.

.

.

Chapter 15: Boating

.

.

"Oh, don't sulk."

"Look who's talking," John mumbled grumpily, taking their suitcase.

"I'm not sulking!" Sherlock protested.

"Yes, well, today the roles are reversed."

Sherlock sighed. They were just getting off the train in Norfolk and their client – who'd offered to be their host – had come to pick them up at the station.

"Mr. Holmes! I am so glad you could make it so fast!" Hilton Cubitt exclaimed, walking up to them briskly, his complexion more sanguine than ever. He did indeed seem overly glad.

"All thanks must go to Dr. Watson, I'm afraid," Sherlock commented, barely hiding a smirk. It made John want to hit him. Or kiss him. Or both. Irritated and blushing almost imperceptibly, he looked away.

"Um... right, well..." Hilton stammered, ill at ease.

The ride to the family farm was quiet and a bit awkward. Sherlock had sat in front next to the driver and John felt a little shunted aside. Well, nothing new under the sun, he thought.

"I printed all of them out. The smileys," Hilton suddenly said as the house came into view. "Here."

Rummaging in his pocket clumsily with one hand, he gave Sherlock a piece of crumpled paper covered in tiny figures who appeared to be dancing. Sherlock barely took a look at it.

"They move, don't they?"

"Excuse me?" Hilton asked as he stopped the car in front of the huge renovated farmhouse.

"The smileys. On the screen, they're GIF images and they move, don't they?"

"I think so, but..."

"You think so?" Sherlock interrupted, jumping out of the car to meet the lady of the house. Leaving me with the suitcase, John noted mentally, rolling his eyes.

Mrs. Cubitt was a lovely woman with fair hair and a pointed nose sprinkled with freckles.

"Hello! Mr. Murray I presume?"

"Mrs. Cubitt," Sherlock said, extending his hand to shake hers, "such a pleasure to meet you. Finally!"

She smiled back perfunctorily.

"The pleasure is all mine, although Hilton hasn't mentioned you a lot I must say..."

"Oh well, you've only been married for a year, after all! Sorry we couldn't make it to the wedding."

Then he leant in and whispered into her ear confidentially:

"We were on our honeymoon, you see."

She blinked, then blushed, and from afar John wondered what in the world Sherlock was talking to her about. He found the whole case rather preposterous after all, and if Moriarty hadn't been involved in it somehow, he was certain Sherlock wouldn't have bothered.

On second thought, maybe he would have bothered, he amended. Sherlock was usually titillated by weird cases. And a man going to a private detective because his wife was receiving strange smileys and seemed terrified but wouldn't tell him anything about it, and who wouldn't intrude because he'd promised her he wouldn't pry, was quite peculiar indeed. I am going to spend the weekend in a house full of lunatics, John concluded with a sigh as he pulled the suitcase from the trunk.

"Welcome to Ridling Thorpe!" Hilton exclaimed, obviously very proud of his house, which looked more like a manor than a farm to John. "We've renovated it a bit," he added, and John stared.

"Yes. A bit."

"Ah, darling!"

Hilton went up to his wife and kissed her. She then turned to John.

"And you must be Mr. Stamford!"

OK, now John definitely wanted to hit Sherlock. Stamford? Couldn't he have made him pose as someone a bit less... Seriously, Mike Stamford? John managed a smile and shook the young woman's hand. She was very pretty, he noticed, though something about her congeniality felt a little forced.

"Hello, I'm Mike. Nice to meet you, Mrs. Cubitt."

"Oh, you can call me Elsie. Shall we go in?"

John looked around but Sherlock was already in the house, not having waited for anyone to show him in. Dear God I'm glad I don't have parents to introduce him to. John froze. Sherlock did have parents, right? "You can imagine the Christmas dinners." He shook his head, trying very hard not to imagine what "Mummy" might be like...

... John gulped. Refraining from banging his head against the wall, he followed the Cubitts in.

"Never thought of opening a bed&breakfast?" he asked, to make small talk. Hilton's clear eyes became even rounder.

"Oh no! We've always wanted to keep the rooms all to the kids and have them roam freely on the grounds."

"I see," John replied non-concomitantly. How many kids do you want to have?

He put the suitcase down, wondering where Sherlock had snooped off to.

"Speaking of rooms, I prepared the one above the kitchen for you, it's the largest and sunniest of all the guest rooms because it is turned to the south, but the cook comes early in the morning so I hope you don't mind," Elsie said, smiling apologetically.

