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Letters, Resolved (5/14)

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Title - Letters, Resolved (5/14)
Author -earlgreytea68
Rating - Adult
Characters - Sherlock, John
Spoilers - Through "The Reichenbach Fall"
Disclaimer - I don't own them and I don't make money off of them, but I don't like to dwell on that, so let's move on.
Summary - The letters have been written, read, and discussed. But that doesn't mean anything's been resolved. Yet.
Author's Note - Thank you to arctacuda for the beta and flawedamythyst for the Britpick.

Chapter One - Chapter Two - Chapter Three - Chapter Four


Chapter Five

“Flippers,” said Sherlock. “You expect me to put on flippers?”

John, pulling his flippers on a bit less elegantly than he would have liked, said, “How else are you going to snorkel?”

“I was planning on snorkeling by not snorkeling and staying here and watching you snorkel.”

“He’s not sold on the idea of snorkeling,” John told the nice hotel worker who was helping them get ready for it. Luckily the hotel offered snorkeling, and John had just had to drag Sherlock a short distance down the beach, Sherlock complaining about how hideous his trunks were the entire way. He had at least put them on, which John considered to be a huge victory, with a T-shirt that John expected Sherlock not to take off, which John was not going to mention as it made total sense.

“Oh, it’s very safe,” the worker assured Sherlock. “And the fish are beautiful.”

“They’re fish,” said Sherlock.

John took Sherlock’s hand, felt Sherlock turn to look at him in surprise. “I keep trying to tell him it’ll be romantic. We’re here on our honeymoon.”

“Aww,” said the hotel worker, beaming at them. “How lovely. Congratulations. And it is, very romantic. This young couple is on their honeymoon, too.” He gestured to a couple who had just straggled in from snorkeling, dripping wet.

The couple waved and said pleasant hellos, struggling out of their flippers.

“How was the snorkeling?” asked John.

“It was fantastic,” said the male half of the couple, enthusiastically. “Really, you’re going to love it. The fish come right up to you.”

“They’re fish,” said Sherlock again.

“I had to be convinced, too,” the man went on, conspiratorially. “But she was right.”

“As usual,” laughed his new wife.

“See, darling?” said John, and kissed Sherlock’s cheek before making his way out to the edge of the beach, having to be very careful not to trip over his own flippers.

“You look ridiculous,” Sherlock called to him.

“Not a very nice thing to say to your new husband,” John called back, adjusting the mask over his eyes and settling the snorkel in his mouth. Then he began splashing out into the ocean. It was really very tricky. The fins on his feet kept wanting to rise to the surface, and he had to fight to keep them down, and eventually he just collapsed into the water, shallow though it was, and paddled his way out to where it was a bit deeper. And then, getting his bearings, he turned back to the shore just in time to see Sherlock gracefully slide his way into the ocean, looking as if he snorkeled every day. John rolled his eyes as Sherlock paddled beautifully up to him, like a posh seal, and took his snorkel out of his mouth. “You’re an annoying bastard,” he told him.

I am?” replied Sherlock, sounding shocked.

John tried to kiss him but his mask was not terribly conducive to the activity.

“This is the stupidest idea you’ve ever had,” Sherlock sulked. “And you’ve had some terrible ideas.”

“Shut up, I think it’s romantic,” grinned John at him.

“Yes, and what was that all about?”

“What?” asked John, innocently, replacing the snorkel in his mouth and disappearing under the water. It was actually pretty nice under there. Schools of little silver fish, and a few purple-and-yellow striped fish dotted through. John lifted his head out of the water. “It’s really quite pretty.”

“It’s fish, John,” said Sherlock.

John leaned over and ducked him under water. He came up flailing and sputtering for breath and immediately went for revenge, which John had been braced for and had attempted to flee, except that Sherlock grabbed at one of his flippers and pulled him back. John, off-balance without the use of one leg, sank under the water and struggled back upward, half-choking, and Sherlock pulled his mask off of him and said, “You are going to drown.”

“Only because you were holding onto my foot,” said John, and then Sherlock kissed him.

