Chapter Text
Whereas most people would have clambered over the uneven ground of the Giant’s Causeway, Sherlock sauntered. In the bespoke shoes he insisted on wearing everywhere they went, he should have lost his footing a dozen times over on their month-long tour of Ireland. (“Regardless of your nurse’s definition, John, I do not hike . Specialty footwear is of little use to me.”) But instead, being Sherlock, he strode around as usual no matter what the terrain, Belstaff collar turned up against the wind, with what had to be a ridiculously overpriced leather specimen case slung over one shoulder.
As John watched from his seat on a rock cluster fifteen or so metres away, Sherlock dropped to one knee beside a particularly low grouping of the basalt columns that comprised most of the geothermal phenomenon. He rummaged in his pocket for a minute, produced his magnifier, and began to examine the columns closely.
John took the opportunity to examine Sherlock’s arse closely, as Sherlock had helpfully flipped the Belstaff up over his back to avoid dragging the hem on the ground. He had become very familiar with Sherlock’s arse over the past month, and, despite having been familiar with said arse just that morning, his cock gave an interested twitch.
Before they'd even left on their Irish holiday, Sherlock and John had already had one another in all the ways John had imagined in his letters, and had moved on to experimenting with new ones. Sherlock had a very slight preference for being the penetrated partner, but they both had given and received many times by that point. They had made love in antique four-poster beds, narrow motel twins, and an extremely uncomfortable Swedish-make bed that Sherlock had told the clerk at checkout to repurpose as kindling. They’d fucked in three oversized showers (and only fallen down in one), and had a frantic mutual wank session in a hot tub. John had bent Sherlock over desks and sinks and ridden him slow and silent one glorious afternoon in the most fussy toile covered armchair either of them had ever seen. After being forced to take impromptu shelter in a gazebo during a torrential downpour, they’d frotted on the floor until they both came in their pants.
On one extremely memorable occasion, John had let Sherlock have him over a fallen stone in the middle of a deserted ancient stone circle. They'd all but run back to the car after, giggling about Sherlock’s musings on how the Druids would have surely approved.
Sherlock bent lower over the stone, and his trousers stretched even more obscenely over his arse. John’s mouth went a little dry as he remembered sinking deep into Sherlock before breakfast. It really was a miracle they ever left their hotel, he mused, as Sherlock put away the magnifier and ... no, no, Sherlock, what are you… John knew Sherlock better than anyone, and yet was still unprepared when Sherlock bent still lower and... licked the stone.
Jesus fucking… John looked around to see how many people were in the area. Quite a few. How many were watching his boyfriend examine a centuries-old piece of rock with his tongue? Most of them, if the not-so-subtle pointing was any indication. Before Sherlock could catch his eye and call him over, John decided his best and certainly most mature course of action would be to scarper.
So he did.
(After he snapped a quick picture with his mobile to send to Greg and Molly.)
He found himself another perch, this one on a long, flat formation that jutted into the sea, and settled in to wait until scientific curiosity was satisfied. It was a position he'd found himself in often during the last four weeks, but he couldn't say that he minded. Sherlock in the throes of discovery was, after all, one of his very favorite Sherlocks.
Since Sherlock’s surprise appearance on Christmas Eve, John had gotten to spend ample time with every version of Sherlock he knew, and some that were new to him. For instance, he'd become newly acquainted with dog-loving Sherlock, who he'd only previously known from stories. Sherlock had been horrified at the idea that Einstein would be staying behind in Ireland, and it only took a five minute conversation with Maeve and Bertie and a few texts to Mycroft and Mrs. Hudson for Einstein to have the promise of a home at Baker Street when John and Sherlock returned to London in February. He'd also gotten to see bee-obsessed Sherlock in the flesh when Sherlock had eagerly volunteered to help Bertie with the winter work on the hives in the days just after Christmas.
Sexual Sherlock was more than John had ever imagined. Nowhere in Sherlock’s larger-than-John-had-thought set of experiences was a long, monogamous relationship with someone who loved him, and the freedom to experiment and play and share that came with it. Their newfound trust and openness with one another had led to all sorts of surprises, including last week’s introduction of Occasionally Submissive Sherlock, who had quickly brought Quietly Dominant John to the surface.
