Come Fly With Me (part 5)
A/N: Holy moley, readers, I can't believe you put up with me! I didn't realise there'd been such a big gap between posts on this story. Agh, I'm sorry! Part 6 will be the final instalment in this fic, I hope to get that up within the next week or so :)
This chapter is partly inspired by the fanart by mortmere (also a deviantart user), chiefly their piece Bliss, but also The Great Escape.
Comments are love!
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John is amazed that he still feels a tingle in his belly upon seeing Sherlock; he would have thought the novelty would wear off much sooner. But no, the detective ventures out of the bathroom with one towel around his hips, one of his usual collared, button-up shirts hanging open, and he's patting at his hair with another towel as he seeks out his suitcase, and there's that tell-tale tingling.
John is so distracted by the view, it takes him a moment longer than usual to realise that if Sherlock was using two towels, then there are no dry towels for John. He can’t quite summon enough negative emotions to respond in a normal manner to that piece of news.
“You bugger,” he says affectionately, interrupting Sherlock pulling his trousers on, and defeating the eyebrow raised in his direction with a kiss on the tip of the detective's nose. He rolls Sherlock’s sleeves up for him, and non-sequiturs with: “Don’t you have any proper tropical clothes?”
“What, a poncho? Or a Hawaiian shirt?” Sherlock inquires, taking the topic change in his stride. He holds still so as to not disrupt John fussing over him. “John, I have reason to think that you currently find me attractive. I wouldn’t want to ruin that by making you run for the eye-bleach as a result of such fashion atrocities.”
John snorts. “It would have to exist, first.”
The eyebrow strikes again, but it's accompanied this time by Sherlock’s hands idly stroking John’s back. “I assure you, it does. Perhaps not in the mainstream pharmaceutical stock of hospitals or chemists, but definitely from more elusive sources.”
John groans. He has quite the impressive repertoire of nonverbal communicative techniques. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t.” He returns his attention to digging through his suitcase.
-
Truth be told, Sherlock is feeling antsy beneath everything. John is being a marvellous cure for boredom, but it has been a long trip - they spent over a week in Bordeaux, and Sherlock hasn't had a case in all of that time.
He can feel the familiar, surly hibernation looming, like an unwanted visitor, like...Mycroft. The mood state itself is also not dissimilar to his brother: cloying, suffocating.
Sherlock only tolerates it because he knows, or at the very least hopes, that it will eventually go away.
On this occasion, Sherlock is resisting just allowing the mood to overwhelm him as usual, knowing that John wants everything to be nice on his holiday.
Such a simple thing, niceness. Surely Sherlock can maintain it just a little longer. He just needs to find something to distract him, to fascinate him.
He isn't intentionally picking fights at first, but he does notice how his heart falls somewhat when John merely calls him a bugger for using his towel. He resolves to try harder. If he aggravates John enough, maybe they can go back home sooner.
There must be something interesting happening in London. It isn't currently the peak season for murders, but Sherlock is willing to take the chance. Things are just so painfully peaceful here!
“You alright?” John questions, after a while, when Sherlock hasn't made a move to retrieve any clothes from his own suitcase, and get dressed after his shower.
Sherlock is taken off-guard by the inquiry into his well-being, as always. It's laughable, really. John is the kind of person who asks 'How are you?' as a form of greeting. He's a damned doctor, for Christ's sake, of course he's going to care about whether Sherlock is okay! So why does it always make Sherlock's stomach flip whenever John actually does ask?
“Fine.” he lies, scratching at his hair to hide his agitation.
“Yeah?” John looks at him again, and his gaze lingers this time.
“You just seem...” he moves closer to Sherlock, gently wrapping him in an embrace, deliberately resting his hands on Sherlock's latissimus dorsi muscles. Sherlock always tenses them when under stress. “...tetchy.”
Sherlock exhales carefully; consciously relaxes as he leans in for a kiss.
“Not at all,” he asserts, venturing a smile. Why on earth is he trying so hard to hide this from John?
John responds with a smile, but it's not the same kind of smile Sherlock is giving him. There's a quirk to it.
“You know, I think I can tell when you're lying. It's a bit obvious.”
Obvious? Sherlock wonders, and is only a second too slow in hiding his startled look.
John's triumphant expression tells Sherlock all he needs to know.
Dammit. He goes to move away, but John holds him fast.
“So what is it?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. He sighs. He whines in protest at not being let free.
“Just tell me. Maybe I can make it better?” John offers.
Something within Sherlock finally, unexpectedly relents, and he finds it within himself to answer.
“I'm...bored.” he confesses.
John raises his eyebrows in surprise at this response, but seems to understand.
“Because you haven't had any cases?” he asks, and he's not judgmental.
Sherlock nods, avoiding eye contact.
“What if I gave you a case?” John suggests.
“There's been a murder? Here?” Sherlock positively buzzes with the rush of energy that accompanies his piqued interest.
“No, no, not that.” John tries to explain, and Sherlock's body sags in disappointment. “Have you visited Mallorca before?”
Sherlock has to admit that his frequent preoccupation with cases has minimised many of his sightseeing opportunities.
“Well,” John says, releasing the other man and getting his bathing briefs out of his suitcase, “Let's see if you can figure out what exactly is so special about this place.”
Sherlock lunges forward and grabs John's wrist.
“Unique flora?” he demands.
John shakes his head with a grin, easily breaking out of the hold.
“Unique fauna?” Sherlock blurts out immediately after, desperate to know.
“No hints. I've given you your case. The evidence is all over the island. You deduce it.” John stands firm on the matter. “Now, I'm going down to the beach to watch the sunset. Coming?”
Sherlock decides to accept this premise, inclining his head minutely, and digs out a pair of flip-flops that John had insisted he purchase. Apparently, the discovery that Sherlock didn't own any footwear that wasn’t smart and business-y, requiring polishing, had dictated immediate rectification.
Not even slippers! John had despaired. Who doesn’t own slippers? John had marvelled at the fact that Sherlock still possessed all his toes, despite going around the usually-chilly flat barefoot when he was in one of his negating-the-need-for-getting-changed-out-of-pyjamas-or-maintaining-basic-hygiene-practices moods.
“Will I require swimwear?” The question takes John by surprise.
“Of course!” Perhaps his reply is a little too fast, too vehement. He’s betrayed the embarrassment the question has caused him. “It…might not be as private a beach as it seems.” he adds, by way of clarification.
Sherlock smiles mysteriously, and John suddenly realises Sherlock only asked in order to get a rise out of him.
“Dammit!” he exclaims, more amused at his own susceptibility than frustrated at being had.
Sherlock chuckles. “You are a terribly reliable source of fun, John.” he comments affectionately, before turning his attention to dressing in his bathing briefs, not wasting time with modesty.
John shakes his head at him, and adopts the more demure strategy of at least turning his back to Sherlock before removing his pants and getting into his own swimwear. The technique doesn't stop him from feeling Sherlock’s persistent gaze running over his body, but it does make him feel better, bizarrely.
“Right. Shall we?” Sherlock asks impatiently, clasping his hands together with glee.
There's a spring in his step as he paces excitedly before the huge gap of the opened sliding door, a feature of the cabin that had particularly appealed to John, who just sometimes tired of the feeling of being enclosed that came with living in London.
John wonders for a moment whether he’d actually received a proper promise from Sherlock confirming that he wouldn’t bring any equipment on holiday with which he could conduct some of his less-than-savoury experiments, or whether Sherlock had distracted him obviously, physically, damned effectively.
He suspects it may have been the latter.
Try as he might, he can’t remember Sherlock saying at any point, 'I promise not to pack any experiment-related paraphernalia,' which was what John most likely would have dictated him to say. Which, now that he considers it, is still too vague, still leaves room for loopholes that Sherlock undoubtedly would exploit.
“Sherlock!” he shouts, as he now has to run after the escaped madman. He dreads to imagine what macabre ideas the other man might have devised For Science, and dammit, he likes eating seafood - he has to stop Sherlock before he ruins that for him!
