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Ravioli

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‘I’m told that marriage is about sharing,’ Sherlock points out, leaning forward.

John is late home from a long stint at the clinic.  He has picked up his favourite meal on the way home, at the Tesco metro round the corner.  Ravioli.  Not the kind that comes in tins.  This is hand-made ravioli, large, fat pillows of fresh pasta, plump with a filling of chopped wild mushrooms and prosciutto.

Drop into boiling salted water and simmer for three minutes.  Drain, and toss with butter and parmesan.  Serve with a sprinkling of parsley and a large glass of heavy red wine.

He sets the plate down on the table opposite where Sherlock has been scouring newspaper clippings.  He settles himself and takes a good mouthful of wine, then leans over to breathe in the delicious garlicky, cheesey steam coming off the pasta.

‘It may have escaped your notice,’ he comments, picking up his fork.  ‘But we aren’t married.’

Sherlock watches a parcel of pasta as it is raised from dish to mouth.  He is almost panting with desire.

‘Such matters can be amended,’ he points out, staring at John’s mouth as he chews.

John arches an eyebrow. ‘What’s your price?’

Sherlock licks his lips.

John knows exactly what he wants.  Sherlock won’t admit it, but he really is like a toddler.  He isn’t interested in any food except that which sits on John’s plate.  Once John sits down to eat, Sherlock becomes ravenously, insatiably hungry for whatever John is eating.

He spears another pasta pillow, lifts it up and examines it.  It gleams with melted butter, its surface jewelled with parmesan.  As he brings it close to his own mouth, Sherlock actually whimpers.

John can’t help smiling.  He curls back his lips and delicately takes the ravioli off his fork with his teeth, holding it exactly in the middle.  Then he waits.

And Sherlock leans forward, his knuckles white as he grips the edge of the table for balance, and bites off the other half, their lips sliding together.

Ten minutes later the rest of the pasta is gone, their cheeks are covered in butter and cheese, and John is on his back on the table with Sherlock crawling on top of him, licking his face and moaning.  John briefly considers the effect on Sherlock of coating his cock with melted butter, but decides against it. 

Instead, he gasps, ‘Am I taking this as a formal proposal?’