A/N: WARNING: SMUT (but it's diet smut. Smut-lite. Diluted smut)

For those who have been craving smuttier scenes, this one's for you *raises glass*

For those who haven't, well, sorry not sorry.

But for real, if smutty stuff isn't your cup of tea, feel free to ignore that last few hundred words. In the beginning there's some implied smut, but it's so vanilla that it really doesn't merit a warning.

FEEDBACK GIVES ME LIFE (and inspiration to write *nudge nudge*)

**ALSO, if you lovely readers haven't done so already, please check out my new Sherlock story! It's called "The Second Closest Sun" (it's post-reichenbeck, which means angst like whoa, but it's also a reunion fic, so look forward to that happy ending) and I'd endlessly appreciate if you guys let me know what you think of it! Thanks, loves J**

~~Important questions in end notes, btw~~

Enjoy!

The next morning, Sherlock is greeted by two extraordinary occurrences. One, there is a very warm, partially dressed army doctor tucked under his chin, absently pressing kisses to his bare chest (which wasn't bare when he fell asleep, so perhaps John removed his shirt for 'aesthetic purposes', yet again) and two, the hands of the aforementioned doctor are currently drumming something in Morse code against his bicep. He closes his eyes in thought and, within the span of three heart beats, realizes the message is 'I love you'.

John loves him.

At that, Sherlock sighs like the hopelessly enamored idiot that he is, and presses a firm kiss against the top of John's sweet-smelling hair. Then another one for good measure. (And since all good things come in threes, he gives a third as well).

Although neither the cuddling or spelled-out love confessions are anything unusual—fortunately both of these things occur quite often —they are still endlessly profound, in that Sherlock feels uniquely grateful each time. He will never tire of waking up to John and hearing (or feeling) the words I love you. Though John's actions more than express his feelings for Sherlock, the detective appreciates the daily reaffirmation nonetheless.

"Mm, morning," John rasps, his voice roughened with sleep. A pleasant shiver runs down Sherlock's spine at the sound.

"Good morning, passionate lover."

A chuckle rumbles in John's chest and Sherlock can feel the vibrations in his sternum. "I see yesterday's conversation stuck," he observes.

"Well not quite," Sherlock admits, absently running his hands over John's back, tapping his fingers against each vertebrae. "I'm afraid I was only indulging you, darling, I much prefer calling you by your name. 'John' has such a lovely ring to it."

John raises his head a bit and fondly pecks the underside of Sherlock's chin. "I like the way darling sounds, actually. Feel free to make that my new pet-name."

Sherlock groans. "Must we have pet-names, John?"

"Of course," John scoffs. "Now," he says in mock seriousness, "would you like to be Sherl or love muffin?"

"Is none of the above an option?"

"Love muffin it is," John pronounces.

Sherlock considers putting up an argument, but then John props himself up on one elbow and presses his lips to the sharp angle of Sherlock's jaw, and suddenly arguing no longer seems relevant.

"Do you really think my name sounds lovely?" John asks, as he lazily peppers Sherlock's face with kisses. Sherlock sighs and tilts his head back, delighted when John takes the invitation and begins lavishing the exposed flesh of his throat.

"Mm, yes, it's poetry. You are poetry. You are—mmm—the sun and stars."

John grins against his Adams apple. "You know what I think?" he asks rhetorically—or at least Sherlock thinks it's rhetorical, otherwise how the hell does John expect him to formulate a response when such delicious things are happening to his neck? "I think you're only saying that because you're turned on."

"No, I—ah—mean it, but it's a little hard not to be 'turned on' when you keep—ahhh—doing this to me."

John chuckles darkly, licking a stripe up Sherlock's throat. "I wouldn't say it's a 'little' hard..."

"Really, John?" He says around a breathless chuckle, tangling his fingers into John's hair. "Innuendo? Bit cheesy, no?"

"No," John replies succinctly, sucking a bruise into the side of Sherlock's neck. "Besides, I think you like it."

"Fair enough," he manages, tugging John back up and latching onto his bottom lip. After about five minutes of glorious, uninterrupted snogging, John pulls away.

"By the way," John pants, mouth rosy and wet. "I phoned Harry and let her know we'd be heading up for the weekend. Does leaving at two this afternoon sound good?"

