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Sherlock is impossible. John knows this the day he moves into Baker Street, but he never really anticipated it being such an issue. Now, older and wiser to the ways of Sherlock Holmes, John likes to think he’s insinuated himself rather nicely into the detective’s lifestyle.

For example: Sherlock hates to eat. No, scratch that. Sherlock doesn’t derive any pleasure from eating. His body is merely transport, after all, and therefore trivial matters of nutrition and sleep are fulfilled to the necessary requirements and not a single tic further. John, on the other hand, loves food. He loves to cook, he loves the tastes and smells and companionship that goes along with a well cooked meal. His gran used to make Sunday Suppers for the whole family when he was growing up, and in his opinion nothing smelled better than freshly baked bread, a good roast and a lovely Yorkshire pudding on the hob when he needed a little home comfort.

John is also devious and somewhat sneaky, if he allows himself to think on it. He knows Sherlock’s mouth will never water over the sweet smells of baking chocolate biscuits or a lovely roast chicken, but he’s watched Sherlock nick mince pies out of Mrs. Hudson’s fridge often enough to deduce that the man does have taste, albeit confusing and obscure.

So John makes a list: Things Sherlock Likes

  1. Mince pies
  2. Proper toffee, with nuts on
  3. Peanut brittle
  4. Orange marmalade
  5. Fruit scones, but he picks the currants out separately and lines them up in neat little rows along the work top (John tried once just making plain scones, but Sherlock wouldn’t touch them, saying they were missing the squishy bits)
  6. Really greasy, salty chips soaked in more vinegar than should ever be allowed (this one rather surprised John, if he was honest)
  7. Vegemite (Just vegemite. Not on toast or mixed into potatoes, but licked clean off a butter knife.)
  8. Lyons brand original blend tea, with half a sugar and a splash of milk (Not PG Tips, Yorkshire brand or Twinnings. If it’s not Lyons, Sherlock won’t drink it)
  9. Chicken haleem with enough paratha to enfold an army
  10. Beef Lo Mein (but absolutely not barbeque pork.)
  11. John is also aware that Sherlock will ingest food if John makes it, places it directly in front of his face, and he is distracted enough not to notice his hand travelling through the air towards his mouth with morsels of nutrition on a rather conveniently placed utensil. Every time John plays this game, he’s aware he’s risking the tender balance between concerned flatmate and overprotective mothering, but he’s willing to chance it so long as it keeps Sherlock in proper health. He’s gained a good solid half stone since John moved in and that makes the doctor in John stand up and silently applaud.

    It comes as no small amount of surprise then, on an unassuming Thursday evening, when John is stirring a pot of Bolognese, laying pasta sheets into a pot of boiling water and trying to pry the indecently tight lid off a fresh tub of ricotta, that said flatmate comes waltzing through his bedroom door, nose in the air and sniffing. Loudly. Sherlock comes to stand directly behind John, so close in fact, that his bony hip bones are digging rather alarmingly into John’s iliac crest and resting his ridiculously pointy chin on John’s right shoulder, eyes closed and inhaling with obvious, nearly obscene enjoyment.

    John stares for a full fifteen seconds, completely frozen and mouth positively agape. Until, of course, the pot of Bolognese starts bubbling sluggishly and he returns to stirring.

    John,” Sherlock rumbles, and John shivers slightly as he can actually feel the word vibrating up his spine where Sherlock’s chest is plastered against his back. “Good god, John, what are you making?”

    John blinks, takes a deep breath (firmly ignoring how this action manages to actually push himself tighter against Sherlock’s front), opens his mouth to speak, closes it again with an audible snap, shakes his head as if to clear the candy floss that seems to have taken up residency, and starts the process all over again. Three times he repeats his gaping-fish act until he finally manages to choke out a feeble, “Lasagna.”

    Sherlock hums against the crook of his neck, eyes still closed and an absolutely pornographic smile stretching his unnaturally plush lips, “It smells divine.” And really, that’s the last proverbial straw for poor John Watson.

