The following night they went back down to the beach armed with blankets, pillows and two bottles of wine. One of the staff members had even brought them a thick foam pad, smiling knowingly as he delivered it already rolled up and tied. John had been surprised that had one in the house, then he'd realized Sherlock had probably sent someone to buy it.
They'd ended up coming back to the villa the previous night because John's shoulder couldn't handle sleeping in one of the lounge chairs – he doubted his back and neck would be happy with it either. Sherlock had wanted to stay out all night but as much as John liked the idea, he knew it wasn't happening. Not with the set up they had last night. Sherlock had been determined to right this perceived wrong. Now they had what amounted to make-shift bed – and it would probably be more comfortable than some of the beds on which John had slept in Afghanistan. One of the other staff members had been despatched not long before they headed down with a basket of food – a baguette, Brie, Camembert and fruit.
John felt very extravagant doing all of this. He tried to imagine what he would have thought ten years ago if someone had told him he would eventually be taking holidays at a private villa on the Mediterranean and being served by a household full of staff.
He probably would have been surprised just to hear he was going to survive his tour.
He shook his head as they arrived at the cabana and set his bundle down. Sherlock had insisted on carrying the wine with him, so as not to hurt John's shoulder – as if two bottles of wine and a short walk were going to do any damage. But John had conceded and had carried a couple more pillows as compensation. They set to work putting the chairs and low tables aside so they could spread out the foam pad. John fitted a sheet over it and then they put down the blankets and the pillows. He moved one table to each side of the bed as Sherlock closed the canvas curtains so that only the front of the cabana remained open. Then he opened the wine as John sliced the baguette on his small table and fixed them each a plate of bread, cheese and fruit.
"This was a brilliant idea," he said, exchanging one plate for a glass of wine.
"Genius," Sherlock reminded him and John rolled his eyes with a smile. He took a sip of his wine then leaned forward and kissed his husband. He felt Sherlock's tongue dart over his lips, tasting the hint of wine there.
Sherlock settled down, stretched out on his left side, propped on his left elbow. He was facing John, but at enough of an angle where he could see the shore. John sat cross-legged, facing toward the sea as well. They ate in silence, listening to the sound of the surf, watching the moonlit waves crash and break against the sand.
It's like a picnic, John thought, then smiled. A picnic at night on their own private beach on the Mediterranean with a rather good makeshift bed, excellent food that had been prepared and delivered by their own kitchen staff, and two bottles of wine.
Going soft, Watson, he told himself His smile grew – he didn't really mind.
When they finished eating, Sherlock took their plates and set them on the low table next to his side of the bed. John put his wine glass on the cabana's bamboo floor where he could reach it easily later but where it wouldn't be knocked over. He straightened his legs and lay down and Sherlock turned back toward him, bracing his right hand on John's left side, looking down at him. With his face masked in shadows, Sherlock's pale eyes seemed to gleam even more brightly. John grinned and wrapped his hands around the detective's waist – he was up to three and a half pounds now, if John was any judge – and tugged. He pulled Sherlock onto him and his husband lay down, keeping some of his weight on his hand. John laced one hand into Sherlock's hair and pulled him into a kiss.
They made love leisurely, caressing with unhurried, languid movements, enjoying the sound of the waves and the cool salt breeze. Sherlock murmured in his ear, snatches of French phrases that made John shudder – not so much at the words themselves, which he didn't really understand, but the way it changed Sherlock's voice, giving it a deeper rumble. Afterwards, they lay tangled for awhile, their breathing slowing, John tracing his fingers absently up and down Sherlock's spine while the detective ran his thumb down John's left arm then massaged deep circles into his palm.
They pulled apart reluctantly and resettled on their sides, snuggling up to one another again like they would sometimes sleep at home. Sherlock cupped John's right shoulder with his left hand and smiled. John glanced down to see what was amusing and saw the contrast of pale skin against tanned. He smiled too and Sherlock raised his hand to run his fingers into John's hair.
"I rather like you like this," he murmured. "We are going to start coming here more often."
"Are we?" John asked with a smile. Somehow, the thought of Sherlock Holmes taking regular holidays was hard to imagine. He turned his head and pressed a kiss into his husband's palm.
"Mm-hmm," Sherlock replied. "It's not a long trip, John. Long weekends or short holidays will be sufficient. You tan easily and your hair lightens fairly quickly."
John chuckled and Sherlock raised his eyebrows.
"Never reckoned I'd be one of those Londoners who took holidays to sunny destinations."
"You were in Afghanistan," Sherlock pointed out.
