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"Is this heaven or is this heaven, Johnny?" his sister asked, spinning in a circle with her arms splayed, almost hitting a few other cruise-goers. Harry had been gleefully leering at bikini-clad women since they boarded half an hour ago, and had additionally been trying to point out every attractive person their age, regardless of gender, to John’s attention. Though he had vehemently denied any attraction to any of the males, his face was still rather red and he seemed equally unable to stop staring at the sea of bared flesh.
Tedious, thought Sherlock. He was only here on Mycroft's insistence. What could possibly go wrong on a cruise ship? (Granted, current events were not Sherlock's strong suit.) Sherlock was dressed conservatively, standing out in trousers and a button up shirt, his only concession to the festive occasion was his rolled up sleeves. He wandered through the crowds, silently deducing to himself. Someone jostled his back, sending him stumbling into a beet-red blond. (Student. Here because of his sister. Twins.)
John had been carefully avoiding running into anyone as best he could, but it was bound to happen sooner or later. And as he blinked up at the bloke pressing him into the wall, his traitorous mind (and body) thought that if everyone who ran into him was going to be this pretty, he probably wasn't going to mind. That much.
Sherlock's breath caught as he looked into brilliant blue eyes. He froze for a moment, until he was aware of a certain interest they were both starting to express. Blush coloring his cheeks, he stepped back. "I apologize."
"Ah, no, it's uh... no problem," John stammered back, and promptly cursed himself. He'd had more one night stands than he could count, and as soon as some gorgeous, slim, curly-haired, stormy-eyed, sharp-cheekboned... Ahem. As soon as some strange bloke presses him flush to the wall, he has to get an erection like he's 16 again. His only comfort in that was that, unless a water bottle had mysteriously materialised in the other bloke's pocket, John wasn't the only one affected by that short, intimate contact.
Sherlock swallowed and stuck out his hand. "Sherlock Holmes." Introductions were probably required. Especially since he’d just pinned the man up against the wall. His cheeks colored a little more.
"John Watson," he replied automatically as he grasped onto the other's offered palm. His hand was practically dwarfed and the shake, stagnated oddly as his mind took a sudden detour into the potential of those fingers.
"Come on, Johnny! I wanna see our room!" Sure, Harry was all about encouraging him to 'explore your sexuality and experiment!’, but as soon as he was willing to do so, on the Gay Pride Cruise she’d dragged him to no less, she defaulted to 'major cockblock'.
Sherlock wanted to find out more about this John Watson. But the sister was already walking over (alcoholic, serial girlfriends, bringing John was a condition of her being able to go... but John didn't know that). He quickly leaned down and whispered his room number in John's ear, "Stateroom 221b."
Hot breath tickled his ear and a shiver ran down his spine at the brush of lips against his lobe. Before he could do so much as nod, the stranger, Sherlock, was stepping back, winking at him before disappearing into the skin-and-rainbow coloured crowd. The first bloke he's ever really contemplated getting to know, and he's given a room number already. As Harry finally reached his side, tugging his arm relentlessly, he almost laughed at her concern about wearing sunblock. His face certainly was red, but it was more the moon's fault than the sun's.
Sherlock spent a bit more time on deck before going down to his own stateroom. He had tried to go back to deducing the crowd, but his mind kept going back to one John Watson. Finally he shook his head and headed for his room. It was almost too large for one person, but of course, Mycroft would only get him the best. Opposite the large bed, there was a small balcony and a desk stood against one wall while a pair of chairs faced the ocean.
Of course it also looked like Sherlock's luggage had exploded all over the place. He started gathering clothes and shoving them in the closet. The desk had his laptop and a pile of books and papers. He was being irrational. There were a thousand other people on this ship for John Watson to get to know. But he couldn't get the image of those eyes the color of a flat deep sea out of his head. Ridiculous. Sentiment.
John wasn't able to get away immediately. Or really at all. After dragging him to their room, the cheapest possible while still giving them two beds, Harry dragged him around the entirety of the ship and briefed him on every single LGBT event that would be occurring over the next two weeks. The sun was already going down when he was finally pulled into the dining hall and led like a cow to trough to the buffet line.
Sherlock spotted John like a ship sees a lighthouse in the fog. He turned away from the man chatting him up (investment banker, recently divorced) and quickly crossed the room. "John Watson," he said, nearly materializing at the man's elbow.
