They drop John in Berwick-Upon-Tweed to see what he can dig up.

"It's Sunday afternoon," Victor points out. "The hall of records will be closed."

"Who's in charge of it?" Sherlock asks.

"Mary Dorsing."

"How old?"

"I don't know, early thirties?"

"I'll bet you a fiver John can get her to let him in."

John stifles a laugh and Sherlock frowns. "Into the files, John, don't be childish."

John has the sense of humour of an eleven-year-old boy, which Sherlock usually enjoys, but his patience is limited after the morning, references to John's heterosexuality make him edgy, he's happy to use his friend's powers of flirtation to his advantage, doesn't like the thought it might go further, even in jest…

Upon return to Corvin Castle, Sherlock immediately rounds up all the current house staff, even the less-than-eager Mrs. Pershing and gives them their marching orders.

"We're going through the whole place systematically, even the upper floors. Starting at the top and working into the underground levels. I want you to check every wall, every brick, every cupboard, nook, staircase, or lose stone. Touch everything, press it if it can be pressed, wiggle if it can be wiggled. Anything that opens or moves that shouldn't, come get me and Victor immediately."

They obey reluctantly, except for the cook's son, Justin, who seems quite excited by the whole thing. But after six hours of exhaustive sweeping, even his excitement is dimmed. Everyone is dusty, ill tempered, and frustrated, including Sherlock. Victor did discover one unknown door, but it only leads from his study to the pantry.

"Useful, but not exactly what we're looking for," he comments.

Sherlock finds a panel leading to an old dumbwaiter, but the staff already knew about it and it's blocked up on the other end. Nothing that goes down into the sublevels, much less underneath the foundations. By the time John returns, Victor and Sherlock are weary and discouraged, slumped so low in their chairs at the table that they threaten to sink right out of them.

John's arrival injects a little energy into the scene. He bounds in and sets into a roll while they wait for supper.

"Aren't you both cheery! I guess if you don't want to hear what I found out today…"

Sherlock jerks upright. "Tell me, now!"

"All right, I'm going to, calm down," he says grinning like a cat.

He gets so smug when he knows something Sherlock doesn't, likes to string him along, make him wait until he knows Sherlock is about to snap, it's insufferably cocky, as if the case didn't get him wound up enough…

John takes another bite of his roll, basking in Sherlock's glare. "Well, it seems Mr. Andrews is not only outspoken with his views regarding historic building preservation, he's also highly litigious. He's launched suits against Victor, against British Heritage, even against the Northumberland Historical Society. Not only that he's petitioned Parliament directly to intervene and declare the property protected, he even went as far as to try to get it declared a UNESCO World Heritage site. The man does not quit!"

Sherlock turns sharply to Victor. "Did you know about any of this?"

Victor looks a bit sheepish. "I knew there were some legal issues from Andrews' group, but I let my solicitor handle all that. Besides he wasn't likely to get anywhere, I have all the proper clearances and permits and I own the building and land outright."

"Idiot! Don't you pay attention to what goes on under your own nose? How can you expect me to help you if you aren't even interested in your own affairs?!"

Victor's hackles rise. "I pay attention to plenty, I'm sorry I can't memorise every little detail of everything that happens in each of my investments for your convenience. I have quite a few things on my plate as you may have noticed!"

"Daft pillock! You could have saved us days."

Victor shows all the signs of being about to go into a sulk to rival any of Sherlock's, opening his mouth to retort, but John jumps in first. "Christ, not you too. Would you both like to continue squabbling like overgrown schoolboys, or did you want to hear the rest of what I have to say?"

They both quiet, although Victor still is looking at Sherlock resentfully.

"Good boys," John says sarcastically. "Now, what's really interesting is that in the most recent suit filed by Andrews, as part of his evidence that Victor is not a responsible guardian for such an important location, he cites the first missing stone from the foundation, claiming that you are causing or allowing damage to the original structure. That suit was amended two and a half weeks ago to include the loss of the second stone."

He knew about the theft, but did he know early or was he just quick on the draw as soon as the gossip got around, either way he's got motive, he's got knowledge of the castle, he's a desperate man, desperate men make mistakes and Andrews seems to have made a big one…

Sherlock's bad temper vanishes. "Now we're on to something – maybe sabotage, or maybe he knows something about the structure that's made him frantic to stop Victor's restoration lest he find whatever's there before Andrews can extract it! We'll start tailing him first thing in the morning, see who he talks to, who his accomplices might be – he can't have done it alone. Twenty-four seven until we've got him red handed or we rule him out." He rubs his hands together eagerly. "I've thought of something as well. I looked at the pattern of the thefts and, aside from seeming to get closer together, they all happened on completely dark nights. No stars and no moon visible. Tomorrow night will be a new moon and complete cloud cover is forecasted. I think our culprits will strike then."

