes a little scary to someone unused to it. Especially to a certain genius who was not only not used to it, but shied away from anything that would mean a loss, however temporary, of his full mental functions.
"So?"
"So, don't you want to, um…" Again, Sherlock gestured, this time toward John's crotch with an expectant look on his face as though he thought John was going to jump from the bed, pull his pants down, and expect Sherlock to suck him off.
"Not necessary." John said, a small smile still on his own face. It faded, though, when he saw worry in those ethereal eyes.
"What, Sherlock? What is it?" Suddenly anxious—had he pushed him too far?—John cupped his face, trying to read that expression and figure out what it would take to soothe it away.
"Do you not think that I'd be… good?" He suddenly sounded small, like a child terrified of having missed out on parental approval, yet again, and John's heart broke for him. Holding the consulting detective closer, he vowed, in his heart, to someday give the people who'd hurt Sherlock with their distance and coldness a piece of his mind. Now, though, getting angry was the last thing he needed to do. Pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead, he tried to find words that would bring back some of his confidence.
"I think you'd be excellent. You're such a quick study in everything, I imagine I'd be off not long after you started. But we did just take a huge step, and I know this is all new to you. I kind of thought it might be nice for us to just cuddle, and I'm used to dealing with erections, so it's not horribly uncomfortable or anything to wait until you've recovered a bit from this."
"But I can do it, John. I don't want you to be at all uncomfortable." Still frowning, because he wanted John to experience what he'd just experienced, Sherlock was stopped from protesting more by another long, sweet kiss.
"This is more than I ever dreamed I would have, Sherlock. To hold you in my arms… I wouldn't mind if I never got off again, as long as I get to do this every night. We'll get to that, but right now, I need to take care of you. Let me, please?" Sherlock's eyes were wide, and that face was even more beautiful with that stark vulnerability written all across it. John wondered how anyone could ever have made this man feel inferior in any way, when he was all John had ever secretly hoped for.
"I… If you're certain." Sherlock was used to John taking care of him, of course. The man was a natural protector, and had been making tea and fixing scrapes for Sherlock for years. It made sense that that part of his personality would be even stronger in a bedroom setting, what with all those extra hormones attached to the process. Sherlock decided that he was being honest, and relaxed into his arms, promising himself that he would reciprocate the next night, if John would let him.
Cuddling the consulting detective close, John inhaled his scent, wishing he had a memory like Sherlock's so he could always come back to this moment, more beautiful and fragile than anything he'd ever had in his life. Slowly, Sherlock fell asleep, and John soon followed him, the taller man twining around him like ivy as if, even in dreams, he couldn't get enough of the physical connection.
The rest of their stay on the island passed much like the first bits. Together, and broken off into pairs, the men explored the house, took full advantage of the fact that, thanks to a little quirk of acoustics, nobody could hear them cry out in pleasure in one particular part of the beach.
They played games, everything from table tennis to Cluedo, and in the afternoon the Holmes brothers put on impromptu concerts and John and Greg built fires on the beach. The days flew by, while Greg and Mycroft celebrated their newly engaged status and Sherlock and John explored one another's bodies thoroughly, learning that Sherlock and John both liked it best when the doctor was the top.
Finally, however, the vacation was at an end, with time for just one last lunch all together before the jet was set to take them home. They ate on the veranda, at a table large enough for all of them.
"So this is it." Greg sounded a little sad, and Mycroft smiled at him reassuringly, reaching over to take his hand.
"We can come back for our honeymoon. And next year. And the year after that…" Leaning over to kiss him, Mycroft tangled their hands together so their rings clicked against one another, highlighting his point. "And the two of you would be welcome, too." Mycroft said to his brother and John, earning two smiles, one bright and open, the other reserved but hopeful.
From what John and Greg had cobbled together, Sherlock had said some very nasty things to Mycroft when the older Holmes had had to go away to college, and that had set the tone for many of their interactions, and was the source of the animosity they'd so often displayed toward one another. Neither man was sure which Holmes had made the first move, but they were starting to repair their relationship.
"Thank you, Mycroft." Sherlock murmured, and the glance they shared spoke volumes before Sherlock pushed back from the table and went to his room to gather up the few things that hadn't made it to John's room and pack.
Soon after, the four men assembled on the landing pad, and got on the jet. The flight home was quiet, everyone lost in thought, and when they landed in London, two sleek, shiny black cars drove up to meet them.
"I guess this is it. I'll give you a call if we need any help on cases tomorrow." Lestrade shook Sherlock and John's hands and got into the car he would share with Mycroft, and John thanked Mycroft and did the same. Soon, it was just the two brothers standing there.
"Sherlock, I… want to say thank you, for coming along on this vacation. It was truly… nice, getting to spend time together again."
"Thank you for inviting us, Mycroft. You're right. It was… almost like our adventures on the estate, when we were younger."
It was the closest either of them had ever come to acknowledging the rift between them, and it was the closest they would come that day. But when Mycroft pulled Sherlock into an impromptu hug, and Sherlock returned it after a moment of shock, they both realized that someday, probably soon, they would end up talking about it. They got in their cars and left, both thinking about the future and what it might hold as the vacation finally came to an end.