Work Text:
"John," Sherlock mumbled, numb with surprise. "You…you got me a book on beekeeping?"
It was the morning of Sherlock's thirty-sixth birthday and he and John were sitting on the kitchen floor unwrapping presents (the stools had been the latest collateral damage in an experiment on termites, unfortunately); and though the tiles were cold and Sherlock's legs were cramped from being folded, this was easily the best birthday he'd ever had. Before John, his parents were the only ones who had ever celebrated his birthday (and even they found the process rather tiresome), so it was quite nice to be around someone who cared enough to make an effort.
"I did," John agreed, smiling. "I remembered when you were going on about how bees were 'far more sophisticated than humans' a few months ago. Can't recall what your exact argument was, but I know it had something to do with 'simple minds' and 'ridiculous social rituals.'"
"Both of those in reference to humans, yes."
"Right. Well, I talked to one of Mike's friends who used to be a librarian in Edinburgh and it turned out he had a bunch of things on bees. Anatomy textbooks, research journals, theories, experiments, histories—all that good stuff. I ended up buying this one because I figured you already knew all there was to know about bees, except how to keep them."
"I…" Sherlock let the sentence trail off, at loss for what to say. It was rare that he was rendered speechless, but it was even rarer that he received a present he treasured so immediately. He didn't care about cufflinks or tie pins, or even well-tailored suits; he liked gifts that meant something, as maudlin as it was, and this book said more than words possibly could about his and John's friendship.
Apparently, though, he'd been silent for too long, because John frowned and began to look doubtful.
"Oh. Do…do you not like it? I mean, I could probably call him up and get it exchanged for something better if you'd like."
"No, John, that isn't it at all," Sherlock replied hurriedly, clutching the book to his chest. "I just…I love it. A lot. I'm simply surprised that you remembered the bee conversation, given your propensity to forget things."
John playfully swatted at his shoulder. "Just hush up and be grateful for the bloody thing."
Warmth and affection pulsated through Sherlock's chest, spreading out to his fingertips like liquid gold. "I am."
"Good."
"Happy Birthday to me," he said happily, wiggling his toes against the tile.
John chuckled and stood, extending a hand to help him up. "Yes; happy birthday to you, Sherlock."
He and Lestrade were in the middle of a heated debate regarding Anderson and whether or not he had somehow become even stupider since their last case (a position only Sherlock appeared to be supporting) when Lestrade stopped shouting suddenly and dropped his gaze to the object sticking out of Sherlock's bag.
Apparently no longer interested in yelling, Lestrade narrowed his eyes at the satchel. "What's that?"
That turned out to be the top half of A Beginner's Guide to Beekeeping, which Sherlock had been carrying around with him for weeks. Though he'd finished it the day after receiving it, he found it quite soothing to read over the familiar words and sink into the comfortable, easy existence of a beekeeper. Their lives consisted of tending to bees, studying their behavior, and basking in the (quite literally) sweet taste of success when the creatures' work came to fruition.
The fact that the book was haphazardly stowed in his bag rather than treated with the care it deserved was due to a particularly hasty exit this morning, after an unexpectedly explosive mixture of chemicals resulted in several damaged appliances and a half hour of frantic cleaning. The mess itself hadn't been too appalling, but John tended to have much higher standards when it came to the state of their kitchen, and Sherlock decided that he would rather not give John a heart attack first thing in the morning by leaving their stove caked in slime and burnt plastic.
"John's birthday gift to me," Sherlock announced proudly, removing the book so Lestrade could see it better. "It's a complete guide to beekeeping."
Lestrade gave him an odd look. "You're looking to become a beekeeper, Sherlock?"
Sherlock hummed thoughtfully. "I like the notion, but I don't believe I'm quite ready to retire to that sort of life. The descriptions in this book make it sound lovely, though, so perhaps one day I will."
"That's…interesting," Lestrade decided after a minute. "Though, I'll admit, I never pegged you as the type who'd be content to move to the countryside and live among nature."
"I like bees," Sherlock stated simply. "In fact, I would prefer their company to that of most people I know."
"You like bees," Lestrade repeated, leaning back against his desk and mulling it over. "And why's that? I would've thought insects would be beneath your interest, seeing how most humans can't even hold your attention."