That had come to him hours ago, while inspecting the dustier corners of the wine cellar, he'd been waiting for a suitably dramatic time to reveal it, got to have an audience or what's the point, besides it's more exciting now that they have a strong suspect, he's quite pleased with himself and at least John looks a little impressed…

"So soon?" asks Victor, interested despite his vexation. "And won't they have their guard up since you're here?"

"The criminals could have two responses to my being here. To go to ground and hope we don't find whatever it is they are taking the stones for and recover them. Or to speed up and risk it right under our noses, out of fear of the lose of their prize. I'm betting the latter – obviously the stones are extremely valuable to them for some reason and they've gone to so much trouble, they won't stop now even knowing they're being investigated. And following Andrews through tomorrow night will likely enough take us to his partners and the stolen blocks."

"Mmm," says John, his mouth full. "One problem. Andrews is going out of town tomorrow midmorning. Mary – Ms. Dorsing – told me that when I was asking about him."

"He may just be trying to provide himself with an alibi while his associates do the dirty work. He's certainly not physically strong enough to be of much use in actually moving them. John, first thing in the morning I want you to go into town again. Don't let him out of your sight until you can confirm that he's actually gone. He may talk to his people before he goes if they are planning a job tonight. Then try and find out if he was out of town for the other thefts, and if he knew about them before other people in town did. Find out who he's been talking to – break into his house and office if you have to."

John knows what to do, give him a mission and he's like a pit-bull, won't let go until he's gotten every required piece of data, even if he can't put it together himself, a reliable recorder and investigator, Sherlock no longer has to waste time and space on his hard drive for logistics and trivia…

"Sherlock are you sure that's necessary? Or wise…?" Victor protests.

"Absolutely," Sherlock hisses, and John nods reluctantly.

"Don't worry, I'm getting practised at this part, God help me."

Talk turns to other things while they eat their dinner. Sherlock, in an exuberant mood now that they have a solid lead, helps himself to inhuman portions of chicken and mash. Victor eventually puts his hurt feelings aside and the meal is relatively merry, though they all call it an early evening. John heads straight for bed, exhausted, while Sherlock stays up poring over the pictures of the legal briefs John snapped with his phone.

The next morning John sets out at the crack of dawn, leaving Sherlock with maddeningly little to do until he reports in. He would have gone with, but he is much more noticeable and out of place – John can nearly pass for a local. Frustrated, he spends several hours examining the foundation again, looking for a pattern in the disappearances, an overlooked way of removing them, or anything that would indicate why those particular ones and not others. He checks the untouched ones for signs that they might be loose or marked in some way and comes up empty.

"No luck?" Victor says from behind him, on his fifth pass around the building.

Sherlock doesn't deign to respond.

"If you've gone about as far you can for the moment, I thought you might like to come down with me to see the hives," Victor says, almost shyly. "I remember you used to be fond of bees. Are you still?"

Surprising that Victor recalls this, he did used to talk about them but not all the much, bees are fascinating creatures, small, powerful, there are endless things to learn about them but once you do they are refreshingly predictable, bees have rules and logic and can be figured out, made sense of, while still retaining new secrets to learn…

"I've written a treatise on techniques to domesticate and interbreed novel Apis species and subspecies to strengthen the existing domesticated genetic pool as well increase honey production, taste, and hive hardiness. It also includes a detailed section on innovative hive designs for the hypothetical crosses."

"So that's a yes then?"

Sherlock nods, then narrows his eyes. "But you were never interested in bees. In fact, you were frightened of them."

Victor shifts from one leg to the other. "Perhaps you inspired me. Anyway, it's healthy to face your fear. Do you fancy a look or not?" He seems eager to move away from the topic of the past.

Sherlock agrees and follows Victor down a path past the stables to a very modern and well laid out group of hives. He soon finds himself absorbed by the swarms, occasionally asking Victor a question about their age or production quantity but spending far more time observing out loud and lecturing on ways Victor could improve the health and output of his hives.

Victor seems happy to let him talk and advise, looking on proudly and a little wistfully. Before Sherlock knows it more than two hours have passed. He is enthralled – he still devotes time to his apiculture studies, but actual bees are few and far between in London, much less developed colonies – and is only distracted from his inspection by the distant sound of car that could only be John returning.

His attention snaps back to the case instantly, John's back with news, they can make progress, talking honeybees with Victor is pleasant enough but could never match that expectant feeling he got when truly working…

"Thank you, that was most enlightening, I'll send you some of my notes when I get back to London," Sherlock calls to Victor as he sprints away up the path, leaving his host behind.

