There is a bit of smut in this part, but only in the beginning and I tried not to make it really graphic. If at any point you get uncomfortable just skip to after the page break and everything will be just fine. Also, sorry for any mistakes and stuff you may find. I do my best to proofread but something still might have slipped by me.

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Sherlock and John had originally planned to stay in the ballroom for the entire duration of their reception, though around the time of their third dance they found it impossible to keep their hands or lips off of each other and decided it would be in everyone's best interest if they left early to get a jump start on their honeymoon.

They remained glued at the hip as they stood at the entrance to give a formal goodbye before they left. There were just turning to go when a voice shouted from the back of the room:

"I guess we won't be able to call you The Virgin anymore, Sherlock!"

"You can't call me that now!" he shouted back, brow furrowed and eyes narrowed in indignation. He looked incredibly insulted, and John understood why. Still, that didn't keep his ears from burning when the audience's laughter ended with a collective gasp. John shouted one more goodbye before grabbing Sherlock's hand and dragging him out of the room.

"Well, seems like someone's in a hurry," Sherlock drawled, draping himself across John and causing him to stumble on his way to pick up their room key. John ignored his comment and tried to be upset at Sherlock's earlier retort, but found it impossible, and laughed as he unlocked the door.

The room was elegantly furnished, but John didn't get a chance to fully take it in because the moment the door was closed Sherlock had John pressed against it and was kissing him furiously, hands already working at the buttons of his tuxedo jacket. Once the garment was removed from John's shoulders Sherlock's hands went to cup John's face, and the kissed turned soft. Sherlock pulled away slowly, only far enough away to stare into John's eyes.

"We're married." A wide smile spread across his face, and soon there was an answering grin on John's face as well.

"Yes," he said, reaching up to trail a finger along Sherlock's jaw. "We are."

"John Hamish Watson-Holmes. What a marvelous name."

"William Sherlock Scott Watson-Holmes ... what a mouthful." Sherlock glared at him, but John just laughed and gave him a quick kiss. "You go ahead to the bedroom. I'll pour us some champagne."

"Like we'll actually have time to drink it before-"

"Bedroom." Sherlock's spine straightened and he gave John one hard kiss before retreating through the door. John had only poured one glass when he heard Sherlock call his name.

"John!"

He poured another glass, then carried the two champagne flutes into the bedroom where Sherlock was and saw him standing beside the bed, hands on his hips, brow slightly furrowed as he stared down at it. He handed Sherlock one of the flutes and looked down at the bed, smiling when he saw the rose petal heart that had been created on the duvet. Sherlock held a hand out towards the bed, raising the glass to his mouth to take a quick sip.

"That's a bit much, don't you think?" He asked, his eyes meeting John's. His face was displeased but there was something in his eyes that told a different story. John watched Sherlock as he surveyed the room, noticed how often his eyes drifted towards the bed, and laughed.

"You like it." Sherlock turned his gaze on John, his eyes questioning. "The rose petals, the champagne, the romance." Sherlock huffed and pretended to be annoyed, but John could see the telltale blush creeping across his cheeks. He placed his champagne flute down on the bedside table and turned back to John, grabbing his hip with one large hand and placing a kiss just beneath his ear.

"Well excuse me for feeling romantic on my wedding day." The low rumbling of Sherlock's voice in John's ear sent shivers down his spine, and he placed his glass beside Sherlock's before pulling him closer, kissing him in earnest. He pulled back to run a hand through Sherlock's hair, and smiled at the way Sherlock's eyes fluttered closed.

"Well I'm feeling more than just romantic." Sherlock opened his eyes and smirked, then brought a hand to John's chin and tilted his head up to kiss him. John's tongue swiped across Sherlock's plump bottom lip and his lips parted, granting him access.

