Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

John checked his watch. Not because he wasn't having fun. On the contrary, the stag party Lestrade, the rest of the Yards, Mike and some of his army mates had prepared was giving him a great time, with a lot of laughs, pints and (this wasn't so funny) lot of embarrassing situations that made him flush and regret not having brought his gun with him. But, after all, that was how stag nights were supposed to be. Luckily, tomorrow he will barely remind any of it.

Tomorrow. The wedding. The idea hit him as if it was the first time John heard about it. It was not because he had second thoughts about it, but because, even when they had been preparing it for almost four months, he sometimes couldn't believe he was finally going to marry Sherlock.

It all happened as if the world turned upside down. To begin with, it was Sherlock who asked John to marry him. It was true the idea had crossed John's mind several times. Still, the disdain with which Sherlock used to talk about marriage   ("Now, let's talk about murder. Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage." ), and the fear of bringing painful memories back for both of them made him abandon the idea.

"John," yelled a drunk Anderson, as if he had read his mind "tell us again how the fr – he stopped himself under John's angry gaze "how Holmes proposed to you."

"You already know the story," protested John.

"Not we!" laughed Bill, one of his army mates, hoarsely.

John groaned. It was going to be a long, long night.

"The proposal, the proposal, the proposal," chanted all of them, beating the table with their glasses.

John gestured with his hands to silence the shouting.

"I was…"

"Stand up! – requested Mike, and the rest started clapping.

John sighed and stood up. Happily, he was much more than tipsy, so he wasn't able to feel ashamed.

"I was tipping on my computer about our last case. It was summer, the seventeenth of July, and Sherlock was in the kitchen, embedded in some of his experiments. Then he asked me if I had anything scheduled for the twenty-five of November!" John smiled with the memory. "I didn't pay close attention to him, but I remember muttering that I was free. He kept on with his experiment. Five minutes later, he said that, as both of us were free, it would be the perfect day for getting married, based in only God knows what calculations or deductions he had done."

The rest of the table laughed.

"As I said, I wasn't paying attention to him, so I simply hummed in agreement. And that was all, until the next day when Mycroft and Anthea appeared at my medical practice. After congratulating me, Mycroft asked where I would prefer to celebrate the wedding, maybe in a country house, maybe in a hotel or perhaps in his garden though, as the wedding was going to take place in November, the garden didn't seem a good option. I asked him why on earth he asked me that, and he said that Sherlock told him he had proposed me and I have said yes, and then he phoned Mycroft so he could organize the wedding Mycroft brought Anthea who was going to organize it".

"How romantic!" mocked Mike, laughing.

"But you know the Holmes. Three seconds later, Mycroft stood and left my office, saying that I have to talk with Sherlock. I think it was the first time I saw him embarrassed. Only a bit, but embarrassed".

More laughs.

John wasn't as drunk as to tell the whole truth. The truth about his stupid smile when Mycroft left his office, thinking about Sherlock proposing him. Or how he realized how badly he wanted to marry him, to call him his husband. Sad memories didn't come back. Instead of it, his heart was singing, and he felt like floating. Indeed he didn't have an engagement band, or Sherlock hadn't requested it in the usual way, but, as he suddenly realized, becoming Sherlock's husband made him happy.

So he texted Mycroft to keep on with the wedding plans.

Having Mycroft as his wedding planner was the second weird thing. Though he was accustomed to his methods, it was creepy that, each time he received a suggestion on his phone, was it either the cake or the color of the decorations, it was exactly what John would have chosen. A couple of times, he wondered if Mycroft would have inoculated some kind of mind-reading bug into his head.

That led to the third stranger thing. Sherlock, always so controller delegated the organization of the wedding entirely on him. Each question about the menu or the best man was answered with a hum or a "whatever you choose is fine with me, John."

But he skipped this in his story, which wasn't noticed by the listeners, due to the quantity of alcohol running through their veins. He finalized it and collapsed into his chair, between whistles, claps, and suggestions for the wedding night that would have made blush the rudest sailor.

"And what about the other groom?" asked a bit later, one of his army mates. "Is he having a stag party also?"

The question was followed by roars, especially from where the Yards.

"He has no idea about what it is," replied Lestrade.

"He probably will be dissecting some disgusting body part," supported Dimmock.

"Pretending to think."

"Playing the violin."

"Fighting with Mycroft."

"Killing someone."

And awkward silence followed this last suggestion, followed by more laughs as John shook his head in a disapproving way.

"Hey, what about a drug bust?" proposed a totally drunk Lestrade. "A stag party drug bust."

"No way, mate," protested John.

But, somehow, the idea seemed amusing for the others, and soon all of them were putting on their coats and scarfs, while John unsuccessfully tried to stop them. Beaten, he took out his phone to warn Sherlock about the plague that was going to invade Baker Street in seconds, but Mike, guessing his intentions, took it out from his hands, and soon the phone was flying from hand to hand until John got tired of trying to recover it.

Soon, a motorcade of cabs filled with drunk passengers stopped near Baker Street, and all of them got down and struggled not to fall while walking in the snow, giggling at any slip of any of them.

In front of Baker Street door, John, finally engulfed by the expedition's spirit, painstakingly opened the door. Putting his index finger in his lips, demanding silence, started climbing the stairs to the 221B.

Once in front of the door, he opened it, and all of them burst into the flat. A quiet and empty flat.

John looked around, surprised. He left Sherlock lost in his Mind Palace when he left for the party, and the doctor was sure he would find him in the same position on the couch. But neither Sherlock, not his coat or scarf, were in the flat, so he wasn't there.

"I told you, he is looking for someone to kill" hissed Donovan.

"He left you a note, John," said Bill, taking a post-it from the kitchen table, picking it up cautiously to avoid making contact with any of the strange substances that cluttered the table. "I'll be back on time for the wedding."

"And?"

"Nothing else," said Bill, turning the note over, looking for any further information.

"Told you. Murder".

"Donovan, one more reference to murder, and I'll send you home," menaced Lestrade. He turned to John, "What are you waiting for? Trace him".

"Trace him?" asked Mike amazed.

"He can locate Sherlock's phone no matter where he is."

"Hey, mates," begged John, a bit tired of all of it.

"Maybe he is at his own stag party," suggested Bill, wickedly "surrounded by oily muscled male strippers dancing around him."

John laughed, like the others, but he froze when the image of what Bill just said filled his mind. He shook his head, but the vision of some else's hands running over Sherlock's body made him boil with fury.

He shook his head again. It was impossible. When they both started having sex, John asked Sherlock about his limits, and he correctly remembered the detective's answer:

"I only have two. First, no pain. I don't find any pleasure in pain. Second, I don't want to be touched, licked, caressed, sucked or fucked by a stranger, and by a stranger, I mean any human being that it's not you."

John smiled, remembering how, at first, he felt a bit disappointed, since one of his most secret fantasies was to watch Sherlock fucked by someone else. Soon his disappointment vanished. He found a secret pleasure of being the only one in the world to enjoy the only consulting detective's body, to explore every inch of his skin, to be the only one who knew how to make him groan, pant, scream, beg, shiver and moan in a total sexual pleasure bliss.

But, what if Bill was right? What if Sherlock googled for the perfect stag night and was now enjoying his last sexual encounter as a bachelor?

Angrily, he took his laptop and traced Sherlock's phone. He wrote down the address, and soon, the motorcade was again on its way, though. John's mood had become tempestuous, which didn't go unnoticed for Lestrade, who shared a cab with him and Mike.

John doubted a bit but finally confessed to him the thoughts that run through his mind. Soon the DI and Mike laughed so hard that they had their arms around their ribs, trying desperately to catch some air between giggles.

"Come on, John, every time someone touches Sherlock, he acts as if he were electrocuted. Do you think he could stand being touched by an oily stripper?"

"Maybe we having sex had awoken some instincts on him."

More laughs.

"You are mad of jealousy!" giggled Stamford, making John feel even more foolish.

The cabs stopped in front of a warehouse on the outskirts. The place was dark and silent. Reluctantly, John wondered if Donovan's theory finally would become correct.

"Let me enter first and check the place," said John. Whatever theory was correct, he didn't want the others to witness it. In the first case, he would feel really humiliated, and in the second, he didn't want to see Lestrade handcuffing Sherlock.

"No way!" shouted the DI. Along with Bill, he knocked down the door, and all of them burst into the warehouse.

They froze, their eyes wide open, gaped.

Around one hundred people were clapping, whistling, and dancing at the rate of the song four people were singing on what seemed a makeshift stage.

Sherlock, his curly hair disheveled, glued to his forehead by sweat, and the sleeves of his purple shirt rolled up until his elbows, was moving his hips seductively, bouncing his arms and head, dancing in a sixties' style.

He was singing, his usually severe gesture replaced by an amused smile, his deep voice giving the song a sexy touch, chorused by a group at his left side, in a   bloody  karaoke.

Moreover, Sherlock was  interacting  with the public, miming the song lyrics.

In the group, Mycroft, his vest unbuttoned, his tie loosened (one more hour and it would surely have ended tied around his head) was panting and jumping with the music, trying to keep up with the rhythm. Next to him, Molly Hooper and Irene Adler, both dressed in black leather, completed the dancing chorus trio.

Sherlock was singing Meghan Trainor's Dear Future Husband song:

 "After every fight 

 Just apologize 

 And maybe then I'll let you try and rock my body right 

 Even if I was wrong 

 You know I'm never wrong 

 Why disagree? 

 Why, why disagree? 

Then, all the people congregated in the place joined them at the refrain.

 " You gotta know how to treat me like a lady 

 Even when I'm acting crazy 

 Tell me everything's alright." 

Sherlock kept singing the next stanza:

 "I'll be sleeping on the left side of the bed (hey!) 

 Open doors for me and you might get some kisses 

 Don't have a dirty mind… 

Suddenly, his voice faded away, his eyes fixed in the new arrivals, his body tensed and he blushed furiously, gulping and gasping for air.

Mycroft hawked and fit his tie. Molly looked around, trying to guess what was happening.

If John had been looking at his future husband, he would have seen him, for the first time, about to faint with embarrassment, especially with the presence of the Yards. But he wasn't looking at Sherlock. Clenching his fists in an attempt to contain his anger, he fixed his murderous gaze on The Woman, who cynically raised an eyebrow.

"Jealous?" she mouthed.

At that was the last straw.

Just as Sherlock tried to wriggle away from the stage, John grabbed him by the arm.

"What is she doing here?" he asked between his clenched teeth.

"Calm down, Doctor Watson," said Mycroft, putting a hand on John's shoulder "We are only having a bit of… fun".

John looked at Mycroft as if his head had rotated three hundred and sixty degrees, never expecting to hear the word "fun" in Mycroft's lips.

"And what kind of fun, precisely?" asked the doctor again.

"Oh, you know what kind of fun  arouses  when I'm involved in" answered The Woman in a purring tone.

"Irene, behave" berated Sherlock, who somehow managed to regain his composure. "It's a Karaoke, nothing else. Rest assured, you don't have anything to worry about with her".

"Oh, of course," ironized John. "Why should I have to worry about her orbiting around you? We all know what she would like to do to you".

Sherlock blushed, even more, his cheeks and neck burning with a deep blush, that increased while hearing Donovan and Anderson's giggles.

"You are making a fuss of nothing," continued Sherlock.

"How you dare to invite her? John sounded both rabid and hurt.

"He didn't invite her. It was me," Molly stepped in. "As Sherlock said, you don't have to worry about her. She is dating me".

"Not dating" hissed Irene, her turn to be offended, scowling at Molly.

"Sorry. Engaged," Molly showed a compromise ring in her left hand and pointed to a similar one in Irene's finger.

The Woman smiled triumphantly in her usual malicious way.

"When Sherlock proposed to you, she finally proposed to me, which is why we are all here. We are celebrating both Sherlock's and our stag party. So you don't have anything to worry about. But she can't stop being a pain in the ass sometimes, especially with Sherlock nearby. You know how they are." she said, scolding Irene, who smiled in a way that pretended to be shy.

"So you really are…?" this was Lestrade's turn to run out of words. "But you were in love with Sherlock."

"Yes, chasing an impossible love instead of looking at my true feelings. I was too afraid to be sincere with myself. Until I met Irene".

They smiled each other, and John couldn't help seeing in them a reflection of Sherlock and himself, two idiots in love, finally brave enough to face their true feelings.

"Anyway, I don't want any misconception," he said, grabbing Sherlock by the waist and kissing him deeply, his tongue entering Sherlock's mouth. The detective jumped at the sudden action and finally melted in the kiss, approaching his body to John's. It was Irene's turn to grab Molly and kissed her hungrily.

The two couples kissed under the claps, shouts, whistles, and "oooooohs" from the crowd.

Finally, the four of them broke the kiss, panting.

John took time to look at the people around them, and he was able to recognize Mrs. Hudson (the landlady never ceased to amaze him. What the hell was she doing in a stag party?), and people who Sherlock and he helped along with their cases. There were also people he didn't know, probably from cases solved by Sherlock before meeting him, like Angelo, who had prepared the catering for the night. John shook his head, looking at Sherlock, a bit disconcerted.

"You told me you were going to spend the night with Mycroft," he whispered to Sherlock in a reproachful tone.

"And I was. Only I didn't know that this night with Mycroft included a surprise stag party. Do you really think I would have come here willingly?" retorted the detective.

"You didn't seem too forced to sing when we entered here."

Sherlock smiled, embarrassed.

"I let myself go. It will never happen again".

"I hope it will" John smiled broadly.

Sherlock smiled back and looked at Mycroft, standing alone, a bit apart from both couples.

"Give me a second, John."

John nodded, surprised when he saw Sherlock grabbing the microphone again.

 "Well, dear brother, I think it is your turn," his deep voice reverberated around the warehouse.

"Singing is not my area, you know, little brother."

"I'm not talking about singing" Sherlock threw his brother a significate look, the rest of the people assembled around them totally lost.

"I don't know what you are talking about."

Had he blushed a bit?

"Come on, Mycroft," said Irene "Do you think nobody realized it? It's obvious you share anything more with him apart from Sherlock."

"That sounded awful," scowled John.

"Stop fussing, John," ordered Sherlock.

"I'll give you fussing tomorrow after the wedding," retorted the doctor, grabbing the detective's arse, enjoying his blushed future husband.

Sherlock looked at his brother.

"Mycroft, you are always boasting about being more intelligent than me. Now you have the opportunity of proving it's real".

Mycroft shook his head, uncertain, all his usual cold composure lost. He seemed about running away from the place. He looked at Sherlock, who nodded encouragingly and then to Molly and Irene. He looked at the crowd, all the eyes moving from one to another, trying to guess what was going on.

"Don't make me take the riding crop, Mycroft." menaced the Woman.

John looked inquisitively at Sherlock, who whispered something in the doctor's ear, who opened his eyes, surprised, and then smiled.

Mycroft closed his eyes for a second, and then went down from the stage, walking through the crowd. He stopped near Lestrade, who had gone blank. The Yards looked at both of them.

The older Holmes remained some minutes silent. He opened his mouth, closed it again, and opened it again.

"Gregory," he said, finally, his voice husky. "I like you. No. Delete it. I love you since the first time I met you. I would like to date you."

Lestrade blinked like a deer caught by the car lights.

"I…" he looked nervously at Donovan, Anderson, and the rest of the Yards, all of them horrified by the idea of him dating the British Government. "Look, Mycroft…"

"Understood," Mycroft raised his head, his cold gesture covering his face again. "Be confident I'll never bother you again."

He turned around, his movements as posh and calculated as always, but he couldn't hide the sadness in his eyes.

"These are your magnificent deduction talents you are so proud of?" Lestrade asked.

Mycroft stopped as if the DI had slapped him.

"What did you just say?" he muttered between his teeth.

"I'm saying I'll be delighted of dating you, moron," the DI answered, kissing Mycroft softly.

"Maybe I don't want to date you now," teased the older Holmes, kissing Lestrade back.

"Oh, I would like to see it," retorted Greg without breaking the kiss.

"And you" Mycroft addressed to the Yards, "stop looking at us that way and pretend you are happy for your boss."

Sherlock and John laughed out loud, looking at the Met's faces. The idea of Lestrade dating Mycroft was scaring for them.

Then Mycroft jumped on the stage and searched through the available songs in the karaoke. Finally, he seemed satisfied with the choice and whispered something to Sherlock, John, Irene, and Molly, who quickly nodded. Mycroft stood in the center of the stage and the other four behind them.

Then the music started.

To say that Mycroft sang out of tune, it would fall short. Clearly, the family musical talent had selected Sherlock. But nobody could deny that his enthusiasm (yes, enthusiasm) was contagious as he sang, looking straight at Lestrade.

 All my friends shouldn't want me to understand it 

 (be alright) 

 I hope I'll get to you before they do the way I planned it 

 (be out of sight) 

 So twiddle-dee-dee twiddle dee dum 

 Look out baby because here I come 

 And I'm bringing you a love that's true so get ready 

 So get ready 

 I'm gonna try to make love to you so get ready 

 So get ready here I come. 

 I'm on my way. 

 Get ready 'cause here I come, boy 

 Get ready 'cause here I come, boy 

 Get ready 'cause here I come, boy 

Pitying of the audience's ears, the DI went to the stage and joined his new flamboyant boyfriend and the chorus, which was celebrated with cheers, claps, and toasts. People started coming back home little by little since most of them have to get ready for the wedding, and the warehouse remained almost empty.

"Mate, this is indeed the strangest stag party I've been into. But it was the funniest also," Bill told John, sitting next to him in the stage, altogether with Sherlock, Lestrade, Mycroft, Molly, and Irene.

John giggled, rubbing his eyes, tired.

"Time to go back home," Mycroft announced, "or instead of a wedding, tomorrow, you will celebrate a nap."

"Since it's almost tomorrow, we both can go together to Baker Street," said John, taking Sherlock's hand.

"Not at all," said Mycroft, "You are coming to my house, as agreed."

"We don't want to bother you, brother."

"And we thought you wanted to have time for both of you," replied John, looking at Lestrade.

"As if you were thinking about us when proposed to go to Baker Street, you dirty minds," laughed the DI. "Traditions are important, so you go with Mycroft and you, "he pointed at Sherlock, "go to 221b".

Sherlock sighed.

"John, better go with Mycroft. Anything to prevent him from starting singing again".

Mycroft punched Sherlock in the upper arm as the rest of the group roared with laugh.

Sherlock shared a cab with Mike, and Bill, Molly, Irene, and Lestrade got into Molly's car. John and Mycroft got into one of Mycroft's intimidating black cars, all of them disappearing in the darkness of the night, thinking about love, destiny, and the universe rarely being lazy, as Mycroft used to say.

Chapter Text

Before his brain came entirely out of the dream, he noticed the hand approaching his head, and in an automatic movement of a well-trained soldier, he held it in the air with his left hand and, in a quick motion, twist the arm of the attacker on his back.

"John, John, it's me!"

Greg's agonizing scream woke him up completely, and John released the DI as if he were burning. Greg walked away from the bed, rubbing his aching arm.

"Are you out of your mind?" yelled John. "Doesn't anyone remember I had military training?

"I'm sorry I scared you."

"You didn't scare me."

"Yeah."

They both laughed.

"Get up. Breakfast is ready, and at this rate, you won't arrive on time."

"Can you imagine Sherlock if he arrives, and I'm not there?"

Greg rolled his eyes.

"He would panic and insult the guests, shoot the flowers, or whatever similar."

John put on his robe over his pants and shirt (he was so tired when he arrived from the stag party that he just took off his shoes and laid out on the bed), and the two of them lined the long hallway leading to the dining room.

"Mycroft should have a Segway to move around his house." John joked.

"I got lost on my way to the bathroom, and one of his assistants had to come and rescue me."

"Well, you should get a map of the house."

Why?"

"Why did you spend the night here?"

"We have only..."

"I don't want any details, thank you. "

They both stopped. Greg scratched his crown.

"I think we're lost again."

"Just follow the arrows on the ground, Gregory," Mycroft's voice has a tone somewhere between desperate and almost tender to John's astonishment.

"Advantages of your boyfriend being a genius," laughed Greg looking at the floor. Effectively, there were arrows stuck in the floor indicating the route to the various rooms.

"I don't know if you've noticed, but the one in the bedroom is in red," John teased him.

"Shut up..."

They entered the dining room, where Mycroft already had tea and fruit for breakfast. The older Holmes smiled at Greg, and his face tensed a bit as he looked at John, whom he greeted with a nod.

"I have a business to attend to," the British Government said, standing up.

John pursed his lips.

"What's the matter with you two?"

"Nothing, we had a slight difference in the number of guests."

"Light? What happened?"

Baker Street, two months before the wedding   

Sherlock startled when John entered the flat, slamming the door with all his strength.

"I'm fed up! I quit! The wedding is over!" he bellowed, looking at the ceiling, his hands curled in a fist so tight his knuckles were white

Sherlock looked at him, alarmed.

"Did you change your mind?"

"My mind?"

"About the wedding."

"No, but... Your brother..., your brother... I can't stand how bossy he is! He wants to control everything!"

To John's amazement, Sherlock, who was lying on the couch reading a book, fell to the floor on his knees and opened his arms to the sky.

"What the hell are you doing?" asked John, still angry.

"Thanking whatever higher power finally showed you what it's like to have my brother poking his nose into your business."

Despite his anger, John couldn't help but laugh.

"Git."

"And what has my dear brother done this time?" asked Sherlock, sarcasm and mockery equally in the question.

"He wants to invite the whole of London. No, the whole of England to the wedding. That's four hundred and fifty guests already, and he said he is only starting".

Sherlock looked at him, upset.

"Not a chance."

"Please talk to him yourself."

"Me? What makes you think he will listen to me? Besides, it was you who asked me not to argue with him, so..."

"So you're enjoying throwing it in my face, aren't you?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip as John shook his head. The detective got serious.

"John, I'm going to pass on to you the Holmes family's best-kept secret: how to get Mycroft to stop pushing you around."

"Ah, but is there a way?"

"Yes, but you can only resort to it on special occasions; otherwise, the way gets mad."

John frowned, lost.

Sherlock took his phone, dialed, put it on speakerphone, and left it on the table:

"Mummy, Mycroft is driving John crazy with the wedding," complained the detective as soon as he heard the receiver pick up the phone.

John pinched the bridge of his nose, not knowing whether to laugh or cry.

Mrs. Holmes' sigh needed no translation.

"Between the two of you, you're going to finish me off. What has he done now?"

"He wants to invite over five hundred people, and we want something intimate. When he gets married, he can invite whoever he wants, but let him leave us alone," protested the detective.

There was silence on the other side of the line. Sherlock pressed his eyes and grimaced in disgust.

"You will explain to me later who your brother met, young man. For now, John, don't worry. I'll talk to Mycroft".

Ten minutes later, a message arrived on John's phone.

"Your guest list is confirmed." 

"Thank God," sighed the doctor.

"Congrats John," smirked Sherlock dropping himself on the couch and picking up one of John's medical journals. "Now, you've got an archenemy."

 Mycroft's  manor, wedding day   

Greg couldn't stop laughing.

"Did he really call his mother?

John nodded.

"I swear it. But as his father explained to me a little later, they have it as a last resort before killing each other. That's why she interceded even though she was so angry with Sherlock about Rosie's tutu. I'm telling you the family secret in case you ever need it".

"Oh, no, I don't think so, I'm sure I'll find better ways to convince him," Greg naughtily said. "Do you want me to talk to him?"

"To Mycroft? No, I don't think it'll do any good. Sherlock told me he hadn't forgiven him yet for wining him at his war game when Sherlock was five".

"It wasn't a war game," sneered Mycroft entering the room. God, that man never stopped eavesdropping other people's conversations... "It was a board game of military strategy; I designed the soldiers. I had already conquered Europe, from Portugal to Siberia, and all that remained was England. Honestly, I don't think to build a cannon and firing it at my game shouting "death to the invader!" can be considered a fair way to win a game even though he was the Pirate Island defender, as Sherlock liked to call England.

"Mycroft, Sherlock was five years old," interceded John.

"You created the soldiers for your game?" Greg was amazed.

"Please, Gregory," Mycroft responded as if Lestrade had insulted him in the most profound sense. "I devised, designed, and built the board, the rules, and the armies, weapons, quartermaster... everything. Sherlock just built a cannon and blew it up."

"Did he fire the cannon?" asked John, amazed.

"Oh, yes. Thank God he didn't find any potassium nitrate. So, instead of gunpowder, he devised a mechanism for firing the ammunition. And before you ask, the ammunition was mud balls. It swept away my army" Mycroft ran his tongue down the inside of his cheek and smoothed out his suit vest "although, in his discharge, I have to say that perhaps reading him Sun Tzu's "The Art of War" the day before the final battle was not a good idea."

Mycroft left the room dramatically. John and Greg looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

"God, I hope if we have a son, he'll carry my genes," laughed Greg "can you imagine your son of five building cannons and your son of twelve designing military strategy games?"

"I'm sorry to say that even if he doesn't have your genes, you won't be deprived of that pleasure. Like Rosie. She may not have Sherlock's genes, but she's developing her intelligence faster than normal rate, that's for sure."

"I've seen her helping him in one of his experiments. Nothing dangerous," he hastened to add, seeing the doctor's alarmed face. 

"Speaking of Sherlock, you should get dressed and go to Baker Street

"Why? If I'm comfortable here with the bride."

John raised a finger as a warning. Lestrade laughed and got up from the chair.

"Will you be safe here alone with Mycroft?" he mocked.

"Yes, he'll just look at me smugly. Deep down, he's afraid of me," John said, finishing his tea.

 Twenty minutes later, Lestrade arrived in Baker Street. Just as he was about to put the key in the lock, Mrs. Hudson opened the door.

"Thank goodness you've come."

"What's the matter?"

The landlady motioned for him to follow her upstairs. They crossed the hall and the kitchen, and the landlady motioned to Sherlock, who, with his hair still wet from the shower and dressed only in black pants, stood motionless by his closet door, where was hanging the tuxedo he was going to wear at the wedding

"He's been like this since I brought him breakfast an hour ago. He hasn't said anything; he hasn't moved... I didn't want to call John so he wouldn't worry".

Greg nodded and motioned to Mrs. Hudson to leave them alone. The landlady disappeared, making a lot of noise.

"Sherlock?"

The detective didn't move.

"Sherlock, everything all right?"

Sherlock nodded slightly.

"I was thinking."

Greg waited for a few moments until he realized Sherlock had no intention of continuing to talk.

"About what?"

"When I was dressing for John and Mary's wedding," he sighed without looking at Greg, "it was the worst day of my life."

Lestrade looked at him and bowed his head in sorrow. He wondered how no one, not even John, realized what Sherlock suffered from the time he returned from dismantling Moriarty's network until Eurus turned his life upside down. 

"But today he's marrying you," he said softly.

"It's amazing how the same gesture can have such a different meaning."

"What exactly are you worried about?"

Sherlock smirked sadly, lowering his head.

"Everything. Spoil it. Failing, not being enough."

"Sherlock, what you and John have is so incredible that even you can't spoil it."

Sherlock chuckled.

"You underestimate me."

"No, I'm serious. You've been together for over ten years, and if there's one good thing about the way you behave, it's you're just like you are: obnoxious and insufferable, and nothing you could do is going to surprise John.

"If you're trying to cheer me up, you're doing a lousy job."

"What I mean is John is in love with you just the way you are. John wouldn't change anything about you, not even the things that make him so desperate. He loves all your perfect imperfections, as he likes to say". 

 "My perfect imperfections?" Sherlock smiled softly, pleased. "It doesn't suit John to say that." 

 "He says that when he is a bit drunk. And you know what they say , In vino veritas" .

 "Good Lord! One day with my brother, and you are already speaking Latin?"

 Greg laughed willingly.

"Don't tell him I told you. He'll kill me if he finds out. And now get dressed. You won't be late for your wedding day."

"Thank you, Greg."

"I can't get used to you remembering my name."

Sherlock shrugged.

"Neither do I."

Greg came out of the bedroom, and Sherlock started dressing. 

Neither of them was wearing the traditional morning coat. The detective knew John would wear a black suit with a lilac shirt and narrow black tie, and they both joked about Sherlock wearing a white tuxedo. In the end, Sherlock decided by a black tie, dark blue shirt, and a purple tuxedo, the same color of his purple shirt that made John drag him into the bedroom every time the detective put it on. John wasn't aware of it since Sherlock was as mysterious about his outfit as a bride before the wedding. The detective wanted to surprise him.

When he came out of the bedroom, Lestrade whistled at him with admiration.

"I'm not sure you're going to finish the ceremony dressed," laughed Lestrade.

Sherlock blushed, delighted. He felt his jacket's right pocket to make sure that he had kept the paper with his vows.

"Yoooohoooo boys, time to goooo, the car is here," Mrs. Hudson crooned.