Sherlock and John reach the top of the drive at approximately the same time, and Sherlock barely waits for John to get out of the car before peppering him with questions.

John shakes his head, "Nothing new or suspicious. He got up, had breakfast, went to his office and did some work that was completely unrelated to this property, and then got on the train heading for Cornwall. He may be involved, but he certainly didn't show it this morning."

Sherlock swears. "Nothing to do but wait until tonight, then."

"Wait for what?" Victor asks, finally having caught them up at his more sedate pace.

Sherlock fills him in. "Tonight we'll all stand watch and see if we can't catch the thieves in the act."

"Victor, are you feeling all right?" John asks suddenly. "You look a bit pale and…" he stops mid-sentence with an indecipherable expression.

Sherlock looks at Victor. He did seem wan, especially for someone who had just had brisk walk in the open air. And his usual effervescence seemed dampened.

He'd seemed normal a moment ago, or had that been hours, had he gotten bored with staying so long at the hives, perhaps Sherlock had said something unkind about his skills as an apiarist, but he'd just been trying to help him improve, maybe he was getting ill, but if Sherlock was pressed to guess he'd say he was sad, though why he should be when they finally have a plan of action he couldn't tell...

Victor waves off John's concern. "Stayed up too late reading last night. So what do we do until dark?"

"There's nothing to be done," Sherlock says reluctantly, already dreading the coming idleness. "Just wait."

Suddenly an idea occurs to him about what could possibly occupy the time and he moves to subtly hook a finger through John's belt, his usual signal when others are around, but John sidesteps him gracefully without even a look.

Sherlock is bewildered by this, he'd thought a sunny afternoon in bed would be agreeable to both of them, certainly would pass the time, John almost never refuses him unless he's picked a wildly inappropriate setting like a crime scene, even then there'd been a few times, he can't imagine what's wrong with now, clearly he's missed something…

"Any suggestions for things we might want to see in the area?" John asks, a bit louder than his normal tone.

"Well, this is the prettiest time of year up here," Victor says. "If it were me visiting I'd take a little trek in the countryside. The flowers are all blooming and the weather is supposed to stay fine through this evening."

John nods. "What do you say, Sherlock? It could helps us get a good idea of the terrain around here, might be useful if we have to hunt for or pursue our suspects. Call it a scouting mission?"

Sherlock agrees with bad grace. John has a point. Plus Sherlock knows when he's outnumbered, and he doesn't exactly thrill to thought of sitting about inside if John's not interested in other distractions. He supposes there are worse things than walking.

John's rejection still stings, but he can hardly throw a fit over it here, besides he needs to work off the unreleased tension he's now stuck with somehow…

He becomes aware that John is looking at him strangely. "Why is there a bee in your hair?"

After a quick lunch they set out and ramble in silence, heading westward towards and eventually across the road.

"Why didn't you want me to touch you this morning?" Sherlock asks suddenly, as they pause near an elm tree in the middle of the meadow they're crossing. It's warm here away from the shore, warm enough that Sherlock has left his coat for once and has his shirtsleeves rolled up the heat.

John sighs and rubs the back of his neck, which is beginning to tan again after only a few days here. "I just don't feel right about flaunting it."

"Flaunting?"

"Us. In front of Victor."

Sherlock is puzzled. "You seemed more than eager to flaunt it when we first arrived," he points out.

"Well, that was before I knew the situation."

"But I told you that was ages ago."

"Yes, but did occur to you that when an old flame contacts you and asks to see you after many years, he might just be harbouring the hope that you are still unattached and if you give him no sign otherwise might reasonably expect to… rekindle… upon your meeting?"

"Not…until just now," Sherlock answers honestly.

His mind is so full of John, only John, all the time that he sometimes forgets that it's not as obvious to others as he thinks, feeling like he goes about with a lit sign over his head that says "John Watson" that anyone should be able to read, even over email, so he forgets to mention their relationship at all, because it seems completely redundant…

"I thought as much. Victor has been extremely kind since we've got here, but I'm sure he's disappointed and I don't want to throw anything in his face when he's being such a good host. He's an honourable man, and he's done nothing wrong."

Victor is an honourable man, always has been, even before he was really a man, his mother raised him to a be gentleman in the way that has nearly passed out of society in the modern time, noble and self-sacrificing and courtly and not the least bit arrogant about any of it, Mummy had tried with him and Mycroft, but it had never taken, not with him at all, and with Mycroft only enough to allow him to fake it when it suited his purposes…

A mutual respect and understanding has developed between Victor and John over the last few days, both sharing a strict moral code, a basic goodness, and, apparently, a heretofore unknown love of fishing which Sherlock does not even begin to comprehend. It makes him just the smallest bit nervous.

