I would like to offer my heartfelt thanks to reflectiveless, 8of9, oatniel, ENTWolf, SherlockNinja, snapletonius, HarmonyLover, Drunken Strawberries, The Lord Writer, mishaminion42, JGHB, Zaryin, SakuraBlossom58, theivydaggers, Garnet Dark, dana-san, KaKiJo, Agar Loki, Guest 1, Guest 2, and all those who have favorited/followed this story. Your support and encouragement is much appreciated.
Once again, I must warn you once more that there is a brief description of a violent murder within this chapter. If this could be triggering for you please do what you need to for your own safety.
Many thanks to my beta, Helena Chauby for her editing eye.
Thank you also to Lady of Clunn for her careful brit picking.
And, as always, I offer thanks to my flat-mate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff.
Finally, special thanks go out to the reviewer who originally gave me the idea you will see at the very end of this chapter. It fits with the story, and, I feel, makes it all the more compelling. I hope you enjoy.
Chapter 15: Like Honey
"Lie down," Sherlock whispered, and John sank gratefully into the plush warmth of the sofa. They'd been up for God knows how long; his head was starting to pound from exhaustion and eye-strain. John settled his head on Sherlock's lap—damn their audience—and sighed in relief when Sherlock's fingers started to work their way through his short hair. Sherlock was very good with his hands...
Sherlock had only massaged John's scalp a handful of times before, and only when John was in pain. John had thought of it as Sherlock's way of showing support or caring when his 'sociopathic' tendencies didn't allow for much else. Still, he'd always enjoyed, and accepted it.
Now that they were pretending to be a couple and, in fact, newly married John noticed Sherlock's hand would occasionally stray down his neck, over his shoulder, and along his arm. Not surprisingly, John found he enjoyed this too. It was much less annoying than the two hours that had passed since they had found the roses.
Evie had alerted the others about their ominous wedding gift, and Greg had wanted to call the Yard. It was the right thing to do, of course, but they could hardly admit to the fact that they knew the flowers had been sent by the killer. As far as the world at large was concerned, save for a trusted few, the killer was already behind bars. Instead, Mycroft had convinced Greg to let him call some of his own 'staff'.
In the brief time Sherlock and John had before Mycroft's agents arrived, Sherlock mused that the killer sent the roses because he knew Sherlock and John were still on the case. Or to let them know they'd 'caught' the wrong man. Either way, their target knew they were coming.
It felt like a stone had settled in John's stomach and, despite all he'd seen Sherlock go through as a consulting detective, John couldn't help but be worried for his husband. Husband. John glanced down at his wedding ring and wondered if their wedding would not be as helpful to the case as they had planned.
Sherlock must have seen the unhappy look on John's face because he had covered John's hand with his own and said, "This will still help us with the case. Whether he believes it to be true or not, we still present a good target."
John had nodded in thought, giving Sherlock's hand a squeeze. "If it's not true then we've still gone through a lot of trouble to embarrass him, and the fact that we were comfortable enough to go through with it might be enough in itself to set him off."
Sherlock had nodded then. "Exactly." And then he had looked, just the tiniest bit unsure and said, "I think it would be best, either way, to proceed as planned. Agreed?"
It bothered John that Sherlock had needed to ask him so many times if he was okay with things. John would always have Sherlock's back, no matter what. Then again, John's little 'episode' earlier today, before the wedding, probably hadn't helped cement that fact.
"Agreed," John had said and, to reassure both Sherlock and himself, he'd leaned up to kiss his husband. It was a gentle, closed-mouth kiss, which Sherlock returned. John had felt Sherlock's free hand come up to caress the side of his face, and had just begun to open his mouth when they had been interrupted by a discrete cough of the first arriving agent.
John was thankful the wedding guests that were staying at the estate hadn't been disturbed, Mycroft's agents were silent and discrete. Still, it had been a grueling two hours of Sherlock, himself, Greg, Mycroft, Evie, Eli, and a few of Mycroft's agents discussing the roses, and the implied threat to the newlyweds. After years of Sherlock's 'run into danger headlong and ask for support after the fact approach,' two hours discussing plans for his own safety seemed unbearably tedious to John. Still, there was Sherlock to think of, and John would do anything to keep him safe.
