Work Text:
My baby's fit like a daydream,
Walking with his head down:
I'm the one he's walking to.
So call it what you want to.
Loves me like I'm brand new...
So call it what you want to.
“Alright. You propose first, and then we can start on planning.”
John knew that Mycroft had assumed he wasn’t completely serious when he had said it, during their chat that day, but John had not been remotely joking. While he hadn’t risked getting Sherlock worked up over the past half-year by mentioning it...John hadn’t entirely stopped thinking about the possibility, ever since the moment that Charles Magnussen had died.
He loved Sherlock, with all of himself, and John had no doubts whatsoever about wanting to spend the rest of his life at the dark-haired man’s side. That was a given. He would see him through recovery, through rebuilding his life and his identity, and beyond that. And now that Sherlock was no longer an out-of-reach, mystical ideal, well....the concept had more and more validity.
Truthfully, he knew that Sherlock would say yes willingly, and he would do so without necessarily thinking it through completely. It wasn’t as if he had married happily before, and John had been a source of salvation from the moment that they’d met. John knew, logically, that the younger man likely had some lingering fears about John leaving him eventually, and that would contribute to his accepting any proposal that promised them more permanence.
John fully intended to marry him; that was not the question. But he had his principles, and letting his lover wear his ring with the wrong reasons in mind didn’t sit right, even if it would feel nice to see the band on his finger.
Still, he had told Mycroft to ask first, and John considered that clever. It would take the older Holmes a good bit of time, and that bought John some, to work on helping Sherlock heal more.
As he would have expected, though, believing that John’s own intention to pop the question to be humorous didn’t prevent Mycroft from including him in his plans. He texted John, roughly two months after their conversation, and confided that he had begun browsing for rings when he had the opportunity to do so without arousing Greg’s suspicions. Knowing what he wanted without his asking, John went to Sherlock with the matter, asking him his observational opinion on what sort of band the retired Detective Inspector might prefer.
“Whether he returns to law enforcement, or he remains a pub owner, he’s a hands-on, blue-collar man who prefers to do his own heavy lifting and likes knowing that he has worked for what he has.” Sherlock smirked, turning the page of the manual he was reading on bee keeping; their constant presence surrounding the house had captivated him, and he was genuinely considering investing in some hives and a beekeeper suit. “Tungsten steel, certainly, and I imagine he would be the sort to thrive on sentimental value. Perhaps inscribe the band with something. Initials, or a date, what-have-you.”
John passed along the thoughts, and three months later, Mycroft followed up with photos of the custom design that he had ordered. It was lovely, quarter-inch black steel with silver inner lining and the loveliest cursive font spelling out their initials. There was more, a phrase in Latin, but it wasn’t shown completely and John trusted that it was special to the two of them, so he merely smiled and texted back his compliments on the choice.
Mycroft was both more of a showman than John gave him credit for, and seemingly more romantic. He chose to wait for an evening when he and Greg joined them for dinner out at the cottage, along with Molly and Mrs. Hudson. John invited Bill, every time, but as always the sergeant politely declined. He also invited Harry and Clara, but his sister was tentatively ready for release from rehab, and Clara thanked him warmly but chose to stay with her wife.
It was a beautiful summer evening, stringed lights arranged around the garden and lanterns hanging from intermittent posts; John had given Sherlock free reign to decorate their home in any manner that pleased him, inside and out, and every square foot felt like more of the soft, sweet homey atmosphere that had always been there in Sherlock’s lounge.
They ate a light supper, and sat drinking sherry and white wine as classical music played from Sherlock’s laptop inside. They were all laughing, even Sherlock, who had gained more weight and color in his cheeks than John had ever seen before. Everything felt right.
Mycroft cleared his throat, and the other five gathered around their little patio table and looked to him expectantly, all smiling faintly. He stood, offering one hand to Greg, who accepted it with a confused little head tilt, allowing his partner to draw him out of his seat and guide him a few steps away on the cobblestone. Realising what was happening, John began to grin, sitting up slightly and reaching out to take Sherlock’s hand. His lover blinked, bewildered, then looked over at him with widening eyes, his expression turning rapidly delighted.
“Gregory,” Mycroft said softly, just audibly enough for their audience to hear them. “You know I’m not the sort of man to...to wax poetic, or to waste time on excessive words. But there is no denying that you bring out an entirely unfamiliar side of myself, and...I find that I often wish to, well, babble, on and on and on, about how I feel for you. How my life has changed, since you became such an intimate part of it. An irreplaceable part of it,” he added, his smile softening. Greg moved the hand that was not held in Mycroft’s to his own face, covering his mouth as he grinned almost goofily.
