An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
The Christmas story I promised, just about in time. It’s easier to post a link to it than paste an 11k story into here. :) Here’s the summary, though:
“ It's December and Sherlock, who has developed feelings for his flatmate and is sure they're not reciprocated, is intent on ignoring everything to do with Christmas, including presents. But after Mycroft informs him that John has gone to great lengths to get a special present to say what he can't say, Sherlock decides to try and reciprocate with an equally special present for John, to communicate his feelings.
It's not quite that easy, though, getting the perfect gift but Sherlock will try, no matter what it takes, to show John just what he means to him.”
Many, many thanks to @willowgrovecreates for help in working out what Sherlock’s gift to John should be. That really was invaluable.
Because I posted the link to the first story here, I thought I ought to post the link to the sequel, too, in time for Valentine’s.
Summary:
It’s Valentine’s Day, though Sherlock isn’t aware of that and they’ve nothing planned for the day. Nevertheless, he finds a gift from John to him that is once again both practical and personal. But John isn’t home and has left no card or other notes.
So…why has he chosen to give Sherlock a gift on this day, after all? Why hasn’t he said anything? What does he expect from Sherlock and how should Sherlock respond?
No, this hasn’t been forgotten. Quite the opposite and we’re definitely moving in this chapter :)
Recipe for the day (sorta)
So…what did all this behaviour add up to?
That was the question that John mulled over the next few days. It wasn’t a question easily answered, though, by the simple fact of who was the cause of the question.
On the one hand, there were several different things that had been done which fell decidedly outside the norm. It wasn’t just the fact that they were baking together or even that Sherlock had decided baking programmes couldn’t be watched without being plastered up against a poor army doctor. It was the amount of seemingly unintentional touches, the accidental almost-kiss and the patience that doesn’t normally exist outside running experiments.
On the other, however, none of it had happened until they had started baking and that had only started because of a bet, hadn’t it? Furthermore, the things that had changed had stayed very firmly confined to the times connected in some way with baking.
The trouble with that was that it meant it could as well be the brunette performing some form of experiment on his flatmate. He had no real idea what that experiment would be but then he wasn’t the genius in the house, was he?
But then that past week had happened. That past week which had included not only Sherlock being mindful of John in general, but mindful and caring of his hand and what he could manage, going so far as to choose a bake that they could make with only three functioning hands between them.
As if that wasn’t enough, the downright impossible had happened; Sherlock had turned down a case. A case that was interesting, which he would normally have jumped at, he had turned down and turned down quite emphatically and for what? A day spent together with John, baking.
He hadn’t even called Lestrade back when they’d finished baking to say that he was available then. instead he’d stayed with John, trying their bake and fussing around to make sure that baking hadn’t worsened the few blisters that had appeared on his hand.
Despite that, and it was quite a major that, especially given it was Sherlock, John was still a bit reluctant to think of it as definitive indication. He knew he was being overly cautious and suspicious but he couldn’t really help it.
The thing that had definitively pushed it over into the territory of ‘intentional and genuine’ in the doctor’s mind was the combination of the consideration and care with the fact that he had made heart-shaped bakes not once, but twice. One or the other on its own he wouldn’t dare call it but in combination, he felt like he could nourish a tentative hope.
His resolve was strengthened by the fact that the care to his hand continued well after there was no real need for it. There was no other indication but there didn’t need to be.
Wednesday was a quiet day at the surgery but John still came home late, just twenty minutes to the start of the show, due to a few incidents on the tube, to find the coffee table cleared and stocked with not only the by then customary selection but with a few bits and pieces that looked decidedly homemade. Homemade but quite a far cry from the misshapen lumps supposed to be scones from a few weeks previous.
Sherlock was sitting in his chair, looking quite nonchalant as he toyed with his violin but his eyes honed in on John the moment he was through the door, then followed his gaze to the coffee table before returning to stare at the doctor.
“When will you learn that taking the tube home when it’s pouring down will only add approximately 18 minutes to your journey?” he asked by way of greeting. He made no comment on the things he’d obviously made which John found a bit odd, given his normal tendencies.
It didn’t take a genius to work out the brunette had thought he wouldn’t make it in time.
“Pouring down is the status quo of the British weather, Sherlock, and I’m hardly going to walk the whole way when it’s bucketing, am I?”
“You’ve got a reasonably durable coat.”
John shrugged off said coat which was dripping water onto the floor. ‘Reasonably durable’ was apparently a way of saying ‘not really capable of withstanding the heavens opening’.
“I’ve also got shoes with a crack in the soles that I only found out about this morning when I stepped in a puddle.” He toed off said shoes and made straight for the sofa. “So, you can perhaps see why I wasn’t all too keen on walking the entire way back home, overcrowded tube or not. Now, as much as I enjoy it when you decide to play your violin, I’d rather watch the Bake Off with you.”
He smiled warmly. “Come on. It’s about to start. You made all the preparations, you can’t really back out now.”
The lanky body practically propelled itself out of the chair, stopped briefly to deposit the instrument and then moved quickly over to the sofa, almost falling onto it. “I had no intention to,” he said softly, smiling.
“Right.” John smiled back. “It’s…what is it this week? I forget.”
The answer came promptly. “Botanical week.”
“Ah. That might explain why I didn’t remember. Sounds like a girl’s tea party, serving her dollies ‘cakes’ that are bunches of plucked dandelions.”
“Good to see you’ve got no preconceptions.”
“All I’m saying is that I am not baking anything that’s mainly petals.”
“Guess my plan for sprinkling rose petals all over a wedding cake is out the window, then.”
John made a sound between a choke and a laugh. “Like we’d ever be able to eat that, never mind bake it.”
“Who said we’d eat it on our own?”
Don’t go there, Sherlock. Don’t go getting my hopes up for something that’s never going to happen. “People will talk if we ask them to help out with eating the remains of a wedding cake. Everyone knows what a traditional wedding cake tastes like.”
“People do little else.” With that, Sherlock tilted sideways until he was in his customary place snuggled up against John’s side and turned on the TV. “Now you’ve made us miss the intro.”
“I’ll make it up to you.” John knew better than to point out that nothing important was said during the cold open; when Sherlock had decided that something was worthy of his attention, he gave it completely.
“It’s alright. I’ve asked Mrs. Hudson to tape it for us.”
Why all the blooming fuss about us missing the show, then? the doctor groused internally though he thought he might know the reason.
As the talk about the signature challenge, a citrus meringue pie, started up, John settled himself in a little bit better. Sherlock didn’t seem to notice, though, his eyes fixed on the screen. You could almost hear him take mental notes, though it didn’t mean he’d settled on that bake.
“Hang on, Italian meringue? French? I thought meringue was meringue. What’s the difference?”
“For those two? What the consistency of the sugar added is. For French, it’s granulated sugar and for Italian, it’s sugar syrup. As for the Swiss that she – “
“That’s Jane.”