"What?" That was why John ended their kiss? For Christ's sake! "Yes, yes, John, two sounds lovely," Sherlock says impatiently, "it's perfect and divine and blah blah blah. Now kindly return to kissing me."

"Bossy, bossy," John teases, but his mouth is already back to pressing warmly against Sherlock's, their tongues tangling and receding in the most bloody erotic manner Sherlock has ever experienced. After a moment, it's his turn to pull away.

"What is it?" John asks.

"Just needed to catch my breath," Sherlock replies around a grin, attempting to slow his delighted, thudding heart. After a moment, something occurs to Sherlock and he smirks mischievously. "I meant to ask earlier, but is there any particular reason you removed my shirt?"

John grins. "You'd truly like to know?"

"Of course, John. I'm a curious man."

"Hmm," John says in mock contemplation, as looms over Sherlock, lining up their torsos and—more deliciously—their hips. "Mostly for the sake of convenience. Makes it a lot quicker to get down to the good stuff if you're already half naked, love." Then, as if to prove his point, John grinds his hips down into Sherlock's.

Fireworks explode behind his eyelids and Sherlock hisses at the contact, nails scrambling for purchase in the back of John's shirt (which really should be off at this point). "Define good stuff," Sherlock grits out, fighting every urge to buck up into the sensation.

"And how do you propose I do that, Mr. Holmes?" John asks innocently.

Without a drop of dignity, Sherlock hooks his ankles behind John, pulling their bodies impossibly closer. The friction alone makes this bold move immediately worthwhile. After a few gasping breathes of composure, Sherlock replies, through gritted teeth, "I s-suggest a hands-on demonstration, Mr. Watson."

John laughs breathlessly and dives for his mouth. "That I can do."

Three hours later, they are on their way to Harry's home in Eastbourne, and Sherlock is painfully reminded of why he detests long car rides. Aside from the obnoxious, upbeat music streaming from the radio and the endless, dull scenery passing by in the window, Sherlock feels incredibly nauseous.

"John," he complains for the fourth time in just as many minutes. "The car is bumping about too much. I feel sick." He drops his head against the cool glass of the window, savoring the brief reprieve the cold surface offers.

"I know, love," John consoles yet again. "Just close your eyes and have a quick kip; maybe that'll help."

"You know I despise sleep," he mutters, his breath fogging up the window.

"Yes, but I'm sure you despise car sickness even more. Just give it a try, okay? Quiet your mind, take deep breaths, slow your—"

"For Christ sakes, John, I know the process of sleeping!"

Instead of getting irritated at his moodiness, as most people would have, John only sighs in commiseration and rubs Sherlock's turned back with his free hand. "Would it help if you drove, maybe?"

"I'm a rubbish driver and I'm sure you'd prefer that we arrive to your sister's in one piece."

When John's only response is silence, Sherlock assumes he's given up and reassumed his focus on driving. Sherlock sighs, feeling minutely rejected—which he knows is the incredibly juvenile, because there really isn't anything John can do about his condition.

"Okay, I have an idea," John announces a minute later, and some small, needy part of Sherlock's mind sighs in relief. He does care.

"Go on," Sherlock replies, biting back his smile.

"Well, I figure if I can find something to distract you with, the nausea will be forgotten. That big brilliant brain of yours is bound to zero in on any sensation you feel, which is why if I give it something else to focus on, you'll notice the sickness less. Sound good?"

"Actually, yes," Sherlock admits in surprise, even going as far as sitting up for the occasion.

"Okay, first distraction; A cowboy rides into town on his horse on a Monday—"

"The horse's name is Friday."

"What gets wetter as it—"

"A towel."

"What is light as a feather, but bigger than a—"

"A shadow. Honestly John, are these the best riddles you have to offer? The answers are visible from a mile away."

John purses his lips in thought, eyes narrowed on the road. "Aha!" he cries after a moment of deliberation. "Alright, what walks on four legs in the morning, two legs in the afternoon, and then three legs at night?"

