I would like to offer heartfelt thanks to mishaminion42, thedrunkencupcake, The Lord Writer, oatniel, KaKiJo, Agar Loki, ENTWolf, tw1pad, TakingItOutOnTheWall, Mini-Moffie13 (thank you so much for writing all those reviews as you read the story; that was awesome!), Guest, Lothiriel Queen, EJ 12212012, and all those who favorited/followed this story. You guys are awesome. ^_^ Seriously, you always make me smile.
I would also like to introduce and thank my new Beta, Helena Chauby, and my tireless Brit-Picker, the Lady of Clunn
And, of course, thanks goes to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.
Note: This version of the story will not be the explicit version, that will be posted on my Archive of Our Own account. On this posting there will be censored content. If you want the complete, explicit version, just visit the link to my Archive of Our Own account in my profile. This warning/notification will appear in every chapter with explicit content from now on, as a reminder.
And now, what you've all been waiting for...
Chapter 19: Close Enough to Burn
John brought his mug close to his lips and took a long pull from the warm tea inside. He closed his eyes and smiled, enjoying the warmth. Long, lithe arms slid around him, boxing him in against the railing of their balcony. John felt the pressure of a head settling on his shoulder beside his own. He leaned his head against Sherlock and chuckled before opening his eyes. "I've watched you drape yourself over the couch at Baker Street so many times over the years, how did I not guess that you would use this marriage as an excuse to drape yourself all over me? A little short on body heat are we?" It was a cloudy, unusually cool morning for early summer.
John felt more than saw Sherlock smile beside him. "Once again John, you see, but do not observe."
Ah, right. Important to stay in character, to put on a good show for anyone important who might be watching. Of course. Still, there was no reason why John couldn't enjoy it. He leaned back into Sherlock, closed his eyes and 'hmmed' contentedly.
John took another long sip from his mug before turning his head slightly to address Sherlock. "When I'm done with my tea, want to go for a walk on the beach?"
Sherlock sighed and shrugged. "Why not. Mycroft's agents informed me via text-at least they can be trained, unlike my recalcitrant brother-that Albert and Trevor are likely to spend all of today getting to know each other."
John pulled his head back a little and tried to look at Sherlock properly. "What do you mean 'get to know each other'? They're married, aren't they?"
Sherlock smirked and leaned forward to whisper in John's ear, "I meant, getting to know each other carnally, John."
"Oh." John felt a hot blush creeping up his neck and over his cheeks. Given Sherlock's deep chuckling, it had not gone unnoticed. John sipped his tea.
They stood in surprisingly comfortable silence for a few minutes, listening to the waves crash on the beach below. Both wanted to freeze the moment, to avoid the 'end' they felt looming. John took the last sip of his tea and closed his eyes, feeling the wind ruffle Sherlock's curls against his cheek.
Feeling movement, John opened his eyes and nearly started at how close Sherlock's blue-grey eyes were to his. God there was some kind of gravity about Sherlock that was pulling him in...that had always pulled him in.
"I do believe you said something about a walk, Dr...Holmes," Sherlock drawled in his deep baritone.
John, still flushed from Sherlock's proximity, smiled at the reminder of his new name...for however long he held it. "Yes," John replied quietly, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's, "but we'll need our coats first."
Sherlock pulled back a bit, looking petulant. "For a walk on the beach?!"
John put on his no-nonsense doctor face. "Yes, Sherlock; it's chilly out, it's only common sense. You've dragged your overcoat all over London, I don't imagine that it will be that much of a hardship to pull it out for a short walk on the beach."
Sherlock gave a dramatic sigh and pushed himself off the railing to retrieve said coat. John smiled, amused by the melodrama. While Sherlock petulantly pulled on his scarf, John collected his own jacket and surreptitiously slipped the dirty sheets under the fresh sheets they'd slept on last night. With any luck, the cleaning staff would enter for their daily room cleaning while Sherlock and John were out on their walk.
John paused by the bedside cabinet and left a sizable tip. The tip, unfortunately, did not go unremarked upon.
"You're being awfully generous," Sherlock remarked.