“That she is making, that is a French meringue done over a ban marie, a water bath. Well, more or less that.”
“Well, ta for assuming I don’t know what a ban marie is, plonker. We, no, I used the ban marie on our very first bake together, if you remember. Actually, as I recall, you were the one who wanted to melt the chocolate in the microwave oven.”
“Live and learn, John.”
“Funny how you always say stuff like that when you’re the one in the wrong.”
“Mmh,” Sherlock said noncommittally. “Go back to drooling over that lipstick-woman and pretending it’s over the cakes.”
“It is over the cakes. Some of those look downright amazing. She’s really not my type.” There was a snort. “She’s not!”
Sherlock looked up from his position snuggled against John’s side. “True,” he conceded, smiling a smile that made John’s stomach do an odd but pleasant tumble. “You’ve gotten far better taste in the time I’ve known you.”
“Thanks. I suppose you’ll be taking credit for that one as well, then?” John said with an answering smile, trying to ignore his suddenly thumping heart.
The smile only widened. “Of course.”
“Right.”
There was a pause as they just sat looking at each other.
A noise from the TV broke the moment.
“Do you…do you want to watch the judging of the pies?” John knew his voice was shaking ever so slightly.
Sherlock nodded, the bobbing coming quickly.
John couldn’t help smiling when Tom got first place in the technical challenge.
“I knew it. I bloody well knew it.”
“Not exactly a hard-won deduction.”
“Oh, shut up, Sherlock. We are not doing a three-tiered cake of any sort, let alone with blooming flowers on or in it.”
“Interesting choice of word. What, scared you can’t pull it off?”
John hesitated but not because he was unsure of whether he could do a tiered cake or not. He was fairly certain that he could, even if it wasn’t exactly up to snuff. What he was contemplating instead was a thought he’d toyed with all evening; to snake his arm out and rest the elbow on the back of the sofa in a way that would effectively put his arm around Sherlock without touching him.
The risk was minimal, really, when he thought about it. If the detective noticed, it could be chalked up to just happening to rest his arm there and besides, Sherlock was hardly in a position to complained, practically snuggled up against the shorter man as he was.
So why was John hesitating?
You’re scared of the next step that’s going to come if this goes right, an inner voice told him. Nothing fancy about it, you’re just scared because if you muck it up, you might end up losing your best friend.
But he was given, for Sherlock, some rather major signals that advances wouldn’t be turned down, wasn’t he? Was he?
Not that, idiot. How many girlfriends have you had that have clearly wanted you as a romantic partner only for that to go south? And they were not infuriating, mercurial, insecure, brilliant, gorgeous madmen who’d probably never had a romantic partner in his life.
He realized he still hadn’t answered the question but he had thankfully not paused long enough to rouse suspicion.
Stretching a bit in an attempt to make the arm movement seem somewhat more natural, he answered, “No more scared than you – and no, that doesn’t mean it’s another bet. We’re not baking that. If nothing else, we haven’t got the tools or the materials.” His arm had landed exactly where he wanted it to.
“That can be arranged.”
“No. Just please, no.” He briefly considered pleading that his hand was not healed enough but knew that wouldn’t really go over too well. “Look, if you really want to do a showstopper, and I can understand why you’d want to, we’ll do the next one, yeah?”
“The next two.”
“I’m not going to argue with you like you’re a kid begging for another go on the dodgems, Sherlock.”
“Dodgems are boring.”
“Sherlock.”
“The next two.”
“Oh, alright, fine. The next two are going to be the showstoppers – “ he held up a finger “ – providing, no, listen, providing that they don’t go absolutely nuts with the brief. They are getting progressively more difficult.”
“That’s rather the point, John. In any case, they’re not the only ones who have advanced, are they?”
John smiled. “True,” he conceded.
His smile broadened when Sherlock settled back against him, the wiggling pushing at the back cushion enough for John’s arm to slip further and land firmly across the detective’s back instead of just hovering just around it. There was no indication of discomfort. If John was to call it, he would actually say it was quite the opposite.
Another tick in the ‘intentional and genuine’ box, I should think.
“No way.”
“John, you’re being ridiculous.”
They were standing in a somewhat crowded supermarket Saturday morning.
“It’s not being ridiculous not wanting to ruin an otherwise possibly good bake with a taste that brings bake some rather unpleasant memories.”
“They were a bit off, that was all.”
“’Orange with fingers’ is not something that can be described merely as a bit off. We are not using oranges and we are not arguing here!”
“You’re the one who’s raising his voice in the middle of the fruit and veg, not me.”
“No, but you’re the one who insisted on coming with me, only to hover behind me like some stupid scarecrow and put things in the trolley we don’t need.”
“Having a bit of a domestic, are you?” came a sweet voice from behind them. They turned to find a smallish middle-aged-going-on-old woman with a hairdo more commonly seen in the eighties and clothing more suited for a young woman smiling at them.
“None of your business,” Sherlock snapped.
The woman’s smile wavered slightly at the brusqueness but she persevered. “I’m so sorry, too nosy for my own good, I know. My husband’s always telling me, ‘Bez’, he says…oh, listen to me prattling on.” She fiddled with her earring. “All I wanted to say was it’s so sweet to see two young people comfortable enough with each other to have a small, boring row in the supermarket over trivialities – just like the rest of us.”
With that, she turned and headed back to her equally smallish husband, complete with sensible jumpers and glasses.
“The thought of being ‘just like’ her is quite frankly appalling,” Sherlock commented, his face and subsequently voice very close to John’s. “The most interesting thing about her is the fact that she’s involved with not one but two of her bosses, both significantly younger than her.”
“Does the husband know?” John couldn’t help asking.
“Only about one of them. He feels proud of her.”
In a strange way, I get why. “Each to their own.”
“Still doesn’t give her the right to interfere where she isn’t wanted.”
“She was just attempting to diffuse an apparent situation, Sherlock.”
The brunette snorted. “She was being nosy and attempting to boost her own confidence by assuring herself that what she does is what everyone else does.”
We were arguing, you have to grant her that and it’s not the best place to – oi, don’t just try to sneak the oranges in when I’m distracted.”
“Fine. We’ll let your irrational, sudden aversion to oranges be this time. What else do you suggest, then? Lime and coconut?” The suggestion had a sharp tinge to it.
“Oh, come off it.” If he didn’t know better, John might suspect a tiny slip of jealousy. Whatever the case, he couldn’t help smiling. I wasn’t thinking of copying any of the pies in there, actually.”
“Oh? What, then?”
“What, you can’t guess it?”
“I cannot pull deductions out of thin air. That’s guesswork. I don’t deal in guesswork.”
“I thought we could use some mangos,” John suggested, reaching for the fruit as he spoke. “If we’re going to make a citrus meringue pie, we need to make a curd and…well, I happen to like mango. We could puree it.”