The best Sherlock John had ever known, though, was a new one: in-love Sherlock. In-love Sherlock had many subsets--cuddle-loving Sherlock; tandem shower-loving Sherlock; the gorgeousness of orgasming Sherlock--but it was the basic, pure, simplest in-love version of Sherlock who had brought John to his knees (often, quite literally). This Sherlock smiled freely at John, constantly. This Sherlock was nearly always touching John, often without realizing it: hands entwined as they walked; an arm tossed across John’s chest in sleep; a hand on a thigh under the breakfast table. This Sherlock tracked John everywhere with his eyes and loved him openly, with words and hands and glances. This Sherlock was all in, and was making no secret of it.
Bored Sherlock had appeared from time to time, but between the sightseeing and the sex, they seemed to keep busy enough for him. He’d stopped an animal smuggling operation in the making at the Fota Wildlife Park early in their trip, but had waved off John’s suggestion that they let the various local police departments know of their presence. He was content on this holiday--they both were--and he had made sure John knew it. Slowly, any worry that Sherlock might eventually grow bored of him faded.
“Pretending you don't know me again?” Sherlock’s amused rumble was low in his ear, and John smiled in spite of himself, though he held up a hand before he could be kissed.
“I can't stop you from licking the sodding stones, you berk, but you don't get to snog me after.”
They were in the last few days of their holiday, and there was no longer any question about what would happen next. Soon they'd go back to Castletownbere to retrieve Einstein and spend a last night with Maeve and Bertie before returning to London. Mycroft, being certain what his brother would do, had never actually gotten John an appointment with Doctors Without Borders, so there was nothing to fix there. They were free from any obligations but those to one another, and despite the fact that their holiday had been nothing less than idyllic, were looking forward to finally beginning their Baker Street life again.
Together.
Despite Sherlock’s insistence that he didn't hike, they had spent much of the last month doing just that. They had walked everywhere, breathing in the fresh air and finally talking about everything. John had read Sherlock’s letters twice more, and then they had read both sets together, in order. Everything was far from perfect--they were doing their best, but they were still two British men unaccustomed to analytic personal discussion at the level their relationship required. For the first time since the day they met, however, they were being completely honest with one another. It would be enough.
Sherlock hopped gracefully onto the rock behind John and slid his arms around John’s waist, resting his chin on his unscarred shoulder. “It occurs to me that this is the most I've ever seen of one country, including our own.”
“Even when you were away?” It was easier, now, to talk about it.
“Mmm,” Sherlock agreed. “That was many countries, but not many places within each. And no sightseeing.”
“I did notice you didn't send any postcards.”
Sherlock gave no response, but held John tighter. The sarcastic reference was a monumental step for him.
Early in the trip they'd lost two days after Sherlock had walked too close to the edge of the Cliffs of Moher and impulsively opened his arms to the rushing wind. When he'd turned around to find John and seen him crouched on the ground, nearly hyperventilating with panic, he’d realized his mistake immediately. It was fortunate they'd been renting a tiny cottage for a few days, because the horrible succession of arguments, accusations, and confessions they'd hurled at one another for nearly 48 hours straight would have certainly gotten them ejected from a hotel. It had been during those days, however, that Sherlock had finally, haltingly, begun to tell him about those lonely, harrowing, horrible years, and that John was finally able to listen and begin to understand. Through his acceptance of Sherlock’s truths, he'd been able to share his own pain in turn.
“I saw most of Afghanistan,” John said quietly. “And much of it was still beautiful, despite the war. But other than that, I've not spent this much time anywhere either. I miss London, and 221B, but we should do this again. Somewhere else, some other time. Just us, and exploration that doesn't have any dead people attached to it.” Sherlock’s disappointment was palpable, so he amended: “Or maybe just a few dead people. Christ, I've got myself a morbid boyfriend.”
Sherlock’s hands tightened around his waist. “You love your morbid boyfriend.”
John grinned. “God help me, I do.” Sherlock had always mocked the terms of endearment that others used, but John had quickly learned that the easiest way to bring a flush to his skin was to use one.
(Easiest publicly acceptable way, that is; the application of John’s tongue almost anywhere also produced a lovely shade of pink.)
