A/N: Ahoy, there be smut in this one!


Sherlock found his key to room 107. When he opened the door, John was standing in front of the bed, suitcase open before him. He was folding a shirt as meticulously as he had placed it on a hanger a mere few hours earlier.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock demanded.

John chuckled. "Ah, there we have it. The great Sherlock Holmes, able to deduce a man's occupation by the calluses on his fingers, but can't suss out what it is I'm up to." He shot Sherlock an amused glance. "I'm packing, Sherlock," he said, not unkindly.

"I can see that. What I'm trying to ascertain as to is why."

John shrugged. "Bit obvious, isn't it? I'm done."

"Done? With what?"

"Oh, please. With this." Seeing Sherlock's still confused expression, John added softly, "I mean, let's be honest. It's not working, is it?" John made a small indistinct gesture which could have referred to almost anything, the air conditioner, the paint scheme on the walls, his and Sherlock's relationship...

Sherlock felt his heart plummet into his stomach. It was a strange feeling, so different from his normal repertoire of emotions, all of which had been carefully analyzed and catalogued and rated (i.e., compassion? Good. Sympathy? Good. Jealousy? Bad. Useful stuff.) This, however, was different to the point of Sherlock being at a complete loss as to how to respond. So, he said nothing.

John filled in the space as he began folding another shirt.

"It's no use, I can see that now. Better to give up, right? Cut our losses while we can still be friends." He looked up, his lips still twisted in amusement, whether from self-deprecation or pleasure at finally causing Sherlock a little pain for a change, he couldn't know. But, it hurt.

"Don't you agree?" John prodded. He paused, the shirt half-done, and met Sherlock's eyes.

"I... John, no. Don't. Please." He hissed the last word in a whisper. Sherlock felt as if he were being choked.

John's eyes narrowed, and he cocked his head slightly. "I'm sorry?" It was a query, not a statement, Sherlock understood that. So, he muddled on.

"I don't want to give up, not yet."

"Seriously? I thought you'd be pleased."

Sherlock looked as though John had just slapped him. "Pleased? Oh, my God, is it that bad? What a mess I've made of things..." Stricken, he went to John and put his hands on his shoulders and locked his eyes with his.

"I don't blame you for wanting to, of course. I've been... stupid. Stupid, and stubborn, and, what's that other thing you always say, oh, selfish. I've been very, very selfish. I swear, I thought I was trying, I really did. But, I wasn't. At least, not very hard. Clearly, not hard enough."

John's face was now scrunched in utter bewilderment. "Sherlock, what in God's name are you on about? What were you trying to do?"

"To make you happy." Sherlock dropped his hands and tried to gain control over his breathing. "I wanted to do that all along, you know. Thought I was, for a bit. After all, there was a time when you seemed... Oh, God..." He seemed hit by a revelation, and he clenched his hands in self-disgust. "Things must have changed! And I didn't see it, didn't notice—too busy with my own damnable goings-on, I suppose. Stupid git, stupid." He gestured angrily, and began striding about the room, his dolphin trunks making a desperate swishing noise between his legs. "Then, you brought me here, and I was so thick I didn't realize—but now I do. And, I don't blame you for wanting to. But, I'm begging you, John, please don't."

"Don't...? Don't what?"

"Leave me. Please... don't... leave me."

John dropped the shirt and strode over to his lover. "Sherlock, I'm not leaving you—have you gone mad? I love you. You saved me, you mean everything to me. I'm not going anywhere without you." He reached up and put one hand on Sherlock's cheek and gently thumbed the soft skin over hard bone. Sherlock stared.

"But... But, you're packing, and you said we should give up—"

"On this effing holiday! Oh, God. You thought I meant... us?"

Sherlock nodded miserably.

"Oh, my love, no! Come here." John took Sherlock's hand and led him to the bed. He sat him down and then did the same, taking Sherlock's hands in his. "Sherlock, you drive me insane. You scare me, you frustrate me, and you make me angrier than anyone I've ever known. But, all of that is because I love you, and I'm terrified of losing you. Don't you know that?"

"I-I don't quite think I do, no."