“Now that so many other things have become...much pleasanter, much better,” Mycroft went on, glancing fondly over at where his brother sat watching him, grey-blue eyes soft and his left hand still tight in John’s. “...I think, happily, that it is finally time to take things forward in our life. Together.” He reached into his breast pocket, pulling out a small, flat black bag and carefully freeing the steel band out of it, holding it up to catch in the soft patio lights. “Gregory Lestrade, would you do me the honor of becoming my husband?”
“Of course I will, you tosser,” Greg said at once, snorting a laugh, and the men and women watching them burst into applause at once, cheering as Mycroft slid the band onto his partner’s offered left ring finger, settling it snugly into place.
Sherlock was the first to rise, releasing John’s hand and moving fluidly around the table to reach his brother’s side. The Holmes men embraced at once, tightly, and if they traded words then no one heard them. Then Sherlock turned toward Greg, hugging him as well, and John caught the look of surprised pleasure on the older man’s face at the unexpectedly affectionate gesture. He grinned, standing to follow Molly and Mrs. Hudson as they swarmed in to join the congratulations.
Once he had hugged both of the newly-engaged men--and whispered a reminder to Mycroft that he would move forward now, too--John returned to Sherlock’s side, recapturing his hand and lifting it to press his lips against the back of Sherlock’s knuckles. His boyfriend looked at him with joy in his eyes, the corners crinkling with authentic smile lines.
“You know,” John told him quietly, willing to bet that he was going to surprise Sherlock, for once. “I told Mycroft months ago that when he finally asked, then we would start planning a double ceremony.”
As he had hoped, Sherlock clearly hadn’t expected that; his eyes widened again, and his mouth parted in a round little “O” of shock. John laughed, leaning in close to brush his lips against Sherlock’s ear. “Not just yet. I’ll ask you properly, don’t worry.”
“I don’t care,” Sherlock replied at once, still looking somewhat awestruck. In a way, his expression reminded John of the day they had first met, when he had startled Sherlock while he was playing his violin, and the younger man had turned and looked at him just like this--like he wasn’t sure what he was seeing, and he didn’t entirely know how to label the man staring back at him. “I don’t need anything formal, John, really.”
“Well, this was hardly formal--it was family,” John pointed out, nodding at where Greg and Mycroft were standing, heads together and talking softly as Greg examined his new ring. “But I’m not asking you until I have the right ring, too. So you just mind yourself, and wait.”
Sherlock huffed, but he didn’t press, letting Mrs. Hudson distract him as she began crying a little with excitement over the whole thing. John turned away, and found Mycroft waiting for him, a knowing smirk on his face. “So,” the older man murmured, stepping closer to avoid being heard. “I guess you have an assignment of your own, now.”
“I do,” John agreed. “Just have to find the band.”
Mycroft pursed his lips, then reached into his inside pocket, pulling out another small black fabric sleeve. “This,” he said slowly, letting a simple silver band drop into his hand. “Was our father’s wedding ring. Our mother proposed,” he added, half-laughing, and John could easily imagine such a thing from the woman who had produced Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes. “She proposed, and he wore this band until they married, only removing it for the ceremony so that she could put it on him again.”
He held it out, and John’s breath caught, accepting the ring and holding it up. It had the faint signs of age and wear, but it had clearly been very lovingly cared for over decades. There was no inscription, but John had the feeling that that wouldn’t be a necessary addition, not for him and Sherlock. There was more meaning in the recycling of a precious family heirloom for this purpose than there would be in decorating it with dates or declarations.
“Thank you,” he said quietly, and Mycroft smiled, relieved at his acceptance. “I’m going to ask him when we’re alone.”
“As you should,” Mycroft agreed, clapping his shoulder gently. “And then, we four can begin arrangements.”
* * *
It was late when the others all finally left, after several more hours of drinking and celebration over the new engagement. John was in no hurry, though, and if Sherlock was waiting on privacy to bring it up again, he didn’t show any signs of impatience. Once the door had closed behind their family, he followed John back outside, helping him gather the evening’s dishes and glassware, and moving them all to the kitchen sink for cleaning tomorrow.