John had already given his statement and general input to Mycroft's agents, so he was free to lay on Sherlock's lap and drift off. He must have drifted too, because the world suddenly began to shift and rock. Reaching out, John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's shoulders and blearily realised that he was being carried.
"I can walk," he insisted, even as he nuzzled his sleep-warm face into Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock chuckled quietly, and John could feel the vibrations in his chest. "It's not much further to our rooms," Sherlock insisted. He went on to explain, "Greg and Mycroft are still talking with the agents; everyone else has gone to bed."
John thought he really ought to put up more of a fight about being carried, if only Sherlock wasn't so damn comfortable...
John sighed when he felt the cool sheets of their bed against his cheek. He lay still while he felt Sherlock's fingers working to undress him. "I can undress myself," John murmured, although it came out a bit slurred in his half-awake state.
Another baritone chuckle. "Just relax John." And so he did.
It took some maneuvering, but Sherlock got him stripped down to his boxers, and resting comfortably in bed. There were a few more minutes of rustling fabric before John felt the bed dip, and Sherlock's arms came around him. John snuggled into the embrace.
When they first began sharing a bed, Sherlock had been quite amused to find out how much John enjoyed cuddling. He'd gone as far as to call John a 'sleep octopus,' which John did nothing to deny. All John had said was, "You're the one who proposed," and Sherlock had smiled.
Now, John was dimly aware of Sherlock looming over him on all fours, and adjusting John's chin so that his neck was bared to the ceiling. John squirmed and giggled when Sherlock's mouth brushed his neck. Sherlock gently, but firmly repositioned John, and tried again. This resulted only in more giggles.
Sherlock huffed an agitated breath and whispered, "John, stay still!"
"Why?" John murmured between yawns, "Going to cause nerve damage if I move?"
Sherlock smiled, despite himself, at the reminder of his comments to John the morning they had bought their rings. "No," Sherlock drawled, "but you will end up covered in lovebites instead of just one."
That caused John to surface a bit more into the world of the waking. "Huh?" he asked, blinking his eyes open and staring up at Sherlock in the dim light.
"I did mention I had plans for you, did I not?" Sherlock asked trying to keep John's attention. "I know you're tired, so I think one visible lovebite will be all we need to make things look convincing."
John blinked slowly as he processed this. "Okay," he murmured, "but I can't just stop being ticklish."
Sherlock pursed his lips in thought for a moment before he said, "Perhaps I was too direct; the more natural way then."
John was about to ask Sherlock what that meant, when Sherlock's lips were pressed to his. John enjoyed kissing Sherlock, much more than he should, so he surrendered to it. He closed his half-lidded eyes and pressed up into the warm slide of soft lips against his own. John's mouth was already slightly open, and Sherlock's tongue slid easily inside, caressing. John 'hmmed' happily as heat swept through his abdomen. Sherlock's arms were braced on either side of John's head, steadying the younger man. John wound his arms around Sherlock's shoulders, and stroked his back, feeling the sinewy muscles drawn taught over the scapula. In the haze of John's exhaustion this felt like a dream; his inhibitions were lowered.
John slid one hand down Sherlock's side, and clutched at his hip as their tongues wound around each other. Sherlock made a soft noise before pulling back from the kiss to pepper John's cheek with gentle kisses and nips. John tried to follow Sherlock's mouth, but his husband was insistent. When Sherlock reached John's jaw and moved lower, John pressed his face into the cool pillow, giving way.
It was Sherlock's turn to 'hmmm' happily as he began nipping and sucking at the juncture of John's neck and shoulder. John let out a breathy moan, arching into the contact. Teeth and tongue swept over his artery, making him dizzy. John must have been squirming more than he thought, because Sherlock's mouth opened wider to take a possessive bite. John's hips jerked forward and he moaned, "Sherlock..."
Sherlock held his grip on John for a few moments, sucking, probing with his tongue, before he finally released his husband. They were both panting slightly, both more than a little aroused.
Sherlock leaned his weight on his elbows once more, pressing his forehead against John's and closing his eyes. He wanted to go back for another kiss so badly it burned, but he knew that it wouldn't be wise. Leaving John and himself more sexually frustrated than the situation required would only complicate things further.
Long minutes later, when Sherlock felt he could trust himself, he pulled back. John's eyes were bleary with impending sleep, and he smiled fondly at his husband. Feeling drawn in again, Sherlock leaned down for a brief, open mouthed kiss. Pulling back while he still had the will, Sherlock murmured, "Sleep well John," against his husbands' lips.