She looked radiant. She, like Molly, had been appointed by Rosie to be her bridesmaids. When the girl told her friend Sarah her parents would get married, she asked her who the bridesmaids would be. As soon as Rosie came back home, she stood in front of the armchair, where John was updating his blog and threw the bomb.

Baker Street, three months before the wedding   

"Daddy, who's going to be your bridesmaids?"

"We don't have any bridesmaids, sweetheart. We have best men."

From the kitchen, immersed in his last experiment, Sherlock gruunted. The best man subject went from an unspoken agreement (Lestrade) to a question of a constant argument between them after John, noticing Mycroft's desire to be his little brother's best man, invited him to be a sort of double best man alongside Lestrade.

To say the detective was furious was an understatement.

"I'll call him right now and tell no."

"Sherlock, your brother is longing for being your best man."

"No, my brother is excited about pissing me off, and that's why he wants to be the best man."

"No, Sherlock. Besides, he didn't ask me. I proposed to him."

The detective threw him the most murderous look the soldier ever had to endure. Sherlock was so mad that, when he tried to speak, he just choked, unable to verbalize the torrent of thoughts that crossed his mind which, John was sure included various ways of torturing his future husband for his daring. But realizing John wouldn't change his mind bout it, Sherlock came up with a Solomonic solution:

"Fine. Mycroft will be  your  best man and Greg mine".

"Papa, if Daddy let uncle Myc be your best man, I could have bridesmaids, couldn't I?"

Once again, John marveled at how Rosie learned Sherlock's tricks. In one fell swoop, she put them in a position where they couldn't say no to her.

"But Rosie..." John started, and he melted at the sight of his four-year-old daughter, pouting. He looked at Sherlock, but the sulky detective didn't intend to support him in the least, so he did the only thing he could - give in to his sulky fiancé and his pouting daughter.

"And who do you want to be your bridesmaids?"

"Molly and Nana"

John looked at Sherlock, who shrugged.

"And I will choose the bridesmaid dresses."

"Maybe you should ask..."

"Perfect, Rosie" He was cut off by Sherlock, whose look John could read easily: You invited Mycroft. Now you're holding out. 

Molly and Mrs. Hudson were delighted with the idea and did not hesitate to tour the city searching for the dress Rosie was most excited about. From then on, Rosie whispered plans in the landlady's ear while, to John's delight, Mrs. Hudson laughed, amused, both glancing sidelong at Sherlock, who squirmed uncomfortably in his armchair, knowing nothing good for him could come from such secrecy.

Baker Street, wedding day   

Mrs. Hudson turned in on herself, thrilled. What she liked best about the dress was that a woman of her age was supposed to wear something more serious and go unnoticed, but the dress chosen by Rosie made her feel rejuvenated by wearing it.

"You look beautiful. Too bad, I'm already dating Mycroft," clapped Lestrade.

Mrs. Hudson smiled delightedly.

"Flatterer. I don't expect any compliments from Sherlock, mostly because God knows where his head is at the moment".

"Hum?" murmured Sherlock, sensing more than hearing Mrs. Hudson was talking about him.

"Nothing, dear. Greg, you look beautiful. Falling in love suits you very well."

"For God's sake, can we save the society talk for later and go now?" barked Sherlock.

"Being nervous is no justification for being insolent, young man," scolded Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm not nervous."

"Of course not," scoffed Greg, offering his arm to Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and went down the street after them. He stopped short when he got to the sidewalk.

"No way."

"You don't intend to take a cab, do you?"

From the look on the detective's face, it was clear that this was precisely what he had in mind.

Greg pushed him into the white Rolls-Royce Phantom Mycroft chose for the wedding. If Sherlock wanted to be as inconspicuous as possible at the church's arrival, his brother achieved the opposite.

And if the car wasn't enough, several New Scotland Yard squad cars with their blue roof lights escorted them at the first corner. One was driven by Donovan and other by Anderson, whom John also invited, along with several other Yarders with whom the doctor spent his pub nights. Since what happened with Eurus, Donovan started behaving with Sherlock as he would do with his colleagues. Otherwise, John would not have invited her.

"Stop sulking," Greg orderer him ten minutes later, trying to hold in his laughter, "it's your wedding day. You should be happy." 

"And I am happy. But I'm a private detective, and the last thing I need is this circus."

"Come on; you are the private detective less private I know."

"And be glad you don't have to wear the hat," joked Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock sank further into the seat, hoping to get to the church as soon as possible, but they still had forty-five minutes left before arriving at the mansion Mycroft had rented for the wedding.

Wedding Manor, half an hour before the wedding   

John inhaled deeply. He stayed calm until Mycroft, and he arrived at the manor. Seeing the place where the ceremony was to be held, his nerves shot up. He couldn't believe that he and Sherlock were finally getting married.

He remembered Mary, of course, about her wedding, how happy he was, and how blind he was to Sherlock's love. But all that was behind them both.

He smirked. Perhaps most ironically of all, Eurus's breakthrough into their lives finally led them to confess their feelings for each other.

"You look nervous, captain."

John turned around at the loud voice of Bill Murray, who, accompanied by Major Sholto, was coming towards him with great strides through the garden, both wearing their dress uniforms.

"James, I'm so glad you could come."

"Please, I wouldn't miss it for the world. Your weddings are the most fun I've ever seen. Although I hope anyone tries to kill me at this one."

All three laughed. Bill took one look at the place and whistled.

"My goodness, how much did this cost?"

"I don't even want to know. Mycroft, my future brother-in-law, took care of everything."

"Was he at the other wedding?" James asked.

"No, he politely declined my invitation.."

"You have to introduce me to him. He seems a good match," laughed Bill.

"Don't worry; he won't go unnoticed. He's one of the best men. Are you ready?"

Bill nodded. John wanted him to conduct the ceremony, and Sherlock agreed. John's old army buddy was thrilled to attend the wedding of those two idiots who had taken more than ten years to realize what was evident to the rest of the world.

"Daddy!"

John turned around and got speechless. Rosie was running to him, dressed in an ivory-colored, short-sleeved blouse with pink peony print that matched the color of the bridesmaids' dresses. Unlike them, Rosie decided to wear a classic tutu, consisting of four layers of gathered white soft tulle with embroidered flowers, the same as the blouse design.

"Do you like it? Do I look good?"

John nodded, still dumb with emotion. Rosie was radiant, beautiful, and, the most important, for John, delighted with her parents' wedding.

"Do you like the tutu?"

John nodded.

"You see, Grandma? Dad likes it"

Sherlock's mother, who was walking towards them on her husband's arm, pursed her lips in a tight line, while Sherlock's father bit his lips, trying not to laugh and looked adoringly at his granddaughter. 

Violet Holmes tried to convince her granddaughter to wear a skirt rather than a tutu, which provoked a heated argument between Sherlock and his mother when a tearful and disappointed Rosie appeared in Baker Street. The detective settled the dispute by ensuring his daughter would dress as she wished. He ended the argument, but not her mother's anger about the goddamn tutu. 

When John's gaze fell on Sherlock's parents, he felt a twinge of sadness. But he forced himself to keep smiling. He knew it all along, long before he sent out the wedding invitation.

"Rosie, how beautiful you look!" cried Molly. She, as Mrs. Hudson,  wore a dress with the same floral motifs as the girl's blouse and combed her hair into a bow. The change in her was evident from the time she was dating Irene. Her voice was not trembling. She regained her self-confidence; instead of her everlasting anguished gesture, she was smiling broadly, holding Irene's hand, who, surprisingly, was wearing the same model as Molly.

"I hope you don't mind, Rosie, but I liked the dress you chose so much that I wanted to wear it."

Rosie shook her head, delighted that her choice had been so well received. She looked at her father, who was about to burst with pride.

"Johnny, you're drooling," a playful voice mocked.

The doctor turned to look at Harry, his sister, who, in a lilac suit, was proudly wearing the badge that indicated she had been sober for a year and that she should please not be offered alcohol.

John walked over and hugged her. After all these years, when he thought it was unbelievable, Harry finally confronted her alcohol addiction. She admitted herself to a rehab center recommended by Sherlock and paid without complaint by Mycroft. Of course, if there was one thing John could not blame his future brother-in-law for, he was stingy with him or his family.

"I'm so happy for you," smiled Harry, "and for Sherlock. By the way, where is he?"

"He's coming now, in the car."

"John" Mycroft approached him. "Time to go in. The convoy is arriving."

"Mycroft, I'd introduce you to them, but I'm sure you already have a full report of each of them on the table, so, Harry, Claire, James, this is Mycroft, Sherlock's brother."

The older Holmes nodded briefly, looking at them one by one, deducing them a less analytical and more intimidating way than the detective.

"Mycroft, stop drilling them with your eyes. They're John's friends, not potential terrorists," his mother scolded him, reaching out to them. When the introductions were over, everyone headed for the ceremony room.

"Rosie, Mrs. Hudson and I stay here, right?" said Molly, and Rosie nodded, thrilled.

Little by little, the rest of the guests arrived: some of John's army mates, Sarah, and other colleagues from the clinic, Mike Stanford - who Sherlock and John asked to be his best man, along with Greg, but he politely declined the invitation, saying, amidst laughter, that he had done enough as a matchmaker. The doctor also saw Angelo, Henry Knight, who they met at the Baskerville case and different faces familiar to him from having seen them at Sherlock's stag party. Greg, Donovan, and the rest of the Yarders arrived together. The DI approached Mycroft and brushed his hand in a loving gesture. He would have liked to kiss him, but he didn't know if the elder Holmes would be knocked down.

What about the psychosister?" asked Donovan.

"Donovan!" warned Lestrade. 

"As even you could guess," retorted Mycroft, "bringing her here would be dangerous for all of us. We made it so today will be as special as possible for her. Anyway, next time you speak about my sister in those terms, Sargent Donovan, I will arrange it so she will pay you a visit. You are warned,".

Donovan gulped and, scared, moved towards her seat, crestfallen. All of them remained silent for a while.

"Is Rosie going to throw rose petals while Sherlock enters the Wedding March rhythm?" mocked Greg, trying to cheer them up.

John laughed softly.

"I'd like to see it, especially Sherlock's face, but no, I don't think so. Do you know, Mycroft?"

"No, your daughter points out spy ways." John tilted his head, warning his future brother-in-law to get the idea out of his head, "and she orchestrated the whole thing in secret."

There was a faint cough from Mrs. Hudson imposing silence. All of them took their places, and John breathed deeply, waiting expectantly for Sherlock to appear, swallowing the whole torrent of emotion upon him. Otherwise, he could not endure the ceremony.

 Molly and Mrs. Hudson appeared at the end of the aisle and looked at each other, smiling. Mrs. Hudson then looked at John and winkled at him.

Suddenly the notes from the song Lucky,  by Jason Mraz and Colbie Cailat enveloped them.

When they began to sing, the girl, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson started advancing towards the doctor, their steps to the music's rhythm. When they passed in front of Irene, she threw a kiss to Molly, who wrinkled his nose in a tender gesture. John couldn't help smiling at the song lyrics, so accurate for Sherlock and he:

 I'm lucky I'm in love with my best friend 

 Lucky to have been where I have been 

 Lucky to be coming home again 

 They don't know how long it takes 

 Waiting for a love like this 

Then, at the end of the aisle appeared Sherlock and Rosie, Sherlock grabbing Rosie's hand, the girl elated with joy, the detective visibly nervous.

They both started walking down the aisle, Rosie waving to all the attendants who, amused, responded to Sherlock's greeting, staring at a smiling John. The detective breathed heavily. If it had been up to him, they would have been married alone on a slow day at the registry office, without anyone knowing it. But from the moment he proposed, he knew John would want a wedding like that, and Sherlock was willing to give it to him. Seeing John smiling like he was now, the living gesture of complete happiness, was worth going through the ordeal of walking down that aisle, receiving the hugs and congratulations of all the guests of this and a thousand other weddings that John would have wanted to celebrate.

He blinked as he noticed the tears. After everything they'd been through together, both were finally where Sherlock wanted to be. Since the day John burst into his life, erasing years of loneliness in a second and giving birth inside him a disconcerting and unknown feeling: love.

John, for his part, didn't look away from Sherlock. He knew it was essential to maintain eye contact so the detective wouldn't panic, something not too far off, judging by the stiffness he walked among the guests.

John knew all the wedding and guest excitement was totally against Sherlock's character, and the effort the detective was making for him made him fall even more in love. The effort and that damn purple tuxedo he was now trying not to focus his thoughts on, but which John knew well, would be torn to shreds before the end of the day.

John smiled more widely and watched the detective relax a little. He looked at Rosie, who, happily, greeted acquaintances and strangers, turning from side to side to provoke her skirt's movement, smiling from ear to ear and exchanging some words with those closest to her. It was almost comical the contrast between the friendly and open Rosie and the rigid Sherlock.

Suddenly a phone rang, and, to everyone's astonishment, Sherlock stopped, put his hand in his tuxedo pocket, and picked it up. John frowned, while Mycroft shook his head in desperation, closing his eyes, and Greg watched him in disbelief.

The detective, oblivious to everything, just nodded a couple of times. He suddenly bent down and whispered something in Rosie's ear. The girl, puzzled and upset that the detective broke her ceremonial plan, finally smiled broadly and nodded. Sherlock turned around and hurried off, amidst the bewilderment of the groom, groomsmen, and guests, while Rosie smiled smugly.

"I'll kill him, I swear to God I'll kill him," mumbled John, unsure what to do, whether to run after Sherlock and strangle him or to wait and see how events would unfold.

Chapter Text

He would have chosen the first option if Rosie had not made a gesture of calm.

"What's wrong, Rosie?" he asked, trying not to get mad.

"It's a case," she answered as if it were obvious.

John looked at Mycroft, who shrugged, genuinely confused, as the murmur and bewilder among the guests grew as well.

A few minutes later, Sherlock was heard snapping his fingers, and Rosie ran to the compound's exit as well.

John felt like screaming. Why did Sherlock always have to mess everything up? Why did he take on a bloody case on his wedding day? 

And just when he was about to scream all that, he got stunned. So dumbfounded that, for a moment, he wondered if the vision of those two people who had just come in might not be a figment of his imagination. He looked at Harry to check if she was seeing them too.

His sister got up and walked over to him.

"I never thought he'd make it."

"You knew?"

Harry smiled.

"Yes, Sherlock told me what he was up to in case it could affect my recovery. I said no and assured him it was a waste of time, you know, Dad would never consent to show up at your wedding to another man and Mom would never cross Dad, but..., fuck, look at them, he seems even proud of you."

Harry was right. John's father walked towards them on his mother's arm, a proud smile on his face. Nothing left of the man who rejected Harry for falling in love with a woman and pushed John to deny his bisexuality.

Not that the doctor needed his approval, not anymore, but he couldn't deny when he sent them the wedding invitation, Jdid so with a little hope that he finally accepted him and Harry as they were. As he wrote the address, he could not forget the words of Sherlock's father referring to Eurus "  Whatever she became, it's our daughter,"   and for a moment, he wished his parents could behave the same way. For him and Harry, because he knew it would also be a great help to her recovery.

How Sherlock found out was a mystery to him. John was cautious not to send the invitation along with the others. He mailed it one morning on his way to work and had not commented on it to the detective. Sherlock knew that his parents' rejection made John suffer and that, for that very reason, the detective was not very fond of them. Perhaps because he, more than anyone else, was lucky to have parents who loved and accepted their children as they were, even though the whole world shout "freak" at them. 

His mother hugged Harry with tears in her eyes, and John stood face to face with his father, motionless. It was he who put his arms around him and held him tightly.

"Forgive me, son. I've been a jerk," he mumbled, excited.

John put his arms around him, hugging him tightly, unable to say a word, unable to believe that this was happening, tears running down his cheeks.

Finally, they let go and, while his mother hugged John, his father merged in another hug with Harry, also murmuring words of apology.

His mother parted from him and looked at him, smiling, wiping away his tears.

"I don't know how, but your detective talked some sense into your father."

"He took him to my detox center," Harry explained proudly, "and then he took Dad to talk with Ella."

John was speechless.

"Sherlock took you to see Ella?"

"It was more accurate to say he dragged me," smiled his father amidst tears. "Who would have thought someone so thin could be so strong?"

John laughed through the tears. Like him, his father was not tall, but, despite his age, he was still robust and strong. Indeed he must have been surprised the detective could handle him easily.

His father lowered his head.

"I realized all the suffering I've caused you both..."

"We'll have time to talk about that later," Harry intervened. "Now, we should get on with the wedding before the other groom changes his mind."

John and his parents nodded. They began to walk down the aisle to the last chairs, where there was some room left when Sherlock's mother stopped them. She motioned to two of the attendees, who immediately placed two more chairs next to theirs, and all four sat together.

John laughed, still a bit puzzled and tearful, and looked at Bill.

"I don't know where we were going."

Murray laughed, also sniffing and strides out. During the endless Afghan night watches, he and John had talked a lot about John's parents, and Bill knew how much the doctor was hurt by their rejection of both him and Harry. And watching the man hugging his son proudly on his wedding day made him happy for John. Fucking Sherlock Holmes. There was nothing that the man didn't get?

A few minutes later, he came back and muttered something to Molly. She and Mrs. Hudson retook their place at the end of the aisle. When the music started, they moved through the corridor, followed by Sherlock and Rosie.

"Thank you," mouthed John to Sherlock. The detective smiled and just nodded slightly, smirking, seeing John's parents next to his own.

Bill stood up, and Sherlock and John turned towards him as he spoke.

"John and Sherlock, before you are joined in matrimony...

As Bill read the Ceremony Declaratory Words, he realized that neither Sherlock nor John were listening to him, lost in each other's eyes, as if they feared that, if they stopped looking at each other, the spell would be broken. He had to repeat a couple of times John's name to achieve him to repeat his words.

"I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I John Hamish Watson may not be joined in matrimony to William Sherlock Scott Holmes."

"I do solemnly declare that I know not of any lawful impediment why I William Sherlock Scott Holmes may not be joined in matrimony to John Hamish Watson."

"Now, the moment has come for John and SHerlock to contract their marriage before you, their witnesses, family, and friends."

Rosie approached their parents with the Platino bands they choose. They were simple, without diamonds or gemstones set. 

John inhaled deeply. As none of them where good expressing their feelings, they choose writer's words that genuinely matched them, Kiersten White's in the case of John and William Shakespeare in the case of Sherlock. 

"Sherlock,   I didn't fall in love with you. I walked into love with you, with my eyes wide open, choosing to take every step along the way. I do believe in fate and destiny, but I also believe we are only fated to do the things that we'd choose anyway. And I'd choose you; in a hundred lifetimes, in a hundred worlds, in any version of reality, I'd find you, and I'd choose you". 

John put the band on the finger of a blinking, speechless Sherlock and smiled warmly. He knew it would take a couple of minutes before the detective processed his words and was able to continue with the ceremony. Although, after Sherrinford, Sherlock was much more in touch with his feelings and somehow managed them better, he still got blocked by words like that.

So, while Bill chewed his lips, amused (John warned him this could happen, but he thought the doctor was playing a joke on him), John, the best men, bridesmaids, and the rest of the guests waited silently for the detective to reset his brain.

A couple more blinks and Sherlock was finally able to grab the paper in his pocket with a trembling hand. He wrote his vows knowing his eidetic memory would be of no use to him on that occasion, and he would go blank as the blue fish in that film Rosie liked so much.

Finally, he cleared his throat a couple of times, looked at John and, unfolding the paper, began to read them:

"  Hear my soul speak: Of the very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly at your service. I love you more than words can wield the matter, dearer than eyesight, space, and liberty. I would not wish any companion in the world but you. 

 The course of true love never did run smooth,  for us, we both know it, but

 Love is not love, 

 Which alters when it alteration finds, 

 Or bends with the remover to remove. 

 Oh, no! it is an ever-fixed mark 

 That looks on tempests and is never shaken. 

 I know no ways to mince it in love, but directly to say I love you. 

And taking John's left hand, which was also shaking slightly, he put the band on it and looked at him.

"Breath, love," advised John, noticing Sherlock held his breath beyond what was medically advisable.

 Bill chuckled as the rest laughed loudly, while the detective blushed furiously.

"John and Sherlock, you have both made the declarations prescribed by law and have made your promises to one another in the presence of your witnesses here today. Let us hope that this day will form a special day in your lives to look upon with much love and happiness. It gives me great pleasure to declare that you are now legally married."

He waited a bit.

"Come on; you can kiss each other."

They kissed chastely and awkwardly at first, but soon the kiss turned more passionate. They took time to broke the kiss, looking into each other's eyes, as the rest clapped loudly, while Rosie ran towards them.

All of them moved to the Ball Room Dining. To Mycroft's horror, Sherlock and John decided Angelo should be in charge of the wedding menu. That way, they avoided the tedious process of trying out hundreds of menus before choosing the one they liked best.

However, the Italian restaurateur almost refused to do so when the only condition they both imposed was they would pay the full cost. When they told it to the chef, Angelo was about to kick them out of his place. Only John's promise he could put candles on the main table seemed to placate him a bit, and he finally accepted and filled the main table with candles, as a memento of the first time they dined together in his restaurant. 

To Mycroft's relief, he presented a more elaborate menu than usual, with deconstructions of Italian dishes, using spherifications, liquid nitrogen, and other modern haute cuisine techniques, without losing the flavor of each dish.

When the banquet was over, Greg stood up and tapped the glass with a small spoon.

"I've been thinking a lot about what would be the best speech I could make. I know I could easily tell several anecdotes that would shame John and especially Sherlock." All of them laughed at the detective, who narrowed his eyes towards Greg. "But, in the end, I decided nothing could be comparable with Sherlock's best man speech, crime included" more laughs, "so, instead of talking, I will share with you a recording from New Scotland Yard archives. It would be better than any other speech I could do" he turned to one of the waiters and nodded.

They closed the blinds, and a large screen came down from the ceiling, covering one wall of the Dining, so all turned to look at it.

"This took place after the Sherrinford incident, at Musgrave.

Sherlock turned to look at John, and a lump came down his throat at the thought of how close they came to not being there together, but to Sherlock now being by John's grave, mourning his death. Or, more likely, both in their graves, because Sherlock wouldn't have been able to go on living without John. As he did, he could stand John getting married someone else; as long as the doctor was happy, he would be. But never without him.

   Musgrave, Eurus' room   

Sherlock knelt in front of Eurus, embracing her and begged:

"Please, help me save John Watson."

For the first time during that whole horrible day, Eurus' eyes focused and truly looked at him, for the first time seeing her brother. Trembling, she hugged him and whispered where the well was, the well where she murdered Victor Trevor and was about taking John's life.

Sherlock stood up like a spring, but before he could get away from Eurus, she grabbed him by his coat's sleeve. He tried to get out until he realized she was looking at a closet. Inside, the detective found a long, strong rope and bolt cutters. He put the rope on his back and ran away at full speed with his legs.

"John!" Sherlock cried out, "Hold on! I'm coming! Hold on, for God's sake. I'm coming!"

No answer came over the intercom in his ear.

"John! Hold on!" he bellowed with all the force of his lungs, and the fear it could be too late distressed him so much he could hardly breathe. He staggered and nearly fell over, horrified at the thought of losing John when he noticed someone running away at his side.

"Save him." an infantile voice begged in an urging tone.

Sherlock turned and saw himself as a child, cheeks wet with tears, a desperate pleading look in his sad verdigris eyes. The Mind Palace kid Sherlock grabbed Sherlock's hand.

"Save John," he begged between sobs, "Save us."

That pushed him to renew his effort, and he ran even faster, feeling his lungs burn with the effort, but the blind trust in the child's eyes gave him the strength to go on.

Soon, he arrived at the well and lit it with his lantern.

"John! Hold on! I'm here".

He couldn't see the doctor anywhere, but the light didn't reach the bottom, though he could hear weak splashes. He tied the rope to a tree and, passing it over his waist, descended into the well, letting himself fall, not caring that the rope burned his hands from the rubbing during the rapid descent.

While approaching, he could see John disappearing under the water. Sherlock let go of the line and dived down to the doctor's chained feet. He cut the chains and returned to the surface, holding an exhausted John between his arms.

"Breath, love," he sobbed before he could refrain himself, striving to keep the doctor's head out of the water. "It's over, John. It's over. I got you, John". 

The doctor was unresponsive and didn't breathe. In the distance, he heard the sound of a helicopter approaching. Lestrade was on his way.

Gradually, the water level started to fall through some drainage system activated by Eurus.

"Please, John, please," Sherlock sobbed.

He laid him down as best he could at the bottom of the well, pinched John's nose, and gave him five rescue breathes. Then pushed on his chest for the cardiopulmonary resuscitation while pressing on his chest, muttering, "come on, come on."

He inhaled and did two more rescue breaths to continue chest compressions and returned to compression.

"Don't leave me, please don't leave me," he begged, blinded by tears, terrified at the doctor's immobility, counting the thirty compressions, and bent down again to do two more breaths, pressing his lips against the doctor.

Suddenly John's hand grabbed his hair and made him bring his face closer to his own, to kiss him weakly. Sherlock gasped in surprise but soon kissed him back until both gasped for air.  

"Damn it, why have you waited until I am half dead to kiss me?" whispered the doctor, panting between words.

Wedding Mannor, Greg's best man speech.  

A loving nudge from John on his shoulder brought him back to reality. John, aware Sherlock was lost in his Mind Palace, pointed to the screen. On it, Lestrade, Donovan, and several dozen officers were gathered around the well. Simultaneously, two firemen untied the rope Sherlock tied to the tree and gave it to another who ran to a helicopter that slowly pulled the line up.

Soon, from the edge of the well emerged Sherlock and John, both firmly grabbing the rope with one hand, the other around the other's waist, to keep their bodies together. Jets of water flowed from the detective's coat and John's clothes, and both seemed...

"Are they kissing?" asked Anderson.

"No, it must be a light effect," sneered Donovan

The camera zoomed in and focused on the detective and the doctor. As Anderson rightly observed for once, they were engaged in a passionate kiss, which they didn't cut off even when the helicopter landed them gently on the ground, as the guests burst into applause and whistles.

One of the paramedics was running towards them with a blanket. John raised a hand to stop him, a hand with which he grabbed Sherlock's hair again to make him bend down a little to kiss him more comfortably, while officers, firefighters, and paramedics were kept at a distance by a smiling Lestrade.

"It's about time!" he yelled, holding his urge to clap.

Both Sherlock and John snorted, breaking their kiss, without moving apart, their foreheads together, their noses rubbing softly, none of them wanting to let go the other.

"Sorry to interrupt, but… I just spoke to your brother".

Sherlock blinked a couple of times, the events of that day coming back to his memory.

They both turned to the DI.

"How is he?" asked the detective.

"He is a bit shaken up, that's all. She didn't hurt him; she just locked him in her all cell".

"What goes around comes around," said John reflexively.

"Yeah. Give me a moment, boys".

He was about to go when Sherlock spoke quietly to him.

"Oh… Mycroft. Make sure he's looked after. He is not as strong as he thinks he is.

Lestrade nodded.

"I'll take care of him."

Sherlock smirked and looked back at John.

"I'm sure about that," he saw the doctor shaking heavily for the water's coldness.

"Let's go home."

He bent his head. It was clear he forgot John was still living at the house he shared with Mary.

John took him by the chin, making Sherlock raise his head and smiled fondly, looking at the detective's eyes.

"Yes, let's go back home."

The recording stopped, and the guests clapped loudly. When the light was on again, everyone turned to the newlyweds who were kissing deeply, oblivious to everything around them, until Mycroft startled them, hitting his glass with a teaspoon. 

"I didn't know you recorded it," commented the doctor, grabbing Sherlock's hand, also remembering their first kiss.

"Well, you know when Sherlock and the blankets are together, I like to record everything," Greg joked. Then bent down to Rosie, who said something at his ear. "Well it, seems it's time for the dance."

Rosie cast a glance at Sherlock, who nodded imperceptibly, as John looked at the two of them.

"What are you up to?"

"We? Nothing, right?"

Rosie nodded, smiling naughtily. She moved to the center of the room and nodded again. The music began to play, and John recognized the tune he'd heard Rosie humming the last few days, now he understood why. It was the song "Better when I'm dancing" by Meghan Trainor.

When the vocalist began to sing, Rosie began to move to the music. The girl shared with Sherlock her passion for dancing. She moved with much ease and sense of rhythm for her age, her feet back and forth without losing the beat, moving her arms left and right and chanting along with Meghan "  oh, eh, oh" 

 Don't think about it   

   Just move your body   

   Listen to the music   

   Sing, oh, ey, oh   

   Just move those left feet   

   Go ahead, get crazy   

   Anyone can do it   

   Sing, oh, ey, oh 

 I don't know about you, 

Sherlock jumped over the table and moved next to Rosie, mimicking her dance moves and steps, both in perfect harmony. Rosie's face glowed for be dancing with his father, and Sherlock smiling broadly, also moving with ease, letting himself be carried away by the rhythm, both singing the song:

 But I feel better when I'm dancing, yeah, yeah   

  Better when I'm dancing, yeah, yeah 

"Well, one thing's for sure," laughed Lestrade as he watched them dance. "Sherlock won't be leaving the wedding soon today,"

"It depends on how much I could stand, watching him move his ass like that." 