John hadn’t been expecting that, and he made a sound of surprise as Sherlock’s hands settled on his head and his lips settled over John’s. And then Sherlock’s tongue slid its way into John’s willing mouth and John’s sound turned to approval and he struggled through the water for leverage, clinging to Sherlock, his arms around Sherlock’s neck and his hands in Sherlock’s hair. Sherlock tasted like the tea John had forced him to drink before leaving, and like the salt of the ocean around them, and like Sherlock, and he kissed breathtakingly well. John was aware he was making tiny noises of desperate encouragement, trying to get closer and closer and closer. This was not like any of the small brushes of lips he’d exchanged with Sherlock so far. It was not even like the desperate kiss that morning. It was a kiss, and when it ended, when John pulled his head back far enough to look down at Sherlock, to become aware that Sherlock had to be treading water ridiculously hard to be keeping them both afloat, what John also became aware of was that Sherlock, with one kiss, had basically turned him into a puddle of longing. But John had wanted him for so long, it had been such a constant ache that John had almost stopped noticing it.

They stared at each other for a long moment, panting for breath.

Then John said, “You win. We’re done snorkeling.”

“Thank God,” said Sherlock.

***

They had lost both of their masks, and the hotel worker was not happy about it.

“Relax,” Sherlock told him. “We’re giving back our flippers, aren’t we?”

“I’m going to have to charge your room for the lost masks,” grumbled the worker.

Sherlock shrugged and murmured to John, as they walked away, “Poor Mr. Kelly. His bill is going to be atrocious.”

John said nothing in reply. John walked swiftly with Sherlock back across the beach, his head a buzz of arousal, and he said, as soon as they walked into the villa, “Tell me that wasn’t just about avoiding snorkeling.”

“It wasn’t just about avoiding snorkeling,” Sherlock answered.

“Good,” said John and fell on top of him, and for a little while everything was sheer and utter madness, a frenzy of hands and tongues and teeth as articles of clothing were flung every which way. Sherlock was clever and seemed determined to provoke a string of curses out of John, finding every spot on John’s body that John had never realized needed to be licked or bitten or sucked. “Bloody hell, you’re good at this,” John panted.

“Am I?” Sherlock hummed pleasure into John’s skin, just below John’s navel, and John groaned and nearly sank to the floor and tugged hard on Sherlock’s hair. “Good. I want to be.” Sherlock’s mouth moved infinitesimally lower, and then he said, “Do you want this?”

The question—the tone of it—penetrated John’s daze. This wasn’t some sort of flirtation Sherlock was asking. He was asking this seriously. “What?” gasped John.

Sherlock lifted his head, looking up at him, and John tried to reconcile the filthy sight of Sherlock on his knees in front of him with Sherlock asking, “Is this what you want? Or are you doing this because you think it’s what I want?”

“Don’t you want it?” asked John, his lungs suddenly squeezing with panic. It was fine, he told himself, he could live the rest of his life without sex, that would be totally fine, it would be fine.

“I asked first,” said Sherlock, calmly, his breath so low on John’s abdomen that John had to squeeze his eyes shut.

“Okay,” said John, tightly. “If you want to have a serious conversation about this, you can’t stay where you are.”

“You’re heterosexual,” said Sherlock.

“Yeah, I’ve been having doubts about the truth of that for a while now, and I think you’ve just pretty much sealed the verdict on that.”

“And that means…?”

“It means yes, I want this. Yes, I want you.”

“Good,” said Sherlock, and took John’s trunks off, and then Sherlock stopped talking because his mouth was occupied with other things, which was good because John lost entirely all ability to have a coherent conversation and mostly concentrated on being gentlemanly enough not to thrust into Sherlock’s mouth and not to tear pieces of his hair out, but Sherlock felt so good and was so clever and Jesus Christ he was going to love him until the end of time.

John, gasping for breath, realized he’d sunk entirely to the floor and that Sherlock was kneeling next to him, looking smug.

“That was good,” Sherlock announced.

“Shut up,” said John, and pulled him in for a messy kiss. When it was over, Sherlock rested his forehead against John’s. John panted for breath and said, “You are bloody fantastic. Christ.”