A low baritone right by his ear nearly had him fumbling his food-laden fork as a slim body firmly insinuated itself between John and Harry. Not that his sister would have noticed with the way she was chatting up the attractive redhead on her other side. The space between chairs at the large, circular table was sparse enough as it was, and the resulting heat from the tall man's closeness made his mouth go dry. His appetite disappeared, replaced by an entirely different hunger only flamed by the attention of intelligent grey eyes.
There was something in John's eyes. Lust, yes, that was boring. But something else as well, some curiosity. Just needed to get him away from his sister. "Would you perhaps care to take a stroll on the deck?"
With most everyone at the dinner rush, the decks were not the animal house they'd been most of the day, but it was also sunset, so a fair number of patrons were still out and about.. Even with the spacious amount of deck to walk on, Sherlock was sticking rather close to him, a constant, warm heat along his right side. For the first little bit, they walked in companionable silence, a pleasant change from the rush with Harry earlier.
Sherlock was glad John didn't need to chatter. Another point in his favor. Suddenly, an argument appeared ahead of them. "I didn't steal your watch!"
"Bullshit!" The second man swung at the first.
With an annoyed sigh, John waded into the fight, sliding deftly between the two men and sweeping them (fairly gently) onto their rears. Being as level-headed as he was, he was used to being the designated fight breaker up-er when his rugby mates would go to the pub and get a little rowdy. And neither of these two men, both of whom were staring dazedly up at him, smelled sober.
"Now, if we're calm, what's this about a stolen watch?"
The second man's jaw worked silently a few moments. "He stole my watch."
Sherlock had been watching, impressed and a bit slack-jawed himself. Definitely not aroused by this display of calm power. Okay, maybe a bit. He stepped forward. "This man did not steal your watch it. You left it at the pool where you had your tryst this afternoon."
Blinking in surprise and confusion, John tilted his head to the side and up, trying to see the face of the man pressed nearly to his back. How on earth did Sherlock know where the watch was and why it had been left?
"Did you sleep with someone else already?" asked the first man.
"What you expect me to keep my hands to myself with this much tail running around?" he growled and got to his feet. "How do you know where it is and what I been doing?"
Sherlock was rather glad John was between him and the man, though he'd never admit it. "There is a receipt hanging out of your pocket for use of the towels. And a number of hairs caught in your collar that belong to neither you or your... colleague. You're not in swim trunks, therefore you must have changed, not wanting to draw suspicion. Tryst."
The drama in front of him was subverted by the brilliance behind him. "You got all of that from just that?" he gaped. "Brilliant!"
Sherlock blinked "Really?" The two men started moving off, their arguing quieter now.
"Yes, of course it was! Absolutely fantastic." The way Sherlock was blinking down at him, like he didn't know how to react to his compliments, set John to giggling. "Can you do that to me too?"
"Of course. Your sister is your twin. You're athletic. Rugby, I believe. Currently attending Uni and studying medicine. And this cruise was your sister’s idea." Sherlock bit his lip, waiting to be told to bugger off.
"Astounding!" John swore that he was normally more eloquent, but he was positively blown away. Looks and brains!
Sherlock blushed a bit. "How about yourself? You separated those two men without trouble."
"Well, rugby,” he shrugged. “The lads when they're pissed get a little rough. I've learned to deal." The high flush on the sharp cheekbones was both endearing and titillating. Before he could stop himself, John rocked up onto his toes and pressed their lips together in a soft kiss.
Sherlock was surprised. In a heartbeat though, he was pressing John against the wall. Snogging. How pedestrian. And delightful. John was warm and strong and it was only with regret that Sherlock came up for air.
Throughout their encounter, Sherlock had seemed the epitome of self-control. When the man finally released him from the kiss, he looked as dazed and surprised as John felt and his heart thudded in his chest. "Do you have anyone else staying with you in your room?" Wordlessly, Sherlock shook his head. "221B, right?" he asked with a grin.
"Correct." Sherlock gave a tiny hopeful smile. He wanted to taste John Watson again. More. Wanted to slide his tongue along the tanned skin and into his secret places. Well, that did nothing to quell his erection. Reaching for John's wrist, he led him into the ship.
He felt like a blushing virgin with how hot his face felt and how he couldn't stop giggling as Sherlock pulled him down hallway after hallway. It made him feel a little better that the other man seemed as breathless and as bright-cheeked. When they stumbled into a green door with a brass '221B', John 'fell' into his counterpart, taking his turn to press the lanky man into the hard surface and snog him silly. Between them, their clear interests were trapped painfully by clothes and limbs.
"John," Sherlock moaned. Did he have any lube? He not so gently shoved John at the bed, attacking his belt.