"I will," John breathed, tugging Sherlock down towards him, "You too..." Sherlock willingly sprawled himself across John's chest, careful to maneuver so that their hips were side by side, instead of pressed together.
"Goodnight John," Sherlock murmured, twining his arms with his husband's.
John leaned forward a bit and pressed a kiss into Sherlock's dark curls. "Night."
The first thing John became aware of was the soft warmth that wrapped around the room, the kind that invited lazing under fuzzy covers long into the afternoon. The second thing was the light. Someone must have pulled back the curtains, or left them open, because, even with his eyes closed, John could tell the room was glowing with sunlight. John had admired how the light reflected off the pale yellow walls of their rooms earlier that week. Now he was both admiring it, and wishing someone would turn down the lights; he was too comfortable and happy to get up just yet. Finally, the sweeping brush of fingers along his back, a hand, and an arm registered in John's brain.
John's muscles bunched and he arched into the touch, snuffling a yawn against Sherlock's bare shoulder. Hadn't they fallen asleep with Sherlock across John's chest? How had their positions reversed? hmmmm... Not important. John arched up into the touch again, mumbling contentedly as Sherlock rubbed circles along his back.
"Really, John, you're almost purring." Sherlock sounded entirely too amused so early in the morning... okay, it probably wasn't that early anymore, but still...
"mhph quiet," John muttered into his husband's shoulder. Sherlock's hand swept up John's neck, and his fingers raced through John's hair. John groaned in appreciation, then flushed. It really did sound like he was purring. Fuck.
Sherlock only chuckled. "Have you always been this...cuddly? It's a wonder any of your other partners ever let you go."
John still refused to open his eyes, but his speech was a bit clearer. "They followed social convention Sherlock," John paused to yawn, "They expected to be cuddled, not the other way around."
Sherlock made a small, thoughtful noise before he said, "Normal is dull."
At this particular moment, John couldn't agree more.
"John, we're going to have to get up sometime."
John made a sound of disagreement and twined his legs more closely with Sherlock's. "Stay," he breathed.
"Really John," Sherlock insisted, trying to jostle John into proper consciousness, "I'm sure there is a wedding brunch laid out for us at this very moment. We have guests to thank."
John latched on harder and murmured "...warm."
Sherlock rolled his eyes even as an affectionate smile tugged at the edges of his lips. "Of course you're warm, John. Our combined body heat in combination with the insulation of the bedclothes and the sound construction of the manner walls could only result in-" Sherlock released a sharp puff of air as John nipped softly at his neck in retaliation.
Satisfied that Sherlock's lecture had been cut off, John snuggled in again.
Sherlock, tried a different tactic. "Trying to give me a matching lovebite? You'll have to try harder than that." Sherlock's fingers grazed lightly over John's neck as he spoke. "Your skin, just here, is almost purple. Whereas I doubt you've even left a proper mark."
John's eyes finally opened. He tilted his head back, feeling the skin of his cheek slide across Sherlock's chest, until he met amused blue/grey eyes. "What did you say?"
Sherlock managed, just barely, not to grin. "I said your lovebite has gone dark purple, and if you were intending to-"
John's hand flew up to his neck, and he was no longer listening. He blinked in the bright light of morning and tried to make himself focus. "Last night...?"
Sherlock spoke slowly, as if trying to explain something to a child. "Last night was our wedding night, John. I marked you." And then, with just the smallest hint of reluctance, because he couldn't quite get the concerns of the other day out of his head, Sherlock asked, "That is okay, right?"
No one knew Sherlock better than his blogger; John caught the hint of insecurity instantly. His eyes locked with Sherlock and, spurred on by a sudden flash of possessiveness, John launched himself at his husband, pinning him to the bed.
Sherlock's eyes went wide with surprise as John's face hovered inches from his own. "I do believe," John began, his voice deep and gravely with sleep, "I heard you say I could mark you as well." Sherlock swallowed, turning his head instinctively as John lowered his mouth to Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock sucked in a breath and gritted his teeth when he felt John's mouth open on his neck. There was a graze of teeth and tongue; Sherlock closed his eyes and focused on the onslaught. John's hand gripped his wrists firmly, his legs bracketing Sherlock's hips, pushing him down into the mattress. John's warm, wet tongue was probing at his jugular vein while John's lips provided suction, pulling the skin taunt. Just like last night, when their positions were reversed, it was more than a little arousing. Sherlock had just begun to pant when John pulled away with a wet sucking noise.