Sherlock's brow immediately crinkles in befuddlement. "Nothing! There is no such creature that grows and loses appendages based on the time of day! I suppose if this creature were given some sort of supplement, then the rapid regrowth of legs might be possible, but I sincerely doubt this riddle has taken into account recent breakthroughs in the scientific world. Though perhaps I do not credit the author of this puzzle enough; perhaps they were aware of the recently developed collagen powder derived from pigs' bladders that reportedly allowed a man to grow his fingertip back in just a month. Though, that experiment occurred just outside of Cincinnati a few months ago, and according to the confident manner you recited that riddle, you've told it before—definitely during your childhood—meaning that its creation could not have been recent enough to align with the collagen powder. I would suggest that it's a starfish—some sort of chemically-enhanced starfish with the ability to regrow limbs at thirty times the normal rate—except the riddle specifically used the word "walk" and by no means can a starfish "walk". Therefore I suppose I am forced to admit defeat. What is the answer?"

John smiles to himself, looking entirely too smug for Sherlock's liking. "It's a human."

"Pardon?"

"Yeah, when humans are at the earliest stage of their lives—'morning'—they crawl on four legs, in the middle of their lives—afternoon—they walk on two legs, and at the end of their lives—night—they walk with a cane, which counts as their third 'leg'. Clever, right?"

Sherlock just sits there, body tight and drawn like a bow, mouth gaping like a goldfish. "Th-that's not bloody clever," he sputters. "That's completely illogical!"

"How so?" John asks calmly, completely unperturbed despite Sherlock's rising tone.

"For one, canes are not exclusive to the elderly—you, John, are living proof of this—two, not all adults walk on two legs—there are a multitude of people who are either disabled or temporarily crippled—and three, how was I supposed to know the bloody time symbolized the stages of one's life? And who decided that life consist of only beginning, middle, and end? What about the myriad of moments and milestones that are wedged between childhood, adulthood, and old age? Who's to say that a single lifespan could even—"

"Sherlock," John interrupts.

"What."

"Do you feel less car sick?"

Sherlock tilts his head and attempts to summon the sensation of illness, only to find his nausea completely gone. He briefly considers lying for the sake of continuing his rant, but decides against it, his sudden restoration of health putting him in good spirits. "Yes, actually."

"Good," John says in satisfaction, briefly leaning over to peck his cheek. "Mission accomplished. Now be a lamb and turn up the radio, will you? I love the Beatles."

Harry's home in one word is small. In two words, it is small and shabby. And in many words, it is: A Very Incredibly Small Home That Could Really Use the Assistance of a Home-Makeover Telly Crew.

Being that Eastbourne as a whole is a town surrounded primarily by water and sea birds, he shouldn't be so surprised to find that Harriet's house falls in sync with its surroundings. The exterior appears to be made out of the same poorly-painted white planks that comprised the pier they passed a few miles back; the air smells quite distinctly of fish and salt, and the windows look just as grubby and stained as those of the quaint houseboat he and John winced at on the way over. It is quite isolated—devoid entirely of any neighbor for at least a ten minutes' drive—yet somehow surrounded by clusters of small businesses and eateries. It's all very rural and simple and overwhelmingly pungent with the smell of the ocean.

Sherlock immediately longs for the familiar hustle-and-bustle of city life.

He is so lost in his musings that he nearly forgets John is by his side, only remembering when the doctor gives a long sigh and examines the front yard with resignation. "I told her to use that contractor," he mumbles, kicking aside an upturned clump of grass. "But the woman will not listen to me—nope, she'd rather live in some half-arsed beach shack with more salt in the framework than on the kitchen table."

"It's…nice."

John's miffed expression immediately melts into one of amusement. "No need to fib. However, I will tell you that it used to look much worse before Clara came in and cleaned it up." A sad look ghosts over his face. "Now that she's gone, I suppose it all went to shite again."

"Ah." Sherlock narrows his eyes and examines the premise. "In spite of her spouse's departure, she has been maintaining her sobriety for," his gaze darts over the scrapes on the front door's lock, then the angle of the blinds, "seven months. Excellent."

"You could tell that all from her front door?" John sounds duly impressed, which never fails to send Sherlock's heart aflutter.

"Yes," he says primly, a small smile threatening to turn up a corner of his mouth. "Well, to be fair, the door and the blinds."