Sherlock scoffed. "Most humans are dull, Lestrade. Bees, however, are complex, logical creatures who think linearly and execute desired tasks. In fact, during the summer they work so relentlessly that they rarely last longer than six weeks—they literally work themselves to death. In the winter, though, they live for nine long months, as the cold slows them down and forces them to complete their work at a more gradual pace."
"Was that in the book?"
"Yes, it was in the introduction, actually," Sherlock said, running his thumb absently over the book's spine. "The author opens the guide by informing the reader of the bees' steadfast, dogged work ethic. Personally, I would have begun the novel by discussing their many contributions to science; for example, did you know Melittin, a substance found in bee venom, can help combat the HIV strand? However, I cannot begrudge Mr. Ivan Gonzales for choosing to write the novel the way he has, as their commitment to labor is an equally intriguing facet to explore."
"Right," Lestrade said, clearing his throat. "Well, now that that's settled, do you think we could get back on topic, Sherlock? In case you don't remember, the only reason we're in here at all is because you berated Anderson in front of the whole Yard again, even though I explicitly told you—"
"No need to reiterate, Lestrade," Sherlock huffed impatiently. "I was there, I remember. However, this subject is far more important." He flipped the book open with a look of finality. "Would you like to know how weather patterns can affect the quality of the honey produced?"
Lestrade sighed and dropped his hands to his sides in defeat. "I don't, but I suspect you're going to tell me anyway?"
"Excellent deduction, Lestrade," Sherlock praised, and then proceeded to spend the next half hour going over every detail of chapter nine: Mother Nature's Effect on The Hive.
"Right now, Sherlock?" John hissed from precisely two inches away. "You're telling me about the longevity of worker bees right now, while we're crouched behind a dumpster waiting for our sodding demises?"
Perhaps John had a point; they were hiding in a filthy alleyway and the men outside were armed and violent, but that didn't mean he needed to be quite so fussy about it.
"I merely thought you could use the distraction," Sherlock hissed back, his legs cramped from being crouched so long. "Pardon me for not wanting to sit here in silence for another hour."
"It's a stakeout, Sherlock! You're supposed to be quiet. Not chatting about bees," John snapped. "If you had just listened to me three hours ago when I said not to follow those men without contacting the police, we wouldn't be here right now!"
Sherlock looked at him from the corner of his eye. "You're not enjoying yourself?"
If John weren't endeavoring to stay quiet, Sherlock was quite certain he would've laughed in disbelief. "I pray to god that is sarcasm, Sherlock, because surely even you can figure out that I'm not pleased right now."
"It wasn't sarcasm," Sherlock answered simply. "I'm having fun, aren't you?"
John just stared at him as if he were insane. "How is any of this fun for you?"
Well, that was an easy question. It was fun because John was crouched next to him and their bodies were pressed together from shoulder to thigh. It was fun because adrenaline was singing in his veins and the warmth of John's skin was soaking into his coat like rays of sunlight. It was fun because it was the two of them against the rest of the world, just how Sherlock liked it.
So, aside from the terrible smell of the dumpster and the possibility of being gunned down by angry arms dealers, Sherlock was having a rather good time.
Instead of answering, though, Sherlock changed the subject. "Do you think we're going to die?"
John didn't seem fazed by the conversational tone Sherlock paired with the phrase. Instead, he snorted and he shook his head. "Considering our line of work, I doubt a few commonplace criminals are going to be our downfall. At most, you'll sprain an ankle and I'll get a few bruises—nothing we haven't faced before, I'm sure."
"I agree." A beat of silence passed before he followed up with, "And by the way, I texted Lestrade a half hour ago, so he should be here in ten minutes with reinforcements."
John whipped around to look at him. "What? You didn't think to mention that sooner?"
"It didn't seem relevant."
"It didn't seem—alright, fine," John said in an exhale, having decided it wasn't worth getting worked up over. "But didn't you say earlier that we didn't need anyone's help?"
"We don't. But I figured you wouldn't want to sit here all night, so I told Lestrade to come by and pick up the criminals. Despite their trade, the dealers are fairly inept, so it shouldn't be any trouble taking them in."
"So, what now? Do we just sit here and wait for the Yard to show up?"
"Indeed."
"Huh," John said, his shoulders relaxing. "Well, that's a bit anticlimactic."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Apologies, John, I'll make sure to bring fireworks next time so we can spice things up."