John, just barely, managed not to jump at the proximity of his husband. With a soldier's calm he turned around and made light of it. "Well, clean sheets every day is a nice change of pace. The cleaning staff works hard, it's only fair they be appreciated." Without waiting for further comment, John slipped his hand into Sherlock's and gave a tug in the direction of the hallway. "Come on, it'll be too hot for this later."
Their hotel was so close to the beach that Sherlock and John dared leave their room barefoot. They received some strange looks in the lobby, but this was nothing out of the ordinary when one lived with Sherlock Holmes, so John took it all in stride.
Sherlock slipped his hand in John's as they walked, intertwining their fingers. John smiled and closed his eyes when they reached the beach, concentrating on the sand under his feet. Sherlock led them down to the edge of the waves where the surging water occasionally rushed over their feet, wetting their trousers to mid-calf. It was a surprisingly pleasant walk, just making their way down the beach.
John felt the heat of Sherlock's hand in his and the heat of the younger man's body next to him. John turned his head and studied Sherlock as they walked. As if feeling the scrutiny, Sherlock turned to look at John and arched a curious eyebrow.
"This is nice," John commented. "Normally you'd be deducing everyone in sight, or spouting off a lot of facts about the ocean or what you find on the beach. It's nice to just walk with you."
Sherlock nodded in understanding, glancing in front of them for a moment, before returning his gaze to John's. "My mind is sufficiently occupied with the case. Normally it is easy to focus on only the relevant information. However, with the killer being so unoriginal in motive, I'm forced to remember a great deal of possibly useless information until I find the key bit of information that links to something important."
John smiled knowingly and nodded. He inched closer to Sherlock as they walked- almost, but not quite leaning on him. "Do you think you'd ever be this quiet or content on a proper holiday?"
Sherlock 'hmmed' thoughtfully, looking forwards again. "Didn't we have this conversation already? Back just before we started this case."
John smiled at the memory, surprised Sherlock hadn't deleted it. That felt like an age ago now. "I remember, Sherlock. We were talking about where we might go. I don't think I asked outright if you would relax on a holiday. In fact, if memory serves, you were talking about places that would keep your mind occupied, places with complex culture and such."
Sherlock was silent for a long time as they walked. So long, in fact, that John was about to ask his question again when Sherlock's deep baritone broke in at last. "I am 'relaxed' when I have something to focus on John. It's just rare to find something interesting that doesn't require movement of some kind."
"Like a case," John supplied.
Sherlock nodded, turning to look out onto the ocean as he spoke. "Yes, John, like a case."
Now that he thought of it John did remember Sherlock spending somewhat quiet evenings pouring over experiments, when there was no case and there was an interesting experiment to do. John had occasionally taken the opportunity to watch Sherlock as he worked, when such an opportunity presented itself. It was made easier by the fact that Sherlock never seemed to mind being stared at and wasn't likely to notice being stared at in the first place when his mind was at work.
John's mind crept back to the day they'd purchased their wedding rings, when he'd woken up to Sherlock's clever fingers mapping his back... How long had he done that before John woke?.. It made sense that Sherlock would act that way in a relationship, studying his partner as much as he'd ever studied anything. Hadn't John briefly considered how Sherlock might 'play' with a partner last night?
John flushed at the memory and looked down, watching the waves swirl around their feet before pulling back again. It couldn't be too much longer until there was a break in the case, the killer had been silent for quite a while...
It hurt to think about going back to England, back to London. It seemed cold, somehow, in his memory. Something...something felt out of place when John thought of going back. It all came back to this case, somehow, and how it had managed to turn everything on its ear.
Sherlock pressed his side against John suddenly, nudging him. John looked up and caught Sherlock's eyes with his own. "Any new thoughts about the case?" Sherlock asked quietly, studying John's face.
John looked down for a moment and shook his head. "No," he replied. "I was just thinking about it, turning it over in my head, but I haven't thought of anything new."
Sherlock looked away and let out an aggravated sigh, squeezing John's hand in his frustration.
