A/N: This is part 6 of 6, however, I'm planning to write an additional bonus chapter, of Alec visiting London, due to great feedback on lj from his involvement in chapter 3. This won't be written for a while though (due to reallife doing its usual torturous stuff).

Again, I'm a little bit lost with Britishisms, and don't know what the best term is to refer to clothing worn while swimming. I went with swimsuit. It might be wrong, please let me know.

Finally, an additional warning for this chapter. Schmoop! WHAT?
I don't know what happened.
Weirdly, though, I'm kinda happy with it. Do you love it or hate it?

Let the fic begin!


John woke to birdsong, a warm embrace, and a pleasantly-aching nether region. It was all such a perfect cliché, even the knowledge that today was their last day in Mallorca was not enough to wipe the contented smile off his face.

There is just the right amount of a slightly cooling breeze sweeping through the cabin from the large double doors that John insisted they leave open for the duration of their stay. Sherlock, strangely, had resisted this, in a rather passive manner, spending the first few nights on the island staring morosely out of the doorway, instead of sleeping.

It wasn't until John finally brought him to bed on the third night and proved beyond a doubt that he was perfectly capable of holding a man down, should one appear out of nowhere, intending to make any attempts on their lives. Sherlock found he could not argue with this definitive proof.

"Sherlock..." John murmured lustfully, awake enough now to make some use of his morning erection, rolling over to see – bedding?

The bedsheet, and the astounding number of excess luxury cushions and pillows were tangled, piled up on Sherlock's side of the bed. They were warmed sufficiently by the island's climate to create the impression that the heat of another body was next to John.

Now John was annoyed. His cock had hardened further, just from the thought of the promise of some enjoyable early-morning sex – something which he'd certainly grown accustomed to over this holiday – but clearly he was to be denied it!

"Sherlock?" he called, hoping that the other man was simply elsewhere in the cabin.

No answer.

"Sherlock!" he called again, allowing the frustration to show in his voice.

Cushions fell to the floor as John swung his feet over the side of the bed to pad awkwardly, uncomfortably, over to the large doorway, to peer out into the surrounding greenery.

No Sherlock to be seen.

Suddenly, a sound caught his attention.

"John! John! John!" Sherlock called excitedly, running through the forest at such a rate that John was amazed the other man didn't come to grief, tripping over obstacles on the ground, or colliding with one plant or other.

He was clutching something in his hand, John couldn't see it clearly from this distance, but didn't care especially, more interested in the fact that Sherlock was there. John grabbed him as soon as he stepped into the cabin, swung him around to smack him into the wall. Sherlock moaned into the kiss that John engulfed him with, and rocked his hips forward invitingly.

"You're late." John growled.

"I tried, John!" Sherlock exclaimed, and waved the handful of leaves as though they would redeem him. "Look! This plant appears to have a certain healing element. I've spent the last few days and nights observing how a variety of wounded animals have consistently approached it, and either ingested the leaves, or crushed them underfoot and then rolled in the heap, and then today, I decided to consume some of them myself – "

"What?" John shouted, grasping Sherlock's shoulders tightly and examining the other man's physiology for signs of poisoning.

"Um. That is to say, I decided to, but didn't actually do it. I changed my mind." Sherlock explained, his features broadcasting nothing but guilty repentance.

"Not good enough, Sherlock." John denied him. Immediate threat passed, John turned back to his desire. "You still owe me for losing my swimsuit somewhere in the Mediterranean." – because they'd come off John's toe somewhere in amongst all the ruckus a few days ago.

Sherlock had offered to protect John's honour as they both did a nudie run from the water to their clothes on the shore, but John suspected Sherlock hadn't taken it as seriously as he had. This was possibly because Sherlock kept bursting into laughter every time he looked at John's indignant expression.

John had been tempted to withhold sex once they got back to their cabin that night, as punishment, but he soon determined that there were more...effective things he could to to drive the message home during sex than in any other format. And, on the plus side, he didn't have to go without his never-dull, sensational lover!

"I know." The expression on Sherlock's face was probably as contrite as he could manage. "But – "

"No buts, Sherlock. Do you know how long I've been up, looking for you?"

Sherlock's eyes flicked over John's body; absorbing the tense set of his shoulders, the tightness in his jaw, and the unavoidable hard-on.

"Yes, of course," Sherlock nodded, fidgeting between sharing the details of his exciting discovery with John, or 'wishing him a good morning', so to speak.

Fortunately, John made the decision for him.

"On the bed, now."

There was no arguing with that tone. No-one ever expected it from innocuous John; from quiet, unassuming John.

