Before Holmes Met Watson (FEATURED)

Day Eleven: Cooking

The short walk back to Sherlock's cottage from the May Day celebration took nearly twice as long as it should have because Mark kept stopping to kiss Sherlock. "I like your voice," Mark said the first time, stopping to lean in and peck Sherlock on the corner of the mouth. Sherlock went still and stared more stupidly than he'd ever admit. It wasn't the compliment – he'd been on the receiving end of his fair share in his time (usually some nonsense about his eyes). It was the easy familiarity of the delivery and the accompanying show of affection. Mark treated Sherlock as if they'd known each other for years and the duration of the relationship had done nothing to dim his fondness. "Keep talking," Mark commanded.

And Sherlock did, telling Mark how ruthlessly medieval honey bees were. "When the queen can no longer function well enough to maintain the hive – usually because of old age, injury or illness – the worker bees raise a set of new queens. The first virgin queen to emerge from her egg kills the unhatched queens then fights the old queen to the death."

"Good Lord," Mark exclaimed. "Intrafamilial foeticide and death matches. All the honey certainly smooths over that P.R. catastrophe." Sherlock laughed, and Mark slid him a sidelong glance. "So what's it called – this virgin queen rearing and mortal combat? I know there's some terribly obscure phrase for it, probably in Latin."

"Supersedure," Sherlock replied, and Mark pulled him off the path into the shrubbery.

"Clever," Mark said appreciatively, kissing Sherlock soundly. He nuzzled Sherlock's cheek. "You're blushing again. No, don't look away. You're gorgeous like this." And he kissed each of Sherlock's sharp cheekbones. "And what are these called?" Mark asked.

"What are what called?" Sherlock asked. He was flustered, and a rather ordinary middle-aged man who lived in the country was the cause of it. It was a situation for which he was ill-prepared.

"Cheekbones," Mark said. "What's the anatomical name?"

"Zygoma," Sherlock replied, and Mark pressed him against a tree, and they kissed until they were both breathless.

Mark linked their hands and led them back onto the path. "Tell me something else clever," he demanded.

And so it went all the way back to the cottage – Mark using trivia as foreplay. By the time they fell into the entrance of the cottage they were both fit to burst. Sherlock slammed the door shut behind them, and the two men stood staring at each other.

"Go on, then," Mark commanded, his voice rough yet warm, his eyes darkened by desire. "Get your kit off." Sherlock untied the bee balloon from his wrist, and it floated up into the rafters. He then began to strip efficiently, beginning with his shoes and socks. He unbuttoned the light linen shirt he was wearing and slid it off his shoulders, tossing it to one side. "Christ, you're a wonder aren't you?" Mark murmured in admiration. "Like a Renaissance sculpture." Sherlock noted the exact moment Mark caught sight of his track marks. They'd healed, and there weren't any obvious bruises, but, when the light caught the scars a certain way, they were difficult to miss.

There was always surprise in their eyes – "no, not you" – followed by them backing away as if they were afraid he might pull a knife and demand their valuables. The marks meant he wasn't to be trusted.

"I'm clean," Sherlock said. His voice was smooth and cool – like a slab in a morgue, and he wondered why he'd bothered to give the reassurance at all.

"You poor thing," Mark whispered, and the kindness in his voice made Sherlock want to kill something.

"I invited you here for your cock not your pity." Sherlock's tone was caustic, meant to corrode, to obliterate. He wanted to raze his memories of the day, forget that he'd ever met Mark, forget that he'd blushed like a Victorian maiden over being called a clever boy. "This was a terrible idea," Sherlock said, shaking his head and backing away from Mark. "You should go."