John took Sherlock’s hand, stopping him from moving to begin any deeper cleaning, and led the way to the bedroom with slow, measured steps. He closed the door behind them both, gently backing Sherlock into the pale wood and holding his gaze as John began meticulously undoing his shirt buttons, one by one, until he could push it off of Sherlock’s shoulders, baring his upper body. Sherlock watched him back silently, eyes soft and content, only moving to make it easier for his lover to undress him.
“Trousers off,” John whispered, finally stepping away from him. “Lie down.”
Sherlock smirked, that knowing little quirk of his lips that either meant he could read John’s entire plan in his body language--or he hadn’t a clue, and he was delighting in letting John take the lead, and surprise him moment by moment. He unfastened his trousers and slid them down his long legs along with his pants, letting both fall into the hamper behind John as Sherlock passed him, almost sauntering to the bed and slowly laying himself out across it.
John followed his movements, keeping Sherlock in sight, and he grinned as he watched the little show his lover put on for him. “So damn gorgeous,” he murmured, thrilling in Sherlock’s telltale little blush of pleasure, and John walked to the bedside, slowly removing his own vest, and shirt, and then his trousers, until he was naked as well.
Crawling up over Sherlock, John bent forward, but he bypassed his boyfriend’s waiting lips and kissed his chiseled jawline instead, eliciting a soft gasp from the younger man. John’s lips continued, dotting little kisses along the smooth-shaved skin of Sherlock’s jaw, down the taut line of his throat and over his fluttering pulse, into the still-too-distinct dip of his clavicle. Sherlock obediently remained still, hands at his sides and fisting in the sheets, only his uneven breaths and tiny noises of approval indicating his responsiveness to John’s touches.
The older man kept moving downward, alternating between gentle kisses and tiny, teasing licks over Sherlock’s pristine ivory skin, savoring every little shiver and sound that he drew from his lover. A kiss to the line where his shoulder met his chest; then one to the space beneath his sternum, where his pectoral muscles were beginning to show real muscular definition. The lightest lick over one pale pink nipple, and then across to repeat with the other, making Sherlock whimper a laugh at the half-tickling, half-sensual sensation.
“Are you only going to toy with me tonight?” Sherlock asked eventually, so soft that John could have pretended not to hear him, if he had wanted to. “Or will this be progressing?”
John lifted his face, giving the other man a playfully reprimanding look. “Are you in some kind of rush?” When Sherlock obligingly shook his head, grinning despite himself, the doctor chuckled. “As I thought. You hush, and let me take are of you.” He resumed his slow foreplay, drawing just the tip of his tongue down the center of Sherlock’s abdomen, able to feel where the lines were beginning to harden from exercise.
If Sherlock continued doing so well in building up his strength and body mass, John suspected, he could well surpass healthy and start looking like something out of a fitness advertisement.
When he reached Sherlock’s waist, John paused, moving his head from one side to the other and letting his lips trace over the barely-defined curves of Sherlock’s hip bones. They had jutted out so violently before, Sherlock’s lack of body weight making his lower body alarmingly skeletal; but now there was real, solid flesh there, enough that when John pressed his thumbs under the lines of bone no bruise was left, and it filled the doctor’s heart with joy.
At last, he turned his attention to Sherlock’s erection, which was resting against his taut belly and glistening with pre-come at the slit. John grinned, sliding his hands up the other man’s inner thighs slowly, just to hear Sherlock mumble and moan at the delay. Then he dipped down, pressing a tender kiss to the underside of the shaft, eyes on his lover’s face as Sherlock groaned, struggling to remain still for him.
“I think you should be on top tonight,” John breathed, putting the thought out there, as always, ready to switch approaches in a heartbeat if his suggestion didn’t please Sherlock. But that rarely happened.
Sure enough, Sherlock’s eyes brightened, and he nodded at once. “Yes. Please, John.”
Rolling carefully over onto his back, John kept his hands up, interlacing his fingers with Sherlock’s in order to help the thinner man ease up and shift to his knees, turning to straddle John’s body eagerly. “Need me to open you up?” John asked softly, already knowing the answer. If he did, Sherlock would have said so already, but John liked asking, because he liked seeing the gratitude in his lover’s eyes for his care.
“No,” Sherlock whispered back. “After we went this morning I slipped in a plug. I wanted to feel you all day.”