Icing and champagne mixed with a taste that was purely Sherlock, and when Sherlock wrapped his arms around him and he could smell his cologne John nearly went into sensory overload. Soon it became apparent that both men were wearing far too many clothes, and John pulled away to begin working on removing Sherlock's tuxedo jacket. It was removed with relative ease and then a pair of large hands began working to divest John of his clothing as well. When both men were stripped down to almost nothing their lips reunited in a tender kiss. Their movements were now unhurried, as if they had all the time in the world. In John's mind they did; They had the rest of their lives to be together. He felt himself smiling, and when Sherlock pulled back he was smiling as well.

Sherlock allowed John to steer him over to the bed and lay him down in the center of the rose petal heart. He looked so perfect like that, hair disheveled, eyes dark and pupils blown wide, lips red from kissing and face so open, so unguarded. It was certainly a picturesque moment, but John wouldn't dare leave now to go get a camera. He climbed onto the bed, hovered over Sherlock, and kissed him lightly on the lips.

"I love you," he said. Sherlock only grunted in response and lifted his hips, allowing John to remove the final article of clothing he was wearing, and Sherlock was left fully exposed beneath him. John paused once more, completely taken aback at the sight of Sherlock spread out beneath him in the middle of a rose petal heart, wearing nothing but his wedding ring. John realized this was not 'shagging his flatmate' or even 'taking his fiancé to bed'. He was making love to his husband and the thought of it made John so happy his cheeks hurt from smiling. He smiled down at Sherlock, who in turn propped himself up on his elbows and stared at John, his expression both amused and questioning.

"You're gorgeous," John murmured, mostly to himself. Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes, but his voice was affectionate as he smiled at John.

"Yes, well, you can admire my beauty later. As for now..."

John didn't let him finish his sentence. He recaptured Sherlock's lips and allowed long, thin fingers to help him out of his own pants. Once John was freed of all his clothing Sherlock's hands began to roam across John's skin, hot and only slightly clammy.

John was glad they hadn't waited until marriage. It was nice to already be so comfortable with Sherlock, to know exactly where to put his lips to drive him mad, to know exactly what buttons to push to have his lover writhing beneath him.

John might have taken a bit longer than usual to prepare Sherlock, but this was their first time together as husbands. He wanted it to be as enjoyable as possible for all parties involved. Sherlock, however, was a bit less appreciative of the extra preparation.

"I'm not going to break, John!" he snapped. "Get on with it!"

"Always the impatient one," John mumbled, though he decided to add a little extra stimulation to appease his husband. When his lips closed around Sherlock he appeared to forget every word of his expansive vocabulary, save for one name which he repeated on every exhale. By the time John figured Sherlock was ready he was a quivering mess, and when he finally took hold of Sherlock's hips and thrust in Sherlock cried out so loud John was certain all of England knew what was going on.

From that moment on the only sounds in the room were those of heavy breathing and declarations of love whispered against hot skin. John and Sherlock moved together as one being, so in tune with each other that John wasn't sure where his body ended and Sherlock's began. He had never felt closer to Sherlock as he had in that moment, with his legs wrapped around his waist and arms cradling him close to his chest. When Sherlock's arms tightened around John, he pulled away from where he'd been lavishing Sherlock's neck to kiss his lips and, when Sherlock cried out for a second time John cried out with him.

After they cleaned up John and Sherlock lay curled up together beneath the now rumpled duvet and a scattering of rose petals, legs intertwined and arms wrapped around each other. John nuzzled his face into Sherlock's neck and sighed, tightening his hold on him. Sherlock was as close to sleeping as he had been in days, but he was awake enough to notice this, and he opened his eyes to look at John.

"Ev'rything 'lright?" he asked, his words slurring together. John nodded his head, then stretched his neck to kiss Sherlock. It was a chaste kiss; nothing like the ones they'd shared earlier, but it held much more meaning to John, kissing his husband after they'd been joined in every way possible way that didn't involve some sort of freakish surgery. Sherlock kept his eyes closed long after the kiss, and John began to wonder if he'd finally fallen asleep. Then Sherlock somehow found a way to move closer to John and kissed him again. That time when John opened his eyes and saw Sherlock's still closed, he knew he was actually asleep. He was sleeping with a smile on his face. John was sure he would be too.