"John!" scolded her mother, and John blushed, not used to have his parents with him. 

The roar of laughter was general, mainly because at that moment, Sherlock was, effectively, swaying his hips, his well defined and plump ass moving from side to side, totally oblivious to the conversation.

"Sherlock doesn't know anything about tonight, does he?" asked Molly

John shook his head.

"He still thinks we're staying at the hotel," he turned to Irene. "Is everything ready?"

"Exactly as you requested," she answered and wrinkled his nose. "A waste that's only for one weekend." 

"Just a weekend?" Mike asked. 

John nodded. 

"At first, it was going to be for the honeymoon, but then we changed our plans."

"Then?" protested Irene. "A month before the wedding!"

"Blame it on Sherlock. It was his idea.

Baker Street, one month before the wedding  

"John... I..."

John sighed. Sherlock hesitating before saying anything was never a good signal. It usually was the prelude of sentences like   I blew the kitchen (again), by the way, your tea is drugged, or Rosie's music teacher will phone you to complain about me (once more). So  the doctor put his laptop on the coffee table and looked at Sherlock, who was, or at least pretended to be, absorbed with an experiment. 

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The detective cocked his head. More warning signs. It meant he knew whatever he was going to say would drive John mad. 

"Sherlock...".

The detective bit the inside of his cheek and finally spoke, his eyes fixed on an essay tube, his cheeks red. 

"You know that I'm delighted with the idea of fifteen days of sexual holidays for you and me...:"

John snorted. 

"Honeymoon, Sherlock. It's called Honeymoon. Try a bit of romanticism, okay?"

Sherlock ignored his comment. 

"A vacation designed for fucking so... whatever... You and I already have sex whenever we want, so there's no need for a sexual holiday...."

John frowned, now truly worried. 

"What are you getting at? Don't you want to go on a honeymoon? Or is it something to do with the wedding?"

"No, no, what I mean is..., since we couldn't go on vacation last summer and between your work and the cases, we rarely have time to go on holidays the three of us together. Since we cannot take Rosie to the Honeymoon for... obvious reasons, we could turn it into holidays. You and I could have a weekend of some days for ourselves and then take Rosie with us on holiday. Of course, we will have sex, but it wouldn't be a Honeymoon. What do you think?"

Sherlock spoke so fast that John's brain needed a few seconds to decode the message.

Finally, he smiled.

In the summer, with everything prepared for the holidays, they were unable to leave because a case dragged on for more than John's month's vacation, and John did not want to leave Sherlock alone because of the danger of the case. Rosie's displeasure was so great she spent three days without hardly speaking to them, angry with them, showing John's temperament had remained in the family. 

"Are you sure?"

Sherlock nodded, wrinkling his nose. 

"She deserves it, so..."

John stood and moved next to the detective, looked at him, and kissed him softly. 

"You are amazing, Sherlock Holmes."

Since both John and Rosie returned to Baker Street after Mary's death, Sherlock became a caring, loving, and, most surprisingly, responsible father for her even before becoming a couple. And Rosie loved Sherlock just as much. And Sherlock's gesture of tenderness and generosity made the doctor love his mad genius even more.

"And where do you think we're going?"

"I thought it would be best if she decided."

  "She?" John laughed, "Are you sure?" Sherlock nodded, "Okay."

A while later, when a thrilled Rosie stopped screaming and running around the living room, the girl laid down on the sofa and put her index fingers under her chin, just like Sherlock did when he got inside his Mind Palace.

"So, Rosie? Where do you want to go?" asked John.

The little girl sat up with a start and smiled broadly and shouted with excitement:

"The beach!"

"The beach?" asked John delightedly, the word evoking the rumor of the waves, the smell of the sea, the contact of water on the skin, the endless baths in blue-green waters, the walks along the shore, the sandcastles... he wondered where his swimsuit would be.

"The beach," choked Sherlock. Terrified, he evoked the sand sticking to his body, the scorching sun that turned his skin a deep orange color two seconds after stepping on the beach, the sticky texture, and the smell of the sun cream he should spread over his body every two minutes, the children screaming, the commotion of the crowd, people rubbing him or jumping on him when they were bathing in the sea. He wondered if he had a swimsuit. 

"Yes, the beach," repeated Rosie, happily. 

"Wouldn't you prefer an isolated cabin in the mountains?" asked Sherlock, hopefully. 

  "No! The beach!"

Sherlock sighed. To the doctor's amazement, he took his own laptop and typed something. The detective turned the screen so Rosie and John could see the image of a big wooden beachside cottage next to the seashore, with a veranda that ran the whole length of the house, and surrounded by gardens. The sea was perfectly blue, the soft golden sand contrasting with the green meadows covered with flowers. 

"Do you like it, Rosie?"

The little girl contemplated the photographs speechless, as John frowned. He grabbed Sherlock's arm and pulled him into the kitchen.

"Sherlock, do you know how much it will cost to rent that house? We can't afford..."

"It won't cost us anything, John. And it is in Mallorca, Spain Islands, so Rosie will have the perfect sunny weather.

  John sighed. Blessed Mycroft and his houses across the world.

The wedding dance      

John smiled fondly, watching his flamboyant husband and his daughter dancing together, a broad smile on Sherlock's face, mimicking every Rosie's movement, oblivious to the Yarders recording him with their phones. 

Greg kicked him softly and made a gesture with his head toward Sherlock's parents, who held their hands, looking at the detective and his daughter with teary eyes. 

"Violet, it's everything fine?" asked the doctor. 

She nodded. 

"Yes, it's only..." she looked at her husband. "When Sherlock was a kid, he loved dancing. When he wasn't playing pirates with Victor, they were dancing on the beach, the garden, or the house. I'm sure you remember it, Mycroft?"

"Yes, it was so tedious"...

Her mother softly smacked his arm. 

"Do you remember when they learned how to make pirouettes, spinning on their own?" his husband asked. Violet chuckled, and even Mycroft showed a kind of fond smile. Timothy Holmes turned to an amazed John, Greg, Molly, Irene, and Mr. Hudson. "We had a gardener who had been a professional dancer, but he injured his knee and had to quit dancing and work as a gardener. He taught Sherlock and Victor to do pirouettes. From that moment, they spent the day spinning, laughing hard when, dizzy, they fell on the ground, to get up and keep turning".

He got serious, and his deep voice trembled

"A week later, Victor disappeared, and Sherlock never danced or laughed again. Till he met you," he smiled at John and then looked at his son, who had taken Rosie in his arms and, to the girl's delight, was spinning around the ballroom at full speed, Rosie giving little gurglings and laughing out loud, while the detective mumbled. 

John remained silent for a while, feeling sad for all of them, mainly for Sherlock, for that kid cheerful and confident whose life hit him in the worst possible way. 

"Daddy!" screamed Rosie, hoarse from laughing so much, his face the pure happiness image. "Come dance with us!"

John shook his head, That was the past, and they have to look at the future ahead. He jumped over the table and stood beside Rosie. The girl almost lost the step with the joy of dancing with the two of them but recovered it quickly, laughing at John's movements, which were much more clumsy than hers and Sherlock's. The detective smiled widely, pleasantly surprised that John joined them, both plunging in each other's eyes, grabbing one of Rosie's hands while dancing. 

"Where are they going tonight?" Greg asked, intrigued.

"Professional secret," replied Irene, raising her eyebrows provocatively at Molly, who laughed delightedly.

"We shouldn't care about where they're going tonight, but where you and I are going to spend the night," Mycroft replied to Lestrade.

The DI stared at him in astonishment.

"Really?"

"If you want to...".

Greg looked sideways at Violet and Timothy, who were watching the scene, amused.

"Come on, son," said Sherlock's father, "even I, with an average mind and no sense of deduction, can see you are looking forward to it."

Lestrade laughed, and, as the band began to play Justin Timberlake's song "Can't Stop the Feeling," he moved to the dance floor altogether with the rest of the guests. The party lasted until midnight when the just married couple, after saying goodbye to everyone and reminding Rosie that they'd be back to pick her up in two days, got onto the white car full of Just Married graffiti in all rainbow colors. 

"Where are we going?" asked Sherlock

"Just wait and see..."

Chapter Text

They spent the car trip enjoying each other's company in a comfortable, relaxed, and pleasant silence. John knew the detective needed some time after the wedding rush to process so many emotions he was not used to dealing with, feelings he used to ignore in his day-to-day life, or just leave aside.

John looked out the window at the yellowish, orange, and reddish tones of the twilight sky, with Sherlock lying beside him, his head in John's lap, eyes closed, his long legs folded impossibly against the window.

John enjoyed those moments in intimacy, in accompanying silence. Between cases, his work, Rosie, and the wedding plan, last months had been complete madness, in which they hardly had time to be like that, alone, calm and in silence, just enjoying the pleasure of being together.

John took Sherlock's left hand with his, watching the bands on both of their fingers. The detective squeezed it, a part of his brain still in the world of the living. John kissed his hand, and the detective made a sound between a content sigh and a soft purr.

John held back his laughter. At some point, Sherlock left his mental palace to lie in Morpheus' arms, without even noticing it.

John kissed his hand again and rested his head on the seat, closed his eyes, and dozed off.

"We've arrived, sir," he heard the driver say.

John blinked, without knowing where he was. He smiled and stretched out his arms, and gently shook Sherlock, still curled up in his lap. Before he moved, John blindfolded him and helped the detective to get out of the car.

"Don't cheat," the doctor ordered, sensed the detective was about to grab the blindfold slightly to take a look.

"Are you going to throw me off a cliff now we are married?"

John laughed willingly.

"Don't give me ideas..."

John took Sherlock's hand and guided him while they walked forward. Sherlock felt the ground beneath his feet and frowned. He knew John planned to spend the night outside the hotel (his habit of never deleting his web searches in his laptop was very useful to a gossiping detective), but he didn't manage to guess what the doctor had in mind.

"A couple of steps now," John warned. "Stop."

Sherlock obeyed and heard the slight creak of a wooden door opening.

John grabbed his hand, led him through the door, the wooden floor echoed beneath their feet. They took a few more steps. The doctor stopped and removed the blindfold.

Sherlock gaped. They were in a spacious wooden cottage, the fire from the large fireplace lit, providing a gentle warmth to the room. The lights were off, the place only illuminated, besides the fire, by hundreds of candles set on the walls' projections, which gave the room an intimate, cozy, and romantic touch.

"John" gasped, turning in on himself. "This is... this is..."

The doctor smiled, delighted at being able to surprise his brilliant husband.

Sherlock looked into John's eyes, watching the candlelight reflect on them, the golden flames giving an almost magical touch to his blue eyes.

"I didn't expect..." the detective mumbled.

"What did you expect?"

"Knowing you…A dungeon?"

John chuckled, shook his head, and wrapped his arms around him, drawing Sherlock to himself, getting lost in the detective's eyes.

They kissed softly. Sherlock grunted when John broke the embrace and took him by the hand.

He meekly let John led him into the adjoining room, where, by the fireplace, there was a Jacuzzi embedded in the floor, also lit only by a multitude of candles, the scent of cinnamon and roses filling the room

"Are you trying to seduce me, Doctor Watson?"

"It depends, am I getting it?"

"You are not doing badly. And the bedroom?"

"We'll start here and work our way through the rest of the house."

"A perfect plan." he smiled.

They stood one in front of the other, looking at each other's eyes, as if they didn't want to break some kind of spell, slowly undoing the knot of the other's tie, gently sliding them down the collar of the shirt until they fell to the ground. Their hands moved to each other's shirt, slowly unbuttoning them, both locked into each other's eyes. Pupils dilated by desire, a mouth half-open, the other biting his lower lip, holding back the impulse to stripe the other in a hurry. Both getting more and more aroused by their hands' slowness, the gentle rubbing of the fingertips as they undid the buttons, merely a brush on the skin, their cocks growing inside their trousers, the room filled with their soft gasps of anticipation.

Once they unbuttoned their shirts, they slowly let the jackets fall over the other's shoulders, slipping down to the floor, and then they did the same with the shirts

Sherlock could not hold back any longer and ran his hand down the back of John's neck, interlacing his fingers in the short blond hair, drawing him in. Both melted into a passionate kiss, full of desire and excitement, shivering as they brushed each other's tongues, groaning as their cocks brushed through their trousers' fabric.

Panting, they unzipped each other, the two perfectly synchronized, lost in each other's gaze, letting the trousers fall to the floor.

"Oh, God," muttered Sherlock, about to come at the sight of John's red pants. The doctor smiled, mischievous, his hands grabbing Sherlock's arse, their hard cocks inches from each other, feeling each other's heat, and each other's desire.

John stuck his fingers into the waistband of Sherlock's black pants as the detective did on John's red ones, gently caressing the skin of the hips with their thumbs, as they lowered the clothes, freeing up their hard leaking cocks, both panting heavily.

The doctor got into the jacuzzi and pulled Sherlock in, the perfect warmness of the oiled water caressing them.

John sat down, and the water covered him up to his shoulders. He opened his legs, and Sherlock settled between them, resting his back on the doctor's chest, his head in his good shoulder, and the delicious feeling of John's hard cock against his ass, sitting comfortably and relaxed.

Sherlock stretched his long legs comfortably, squinting and purring as John tucked his fingers through his hair, gently stroking his scalp.

"Open your eyes," John whispered in his ear,

Sherlock complied and speechless, looked at the dark starry sky above them visible through the glass ceiling, stars glowing over them in that clear night of November.

He turned his head to kiss John.

"Beautiful, isn't it?" he whispered.

John smiled, remembering the first time he heard Sherlock said that and said what he would like to say then.

"Like you."

Sherlock blushed at the compliment but didn't say anything. A few moments later, he started humming. Sherlock's velvet deep voice, that almost knocked out John the first time they met (Afghanistan or Iraq?), reverberating in the water was fuckingly sexy. Since he was humming a romantic song (where Sherlock learned it was a mystery for the doctor), it made both John's heart and cock almost explode. Moreover, Sherlock started singing:

 You're just too good to be true 

 I can't take my eyes off you 

 You'd be like heaven to touch 

 I wanna hold you so much 

 At long last love has arrived 

 And I thank God I'm alive 

 You're just too good to be true 

 Can't take my eyes off you 

John joined him in the chorus

 I love you baby 

 And if it's quite all right 

 I need you, baby 

 To warm the lonely nights 

 I love you baby 

 Trust in me when I say 

Both laughed. John kissed the detective's neck. Sherlock turned to kiss his lips.

"You are very special, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock got serious. The doctor could see the shadow of a memory crossing his eyes.

"It's everything okay, love?" asked John softly.

The detective nodded.

"When I was in the rehabilitation center, there was a therapist that wasn't as a moron as the rest."

John waited. The detective never talked about his rehabilitation therapy, and the idea of Sherlock talking with a therapist was almost science fiction for him. 

"It was he who mainly did the talk." 

"And you're surprised people think you can read minds," chuckled the doctor making Sherlock roll his eyes. 

"In one session, he told me that, someday, I would meet someone exceptional, someone exceptional who will be able to see the real me no matter how many walls I put up around myself." 

John kissed his neck and embraced the detective tighter. 

"He said I would fall in love with him, and he would also love me just the way I am."

John's heart constricted a bit, envisioning a broken, hurt, and lost young Sherlock, struggling to quit the drugs, listening for the first time to say that he was worthy of being loved, wondering about his reaction.

"I laughed so hard I almost fell off the chair."

"Sherlock!" scowled the doctor, amused. "And what did he do?"

"He stared at me, upset, and said:   From now on I will only live to see the day Sherlock Holmes appears in my office holding his husband's hand and says "you were right and I was wrong," and I fell from the chair laughing".

"So it seems you have something to do after the honeymoon, related to your special husband and magnificent daughter."

"My special husband?"

"Your extraordinarily special husband, who is dying to hear Sherlock Holmes saying   you were right, and I was wrong." 

"You're starting to become less special," retorted Sherlock. Both chuckled.

"You are also an extraordinarily special husband. Get it into that awesome brain of yours, Sherlock Holmes."

"No, I am a freaking special husband."

"Now, an idiotic special husband."

John took two glasses and gave one Sherlock, who observed him as he filled them with rose champagne,

"It won't be delicious. It's Mycroft's favorite..." mocked the detective, glancing at the label.

John chuckled, shooking his head with disbelief to Sherlock's animus for anything Mycroft liked, except for Greg Lestrade. They raised his glass.

"Here's to clairvoyant therapists and fulfilled prophecies."

They clinked their glasses and drank. Sherlock almost spurted his drink with a laugh looking at the grimace drawn on John's face, a mix of surprise and displeasure due to the champagne's flavor notes of raspberry and toasty puff pasty.

"Told you."

"Insufferable knowing-it all," muttered John, kissing the back of Sherlock's neck, making him giggle. He brushed the skin with his lips, turning to lick it with the tip of his tongue or gently nibbling it, as SHerlock squirmed under the soft teasing as John's hands ran up and down his chest.

Sherlock turned around, creating small waves in the water with their movement, coming face to face with the doctor.

Leaning, he traced a path of soft kisses over the doctor's jawn until he reached his mouth and, sticking his tongue out just a bit, gently caressed John's lips, making the doctor pant with the touch and the sound of Sherlock's soft whines.

The detective spread his fingers in the back of John's neck, softly caressing it, making the doctor shiver at the ghostly touch while he slipped his tongue into John's mouth, licking his tongue with deliberately soft strokes.

John grabbed his neck and kissed him eagerly, but Sherlock pulled back and licked John's lips in a teasing, playful gesture. He traced a line with his tongue through John's chin and jawline, reaching his neck, kissing and gently nibbling it, as John turned his head to one side, giving Sherlock more skin to play with, his hands on the edge of the tube, humming softly under Sherlock's kisses.

The detective's tongue went down to the right nipple and lapped it. John closed his eyes and groaned softly.

 Sherlock's lips and tongue turned upward, his neck, his mouth, as his thumbs gently rubbing the doctor's nipples, his body shaking with every caress, letting the sensation drive himself.

As John used to be the one who teased Sherlock's body when they made love, the sensation was overwhelming and exciting. He squirmed as the detective continuing his journey of kissing, nibbling, and little licking towards his abdomen, his muscles contracting under the detective's touch.

He grunted softly when Sherlock deliberately avoided his impossibly harder cock, his big hands running over the doctor's body, the essential oil helping them to slide over his skin, more sensitive due to the hot water.

Sherlock's head slowly disappeared under the water, moaning softly as his nose sank into John's inner tight, bubbles of his breath tickling the base of his cock and testicles, but the longed-for mouth went down his thighs to his knee, down his legs, and down to his foot. 

The detective's mouth made the journey in the opposite direction, emerging from the water and smiling malevolently. He took both of John's ankles, spread his legs apart, looking at his hard cock aching to be touched.

"Sherlock..., god, Sherlock…." groaned the doctor, his hands clenched on the edge of the jacuzzi, resisting the urge to grab the detective's head and fuck his mouth senseless.

"Shhhhhhhh," sushed the detective

John moaned as Sherlock rubbed the tip of his cock with his thumb, holding the doctor's hips, following the music's rhythm, and brushed against the slit, surrounding the head of the cock.

The doctor's groan echoed the room as Sherlock sank his head into the water, wrapping his mouth around the doctor's cock, who instinctively tried to push his hips up, moaning as he noticed the detective's throat on the tip of his cock. Sherlock's mouth ran up and down the shaft, slowly pulling it out after engulfing it unhurriedly, delighting in the movement, making John feel his mouth run every inch of his cock, the sensation increased by the brush of the water.

The detective was in no hurry. He was able to hold on quite long in apnea. And John knew it, looking at the detective's head bobbing under the water, his tongue drawing impossible traces on his shaft while sucking it.

His mouth reached the tip of John's cock again, swirled his tongue along the frenulum's edge, moaning in pleasure, making John moan harder.

"The loud you make me moan now, the louder you'll moan later," John threatened him between pants.

Sherlock pulled his head out of the water and stuck his tongue in a mocking gesture. He disappeared under the water again, running a flat tongue along John's cock, exhaling his breath slowly, creating bubbles that tickled John's cock in their path to the surface, making him squirm and moan. Sherlock's hands gently squeeze his testicles, the other softly rubbing a couple of fingertips on his perineum in a circular motion.

John moved his hand over the detective's head, grabbed him firmly, and groaned while he fucked Sherlock's mouth deep and fast. When the detective felt the doctor's cock throbbing and tightening in his mouth, he rubbed more firmly his perineum, massaging his prostate from outside, caressing his balls at the same time.

John shoved his cock in Sherlock's mouth as deep as he could, almost howling as he came inside the detective's mouth, mixing his cum with the water. When the doctor pushed him back, unable to stand more stimulation. Sherlock emerged from the water, coughing hard, a smug smile in his red and swollen lips. 

"Fuck, Sherlock," groaned the doctor, panting hard, as Sherlock embraced him in the water, chuckled, and kissed him eagerly, embracing him, his hard cock rubbing against John's stomach. 

"No way, sweetie." gasped John, pushing Sherlock backward.

The doctor couldn't help laughing at Sherlock's face, an impossible mix of puzzlement, deep arousal, and adorable pouting. He slid down from John's tights to the other side of the jacuzzi, his brain uselessly trying to deduce the doctor's intentions.

When he finally caught his breath, John jumped out of the jacuzzi and stretched out a hand to Sherlock, inviting him to do the same. When they were standing by the edge, he put one hand behind Sherlock's knees and another in his back and, in a fluid movement, took him in his arms bridal style. 

"John put me down," protested Sherlock. 

"Nope, it's our wedding, remember? We have to follow the tradition," mocked the doctor, walking out of the room. 

"You are not strong enough to carry me this way to the bedroom," teased the detective, knowing full well the muscular doctor entirely was.

John snorted. Sherlock was far heavier than his thinness would suggest, but the doctor's strength allowed him to easily carrying the detective that way. Sherlock ran his arms around the doctor's neck, so it was easier for John to move him, deep inside delighted and amused by John's outburst. This way, John crossed the room and walked along the corridor to the bedroom with a firm step. 

The bedroom was huge, presided over by a large king-size bed, an ice bucket near it. Sherlock looked up. It had no ceiling, but the room extended to the house's roof, more than ten meters high. But what caught the detective's eye was a leather sex sling firmly anchored to the ceiling, hanging in the middle of the room. 

Sherlock swallowed hard, his cock throbbing, his smile the perfect mix of malicious and lust. 

"You are such a pervert."

John chuckled viciously. He sat Sherlock on the carrying bag, and adjusted the restraints to his wrists and ankles and placed his feet into the stirrups, so the detective was bound with his legs obscenely spread, his magnificent ass cheeks wrapped in nylon, his arms raised over his head. The detective felt exposed and vulnerable, but it was so extremely erotic that his cock was about to explode.

"Do you know how this sling is called?" rumbled John in his ear, while making sure the ropes weren't too tight around Sherlock's wrists and ankles.

The detective shook his head.

"The Screamer," he whispered. Sherlock closed his eyes while a soft moan escaped from his mouth. God, he was so aroused he could come only with John teasing him like that.

"Comfortable?" asked John nonchalantly, tenderly rubbing his hands over Sherlock sides.

The detective nodded. The harness wrapped his back and had a headrest, so he didn't feel any tension. The gentle rocking produced by John while manipulating the ropes was relaxing, while he enjoyed the almost zero gravity sensation of being suspended several feet above the ground.

John looked at the detective's body, golden and shining from the candlelights' effect and the oil of the Jacuzzi water, his red cock so hard that it must hurt, his chest rising and falling quickly, his dilated pupils reflecting the glow of the flames.

He moved between Sherlock's legs and leaned to kiss him, slightly nibbling the detective lower lip, who parted his lips when John's tongue pushed between them, sensually exploring Sherlock's mouth, making the detective purr. John moved back, and their lips parted with a slight pop.

Sherlock rocked his hips a bit, trying to make contact with the doctor's body. John smiled and ran his hands up Sherlock's sides, poking them softly, making Sherlock jerk at the tickling sensation.

"Let's check if you are correctly bounded."

"John, no," panted the detective, pulling the restraints.

"No?" he teased, poking his ribs again, until he had the detective giggling hard, squirm, twitching his body as much as he could, trying to escape from John's mischievous fingers, the swing twisting a bit from side to side as Sherlock wriggled. 

"Stop that!" protested the detective.

"This is when you realize you are not allowed to speak without permission," grunted John, his commanding tone directly reaching Sherlock's balls, his cock leaking profusely with the now dominant John.

"I'm sorry, John."

"Good boy."

John moved his hands to the detective's nipples, softly pinching them; the detective moaned hard as his cock twitched.

"I love how sensitive your nipples are…"

"Ngggggggggggh," groaned the detective, instinctively jerking his hips, as his cock twitched hard, with every pinch and rubbing. "I won't...." he gasped, unable to control himself.

 John smirked, watching Sherlocks's body shiver, while he closed his eyes and leaned back, biting his lower lip in an aroused gesture. 

"You won't what, Sherlock?" John replied, rubbing his hands down Sherlock's chest from his collarbones, avoiding touching his nipples. Sherlock blushed and shook his head, guessing John's intentions, arching his body, trying to scape the doctor's restless hands. Since John didn't order him to hold still, he knew he could move as much as he can, or at less try it.

"You mean you won't come like this?" teased John, running his fingertips from the detective's navel to his neck, touching the nipples in his path, as Sherlock's hips bucked madly while he blushed even more, shooking his head, arching his back.

John moved in front of Sherlock and gently teased his right nipple blowing on it, to then slowly circling it with his tongue without touching the hard nub, his mouth traveling through his chest to do the same in the other, as Sherlock whined at the teasing.

John moved the ice bucket next to them and took one ice, as Sherlock pulled from his restraints, trying to move back. The doctor rubbed the ice in circles around his nipples and moved it down to his chest, circling his navel. He took another ice and bent to reach his inner tights with the ice, enjoying the detective's squirming body, creating goosebumps in its path as the ice moved back to Sherlock's abdomen and chest. John blew again over Sherlock's nipples, then gently rubbing them with the ice cube.

"oh nggggggggggggggggggg fucking god," whined hard the detective, the contrast between John's hot breath and the coldness of the ice driving him mad, his cock dripping profusely, the sensation spreading from his nipples throughout his whole body.

John rubbed his now extra sensitive nipples with his palms, slowly at first and then increasing his touch's speed and pressure, deliberately building the pleasure within Sherlock's body. The detective moaned harder and louder, whining when John licked one with the tip of his tongue and pinched the other. 

When John drew one nipple into his mouth, squeezing the other, the orgasm exploded inside Sherlock. He moaned hard through a powerful climax that ran through his arching body in waves, each more intense than the last, his hips jerking hard as his cum hit John's chest. His body got lax, held in the bonds, his cock twitching, soft whined moans coming from his mouth.

The doctor waited until he remained still. He pulled the detective's wet fringe from his forehead and kissed him gently.

"Well, it looks like you can come like this," teased John, rubbing a finger on Sherlock's cock. 

"God," muttered Sherlock as his hips bucked a bit more, a new orgasm wave running through his body, his head threw back, his eyes wide open, a blush covering his cheeks and chest. 

"You don't have to be ashamed for it," whispered John in Sherlock's lips, kissing him, both swinging slightly back and forth. "It's hot to make you coming that way," his hardening cock highlighting his words.

John slid his hands from the detective's thighs and moved them upwards until they rested on his ass, caressing and squeezing them with his hands, while Sherlock, still trembling, groaned softly. The doctor adjusted the straps, Sherlock's ass was now at his mouth level, at John's full disposal.

John moved forward and gave a long lick with his flat tongue to Sherlock's hole. The detective moaned softly at the touch. John smirked and, with a lustful groan, he circled Sherlock entrance with the tip of his tongue, as the detective whined louder, while the doctor spread apart his arse cheeks and gave a slow, long, wet lick all over Sherlock's crack, from the perineum to his low back, as Sherlock's moans escalated. The impossibility of moving an inch of his body intensified the sensations, driving him mad when John slowly stroked his cock.

"John…"

"Yes, love?" asked the doctor, pushing his tongue inside Sherlock hole as deep as he could, fucking him with his tongue, as Sherlock panting whines increased in volume.

"Fuck me, John…… I need, oh fucking holy shit," he swore when John's tongue ran from his hole to his balls, through the shaft until the head of his cock, nibbling it softly.

"Do you want me to prepare you?"

Sherlock moaned a yes, shooking his head with the intensity of the feeling.

