As promised, the driver arrived at noon sharp. Although Sherlock insisted that he would have the case solved in a day, possibly two, John forced him to pack for a week just in case. They quickly loaded their two bags into the boot, said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, and piled into the vehicle. Both of them sat in silence, gazing out opposite windows, the only thing connecting them is their hands sitting right next to each other, pinkies brushing against each other. John watched as London passed them by and then disappeared behind them.

Suddenly, Sherlock noted, "It's doubtful that he would follow us all the way out here."

"I know," John said a little too quickly.

Leaning closer, Sherlock whispered, "So relax."

At hearing those words, John leaned back into his seat and released the tension from his body. Although it only was for a day or two, he didn't have to worry about Moriarty. Even Sherlock thought so. He closed his eyes and rested his head back on the headrest. Almost instantly, fatigue washed over him. John had not slept well since Moriarty's release, his mind constantly on guard for anything. Shifting uncomfortably, he turned away from Sherlock towards the window for a moment before twisting back around. He slowly began to drift off, the vibrations from the car lulling him to sleep. It felt that he had only closed his eyes for a few moments before he heard Sherlock calmly calling out his name. Waking up, John found himself leaning against Sherlock. He jerked back, glancing up at the driver to see if he noticed.

"How long was I-?" he began to ask.

Sherlock quickly cut him off, "About an hour and a half. Yes, of course the driver noticed, although I don't know why you care. And we're here, if that's wasn't obvious by now."

John looked out to see a small, countryside manor. It had a somewhat more modern look with its red bricks, red roof, large windows, and garage. Large, cobblestone steps led up to the front door, and the garden was immaculate. "Beautiful," he breathed.

"Hardly. Interesting, though, yes," Sherlock replied before he opened the car door and got out.

John followed suit. "What do you mean?"

"This is modern architecture, look at the brickwork and windows. Not only that, but there are no signs of any stables and they have a garage. That means the family most likely did not inherit the property, which tells us that the family's wealth was probably self-made within the last one to two generations. My guess would be two," Sherlock explained, his eyes scanning the estate. "Although their garden is in great shape, they only have two gardeners. Then they've hit hard times, most likely due to the recession. So their money comes from a business. So far, so obvious."

Shaking his head, John muttered, "Sure. Obvious."

"As ever, you see, John, but you don't observe," Sherlock chided him a bit teasingly as they headed up the stairs.

They reached the top, and the front doors burst open. Appearing thrilled to see them, Mr Witherspoon rushed out of the house and held his arms wide open. "John Watson, it's been much too long!" he exclaimed happily, pulling John into a hug.

After a moment's hesitation, John realised that this must be part of their cover-up. He quickly replied, "It has been much too long! But it's good to see you again, even after all this time."

"And this must be Sherlock Holmes. A pleasure. John's told me a lot about you," Mr Witherspoon continued, pulling back from John and offering his hand.

Sherlock forced a smile and shook it. "Pleasure," he managed to say.

John looked back to find a woman in a standing in the doorway. Her brunette hair was streaked with a touch of grey, and her brown eyes were warm and inviting. Looking back to see what John was looking at, Mr Witherspoon smiled. "Emily, my dear, come here!" he beckoned. She smiled warmly and approached them. "John Watson, this is my lovely wife, Emily. Emily, this is my former colleague, John Watson."

"A pleasure to meet you finally," John stated, reaching out to shake her hand.

Shaking it, Mrs Witherspoon replied, "Isaac's been so excited that you could come out to visit. Says you haven't been able to really see each other since your university years."

"Yes, well, the army will do that to you," John responded and forced a smile to his face.

Mrs Witherspoon turned and added, "And this must be your partner, Mr Holmes."

John's breath hitched as he heard this, and he looked up at Sherlock with wide, shocked eyes. Sherlock, on the other hand, acted as if nothing was amiss. "Indeed, I am. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, smiling warmly as he shook her hand.