However, even more unexpected, was Sherlock's obedience to it. Sherlock, who went against orders or suggestions or common sense simply to be defiant, simply to prove a point (even if he was the only one who understood what point was being made). John uttered a command in that voice, and Sherlock carried it out. It was incredible.

John drank in the sight of Sherlock jumping to do as he was told, scrambling backwards onto the bed so that he didn't have to take his eyes off John, and still clutching that stupid greenery. It was a movement that should have been ungainly with his long limbs, scrabbling for purchase, but instead was simply enthralling. John's eyes were drawn to Sherlock's mouth, hanging open with his panting, rapid shallow breaths, created partly by anticipation, partly lingering after his run through the island's plantlife.

"Get rid of the sprig. And your pants." John growled threateningly as he advanced on the bed.

Sherlock's eyes widened, and he hastened to comply, scattering the leaves over the floor, and laying flat on his back in order to dispose of his clothing more quickly.

John climbed on top of Sherlock, effectively trapping him in a cage of arms and legs, and kissing him thoroughly. He'd picked up the lube from the bedside table on the way, and now set about slathering his fingers with a copious amount.

"Tell me, Sherlock," he said, sitting carefully while applying the lube – letting their cocks press together and rub just enough to increase the hot blood rush to Sherlock's organ. The other man groaned loudly, wanting and needing far more contact than that in order to achieve any satisfaction.

John continued irrespective, knowing that the other man was perfectly capable of maintaining a conversation with this low level of stimulation.

"How sorry are you for losing my swimsuit?" he questioned.

Sherlock met his gaze. "Very." he breathed, and although the word hardly sounded apologetic, his soft, rumbly voice was overpoweringly erotic.

John forgot all about the lube, and focused on devouring Sherlock's mouth for some time. Surely, the secret to the man's hypnotic tones were in there somewhere? John kept exploring, on the ludicrous off-chance of such a discovery, until, finally, they both suffered the inconvenient need to breathe.

John cleared his throat.

"And...how sorry are you for not being here when I work this morning?" he persisted.

Sherlock smiled his wolfish grin. He thought, based on John's response to Sherlock's last utterance, that he had the upper hand.

"Not nearly as sorry as I should be – agh!" he cried out, for John had worked his hand beneath Sherlock, and slid his fingers teasingly upwards along Sherlock's crack.

Sherlock bucked and moaned again, helplessly, entirely desirous of John doing more. But that was far from John's intention just now.

John was ridiculously, stupendously proud of the discovery that the smooth curve where Sherlock's arsecheeks met was the location of the man's undoing.

Well, second only to his prostate, of course.

Actually, third, to his prostate, and his genitals

Scratch that – fourth, with Sherlock's mind in the first position, taking into account the irreplicable elation that the detective experienced upon solving a case.

The point was: with slicked fingers, swiping upwards from perineum to lower back, John could threaten further attention, penetration, and the anticipation drove Sherlock wild. John's tongue was almost as good at this task, but there was clearly something for Sherlock regarding the dexterous manipulation possible with fingers.

Anticipation. John could scarcely believe it, except that the brain was supposed to be an erogenous zone, after all, and it only took seconds of exposure to the detective to realise that he was in possession of one which was particularly adept.

It was fantastic, having this avenue of attack, especially after Sherlock had inadvertently revealed to John that he had calculated one of the doctor's weak spots.

Injured, as always, in the process of investigations, Sherlock had been prescribed and administered painkillers, but as usual, the obtuse man simply wouldn't sleep.

Caving to his partner's near-endless pleading, and telling himself that it wasn't, technically, medically unsuitable, John agreed to their getting each other off, but not sex, as Sherlock would probably pull some stitches and become even more insufferable than he already was.

Sherlock, almost certainly delirious from the painkillers, was definitely delirious with joy that John was giving him what he wanted, and applied himself energetically to the task, commentating the whole way through.

John, used to Sherlock's endless babble, didn't realise for some time that the detective was clarifying his actions as he did them. However, John was resultingly perplexed by one particular mantra that he couldn't quite get his head around:

"Two-thirds...seventy degrees...and...toes!" Sherlock repeated, laughing delightedly at intervals.

John was rather busy being wonderfully blissed out at the time, but finally clued in. Sherlock would trace a finger (two-thirds) up John's thigh from his knee, rotated this position some way (seventy degrees) to the inside of his leg, then fluttered the rest of his fingers over the target, resulting in an orgasmic sigh from John, as well as his toes curling reflexively, expressing his absolute pleasure in a way that he hadn't even been aware of.

It was unfair to the extreme, but now John had his own sex-with-Sherlock-stratagem.

That certainly levelled out the playing field.