"You have to make up your mind, love," teased John, and Sherlock growled in frustration. He hated and loved when the doctor had him like that, totally blinded by the desire to be fucked, wanton, unable to think of anything else, but of John's cock fucking him mercilessly.

And John knew it.

"Please,….".

The doctor gave a couple of long licks to Sherlock's shaft and covered his fingers with lube. His lubed hand slid down Sherlock's shaft through his balls, as Sherlock panted and whined softly, muttering "yes, yes, yes," feeling John's fingertips brushing his hole, circling it, poking inside a bit, not enough to enter but to tease it.

The doctor pushed inside, and Sherlock got two fingers inside him. John growled, feeling Sherlock's warm and tight entrance, anticipating the moment he will shove his cock inside it.

He fucked Sherlock slowly with his fingers. The string of "yes, yes, yes" coming from the detective's mouth increased in loudness, interspersed with muffled panting, encouraged the doctor to play a bit more with his entrance, until he shoved three fingers inside, twisting them and brushing across the detective's prostate, making Sherlock arch his back and cried out.

"Oh, my God, oh my God…….." moaned the detective, panting hard as John brushed across the bunch of nerves until Sherlock was a quivering wrecked mess of whines, moans, pleas, his tights shivering at every brush, the orgasm tingling inside his abdomen.

"Fuck me, John," he managed to beg, "please…….," he whispered.

John took his fingers out and moved to Sherlock's head, kissing him, softly at first, almost bruising the detective's lips, until the kiss deepened, both moaning against the others' mouth.

John moved the swing so that Sherlock was sitting on the harness, almost drooling, as John covered his dick with lube. To his surprise, the doctor laid on the carpeted floor under him, his huge steel-hard cock pointing to the ceiling. He settled down and put his hands behind his head.

"You want my cock?" he asked, playfully, "come and get it."

He held back his laughter as he heard Sherlock curse, trying to understand what was going on.

"John, what the hell? How...?"

"You are a genius, aren't you? Find the way."

Sherlock cursed again. Yes, he was a genius, except when John was about to fuck him. His brain then went from a thousand revolutions to a total blackout where only the sensations that John provoked in his whole body could fit.

"I'm waiiiiiting," crooned John, grabbing his cock and stroking himself slowly. "I'll explain to you what's going to happen from now on. If I come before you find your way down here, I'll happily go to bed to sleep while you'll have to spend the night hanging there, hard and unable to come ".

A string of obscenities came out of Sherlock's mouth. He lowered his head and looked at John's amused and smug expression. God, how he hated and loved when John teased him like that.

But he didn't have much time. John was able to delay his orgasm almost at will when he was fucking him, but he didn't hold it back when he was masturbating, so he had to get his brain out of the mists of pleasure and think. He tried to free himself from the restraints, but it was impossible. John was devilishly skilled when tying him. There was no chance of him letting go, so it wasn't an option.

John's moans got more intense, his breathing accelerated, and Sherlock knew his orgasm was approaching. But how the hell…

Sherlock smirked.

"Tricky bastard," he mused to himself. Tightening his muscles, he managed to get up slightly from the harness, to drop, which made him bounce around a bit, increasing the range of movement up and down since the straps were elastic. Thanks to the ceiling height, he was in no danger of bumping into the ceiling when his body was pushed upwards. Even mad with desire, he could not help smiling at the sensation of almost flying, until his butt brushed against John's cock, both moaning loudly at the touch.

The next time he came down, John grabbed him and slowly pushed his cock inside Sherlock, groaning and closing his eyes at the detective hole's warmness around his big hard cock.

"Oh, god yesssssssssssss," moaned Sherlock, but the doctor released his body that bounced up to fall back onto John's cock again. Grabbing the detective's hips again, John slowly thrust inside him, pressing his cock against his prostate, as Sherlock threw his head back and cried out, his whole body squirming with pleasure, while John fucked him until Sherlock moans told him the detective was about to come.

The loud, frustrated groan from Sherlock's mouth almost made him feel guilty when he rereleased the detective, once more propelling him towards the ceiling.

John stood, listening to Sherlock's sobbed begging to be fucked, desperate to come, while the doctor readjusted the swing's height. John moved between his legs and rubbed the detective's entrance with the tip of his cock.

"Climb here," panted Sherlock between desperate moans, "God John….. ………try it".

John looked up at the hook on the ceiling from which hung the chain that held the sex swing. He wasn't quite sure if it could support both of them' weight, coupled with the movement of thrusting inside Sherlock.

"Come on, John," insisted the detective, "it'll stand.... fuck me……, oh god, please, fuck me."

John looked at him hesitantly. He could not deny he wanted to get on it, but Sherlock's falling tied to the structure could be dangerous even if he was not too high off the ground. On the other hand, even with his brain overloaded with the need to be fucked, Sherlock was Sherlock, and if the detective assured it would hold out, it would.

He firmly held the harness, jumped into the swing, and put his feet in the stirrups to gain more stability, so he was kind of knelt on the strips between Sherlock's wide-opened legs, his cock perfectly aligned with the detective's hole. The harness wobbled, the straps and chain snapped, and both giggled nervously. Finally, John managed to stabilize himself and, pulling his cock into Sherlock, started fucking him slowly, almost tentatively, until he was perfectly balanced on the ropes, moving his hips forward, torturing Sherlock's prostate with every push.

"Fuck, fuck, oh, God, oh, God, oh God, John, John, John. John, yes, harder, harder, faster, faster John" Sherlock chanted moans accompanying John's every thrust, encouraged the doctor to push harder inside the detective, the swing rocking back and forth higher and quicker with the force of John's pushes.

Every time the swing went up, John vigorously propelled his body forward, thrusting deep inside the detective, as the gravity sank Sherlock's body even more into his cock. Sherlock howled in pleasure for being impaled so deeply, his prostate relentlessly stimulated, the detective's mouth open in an almost unbearable gesture of ecstasy. He screamed with moans and whines, his eyes rolling back. John groaned and grunted loudly as he shoved his cock earnestly inside Sherlock, grabbing the straps for better support and enjoying the flying sensation.

Each backward motion of the swing loosened the pressure of Sherlock's ass around his cock, allowing John to regain the control of himself, and impelled his hips forward again, nudged right up against Sherlock's prostate. The detective, judging by his face and the obscene sounds he made, was diving in another pleasure dimension.

"This feels sooooo fucking great," groaned the doctor. "God, I can fuck you like this all day," he moaned, holding on the ropes more tightly, to give higher intensity and speed to his thrusts, while he motioned the strings so, in addition to the swaying, the swing began to turn in on itself. John knew Sherlock's body, losing all spatial reference with the movement, would become more hypersensitive, his brain exacerbating all nerve connections to reorient itself. 

Almost instantaneously, a brutal orgasm shook Sherlock, pleasure flooding his body while a long, loud howled "John" name came out from his mouth, his neglected cock pulsing hard with every spurt.

John stopped thrusting inside him. The contractions of Sherlock's clenching muscles around his cock were about to make him lose control. When he noticed Sherlock's orgasm started to dissolve, he renewed his thrusts with even more energy, fucking the detective as fast as hard as he could. Sherlock howled, overwhelmed, by the feeling of his body flying free in the air, the slap of their sweaty bodies meeting over and over, John panting breath and deep moans and growls. The doctor head tossed back as he felt his orgasm build inside him…, his sensitive body pulled onto John's over and over, his prostate sending shivers of pleasure up his spine…

John wanted Sherlock to come with him, so he grabbed the detective's cock and stroked it fast and tight, as the detective trashed around in the swing, bubbling unconnected beg for John to stop, mixed with pleads of never stop gurgling from his mouth, interspersed with moans, screams, ragged breaths until John's sight whitened, and stars exploded while his cock jerked inside Sherlock's ass.

The swing cracked in protest as John came inside the detective, shouting Sherlock's name. The detective arched nearly out of the swing with the force of his new orgasm when he felt John's hot cum filling him, both screaming the other's name, the detective's cum covering both of them due to the movement.

They remained still for a few moments, the silence only broken by the crackling of the swing holds as it swung forward and backward, the two of them breathing hard, staring at each other, until, between pants and soft moans, John pulled out form Sherlock and lied at his side, the two of them enjoying the sweet rocking of the harness.

"How was your first marriage fuck, Mr. Holmes-Watson?" panted John, clearly proud of himself. 

"I don't want you to get a big head, but… You're a fucking sex god. Too good to be true", gasped Sherlock, his body still shaking a bit as John laughed proudly, intertwined his hands with Sherlock, and bent down to kiss him gently, waiting for Sherlock's orgasm subdue totally.

"We could sleep here," John muttered, closing his eyes.

"Unwise," replied the detective.

"Why?"

Sherlock made a gesture with his head towards the ceiling from where the swing held and saw the roof carabiner slowly giving way.

"Shit," shouted John, agilely jumping to the floor. He untied Sherlock quickly and helped the detective out from it before the swing hit the floor with a loud clinging noise.

Sherlock pouted his disappointment, looking at the crashed swing. John smiled naughtily.

"Don't worry, love; we still have the dungeon."

"I knew it."

Chapter Text

Sherlock woke up all of a sudden. He blinked in the sunlight coming through the windows at the top of two of the walls around him. When he opened his eyes, he found a massive picture of a bee on the roof, directly above his head.

The detective snorted, but at the same time, he relaxed. Playing dungeon games could trigger unpleasant memories of his time in Serbia, and the bee's sight was a quick way to tell his brain he was safe. Like the soft silk rope that tied her ankles and wrists, the smooth surface on which his body rested, or the soft violin music that filled the room.

He never ceased to be surprised by the easiness with which John carried him to another room while he was sleeping. He slept soundly, it was true, but John's skill to move, tie him up, and set the stage while he was asleep as a log was incredible.

He looked for the remote. A specially designed panic button that, once pressed, would immediately release Sherlock from his restraints and thus prevent an escalation of panic, in the event he couldn't remember his safeword or snap his fingers. The device also emitted an audible signal to alert John in case the doctor wasn't with Sherlock at the time.

Sherlock pressed the button. John's rule. Whenever they were in a new place, they had to try it out. The bounds came loose, releasing him, and immediately he heard a noise upstairs. Instead of coming down the stairs, John slid down a fire pole connected with the upper floor.

Sherlock smiled, amused.

"Next time, could you come down dressed as a fireman?"

John grinned, wearing only a pair of red shorts.

"If you behave yourself... Everything okay?"

The detective nodded.

"Let's have breakfast. By the way, you lost the bet."

"I don't know what you're talking about," replied the detective mockingly. But he did know. He had bet that the next time John moved him while he was sleeping, he would wake up. What the loser should do would be decided by the winner.

John threw Sherlock a pair of black shorts. The detective put them on, and they both went up the stairs to the top floor, towards the glassed-in terrace where there was set the table full of toast, eggs, bacon, pancakes, coffee, tea, orange juice, sausages, black pudding, baked beans, and fried tomatoes.

John sat down and filled his plate up with a bit of everything. Sherlock took a piece of toast and smeared it with jam. They began to eat breakfast in silence, enjoying the warm sun that autumn day.

"It's wonderful," observed Sherlock, gesturing with his toast toward the green hills around them.

John nodded while chewing. Living in London was great, but from time to time, they needed a break from the hustle and bustle of nature, especially now with Rosie.

"The perfect place to commit a crime," Sherlock continued. John snorted, "secluded, solitary places to hide a body..."

"Always so romantic..." chuckled the doctor.

Sherlock left the toast on the plate and watched John silently for a few minutes. The doctor let him do. He knew that look. He wasn't deducing him but pondering possible John's answers to a question.

"It would be quicker if you asked me."

Sherlock smirked. He took a deep breath and stirred on the seat.

"I was wondering... if... as it is our wedding night...or weekend or… whatever," he gestured to his surroundings. "If..."

"Sherlock…"

The detective took one more bite of his toast, chewing quietly. John looked at him, a bit worried about what idea was growing in the detective's unpredictable brain. Sherlock inhaled deeply.

"I'd like to tie you up and ride you," he said in one breath.

John chocked on his coffee and coughed hard. Sherlock moved forward to hit him on the back.

"What did you say?" John asked in a hoarse voice between coughs.

"That I would like to tie you up. Don't worry. I will not take your… virtue," John chuckled, shaking his head, "and sit on your cock.

John looked at him for a few moments. He'd be lying if he said it never crossed his mind to try it, but never felt comfortable with the idea of being helpless, even with Sherlock. Well, at least not the entirety of John, because his cock throbbed in agreement. And he knew he could trust Sherlock completely.

It was he who now chewed in silence, his sight lost on the horizon. Sherlock left him time. He stretched his legs and tilted his head back, letting the sun caress him.

"Okay," he finally said, almost tentatively. His cock throbbed again as a slight chill shook his body, which did not go unnoticed by the smiling detective, who lazily placed his hands behind his neck.

"Safeword?"

John frowned. Of course, he didn't have a safe word.

"Fusiliers"

Sherlock bit his lower lip. He felt nervous. When he thought about asking it John, he was sure the doctor would say no. John, noticing it, smirked, got up, took his hand, and led them to the basement. They both slid down the bar to it.

"We have to have one at Baker Street," decided Sherlock.

"Oh, yes, it would be great to know our daughter has a bar to slide down to the living room. Reassuring."

"Buzzkill."

They reached the bondage table. The detective knelt in front of John and slowly pulled down his pants, releasing his half-hard cock. Sherlock rested his head on John's groin and inhaled the doctor's scent, losing himself on it.

"It seems to like the idea." he mocked, looking at John's defiant cock.

"Me too," John's voice was hoarse, feeling Sherlock's hot mouth so near.

Sherlock licked the tip of John's cock, eliciting a groan from the doctor and got up.

"Delicious."

The doctor smiled nervously. He laid down, trying to relax, while the detective secured his right wrist. Sherlock moved John's tied hand so he could reach the panic button.

"Press it as soon as you need it."

John nodded and closed his eyes, opening and closing his hands nervously, stretching his body. He swallowed as the detective tied his other hand up, while his cock hardened a bit more, adding to the tingle he felt in his balls.

Sherlock ran a finger down the doctor's arm from his left hand to his armpit, making him shiver, giving him goosebumps and getting a new twitch from the doctor's cock as he did so.

He moved to the back of the doctor's head, watching his every move. Sherlock studied him carefully, looking for any sign of discomfort. For now, apart from nervous, the doctor was fine.

"Shhhhhhhhhhh, relax, love," whispered Sherlock, gently running his fingers through John's scalp. The doctor sighed and relaxed a bit. Sherlock added slight pressure to his scalp, moving his hands in small circular motions, from the top of his head to his temples. He felt John's whole body relax as he rotated his fingers on in a slow, circular movement. The detective smirked when, along with a content hmmm, the doctor moaned softly, his body melting at the detective's touch.

Sherlock's fingers moved to the middle of John's forehead and rubbed his thumbs to his nose, tracing the path to the tip, drawing the arches of his eyes, returning to his nose with his fingertips to finally draw the line under his cheekbones, down from his temples to his neck until his jaw.

His hands returned to his ears. Sherlock bent over John, gave him a soft kiss on the lips, and licked his right ear. John chuckled and tried to move away from the ticklish sensation, but Sherlock kept doing it. John moaned softly, sensing the detective's hot breathing while the tip of his tongue nicely rubbing his ear.

His hips gave an involuntary thrust as Sherlock nibbled his ear lobe and lightly squeezed it between his lips, slowly pulling away so that it got pulled through the detective's lips, making John shiver and moan.

Sherlock moved to John's lips, softly massaging and caressing them with the tip of his tongue. John, avidly, starting doing the same, both of them moaning softly, feeling the other's lips, breathing on each other. When John tried to kiss Sherlock, the detective moved back a bit to get back again to rubs his lips. John's cock was totally hard, his arms straining the ropes. For a moment, he thought about pressing the panic button, jumping on Sherlock, tie him up, and teasing him madly, but it was Sherlock's wish, and he wanted to fulfill it, so he opened his mouth a bit, letting Sherlock massage his tongue with his own.

The detective got up on the table and stood on all fours above John. The massage also had a relaxing effect on him, and John's groans and subtle moans helped him gain confidence. Slowly, he lowered his head, until he kissed John again, feeling the tip of the doctor's cock brush against his abdomen, wetting it with his precum. Sherlock smiled at the kiss and began a gentle back and forth motion, making John moan and thrust up, but Sherlock broke the kiss and moved back down, again rubbing the tip of his cock with his abdomen, teasing it, enjoying the feeling of a helpless John below him, at his total disposal.

Sherlock kissed and nibbled on John's neck, teasing the tip of John's cock with soft rubbings of his body. The detective's kisses were soft and gentle but made John wriggle and inhaled deeply, every exhaling accompanied by a little moan. Sherlock moved to kiss his right nipple, as John moaned hard, pulling back on the ties. The detective moved to lick the left nipple, this time taking care not to brush against John's huge, hard cock.

He moved down, sucking his hips and his inner tights, neglecting John's cock. Suddenly, to catch him off guard, he moved up, roughly kissing John, his tongue slipping inside his mouth, running his hands over his chest. He broke the kiss and looked at a flushed John, his pupils dilated, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his cock dripping profusely.

"Sherlock," moaned the doctor…,

"Shhhhh," repeated Sherlock, and moved between John's legs, spreading and carefully bending them. He gave a couple of licks to John's balls and got down, licking his crack, rubbing the doctor's arse cheeks with his palms, opening them a bit, lapping lapped the crack again. John shivered and moaned. Sherlock had rimmed him before, but being tied up, the feeling was much more intense, almost unbearable.

Sherlock rubbed John's hole with his nose and licked up his crack. He put his flat tongue up against his hole and started licking it like if he were eating an ice cream cone, moaning in delight. He loved rimming John and, sometimes, he fantasized about doing it while John was tied up. The reality was much more intense than the fantasy.

John's moans intensified. He bucked his lips a bit, trying to get Sherlock's attention to his cock, but he limited himself to smile against his crack while licking the rim, as John squirmed with his licks. Sherlock gently tickled his balls while kept licking him. John's chuckled moan ran directly to Sherlock's cock, just as his chocked sound when Sherlock's tongue traveled through his perineum to the base of his balls.

The detective looked at John while covering his hands with essential oil: the doctor was deliciously flushed, his eyes darkened and a bit lost, his body shaking a bit though he was trying to control it, to regain a bit of self-control. Sherlock chuckled and gently started stroking John, while his other hand circled the doctor's rim with his fingers' tips while he licked and sucked his balls. John moaned and arched his back, thrusting into Sherlock's fist, breathing heavily.

"Sherlock……… your mouth," said John, a hint of threat in his pleading.

Sherlock raised his head and looked John straight into his eyes. He licked his shaft from base to head with a flat tongue, gently kissing the tip of John's cock, making it twitch harder. He wrapped his lips around his cock again, slowly easing his mouth down, moving it back up every few seconds before going further down, as John moaned hard, feeling the warmness of Sherlock's mouth, trying not to thrust his hips. Not being able to control Sherlock's movements made him more sensitive, sensations sparkling from his cock over his whole body, making him moan harder than he ever did.

"Fuck…. Fuck," he groaned, "ohhh holy shit."

 Sherlock removed his mouth from his cock, but before John grunted, he moved to his nipples, licked them as he slid, and twisted his palm over the head of his cock. John groaned at the combined sensations, sparkles of pleasure running through his body, moaning harder when the tip of Sherlock's tongue licked the slit, sucking the head of this cock to finally slowly swallowing it, opening his throat until he had the entire length of John's cock in his mouth, his own neglected cock dripping profusely.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, losing himself in John's exquisite smell, and moaned hard on the doctor's cock. John produced a low, rumbled moan.

John closed his eyes. His balls tensed, and his mind got a bit dizzy. The feeling of long fingers probing his perineum, gently massaging his prostate, while his mouth mixed with Sherlock's devilishly skilled and warm mouth led him was killing him.

John arched his back and tensed his hips, pulling hard on the ropes, which cracked under strain.

"Sherlock," he panted, swallowing hard, "make me come."

John could see the detective was in the same state as him, his hard cock swollen and red, his thighs trembling. But detective arched an eyebrow with a clear meaning: John was not in the position of giving orders.

"Sherlock..:" threatened John, tilting his head, and the detective chuckled. He bent, took John's lower lip between his teeth, and pulled softly. John, so hard it almost hurt, groaned, feeling Sherlock's cock rubbing his body again.

Suddenly Sherlock jumped from the bed and reappeared with a new silk rope in his hands.

He put his mouth to John's ear and licked it gently.

"You're not in charge today, Captain." he moaned, and John shivered hard while Sherlock tied the silked black robe around his hips, preventing him from moving them. John frowned, and Sherlock smiled, teasingly.

He opened a tube of lube and smeared his fingers, John looking at him with dilated pupils, panting, on the verge on the orgasm. He whined when Sherlock's trailed his fingers light and soft up and down his cock, from his perineum to the glans.

John moaned hard at Sherlock's fingertip, slowly tracing around the head of his cock, spreading his precum across it, his cock twitching hard. The caressing felt unbearable and delicious on his now extremely sensitive tip of his cock, but the detective controlled the pressure so John wouldn't come.

He moaned again when Sherlock wrapped his fingers around this shaft, his pinky finger tickling his balls and slowly stroked him up and down, rubbing his thumb over the head of John's cock.

"… oh God, yes."

"Come for me, John"…

He gave a couple of hard strokes, and John tilted his head, arched his back, and growled Sherlock's name as he came in the detective's hand, trembling and panting as Sherlock kept stroking him, the impossibility of stopping him, of avoiding it increasing the pleasure, until he whined, oversensitive.

Sherlock smiled smugly and licked his own fingers covered with John's cum lustily looking at the doctor.

"Fuck Sherlock," groaned the doctor, panting, looking at Sherlock's tongue, devouring his cum, while his orgasm faded. He smiled at the detective.

"You don't think we are done, do you?" teased the detective, and John smiled at his teasing.

But instead of untying him, Sherlock got down on all fours over John, so his arse was inches away from John's face, so close and yet so unreachable, and lapped John's soft cock.

John moaned and was about to order Sherlock to release him when he saw Sherlock's lubed finger start circling his own clenching hole, as he bent to lick John's balls, letting his tongue ran up and down on the doctor's shaft. From the position, John had a perfect view of Sherlock's fingering himself, gently pushing one of his long fingers inside his hole.

John closed his eyes, grunting and moaning, straining the ropes trying to free himself. The vision was so hot he started hardening again, swelling in Sherlock's wet and warm mouth, as the detective gently nibbled the head, moaning while he took out his finger two introduce two, his eyes closed, purring like a cat on his cock, his tongue vibrating around it. John growled.

"Sherlock, untie me!" he panted.

The detective ignored him, lost in the trance of pleasuring and teasing the doctor at the same time. John stretched his neck as far forward as he could, trying to reach Sherlock's ass with his tongue, but he couldn't do it. His cock got even harder as he watched Sherlock squirming in front of him, his hips move to the thrust of his two fingers in and out of him, always out of reach of his mouth, drops of precum falling on John's abdomen.

Sherlock's mouth was heaven, moist and warm, his lips wrapped tight around his cock, his tongue tireless, increasing the fire that burned in John's stomach.

"Your mouth…….. so fucking good," John murmured in a moan, knowing the praise would encourage Sherlock to swallow the whole of it, and John could felt the tip of his cock in the back of his throat, Sherlock's moans vibrating on John's cock and reaching the doctor's whole body.

"Fucking holy shit," he muttered between pants, breathing heavy, feeling he could come again at any moment. His cock throbbed, hard as a rock, seeing the lust in Sherlock's eyes when his head turned towards John, moaning hard as he hit his prostate with now three fingers inside him. He gave a couple more thrusts and whined while taking out his fingers.

The detective stood on John, turned to face him, and stretched his arms up to grab onto the spreader bar hanging over him. He pulled slowly and bent over until his ass was inches from John's cock. Eyes closed, biting his lower lip, the doctor could see Sherlock's effort not to slam himself on his cock. Which made him understand the detective had other plans, teasing plans, judging by his mischievous aroused smile.

John moaned when he finally felt Sherlock's entrance on his cock's tip and tried to buck his hips again unsuccessfully due to the strap that locked up his hips. Instead of going down, Sherlock, attached to the bar, was caressing the tip of John's cock with his crack, playing with it, letting it go in a little, and then coming back up. Sherlock's hole felt terrific, but John needed more; he needed to sink his cock once and for all into Sherlock's ass and fuck him wildly.

"God… Sherlock," he closed his eyes, panting, mad with desire, "let me…" the plead dissolved in a loud moan.

Sherlock complied and lowered his body, letting John's cock finally get inside his arse. John almost dried and tried again to thrusts his hips up, to get deeper inside the detective, unable to do it. Sherlock moved up and down, only letting the head of John's cock inside him and not going any further, clenching his hole around it. The doctor's whole body was trembling. The teasing was devilish, excruciating, but at the same time delicious, sending sparks of pleasure to every millimeter of his body as if every nerve in his body could only transmit one thing: pleasure.

But he needs more, or he'd go crazy.

"Please, Sherlock……..," he moaned. "I can't, I can't... I need..."

Sherlock smiled. John's pleads sounded like music in his ears. He took pity of the doctor. John felt dizzy when the detective knelt over him, letting his whole cock shoving into the detective's arse, invading it, his tight walls embracing his now sensitive and almost to explode cock until Sherlock sat on John's lap. He had one hand on the bar and the other resting on John's chest to control the descent, both moaning hard, Sherlock with the glorious feeling of finally being full of John, John for being surrounded by Sherlock's tight walls.

The detective remained motionless for a few moments, to let his body adjust to being impaled by John's huge cock and to allow the doctor to regain control. Otherwise, he would come in seconds. John gasped like a fish out of water a couple of times, biting his lip, breathing deeply through his nose, until he nodded.

Sherlock got up and down, taking out almost the whole of John's cock as his body went up and sitting on lap again as he went down. The bar allowed him full movement, moaning hard when adjusted so that every time he went down, John's cock hit his prostate.

Sherlock moved slowly, clenching his hole, squeezing John's shaft and head as he went up and down at a regular, leisurely pace, much slower than John would have liked. Yet, although slow, each climb and descent sent a strong shock of pleasure to John's cock that ran through his entire body. Little by little, he felt his new orgasm grow in his abdomen, his body trembling with the desire to come. He was desperate to come, he needed to come so fucking badly, muttering pleads through his pants, but Sherlock kept with his slowly rhythmic moving up and down.

John opened his eyes and almost came with Sherlock's vision: both arms held to the bar, eyes closed, frowning, concentrated on maintaining self-control, disheveled hair falling on his sweaty forehead, body drenched in sweat, pulsating cock hard as hell, head back, mouth half-open... It was sweet torture for both of them, so much so that the detective had long since stopped moaning and just emitted some rhythmic ah, ah, ah, ah, while his biceps and his thighs trembled as his body went up and down.

He forced himself to keep his eyes open, looking at the detective. The torture was worth it. The pleasure shook his body harder and harder, as the detective bit his lower lip, forcing himself to keep up, trying to control the shaking of his body, now moaning hard every time he impaled himself in John's cock, in chorus with the doctor.

John was happy to be tied up. If it were the other way round, by now he would have been fucking Sherlock, pounding him with his cock, achieving a brutal, explosive pleasure, very different from the one Sherlock was giving him now, equally brutal but slow, the orgasm growing bigger and bigger, unbearably pleasant, his body shaking every time Sherlock went up and down, adding degrees to his excitement, anticipating an orgasm that his brain already sensed as unbearable, closer, closer, bigger, stronger, powerful, making him roll his eyes, his body melting to Sherlock's tortuous rhythm, a perfect binary beat that raised and lowered his body with the precision of a metronome.

But John's dominant nature was still there. He knew that the detective's preorgasmic brain would not register it at that point, so he crawled down inch by inch. He didn't need to move much—just a little.

Just when his orgasm was threatening to explode, feeling his balls tightening more and more and, by Sherlock's intense moaning, his own was also close, when the detective descended, John propelled his hips upwards with all his strength, slamming as hard and deep as he could his cock in Sherlock.

The detective stiffened, his eyes wide open, his mouth opened in a silent cry of maximum pleasure by the sudden and strong contact caused an explosion of ecstasy in both of them. John came brutally inside Sherlock, shouting his name, while the detective finally achieved to throw a moan so loud it almost broken his throat, shouting John's name, while his neglected cock convulsed with every spurt, reaching his chin and his hair.

John, panting, his body still trembling a bit for the violence of the orgasm, moved his hips a bit.

"Breath, Sherlock," he whispered, and the detective emitted a chocked sound, following for loud moans as his body squirmed with the last throws of the orgasm.