“We could still make a three-tier sunflower cake.”
“We could but,” and John’s smile turned into something of a smirk, “either you’re eating all of it yourself or you’re going around the Yard with the leftovers.”
“Mango meringue pie it is.”
“Okay, which recipe have you deemed worthy of your time for this one, then? Another Berry one?”
“No.”
John got out the pie tin with the loose base they’d also ended up picking up while out shopping. The argument had been that it would be much easier to get the pie out of such a tin instead of a regular one.
“Fair enough. Might be good to use someone else’s recipe for a change. Who, then?”
“No one. We’re not following a specific recipe.”
“What?” John stopped his rummage through the fridge for the eggs, having pushed aside a few experiments that had thankfully been put in jars this time, to look up at his friend with a frown. “You have got to be kidding me.”
“We’ve made shortcrust pastry before.”
“We haven’t made curd before. We haven’t made meringue before. Both are things that can be mucked very easily. Look, do you want this one to go wrong? Is that it?”
“What? No!” Sherlock looked hurt as well as indignant. “Of course not!”
“Oh, really? Cause it sure sounds like it – or is the great Sherlock Holmes arrogant enough to think that once he’s had a few passable bakes he can just freestyle everything?”
“It’s not freestyling.”
“Really? What is it, then?”
The doctor could feel his annoyance building. This was supposed to be something they did together, something that they put time and effort into and all of a sudden, Sherlock had decided to be cavalier and laissez-faire about it; about a thing where he’d previously lavished attention and care, not just on the bake but on John, too.
The implications of the new attitude weren’t something the blonde liked at all.
“I was going to find separate recipes for each one!”
“You what?”
Pale eyes skittered around, not meeting John’s, and of all things, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip ever so slightly. “I…I don’t want us to fail baking. I want to make a perfect pie.” He met John’s gaze. “But I couldn’t find one that was with mango at all so I thought that maybe if we took the shortcrust we knew worked and then got good separate recipes on the curd and the meringue, we could be far more certain of a good bake!”
That made John pause. “You’re…you’re not just backpedalling, are you? Not just trying to placate me?”
Sherlock shook his head. “No,” he said, emphatic.
That was…incredibly sweet and suddenly the doctor felt an idiot. Right…okay, right. That…makes sense, a whole lot of sense. Thank you.” He reached out and grabbed a bony hand, squeezing it.
“Thank you,” he repeated, smiling up at the other.
Sherlock, however, was looking at their hands. There was a visible swallow.
“Sherlock?” They’d held hands before, although unintentionally, at least on John’s part. He hadn’t gone too far by doing this, had he?
“You’re welcome,” the brunette said eventually. He slowly tugged his hand back but it didn’t seem to be out of discomfort. “I... I found this for the mango curd.”
He dug into his trouser pocket for his phone, unlocked it and showed it to his flatmate.
John leaned closer to see, thinking that the time might be right for reading glasses after all, and scanned the recipe.
“Alright. That looks rather doable,” he admitted. “It’s just for a normal lemon curd, though, with just the juice. Are you sure we can transfer that to a mango?”
“If we puree it properly and then add some more butter, we can do it.”
“We’ve never done even regular curd before.”
Sherlock smiled. “But isn’t doing something new where we excel?” he asked, voice strangely soft.
John swallowed. The air suddenly seemed somewhat stifling. “True,” he answered, equally softly.
He wanted so much to just close the gap and kiss Sherlock, finally feel if those lips were as plush and soft as they appeared, soppy as that sounded.
His moment was gone before he mustered the courage; Sherlock had turned to continue pulling out the things they’d need for the bake. There was some definite colour dotting those high cheekbones again.
“So…we’re to blind bake this one, too, right? That’s what the contestants did, right?”
“If we want to minimize the risk of a soggy bottom, it would seem the smart choice.”
“Don’t go knocking the soggy bottoms, they can be a lot of fun,” John said completely straight-faced as he got the eggs and the butter out and put them on the table. He thought he heard a small snigger but he wasn’t sure.
“Bugger.”
“What now?”
“How are we supposed to puree it? We don’t have a blender.”
“Ah.” Curls bobbed as Sherlock dipped down to pull something out from a shelf. “Will a hand blender do?” he asked, holding it up almost triumphantly.
“When did we get that?”
“Months ago; I needed to see if eyeballs – “
“Sherlock, what did I say about discussing things like that when we’re baking?”
“You’ve said nothing of the sort. You said I shouldn’t mention entrails at the dinner table – and to forestall you asking, no, I never used it.”
“Good.” John reached for it, letting himself enjoy the feel of their hands touching briefly. “Which meringue type are you going for, by the way? Swiss?”
“French, I think.”
“That seems awfully simple for you, no offense.”
Conversation was postponed while John turned on the hand blender and blitzed the chopped-up mango in the bowl.
“No need to make it overly complicated just for its own sake.”
“Oh? So, I’m not worth impressing, am I?”
“Impress? No.” John’s heart didn’t have time to sink. “Amaze? Most definitely.”
With that, he turned his attention back to the oven and pulled out the tin so he could remove the baking parchment with the beans and then put the pastry back in for its final bake pre-curd.
He straightened back up to find John cutting the butter into cubes before he turned his attention back to the pot.
“Is it just the yolks?”
The doctor shook his head. “The recipe you found said to use whole eggs so that’s what I’m doing. Got the preserving sugar, the mango and the eggs in here but damned if I know whether it’s thickening or not. I think we might have been better off just using some mango juice, if I’m honest.”
“Is it harder to stir than when you started?” Sherlock asked, moving closer.
“I think so, actually, if I – oi, you keep a bit of distance when I’ve got anything hot on here. It was your fault last time.”
“I have to be close to the oven if I’m to watch the pastry, John – if you’re that worried, you could have bought a portable stove.”
“And have the whole fire brigade in here again? Ta, I think I’ll pass.” Deeming the concoction had indeed started to thicken, he slowly started adding the butter, stirring throughout. He was cheered by the fact that it started to look right, if nothing else.
“You’re such a worry wart.” Sherlock bent to check on the pastry again and, apparently deeming it sufficiently baked, took it out and left it on the table to cool a bit.
“With an overgrown toddler in the house, I have to be to survive.”
Sherlock merely shrugged in response. “Remember that there should be some thickening agent in that, too,” he commented, his back to John as he separated the eggs and put the egg whites into a clean bowl. We don’t want it wobbling or the moisture seeping into the meringue.”
“Yeah, cheers, I remember that.” He hadn’t but Sherlock didn’t need to know. “You just whisk the meringue properly, please.”
Sherlock sniffed and turned on the electric whisk. The noise drowned out pretty much everything else but the whisk was thankfully rather effective and the mix was quickly stiff enough to risk putting the bowl over, of course, John’s head.
“I ought to throw this right over you,” the blonde groused, holding up his pot of only slightly cooled curd for emphasis before he poured it into the pastry case. “What if it hadn’t been stiff enough?”