"Oh Christ, Sherlock," he gasped as teeth attacked his navel, traveling down, down, dow-oh! His spine arched off the bed and he frantically grabbed at the sheets, cries of pleasure being pulled from his throat with each press of a tongue at his glans and each gentle scrape of teeth. The way that man used his tongue normally was extraordinary; this should be criminal.
Sherlock was going crazy with the sounds John was making. His few encounters had been minimal and nothing particularly interesting. But this... well, he could get used to what John felt like underneath him. Glancing up at the pleasure on the man's face, he knew he wanted to be inside him. He pulled off of his cock and pushed up his legs, licking lower, feeling him shudder.
John felt overwhelmed in the absolutely best way right now. The few times he’d indulged in his... proclivities thus far had all been hasty, mutual handjobs, at best. Never had he had the time, nor the partner willing to indulge like this. One who was actively seeking to give him pleasure. As a tongue lapped at his entrance, he couldn’t help but to writhe at the sensations, pleased when long, strong fingers gripped his hips and held him still under the onslaught.
He tasted amazing. Sherlock had never desired anyone so much as he pushed his tongue past the tight muscle and began to really lick him open. John whimpered and it was the sexiest sound he had ever heard. Part of Sherlock wanted to do this forever, the rest of him wanted to fill him, swallow all of his cries. He pulled back and wiped his mouth, looking up at John’s face.
He hadn’t been able to help the sound wrenched from his throat when the man attending him so... attentively, pulled away, though it morphed into a moan as he felt the thick head of a cock pressing against him. From a medical standpoint, he knew that was nowhere near enough preparation, that it would would hurt now and definitely tomorrow, but right now, his skin was on fire and his blood was boiling from lust and arousal. And from the way Sherlock kept staring at John like he was the Eighth Wonder.
“If it hurts too much, tell me,” said Sherlock, trying to go slow. A man this amazing must have experience, right? John groaned and squeezed around him. Sherlock panted and gasped, reaching down to take his thick cock in hand. He wasn’t going to last long like this.
“Holy fuck, I’ve never... I didn’t think it would actually--shit--actually feel this good,” he gasped as hips came to rest against his pelvis and his head dropped back onto the bed. John was gasping for breath, head swimming as Sherlock pulled out and thrust back in. “SHIT!” he shouted, nearly jack-knifing off the bed when his prostate was slammed into on the first go.
Sherlock groaned. He pushed John back, mouthing his neck and shoulder, stroking him and fucking him and he should be taking it easier since his….lover? had admitted he was a virgin. But damn if it didn’t feel amazing and Sherlock couldn’t help himself, feeling John draw closer and closer to his orgasm, milking his body. He was so very close...
After that first hit against his prostate, Sherlock didn’t let off his abuse of it, and his fingers were long and so very insistent around his cock. As his orgasm barrelled down onto him, John thought distantly that he hadn’t come so fast since the first time he discovered what a cock really could do. Teeth were nipping at his neck, mouth sucking at his skin, and it was all he could do to return the favor as his seed spilled out over Sherlock’s hand, the continued thrusts against his prostate elongating his release until he was floating. Until it become too much.
Sherlock groaned and filled John as he whimpered underneath him. It had never been like this. He collapsed on top of him, moaning softly, just wanting to bury his head against John’s neck and live in his scent and the feel of his sweat- and cum-slicked body for however long he could.
.oOo.
Waking up would have been more welcome if his arse wasn’t sore as hell. Groaning, John tried to roll over only to be halted by the human octopus wrapped around him, snuffling at his neck and tightening his arms. He felt so pleasant, so warm and comfortable, that he was loathe to move, but nature called, and the movement called to the fact that his skin was absolutely disgusting; apparently they’d both fallen asleep before cleanup the night before. He’d had clingy one-night-stands before, but Sherlock was a class all his own, and when John finally managed to extract himself, it was with a tumble off the bed and right into a suitcase that toppled over and spilled its contents. Cursing, he began to shovel everything back in, only to be stopped when his hand landed on something that had him feeling like he was going to be sick. In record time, he’d located his clothes and walked out the door.
Sherlock woke to the door closing. He sat up straight, heart in his stomach. “John?” he called. No answer. He started to get up and his feet landed on clothes. Frowning he looked down-- Oh no. He knelt and picked up the vial. He’d only brought the drugs because he expected a boring two weeks and the case to be solved in hours. Clutching it, he ran to the door and peeked his head out. “John?” There was no sign of the man and it was impossible to tell which way he had gone. Slamming his door shut again, Sherlock went to the balcony and threw the offending vial. Then he went back and grabbed the other vial and items he used for taking the drugs and hurtled everything into the sea. Turning, tears stinging his eyes, he crawled back into bed, seeking any lingering bit of John. Of course the man was gone, and how could he blame him? Pulling the blankets over his head he curled into a ball and stayed there.