John pressed the panic button and untied himself. He sat and, without taking his cock out of Sherlock, hugged him, as both laid down slowly again, Sherlock shaking in his arms. He put his mouth to the detective's ear, who groaned as he felt his breath warm.

"I'm always in charge, soldier," he whispered, making the detective moan again as his cock throbbed between them. A small, naughty smile appeared on the detective's face as he sank his head between the doctor's neck and collarbone.

"I was counting on it, Captain," he mused, breathlessly.

"Liar," chuckled John, though he knew the detective was partly right. Sherlock exhaled a contented hum, eyes closed, nose buried in John's neck. John kissed his hair and gently caressed his back with the palm of his hand, making the detective shudder.

"That was simply fucking great," muttered John, and Sherlock smiled smugly, his eyes still closed.

"Final was a masterful touch, cheater, but master."

 John smiled proudly. He reached below the table, where there were water and flannels, wet one, and started wiping Sherlock's face and chest with it. The detective moaned sleepy, closed his eyes tightly, and clung even more to John, like a toddler refusing to wake up from his nap.

"No sleeping, we have to take a shower."

"Ffter" he bubbled.

John smiled, kissed Sherlock's hair, and indulged him a couple of hours rest.

Chapter Text

John jumped from the table and lifted Sherlock off it. Carrying him fireman style, panting with the effort, since the detective wasn't helping, allowing himself to be transported as lifelessly as a corpse. John chuckled, and he came out of the cellar, crossing a small corridor to arrive at a big bathroom with a huge bathtub.

John opened the taps and checked the water temperature. When he was satisfied, he placed the detective in the bathtub, who put his head under the jet and shook it, spreading thousands of drops all over the bathroom, like a happy cocker spaniel.

John took a sponge, poured in soap, and began to rub the detective's shoulders and back, relaxing his muscles under his massage.

"Now me," Sherlock went to get another sponge, but the doctor stopped him with a gesture.

"No, hands on the tiles, spread your legs."

Sherlock looked sideways at John's hardening cock and licked his lower lip.

"Don't get your hopes up," laughed the doctor, rubbing the sponge between Sherlock's legs, climbing up his thighs to his crotch, rubbing the sponge into the crack of his ass. Sherlock moaned and squirmed, and John slapped his arse. The detective stilled as John rubbed the sponge over his testicles and cock, which began to bulge from the stimulus.

John bent down behind the detective and, smearing his fingers in aromatic oil, started to push the clubbed tip of his finger against inside Sherlock's hole, still, a bit softened after John's fucking. Sherlock moaned and closed his eyes, wishing he could reach his cock and stroke himself, but John's instructions were clear.

"Captain, you are insatiable."

John chuckled and pushed two fingers inside Sherlock, thrusting them in and out, opening the detective again.

"Instructions, pet," he said in his best Capitan's tone.

Sherlock tensed up, tightening the muscle around John's fingers. The doctor slapped his arse again, and Sherlock relaxed.

"Rule number one. You can't come until I allow you."

Sherlock gulped audibly. Every time John gave him that order, the doctor became a merciless teasing demon, relentlessly teasing him, bringing him to the edge of orgasm over and over again without allowing him to come. John turned his fingers, and Sherlock moaned when he hit his prostate, making his cock jumping hard.

Sherlock moved his hips back, trying to get more of John's fucking fingers in. It was part of the game. While John was giving the instructions, he could come, and the teasing afterward would be easier to bear, although, on more than one occasion, he was left on edge and what was coming next was a delicious hell..., because if at least John put a cock ring or a cock cage on it, but the worst part was...

"Rule number two. You will be responsible for not coming, only you."

"Oh, God," moaned the detective, trying to impale himself even more on John's fingers and looking for his cock's friction with the cold tiles on the wall. From time to time, John reached for his prostate with his fingers, taking it a step further, but he did it randomly, preventing the detective from finding a pattern that would allow him to reach the desired orgasm.

"But… "

John pulled his fingers out of the detective's arse.

"I'm sorry, Captain,"

John inserted three fingers inside him, scissoring them, opening him. Sherlock moaned harder as John rubbed his thumb over the head of his cock.

"Questions?"

Sherlock moaned, panting. John pulled his fingers out of his ass and stopped stroking him. The detective noticed something pressing on his entrance, a dildo, as wide as John's dick, which the doctor slowly introduced, fucking him with it until he noticed the dildo's end in his arsecheeks.

A buzzing sound filled the room, and the dildo began to vibrate over his prostate. Sherlock moaned a curse and cried when John grabbed the base of his cock tightly, preventing him from coming.

A minute later, John started slowly stroking him. Then he sped up for a moment, and just when he sensed Sherlock's ball tensing and his cock throbbing, the needing to come building in his low abdomen, he let go of his cock, and Sherlock whined in frustration.

John chuckled, slapped Sherlock arse, switched off the dildo, and moved out from the tub, his hard cock throbbing as he walked away from the back. When he was out, he snapped his fingers, and Sherlock jump from the tub to follow him.

He would have run, but at every step, the dildo collided with his prostate, bringing it dangerously close to orgasm, so he was forced to amble in small steps, trying not to move the dildo inside himself. From time to time, on some larger stride, the dildo would bump into his prostate again, and Sherlock had to stop, clench his teeth and contract his muscles to avoid coming, precum gushing from the tip of his cock.

John continued to walk to the garden where they had had breakfast. He opened one of the glass doors and lay down on a sunbed, gazing amusedly at the detective who, when not forced to stand up to avoid coming, walked like a geisha to minimize the vibrator's effect on his prostate.

Edging Sherlock turned John on. Not only because of the detective's absolute submission but for the perfect mix of forcing Sherlock to control without being in control at all. That's why he didn't use cock rings or cage cocks. If he did, control would be over the toy, and that wasn't what John wanted. He wanted the detective to focus all his massive intellect on the game.

Sherlock stopped in front of him, hands behind his back, his cock hard and throbbing, vibrating in search of the longed-for orgasm, his body trembled slightly. For John, there was nothing more beautiful than Sherlock's body covered with sweat and reddened with pleasure and desire, his face, his back, his chest rising and falling to the level of his rapid breathing, his tense muscles fighting against pleasure..., totally submitted to his desires and enjoying doing it. John knew that if it were too much for him, he would use his safeword, so he teased him freely.

John grabbed his own hard cock and started slowly stroking himself. Sherlock swallowed hard, his eyes following each of John's hand movements, wishing it was his mouth instead of John's hand on the doctor's cock.

"Imagine my hand in your cock, like this, feel my hand in your cock," moaned John. He stroked upward and slowly stroked back down. Sherlock held a whine low in his throat. His brain instantly recreated the feeling, and it was as if John were playing with his cock. His mind retrieved the felling of John's hand around it, and oh, it felt so good even only in his imagination….

John moaned softly, gently and slowly stroking him. Sherlock licked his lips, watching the drops of precum slipping from the tip to the doctor's balls. John smirked, watching Sherlock's gluttonous gaze.

"Want to taste?"

Sherlock nodded, though he wasn't quite sure he wouldn't come at the very moment his mouth came in contact with John's dick.

"Just the tongue," John chuckled at Sherlock's frustrated gesture of "just the tongue and just a drop."

Sherlock knelt and put his mouth to John's cock, which shook as he felt the detective's breath. Carefully, using only the tip of his tongue, he slid it over the slit and picked up a few drops of precum. John groaned in pleasure, bucking his hips with the contact of Sherlock's tongue, while the detective savored his prize, licking his lips greedily.

John looked directly at Sherlock's eyes, stroked stroke upward, and thumbed over the head of his cock, his movements deliberately slowly, so the detective could feel them on him. Sherlock moaned, wetting his lips.

John stopped jerking off, settled down, and crossed his arms behind his head. Sherlock smirked and crawled back to him.

The doctor let out an obscene loud moan when the detective sank his mouth around his cock. Sherlock's mouth was always heaven, but when he was not allowed to come, it was the paradise, so greedy, hot and wet, and with that sinfully skilled tongue…

Sherlock bobbed his head, sucking and swallowing John's cock, loud and vibrating moans of pleasure coming from his mouth, reaching John's cock directly. If Sherlock usually was vocal in sex, when he was edged, the volume of his moans, cries, whines, and groans increased notably. John groaned, getting lost in the wonderful sessión of having Sherlock's mouth around his cock, his tongue twirling around the tip. Holding the back of the chair with his hands, he let the detective move as he pleased.

Sherlock dropped his head back down to lick at John's balls, running his tongue up the shaft and wrapped his mouth back around the head. For a while, he bobbed his head without sucking, just sliding his lips and tongue over John, without the doctor making the slightest movement or changing his hands. Sherlock frowned, and a small grunt mingled with his moans.

John smirked. He forced himself to keep quiet; he wanted Sherlock to ask him. The doctor knew he would do so shortly regarding the frustrated and bewildered sounds he made at John's hands and hips' passivity. But, tricky as always, he wanted to provoke John before asking him, until, just as John expected, he gave up

"Captain," panted Sherlock, taking John's cock from his mouth for a moment, "please…"

John knew the detective wasn't talking about coming.

"What do you want, pet?" casually.

"Fuck my mouth."

"I'm already fucking your mouth."

Sherlock was clearly about to roll his eyes, but he stopped in time.

"Fuck my mouth, please, Captain"…

"You want to choke on my cock?" John teased, and Sherlock nodded eagerly.

Without warning, John placed his hands on Sherlock's head, pushing him over his cock so that Sherlock had to take almost the entire length into his mouth. He jerked his hips up quickly, and Sherlock gagged, a bit surprised by the sudden movement. He swallowed a couple of times, breathing deeply through his nose until he could control his gag reflex, as John taught him.

He grabbed his hair and pulled Sherlock's head up, so he could only suck the tip for a while, until he thrust his hips up, sinking his cock into the bottom of Sherlock's throat, who effortlessly opened it, then pulled the detective's head up again.

"Open wider," the doctor ordered.

Sherlock complied, and John shoved his cock in his mouth again, thrusting his hips harder and harder, his hand pressing the back of Sherlock's head, keeping him from moving.

"Your mouth feels so amazing," panted John, pistoning his hips faster. Sherlock moaned hard, his hands on the lounger to balance better against John's hips strong attacks, the tip of his cock going into his throat a little more with each lunge. John rumbled; Sherlock's ghosting little kitten-licks on his cock, driving him insane.

"Fuck, god, Take it, take it, you take my cock so well…" grunted John, growling when Sherlock grabbed his balls and squeezed them gently, feeling them tighten as the orgasm grew inside John's lower abdomen.

Sherlock breathed heavily through his nose, gran amount of saliva slipping down his chin, his own cock painfully hard, his body begging to come; he had to fight the impulse of stroking himself, as John thrust his hips hard, impaling his mouth.

"Your mouth was made for sucking my cock," rumbled the doctor, making Sherlock shiver with pleasure and moan harder. His tongue licked stripes along his shaft as his lips went up and down on John's cock, easing and clenching with the perfect pressure.

John was so close, an intense orgasm growing inside him, feeling Sherlock's hot mouth around him. In other circumstances, Sherlock would have been getting off himself. But knowing he wasn't able to come pushed John on the verge, his hips moving with a will of his own, furiously fucking the mouth of a complacent Sherlock who held on tightly to the lounger so as not to fall under John's onslaught and to contain the urge to jerk off.

John emitted a strangled scream, pinned down Sherlock's head, as he continued to thrust brutally, groaning Sherlock's name over and over like a mantra as his orgasm hit him. He pushed his hips one last time, holding them there and came down his throat, while his body shivered with the intensity of the orgasm, increased with the feeling of Sherlock wantonly swallowing every drop of his hot come.

The detective choked as the head of John's twitching cock halfway down his throat before it slipped from his lips entirely with a wet pop, the last spurt falling into his hanging open mouth.

John growled, looking the mix of cum and spit drooling obscenely from Sherlock's open mouth. He thought he could come again instantly watching how he caught the last few drops on his tongue, so he didn't waste any of it, wiping his lips clean like a cat with a smug grin, that quickly banished in a tense grimace when John switched on the vibrator inside him.

Sherlock let out a moaned cry and grabbed the base of his cock to prevent him from coming, the taste of John's come still in his mouth, intensifying the feeling of the dildo against his prostate.

"Next time, don't be so proud of yourself," teased John, rubbing his index finger over the head of the detective's hard cock, as Sherlock cursed. His cock ached, and he needed to come so desperately…

When John recovered himself from his intense orgasm, he took one of Sherlock's nipple in his mouth, his tongue rolls over the nub, smiling at the way Sherlock arched his back, his hips bucking, as the doctor gripped the detective's glorious arse, squeezing the cheeks. John nipped at his nipple lightly before releasing it. He blew against it, smirking again, and Sherlock's breath hitched sharply, galloping rapidly towards the impossible orgasm. John noticed he was about to come, separated his mouth from Sherlock, who whined pitifully.

"Please," begged the detective, "I need… I can't. I need to…"

"You need to…" John mocked, "Do you deserve it?"

Sherlock nodded

"hmmm, I see, you mean good cock sluts get a reward…….." teased John, looking him straight in the eye. The detective blushed slightly and nodded, "Maybe later, now we have to prepare lunch."

Sherlock groaned. He didn't quite understand what was wrong with his body, his brain, or both. He was dying to come, he would give anything to be able to do it, but the feeling of being in John's hands, at his mercy, of totally submitting to him was greater than his desire to come. Pouting, he stood up and waited, hands behind his back, for John to get up.

"Go to the kitchen. See what you can make."

"Cooking? Me?"

"Yes, you. I'll take a shower." John got off the deckchair, his legs still wobbling a bit, "Whatever happens, you can't stop cooking, got it?"

Sherlock grunted and made his way to the kitchen. Concentrating on cooking would do him good to forget the desire to come. He took a deep breath and searched the cupboards. There wasn't much there, except aubergines, potatoes, minced beef meat, milk, and flour. His mind searched for something to help relax his hard cock. The mere memory of Mycroft's name worked a miracle.

He washed and emptied the eggplant contents into a dish when the vibrator started torturing his prostate again.

"Fuck" groaned Sherlock, his cock getting fully hard quickly. He arched his back and whimpered loudly. The vibration stopped, and he wailed with need. Panting, he tried to calm down. When he felt himself a little less close to orgasm, he kept on cooking.

Without warning, the vibrator punished his prostate throughout the cooking, sometimes for a few seconds, sometimes for longer, eliciting loud, desperate moans from his throat. It would stop as suddenly as it had started. And the worst was that it had no specific pattern: sometimes strong, sometimes soft, sometimes both... He knew John was watching him, not only because he always stopped when he was about to come, but also because the vibrator never came on when Sherlock was using knives or putting something in or taking something out of the oven. The idea of John taking care of him in that way produced a feeling similar to... tenderness.

Sherlock shivered at the idea. Perhaps it was just because his body was becoming more and more desperate to come. Just as he put the dish with the aubergines in the oven and straightened up, the vibrator began to vibrate again at maximum force. This time the dildo's head started to turn in on itself, making Sherlock's legs slack. He had to hold on to the worktop so as not to fall, holding the base of his cock tightly, legs opened to try and limit the vibrator's effect while moaning curses interspersed with sobbings. His body started to feel overwhelmed.

"Please, I'm begging……..please"

"If you ask that way..." he heard John say hungrily behind him.

Sherlock screamed, surprised when he felt the dildo being pull out of his ass, and the next second, John's cock impaled him with one blow as the doctor pulled him back, away from the counter to find one better angle to shag him.

"You are such a cock hungry," grunted John, thrusting hard and fast on Sherlock, his hands grabbing firmly the detective's hips, who could only moan and beg, in the hope that John would finally let him come.

But the doctor showed no intention of doing so. He closed his eyes, exhaled slowly, trying to control himself. Sherlock's begging and moans could make him cum immediately if he didn't.

He opened them, to see his husband completely unraveled, his mouth opened, his hand grabbing his cock, his back arching and rocking into John's movements, torturing himself with John's cock, mouth wide open, gasping in pleasure, imploring John to let him come as John groaned and moaned, fucking him with all his might, without any mercy.

Even with the dildo, Sherlock's ass was still fucking tight, his cock impossibly hard inside him. John moaned with pleasure, Sherlock made agonizing sounds, breathing heavily through clenched teeth, hands firmly resting on the counter, forcing his arms to prevent John's hard push to ram him up against the counter.

With an animalistic groan, John pulled his cock out of Sherlock's ass and began to cum on his ass, filling his buttocks with semen. The detective whined, struggling desperately to control his orgasm, controlling his breathing, feeling John's hot running spurts against his skin. John dropped on him, while Sherlock concentrated on calming himself, taking deep breaths.

"You're doing great," whispered the doctor in the detective's ear, stroking his hair softly to help him to calm down. Sherlock shuddered as John ran a finger over the tip of his dick. "Do you want to come?"

Sherlock nodded desperately. "Please let me come; I need to come, please, please, please," he almost sobbed. His tone told John he was close to his breaking point.

"Okay, you can come..." John almost felt sorry when he noticed the momentary relief on the detective's face "but not yet."

Sherlock let out a whiled moan. John looked at his hard-rock, reddened cock, and looked at the stream of precum flowing from the tip down the shaft. Unable to restrain himself, John bent down and gave a couple of licks to his dick's tip.

"John, pleeeease!"

"No, not yet. Let's eat."

Sherlock huffed in frustration. Eat? Eat? He didn't want to eat. He wanted to come!

"If you don't eat, you don't come, you choose."

Sherlock grunted as John opened the oven, pulled out the stuffed aubergines, and turned to look at him.

"Amazing what you can do for coming, Sherlock Holmes," he chuckled, reading a clear go to hell in the detective's eyes.

They ate in the garden, John in shorts and Sherlock naked. When the detective was threatening to stop eating, the doctor teased the tip of his cock with his foot, forcing him to finish his plate. The detective was so close that he needed no more than a couple of rubs to edge the orgasm. John stopped, looking at him with a mischievous expression. To Sherlock's despair, John decided they would take a nap on the deckchairs. His pleas were futile. John closed his eyes quietly, dozing beside a frustrated detective with his nerves' on fire, trying to get his mind off a body screaming for coming.

An hour later, John woke up. He looked at Sherlock's cock, the red tip, leaking profusely and smiled. It would be enough to blow on the tip to make him orgasm.

"Well, as I said before, you'll be able to come..."

"Thank you, Captain, yes, yes, thank you."

John grabbed Sherlock's hand by the wrist as it went to take his cock.

"You'll be able to come when you're fucking me."

Sherlock stood there for a few moments, processing what he had just heard. He was sure he misunderstood him.

"Yes, I want you to fuck me… while you're being fucked."

Just as John predicted, the impressive erection Sherlock was showing until a second ago, deflated. He looked at the doctor with a mixture of surprise and anguish that almost broke John's heart.

"Time out," he grunted.

John nodded. He was expecting and was glad Sherlock asked. At the beginning of their relationship, they agreed when either of them asked for something that made the other feel uncomfortable or went beyond his boundaries, the time out request allowed them to stop and talk it over calmly.

"Do you want me to fuck you?" he asked nervously.

"Well, it's our wedding weekend. I can't think of a better moment to…

"To loss your virginity?"

John groaned.

"To be fucked by you."

"Why didn't you told me…?"

Sherlock frowned. They have talked before about John bottoming, and they even tried a couple of times, but John backed out at the end, frustrated and worried. Sherlock didn't want to push him. In John's mind, he knew that it was one thing to acknowledge his bisexuality and another to accept that he could enjoy being fucked by Sherlock. His body wanted it, but his head wouldn't allow it.

On the other hand, although he liked the idea of fucking John, he was nervous about the possibility of failing, of not making John enjoy it as much as he did when John was fucking him, of hurting him…, apart from the fact that his cock was not like John's. Its size was above average, but, next to John, it seemed small. Or that Sherlock never topped. John caught him off-guard. He bit his lower lip, worried.

John mumbled, stroking his cheek.

"I needed to be sure. I needed to find a way to..., to feel comfortable, to stop my mind from going against me. I didn't want you to start overthinking and worrying. I realized that I would feel comfortable if, even bottoming, I was in charge and even more so if while you were fucking me, you were being fucked too".

The detective paled. He forgot about that part.

"John, I don't want anyone... more than you... I couldn't stand..."

The doctor nodded. He walked over and took the detective's hand.

"Don't worry; there won't be anyone else but me."

"But you said..."

"Trust me, okay? Do you trust me?"

Sherlock scrutinized John's face to deduce whether he was telling the truth. John always found the transformation fascinating. All signs of excitement vanished from Sherlock's body, his dilated pupils returned to normal size, and his look became pierced, searching, deductive. It seemed impossible that, two minutes earlier, he was whining and almost sobbing about being allowed to come.

He nodded. John smiled and took his hand. The detective let himself be led meekly into the dungeon. Once there, John made Sherlock lie down, stretched out his arms, and tied them to the table's corners. He spread his legs and tied them so that detective was motionless, obscenely open. He could only take what John wanted to do with him.

John came over and kissed him gently on the lips. Sherlock was still tense, his eyes following all his movements. The doctor stroked his hair to reassure him and kissed him gently again. Sherlock, more relaxed, responded to the kiss.

"John..."

"Shhhhhhh," sushed the doctor, just like Sherlock did when he was tied up. He winked, "It will be perfect; you'll see."

"But... how am I going to... prepare you?"

"I've already prepared myself, don't worry."

The detective frowned and pouted.

"Don't feel bad. I'm sure about wanting you inside me," he explained quickly, noticing Sherlock was going to argue, "This way, you won't have anything to worry about. I will be in charge of everything. Moreover, I will be fucking you while you fuck me. You just have to worry about not fainting from pleasure," he added, enjoying Sherlock's growl.

"But how…?"

John put something in front of Sherlock's eyes. In the dungeon's gloom, the detective had difficulty identifying what it was. When he did, he burst out laughing.

"You're insane," he managed to say amidst laughter.

"Don't you like it?"

"You know there's nothing I like more."

"Prove it. Or I won't let you come."

Sherlock sucked a gasp, and his cock throbbed, suddenly remembering the previous game. John shoved the object into Sherlock's mouth, which the detective licked gluttonously. The huge dildo was an amazing, exact replica of John's cock. The doctor fucked Sherlock's mouth for a few moments, then pulled it out and covered it with lube.

He moved close to Sherlock's feet, disappearing into the darkness. The detective tensed up when he noticed John taking out his vibrator and slowly inserting the dildo into his hole.

Sherlock moaned. He tried to move his hips back to get more of the dildo inside him, but the ropes didn't allow him to do it. John pulled the dildo in and out of his arse a couple of times and finally pushed it in. He kept thrusting, making Sherlock moan, looking for the perfect angle until he hit the detective's prostate, making him yelp. Sherlock heard a sound that he could not define, but John was up on the table where he was tied up before he could concentrate on it.

Standing with his legs open on both sides of Sherlock's waist, he stuck his fingers into the shorts' elastic and, swinging his hips slowly and provocatively, slowly lowered them, letting his semi-erect cock appear. The vision made the detective's mouth water. He was nervous at the prospect of fucking John. He wanted to do it right, make him feel as good as John made him feel. And he could tell that John was, too. As he dropped his shorts down his legs, he looked sideways at Sherlock's hard, erect cock, which, though not as big and impressive as his, was also threatening.

John slowly ducked until his ass touched the tip of Sherlock's cock. The detective moaned as John grabbed his cock, to hold it firmly while, with the other hand resting on the detective's chest, he slowly lowered himself, inserting the tip of the cock into his already lubricated hole.

Both moaned loudly, and Sherlock noticed John was shivering. The doctor grabbed the bar over his head and climbed back up. Sherlock waited patiently for him to come down again. These were new sensations for John, and he needed to get accustomed to them. He came down slowly, this time down to the middle of Sherlock's cock, his thighs shaking slightly.

The detective groaned, noticing how tight John was, the feel of his walls hugging his cock. He breathed, controlling the urge to raise his hips and impale the doctor. He arched his back slightly and moaned hard, while John, covered in sweat, frowned, too focused even to whimper.

At one point, he pressed his lips together and let himself fall on Sherlock's cock.

"Fucking hell, John!" exclaimed the detective, who was not expecting it, worried by John's indefinable expression, "Are you okay?"

John just bit his lower lip for a few moments and finally nodded.

"God... This is. . . . This is.........you should...."

Sherlock chuckled. His husband's reaction reminded him of his own when John first entered him. Sherlock moaned hard as John tentatively turned his hips, grunting pleasantly as he adjusted to having the detective inside.

"You feel so well..." Sherlock moaned, the idea of being inside John, the feeling of really being inside him overwhelming him, "you are selfish."

"Me?" asked John, his voice a bit higher-pitched than usual. "Why?"

"For not letting me fuck you before... you know how wonderful your arse is? God, I could come right now..."

"You still can't come until I tell you to. I don't care if you have your cock in my arse."

Sherlock chuckled but groaned when John pressed his muscles around his cock, obliging him to concentrate in not coming.

"Don't dare to come."

John stood up again on his knees and went down again. Sherlock moved his hips a little as his position would allow, and the third time John went up and down, the low groaning from the doctor's mouth let him know that he had hit his prostate.

"Bastard," moaned the doctor.

John began to move with more rhythm, with more confidence, his body already used to Sherlock's cock. The detective closed his eyes, bucking his hips every time John came down to penetrate him deeper. John groaned loudly, his head back, his hands resting on the detective's chest.

"Oh god, this is great," moaned the doctor. He looked at Sherlock and smiled mischievously. A metal screech was heard, and the dildo that until that moment occupied Sherlock's arse, began to fuck him hard and fast.

The detective opened his eyes wide and cried with surprise, his body trembling as his prostate was mercilessly attacked. John soon mimicked the fucking machine's pace. Sherlock let out a moaned curse. Suddenly, all the edging John had undergone was coming back, and he felt an orgasm grow inside him that would break him in two.

John, riding Sherlock's cock, wondering why the hell he hadn't done it sooner, growling at the explosions of pleasure that went through his entire body every time the detective's cock reached his prostate. He grabbed his cock and started stroking himself, chasing his orgasm. He accelerated his movements, clenching and unclenching his hole while moving over Sherlock's cock, riding him faster and faster. Even though he had come three times and the detective none, the sensations were so new and intense that they quickly brought him back to the edge of orgasm.

From the moaning, he could tell that Sherlock was on the verge, too. The detective rolled his eyes, his mouth half-open, his fists clenched, his body quivering hard, fighting his orgasm;  he wanted to keep  fucking John until he came.

"Are you close?" he panted, quietly, voice blew out and teary, a begging implicit in his question.

John bent and kissed Sherlock's neck. The detective wailed. The last thing he needed was one more stimulus. His body was shaking heavily as he pushed his hips to meet John's body any time he impaled himself on his cock.

"Are you ready to come?" the doctor panted.

Sherlock shook his head, then nodded and shook it again.

"Shhh," John whispered, "I've got you."

"I can… wait," gasped the detective, although it was evident for John he couldn't.

"Come, Sherlock"

The detective shook his head again. He had to wait for John.

"Come, Sherlock," ordered John again, this time pinching the detective's nipples.

Sherlock strained in his restraints, his body stilling in the edge of his orgasm, raising his hips, making John squirm with delight at the feeling of Sherlock's dick pulsing and throbbing inside him.

" Oh, god, I..I… OH, JOHN!"

He exploded, every inch of his body overflowing with pleasure, seeing the stars literally. The final screamed "oh John!" was so loud that el doctor was sure it had been heard it in London.

John kept riding the detective, enjoying the new sensations of SHerlock's warm shoots of come filling him. He laughed, feeling free, light, and flying over Sherlock's cock, accepting himself entirely for the first time in his life.

He bent down to kiss a panting Sherlock and got up to keep on riding the detective's cock, who emitted a string of "oh, oh, oh," his body floating towards his second orgasm, with John sitting on his cock and the fucking machine drilling into his prostate.

If Sherlock was loud before his orgasm, after it, he was thunderous, so much that John feared for a moment that the inhabitants of the nearest town show up to see who they were torturing.

The only consulting detective in the world was now reduced to pants, moans, cries, and begs, interspersed con full-throated, wordless squeals.

"What is it, Sherlock?" panted the doctor, wickedly teasing him at the verge of his own orgasm, trying to keep his voice calm after one of the loudest and most obscene sounds the detective produced. "I don't quite understand you."

The doctor moaned hard when Sherlock, in revenge, managed to give a particularly hard thrust inside him.

"Your cock feels so good, Sherlock," moaned the doctor. "He pressed a button, and the machine fucked Sherlock faster. The detective cried and moaned even harder, a new orgasm building inside him, this time incompressibly stronger than the previous one, so much so that, for a moment, Sherlock feared his body could explode when it burst inside him.

He begged John to stop between moans, his oversensitized body turning the pleasure in unbearable. John chuckled, this time slowing a bit the rhythm of his body rocking up and down Sherlock.