“You can tell if it’s not ready as soon as you start tilting the bowl. You were never in any danger.”
Satisfied with a job well done, Sherlock started up the whisk again and began to slowly add first the caster sugar and then the icing sugar.
When it was thick and glossy, he stopped the whisk again and straightened up.
“Right. That’s all done for – why are you staring at me, John?”
Because you’ve managed to get small globs of meringue all over your bloody face, John thought and, without thinking, reached out a hand and wiped off a white dot sitting on Sherlock’s cheek just beside his nose.
A giggle escaped him at the completely nonplussed look on Sherlock’s face. It didn’t stop them from continuing to stare at each other, the tension back in the room.
Then, as it wobbled and threatened to overbalance in his other hand, he remembered the pie.
“Hang on, just give me a moment to put this in and I’ll kiss you.”
He quickly bent down so he could slide the pie in and close the oven door. When he straightened up again, it was to find Sherlock blinking at him as though the hard drive was trying to reboot but kept encountering an error.
John felt his smile return. For all the sweetness and care and hints that he’d shown through the weeks, such a blunt declaration was not only unexpected but slightly difficult to comprehend.
I do hope he didn’t expect his advances to have gone appreciated but otherwise unrequited. Bloody hell, that would be horrible but also make a whole lot of sense.
Pushing that uncomfortable thought very firmly out of his mind, John made sure he was still smiling softly and moved closer. He brought a hand up and gently cupped one cheek, giving Sherlock time to pull away, if he wanted to.
Instead those pale eyes stared down, a flicker of hope in the depth of them.
John leant up and pressed his lips against his those of his flatmate, noting in the back of his mind that they were indeed soft but not quite as soft as he’d imagined. It didn’t mean they didn’t feel wonderful to finally kiss.
Sherlock was unresponsive but only for a moment. Then he might a strange, strangled noise and pressed back. One hand came up to grab hold of John’s shoulder, presumably for balance and support. The other still held the electric whisk.
John started to pull back, not wanting to go faster than his detective was comfortable with, but he was followed and his lips were claimed again, this time in a flurry of shorter kisses, each landing slightly differently, as though Sherlock was trying to catalogue the feel and taste of the doctor’s lips in every possible detail. John certainly wouldn’t put it past him.
He could have happily stayed there, being kissed and kissing in turn, but after a few minutes Sherlock pulled back.
“Cake,” he said softly, the smile adorning his face as soft as his voice and the look in his eyes.
“What?” For John, for a moment he was speaking right gibberish. Then it dawned. “Oh, right. The pie!”
They scrambled to get it out of the oven and check whether the filling had set. Thankfully, it had and they got it out completely.
“So…you’re the meringue expert, how do you want to put it on? In the shape of flowers or something?”
“Meringue always look good when you manage to get that golden colouring to it so…just tops, I suppose.”
“Right. I’ll get the piping bag for you.”
“Hold on,” and before John could move away, Sherlock leaned in to press another kiss to his lips. He pulled back almost immediately but John didn’t mind. Too much, at least.
“You’re not going to keep that to just when we’re baking, too, are you?” he asked as the fished for the bag, hoping his thumping heart wouldn’t betray his nervousness at the question.
“Not unless they are unwelcome at other times.”
“Like hell they are.” John grinned and shook his head. “You daft, wonderful sod, why couldn’t you just have come out and asked instead or something?”
He half-expected Sherlock to brush it off somehow. What he got instead was a look of uncertainty before the brunette looked down, focusing on the piping of the meringue with a telling intensity.
“Sherlock?”
“Still need to get this finished.”
“Sherlock.”
“It’ll go flat if we leave it and then it’s unusable.” Despite everything, the meringue came out in perfectly formed, swirled tops.
“Sherlock, would you stop and look at me? Please?”
Pale eyes slowly lifted but the hands didn’t stop their work. Then the eyes lowered again. “I didn’t want you to go.”
“Go? What do you mean, go?”
“Leave.”
“Why would I leave?”
“You’re not stupid, John, why do you think?” There was a pause. “If I…tested the waters, I could see what you were comfortable with without you catching on.”
“Did you ever expect me to? You didn’t, did you?” Silence was as good as an answer. “Oh, Sherlock.”
“What was I supposed to think?” The words were spoken very quietly. “You haven’t exactly given any hints or picked up on what I was doing.”
John moved in close again and brought his good hand up to once again gently cup the cheek furthest from him, vaguely noting that there was still meringue on it. “I know. I’m a bit dense at times and I’m sorry.” He pressed a kiss to the other cheek. “I got there in the end, though, didn’t I?” he whispered.
Finally, Sherlock turned his head to look at John, his gaze searching, scrutinizing. John let him, hoping that he’d see something that would reassure him sufficiently.
It seemed like he did for a small smile slowly bloomed across the defined features and he leaned into the hand gently pressed against his cheek.
They stayed like that for a moment or two.
“We still need to get the pie into the oven.”
“Hm? Oh, right, yes.” John turned his eyes towards the pie, halfway covered in swirled meringue tops. “You’ve got a knack for piping and all that stuff, I must say. Really wouldn’t have expected that.”
“Chemistry requires precision and a steady hand.”
“Uh-huh. Is that why there’s corrosion spots and small blackened areas all over this kitchen, then?”
“No, that’s just artistic flair.”
“Right.” John pressed another small kiss to Sherlock’s face before he withdrew, tongue darting out ever so briefly to catch a small glob of meringue. He was pleased to see the small shudder that caused.
“That really does look amazing.”
“Yes, John, so you’ve said. Around five times by now – and you’ve taken several pictures. Would you just cut into it already?”
“What was that about patience?”
“I said ‘precision’, not ‘patience’.”
“Ah. Of course – silly me, really.”
“John.”
“Alright already, I’m cutting the damn pie.”
He felt a hand on his thigh as he cut two slices, feeling oddly pleased that it looked good inside, too.
It tasted quite great, as well, and he said so, mouth full of pie. He got an orange-and-white smile for his effort.
“I think we can safely call this bake a success,” was Sherlock’s only comment after he’d swallowed, “don’t you think?”
“Definitely. Roaring success – ah, no. We’re not signing up for the Bake Off, Sherlock. We’re not.”
“We did all of this without following a recipe.”
“Without following a specific recipe, you mean, there’s a difference.”
“I fail to see the problem.”
“Yeah, that figures. Can we just…can we try and master a few more things first?”
“Oh, alright. If you insist.”
John leant in and stole a kiss. “I do.”
I could end it here. Not that I want to or don’t have more to tell but if there’s no one who wants to read more, then this isn’t a bad place to end.
See, @thebluecarbuncle, we got to the citrus meringue pie. Hope it lives up somewhat to what you wanted.