John worried his bottom lip for a moment before giving Sherlock's hand a tug, bringing them both to a stop. "Sherlock?" John began.
Sherlock turned to face John, his face etched in confusion. "Yes?"
"When... when this case is finally over, what do you think about taking a proper holiday, like we were just talking about." John nearly grimaced at his own question. As though a trip would somehow delay the inevitable end of their marriage. A marriage that was set to end before it had even properly started. That really shouldn't feel as bad as it did.
Sherlock was silent for a beat, then took on an expression of amused exasperation. "We're not there yet, but sure. This had been an interesting case on all fronts, and you have been more than accommodating. Fine. When everything is settled, pick a place and we'll go. Just don't waste any brain power on it before hand. We're close to the end of this case, I can feel it. Everyone who can, needs to stay sharp."
John nodded, glancing down at their joined hands. John doubted, even if Sherlock was on his best behavior, that a holiday would give him what he really wanted. Hell, John was having trouble figuring out what was wrong or what he wanted in the privacy of his own head. It was probably a bad idea, agreeing to marry Sherlock, when John knew he had some sort of feelings for his persnickety flatmate. Even still, John doubted that would've stopped him from saying yes. Aside from body parts in the fridge and enforcing the bare minimum of basic manners, John had always had trouble saying 'no' to Sherlock about anything.
A cool, slim hand on his cheek lifted John's gaze back to Sherlock's. "That's not all you're worried about," Sherlock began, and John knew if he let Sherlock continue he'd be deduced. John's heart beat kicked up a notch. Sherlock probably knew, probably had known for a while, but John was not in the proper head space to talk about his mixed up feelings.
"It's fine," John cut in, talking over Sherlock. "It's all fine, really. This case just seems a bit different from most of the others."
"We've been abroad on a case before, " Sherlock commented.
John nodded, "Yes, but your cases don't usually last this long. This has to be a record for you."
Sherlock looked away for a moment and shrugged. "Yes, well, welcome to the power of the mundane mind, just common enough to blend into the proverbial scenery. I think I did say I envied other people and how relaxing it must be to have a common mind, yes? I take that all back. I can have no good will towards simple minds when this killer in particular is being so bloody irritating. Why are you smiling?"
"Just you. It's rather entertaining when you're going on a rant."
"I'm not trying to be entertaining, John, I'm exasperated," Sherlock muttered
John nodded, still smiling. "I can see that."
Sherlock began to open his mouth and say more, when John leaned up on his toes and stopped him with a kiss. John slipped his hands up Sherlock's arms and around his neck, pulling his husband closer. Sherlock leaned into him, wrapping his arms securely around John's waist. John's arms settled around Sherlock's shoulders while his hands and fingers sank deep into Sherlock's wild curls, slightly damp from the misty ocean air.
Sherlock's mouth was warm and pliant over his. John drew Sherlock's bottom lip between his teeth for a moment and nibbled, tasting the salt from the air. Sherlock pressed forward, covering a soft moan from John. John could feel Sherlock's coat brush against his side, shielding him slightly from the wind.
John continued to lean up, even as Sherlock leaned down, pressing himself as close to his consulting detective as he could possibly get. John had thought that, after last night, he'd feel more in control. He'd been wrong. Very wrong.
Their tongues slid and pushed together, mimicking their passionate embrace. John's hands slid, grasping for purchase in Sherlock's black coat as the world seemed to tip and spin out of rhythm. God he loved this man.
The kiss jerked to a stop. John and Sherlock were less than an inch apart, their breath brushing across each other's faces. John's eyes locked onto Sherlock's blue-grey ones. Oh God... He really loved Sherlock.
This went beyond a crush and, the more he thought about it, deeper than anything he'd ever felt for anyone else. How, how could he have been so blind?John remembered thinking that he'd truly meant his vows, and now it was dawning on him how much he meant them.
"Are you alright John?"
That question had been directed at him in Sherlock's deep baritone, but John found himself unable to answer. Dragging his eyes away from Sherlock's, John found himself gazing at his hand, still fisted in the lapel of Sherlock's overcoat. It was shaking...no, he was shaking. Holy, fuck. he was honest to God in love with Sherlock Holmes.