John blinked.

"You have a cook?"

"She's an old friend of the family," Hilton explained. "My mother died when I was a child and my father knew nothing of household chores, so he hired a cook and a cleaning lady. I attended a boarding school, so there was no need for a baby-sitter, but–"

"Honey, I'm sure Mike will want to put his things in the room and find his husband," Elsie interrupted gently. "What are your plans for today?"

"My..." What? John stopped himself before he blurted out anything, but even Hilton seemed perplexed.

"Well, I was thinking of showing them around the Broads."

"Oh, so you're taking the yacht?"

John's head was starting to spin.

"I'm sorry, I think I'm going to look for Sher... um, my husband."

"Of course! Darling, show him to their room, won't you? I'll tell Mrs. King to prepare something light for lunch."

Once they were on the staircase, Hilton turned to John.

"So you're married?"

"No we're not," John seethed. He didn't feel insulted by the idea or anything, but didn't like the fact that Sherlock had obviously been using it just to tease. Or at best, for the case. Either way, it felt a little off-handed on Sherlock's part.

When they entered the room, Sherlock was already sprawled on the bed. Under the cover, in fact, a piteous look on his face. John stared. Hilton panicked.

"Oh dear God, are you all right?"

"Sorry, I felt somewhat feverish... Thought I'd just rest a bit before... lunch..."

He actually managed to turn green upon uttering the word, and John admired him for it. His acting skills never seemed to fail him.

"Was it the train ride? Or the car maybe? You should've told me you weren't feeling well."

Their host was fussing, clearly embarrassed and not quite knowing what to do. John repressed a sigh and put the suitcase down.

"I'll take care of him, don't worry about it."

"But..."

"I'm his doctor," he added.

"Oh I thought you were..."

"Yes, his colleague. I've been upgraded recently, though, haven't I, sweetie?"

Sherlock glared viciously from under his curls, but he couldn't bark anything back without sounding too healthy, so he settled for the dark look.

"All right, well, call me if you need anything."

The moment Hilton's steps died down the corridor, Sherlock jumped up on his feet and ran to the window, opening it widely.

"Have you noticed the dog?"

"The dog?" John repeated dumbly. "There is no dog."

"Exactly."

John sighed exasperatedly.

"No, don't do that."

"What?"

"You're doing the look again!"

"Oh God, John, don't you see?"

"Nope."

"Fine. Doesn't matter."

"What do you mean it doesn't–"

"You have to go with Hilton to the Broads today."

"What? You were listen... scratch that, what about you?"

"I'm sick, John, sick! Remember?"

He turned a feverish gaze to him and whined softly. John rolled his eyes, opening their suitcase.

"Idiot. Don't make such weird noises, they'll wonder what we're doing at this time of the day."

"It's fine. We're married."

"Yes! Where did that come from?"

Sherlock closed the window.

"Elementary," he replied dismissively, and John gave up. Then he stopped and stared.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"Why do we have handcuffs in our case?"

"Well, we don't have Lestrade around, do we?"

John rolled his eyes. In the end, he went down to lunch by himself, leaving Sherlock pacing the room. He walked into the kitchen and was greeted by the cook – a plump little woman with red hair and a chubby face.

"Oh you must be one of the guests! I'm Maria, pleasure to meet you," she said as she finished dressing her salad.

"Hello, I'm Mike. Nice to meet you too. Can I be of any help?"

"Oh no, I'm paid for that, you know!"

John wondered if it was a habit of the household to begin every sentence with "oh", making them all sound rather fussy.

"So, you've been working here for a long time, I heard?"

"I was first hired by little Hilton's father when he was just a boy. I've been Ridling Thorpe's cook ever since."

"You must love the place."

"Oh I do! Don't you find it lovely? It's so quiet and soothing out here."

"I bet." Sherlock would probably die of boredom. Thinking of Sherlock... "Tell me, is there a dog in the house?"

Maria frowned.

"A dog? No, there's no such thing here. Why do you ask?"

"My friend is allergic and he's been feeling unwell, so I was wondering, that's all."

"Oh hello again," chimed in Mrs. Cubitt, bursting into the kitchen. "You're here already. Hungry?"

John smiled pleasantly.

"That, and Bill is impossible when he's sick." All the time, really. It felt very weird to refer to Sherlock by the name of the nurse who'd saved his arm, John thought.