The skin John had just detached himself from burned and throbbed. Sherlock realised his bruise might be even darker than John's, especially with his pale complexion. Slowly, Sherlock turned his head upwards to meet John's dilated pupils. They were both aroused and it was lost on neither of them. It was biology. Just, biology. After the tumult of the last few days, Sherlock was not about to let biology come between them again.
Sherlock rested his hand lightly against John's hip, and gave a gentle squeeze. "We'll make quite a scene when we come down to brunch," he surmised.
John chuckled, and Sherlock returned his smile, relived. John reached forward and caressed Sherlock's face for a moment, not trusting himself to kiss his husband and leave it only at that.
"Then we should get downstairs," John murmured, "I think we've kept them waiting long enough."
Sherlock and John stumbled into the small dining room giggling and talking quietly to one another. They were greeted with a small round of applause from Greg, Eli, and Evie. Mycroft stared murderously into his porridge.
John blushed and leaned into Sherlock as they made their way to the table. He was glad there weren't any extended family around at the moment. Then again, it was a bit late for brunch, and the Holmes family seemed to be full of early risers. John thought he glimpsed a few cousins strolling along the grounds before he took his seat.
"Sorry to keep you waiting," Sherlock said brightly as he pulled out John's chair for him.
"No worries," Eli said with a grin and a brief glance at his wife. "You got a late start on the wedding night after all."
Evie and Greg chuckled over their tea while Mycroft continued to look put out.
"Greg and Mycroft must have got to bed even later," Evie said with an amused glint in her eye. "They were still discussing everyone's safety on the case when we went to bed."
John sipped gratefully at his tea as he tried to remember who knew what. Last he checked, only Sherlock himself, and probably Mycroft knew his 'marriage' with Sherlock wasn't quite real, and everyone at the table knew how the wedding tied in to the case.
John still felt guilty for lying to everyone, but, considering recent developments, it was probably keeping them safe. Sherlock and John would have to have a long talk after this was over about how to end their ruse appropriately. Sherlock might breeze through most social mores without much forethought, but this was different. This affected a lot of people, and John didn't want there to be any more pain involved than there had to be. ...Still, the thought of this, ruse...crush...whatever it was, coming to a finite end made John sad. John closed his eyes for a moment, concentrating on the heat radiating from his tea cup. Thinking so far ahead wouldn't be helpful. He needed to focus on the conversation at hand, and go from there.
"For the love of all that is holy, I am not shagging Mycroft!"
John was immensely grateful at that moment, that he hadn't just taken a mouthful of tea. "I'm sorry, what?"
"My brother and my parents have been sophomorically insinuating a mutual attraction between myself and Gregory," Mycroft groused, looking all the more as though his porridge disagreed with him.
"It's not so farfetched," Greg muttered over his eggs, exhausted and not above ruffling a few feathers to share the misery. "I argue with you like I argued with my ex-wife."
Mycroft flushed red and turned to glare at Greg. "You are correct Gregory that does fit. I am as attracted to you, in general, as she is now."
Greg's eye twitched in frustration, but he forced himself to smile warmly and lean towards Mycroft. That git wasn't the only one who could make people feel uncomfortable. "She did say she wouldn't mind getting together for a one off or two," Greg murmured invitingly. It wasn't true; the divorce had gone so badly Rebecca, his ex, probably hated him. Greg had his regrets over that, but the truth wasn't the point right now. Right now, he wanted to see Mycroft squirm a little. "Would you be as," Greg paused for effect, "accommodating, Mycroft?"
Mycroft's face looked a bit pinched for a moment before forcibly rearranging itself into an indifferent mask. "Do not embarrass yourself, Gregory. My sources have informed me that Rebecca is far too involved with a doctor from Cambridge to make time for a tryst with her ex."
"Fuck off, Mycroft," Greg ground out, hunching over his eggs once more.
"Please, Mycroft," Sherlock broke in, "I know for a fact you aren't wasting resources having a detective inspector's ex-wife tailed."