"John?"
John's head snapped up towards Sherlock's voice and he blinked rapidly a few times to try to clear his head. No good. "Fine," John squeezed out, "Fine, just cold."
Sherlock's arms pulled John close again, slim hands rubbing at his back to warm him, and the ex-army doctor went willingly. Cold, yes, cold was a good excuse. It was misty and windy... And they seemed to have gone further out into the surf than they intended. Either way, cold would give John the chance to get back to the hotel and think for a bit. And make some tea. Lots of tea.
Greg sipped at his tea and moved on to the next page of the police report. He was sitting in Mycroft's office, using a corner on the side of Mycroft's desk, while Mycroft sat behind his desk and reviewed the security cameras. They hadn't really planned to work together today, or even discussed it. They'd woken up a bit late (both with good reason, considering their late-night chess game), and just sort of settled down to work in Mycroft's office.
Mycroft had a good excuse, it was his temporary office after all. But Greg? He'd just grabbed a copy of the police report on Dylan and Kyle's murder, and followed Mycroft upstairs after brunch.
Greg smiled at the memory. They'd both gone for tea first thing. Mycroft had sat and watched his tea brew while Greg had begun pulling out ingredients for a mushroom and cheese omelette. Greg had crouched down to pull the appropriate pans out of the cupboard beneath the range top island, when he'd paused to glance up at Mycroft, who was sitting on a stool in the other side of the island, still staring into his tea. Greg's gaze must have lingered too long because Mycroft's gaze flickered towards him, studying him.
"May I help you Gregory?" Mycroft had asked.
Greg had smiled then, a bit sheepishly, and stood. "Would you like an omelette Mycroft?" Greg asked, placing a pan on the burner and drizzling a bit of olive oil into the bottom.
Mycroft had eyed the pan suspiciously and, for a moment, Greg had sworn he'd heard an internal calorie count going on in Mycroft's head. Greg had managed to keep quiet, but only by biting the inside of his cheek. Just as he had last night, Greg reminded himself how often his ex-wife and he had fought when he'd tried to convince her to have dessert or eat a bit more if she was hungry. It could be such a sensitive issue, that it was better to choose your battles. He'd only make a point of complaining if Mycroft went as far as something that could hurt himself, like skipping meals.
Whatever internal battle Mycroft was fighting must have ended favorably, because he removed the teabag from his mug, took a long sip, then nodded. "Yes, thank you Gregory," Mycroft had murmured.
Greg smiled, and set about making them each a two egg omelette with mushrooms and cheese. In deference to Mycroft's concern about his weight, Greg kept his omelet light on the cheese and removed one egg yolk. Mycroft didn't comment, but Greg had thought he'd seen a hint of a smile when Greg had placed to omelette in front of him. They had shared a companionable, silent breakfast together while the bright morning sunlight filled the room.
"That page must be quite interesting, Gregory," Mycroft broke in, pulling Greg back to the present moment.
Greg looked up at Mycroft and blinked, confused. "What do you mean?"
Mycroft raised an accusing eyebrow. "You've been reading that page for the last ten minutes. Normally you read one page approximately every three minutes. Therefore I must assume you have found something of note and have been re-reading it to confirm a suspicion, or that you are not really concentrating."
Greg flushed slightly, feeling guilty. "I was just thinking," he murmured, trying to bring his attention back to said page.
Mycroft, however, was not content to let the subject go. Instead he laced his fingers together and leaned forward, resting his chin on the bridge of his hands. "About what?"
Greg glanced up at Mycroft through his lashes, and found him stubbornly immobile. Greg lifted his head then and took a few moments to 'study' Mycroft as Mycroft had so often 'studied' him. Greg was starting to think he'd been more than a little right when he'd accused Mycroft of living a lonely life. Greg wondered if it bothered Mycroft, or if Mycroft deigned to let it bother him...
"I was thinking it's been nice spending time with you. We haven't really spent much time together since Sherlock went clean." It was a painful subject, Greg knew, so he tried to be direct and to the point.