John grins and stands on his toes to give Sherlock a peck on the cheek. "You're brilliant. Now what do you say we get this show on the road?" John grabs his hand and pulls him the remaining few paces, until they are standing only a few inches from the door. John raises his fist and knocks twice.

After a nearly nonexistent wait, the door swings open. "Johnny!"

The moment he lays eyes on Harriet, Sherlock attempts to catalogue every resemblance she has to her brother. Though both she and John have dirty-blonde hair and relatively short statures, the similarities begin and end there. Whereas John's eyes are a dark, mottled blue—reminiscent of storming oceans—Harry's eyes are a bright copper color, like tarnished pennies. Harriet's figure is considerably petite in bone structure, but there are no curves to speak of, and her shoulders are far sharper than John's. In contrast to her brother's strong, square hands, Harriet's are thin and small, and her complexion lacks the natural bronze undertones that tan John's skin; Harriet also has a smattering of cinnamon-colored freckles spilled across the bridge of her nose, whereas John has only a few random birthmarks to boast of. When Harriet grins, he realizes that she and John also have quite lovely smiles—that kind that stretch across their face and color every feature with pleasure. Sherlock supposes if he somehow wound up in an alternative universe in which he was interested in women and not dating her brother, he might find Harriet attractive. Maybe. Perhaps.

Though, that is really no surprise, since anyone who shares John's genes is bound to look at least somewhat appealing.

By the time his little inspection is over, it's only been a few seconds, but in that short span of time Harry manages to leap over the threshold and tackle John in a suffocating hug; then, once John manages to extricate himself, she playfully ruffles up his carefully combed hair. He allows it, a half-fond, half-annoyed look on his face. "You're a bloody menace, you know that, Hare?"

She grins impishly and swats his shoulder. "Oi! Johnny, that's Miss Bloody Menace to you. Respect your elders."

John rolls his eyes good naturedly and turns to Sherlock. "And this, Harry, is the friend I was telling you about over the phone." He smiles up at Sherlock and Sherlock returns the warm gesture, momentarily oblivious to anything except for John's deep-blue eyes.

"I see," she says thoughtfully, then turns the full force of her stare onto Sherlock, crooking a single brow expectantly. It takes a few awkward beats before Sherlock realizes he is supposed to say something.

His mind barrels through the several conversation starters he Googled this morning, but all of them suddenly sounds stupid and trite. He thinks (and thinks and thinks and thinks) to no avail. Then, because social interactions have never been his forte, the first thing Sherlock can think of also happens to be the first thing to trip—unchecked—out of his mouth.

"John, your sister is taller than you."

There is a long beat of silence in which Harry just stares at him, as scrutinizing and thorough as a hawk, before she does the last thing he expects, and laughs: a loud, genuine bark of laughter that jars him, if only because he expected her to scowl or level him with a judgmental glare, or something of the like. Instead of doing either of the aforementioned, she takes his hand and proceeds to pump his arm like she's churning butter.

"I like you," she pronounces, and from what John has told, those words rarely pass her lips; he recognizes the value of them immediately.

"I'm pleased," he volleys back, matching her strong grip. "I'm Sherlock Holmes, wonderful to finally meet you."

"Same can be said for me, Mr. Holmes. Harriet Watson. Now, I don't imagine it's particularly comfortable out there in the chill, so why don't you two come on in?" Harry steps out of the threshold and extends an arm, inviting them into the house.

. . .

After they been divested of their shoes and seated in Harry's (surprisingly cozy) sitting room, Harriet turns her attention to Sherlock once more.

"What do you think of my home?" she asks, a mischievous glint in her eye. In the back of his mind, his intuition warns him that this is a test. He considers lying, but since he's certain she would prefer honesty, he vouches for the truth instead.

"It suits you quite perfectly," he replies–and it does. The cozy, haphazard construction of the house completely matches what he knows of her personality.

Harry grins widely, revealing a silver-capped molar and one partially chipped incisor. "Good answer. I love this house, so that, Mr. Holmes, is the greatest compliment you could have paid me. Tea?"

"That would be marvelous, thank you."

When she leaves the room to get the drinks, John squeezes his hand and leans closer to Sherlock on the sofa, a pleased look on his face. "She likes you, Sherlock. She truly bloody likes you."

