Author's Note: Sorry this is extremely late and quite short, I got distracted by exams and then completely forgot. Anyway hope you like it. ~

"Look at you." John chuckled as he smoothed down his son's dark curls as the wind caught them and they whipped around, across the boy's head. "And you." The doctor leant across and kissed his husband's sharp, defined cheekbones. An elderly woman nearby shook her head and moved across the deck.

Hamish shivered. "Here, take this." John took off his brown Barbour jacket and placed it over his son's shoulders, tugging it round to keep the cold out. Despite the sun's unflinching presence a sharp chill lingered in the air with sea salt as the ferry sliced through the sea. The eight year old pushed his glasses up his nose and looked down through the white railings at the water lapping and smacking against the stern of the ship; the frothing waves licking the underside of the ferry like an expectant puppy.

"'Mish, get a picture with Dad," John pulled his new, lime-green camera out of his satchel, squinting at it in the sun. Sherlock slid his slender arm around the boy and pulled him close to his hip. Hamish rested his head into the crook of the man's arm and wrinkled his nose to push his glasses further up. As he did so John's finger fell on the shutter button, clicking it down and suspending the moment in time.

"Hamish's first ferry ride," Sherlock pointed out in his smooth, deep purr. "One for the scrapbook." The boy frowned at the sarcastic remark while his father
ruffled his hair, smirking.

Hamish lay on his side, curled up across two scratched, dull red plastic seats, John's jacket draped over him like a blanket. His breathing was soft and steady, his eyes tightly closed while his eyelashes fluttered occasionally as his dreams dominated his mind; hugging his hardback book to his chest.

John sat on the seat to the left of his son's feet, watching his husband as he stood by the edge of the deck. He admired the detective's tall, lean physique enclosed in his expensive, narrow-leg trousers and tight shirt, which despite being carefully tucked in at the waist was starting to loosen at the back. His long, pointed feet slapped out a rhythm on the wet, green concrete in their slim, black Oxford shoes.

The army doctor felt as though he was falling in love with the man all over again, and got up and strode across to him.

"Feeling sick yet?" Sherlock kept his gaze on the sea.

John fixed his hands on to the railing and smiled, sighing through his nose heavily.

"Is Hamish sleeping?"

"Yes." John cleared his throat. "Yes, he's just nodded off, poor thing. I think the journey's worn him out a bit."

"I spoke to him." Sherlock cocked his neck slightly to face his husband. "I didn't get much from him."

"What did he say?" John subtly shifted closer to his husband as the wind raged more than ever until their arms touched comfortingly.

Sherlock sighed. "He was just talking about Van Gogh again."

The sounds of gulls and the sighing of the waves filled the silence.

"He's alright, isn't he?" It was barely a question. John knew Hamish wasn't 'alright'; at least not at school. He was just seeking reassurance from the safest place he knew. "Sherlock."

Sherlock breathed in the rich, salty air. "Mm? Yeah, of course he's alright." He was just playing along; not quite pretending, more just assuring his husband. And himself for that matter.

John sighed and turned to look at the detective. His features were so refined, so pure; his creamy pale skin, the sloping cheekbones, his eyes: like salt rocks, the colour of two oceans meeting. He gazed at his husband's lips: defined and distinctive, he pictured the way they formed around his beautifully sculptured sentences, he watched as they slid soothingly into a smirk.

"John, why are you staring at me." There was no inflection in Sherlock's tone. He was not asking. He leant forward.

The doctor could feel Sherlock's warm, damp breath on his cheek. He could see every one of the eyelashes framing the man's eyes. The world went still around them. The waves stop crashing, the birds stopped cawing, the ferry engines' whirring and clanging fell silent. John could only hear Sherlock's pulse, thumping out the rhythm of his beating heart. Until the small gap between them was closed and electric charges ran through Sherlock's mouth in to his husband's and they kissed and it felt like their first kiss and John never wanted to let go. He realised his hands were slinking round Sherlock's back, feeling the rich, smoothness of his expensive shirt. He had never needed Sherlock more than in that moment and –

A small cough.

They broke apart. Hamish was staring at them, trying to sit up in his awkward position. Blinking, he rubbed his eyes. He shoved his glasses on to his face and smiled weakly through his drowsiness. The boy got up, picking John's jacket off the seat as he did so and wrapping it round himself as he walked towards his parents.

"How long have we got left?" He yawned.

"Not long." Sherlock hoisted the boy up and held him against his hip. Hamish smiled slightly to himself. He liked the safety of his father's arms, rare as it was for the detective to be this liberal when it came to showing physical affection.