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“You’ve made me breakfast,” John says, raising his eyebrows at the bowl of cereal, a fruit salad and a tall glass of what he knows is pineapple juice. “Again,” he adds. It was strange enough yesterday, but then he was able to ascribe it to Sherlock’s general tendency to do unexpected things. Two times in a row, however, is highly suspicious.
“Brilliantly spotted, John,” Sherlock drawls from where he’s lying on the sofa, having vacated their bed far too early for John’s liking. “You’re scintillating this morning.”
“Have you done something?” John asks carefully, wondering whether he actually wants to know.
“I’m proud to say I’ve done many things, none of which, however, are in any way related to your breakfast, so stop scowling at me. I’m fairly sure that preparing a meal for one’s intended is generally considered to be a touching gesture, and I’m absolutely certain that that’s what you thought yesterday morning. What changed your mind?”
“You repeating the gesture. Yesterday I thought you were feeling a bit sentimental before our big day – “ their wedding, tomorrow, tomorrow “ – but two consecutive mornings?”
“Maybe I’m feeling even more sentimental today.”
“No,” John shakes his head, studying Sherlock’s profile carefully. “You’re up to something.”
Sherlock finally tears his gaze away from the ceiling and looks at John, his eyes twinkling, and it’s the kind of look that will never, ever, stop making John’s heart skip a beat.
“So you’ve deduced that the reason for my making your breakfast is not something I have done, but something I’m planning to do?” Sherlock asks, sounding amused but also a little excited.
“Yes,” John says slowly. “If you did it by way of apology, you would’ve made something I like, like a bacon sandwich and tea, not cereal with bloody pineapple juice. I don’t even like pineapples.”
“But they’re good for you.”
“And since when do you care about that?”
Sherlock gives him a pointed look, but doesn’t answer. John knows him well, and it’s clear that he will have to work it out by himself or be surprised, perhaps unpleasantly. He thinks about yesterday’s breakfast and then about everything he ate, and realises that it had all been chosen by Sherlock.
“I’m not sure if I want to marry someone who’s decided to control my diet,” he says.
“Don’t marry me, then,” Sherlock says, affecting nonchalance. “It’s just a piece of paper, anyway.”
“That’s not what you said when you proposed,” John reminds him, and finally gives in to the urge to join Sherlock on the sofa. His dishevelled hair and exposed throat just look too tempting. Far more tempting than a vegetarian and tea-less breakfast, in any case. “You can’t fool me anymore, you know. I know you’re up to something and I’ll work out what. I can read you like an open book.”
Sherlock sits up so John can sit next to him, pretending that it is a terrible chore to him even as he slumps against John and wraps his arms around him.
“I hope I’m a bit more difficult to decipher than the garbage you insist on filling our bookshelves with,” Sherlock murmurs into John’s neck, and John decides not to take offence on behalf of his favourite authors.
“A bit more, yes,” John agrees. “Sherlockian is still only my second language, after all, though I think I’ve become rather fluent in it.” He lifts Sherlock’s chin to kiss his lips softly. “And I can definitely tell that you’re being… mischievous.”
“That’s a very negative word, while my intentions, as you’ll find this evening, are nothing of the sort.”
“This evening, huh? Is it some kind of pre-wedding surprise?” John asks, already feeling the tingle of anticipation.
Sherlock smiles, and there really isn’t any other word for it than mischievous.
“In a manner of speaking. Just eat your breakfast and trust me that it’s for your own good, will you?”
“Oh God. Are you going to divulge some terrible secret that I can only stomach if I don’t eat anything heavy?”
Sherlock nuzzles his neck.
“I’m not telling you. But you have all day to deduce it.”
“Can I at least have tea instead of the juice?”
“No. No caffeinated drinks. And your lunch is in the fridge, so don’t even think of going to that terrible canteen.”
*
When John comes home from work, Sherlock is lounging on the sofa again, wearing his blue dressing gown and very obviously nothing underneath it.
“John!” Sherlock exclaims, jumping up. “I see you had a busy but not too exhausting day, which is perfect for our programme. Go and have a shower.”
“Is that part of your secret plan?” John asks, and kisses Sherlock hello.
“It is a preliminary requirement for my secret plan, just like your diet. Haven’t you worked it out yet?”
“I was at work,” John reminds him, heading towards the bathroom since apparently he has to take a shower. “I didn’t have time to think about your newest whim.”