"We're honoured to have you here," Mrs Witherspoon told them. "Isaac could hardly contain his excitement once you confirmed that you were coming. It's a nasty bit of business with the tabloids, though. I'm sure no one will find you out here."

Smiling, John replied, "We're in your debt for hosting us on such short notice."

"After everything you've done for Isaac, I feel like it's the least we could do," she answered kindly. "I must get back to preparing dinner. Please join us at the table at six. I'm sure my husband will give you the grand tour."

Nodding, John turned back to Mr Witherspoon and followed him into the manor. The first room they entered was the foyer, which was open with a staircase leading up before splitting apart to head down two main wings. Not climbing the stairs, they immediately made a sharp left from the foyer into a den. A maple wood desk sat before them. Two chairs sat directly in front of them with one chair sitting behind the desk. Shelves of books covered every wall, leaving little of the brown wallpaper to be seen. Behind the desk was a portrait of an older man, and John quickly saw the physical similarities between the portrait and Mr Witherspoon.

"My father," Mr Witherspoon said, noticing John's lingering gaze. "Robert Witherspoon." He walked around to the other side of the desk and sat down, motioning for them to join him. As they both took their seats, he continued, "But I doubt you're interested in hearing about him."

Sherlock responded, "Quite correct. It's an interesting cover you have going for us here. Are you sure that your family will not suspect anything?"

"I assure you that they will not suspect a thing," Mr Witherspoon answered. "After all, I fell out of touch with John when he went on his first tour, although we had gotten along splendidly beforehand. Years passed, and he eventually slipped into the recesses of my mind. It was only when I saw his name in the paper that I remembered what great mates we used to be, and I thought I would give him a call. We caught up, and I heard about this problems with the tabloids, so it was only natural that I invite him up for a week getaway from London. After all, he had helped me so much in Uni during my troubled times just after my father passed."

John pressed, "And Sherlock?"

"Well, I had just assumed," Mr Witherspoon said, clearly surprised that this would be an issue. "I apologise if this causes either of you any discomfort, but it would make more sense for your partner to come with you as opposed to your flatmate."

"It will be of no issue," Sherlock stated matter-of-factly. John shot a look at him that he refused to acknowledge. "I am also assuming that we will be sharing a bedroom."

"A guest suite in the west wing," Mr Witherspoon elaborated, rising to his feet. "Shall we?"

"Yes," Sherlock answered, rising to his feet as well.

John got up after a moment's hesitation, his mind still whirling with all this information. He and Sherlock would now have to act like a couple. It's not as if they weren't a couple, of course, but they had kept everything relatively quiet on John's behest. Although Sherlock had not cared, John felt that their private life should stay separate from their public one. So only Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly, and Mycroft knew for sure, all due to separate reasons; Anderson, Donovan, and Harry suspected but weren't sure. Other than that, everyone just assumed that they were just flatmates. The ones who suspected more between them were left with their suspicions completely unfounded; neither commented on their relationship. Here, though, their entire deception hung on the fact that they were a traditional couple. John felt like he had a ticking time bomb strapped to his chest.

They exited the den and headed up the stairs. Just as they reached the top, Mr Witherspoon opened the door to allow them through and explained, "Directly across the foyer is the dining room. The west wing is strictly for guests while the east wing is for my family. Obviously, you may explore the grounds and manor as you please, but be mindful when in the east wing. You will cause a commotion if you're found in there. Your luggage should already be up in your room. It's the third door to the left."

"Thank you," John said, giving a curt nod as he headed into the hall. Sherlock said nothing and followed close behind. Walking down three doors, John turned left and opened the door to their room. Their luggage sat at the foot of a king-sized bed. Maple furniture complemented the floors and honey-coloured walls. White curtains did nothing to keep the sunshine out of the room, but they tied in well with the white comforter and sheets. "God, this looks like a honeymoon suite," John muttered, looking over to see a door that most likely led to a private bath.

Sherlock closed the door behind them. "Honeymoon suite?" he echoed.