"Well, it's true." John leaned in and gave him a gentle kiss, using his lips to softly, tenderly, caress Sherlock's, the warmth of his tongue slipping between the detective's lips. Sherlock was stunned for a moment, and then something like muscle memory kicked in and he threw himself into John's arms and kissed him back for all he was worth.

John felt as if the floor had just given way beneath his feet, but he quickly recovered and matched Sherlock's enthusiasm whole hog.

When they both sat back to catch their breaths, John gave Sherlock a thoroughly puzzled look and asked, "What the hell brought this on, anyway?"

"Spencer and Derek."

John's eyebrows shot up. "Oh—I see. The beautiful man with the amazing body, and his lover, the one with the massive intellect that might rival yours." He nodded, muttering, "That's bloody fantastic. Not worrisome at all."

Sherlock frowned and shook his head impatiently. "No, no. I mean, I've been observing them, they're happy. Both of them. And, Spencer said... well, never mind what he said, but he got me thinking. And I realized how... How I've been treating you lately."

"Ah. And, how is it you've been treating me?"

"Oh... you know. Badly."

"Badly?"

"Yes. The demands. The taking you for granted and all that. Being a horse's arse to you. Which you don't deserve. At all."

John leaned back and regarded Sherlock intently. It didn't seem possible, some things just never happen and you don't expect them to happen, but then they sort of do, and then you're... "Sherlock, are you apologizing to me?"

Sherlock flinched. "No... I'm simply explaining—wait, do you want me to apologize to you?"

"Uh..."

"Because I will. But, I wasn't, exactly. I was explaining, that's all."

John took a deep, exasperated breath. "All right. Explaining what, exactly?"

"Oh, for God's sake, John, do try to keep up! I'm explaining why I thought you were about to leave me, of course. Which I don't want you to do, in case I haven't made myself clear on the subject."

"You have." John smiled. "And, I won't. Ever. I promise." He gave Sherlock another sweet kiss, but Sherlock continued to look at him despairingly. John felt a surge of frustration.

"What the devil is wrong now?"

"John. You're so good and kind, and so very, very patient. But, one day... It's only a matter of time, really. One day, you'll grow tired of me and all my diversions, and then—"

"Stop." John's voice had taken on a low, serious tone. "Do you honestly think I didn't know what I was getting myself into when we became lovers? Do you really think I expected you'd fall head-over-heels in love with me, and that everything would be sunshine and roses afterwards?"

Sherlock face twisted into an uncertain frown. "I—" John put a finger on Sherlock's lip.

"Shhh. Just listen, for once. I know you. I know how you are, and I know what you are. Brilliant, mad, infuriating... And, everything I ever wanted. I wouldn't change you. Not for anything."

"But, don't you see—I am in love with you. And, I want you to be happy. I mean, I've never concerned myself with such things before, isn't really my area, but I can change. I can be better. I'll do whatever you want, I just... I just don't have a clue as to what that might be. Please—tell me what you want."

John didn't answer for what seemed like eons to Sherlock, but then he reached out and cupped Sherlock's face. "This."

"I'm sorry?"

"This. You looking at me like I'm the most important thing in the world to you. You, looking at me with as much interest and fascination as you look at a severed head in our refrigerator."

"But—"

"Your attention, Sherlock. That's what I want. Not all the time, I don't expect that. But, sometimes. Sometimes when I take you in my arms, I'd like to feel as if I were the only thing in the world that mattered to you. The only thing you cared about. That's why I wanted us to come here—I thought that, maybe, away from all the distractions, I could have your full attention and we could talk, and then perhaps you'd actually hear me. I thought, maybe, that I could make you understand how..." John sighed. "...how superfluous I've been feeling."

Superfluous. Sherlock's mind reeled. How many shrugged-off embraces? How many tender kisses barely tolerated, and how often had the man who loved him unconditionally been summarily dismissed so he could think... A thousand little memories came flooding in, and he cringed inside, ashamed. "I'm so sorry." His deep, rich voice sounded gravelly.

"Don't be," John said lightly. "Not your fault. You can't help being a self-centered, self-absorbed, thoughtless, inconsiderate, uh..."

"Selfish."