"Boys, boys," Evie interrupted calmly, trying to derail the impending row, "We were only teasing. I'm sorry if I upset you Greg."
"No, I apologise," Greg murmured, looking abashed, "I shouldn't be picking fights over brunch."
Evie patted Greg's arm lightly. "It's quite alright, dear, I've been very unpleasant company in the past when I haven't got enough sleep.
"You are quite right brother," Mycroft interjected, still cross with Sherlock, "Gregory's ex-wife is hardly my concern, the doctor however, has been-"
"Mycroft!" Even John jumped. It was the only time he'd heard Evie raise her voice. "Are you quite finished?" Evie asked, her tone clipped.
"Yes, Mummy," Mycroft replied, slightly subdued for once.
Greg barely managed to contain a snort of amusement, which Mycroft must have heard anyway, because the elder Holmes brother promptly kicked him in the shin under the table. Evie, thankfully, didn't seem to notice.
"So, what have you managed to find out about the flowers?" Eli asked, trying to help his wife change the subject.
"Now that we've been able to question all the staff, we've confirmed that the flowers were delivered by post while the wedding was taking place," Mycroft explained. "Several other wedding gifts from family members unable to attend had already arrived, and all those staying at the estate had already left their gifts on the appropriate table. Unfortunately, no one thought otherwise about adding the roses to the gift table with everything else."
"Who would dear?" Evie asked, "This is a wedding."
"It is also serving to further a case, Evie," Greg reminded her, but she still looked upset at the case intruding onto her son's wedding. Greg couldn't blame her; Sherlock had just been threatened, more or less. "Very early this morning, I had some officers at the Yard trace the delivery to a flower shop not three streets from All God's Children United Church."
Everyone's expressions turned dark.
"What else?" Sherlock insisted, leaning forward slightly. After working with Greg for all these years, he knew Greg wouldn't leave it at that. He did have some common sense.
"Well, there aren't any cameras in the store," Greg continued, "and he paid with cash, so we have no hope of tracing a credit card-"
"Of course it's a 'he'" Sherlock interrupted, "We've established that ages ago."
"It wasn't confirmed yet, Sherlock," Greg insisted, glaring for a moment. "But, yes the shop owner remembers selling to a man who fits the description you originally gave."
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It's too common a description to be of much use."
"As I was saying," Greg continued. His voice sounded clipped and irritated because, of course, Sherlock was right. "The shop keeper remembered the man because he gave the name 'Holmes.'"
"Clearly a fake name," Evie surmised, "We are a well known family. And who would think twice about receiving a delivery from 'Holmes' at the Holmes wedding?"
Greg nodded, "Just so."
"Unfortunately," Mycroft broke in, "My operatives were unable to get a possible sketch after interviewing the witnesses. Even the side street cameras were unable to get a clear picture of our culpret."
Sherlock made a frustrated noise and Greg looked put out. "I told my officers to interview witnesses and pull any extra footage they could find, Mycroft" Greg explained, "Our people are just going to get in each other's way."
Mycroft gave a small, satisfied smile. "No they aren't, my people are much faster and have access to more cameras."
Greg let out an irritated huff and turned back to his eggs. Was it some law of physics that the Holmes brothers always had to be right?
"Right," John paused to look around their room, searching for anything out of place. "Have we got everything?"
"Of course," Sherlock drawled from his position, dramatically sprawled, on the sofa in the sitting room.
John quirked an eyebrow at him. "How would you know? I'm the one that's done all the packing."
Sherlock waved his hand lazily in the air. "Details."
That flippant comment really shouldn't make John want to kiss him, but it did. John loomed over the arm of the sofa until Sherlock tipped his head back to make eye contact with him. Sure that he had the consulting detective's attention, John leaned down and pressed his lips warmly to Sherlock's.
John had meant it to be a brief kiss anyway, but he was still embarrassed when there was a knock at their door.
"We've come to collect your bags, sirs," a clear voice rang through the doorway. Ah, it must be some of Mycroft's staff. The estate must need a number of staff to help with the upkeep, but John had seen very few staff outside of his wedding reception. He was glad for that. It felt a bit silly to him to let other people do things he was perfectly capable of doing for himself.
"Be right there," John called out as he went to get the door. While said servants were hefting their luggage out of the room, he turned to Sherlock. "Are you getting up or what?"