"A honeymoon is a vacation that a newlywed couple goes on," John clarified. Sherlock looked at him in confusion, as if he was trying to understand why John would feel that they were on a honeymoon of all things. "I was joking, of course."

"No you weren't," Sherlock stated as he headed towards the bed. John's breath hitched as he heard this, and he looked over at Sherlock with wide eyes. "Should we talk about it?"

Shaking his head, John responded, "There's nothing to talk about. I was merely commenting on the beauty of the room."

"In reference to a honeymoon, which means you've thought about this before," Sherlock replied.

Playing dumb, John asked, "Thought about what?"

"Thought about us. About marriage," Sherlock answered, humouring him. "You must know that I don't believe in the institution of marriage."

"I know," John cut in, knowing he did not want to talk about this.

Sherlock continued as if he had not said a thing. "The word 'marriage' can be traced to the Latin word marītāre, which means 'to provide with a husband or wife.' Actually, the adjective-"

"Sherlock!" John snapped, not in the mood for a history lesson.

Frowning, Sherlock continued, "Marriage predates recorded history, but I believe it's fairly obvious even to the common rabble the original purpose behind it."

"Get to your point," John ordered.

Sherlock turned to face him and said, "Marriage is nothing more than a ceremony and a piece of paper. It changes nothing except for the participants' perceptions and expectations of the relationship and give the couple some tax benefits. It's the very definition of superfluity."

"As I said before, Sherlock, I know," John said sharply. This time, he managed to capture Sherlock's attention. Blinking in surprise, Sherlock stared at him. "Yes, I have entertained the thought. It's only natural. I also dismissed it almost immediately. I knew there would be no way to get you to marry me. Even posing the question in my imagination made me laugh. But I've realised that it's fine. It's fine if we never get married, if the common-law marriage never kicks in, and if we die without having a written contract between us. Because I know that our relationship isn't defined by it. It will never be defined by it. You'll act the same no matter what, and I'll do the same."

Observing John for a long moment, Sherlock noted, "But you would prefer if we got legally married."

"I would, but I'll be just fine if we never do," John answered honestly. It's not like there was any point in lying to Sherlock.

After a long moment, Sherlock replied, "I'll reconsider the proposition, although I doubt my opinion will change."

That was just as good as a love proclamation from Sherlock. Smiling softly, John reached down to grab his luggage only for a hand to catch his own. He looked up and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock leaned down and gently pressed his lips against John's. Straightening up, John cupped Sherlock's left cheek with his hand and nibbled at his lower lip. Sherlock obliged, opening his mouth and flicking John's tongue with his own. John's tongue surged into Sherlock's mouth, which still tasted like the tea he had drank that morning on John's behest. Before he could enjoy it too much, Sherlock forced him to retreat and took over the kiss. John felt his body get rocked by want and need; at almost the exact same time, he felt Sherlock grind against him, and the delicious friction made him moan. Sherlock grabbed his arms and began walking, making sure not to break the kiss. After a few steps, John felt the bed press into the back of his legs. He broke the kiss and licked his still tingling lips.

"Really? Here? Now?" he inquired. Their physical relationship had always been put on hold during any and all cases; John found this out during the "Falls of the Reichenbach" case when he felt an overwhelming urge for Sherlock and acted on it. After initially responding, Sherlock pulled away and explained to him that when they were on a case, they could not be giving into carnal hungers. Sherlock needed his mind to focus only on the case, and having sex with John was considered a distraction. Although John did not mind, it also left them with very little time for sex. And here they were, on a case, and Sherlock was initiating everything.

Shoving him down onto the bed, Sherlock responded, "You were the one who made the honeymoon reference. Isn't this what newlyweds generally do on their honeymoon?"

"We're on a case," John pointed out breathlessly, watching Sherlock lean down. Lips ghosted over his Adam's apple, and John moaned when he felt Sherlock knead him through his trousers.

Sherlock's lips hovered just over John's skin as he answered, "On a case as a couple. They might find it strange if we hardly touch each other." He then pressed light kisses down John's neck, his hands pulling at John's jumper.