Sherlock kissed him again, a brief brush of lips over his, curved into a smile.

“Okay,” said John, beginning to catch his breath. “Here’s the thing. I can give that a try—I want to—but I’ve never done that before, so…”

“Well, I’ve never done it before, either. We’re the blind leading the blind. Or the blind leading the visually impaired. Wait, which one of us is doing the leading?”

“That was your first time,” said John.

“Yes. Wait until I really get the hang of it.”

“I don’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled over that,” remarked John.

Sherlock moved back a bit and gave him the world’s most beaming smile. John thought he had never seen him look so happy, his eyes so brightly blue.

“Come on,” said Sherlock. “Can you walk yet? I want to give the receiving end a try, but you’ll prefer a bed, this floor is murder on your knees.”

“Sherlock,” said John, catching his hand and holding him in place, and Sherlock looked at him expectantly. “I love you,” he said.

Sherlock kept smiling at him, and John thought he was going to say I love you, too. But what he said instead, stopping John’s still stuttering heart in his chest, was “I know.”

***

John had thought that the whole thing would be awkward and uncomfortable. It had been so long since he had felt out of his element in bed that he thought surely he would misstep. Sherlock was being so calmly matter-of-fact, stripping out of the rest of his clothing and still going on about his blind-leading-the-blind analogy (“Maybe we’re both just visually impaired instead of entirely blind.”) and John was trying desperately to mentally catalogue all of the things that he liked in the hope that he would be able to reverse his role in them and that Sherlock would like the same things.

And it turned out that, actually, after a moment of gulping panic when Sherlock was laid out before him like a veritable feast, John realized there was probably almost nothing he could have done incorrectly. Sherlock melted with a single touch, closing his eyes and shuddering, and it occurred to John that Sherlock had not only never let anyone do this to him before, he’d never wanted to let anyone do this to him before. For Sherlock, there was John and only John. John was, somehow, to Sherlock, the pinnacle of everything that could ever be. John, dizzy with the thought of it, kissed him with every emotion he hadn’t yet found a word for and tasted the return of those emotions on Sherlock’s lips.

John was pleased that he’d already had his orgasm because it meant that he relished taking his time. He wanted to take Sherlock completely to pieces before putting him back together again, because now he could. So he kissed and nuzzled and Sherlock arched to meet him, wherever he was, and gasped his name in astonishment, like he was some amazing discovery Sherlock had made. John could barely comprehend the depths of adoration in the way Sherlock reacted to him, his head was swimming with it.

From John’s vantage point, he thought he had some room for improvement. For one thing, he could have been prepared for the bucking of Sherlock’s hips. For another, he could have been a little better about not having a choking fit at the end. But Sherlock seemed to mind these things not at all. Sherlock sprawled bonelessly on the bed while John went in search of a flannel to clean up the mess he’d made and then crawled onto the bed next to Sherlock.

The sun was setting, the light in the room was red, and the ocean crashed beyond their window. Sherlock beamed at him like he was the most brilliant human being Sherlock had ever met.

“Not blind or visually impaired,” said Sherlock.

“High praise,” said John, wryly. “I’ll get better at that.”

“But you’re perfect,” said Sherlock.

The conviction in Sherlock’s voice was a little terrifying. John could handle being loved—he wanted to be loved—but he worried about being idolized. “I’m really not.”

“Well, of course,” said Sherlock, dismissively. “If you’re measuring objectively, of course you’re not perfect. Your temper is a little shorter than it could be, and you’re a terrible typist, and you are incapable of managing money properly, and you have appalling fashion sense—”

“Okay,” said John, good-naturedly. “The rest can wait.”

“What I meant, of course, when I said you were perfect is that you are perfect for me.” Sherlock reached out and brushed John’s fringe off his forehead and smiled at John with every constellation in the sky in his eyes. John was absolutely positive no women he’d ever taken to bed had ever looked at him like that, just as he was absolutely positive that none of them had ever told him he was perfect.

“You’re amazing,” said John.

Sherlock’s smile widened into a grin. “Do you know that you say that out loud?”

John chuckled. “Sorry. I’ll stop.”