"Yeah, not really a holiday so much," John replied. Sherlock grinned and kissed him quickly.
"However, if we're going to come here more often, we really must work on your French. It's abysmal."
John rolled his eyes.
"Thanks," he said.
"Yes, I clearly meant that as a comment on your character," Sherlock replied with a quirk of his lips.
"I'm forty-five," John said. "It's a bit old to learn another language."
Sherlock scowled at him.
"Untrue," he replied. "While it is accurate that language is most easily acquired by young children, adults can also become fluent in a new language. It just requires more effort and complete immersion."
"So you're suggesting we move here now?" John asked. "If we did that, it wouldn't really count as immersion. All the household staff talk to me in English and most of the people in town speak English, too. And besides, I don't see many people aside from you and we spend most of our time shagging, not so much talking."
Sherlock's lips twitched into a smile and he kissed John again, more slowly and deeply this time. The doctor sighed and pressed himself closer to his husband, resting a hand on the curve of Sherlock's lower back, pulling him nearer. Sherlock slid his left leg between John's thighs and the doctor sighed as they pulled apart.
"Besides, you'd get bored here," John murmured.
"Bored of shagging you? Never."
John let his hand drop down to pinch one of Sherlock's ass cheeks, earning a quiet yelp that was half moan.
"Bored with everything else," John said. "You need London, Sherlock. You need the cases and Lestrade and Sam to harass about the cases and Anderson to torment and your brother to face off against and criminals to chase around madly. If that was all gone, I don't think I could keep up with the shagging required to keep you occupied."
John traced his fingers along the base of Sherlock's spine again and felt the detective wiggle a bit, trying to get him to drop his hand lower. In response, he moved up to Sherlock's mid back and was rewarded with an impatient huff.
"Besides, I have a job back home. Patients who need me."
Sherlock huffed again, more loudly this time.
"Boring," he commented.
"I like my job."
"I don't see why you can't quit."
"And just do whatever you want me to do?" John asked, arching an eyebrow. The expression on Sherlock's face told him he was exactly right. "You'd get bored of me if I were around all the time. When I'm not around all the time, you look forward to having me home. It works."
"It's inconvenient."
John grinned and kissed Sherlock again lightly.
"Je t'aime," the detective said.
"I love you, too," John replied.
"No, say it, John. In French."
"Oh, this is part of my lesson, is it?"
"We should work on phrases you're likely to use."
"Well, I can't imagine I'd use that one on anyone but you. I'd get some pretty weird looks if I went around town saying it to strangers."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Say it," he commanded.
"Je t'aime," he tried. It sounded wrong and the flash of irritation on Sherlock's face almost made him laugh.
"No, no, no. Je. Like the final sound in 'garage'."
"Je," John repeated.
"Again. The whole thing."
John rolled his eyes.
"Je t'aime." It sounded minutely better, but not much. "Je t'aime."
"Hmm… Je t'aime aussi."
John smiled and pressed a kiss against Sherlock's chest. He knew that meant 'I love you, too'.
"What else?" he asked. "How about 'please'?"
"S'il-vous-plait."
"Si-vous-plait."
"No, no. Not si. S'il. It's a contraction of si – if – and il – it – to get s'il. A bit like the first syllable in 'silver'."
"S'il-vous-plait?"
"Que-ce que tu veux?"
"Sorry?"
"You said please. I'm asking what you want."
"Hmm…" John considered. "Tu?"
"Toi," Sherlock corrected.
"Toi, then," John said. He placed another kiss against Sherlock's chest then in the hollow between his collarbones then just above that on his neck. He felt his husband's body respond, pressing closer to him, shifting for more contact.
"You know," he murmured. "The people in Frontignan are going to think I'm coming onto them all the time if I use my limited French on them."
"Mm," Sherlock sighed, arching his neck back to give John access to keep kissing. John let his tongue dart between his lips to taste the detective, too, earning a small, approving sigh. "Then we'll confine your use of French to me."
John smiled slightly and kissed Sherlock's pulse point before sucking on it lightly. The detective moaned softly and the sound stirred desire in John's belly. He did it again, nipping at it gently, making Sherlock moan a little louder. The sound settled lower this time and John shifted impatiently as Sherlock's fingers traced over his stomach.
He rolled his husband onto his back and nudged Sherlock's thighs with his knee. Sherlock spread his legs willingly and John settled between them, feeling his husband's arms wind round his back. He pulled away enough to raise his head and smiled down at the image of Sherlock with his hair already tussled from the last time. John ran his fingers into the curls and Sherlock tilted his head back slightly, bring his face up for a kiss. John leaned down, resting his whole weight on Sherlock's body, pressing them together as much as possible, and leaned down to meet his husband's lips.