"Just next time it comes up," John continues, "you may wish to make it a little more clear ahead of time that you're taken." He grins. "I don't want anyone getting any ideas."

"But there is no one else," Sherlock says calmly.

John raises an eyebrow. "No one? Ever? But you said you had…"

"Well, yes, that… there was a fair bit of that in my last two years at uni and shortly after when… things were Not Good. But there was no one in particular, it was just relief, gratification, convenience, and, usually, anonymity. And I told you, no proper shagging. That's only been you, ever."

John looks a little stunned, though Sherlock isn't sure why. He's told him as much before, but maybe John hadn't believed him or had thought that even if he was telling the truth there had to have been at least one partner in there who he'd cared about enough or at least been with long enough to qualify them as an ex. But there hadn't been.

He'd never wanted anyone like he'd wanted John, not even Victor, with him it had been so new and wonderful to find a companion, he'd hardly thought to want more beyond the merest scraps of affection and spending nearly every moment together, two motherless boys clinging to each other in a strange place, both still innocent and unexperienced, just grateful to be with each other in any way at all, and with everyone after it had been nothing but physical, and usually fleeting…

"So, there's no one else in your whole life who could possibly be considered a former lover, no one who was more than just—"

"A Saturday night suck job?" Sherlock finishes, crudely. "No. Not even consistent ones at that, well except I suppose for Seb, but he doesn't matter."

"Seb?" John chokes in a suddenly cold and furious voice. "Are you telling me that you… and that… that horrible prick…"

Sherlock immediately regrets mentioning it, but he was trying to tell the truth. He did not factor in the depths of John's hatred for the man, or the effect that the mention of a physical relationship might have on John. And honestly, he had assumed John had already figured it out – it seemed so blindingly obviously to him whenever they were in each other's company.

"It wasn't like that," Sherlock backpedals. "Well, all right, it was a bit, but we always hated each other, even then. There wasn't a lot to choose from and he was close by and terrified of it getting out so I knew he'd be discreet. It was simple proximity, just using each other. And then he grew so intolerable I couldn't even stomach that, so it stopped. He always was a bully."

Looking back now he can hardly believe he let Seb anywhere near him, he'd had no idea what things could be like with someone who didn't despise you, it had felt good at the time but now he knows just how much a mockery of real passion it had been, wishes he could delete those memories entirely, but they're so clear and stubborn they just won't fade…

John looks faintly nauseous.

"I'm…sorry?" Sherlock attempts.

John shakes his head. "You don't need to apologise for something that happened years before you met me. Just Seb is so…" He makes a noise of disgust, then reaches out and pulls Sherlock to him, looking solemnly up into the pale eyes.

"I hate the thought of his hands on you," John tells him with a quiet ferocity. "I hate the thought of anyone's hands on you except mine, but his most of all. He's a contemptuous, filthy arsehole and isn't even worthy of speaking to you, much less… If I could think of a way to get away with it I would erase his existence from earth so thoroughly that not even a memory of him would be left."

There is genuine bloodlust and fury in John's eyes, and he's surrounded by a ring of flame. Sherlock trembles a bit with pleasure at his words, and pushes him back against the tree trunk, feeling the heat of John's sun-soaked body against his own as he kisses him passionately, like a starving man. He puts his hands to John's waist as he works his tongue deeper into his mouth, warmth of the sunshine on his back.

John so small and strong and kind and fierce all at once, how could he ever want anything else, if only he'd known years ago that there would be a John he would have waited so patiently...

John returns the kiss with equal fervour, like he is trying to reclaim what is his, and that's just perfect. But after a few moments, just as Sherlock is contemplating how best to make it up to him, John pulls away.

"Just to be clear here…that's it, right? There's no one else I should know about? Innocent romance with Victor, booty call with Seb, then me?"

Sherlock finds John's possessiveness endearing, but at the moment he's annoyed by the interruption. "Yes, that's it." He adds peevishly, "Shall we talk about yours, too, then?"

He's surprised when John shrugs. "I suppose it's only fair."

Sherlock hadn't actually wanted to talk about John's romantic history, he'd wanted to find a way to get him on his hands and knees in the fewest moves possible, and make him forget all the bad feelings from the previous exchange. But now that it's been mentioned, Sherlock is curious.

"Well?"

"Well, what do you want know?"

"Everything?"

John laughs. "That might take too long. Besides, you've met some of my exes. You've caused some of them, in fact."