--
Of course Sherlock hasn’t pack any equipment he could use to carry out experiments. John had failed to get an exact oath from him, but Sherlock has been influenced by a number of different sources - Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, not to mention his own peculiar gut instinct - that this holiday should be different, that he should try to behave in a manner appealing to John.
“These shoes are most impractical,” he complains lightly, as they make their way down to the beach. “And the implement between my toes feels terribly off-putting.”
“Stop whingeing. They’re not really designed for practicality.” John explains, now reassured that Sherlock will only observe and catalogue the various beach elements in his attempt to solve the riddle - not experiment on them. “You basically wear them to allow your feet to breathe, and dry off easier when you get them wet from going swimming.”
Sherlock runs this through his mind. “Feet don’t breathe, John.” he points out. “But I can certainly understand the desire to prevent chafing, or infection, or possibly even gangrene.”
“Yeah,” John agrees, just a touch too hasty, reminding Sherlock that gangrene was on the list of not-good conversation items. Sherlock doesn’t really know why. Surely John has to deal with it on occasion in his line of work?
“Plus, you can feel the sand without having to take your shoes off.” John mentions.
“Ah.” Realisation dawns. “Tactile pleasure.” he receives an amused grin for his correct conclusion.
“Exactly.” John squeezes his hand, and there is that inexplicable stomach lurch again. He definitely has to ask about the normalcy of that, but right now, he's focused on the impending strip of sand. New data is imminent.
--
Unsurprisingly, it’s sunny down on the beach: the intermittent palm trees don’t nearly provide enough respite.
What is surprising, is that John produces a tube of sunscreen from his pocket, a tube he’s managed to stow there without Sherlock’s noticing.
The doctor administers the cream to his face and neck dutifully, neatly avoiding the collar and sleeves of his shirt. Practiced technique. Undoubtedly he’d been required to protect himself against the Afghani sun every day without fail - a doctor paralysed from being turned into a fair imitation of a lobster was perhaps not as useful as one would imagine.
That shirt he’s wearing looks like it’s seen Afghanistan as well, and Sherlock doesn't need to resist the urge to lean in and confirm this deduction with a sequence of specifically-located sniffs. He's with John, he doesn't need to constantly check himself against societal norms. It's one of his favourite things about the other man.
The shirt has been washed, that much is obvious, and expected from a man with John’s meticulous attention to detail and care for his possessions. Beneath the recent washes, however, there is John’s unmistakable scent, concentrated to such a degree to tell Sherlock a story about the number of times the shirt has been worn when John had no access to water or soap in order to keep it clean, and his sweat has permeated through the shirt’s every fibre. There is the smell of gunpowder intermingled with assorted medicines, and the only way the shirt could have been exposed to that combination of smells is definitely in the field -
“I’m sorry,” John interrupts, laughter in his voice. “Should I give you two a moment?”
Sherlock draws back slightly, then presses himself against John’s body again, his kiss communicating the reassuring information of just where his attentions are truly directed.
“I’d rather just spend time with you, but it seems that this shirt - ” Sherlock tugs at it, concludes that at least a couple of buttons would need to be undone before it can be removed, and sets about that task impatiently, “ - is proving to be a hindrance.” He finally succeeds in his mission, and the shirt is dropped unceremoniously onto the sand.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” John asks rhetorically. “But now I perceive a problem with your accoutrements.” he points out, undoing Sherlock’s top two buttons with greater dexterity than he usually got credit for.
“Accoutrements?” Sherlock grins, pleased with the recent improvements in John’s vocabulary.
“Oh, shush.” John chides, disposing of Sherlock’s shirt and slapping the tube of sunscreen into Sherlock’s hand. “Back.” he instructs, turning to allow the other man access.
Sherlock complies, without even escalating the contact to something more, merely allowing his touch to be pleasant and soothing. He does cheekily tap John on the bum afterwards, though, which is practically routine.
“Oi,” John protests, completely insincerely, then holds his hand out for the tube. Sherlock ignores him, instead sitting down on the sand with an only slightly inelegant “uff”. He flicks his wrist, adding the sunscreen onto the small pile of clothing they've gathered, and his thongs are a couple of seconds behind.
John assesses Sherlock's behaviour. The detective isn't sulking or angry - this is just laziness. He's preoccupied with shuffling his trousers off and stretching his long pale legs out in front of him, shifting the sand from side to side.
He lies back now, arms reaching over his head, and an unusual smile steals over his face, as he simultaneously takes in the rough, enjoyable texture of the sand, and analyses it, considers the geographical location of the beach, and the subsequent likely composition of this particular sand, the coarseness not quite worn away from being tumbled around in the waves, or trodden underfoot.
That's all well and good, but the man is going to bloody burn to a crisp if he doesn’t get some protection from the sun! John picks up the tube of sunscreen and tosses it onto Sherlock’s luminescent, white, exposed belly.
“Put some on, at least, you fool.” he instructs, stepping out of his own trousers, and reclining next to Sherlock on the sand. It feels wonderful, liberating, to be on the paradoxically soft-firm surface wearing so little, not a care in the world, not another person visible for miles.
“I have no desire to.” Sherlock dismisses it, gathering a handful of sand and letting it run through his fingers, watching the granules fall.
John rolls his eyes. “And I have no desire to put up with you whining and being too sore to move for the remainder of our holiday. I don’t know whether this island even has any aloe vera to treat you if you do end up getting sunburnt.”
That said, he plucks up the tube again and flicks the lid open, intending to pour it on Sherlock himself, if the other man's going to be awkward about it.
Sherlock’s hand shoots up to grab John’s, spraying sand along the way, but instead of preventing the application of sunscreen, he (maybe accidentally) increases it. A huge puddle of sunscreen collects on his stomach, and he flops his head back with a frustrated sigh.
“Well, that’s…better than nothing?” John offers uncertainly.
“Are you going to rub it in?” Sherlock squints up at him out of the corner of his eye. He's being cheeky, but two can play at that, and John kneels down in front of him with a grin. He presses both hands into the pools of liquid, pushing until Sherlock is forced to rest back on his elbows.
“Wait - What?” the detective sputters, amused, and John silences him with a sunscreen-covered hand over his mouth. Sherlock hasn't shut up quickly enough, and now there's sunscreen between his lips, on his tongue, and he gags indignantly.
He collects some sunscreen into his own hand and swings at John's head, but the ex-soldier is prepared for this, and ducks out of the way. Sherlock's attack splatters against John's shoulder instead, and his hand then slides down across John's chest.
John retaliates, pushes Sherlock off-balance, onto his side in the sand, and now granules begin clinging to them both.
The sunscreen begins to drip off Sherlock now, rivulets running away from his bellybutton, but John is still able to catch some and daub the end of Sherlock's nose with it.
He hasn't really been successful in attempting to get Sherlock to be protected against the sun, but the perplexed annoyance on Sherlock's face right now is so very worth it.
He giggles madly at the erratic splotches of sunscreen, but is cut off when Sherlock seizes his shoulders and surprises him with a kiss.
It's John's turn to choke.
He fights against Sherlock's grasp, but simply cannot win. Sherlock is too determined.
There's only one thing for it.
John darts his head forward, jarring against Sherlock's mouth. It's not enough to draw blood, thank goodness, but it is enough to startle the other man into releasing him.
John wipes at his mouth in aggravation.
“Yuck.” he accuses Sherlock, who has a distinctly smug expression now. John wrinkles his nose at the taste lingering in his mouth, and Sherlock's grin only widens.
“I'm going for a swim.” John announces, wiping at his mouth. He stands abruptly and sprinkles sand onto Sherlock as he walks past him.
“Won't that wash the sunscreen off?” Sherlock asks with uncharacteristic concern, surprised by John's irrational behaviour.
“We have plenty more here if it does wash off,” John points out. “but perhaps you'd better come into the water with me to make sure it doesn't wash off, anyway.” he winks.
Sherlock screws his face up. “You're giving me far too much credit - I hardly think that I'm going to be able to prevent the sea from removing the sunscreen from your skin, John.”
John sighs, but he's more amused by the fact that the other man is so slow on the uptake sometimes. “Yes, but it'll be nice for us to be in the water together... You know how you like to join me in the shower sometimes?” he prompts.