With every swipe from John, a fantastic shudder ran up and down Sherlock's spine. John could have spent a day revelling in that particular response, but that would simply be cruel to the detective, now begging in gasps and writhing from John's touch.

"Oh, god, John, John, god, god...please, oh, fuck, please!"

John ran his eyes appreciatively over the sight beneath him, just now taking in Sherlock's appearance properly. The man had been fully dressed, wearing sandals with wet mud practically covering them. John knew that Sherlock had been out exploring earlier than morning, but this was the same outfit he'd worn yesterday.

Sherlock was too vain to re-wear clothing without washing it, especially in this temperate climate which had the capacity to cause a rock to sweat.

Ergo, Sherlock hadn't gotten undressed last night. Why wouldn't he get undressed? Because he wasn't going to sleep. Sherlock hadn't had any rest last night.

John knew that Sherlock had "trained" himself to be able to go great lengths of time without normal quantities of food, rest, hydration – but he also knew that humans actually needed that stuff, whether they allowed themselves to be cognisant of the fact or not.

Two emotions hit John simultaneously. Firstly, love. That was his Sherlock, always off with the mad-cap plans. Secondly, frustration. "You've – got – to learn to look after yourself!" John chastised, with only a hint of tenderness.

He repositioned Sherlock, drawing his knees up, the better to plunge his cock into that maddeningly unrepentant hole. He hadn't prepared the detective: there was a chance that this wouldn't be their usual balance between pleasure and pain.

However, John suspected, that was fairly well the point.

Sherlock stiffened when he realised what John was intending, but didn't speak.

"Ok?" John asked, and there was the caring note, back in his voice.

Sherlock nodded, deliberately, not breaking eye contact.

One slowly released breath, and he was pliant to touch again.

John knew that the excess lube dripping off the outside of Sherlock's arse would probably ease his way; plus the fact that Sherlock was not exactly virginal by any definition. There shouldn't be a problem.

The moment of truth: John pushed forward, and though they both hissed out their breaths, carefully compensating however they could for the briefly sharp drag, a great agony it was not.

"Oh, yes, John fuck, yes, please," Sherlock's usual waterfall of desirous prattle was slightly more strained than usual, but no less lustful.

"I was intending to." John ground out through gritted teeth, before striking up a fast, hard pace without warning.

Sherlock yelped in surprise, alarm, but not pain, and since John managed to coordinate himself enough to hit Sherlock's prostate after his third thrust, pain – real pain – was suddenly completely out of the equation for the time being.

John couldn't have taken his eyes off the detective now splayed over the bed beneath him, even if he'd wanted such an insane thing. Sherlock's body was loose and abandoned, luxuriating in the severe fucking it was being subjected to. His eyes were closed, and he licked his lips, bit his lips, but was unable to suppress his explicit, happy moans.

Just as John was about to tell Sherlock to open his eyes, to let him watch his entire face as he came, Sherlock opened them himself. There was an intoxicated grin of pleasure splitting his face; pupils unnaturally large, and breaths still being gasped.

John's own breath escaped him then, as Sherlock swiftly crossed his legs behind the doctor's back, forcing him deeper into Sherlock's hole.

"Jesus!" Sherlock shouted, despite having instigated the hard penetration himself.

"Sex really makes you quite religious," John had teased the devout atheist one day.

"It certainly makes me believe in a heaven," Sherlock had countered, leaving John flattered, embarrassed, speechless, gaping words hopelessly from the shock.

"Move." John managed to blurt, finally, and though he trembled, Sherlock released his legs minutely; rocked his arse onto John's crotch in an encouraging manner.

He whined as John made full use of being able to move again, and soon his left leg was pressing into John with an urgency that only ever meant one thing.

John glanced down. How the fuck had he forgotten? Nonetheless, there was no mistaking it: Sherlock was about to come.

But he was holding himself back – trying to drag it out. John was not having with that.

"Pull yourself off." he panted, keeping as much of a commanding tone in his voice as he could.

Sherlock whined and arched back, trying to force John to shift and miss his prostate, reducing the stimulation. His hands twitched – almost obeying John's words, but pure obstinance taking over again.

John grunted in frustration, leant forward to grasp those long, elegant fingers, and draw them closer to Sherlock's pulsing, leaking cock. Sherlock gasped out a soft cry at John's movement, and the contact of their hot palms against his sensitive skin.

His tense, resistant arms completely relaxed once John got them to the desired location, and he began to vehemently pursue his orgasm, yet again epitomising the meaning of the word contradiction.

"Yes," John hissed, working to time his thrusts with each dexterous flick of Sherlock's hands.