"We work in similar, yet entirely different, circles. Once doctor Watson was on scene, there seemed very little point in further communication. As you say, my brother has been clean," Mycroft replied smoothly.
Greg's mouth drew into a tight line, a small grimace. There it was. That distance he'd always seen from Mycroft, except in those brief moments when he let himself relax, or couldn't keep up the mask. Greg had seen those glimpses when Sherlock was ill, especially during one endless night when the great idiot had nearly killed himself with an overdose. However, after last night, Greg admitted to himself he much preferred to see Mycroft let his guard down in a relaxed manner.
Forcing his attention back to the present Greg said, "It's Dr. Holmes now."
Mycroft made a sour face and muttered, "Not for much longer."
Greg let out a frustrated sigh. "Love is nothing to be afraid of, Mycroft."
"Love does not alarm me," Mycroft sputtered.
It was Greg's turn to raise an accusing eyebrow. "How would you know?"
Mycroft tried for a change of subject. "You're being awfully candid today, Gregory."
Greg smiled softly and replied, "Sherlock might have the reputation for deduction, but you would have found out what I was thinking anyway, sooner or later." Greg rested his elbow on the desk in front of him and his head in his hand. "How does it feel to be given something, instead of taking it?"
Mycroft started, studied Greg for a moment as though he couldn't quite understand him, then pointedly returned his gaze to his laptop. "Back to work Gregory. This killer, while dormant, isn't finished yet. I intend to catch him."
Greg smiled to himself, even as he returned his own gaze to the police report in his hand. "Yes, Mycroft," he murmured, knowing he'd given Mycroft more to think about than the elder Holmes brother had expected.
They had returned to their hotel room and promptly changed into dry clothes. For lack of a new lead, Sherlock and John had begun pouring over the case information they already had. John had managed, just barely, to convince Sherlock to write things out on a note pad instead of the hotel wall.
That hadn't made any further progress, but mapping out his 'mind palace', or the parts of it dedicated to this case, was at least a new perspective. Perhaps he'd be able to draw a few more connecting lines, eke out a few steps forward...God this was tedious.
"See you in a bit, Sherlock."
Sherlock's head snapped up and he took in the confusing image of John in running shorts and a thin cotton t-shirt. "Going somewhere?"
John took a step away from the door and rolled his eyes. "I told you already, I'm going out for a run. I need to clear my head."
"You never told me that," Sherlock insisted, standing up a bit straighter. "What about the case?"
John blew out an exasperated breath. "The case hasn't gone anywhere since we first arrived, Sherlock. We've been at this all day. Yes, I think we'll get a break in the case soon, it's been quiet for too long. However, until that happens, I need to work off some of this nervous energy. We can't all pace around the room spouting off deductions, or sit in meditative contemplation of our mind palaces."
"Naturally, John. You don't have a mind palace."
John chuckled. "Exactly. I'll keep my phone on me, just send me a text if something interesting happens. I won't be gone long."
It was irrational, but Sherlock didn't like the idea of John being out alone when, indeed, the case had fallen silent for a suspiciously long time. He was aware of the faint brush of lips on his forehead and a murmured farewell while he racked his mind for a reason John shouldn't go.
The weather? No, it was late afternoon by now and the weather had cleared up beautifully. That meant they would be back on the trail of Albert and Trevor tomorrow, as it was likely to be the perfect day for an outing. Not important, focus. Dimly, he was aware of the rushing sound of water, about an hour ago. It hadn't been raining, the weather had begun to clear up by that time. What, then? What had it been?
"Shower!" Sherlock called out a bit more loudly than was necessary.
John, who had been most of the way out the door paused with his hand on the door and leaned back towards Sherlock. "Pardon?"
"You just took a shower an hour ago, if you go out running you'll just have to take another one."
John shook his head and smiled in amusement. "So I'll take two showers then, it won't be bad for my health." Looking up, John caught Sherlock's gaze with his own and held it. "I'll be fine Sherlock. I've texted Mycroft, I'm sure I'll be followed by cameras and agents alike. I'll stick to public running paths. Alright?"