Sherlock grins, and nods vehemently. John had initially protested against Sherlock's decisions to 'save water', but now he didn't bother, which, to Sherlock, was as good as a permanent, open invitation to jump in and 'ensure John is properly cleaning himself' at any time.
“And you know how you wanted to try the bathtub together, but it wasn't big enough to fit us both?” John continues.
“I still say we should just use Mrs. Hudson's” Sherlock pouts, “It is patently larger, and it's not as though she uses it.”
“Boundaries, Sherlock.” John reminds him. They've had this talk.
“Boundaries.” Sherlock repeats, sulkily, wriggling his toes in the sand.
John rolls his eyes again. “My point is,” he says, tilting Sherlock's chin up to direct his gaze towards the ocean, “Look! A giant bathtub!”
Sherlock begins to sneer in response to John's blatantly incorrect statement, but then comprehension dawns. Not a literal bathtub, a metaphor of a bathtub. Brilliant.
“Come on, John!” he exclaims, spraying sand everywhere as he explodes from his sitting position and sprints down to the water. “Quickly! I want to test a hypothesis regarding the effects of buoyancy created by salt water on the human body!”
“Is that what they're calling it now?” John comments drily, amused at the childlike enthusiasm that has suddenly enveloped the other man.
He wades into the water which is just cool enough to be refreshing, but warm enough for comfort, and catches up with Sherlock, who is hopping from one foot to the other, either in excitement or impatience, it isn't easy to differentiate which.
Sherlock latches onto him and kisses him soundly again, the nasty taste of sunscreen lingering in his mouth.
“Still gross,” John grimaces, and takes a mouthful of seawater to rinse away the chemicals.
“Is that better?” Sherlock asks.
“A bit.” John admits, which is enough for Sherlock to imitate his actions.
Mouth rinsed, Sherlock pulls him close to plant another kiss on his mouth, and this time, John thinks of seashells and sandcastles and all the paradisical aspects that he associates with the seaside.
“Much better.” he affirms, when their lips part.
He then realises that he can't quite reach the ocean floor anymore, and he grabs Sherlock's biceps quickly to right himself.
“Sherlock...what are you doing?” he asks cautiously, as the other man wades them both deeper into the water. But he doesn't kick away to swim back to where he can stand up.
Sherlock chuckles. “Buoyancy experiment,” is all he'll confess to, then he plucks John's hands off him, removing the other man out of arm's reach.
John begins treading water immediately.
“Don't.” Sherlock instructs him. “The salinity of the seawater in this region should be strong enough to keep you afloat without any assistance on your part.”
Dubiously, John surrenders to physics, and finds that the water pushes him up. A little too much, perhaps, as he keeps getting tilted backwards. This is not the same as his local public swimming pool back home, nor the water down at Brighton, though he'd never done more than paddle there, not having visited since he was about four years old.
“Relax,” Sherlock is saying, “Let it tip you. It's trying to disperse the energy required to keep you afloat, and it will be much more effective if there is more surface area to work with.”
John puzzles over Sherlock seeming to attribute the ocean with a sort of sentience, but really, he doesn't care enough to quibble.
He allows himself to tip backwards, and it is lovely, it's blissful, the gentle, ripply waves rock him, and he can almost imagine that he's safe enough to sleep there. He only weaves his hands through the water on occasion, to keep himself righted, and that is minimal effort.
Sherlock's hand is a light touch on his lower back now, negating the need for John to move at all, and John doesn't even need to look at the other man to know that he has his deep-concentration face on.
It's an expression that should be unnerving, to the point of terrifying, but John has been with Sherlock long enough now to have ventured closer to the other man's special brand of insanity, enough to be comfortable with being stared at in such a way, visually dissected.
“Gravity, tidal energy, buoyancy, kinetic energy, drag and thrust,” Sherlock mutters to himself, and although John is well and truly close enough to hear what is being said, he doesn't know why. No matter. Sherlock will explain to him if it's important.
The hand vanishes from John's back, but he doesn't sink, and a similar delicate pressure reappears on either side of his hips. John recognises the intent after a second, as a gentle tug is made on his bathing briefs. He flails in the water, splashes himself out of reach and back to standing upright.
“Sherlock!” he chastens, but the other man refuses to be put in his place.
“There's no-one for miles, John.” Sherlock points out, utterly unperturbed. “Don't you want to enjoy the ocean to its full extent?”
John dithers for another moment. It's not the nudity, nor the potentially public nature of the situation that causes him consternation; it's the breaking of barriers - even ones as pliant as what constitutes socially acceptable behaviour.
“Fine.” he relents, allowing the sea to tip him backwards again. “Fine. But if we get done for indecent exposure or the like, on your head be it.” he justifies.
Sherlock doesn't give him a real answer, just chuckles, and the water ripples out from his movements, rocking John's body. He draws John's briefs down gently, but leaves them gathered at his knees.
Small waves lapped over John's hips and thighs, dampening his pubes, droplets gathering in his snail trail. Rubbish name, Sherlock considers to himself. There's nothing mollusc-esque about that hair at all. He re-focuses.
The water has laid the curls flat over John's cock, causing Sherlock's mouth to water at the sight, but he tightens his jaw against his desire, only allowing himself to place a small kiss at the base of John's cock, causing it to twitch slightly in response.
“Sherlock...” John murmurs, lifting one hand and resting it on Sherlock's hair, somewhat encouragingly.
The detective draws back, however, bringing John's hand to his mouth and gently kisses each finger in turn. John keeps his eyes closed against the salty water, but his lips widen into a pleased smile.
Sherlock lets John's hand go, and places his own hand again at the small of John's back. He swiftly straightens all John's limbs, repositioning the man slightly, here; just so, there. The other man is soon floating perfectly parallel with the surface of the water. Sherlock takes a moment to admire his handiwork, to be impressed by how well John holds the pose.
Experimentally, he guides John's arms out from his sides and above his head, and allows him to float again.
Fascinating.
He presses down gently just below John's bellybutton, and the other man's middle dips slightly below the surface of the water. His cock, however, bobs atop the waves like a small, pink, intrepid seal.
“Fantastic.” Sherlock murmurs, and dunks his lover's hips below the surface again, with increased force. The effect on John's cock is the same. It seems to be a separate creature, an independent life force.
Sherlock isn't surprised. He has long suspected John's genitalia of having a mind of their own. He grins, amused by the thought. John cracks an eye at him and giggles at Sherlock's madness.
“You loon,” he accuses, but closes his eyes again shortly after, surrendering himself to Sherlock's toying and the mercy of the ocean.
Sherlock stills him again, waits for the ripples to dissipate before completely removing John's briefs. His fingers freeze as he is about to drop the briefs into the ocean, as he reminds himself just how very unimpressed John is likely to be if he loses them for no good reason.
Lips pursed, Sherlock contemplates where best to store them.
Inspiration strikes, and he loops the garment over John's big toe, with a certain self-satisfaction. John's toes flex and stretch at the new sensation, but before he can respond any further, Sherlock distracts him once more, spreads his legs starfish-style and observes, notes, measures how the water works to keep John afloat. He rapidly calculates the mass required that John would not be thus supported by the strength of the ocean - almost humanly impossible, but not quite. It's a question of proportion, for a hippopotamus can float, yet a cannonball cannot. Dispersion of weight is vital; Sherlock has known this since the very beginning of his learnings of physics.
John's body rocks up against his, motivated by the small eddies, bringing Sherlock back from his thoughts once more. He places one hand on John's right hip, the other on his left shoulder. Gentle exertion is required to cause John to turn, but not slop water over his face. He is successful: John doesn't even shift his hand to keep himself righted. He still feels safe. The realisation that John has so much trust in Sherlock cheers him immensely, and he traces watery patterns over John's belly, then down to his lover's cock, still softly bobbing under the impetus of the waves.
He gently strokes it, clasps it, fists it just for a moment until he notices John's blood rush to that specific area. He's playing; he soon abandons the pursuit. Not with any intention of being cruel, mind, despite John's moan of complaint. He leaves the erection unattended - impressive though it is, it's not his main interest at the moment.