Sherlock turned his head to look at John. "If I must," he conceded, starting to rise, "Although Mycroft does have a private jet we could take if we missed our flight."
John gave snort of amusement. "Right. That won't look suspicious at all."
Sherlock stood beside John for a moment before taking his hand. "Our double purpose is already known to the killer, at least in part," he reminded John. John looked away for a moment, feeling suddenly cold. Sherlock gave John's hand a squeeze and continued, "However, it would be best to keep up appearances as planned." John nodded and allowed himself to be lead out of the room.
The Holmes family had flooded the entranceway to the estate in order to see them off. Sherlock and John paused at the doorway to say their goodbyes to Evie, Eli, Mycroft, Greg, and all the others. Despite the fact that Mycroft and Greg would be following them to New York the next day, it was unlikely Sherlock and John would see much of them until the killer was caught. Greg and Mycroft were going to stay in New York City with a team of Mycroft's agents, and a pair of Yanks who were assigned to work with Mycroft's team. They were F.B.I. agents, and, from what Sherlock could deduce from the files Mycroft had on them, they would likely be of no greater help then the detectives from the Yard. Greg was officially there as a 'consultant' with information about the killer, while Mycroft's team officially did not exist. Together, they would do what research/fact checking they could, while waiting for more information from Sherlock and John.
There were hugs all around, if a bit unwilling on Mycroft's part, before the grooms made their way down the front steps and into the waiting Bentley. John leaned out the window slightly as they pulled away, to wave goodbye along with Sherlock. Returning to his seat, John glanced out the rear window, smiling slightly as the window beside him slid shut once more.
"You enjoy my family's company," Sherlock stated, sounding slightly amused.
John turned to him and nodded. "Well, yeah, especially your Mum."
"She does have that effect on people," Sherlock agreed, "Did you know her ability to read people exceeds Mycroft and myself?"
"That doesn't surprise me," John replied, leaning back into his seat. Even sleeping as well as he had, it hadn't been long enough, and it was starting to catch up to him.
"It may surprise you to know there is nothing scientific in her methods," Sherlock continued.
That was interesting, and John turned in his seat to face Sherlock, anxious to hear more.
"She has an innate ability to read people," Sherlock explained, "So does father, but he relies less on intuition and more on facts. Because it's intuition, Mummy is, occasionally, wrong. However, she is still correct more often than not, and could likely tell you more than Mycroft or myself at a first glance." Sherlock was certain that, although she had not been informed, that his mother knew the important details about this case, including his love for John. Likely she had been trying to encourage him to act on it with her little speech on the dance floor. He couldn't blame her; he could hardly deny that John made him happy. However, to keep John in his life, Sherlock would do what he had to, despite his preferences.
"Huh," John murmured as he turned this new information over in his mind. "Was it watching her that got you interested in deductions in the first place?"
Sherlock gave him a wry smile. "For once, Dr. Watson, you see and observe."
"It's Dr. Holmes, now," John corrected him, and they both looked away. Neither one was keen on considering just how long that name change would last...
"Really, John, you are going to get yourself tackled by the air marshal," Sherlock scolded as John fidgeted in his seat, looking for all the world as though he was five seconds away from springing into the aisle and bolting towards the front of the plane, just to get a bit of exercise.
"It is not my fault they put these seats so close together," John hissed. "I have no room to move my legs, this is inhumane. You know this increases risk of blood clots and-"
"Yes, John," Sherlock cut his husband off with an enamored smile.
"Don't look so smug," John insisted, "You're the one reading a book, fiddling on your phone, and listening to, I don't even know what, on your headphones." John leaned as far forwards as he could, hoping the change of position would ease his discomfort somewhat. It was only marginally better.
"Yes, well, it just about keeps me occupied," Sherlock mused.
John chuckled darkly. He jumped slightly when he felt Sherlock's fingers in the back of his neck, but relaxed when he felt them massaging his tight muscles. "Thank you," he breathed, arching into the touch. It didn't help the cramped discomfort in his legs, but it was a nice distraction. Of course, it did not help that his next thought was about Sherlock's hands massaging his... legs.
"Why did we take economy?" John whined in a low voice, pressing his heels into the floor to try to restore circulation."
Sherlock "hm'd" in a distracted fashion. "I do remember someone pointing out that the mark up for buisness class is, oh, what did you say? 'Unethical, and a waste of money.'"