Tagging:@mandysimo13 @willowgrovecreates @sherlock-and-john-getting-it-on @one-thousand-splendid-stars Did I forget anyone? I don’t think so
Chapter 1 I Chapter 2 I Chapter 3 I Chapter 4 I Chapter 5
So...I probably ought to have started this a lot sooner so that I wouldn’t forget most of the things that have happened. Oh, well.
I just wanted an excuse to say thank you to everyone and do a bit of look back. A lot of people, and smarter people than me, have said this was a shit year and in many respects, they’re right.
But I know that I’ve also hit some milestones that I’m proud of, either fandom-wise or personal. And I’ve hit some lows, too.
Feel free to skip it if you don’t care :) Happy New Year!
But as a list:
Fandomwise, I finished my two longest fics to date, both of them over 100k, one almost 150k. That is a milestone for me.
I’ve discovered lovely new fandoms and equally lovely fans, though I don’t intend to leave the ones I already had. In particular, I’m so glad I watched Endeavour. :D
I’ve written almost 200k words this year, not all of it published.
I’ve started work on an original book, which I’m excited and nervous about but it’s going well
I’ve gotten a handicap parking license so I no longer have to struggle to just make it to the front door of places.
I’m alive, still. :) For that, I am incredibly grateful.
I’ve gotten a far better understanding of my acquired brain injury (yes, I have one, it’s a long story)
I’ve struggled with a family who fails to understand my situation, mostly because they don’t want to.
Had a depressive turn for most of the autumn
Financial issues but seems to hopefully be solved
I have had to make some hard and difficult decisions but I think ultimately they will turn out for the far better.
My friends are fewer but I like to think it’s what’s risen to the top. Thank you to all of you, I’m grateful for you :D <3
I’ve learned new skills, both handicraft and otherwise. Looking forward to learning macrame, too 😄
I’m learning to set my boundaries and take care of myself first.
People have been helping me coping with the acquired brain injury, which has been invaluable.
Thank you to all of you who’s been following me, here or elsewhere, and I hope you’ve a better year ahead of you, however your year has been. Especial thanks to @z-aliada and @willowgrovecreates
The condescending attitude towards fanfic compared to ‘original’ work
I know this is the month of good cheer and everything and I will post happy things. Let me just have this one. You know what bugs me quite a bit? When you see all the crappy or at the very least shoddy writing people get away with in various media, some of it praised as well, and yet, anything with the prefix ‘fan’ is utter garbage by default. The hell?
And I don’t just hear this from people around me generally. I don’t listen to them, because their understanding is on par with their understanding of fandoms in general (and it’s rarely anything but shallow and slightly condescending)
Who I refer to are the ones I know who write/draw and yet hold this berk-belief. They won’t even be upfront about it but use weasel words and just skirt around, well, they don’t think it can ever be all that good, because, well, it’s not original. It’s ‘just fanart or fanfic’. Always inferior, because you’re using someone else’s characters.
One, that’s bullshit. Two, that’s ludicrous and patronising and thanks for being insensitive. Three, writing someone else’s characters, *and getting them right*, is no mean feat. That’s actually often much harder than making up someone from scratch. Nobody will know if your OC is acting odd in terms of their character, but they sure as hell will if it’s one they know from a previously established universe!
Also, I rarely hear that complaint lobbed against ‘proper’ authors when they do what amounts to a fanfic. Because that’s not fanfic, that’s a ‘re-imagining’. Yeah...cause Pride and Prejudice and Zombies is a re-imagining while Thursday Next running around fighting Daleks is fanfic schlock.
Sorry, sorry, I’m done. It just hurts having work dismissed by friends on such a stupid, baseless principle when they expect praise for stuff that’s better purely by virtue of being ‘original’.
Finally all finished, proof-read and approved by my darling girl. Hope you’ll enjoy reading it as much as I did writing it :D Apologies for the cheesiest of titles.
My inspiration was the absolutely gorgeous drawing willowgrovecreates made. Thank you for sharing that <3 - I hope my little story can do it some sort of justice :) @willowgrovecreates
It was ridiculous, it really was.
They enjoyed a perfectly normal, healthy relationship. Well, normal was perhaps not quite the right for them, apart or together. Not when one was a certified genius consulting detective with little time for the tedium of other people and the other was a doctor and former army surgeon with an unhealthy love for danger.
But what they had was definitely what they both wanted. Granted, it had taken them far too long to get where he had wanted them to be since first he’d been introduced to the at first glance rather unassuming doctor, but the important thing was that they had gotten there.
Surprisingly, given his wishes, it had not been Sherlock who had taken the first step towards them becoming more than friends and flatmates. Instead it had been John, unassuming, complicated, wonderful John, who one evening, while Sherlock had been making a considerably harsh and lengthy rant on the idiocy of something or other, had gotten up from his chair, walked over to loom over the brunette sitting in his own chair.
Sherlock hadn’t really noticed, not until there was suddenly an unexpected weight in his lap. Then he’d looked up in time to see his friend smiling down at him, just before his face was grabbed and lips pressed again his own. What followed after that was a snog that Sherlock had saved in a special place in his Mind Palace.
Afterwards, there was of course a lengthy talk about what ought to happen next and quite a lot more kissing and other, far more energetic things.
Bottom line was that since then, several months ago, they had had the same relationship as before, but with some extremely wonderful additions. Like the fact that Sherlock was allowed to put his hand on the small of the doctor’s back when they were walking to and from somewhere or that John would sometimes find room for himself somehow on the sofa beside the lanky man when he was lying there, thinking.
To top it off, the bedroom was anything but stale, either. It did not happen every day, whatever the people around them thought, but it was a close enough thing, really, and Sherlock had found that as long as it was with John, sex was something to be enjoyed and basked in. He was even often the instigator of their lovemaking.
That thought brought him back to his current situation. If there wasn’t any real problem with their relationship, apart from the usual that they ran into, and the bedroom was not in any way in need of spicing up, then why was he spending a morning browsing the internet for something to titillate his partner?
To be fair, he was bored; there hadn’t been in case in several days, John had been busy with shifts because of a colleague who needed a few days’ leave, and none of the experiments that he had going sparked any sort of interest in him. But to go from being bored to looking through lingerie was quite a leap nevertheless, even for him.
He was just about to shove the computer away in disgust with himself when he spotted something that peaked his curiosity and interest.
It was a body stocking. But it wasn’t just any old body stocking. It was a full-body one, done in the most intricately made black lace and it fit the model like a glove. It came off as fairly modest and incredibly indecent at the same time and he only realized he was staring when he blinked and his eyes actually stung from lack of moisture.
John would like this. One wouldn’t know it from looking at him and his own attire, but he’d told Sherlock more than once that he quite liked the fit of the consulting detective’s trousers and shirts. He liked things of quality and he liked a snug fit, as long as he wasn’t the one to wear it.
