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“This place is beautiful,” Watson murmured. “So many interesting things to see.”
“Mm-hmm.” His companion’s eyes were indeed occupied. The hale and ruddy-cheeked man in his arms exhibited only the weariness of a sated lover, and his stamina and eager participation proclaimed his returned health. Gone was the pale, exhausted physician only a breath removed from the victims of the influenza epidemic he tried to save all winter (failing far too often), whom he’d sent to this Brighton resort seven weeks ago.
John Watson stretched from fingertip to toe-tip like a sunning cat. “You will love the Turkish baths here, darling; they are magnificently outfitted.”
“Splendid.” Sherlock Holmes pursued a stray drop of sweat down the other man’s chest.
“When we wish a change from the Metropole’s splendid fare, we shall have to have supper at Bolla & Biucchi's in Kings Road.”
“Looking forward to it.” The sleuth captured his prey with his tongue.
“Perhaps afterward we might take in a symphony or play at Theatre Royal.”
“Delightful prospect.” Exploration further south. “Watson, in this entire litany of recreational opportunities in a locale famous for its beaches and seaside, you have not once alluded to going to the actual seaside.”
“Good God, no. The water’s freezing, and that sand gets into everything.”
“Wise man.” Holmes resumed kissing down his lover’s body.