    You see, Dr. John Hamish Watson, MD, FRCS and former Captain of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers is not gay. He’s not, really. He’s just recently come to terms with the fact that he may not be entirely straight either, technically speaking. While his mates in Afghanistan sometimes took up with each other to ease the lonely nights shot through with adrenaline fueled panic and the heady sense of desperation born of imminent mortality, John had never strayed from the straight and narrow, so to speak. He’s wanked, of course, in the presence of other men, but that was really due to necessity and the utter lack of privacy when forced proximity is the closest thing you get to solitary enjoyment.

    It’s not like the idea of another man watching him or listening to him or wanting him has ever turned him on. Not at all. Of course not. Especially not if that man happened to be tall, angular and made of elbows. Nor if that man happened to look like sex on legs with unfathomable eyes and a mouth that should frankly be labeled a criminal health hazard due to the impossible way it seemed to be harsh and critical, soft and lyrical, deep and velvety, wide and cynical, and pouty and fuckable all at the same bloody time. And if John Watson has spent a rather alarming amount of time dedicated to thinking of said non-existent man, well, really that shouldn’t be anyone’s business but his own.

    It wasn’t precisely unethical the way his fingers sometimes lingered over the pale skin he was examining after a particularly brutal (and therefore bloody brilliant) case, and if his steady hands caressed the flesh tenderly while wrapping a sprained wrist or cleaning an admittedly pedestrian abrasion, well he could just blame it on the fact that he really is an excellent doctor who cares for his patients, even if they are unfairly attractive stroppy consulting detectives.

    It is therefore completely understandable that as one Sherlock Holmes, the absolute sodding epitome of tall, angular, enigmatic, attractive and (fuck all) sexy as hell, leans the full length of his lanky body flush against the back of John’s small and compact one, John’s brain decides to have a miniscule, minor, manic mental break down. John can actually feel his neurons short circuiting and he is therefore completely absolved of any and all actions that may or may not take place in the very near future.

    Such as (for example) the fact that his hips tilt backwards, rubbing his arse firmly (and positively shamelessly) into the cradle of Sherlock’s sharp and pointy hipbones. Or the fact that his head falls back onto Sherlock’s bony shoulder with a painful thud that really probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does. Or the fact that his mouth opens and a positively wanton moan full of pent-up frustration and sexual desire slips past his lips on a rush of air that seems to have come from the very pit of his wanking fantasies of the past ten months.

    What is shocking, however, is the fact that Sherlock Holmes, man of constant and inescapable scrutiny, unquestionable genius, self-professed sociopath, and positive poster boy of asexuality, lets him.

    John is so shocked about this, in fact, that he completely forgets to worry about the fact that his arse is now actually grinding in a small circular pattern into his flatmate’s absolutely not-asexual and very hard cock. Nor does he worry about the fact that said flatmate’s hands are in reality, gripping his hips and probably bruising the skin there under layers of cotton, wool and denim. Nor does he worry that Sherlock’s mouth has dropped open and is, in actuality, tasting (well, sucking really, if he’s being completely honest) the skin at his collarbone.

    None of this occurs to him at all. Until, that is, the pungent scent of slightly over-caramelized tomato (not burning, surely; not quite)and the sludgy, burbling sound of thick sauce attempting to roll out of the pot draws John’s attention firmly back into the here and now. His head snaps up, his hand shoots forward and wraps tightly around the sadly forgotten and red-tinted wooden spoon and he stirs a little too quickly at the now slightly over-stewed Bolognese, making a right mess of the hob in the process.

    The realization of what exactly had distracted him crashes down on him a few seconds later and before he can remedy the situation, heat rushes up the back of his neck, infusing his cheeks and turning his ears a bright and unflattering crimson. This also causes his head to become slightly dazed and fuzzy, as no man ever has enough blood to supply an embarrassed flush and a throbbingly hard erection. No man. Ever. John’s a doctor; he knows these things.

    This little foray into the culinary art of Saving The Meal From Burning Down The Whole Bloody House does not, however, affect Sherlock Holmes at all. He is still wound tightly around his army-doctor-flatmate and very much writhing against him in an indecent and decidedly non-asexual manner.