At dinner, Sherlock makes a point of eating everything Harry puts on his plate—despite his usual aversion to stuffing himself—and once he's consumed all that he possibly can, he offers to help clean up.

"No, Sherlock, really, I've got it," John insists, even though he has no obligation to play the polite host; this isn't his house, after all. Sherlock fondly notes that it is simply in John's nature to want to ease someone else's troubles: to take an unpleasant task for himself instead of having another person do it. Still, Sherlock is intent on making this weekend as seamless and enjoyable as possible, which means not allowing John to do something as dull as washing dishes. His time would be much better spent catching up with Harry.

"John, I insist," Sherlock replies, humbly.

"No, Sherlock, I insist," he counters.

When Sherlock stands, John stands with him, and they both end up staring at each other from across the kitchen in a polite stalemate.

"If we were at home you'd love if I did the dishes," Sherlock argues.

"Right, but this is a vacation. You're supposed to enjoy yourself, not do chores."

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest and raises a brow. "Yes, John, but you're supposed to enjoy yourself as well. I want you to have a good time this weekend."

John, obstinate as a mule, replies, "I'll have a jolly good time doing the dishes."

"Oh? Well I'll have a grand time doing the dishes."

"It'll make my day if I do them."

"It'll make my week if—"

"My god! Will the both of you daft, ridiculous fools just shut it already?" Harry cries at last, leaping from her chair with an exasperated look on her face. "Johnny and I will do them, Sherlock; you just sit there and look pretty." Sherlock begins to protest, but she silences him with the 'does it look like I'm asking' scowl that John gives him whenever he whines about having to remove his experiments from the tub. Sherlock figures that look must run in the Watson family. "That was not a question, luv."

Obediently, Sherlock shuts his mouth and sulkily sinks back into his chair. When John brushes by on his way to the sink, he tosses Sherlock a triumphant look, which Sherlock only forgives due to the fact that John prefaces it with a loud kiss on the cheek.

Harry rolls her eye at the display, but a corner of her mouth turns up in endearment, so Sherlock figures she isn't too suspicious. Instead of joining John at the sink, she makes her way over to a little drawer underneath the silverware cabinet and begins digging around for something.

"Here," she says to Sherlock after a moment of searching, "While us Watsons do dull, domestic things, why don't you help yourself to these?" Harry procures a thick leather-bound book practically bursting from the sheer volume of pages and loose leaf papers held within it. "It's our family photo album," she explains, flipping it open. The pages are surprisingly clean considering the age of the book, which leads Sherlock to believe that she revisits it often. "Our aunt took a ridiculous amount of photos of Johnny when he was a kid, and most of them are either bloody hilarious or absolutely adorable. I think the latest one is the picture he sent me the day before he was shipped off to Afghanistan."

When she hands Sherlock the book, he accepts it eagerly, fingertips itching to trace each photograph and memorize every shape. It is things like this that make John so utterly fascinating; all of these little nuances and tidbits that Sherlock has yet to learn about John make him into the most unique puzzle Sherlock has ever had the pleasure of coming across.

A few minutes later, Sherlock reaches a brightly colored page embellished with puffy stickers, gold glitter, and the carefully penned title: "Johnny's Prom"—however, there is a no picture within the construction-paper frame at the center of the page.

He frowns. "Where is the photograph?"

Harry turns around mid-scrub, soap dripping from her fingertips, and smiles. "That you can thank Johnny for. There used to be a picture—a particularly charming one, I might add—but Mr. Sourpuss over here didn't like the way he looked in it, so as soon as he got his mitts on it the book, he removed it." She rolls her eyes and playfully swats the arm of the man in question. "Maybe you ought to dig up that photo and show Sherlock, eh Johnny?"

John immediately dons an innocent expression. "You know, Hare, I really would, but it's been years and I have no idea where I stuck that picture. Could be buried beneath the piles of trash in the attic for all I know."

"John, that's not true," Sherlock counters bluntly, narrowing his eyes. "You're fidgeting far too much for that to be anything but a lie." John's mouth moves soundlessly like a goldfish, apparently trying to express whatever half-arsed excuse he's prepared, but no rebuttal is forthcoming.

"Show me," Sherlock demands, then after a moment of self-awareness, rephrases the request in a politer tone. "Please, John, I'd like to see the photograph."