“It’s not a whim!” Sherlock says, pretending to be hurt. “It’s my wedding gift for you!”
“And I have to be showered and fed according to some obscure standards in order to be able to receive it?”
“Yes,” Sherlock nods and all but manhandles John into the bathroom. John shrugs and takes the shower as directed without really thinking about why he has to – it’s probably something absolutely crazy that he couldn’t figure out anyway, and besides, he has much more interesting things to ponder, like the fact that he’s getting married in less than twenty four hours. And it really shouldn’t affect him this much – it’s not like anything is going to change between them – but it does, and he feels like he’s walking a feet above the ground and quite ready to sing in the shower (he won’t, though, because Sherlock would make fun of him). He almost wishes they had invited more people than just the obligatory two witnesses (Lestrade, as Sherlock grudgingly admitted that the DI was not a complete idiot, and Mrs Hudson, because she would probably evict them otherwise); a part of him wants the whole world to know.
As soon as John gets out of the shower Sherlock barges in, which isn’t very surprising, as Sherlock has about as much regard for privacy as he has for Anderson.
“Let me finish that,” Sherlock murmurs, taking the towel from John and starting to dry him off. John rolls his eyes but says nothing – perhaps incorrect towelling could have equally disastrous effects on Sherlock’s latest experiment as tea could.
“Surely you’re aware that diet influences the taste of ejaculate,” Sherlock says matter-of-factly.
John hesitates. Suddenly he has a feeling that he knows what this is all about.
“And?” he asks slowly.
“And I’m going to fellate you, obviously,” Sherlock announces, pressing the towel in his hand to John’s groin.
“What?” John says cleverly. Well, Sherlock’s hand that has now conveniently dropped the towel and taken hold of something entirely different is a bit distracting.
“Give you a blowjob. Suck you off, or whatever the latest crude expression is.”
“I know what it means, thank you,” John says, stepping back. “I also distinctly remember you don’t like doing it. You told me.” In one of those lengthy conversations they had had at the beginning, before things became this easy, before they found the careful balance that works for both of them.
“Then your memory is not as distinct as you think it is. What I told you was that I’d never done it and didn’t find the idea appealing,” Sherlock says, and somehow John doesn’t find it particularly reassuring. “And that was ages ago. I’ve changed my mind.”
“You’ve changed your mind,”
“Yes!” Sherlock’s eyes narrow. “I thought this nonsense was behind us. I want to do it, so I fail to see the problem.”
“There isn’t any problem,” John assures him, moving closer again, “just…”
“John,” Sherlock says, cupping his face in a gentle hand. “According to my research, most men find oral sex very pleasurable. It would be foolish to deprive you of it unless we find out that I dislike it. You know I don’t like depriving you of anything.”
“Don’t you? I wonder why you keep depriving me of a clean kitchen, then,” John remarks. He’s not going to ask about what kind of research Sherlock carried out. He’s not. He’s just going to hope that it didn’t include a public survey in the streets of London.
Sherlock ignores him, of course.
“I’ve decided I want to know what it feels like. I want to know what kind of new sounds you’re going to make. And I’ve already gone to all the trouble of researching the technique, and of providing you with all the food that’s supposed to have a positive effect on the taste. And from the way you’re staring at my mouth, I’d say you really want me to do it, too.”
John swallows.
“But you’ll stop if you’re uncomfortable.”
“Yes, as you very well know, since I always do.”
John nods. “Sorry.”
It’s been at least a year now since the last time he’d had to have a similar conversation. Mostly, their sex life is just easy, far easier than it should be when one of the partners doesn’t actually like sex. Sometimes John thinks that they are just lucky, but really he knows that it’s because they’ve both tried hard and made it work. It took John some time to get used to not reciprocating (at least, not in the usual sense), to remaining passive and letting Sherlock do all the work, to allow himself to accept what Sherlock offered without feeling guilty about it, and it took Sherlock time to trust John not to overstep the boundaries, but they made it. They got there, and it works. Still, surely it’s understandable that John wants to reassure himself if they’re about to try something new.
Sherlock smiles and kisses him.“It’s fine. I know you’re overly protective of me.”
“I have to be, since you nearly get yourself killed at least once a month,” John points out and pushes Sherlock’s dressing gown off his shoulders, because he can, because Sherlock would never let anyone else strip him naked but he lets John.