"Will he be okay?" she inquired worriedly.

"Oh yeah, he'll be just fine. Just a bit queasy from the trip, I think. He's the sensitive kind." John gloated slightly as he freely got Sherlock back for the names and the whole marriage thing. "I'm sure he'll be fine tonight."

Mrs. Cubitt seemed a little vexed. "Will he be resting here this afternoon?"

John observed her closely.

"I'm afraid so, yes... Would that bother you? We can go to a hotel if you–"

"Oh no, not at all! I just hope nothing bad will happen while you're not around."

At those words, John froze, his blood turning cold. Something in his look must have betrayed his dread, for she added precipitately:

"I'm no doctor, you see."

"Of course. I'm sure he'll be okay."

Lunch was quiet without Sherlock, and John couldn't possibly talk much because he was supposed to be a university friend of Hilton's, and feared he'd ask the wrong questions if he was too talkative. So he let Hilton and Elsie carry most of the conversation, intervening sometimes to learn more about the bride of his 'old friend'. She was American and they'd married very soon after they met – love at first sight, they said. She loved the countryside and had told her husband she didn't mind the fields and the cows if there was at least the internet – they'd laughed and she'd moved into Ridling Thorpe after their honeymoon in France and Italy.

"And where did you go?" she inquired as Maria brought the coffees.

"Pardon?"

"On your honeymoon!"

Her eyes were sparkling at the memory of her post-wedding trip, and Hilton sent John a disconcerted look.

"Afghanistan," John said with a boyish grin. She gaped, and they drank their coffees in silence.

When John entered the room to get his jacket before leaving, Sherlock was lying on his stomach on the bed, typing on John's computer.

"I didn't even know you'd taken my laptop! Why didn't you take yours?"

"How was lunch?"

"Delicious. And I didn't bring you any."

Sherlock scoffed. "I'm on a case, John, I wouldn't eat anyway."

"Why do you want to stay here this afternoon?" John inquired, sitting next to him on the bed. Sherlock ignored him, focusing on the smileys dancing on the screen. "Wait, how did you–"

"Hilton Cubitt was able to print them because he could hack his wife's email address and check the Deleted messages file. I wanted to see how they moved, so I just did the same."

"And? Anything interesting?" John asked, putting his jacket on.

"Oh yes. John?"

"Mm?"

"Kiss me?"

John was already turning to leave and froze.

"What?"

"You heard me perfectly."

"I want to hear it again."

"You won't."

"Fine." John capitulated and walked back to his partner, who rolled onto his back and awaited the kiss like a cat expecting food. John chuckled, but before Sherlock could get offended and ask what was so funny again, he leant in and pressed his lips to his, softly at first, then deepening the kiss as his hand on the nape of Sherlock's neck ran up into his curls. Suddenly the door opened and Elsie gasped. John jolted.

"Oh dear I'm so sorry, I thought you'd gone already and wanted to check if everything was all right with your friend but... Sorry for interrupting." Blushing, she closed the door and they could hear her hurried steps running down the stairs. John stared at the door.

"You kissed me because you wanted her to see us. Why?"

Sherlock rolled back on the bed and resumed typing on the laptop.

"Don't worry about it, you'll see. Enjoy the boat ride."

John pursed his lips but didn't snap. He stood up, his stance military.

"Fine. Take care of yourself." Marching out decidedly, he missed Sherlock's surprised look at the expression of his concern. Sherlock watched him leave, and let his head fall onto the mattress with a thud.

"I kissed you because I wanted to kiss you," he muttered quietly at the closed door.

xXx

John didn't enjoy the boat ride at all. He worried about Sherlock all afternoon, and it only got worse when Sherlock stopped answering his texts.

1.47pm

Everything fine?

1.48pm

Of course I'm fine, John. SH

2.02pm

What are you doing?

2.04pm

Playing with the dog. SH

2.04pm

But I thought there was no dog?

2.06pm

Not the Cubitts' dog. SH

2.07pm

So what's with the dog?

2.10pm

Sorry busy now I'll stop answering.

2.11pm

What? Why? What are you doing?

3pm

Everything all right?

3.22pm

Has something happened?

3.55pm

Sherlock can you please answer

4.11pm

Sherlock?

"Okay, we have to go back," John said suddenly.