John laughed at that, shaking his head in admiration and sliding one hand down the length of Sherlock’s body, his fingers trailing down the seam of the younger man’s ass until he found the protruding handle of their little black silicone plug. It was one of their simpler ones, meant less for interactive play and more for exactly what Sherlock had wanted--to keep him stretched, and to give him a prolonged feeling of connection following sex. “Cheeky bastard,” John breathed, grinning as he tenderly worked it free, and Sherlock grinned, rocking his hips as it slid out.
“Insatiable,” Sherlock countered, still clutching John’s other hand in his. “I always want to feel you, John. Even when it’s just a ghost of sensation, like this. I want to always remember how it feels.”
Discarding the plug, John grabbed for the bottle of lube on Sherlock’s bedside table, pouring some onto his fingers and sliding two inside at once, just to savor the way that Sherlock gasped and arched up, his head falling back as he whimpered. “I’d never let you forget,” John promised, twisting to target his boyfriend’s prostate. Sherlock released his other hand, and the older man braced it against his hip at once, supporting Sherlock as he writhed on top of him, slowly fucking himself onto the fingers that were re-slicking his entrance.
“Now,” Sherlock whined moments later, wriggling to almost force John’s fingers back out. “Now, John, please, I need you. I’m ready, come on.”
John had come to trust that Sherlock wouldn’t push too soon, now, because he was finally less afraid of running out of time. So now, when Sherlock said he was ready, the doctor trusted him. He nodded, handing Sherlock the lube and watching through hooded eyes as the younger man drizzled a little extra directly onto his cock, then tossed the tube aside and rose up onto his knees.
This was the moment that John always liked most, when they were in this position; watching Sherlock take total command over his sexuality, owning John as much as he owned his own body, allowing the older man admission to his body and granting it with his own guiding hands. Sherlock lowered himself gently, his face showing pure ecstasy as he sank down, and John had to fight to keep his eyes open and watching Sherlock as he felt that tight, indescribable heat close around his cock.
When Sherlock bottomed out, he went still for a moment, moving both hands to rest on John’s chest and simply hold himself there. John watched him breathe, in and out, his chest barely shifting in the soft light that bled into their room from the garden lanterns. “Love?” he whispered, not wanting to disturb Sherlock but certainly needing to know that he was okay.
Even shadowed as his face was, Sherlock’s smile was unmistakable. “Don’t worry,” he replied. “I’m just enjoying this.” Before John could respond, Sherlock rocked forward slightly, bracing his knees more firmly and sliding his body up a few inches, before he dropped back down, harder than before, and all logical thought fled John’s mind as he groaned, grabbing Sherlock’s hips and more or less holding on for dear life as the younger man began to ride him, fast and deep.
No matter how many times he had the man, gentle or rough, fast or slow, wild and hungry or sweet and tender, John never could hold out very long once Sherlock found his rhythm, and took what he wanted from his doctor.
Sherlock made no move to get off of John once he had made the older man come, cursing and gasping his name, and he seemed to want to take his own release slowly as well, circling his hips lazily and keeping John inside himself as he ground leisurely against him.
“I like seeing you like this,” Sherlock told him softly, and John managed to refocus his eyes, watching Sherlock as the younger man’s eyes flickered over his face, seemingly re-memorising every detail as he did every single day. As if he could never tire of looking at John. “I like knowing that I make you this way.”
John chuckled, reaching up to cup his face with one hand, watching Sherlock’s face soften as he tilted into the touch, puckering his lips to kiss the palm of John’s hand lightly. “You make me insane,” he shot back, his tone dry, and Sherlock merely offered a smug, unrepentant grin in return. “You make me happy,” John added, sincere, savoring the pleasure that filled Sherlock’s eyes. “You make me whole.”
Sherlock rocked his hips once more, his weight bearing down against John, and with a tiny strangled sound low in his throat he came, spilling between them, slumping forward as if he had melted against John’s chest under the heat wave of his orgasm. John watched every second of it, needing to be able to replay this inside his head whenever he wanted, needing to always know what Sherlock’s face looked like in the throes of climax, his system flooded with pleasure that John himself had given him.
They lay for a long time afterward in contented quiet, their breathing gradually syncing, not minding the drying sticky mess of sweat and lube and semen between them as John cradled his lover, holding him tightly.
Eventually though, he stirred, reaching out to find the felt bag from Mycroft that he had tucked behind his own bedside lamp. Sherlock had to have spotted it, but if he had known what it was, he hadn’t said, and John appreciated that little act of restraint. “Love,” he whispered, and Sherlock mumbled responsively, not moving to sit up. “Sherlock,” John reiterated, smiling. “Look at me, sweetheart.”
