A/N – Thanks to ScopesMonkey for singlehandedly making every word I write better. Even on the fluff pieces like this. And this is fluff, through and through. I needed something happy.

This is for mattsloved1, I would never have written "Each to His Passion" without her requesting it and this would not exist without that story. So this is for you, I hope it makes you smile!

Warning- A bee was harmed in the writing of this story, but it wasn't a real bee so not a big deal.

Disclaimer – Duh.


Home

Sherlock walked towards the small storage shed John had assembled for him four days ago. It was positioned halfway between the beehives and the house and Sherlock loved it. This was their first extended period of time in the house, two whole weeks. The kitchen was expanded, the flooring was done. Two weeks ago they'd spent a weekend here when the bed and the appliances had been delivered. John had had aspirations of getting a lot of things done that weekend, but somehow, other than Sherlock's daily trip to the hives, the two of them hadn't actually left the bed. It had been more than enjoyable at the time, but it added to the list of things John wanted to get accomplished on their two week holiday. Sherlock didn't like that too much.

The detective had suggested they hire people to do the painting and all of the repair work but John had refused. He was taking a great deal of pleasure in doing things himself. Sherlock suspected that this related back to his father, who had been a contractor. After ten years of marriage Sherlock had come to realize that a great deal of John's personality was formed by his father, or the fact that his father had died when he was so young. It had only increased Sherlock's interest in the man he'd never know.

The only thing John had consented to hire people for was the tearing down of the wall to expand the kitchen and the debris removal. John had done the rest, Sherlock had watched in fascination as John laid tiles in the kitchen and wood in the living area and bedrooms. He'd worked tirelessly every other weekend for two months, making the trip down even if Sherlock had a case. As the house started to come together, Sherlock was becoming more and more appreciative. John was fixing their home. They were walking on flooring his husband had installed, surrounded by walls he had painted. He had a vague, ridiculous notion of being completely surrounded by John.

Sherlock closed and locked the shed door and admired the house as he walked towards it. The outside still needed paint, the light blue trim had all but faded into white. The original white was faded and missing in large areas. John had happily pointed out that the inside of the house was more important that the outside and he'd been correct. The only opinions of the house that mattered were the two of theirs and they both loved it. Sherlock, in particular, felt that the worn paint gave the house a certain charm that made it theirs, that made it home. Years ago he would have been ashamed of this sentimentality, but after ten years he'd accepted the emotions surrounding John.

He smiled to himself as he opened the side door and stepped into their kitchen. He set the jar of honey he collected on the counter and walked over to the stove. He took a deep breath and savoured the aroma of the beef stew that John was making for dinner. It smelled divine. He replaced the lid and grabbed one of the grapes that John had taken to leaving on the counter. The doctor insisted that they needed to increase their fruit and vegetable intake. Sherlock complied because it prevented arguments and nagging.

Sherlock walked down the small hallway and into the second bedroom. He knew John was planning on getting that room painted. He turned the corner and tentatively leaned against the door.

John's back was to him. His husband was stretching up, rag in hand, washing down the wall. Sherlock admired the worn jeans that were just a fraction too fitted across his husband's ass. He recognized the jeans as ones that John had owned for more than five years and they still basically fit. John's basic muscular frame had softened over the years, but he was still the same size.

John put his hand on the wall and reached up farther. His shirt pulled up and the small of his back was exposed. The sight of skin sent a tingle up Sherlock's arm. He wanted to touch. Ten years into this marriage he was still frequently overcome with the need to touch John. His fingers flexed as he started to walk.

He noticed the ear buds, which explained why John hadn't heard him come into the room. He stopped a step away from John and reached a hand around and under the t-shirt. He spread his fingers and pressed his palm against John's stomach. The doctor flattened his feet and his body tensed as it tried to move away from the sudden touch. He stepped backwards into Sherlock and turned his head to look over his shoulder. Sherlock leaned to place a kiss onto the top of John's ear. This allowed him to hear the faint notes of a jazz piece he vaguely recognised from John's collection. A moment later there was a hand covering his, separated by the soft cotton of the t-shirt.

The doctor's other hand dropped the rag and reached up to pull the ear buds. As Sherlock straightened the noise, it wasn't one of the songs he'd consent to label as music, was suddenly louder.

"Hey," John said. "How are the kids?" Sherlock rolled his eyes. He found John's new habit of referring to the bees as their children odd. They'd never considered adopting a child, couldn't actually conceive with each other, and even if they could they would not create Apis mellifera.

"The bees are fine," Sherlock stated. "I have collected more honey as we used the last of the kitchen honey with breakfast."

"Mmm," John hummed and the vibration moved through Sherlock. He leaned forward pressing more of his body into John. He bent his head and planted a kiss on a cheek rough with stubble. He darted his tongue out to taste. "I'm working," John said and Sherlock pressed his fingers deeper. He recognised the tone of John's protest and knew it could be overcome.