"So, then, how many?" Sherlock asks shortly, wishing he hadn't started down this road but unable to divert now.

"How many ex-girlfriends? Or how many…total?"

"Total. Everyone."

John whistles. "Well… let me think."

Why should he have to think, is it really that hard to remember sexual partners, even if it was just one time, Sherlock remembers everyone, and there weren't really that many, even if they were just a passing wank in the night, even if he never knew their name…

"I suppose I can't give you an exact count but I'd estimate around… 240?" John himself winces as he says it, having never actually calculated before.

Sherlock steps back, horrified. "You think you've been with two hundred and forty women? How exactly did you arrive at that sum? They were all women, weren't they?"

John gives an embarrassed cough. "Pretty much. And I mean…is that really so many? I'm thirty eight now… starting at fifteen that's…what, an average of twelve per year, one a month? Of course a few years there was only one and other years… Well, when you're deployed and you finally get some leave it feels like you have a lot to make up for and there's beautiful and willing girls in every part of the world I've been…" He trails off awkwardly, trying to read Sherlock's carefully blank expression.

Fifteen! Had Sherlock even been aware of sex as anything other a biological method of reproduction at that age, he'd barely been aware of it at eighteen with a pretty boy right in front of him all year, he'd known John was a ladies' man but that was an appalling number of conquests, even for a solider, how can he not be jealous after hearing that…

"Two. Hundred. And forty," Sherlock repeats.

"Give or take." John is blushing a deep crimson now. "I did have the better part of three continents to get through…"

"I wasn't aware you were participating in some kind fuck around the world challenge." Sherlock growls. "And what did you mean by it was 'pretty much' all women?"

He wouldn't have thought it was possible for John to get much redder, but he's wrong. John shifts, awkwardly, clearly wanting very much to be out of this conversation. "Well…the army… you know. Long, cold nights in Afghanistan, not another soul other than your mates for miles…"

Sherlock is stone-faced, refusing to help him.

"Just a few times…" John continues, fumbling over the words. "Nothing like… with you, not even close, you're the only one I've ever been with like that. Just, as you said… you need relief, and sometimes it doesn't matter who from. I didn't really care for it, but there were some stressful and lonely and frightening deployments, and once in a great while it was better than nothing, better than being completely alone. Anyways, that's all over. That, the women, all of it. Forever."

John's devoted to him and clearly enjoys being together, but he often worries if he doesn't miss being with women, Sherlock's nothing like a woman at all, wrong parts, all straight lines, no soft curves, no gentle voice, John's spent so long as a connoisseur of that sex how can he bear to confine himself to one person, a man, permanently, won't he get bored, won't he long for what his natural orientation calls him to…

"Are you sure about that?" he asks coldly.

"Sherlock!" John exclaims, offended, and steps closer to him until he can wrap his arms around Sherlock's slender waist. "I can't believe you'd ask me that."

Sherlock doesn't pull away, but remains unyielding in John's grasp. "I mean it, John. I'm not saying I doubt you, but you've been straight and… lusty… for a very long time and it seems like it might be a lot to give up, particularly forever."

"Well, now I'm with you and still lusty." John grins, pulling him closer until their hips are touching. "Seriously, Sherlock. You've completely spoiled me for anyone else."

"I have?" This seems unlikely for a man with so many data points to compare him to.

"Absolutely," John tells him sincerely. "There's no one else I could be with – man, woman, or space alien – who could possibly live up to being with you. And I don't mean just sexually, although yes, definitely sexually. And if there is such a creature I don't want to know about it." He goes up on tiptoe and presses his lips to Sherlock's, who begins to relax, finally, and puts his own hands to John's shoulders.

"I thought perhaps I was a bit too much," Sherlock says. "People have often mentioned that was a problem."

Always too much, too much curiosity, too much danger, too much logic, too much coldness, too much need, too much anger, too callous, too ruthless, too strange, too mad, too terrifying…

John laughs. "Oh, you are way, way, way too much," he tells him. "Trouble is, after you, no one else would ever be enough."

With that John reaches up and drags his head down to John's own mouth and lets Sherlock feel exactly how true that is. Sherlock backs him against the tree again, feeling an urgency inside of him, physically needing to be with John immediately after such an upsetting conversation, to reassure himself, reassure them both. John is instantly keen to his intentions.

"Here and now?" John asks. "Outside, in the middle of the day?"

"Objections?" Sherlock begins kissing the line of John's jaw very, very softly, with just the barest touch of lips, moving slowly upwards to his ear and into his hairline.

"Not in the least." John's voice has gone mellow and breathy now. "I just didn't think you would want to."