"Oh, yes, selfish egomaniac, can you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips, disregarding the humor and pondering John's words with absolute gravity. He was silent until suddenly a flash of inspiration lit up his face. "Of course! You're right—I can't help being what I am, but... I can refresh the page."

"I'm sorry?"

"Refresh the page! You know, reload it. Or, better yet, give it a reboot!"

"What?"

"The old hard-drive!" Sherlock tapped his head delightedly. "Needed a quick reboot, and damned if this wretched holiday wasn't just the thing." Sherlock beamed. "You're quite clever, John, you really are. I'm impressed."

"Uh..."

"Don't you see? You knew I needed to see things from a different angle, but I was stuck with the same old bad code mucking everything up. Being in this godawful wasteland got it sorted, defragged, so to speak, and now I—we—can start fresh, just as you intended. You're brilliant!" Sherlock grabbed John and kissed him deeply. John felt himself melt against him, and when Sherlock let him up for air, he rested his head on Sherlock's shoulder.

"I only wanted a bit of sun, actually. But, this is fine, too. Better, really." He pulled back and looked up at the detective, who had a smug grin on his face.

"Excellent. Now, about the sex."

"Sex?"

"You promised me sex, John, anything I want. Remember?"

John sat up straighter, nodding as he pulled himself together after so much emotional turmoil. "Ah, yes, right. So, what'll it be? Handcuffs? Blindfold? I packed the riding crop... Or, shall I scrounge up a feather or two?"

The smugness faded from Sherlock's face, replaced with a wry smile. "I want to know what you want."

John held his gaze for a moment, feeling somewhat nonplussed. Then, he smiled back. "I want to make love to you, Sherlock. Slowly. I want to know that while you're in my arms, you're thinking only of me, of how I'm making you feel. And, I don't want either of us to come away with any bruises, contusions, or... abrasions in the process," he said, ruefully fingering a spot on his knee that had managed to suffer quite a case of rug-burn several months ago.

Sherlock's smile deepened. "Tell me how you want me."

John regarded him thoughtfully for a moment before answering. "On your back. When I'm inside you, I want to be able to look at your gorgeous face, into those astonishing ocean-colored eyes. And, I want to kiss you." When Sherlock gave him an involuntary frown of distaste, John added, "Oh, yes, the kissing, I know. Perverted, isn't it? Just a sick fantasy of mine. But, I hope you'll indulge me."

Sherlock laughed softly. "Of course. But, first, perhaps you'll allow me to indulge in a little favorite of my own? I've noticed it seems to be one of yours, as well..." Without waiting for an answer, he dropped to his knees. He tugged at John's swim trunks until he lifted himself, allowing Sherlock to pull them down.

Sherlock took John's still-soft cock in his hand. He began stroking it, a gentle tease at first, gradually increasing the tightness of his grip and the speed of the strokes until John was fully hard. Then, he took him in his mouth and began sucking him, filling his mouth and nudging at the back of his throat with the velvety flesh.

The sudden explosion of feelings robbed John's mind of all thought. For a while, he just sat with his hands enmeshed in Sherlock's dark curls, making slight thrusts forward in rhythm with the delicious pressure being exerted by Sherlock's lips and tongue as he slid them slickly back and forth over John's swollen member.

But, he couldn't stand it for long; it became too intense, too powerful. "Stop, Sherlock, stop. I'm going to come, and I don't want to, not yet. Let's get in bed. Please."

Sherlock obeyed, fluidly pulling back and standing up in one motion. He licked his friction-buzzed lips, taking a moment to savor John's beloved, familiar taste, and then quickly undressed. He lay down while John went for the necessary supplies.

Soon, they were in their own world, Sherlock lying on his back with his knees raised and spread wide as John gently prepared him, first stroking him erect, then lubing and stretching him open, kissing him all the while. He moved lower, nibbling at his neck, lapping and sucking at his nipples, teasing the tip of his tongue over the dark trail of hair on Sherlock's belly. Every new movement seemed to strike a string of excitement deep inside Sherlock, reverberating into his very core; it didn't take long before Sherlock was writhing under him.

"Now, John," Sherlock breathed.