His stomach was rumbling and his skin was sticky with sweat and come, but the first thing John did was head to the ship’s doctor to request testing on whatever they could. He’d been so enamoured by the man that he hadn’t thought... Stupid! Stupid stupid stupid! He was training to be a fucking doctor and he’d let a junkie blow him, rim him, come inside him. He should know better. He did know better! He’d lectured plenty of women about this in the past, when they tried to whisper to him ‘I’m on birth control; don’t worry.’ He’d never accepted it then, and then the first bloke who catches his interest he just spreads his legs for and let’s him have at? Just because he was beautiful (gorgeous) and intelligent (so brilliant), that made it all okay? No, no that didn’t. John settled into his chair to wait for his name to be called, darkening the corner of the full waiting room like he was a brewing storm, ready to spit lightning and rumble thunder at any minute. That didn’t make any of it okay at all.
The steward all but forced Sherlock to eat. No doubt on his brother’s payroll. Still, he remained in his room for the next two days, picking at the food that was brought to him and only throwing a little bit off the balcony. Finally though, he knew he couldn’t hide any longer. He got dressed and went to the cheapest dining hall, figuring maybe he could catch John there. If nothing else, he owed him an apology. Certainly he couldn’t expect the man to ever want to speak to him again.
.oOo.
Luckily, all the tests came back clean, but John was still a bit furious, not just at Sherlock for not thinking to roll on a condom when he was clearly engaged in recreational drugs, but more so at himself for his own compliance in the matter. Even worse than all that was the anger that someone as brilliant as his one-time-lover not only took drugs, but took them frequently, judging by what he’d stumbled across. Along a wall in the dining hall, John sat there and brooded, eyes absently following the dancing couples that the tables had been moved aside for that night. If he hadn’t found the drugs, would he be dancing with Sherlock right now? Would Sherlock be high right now? Was Sherlock high right now? He immediately shook the thought from his head. That man was no longer his concern. John stood, not sparing a glance to his uneaten dinner plate before he was dodging people on the way around the large room, making for the door on the far side from him. Despite his inactivity during the day, he felt tired and bed just sounded too lovely. His single bed, all alone.
Sherlock was just coming into the dining room when he saw John stalking out. Alone. His heart wanted to hope at that, but he batted it away. Sentiment. Instead he moved quickly and caught John’s elbow. “We should talk,” he said, leading him towards the dance floor.
In less than the time it took to blink, John found himself participating in a waltz for the first time in his life. A large hand gripping his right, his left up on a tall shoulder, and a warm palm cupping his waist, he was led without pause through the couples he’d just been watching. Instantly, it was like that first meeting all over again, his cheeks heating and his heart pounding and his brain turned to mush by the authority the man wielded so effortlessly. Then he remembered why he hadn’t spent the last two days with Sherlock and attempted to stop dancing, to pull away, only for those hands around him to tighten, forcing him to keep up. “What’s there to talk about?” he bit out when he realised he wasn’t going to get free without causing a scene. “You’re a junkie, and you fucked me without a condom.”
Sherlock had the decency to blush. “I was caught up in the moment. As for the drugs, it is something I indulge in on occasion.” John snorted and he could hardly blame him. “I threw everything out,” he said quickly. “I do not expect you to forgive me, John Watson. But I had to see you again.” His heart was breaking all over again as he searched John’s face. Of course he’d screwed things up. He hadn’t even been working on the case he was supposed to be here for. It would no doubt be better for everyone if he simply let John go and went back to his room for the duration.
“Caught up in the-- Sherlock! Who knows what diseases you could have from your ‘occasional indulgences’! The kinds of things you could have given to me!” He really was trying to keep his voice down but emotion was making it strong. Sherlock was the best thing that had happened to him in ages, and he’d had him in his life for approximately 24 hours before it all went to shit. “Why should I even believe you? What’s stopping you from just going right back to the drugs when we get back to port?”
“I’m clean. You’ve no doubt been tested already. And no, clearly you shouldn’t trust me. But if one thing could make me stop using it would be you.” Sherlock blushed even harder, letting go of John and turning away. Stupid. “I’ve been kicked out of four universities,” he said quietly. “I make a small living using my observational skills, mostly for my older brother. A consulting detective. I am not a good person, John, and I have never claimed to be.”