"I've changed my mind," John grumbled miserably.
"We can fly business class back to England," Sherlock soothed, his attention still fixed on his various projects.
"What are you doing anyway?" John asked, his voice slightly muffled from leaning forwards in his seat.
"On my phone I am reviewing previous crimes both in London and the New York area which could possibly be relevant to this case,-"
"I thought you said the killer hadn't killed before the first couple that started this case," John cut in, glancing at his husband.
Sherlock shrugged, his fingers continuing to work on John's neck and shoulder as his eyes reviewed the contents of his phone. "Something started this long before that. You remember I said he may have been motivated by harm coming to someone close to him, probably a son, from the LGBTQ community."
John nodded, slowly, "I remember you mentioning something like that."
Sherlock gestured with his phone, "I don't expect a revelation, but as we discover more information these cases may help us put the pieces together."
"And the rest of it?" John asked, finally trusting himself to sit up, blush fading from his cheeks. Sherlock's fingers still lingered at his neck.
"I'm listening to old news broadcasts," Sherlock explained, gesturing to his headphones with his free hand, "And the book is a history of the Hamptons, in case there is something useful there."
John shook his head slightly, thinking. "He's been quiet for almost a month, it's unnerving."
Sherlock glanced over at John. "Not entirely quiet, you remember the roses."
"Yeah," John said, pulling his coat more tightly around himself. He let out a frustrated sigh. "What are we going to do in the Hamptons, Sherlock?" Despite being calm and collected around ill persons and homicide victims alike, John fervently wanted to catch this killer before he struck again.
Sherlock closed his book, and took his headphones from his ears for a moment. "What we have to." He paused before adding, "We will do some expected things, and wait for an opening. His mundane qualities have made him hard to pick out thus far, but they also point to someone of only above average intelligence. He will make a mistake and reveal himself in some way. He nearly did with where he bought the roses."
John nodded. Sherlock was being somewhat cryptic given the one hundred plus other people on the plane, but John got the message loud and clear. They would do normal honeymoon things, probably stay close to his next intended victims, once they arrived, and wait for the killer to trip up. In the meantime they could also spend time exploring what information they did have, and anything new they happened to figure out. In short what would happen would likely happen fast, and they might be relying partially on luck to be in the right place at the right time. John gave a mental shrug. It wasn't like they hadn't done similar before.
"You're tired," Sherlock observed, lifting armrest between them and pulling John close to him with an arm around his waist. "We're still hours away from landing, try to get some sleep."
John leaned into Sherlock's shoulder with a sigh and decided that sleeping sounded like a very good idea. He was tired, sleeping would help the time go by, and, in this freezing airplane, Sherlock was still, somehow, quite warm.
"It is petulant to persist in sleeping on my sofas when I've given you perfectly respectable accommodations with a proper bed."
Greg groaned softly and opened his eyes slightly to see Mycroft leaning against the fireplace just in front of him. After John and Sherlock had left, Greg had intended to get some work done. Instead he'd ended up sprawled, face down, on another of Mycroft's sofas, very much asleep. "It's your fault for keeping me up so late," Greg mumbled, his voice muffled by the cushions he was laying on, "and for having such comfortable furniture."
"My brother and John should be landing across the pond shortly," Mycroft observed.
Greg nodded and sat up, running his hands over his face to help himself wake up. "Right. When do we leave?"
"Shortly after breakfast. We have the estate largely to ourselves at the moment. Mummy and Father will stay a few more days before returning home."
Greg scooped up his discarded paperwork and began organising it. "I'm still surprised that John let this case take over his honeymoon."
Mycroft snorted derisively.
"Well I know you aren't happy for them," Greg said, sharply. "But I haven't seen two people so in love in a long time."
Mycroft scowled and advanced towards him until he was looming over the detective inspector. "Their marriage is a sham, Gregory!" Mycroft hissed, "A device to lure the killer out, which it seems may be working. I assure you, it is nothing more than that."
Mycroft stood straight again, looking confident, and waited for evidence of Greg's disappointment and embarrassment at having been so deceived.
Laughter was the last thing he expected.
Still, there it was. Gregory laughed loudly and deeply, clutching at his sides when they started to ache from the strain. Mycroft looked at Gregory as though he'd gone mad.