John chuckled. "Patience, my love. I've only just gotten started." He moved lower still and used his mouth to attend to Sherlock's erection, gripping the base with one hand and unhurriedly lapping over the straining length, sucking at the head, gently pressing in with his teeth until Sherlock hissed with need.

Mercifully, John finally raised up and mounted him, easing into him, letting him adjust to the deep intrusion into his lithe body. It seemed to take forever for John to get in to the hilt, and Sherlock soon snapped in frustration, "Oh, God, please don't be gentle with me! I can't bear it..."

John took Sherlock's chin and made him look up at him. "Yes, you can, and you will. You asked me what I want—and it's this. I will not rush. It's always over so quickly—I want to give my brain a chance to catch up with everything I'm feeling. I want to let it build up and wash over me so I can savor it. And you, you're going to do the same."

Aching for release, Sherlock thrust uselessly under him, digging his fingers into the soft curve of John's buttocks while pushing his hips upward against him. "But, I can't, I can't... need you so..."

"You have me." He buried his tongue in Sherlock's mouth and gave him a series of soft, gentle thrusts that seemed to drive the detective into a state of frenzied desperation. "Do you trust me?" he murmured.

Sherlock pulled his mouth away long enough to gasp, "Yes."

"Then, let me take you the way I want. I promise—I'll give you what you need. But only in good time. Okay?" John looked into Sherlock's eyes with a quizzical expression, and Sherlock blinked for a moment before giving the most reluctant little nod imaginable. John smiled and almost fully withdrew before plunging in hard, bringing forth a yelp of appreciation from Sherlock. He then let his cock linger deep inside as he kissed him.

John varied the speed, depth, and intensity of his lovemaking, and it made Sherlock insane. Maddeningly, during a lovely good bit of deep hard thrusting, John would stop to kiss him. Sherlock's mouth and lips were already so sensitive that he thought the mere brush of a butterfly's wing would make him come, but at just the moment when Sherlock's every nerve was focused on what John was doing to his mouth, John would pull back and redouble his efforts in filling Sherlock's desperately clenching nether region.

Sherlock had dispensed with the use of words—orders, pleas, bargaining, nothing did the slightest bit of good in getting John to move at any pace other than exactly what he saw fit. The detective was reduced to guttural grunts, high-pitched whines, sharp gasps and low groans, all of which John seemed to feed off of as he played him like a cheap violin.

To Sherlock's amazement, it all coalesced at once—his brain finally relinquished control over to his body, and he was flooded with sensations that throbbed through him, building into something more intense than he'd ever experienced before, taking him to the very top of an impossibly high mountain. There was a moment of utter clarity, an intake of breath just before he knew he would be blissfully allowed to drop over the edge...

And then, the door opened.


One name went through Sherlock's sex-addled mind—"Moriarty!" —even though he knew that was impossible. Even as he forced his eyes to open and focus on the tall, slender figure coming through the door, he knew that was wrong.

Sure enough, the man who had just used a credit card to let himself into John and Sherlock's room was only their neighbor, a swimming trunks-clad Spencer.

"I—Oh, God." Spencer hastily averted his eyes from the naked and still deeply-joined pair on the bed. "I want my phone. Now," he announced grimly to the ceiling. "Where is it?"

"Oh, bugger. Blue dressing gown, right pocket," Sherlock groaned around John's shoulder and gestured toward a chair where he'd thrown his clothes. John was too stunned to speak, but he pulled out, flipped over onto his back and scrambled to drag a sheet up over them. John stared in dismay as Spencer fished his property out of Sherlock's robe and held it up triumphantly.

John turned to Sherlock, his face a bright red.

"You stole his phone?" he blurted out.

"Borrowed it, John. I borrowed it. I had Spencer's full permission, didn't I, Spencer?" Sherlock was breathing heavily, but he spoke calmly and fixed his version of a conciliatory smile on his face at Spencer's irate look. The young man rolled his eyes.

"Oh, sure. If you want to call breaking into my room while I'm having sex with my boyfriend and rifling through my personal belongings getting my permission, then, absolutely." He gave a disgusted sneer and turned to leave. He paused at the door, turned back and said to John, "You do realize he's a sociopath, right? A guy who'd pull something like this is capable of anything. I'd keep an eye on him, if I were you. I recommend a leash." He then went out and slammed the door behind him.