"But you wanted to come. You have been bugging me the whole day to let you come. So… here we go".

Sherlock's legs spasmed. His cock, vibrated wildly inside John as he stroked his own cock, until he came with brutal force, arching his back, his moans matching Sherlock's in volume. John kept riding him through his climax while long strands of come landed on Sherlock's stomach. His body's spasm made his muscles tighten around Sherlock's cock, who, with a piercing shriek, came brutally, moans of pleasure mixed with shouts of pain, the most glorious and pleasurable pain he felt before.

Minutes later, John stopped the machine and climbed back from a wrecked whimpering body. Sherlock sighed in relief and smiled tiredly at John, who patted his hair, waiting a bit while Sherlock's chest rhythm quieted down a little bit.

But it seemed like John's revenge wasn't over yet.

"You don't think we are done here, do you?" he smirked wickedly.

"No, no, no, please, John, no…….ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh fuuuuuuuuuuuuuck"

The machine started up again at full speed. Sherlock rolled his eyes and tensed his body, screaming in unbearable pleasure each time the replica of John's cock hit his overstimulated prostate. His cock started hardening again, despite the last two orgasms.

When Sherlock was about to come again, John grabbed his cock and stroked him until he came. The feeling was so overwhelming that Sherlock almost blacked out, his body shaking heavily, his eyes full of tears, his mouth opened, trying to catch his breath between the loudest and long moans the detective produced before.

John stopped the machine and laid down next to the trembling detective, embracing and kissing him softly. Minutes later, Sherlock looked at him, his eyes full of love.

"I died, and I am in heaven," he panted.

John chuckled and looked around.

"Well, what a hell of heaven this would be, huh?"

Sherlock, already more relaxed, kissed John gently on the lips, staring at him.

"For me, perfect."

The doctor blushed a bit and chuckled.

"The day the world learns that Sherlock Holmes is a romantic..."

"He won't know. People only see what they want to see, John," mused Sherlock as John untied him. The detective dropped his tired limbs heavily on the soft support and caught John between his legs.

"Lucky for me," John whispered happily, feeling his heart explode for his mad genius while pecking the detective's nose. "Are you okay?"

Sherlock nodded, kissing John's neck.

"And you?"

"Great. A bit sore, maybe, but great".

"Did you enjoyed it?" asked the detective nervously.

"Not only enjoyed. It was amazing. You were amazing. It has been liberating, different, reassuring, overwhelming... You were perfect, love".

Sherlock blushed, delighted.

"I didn't do much."

"Don't be an idiot. Of course, you do." he smiled and pecked his nose. "I may let you fuck me in our wedding anniversaries if you behave."

Both mumbled. Sherlock closed his eyes and sighed contentedly.

"We should take a shower. We're taking a flight tomorrow with our daughter, remember?

"Morrow" mumbled the detective, sinking his nose into John's hair.

The doctor settled down on Sherlock's chest, and soon both fell asleep, exhausted, sated, and, most of all, loved.

Chapter Text

The next morning, Sherlock snorted over his coffee when John walked a bit funny into the kitchen.

"Don't laugh so much. Next time you'll walk a lot funnier than me," snarled the doctor, leaning carefully on the table. 

"Don't complain," replied the detective, plugging in the kettle to make him tea. "The first time you fucked me, I had to use a cushion for a week, and I limped."

John burst out laughing.

"True. I remember Greg in his office, telling you over and over again to sit down and do the paperwork because you were limping, and you were signing the paperwork standing up, and Greg was crazy, asking me, but why doesn't he sit down?"

"And Anderson saying I had started running in the morning, and I twisted my ankle."

"Well, for once, he wasn't too far off track. You'd started working out. More horizontal, but exercise."

"Horizontal, vertical and diagonal, don't forget the stairs..." Sherlock wriggled his eyebrows suggestively and put two pieces of toast next to John, butter and jam. The doctor spread them and took a bite of one and chewed enthusiastically.

He smiled mischievously.

"Ready?"

"For what?"

"For the beach."

Sherlock grunted. He hated it so much that he deleted it from his Mind Palace.

"Don't grunt" John got up and went over to Sherlock, hugging him and pulling him in, tucking his thigh between Sherlock's legs and making the detective shudder. "I'll give you a vision of the beach you haven't had before."

"Oh, it must be wonderful to fuck in the sand, rolling around like a kibble."

"Just trust me. You'll beg me to bounce you in the sand."

*****

"Papa, Daddy!" shouted Rosie in excitement when she saw the car Sherlock rented, stopping in front of Sherlock's parents' door. She ran out to them, wrapped in a blanket.

"Are you in shock?" mocked Sherlock.

The girl looked at him blankly.

"Don't be silly. Why are you wearing a blanket, Rosie?

"He was trying on her swimsuit," replied Violet Holmes," By a miracle, she didn't come out just wearing it. She has been waiting for hours."

The detective looked at his watch.

"We came on time."

"Oh, you have to learn that time doesn't go by the same for children, Sherlock. She hasn't slept a wink in the excitement of the trip."

"No?" John frowned, holding his daughter in his arms, "That's not right, miss, you need to sleep."

"Papa doesn't sleep."

"I do sleep," protested Sherlock.

John scowled at him.

"You're going to miss your plane" Sherlock's father took Rosie's suitcase out and put it in the trunk. "John, since I know Sherlock won't do it, send us a message when you get there."

The doctor nodded.

"I will, don't worry."

They got into the car that took them directly to the airport, to the T5 terminal, bound for Palma de Mallorca. Rosie, tired and already calm from being on the plane, curled up at the window.

"Looks like someone's sleepy. But now you have to fasten your seatbelt, sweetheart," said John, helping her to do it "as soon as we take off, the stewardess will bring you a pillow."

Rosie yawned, and the stewardess smiled, nodding.

Like if she had a radar, she woke up just to see the turquoise waters of Mallorca's beaches and shouted in excitement. The little girl was elated. She went to the beach with John, or when her godmother Molly or Uncle Mycroft took her, but never with the two of them.

When they got off the plane and arrived at the airport gate, a driver was waiting for them. He took them to the car that went into the island. Sherlock put on his sunglasses and huddled against the window, squinting at the island's brightness, while John commented with Rosie on the coves, buildings, and animals they found on the way.

The car went into a narrow, bumpy road, which made Rosie laugh, amused with the bouncing and swaying, especially in a particularly strong one, which made Sherlock crash into the vehicle's roof. Miraculously, it managed to reach the end of the road, where a man of about sixty years old, with completely grey hair, brown eyes and jovia air, was waiting for them.

"Mr. Holmes, good to see you," said the man. Sherlock scowled at him. Rosie looked at him in surprise. The man smiled, and his eyes filled with wrinkles.

"You know I knew your dad when he was like you?"

"Come on, Bart, don't bore the girl with your stories," snarled Sherlock.

"Oh, yes, please, bore us with your stories about Sherlock," John encouraged him.

"Really? When he was like me?"

 Bart nodded.

"He had hair like you, curly, but more brown-haired. And he was just as tall as you."

"I thought Papa was always this tall."

"No, in fact, he was the shortest of the thr..."

"Careful, Bart."

"Of the two brothers. He even was the shortest in the class. Everyone else was growing up, and he wasn't."

"Oh, yeah?" John asked, amused.

Sherlock closed his eyes and bit his lower lip. 

"Yes, until he was fourteen. Then he started to grow and grow and grow, and so far".

"Thank you, very enlightening, Bart. Can we go to the house now?"

"Yes, Geena has everything ready."

"Who is Geena?" John asked.

Before Sherlock could respond, a tall, somewhat chubby woman in her sixties appeared at the door and threw herself into the detective's arms in a burst of excitement.

"Oh, William."

"For heaven's sake, my name is Sherlock!" barked the detective but let the woman hug him, though he pushed her away when she tried to kiss him on the cheek.

"Ohhh, you weren't so surly as a child."

"God, this is going to be a nightmare," grumbled the detective.

"It's going to be great," replied John, surprised when the woman embraced him with the same effusiveness and planted a kiss on each cheek.

"I'm Geena. Nice to meet you, Doctor. Watson. I was a cook at Musgrave when William... sorry, Sherlock," she rectified when Sherlock glared at her, "was a boy. And who is this beautiful girl?"

"Rosamund Mary Watson-Holmes," replied Rosie politely.

"What a lovely little thing," smiled the woman, bending down to kiss her, "I bet you are hungry. Aircraft food is terrible," Rosie nodded sharply. The woman looked at her watch, "I'll give you a snack. Even though it's early in Spain, I'll have dinner ready in half an hour."

"It's early for dinner? It's seven o'clock!" exclaimed Rosie.

"Here people eat here very late, at nine or ten o'clock."

"Do you want me to show you your room?" Bart asked Rosie.

Bart, Geena, and Rosie disappeared inside the house. John turned to Sherlock.

"So you were short, William?"

Sherlock whined. God, if the beach wasn't bad enough... A fortnight of embarrassing stories awaited him. John laughed, going into the house.

He sighed, relieved, entering to the coolness of the stone walls, which contrasted with the heat that was still on the island at that time of the year. When he said this to Geena, who was fussing at the entrance, the woman laughed out loud.

"This is not heat, Doctor. Watson. Come here at the end of July, and you'll see what heat is."

"Daddy!" shouted Rosie from upstairs, "come and see my room."

He stood before the massive sea-facing windows, which brought stunning views of a private small sandy beach, which opened later to the Mediterranean, accessed by a narrow path between dunes and pine trees. John went up the stairs, surprised by the house's spaciousness, more than twice the size of Baker Street, Rosie's bedroom included. The white walls gave it an exceptional luminosity, and each floor had a large balcony that looked directly out onto the sea. He opened one of the windows and breathed the aroma of saltpeter, amazed at the beauty of the view, miles of sea in different shades of blue, depending on the depth, turquoise on the shore, all edged with white foam here and there of the soft waves that a beach of fine white sand, surrounded by pine trees, bushes and flowers that splashed the landscape with colors. The sea's murmur, the smell of saltpeter mixed with the fresh greenery of the plants - that was paradise. It was a pity they couldn't have a house like that on vacation. For Rosie, it would be ideal.

"Daddy!" cried the girl impatiently.

John smiled and went up the last flight of stairs. Rosie's room was attic, with windows in the ceiling that allowed her to see the sky, heat-insulated windows through which light but not heat entered. The room was almost as big as their living room in Baker Street, occupied by a bed, a small table, a large closet, and a vast library that covered three of the walls, the two and a half meters from the floor to the ceiling, full of books that Rosie was looking with interest. She inherited her parents' love of reading.

"You will find something you like better on that shelf," advised Bart, pointing to the left wall. John, curious, came over too. These were novels for young people, the complete works of Jules Verne, Emilio Salgari, Roal Dahl, Michale Ende, Johnatan Swift, Mark Twain, Robert Louis Stevenson, Lewis Carroll, CS Lewis, Charles Dickens, all ordered by author and within each author by size. And it was just a shelf.

"Whose books are these?" asked Rosie

"Will... Sherlock's."

"All of them?" Rosie was amazed.

Bart laughed.

"And there are more in the basement. Your father spent his life with his nose in the books. He read those when he was a bit older than you and played pirates with…

Fortunately, Rosie didn't realize the man cut himself. He smiled sadly and looked at John, who could imagine this was how the conversations at Sherlock's house were after Victor's disappearance: whispers, half-sentences..., and, in the midst of all this, two children trying to overcome as best they could.

John went out on the balcony to watch the sea while Rosie sat on the floor to choose her next reading. Bart joined him.

"Did the rest of the books get burned?" asked John.

The man nodded.

"We saved what we could. All in William's room burned. Books on the shelves, on the floor, papers... all burned like a pyre. In the basement, these were in a library that Mr. Holmes built so the boy would not end up buried among books. Fortunately, when the fire started, William was in the basement and not in his room or the attic laboratory. The cellar had a direct exit to the garden because Mrs. Holmes didn't stand him and Victor running around the house the whole day".

"Sherlock asked to have them brought here?"

Bart shook his head.

"No, it was his parents who decided it. After what happened to Victor, the poor boy was oblivious to everything."

"I don't know if it's a good idea," John mused, looking at the books. "Too many memories, maybe."

"It was Sherlock himself who asked us to clean the books for her daughter."

John raised his eyebrows, surprised.

"Really?"

Bart nodded vehemently.

"Was it after the fire that they started calling him Sherlock?"

The butler smiled, shaking his head.

"No, he changed it after reading The Princess Bride when he was a child."

John almost had a stroke.

"Sherlock read The Princess Bride?"

"Oh, yes. Somehow it's a Pirate's book. Dread Pirate Roberts and so, remember?" he gave his voice a deep, hollow tone as he recited the passage from the book " The name was the important thing for inspiring the necessary fear ." Hence, he and Victor decided Sherlock was a better pirate name. He said, paraphrasing Westley, " No one would surrender to the Dread Pirate William ."

The man smiled at John's shocking gesture.

"He probably doesn't even remember it. His brain repressed many memories after… you know,".

John nodded. That's what Mycroft said at Baker Street, the day he first told them about Eurus. Still surprised, he followed Bart back into the room. The man ran his finger down the bookshelves to find the book and hold it out to John.

"The Princess Bride: S. Morgenstern's Classic Tale of True Love and High Adventure,"  the doctor read aloud. He opened the book carefully, bound in maroon tones and gold lettering. The front cover was tightly bound again, a sign that it had been read repeatedly.

The title attracted Rosie's attention.

"I want that one!"

"He read it at her age," he smiled.

"She's four years old."

The man nodded.

"One of the first books Sherlock read shortly after learning to read."

"Who was the long-suffering teacher? Mycroft?"

The man chuckled.

"No, he learned to read by himself."

"Really?" asked father and daughter at the same time, amazed.

Bart nodded.

"He was three years old, and I was teaching my son, who was six, to read. Since I couldn't take care of both of them, I gave him a book for his entertainment, and he sat in a corner with it. It had pictures in it, so I figured he was just looking at them. After ten days or so, he said he could read" the man laughed "of course, nobody believed him; his parents, his brother, and we were convinced he was just turning the pages or looking at the pictures. A few days later, arguing with his brother, he called him whippersnapper. When I asked him where he heard it, he showed me a book. And there was the word."

"Unbelievable. His parents didn't freak out?"

The man mumbled.

"His parents were not at all surprised. Alexander speaking seven languages by the age of eight? The usual. William, ten minutes after he picked up a violin for the first time at the age of six, being already able to pluck out tunes? The ordinary. We were the ones who couldn't believe it. We didn't understand half the words Alexander used...

John laughed, for the story and for Bart calling Mycroft by his first name. Even though he couldn't picture him as a child. In John's head, little Mycroft wore the same three-piece suit and umbrella and made the same gesture as he did now. Bart seemed to read his mind because he smiled.

"You won't believe this, but Alexander wanted to be a spy. And he would have been if it wasn't for his uncle Rudy..." The man shut his mouth and looked at John as if he feared he had talked too much.

John frowned. What did that name sound like to him? Ah! He was who decided to lock Eurus up in Sherrinford. He must have been a peculiar man, and Bart didn't like it very much from the tone.

"Daddy, can I learn to read on my own?"

John wasn't sure about what to say. He didn't want to discourage his daughter, but he was afraid she could get frustrated at not achieving things that could be accomplished only being a genius, as Sherlock was.

"You can try. But it's more fun to be taught by us, don't you think? What books do you want?"

He looked at the one his father was holding.

"That one! Can I take it home?"

"You'll have to ask Papa about that. It's him, remember?"

The girl nodded and sat down on the floor under the skylight to read.

"we're going to have dinner right away," John warned.

She nodded without looking up from the book, ignoring him as Sherlock did when concentrating on something. John chuckled, coming down the stairs.

He walked around the ground floor, looking for his husband. The large hall, with windows that faced the sea, a couple of bedrooms, and a narrow corridor that should lead to the kitchen. He stopped at the door of the large kitchen, amazed. On the large central table, Geena was stirring a huge bowl of something that reminded a potato salad, chatting with a relaxed Sherlock who sat in one chair, resting his feet on another.

"Dinner is ready in ten minutes," announced the woman as she saw John enter.

"We are in no hurry," replied Sherlock.

"I know you're not, but your husband and daughter are," she turned to John. "I think Rosie will like it; it's a typical dish from here, an Ibizan country salad and lamb pies."

"It smells delicious."

"Be thankful she didn't cook snails, or ray, which is also typical here," warned Sherlock.

"You gave me an idea. Tomorrow I will cook snails and teach your daughter to pull them out with a pin and..." Geena laughed at the greenish tint the detective's face was taking on. She turned to John, "He never liked them. He almost threw up as a kid when he saw people eating them."

"Snails, John" Sherlock's disgusting face was comical, "Who eats snails?"

"The whole world?" the doctor laughed. He looked at the oven critically and said, "Isn't that a lot of food?"

"Oh, the lunches and dinners here are quite substantial, especially the food, you'll see."

"Do you need help?"

"Don't even think about going near her kitchen, John. You could die trying," Sherlock warned.

"Only when meddling children get too close to the fire or to steal food from me."

"I can't imagine you stealing food," laughed John.

"She exaggerates," mouthed Sherlock, taking advantage of how the cook had her back turned.

"I'm not exaggerating one bit," replied Geena without turning around. Sherlock raised the right corner of his lip while John looked at her in surprise. "Do you remember when I made chocolate cake or pies?" She turned to John." Always flitting around. It was impossible to finish the cake without him taking chocolate, cookies, or condensed milk. He was like a cat. Before you knew it, he had fled with the loot."

John smiled fondly, and Sherlock chuckled.

"Papa, can I take it home?" Rosie came in, showing Sherlock The Princess Bride book.

The detective frowned in surprise and swallowed, reaching out to grab it.

It felt strange, holding it in his hands after so much time. His memory erased it, probably because he was related to Victor, but at the same time, it was strangely familiar to him, especially the soft smell of the covers.

He ran his hand across the cover, tracing the title's golden letters with his finger, stroking them. Bart was right. The book had been a treasure for Sherlock. The detective opened it, and the words reverberated in the kitchen, hypnotizing Rosie, John, and Geena with his deep baritone voice.

"No bribe attempts or blubbering.  He simply said, "Please. Please, I need to live." It was the "please" that caught my memory. I asked him what was so important to him."  Sherlock looked directly at John's eyes,  "True love." 

The doctor blushed and lowered his head, smiling shyly, to finally look back at the detective's eyes, bright with love and happiness.

"Could I take it?" repeated Rosie, breaking the spell.

"Of course. All the books here are yours," the detective said.

"All?" asked Rosie ecstatic.

"All of them."

"Yes, but you can't take them all with you. We would need to live in a house like Mycroft's," warned John.

"Ouch" snarled Sherlock.

"Bartholomew!" cried Geena, startling them. "Can you set the table?"

"We can do it ourselves," John offered, solicitously.

The woman smiled, grateful.

"No, John. You've come here on vacation. And that means you're going to do nothing but rest, eat and go to the beach. Besides, Bart and I could use a little exercise. We haven't had company in a long time. And knowing Sherlock," she pointed the knife she was peeling an apple with to him," you're the one who does the shopping and cooking.

"How well she knows you," laughed John. "Anyway..."

"I wouldn't disobey her," advised Sherlock, amusing. "She's much more dangerous than she looks."

John tilted his head, watching him. In a way, he could see in him the child that the cook and the butler were describing. His face seemed younger than usual, abandoning the gesture of concentration that always accompanied him. Sherlock was relaxed.

"It's all set," announced Bart. He bent down in front of Rosie, offering her his arm, as if at an official reception, "Will you come with me, miss?"

Rosie laughed and put her arm around the man's elbow. John and Sherlock followed them to a large open terrace overlooking the Mediterranean, the swimming pool, and the sea.

"Ooooooooooooooh" exclaimed Rosie, seeing the sun setting on the horizon, a fire-orange ball that slowly swallowed up by the sea. "I want to live here forever!"

"I don't think your Papa would leave Baker Street for anything in the world, but you can come here whenever you want," said Geena, leaving the colossal potato salad bowl in the center of the table and taking the girl's plate to serve her. She threw in a considerable ladle and gave it to her. The girl filled the fork and tried it out.

"Mmmmmmmmmmmm. Yummy!"

"Do you like it?" the girl nodded, excited. Geena, thrilled, served another giant spoon filled to her plate's top, to Rosie's delight. She also filled John's plate to overflowing, and Sherlock, although she only served half the ration, was horrified by the amount of food on his plate.

"I want to see the dishes clean," she warned, pointing him with the vessel, "then I'll get the pies."

The cook disappeared inside the house. John looked at Sherlock, distressed.

"She will bring pies?"

"Yes, prepare to be baited. Stomach bursting is a concept Geena never understood."

"They love you very much."

Sherlock made a vague hand gesture, but he didn't deny it.

"Are we going to the beach tomorrow?" asked Rosie with her mouth full. John looked at her, reproachful. The girl swallowed with difficulty and repeated, "Are we going to the beach tomorrow?"

John nodded.

"As soon as you wake up.

"Great!!!" the girl shouted, excited.

"Shhhhhh, don't squeal or Geena will come with the lamb pies," Sherlock warned.

The girl shrugged her head between her shoulders, hiding a smile.

Rosie and John finished their dinner, while Sherlock barely ate half a plate. It was still much more than he ate at Baker Street, so the doctor let it go.

After dinner, they went for a walk down to the little cove, on a marked path with wooden railings that snaked down to the sand.

Rosie went barefoot and ran cheerfully to the seashore, chasing the waves and fleeing from them as they rolled into the sand. Sherlock and John lay down on the sand, side by side, looking up at the star-studded sky.

"This is wonderful. You couldn't have found a better place for Rosie. She is enjoying it a lot."

Sherlock smiled.

"I thought she would like it."

"It's a shame we have to owe Mycroft favors to come back here."

"To Mycroft?" the detective frowned. "We can come here whenever we want."

"But it's his house..."

Sherlock chuckled.

"What is so funny?"

"The house it's not Mycroft's. It's mine. Well. Inherited. Grandpa Rudy was a lover of coves, and he had several houses all over the world. When he died, he divided them up among children, grandchildren, nephews... I got this one. It's Mycroft who takes care of it, so I'd practically deleted it from my Mind Palace. But when Rosie said she wanted to go to the beach, I remembered it. Better to be here than in any hotel full of noisy tourists, don't you think?

"So, you had a house on the beach, and you didn't tell me anything?" John asked, pretending to be angry

"I wanted you to love me for me and not for my beach house."

"The truth is, it gets you several points."

Sherlock chuckled. Then he got serious, and a bit of insecurity appeared in his eyes. John smiled fondly.

"Just kidding, babe. You know I would love you just as much if it was an apartment instead of a villa," he joked, leaning on the detective's torso and kissing him softly on the lips.

Sherlock smiled, reassured, and kissed him back. They both stared at Rosie, who was running along the beach, jumping among the seaweed, waves, and foam, frightening the seagulls as they passed.

John looked back at her.

"Do you see her? Pure happiness. And you have achieved that."

"I guess I'm relieved to go to the beach tomorrow then."

"Oh, no, of course not. Besides, don't think we're going to stay in this private patch. Rosie needs to see people and interact with children, or she will become a premature adult."

Sherlock groaned.

"You are a cruel and evil man, John Watson."

"Yes, but you like it."

"Guilty," chuckled Sherlock. They humbled face-to-face, their noses rubbing together, feeling each other's body heat but without touching.

"Is this house soundproof?" panted John.

"I don't know, I don't think so," sighed Sherlock.

"Has the great Sherlock Holmes not thought of that?" joked John, gently nibbling on the detective's lower lip.

"When I inherited the house, I had no reason to soundproof it."

John bit Sherlock's lower lip and pulling it slightly until he let go, enjoying the thrill that ran through the detective's body, accompanied by a barely audible whine more predictable of a puppy than the only consulting detective in the world.

"Now you have," John teased, getting up from the sand and shaking off his clothes.

Sherlock sighed and sat on the sand. John, laughing, rushed to the shore, took Rosie in his arms, and ducked her into the sea until it reached his knees, while he pretended to throw Rosie into the water, to the girl's delight, who was clinging to the doctor's arms amidst shrieks and waves of laughter. When John saw the detective was on his feet, he walked to the shore, where Rosie ran to Sherlock, and the three of them returned to the house.

After a quick shower to clean the sand, Sherlock went upstairs to read Rosie a bed story. He chuckled at the sight of her in that huge bed. Rosie looked tiny. The detective went to get one of the books she brought in her backpack, but she shook her head.

"I want your book."

Sherlock nodded, grabbed it, and slowly turned the pages, not noticing that John, hearing Rosie's request, went up the stairs and leaned against the doorway.

Sherlock reached the first page and began to read:

"This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it."

"That's imposs... "started Rosie, but stop talking when Sherlock raised his hand, asked her to wait.

He resumed reading:

"This is my favorite book in all the world, though I have never read it.

How is such a thing possible? I'll do my best to explain. As a child, I had simply no interest in books. I hated reading, I was very bad at it, and besides, how could you take the time to read when there were games that shrieked for playing….

Rosie listened to him with her eyes open, fighting the sleep that made her close her eyelids with Sherlock's voice rocking and lulling her between pages, paragraphs, and words.

"Has it got any sports in it?

"Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True Love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautiful ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave Men. Coward Men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles…."

Sherlock looked sideways at Rosie, who felt asleep leaning on the headboard. He closed the book, put it on the bedside table, helped her bed, and tucked her in. When the detective bent down to kiss her, he felt John's hands around his waist. He kissed Rosie and stood up, turning to kiss John softly.

The two of them left the room without making a sound. The doctor turned and tiptoed to kiss Sherlock again.

"Have you realized the book tells our story?

Sherlock smiled, frowning a bit.

"Fencing. Fighting. Torture. Poison. True Love. Hate. Revenge. Giants. Hunters. Bad men. Good men. Beautiful ladies. Snakes. Spiders. Beasts of all natures and descriptions. Pain. Death. Brave Men. Coward Men. Strongest men. Chases. Escapes. Lies. Truths. Passion. Miracles," recited John. He locked his eyes with Sherlock. "Miracles."

The detective smiled fondly and nodded, kissing him again. He frowned, amused.

"No poison."

"You drugged me in Baskerville."

"Fair point."

"Brave men," whispered John, kissing him again.

"Strongest men." Sherlock kissed him back

"Giants yes, the Golem..., but we have no Beasts of all natures and descriptions."

"Of course. The Baskerville hound, Donovan, and Anderson.

They both laughed.

"Passion," John began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt, "a lot of passion."

"And true love."

"And true love," smiled John, forcing Sherlock to walk backward until the detective fell on the bed. Exhausted from the previous days and the trip, they cuddled up and fell asleep almost instantaneously.

Chapter Text

Sherlock Holmes hated the beach for many reasons. The harsh sun fried his skin and gave it an orange- bright red color after seconds of exposure. Because of the protective cream, that he had to renew almost every minute to avoid third-degree sunburn. For the people who blatantly ignored interpersonal space (not that he did, especially with John, but he could not stand the proximity of strangers) for the screaming children, the sand that invaded everything... 

But, above all, because, at the beach, he turned to the most jealous consulting detective in the world. 

Because John in that damn red swimsuit, showing his tanned, muscular body (he should have said no when the doctor decided to go back to playing rugby to get in shape for the wedding) was enough for to arouse bathers' interest in all senses, who were soon fluttering around, shamelessly flirting with him.

Even deducing John gave no interest in their blatant attempts to flirt with him, nor was he attracted to any of them, Sherlock could not help but wish with all his strength that they burned themselves out under the sun and disintegrate.

But then, from the canopy to protect himself from the sun, he observed John and Rosie's happy faces while building a sandcastle, both kneeling on the shore, patting the mud to give it the desired shape, discussing the height of the battlements or deciding where to put a seaweed that Rosie found attractive. At that moment, seeing them radiant with happiness, the sun, the cream, the sand, the people, the jealousy, the discomfort, and the burns, all it was all worth it. 

John Watson adored the beach. He enjoyed the sun's warmth, getting tanned, the softness of the sand under his feet, the smell and sound of the sea, the shouting of the people enjoying themselves on the beach, and most of all, Rosie's happy face when running in the shore to escape from the waves after getting more mud to add somewhere in the sandcastle, while he followed her precise orders on how to build the moat around, the time they spent together making, in Rosie's words, the perfect sandcastle. 

And he could deny it boosted his ego the more or less dissimulates attempts of both men and women flirting with him, making him feel attractive and young. 

But all of it disappeared when Sherlock put the book down, stood up, and gracefully ran towards them through the sand. 

Because if people looked at John as the walking promise of a mind-blowing fuck, the doctor could see all those hungry eyes fixed on the detective's arse, envisioning themselves savagely fucking him on one of the deckchairs, embedded in a wall or lying in the sand. Damned black swim shorts that fitted him like a second skin, accentuating his arse, the contrast with his pale skin, making him even more desirable.  