"Mmm," replies Sherlock, continuing his slow and sensuous progress, knowing exactly how aroused this can make John, particularly when his hands are preventing John from pressing up against him or returning the affection in any way. "Well, Victor's not here…"

"No…" agrees John, writhing a little as Sherlock starts working down the other side of his face, still lightly touching him only with his lips.

"And there's no horde of attractive women here…"

"Not at all… oh!" Sherlock's reached his neck now and is using a bit more pressure, starting in on the very sensitive skin of his throat, still not allowing him to move or respond.

"In fact I should be surprised if there's anyone at all within a kilometre of us right now… And as we can't make any more progress on the case until nightfall…"

John only whimpers as Sherlock sucks on the hollow of his collarbone.

"…it seems like an ideal time to me," he concludes, coming up for air one last time. He intends begin work on John's chest, but to his surprise John uses his wiry strength to shove him back, hard. He gets his arms around Sherlock so that when Sherlock stumbles and trips, they both fall, landing on the soft turf tangled up together.

his feels like playing, he's suddenly light-hearted in a way he's so rarely been since he was a very young child, at least about anything other than a case, running wild outside without care or supervision, he just barely remembers those days…

Sherlock rolls himself on top of John and looks down at him for a moment, the sandy head against the green grass, the crinkled and trusting face. Down here it smells like hay and clean earth and mint and wildflowers all baked together in the sun. The air is heavy with the fragrance, thick and soporific and so still except for the lazy buzz of a few bees around them.

John smiles up at him, sweetly at first, then with a devilish twinkle in his eyes. He arches up against Sherlock so he can feel quite clearly how hard he's made him, then pulls Sherlock down to him, hungrily, running his hands across Sherlock's lean frame. They kick off socks and shoes and John has Sherlock's shirt off him almost before he has a chance to notice. His bare back is pleasantly hot and he briefly wonders how long it will take for him to burn, then decides he doesn't care in the least.

Nimble fingers are working on his belt now, as they grind into each other, and Sherlock moans as John gets a hand into his trousers and starts stroking through his pants almost teasingly. Sherlock realises he's fallen behind and quickly strips off John's long sleeve tee, very nearly tearing it in his haste to get to John's chest, that delicious expanse of muscle and silky blonde hair interrupted by two perfect and responsive nipples.

John's body is endlessly fascinating, from the collection of scars, to the sculpted shoulders and legs, to the slightly rounded softness of his belly, everything is so completely appealing, speaking of courage and strength and comfort all at once…

He cries out softly as Sherlock begins licking first one nipple and then the other, finding himself distracted by the way they tense and relax, go erect or soft, depending on what he does, all the while running his fingers through John's chest hair. John grips his buttocks tightly, massaging, sending little frissons of pleasure shooting up Sherlock's spine, and Sherlock shifts so he has one leg in between John's, straddling his thigh.

He thrusts against John's hip, thrilling at the friction, while deftly undoing his fly and plunging a hand inside of his jeans and pants, grasping the hard smoothness he finds there and caressing firmly, but very slowly. His lips find John's again and he sets about invading John's mouth, tasting coffee and salt, exploring every crevice, seeking out every tooth and tastebud with his tongue.

At last John pulls away enough to pant, "Too many clothes. Off. Now."

Sherlock agrees, reluctant to stop for even a second, but realising he is closer than he wants to be so soon in the proceedings and trying to pull himself back as they both shuck off trousers and pants. He notices John rummaging in his wallet for a moment before coming up with a small foil packet, grinning.

Sherlock is taken aback. "Do you always carry that with you?"

"Well, I do now," John tells him, rolling over to face him, the grass around them already thoroughly flattened. "Problem?"

It's lovely, completely lovely, that John should be so practical, that he should have thought in advance about all the ways and places and times he might be with Sherlock and prepared accordingly, the thought of sex nestled perpetually in a corner of his brain while this is nestled in a corner of his wallet…

"None at all," Sherlock purrs. He goes to grab it from him, but John is too quick.

"Ah ha, no!" he laughs, holding it out of reach behind his back. "It's mine so I get to decide what gets done with it."

Oh, this is interesting. Sherlock had intended on running the show, but John has plans and the thought of finding out what they are is far more exciting than anything Sherlock could possibly have come up with on his own. He subsides, intensely curious as to what happens next. John shifts closer to him, still facing him, so they are almost but not quite touching, laying on their sides as they so often have in Sherlock's bed. Then he tears open the packet and squeezes some of the contents onto his finger, carefully setting the rest aside.