"Cheers!" Sherlock called after him.

John looked to be in the throes of apoplexy. "You wretched bastard! What the hell did you do?"

"Oh, pinching the phone was an afterthought, I merely let myself into their room and hid behind the curtain because I wanted to know if they were really a couple, remember, John? And, I can now assure you that they most certainly are, they were shagging away like rabbits."

Sherlock wouldn't have thought it possible, but John's face went even redder. "You stayed in there while they—did you watch them?"

"Certainly not." He pondered a moment before adding, "I mean, I listened a bit. And, of course, one can't help but catch a glimpse on one's way out the door, you know. Oh, and incidentally, you were right about Spencer bottoming, good call. Although, it was rather obvious."

John made a dramatic pleading gesture to the heavens. "We haven't even been here 24 hours and you've already committed burglary, theft, and an act of perversion! Not to mention completely disregarding my wishes about contacting the outside world!"

"I didn't use the phone, and anyway, that was all before the reboot. I wouldn't do it now, especially since you've managed to find such a delightful way to keep me entertained." He forcefully snuggled himself into John's arms, resting his head on his chest. "Honestly, John, this is all quite irrelevant. Can't we just get on with the shagging? I really do want to reach orgasm sometime before the monsoon season hits..."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock... You're hopeless! Absolutely incorrigible, not to mention a colossal pain in the arse, you know that?"

"Oh, look who's talking, I shall barely be able to walk upright tomorrow, the way you've been going at it," Sherlock said with relish. "I suspect Spencer will be in a similar condition, I notice he's already limping a bit. Not that it's all bad; we can nurse our sore bums lying on a blanket out by the ocean, while our lovers bring us frou-frou drinks and feed us lovely bits of pineapple and papaya, whatever the hell that is."

John's state of fury dissolved in an instant. "Wait—does that mean you're willing to stay here, then?"

Sherlock's self-satisfied, dreamy tone evaporated. "I didn't say that, did I?"

"I inferred it."

"Actually..." Sherlock took a deep breath, and an unfamiliar sense of tenderness came over him. "Actually, John, yes, I want to stay. I'll stay as long as you like. And, I'll... I'll enjoy myself. Because, we're together. Nothing else really matters, I see that now. You... you made me see that. Thank you." Unbidden, a smile came over him and for some unexplained reason, he felt... happy.

John was left somewhat bewildered as to the thread of the conversation, but he looked at the hopeful smile on Sherlock's face and realized—he was witnessing evidence of Sherlock trying. Trying to change, trying to do as John wished for a change. In a flash, John's heart felt full to bursting. He put his arm around Sherlock's bare shoulders and pulled him close.

"Sherlock... My God, that is so... so good of you, but I know you really want to get back to London. I understand, and I think we accomplished exactly what I'd hoped we'd do here, so I'll go to the reservations office and cancel everything. I'll book us a flight for tomorrow morning, and we'll be back at 221B in time to have Mrs. Hudson give us tea. How would that be?"

To John's surprise, Sherlock looked over at him and frowned. "But—you were having fun, weren't you? And, we haven't even gone in the ocean yet. There's a lovely little cove I found where we could have sex under the stars, assuming Spencer and Derek aren't making use of it, and I really did want to have another pina colada, and..."

"You mean... you really do want to stay?"

"Uh... yes, strangely enough. I do."

John smiled. "I tell you what. I'll go revise the arrangements for a five-day stay instead. How would that be?"

Sherlock beamed. "Perfect." Then, his brow wrinkled and he asked hesitantly, "John—is this what's meant by 'compromising,' in regards to a relationship?"

"I believe so, yes."

Sherlock made a thoughtful "hmpf" sound. "Not nearly as horrific as I thought it'd be."

"Yeah—perhaps we can even make a habit of it." John watched a doubtful expression come over Sherlock's face, and he laughed. "I love you, Sherlock."

"I love you, too, John. Now, can we get back to..."

"I may need a minute. But, yes."