"They might find it even more baffling and completely inappropriate if we shag like bunnies while we're here," John pointed out weakly, one of his hands running through Sherlock's hair.

In one swift movement, Sherlock pulled John's jumper up, successfully leaving his upper torso naked. Flicking at one nipple with his tongue, Sherlock looked up at him with heated eyes and pressed, "Are you objecting to continuing then?"

"God, no," John barely managed to croak out.

Smirking, Sherlock latched onto John's neck once more, licking and nipping it light enough to not leave any marks. Meanwhile, his hands went to work on John's trousers. As Sherlock tugged them down, John went to work on unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. He was not about to be the only one of them naked. Just as he slid the shirt off Sherlock's shoulders, John gasped as Sherlock's long, lithe fingers slid into his pants and wrapped around his aching erection. Sherlock's mouth had already moved, gently trailing kisses and loving nips down John's chest. John ran a hand through Sherlock's hair and stroked Sherlock's cheek with the other one. Pulling away, Sherlock leaned back up and placed a chaste kiss on John's lips.

"Shall we?" Sherlock inquired, his hands hesitating at his belt.

Hesitating a moment, John replied, "God knows I don't want to stop, but we're here for a case, Sherlock. We haven't even eliminated one suspect from the list, and a man's life is hanging in the balance."

"Oh, come on, John," Sherlock chided, grinding slowly against him. John bit back a moan, refusing to give Sherlock the satisfaction. "We would have wound up piddling away the time until dinner anyway. And even you must admit that this is much more interesting than watching telly."

John clawed at the sheets underneath him in an attempt to ground himself. Sherlock was still grinding against him, and that delicious friction almost made him completely forget about everything else. "But the case," John barely managed to object.

Sherlock clicked his tongue in annoyance. "What if I told you I already ruled the wife out? Would your internal moral struggle stop then?" he asked, his tone a bit sharp.

"Yes," John breathed out, wanting nothing more than to believe that they had managed to take a step forward in the case before fucking each other senseless. "How?" he choked out as Sherlock gave him a particularly hard grind.

Fumbling with his belt, Sherlock quickly explained, "When we first arrived, I noticed the state of the house. Isaac Witherspoon is rich but he is currently having financial difficulties. This is known by Mrs Witherspoon. Her jewellery was beautiful, yes, but cubic zirconium, meaning she probably pawned off what she could in order to upkeep the appearance in front of her children, who most likely do not know about their current troubles. Sentiment would keep the parents from saying anything about their financial issues. Not only that, but her dress has been re-hemmed at least three times, meaning she's keeping up appearances but not purchasing any new clothes. And since her most likely motivation would to be to inherit money, she is left without a motive to kill him." By the time he finished, he had managed to pull down his trousers, pants, and John's pants. John was left completely exposed and in utter need of Sherlock's touch. "Besides, she does sincerely love him. Is that good enough?"

"Yes, more than good enough," John said, knowing that if Sherlock thought the wife was no longer a suspect then he was probably right. Leaning up, John was surprised when Sherlock shoved him back down. "What-?" he began to ask.

Smirking, Sherlock answered, "Tsk, tsk. I believe it's my turn."

John groaned. After a particularly nasty argument about to proceed with the night, Sherlock and he had decided on a turn-based system of who would be in charge. John had agreed only because he knew that Sherlock would take over every time if he hadn't; John would have let him. Last time had indeed been his turn, so now it was Sherlock's. "What do you want?" he asked.

"Get into the middle of the bed and stay on all fours," Sherlock ordered.

Obeying, John clambered onto the bed and flipped over, on his hands and knees with his arse to Sherlock. He heard the sound of a zipper opening, and he glanced back to find Sherlock rustling through his luggage. A moment later, Sherlock smirked and pulled back a container of lube. "You came prepared?" John asked incredulously.

"Oh, hush," Sherlock replied, opening the container and squeezing some onto his right hand. "You're about to appreciate the fact that I did."

