They went to the beach a final time on their last day in Frontignan and John tied up the two side walls of the cabana so he could sit in the filtered sun and watch Sherlock swim in the Mediterranean. He'd made Sherlock weigh himself that morning, which had been accompanied by grumbling that he knew how much weight he'd regained. Four pounds in total – John was impressed. He hoped Sherlock could keep it on when they got back to London and he went back to work. Even after all these years, his tendency not to eat when he was working won out far more often than not. John would just have to be diligent – Sherlock wasn't good at paying attention to anything else when he was working and the doctor didn't expect that to change. At least now he thought he had a shot of getting his husband to listen when he put his foot down.

John shook aside those thoughts when he saw Sherlock getting out of the water, wading through the waves as they broke around him. John got up and closed the cabana's side curtains again and saw Sherlock smirk at him from across the sand. He grinned and settled back down on his lounge chair.

Sherlock stepped into the cabana and grabbed a towel, messing up his hair as he dried it off. John grinned at the image of a lean, dripping Sherlock with his mussed hair and the towel now draped around his shoulders. He was wearing those dangerously low swim trunks and John let his eyes trace the view appreciatively. Sherlock smirked at him again and straddled the doctor, settling onto his lap. John took the ends of the towel in his hands and tugged lightly, pulling Sherlock down for a kiss. His lips tasted of salt water. John managed to get them turned over and tossed the towel aside. He hooked his fingers under the waistband of the swim trunks and tugged. Sherlock arched obligingly and John pulled the trunks down, throwing them aside as well. Then he kissed and licked everywhere, tasting the sea.

Back at the house, they packed up their suitcases and John checked the dresser and bedside table drawers for anything they may have forgotten. He saw Sherlock rummaging through the desk and looked over curiously. The detective had pulled out two of the emergency candles and was weighing them thoughtfully in his right hand. John swallowed hard and a grin split Sherlock's lips. He looked up, meeting John's gaze with dancing grey eyes.

"Do we have candles back at the flat?" he asked.

"I don't know," John said truthfully. If they did, they were Sherlock's. John kept emergency torches on hand in case the power went out, not candles.

"Well, then," Sherlock murmured and went over to John's suitcase, where he liberated a t-shirt. He rolled the candles carefully into the cotton fabric then put it in his own case. John swallowed hard again, a shudder running through him. Not only did he know they were there, they were wrapped in one of his shirts.

Not fair, he thought. Sherlock crossed the room and put his hands on either side of John's neck, his thumbs resting on the doctor's jaw. With a subtle pressure, he tipped John's face up and leaned down to kiss him.

"I imagine these will be useful," Sherlock murmured, "sometime this weekend."

John exhaled slowly. The twitch of Sherlock's lips told him the detective had picked up on his increased heart rate.

"You're killing me," John groaned quietly. Not only had Sherlock's discovered John's proclivity for candle wax, he'd also discovered in himself a hitherto unknown patience accompanied by a bit of a sadistic streak. John was convinced that Sherlock enjoyed seeing him squirming mentally while he waited.

"Odd, you don't seem opposed to it," Sherlock commented. He gave John another kiss then drew away to finish packing. John made himself continue the search of their bedroom and bathroom but found nothing they'd forgotten.

The car took them back to the airport where the jet was waiting. John wondered if it had been there all week or if it had gone back to London – Edinburgh, actually, he supposed. Mycroft in the Scottish capital staying with Angela and David while he recovered. That had surprised John because he didn't really see Angela as the type to want to nurse someone back to health and nor did he see Mycroft as a man who would endure that well. Not that Mycroft had much choice, but Angela certainly did.

He shook his head to himself as they boarded the aeroplane.

And people think being with Sherlock must be weird. They don't know the half of it. I don't know the half of it. He glanced at Sherlock. Bet he doesn't either. But that was only because Sherlock didn't want to know – if he had any desire for details, he could get them. John found the whole thing bizarre and suspected he was probably better off ignorant when it came to Mycroft's personal relationships.

They settled into their seats and buckled in for take off. It was a short flight, but as soon as they were at their cruising altitude, Sherlock unbuckled and then folded himself around John. John smiled as the detective made them comfortable in his seat, tucking pillows around them and covering their legs with a blanket. They adjusted themselves to accommodate the other and then sat in silence for a few minutes until Sherlock nuzzled his neck and then kissed him. John kissed back and they spent some time exploring each other's mouths. The doctor was aware that the flight attendant was making herself scarce and he chuckled at his own embarrassment over acting like a couple of teenagers making out. He felt his ears grow hot but Sherlock didn't seem to care and certainly didn't stop. At least he had the decency to keep his hands to himself – well, mostly to himself. A cabana that could be closed off was one thing. And it was Mycroft's jet. He didn't want any hidden cameras picking up an unexpected surprise. He doubted Mycroft would appreciate that much, either.

Eventually, Sherlock let him up for air and they were served some light food and drinks. It wasn't long before they were landing at Heathrow and clearing customs. Another driver was there to meet them and John felt a stab of happiness when they were dropped off in front of their flat. It was always good to be home. And now home was somewhere comfortable again – the killer McKinney had hired was gone, all traces of him removed from where they lived. He was Mycroft's problem now and John was more than happy to let him stay that way.

John closed his eyes and inhaled, not caring if he got strange looks from other pedestrians, not caring if Sherlock was chuckling at him. Sherlock unlocked the front door and let them in. John shuffled in behind his husband, manoeuvring around Sherlock and his suitcase in the small space, locking the door again behind him.

"What's that?" he asked when Sherlock put his case down and leaned over to pick up a cellophane-wrapped gift basket that was resting on the stairs. Sherlock turned back toward him, plucking the card from the package, and passed the basket to John. Inside was a bottle of wine, some cheeses, a package of crackers, and a selection of fruit. It reminded him of the meals they'd had on the beach at Frontignan.

"It's from Angela," Sherlock said.

"What?" John asked, looking back up. Sherlock raised his eyebrows and passed John the card.

I hope you enjoyed your holiday. Your brother would like to see you next weekend if convenient. The jet will be available. Doctor Watson is also welcome. Angela.

John looked up in surprise.

"This is–" he started, then realized there were too many ways to finish that sentence.

"Unexpected?" Sherlock asked.

"Yeah, a bit," John said. "Will you go?"

"We'll both go," Sherlock said with an assurance that indicated he hadn't even considered that John wouldn't accompany him. John resisted rolling his eyes – he would have gone anyway. He wanted to assess Mycroft's health for himself, and it was probably the only way Sherlock was going to get a straight answer about his brother's injuries and recovery.

"We will, however, stay in a hotel."

John grinned – of course Sherlock would refuse to stay under the same roof as his brother. But he agreed. John couldn't imagine staying with Mycroft and Angela. It would be far too weird.

"I suspect my brother could learn a great deal from Angela," the detective commented.

"What do you mean?" John asked. "Let's get upstairs."

John tucked the basket under one arm and picked up his suitcase again. Sherlock did the same and led the way up the stairs.

"Her methods are far more civil than being rounded up in a mysterious black car at all hours. As such, I'm much more inclined to honour her requests. There is a lesson on here for Mycroft, although I suspect he will refuse to learn it."

John grinned at his husband's back. While he agreed with Sherlock that Angela's methods were better, he doubted that Sherlock's willingness to accommodate her were based solely on that. It probably had more to do with the fact that she wasn't Mycroft.

Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat and John followed him inside. He set the basket down on the coffee table and his suitcase on the floor next to it as Sherlock locked the door behind them. John looked around and grinned.

It was good to be home.