He extends one finger, sends it inquiring beneath the waves. Alarmingly, he discovers John's arsecheeks are firmly clenched.
What? his brain demands, as he runs his hand inquisitively over his partner's arse. It's firm, which is always delightful, but it's closed, which is horrendous.
“John,” he encourages in a low voice, “Relax, John. There is nothing here to hurt you. Come on, now. Relax.”
“Can't.” John grinds out, disturbing the water as he shakes his head from side to side. “What if a fish comes up, and - you know?”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows in surprise, and analyses John's face, searching for the tell-tale signs that John's having him on.
At his lack of response, John risks getting seawater in his eyes again, to find Sherlock's thoughts.
Preposterous. shoots through Sherlock's mind, but he suppresses it with an effort. “No fish are going to swim near with all these ripples we're creating. Plus,” he leans in close to John's face, “Sealife has a tendency to avoid people who are making a lot of noise.” he grins predatorily.
John's brow furrows in confusion. “But we're not making a lot of noi - ” Sherlock dives at his mouth, cutting him off. He captures John's tongue and sucks on it, mercilessly, gently, mercilessly, eliciting a fantastic moan from the other man.
Sherlock knew that it would, which helps him to ignore his own arousal - directly linked to those brilliant noises the other man creates. He has to focus; keep John's head above the water by supporting it with one hand, and quickly, with his other hand, slips a finger into John's temporarily relaxed entrance.
He breaks off the kiss, and John can hiss a breath in through his teeth, which are clenched now in a grimacing smile; rueful amusement at Sherlock's determined playfulness.
“Still - not really - making a lot of noise, Sherl - oh - godfuck! Fuck!” he exclaims, arching backwards and limbs reaching out wildly in all directions as he tries to gain purchase.
Sherlock has removed his finger, inserting two instead, with no warning, and aiming straight for John's prostate.
It seems he has hit his target, and he knows he is inordinately pleased about this fact. Not so pleased, however, that he can't keep his other hand solidly at the base of John's neck and prevent the doctor from inadvertently dunking himself into the water.
John's left hand swings out blindly, finds Sherlock's side, and grasps hold for all he's worth. It's testimony to just how slender Sherlock has let himself become again, that John is able to press his thumb into Sherlock's kidney at the front, and dig his fingers into Sherlock's back, but now is not the time for an argument about eating at the very least, two square meals every day.
He's gripping too hard: there are going to be John-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hip for some time after this, but how can he even begin to care about that?
Sherlock's fingertips are positively dancing over John's prostate, and it's minimal effort now to twist in a third finger past the small ring of muscle to join in tormenting the other man.
“Oh god, Sherlock.” John groans, and Sherlock finally notices how hard the other man has become. His cock is jutting out from his body like a ship's proud mast: stiff, erect. Hmm, on second thoughts, not a mast, the angle is wrong. A prow, then, cutting through the waves as the vessel powers over the water... Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes have completely glazed over.
How fortuitous he hadn't been speaking aloud! How very, very fortuitous! He feels a new rush of warmth, but it isn't going where it usually does. His cock is hard, but this isn't a second surge of blood in that direction. It's as though blood is zooming to his head instead.
Fuck, he realises, and completely ceases all motion. Fuck!
He works his fingers out of John's arse, and presses his hands against his face, testing the temperature.
That... is definitely a blush!
“John!” he exclaims in astonishment and delight.
“Christ,” John grumbles, shifting himself into an upright position. “What?” he asks, his voice thick and groggy from arousal.
“Blush!” Sherlock almost shouts, gesticulating frantically.
John bursts out laughing. It's contagious, and Sherlock's shoulders shake from the hilarity.
“I'm very glad for you,” John murmurs, drawing Sherlock closer to him. “It's very attractive, and truly suits you. But... aren't we in the middle of something?” he asks rhetorically, a huge smile gracing his features.
“I believe we are,” Sherlock replies, leaning in for an affectionate kiss.
John assertively makes the first move this time, rhythmically tugging Sherlock's cock with firm, determined strokes that make him lose his mind.
“Please, John.” he begs, thrusting into the tight, warm fist. He wraps an arm around John's shoulders to hold them close together, and donates his other hand to John's cock.
“Yes,” John gasps, rutting against Sherlock violently.
“Careful,” Sherlock cautions, slightly unbalanced.
He lifts John with ease. Buoyancy, he thinks to himself, smiling.
John wriggles, making a displeased noise. He hates being tossed around like a child - the years spent training as a doctor were to prove that he was a capable human being, irrespective of his stature; and the years spent training as a soldier were to prove that a lack of height did not equate to a lack of masculinity - and Sherlock always shatters this image.
On the plus side, however, John and Sherlock's bodies are now pressed almost as close together as possible, and that, John feels absolutely no inclination to fight against.
“Fuck...me...” he forces out, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips.
“Marvellous idea,” Sherlock deadpans, adjusting their positions just enough until his still-clothed cock nudges against John's hole.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, hastily tearing his briefs off. He's freed.
“Now,” he announces needlessly, gliding in at the same time as the utterance.
This. Is. Incredible.
If they weren't suspended in water right now, this feat would be impossible. Though Sherlock possesses an unexpected amount of upper body strength, it is, in fact, merely enough to get by, enough to come in useful every now and then. There is no way he could hold John in place and fuck into him like this.
This position isn't new to them, though, they've managed it before, with John splayed over the kitchen table, and Sherlock bending his knees slightly to be at the right height, but it was awkward, uncomfortable, and they didn't do it again. It's much better now, with the water helping to keep John at the right height for Sherlock to thrust into him.
“Yes, oh god - uh!” John cries out in time with the thrusts. His hand finds its hold between Sherlock's waist and hip again, pressing into the small bruises already forming there.
Sherlock winces, but maintains the pace. His eyes fall on John's cock, red, hard, rocking between their bodies, being tossed around by the waves they are creating.
“John,” he breathes, “You have to jerk yourself off. I want - I can't - have to - oh, fuck!” he loses his train of thought somewhat, but really needn't have spent his breath, as John's hand is already wending through the water to his cock.
“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of John furiously working away at himself, the motion of his body completely under Sherlock's control.
“Oh, fuck yes!” Sherlock finally shouts, blissfully spending himself.
“Jesus,” John groans in response to the hot stream released inside his body.
“Oh god,” he adds, as Sherlock stumbles a step forwards on suddenly-wobbly legs, inevitably moving John along with him.
“Fuck!” John comes with a shock as Sherlock's hand is added to the task of pulling him off.
John's seed floats on the surface of the water, breaking apart as he moves through it heedlessly, smoothly removing himself from Sherlock's cock, and reaching to kiss the other man.
“Oh god,” he pants, leaning against Sherlock's chest. They are both trembling with exertion.
“That was - oh, look.” John's attention is captured by the colourful, decidedly tropical, alive sunset which is now taking place.
“Stunning.” he proclaims with a quiet awe.
Sherlock “hmms” in reply, trying not to be irrational about the fact that he is being upstaged by the sunset, and failing miserably.
John chuckles, recognising the tone. He moves Sherlock in front of him, embracing him chest-to-back so they are both facing the sunset.
“You are just as spectacular,” he murmurs reassuringly, with just a hint of amusement as he presses a kiss to Sherlock's shoulderblade.
“Hmm.” Sherlock replies again.
John rolls his eyes. “Equally brilliant and fantastic,” he confirms. “But you're different-beautiful. This sunset is fleeting. You, I have the pleasure of seeing every day.”
“I beg to differ,” Sherlock can't resist countering, with a smile. “The sun has been rising and setting for hundreds of thousands of years, and will undoubtedly do so for a long time yet. I, on the other hand, am the comparatively 'fleeting' being, with a probable optimal life expectancy of 90 years or so. Your syllogism, therefore, is - ”
“Shut up.” John smiles, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. “Glad you're feeling better.” he says affectionately, and they watch the sunset in a comfortable silence.
----
Part 6 (end)
This chapter is partly inspired by the fanart by mortmere (also a deviantart user), chiefly their piece Bliss, but also The Great Escape.