Some of them even dared to get up and walk behind him, trying an approach, oblivious to a John who felt an atavistic desire to growl underneath and show his fangs, making it clear that he was the only who fucked the detective. 

Oblivious to their parents' tribulations, Rosie let out an excited shriek when Sherlock, in his run, took her in his arms and got into the water, splashing with great strides, the girl laughing out loud as the detective jumped the waves, she holding on to his neck, both jumping every time a wave approached them that Rosie anticipated screaming "wave, wave, wave!!” as, John dove into the sea behind them.   

"It's warm!" shouted the girl with delight, swimming freely once the detective deposited her in the water. 

"Are you coming?" asked John, gesturing to where the water was most profound. 

Sherlock shook his head. He had only recently learned to swim, but he still didn't feel completely safe and didn't want to move beyond where his feet were still touching the bottom. He decided to join Rosie when John started teaching her to swim. John agreed and taught them both, the girl with the innate confidence of children in the water, the detective almost having a heart attack when his daughter broke loose from the pool edge and went into the water. With patience (tons, kilotons to deal with a soaked, grumpy, nervous, and insecure detective totally out of his element), he managed to get them both to end up swimming freely. 

"Come, Papa, as in class, I'll help you. Don't be afraid".

Rosie swam up to him and took his hand, guiding him as they followed John. The detective looked at that little hand in his, and followed her meekly, fear forgotten. 

They didn't go much further. The Mediterranean was a very calm sea, Sherlock explained, but strong currents could pull you out to sea without you noticing. The three of them swam calmly, Rosie covering her nose and doing somersaults underwater with John, to Sherlock's anguish, until the girl came out laughing and wiping the water from her eyes. John threw her into the air from time to time, making her fly and dive headfirst amidst shrieks of excitement. They swam and floated until John noticed Rosie's lips begin to get purple. Ignoring her protests, they returned to shore and went under their canopy. 

The girl had woken them up at seven that morning, excitedly jumping on their bed, urging them to get up, have breakfast and get ready to go to the beach. 

An hour and a half later, there were the three of them, Sherlock, with the air of a condemned scaffold walk for not managed to keep them on the private beach and Rosie chatting non-stop about what she was going to do that day. 

To protect them from the sun and without paying attention to John's protests, insisting they could do it, Bart and Geena went to the beach to install a sunshade near the shore. That way, they would have space to be comfortably together, and the size of the tent would give them some privacy. 

"I'll race you to the tent," Rosie shouted, hurtling down the wooden path that led to the sand. 

"Hey, that's not fair! " shouted John, amused, and they both ran after her. 

"I won!" she shouted in excitement, jumping under the canopy. "Wow! It's huge!

The awning was about nine square meters in area. Bart and Geena set up three sun loungers and a small snowfall with drinks and sandwiches in case they were hungry or thirsty, apart from a bag with towels, creams, and everything else they might need. 

Seeing all that, John couldn't help wondering what it would be like to have a childhood where you had everything without lifting a finger. His mother worked all day, and he and Harry had to help her with the housework since they were little, so that we could all get by. His father, when he wasn't drunk, was away and wasn't good for much else.

He understood better then the little attention Sherlock paid to day-to-day things like cooking, cleaning, or laundry. Not just because he considered them minor or boring or because he was wasting his intellect doing them. The detective was not used to it. From the time he was born, his house was clean, his food was ready, and his clothes were washed and ironed without any effort, thanks to the cooks, gardeners, and cleaners who worked in Musgrave. And Bart and Geena were determined to keep it that way while they were there. Dangerous. It was too easy to get used to that life and then go back to Baker Street. 

About an hour later, while the three of them were reading on each of their respective deckchairs, a girl about Rosie's age approached her and asked something in Spanish. The girl turned to Sherlock. 

"She asks if you want to play beach volleyball with them." 

The girl pointed to a net about fifty feet away, around which children of various ages were grouped, and said something else. 

"They are missing a player," translated the detective. 

"Can I play?" asked Rosie. 

John and Sherlock nodded. The net was close enough that they could watch her from the canopy. Excited, after letting John smear her with sunscreen again, she ran after her new friend. 

"What I don't know is how they're going to understand each other," John doubted. 

"Children have a highly developed instinct for communication. Not to mention how smart our daughter is". 

"I guess the same happened to you when you were little," ventured John recalling Sherlock and his family spent summers in France as well. 

The detective shook his head. 

"We didn't play much with other kids. When we did, being a Latin language, like Spanish or French, Mycroft was able to fluently speak it in less than fifteen minutes". 

John chuckled, shaking his head, and returned to his book, wondering why he would ask. Sometimes Mycroft's or Sherlock's childhood was as close to his as a Martian's. 

From time to time, he glanced at the children while they played. Sherlock was right. They quickly organized themselves, and soon their shouting and laughter filled that area of the beach. Rosie inherited his sporting skills and soon was throwing the ball high and hard, scoring goals and defending her pitch, which soon gave them an advantage over the opposing team that turned into a landslide victory in the end. 

When the game was over, a woman approached Rosie, who pointed to them, and walked to the canopy. The woman smiled at them. 

"Hello, we, the players' parents, are going to have a little lunch together," she said in English, making a broad gesture towards the children with whom Rosie had been playing, "and we wanted to know if you would like to join us."

Sherlock hid even more behind his book for every answer, but John put it down and, gazing at Rosie's hopeful look, smiled back to her. 

"Of course," he replied to Rosie's joy, "are you coming, Sherlock?

Sherlock sighed pouting. As if the beach wasn't enough, he now had to fraternize with strangers. 

"Don't do that," he grunted, as John and Rosie looked at him with puppy dog eyes. 

He sighed, defeated, left the book, and nodded, walking behind them. A couple of steps later, he returned to the sunshade and put on his T-shirt to hide his scarred back. Not that Sherlock cared that people found it more or less disgusting. He didn't care at all, but he preferred to avoid comments, gestures, or questions in front of Rosie. 

The only time he felt insecure about his scars was the first time John,  kissing him, slowly unbuttoned his shirt, fearing he would find him repulsive and rejected his body, rejected him. 

But with that inexhaustible capacity to surprise Sherlock, John not only not found them hideous, but managed to transform them into happy memories. Thus, one that had a staggered shape (John forced himself not to think about what the torturers used to leave that scar on his back) represented when, on the night of John's stag party, they both drunkenly slipped down the stairs. Another slightly curved one, when both laughed in the lobby after chasing the cab, and so on. 

Thus, night after night, they transmuted horror into love, pain into pleasure, solitude into company, darkness into light, insecurity in confidence, and fear into trust. Since then, their scars became a secret map of their relationship that only they knew. A map that began in John's shoulder (the day they met in Bart's lab) and ended in the scar left by Mary's shot in the detective's chest (the well where Eurus chained John, where they first kissed). 

Every night, after relating it into a happy memory, John kissed and caressed the scar, and then slid down Sherlock’s back, kissing the rest of them, whispering praises about how gorgeous, beautiful, brave, strong, and generous Sherlock was, how much he loved him, gently sinking his lubed fingers in his entrance. He made Sherlock feeling loved and cared with words, kisses, and caressings, until, shaking and moaning, unable to stand it more, he begged John to fuck him. And John complied, slowly thrusting inside him, making the memory indelible in Sherlock's body and mind. 

The food was more bearable than Sherlock initially thought. For Rosie, he avoided being sullen and distant, enjoying John and his daughter chatting and laughing with the others. As Sherlock had predicted, Rosie already splashed out little phrases in Spanish, talking to her new friends, with whom she went to play after lunch. 

"Go to the tent and pick up Rosie's things," John told him an hour later.

The detective was dangerously bordering the end of his tolerance for that social gathering, and soon he would start firing deductions. Sherlock thankfully looked at him, muttered a goodbye, went back to their canopy, lay down on the deckchair, and sighed, enjoying the solitude and silence. 

"You should be with them and not here alone," Geena's scolding woke him up. 

"I've already been with them," he grunted in reply.

She chuckled, shooshing him to get him out of the lounge chair. While he slept, she and Bart picked up everything, and all that remained was Sherlock's sunbed, which she closed and carried under her arm. 

"Tell your husband and daughter that dinner will be ready in half an hour. 

"Geena..., we just have..."

The woman raised an eyebrow, staring at him. Sherlock wondered why he felt like a child again in front of her, and knowing well that look would mean  problems if he replied, closed his mouth, turned around, and fetch John and Rosie. After more than twenty long and unnerving minutes that Rosie took to say goodbye to her new friends, the three of them lined up on the sand towards the house, while, behind them, the sun began to disappear on the sea. 

After a shower and a light dinner, John, Sherlock, and Rosie stayed on the terrace, enjoying the sea's murmur as the girl, in a drowsy voice, told them everything she and her new friends planned to do the next day. 

"But for that, you have to sleep," John advised, getting up and grabbing her in his arms. The girl protested, dozing 

"I'll be right back," he told Sherlock. 

The detective nodded, lost in his thoughts, contemplating the moon's reflex in the dark sea. John smiled fondly, as Rosie lay her head on his shoulder, exhausted and happy.

"Can you read me some more of Papa's book?" Rosie asked as John put her to bed, struggling to keep her eyes open.

John nodded and started reading. No more than five minutes passed before the dream overcame the girl, and John lowered his voice, finishing reading the paragraph. 

"Westley didn't reach his destination. His ship was attacked by the Dread Pirate Roberts, who never left captives alive. When Buttercup got the news that Westley was murdered, she went into her room and shut the door. And for days, she neither slept nor ate".

"Like Papa," whispered Rosie drowsily before falling deeply asleep. 

"Yes, like Papa," John mused, remembering how, after Sherlock's "death," he locked himself up for several days in Baker Street, without eating or sleeping, unable to accept what had happened. That book seemed like a witch's errand. 

He smiled, tucking the girl in. Whatever their past was, this was their present and future, he and Sherlock were married and raising a wonderful girl together. They fought hard for it. They spent long nights talking in Baker Street since John and Rosie moved back there, fighting to put their feelings in words, learning from their mistakes, healing their inner wounds, forgiving each other, and themselves. It hadn't been easy. It had been painful, sad, and challenging, but in the end, a freeing and healing process worthy for both of them. 

He bent over to kiss Rosie on the cheek and walked out of the room onto the terrace. Sherlock wasn't there. 

"He went down to the cove" Bart's voice behind him startled him. The man, who was picking up the plates and glasses from dinner, pointed to a stone staircase in the dark at the terrace's edge, "just go down there. The stairs will light up as you go down". 

 John approached the stairs as he put his foot on the first step, a small light came on the next one. The steps were small and uneven, carved directly into the rock on the hillside, and moved left and right to avoid the pines. He got barefoot when he stepped on the sand, white and shiny under the moonlight, just like Sherlock's who, sitting on the shore, barefoot and dressed only in shorts, let the water lick his feet. A few meters to his right, under a small awning, a wicker basket that he most certainly had not carried with a bottle of wine and two cups. 

Without saying anything, he sat behind the detective and gently kissed his neck, hugging him, wrapping his legs around him, bringing his body to Sherlock's, who backed away, leaning on his chest and resting his head on John's good shoulder. The detective smiled, turned, gave him a kiss on the lips, and offered him a wine glass. 

"Are you trying to seduce me, Mr. Holmes-Watson?”

Sherlock smiled at the same question he asked John on their wedding night. 

"I seem to be doing okay so far," Sherlock mused, rotating his hips slightly, noticing how John's cock started showing a big interest.  

"Presumptuous," retorted the doctor getting even closer, rubbing his cock in the detective's ass. 

He took a sip of wine and raised the glass, examining it by the light of the detective's phone flashlight. 

"Is it blue? It won't be one of your experiments, like Baskerville's coffee".

Sherlock smirked and shook his head.

"Nope. It is a Spanish wine. The color is given by natural pigments such as blackberry, blueberry, or the skin of red grapes, thanks to a complex called antiocine".  

Not entirely convinced, John took another sip. The wine had a stunning indigo blue color and had a sweet taste and aroma of fruit. He kissed Sherlock's neck again. 

"Thank you for all the effort you've made for Rosie today," he muttered, his voice muffled by Sherlock's neck, who quivered at the tingling of his breath on his sensitive skin. "She is delighted with her new friends. She says that when she returns to London, she will learn French, Spanish, and German. She has had a great time”.  

"Only Rosie?"

"So do I. And you too. Recognize that from time to time to meet people who have nothing to do with crime, murder, or dead bodies". 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. 

"Okay...also letting you deduce them to make sure none of them are potential killers". 

Both chuckled.

“When I see her accepted by other children, playing with them... so different from my childhood, I think I'm doing something right and that any effort is worthwhile”.

"You are doing very well," John kissed his neck "you just have to see how happy she is."

Both remained silent, listening to the rumor of the waves. The tide rose, and the waves that reached the shore washed over Sherlock's legs and John's feet. 

“When we came here," started Sherlock, hesitantly," I wasn't sure how coming here would affect me, the memories it would bring but... is like… facing it with you and Rosie by my side made it less painful".

John nodded. He also feared the place, the books, Bart and Geena, impacted negatively in him. Although months passed since the events in Sherrinford and Sherlock had time to process them, he hadn't confronted any scenes from his childhood, from his life before Victor's disappearance, something they both knew he needed to do sometime. 

He told Sherlock, and the detective nodded, his look lost in the sea. 

"It's strange. I don't remember a lot of the things Bart y Geena said about me while being a child, but, somehow, they echo inside me. They are familiar and unknown at the same time, and it's a bit bewildering". 

They remained silent for a bit until John noticed the detective's mood began to fall under the weight of memories. 

"Come to think of it, I promised to give you a different view of the beach. Let's play a game," he proposed. 

Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

"Come on, you'll like it."  

Sherlock sighed and got down on all fours on the sand, under John's instructions. 

"The game is simple. I'll put the cup here," he left it on Sherlock's lower back. "and you should avoid throwing it away". 

"It's a stupid game, John," grunted the detective, shaking slightly as he felt the cup's coldness, after the warmth of John's body. "I can go for hours without throwing it away. And what are you going to do in the meantime?"

John was aware that Sherlock knew there was something else behind that game, but the doctor did not want to give in to the detective's impatient nature. 

"Me? Drinking"

"John..."

"Are you playing or not?"

Sherlock sighed again.

"Okay, but I still think..."

The detective fell silent when John spilled some wine on his right shoulder blade and moved his torso, driving the cold liquid until it reached his nipple, hardening it before dripping into the sand.

John took the cup and left it in the sand, his smug smile clearly visible under the moonlight.

"You didn't say anything about this in the rules," gasped Sherlock, when John put his hands on Sherlock's thighs, motioning to make him spread his legs as far apart as possible.  

"You didn't let me because of your big mouth."

John pushed him gently, so Sherlock sat on his heels. He spilled some more on his neck, which dripped down both sides, then kissing, nibbling, and licking the skin moistened by the wine. The detective moaned softly, turning his head, so John had better access to it, shivers running through his body, feeling John's soft, wet lips. The doctor nuzzled against Sherlock's neck, kissed his collarbone, alternating between gently nipping the skin with his lips barely brushing against the skin, making Sherlock shiver and gasp.

John cupped Sherlock's face in his hands and kissed him his wet lips brushing over the detective's, moistening them, a soft touch that only made the detective wanting more. Sherlock parted his lips, inviting him, and John poked his tongue in his mouth, gently playing with his tongue.

He extended his arms to embrace John, but the doctor grabbed his hands and put them behind his back. He wanted Sherlock to concentrate on touch, kiss, or lick, to flood his brain with sensations, the only way, he knew well, to stop the detective's restless mind.

The detective moaned softly. John smiled in the kiss. He broke it and motioned Sherlock to get on all fours again.

He gasped in surprise when John left the cup on his back. He lay down on his back behind him and crawled under his open legs until he was under the lump that Sherlock's expectant cock had formed in his shorts.

He spilled a little more wine, this time on Sherlock's hips, that dripped down to his swimsuit. Slowly, he drew with his tongue the shape of Sherlock's cock through the fabric, starting at the testicles, following the shaft and ending at the tip, flicking his tongue on it, feeling it swelling and throbbing at his touch.

Sherlock moaned, the cup trembling dangerously on his back, as he threw back his head and shuddered at the feel of John's tongue.

"Don't forget the cup," John chanted, mockingly.

He threw some wine again, this time on Sherlock's left shoulder blade, waiting for the liquid to reach the nipple that hardened at the cold drink. He gently brushed it with the tip of his tongue.

"Aahhhhhh," moaned Sherlock, noticing a massive whip of pleasure running through his body from his nipple to his cock.

"Being face down," John explained in a didactic tone, lapping the nipple between words, "increases the flow of blood to your nipples, cock, and balls. Do you know what that means?"

Sherlock moaned and closed his eyes, nodding. He controlled the urge to rock back and forth when John's hand traced the silhouette of his now completely hard cock through the fabric, brushing the tip with his thumb.

"I can't hear yoooooou," John crooned.

"That increases its sensitivity," he grunted between gasps.

"Smart boy," praised John, enveloping one of his already hard nipples with his mouth.

"Oh, god!" Sherlock moaned loudly, as John's tongue swirled and flicked against his now hypersensitive bud. John grinned, pinching and toying the other one with his right hand, as his left traced Sherlock's straining erection through his shorts, enjoying him squirming under his soft touch, fighting to keep the glass balanced.

J….John……" Sherlock moaned harder, his arms trembling as he kissed and nibbled his and returned to his ipples. John delighted himself in the vision of the flushed and hot detective panting over him, on how he moaned his name in such a desperate horny way, that reached directly John’s already hard rock cock.

He ran his fingertips along his sides, expanding the wine, creating goosebumps, caressing the detective's sweaty, hot skin, who wailed desperately.

"A pity the wine gets lost in the fabric, don't you think?" John asked as he removed his shorts, throwing it on the sand, exposing Sherlock's hard, leaking, aching for attention, cock.

John closed his fist around the shaft, poured a bit of whine on the tip into it, and licked it, tasting the mixture of precum and alcohol, flicking his tongue on the slit, making Sherlock cry with pleasure.

"J-John, god, J-John," the detective moaned loudly, "please…".

"Beg as much as you want," John spoke without letting Sherlock's cock out of his mouth, " I'm going to take my time with you. First, with your cock and then with every single inch of your magnificent arse", he ended, punctuating every single word with a lick on the tip.

John grinned with Sherlock's cock in his mouth, enjoying his tortured loud moans. His licking, though incessant, was slow and light, while softly stroking his shaft, taking his time, caressing the already hardened cock in the way he knew ignited Sherlock's body.

In those moments, John became a musician and the detective an instrument in his hands. He knew how to obtain from Sherlock an endless range of moans, cries, grunts, growls, whines, howls, whiles, gasps, and sobs, of different volume and grade of arousal, intermingled with sounds similar to his name, incoherent babbling and desperate pleas.

"Don't forget the glass," John reminded him, without taking his cock out of his mouth, the vibration of his voice making the detective tremble even more, as he cursed between his teeth, tensing his body, trying to control it.

John took off his shorts, releasing his painfully rock hard cock, not only to get rid of the pressure of the clothes but knowing that he the sight of it would make Sherlock mouthwatering. The detective looked at John's impressive cock resting on his abdomen, throbbing each time he licked Sherlock's and instinctively licked his lips, his pupils darkening. 

John crawled up a bit, coming face to face with Sherlock, watching him from below, raising his hand rubbing a thumb over the detective's plum, parted lips.

"You are gorgeous..." he whispered and raised his hips, both moaning as their cocks brushed against each other. John moved a little forward and backward, rubbing his cocks with the detective's, who, unable to restrain himself, rocked his hips to meet John's movement. The glass fell into the sand, soaking it.

"Tsk, tsk, well, I thought you could keep it on your back for hours," John scoffed, moving his hips along with his words, transforming the detective's grunt into a guttural moan in response.

"No, no, no," he grabbed the detective’s arms when he tried to move down to swallow his cock.

"John," whined the detective, "I…"

Whatever he was going to say was lost when John grabbed his lower lip between his teeth and pulling a bit, both lost in each other's eyes, softly licking his lips. John winked and crawled back down to Sherlock's groin, licking the sensitive skin under his balls, to devour Sherlock's cock., engulfing it, lips sealed tightly around it while he bobbed his head, sucking it hard and deep, as the detective buried his hands in the sand, shivering, moaning, leaking and pleading for more with breathy moans.

"No, no, you lose, sweetheart. No prize this time," retorted John, pulling Sherlock's cock out of his mouth."I'll get mad and desperate for cumming, then  I'll come without letting you, and we'll go back home. And you won't lay a finger on you".

"I… J-john…."

"Next time, think twice before speaking, honeybee," teased John, massaging the tip of Sherlock's cock with his finger, gently circling it, in a way the detective loved and hated at the same time, creating sparkles of pleasure that run across his body, overwhelming him.

His cock leaked more in John's hands, as the doctor kept with the teasing, his finger traveling tortuously slowly over his gland. Sherlock let out a loud groan.

"You look so fucking gorgeous under the moonlight," whispered John, looking at the silvery glow that bathed Sherlock's disheveled hair and trembling body, making him look like some kind of God.

"When we are back to Baker Street, I will drag you to Regents Park by night and fuck you there, in full view of everyone," he growled, his own cock throbbing hard at the thought.

He took Sherlock again in his mouth, from time to time pushing himself all the way down to the base of Sherlock's cock, and held himself there, making Sherlock crying with moans.

John delighted himself for a few contemplating the detective, totally devoted to him, with that blind trust that he only placed in him, the desire for each other, making them almost dizzy.

He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's ass and, holding it firmly, forced him to move back and forth, pushing the tip of Sherlock's cock down his throat, not letting the detective any control over the movement. When at some point, he slowed down, fearing to choke John, he smacked his ass. The detective, subdued, letting himself go, squirming and screaming, a consuming fire growing in his lower abdomen as his cock pushed further into John's mouth.

The doctor drank gluttonously drops of precum, his throat squeezing the tip every time he swallowed, elating the most tortured and delicious moans from the detective's mouth mixed with John's grunts of pleasure and sucking sounds as he mercilessly devoured Sherlock's cock, the detective's howls reverberating all over the beach.

"Oh, God, John, please, please, don't stop, don't stop, please," he sobbed.

John pulled his cock out of his mouth, causing a strangled pathetic "no" from him.

"I should do since you have been teasing me with that dammed black swimsuit the whole day.

"I…"

"Or better, I should sink your head in the sand, tie your hands tied behind your back and let you here, letting those who were devouring you with their eyes fuck you."

Sherlock whined, unable to form words. John chuckled, cupped Sherlock's swollen sack in one hand, gently fondling it, rolling them between his fingers. Sherlock's toes curled in the sand when John relaxed his throat and deepthroated the detective,  burying his nose in Sherlock's skin the smell of sex, musk, and Sherlock getting him mad, wishing he would be able to eat the detective alive.

His free hand pocked Sherlock's perineum until the detective, with a cry that resonated throughout the island, came profusely into John's mouth, who eagerly swallowed every drop.

He slowly pulled away, his lips running over the detective's cock, creating spasms of pleasure that shook his whole body. The doctor firmly gripped his ass, preventing him from escaping from his lips until, with a last lick on the glans, he abandoned his cock, licking his lips with a satisfied air and humming in pleasure.

He crawled until he came out from under a shaky Sherlock, who collapsed on the sand. Instead of letting him catch his breath, John motioned him to get on his four again and spun him around until his body was parallel to the shore, water bathing his thighs and splashing his softening dick, the detective shuddering at the unexpected contrast between the cold of the water and the heat of his mouth.

John pushed his back down until he rested his arms on the sand and knelt between his open legs, running his hands over the detective's thighs who jumped and shivered at the light caress, until his hands reached his arse and slapped it, making Sherlock moan loud. John kissed him on the back of his neck, his lips tracing the line of his spine, making him purr softly, delighting in how Sherlock's flexible and strong back curved at the touch of his lips... God, he could come only by listening to him.

John gave himself a couple of strokes to release a bit of pressure in his hard cock and walked to the basket, looking for something that could serve as a lubricant. He blushed slightly when he found a tube of lube, imagining Bart or Geena happily humming while preparing the basket.

He returned to Sherlock and knelt behind him. Sitting on his ankles, he ran his hands over his back till his arsecheeks.

"God, I love your arse, your obscenely perfect, lustful and endlessly fuckable arse," he whispered, dying to bury his cock on it. "I could be fucking you the whole day." 

He squeezed the rotund globes and moved down, kissing and biting his inner tights, and the curve where Sherlock's cheeks meet his thighs, his warm breath tickling the skin, then nibbling the spot he kissed. Sherlock mixed a moan with a giggle and bucked, trying to scape John's mouth. 

The doctor nuzzled, delighted in Sherlock's scent, in the enjoyable sensation of Sherlock's body trembling and twisting under his ministrations, trying to muffle his moans, still a bit ashamed of the sounds that escaped from his mouth, unable to control them, even less when John slowly slid a finger down the length of his crack, to stop in his hole. He massaged it a bit with the pad of his finger to continue down until his perineum, gently poking it, massaging Sherlock's prostate. The finger continued his tortuous path, caressing his balls and moving along the throbbing shaft to reach the tip. John rubbed the slit lightly, a feather-like caress that drove the detective mad, unable to hide his moans. 

Sherlock moved away, to avoid the torturing contact, his cock sensitive after his orgasm. John smirked at the sight of a beach canopy, the four bamboo poles tied to the fabric. After giving Sherlock a soft smack in the ass, he walked to the awning, untied the cloth, and placed it on the sand, between the four poles. He approached the detective and, pulling his hair, made him follow him on all fours until he was in the center of the canvas, expectant at what John had in mind.

John stretched the detective's arms and put his wrists together, covering each of them with a small towel so that the ropes would not hurt his skin when he tied them together tightly. 

The doctor bent down to lick Sherlock's cock, who groaned, blocking any course of thought or deduction that the detective's brain could have embarked on in those seconds. John pulled the rope that held his wrists and forced him to move towards the post to the detective's right, to which he tied the string near the ground, forcing him to rest on his forearms, outstanding his arse a bit more. John made him spread his legs wider, covering each ankle with a towel and tied each to an opposite post, letting his ass totally exposed and at John's mercy. The doctor licked his lips, looking at it predatorily. 

Sherlock's cock started hardening again. The security and firmness with which John worked, the authority he emanated without a single word, drove him mad and lead him to melt in the doctor's hands. He still was amazed that letting John take charge of him, tie him up, and handle him as he pleased, made him feel completely safe, cared, and relaxed.

John backed away, rejoicing in Sherlock's vision. His arse was not only gorgeous, beautiful, soft, and ready to be fucking madly, but one of his most sensitive places. He was easily overwhelmed with sensations at the touch of John's tongue, fingers or cock, and became a kind of bronco wild horse, trashing, bucking, and twisting madly.

More than once, while playing with it, the doctor dodged (or was beat by) an involuntary detective's powerful kick, so John should tie him up when he wanted to spend time enjoying it. That gave him a double advantage: Sherlock could not escape from him, and the anticipation aroused him. He knew if it got too much for him, Sherlock would use his safeword. Until then, he could play with the detective's arse as much as he wanted to. 

John knelt behind Sherlock, who shuddered at the feeling of his body warmness. He caressed his arse, rubbing his palms on in, grabbing both globes, delighted in the feeling.

"I'm going to make you feel so good…" 

Sherlock shuddered. Those words could be really threatening in John's mouth, a promise of the most tortured pleasure. 

He gently brushed Sherlock's asscheeks with his fingertips, just a ghostly touch that gave him goosebumps were his fingers caressed him. He started at the waist, going down his tail bone, almost reaching his ass's crack. In that triangle of skin, the detective was almost unbearably sensitive. As John's fingers ran over it, Sherlock closed his eyes, bit his lower lip, and moaned, arching his back and wriggling his hips, his cock throbbing hard while he tried to escape from the ghostly touch of John's finger, that inflamed him with desire. 

John's hand went through his crack. His medium finger brushed between both buttocks, without parting them, while the index and ring fingers caressed the glorious globes. Sherlock moaned louder, waiting for his hands to reach his cock, but he ostensibly ignored it, as he did with his testicles and perineum.

Sherlock's breath hitched when, instead, his hands ran along the skin of the back of his thighs, where they met the arsecheeks, slowly addressing towards his hips. Sherlock giggled and moaned, trying to avoid the arousing tickling sensation, even more as John's hands softly caressed the skin on his hips, reaching his groin, almost, almost, almost, almost touching his cock, but neglecting it at the end. 

"John…." panted the detective. 