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The next morning John woke up to Sherlock pressing a gentle kiss on his forehead. He kept his eyes closed and pretended to still be sleeping, wondering what else Sherlock would do. However, it was nearly impossible to trick Sherlock so instead of continuing, he laughed and ran a hand through John's hair.

"Good morning." John sighed and opened his eyes, smiling at Sherlock and giving him a closed-mouth kiss, keeping in mind the fact that neither man had brushed his teeth yet. After a shared shower and quick breakfast eaten while they were still in their matching robes, complimentary of the hotel, Sherlock and John dressed, left the hotel, and their honeymoon officially began.

The two weeks that followed were a blur in John's memory. He remembered thinking that while Broadway shows were not something he was particularly fond of, seeing the way Sherlock's eyes lit up when he watched them was. He remembered thinking that while Sherlock looked incredibly attractive when he was happy and his smile took up his entire face and made his eyes crinkle, he was most attractive when completely enraptured with something, eyes widened and mouth hanging open in a childlike wonder.

John had a particularly fond memory of him and Sherlock joining the 'mile high club' on their flight from Los Angeles to Sydney, and an even fonder memory of them watching fireworks above the Sydney House Opera from the balcony of their hotel room, after having spent the entire day there, touring backstage and then watching some ballet show John couldn't remember the name of.

Though John had enjoyed all of their honeymoon immensely so far, it wasn't until their flight from Sydney to Paris that things started to get really interesting. Sherlock had been deducing the life stories of fellow passengers as a means of keeping both himself and John entertained on the long and tiresome flight, and the woman sitting to John's left had taken an interest in their conversation. She asked Sherlock to "read" her, and he'd deduced, among other things, that she was meeting her lover in Paris, against the wishes of her friends and family.

"You're spot on!" She said, staring at Sherlock with her eyebrows raised and her eyes wide. "That's amazing."

"Isn't it?" John said, turning to smile at Sherlock. The woman smiled fondly as she watched the two of them, then reached over to to touch John's arm. Sherlock tensed beside him, but John reached over and grabbed his hand, giving it a squeeze. Sherlock kept his gaze on the young woman, apparently still deducing. The woman, oblivious, continued to speak.

"I mean, everyone thinks I'm just in it for the money or something, but I really do love him." Sherlock remained silent, but John knew it would be best for this conversation to continue, so he did his best to keep it going.

"So he's rich?"

"Yeah, his wife was loaded. When she died he got everything."

"Sorry," Sherlock said, " Did you say his wife? How old was she? How old is this man?"

"Only 42. His wife didn't die of old age, you see. She was ... she was murdered." Sherlock immediately perked up, and John sent him a warning look. Sherlock simply narrowed his eyes at John before turning his attention back onto the woman. She looked back and forth between them with a sad sort of look on her face and nodded. "Yeah, it was a dreadful ordeal, he says. Found her in the woods, bludgeoned to death. They never found out who did it."

"Really?" Sherlock sounded genuinely fascinated, and John sighed, thinking this was going to be a long flight. "How long ago was this?"

"Several years ago." She glanced around them before leaning over John to whisper to Sherlock. "It was the craziest thing. He said the only evidence they had were footprints. The guy who found her said he saw both human and animal footprints leaving the site. The only thing was, it looked like there was only one paw making the animal prints. How could that happen?"

"Yes ... how?" Sherlock's eyes glazed over as he sat back in his seat, and John knew he'd lost him. With a sigh of resignation he pulled out a book he'd brought with him and tried very hard not to pay attention to the way the woman beside him was staring at Sherlock.

The rest of the plane ride passed in a slightly awkward silence, and when John and Sherlock stepped off the plane they both breathed a sigh of relief.

"We're here," Sherlock said, holding out one arm in a grand gesture as he draped another across John's shoulders. "In Paris! The city of love." Sherlock leaned in and gave John a peck on the lips, then moved to his jawline and began peppering it with kisses. John swatted him away with a smile on his face.

"Alright, just because we're in Paris does not mean you get to be all mushy and romantic. It's creepy." Sherlock's jaw dropped in mock hurt and he gasped comically loud.