“Jesus,” John groaned, dropping his head onto the other man’s shoulder as his confliction with his own self rose sharply. “How do I even know you’re telling me the truth? Fuck, there’s hundreds of people on this ship, why even spare me the effort?” He never registered that they had stopped moving, had come to a rest in a dark alcove away from the prying eyes (and ears) of others.
“Because you’re special, John,” Sherlock looked back at him, wanting to touch him, afraid. Losing this man would be like the sun going out. And he was afraid he was already gone. He didn’t know what else to say. He’d never been particularly good with people.
John closed his eyes, breathing in slowly and breathing out even slower. “I have... given people second chances that didn’t deserve them at all, much less from me,” he started, and then stopped, biting his lip. “I’m not promising anything, but we still have twelve days left on this stupid cruise.” The sudden, puppy-like hope that spread across Sherlock’s face made his heart quicken and he had to look away before continuing. “And if you can prove to me before we dock that you maybe want to try something with me, well, we’ll see how it goes, okay?”
“Yes, anything.” Sherlock searched for something to add. “Would you like to help me with my case?”
Settled into a decision, and intrigued beyond that, John nodded and let himself be led out of the dining hall, too involved in what Sherlock was saying to pay much attention to his surroundings.
“You bastard!” he heard, right before a familiar blonde form was rushing at them and landing a fist to one sharp cheekbone.
“Harry!” he cried, caught between holding his sister back and checking to make sure if his (friend? lover? boyfriend?) Sherlock was all right. His decision was quickly made when Harry tried to launch herself at the detective a second time.
“Let go of me, Johnny!” she snarled, trying to yank his arms off of her without harming him. “You didn’t have to watch you these last few days!”
Sherlock’s hand went to his face as he stumbled back. “I was apologizing to your brother. Though your defense of him is...admirable.” She was all of five-foot-four of fury, and he could hardly blame her.
John spent the next few minutes whispering furiously in Harry’s ear and keeping her from hitting the detective again. Finally, after almost too much time, she calmed down and fucking listened to him. A few minutes later, she was walking away to rejoin a brunette (apparently already having moved on from the redhead from the day before) and glaring heartily at Sherlock the entire way. As soon as she was out of sight, he turned to face the detective and grimaced when the man flinched at the move, like he was afraid John was about to attack him as well. Not that he hadn’t considered that the first day, or even as they were leaving, but he felt Harry had taken care of it enough. Gingerly, he reached out to skim his fingers over the reddening skin. “C’mon you, let’s go get some ice on that.”
“Did you wish to return to my room?” Sherlock braced himself for John to say no. After all, that was where all their troubles had seemed to have started. But he’d be lying if he said he hadn’t spent part of the last two days thinking about John’s hands on him. And his room wasn’t shared with anyone.
John bit his lip in a moment of silent contemplation. "Yeah, okay," he agreed after a bit. And then promptly frowned at the sudden, hopeful look brightening Sherlock's eyes. "But that does not mean something will happen. Got it?"
Sherlock quickly schooled his gaze. "Of course."
.oOo.
John had tender hands as he treated the bruise. The room was a bit tidier thanks to the steward, but Sherlock was still clearly all over it. He quickly outlined the case while John worked, explaining that the son of a wealthy family was here with some 'borrowed' papers.
The next few days were filled with stalking various cruise goers, learning about Sherlock's Mind Palace, heart-pounding breaking and enterings, being constantly told to shut up or to not think at all, being amazed by deduction after deduction, and one particular moment where he was dubbed Sherlock's 'Conductor of Light' and kissed breathless by a giddy consulting detective who then bolted away in chase of... something, like he hadn't even realised what he'd done. Stunned, John had just sort of swayed on his feet, mind playing on a loop, the compliment and the kiss. A smile had just started to split his face when he was recalled to the case at hand by an impatient shout from down the corridor, and off he went again, heart feeling lighter than it had in days.
Finally, they cornered the suspect and retrieved the paperwork. It turned out the young man was wanted for a few other things and turned over to the ship’s security. They went back to Sherlock's room and he secured the papers. Satisfied and still glowing he turned to John. "You've been invaluable to me."