Sherlock moved to John's jaw and slid his hand downward. He pushed his fingers below the waist band of the worn jeans and John let out a quiet moan. He pressed his fingers into the coarse hairs and John pushed his hips forward into the touch. Sherlock reached his other hand around and easily popped the button on the jeans. The air left John's body in a slow, soft breath and Sherlock knew that he'd won. The doctor's head tipped back and rested on Sherlock's shoulder. It moved to the side as Sherlock began to suck on the exposed neck. He worked the zip and moved his hand farther down. John groaned as the fingers closed around him.

"I love when you don't wear pants," said Sherlock pushing the jeans down. There is a louder than usual thump as the mp3 player in the pocket hit the floor. Neither man paid it any attention as John stepped out of the jeans. He turned as he did so, forcing Sherlock to let go as he was suddenly chest to chest with his husband. The detective reached around and grabbed two handfuls of ass and pushed John's body into his. The doctor took a step forward, forcing Sherlock backwards.

"Bedroom," John said before standing on tiptoes and slamming his mouth into Sherlock's. Sherlock took another step backwards and John followed him. Their bodies stayed pressed against each other. John reached behind them, preventing them from hitting the door and successfully turning them into the hallway.

Sherlock pulled back and gasped in a breath. "It's so much easier without stairs," he said before bending his head down and pushing his tongue into John's mouth. John murmured his agreement as they enter their bedroom. The back of Sherlock's knees hit the bed and the two of them fell onto the mattress.


It was fairly warm in the house because John had all the windows open as he painted. They hadn't bothered to push the blankets down and John had fallen asleep on top of them.

The detective was familiar with every inch of the body lying next to him. He knew exactly where to press to produce whatever noise it was he desired to hear. He knew every scar and had learned how each of them were earned, even the ones from before he knew John. He knew every hair, even the grey ones that now mixed with John's lighter browns and darker blonds. He knew every dimple, every taste.

He knew what the heart sounded like when excited, sleeping, reading. He knew the sounds of the stomach that grumbled when hungry or when forced to eat something that wasn't digesting well. He knew the pattern of breath and how the chest moved with each inhalation and exhalation.

He knew it all and yet he has never tired of it. In fact, just the opposite was true.

John was on his back, arms draped over his head. Sherlock reached over and settled his hand on his husband's stomach. Years ago the muscles were firm here. Sherlock could still feel them, but age and life had softened them. Sherlock stretched his fingers out and used his index finger to brush through the grey curls along John's pelvis. The doctor shuddered at that contact and Sherlock smiled.

He dragged his fingers up barely touching across the chest and to the shoulder. He saw the still swollen mark where John had been stung by one of the bees. Sherlock had frowned as John instinctively squashed it. He'd been annoyed, it was one of his bees. But as he'd seen the welt swell on John's arm he'd silently forgiven his husband. Seeing John in any sort of discomfort did not sit well with him. He doubted it ever would.

John had avoided the hives since then. Sherlock hadn't minded. As soon as he learned about the bees he knew they would never be one of John's great interests. He mildly wished it was something the he and John could share, but it wasn't necessary. John always paid attention when Sherlock talked about them and certainly enjoyed the honey and all the different uses they'd discovered for it.

He smiled to himself and looked at the small jar that had become a permanent fixture in their bedroom here. The bedroom honey, to be kept separate from the kitchen honey. John had licked it off him the previous night and into the early hours of the morning. Sherlock could still feel the sensation of the John's hot tongue and the sticky honey.

Sherlock traced his fingers over John's chin and the small dot of red paint that had been there since he painted the bathroom yesterday morning. He'd managed to remove every trace of the paint except that small dot. Sherlock touched it again and leaned forward placing his lips against it. John turned his head towards the contact. Sherlock smiled against the chin feeling the stubble on his lips. He liked it when John didn't shave. He didn't like a whole beard, but there was something definitely sexy about this rough one day stubble. Maybe tonight he could get John to rub it onto some of his more sensitive areas.

Just the thought caused a stirring in his groin. As if on cue John began to stir. Sherlock watched all the muscles stretch and the flaccid penis fall towards the other leg as John turned slightly. Both arms stretched above his head and hazel eyes popped open and met grey ones.

"Hello," Sherlock said leaning down to steal a quick kiss.

"Hey, you," John replied, smiling up at him. Sherlock leaned down and stole another one.

"I love you," Sherlock said when he pulled back and a look of confusion crossed the doctor's features. The detective settled his hand on the soft stomach again and smiled at the familiar skin under his fingers.

"I love you, too." John reached a hand up to cup his husband's face, running a thumb across his cheek bone and down across the lips.

Sherlock was certain he could spend every day for the rest of his life like that.