John didn't even have the time to respond before he felt a finger circle his entrance and slipped in. Crooking his finger, Sherlock rubbed his prostate expertly, and John appreciated that he had memorised exactly where it was. Moaning, John reached down and gave himself slow, strong strokes in order to appease his aching need. Sherlock slipped a second finger in and shifted to loom over John. Out of the blue, John felt soft kisses and nips being sprinkled across his back. He moaned aloud, letting Sherlock hear his appreciation. A third finger was inserted, and John felt a slight burn as he was stretched that much further. Suddenly, he felt Sherlock gently trace out his scar from his gunshot wound with his other hand. He shivered and went to object only to then feel a pair of lips press against it. Head snapping up, John glanced back.

"To think that none of this would have happened had you not been shot," Sherlock muttered, almost to himself.

John debated on commenting, but that was before he felt Sherlock rub his prostate once more. He let out a moan and his arm trembled in an attempt to keep him up as his other hand kept stroking himself. Without warning, Sherlock removed his fingers, and John heard the rip of a condom package before seeing another condom tossed up to him. He let out a sigh of relief; he would not have been looking forward to trying to explain to their host and client why they needed new sheets so soon after arrival. He fumbled a moment before managing to roll the condom halfway down. A moment later, John felt the tip of Sherlock's erection press into him. He began stroking himself faster as he felt the burn of being slowly filled. Once Sherlock was in to the hilt, they both paused a moment; Sherlock silently waited until John gave a nod. Once he did, Sherlock pulled almost entirely out of him before slowly re-entering. After several more slow, rhythmic thrusts, John felt like he was going to go insane. It just wasn't enough.

"Sherlock, please," John managed to say, bucking back a bit. "Harder."

Once he heard this, Sherlock slammed back in forcefully. John moaned loudly from the sharp spike of pleasure that rippled up his spine, his arm giving out, and went crashing into the mattress. Sherlock's fingers dug into his hips as he gripped John firmly, and John was sure he would have bruises on his hips from Sherlock's vice grip. Slamming into him roughly again and again, Sherlock somehow managed to hit or brush John's prostate every time. Pleasure overwhelmed him in the matter of seconds, and John writhed and moaned as he was fucked into the mattress. Only Sherlock could make such a mess of him so quickly. Breathing now ragged, he could feel himself getting closer to the edge with every thrust. He had always liked it a bit rough, something Sherlock had caught onto in no time at all and had always managed to oblige ever since. With a turn of his wrist, a swipe at the tip, and a couple strokes later, John unravelled completely. He cried out Sherlock's name as his entire body tensed, his back arching and his toes curling. A few moments later, Sherlock came as well, John's name on his lips.

Both collapsed onto the mattress, each breathless and in post-coital bliss. Still on his stomach, John smiled into the mattress as he felt the tension leave his body. He suddenly felt a hand gently stroke down his spine, and he looked over to find Sherlock staring right at him. Sherlock's hair was dishevelled, his breathing still a bit heavy, and perspiration made his body glisten just a bit in the sunlight. His calculating icy blue eyes were observing him, probably taking everything into account so Sherlock could know later if John preferred facing him while they had sex or if he didn't mind being taken from behind. As always, John said nothing. Sherlock never asked what he preferred because he enjoyed trying everything in order to figure it out. After a long moment, Sherlock slowly locked his eyes onto John's, causing John to offer him a small smile. Sherlock grinned back in return.

"We should get cleaned up before dinner," John pointed out after a while.

Sherlock responded, "Yes, yes. We wouldn't want Mrs Witherspoon to regret marrying her husband instead of you, after all."

"Me and Mrs Witherspoon? No, no, our real concern is you and the daughter. There's no doubt in my mind that she'd begin flirting with you in a minute if you don't get yourself all sorted out," John informed him. "What with your cheekbones and looking so cool in front of others – when you're not being an arse, I mean."

Sherlock grinned and inquired, "Should we shower together then?"

"Oh, God, yes," John answered, unable to keep himself from smiling back.