"Why do we have to leave the country to have sex?"

John blushes. The question was questioned by the loudest question-asker in the history of ever. Louder was he than the six-year-old who just asked his dad why those two men were holding hands. (Even louder was he than the dad who gritted through his teeth, "I don't know, son.")

"Why are you blushing?"

"Sssshhh!" John hisses, not for the first time this morning.

It's early. Their flight was booked at eight in the morning instead of the red-eye flight at eight at night, which means they had to actually be at Heathrow Airport at six in the morning. Sure, that's not really that early, but only six hours ago, John checked in to the fancy hotel in the middle of London, five and a half hours ago did he become one with his brand-spankin'-new husband, five hours ago did he finally fall asleep, and four hours ago was he awakened by the rough, blunt head of his still sleeping husband's long, hard cock.

Which is a long way of saying John is too fucking tired for his husband's shit.

"I'm too fucking tired for your shit, Sherlock."

John whispered that. He knows better than to curse so close to a nosy six-year-old and his ignorant father.

"I'm not the one who woke my husband up for—"

John elbows him in the chest.

"Ow!"

"Shut. Up!"

Sherlock frowns.

He's quietly for exactly thirty-two seconds. John counted.

"I hope there are at least bees on this moon."

John pinches the bridge of his nose. Early. Waaaaay too fucking early. He rubs his forehead and mutters, "What, now?"

"Bees. They make honey. I can only assume we'll see some."

"Why did you call it a moon?"

Sherlock stares at him blankly.

"Jesus christ," John sighs. "Please tell me you don't actually think we're going to the actual moon?"

The lady in front of them chuckles.

"Well, of course not, John," Sherlock says. "That's ridiculous."

"Then…" John shakes his head. "What?"

"Honey, the substance that bees make. Isn't a moon like a holiday?"

John really can't see a flaw there. He did use context clues to try to figure out what honeymoon means. Nonetheless, John is exasperated.

"Sherlock, we're not going on a bee holiday!"

The lady and the man in front of them laugh.

John scowls at them.

"Then why are we leaving the country if we aren't even going to see any bees?!"

"Fuck it!" John says, at volume. It's lower than a shout, but definitely higher than a whisper. "Let's go home!"

"If you say so," Sherlock says, picking up his suitcase and leaving the line before John does.

John groans and follows.

"This turned out to be a fine holiday," Sherlock says, reclined on all the pillows from the bed. "Fine, indeed."

John takes many deep breaths and stares at the ceiling. He tries to keep his hands away from the cooling stickiness on his stomach. Eventually he grabs discarded pants and cleans the mess up.

"I'm glad our gifts arrived here before we did. That book Lestrade got us was an excellent gift. A perfect way to spend our week."

"I'm going to need another week to recover from this one."

"Mmmm," Sherlock replies, pulling pillows out from under him and giving them to John. He lays on his side and lets John pull him close.

Ten minutes later, they're nearly asleep. Sherlock's breathing is slow and deep, and John is already starting to snore.

A sigh is heard from one. "I still can't believe I didn't see any bees on this moon."

John laughs so hard he has to get out of bed to use the toilet.

A/N: Hello! "honeymoon" was prompted by a guest and I hope that guest finds this and reads it and likes it. I made myself laugh a few times, so I hope you all enjoy. Thanks for reading, please review!