They had gone to the festival because John had insisted on getting out of London.

"…and not because of a case." That rang in Sherlock's ears quite resoundingly. So, he obliged his flat-mate and after a mock-fight told him to book where he saw fit for them to go. He was hoping that, since it was John planning the holiday that it would at least be mildly interesting. The man understood how bored Sherlock could get if left to his own devices.

It wasn't intentional.

He simply could not shut down. Never had been able too so he did the only thing he could; throw himself into the Work. It was everything for a very long time. People were living breathing entities, some he bothered to save their name, most he did not. Sometimes they would get upset for him using another's name, but they should know if they were saved that they were all important. It meant they weren't deleted. They held an infinitesimal sliver of the Work in their place in his life. Then his professor that he enjoyed discussions in decomposition of water-bound bodies with brought someone to him. He was tan, fit, and very readable, yet not. Interesting is what he was.

It was true, John had continued to amaze him by not being put-off by Sherlock; even more he complemented his mind. He believed in the Work. He forced him to take notice of his transport and slowly drew him into the world of the living. John forced him to pay attention. At least four percent at all times was working on the enigma, listening and categorizing, watching John. During cases, one percent, but the Work was always priority.

That was before the pool.

Now John took up much more than that. He stopped quantifying it after that night. He knows that somehow, he has worked John into the main lattice-base and merged seamlessly integrating himself neatly into everything. It was all the Work and all John.

Simultaneously.

Sherlock found small niches where there were graying perimeters of knowledge that he immediately began trying to rectify. The first was John's hands. His well-used work callused and worried sturdy hands. Surgeon's hands. Healer hands. Supple if endeared and worried. Harsh if angered or maddened. John took very good care of his hands.

Then there was his stubble. Sherlock only glimpsed it every great once in awhile. It intrigued him. He had to touch it; had to know. One morning, John had come down before his shower for tea, as he does very rarely. He was in his boxers, thinning t-shirt from Bart's he had hung on to, and his robe. It was irresistible to him, John would understand. Knowledge, pursuit, and the small surge he was experiencing of adrenalin, possibly dopamine. Yes, he would understand.

Sherlock rounded the table and pinned John to the counter still facing the kettle he had set to boil. Without a word, he brought one hand to his friend's hip to still him, the other to the slightly darkened jaw-line of his John. For he was his now wasn't he? To explore? He had taken over everything of Sherlock. Surely he knew and was just as curious to explore the gaps in his knowledge of Sherlock as well.

"…Sher-"

"Quiet John."

"…but…"

"I said quiet I have to know…"

John's jaw did not feel rough. No. Instead it felt slightly softened. Hmm…had to be the Scot in his bloodline. It felt slightly like something woolen if grazed, but roughened with a true touch. Marvelous. That is when Sherlock noticed the shift in the air around them. John smelled differently in the morning as well.

"…Sherlock. Reall-"

"John. Hush."

Leaning in toward John, he stopped a few scant millimeters away from the shell of his ear and inhaled. Bergamot, cinnamon, crushed leaves, fall, warmth, fire, marshmallows, jumpers, warmth, John.

"Home."

Impetuously, he tipped a very chaste kiss to John's hollow behind his pinking ear. Linking his lips he tasted the evidence they had received. Salty, warm, everything almost maple with the addition of John's base pheromones.

"Lovely. John."

John shifted, Sherlock did not care why. He pressed into him more gripping his hip more firmly with his long fingers. Not very much give as John is more muscular than most know. Sherlock knows though and does not take for granted that his doctor has chosen to stay relaxed but is erring on the side of caution as well. Quietly growling out of frustration beside John's ear, Sherlock causes him to shiver unexpectedly.

"Stay. Still. Now."

"I will stay still when you tell me what the hell you are on about you madman!" John, ruffled, places his hands on the counter gripping the edge. He huffs a breath as well and this causes a small chuckle from Sherlock.
"Impatient John. Hold still, please." Sherlock amended quickly to curry favor with the man under his studious cataloguing. This was swiftly becoming a moral imperative, he had to know if other places were the same concentration, or different perhaps. His hair under his arms and pubis most definitely would catalogue differently, of that Sherlock had no doubt, but what about his shoulder? His neck along his hairline? His collar where his shirt met his clavicle? Would it be different due to the detergent that had rubbed that spot during the night? Maybe John did not wear the shirt to bed and pulled it on for modesty sake before he sleepily descended the stairs.

"I have to know…"

Closing the gap again beside John's neck he breathed on the exposed skin then gently touched with the tip of his tongue tracing a small pattern before retracting it back to savor the olfactory wonder he was experiencing.

"You are…ephemeral."