“This was the last thing on our Northern Ireland list,” Sherlock said. “What would you like to do now?”
“If you're quite done fellating the scenery, perhaps we could get back to Sligo in time for an early dinner?”
“John Watson, are you jealous because I paid attention to some rocks?”
John turned his head so Sherlock could read the intent on his face. “No, because I know you'll be kneeling for me later.”
Sherlock’s eyes went a little unfocused at that, and then he shook his head sharply and jumped to his feet. “If I ignore the posted speed limits, we can be back at the hotel in just over two hours.”
--
Three hours later, John had one hand wound tightly in Sherlock’s curls and the other holding the base of his prick, teasing at Sherlock’s lips with just the tip. Sherlock’s mouth was already reddened, his chin slick with his own saliva, and a steady whine emitted from the back of his throat as he again tried to pull John back into his mouth only to have his head pulled firmly back by the hair.
“John, please.”
“ Please what, love?” John brushed Sherlock’s mouth again, and the slick of pre-come appeared on his bottom lip. Sherlock licked it away, and John groaned. This sort of thing was not their usual, but last week, when a posh hotel they’d splurged on lost their reservation and Captain Watson had made a temporary appearance at the reception desk, they'd quickly been ushered to a suite, and John had been introduced to Sherlock’s submissive side.
“Please...let me suck you, John, I want it…”
John dragged his cock over Sherlock’s mouth once more and then shoved in, hard. Sherlock moaned, long and low, and John chuckled as he felt the head bump against the back of Sherlock’s throat. “Fuck, love, you’re gagging for it, aren’t you?” Sherlock moaned again, and John took his hand off his shaft and fisted it in the other side of the mass of curls. “Hands behind your back,” John snapped, and, as Sherlock quickly obeyed, John began to fuck his mouth in smooth, sure strokes. A choked moan came from Sherlock every time John hit the back of his throat, and soon tears were forming in the corners of his eyes.
John pulled out, and his hands became more caressing. “Alright, love?” he asked quietly, and thumbed away the tears. Sherlock turned his face into the touch, eyes closing briefly, and John felt tears pricking at his own eyes. They had almost missed this--this love, this connection, this fucking fantastic sex. It has almost slipped away from them, and John didn't--
“Ouch!”
Sherlock had nipped the tip of his finger, and as John met his gaze again, he widened his eyes in impatience.
“Christ, Sherlock, they invented the phrase ‘topping from the bottom’ just for you, didn't they?”
By way of answer, Sherlock guided John’s hands back to his hair and leaned forward until his lips nearly touched John’s cock, and then he slowly dropped his mouth open again.
“Cheeky bastard,” John said, and let the wet heat engulf him.
--
After, Sherlock took the proffered flannel and gave his mouth and hands a perfunctory wipe. “I'm certainly not complaining about the idea of spending tomorrow in bed, but are we in some sort of competition I don't know about? You have been particularly insatiable the last few days. We're not going to stop having sex when the holiday is over.”
John ran a hand through his hair, looking around on the floor for his pants. “I can't exactly make you scream at Maeve and Bertie’s, love; the walls in those cottages are thin, and while I know they're on board with this relationship, I don't want to scandalize them. It'll be a couple of days before I can really touch you again.”
Sherlock snorted. “You can't be serious, John. With all they've seen, I suspect I could suck you off at their breakfast table and the only one who would be embarrassed would be you.”
John's brow furrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“Maeve and Bertie. They're retired G2.” When John looked still more confused, he explained further. “Irish intelligence.”
“I know what G2 is, Sherlock, but the idea that Maeve and Bertie used to be a part of it is preposterous. What did he do, keep bees for them? And Maeve has many skills, but spying isn't one of them.”
Sherlock spotted John’s pants partially under the bed and tossed them over. “I assure you, John, that your sweet, elderly friends are retired Irish intelligence agents. Pretty high up, I'd suspect, though G2 is so secretive that even I don't know much about them.” He sat down on the bed to pull on his socks.
John just gaped at Sherlock while he described a picture hanging in Maeve and Bertie’s front hallway that featured them standing by a particular kind of plane while holding a particular kind of luggage, “not to mention there's an obvious gun safe in the parlor floor under that hooked rug,” and then a thought slammed into place. “Get Mycroft on the phone.”