Comments are love!
------
John is amazed that he still feels a tingle in his belly upon seeing Sherlock; he would have thought the novelty would wear off much sooner. But no, the detective ventures out of the bathroom with one towel around his hips, one of his usual collared, button-up shirts hanging open, and he's patting at his hair with another towel as he seeks out his suitcase, and there's that tell-tale tingling.
John is so distracted by the view, it takes him a moment longer than usual to realise that if Sherlock was using two towels, then there are no dry towels for John. He can’t quite summon enough negative emotions to respond in a normal manner to that piece of news.
“You bugger,” he says affectionately, interrupting Sherlock pulling his trousers on, and defeating the eyebrow raised in his direction with a kiss on the tip of the detective's nose. He rolls Sherlock’s sleeves up for him, and non-sequiturs with: “Don’t you have any proper tropical clothes?”
“What, a poncho? Or a Hawaiian shirt?” Sherlock inquires, taking the topic change in his stride. He holds still so as to not disrupt John fussing over him. “John, I have reason to think that you currently find me attractive. I wouldn’t want to ruin that by making you run for the eye-bleach as a result of such fashion atrocities.”
John snorts. “It would have to exist, first.”
The eyebrow strikes again, but it's accompanied this time by Sherlock’s hands idly stroking John’s back. “I assure you, it does. Perhaps not in the mainstream pharmaceutical stock of hospitals or chemists, but definitely from more elusive sources.”
John groans. He has quite the impressive repertoire of nonverbal communicative techniques. “I don’t want to know. I really don’t.” He returns his attention to digging through his suitcase.
-
Truth be told, Sherlock is feeling antsy beneath everything. John is being a marvellous cure for boredom, but it has been a long trip - they spent over a week in Bordeaux, and Sherlock hasn't had a case in all of that time.
He can feel the familiar, surly hibernation looming, like an unwanted visitor, like...Mycroft. The mood state itself is also not dissimilar to his brother: cloying, suffocating.
Sherlock only tolerates it because he knows, or at the very least hopes, that it will eventually go away.
On this occasion, Sherlock is resisting just allowing the mood to overwhelm him as usual, knowing that John wants everything to be nice on his holiday.
Such a simple thing, niceness. Surely Sherlock can maintain it just a little longer. He just needs to find something to distract him, to fascinate him.
He isn't intentionally picking fights at first, but he does notice how his heart falls somewhat when John merely calls him a bugger for using his towel. He resolves to try harder. If he aggravates John enough, maybe they can go back home sooner.
There must be something interesting happening in London. It isn't currently the peak season for murders, but Sherlock is willing to take the chance. Things are just so painfully peaceful here!
“You alright?” John questions, after a while, when Sherlock hasn't made a move to retrieve any clothes from his own suitcase, and get dressed after his shower.
Sherlock is taken off-guard by the inquiry into his well-being, as always. It's laughable, really. John is the kind of person who asks 'How are you?' as a form of greeting. He's a damned doctor, for Christ's sake, of course he's going to care about whether Sherlock is okay! So why does it always make Sherlock's stomach flip whenever John actually does ask?
“Fine.” he lies, scratching at his hair to hide his agitation.
“Yeah?” John looks at him again, and his gaze lingers this time.
“You just seem...” he moves closer to Sherlock, gently wrapping him in an embrace, deliberately resting his hands on Sherlock's latissimus dorsi muscles. Sherlock always tenses them when under stress. “...tetchy.”
Sherlock exhales carefully; consciously relaxes as he leans in for a kiss.
“Not at all,” he asserts, venturing a smile. Why on earth is he trying so hard to hide this from John?
John responds with a smile, but it's not the same kind of smile Sherlock is giving him. There's a quirk to it.
“You know, I think I can tell when you're lying. It's a bit obvious.”
Obvious? Sherlock wonders, and is only a second too slow in hiding his startled look.
John's triumphant expression tells Sherlock all he needs to know.
Dammit. He goes to move away, but John holds him fast.
“So what is it?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. He sighs. He whines in protest at not being let free.
“Just tell me. Maybe I can make it better?” John offers.
Something within Sherlock finally, unexpectedly relents, and he finds it within himself to answer.
“I'm...bored.” he confesses.
John raises his eyebrows in surprise at this response, but seems to understand.
“Because you haven't had any cases?” he asks, and he's not judgmental.
Sherlock nods, avoiding eye contact.
“What if I gave you a case?” John suggests.
“There's been a murder? Here?” Sherlock positively buzzes with the rush of energy that accompanies his piqued interest.
“No, no, not that.” John tries to explain, and Sherlock's body sags in disappointment. “Have you visited Mallorca before?”
Sherlock has to admit that his frequent preoccupation with cases has minimised many of his sightseeing opportunities.
“Well,” John says, releasing the other man and getting his bathing briefs out of his suitcase, “Let's see if you can figure out what exactly is so special about this place.”
Sherlock lunges forward and grabs John's wrist.
“Unique flora?” he demands.
John shakes his head with a grin, easily breaking out of the hold.
“Unique fauna?” Sherlock blurts out immediately after, desperate to know.
“No hints. I've given you your case. The evidence is all over the island. You deduce it.” John stands firm on the matter. “Now, I'm going down to the beach to watch the sunset. Coming?”
Sherlock decides to accept this premise, inclining his head minutely, and digs out a pair of flip-flops that John had insisted he purchase. Apparently, the discovery that Sherlock didn't own any footwear that wasn’t smart and business-y, requiring polishing, had dictated immediate rectification.
Not even slippers! John had despaired. Who doesn’t own slippers? John had marvelled at the fact that Sherlock still possessed all his toes, despite going around the usually-chilly flat barefoot when he was in one of his negating-the-need-for-getting-changed-out-of-pyjamas-or-maintaining-basic-hygiene-practices moods.
“Will I require swimwear?” The question takes John by surprise.
“Of course!” Perhaps his reply is a little too fast, too vehement. He’s betrayed the embarrassment the question has caused him. “It…might not be as private a beach as it seems.” he adds, by way of clarification.
Sherlock smiles mysteriously, and John suddenly realises Sherlock only asked in order to get a rise out of him.
“Dammit!” he exclaims, more amused at his own susceptibility than frustrated at being had.
Sherlock chuckles. “You are a terribly reliable source of fun, John.” he comments affectionately, before turning his attention to dressing in his bathing briefs, not wasting time with modesty.
John shakes his head at him, and adopts the more demure strategy of at least turning his back to Sherlock before removing his pants and getting into his own swimwear. The technique doesn't stop him from feeling Sherlock’s persistent gaze running over his body, but it does make him feel better, bizarrely.
“Right. Shall we?” Sherlock asks impatiently, clasping his hands together with glee.
There's a spring in his step as he paces excitedly before the huge gap of the opened sliding door, a feature of the cabin that had particularly appealed to John, who just sometimes tired of the feeling of being enclosed that came with living in London.
John wonders for a moment whether he’d actually received a proper promise from Sherlock confirming that he wouldn’t bring any equipment on holiday with which he could conduct some of his less-than-savoury experiments, or whether Sherlock had distracted him obviously, physically, damned effectively.
He suspects it may have been the latter.
Try as he might, he can’t remember Sherlock saying at any point, 'I promise not to pack any experiment-related paraphernalia,' which was what John most likely would have dictated him to say. Which, now that he considers it, is still too vague, still leaves room for loopholes that Sherlock undoubtedly would exploit.
“Sherlock!” he shouts, as he now has to run after the escaped madman. He dreads to imagine what macabre ideas the other man might have devised For Science, and dammit, he likes eating seafood - he has to stop Sherlock before he ruins that for him!
--
Of course Sherlock hasn’t pack any equipment he could use to carry out experiments. John had failed to get an exact oath from him, but Sherlock has been influenced by a number of different sources - Lestrade, Mycroft, Mrs Hudson, not to mention his own peculiar gut instinct - that this holiday should be different, that he should try to behave in a manner appealing to John.