"Oh, oh, oh, fu – go – Johhhhnnnnn!" Sherlock finally, exultantly cried, spurting his come between them.

"Jesus, Sherlock." John grunted, unable to suppress his smile of pleasure at witnessing every part of Sherlock's orgasm. That face, every muscle clenching, spasming, and then the delicious post-orgasmic haze. That expression of luxuriance was so beautiful on the detective, and John's only regret was that he couldn't see it absolutely all of the time.

"John." Sherlock whispered, staring at him through lust-fogged eyes, a loose smile on his lips.

Just – oh – so close – and John lost himself.


He must have shouted something, he realises later, when the world stops spinning, and he finds himself collapsed onto the bed; because his throat is raw. He coughs slightly, wincing at the pain, and Sherlock murmurs something into the pillow beside him, prompting John to curl around the other man and plant a kiss on his cheek.

"'S that?" he croaks, and Sherlock twists his face away from the pillow to be more audible.

"Is it because of that plant, and those potentially unique healing properties that I discovered?" Sherlock asks, and John is lost.

"You – what?"

Sherlock's eyes are shut as he relishes his post-coital synapses informing him of only, only good things, but even so, John thinks he can see the detective roll his eyes behind the closed lids.

"The reason that Mallorca is so special." Sherlock clarifies, and John suddenly sees.

"Nope." he smiles, and rolls Sherlock over to kiss him properly.

"Then, what?" Sherlock cries in frustration, awake again, eyes blazing as he searches for the answer.

"Hmm." John says, now harbouring doubts about the answer he'd held in mind for the last few days, since posing Sherlock the question.

"John?" Sherlock asks, calmer now, eyes darting over his face.

"It's...Well. The impossible, eternal beauty of this place, this time. The fact that we can never experience exactly this ever again." John stammered, dreading the snort of derision he is undoubtedly going to earn at the very least. "You know, like the idea that you can never step in the same river twice, because everything in it is changing all the time. That's why it's so important to savour every moment, because we'll never be able to get the exact same thing again, ever. We can come back to Mallorca, but it will never be this precise Mallorca." John said the words in a rush, just to quickly get them all out.

Though he stayed in the close embrace with Sherlock, he focused on a point just above the inside of Sherlock's right elbow, stroking the flexible skin with his thumb in a nervous twitch.

Sherlock finally spoke, an eternity after John had fallen into silence.

"You're not serious." he said, and John's heart fell.

"Are you serious?" Sherlock attempted again, when John didn't respond, and ducked his head down to try and intercept John's gaze.

John tucked his chin further into his chest to avoid the detective's piercing look, but Sherlock, being Sherlock, had more strategies up his sleeve, contorting himself to be able to meet John's lips. Kiss by kiss, he eased John's head back, until the doctor was gasping for air again, his neck stretched as far back as humanly possible.

Sherlock showed no mercy, attacking with a new barrage of kisses.

"You – are – fantastically – unpredictable," he said, sneaking the words in between kisses. "How am I meant to believe you when you are so wonderfully inconstant?"

John giggled, and pushed Sherlock onto his back, rolling on top of him again, forcing the frequent strikes of kisses to stop. Sherlock's features were spread into a broad grin.

"You're the detective, you're supposed to be able to figure people out." John said, poking a finger into Sherlock's chest accusingly. "And who are you calling inconstant, love, when your own inconstancies, by right, deserve their own postal code?"

Sherlock chuckled. "I don't think I'll ever be able to figure you out, John. I'll never be able to predict you," he said, wrapping every inch of his long limbs around the other man. "And that, unbelievably, is what I find so endlessly appealing about you. The day you stop surprising me will be the day my heart breaks." Sherlock admitted, his body tensing up beneath John as he fought against the surge of emotion which had caused him to say those words.

"It's okay. Thank you." John soothed, running his hand down Sherlock's side. "It's more than okay. I dunno...it's good. Really good."

His words felts completely insubstantial, not nearly powerful enough to even begin to express what he wanted to say. He tried to make sure that every part of himself was touching every part of Sherlock, to show Sherlock just what belonged to him, while at the same time, staking a claim on what of Sherlock belonged to John.

Maybe it turned into something more, maybe their hands and mouths delved lower beneath the covers.

Maybe they wound up making love: slowly, gently, considerately.

Maybe they then had to rush for the shower, throw everything in their suitcases, and make a mad dash for the airport.

Maybe they then spent every moment on the plane sharing long, lingering kisses, and stirring myriad emotions in everyone else aboard.

What does it matter?

They were together, and John, by all accounts was still surprising Sherlock, and Sherlock's heart was still very much intact.