John purses his lips and then sighs at the ceiling, but even before he says "Alright, fine", Sherlock is well-aware that he's given in. With a mock annoyed look, John pops out of the kitchen to go and retrieve the picture.

"Here," John says once he's returned minutes later, a small stack of papers in his hand. Sherlock wastes no time in leaping up and accepting the items, feeling irrationally excited to see John in his teenage years. It takes Sherlock less than five minutes to flip through the stack and locate the photo in question. In it, John is standing next to his date—who is slightly taller than him but otherwise quite forgettable—smiling shyly at the camera, youthful eyes sparkling like sapphires. He is leaning against the wall behind them, one hand tucked casually into his suit pocket, the other wrapped loosely around his date's waist (indicating platonic affection rather than attraction), his honey-brown hair mussed artfully and his pale blue tie in deliberate disarray.

Sherlock thinks he looks absolutely charming.

"Well?" Harry says after a few silent moments. "What do you think? Bloody adorable, right?"

Sherlock coughs, valiantly attempting to hide the blush staining his cheeks, and quickly tucks the photograph into his wallet. "You, er, don't mind if I hold on to this do you, Harry?"

Harriet just grins and gives him a fond pat on the shoulder, chuckling to herself when she notices John's raised eyebrows and flattered expression. "Well, I'm okay with it. What do you say, Johnny?"

"Fine by me," John concedes, a small smile lighting his features.

It isn't until Sherlock is on John's eighteenth birthday and the pile of dishes are down to just cups and forks, that Harry finally asks the Big Question. In a voice that is entirely too casual to be considered 'natural', she ventures, "So, Johnny, what's new with you and Sherlock?"

John's spine stiffens imperceptibly and his scrubbing falters. It takes him only a second to recover, but Sherlock has seen enough to know that John is still feeling nervous about finally explaining the status of their—relationship.

"Not much," John assures. "The usual: crime scenes, working at the clinic, hanging around the Yard looking for cases. Nothing new, really."

Harry sets the sponge down and puts her hands on her hips, leveling John with the full force of her scrutinizing stare. "Right, yeah, I meant 'you and Sherlock' as in you and Sherlock. If you try to tell me that the two of you are just mates, I'm going to helpfully remind you that you've never checked out the arses of 'just mates' before. Nor have you kissed them on the cheek."

Sherlock presses his thumb to the page to remember his place and looks up, intrigued. "You were staring at my arse?" Interesting, because these aren't even the trousers that usually prompt John to 'check out' his backside. He quickly makes a mental note that John finds this pair—as well as the slim-fitting black slacks—attractive.

Harry pointedly ignores Sherlock, but the look in her eyes is amused. "Granted, he's got a perky bum and it's bound to draw the eye, but, Johnny, you haven't stopped staring at him and swooning since you two arrived. You're clearly head over heels."

John—red-faced and wide eyed—is saved from responding when Harry continues with, "And I want you to know that I'm really happy for you alright?

John nods stiffly, but some of the tension has already left his frame, and for that Sherlock is grateful. "You're not…surprised?" John asks tentatively.

"Surprised? At what, the fact that it's Sherlock or that it's a man in general?"

"Mostly the latter."

Harry sighs and looks at John as if the answer should be obvious. "Johnny, I don't know if you're aware of this, but I've known you for some time now. Try, thirty something years. I know you're not gay, but you're also not straight. It's just taken you a million years to understand the fluidity of sexuality; it's not always black and white, you know? I mean, for some it is, of course. Take me for example; I've never been interested in anything but the fairer sex. In your case, Johnny, you've always been interested in women, but now, well," Harry smiles, "now you're interested in a gorgeous detective with the face of a romantic poet and the voice of a bloody angel. I'd say you got a pretty good deal."

Sherlock rubs his hand contemplatively over the side of his jaw. Face of a romantic poet? Interesting.

"I'd say so, yes," John agrees happily.

"So, just to clarify, you two are shagging then?" Harry confirms.

"No. Well, yes—Christ, Hare, do you really need to be so crass?"

She smirks. With a hint of self-deprecation, she sings, "Well, Johnny, it's either crass or drunk, you pick your favorite."

"Is there another option?" John asks sarcastically as he hands her the next mug to dry.