If he'd thought Sherlock was beautiful before, it was nothing compared to now, not with the extra-wild curls from frustrated ruffling, the flushed cheeks, the shining eyes. A decision he'd been debating during the case gave him a sudden, snap answer and he grinned. "Good," he said, and promptly shoved the taller man onto the bed and crawled over him, kissing and biting through clothes as he went. Red marks bloomed across a pale neck before he finally devoured a gasping mouth in his own, frotting against an erection that sprouted so suddenly it probably made the detective dizzy.
Sherlock groaned. He'd already been hopeful of this but had nearly convinced himself it would never happen again. He squeezed John's arse and rocked up against him, needing. Oh God did he need John Watson.
John was the kind of bloke who didn't dally once he'd set on something, and in no time they were both naked and he was reaching into the night stand for the complimentary lube and condom he’d learned since the first time that the cruise provided for free and Sherlock had simply failed to use. He squirted liquid onto his fingers and began fingering himself open, reawakening the dull ache that had faded slowly over the past week. He dropped the condom on Sherlock's chest and glared when the git opened his mouth to protest. "I don't care what the last test said or what you say, you're gonna wear one until we can get tested together and I can see the results, understand?" Face flushing, Sherlock nodded silently and John was pleased to see long, pale fingers trembling as the rolled the condom over his own weeping erection.
Sherlock could understand John's reticence. But he wanted to feel the man. And he was a glorious sight, arched back to finger himself, sweat forming on his broad chest. Blond hair gone slightly damp. Sherlock wanted to observe and catalog every inch of John, keep the memories safe. He cupped his lover’s hips to help guide him onto his cock.
Firm hands held him steady as he was filled for the second time in his life, though the stretch this time was significantly less painful with better preparation. Even still, the fullness, the way it felt like Sherlock was filling every inch of him, had him moaning loudly as he began to fuck himself with his partner's cock. The fingers on his hips felt bruising with their tightness, but as he was pretty sure he was leaving little red crescents with the force of his nails on Sherlock's chest, he didn't have much room to talk.
Sherlock groaned, still watching him. "You're beautiful." He wanted to do this forever. No one made him feel this way. No thing did either. He grabbed his lover’s waist and rolled them over, thrusting in to the hilt.
Though a compliment from Sherlock about his intelligence meant more than one about his looks, the words still made him flush, as did the sudden way the other man took control. Like the first time, his orgasm rose quickly with every strike against his prostate, his body still unused to the flood of pleasure it caused. He wanted to cry out with it all as much as he wanted to remain quiet and he opted to gnaw at a bony shoulder as his nails scored red trails down a pale back.
Sherlock writhed on top of John, pleasure and pain spiking through his system. His fingers found John's hair and he yanked his head back, sucking a deep bruise into the tan throat as he drove into him without control.
What had started as a bit of a power play quickly devolved into nothing more than feral fucking. The fingers in his hair, the teeth and tongue at his throat, the rough hand that wrapped around his cock a moment later, the near-painful thrusting against his prostate; the violence and roughness of it all made the first time seem gentle in comparison had him screaming his release into pale skin much sooner than he really would have liked... Not that he realised how little time it took him: his vision was filled with tiny black-and-white fireflies, his head was spinning like he'd been punched in the temple, and his breath was harsh, like he'd just spent five solid hours on the rugby field.
Sherlock groaned and came as John cinched tight around him. The world whited out as he went limp on top of his lover, blood roaring in his ears. Incredible. His breath came in rough gasps, as if he'd forgotten how for a moment. Finally his mind cleared a bit and he raised his head, seeing the hickey he'd left behind. His own body stung with bites and bruises and scrapes, but he was only concerned for John. "I'm sorry," he muttered, starting to get up.
John grunted as he tightened his arms and legs, causing the lanky man to collapse back against him, the still-softening cock in his arse pressing against his overstimulated prostate. "Don't move, you tit," he growled, nuzzling against the pale neck and the marks he'd created. He could feel similar aches along his neck and shoulders and it made him feel delightfully wanted. Silently, Sherlock settled more comfortably against him until his now-flaccid cock slipped free and they both grimaced at the sensation.
"Let me at least bin the condom?" asked Sherlock quietly. John acquiesced, but Sherlock quickly returned to his arms, pulling the blanket over them. "I could attend your uni in the fall," he said, settling against the broad chest. "If you wanted, I mean."
"If you promise not to get to get kicked out, then yeah, I want." Sherlock at uni with him? If it would be anything like their cruise had been so far, the idea promised an exciting next few years. He pressed a kiss to dark curls. "I'd like that a lot."
"I may even attend class." Sherlock grunted as John smacked his bottom at his ‘joke’. He hid a smile as he snuggled closer against his lover’s collarbone.
FIN