Sherlock made a sour face and waved John off. "Fine, it's a needless risk, but why would you listen to me? You've only been complimenting my powers of observation since we've met."
"Sherlock, you could write the book on unnecessary risk taking," John replied, his smile undeterred. "I'll be back soon. Try not to tear the hotel apart while I'm gone, hmm?" And then Sherlock was alone.
Alone, and pouting. Unexpected petulance was another thing he could add to his list of why falling in love was a bad idea. Maybe one day that list would be long enough to convince his treacherous heart to be logical...maybe.
Sherlock sighed and spun in his desk chair. What to do now? Half the entertainment of writing things out had been talking with John the about possibilities for the case. Either way, Sherlock was sick of the activity and, for the first time he could remember, sick of pouring over his mind palace for information.
Sherlock's eyes slid along the hotel walls wishing, not for the first time, that John had brought his gun with them. Even if there had been a gun at his disposal, John had asked Sherlock not to take out his frustrations on the hotel. Hadn't he?
What to do, what to do...John would be gone for at least an hour, based on his usual running habits. Sherlock began gearing up to consider and discard boring possibilities of how to fill the time, when a smear on the wooden drawer of the bedside cabinet caught his attention. It was clear, little more a slight discoloration in the light. Sherlock had just risen to approach the drawer when he realised. Of course! John had used the vibrator last night. He'd noted that when he'd stood beneath their window and listened to John's soft cries escape into the night.
Deftly, Sherlock removed the box from the drawer and examined it. John had done a passable job of putting it away, everything was n its place... Except for the smear of lubricant on the outside of the drawer, the missing lubricant in the bottle (nothing to be done about that really, even if he added water it would change the texture of the lubricant slightly)...and the batteries. In his haste to clean up, John had left the batteries in the vibrator.
Sherlock considered this for a moment before his eyes slid to the freshly made bed to his right, then to the windows, then to the clock on the bedside cabinet. He'd need to close the drapes...but an hour should be more than enough time...
John's muscles buzzed, pleasantly warmed up, and his breath was just beginning to come out in pants. Yes, nothing like a good run to clear his head. He could fix this. He could...
How do you fix being in love with your best friend and flatmate? It didn't need to be a big issue. He just needed to be calm enough to talk to Sherlock. Or not. Sherlock had accused John of flirting with him during their first night at Angelo's. It was possible Sherlock had seen it coming, and had long been aware of John's feelings. God, if John had been worried about this disrupting their friendship before the wedding...
But they'd gone over this already. Things would stay normal. Nothing needed to change after the case. They'd be the same as always. God, asking for a proper holiday this morning had been a mistake. The fact that this case was giving John's feelings so much leeway was bad enough. He'd just tell Sherlock he'd changed his mind. John doubted Sherlock would take much convincing; he did love London and the plethora of cases/experiments it could provide. There. He had a plan. Now all he had to do was concentrate, focus...
"Aaaah!" Adrenaline spiked when John felt his foot catch in an errant root, sending him toppling and rolling on the ground.
John groaned softly, spitting gravel out of his mouth and mentally checking in with his extremities...there didn't appear to be any injuries.
"Are you okay?" asked a soft voice above him.
John turned his head to see a women with chestnut brown hair and mossy green eyes leaning over him.
"You took quite a tumble," She said, kneeling down to help John sit up.
"Yeah, running's not the best time to get lost in thought," John admitted ruefully.
The women smiled and nodded. "Oh yeah, been there, have the scars to prove it." She extended her hand to him and he shook it. "My name's Laura. I'm trained in first aid. Mind if I look you over? Make sure you didn't break anything?"
"Go ahead," John replied, taking a few deep breaths to calm his agitated system, high on adrenaline.
Laura took his face in her hands, turning his head this way and that to check for abrasions and lacerations. "Any stiffness?" She asked, while lightly running her fingers over his arms, then down his calves.
"No," John replied, "I don't even think there'll be any bruising."
"What's your name," Laura asked as she continued to look him over.
"John."