She takes the cup and begins scrubbing the towel over it. "Sure. Once every blue moon, I indulge in kindness, and when the stars align just right I'm even considerate."

"Any chance you'll be either this weekend?" asks John drily.

"Nope!" Harry replies cheerily. "But lucky for you, your posh little boy toy brought something decent for pudding, so I might consider being tolerable. However that all depends on whether the cake is chocolate or double chocolate."

Without looking up from six year old John splashing around in a bathtub, Sherlock replies, "Double chocolate, of course. John has quite the sweet tooth and I assumed it was hereditary."

Harry puts down the dish she is holding and bows her head in mock prayer, dramatically wiping an invisible tear from her cheek. "Bless this man."

"God, Harry," John snorts. "It's just cake. No need to construct a shrine in his honor."

"You're right; I'm sure you've already got one at home," Harry shoots back with a cheeky smirk. "I swear, I've only seen you two around each other for one evening and your lovey-dovey crap is already giving me cavities."

Sherlock looks up from the book, indignant. "In what way are we 'lovey-dovey'?"

Harry grins like a Cheshire cat and leans back against the counter, her arms crossed over her chest. "Well, luv, you've been ogling Johnny this whole time, as if you're unsure whether you want to snog the living daylights out of him or erect a statue in his honor. You two are just so bloody into each other." She grins, eyes bright. "May I expect a happy announcement soon?"

John smiles briefly at his shoes and turns a curious shade of red. He clears his throat and averts his eyes to the fridge. "Er, how about that cake now?"

Sometime after ten o' clock, Harry ushers the two of them to their room. "Now, you and Sherlock will be staying in the guest bedroom, which happens to be one thin wall away from mine, so I'd prefer if the 'nighttime festivities' were put on hold until you lot return to London. If you can't manage to stifle your hormones for that long, as least poke your head out and loudly suggest that I take a walk or perhaps visit the shops." Harry props her hands on her hips and raises a brow. "Understood?"

. . .

When John walks into their room a half hour later, Sherlock discovers that following Harry's instructions is a lot harder than he thought. At the sight of John's bare torso and shower-wet hair, Sherlock falls back onto the bed and groans, dramatically throwing his forearm over his eyes. "For Christ sakes, John, how am I supposed to adhere to Harry's rules if you go walking around half-naked like that?"

"I am not half-naked, I have shorts on!" John replies indignantly. "You're the one who's parading around here with your bloody hipbones on display!"

Sherlock sits up. "My hipbones are not on display!"

John raises an eyebrow. "Oh really? Stand up." When Sherlock reluctantly does so, John's eyes fall accusingly to his pelvis. "There, see? Those sweats are all low-slung and loose and your bloody t-shirt is riding up like mad—I mean, I can see your hips, your abdomen, your waist, your…" John trails off, momentarily distracted.

"John."

"Mm? Right, what was I saying? Oh yes: you're flaunting your goods like it's a damn strip show!"

Sherlock considers arguing back, but his incredibly wise hormones advise a different course of action—one that he is more than inclined to agree with. Instead of replying, he smirks and makes his way over to John in two steps; there, Sherlock looms over him like a shadow, his hands ghosting John's waist. "You wish."

John licks his lips and Sherlock watches, infatuated, as his pink tongue darts over the delectable plush of his bottom lip. "Yeah," John murmurs, sliding closer, his hands resting at Sherlock's sides, his thumbs rubbing circles into the jut of Sherlock's hipbones. "I do. Unfortunately, love, I'm not that patient."

And in what feels like no time at all, John is angling their heads so that the pecking phase of kissing is completely skipped, allowing their first connection to be an openmouthed, completely unabashed snog. John licks his way into Sherlock's mouth, curling his tongue against Sherlock's, tasting the seam of his lips and the backs of his teeth. Sherlock kisses back with equal fervor, boiling-hot desire flaring low in his abdomen, his hands firmly grasping the sharp angles of John's jaw within his large palms.

"Less shirt," John pants, tearing his mouth away with an obscene wet sound. "Less sweats too."