Sherlock threw him a disbelieving look as he continued to dress. “Mycroft is good, John, but I don't believe even he could arrange for a doctor living across the street from former spies to get pregnant and--”
John cut him off, his tone level, firm, and colder than Sherlock had heard in a very long time. “Get. Your. Fucking. Brother. On. The. Fucking. Phone.”
A shiver ran over Sherlock, and not because of the temperature in the room. He moved to the desk and flipped up the laptop lid. “FaceTime, I think, for this.” His fingers flew over the keyboard, typing in a series of security codes, and soon the program was ringing. He brought the laptop over to the bed as John pulled a vest over his head and joined him. John was so angry he was vibrating with it. Sherlock shivered again, and felt his spent cock give a pathetic attempt at a twitch inside his pants.
Mycroft was seated at a desk in one of the parlors at his house, and Sherlock idly observed that he was wearing a collared shirt and jumper rather than a suit and waistcoat. Sherlock hadn't known Mycroft owned anything that wasn't a suit; he'd been fairly certain his brother even slept in one. “Little brother. Doctor Watson. A happy new year to you both. I trust the Emerald Isle is still in one piece?”
“Care to tell me how you arranged my neighbors, Mycroft?”
Mycroft clucked. “I arranged nothing, I'm afraid; the MacNamaras have owned that property for generations.”
“How convenient, then, that I happened to move in across the street.”
“Indeed. Surely you must agree that there can be no downside from having neighbors who are trained in advanced weaponry and have exceptional baking skills.”
Sherlock was looking from Mycroft to John and back again, glee lighting up his eyes. “Perhaps I should call down to room service for some popcorn.”
John opened his mouth to tell Sherlock exactly where the popcorn would end up if he did, when another voice came from behind Mycroft.
“Myc, we agreed no laptops tonight. Put that thing away and come to-- fuck!”
Mycroft and Sherlock turned identical shades of white as Greg Lestrade strode into the frame.
Naked.
He strode out just as quickly, with a continued stream of fuck, fuck, fuck following him.
“Alright, Greg?” John called, his bad mood suddenly gone.
“Alright,” came Greg’s voice, sheepish and embarrassed. Mycroft had snapped his mouth shut, and Sherlock was shaking his head.
“Close the lid, John; I can't delete the image of Lestrade naked while I'm staring at his--his-- fuck.” Sherlock buried his face in his hands, groaning.
“His what, Sherlock? His lover? Your brother? Oh, well done, Mycroft.” John had to restrain himself from rubbing his hands together in glee. “Anyway, why would you want to delete that? Greg’s got a fine arse on him.”
“Thanks, mate,” came Greg’s offscreen voice.
“Anytime,” John replied. “Now, Mycroft, let's talk about how I will never again find myself living across from spies, even if they are lovely people who I will ultimately--Sherlock. If you're going to make that awful retching sound, kindly sod off to the bathroom; there's a love.”
At the sound of the endearment on John’s lips, Mycroft made a small retching noise of his own.
Oh, this is going to be fun.
EPILOGUE
John stood on the pavement, looking up at the familiar windows. The last time he'd stood there, he'd been filled with hope and ready to give Sherlock everything. It had gone so terribly wrong, and he'd never thought to have a second chance at it, yet here he was, filled with hope and ready to give Sherlock everything. It had been a long, horrible year, but then, like some rom-com on late night telly, his madman had arrived and given him the present of a lifetime.
Said madman was standing in the open doorway of 221B, having just set the last of the suitcases down in the front hallway, and gazing at John with a combination of love, and anticipation, and disbelief. Slowly, he held out a hand, and John bent down, snapped the lead off of Einstein’s collar, and nudged the dog up the stairs and through the door. When he hesitated, however, Sherlock came down the steps to join him.
“What is it?”
John took hold of Sherlock’s scarf in both hands and pulled him down into a relatively chaste kiss. “Thank you,” he said quietly. Thank you for coming for me. Thank you for giving me another chance. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for bringing me home. Thank you for this life, our life, and for the place where we will live it. Thank you for trusting me with your heart.
Sherlock leaned down until their foreheads were touching. “Welcome home, John.”
They went up the steps, hands clasped, and closed the door of 221B behind them.