Dipping again, he explores the space between the shell of John's ear to the curve of his jaw running it along the slight roughness the sensation reminding him of something akin to a cat's tongue. He notices John's pulse, and closes his lips to place a chaste kiss where the life sustaining rhythm is encased.

"Sherlock. Please."

Taking that as an ascent to continue the trailing exploration, Sherlock smiles at his wonderful friend, following the line of his carotid almost to the suprasternal notch but settling for the side of his 'adam's apple' instead which was just as pleasing as the texture and taughtness of skin was different here. Stretched over his larynx, not fleshy, especially as his head was now tilted back resting on Sherlock.

He decides to bring his left hand back up toward John's face, grazing up his side then changing direction to move around to the front of John's chest laying his hand upon his heart, his long fingers splayed along the width of his collar. He can feel the scar beneath his fingers that beg to touch the wound. It's still new to John, which is why he is modest. This only happened at the beginning of last fall. Oh, Sherlock should have thought of this before and was saddened he had almost missed the important date. He always had in the back of his mind the last week in October, when John had gotten transferred out of the war zone once he was stable, but the Day was fast approaching.

"Cor, Sher-"

He didn't even have time to finish his sentence. Sherlock wheeled him around in his arms another form of education found wanting, and without second-guessing he claimed John's mouth for his own. Kissing greedily, nibbling entry words murmur from him meant to soothe, to enlighten. His hands taking a mind of their own they begin to wander above the clothes as to not upset the man in his arms, no he would be gentle. Wrapping his arms about John's waist, he quiets and deepens their kiss in askance he has to know everything now.

"Yes, John, We will not miss the train. I promised holiday and holiday shall you receive."

Once again pulling him back into his mouth, John begins kissing him back felating his tongue taking Sherlock's deeply into his own. With that he grips John grinding himself into John's lower abdomen barely caressing the doctor's with his thigh. Sherlock dips his hands into the back of John's boxers and is met with a surprise, he has pants on. Very snug, and they have an intricate pattern to them. While kissing John within an inch of his life Sherlock is able to see the pattern mentally now even though he does not yet have a color, he would guess darker.

"OH, John. I must see you."

"I don't know…this is private Sherlock."

"No it is not. It has to do with you therefore it has to do with me. I must know!"

With that Sherlock breaks their rising pique and pulls John to his room to lay him artfully on his bed. He is filled with wonder to see this strong, caring man trust him so his eyes soft slightly glassy from the haze of arousal. Running his hands up John's thighs he reaches the bottom hem of his boxers and pulls dragging them down.

"Lovely."

Sherlock stares worshipfully. He has found John's one guilty pleasure, lace. Masterfully made lace briefs to be exact. Low slung exactly mimicking ladies bikini cut except the front at one point had enough to allow for John in a relaxed state, but this is something entirely different. This is another area where the Scot shows. The height and the softer stubble are all parts to the puzzle, but this is a glorious surprise. Sitting beside John, he tentatively trails with his index finger along the semi-erect length.

"My God, John. You are quite beautiful."

He couldn't help but to stare. Very well endowed, Sherlock knew, when John reached his full rigidity that his thickness would be something to be reckoned with. The play of the lace, the filmy rose pattern that was so delicate was such juxtaposition to the strength, both physical and internal, that Sherlock knew without a shadow of a doubt, existed.

Longing overtaking him, Sherlock bends open mouthed and presses his hot breath and tongue into the material followed by his lips. His teeth nip at the pattern as he sucks through the material tasting the middle of John. Laving his way along to the smallest peek of his bulbous glans as it begs for release from the foreskin weeping ever so slightly. Sherlock flicks with the tip of his tongue where the glands and moisture lie finally tasting John. Intrinsic, melodious, superlative John. Oh, he would compose whole symphonies for this man. Resting his cheek at John's navel, he breathes over the head once again watching it shudder with a mind of its own. Marvelous.

"Sherlock, have you done this before?" John asks as he strokes his fingers through Sherlock's hair. The younger seems so enraptured John isn't sure if it's due to inexperience or shyness.

"Both John; both."

"Well lovey, the question is do you want to experiment now and possibly miss the train, or throw ourselves together and enjoy ourselves in the private sleeper on the way to Cornwall. I'll keep these on if you like, yea?" His voice is gravely with need, but he has nothing left to hide from Sherlock, hadn't really for awhile. Propping on elbows, he smiles at the sight he has been gifted with.

"I'd like to take our time John. Could you wait?" Nuzzling into the doctor, Sherlock purred softly enjoying the warm texture of the soft line of hair against his cheek. He begins leaving very light kisses around where he can reach before looking the other way towards John's face sharing a rare carefree smile with him.

"Anything Sherlock. Anything…"