John chuckled and knocked his shoulder good-naturedly into Sherlock's. "Nope, a nice cup of tea when we get home will do just fine."
"That can be arranged, if…" Sherlock trailed off, raising a brow.
John humored him. "If what?"
"If you let me talk to you about bees now."
At that, John chuckled and his eyes crinkled fondly at the corners. "You know you haven't shut up about bees for months, right? I got you that book ages ago and you're still trying to tell anyone who will listen about honey and queens and the varying stages of hive-building."
"Yes," Sherlock agreed proudly. "That is true."
And it was. Sherlock hadn't stopped talking about beekeeping since that book graced his hands six months ago. There were of course lulls in his obsession—briefly, he'd been distracted by a promising experiment and an interesting murder or two—but at the end of the day, the guide remained in its honorary place on his nightstand, ready to be read before sleep just like every other night. John often asked him why he didn't buy more books about bees since he was so bloody fascinated with them, but Sherlock could never find a way to logically explain why the one book he had—the one book John had bought for him with kindness and affection in mind—was all he needed. His love for the subject was expansive and he'd certainly done external research when the information in the guide was not enough, but his attachment to the book stemmed primarily from sentimentality, and that was something no other book could capture.
"Fine," John decided, leaning into Sherlock as he maneuvered himself into a sitting position. "Tell me about the bees, Sherlock."
"Well, most people do not realize this, but a beekeeper has many occupations," Sherlock began. "Landlord, mediator, inspector, and even doctor. During the busy spring months, a keeper will spend most of the day working with the bees in his hives, whereas he may not look at them for months during the winter. That's okay, though," Sherlock continued, "because the bees are fairly self-sufficient during the colder months. In summer, however, the bees…"
"I fear perhaps I'm getting old," Sherlock admitted on the evening of his thirty-seventh birthday.
Much like the year before, he and John were sitting on the kitchen floor, only this time it wasn't because of broken chairs. This year's campout on the tile was because Sherlock had accidentally dropped his birthday cake (John leaping from around the corner and shouting 'surprise!' did not inspire firm grips on platters) and John, too amused to be annoyed at the mess, had simply sat down and stuck a candle in the chocolate lump on the floor.
"It's not like you were going to eat it anyway, right?" John had said, as he lit the lopsided 'thirty-seven' candle.
It was after blowing out the small wick that Sherlock felt a pang in his chest. He was thirty-seven years old. He was getting old and as odd as it was, it had never occurred to him that he wouldn't be young forever. He closed his eyes and pretended to make a wish, but the darkness turned out to be quite comforting, so even after a few moments had passed, he decided to keep his eyes shut.
From beside him, John nudged his bare ankle against Sherlock's, prompting the detective to crack one eye open.
John was smiling at him. "You're ridiculous, you know that?"
Sherlock looked at him askance. "And why is that?"
"Because you think you're old!" John laughed.
Sherlock moodily closed his eyes again and leaned back against the cupboard. "I am."
"Please," John snorted, batting away Sherlock's statement like a fly. "Enjoy your thirties, they flee faster than you think. Besides, if anyone here ought to be worrying about age, it's me."
"John, you are forty-two, not ninety-two," Sherlock groused, snapping his eyes open completely this time. "Kindly stop speaking as if you're fit for a nursing home."
"Fine, but only if you do the same," John said sternly, patting Sherlock's pajama-clad knee. "Now, would you like to see what I got you this year?"
At the mention of his gift, a flush of childlike anticipation spilled across Sherlock's face. Deliberately, he closed his fists and bit the inside of his cheek, endeavoring to tamper down the jolt of excitement. "I told you not to buy me anything, remember?"
"I know," John said with bright eyes. "I didn't buy your gift."
John was being cryptic and Sherlock wasn't quite sure what to make of that. "You didn't?"
"Nope," John announced proudly. "A friend of mine invited the two of us to visit his cousin's bee farm in Liverpool after I told him how much you loved bees. Rosewood Farms, I believe."
"You—we're—going to a bee farm?" Sherlock managed to wheeze out after a full minute of stunned silence. "We're going to an actual bee farm?"
"Yup," John announced with a smile. His dark blue eyes seemed to shine with satisfaction. "Do you like it?"
Sherlock watched John get up and then numbly followed suit when John offered a hand. "John, I…" he tried, the words bunching up in his throat and sticking there.
"I don't really know what to say," he said at last.