"Oh John, you wound me," he said holding a hand to his heart. John just laughed and moved out from under Sherlock's arm. He grabbed his hand, lacing their fingers together, and led him to baggage claim. A sleek black car with tinted windows was waiting outside the airport for them, and as they rode to their hotel John was at the window, taking in the sights and thanking his lucky stars once more for allowing him to be in this situation. He'd always dreamed of going on holiday in Paris with his lover, and now here he was, on his honeymoon, in this beautiful city.

"I must say this is rather nice," Sherlock said from where he was looking out the other window. John turned to look at him, but his eyes were glued to something outside that John couldn't see. His face was blank, but his eyes were bright and excited. John smiled to himself, praising himself on how observant he was when it came to Sherlock, priding himself on the fact that he could see what others couldn't.

He reached for Sherlock's hand, which was resting on his knee, and when he grabbed it Sherlock didn't look at him. He did, however, begin stroking John's ring with his thumb, and the gesture made John's face flush.

They arrived at the hotel and checked in, and spent some time just resting in their hotel room. They were both a bit jet-lagged from the long flight, and had plenty of time to explore Paris after they'd both had a good nap. They slept curled up on the bed together, wearing the same clothes they'd worn on the plane, and when they woke up they went for a stroll down the Champs-Élyssées.

They stopped for dinner at a restaurant near their hotel, and John felt as if he'd been placed in some sort of overly-romantic movie. The restaurant was both indoor and outdoor, and they'd managed to snag a seat right at the edge of the indoor section, though they might as well have been outside. It was lovely though. The night air was chilled, but not terribly so where a jacket couldn't keep him warm. The sky was dark and peppered with stars, and the candle sitting on the table before him made Sherlock look as if he'd been plucked from off the cover of a romance novel. The light from the flame flickered in his eyes, that remained fixed on John's face The shadows dancing on Sherlock's angular face made him look like something from a dream. John was almost convinced he was dreaming, until Sherlock reached out and placed his hand on John's, and he was reminded that Sherlock was in fact sitting before him, and that all of this was reality.

"John," Sherlock said quickly, his eyes darting to the side. "I must say that ... I'm very happy here, with you. This is better than I could have imagined."

"I love you too." Sherlock smiled at him then, and in that moment John swore it was impossible to love Sherlock more than he did then. Of course, he'd had that thought every day for a while now, and he was always proven wrong. Sherlock began gently running his fingers up and down John's arm.

"The only thing that would make this honeymoon better would be a locked room murder, or just a murder in general." He shrugged. "Something for me to solve, you know."

John lost it. He didn't care that they were surrounded by people, and he didn't care that they were all giving him dirty looks. He laughed anyway. He laughed so much his eyes watered. He was just so incredibly happy, and he loved Sherlock so much, and he didn't care who knew. He stood up, walked around the table, and grabbed Sherlock's face, kissing him hard and fervently. Sherlock raised a hand to John's cheek, but other than that remained still. His soft lips slid against John's and then a tentative tongue swiped along his bottom lip.

John pulled away, and when he saw the hurt look in Sherlock's eyes he gave him a quick kiss.

"Not here." Sherlock's eyes lit up and he started to stand, but John pressed on his shoulders to keep him seated. "We haven't paid the check." Sherlock rolled his eyes, but nodded his head. John began looking around for a waiter, and caught sight of a familiar face sitting at a table in the center of the room. It was the woman from the plane, sitting across a man who certainly did not look 42. His hair had no traces of grey, his face had no wrinkles, and he had the physique of a twenty-something year old athlete. John was jealous for a moment, until he remembered that Sherlock Holmes was his husband, had chosen to be his husband, and he was alright again.

"Sherlock," he said, reaching down to grab his shoulder. Sherlock looked up at him, then followed his line of sight to where the couple was sitting. He looked up at John with a blank expression, and for a second John thought he'd made a mistake, but then a wide grin spread across Sherlock's face and he was out of his seat.