A Broken Engagement, Chapter 1.

This is a Regency Period AU in which same sex marriage is on an equal footing with hetero marriages - as it should be! Also, despite the Regency manners there is equality in other areas of life and professions. Because I like mixing it up!

The news never spread any further than his own family. The Holmeses never let slip anything that was not to their own advantage, neither the Baronet nor Mycroft, the heir to the estate. It would have been most definitely not to their advantage to have it widely known that Sherlock, the younger son, had tried to throw himself away at age nineteen on a mere Navy lieutenant. Mycroft had long secretly thought that Sherlock had only the vaguest grasp of social realities, but even he should have realized that a baronet's second son was a valuable commodity in the marriage market. The baronetcy could never be for sale, the family hall was in dire straights and all the land entailed. The only hope for the Holmeses to claw their way back to solvency was for Sherlock to marry well – which of course meant marrying money. Mycroft was the heir but despite his constant dieting, as everyone in the family tacitly admitted, he had barely half the physical attraction of Sherlock.

Sherlock was tall, willowy, graceful. He was accomplished, having mastered both classical and modern languages and played both piano and violin. When he played the violin his long fingers coaxed an amazing vibrato from the instrument as he swayed elegantly to the music – it was heart stopping to watch and hear. His pale skin set off his curly black hair and unfairly plump lips. Of course, when he opened those lips and spoke he ruined the whole effect with cutting personal remarks and bitter sarcasm. Still, Mycroft was hopeful that a family with money but no title might be willing to sacrifice one of its progeny to make a valuable connection with the Holmeses.

That assumed, naturally, that Sherlock remained a virgin and that no breath of scandal ever touched his name. Which meant putting an end to this ill-advised connection with a navy officer. Mycroft's lip curled at the very thought of Lt. John Watson. A commoner, of the commonest sort. Short. Poor. Ordinary.

Sir Siger and Mycroft sat Sherlock down and explained to him in no uncertain terms what would happen to the family if he failed to marry well. The consequences would be more dire than any mere reduction of his allowance or curtailing of his travel privileges. The whole family could end up bankrupted and disgraced. They could lose Sherrinford Hall, seat of the Holmes family for eighteen generations. Mycroft and Sherlock, even their father and mother, would have to find jobs and work, like middle class peons. Did Sherlock want to see his mother hiring herself out as a seamstress? Was that his purpose in marrying to disoblige his family?

At this, Sherlock bowed his head and relented. Listlessly, he copied out the letter that Mycroft had written, enclosed the fine gold band with a chip of lapis lazuli John had given him, and sent off the package to John's ship at Portsmouth. Then he lay down on the brocade chaise, turned his face to the wall and gave up all hope of ever being happy again.

..oOo..

John Watson, second lieutenant aboard the Swift, boarded the ship's boat and sighed happily. He was off to make his fortune and then he would be worthy of the love he had left behind. He had secured his Sherlock's promise, left him with a ring that matched his glorious eyes, and when he had his prize money in hand he would buy cufflinks to match. Nothing would be too good for his husband. The ship's boat bobbed on the high tide and John dreamed happy dreams as they waited for the last of the ship's company to join them.

But instead a messenger panted up to the boat. "Is this the ship's boat of the Swift?"

The steersman nodded. John frowned as he recognized the livery of the Baronet. It must be a message for him. Was Sherlock ill? Had something happened?

"Package for Lt. John Watson, can you take it to his ship?"

John stood, balancing in the rocking boat with the ease of long practice. "You can give it to him in person, if that would suit. But tell me," John frowned, "is all well at the Hall? The Baronet and his lady and his sons?" John tried to control his voice which threatened to break on the last word. His career would be over if he missed this boat to go back, but what would he do if Sherlock were unwell? Their future prosperity depended on John, he was under no illusions that the Baronet would be able to give them anything. He did not mind – he would be proud to provide the best the world had to offer by the work of his hands for his Sherlock. But if Sherlock were ill? It must be serious to have struck since this morning, when he had left Sherlock smiling shyly at the new ring adorning his left hand.