"Don't move," he whispers in Sherlock's ear. Sherlock shivers in anticipation and John begins to glide his hand over the curve of Sherlock's arse, as if trying to soothe a nervous steed, gradually moving closer and closer until suddenly he plunges one slicked digit sharply inside of Sherlock.

He gasps, tightening for a moment involuntarily and then consciously relaxes, closing his eyes and letting the brief sting fade as John slowly works his way deeper, moving gently but mercilessly, brushing ever so slightly against his prostate, tender and firm at the same time.

Sherlock wants very badly to touch John, to touch himself, to do anything, but John stops him. "No," he tells Sherlock in a husky voice as he continues to finger him almost leisurely. "I just want to watch you feel this."

It's agonizingly wonderful, both the sensation and that such an idea came out of John's brain, exquisite torture, to feel so much and be able to do nothing about it, to be observed so closely by someone else, to be terrifyingly vulnerable, unable to hide a single reaction or need or emotion, the bare fact that John wants to know him this intimately and that Sherlock should want to let him…

Sherlock obeys, letting John's storm-cloud blue eyes rove over him, taking in every catch in his breath, every involuntary buck of his hips, every muscle twitch and pupil dilation and bead of sweat forming on his brow. Never in his life has he allowed himself to be so completely helpless, so fully laid bare and in the power of another, not even a roof or walls to shield him from the world.

He watches John too, despite being nearly unable to cogitate at all, noticing how John's lips are parted eagerly as he works and watches, how tightly his stomach muscles are contracted as he holds himself back, and how gloriously stiff he is, so close to touching Sherlock's hip. Sherlock feels the pressure building with every motion of John's hand and throws his head back, eyes closed and letting out a low guttural moan. He can still feel John's gaze boring into him.

There is warm humid air on his cheek and he opens his eyes to find their faces only inches apart. "I bet I could make you come with just this one finger," John breathes.

Given the rising feelings inside of him, Sherlock is not going to argue with that. "We have hours in which to test that hypothesis," he manages, as a shudder of pure bliss runs through him.

It wouldn't take hours, it wouldn't take very much longer, in fact, he's never considered that such a thing might be possible before, but now he knows it definitely is, even if John Watson is the only man who could manage it…

"Oh no, you're not getting off that easily." John laughs at his own terrible pun, radiant in the afternoon light as he slips out of Sherlock and with a wicked grin pushes him onto his back. "I'm not even close to done with you."

Sherlock is briefly frustrated by this pause, but is soon distracted by the thought of what John might be up to next.

John climbs on top of him, straddling his thighs. "Keep your legs closed," he murmurs, grabbing the rest of the lubricant and slicking himself thoroughly, languidly, letting Sherlock get a nice, long look. Sherlock's not sure if the halo around John is from his own brain or the sun behind him, and it doesn't really matter – either way he looks rather like a minor Greek god shining down on Sherlock.

Slowly, John works his way between Sherlock's clenched thighs as far as he can manage, holding himself up with his hands on either side of Sherlock's chest. This is new. He's never felt anything quite like it before. He stays still as John begins thrust between his legs, in and out, slippery and warm and hard and rhythmic.

"Oh… John," he whispers, overwhelmed by the novelty and eroticism of it all. He reaches up and puts his hands to the back of John's neck, burying his fingers in the fair hair and beginning to push back up against John in time to his thrusting, keeping his thighs as tight as he can manage while still allowing John in. John lets out a low, deep throated cry and brushes his lips across Sherlock's smooth chest.

It's like being penetrated and yet not quite, something somehow more equal than that, more sensual but no less pleasurable, he had no idea he had so many nerves in his inner thighs, not to mention all the other spots John is hitting, all having been paid more than adequate attention on previous occasions but never eliciting sensations quite like this…

He can feel John sliding easily, smoothly over his testes and even more sensitive parts, feel him begin to swell and shake as he draws near, almost more vividly than if John were actually inside of him. John's almost there, riding on the very edge, trying to last just a few seconds more.

Sherlock knows that expression of intense concentration and delight, knows the familiar quiver in John's whole body that takes him right before, and he crushes John to his chest at the exact second, digging his nails into John's shoulder blades as the smaller man stutters to a stop, pressing his hips hard into Sherlock as the release comes in waves, spilling out hot and sticky and trembling between his legs.

John slowly goes limp on top of Sherlock as it draws to a close, letting out a long breath of relief and pleasure, whispering Sherlock's name over and over as he covers his shoulder with kisses.

Sherlock is twanging like a violin string tightened to its limits, aching, nerves screaming, waiting for John to release him, knowing that's what he wants, what they both want. He knows John can feel the tension in every fibre of Sherlock's body, the need pulsing up from him, and John, blessedly doesn't make him hold on much longer.