"Yeah," Sherlock agrees breathlessly, tugging the shirt off in one smooth action. The sweats, however, prove to be more difficult. The stupid bloody drawstring on the waist is tied into the world's tightest knot, and Sherlock's brain currently lacks the blood and focus required to undo it. After three seconds of useless fumbling, he groans—and not in the happy way. "John, help."

John immediately drops to his knees and tries his hand at untying the knot, but unfortunately finds the same result. "Godbuggeringdamn Sherlock, is this some sort of makeshift chastity belt?"

"John," Sherlock complains, so frustrated that he considers stomping his foot. "Just get them off!"

"I'm trying, but it's so—bloody—difficult. Okay! You know what? I'm just gonna make it work." Then, without further explanation or warning, John puts both palms on Sherlock's arse and begins sucking on the detective's right hipbone. Loudly.

John's moans soak into his skin and shoot through Sherlock's veins like fire, the sensation of John's mouth making him light-headed with pleasure. "Christ," Sherlock says weakly, carding his hands through John's hair. After a few more heavenly moments, John turns his attention to the other hip, latching on and sucking a matching love bite into the pale skin, his strong hands kneading Sherlock's arse.

"Wish these sweats weren't in the way," John murmurs against his skin, using the heel of his palm to massage Sherlock's achingly hard erection.

"John, oh god," Sherlock groans, tossing his head back, throat bared to the ceiling. Encouraged, John wraps his fingers around his clothed length, pumping him in delicious, frantic jerks.

"W-wait, John, not like this." Sherlock depletes his entire stash of self-control by stepping away from the delicious sensation and pulling John up. "Bed, now," he demands, kissing John and backing him up until the backs of his knees hit the bed. Once Sherlock finds himself sprawled over John, he begins working on a love bite—scratch that, multiple love bites—on the side of John's neck.

"I am going to blow your bloody mind, John Watson," Sherlock pants against John's throat, one hand tangled in John's hair, the other slipping inside the elastic of his pants.

And Sherlock might have made good on that promise, if they weren't then interrupted by several loud knocks at the door and Harry's voice. "When I said the walls are thin," she shouts, "I meant it! Just as a personal preference, I'd rather not hear you two smacking lips and humping my hard-earned furniture while I'm trying to read Pride and bloody Prejudiced!"

From underneath Sherlock, John hisses, "We were not humping her damned furniture!" Sherlock erases the grumpy look with a few quick (wet, dirty, open-mouthed) kisses, then raises his head to address Harry through the door.

"Perhaps you ought to visit the shops?" he suggests hopefully.

Harry makes a disgusted sound but thankfully moves away, all the while muttering audibly about 'damned men and their damned libidos' and something about 'screwing like rabbits'. "I'll be out for an hour or so, I suggest you take care of business in that amount of time," Harry calls from the hallway. "If I come back and hear ONE bloody moan, someone is sleeping on the sofa, got it?" Sherlock waits until the door slams and silence settles, before turning his attention back to John and lifting a mischievous brow.

"Now, where were we, Doctor?"

A/N:

First of all, thanks bunches and bunches for reading (as usual), and I'd REALLY appreciate some feedback on the smut. This is the first time I've ever written the word—drum roll, please—ERECTION in any story ever (usually I skirt around it in every way imaginable haha) so I am super eager to hear what y'all think about that last scene! It was basically the product of the fact that I am obsessed with hipbones, I have been neck-deep in destiel smut lately (my writing tends to reflect what I am reading), and, last but not least, a decent amount of people on this website /and/ (where I've also been updating this story) have been requesting a little peek at Johnlock's sex life. THIS, my darlings, is the happy compromise I have arrived at for those people (but I have NO intention of writing anything insanely explicit. This is about as smutty as it'll get)

~~QUESTION TIME~~

Since this story has a billion different Johnlock Established!relationship scenes I can incorporate, I'd like to know what you guys have in mind! Without a doubt, Molly and Mummy will be making their respective reappearances, though if you have any particular scenario you'd like them in, feel free to comment that as well. Otherwise, just let me know if there's a specific setting/scene/character interaction or even clip of dialogue you'd like me to incorporate!

Because honestly guys, "Definitions"s flexibility is one of my favorite things about this story. Of course I have a loose plotline I intend to follow, but anything can happen along the way ;)

Thanks again for reading, my darling readers, until next time!

XOXO Justlikewater