Finally the younger man pushed himself up just a little, giving John a bleary look of amusement. “You’re spoiling the post-coital coma,” he groused, making John snort. “What?”
John raised his right hand, threading his fingers into Sherlock’s unruly long hair and tugging him downward into a hard kiss, swallowing the noise of surprised happiness that Sherlock let out. At the same time, John overturned the bag, letting the ring fall out. He picked it up, finding Sherlock’s left hand blindly and working to ease the band onto his ring finger, which took some maneuvering given that he was going blind, still kissing his lover.
The slide of the metal band made Sherlock startled backward, lifting their conjoined hands to stare at the worn silver ring now on his hand--it was a tad loose, given his low weight, but that would be easily remedied by weight gain and by resizing--and then Sherlock looked back at John, blinking. “....you said you didn’t have one yet.”
“Mycroft mended that error,” John said, chuckling at having successfully caught Sherlock off-guard. “Don’t you recognise it, love?”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed, and he lifted his hand higher, dropping John’s in order to peer at the band. After a few seconds, wonder filled his eyes. “Oh,” he breathed. “Mycroft--Myc had it this whole time? He kept it?”
“For you,” John agreed, smiling tenderly. “For us.”
He grunted in surprise as Sherlock dropped forward abruptly, clasping John’s face and kissing him almost savagely, nearly biting at the older man’s mouth in his enthusiasm. John could feel the cool touch of the metal at his cheek, and it sent warmth trickling through him. “I take it you accept?” he managed to breathe, when they broke apart.
“You didn’t ask,” was Sherlock’s reply, borderline mocking, and John snorted, wrapping both of his arms tightly around Sherlock’s waist and bucking upward to roll them both over, revelling in Sherlock’s startled little gasp of laughter as he landed underneath the doctor, who gazed back down at him with inches between their faces, knowing Sherlock would read every ounce of love in his eyes.
“Marry me, Sherlock.”
He had rarely seen Sherlock cry--never from physical pain, occasionally from joy, and once, agonising in John’s memory, from the betrayal of John trying to end their relationship--but now the younger man’s eyes were gleaming as he stared back up at John. “Yes, of course.”
* * *
They chose a summer ceremony, because Sherlock preferred everything that mattered now to happen in the confines of their beautiful little garden. There were no objections from the other three grooms, and so, they spend the rest of the fall, winter, and spring making arrangements, and in June the following year they made it happen.
It was quiet and private, of course. Molly, Mrs. Hudson, Bill--Greg asked Anderson and Sally, and John managed not to roll his eyes as Sally greeted him with a heavy smack on the back and disbelief that he was actually marrying Sherlock bloody Holmes --and Harry and Clara. Harry looked better than John had seen her since they were teenagers, and she was sober, which he considered to be the best wedding present she could have given him.
Clara was flourishing as well; when they arrived, she kissed his cheek and then darted right into the bedroom to see Sherlock, and John smiled, willing to bet that his sister-in-law would be exactly the right person for his soon-to-be-husband to see right then.
He and Mycroft went into the garden as the ceremony drew near, going to stand beneath the flowering arch that they had built and placed just for this. Sherlock had mused about placing a little outdoor sofa under it later, for outdoor reading and as a pleasant reminder of the wedding, and John couldn’t have agreed more.
Their summer flowers were in full bloom, and the bees were buzzing idly as the midafternoon heat made everything sleepy and quiet; Sherlock had five hives now, tucked around one of the hedges and providing them with home-raised honey, and a hobby that Sherlock greatly enjoyed delving into. It was a perfect day, sunny and warm with a few clouds in the sky, and John found that he could not stop smiling.
Clara joined him at the front to adjust his bowtie, then moved to sit beside her wife, offering Harry a handkerchief as she sniffled, looking proudly up at her brother. Mycroft’s assistant, Anthea, was serving as their officiant, and she moved to stand behind them under the archway, her usual coolly indifferent expression unusually smiley as they waited.
The back door opened, and Greg and Sherlock stepped out onto the patio. The older couple had opted for traditional tuxedos, while John had dug out his old military uniform--it hadn’t seemed so logical to him, but Sherlock had shown quite a positive reaction to seeing him in it, and that had persuaded John quite effectively.