“Don’t ever stop,” said Sherlock, leaning forward and kissing him.

John let himself fall into the kiss, into this world that was only Sherlock, nothing more, nothing less, Sherlock who he was perfect for, who was perfect for him. “I’ll never stop,” he promised, around the kiss. “I haven’t so far, have I?”

“No. You’re very dependable. I’ve quite got used to it.”

“You’re very spoilt,” said John.

“Quite. You spoil me.”

“Terribly. It’s horrible.”

“It isn’t. I approve of it a great deal.” The kiss had grown lazy and absent, a brush of lips in between phrases.

“Of course you do,” remarked John.

Sherlock broke off the kissing entirely, rubbed his nose against John’s instead. “How long until you’re up for another round? Given your age and everything.” Sherlock asked the question with a solemnity that anyone but John would have found completely straight-faced.

“Prat,” said John, and playfully whacked him with his pillow.

***

A kiss for every constellation, Sherlock had said, and John was trying very hard to find any past Orion’s belt, which Sherlock said didn’t count because John didn’t know where the whole constellation was, just the belt part.

Not that John was overly concerned that Sherlock was going to be difficult to persuade to break the kissing rule, because Sherlock had been the one who had refused to get out of bed the entirety of the day. Sherlock, it turned out, really liked sex. John was not complaining. They had spent the entire day alternating between naps and sex. Well, John had napped. He had usually woken to Sherlock sitting up in the bed next to him, reading. John either hated Sherlock’s energy or adored it, depending on what Sherlock was doing with the energy. All in all, John did not think he’d ever had such a perfect lazy day.

But he had also wanted a change of sheets and had called the maid in and had convinced Sherlock that instead of just moving to the bed in the other room, they should get some semblance of dressed and go down to the beach and look at the stars. It had been Sherlock’s idea that they turn it into a game. And John had gone along with it because he was really relieved at how casually Sherlock was taking the intrusion of the maid in the room, instead of tensing up with suspicion.

“The Big Dipper,” said John, pointing at some random assortment of stars. “And the Little Dipper.” John had no idea where either constellation was, but what the hell, he figured he’d bluff it.

“Wrong and wrong,” said Sherlock, next to him.

“What?” exclaimed John, trying to sound offended. “How dare you doubt me?”

“That’s the Big Dipper over there,” said Sherlock, pointing to an entirely different area of the sky. “See those four stars? They compose the cup part of the ‘dipper.’”

“Oh my God,” John realized, and sat up so he could properly glare down at Sherlock. “You read my astronomy books! While I was sleeping today!”

Sherlock looked smug. “Is it my fault you do so much sleeping?”

“Yes, actually, today’s sleeping was pretty much your fault, but that’s beside the point. I was supposed to be teaching you the constellations!”

“You were doing a bloody awful job of it, John,” replied Sherlock.

“I hadn’t, you know, started in earnest yet. I was busy doing other things. You are such a cheater.”

“How was I cheating? At what?”

“At this game! You knew I had no idea what any of the constellations were!”

Sherlock reached up, pulled John on top of him, and kissed him thoroughly. “There,” he said. “Are you happy now? A kiss for each constellation you could at least name, even if you have no idea where it is in the sky.”

“Well,” said John, appeased, settling casually over Sherlock and reaching out to sift sand through his hands, “I suppose that’s acceptable.”

Sherlock nibbled distractingly behind John’s ear, John tipping his head to make sure Sherlock could get proper access to that perfect spot just there. “I am going to learn every single star in the sky,” Sherlock mumbled. “And then I’m going to kiss you once for each one of them.”

“We’re never going to get out of bed, are we?” remarked John.

“Problem?”

“How will we make money to feed ourselves?”

“Dull,” replied Sherlock, and stopped nibbling, putting his head back on the sand and stretching a bit.

John looked at Sherlock as he looked up at the sky. He looked content, which made John content. He put his head down on Sherlock’s chest and thought how, only a few months earlier, if anyone had tried to tell him he’d be sprawled on a bloke’s chest on a beach star-gazing during a romantic holiday, he’d have laughed. Unless they’d said the bloke was Sherlock, and then maybe he might have choked and gone into rapid denial and tried not to think too hard about how much he maybe wanted that.

