"I can't believe he got us this," Mary says. "Such a generous wedding gift. The honeymoon!"
"It's amazing," says John.
And odd, he thinks. Sherlock even chose the hotel. Specified the particular room on the top floor of this antique hotel on the cliffs of a coastal resort near Rome.
John found a handwritten note in his suitcase. Concealed door in corner of room. Leads to the roof terrace. Fabulous view and a suitable place for a tryst. Yours, Sherlock.
John has found the door, hidden behind a panel in the room, which is not wall papered but covered with slightly cushioned fabric wall panels. One of the panels is hinged and behind it is a set of brick steps. He leads Mary up there and they both gasp. The blue Mediterranean, sparkling in the May sunshine, and across to the right, the rough red terracotta roofs and rendered walls of houses in the old town, bleached white buildings seeming timeless under this ancient sky. There are some old plastic chairs up here but nothing else. This is the unofficial roof. Sherlock postscripted his note that John must not let on to the hotel that they are using it.
There are dandelions between the cracks in the concrete paving and the whole flat roof is scruffy and unkempt but they are under a blindingly blue sky in total privacy and John fetches a blanket from the bedroom and they lie on the roof and he unbuttons Mary's shirt and her shorts. He removes her bra with the shirt still hanging loose around her shoulders, slides off the shorts, and as she gives him that dark look he fell in love with with first moment he saw her he slips her knickers down her legs and lays her flat on the blanket and his clothes disappear and they make love with more enthusiasm than they managed last night downstairs in the ostentatiously labelled Honeymoon Tower Room, and Mary says, "I love you John," and he says, "You too, always," and they are at it so long that John's back gets sunburned and next day when he brings her to the roof again he has the sun lotion in his pocket so as not to give them any reason to stop.
It is perfect, of course, but John worries that Sherlock will turn up here, in Italy, perhaps appearing at breakfast one morning as if it was normal. Or perhaps he is just here, watching them, which seems more likely.
He doesn't though. He's not.
John wishes he had not thought that.
John and Mary are having evening drinks on the beach terrace, watching the sea and feeling aches in intimate places which makes them both giggle as they catch each other's eye.
"It's beautiful here," says Mary.
"I love you," says John.
"He's such a good friend to you," says Mary. She means Sherlock.
"Yes," says John. "The best." If he did show up right now John would actually be pleased. He knows that is a little strange, to wish to see your best friend on your honeymoon, but it is just that he and Sherlock, well, it's a different kind of friendship. Sherlock is different.
Mary doesn't think it is strange. She understands.
"He's no more than you deserve. We'll have to thank him." She sips her sparkling rosé and looks dreamily at the ocean.
"Of course." John is not sure where Sherlock is right now. He texted him a few times while they were travelling, but got no reply. Busy on a case, presumably. "When we get back. We'll pop round, or have him over for some food." If he is in eating mode.
"I've never met anyone like him," she says.
"There is no one like him." John says it with pride. His friend. Unique.
"He's a bit weird..." This is the first time she has ever commented on Sherlock in any way which might not be wholly positive. One of John's favourite things about her is her obvious fondness for and tolerance of Sherlock. "But he's nice," she adds.
"Yes. Nice."
Nice would not be John's word for Sherlock. What would his word be?
Beautiful. Intelligent. Intense. Mysterious. -Captivating.
He does not offer these to Mary as alternatives.
Mary is staring at the waves. This part of the beach belongs to the hotel.
"Let's skinny dip," she says suddenly. "I've never done it before."
"Never skinny dipped -?" He is scandalised. Ready to correct this outrageous gap in her experience.
"No. I've led a sheltered life." She is smiling. She knows that teaching her new things is one of his favourite turn-ons.
"Let me rip away that shelter," says John. "And this annoying bikini."
John opens the magazine and sighs. Trapped in a Roman hairdresser's with an hour of completely unnecessary highlights to wait for and nothing to entertain himself with except the view of Mary's head covered in foils, and some European sub sibling of Hello! magazine.
He flips through. Dignity suggests he read the news on his phone but there is no signal. He doesn't fancy his book - too bright in here for proper reading anyway, even with the phone at max brightness - and the raucous radio precludes the thought required for the scrabble app...
Some of the women in the celeb magazine are rather gorgeous.
He gazes, secure in the knowledge that his face reveals nothing but husbandly boredom.
Turns a page. Wow. A stunner. Very tall, ice blonde, short hair like that girl from the Cranberries. Or Annie Lennox, god, showing his age. But this girl is Scandinavian looking, distinctively European. Pale blue eyes, almost colourless. Curvaceous, especially in the dove grey satin evening gown she is wearing to the Berlin Film Festival. The gown clings to her hips, around her breasts, and falls open over her upper thigh, showing lightly tanned smooth flesh. Perfect legs.
John's mouth involuntarily forms an appreciative oooh, and he adjusts himself before Mary notices.
Her name: Liesl Messernacht, and she is some kind of model or actress, and she has a new film in which she kisses that bloke with the perfect hips and the tiny shorts.
There are pictures of her on red carpets.
And over the page, there are pictures of her at the after-festival party, on the arm of an equally tall and svelte man in a dark grey evening jacket, whose hand is on her lower back, her upper bottom really, and he is laughing and turning his face to her, away from the camera -
And it is Sherlock.