However, there was no reason to expect calamity. Perhaps Sherlock had been eager to send him a love token? He had expressed dismay at the suddenness of John's proposal, which meant that he had nothing to give John to remember him by. John had laughed and said that he did not need a physical token to remember Sherlock, and if worst came to worst he could always remember him by the burns on his left shirt cuff, from when he had helped Sherlock put out a fire from his latest 'experiment'. Sherlock had blushed, his pale cheeks tinted with the most delicate rosy glow. John sighed in remembrance. Perhaps with his first prize money he would send some to Sherlock and ask him to sit for a portrait. It would be nice to have a picture of his husband to look at when he was away at sea. Or perhaps a ring made out of his glorious black hair? John recalled pushing his fingers into that riotous curly hair and using it as leverage as he took Sherlock's mouth…

They had been in the greenhouse, after a long walk through the grounds of Sherrinford Hall. Lady Holmes was growing orchids, which required heat and humidity that Shropshire could not provide. The heat was a bit much for John, in his formal waistcoat and jacket and Sherlock had seen him sweating. Sherlock had come up behind him and slipped his hands under his coat.

"Take it off if you like. The orchids won't mind, and I certainly won't." Sherlock had whispered in his ear.

"But what if your mother comes to work on her orchids? It isn't decent." John had asked.

Sherlock's deep chuckle had John shrugging out of his jacket and waistcoat without waiting to hear his reasoning. "She won't," he had said. "She is entertaining Lady Russell this afternoon and Lady Russell feels the way you do about the greenhouse."

"Really?" John had stopped peeling off his clothes. "Lady Russell wants to make love to you in the greenhouse?"

Sherlock had laughed and blushed and pulled John into him by his neckcloth. "Is that what you want? I thought you were just a little hot."

John had kissed Sherlock and growled, "I'm very hot, and so are you, and you know what I want." John had tossed his coat and waistcoat on the end of a bench and loosened the linen around his throat. He put his hands on Sherlock's hips, "Do you know what you want?"

Sherlock had flushed a little then, and looked away. "I… John, you know I've never…"

He had looked so uncertain and adorable that John had just wanted to kiss him and make it all good for him right then, but he took a deep breath and disciplined his body. "I know. Just let me make you feel good, all right?"

Sherlock had nodded, and John gently pushed him backwards until he sat down on the bench. John stood between his parted knees and leaned down to kiss him, slowly and at length, until he gasped and broke away. "Oh, John! I need… I don't know what I need."

"But I do." John had made a pillow of his coat and encouraged Sherlock to lie down on the bench. John had knelt beside it and quickly unbuttoned Sherlock's waistcoat and pushed up the shirt underneath, finally giving John access to pale skin. John had run his hand and then his tongue over the exposed skin, tickling and teasing. By the time he straightened up, they were both flushed and panting. John finally did what he had been wanting for weeks now, ever since they met, which was to sink his fingers into Sherlock's wild black curls, completely disordering them. They were softer than he had expected and he just enjoyed running his fingers through them until Sherlock had rubbed his head against John's hand and protested.

"John? You said you knew what I wanted, and this isn't it. Or it isn't enough. John, I need more of you."

"All right, all right. There's no rush." John bent to take Sherlock's mouth again, marvelling at the softness of his lips. At the same time he slid his left hand down over Sherlock's bared belly and over the waistband of his breeches coming to rest directly over the bulge he could feel rapidly making its presence known. He stroked the bulge with firm pressure and felt Sherlock gasp against his lips. "Is that more like what you had in mind?"

Sherlock's reply was a moan which seemed to indicate something positive, though without specific words. John had taken it as permission to proceed, and had gently slipped the fingers of his left hand inside the fall of Sherlock's breeches and grasped his manhood through the silk of his smallclothes. John still treasured the sound of the gasp Sherlock had given then. No physical love token could ever be as powerful a talisman as that memory.

He had rubbed his thumb over the head of Sherlock's cock, feeling the silk become damp and then wet under his touch. He had continued to kiss Sherlock, involuntarily clenching his fingers in that lovely hair until Sherlock made a noise of protest.

"Sorry, love," John murmured, kissing his way down Sherlock's lovely long neck. "I think I had better undress you a little more, unless you want the maid who does your linen to know what we have been up to?" John quirked one eyebrow at Sherlock, who blushed and nodded.