“You went back to the clinic, didn’t you?”

John had been a million miles away. It took him a second to translate Sherlock’s question. “Yes. I had to. I needed money.”

“The flat was paid for.”

“I couldn’t stay in 221B, Sherlock.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s voice was the soft one he used when reaching sudden conclusions he hadn’t seen before. “Of course. You moved out.”

“I had to. It was torture in that flat without you. I saw you everywhere I went. I heard you. Every time I managed to fall asleep, I’d wake up a few minutes later convinced that I heard the violin downstairs. It was awful. I was going mad.”

Sherlock’s hand settled on John’s back, stroked. An apology, John knew. “And yet you still received the letters?”

“Mrs. Hudson rang me to tell me I had misdirected mail.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock.

There was a moment of silence.

“I recognized your handwriting, you know,” John said. “I almost fell off the front step.”

“Were you angry then?”

“No. Not yet. I didn’t know what to think. At first I thought maybe you’d sent them before you jumped, and they’d got delayed. It wasn’t until I started reading that I realized you must still be alive. And then I was angry. I almost stopped reading them.”

“Right.Of course. I thought that you might. And then you started again. Obviously. And you realized I was still alive.”

“I realized that you’d faked the entire suicide thing, yes. Although I didn’t know why.”

“There were assassins,” said Sherlock, and John was surprised because he hadn’t quite expected Sherlock to get into it. “One for you, one for Lestrade, one for Mrs. Hudson. And the assassins had orders: If they didn’t see me jump off that building, then you were all to die. And I couldn’t let that happen.”

John processed this. “You could have come back immediately.”

“And flaunt that it had all been a hoax? Do you really think they wouldn’t have killed you anyway? Do you really think they would have laughed and said, ‘Oh, good one, Sherlock, you really tricked us’? No, I had to get rid of every last fleck of Moriarty left in the world. I had to make all of you safe.”

“You could have told me,” John suggested, because it had been nagging at him.

“And take the risk of you being of value to them? Of you having a secret they might want? Of you not being quite convincing enough in your grief? Do you understand that the entire point was to take all risk to you out of it?”

“I could have come on the run with you. Like now. Like this. I could have helped you.”

Sherlock replied after a moment, softly, “Yes. You could have. I wanted so much to keep you safe. Physically safe. It didn’t occur to me, the emotional damage… And it didn’t occur to me how incapable I would be at letting you go, even for your own good.”

“I thought you were dead, you know,” said John, shifting so he could press his nose into Sherlock’s chest, breathe in the reassuring aliveness of him. “That last letter you sent me…I was convinced that you would only have written that, only have sent me all of them, if you thought you were going to die. And if you thought it, well, how frequently are you wrong? I was terrified. I was so terrified of losing you all over again. I promised myself if I found you still alive by some miracle…”

“What did you promise yourself?” prompted Sherlock.

John lifted his head to look down at him. “That I would never let you separate us again. That I would never again believe that you had left me. I couldn’t believe how I’d fallen for it the first time.”

“You were supposed to fall for it. That was the point.”

“I should have known, Sherlock. I’m sure now, if I went back and looked, I would see a million different signs, a million different clues.”

“You weren’t supposed to look, John. I did it the way I did it so you wouldn’t look, do you see?”

“I do see. But that doesn’t mean that I’m ever going to be completely okay with it. I love you. And I will love you, utterly and completely, with every breath I have in my body. I need you to know that. And I need you to know that there will always be a part of me that you killed that day, a part of me that might never fully forgive it. But it doesn’t really matter. Because I do love you, I love you with every fiber of my being. Can you understand that? Do you believe me?”

Sherlock smiled at him but it was sad and haunted. “Oh, yes. I understand that. There’s a part of me that will never forgive myself for it.”

John put his head down against Sherlock. Sherlock’s heart beat comfortingly underneath him, and John matched his breathing to the rhythm of the waves.