“These shoes are most impractical,” he complains lightly, as they make their way down to the beach. “And the implement between my toes feels terribly off-putting.”
“Stop whingeing. They’re not really designed for practicality.” John explains, now reassured that Sherlock will only observe and catalogue the various beach elements in his attempt to solve the riddle - not experiment on them. “You basically wear them to allow your feet to breathe, and dry off easier when you get them wet from going swimming.”
Sherlock runs this through his mind. “Feet don’t breathe, John.” he points out. “But I can certainly understand the desire to prevent chafing, or infection, or possibly even gangrene.”
“Yeah,” John agrees, just a touch too hasty, reminding Sherlock that gangrene was on the list of not-good conversation items. Sherlock doesn’t really know why. Surely John has to deal with it on occasion in his line of work?
“Plus, you can feel the sand without having to take your shoes off.” John mentions.
“Ah.” Realisation dawns. “Tactile pleasure.” he receives an amused grin for his correct conclusion.
“Exactly.” John squeezes his hand, and there is that inexplicable stomach lurch again. He definitely has to ask about the normalcy of that, but right now, he's focused on the impending strip of sand. New data is imminent.
--
Unsurprisingly, it’s sunny down on the beach: the intermittent palm trees don’t nearly provide enough respite.
What is surprising, is that John produces a tube of sunscreen from his pocket, a tube he’s managed to stow there without Sherlock’s noticing.
The doctor administers the cream to his face and neck dutifully, neatly avoiding the collar and sleeves of his shirt. Practiced technique. Undoubtedly he’d been required to protect himself against the Afghani sun every day without fail - a doctor paralysed from being turned into a fair imitation of a lobster was perhaps not as useful as one would imagine.
That shirt he’s wearing looks like it’s seen Afghanistan as well, and Sherlock doesn't need to resist the urge to lean in and confirm this deduction with a sequence of specifically-located sniffs. He's with John, he doesn't need to constantly check himself against societal norms. It's one of his favourite things about the other man.
The shirt has been washed, that much is obvious, and expected from a man with John’s meticulous attention to detail and care for his possessions. Beneath the recent washes, however, there is John’s unmistakable scent, concentrated to such a degree to tell Sherlock a story about the number of times the shirt has been worn when John had no access to water or soap in order to keep it clean, and his sweat has permeated through the shirt’s every fibre. There is the smell of gunpowder intermingled with assorted medicines, and the only way the shirt could have been exposed to that combination of smells is definitely in the field -
“I’m sorry,” John interrupts, laughter in his voice. “Should I give you two a moment?”
Sherlock draws back slightly, then presses himself against John’s body again, his kiss communicating the reassuring information of just where his attentions are truly directed.
“I’d rather just spend time with you, but it seems that this shirt - ” Sherlock tugs at it, concludes that at least a couple of buttons would need to be undone before it can be removed, and sets about that task impatiently, “ - is proving to be a hindrance.” He finally succeeds in his mission, and the shirt is dropped unceremoniously onto the sand.
“Well, we wouldn’t want that, would we?” John asks rhetorically. “But now I perceive a problem with your accoutrements.” he points out, undoing Sherlock’s top two buttons with greater dexterity than he usually got credit for.
“Accoutrements?” Sherlock grins, pleased with the recent improvements in John’s vocabulary.
“Oh, shush.” John chides, disposing of Sherlock’s shirt and slapping the tube of sunscreen into Sherlock’s hand. “Back.” he instructs, turning to allow the other man access.
Sherlock complies, without even escalating the contact to something more, merely allowing his touch to be pleasant and soothing. He does cheekily tap John on the bum afterwards, though, which is practically routine.
“Oi,” John protests, completely insincerely, then holds his hand out for the tube. Sherlock ignores him, instead sitting down on the sand with an only slightly inelegant “uff”. He flicks his wrist, adding the sunscreen onto the small pile of clothing they've gathered, and his thongs are a couple of seconds behind.
John assesses Sherlock's behaviour. The detective isn't sulking or angry - this is just laziness. He's preoccupied with shuffling his trousers off and stretching his long pale legs out in front of him, shifting the sand from side to side.
He lies back now, arms reaching over his head, and an unusual smile steals over his face, as he simultaneously takes in the rough, enjoyable texture of the sand, and analyses it, considers the geographical location of the beach, and the subsequent likely composition of this particular sand, the coarseness not quite worn away from being tumbled around in the waves, or trodden underfoot.
That's all well and good, but the man is going to bloody burn to a crisp if he doesn’t get some protection from the sun! John picks up the tube of sunscreen and tosses it onto Sherlock’s luminescent, white, exposed belly.
“Put some on, at least, you fool.” he instructs, stepping out of his own trousers, and reclining next to Sherlock on the sand. It feels wonderful, liberating, to be on the paradoxically soft-firm surface wearing so little, not a care in the world, not another person visible for miles.
“I have no desire to.” Sherlock dismisses it, gathering a handful of sand and letting it run through his fingers, watching the granules fall.
John rolls his eyes. “And I have no desire to put up with you whining and being too sore to move for the remainder of our holiday. I don’t know whether this island even has any aloe vera to treat you if you do end up getting sunburnt.”
That said, he plucks up the tube again and flicks the lid open, intending to pour it on Sherlock himself, if the other man's going to be awkward about it.
Sherlock’s hand shoots up to grab John’s, spraying sand along the way, but instead of preventing the application of sunscreen, he (maybe accidentally) increases it. A huge puddle of sunscreen collects on his stomach, and he flops his head back with a frustrated sigh.
“Well, that’s…better than nothing?” John offers uncertainly.
“Are you going to rub it in?” Sherlock squints up at him out of the corner of his eye. He's being cheeky, but two can play at that, and John kneels down in front of him with a grin. He presses both hands into the pools of liquid, pushing until Sherlock is forced to rest back on his elbows.
“Wait - What?” the detective sputters, amused, and John silences him with a sunscreen-covered hand over his mouth. Sherlock hasn't shut up quickly enough, and now there's sunscreen between his lips, on his tongue, and he gags indignantly.
He collects some sunscreen into his own hand and swings at John's head, but the ex-soldier is prepared for this, and ducks out of the way. Sherlock's attack splatters against John's shoulder instead, and his hand then slides down across John's chest.
John retaliates, pushes Sherlock off-balance, onto his side in the sand, and now granules begin clinging to them both.
The sunscreen begins to drip off Sherlock now, rivulets running away from his bellybutton, but John is still able to catch some and daub the end of Sherlock's nose with it.
He hasn't really been successful in attempting to get Sherlock to be protected against the sun, but the perplexed annoyance on Sherlock's face right now is so very worth it.
He giggles madly at the erratic splotches of sunscreen, but is cut off when Sherlock seizes his shoulders and surprises him with a kiss.
It's John's turn to choke.
He fights against Sherlock's grasp, but simply cannot win. Sherlock is too determined.
There's only one thing for it.
John darts his head forward, jarring against Sherlock's mouth. It's not enough to draw blood, thank goodness, but it is enough to startle the other man into releasing him.
John wipes at his mouth in aggravation.
“Yuck.” he accuses Sherlock, who has a distinctly smug expression now. John wrinkles his nose at the taste lingering in his mouth, and Sherlock's grin only widens.
“I'm going for a swim.” John announces, wiping at his mouth. He stands abruptly and sprinkles sand onto Sherlock as he walks past him.
“Won't that wash the sunscreen off?” Sherlock asks with uncharacteristic concern, surprised by John's irrational behaviour.
“We have plenty more here if it does wash off,” John points out. “but perhaps you'd better come into the water with me to make sure it doesn't wash off, anyway.” he winks.
Sherlock screws his face up. “You're giving me far too much credit - I hardly think that I'm going to be able to prevent the sea from removing the sunscreen from your skin, John.”
John sighs, but he's more amused by the fact that the other man is so slow on the uptake sometimes. “Yes, but it'll be nice for us to be in the water together... You know how you like to join me in the shower sometimes?” he prompts.
Sherlock grins, and nods vehemently. John had initially protested against Sherlock's decisions to 'save water', but now he didn't bother, which, to Sherlock, was as good as a permanent, open invitation to jump in and 'ensure John is properly cleaning himself' at any time.