"Then don't say anything," John said with a soft smile, cupping the side of Sherlock's face in his palm. Affectionately, he pressed a short kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "Just make sure to pack tonight because we're leaving tomorrow morning."
Somehow, the air at Rosewood Farms tasted sweeter. For miles, there was nothing but bright-green lawns dotted with white chickweeds and rolling hills swathed in blue forget-me-nots. The grey, overcast sky was broken up by shafts of sunlight, birds twittered in the trees, and the clouds moved unhurriedly along, like silverfish swimming down a stream.
As for the site itself, there was a shed where the keeper stored his uniform and supplies, an open area near the hives where the keeper presumably made notes, and a modest two story farm house with red peonies spilling from every opened window. As lovely and picturesque as everything was, however, the bee section was by far the most compelling.
The hives looked like a small village of yellow houses, all lined up and organized as if the bees had their own little neighborhood separate from the farm. Inside the wooden huts, Sherlock watched worker bees busily build their hive, feed their queen, and work with a single-minded focus he couldn't help but admire. The sound of buzzing and the scent of honey lingered everywhere, and Sherlock loved it.
"This is incredible, John," Sherlock said hours later, as they walked along the dirt paths outside the farm house.
"You're having a good time?"
That question seemed quite silly to him. Sherlock was lucky enough to be in the company of nature's most spectacular offerings and the best man he'd ever known, so how could this day have been anything but wonderful?
"Of course, John," Sherlock replied with a shake of his head. "It has been absolutely perfect."
John beamed at him and reached for Sherlock's hand, his face glowing in the afternoon sunlight. "Good. You deserve this."
They walked for a while longer, before John squatted down and plucked a flower from the grass, rolling the stem contemplatively between his fingers. He raised his blues eyes to meet Sherlock's in that quiet, fond way of his. "I like seeing you like this, Sherlock."
"Like what?"
His eyes brimming with affection, John brushed Sherlock's hair to the side and tucked the small flower behind his ear. "Happy," he explained simply, and smiled.
"You're tired and you need to sleep," John announced one night after a particularly taxing case. It was sometime after three in the morning and Sherlock had been playing the violin nonstop for hours in an attempt to burn off residual adrenaline from the case. Though he'd accomplished that ages ago and his fingers were now cramped and aching, he refused to admit defeat and succumb to fatigue.
That was, until John stepped behind him, carefully pulled the instrument out of his hands, and guided him to couch.
"I'm not tired, John," he mumbled, which wasn't all that convincing since his eyelids were already dropping shut.
"I know," John placated, sitting down on the sofa. "But why don't you humor me for a minute and take a break?" He stared expectantly at Sherlock until the detective finally collapsed beside him, limp as a ragdoll.
"M'fine," Sherlock insisted, sliding down the couch so that his head was tucked comfortably into the crook of John's shoulder. His nuzzled contently at the side of John's neck. "Not tired at all."
"Of course," John murmured, running his fingers lazily through Sherlock's curls.
"John, d'ya wanna know something?"
Against the top of his head, he could feel John smile. "Sure."
"During winter months, the active bees—yawn—form clusters around the queen bee to keep her at a toasty ninety-two degrees."
"Do they?"
"Mmhm. And if there isn't enough honey left after harvest time, the keeper adds sugar so the bees can convert it to honey," Sherlock mumbled into John's shoulder.
"That's nice."
"Mm."
"How about you tell me all about bees in the morning, though, yeah?"
"Mmkay," Sherlock agreed, nestling closer. His last thought before falling into a deep sleep was that John smelled quite sweet, almost like honey.
"You know, would it kill you to clean up your acid experiments before the chemicals set in, Sherlock?" John ranted, throwing his bedroom door open with very little regard for the precarious card tower Sherlock was building in the middle of the floor. The resulting gust of wind swept away what could have easily been the final piece in his most recent case. So much for determining whether constructing a replica of the Eiffel tower using only playing cards was a legitimate alibi.
"John!" Sherlock admonished, eyeing the ruins of his creation with horror. "That took three hours."
But John just ignored him, as John was wont to do when he was hot-headed about incomplete chores. "Last week's 'tests' alone burned three holes in the kitchen table and now, thanks to your little experiment with bloody sulfuric acid, we no longer have placemats. Or spatulas, as I recently discovered.
