This was getting ridiculous. The middle-aged couple had passed by four times now, the young blonde twice and the elderly man looked like he might be settled on his bench for the afternoon. Yes, Sherlock looked like a supermodel, but he was clearly with John so they could just bugger off. There had been some mild flirting from girls, and ogling from some other men, but for the most part the rest had either been yanked away by their boyfriends (or girlfriends for that matter because, God knows Sherlock could turn a straight boy gay—he'd done it to John) and they'd been left alone.

It had been Sherlock's idea to get out of the heat and humidity of the city for the day. John had been surprised because going to the playgrounds (gay playgrounds he'd found out when he'd looked at some of the brochures, which led him to speculate on Sherlock's previous experience again and therein lay madness) of Brighton hadn't really seemed like a very Sherlock kind of thing to do. But Sherlock had persisted, and so they'd found themselves on the crowded train out of London at 8:30 that morning. John was dressed in his blue trunks which were long enough to be considered shorts and a beige t-shirt. Sherlock was dressed in a white t-shirt which was entirely too tight and transparent for John's taste, and long swim trunks with…

…bees on them.

Bees. And not little realistic bees which might be understood given Sherlock's interests. No, these were two inch long bees with big white, oval wings and happy, smiling faces on a black background. These were cartoon bees.

When Sherlock had gotten them out of the bottom drawer of his bureau John had been quite certain that he was going mad.

"You're going to wear those?"

"These are my swim trunks. I didn't think you'd want to go to the nudist beaches?"

"No, no, God, no. It's just…just, well they're a bit silly aren't they? Silly for you."

"You know that I admire bees. I saw these in the shops, they fit and I thought they might be fun."

"You don't do fun."

"Wasn't last night fun?"

Last night had involved something of a slow striptease and John was still trying to recover from it.

"Yes, yes, last night was more than fun. I guess what I mean is that you don't do silly, not in your choice of clothes, certainly."

Sherlock put on his hurt face.

"But they're wonderful and you'll look adorable in them," John reached up to kiss Sherlock on the jaw. "Get dressed. I'm going to pack the blanket and umbrella, sunscreen and some bottles of water. We don't want to miss the early train."

So here they were on their blanket, under their umbrella and Sherlock was being ogled by half of the beach. The train ride had been bad enough, juggling the umbrella and the beach bag and being annoyed at the passengers who were openly staring at Sherlock's neck and chest, and the ones that were trying not to laugh at his swim trunks. Sherlock was reading a book (and distinctly not helping to carry anything) and seemed to be unaware of the effect he was having. Of course, he could just be faking nonchalance. He did that.

Also, they might have been staring because Sherlock was so pale and John was seriously worried about Sherlock burning in the sun, but Sherlock pooh-poohed him. "I really don't burn, John. Look, I even tan." He held out his arm for John's inspection.

There it was; the slightest outline of where Sherlock normally wore his watch. It was rather like trying to see the difference between 'Milk' and 'French Vanilla' on a paint chip card, but it could, with a squint, be construed as a tan.

"Do you feel like an ice cream cone?" John asked.

"No, I feel like me."

"Smart arse, you know perfectly well what I mean and that it's accepted vernacular." What John meant was, 'Can I get you to walk up to the promenade with me so that I can get all of these people to stop staring at you for a few minutes.'

"But in answer to your real question, I would like an ice cream cone. Get me chocolate."

There was no point in arguing with Sherlock who had turned back to his book. He'd boxed himself into a corner and now he was going to have to leave Sherlock alone on the beach, like leaving a bloody steak amongst a, a…

"A shiver of sharks is the group term you're looking for, John," murmured Sherlock, still engrossed in his book.

John huffed, "Shut up." Sherlock knew full well that John hated it when Sherlock seemed to read his mind. Just for that he wasn't getting a 99 Flake.

So John stomped up the beach to the ice cream cone vendor, looking behind him frequently to make sure that Sherlock hadn't been attacked.

As he walked back with the two cones, strawberry for him, the young blonde was definitely circling but backed off when John got closer. The couple had set themselves down a little ways up the beach and looked like they wanted to dine on Sherlock, and the elderly man was still on his bench.

"Ah," said Sherlock, taking his cone, "I knew you'd get strawberry. What, no Flake?"

"You guessed, and you don't deserve it."

"I don't guess. You will probably kiss me at some point this afternoon and you like the flavor of chocolate and strawberry mixed together in our mouths as opposed to vanilla and chocolate or double chocolate."

John seethed. Sherlock read and they ate their ice cream cones in relative silence. John might have resolved not to kiss Sherlock for that, but he knew that he wouldn't be able to hold to that resolution. Not when Sherlock was sitting there, one knee bent, long toes digging in the sand off of the edge of the blanket, licking at his ice cream with his pink tongue.

