John wasn't sure what he expected from a honeymoon suite, but the cozy room with its deep wood, four poster bed in flannel was rather far from his expectations. It was quaint with its country cottage charm, reminding the solider of nights spent visiting his grandparents with thin sheets and thinner duvets piled high with no less than five quilted throws in white, pale pink, and yellow. The white walls were naked save for an old CRT TV mounted to the wall, bulky and out of place as the only spot of black in a room whitewashed like an overexposed Polaroid. White lace hung from the bed's open canopy with the same frail cloth framing the small windows set against a west facing wall; white throw pillows were stacked against white pillows with embroidered lace eyelets. The suite looked far more like a pensioner's lodgings than a place for love's consummation.

Sherlock dropped his suitcase on the floor by the bed before sitting down on it, giving it a quick bounce test with his hands splayed against the clean linens. "Eleven years at least," he gauged, raising up just slightly to fall back harder. "Bit soft but it'll do."

John watched him, smirking slightly as the taller man leaned back on his elbows, taking in his surroundings in a few quick glances, everything committed to memory on impulse. "So. Honeymoon suite?" He left his bag next to Sherlock's, coming to lean against the bed's post with his arms crossed.

The detective didn't bother looking at him, inspecting traces of damp on the ceiling instead. "Yes, of course. Of all the available rooms in a place like this, which one do you think runs the lesser risk of having a squeaky mattress and a door that doesn't close fully or lock?"

John chuckled, leaning his head against the post as he enjoyed the quiet air, eyes closed where the white still shone through his lids. He could hear the footsteps of everyone on their floor or feel the heavy thumps vibrating across the floorboards. Hardly intimate, hardly even private, but the door did lock and the bed didn't squeak and it was warm and nice and shared.

There was a sweet smelling breeze blowing in through the cracked window, the lace curtains rolling gently to the twinkle of a distant wind chime. John breathed deep, listening and feeling, letting his eyes stay closed as his other senses enjoyed the newness of being away from the city. It was rather like receiving an unexpected shoulder rub: one was never really cognizant of how much they needed something until it was set upon them. John needed a holiday. John needed to get away to refocus and unwind. "When this is over, we should stay a few days," he said, rolling his head back till his neck stretched through the kinks of their journey.

Sherlock hummed a vague response. The room hummed along with the clamor of guests downstairs.

John rolled his back along the post as he sat on the bed beside his partner, hand finding his along the duvet and giving it a squeeze. "Maybe a cruise," he said, stroking his thumb over his knuckles. "Safari. Backpack across Eastern Europe."

"Something wrong with London?" Sherlock asked.

"No, nothing; London is home."

Sherlock nodded, laying down with his legs hanging off the bed. John watched him, smiling slightly at the dark curls that lifted from his face as his piercing multicolored eyes searched the empty space before them. John leaned over him, kissing his lips chastely. It was easier to do here; they hadn't started a life as flatmates and friends here. They weren't laying upon the bed on which he'd made love to Mary or sharing a room with enough medically supported nudity to make exposed flesh nothing to bat an eye at. Sherlock's lips tasted sweeter in fading country sunlight. His features were like his city: hard, linear, and planned before sculpted. The contrasting simplicity of white cotton and summer air was like adding chocolate to coffee, taking the bitterness out of one and tempering the sweetness in the other. It didn't suit Sherlock so much as it accentuated him. John let his lips steal a further kiss as he hovered, smiling to himself, losing himself.

Sherlock smiled like he could read it all in his lips. "I suppose a holiday wouldn't be too disagreeable. But this isn't one," he said, cool fingers curling along the nape of John's neck. "This is a case—two cases as you've lead me to believe. Let's not lose focus."

James McCarthy, how could John forget? He held himself up on his forearms, face remaining inches-centimeters-from Sherlock's. "I'm not here with Scotland Yard; I'm here with you."

The detective chuckled lightly, a chesty rumble that stirred more than mirth. "So you are."

"I know you heard her on the train."

"I did."

"And?"

"And what?"

John sighed, raising up to a lean with his legs curled under him. "And you realize we do actually have a bit of a problem, yes?"