He was amazed of how that smooth rubbing, with that calculated pressure, almost floating on his skin, turned him on so much. His mind could only focus on John's fingers, on the sparks of pleasure that these soft touches provoked in his body as it passed, on how his body opened up and relaxed, ready to be used by John at will. Little by little, his body turned from the desire to an almost vital need to be fucked, absolute desperation to feel John's cock inside him. But he also knew that the doctor would not yet give him that satisfaction, and that made him eager with desire.

John ran his finger through the detective's crack again and stopped at the puckered hole, massaging it a bit. His finger then moved to the center of the right arsecheek.

Sherlock pulled the strings, knowing what was coming.

John's fingers traced a spiral pathway, each circle a little bigger than the previous one, until he drew one that ran along his waist, went through his crack, followed where the arse met his thighs, and went up the hip, as Sherlock squirmed and wriggled under the touch, moaning, grunting, and giggling. 

"John!" he protested, trying to move away from that devastating touch that set his lower abdomen of fire.  

The doctor smirked and traced the same path on the other cheek, tortuously slow, all his senses focused on Sherlock: the vision of his body trembling and twisting, the sound of his moans and groans, the softness of his skin under his hands, the mixed smell of Sherlock and sex..., in all the sensations provided by the detective's body under his caresses, which made his own cock about to explode... Playing with Sherlock's body was hypnotic, mainly when all his senses where involved. 

He obscenely extended his tongue, dipped it on his perineum, and dragged it up to his ass crack, poked over his hole a couple of times and past, until he reached his back again. He went back, sinking his tongue into his crack, poking in again his hole with his tongue. The detective cried in pleasure, shivering, and rocked his hips, trying to feel Johh deeper and escape from him at the same time, the restraints preventing him from moving an inch. 

John smacked his ass once more, reminding him who was in control. Sherlock let escape a moaned growl, while John lapped him, interspersing long, slow licks that went all over his crack with small, fast ones, sending shivers to Sherlock's spine. The detective closed his eyes and lowered his head, as John swirled his tongue around the rim, slowly teasing it, relaxing it. He pushed the tip of his tongue inside his asshole, enjoying Sherlock's muffled loud moans, his head buried in his forearms, plunged in the most pleasurable pure torture. 

John pushed deeper in him while sucked and slurped around the hole with his lips, making wet, hungry sounds echoed through the beach while Sherlock, tossing his head back, howled in pleasure like a wolf under the moon. 

“Fuck John……. Don’t stop. Aaaaaaaaahhh. this is……… soooooooo……. good!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

John chuckled and wriggled the tip of his tongue inside his ass, and the detective yelled, his rim quivering around his tongue.

John loved how responsive Sherlock was, how easily and intensely, he reacted to stimulation. Being so sensitive, it was not surprising that the man avoided physical contact as much as possible. Otherwise, half of London would have the detective moaning like jelly in his hands in a couple of minutes.

John pulled back his tongue a bit, licking Sherlock's crack and rim again. Without warning, he shoved his tongue as deep as he could. The detective cried in ecstasy as his already painfully hard cock jumped, so desperately pulling the strings that John was glad to have protected him with the towels, his thighs quivering hard, galloping towards his new orgasm. 

But John knew how to keep Sherlock on the verge of coming. He needed a bit more to come; not very much: a stroke of his cock, a rub on his prostate. He started begging madly, as John fucked him with his tongue, changing the rhythm from frantic to slow, caressing the back of his tights, almost reaching his perineum and balls, but never touching them, for Sherlock's desperation.  

"John…. I need…. John… You are killing me… please, touch me…" he gasped, desperate, drops of precum audibly dripped to the sand beneath him.

John slipped his tongue in Sherlock's hole again and wriggle it around, as the wrecked detective whined and cursed. his cock flushed red and desperate for friction. 

He groaned when a lube coated finger teased at his entrance. John pushed it slowly, sliding in inch by inch, as the detective whined both in relief and in need, trying to steady his breathing. The doctor could envision his pupils dilating until his eyes went black, trying to sink in his finger.

"Oh yes, yes, yes, yes," he moaned in bliss, when John's finger reached his prostate, taking care of not put too much pressure so Sherlock couldn't come  yet from the light touch. 

"You are so hot like this…, so wanton, needy and desperate to be fuck… to have my big cock drilling your ass……"

Sherlock produced a growled desperate moan and bit his lips. John smirked. Verbal teasing was as effective on the detective as a physical one. His powerful brain created a clear, detailed, almost tactile image of what he was saying, which immediately impacted his cock, judging by the patchwork of curses and obscene moans coming out of the detective's mouth cock twitched and throbbed even more.

Slowly, he added a second finger, this time alternating circular motions with small, vibrating ones over Sherlock's prostate, a light touch that made Sherlock mewl, curse, sob, and whine, his body shaking, edging the orgasm, until John grabbed his cock, stroking it while pumping his fingers in and out, rubbing his prostate with every thrust.

For a second, Sherlock wondered if it was possible to die from too much pleasure. He couldn't think anymore. Seeing stars, he screwed his eyes shut, his toes curled on the sand as John's fingers picked up the pace, turning Sherlock's moans to screams of ecstasy as the orgasm hit him, spreading throughout his entire body, his hands grabbing the rope like a lifeline, as Jonh kept rubbing his prostate and thumbing the tip of his cock through his orgasm until soft mewls of discomfort escaped from the detective's lips. 

He pulled his fingers out, and Sherlock grunted, feeling relieved and empty, longing for the feeling and the fullness of John's cock inside him. The doctor moved away a bit, untied the detective and kissed him, pulling the sweaty hair away from his forehead, as Sherlock gasped, trying to catch his breath, his eyes fixed in John's cock. 

John lay on his back in the wet, soft sand, his knees bent a bit, his feet planted on the sand and beckoned Sherlock. The doctor made him bend over a bit, facing away, still immersed in his orgasm's vapors. John took his cock and nudged the head against Sherlock's entrance. He tried to move down an impaled himself on John's cock, but the doctor prevented him from doing it, firmly gripping his waist, tutting, as the detective made desperate sounds, begging to have John's cock inside him. 

"Just came and so needy for my cock, my horny consulting cockslut……." John growled in a husky and hungry voice that made Sherlock shiver. He allowed the detective to come down a little further to rub his cock between his cheeks. "Maybe I shouldn't fuck you... maybe I should come between your thighs..."

"J… John, please, …. I need you…, fuck me, please, fuck me" he begged, ashamed to show himself so needy, of those desperate whines he emitted at the rub John's cock on his ass, of how the desire to be impaled deeply by John's cock fogged his mind but he couldn't control it.  

 John would love to play with him some more, but he would come if he kept doing it. After a few seconds to regain his self-control, slowly let Sherlock sit on his cock, opening it up inch by inch.

"Jesus fucking Christ," moaned John, tightening embracing him, feeling Sherlock's warmth engulfing him. Sherlock let out a mewled loud moan at the bliss of finally feeling John's hot big hard cock inside him, desire, pleasure, love, and intimacy flooding his brain. John slid into him in an agonizingly slow pace until he bottomed out. The detective lay on the top of him, also face up, reclining on John's torso, both facing the dark, starring ceiling, the sea lapping their legs. 

John loved this position. To stay balanced while John fucked him, Sherlock had to spread his arms out on John's sides, and put them firmly on the sand, not being able to touch himself, so John had total control on his body. The detective shivered as the doctor, turning Sherlock's face, bite and sucked his bottom lip, while slowly pulling out of him, relishing on Sherlock's rumbling moan. He slams back in, setting a slow pace, hitting Sherlock's prostate in each thrust, both moaning in pleasure in other's parted lips. 

"So good uh….you feel so fucking good, so fucking tight……." growled John, kissing him fiercely, thrusting harder but not faster, devouring Sherlock's lips

"Ahhhhhh, not…" Sherlock grunted when John's hands rubbed over his nipples, pinching and playing with them. John moaned and shivered, feeling Sherlock's walls clenching around his cock. He started thrusting deeper inside him, as one of his hands snaked down from his nipple to grab his cock, while bitting his neck, as Sherlock cried in pleasure, arching his back. 

"Faster….." panted Sherlock, moving his hips to meet John's cock. The doctor complied, fucking him on a devilish pace, until, in one thrust, John held his hips, his cock pressed the detective's prostate again. Before he could protest, John wrapped his hand around his cock, slowly stroking him, gently pinching the head, rolling his thumb along with it. 

"Godddddddddddddd" Sherlock cried, as his body convulsed with overstimulation, while John fucking him with a brutal pace, burying inside him, hitting his prostate in every thrust. His hand stroked Sherlock's cock at the same rhythm, caressing his nipples with his free forearm and kissing and biting his neck. 

"Fuck, Sherlock, I'm going to wreck you, love."

John growled at the feeling Sherlock's muscles spasming around him. Lost in that blissful sensation, he thrust harder and deeper, hammering his prostate while chasing his orgasm. Sherlock moaned and writhed on him, groaning and whiling with oversensitivity, but decided to bring the doctor as much pleasure as he could, to help him climaxing as hard as he did, letting John fuck him beyond his limits. John's cock inside him, his hands and lips playing with his body felt so good… he wanted more, wanted it to never end, wanted to hear John crying in ecstasy. 

"Fuck, you feel so good, so perfect," panted John, mercilessly hammering his prostate.

"Agggggggggggggg" Sherlock shrieked through his clenched teeth when John started again jerking his now painfully sensitive cock; he arched his back, trying to tell John he can't come yet after his second brutal orgasm. Still, his mind was unable to coordinate a coherent sentence. 

"Give me another one. I now you can" John's panted growl in his ear made his cock about to explode again, as the doctor stroked him in pace with his erratic thrusts. "Come with me, love", John moaned and buried deeper his cock with each thrust, his mind dizzy with lust as Sherlock arched off him and fucked back onto his cock. 

Seconds later, Sherlock heard him yelling his name and felt his hot cum inside him. He cried out across his third orgasm, only a few drops of cum dripping from his cock, his back arching, his hole clenching around John's cock. The doctor embraced him tightly, giving some last hard thrusts that rose Sherlock's body and finally collapsed on the sand, panting heavily. Sherlock lay boneless on top of him, still moaning softly, both enjoying the last orgasmic shivers.

"I have to admit, "breathed the detective after a while, turning and huddling over John, "you know how to turn a boring holiday into something amazing, glorious, and fucking awesome."

"And this is only the first day. Wait for me to finish with you. You will build here a Baker Street replica."

"John, don't, fuck” grunted the detective, his body quivering harder.  

John huffed a smugly naughty laugh. 

"You are insatiable, my consulting cockslut."

"Yours and your cock's fault."  

He caught his lips, in a soft, tender kiss, and then brushed his nose gently against Sherlock's, who felt his heart melt, feeling loved, warm, safe and happy and, a fact that still surprised himself sometimes, reading the same in John's eyes. 

Sherlock rolled to his side, and both lay on the sand for a while, looking at the starry sky, the waves caressing their bodies, lulled by the sea's murmur. 

"We have to sleep here," murmured the detective, dozing. "I couldn't climb the stairs even if I wanted to."

John smiled and softly kissed him. He got up and went to get a light quilt that he saw at the basket's bottom, lay down next to Sherlock, and spread it out, covering the two of them. The sand, warm and fluffy, was a perfect mattress. He hugged Sherlock again, who muttered in his sleep, his head under his chin, his hair tickling his neck. John sunk his head into it and inhaled deep, intoxicating himself with the detective's smell. He closed his eyes, sighed contently, happy and sated, and gently slipped into sleep.

Chapter Text

John blinked, stretching and sighed, looking out the window. It was early, the day was beginning to clear, but the sun had not yet risen. Careful not to wake Sherlock up, he slipped out of his arms (no easy task; the detective should have been an octopus in one of his previous lives, and kept his trapping skills intact). 

Outside the bed, he tucked him back in and kissed him on the cheek. He put on his swimsuit (Sherlock threw his shorts who knows where the night before as both went down to the beach kissing fiercely and eagerly undressing each other) and a T-shirt and went down to the terrace. 

He strongly inhaled the sea's smell, watching the sunshine over the sea. They had really been lucky with the weather. Sadly it was their last day there. 

The holidays had gone by at full speed. Mornings on the beach, swimming, walking along the shore, reading and resting on the deck chair, Rosie playing with her friends, John joining their parents for a while in the afternoon at Rosie’s request, and Sherlock joining them from time to time. In the evenings, they traveled around the island, hiked in the mountains, and watched breathtakingly beautiful sunsets ... a vacation so typical and far from their daily lives that had been almost unreal. 

He was sure that it had been Rosie’s enthusiasm and joy in every activity, which prevented the detective from sulking and complaining about the lack of crimes and blood around him. As well as the nights they spent in the private cove, some involving wild rough sex, others tenderly making love, each one going through the other’s body with soft kisses, caresses, whispering praises and words of love only listened by the sea. Not forgetting the cold cases that Lestrade sent Sherlock on the phone and the detective solved from his deckchair while he pretended to be reading a scientific magazine.   

"Good morning," Geena's voice, accompanied by the cup of coffee she put in his hands, took him out of his thoughts. "Breakfast is ready on the terrace." 

"Thank you very much, Geena, for everything. We have given you a lot of work". 

The woman smiled and shook her head. 

"It has been a true pleasure to have you here. I can never thank you enough for bringing Sherlock back. In every way. When he asked us to prepare the house, we couldn't believe it. He never returned after Victor's disappearance. Too many memories, I'm afraid”. 

John nodded. 

"How did they meet? Victor and Sherlock, I mean,”. 

"His parents moved near Musgrave, and Victor's mother came to ask Mrs. Holmes if her little boy could come and play with her children, and she agreed. A couple of days later, while Sherlock was playing among the tombs, Victor appeared and sat at his side with a box full of toys. " Geena smiled, lost in the memory "as a child, Sherlock was a bit more... friendly with strangers. It turned out that Victor also loved pirates. From then on... they became inseparable. They spent the day together, playing, r playing pirates, chasing each other, Sherlock with his pirate hat, Victor with his wooden sword... they even had a pirate ship, an old boat stranded on the shore that a local fisherman gave them". She fell silent and looked out the window, her eyes lost in the sea. " God only knows how many times that poor woman must have regretted her visit to Musgrave,” she whispered sadly.

"Nobody noticed? Nobody saw it coming? I mean, Eurus."

"Alex... Mycroft," replied Bart leaving with a tray of toast and orange juice. That man had the ear of a cat. "He noticed something wasn't right about her…, how she terrorized Sherlock... even warned his mother, but she blamed it on childish jealousy”.

John looked at him, blankly. 

"Eurus was smartest than Mycroft, who was always claiming being cleverest than Sherlock. But she was…an era-defining genius, beyond Newton, they said, "John nodded, remembering those same words in Mycroft's mouth. “But they were not. It was true she was different from the beginning, but he realized something was wrong with her. This is why he watched Victor, Sherlock, and Eurus closely, fearing something would happen. I’m not blaming Mr. and Mrs. Holmes, but… they should have watched her closely. Thought who would have thought... " he sighed. 

"But the way Eurus scared Sherlock to death, making him scream, the way she looked at him and Victor, especially this one, was... creepy”.

"Geena!"

"It's true," she protested.

Bart, though he pressed his lips, did not challenge her. 

"But Mycroft couldn't prevent what happened”

 Geena shook her head.  

“Nobody could. Victor always came to play after breakfast. He showed up at the house, and Sherlock ran after him. They went to the tombs, to the woods, to the beach or the attic if it was raining... One day he didn’t come. He disappeared without a trace as if he had been swallowed up by the earth, as it turned out, it happened. People organized themselves in raids, looking for him for days”. 

“Mycroft, Mr. and Mrs. Holmes begged her to tell them where Victor was, but she only kept humming that hideous song in response,” continued his husband. “When she started talking about 'drowned Victor', they got terrified, imagining the worst.”

“And Sherlock?”

"Sherlock was devastated. He was a sensitive child, more than their parents understood. The poor boy dug for days and days, alone or with the help of the gardeners, trying to find the place Eurus was referring to in her song. Until he lost all hope of finding Victor. Then he locked himself away. He stopped laughing, playing, eating… He barely spoke, and, when he did, it was only to spit out deductions, to drive others away”. 

"And Mycroft?" 

"He felt guilty for not being able to prevent it, neither Victor's death nor the devastation it caused to his brother," answered Bart. "When Eurus burned down the house with Sherlock inside, he became paranoid about his safety. But even then, he couldn't stop him from getting into drugs, and that sank him even further”. 

"And their parents?

Geena shook her head. 

"They were shocked. They felt guilty, terrified, and lost. When they had to take Eurus away…it was... terrible for them. It was obvious Mycroft and Sherlock needed help, but they were overwhelmed, so the children got by as best or the worst they could. I’m not blaming them. It was really hard for them, especially when Mycroft told them she died, though, in the end, it wasn’t true”.

“When Mycroft told us that she and Sherlock communicate through the violin, we were not surprised. It was the only time when, as children, they both got on well, at violin lessons, or when practicing. Eurus relaxed, and they played together for hours. It seemed to calm the part of her mind that was wrong”.

John nodded. Sherlock kept going to Sherrinford to see Eurus and play the violin, the solo, with Mycroft or with his parents, and that seemed to comfort her. He noticed it the times he accompanied him.

Geena cleared her throat, looking behind her back. John turned and saw Rosie, looking at the three of them inquisitively, frowning, Sherlock’s book in her little hands. Geena and Bart moved to the kitchen.

"Good morning, sweetheart, how did you sleep?" John quickly shook off the sadness in which he had been plunged by Geena and Bart's story. He and Sherlock wanted Rosie, for now, to remain oblivious to all that.

Rosie looked down and didn't answer, biting her lower lip. John smiled and sat down next to her. 

"What's the matter? Are you sad because it is our last day?"

She shrugged and nodded, her eyes shining, her lower lip trembling a bit. John sighed relieved. For a moment, he feared that the girl had heard them. He hugged her.

"Don't you want to go back to London?"

She nodded. 

"Yes, I want to see Nanny and Uncle Myc and Uncle Greg again..., and I miss it, but I won't be able to see my friends. They will be far away”.

"But you can chat to them on Skype or Facetime” John smiled and kissed her on the head. "I understand you. It's the same for me. Not your father, because he is craving for a good crime, even though he has put up with a lot. Next summer, if you want to and your father doesn't commit hara-kiri himself, we'll come back”. 

"What is hara-kiri?" 

"I'll explain it to you another day. Let's do one thing. We'll finish Papa's book now, and then we’ll have breakfast looking at the sea and get ready to go to the airport.

The girl looked at him narrowing her eyes, just as Sherlock did. John let her deduce him, trying to hide a smile.  

The girl nodded, satisfied, and sat on one chair. John took the book and opened by the page Sherlock marked the night before, reading until Rosie fell asleep. 

Buttercup looked at Westley. 

“You all right? I was worried about you back on the bed there. Your eyes rolled up into your head and everything.” 

“I suppose I was dying again, so I asked the Lord of Permanent Affection for the strength to live the day. Clearly, the answer came in the affirmative.” 

“I didn’t know there was such a Fellow,” Buttercup said. 

“Neither did I, in truth, but if He didn’t exist, I didn’t much want to either.” 

The four great horses seemed almost to fly toward Florin Channel. 

“It appears to me as if we’re doomed, then,” Buttercup said. 

Westley looked at her. 

“Doomed, madam?” 

“To be together. Until one of us dies.” 

Before John could continue reading, they heard Sherlock’s recited by memory the following paragraph. He had leaned on the door frame, watching the scene without being noticed since John started reading. His voice was firm, although a little shakier with emotion than the detective would like to admit.

“I’ve done that already, and I haven’t the slightest intention of ever doing it again.”  

Sherlock and John silently looked at each other, both with a smile floating on their lips, eyes full of love, while Rosie looked at them alternately, smiling mischievously. 

“Don’t we sort of have to sometime?” John kept reading Buttercup’s words. 

“Not if we promise to outlive each other, and I make that promise now.” Answered Sherlock. 

John looked at him, each plunging into the deep love that flooded the other's eyes. 

“So do I.” 

They remained silent, looking at each other, unmoving, until Rosie huffed, impatient. 

"Are you going to kiss now or not?" I'm hungry”. 

Both chuckled. 

"It seems to me that this little lady is becoming very impertinent," John approached her with a threatening air. “And we all know what happens to impertinent ladies."

"Daddy, no!" Rosie shouted before bursting out, laughing as John tickled her. "Papa!" she cried with laughter, "save me!” 

"Oh, I don't think Papa can save you from this," John retorted, still ticking her.  

Sherlock took a step forward, but when John turned to him, threateningly wriggling his fingers in the air, he stopped short. 

John and Rosie looked at each other. 

"Rosie, you know what happens to ticklish consulting detectives?" John laughed. 

"Yes," shouted Rosie, enthusiastically, standing next to John, wriggling his fingers in the same menacing way. 

Sherlock took a step back. 

"It's not fair, two against one.” 

"Life isn't fair," replied John. 

"That's right, Papa, life isn't fair.”

Both laughed at Rosie’s judgmental tone.

The girl frowned and threw herself after Sherlock, who, feigning panic and crying out for help, ran out of the room. 

John ran after them and tackled the detective in the corridor, knocking him to the ground. He started tickling him, and Rosie joined him, laughing at Sherlock’s squeals with laughter while both tickled him mercilessly, while Sherlock, all coordination lost, could only laugh and slap the air, trying to prevent, but not succeeding, them from tickling him any further.

"No, no, John!" he shouted with laughter and twisted like a worm when John grabbed both of his wrists. When Rosie dug his little fingers in his ribs, he let out a high-pitched scream before laughing again. 

"I surrender, I surrender," he managed to shout between uncontrolled giggles.

The girl smiled and stopped tickling him  

"I won the tickle-fight!" she roared, jumping on him. John looked at the two of them, Sherlock hugging Rosie, still giggling, the girl lying on his chest, exultant of joy, the sadness of being the last day forgotten. John lay down next to Sherlock, smiled at him, and pecked his cheek. Rosie imitated him and then crawled to lie between her fathers. The detective took out his phone and took a selfie of the three of them.

They remained there for a while, enjoying being together. This is how Geena found them when she went to warn them that breakfast was ready. 

"You'll miss the plane if you keep on fooling around," she scolded them, though couldn't hide a smile. “I want you all on the terrace showered and dressed in fifteen minutes.”

The three got up quickly, and exactly seventeen minutes later, they were having breakfast. 

John looked at his watch, worried. 

"Relax, Bart is packing your bags. That way, Rosie will have time to say goodbye to the sea. Do you want to go to the beach before you go?"

“Yes!” she shouted enthusiastically.

“Geena turned to Sherlock. 

“You heard your daughter, so finish all your pancakes and then take them to the beach.” 

"She's so bossy," Rosie whispered amusedly to John, who chuckled, both eating to avoid Geena’s bossiness. 

John nodded, amused by Sherlock's docility as he began to gobble up his breakfast. It was true that Geena had flooded her pancakes with chocolate, but even so, it was an achievement that the detective ate them without complaint. When they finished, they climbed down the stairs to the sand. 

Sherlock took out his shoes and walked to the shore, plunging in the sea until the water reached his ankles. John and Rosie mimicked him. He frowned a bit, closed his eyes, and slipped into the last room created in his Mind Palace, where he kept his childhood memories that reappeared after his meeting with Eurus. Most of them were in brown, grey colors, scrambled, and scattered thrown on the floor. Others, arranged, were turning into more bright colors.

The pain of Victor’s loss was still there, but also the happy memories that accompanied him, and the brightness that share his childhood memories with John and Rosie brought to some of them. Both helped him to rescue happy moments, to recover part of who he was, to rearrange the pieces that once almost destroyed him in a way that made him stronger.

He smiled and opened his eyes, hugging John, who hugged him back, both looking amused at Rosie, who ran through the waves, shouting to the sea, the sand, the shells, the seagulls, and some poor clueless crab that crossed her path. Happy and tired, she ran up the stairs.

They came back to the house, where a taxi was waiting for them, their luggage already in the boot. 

Geena embraced the detective. 

“Call us whenever you want to come back,” she said, her eyes full of tears. Sherlock hugged her back and quickly dislodged the embrace. She chuckled and turned to Rosie, who tightly hugged her. 

“I’m going to miss you,” said the girl, tearful. 

“We will miss you too. But don’t be sad. Think about all the things you want to do next year, and we will do it when you come back”. 

“Geena,” scowled Sherlock. The woman raised an eyebrow, and the detective turned to Bart, who was saying goodbye to John. 

“Thanks for taking care of us. We had a great time here”. 

“It has been a pleasure to have you here,” he turned to Sherlock, “Be reassured we will take care of the house.” 

“I know, thanks, Bart.” 

John embraced Geena as Rosie, say goodbye to Bart. Soon all of them were in the taxi towards the airport. 

Three hours later, they landed in Heathrow. The detective inhaled deeply. John laughed at the evident craving of London the detective has. They took a cab to Baker Street, where Mrs. Hudson was waiting for them at the door and smiled widely when he saw them. She missed them. Too quiet the flat without them.

Rosie ran to hug her. 

“Did you have a great time?”

“The most wonderful holidays of my whole life!!!” she shouted, delighted. 

“Well, you are four. You will have a lot to compare”. 

“The most wonderful without any doubt!” repeated the girl and ran upstairs, as John and Sherlock greeted Mrs. Hudson. 

“Holidays are wonderful, but it’s great to be at home again,” sighed John, taking their bags. He turned to the landlady, who was staring at Sherlock. 

“It’s everything okay, Mrs. Hudson?”

She turned to the doctor, pointing at the detective. 

“Is he tanned?”

“I’m not tanned,” he growled. 

“Yes, you are,” shouted Rosie from her bedroom.

“Apart from burned,” teased John, pecking the detective’s nose, still showing a reddish-pink color.

Sherlock grunted, but it was undeniable that his usually pale skin had a slightly golden touch than contrasted with John and Rosie’s dark tanned skin. 

“Miracle happens every day,” chuckled the landlady, climbing the stairs after them. 

Chapter Text

Days after, a short, sturdy therapist with a bushy brown beard, with a friendly, shy air and intelligent blue eyes entered his house after finishing his shift at the rehab center where he worked. He checked his mailbox, discarding bills and junk mail until a familiar expensive cream-colored envelope with his name handwritten, caught his eye. 

He tore the envelope, and a photograph fell on the table. He took it and smiled broadly, looking at the two men and the girl lying on the floor and smiling widely at the camera. 

It was easy for him to recognize in the dark curly-haired man, the sullen, shaggy, and defiant young drug addict who came to his office forced by his older brother. He came wrapped in the highly functional sociopath label that some stupid therapist they had visited previously gave him. Therapists that wanted to get rid of that forked-tongue demon who, even high as a kite, deduced every detail of his life with just a glance and spat them in their faces.

Idiots. None of them could see in him the traumatized, broken, and frightened child who, in desperation, sought mechanisms to cope with the pain, fear, anguish, and depression that threatened to drown him. 

Just like his older brother. Everyone blamed his obesity at that time on his laziness, neglect, comfortable social position, or sedentary work. But no one knew or dared to see that his food addiction was just another way of fighting the same demons that haunted his little brother, accompanied by suffocating guilt. 

He smiled. The picture brought back to his mind that time when he, the therapist, told the brunete he was worthy of being loved and that, someday, he would find someone capable of seeing through him. The young man laughed so hard that he literally fell off his chair. But deep down in his eyes, the therapist could see a glimmer of hope that he could not drown despite the usual inexpressive mask that hid feelings. 

He also remembered the day they talked about a murder that made the papers, an elderly couple brutally murdered, that NSY could not solve. He did not stop saying they were idiots, that they did see but did not observe. He was so insistent, and his arguments were so convincing that the therapist contacted the detective in charge of the case, a certain Lestrade. At first, Lestrade didn’t pay much attention to the insolent brunet, but, as he spelled out his arguments, the inspector became more and more interested, and thanks to him, they arrested the culprit. 

Lestrade was mute with amazement and, altogether with his therapist, they proposed him a deal: if he gave up drugs, he could advise him on the crimes they could not solve. He ignored the pompous "all of them, them” the young brunette snapped.

Years later, he became the only consulting detective in the world. He created the job.   

Written in almost indecipherable handwriting underneath the photo, he could read a sentence the therapist had framed in his office. The same sentence that the young addict rejected by waving his hand dismissively, declaring that both the quote and the therapist were stupid: 

"Sometimes, when you lose your way in the fog, you end up in a beautiful place. Don't be afraid of getting lost!"

And below, the phrase he knew he would read one day:

"I must admit you were right and I wasn't. But, as you can see, I'm truly, completely, and entirely pleased about being wrong on this occasion. 

PS.: If you show the photo to anyone, I will kill you. SH"

The man chuckled, grabbed a framed picture of the wall, took it out, and replaced it with Sherlock, his husband, and their daughter. 

After all, it wasn't every day that Sherlock Holmes recognized you were right.