At last Gregory spoke again, wiping tears of mirth from his eyes, "That is too perfect for words." He snickered and threatened to break out into laughter again. "They still haven't," another chuckle, "After all this time-" Greg seemed unable to get the words out around his laughter.
Mycroft crossed his arms in front of him, angry again. "What are you going on about?" he drawled.
There was a long minute filled with Greg sniggering to himself before he'd calmed enough to give a reply. "You really don't know? Mycroft Holmes, I never expected something so obvious to escape your notice."
Mycroft continued to glare down at the detective inspector, waiting for an explanation.
"Case or no case, your brother and John love each other," Gregory insisted. "That's been obvious for years. Why do you think they make such a convincing couple in the first place? Why do you think we had a pool at the office to see when they'd get together? They are good together Mycroft, and I am just as sure now, as I was a moment ago, that they will be very happy together."
"Their union would be ill-advised," Mycroft said evenly, his eye starting to twitch lightly.
Greg refused to be angered. Instead he smiled ruefully up at Mycroft. "I'm glad I don't live in your world, Mycroft," Greg mused quietly. "It's true you wield a great deal of power. You are well suited to intrigues and exerting your influence. I'm even sure, despite your protests, that you largely operate for the greater good. Still, a world where love is 'ill-advised' seems like a very lonely place to be."
They stared at each other in silence for a moment before Mycroft turned on his heel, and walked out the door. Greg sighed as he watched him go, wondering how they were going to get through the next few weeks without strangling each other. He hadn't always been such a romantic, but his divorce had made him take a hard look at his priorities, and what he wanted in his life. Greg was still just as committed to the job as he ever was, but he was also committed to building a family with someone, if he was ever lucky enough to have a second chance at doing so.
Pulling his eyes away from the door, Greg studied the fireplace embers and thought of Sherlock and John. They still didn't know? He shook his head. If this 'honeymoon' didn't knock some sense into them, Greg would seriously have to do something when they returned to London.
Crisp night air whipped at John's cheeks as he waited for Sherlock to collect their luggage. He'd managed to sleep most of the flight, but he was still tired and eager to stretch his legs. Sherlock had, obviously, noted this, and volunteered to get their luggage while John went outside for a bit of fresh air. It was late at night, and it would take them a while to get to their hotel. Once they did, John was looking forward to a hot shower and a long sleep.
Despite his better judgment, he hoped Sherlock would join him. He didn't think Sherlock had got much sleep in the last few days either and...he quite liked having the consulting detective in his bed.
John took a breath, willed himself not to blush like a teenager, and began to skim the newspaper he'd purchased at a kiosk inside. It was true you could find most of what you needed online these days, but Sherlock's research on the plane had made him curious. John skimmed the pages, only half paying attention, until a photograph on page 6 made his blood run cold.
There was the sound of small rubber wheels on concrete. "There you are. Mind these while I hail a cab." John felt Sherlock's heat as the taller man lingered beside him. "John?" John swallowed and looked up into Sherlock's gray-blue eyes. "What is it?" Sherlock asked, stepping closer and resting his hand on John's arm.
John silently handed over the paper. Sherlock accepted it, his eyes almost immediately falling upon the picture which had darkened John's mood. It was grainy, black and white, the type of picture you would expect in a wedding announcement. A taller man stood with his arms wrapped around a smaller one. The taller man's head was resting on the shorter man's shoulders, and the shorter man had turned to look adoringly at the taller man. It was hard to make out, given the picture quality, but Sherlock could still see the bite scar on the shorter man's cheek. Probably, as John had surmised over a month ago, leftover from a dog attack. It was the headline above the picture that made it so chilling.
GAY COUPLE FOUND MURDERED BY THE HUDSON
A brief scan of the article revealed that the couple, Dylan and Kyle, who had recently returned from their honeymoon in London, were found dead on the riverbank a few days ago. The search had started when Kyle's flower shop remained closed, worrying friends and family. Sherlock read:
The couple was pinned to the riverbank by an old railroad spike, driven through their chests, piercing both hearts. The hands of both men were bound together with a single set of prayer beads. Authorities reported that the following bible verse was found clasped between their hands, held there by the prayer beads:
If by turning the cities of Sodom and Gomorrah to ashes he condemned them to extinction, making them an example of what is going to happen to the ungodly. -2 Peter 2:6-9