Next Chapter
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On November 25th, 2013 03:08 am (UTC), rereader commented:
*too busy sniffling and wibbling to comment on all the lovely love and romance and love and all that*
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On November 25th, 2013 09:20 am (UTC), neurotoxia commented:
All the heartwarming fluff aside, I'm still giggling madly at the image of Sherlock as a posh seal :D
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On November 25th, 2013 12:59 pm (UTC), issen4 commented:
That conversation really hits at how strong their connection is. Such a good chapter.

Edited at 2013-11-25 12:59 pm (UTC)
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On November 25th, 2013 01:41 pm (UTC), rifleman_s commented:
“…what John also became aware of was that Sherlock, with one kiss, had basically turned him into a puddle of longing. But John had wanted him for so long, it had been such a constant ache that John had almost stopped noticing it.”

Mmm, Sherlock’s really getting the hang of it now . . .

”Sherlock kept smiling at him, and John thought he was going to say I love you, too. But what he said instead, stopping John’s still stuttering heart in his chest, was “I know.””

I am so thrilled you managed to work that into a story!! And in the perfect place, no less! Bless you.

”Sherlock melted with a single touch, closing his eyes and shuddering, and it occurred to John that Sherlock had not only never let anyone do this to him before, he’d never wanted to let anyone do this to him before. For Sherlock, there was John and only John.”

John’s amazement was just wonderful to read. It must have occurred to him at some moments before, but this was the moment when it all made sense – and what glorious sense!

”John either hated Sherlock’s energy or adored it, depending on what Sherlock was doing with the energy.”

Haha! Life with Sherlock is never dull . . .

”Sherlock smiled at him but it was sad and haunted. “Oh, yes. I understand that. There’s a part of me that will never forgive myself for it.””

I’m so glad he said that – we all know how John felt, how upset (angry?) he was, but it’s rare that we see any remorse or love on Sherlock’s part, even though it had do be done the way it was.
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On November 25th, 2013 02:00 pm (UTC), ladyprydian commented:
Oh that list little bit, *sniffles*.

They are on the same field now, there is a little piece of each other that died that day and it will never return. This is good though, that they talked it out. There will be no flinging it in each other's face during arguments.

It's going to take a little while longer until Sherlock can say 'I love you' back.

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On November 25th, 2013 04:51 pm (UTC), wickedgillie commented:
So. Bloody. Beautiful. If I had to name all of my favourite parts, it would be nearly as long as your text.
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On November 25th, 2013 07:47 pm (UTC), valiant_queene commented:
This was a fair roller coaster of emotion! I laughed so hard at the snorkeling, and those two are so hot together, and then the last part just left me breathless. I'm so glad that they were able to talk together!
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On November 25th, 2013 09:55 pm (UTC), 221b_hound commented:
*meeps*

*cuddles fic close and whispers sweet nothings to it*

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On November 26th, 2013 01:41 am (UTC), 1electricpirate commented:
loved this chapter! I mean, I love the whole story, but this was particularly satisfying, especially as I woke up feeling like death warmed over. <33
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On November 27th, 2013 10:51 pm (UTC), chocolamousse commented:
John, pulling his flippers on a bit less elegantly than he would have liked
You can't pull flippers on elegantly, it's a physical impossibility. Even Sherlock can't do that, and he knows it. That's why he doesn't want to snorkel. :D

The fins on his feet kept wanting to rise to the surface, and he had to fight to keep them down, and eventually he just collapsed into the water, shallow though it was
*giggles* It seems you speak from experience! This moment when you hope so much that nobody's looking at you...

just in time to see Sherlock gracefully slide his way into the ocean, looking as if he snorkeled every day
I notice he didn't see Sherlock pulling his flippers on. I'm sure the word gracefully wouldn't have been used otherwise. I can imagine Sherlock putting them on at top speed, casting nervous glances at John and praying that he won't look at him too soon. If John does, Sherlock will immediately stop struggling with his flippers and pretend to be deducing a crab. :D

Sherlock paddled beautifully up to him, like a posh seal
Is this the next AU you're planning to write? Seal!Sherlock? (And Oliver as a baby seal, how cute! :D)

a few purple-and-yellow striped fish dotted through
These fish are fans, it's their way to pay tribute to Sherlock's Purple Shirt and John's stripped jumper.

when John pulled his head back far enough to look down at Sherlock, to become aware that Sherlock had to be treading water ridiculously hard to be keeping them both afloat
*giggles* This image is hilarious. It's duck!Sherlock: nonchalant on the surface but pedalling like crazy underneath.