"Well, John, you might be sore tomorrow," Laura said, pausing to dig her keys out of her pocket and shine a small light in his eyes. John blinked and fought the urge to look away. "Your pupils are reacting normally," Laura observed. "I might call off the rest of your run and have a soak in some Epsom salt, but you seem to be fine."
John grinned as Laura, who appeared to be about his age, now that he got a good look at her, pulled him to his feet. "Thank you, doctor."
Laura flushed and smiled shyly. "I'm no doctor. Like I said, I'm trained in first aid. It comes in very handy on the running trails."
John nodded. He'd seen enough running injuries to know. Laura turned slightly to check for other runners either coming or going down the trail. It was a smart thing to do since they were right in the middle of the trail. The movement caused John's eyes to wander to her chest. Not her breasts, but her breast plate. She was also dressed for a run in a tracksuit and a sleeveless tank top that was cut low and did little to hide her sports bra. From the looseness of the fabric John surmised her choice was about comfort rather than fashion. However, it was not her clothing that had caught John's attention, it was thin almost spider web like silver discolorations near her shoulders.
"Can I help you?" Laura's slight amused voice broke in, and John realised he'd been staring.
"Sorry," John sputtered his face growing red.
Laura smiled "It's a refreshing change of pace from having someone stare at my breasts," she noted, glancing down at the fine lines herself. "Do you know what they are?"
It sounded like a serious question so John looked again with doctors eyes. "Stretch marks?" he asked, glancing up. Laura nodded. John looked again and added. "I don't think these are from children, being so high up on your body."
Laura nodded again. "Correct. I've lost over a hundred pounds in the past three years."
John's eyebrows shot up in surprise. She looked rather fit, he never would've guessed. "That's really something, congratulations."
Laura beamed. "Thank you." She glanced down at her stretch marks again then added, "I could have them removed I suppose, but what's the point of buying into other people's insecurities?" Laura looked back up at John. "Besides, I like the reminder."
"Of all the work that you did?" John asked.
"Of the fact that it's never too late to go after what you want," Laura corrected.
John nodded, pleased. That made sense. And, as a doctor, he was always happy to see someone doing important things for their health.
"I'm sorry if I've kept you," Laura said, "I know I can be kind of chatty."
John shook his head. "No, it's alright. I was out to get a little air anyway. If I'm going to head back early, I didn't mind talking for a bit." John's mood darkened somewhat at the reminder of Sherlock, waiting for him back at their hotel room. That was one thing, one relationship he wanted that was too dangerous to go after.
"It was nice to meet you John," Laura said, shifting slightly away, getting ready to run again. "Have a nice day."
John nodded, "You as well, enjoy your run." And then she was off, leaving nothing but a small cloud of kicked up sand in her wake.
John looked back in the direction of the hotel and sighed. He hadn't been gone anywhere near as long as he intended, but Laura had been right, better to just walk back. Especially now that the sun was rapidly setting. John made it a brisk walk, being mindful of roots and uneven dips on the path, and he was shortly back in the hotel.
He lingered in the lobby, pretending to look over a pile of brochures for activities in the area, but John wasn't fooling himself. He had to go back to the room he shared with Sherlock, and he was avoiding it. Avoiding it wouldn't change the facts. Sherlock and he had gone over this at length; nothing was going to change. He had to keep his head in the game.
John snatched up several brochures at random to read after his bath. It was doubtful, at best, that he'd find something useful for the case, but, at this point, with so little to go on, a shot in the dark was better than nothing.
John glanced over his selection as he climbed the stairs and made his way down the hall. There wasn't much. Silly tourist attractions, a theater company performing the 12th Night, and an art exhibit being put on by a local college.
John absentmindedly swiped his key card and pushed open the door.
"John?! Wait a moment, please!" John paused at the door. That was Sherlock's voice, but it sounded tight and strained.
"Everything okay?" John asked, hesitating with the door slightly open. The small hallway that later opening up into the main area of their room, shielded John's view of the bed. John craned his neck a bit, but all he could see from here was the small wardrobe to his right, the bathroom door to his left, and the floor at the foot of the bed. He could hear some scrambling.