"Do whatever you need to," Sherlock whispered. "I am in your hands."

"Mmm, so you are," replied John. "At least for now. Soon I plan to have you in my mouth." As he spoke John was quickly unbuttoning the waistband of Sherlock's breeches and pulling the smallclothes down to mid-thigh. Sherlock's erection sprang out eagerly as it was released from its confinement. Before Sherlock could express the doubts gathering in his eyes, John applied his lips and hand to the hot, hard flesh and Sherlock could not have spoken if Sherrinford Hall depended on it.

John had stroked hands and lips up and down Sherlock's shaft, had tongued the small slit at the crown and rubbed the rough side of his tongue over the most sensitive parts of Sherlock until he was bucking his hips up and gasping. The tension in his thighs told John that he was nearly there. Then John had engulfed him as far as possible and applied suction. The delicious heat which had gathered in Sherlock's belly suddenly released in spurts of amazing pleasure, leaving him draped bonelessly over the bench with his eyes closed.

John was jolted from his pleasant thoughts by the messenger thrusting a package of letters into his hand. "They are all well, sir. Just the package from young master Sherlock." He tugged his forelock and turned away.

John suppressed a smile. A message from Sherlock, then. Only, what on earth could he have put in to make it so thick? Rather than rush through such a delicious package, John resolved to ration it out. Read one page each day he was at sea until the end, then start again. No doubt that was what Sherlock had arranged. Perhaps it was a surprise that Sherlock had been working on it for some time, to please and entertain him? Could it contain naughty suggestions of what it might be like to be married? Sherlock was a virgin, of course, as befitted a son of a Great House. However, John had introduced him to some other forms of pleasure in the week before he had left, and Sherlock's great intelligence seemed to have latched onto the idea rather quickly. John tucked the package carefully inside his greatcoat, where the crisp paper crackled promisingly as he hugged it to himself. John had to bite the inside of his cheek to contain his grin to an expression decent for the present company.

..oOo..

That night, in the privacy of his hammock, John opened the package. Surprisingly, it was only a short cover note in Sherlock's writing with another package inside, tied with string. The inside package appeared to be papers. Perhaps he had been right, and it was a series of letters for him to read day by day? The cover note should explain it, so he turned his attention to that first.

Dear John,

It is with deepest regret that I must inform you that on further consideration, I have realized that our social standings are so different as to make our attachment inappropriate. I therefore enclose your letters to me, and ask that you will destroy mine to you. I also return to you the small token of esteem you left with me when last we spoke. I am sure it will not be long before your affection and this ring may be bestowed upon another. I am likewise confident that you will be generous enough to wish me good fortune in finding a suitable marriage partner.

Yours etc,

The Hon. S. Holmes*

John crumpled the insulting letter in his fist. Social standing? Suitable marriage partner? Good fortune? That meant money, of course. Well, if that was all Sherlock cared about, John wished him much luck in finding it. As for bestowing his affection on another, the sooner the better. John would be wise enough to choose someone of his own 'social standing' next time.

He threw his returned letters out the porthole, along with the awful note which Sherlock had not even bothered to sign with his Christian name. John almost threw the ring after them, but reconsidered. The 'small token' had been expensive on a lieutenant's pay and if it had meant nothing to Sherlock there was no reason why he should not keep it, yes, and even give it to someone else if the opportunity presented itself. It obviously had no sentiment attached to it. John slipped it onto the last finger of his right hand and resolved to forget its former owner as soon as possible.

*The title "Honourable" is due to sons of peers, but not a baronet. Strictly, Sherlock should not be called anything apart from "Mr." but in this instance I particularly wanted to make the point of Sherlock standing on his dignity and using his formal social title instead of his name – which meant that I needed to give him a title to use! Actually, both Mycroft and Sherlock as sons of a baronet do not have any titles at all. Their mother is correctly addressed as Lady Holmes, as the wife of a baronet.

Mycroft's dismissal of John as a 'commoner' is also rather ironic as a baronet is the one hereditary title which is not a peerage. So all of the Holmeses are technically commoners as well, much as they might try to ignore the fact!

Apologies to any Regency era purists out there – I'm not one of them! ;)