Oh, yes, John would definitely like the tightness of such a garment, the sheerness that managed to leave something for the imagination still. As Sherlock imagined John’s expression and the feel of the lace on his own body, his entire body, he felt himself begin to harden in his pyjamas and rather quickly at that.
There was only one tiny little problem; the model was female. Quite decidedly so, looking at the curves of her. Not that there was a problem in that, as such, but he most definitely did not have the figure that she did. Even if he found a version suited for height and a straighter figure, the deep cut at the front made it clear that it was not meant for him to wear. It would look as ludicrous as if he tried to fit into a women’s thong or a baby-doll with wires and actual cups.
Now quite determined, but firmly ignoring the hardness between his legs, he threw his energy into finding a male version of it. There had to be something.
An hour later found him up and pacing around the living room. It couldn’t be that difficult. He was a genius, how could a simple thing like that elude him?
He knew it had to exist. If it existed for one gender, he’d learned it was a fair assumption it would exist for everyone else as well. Even as diverse as people’s sexual quirks could be, there would be quite the overlap, nevertheless.
Yet all his various searches through the internet came up with was full body suits for men of the PVC or leather variety and while that might be an interesting avenue to explore at a later date, it wasn’t what he wanted right then. Moreover, when and if that happened, he rather fancied having John in leather instead, preferably deep brown with lace up sides or something similar.
He could of course just abandon the idea. It wasn’t as though he needed it. Their sex life was quite fulfilling as it was, there was no need to spice it up just yet. So he threw himself into a new experiment, hoping to forget the entire, absurd idea.
But yet, as the day turned to evening and John came home, with an apologetic smile and his fingers curled around a plastic bag full of takeaway goodness, he found that a small part of his brain still continued to work on the problem.
By the time John had kissed him goodnight and gone to bed, leaving Sherlock sprawled on the sofa once more, he had gotten a new idea, which he wasn’t certain it was a good idea to try.
His hands had found his phone and fingers now hovered over the buttons, hesitating in writing a text and sending it.
Would it be a good idea to send the text? After all, he knew it would be traced by his ever so interfering brother and it might not yet be a good idea for him to have an inkling that she was alive.
On the other hand, it was more than likely that Mycroft knew about her already and so there wouldn’t really be any danger in contacting her.
His fingers were pressing keys and hitting sent before he was fully aware of it.
The reply came surprisingly quickly.
My, my, Sherlock. What a lovely mental image. The dear Doctor Watson seems to have woken quite the little minx in you. Well done, him.
Can you help or can you not? SH
Of course. I’m flattered that you ask.
After that a few instructions ticked in. She advised against buying anything off the rack, purely due to quality of the lacework and the fit of the garment. Instead she recommended ordering from a specialized tailor that was apparently able to turn out quite a good quality product fairly quickly.
He was not entirely convinced until she sent him a photo of one of the pieces they’d done for her. Then he scurried to place an order with them, with all the details that he wanted. He only just remembered to put in a mention of them being recommended.
After he had pressed send, he sank back into the sofa and exhaled a shaky breath. It was not cheap, but he rarely spent much of his share of the money they got from private clients, so he had a bit left over and why not spend it on something nice for the both of them?
Now all that was left was to wait. He did not deal well with waiting, at all.
Two instances of vibrations from the phone on top of each other made him look down. One was the confirmation of his placed order, and not an automated one at that, and the other was another text from Irene.
I expect to at least get a photo of you showing it off, Mr. Holmes.
And give you blackmail material on me? I think not. SH
Would I ever?
If you didn’t, I’d be worried. SH
You, worry? Even through text, her incredulity and amusement was clear. What has the darling doctor wrought on you?
Nothing but good. SH
The horror.
…Thank you. SH
You are welcome. Anytime.
He stopped texting and rested the phone again his chest. Then he got up and crept into the bedroom, where John was soundly asleep, leg kicking in an agitated manner. Probably a nightmare.
Sherlock slid into bed behind him, long limbs curling around the stockier figure, face nuzzling into the crook of the doctor’s neck, humming softly. The hum turned to a pleased chuckle when he felt the body he was holding slowly relax into the hold, tension leaking out of tired muscles.
He fell asleep wrapped around his partner, a feeling of accomplishment and anticipation in the pit of his belly.
There was nothing left to do after that other than wait. He considered asking for progress reports, but realized immediately that all it would do was run the risk of his order being put on the backburner.
Luckily for him, a client called on them with a case. It was hardly an interesting case, ranking a mere five, but with John still busy at work and his experiments not interesting him, he decided to take it in order to have something to do.
It turned a bit more interesting along the way and so it managed to occupy a whole two days. During it, he did spare a thought or two to the worry that the package might arrive while he wasn’t home and John would be the one to receive it. He wouldn’t open it, of course, but he might just keep needling Sherlock about what it was and thereby spoil the surprise.
To his very great relief, the doorbell rang the day after he solved the case and he was lying supine on the sofa, resting. He didn’t move until Mrs. Hudson was shouting at him that if he was going to have personal things delivered, he could open the door himself next time.
He then came down the stairs fairly quickly, grabbed the package from her with a mumbled ‘yes, of course, next time’ and hurried back upstairs. Only when he was safely back inside their flat and had locked the door to keep their landlady from getting unnecessarily nosy, he practically tore into the package, more eager to see the contents than he would admit to.
What emerged when he reasonably gently pulled at it was quite something and precisely what he’d been trying to find.
It was full body, of course, and made of a mesh-like lace that gave just enough flexibility in the fabric for him to actually get It on without tearing anything. The pattern was understated but elegant, with swirls in the shape of an S running throughout. Two swirls on the chest would curl around the nipples, partially obscuring them, yet leaving them with just enough on display to titillate. A high neck put emphasis on the length of his throat.
Working his way along in examination, he saw that both sleeves and legs were not only snug, they ended in a triangle that extended over the hand and foot, secured by a ring around the middle finger or toe. The tightness and the fact that it was truly full body gave it a sinuous feel that would fit extremely well with his figure and was very much to his liking.
When he turned it over to inspect the back, he was in for something of a surprise. The majority of it resembled the front, but when it came to the rump…there was none.
That wasn’t quite true, but a good part of it was missing. The hole that had been made was rimmed with lace edging and in the shape of a heart. A strand of lace looped across the middle of it, as well.
It was not a thing that he had in any way specified and he suspected that Irene might have had a hand in that, but he could not honestly say that he minded. Quite the opposite, in fact.
Licking his lips in anticipation, he contemplated when he should put it on for John to see. He wanted to put it on there and then and just wait for the look on his partner’s face when he came back home to be met with something like that.
On the other hand, John was pulling a tedious double shift that day. If he came home in a bad mood or even just tired and worn out, he wouldn’t necessarily be amenable to much bedroom fun, much less anything out of the ordinary.