“Tell me that wasn’t just about avoiding snorkeling.”
“It wasn’t just about avoiding snorkeling,” Sherlock answered.

I like the just. :D Well, John now knows what to do if he wants a snog: suggest doing sport.

The question—the tone of it—penetrated John’s daze.
*heroically resists the temptation to do a subtle comment about your choice of verb*

“Is this what you want? Or are you doing this because you think it’s what I want?”
Yes, of course. John's self-sacrifice is admirable. To subject himself to such an ordeal only to please Sherlock... This man is a saint.

“You’re heterosexual,” said Sherlock.
I think he has proof of the contrary beneath his very eyes. And no, it's not just a metaphor. :D

Sherlock stopped talking because his mouth was occupied with other things
Oh, you mean he kept his snorkel? Or maybe he's busy savagely tearing up John's hideous swimming trunks with his teeth?

Jesus Christ he was going to love him until the end of time.
Nothing new here, John.

“That was your first time,” said John.
“Yes. Wait until I really get the hang of it.”
“I don’t know whether to be terrified or thrilled over that,” remarked John.

*chuckles* Poor John. Well, not really.

Sherlock kept smiling at him, and John thought he was going to say I love you, too. But what he said instead, stopping John’s still stuttering heart in his chest, was “I know.”
First I thought, "Damn, too bad," but it's better actually! Thanks to the letters John already knows that Sherlock loves him but Sherlock was still insecure about John's feelings. Now he's not anymore. Yep, definitely better. :-)

it occurred to John that Sherlock had not only never let anyone do this to him before, he’d never wanted to let anyone do this to him before. For Sherlock, there was John and only John.
*sighs happily* My headcanon is pleased.

He wanted to take Sherlock completely to pieces before putting him back together again
That's also what N&N!John wanted to do when he told Sherlock how much he loved him. I approve of this tendency in your AUs. (It's in chapter 32. Not that I've just checked or something. Or that I've re-read the scene, while I was at it. Ahem.)
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On November 27th, 2013 10:51 pm (UTC), chocolamousse replied:
The sun was setting, the light in the room was red, and the ocean crashed beyond their window.
Now it CAN be romantic!

Your temper is a little shorter than it could be, and you’re a terrible typist, and you are incapable of managing money properly, and you have appalling fashion sense—
John doesn't need to worry, he's definitely not idolized.

Sherlock reached out and brushed John’s fringe off his forehead and smiled at John with every constellation in the sky in his eyes.
It's fortunate John doesn't have to name more than one. :D

All in all, John did not think he’d ever had such a perfect lazy day.
There's not even a baby to interupt their cuddling! John managed to have the honeymoon he dreamed of in N&N.

And I will love you, utterly and completely, with every breath I have in my body. I need you to know that. And I need you to know that there will always be a part of me that you killed that day, a part of me that might never fully forgive it. But it doesn’t really matter. Because I do love you, I love you with every fiber of my being.
My headcanon exactly. Sherlock can't undo what he's done, however hard he tries, he can't see to it that John hasn't suffered the way he has. But love is stronger than that. Or, in other words: yeah, what you said. :D

That was funny, hot, tender and a bit heartbreaking. I love how Sherlock and John's relationship evolves, with the hotness of course but more than that with the way they open their hearts to each other. I love how happy they are now. *thinks about it* THIS IS TOO GOOD TO LAST. ANGST ON THE HORIZON! Wait, isn't the young couple snorkeling a bit fishy? Oh, it's going to be horrible. I can't wait. :D

P.S. I've just realised the final scene was a Conversation in the Dark ™. In the open air and in the tropics, that's new! But Conversations in the Dark ™ are like John Watson: three continents. :D
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On January 4th, 2014 02:36 pm (UTC), orvinm commented:
:)
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