He takes hold of Sherlock with sure, practised hands.

Oh, those hands, hands of a solider and a surgeon and a lover and a friend, they can kill and heal and worship and calm and seem to be doing all of that at once to him at the moment…

John brings him off efficiently, knowing he can't take much more. As he feels Sherlock's climax begin, he dips his head down quickly and takes him in his mouth, surrounding him fully, letting Sherlock empty himself into John and then licking him clean with obvious enjoyment, taking in every last drop.

Sherlock collapses bonelessly back into the grass, completely spent, sucking down great gulps of oxygen. John drapes himself back on top of him and they lay like that, wordless and naked in the warm afternoon, unashamed. Sherlock's mind is completely blank, taking longer than usual to reboot after such a stellar performance.

Eventually the power of though returns and he notices vaguely that he is dirty and damp and that the foliage is itching at him. Normally this would make him extremely agitated, unable to relax, but he realises with a shock that he doesn't mind for now. The reassuring pressure of John's body on his own, the rush of chemicals whose names he can't quite remember at the moment, the completely bodily exhaustion – it all combines to make him quite content to lay like this for a very long time, with John radiating happiness into him like the embers of a fire.

Nothing feels quite so right as when John is laying on him, completely guileless and affectionate, covering his body with his own, physically letting Sherlock in on what he's feeling when words would never work, making Sherlock be still, be with him, be present, keeping him from floating away or running off, it quiets both his brain and his body, at least for awhile, at least as much as anything can…

"Mmm…" John says eventually, voice heavy and slow like molasses. "So my dark nebula can survive the full light of day." He nuzzles into the curve of Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock is still having difficulty forming sentences. "You were… that was…"

"Nice?"

"I was thinking more along the lines of brilliant… revolutionary… apocalyptic…"

"Hmm… I don't think I've had apocalyptic sex before. I would have expected more brimstone and screaming."

Sherlock lifts his head to look at John solemnly. "I mean it, John. It was so bright I thought I'd never see anything again… I can't even…" His voice is tender but frustrated, unable to find suitable words.

John smiles and kisses him on the cheek. "I know. Me too." He stretches briefly and settles again. "In case you had any doubts about my ability to be satisfied with you."

"That was… very creative," Sherlock adds. "I like it when you're creative."

"Oh, good." John pauses. "Our conversation before… I'm sorry if it hurt you. We probably should have talked about all this a long time ago. But there's no one for me but you, you believe that, right?"

Sherlock nods. "Yes, John."

Another pause. "You're never going to leave me alone with another woman ever again are you?"

"Aside from blood relations, confirmed lesbians, and Mrs. Hudson… No."

"Jealous ponce."

"International tart."

John sits up at that and laughs deeply, throwing his head back and pulling Sherlock up after him. Sherlock can't help but laugh too, grateful that any bad feelings have been banished.

Even though he knows John never would, he still always fears when they have a row that it might be the last straw for John, that he might just walk away and never come back, that Sherlock has missed something vital in the exchange and make an unforgivable mistake that he'll never understand…

"We should probably get ourselves together and head back before you burn to a crisp or they send out a search party for us." John moves to stand but Sherlock catches him with a long arm around his bare waist.

"John, wait…" John looks expectantly at him with honest eyes. "I… I… You're not just my dwarf star… I think… you're all the stars, the universe. I don't think I could…" He trails off, far too deep into unfamiliar emotional territory but desperately needing John to understand, even if he doesn't really understand himself. John looks confused but pleased and finally, at loss for anything else Sherlock pulls him back to him and kisses him deeply one more time, hoping that will convey it. John melts into the kiss and looks a little addled when they break apart.

"Yours," John says simply, squeezing Sherlock's shoulder one more time before he stands and begins to collect his clothes.

Yes, that would cover it, he wants to say more but he doesn't know the words, but that's okay because John knows what he doesn't say and really everything comes down that anyway…

"Yours," replies Sherlock gravely, and John gives him the smile that lights up his eyes and takes ten years off his face, reserved only for times he is very happy with Sherlock.

"So, what were we supposed to have been doing all this time?" John asks as they dress, sensing that this is verging on too much for Sherlock and nudging them onto less murky ground.

"Walking tour of the countryside, I think."

"Well, we certainly didn't get very far." John looks at himself and his companion, both completely filthy, sweaty, hair mussed and more than a little pink from the sun. "Maybe we can say we fell in a ditch?"

"That would be a formidable ditch. I believe sneaking in the back before we can be seen is the traditional way of handling these situations.

John agrees, and after making themselves as presentable as feasible, they make their way back towards the castle, comfortably quiet beside each other.