Trying to do it while they had both been home was not a viable option either, for several reasons, chief among them John being his caring self and popping in to check up on him at an inopportune moment. It would hardly be that enticing to be found rolling the legs up.
But all that it took to make work was a bit of careful ingenuity or, in other words, quite an easy task.
He heard the front door open and shifted a bit on his seat. It wasn’t in its usual place, but he had the definite feeling that it was going to work.
“Sherlock, are you there?” he heard John call. “Great, bloody git has forgotten to turn the lights on in the house. Can’t see anything – oi, if I fall over your lazy arse, I’m blaming you.”
Interestingly, though, he did not seem to turn any lights on himself. Instead he could be heard picking his way by memory, it seemed, lured by the one light that he’d turned on in the bedroom. The muttered words from the blonde slowly tapered off.
When the door to the bedroom opened, it was slow and, if Sherlock was any judge at all, filled with quite an anticipatory air.
“Sherlock?” The tone was ever so slightly hesitant, but also rather optimistic.
The brunette didn’t answer verbally besides a vague hum of confirmation. Instead he turned his head in the direction of the door, which resulted in his chin resting slightly on his collarbone as he looked over his shoulder. One foot was wrapped around a leg of the stool he was sitting on while the other was braced against the surface of the seat, the leg consequently drawn up.
He knew the exact moment that John spotted him and, more importantly, what exactly he was wearing; before his eyes saw anything, it was betrayed by the small, but nevertheless sharp intake of breath. Still he didn’t say anything, just continued to regard John with lidded eyes and the ghost of a smile on his lips.
The blonde moved slowly towards him, clearly taking in the view as his breathing changed, becoming gradually raspier.
“Fuck, Sherlock…I had no…where did this come from all of a sudden?”
Sherlock still didn’t say anything, just smiled more broadly and stretched as best he could, letting John see his muscles move under the lace and feel it slide sensuously over his own skin, sending a small shudder through him.
Next thing he knew, he was almost toppled from the stool by his partner suddenly pressing up against him from behind. Strong, calloused hands grabbed at him, the rough and soft texture of them feeling wonderfully different with the lace in the way, and a warm mouth descended upon his neck. More interesting, however, was the burgeoning erection pressing firmly against his arse through layers of clothes.
“John…” he moaned softly and pushed back against the cock, letting it slip to a position between his buttocks, then gasped as he received a bite in response. He shifted as his own growing erection started to press against fabric that might have flexibility, but not quite enough.
John noticed. And he seemed to approve very much.
“On the bed,” he growled. “Now.”
The commanding tone of voice was not only effective; it sent shivers down Sherlock’s spine and made his groin throb. He was on the bed before he knew it.
In the meantime, John had walked over to switch the overhead light on, so that his view would be illuminated by more than just the bedside lamp. The walk back was much slower, as he both took the time to shed some of his clothing and to appreciate the view some more.
“Just look at you,” he marvelled. “Look at you. All that lovely skin covered in lace – absolutely gorgeous. God, I could just stand here and drink you in forever.”
“John…” This time the moan was more pleading than before. The heat smouldering in blue eyes was getting to Sherlock, who was already sensitive from sliding the suit on as well as the anticipation, and he didn’t want to be ogled without being touched. His only comfort was the slight friction the sheets gave in addition to the lace.
It seemed like the blonde wasn’t to be rushed, however.
Slowly he made his way onto the bed, the clink of metal and the rustle of fabric beforehand indicating that he had shed his trousers. As the bed dipped, Sherlock felt a hand on the back of his thigh, pressing down slightly. He tried his best to be obedient and not move, difficult as that was.
It wasn’t made any easier when the hand slid lower on his leg and was then joined by the other hand. He arched into the touch as the hands ever so slowly made their way back up a leg each, their glide just firm enough to be felt while still being light.
That peculiar feeling of the lace hindering some sensation while still being thin enough for him to get far more than he would have gotten with clothes on was setting his skin on fire.
When the hands finally reached his rump, he groaned as they gripped onto a cheek each, the blunt fingernails digging deliciously into his flesh. The groan turned into a startled moan as two fingers slid from the lace-covered part onto the completely bare area. To have an area that had always been an erogenous zone for him touched directly when his skin felt sensitive already with a barrier…it was quite frankly a wonder that he didn’t buck violently into John.
The blonde groaned throatily himself at the reaction. “Christ, what you do to me, Sherlock. That arse so tightly squeezed in that outfit, just begging to me…fucking hell, you have no idea…”
“Then show me!” the consulting detective growled, trying to sound demanding.
He received a light slap to his buttock for that, which only turned him on more.
“On your hands and knees,” John commanded and Sherlock once again obeyed.
He was rewarded for his compliance; as soon as he was in position, the doctor pulled his hand back from where he had been reaching, dropping the lube onto the mattress, and then his hands were back. Better than that, though, was the wet sensation trailing down what was available of the line of his buttocks.
A bit lost in sensation as Sherlock was, it took him a moment to realize that it wasn’t fingers coated in lube trailing down his crack, but the tip of John’s tongue. He moaned again, both from the electric feel of it and the anticipation of what was, hopefully, just about to happen.
His suspicions were confirmed when the tongue pressed against his entrance, not hard or forceful, but just enough to make the muscle flutter and his cock twitch hard in its confines.
A hand sliding gently down his leg was the nonverbal encouragement to relax. He made an effort, only to shudder as the tongue pressed inside in small, pointed strokes that made him relax and sent waves of sensation through him at the same time.
“John…mmmh…yes…please…”
At some point the tongue was replaced by two fingers well coated in lube, but Sherlock couldn’t find it in him to mind, especially not when the mouth then instead started to plant kiss all the way around the heart shaped border in time with the scissoring motion the fingers were doing inside.
By the time John was pumping three fingers in and out of him, Sherlock was a trembling mess barely able to keep himself upright.
“God, John, would you just fuck me already? I need you – !” The last word turned to a keen as John pressed hard against his prostate. Pale eyes glared at the doctor. “John!”
“Haste makes waste.”
“I don’t care, I need you and I need you now.”
“Then turn over for me. I want to see your face when I fuck you.”
It was an effort to get on his back without collapsing. When he managed it, he was also able to see John far better than before and what he saw made him swallow.
His partner always looked good, in his book, in when clad in his comfy jeans, his frumpy button-downs and his homely jumpers. Naked, however, was a whole different story.
When naked, you could see the strength and power he hid beneath his clothes, in the compact form, the muscles and the scars and marks of his life. It drew Sherlock in, like a moth to a flame.
The fact that John was kneeling, the muscles in his legs showing in an appealing manner, did not detract in the slightest. Nor did the heavy-lidded eyes with the dilated pupils nor the erect cock standing proud and red between his legs. Sherlock unconsciously licked his lips.
John saw the gesture and smirked. When he looked down the long, lithe body, he was licking his lips himself, though. The condom was opened and rolled on as fast as his hands would allow.