"John, if you would just—"
"And, since you also decided to use our nice cooking utensils to stir your damned mixtures, our ladle is now just a handle. That's right, Sherlock, you melted our bloody ladle. Are you happy?"
"John—"
"I swear, if I didn't love you, I would have kicked you out on your arse a long time ago, or at the very least hired a twenty-four hour maid to keep an eye on you and your mad experiments. Maybe that way our cupboard would be filled with actual dishware, instead of the plastic utensils and paper plates we currently have, thanks to your weekly adventures with metal-eating acids."
It took a beat of silence for the words to settle in, before both of them realized what John said.
"You—" Sherlock started.
"I—" John said at the same time.
"Love me? You love me?" Sherlock asked faintly.
For a moment, John looked cornered, then shocked, before finally landing somewhere along the spectrum of awkward. "Er, I…said that aloud, didn't I? Yes. It appears I did. Well, er, I suppose the cat's out of the bag," he said, trying and failing to sound lighthearted. After a beat of hesitation, he stopped fumbling his words and cleared his throat. With squared shoulders and a significantly more confident demeanor, he stated, "But, yes, Sherlock, it's true. That is how I feel about you."
"That isn't possible," Sherlock insisted, though his voice sounded weak even to his own ears. "That can't be right."
John frowned at him. "Of course it's right. I love you, Sherlock."
Sherlock gripped handfuls of blankets in his fist and resolutely looked at the floor. "As friends?" he asked tightly.
John joined him on the bed and sat far closer than Sherlock expected, his thigh pressed flush against Sherlock's. "No," he said simply, without shame. "In a romantic way."
Sherlock closed his eyes. His brain felt as if it were on the brink of implosion. "I…I'm afraid I don't understand."
Carefully, John cradled the side of Sherlock's face in his palm and steadily met his wide, terrified eyes. "There's a lot I'm sure I could say, Sherlock, but the gist of it is this: even on your worst days, you are the best person I know. I never get tired of you, and I highly doubt I ever will. When I say you're brilliant, I don't just mean you are intelligent—though, you obviously are. I mean that your entire being—your mind, body, and soul—are utterly luminescent to me. You glow in a crowded room like the sun."
With John's hand still gently cupping his face, Sherlock blinked rapidly and tried to think of what to say next. Thousands of possible responses surged to the forefront of his mind: words that had been rehearsed in the quiet darkness of his bedroom, hidden secrets that had been lurking behind his teeth, sordid confessions that clung to the roof of his mouth. There was so much he wanted to say, so much he was dying to tell John, but what he ended up blurting out was: "The beekeeper must monitor the hive throughout the year for illnesses, viruses, fungi, or parasitic mites, and then treat the bees as necessary."
"Pardon?"
"I don't know why I said that," he babbled, dropping his gaze nervously to the comforter. "But it's true, it is one of the keeper's primary tasks to maintain the well-being of the bees, especially since certain hives are more susceptible to illness than others, depending on the health of the queen, the location of the farm itself and—"
"Sherlock."
Sherlock swallowed, afraid that he might collapse if John let go of him. "Yes."
"You're talking quite a lot about bees right now," John said soothingly, stroking his thumb over Sherlock's cheekbone, "but I'm not sure if that's what you're really trying to tell me. Is there something else?"
Hives, queens, keepers, honey, farms, freedom, happiness, John, John loves him, John actually loves him for all of his odd quirks and black moods and he's promised multiple times to never leave and—
"You love me," Sherlock said slowly. The words tingled on his lips. "Are you sure?"
"I'm positive."
"I see," Sherlock said shakily. He swallowed a few times to try and rid himself of the lump in his throat. "My mind is moving at a million miles an hour right now, John. I'm not quite sure what to do next."
"That's easy," John said. "Just do whatever feels natural. First thing to pop into your mind—do it."
So Sherlock did just that. Without thinking, he grabbed John by the front of his jumper (the terrible yellow-green one with argyle print down the front) and pulled him down on top of him. John indulged in a single, chaste kiss, but lightheartedly refused to meet Sherlock's lips when Sherlock craned his head off the pillow and arched for another.
"Kiss me," Sherlock begged. "Once wasn't enough."
John only hummed affectionately and stroked a warm, rough palm over Sherlock's forehead and into his hair. "I only just announced that I'm in love with you two minutes ago. Don't you think we should take our time?"