Sherlock, for his part, had chosen simple black trousers and a button-down white shirt, a tribute to how he had been dressed when he met John.
He had never looked more beautiful to the doctor, and he didn’t try to hide the glimmer of tears in his gaze as Greg and Sherlock escorted one another up the cobblestone path to where their grooms were waiting.
They parted to join their respective partners, and Sherlock stepped forward to be between John and Mycroft, placing the brothers side by side as all four men turned to face Anthea. She smiled at them, unlocking her phone to read the proceedings. It was short and sweet; the simplest statement of why they were all gathered there, and then one by one, each man took a turn repeating the vows that Anthea read to them, and exchanged rings. Mycroft and John’s bands mirrored those that they had selected for their respective spouses, and when Sherlock slid the dark silver band onto his hand, John felt his chest tighten, overwhelmed by emotion.
He almost didn’t hear Anthea declare them wed; but then Sherlock was turning toward him, leaning in, and John’s breath caught as he moved to meet the kiss, grabbing the front of Sherlock’s shirt to hold him close as he pressed his mouth against his new husband’s.
Their friends were applauding and cheering, and when John finally broke the kiss to turn and grin out at the little assembly, everyone right down to Sally and Anderson had dopey smiles aimed their way. Clara was dabbing her eyes, and Mrs. Hudson was weeping unashamedly into Molly’s sympathetic embrace. John could only imagine how it warmed her heart, seeing Sherlock finally happy after so many years.
He looked down as Sherlock’s hand slid into his, fingers squeezing gently. “Now you’re rather stuck with me,” the younger man teased gently, and John snorted, raising his free hand to yank Sherlock into another fierce kiss.
“There is literally nowhere else in the world I would rather be,” he whispered back.
They were startled out of their moment by Greg appearing at their side, throwing his arms around their shoulders and grinning broadly. “Well, now, brothers-in-law,” he said, laughing. “It’s time we cut some cake and poured ourselves some champagne.”
“I think I would agree,” Sherlock said, and they made their way to where Mycroft was waiting for them, each couple moving to one side of the large, three-tiered cake that they had ordered for the occasion. The photographer Anthea had hired slipped around the group discreetly, capturing shots of them as they cut out two large slices to feed one another, and their friends raised flutes of champagne in a toast.
The rest of their little reception was a blur, and by the time the moon had risen overhead, John felt as if he had never laughed or smiled so much in his life. He was tipsy from the champagne and from sheer happiness, and John couldn’t stop grinning like a fool as he turned around to spot Sherlock saying goodbye to his brother and Greg.
His husband looked up at the weight of his gaze, smiling when he saw John watching him, and John felt the air freeze in his chest as the most gorgeous man he had ever known finally released Mycroft’s hand to come back over to him. There was such fluidity and grace in his steps, and yet he moved with a sort of distracted shyness, as if Sherlock had absolutely no awareness of his own beauty.
Knowing him, he really absolutely did not.
When Sherlock reached his side, John took his hand, lifting it to kiss the top of his ring. Sherlock turned their hands over, tilting John’s until his matching band reflected some of the soft light. “I might have broken the agreement,” Sherlock confided, smirking when John raised a questioning eyebrow. “I had yours inscribed.”
John snorted, unlinking their hands and sliding his ring off to angle it into the light, looking at the inside. “Cheat,” he muttered teasingly, before pausing, his mind caught as he read the words scratched in simple print against the silver.
My Heart & My All -- JW & SWH
He looked back up, curious. “SWH?”
His husband smirked, taking the ring and sliding it safely back into place on his hand. “Sherlock Watson Holmes, of course. I respect my brother immensely, but after the journey we’ve had...I’m quite determined to have your name, Dr. Watson.” Sherlock’s eyes rose, a touch of nervousness in them now. “If...that is acceptable.”
John felt as if his heart might burst inside of his chest.
“It’s perfect,” he breathed, cupping Sherlock’s face between his hands and kissing him again fervently. “And it’s exactly right. You’re mine, Sherlock.”
As the kiss broke, Sherlock beamed, his icelandic eyes gleaming. “Always,” he agreed softly. Then he looked back towards the house, a spark of mischief igniting in his gaze. “Now...if I’m not mistaken, newlywed couples are expected to consummate their union, are they not?”
John barked out a laugh at his never-ending cheek, pushing Sherlock around and nudging his cackling husband ahead of himself into their home.