Sherlock scowled dismissively, his hand waving aside the question. "Your problem; not mine. I did tell you not to resign."

"I didn't exactly think they'd go and replace me."

"Well, they did. I didn't." Sherlock looked up at him, serious as stone with his cupid's bow drawn to fire. "She's my assistant," he said. "You're my partner."

John smiled at him, loving him with every whisper of wind that stirred his curls on the chime's choral breeze. He stretched out beside him, lips returning to their purchase to stir sparks beneath his skin. Sherlock answered the simple kiss with an apprenticed return, welcoming him without hesitation though his lips were still unfamiliar in their present occupation. He tried for John. He mimicked and echoed and assimilated everything, challenging for the lead at times but easily pressed to remit. John loved the zing of his lips and the bitterness of coffee beyond, tongue teasing and pressing where unschooled sounds of enjoyment spilled through to be lapped upon as fuel. Sherlock's body was one of the worst traitors John had ever met, void of any real competency in disguising pleasure—as poorly prepared to be overwhelmed as the man had been in the face of true fear. In this it didn't take much to overwhelm him. He arched when John's hand slipped past his jacket to ghost across that spot on his waist once discovered but never implemented. John chased each breathy groan with another kiss, another exploratory grope against the buttons of his shirt as his hand took back the sight of him with knowledge of every peek and gully. Sherlock gripped him by his own shirt, tugging enough to loosen the tuck from his jeans.

It was different here, easier in the pensioner's honeymoon suite. In Ross-on-Wye with a change of scene, a body anxious after travel and with-god help him-with Moriarty perhaps still alive. The threat of him made John's blood boil with as much lust as it did with rage. Moriarty could take this away, Moriarty could put an end to everything he fought long and hard for. Complacency was unacceptable. God help him for the thrill the thought of the madman in their lives again brought him, accompanying every tremble beneath his hands with power and fear. Danger in the shadows, a limitation, something to hold him accountable for every mistake and misstep that could break them beyond the hesitancy of fulfillment. John could have him. John could lose him. He could watch Sherlock squirm at the end of a hook as likely as he could against his sheets. Some things were once again out of his control in a way that challenged him to rise to the occasion.

Sherlock moaned against his tongue as John settled his thigh between the detective's legs, pressing right into the part of him where his hips ground down on instinct and bucked in surprise. John teased with the whole of himself, sucking, touching, thrusting while their clothes rumpled and their vision blurred.

"J-John," Sherlock gasped, lost and scrambling for breadcrumbs, pulling at John, dinging his fingers into him, encasing him in his long limbs while his breath panted between kisses and against his ear.

John felt the flush throughout his body, the warm weight low in his belly, the swirling of desire he'd tried not to worry about in his private, cautious thoughts. It wasn't another man, it was Sherlock. Even as he could feel him against his thigh, the bulk of his bulge quite trapped but hardly tamed, John did not feel any lessening in his own desire. It was in the sounds Sherlock made that wordlessly exulted John like a deity. It was in the twitching fingers and frightless abandon that waited patiently to know and be known. Sherlock was trust and love and his and he was proud of the body that encased all the things that made him Sherlock and of the ways John could make him beg. He spared a hand to touch himself, feel his body's own honest disregard for his lover's gender and bit his lip not to add to Sherlock's breath-filled bubble.

The door rattled with the three short knocks, its hinges not as secure as the lock upon the handle. John went perfectly still, Sherlock's own response less than worried as he stalled but let his heavy breaths follow through unhindered.

"The-uh.. The constable is waiting in the bar area," a woman called from the other side. From the sound of her, it was the same woman who had been attending at the desk. "Shall I..ah... tell him you'll be down?"

John wanted to tell her to piss off but Sherlock beat him to the reply with a much less irritated "Yes, thanks," managing to sound perfectly normal even as John watched his chest rise and fall with heavy breaths.

"Alright, I'll, um..." she said nothing more as her footsteps creaked away and fell quickly down the stairs.

John rolled over, face pressed to the duvet as Sherlock sat up with a great sigh and slid off the bed, the mattress bouncing John gently with his slight weight now gone. The soldier's groan was muffled but colored with enough vulgarities that his displeasure was far from unknown. He was five breaths short of kicking his legs and flailing his fists. Grown men didn't have hissy fits.