“And you know how you wanted to try the bathtub together, but it wasn't big enough to fit us both?” John continues.
“I still say we should just use Mrs. Hudson's” Sherlock pouts, “It is patently larger, and it's not as though she uses it.”
“Boundaries, Sherlock.” John reminds him. They've had this talk.
“Boundaries.” Sherlock repeats, sulkily, wriggling his toes in the sand.
John rolls his eyes again. “My point is,” he says, tilting Sherlock's chin up to direct his gaze towards the ocean, “Look! A giant bathtub!”
Sherlock begins to sneer in response to John's blatantly incorrect statement, but then comprehension dawns. Not a literal bathtub, a metaphor of a bathtub. Brilliant.
“Come on, John!” he exclaims, spraying sand everywhere as he explodes from his sitting position and sprints down to the water. “Quickly! I want to test a hypothesis regarding the effects of buoyancy created by salt water on the human body!”
“Is that what they're calling it now?” John comments drily, amused at the childlike enthusiasm that has suddenly enveloped the other man.
He wades into the water which is just cool enough to be refreshing, but warm enough for comfort, and catches up with Sherlock, who is hopping from one foot to the other, either in excitement or impatience, it isn't easy to differentiate which.
Sherlock latches onto him and kisses him soundly again, the nasty taste of sunscreen lingering in his mouth.
“Still gross,” John grimaces, and takes a mouthful of seawater to rinse away the chemicals.
“Is that better?” Sherlock asks.
“A bit.” John admits, which is enough for Sherlock to imitate his actions.
Mouth rinsed, Sherlock pulls him close to plant another kiss on his mouth, and this time, John thinks of seashells and sandcastles and all the paradisical aspects that he associates with the seaside.
“Much better.” he affirms, when their lips part.
He then realises that he can't quite reach the ocean floor anymore, and he grabs Sherlock's biceps quickly to right himself.
“Sherlock...what are you doing?” he asks cautiously, as the other man wades them both deeper into the water. But he doesn't kick away to swim back to where he can stand up.
Sherlock chuckles. “Buoyancy experiment,” is all he'll confess to, then he plucks John's hands off him, removing the other man out of arm's reach.
John begins treading water immediately.
“Don't.” Sherlock instructs him. “The salinity of the seawater in this region should be strong enough to keep you afloat without any assistance on your part.”
Dubiously, John surrenders to physics, and finds that the water pushes him up. A little too much, perhaps, as he keeps getting tilted backwards. This is not the same as his local public swimming pool back home, nor the water down at Brighton, though he'd never done more than paddle there, not having visited since he was about four years old.
“Relax,” Sherlock is saying, “Let it tip you. It's trying to disperse the energy required to keep you afloat, and it will be much more effective if there is more surface area to work with.”
John puzzles over Sherlock seeming to attribute the ocean with a sort of sentience, but really, he doesn't care enough to quibble.
He allows himself to tip backwards, and it is lovely, it's blissful, the gentle, ripply waves rock him, and he can almost imagine that he's safe enough to sleep there. He only weaves his hands through the water on occasion, to keep himself righted, and that is minimal effort.
Sherlock's hand is a light touch on his lower back now, negating the need for John to move at all, and John doesn't even need to look at the other man to know that he has his deep-concentration face on.
It's an expression that should be unnerving, to the point of terrifying, but John has been with Sherlock long enough now to have ventured closer to the other man's special brand of insanity, enough to be comfortable with being stared at in such a way, visually dissected.
“Gravity, tidal energy, buoyancy, kinetic energy, drag and thrust,” Sherlock mutters to himself, and although John is well and truly close enough to hear what is being said, he doesn't know why. No matter. Sherlock will explain to him if it's important.
The hand vanishes from John's back, but he doesn't sink, and a similar delicate pressure reappears on either side of his hips. John recognises the intent after a second, as a gentle tug is made on his bathing briefs. He flails in the water, splashes himself out of reach and back to standing upright.
“Sherlock!” he chastens, but the other man refuses to be put in his place.
“There's no-one for miles, John.” Sherlock points out, utterly unperturbed. “Don't you want to enjoy the ocean to its full extent?”
John dithers for another moment. It's not the nudity, nor the potentially public nature of the situation that causes him consternation; it's the breaking of barriers - even ones as pliant as what constitutes socially acceptable behaviour.
“Fine.” he relents, allowing the sea to tip him backwards again. “Fine. But if we get done for indecent exposure or the like, on your head be it.” he justifies.
Sherlock doesn't give him a real answer, just chuckles, and the water ripples out from his movements, rocking John's body. He draws John's briefs down gently, but leaves them gathered at his knees.
Small waves lapped over John's hips and thighs, dampening his pubes, droplets gathering in his snail trail. Rubbish name, Sherlock considers to himself. There's nothing mollusc-esque about that hair at all. He re-focuses.
The water has laid the curls flat over John's cock, causing Sherlock's mouth to water at the sight, but he tightens his jaw against his desire, only allowing himself to place a small kiss at the base of John's cock, causing it to twitch slightly in response.
“Sherlock...” John murmurs, lifting one hand and resting it on Sherlock's hair, somewhat encouragingly.
The detective draws back, however, bringing John's hand to his mouth and gently kisses each finger in turn. John keeps his eyes closed against the salty water, but his lips widen into a pleased smile.
Sherlock lets John's hand go, and places his own hand again at the small of John's back. He swiftly straightens all John's limbs, repositioning the man slightly, here; just so, there. The other man is soon floating perfectly parallel with the surface of the water. Sherlock takes a moment to admire his handiwork, to be impressed by how well John holds the pose.
Experimentally, he guides John's arms out from his sides and above his head, and allows him to float again.
Fascinating.
He presses down gently just below John's bellybutton, and the other man's middle dips slightly below the surface of the water. His cock, however, bobs atop the waves like a small, pink, intrepid seal.
“Fantastic.” Sherlock murmurs, and dunks his lover's hips below the surface again, with increased force. The effect on John's cock is the same. It seems to be a separate creature, an independent life force.
Sherlock isn't surprised. He has long suspected John's genitalia of having a mind of their own. He grins, amused by the thought. John cracks an eye at him and giggles at Sherlock's madness.
“You loon,” he accuses, but closes his eyes again shortly after, surrendering himself to Sherlock's toying and the mercy of the ocean.
Sherlock stills him again, waits for the ripples to dissipate before completely removing John's briefs. His fingers freeze as he is about to drop the briefs into the ocean, as he reminds himself just how very unimpressed John is likely to be if he loses them for no good reason.
Lips pursed, Sherlock contemplates where best to store them.
Inspiration strikes, and he loops the garment over John's big toe, with a certain self-satisfaction. John's toes flex and stretch at the new sensation, but before he can respond any further, Sherlock distracts him once more, spreads his legs starfish-style and observes, notes, measures how the water works to keep John afloat. He rapidly calculates the mass required that John would not be thus supported by the strength of the ocean - almost humanly impossible, but not quite. It's a question of proportion, for a hippopotamus can float, yet a cannonball cannot. Dispersion of weight is vital; Sherlock has known this since the very beginning of his learnings of physics.
John's body rocks up against his, motivated by the small eddies, bringing Sherlock back from his thoughts once more. He places one hand on John's right hip, the other on his left shoulder. Gentle exertion is required to cause John to turn, but not slop water over his face. He is successful: John doesn't even shift his hand to keep himself righted. He still feels safe. The realisation that John has so much trust in Sherlock cheers him immensely, and he traces watery patterns over John's belly, then down to his lover's cock, still softly bobbing under the impetus of the waves.
He gently strokes it, clasps it, fists it just for a moment until he notices John's blood rush to that specific area. He's playing; he soon abandons the pursuit. Not with any intention of being cruel, mind, despite John's moan of complaint. He leaves the erection unattended - impressive though it is, it's not his main interest at the moment.
He extends one finger, sends it inquiring beneath the waves. Alarmingly, he discovers John's arsecheeks are firmly clenched.