"But I want to do this right now," he complained, nuzzling his face into the warm of curve of John's neck.
John hummed appreciatively, but remained where he was. "Let's just enjoy this for a bit, yeah?"
Perhaps John was right, they should savor this. With a sigh, Sherlock loosened his grip on the back of John's jumper and allowed his body to melt into the sheets. Everything about this moment was lovely and soft, like sweet white wine or billowing, nimbostratus clouds. The air smelled like clean skin, laundered sheets, and traces of John's spicy-sweet aftershave. Above him, John watched Sherlock with unhurried, adoring blue eyes, the sunlight spilling through the window and framing his outline like a halo. The surge of affection Sherlock felt at that moment—the pure gush of desire and gratitude and wonder—struck him like a bolt of lightning and nearly left him speechless.
"Will you kiss me now?" Sherlock whispered, afraid of shattering the fragility of the moment by speaking too loudly.
Instead of answering, John ducked his head down and pressed a small, sweet kiss to Sherlock's bottom lip, then his top lip, then both, in short, wonderful sips of kisses that eventually burgeoned into something more when Sherlock groaned and tugged John closer.
"Say it again, John," he begged in between fevered kisses. "Please."
"I love you," John murmured into his mouth. "I love you, I love you, I love you."
This, Sherlock decided that following year, was what it felt like to be utterly, completely, and irrevocably happy.
"Will that be all, Mr. Holmes?" the agent asked, capping her blue pen.
Sherlock exhaled and felt all doubt leave him in one giant gust. "Yes."
"Well then," she smiled, "I am pleased to say that you are now the proud owner of Black Ridge honeybee farm. Congratulations and I wish you the best of luck."
"Would you be opposed to our retirement?" Sherlock asked one afternoon as he scrolled lazily through their blog, his legs tangled with John's on the sofa.
John peered at him over the top of the Gazette's sports section. "You'd be okay with retiring this early? You're barely forty-two."
"Well, perhaps it wouldn't be a complete retirement," Sherlock conceded. "I'm sure we could find cases anywhere. I just meant, would you be okay if we left London and moved elsewhere?"
"Did you have anywhere specific in mind?"
The words welled up in his throat, sweet and thick like honey. "John, if I told you I purchased a farm out in Sussex without telling you, what would you do?"
John took a long, contemplative sip of tea. Then, after satisfying both his thirst and his desire to keep Sherlock in suspense, he said, "I would tell you that my suitcase has been packed for days."
Sherlock's heart nearly stopped. "Does that mean…?"
John only smiled and put down the paper. "Does that mean I knew about the farm? Yes. Does that mean I love the idea? Yes. Does that mean I want to spend the rest of my life out there with you? Yes. Now," he said, sliding from the couch and onto the floor on one knee, "since I've been kind enough to say 'yes' to all of your questions, do you think you could do the same for me?"
From his back pocket, John produced a handsome silver band.
"John," Sherlock whispered, moisture springing unexpectedly to his eyes. "I…"
"Now, I know you don't like flowery nonsense and poetic babble, so I'll try to keep it simple." He took Sherlock's hand and pressed a kiss to knuckles. "Sherlock Holmes, I love you more than you could possibly know. I will follow wherever you go for the rest of our lives. You are the most precious thing I've ever had the unimaginable luck of stumbling upon and I never want to let you go." He took a deep breath and met Sherlock's eyes. "So, would you do me the honor of marrying me?"
And with that, Sherlock's mind palace exploded.
"J-john," he said shakily, unable to form any other coherent words. "John, did you just…did you…are you…?"
John smiled and held Sherlock's hand even tighter, patiently waiting for the detective to process his words.
"You just asked me to marry you," Sherlock said finally. He took a few very deep breaths before it occurred to him that he'd yet to respond. "Christ, John, the answer is yes," he blurted out. "You knew that, right? I didn't mean to hesitate, it was just a lot to process all at once and I couldn't think straight for a moment and I—"
Still smiling, John surged forward and kissed the words right off his lips. "So, we're getting married, then?"
Sherlock threw his arms around John's neck and pressed several clumsy kisses against the side of John's face. "Yes, yes of course we're bloody getting married. Yes, yes, yes, Christ I can't even say the word enough."
"Well then, what do you say we start the rest of our lives, Mr. Holmes?" John grinned. "I hear Sussex is incredible this time of year."