Slowly he moved forward, still on his knees, grabbing onto the legs of the brunette as he moved. As he aligned himself, he let his hands glide across those legs once more.
Sherlock moaned slightly. He didn’t press down, as he knew John wouldn’t appreciate it and most definitely wouldn’t be rushed. So instead he decided to wrap his legs around the waist of his partner, loosely so that he appeared enthusiastic without being in any way pushy or demanding.
It was very difficult to keep to that when he could finally feel the head start to press into his loosened passage, parting him deep inside as it slid in slowly, but steadily, filling him up.
The brunette heard someone groan throatily when the blonde was fully seated, but it could have been either of them or even both, he really couldn’t tell.
It was definitely John who spoke next, though. “Bloody hell,” he groaned. “The lace…your cheeks are pressing…and yet wet and loose…oh, god, it feels good.”
Sherlock could only agree. The fact that the body suit didn’t allow enough flexibility for his buttocks to move meant that everything was pressed together in a way that created the most wonderful friction on top of all the other sensations running through him. He voiced his agreement by moaning loudly.
“Move, please, John. I need you to fuck me.”
John grinned and complied, pulling out a little before thrusting back in. He kept the movements small and slow at first to gauge just what was possible in their current position. When Sherlock locked his legs more firmly around his hips, the blonde got the message and started to speed up.
“God, yes…yes…more, John…more!” Every nerve ending was on fire in Sherlock’s body, not just from the continued press of his lover’s cock deep inside of him, but from the way the lace rubbed over every sensitive area of his body with every slam of John’s hip, moving him up and down the sheets.
He only became aware that he was panting shallowly when his breath was thrown back by the face in front of his. Then he was kissed, lips pressing hard and demanding against his. Moaning, he parted his lips willingly and was rewarded by his mouth being virtually plundered.
His hands came up to grab at broad shoulders, nails digging into flesh as he was pounded into. When one calloused hand moved from where it was braced against the mattress to brush fingers against his nipples, which were already pebbled nubs, he had to break the kiss in order to gasp brokenly.
“Touch,” he pleaded, voice breathy and unsteady and his brain unable to form coherent sentences or even longer words.
Normally, he would have already been touching his own erection at that point, hand going in the same tempo that John set. This time, though, the lace had given him plenty of friction as it was without him having to touch himself, his cock pressing so hard against the fabric that it was a wonder it hadn’t already torn. He wasn’t able to come untouched, though.
“Please…I’m so…just…bit more, please.”
Bringing himself off wasn’t an option; he was so keyed up by that point that whatever small part of his rational brain was still operational feared that he’d dig his nails in or something equally utterly daft.
Luckily for him, John knew what he meant. The hand moved from his chest down to his heavy, throbbing member. There it hovered for a moment and at the same time, the doctor’s hips stilled for a moment, too.
“John!” Sherlock shouted in frustration. To stop when he was that close.
John waited until he had eye contact. Then he smiled, a slow smile that was lust, danger and deep love all rolled into one.
Before the brunette had time to properly process the expression, the hovering hand descended. As it simultaneously gripped and stroked his cock through the fabric, John’s hips slammed back in at a slightly different angle, hitting his prostate dead on.
That was all it took. That dual stimulation was more than enough to send him over the edge into a searing orgasm that left him shaking and shuddering for what felt like forever. He was vaguely aware that someone was shouting, but he wouldn’t be able to say who.
John’s climax he was a bit more aware of, though that was mostly because of the feeling of seed spilling into the condom and the fact that the man slumped against him afterwards. Otherwise everything was mostly white noise and a deeply pleasurable haze.
They lay there for what felt like a very long time, but was more likely only a few minutes. Then John groaned gently and rolled off, landing on his back beside his partner. He was breathing heavily, but shakily.
“That was…I don’t even know what that was,” the blonde managed to say after another while had passed and he had gotten his breath back to something approaching normal. “I’m not complaining, mind, not at all, because bloody hell, that was good.”
He turned himself onto his side and draped an arm and a leg over the person he loved so much. Sherlock shifted into the hold. “All I’m saying is, that seemed a bit left field. What brought it on all of a sudden?”
“Boredom.”
“What, you kept this,” he let his index finger trace the black swirls, “lying around for the time when you felt that our sex life was getting boring?” There didn’t seem to be any anger in that question, just bemused puzzlement. Oh, John. Sherlock smiled from the bottom of his heart.
“Of course not. Boredom merely lead to research, which eventually lead to ordering this.”
“Ordering? Sounds expensive. Do I want to know how much it cost us?”
“Does it matter?”
John chuckled at the blasé question. “Given how much I love you in it, no, I guess not.” He paused for a moment, eyes roaming across the thin body beside him. “There’s just one slight problem.”
“And what would that be?” Sherlock asked around a small yawn.
It had been an interesting discovery to find out that sex would make him lethargic and sleepy without fail. The fact that John was always there with him afterwards, warm and soft and comforting in a way that the younger Holmes had not been aware that he craved before he experienced it, was doubtless a very major factor.
The finger still tracing the patterns dipped down and was suddenly poking through the material and touching some of the skin of the brunette.
“Just the minor thing that you’ve managed to actually tear it slightly here.” Indeed, the mesh was not quite as dense as it had been around the groin area.
Sherlock tilted his head so they were looking at each other. “Whose fault is that, then?”
“Certainly not mine. Even if it was, I couldn’t darn it.”
“So I should just throw it out?” That wasn’t going to happen, but he didn’t need to know that just yet.
“Hell, no. There’s plenty more fantasies I want to try out with this one.”
“Good thing I learned to darn, then.”
“Why on earth did you pick that skill up?”
Sherlock rolled over cover John, then gave him a long, loving kiss. “I’ll tell you if you enlighten me on what exactly those fantasies were.”
The blonde grinned, then reached down to fondle the lace-covered arse. “I think that could be arranged very easily.”
Happy Holidays, everyone. Hope everyone survived.and had a great time, whatever you do or don't celebrate.
Well, as some of you might have noticed, I have fiddled a bit with the look of this tumblr and I have actually added an 'ask' button so you have a reasonable chance of sending me asks, prompts and so on.
Another thing that's changed is the purpose. I thought it was time. I will still be accepting prompts and questions, but I will also start posting teasers, snippets and ficlets on here. Not any specific theme, just the ideas I - and you - come up with :)
That in mind - and in celebration of the fic getting over 750 kudos since it finished - I have a small announcement, for those who are interested: Becoming an Omega is getting a sequel. It's been almost a year of going back and forth over it, but I think I might finally have come up with a story continuation interesting enough to be written.
I cannot tell you when it's going to come up as I have only begun the first draft of the first chapter and neither can I tell how long it'll be. We shall all have to wait and see. Here's to hoping I'll see some of you at the first chapter ^^
Thank you all for following me and hopefully these changes will be to everyone's benefit :)