What? his brain demands, as he runs his hand inquisitively over his partner's arse. It's firm, which is always delightful, but it's closed, which is horrendous.
“John,” he encourages in a low voice, “Relax, John. There is nothing here to hurt you. Come on, now. Relax.”
“Can't.” John grinds out, disturbing the water as he shakes his head from side to side. “What if a fish comes up, and - you know?”
Sherlock raises his eyebrows in surprise, and analyses John's face, searching for the tell-tale signs that John's having him on.
At his lack of response, John risks getting seawater in his eyes again, to find Sherlock's thoughts.
Preposterous. shoots through Sherlock's mind, but he suppresses it with an effort. “No fish are going to swim near with all these ripples we're creating. Plus,” he leans in close to John's face, “Sealife has a tendency to avoid people who are making a lot of noise.” he grins predatorily.
John's brow furrows in confusion. “But we're not making a lot of noi - ” Sherlock dives at his mouth, cutting him off. He captures John's tongue and sucks on it, mercilessly, gently, mercilessly, eliciting a fantastic moan from the other man.
Sherlock knew that it would, which helps him to ignore his own arousal - directly linked to those brilliant noises the other man creates. He has to focus; keep John's head above the water by supporting it with one hand, and quickly, with his other hand, slips a finger into John's temporarily relaxed entrance.
He breaks off the kiss, and John can hiss a breath in through his teeth, which are clenched now in a grimacing smile; rueful amusement at Sherlock's determined playfulness.
“Still - not really - making a lot of noise, Sherl - oh - godfuck! Fuck!” he exclaims, arching backwards and limbs reaching out wildly in all directions as he tries to gain purchase.
Sherlock has removed his finger, inserting two instead, with no warning, and aiming straight for John's prostate.
It seems he has hit his target, and he knows he is inordinately pleased about this fact. Not so pleased, however, that he can't keep his other hand solidly at the base of John's neck and prevent the doctor from inadvertently dunking himself into the water.
John's left hand swings out blindly, finds Sherlock's side, and grasps hold for all he's worth. It's testimony to just how slender Sherlock has let himself become again, that John is able to press his thumb into Sherlock's kidney at the front, and dig his fingers into Sherlock's back, but now is not the time for an argument about eating at the very least, two square meals every day.
He's gripping too hard: there are going to be John-shaped bruises on Sherlock's hip for some time after this, but how can he even begin to care about that?
Sherlock's fingertips are positively dancing over John's prostate, and it's minimal effort now to twist in a third finger past the small ring of muscle to join in tormenting the other man.
“Oh god, Sherlock.” John groans, and Sherlock finally notices how hard the other man has become. His cock is jutting out from his body like a ship's proud mast: stiff, erect. Hmm, on second thoughts, not a mast, the angle is wrong. A prow, then, cutting through the waves as the vessel powers over the water... Sherlock shakes his head. His eyes have completely glazed over.
How fortuitous he hadn't been speaking aloud! How very, very fortuitous! He feels a new rush of warmth, but it isn't going where it usually does. His cock is hard, but this isn't a second surge of blood in that direction. It's as though blood is zooming to his head instead.
Fuck, he realises, and completely ceases all motion. Fuck!
He works his fingers out of John's arse, and presses his hands against his face, testing the temperature.
That... is definitely a blush!
“John!” he exclaims in astonishment and delight.
“Christ,” John grumbles, shifting himself into an upright position. “What?” he asks, his voice thick and groggy from arousal.
“Blush!” Sherlock almost shouts, gesticulating frantically.
John bursts out laughing. It's contagious, and Sherlock's shoulders shake from the hilarity.
“I'm very glad for you,” John murmurs, drawing Sherlock closer to him. “It's very attractive, and truly suits you. But... aren't we in the middle of something?” he asks rhetorically, a huge smile gracing his features.
“I believe we are,” Sherlock replies, leaning in for an affectionate kiss.
John assertively makes the first move this time, rhythmically tugging Sherlock's cock with firm, determined strokes that make him lose his mind.
“Please, John.” he begs, thrusting into the tight, warm fist. He wraps an arm around John's shoulders to hold them close together, and donates his other hand to John's cock.
“Yes,” John gasps, rutting against Sherlock violently.
“Careful,” Sherlock cautions, slightly unbalanced.
He lifts John with ease. Buoyancy, he thinks to himself, smiling.
John wriggles, making a displeased noise. He hates being tossed around like a child - the years spent training as a doctor were to prove that he was a capable human being, irrespective of his stature; and the years spent training as a soldier were to prove that a lack of height did not equate to a lack of masculinity - and Sherlock always shatters this image.
On the plus side, however, John and Sherlock's bodies are now pressed almost as close together as possible, and that, John feels absolutely no inclination to fight against.
“Fuck...me...” he forces out, wrapping his legs around Sherlock's hips.
“Marvellous idea,” Sherlock deadpans, adjusting their positions just enough until his still-clothed cock nudges against John's hole.
“Fuck!” he exclaims, hastily tearing his briefs off. He's freed.
“Now,” he announces needlessly, gliding in at the same time as the utterance.
This. Is. Incredible.
If they weren't suspended in water right now, this feat would be impossible. Though Sherlock possesses an unexpected amount of upper body strength, it is, in fact, merely enough to get by, enough to come in useful every now and then. There is no way he could hold John in place and fuck into him like this.
This position isn't new to them, though, they've managed it before, with John splayed over the kitchen table, and Sherlock bending his knees slightly to be at the right height, but it was awkward, uncomfortable, and they didn't do it again. It's much better now, with the water helping to keep John at the right height for Sherlock to thrust into him.
“Yes, oh god - uh!” John cries out in time with the thrusts. His hand finds its hold between Sherlock's waist and hip again, pressing into the small bruises already forming there.
Sherlock winces, but maintains the pace. His eyes fall on John's cock, red, hard, rocking between their bodies, being tossed around by the waves they are creating.
“John,” he breathes, “You have to jerk yourself off. I want - I can't - have to - oh, fuck!” he loses his train of thought somewhat, but really needn't have spent his breath, as John's hand is already wending through the water to his cock.
“Yes,” Sherlock hisses, eyes dark with lust as he takes in the sight of John furiously working away at himself, the motion of his body completely under Sherlock's control.
“Oh, fuck yes!” Sherlock finally shouts, blissfully spending himself.
“Jesus,” John groans in response to the hot stream released inside his body.
“Oh god,” he adds, as Sherlock stumbles a step forwards on suddenly-wobbly legs, inevitably moving John along with him.
“Fuck!” John comes with a shock as Sherlock's hand is added to the task of pulling him off.
John's seed floats on the surface of the water, breaking apart as he moves through it heedlessly, smoothly removing himself from Sherlock's cock, and reaching to kiss the other man.
“Oh god,” he pants, leaning against Sherlock's chest. They are both trembling with exertion.
“That was - oh, look.” John's attention is captured by the colourful, decidedly tropical, alive sunset which is now taking place.
“Stunning.” he proclaims with a quiet awe.
Sherlock “hmms” in reply, trying not to be irrational about the fact that he is being upstaged by the sunset, and failing miserably.
John chuckles, recognising the tone. He moves Sherlock in front of him, embracing him chest-to-back so they are both facing the sunset.
“You are just as spectacular,” he murmurs reassuringly, with just a hint of amusement as he presses a kiss to Sherlock's shoulderblade.
“Hmm.” Sherlock replies again.
John rolls his eyes. “Equally brilliant and fantastic,” he confirms. “But you're different-beautiful. This sunset is fleeting. You, I have the pleasure of seeing every day.”
“I beg to differ,” Sherlock can't resist countering, with a smile. “The sun has been rising and setting for hundreds of thousands of years, and will undoubtedly do so for a long time yet. I, on the other hand, am the comparatively 'fleeting' being, with a probable optimal life expectancy of 90 years or so. Your syllogism, therefore, is - ”
“Shut up.” John smiles, resting his cheek on Sherlock's shoulder. “Glad you're feeling better.” he says affectionately, and they watch the sunset in a comfortable silence.
----
Part 6 (end)