"What?" Hilton asked, surprised. "Anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure. But I don't know."

"I thought you said your friend would be–"

"I know what I said," John retorted impatiently. "Look, I'm sorry Hil... Mr. Cubitt, but can we just go back now?"

Hilton seemed a bit lost but didn't argue.

It took them an hour to get back to the car, then another half-hour to get to the house, and by the time they arrived John's sense of dread had increased tenfold. He jumped out of the car and ran to the house, almost bumping into Mrs. Cubitt who was coming out.

"Oh! Mike, is something wron– "

"No, I'm sorry, have you seen..." John froze. Behind Elsie, Sherlock stood, beaming, looking more than fine and wearing a bright pink shirt. John goggled, completely thrown off.

"What... But..."

"You're back earlier than expected," he said with a charming smile. John was fuming.

"You..."

"We were just going to the tearoom in the village, would you like to come?" Elsie offered.

"Oh no, I'm sure you're tired after all this boating," Sherlock cut in. "Why don't you rest a bit before dinner? We'll be back shortly anyway. Elsie just told me about the strawberry cheesecake the pastry cook makes there and I was dying to try it – but I know you don't care much for sweets, love."

"Right," John replied coldly, not wanting to deal with the infuriating detective right now. "I'll be waiting in the room until you come back, then?" His tone was acerbic, but Sherlock skipped along and on his way out leant in to kiss him.

"Don't sulk," he whispered against his lips.

Then he was gone. John did sulk.

xXx

Elsie and "Bill" came back in time for dinner and Hilton joined them after he was done with a few phone calls in his study.

"I'm glad to see you're all better," he told Sherlock wholeheartedly.

"All thanks to the cheesecake," Sherlock replied with a wink in Elsie's direction, and John had to slap himself mentally to prevent himself snapping at her. Instead, he rolled his eyes. Dinner was good and Sherlock had the excuse of the nausea and then the cheesecake to declare that he was full. John noted grimly that he'd only eaten a piece of cake today, and was glad he'd made him swallow the egg and bacon the previous night.

Their hostess offered them coffee, but they declined and retired to their room early in the evening.

Once they had closed the door, John went to the bathroom and changed into his pyjamas, only to find Sherlock fully dressed when he came out.

"You're not going to bed?" he asked, confused.

"I am. But you'll like the shirt."

John blinked.

"That colour is horrendous."

"Oh, you won't have to worry about the colour."

"What– "

"Come on, stop repeating yourself and lie on the bed."

John scoffed at the imperious tone.

"I am not just going to... humpf!"

He was silenced by a pair of warm and hungry lips as a hand sneaked between his thighs, making his legs wobbly.

"Sherl– " He gasped as the detective tripped him down onto the bed and pinned him to the mattress, covering his body with his own, holding John's hands above his head on the pillow.

"What the hell are you– " Click. John's breath caught in his throat. This couldn't be... "Sherlock, tell me you didn't just handcuff me to the bed."

Sherlock sent him the loveliest Cheshire-cat grin John had ever seen. It didn't make him feel any better.

OK, so maybe it did.

"I could tell you that, John..." Sherlock murmured in his deep baritone voice, his mouth hovering around John's ear. "But..." He gave a little bite to the lobe, making John jump and writhe under him. "... that would be lying, wouldn't it?" He kissed and bit and suckled on his throat, adding a love-bite to the already marked flesh. John bit his lip to stifle a moan.

Sherlock caressed the skin of his neck softly, almost pensively.

"I'm sorry you've been wearing turtlenecks because of me," he whispered, sending shivers down John's spine. He was obviously referring to the purple marks left by the belt he'd strangled him with.

The doctor opened his eyes and fixed his partner's opalescent ones, frowning slightly.

"If you're going to be apologetic about this, untie me now."

Sherlock blinked, thrown off balance, and looked like a lost child for a second.

"Do you want me to untie you?" he asked.

John wanted to hug him tight but his arms were trapped, so he wrapped his legs around Sherlock's waist and pressed him closer, until their noses were almost touching.

"I want you to do to me whatever it was you had planned on doing before you went into self-deprecatory mode."

Something flickered in the clear blue eyes and John could've sworn it was lust. And yet, there was still this tinge of wavering...

Thanking the gods that there could be no surveillance cameras in this room, John added:

"You know I want it."

It was all Sherlock needed to hear.

.

xXx

.

.

.

tbc

.