Under the Downs Chapter 8

A/N: I am so thrilled by all the reviews I received over the weekend, thank you soooo much. Keep them coming, they make me all glowy and help the production of all new smut!

Now we are getting to the romantic bit, I hope you like it.

The food at the pub is excellent. The clientele is the monied type - quite a few older men in tweed jackets and shirts open too low, and with flushed faces; women with starched hairstyles, dressed in Jaeger. We sit in a quiet corner and look at one another over a candle. It reminds me of that first night at Angelo's, when he made a fuss about bringing us a candle. More romantic, he insisted, even though I in turn insisted we weren't on a date. I don't think I have sat with Sherlock at a restaurant table since without someone bringing us a romantic candle.

I have the sea bass, because it is too hot to eat steak. Sherlock steals morsels off my plate. He has the scallops. He eats delicately, nibbling. I can tell he isn't really interested, just putting on a show for me. I order the assiette of sweets. He is more keen to steal mouthfuls of that. Which is why I ordered it. You have to be cunning to get calories inside him.

When we come out into the balmy night air, we are one bottle of heavy red wine, two brandies and one Irish coffee to the wind, and weaving very slightly. The tarmac on the road is still baking, slightly tacky from the heat of the day. The moon is out, half full, but the sky is clear and the light silvers everything, including Sherlock's aristrocratic profile.

It is a short walk back to the hotel, but we dawdle. There are a few people about, taking evening strolls, walking their dogs before bed, making the most of the cool evening. It is pleasant to be out, to bid passers-by a good evening, to enjoy their village by moonlight.

Halfway there, Sherlock confuses me. I suddenly find he is not walking beside me, and when I turn around, he is standing in the middle of the road, looking a bit stunned.

'What? What is it?' I retrace my steps until I am standing in front of him. A soft night breeze ruffles the late valerian growing out of the cracks in the stone wall beside us. The air is fragrant with rose and night-scented stocks.

'You,' he whispers.

'Me what?'

'You're the one.'

I stare at him. I have no idea what he's on about.

'You're the one,' he repeats, going more slowly and emphasising the last word because clearly I am an idiot.

'The one what?' (I emphasise my own last word.)

'The one. Just you, John. Only ever you.'

He steps forward and wraps his arms around my neck, rests his head against my forehead with a sigh.

'There was never anyone but you.'

I close my eyes. I can feel the heat of his body, the weight of his arms resting on my shoulders. His hot breath smells faintly fishy from the scallops. He has never come this close to articulating his feelings for me before and I am sure it's not a coincidence. It is the Down, watching over us, benevolent. This place is doing something to us, changing us.

'Just you, Sherlock,' I whisper back. 'Only you, for the rest of my life.'

He hugs me. We stand there, entwined, until a car comes around the corner and we have to scurry to the side of the road to let it pass. I look up at him once it has gone, and find his cheekbone is sculpted by moonlit shadow, his lower lip soft and slightly loose. He flings his arm around my shoulder and we walk down the road together like that. The height difference works this way – my shoulder fits neatly under his armpit, his arm is at the right level to rest over my shoulder, and my arm loops comfortably around his narrow waist. The flesh under my hand feels firm and fluid at the same time. I love the way it shifts under my fingers.

We are rather drunk, and it is a hot night. The bedroom is stultifying. He strips without shame in front of me, flops onto the bed in just his boxers. In the bathroom, I change into my t-shirt and shorts. He knows better than to try and persuade me to shed my last upper layer, even in this heat. We lie on top of the bedding with the windows wide open, listening to the sounds of the night, the tips of our fingers touching.

'I love you,' I whisper into the velvet shadows.

'I know,' he replies.

Tomorrow, John and Sherlock wake up together…