Property of: Chapter 2

The pub, where they were staying, was the sort of place that had fallen between staying as a village local, and morphing into the kind of gastropub that was popular with people from the city who came out to experience what they thought the country ought to be. There were horse brasses and regulars, but the menu included ostrich burgers and venison.

Sherlock strode up to the bar. 'Two pints of your finest ale, please, landlord,' he ordered. The barman, a fat man with slicked back hair and a sardonic expression, looked him up and down and then turned to John.

'What's this, Withnail and I?'

'What on earth is he talking about,' Sherlock hissed out of the side of his mouth at John.

'Never mind, it's your coat. I'll explain later.' He gave the man his most delightful smile. 'Don't mind him, he's a bit eccentric.'

The barman grumbled, but nevertheless pulled them a pint each. John downed his in one, much to Sherlock's disbelief and ordered a second with a whisky chaser.

'Are you feeling alright?'

'Perfectly,' John said, knocking back his short. Sherlock watched the muscles in his neck flex as he threw back his head, and thought: I could watch him do that all night.

It transpired that the kitchen was shut, and the ostrich burger chef had gone home, but John managed to charm the landlady into knocking them up some cheese and onion toasties. They sat down in the corner of the bar and ate ravenously. Sherlock felt like food had never tasted this good. John seemed perfectly relaxed. Perhaps it was the whisky. Or the adrenaline. Whichever. The important thing was that he seemed perfectly un-phased by Sherlock's sudden amorous attack. They chatted as happily as they always did, and then John yawned, and said he thought it was time to turn in, so they climbed the stairs behind the bar to the rooms they had booked for the night, and bid one another a good night's sleep.

Sherlock rather liked his room. It was large and surprisingly empty in that 'newly decorated by a professional interior designer' kind of way. It smelt pleasant and clean, and he could walk around without ducking under beams, which he had to do in the bar downstairs. There was a large en suite shower room, too, which felt cool and satisfying. Staying in places like this always made him rather disappointed with himself, though. He wanted to live a minimalist life, in a home empty of clutter and carefully designed, full of rooms just like this one, calm and without distractions, but his insatiable interests got in the way of that dream, and left him living like a tramp with a voracious obsession for collecting rubbish. Standing in the middle of the bedroom, with its big bed decked out in crisp white sheets, and nothing else, he wondered how John could bear to live with him. Or rather, with his mess. He resolved to try harder at being tidy and began to strip, carefully hanging his suit up in the wardrobe. But then he peeled off his shirt and dumped it on the floor with his socks and shoes in a heap, and went off to the bathroom to wash and clean his teeth.

There was a knock at the door. He still had his toothbrush in his mouth when he opened it, dressed in nothing but his boxers.

'Er- oh.' It was John. He was bundled up in a dressing gown and pyjamas.

'What?' Sherlock said, scrubbing, knowing his mouth was ringed with white foam. 'Is something wrong?'

John looked sheepish. 'Can I come in for a minute?'

Sherlock stood back to let him through, and closed the door. He continued scrubbing.

'What is it?'

'Do you want to finish-' John waived his hand rather vaguely at Sherlock's mouth.

'This? Oh, if you like.'

He stalked into the bathroom to spit and rinse, emerging wiping his face with the little hand towel. 'Now?'

'Er, you forgot something.' Was it Sherlock's imagination, or was John actually blushing?

'What?'

'Er, you forgot to kiss me good night.'

Sherlock felt heat bloom across his body. Suddenly he realised he was almost naked. And that John was looking at him. Raking his body with his eyes, in fact. He swallowed loudly, and tried to steady himself, hoping against hope that his increasing arousal wouldn't be obvious through the thin cotton jersey of his pants.

'Well, can't have that, can we?'

He reached out for John again, cupping his rounded cheeks in his hands, and drew his face in. John was already closing his eyes in anticipation. Sherlock felt his knees go weak. He willed himself to stay upright, willed himself not to mess this up. He brushed his lips against John's delicately, and the doctor sighed, and parted his, tipping his head up to receive Sherlock's mouth. Oh, it was bliss. That perfect connection of skin and nerve endings. How could mere biology produce such wonderful tremors in his body, Sherlock wondered.

As before, their bodies were not touching, their mouths alone in contact, but it seemed this time such distance was not enough for John. He pulled Sherlock against him, his hands sliding up the taller man's long back. He let out a sigh. Sherlock slipped his tongue between John's lips, just the tip, just an experiment, but John gulped at it hungrily. His body was warm through the soft towelling cocoon of his robe.

And then it was over, as naturally and simply as it had begun. Sherlock lifted his head up to look into the eyes of the man in his arms.

'Goodnight, sweet prince,' he whispered.

The tenderness in John's eyes stopped his breath in his throat. John reached up on tip toes and kissed the end of Sherlock's nose.

'Sleep tight,' he breathed. And then he was gone. Sherlock stared at the door that had closed behind him, his head spinning. Had he dreamt that? Or had it really happened? He licked his lips. No, it had happened. He could taste John's toothpaste, and the faint ghost of the whisky that still lingered on his tongue. He closed his eyes, stretched out his arms and began to spin round and around on his toes, as high as a kite.