"Fine!" Sherlock insisted, his response still clipped.
John was becoming concerned now. Sherlock had never even wanted cigarettes while on a case, and he'd never cared much for modesty with the way he traipsed around the flat in a sheet during the hot months. Why exactly was Sherlock delaying him from entering their hotel room? Had he found something dangerous about the case and was trying to keep it from John?
"Sherlock, I'm coming in," John insisted, pushing the door open the rest of the way. More scrambling. John stepped into the room and crossed the few steps down the hall, the door to their room closing behind him. John sucked in a breath as he rounded the corner.
Sherlock sat on the edge of the bed with bare feet, a badly buttoned shirt that was open to mid chest, and his hair looked slightly more rumpled than usual. John followed the line of Sherlock's arm to his hand that was pressing the drawer of the nightstand closed, the faintest shine of lubricant evident on Sherlock's fingers. John's eyes locked with Sherlock's wide, vulnerable ones. Sherlock's pupils were dilated.
"John, I-" Sherlock began, but he never got any further.
John crossed the distance between them in a few short strides, setting his knee on the bed beside Sherlock's hip. John's hands cupped Sherlock's face and pulled him up into a wild, desperate kiss. Something about seeing Sherlock aroused, deducing his intention to use the same vibrator that John had used on himself-not even a day before, had caused something to snap inside John. Sherlock was his.
John's teeth grazed across Sherlock's lips, pulling them apart, thrusting his tongue inside. Sherlock's hands slid up, over John's hips and clutched tentatively at his sides. John made a noise low in his throat, like a growl and lowered his hands to slip inside Sherlock's wide open collar. Sherlock's skin was smooth and warm. The world's only consulting detective arched into John's touch.
The few buttons that were still, in fact, buttoned on Sherlock's shirt kept John from exploring as much as he would like. John pulled at the buttons, almost tearing the fabric as he nibbled his way across Sherlock's jaw to his neck.
Sherlock breathed a low moan when John sucked firmly at the curve of his neck, tugging Sherlock's flesh gently between his teeth. Sherlock turned his head away, baring more of his throat to John. John finally, finally, managed to part Sherlock's shirt and pull it down his arms. He'd meant to pull the shirt off completely, but he stopped when Sherlock's shirt was pushed down to his elbows in favor of pressing his palms flat against Sherlock's chest and arms, exploring the skin revealed to him.
Sherlock pressed up into John's hands, squirming in frustration to get out of his shirtsleeves, a small whine escaping his lips. John, who had kissed his way over to Sherlock's shoulder, smiled into the skin there, but made no move to help. Instead, John pulled back, nipped gently at Sherlock's parted lips, and used his leverage to push Sherlock back into the mattress.
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They rested against each other, shaking and panting in the aftermath. Their hands clutching at any area of skin within reach, lips pressing together for insistent, gasping kisses.
"Sherlock," John murmured, pulling his husband into a leisurely, sensual kiss. Sherlock 'hmmed' contentedly into their kiss, relishing in the soft pressure of lips and tongues. Their kiss gradually slowed and, hesitantly, they parted, locking gazes once more.
Sherlock leaned forwards and nuzzled John's neck as John wiped up most of the mess with tissues from the bedside cabinet. Satisfied that they wouldn't wake up too sticky, John let the tissues drop into the bin by the bed and locked his arms around his lithe husband.
Sherlock rolled slightly so that he was lying on his side next to John. John allowed the movement, but only just. His arms tightened around Sherlock to prevent the tall brunet from moving too far way. Sherlock grinned into John's neck and insinuated one of his legs between John's, bringing them even closer together. Sherlock draped an arm across John's chest and closed his eyes, concentrating on the feeling of John's breath in his curls. He hadn't been trying to get away from John, he never wanted to be away from John again. John was his blogger.
Sherlock felt his own breathing lengthen and deepen, falling into pace with John's. Sleep made his limbs heavy and his concentration fuzzy. For the first time since they began sharing a bed, Sherlock couldn't later recall who had fallen asleep first.