"I'll go see about the constable with Billie," Sherlock said, the rustle of his clothing signaling his quick reassessing of the encounter's damage. "You, well... take care of anything you need to while we're busy."

"No, no, gimme a minute. I'm coming too. Just, ya know... need a minute."

Sherlock's smirk carried on a short hum, the mattress dipping once more as he sat, fingers suddenly carding through John's short hair. John relaxed quickly, his pulse calming and the ache of his groin settling with a far less than satisfactory conclusion. He liked the smell of the washing-up powder the inn used. He liked the way Sherlock's fingers felt on his scalp even more.

"What brought that on?" Sherlock asked, lacking any accusation but full of curiosity.

John wasn't sure how to answer that. Hesitancy be damned when the world's most dangerous criminal mind might still be alive. And second base had felt wonderful. "You just... looked too good not to kiss."

"Hm." Sherlock followed the lines of his cowlicks, mapping out his hair growth pattern in the paths of his fingertips. "I had wondered if you found me sexually appealing as well as aesthetically attractive. I take it by your prone position that the answer is yes."

"You don't get points for deducing I can get it up with my boyfriend when I'm half hard and still buzzing from snogging the every-loving fuck out of you."

That earned him a chuckle before the quiet set in, nothing but soft breathing and their own heartbeats pulsing in their heads for several moments. John could almost hear words from the downstairs bar rather than an indistinct murmur of voices. He wondered if Sherlock's voice had carried as easily. He wondered if it was wrong not to care.

Downstairs Constable Wiggins was at no loss for company. Billie had beaten them to the bar, her attention held rapt by the young officer as he was heard to go over a few not unfamiliar details involving the case. He was young, probably close to her own age. His nervous smiles and the way he kept his chin ducked and his eyes raised made it all too easy to note he fancied Sherlock's fair assistant. The way she kept her arms crossed on the table and her face calm but insincere made it equally obvious she was only interested in the case. John almost felt sorry for the awkward young man. They were shoes everyone filled at some point in their lives. The man rose as Sherlock approached him, the customary handshake shared by all as the man turned somehow even more nervous in the consulting detective's shadow.

"Ah... well, then. I uh.. I guess you'll want to be visiting the crime scene," he stuttered, chewing on his lip. "Mind you, we've been over it ourselves but if you think there's something we may have missed."

"That's precisely what I think," Sherlock said, smiling with his usual closed lip smile. "Don't take it personally. If you hadn't missed something, I wouldn't be here."

The constable grimaced but gave a firm nod. "Right... Uh, well, I've got a car waiting for you and Inspector Bradstreet if you'd like to follow me. I can answer any questions you have on the way." His brown eyes slipped to John, flickering towards the ceiling before locking back on Sherlock. "DI Lestrade only mentioned sending two detectives."

Billie smiled, leaning in on the conversation. "Dr. Watson is here as a medical consultant on the case. He's not with Scotland Yard as such."

"Ah. Apologies. DI Lestrade said you'd probably be on hand."

John smirked sardonically, hearing much more clearly 'Lestrade warned us you might tag along'. The constable fumbled in his pocket for a second before pulling out a long, black lanyard with a short, boxy flash drive at the end. He held it out by the band for John to take, coiling it down into his palm. "These are the autopsy reports on Charles McCarthy," he said. "You'll probably want to get familiar with these while we're out at the scene."

"Actually, I thought I'd come with you three."

Constable Wiggins shook his head. "Sorry, law enforcement officers only."

John set his jaw, feeling his left hand twitch at his side.

Sherlock cleared his throat. "That's fine. By the time we're done at the crime scene, I'm sure John will have some excellent conclusions of his own to tie this case up perfectly." He clasped John's shoulder, giving it a firm squeeze. "Car's out front, is it?"

Wiggin's nodded and Sherlock took the lead, busy steps and long legs taking him more than halfway out the room by the time the other two realized they were meant to follow.

John closed his fist around the flash drive, the edges of it biting into his palm.

"Bring ya a pint?" a waitress asked, empty tray in hand and service smile on her face.

A pint wasn't going to fix the half of it.