Holiday

 

It had taken months for John to convince Sherlock to go on holiday. MONTHS. Begging, pleading, doing all the research and planning himself, and more than a little withholding sex in an attempt to get his own way. John Watson wasn't a whiner by an means, but he was stubborn as a mule and when his mind was set on something, very little could be done to deter him. Sherlock could side-track him...distract him...but he always came back to it like a dog with a bone.

One particularly chilly night in the flat, while spooning under a pile of blankets, very much naked despite the cold (“It's better to be naked. Share the body heat,” Sherlock had suggested with a perfectly straight face, and a quirk of the eyebrow). It wasn't very long at all before John felt Sherlock starting to harden as his manhood was pressed up against the back of his thigh. That wasn't shocking. What he heard come out in that deep baritone voice was rather shocking, however.

“I think I've decided where I would like us to go on holiday.” John craned his neck around to try and see Sherlock's face, trying to gauge if he was being teased.

“Sorry?”

“The holiday you are so persistent about. I've decided where I would like to go.”

“And where might that be?'

“I'll even take care of the planning and all those other mundane details you are prattling on about.” John stared at him blankly,

“Are you poking fun?”

“Not in the slightest”

“Well than, where are we going?”

“Well I'm obviously not going to tell you,” Sherlock said, nuzzling John's neck. “That would ruin the surprise now wouldn't it?”

“I don't often like your surprises,” John laughed, craning his neck to allow Sherlock better access.

“I've got one I think you'll rather enjoy,” Sherlock murmured, grinding his now rock hard member up against John's backside. John grinned. That one he didn't mind at all.

 

**************

 

There was no end to the list of names running through John's head in reference to Sherlock. Great bloody git. Useless Arse. Complete fucking wanker.

“You look unhappy, John,” Sherlock observed from the passenger seat, with too much amusement in John's opinion.

“Why would I be unhappy, Sherlock? I have plans of lying somewhere on a warm, sunny beach, with a drink in my hand and you almost naked beside me and instead you bring me to the coldest place on the planet and force me to drive, ON THE WRONG SIDE OF THE ROAD, I may add, in this slush!”

“Winnipeg is HARDLY the coldest place on earth, John, don't be ridiculous...”

“Sherlock...” John said warningly.

“I do believe the woman at the car rental place called it SLEET? Freezing rain. Snow showers I may have also heard someone mention...”

“I'm going to kill you.”

“If you don't keep your eyes on the road you shall kill us both,” Sherlock pointed out causally. John gritted his teeth. Sherlock in swim trunks. Maybe even with a bit of a tan. Was that too much? No snow, and hoarfrost and bloody parkas, which they had to buy for a rather inflated price at the airport since SOMEONE wanted to keep this whole fiasco a surprise...

However, John was surprised by the very quaint and very cozy Sherlock had found for the duration of their stay. The older couple who owned and ran the site were very welcoming, and very friendly, The whole place was stunning...in the middle of nowhere essentially, surrounded by towering evergreens that shielded one cabin from the next. Making it VERY convenient to get very naked in their own private hot tub on the back deck.

The freezing cold had benefits as well...not wanting to get out of bed to build up the fire to ward of the chill, so instead spending hours exploring each others mouths and bodies til they were exhausted and drifted off to sleep once more, only to awake to do it all over again, occasionally stopping for food, or wine, or to make Sherlock stoke fire when it got a little TOO chilly, not to mention the overwhelming sensation of standing naked in a very chilly room while Sherlock's hot mouth slid up and down his cock...

Despite how angry and irritated John had been in the beginning, it was quickly dispelled when he realized how much thought Sherlock had put into all of this. After all, how could he complain about spending endless hours with the man that he loved, with no distractions, no work, no cases, no people. The cold didn't really matter in the grand scheme, or how terrible the weather was for the last three-quarters if their stay. It was really quite hard to be concerned with how many inches of snow were on the ground when you it was much more fun to be concerned with how many inches of Sherlock Holmes were currently buried inside you...