Sherlock awoke the next morning when John slipped back into the cabana in the pre-dawn greyness. They had closed all the curtained walls before going to bed, to keep out insects and curious birds. John dropped the flap back down and Sherlock raked his eyes over his husband's naked form. His body had its own ideas of what it wanted early in the morning and Sherlock smiled.
"Come here," he murmured and John's lips twitched into a smile. He slid under the blankets and settled on his back. Sherlock tossed the blankets aside again, getting a grumble from John. It was chilly, but they would warm up quickly. And he wanted to see John. And touch and kiss every centimetre of him.
He took his time, working John to the edge before backing off, then doing it again and again until John was sweating and shaking and trying to beg between gasps. Sherlock finally let him go, watching as John arched up, head thrown back, a wordless cry escaping his lips. He kissed and licked John clean then crawled back up his husband's body, moaning when John grabbed the lube and slicked him up, unable to keep himself from thrusting into the doctor's hands. John smiled lazily and wrapped one leg around Sherlock's waist and the other around Sherlock's thigh, sighing when Sherlock pushed himself in. Sherlock watched John's face as they moved together, noting all the small shifts in expression until his brain began to shut down and he closed his eyes, shuddering and gasping into John's neck. He felt rather than heard the faint chuckle and John's arms wrapped around him warmly, holding him as he came back down.
They lay in silence for awhile, hands mapping the other's skin absently and lightly, then John stirred a bit, tucking one hand under his head and regarding Sherlock.
"Should I open the curtain?" he asked. "We could watch the sun come up."
"No, leave it," Sherlock replied, burying his face in John's neck. "I like it like this."
"All right," John murmured. He turned his head enough to press a kiss into Sherlock's dishevelled hair. "This was a brilliant idea. Should we do it again tonight?"
"No," Sherlock replied, his voice muffled by John's skin. "I want our bed tonight. We'll use the candles."
At this, John stiffened in surprise then a sharp shudder coursed through him. Sherlock grinned wolfishly – now John had all day to anticipate that. He could tell by the slow, controlled exhalation that John would have taken it right now had it been offered. It would be so much better if he had to wait.
"You know," John said, his voice a little less steady than usual. "When we're home, we'll have to do that in the upstairs bedroom or Mrs. Hudson will probably call the police."
"Mm," Sherlock said. "Her hearing is getting worse, John. She hardly heard us whn –" He cut himself off, biting his lower lip and cursing silently.
"When what?" John asked.
Sherlock exhaled hard against John's skin and felt the doctor's fingers weave into his hair, tugging lightly to het him to raise his head. Sherlock ignored the sensation and stayed where he was.
"When we– fought," he said, his jaw tight. "She said she thought she heard us shouting."
John's hand paused in his hair and he tensed a little, then forced himself to relax.
"Oh," he said. He was silent again for a few minutes. "Do you want to talk about it?"
Sherlock shook his head once, emphatically.
"No."
"Sherlock–"
"Not here, John," he said forcefully. He closed his eyes, breathing in John's scent, the mixture of sweat and pheromones and warmth that made him think of the way sunshine would smell, if it had a smell. He didn't want to consider the McKinney case at all. Not lying here, having just made love on their private beach. The world could go hang as far as he was concerned. He pushed the thoughts away deliberately but one refused to go. With a sigh, Sherlock raised his head. John was watching him carefully but warmly.
"Mycroft's hearing," Sherlock murmured. John sighed, pursing his lips and Sherlock scowled slightly. That was his Displeased-But-Don't-Want-to-Upset-Sherlock expression. "John," he said with a faint warning tone.
"Probably permanently damaged," John said. "He said it hadn't faded. That's not a good sign. It's possible it could still get better but probably not. The longer it stays, the more likely it is that it's permanent."
"And everything else?"
"Too soon to tell," John said.
Sherlock nodded and John rested a hand on his cheek, then kissed him lightly. Sherlock put a private moratorium on any other thoughts involving the McKinney case. It could be dealt with when they returned to London – in fact, it would have to be, if only because Mycroft would want to speak to them about it. But they had two and a half more days in Frontignan and Sherlock intended to enjoy them.
They settled down again and let the sun rise and the day warm up. Then they packed up the makeshift bed and put the chairs and tables back, leaving the food and wine bottles for the staff to clean up later. They headed back to the house to shower and change and settle on the day's activities.