Sherlock kisses his neck and resumes his ministrations between John’s legs, and John would be perfectly happy to stay right there, but then Sherlock mutters, “Bed. I’m not getting on my knees for you.”
John takes Sherlock’s hand and lets himself be led into the bedroom, because that’s how it works – letting Sherlock lead the way, be in control, take care of John. He half lies down, half sits propped against the headboard and watches Sherlock trail kisses down his chest, because he’s not going to miss a second of this in case it’s a one-off, and he thinks that he’ll never stop being amazed at the fact that he can have this, Sherlock like this; and then he stops thinking, because sometimes thinking just gets in the way (whatever Sherlock’s opinion on the matter).
Objectively, it can’t be the best blowjob John has ever had, but it kind of is, because it’s Sherlock, his lips and tongue and fingers and a hint of teeth, and his precise knowledge of what John likes, what makes him moan and shudder and whimper, and John wants to keep his eyes open but he can’t, Sherlock’s tongue swirls and flickers and there’s his silky hair between John’s fingers and John loves him and yes.
When he opens his eyes Sherlock is studying him carefully, like he always does, cataloguing all of John’s reactions.
“Well?” he asks when John just smiles at him.
“Twenty three,” John says.
Predictably, Sherlock makes a frustrated noise.
“Why do you keep doing this, John? You know the scale only goes up to ten!”
“Because, as I keep telling you, I can’t rate sex like it’s something quantifiable, I just can’t.”
Sherlock huffs, because apparently John’s inability to assign a number of points from one to ten to every single one of their sexual encounters somehow interferes with Sherlock’s mental statistics. Or whatever it is that he does.
“But I can tell you that it was bloody amazing and you’re brilliant and I want you to kiss me now.”
Sherlock smiles like John is being silly but Sherlock loves it, and complies.
“You do realise that you describe almost everything I do as amazing or brilliant,” he says then. “It’s lost all meaning.”
John decides to disregard that.
“How was it for you?” he asks instead.
Sherlock shrugs. “Jaw hurts a little, but otherwise fine. The taste was still bad, though. I wonder how much worse it’ll be if you eat nothing but junk food. Oh! I did it all wrong; obviously we should’ve started with you eating what you usually eat, this way it’ll be completely disorganised. Oh well, no matter.”
John kisses the top of Sherlock’s head. He knows that, for Sherlock, sex is an ongoing experiment, but that’s fine, because Sherlock likes experiments. It’s also partly a way to alleviate boredom between cases and partly a declaration of love, and somehow the lot makes it worth Sherlock’s time. John doesn’t completely understand what it is that Sherlock gets from sex when there’s no pleasure in it for him, but there’s obviously something, and that’s all that matters.
“Anyway,” Sherlock continues and settles his head on John’s chest, “I swallowed it. Which means there are now bits of you in my digestive tract.”
John chuckles. “You know, that sounds a little cannibalistic.”
“No, it doesn’t,” Sherlock says, and John is sure that it was meant to sound indignant, but as his fingers massage Sherlock’s scalp in ways that make him grow boneless and soft against John, it just sounds content and happy. “It’s beautiful. Romantic.”
“Your notions of romance are a bit twisted.”
“You love them,” Sherlock sighs, pressing even closer to John.
John cannot really disagree with that, and he continues to work his fingers through Sherlock’s hair as Sherlock all but purrs with contentment, which is their usual post-sex routine. Or post-case. Or just about any time Sherlock feels like it, which is far more often than people would guess.
“Tomorrow,” Sherlock murmurs, his warm breath caressing John’s skin.
“Yes,” John grins, tightening his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. “Tomorrow.”
“You’ll never get rid of me after that.”
“Good.”
He can feel Sherlock’s lips form a smile and then press a kiss against his chest.
“You liked your present, then?” Sherlock asks.
“Obviously. Although I don’t get why you didn’t wait until tomorrow night.”
Sherlock lifts his head and gives John his patented John-I-thought-you-were-less-of-an-idiot look. John is never safe from those. Not even in bed. Not even on the eve of their wedding, apparently.
“John. Surely you weren’t expecting us to spend our wedding night in bed. How pedestrian. Everyone does that. It’s the dullest thing in the world.”
“What are we going to do, then?”
Sherlock’s smile is one of evil glee.
“Wait and see.”