Finally the cone was finished, although Sherlock insisted on licking the sugary drips off of his fingers, one by one. Although he didn't want to look behind to check, John was quite certain that the couple were tracking every movement, probably had their binoculars out.

"I am going for a swim," Sherlock announced stretching in a bow shape that would have done any Pilates devotee proud. He slipped his beach shoes back on and walked down to the sea.

John knew from experience that Sherlock could swim, but he was surprised at how well Sherlock cut through the water once he had waded out to his depth, arms moving in smooth arcs, head turning rhythmically until he was perhaps twenty or thirty meters out where the sea was relatively free of bathers.

Sherlock swam for about forty-five minutes and John let himself relax. It was unlikely that someone would hit on Sherlock out in the water.

And then Sherlock waded back in.

Like some pale, thin, homoerotic version of Ursusla Andress coming out of the ocean in Doctor No.

He even tossed the water out of his hair which had curled up into little ringlets. The trunks were pressed around his hips and thighs. Water glistened on the scatter of dark hairs on his chest and across his shoulders. Returning to the blanket, he flopped down on his stomach.

"Come with me," John growled.

Sherlock looked surprised but got up when John pulled on his hand. John grabbed the beach bag, but left the umbrella and blanket. Someone could steal them for all he cared at that moment.

John dragged Sherlock along the beach to the dark shadows under the pier. There were used condoms scattered around. Clearly this place was used for this kind of thing often.

He pushed Sherlock roughly against one of the pillars and kissed him fiercely. Inside Sherlock's mouth was burning hot compared to his chilled skin and his lips tasted of salt, but his tongue tasted of chocolate and then of strawberries. John shoved his hand into the ridiculous trunks and thanked God or whoever for elastic waistbands. Sherlock's genitals were pulled up from the cold, but they soon warmed in John's hands as John cupped Sherlock's balls with his right hand and stroked up Sherlock's prick with the other. It wasn't gentle, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind as he moaned and thrust his hips into John's hand. When he came, he bit John's shoulder to keep from crying out too loudly, although it was unlikely that anyone could hear over the sound of surf, the cry of the gulls and the calls of children.

Sherlock dropped into a crouch to try and protect his knees from the pebbles and who knew what else, to take John eagerly into his mouth, but John wanted more. He pulled Sherlock up and turned him around to hold onto the wood column. The only thing they had in the bag was sunscreen lotion and the doctor in John said that that was not something you wanted to smear on delicate tissue. He decided to try something that they'd occasionally done when Sherlock was sore. He pulled the trunks down to Sherlock's knees.

"Close your legs," he hissed.

Sherlock shivered in anticipation and brought his legs together tightly. John slid his cock between Sherlock's thighs and thrust. It wasn't as tight but it was hot and it let him just tease Sherlock's arsehole and perineum with the friction. Far from perfect but enough and in a couple of minutes he was coming, semen running down Sherlock's inner thigh.

For a minute or so they just stood panting. They pulled up their trunks without a word and Sherlock walked out into the bright sunshine with John following with the bag. Once his eyes adjusted, John could see just how debauched Sherlock looked. He only just gotten the trunks up and the waistband was on a slant leaving the top of his hip bare and probably came down to just over his pubic hair in the front. There was a broad red mark down his back from where he had been pressed into the pillar. There was a slight wobble in his step, but also a preening set of the head that said, 'Guess what we've been doing.'

The view from the front was just as bad when John caught up to him and looked. He had a stupid smile on his puffy, red lips; and despite his crouch, his knees were red. John guided him past his admirers and back to their blanket and umbrella that was mercifully still there.

The blonde gave John a look that said, 'Why you, when he could have me.' The middle-aged couple glared at them, but the elderly gentlemen actually looked like he'd just settled down in front of his favorite movie. John didn't want to think about what that meant.

Sherlock settled down with his head in John's lap in a post-orgasmic lethargy. John discretely pulled the waistband of the swim trunks back up over his hip.

Yes, he's with me, he thought out to the rest of the beach. His lips are swollen from where I kissed them, and the mark on my shoulders is from where he bit me as he came, and that's my cum drying on his thigh.

"Stop thinking, John," Sherlock mumbled, "It's keeping me from sleeping.

"I would have turned them away, you know. I only have eyes for you."

John smiled happily.

John was surprised at how loudly the old springs of the brass bed in their room at the B&B in Marseille squeaked when the head board slammed against the wall. He worried that Sherlock screaming, "John!" as he came would be heard through the open windows. But probably those sounds hadn't carried over the noises of the town.

Or so he thought, until they were leaving, Sherlock's investigation into the theft of valuable artifacts from the Musee des Docks, over. The Proprietress smirked, "Hope you had a pleasant stay, John." He knew he'd only written J. Watson on the register.