    It’s about this time that John’s brain has a startlingly sudden moment of absolute clarity. Turning down the gas under the Bolognese and setting down the now slightly squished tub of ricotta, John wraps his fingers around Sherlock’s wrists and tugs them gently away from his hips. Sherlock’s mouth stops sucking at his pulse point immediately and he takes a devastating (albeit very small) step backwards, disengaging his hips from their shameless rutting against John’s arse. John can feel the tension thrumming through the muscles beneath his fingertips and he knows that this is the moment when he makes a Very Important Life Decision.

    “Sherlock,” John says and he’s fantastically proud of how steady his voice sounds.

    “John.” Sherlock’s voice is a little less steady and rumbles dangerously on the edge of positively sinful.  John takes a fortifying breath and flexes his grip slightly around Sherlock’s wrists.

    “This lasagna has an hour to bake once assembled.” Sherlock hums again and brushes his lips almost imperceptibly against the nape of John’s neck. John shivers in reaction, because really, what else can he do? He clears his throat. “Can you think of any way we might be able to pass the time of an entire hour while waiting for our dinner to be thoroughly cooked?”

    Sherlock closes the distance again and rolls his hips forward, crashing into John gently enough so as not to tip him into the boiling pasta, but firmly enough to show that yes, indeed, he is an absolute fucking genius sometimes.

    “Yes, John. I rather think I can.”

    John Watson has always loved cooking, but assembling an entire tray of lasagna while being distracted so thoroughly by a seriously turned on and orally fixated consulting detective really does take the top position on his mental list of Memorable Meals. By the time the neatly constructed layers of cheese, sauce and pasta are finally in the oven, Sherlock has been nearly scalded twice, John is sporting three rather unfortunately blistered fingers, they’ve both been thwarted by the unreasonably tightly sealed ricotta tub (thus resulting in Sherlock actually grabbing a cleaver in frustration and splitting the thing down the middle), John’s favorite oatmeal coloured jumper is probably stained for life, and the entire sodding kitchen is covered in Bolognese.

    None of this matters, however, because as John leans over to set the timer on the oven, Sherlock actually growls and hoists John up over his shoulder. Cave-man style. John’s equilibrium has been tested before on many occasions, but never has he found himself so thoroughly helpless (or so absurdly high in the air) and so his body goes into automatic soldier-mode. He flails. Violently.

    The resulting crash to the hardwood floor of 221B Baker Street can be heard well into Regent’s Park, where the pigeons take sudden flight, causing a dotty old gran to startle so hard she drops her string bag containing the wallets of no less than fourteen unsuspecting victims on the Circle Line train, which happens to be spotted systematically by one Sargent Hopkins at New Scotland Yard who, by sheer chance, is glancing at the CCTV screens at the exact right time and immediately dispatches the MET to gather the old lady, the evidence and the string bag, causing everyone to wonder at their good fortune that such a noise was to be had at this precise time in this location, which then results in a not-so-thorough investigation into the cause of such a noise and subsequently resulting in Forensic Analyst Anderson owing Detective Inspector Lestrade a stunning two-hundred-and-fifty quid.

    And even though John Watson has no idea that Sherlock Holmes can actually solve crimes by sheer accident, both he and said consulting detective can now be found lying in a stunned heap of tangled limbs and bruised joints, simultaneously groaning in pain and giggling madly.

    It is at this point, that Sherlock apparently decides he’s had enough of foreplay and goes in for the kill, so to speak. Wrapping his ridiculously long fingers around the back of John’s neck, he tilts the smaller man’s head back and devours his mouth, licking against John’s tongue and coaxing a very low moan out of Dr. John H. Watson. A moan that goes straight to Sherlock’s cock and before he can quite figure out the semantics, he has John flat on his back, legs spread and actually bucking up against him through far too many layers of fabric.

    John is not an idiot. He knows that if they don’t get upstairs into his bedroom this minute, there is the distinct possibility that he very well may be shagged within an inch of his life right here in the middle of the sitting room, and while that thought has a certain appeal, he rather thinks he’s acquired quite enough bruises for one day, thank you very much. So it is with reluctance that he pulls his tongue out of Sherlock’s mouth, extracts his fingers from their slow perusal of dark brown curls, unwinds his thighs from around a set of overly pronounced hip bones, and manages to stand upright without caving in on himself by the absolute weight of pheromones clouding the air.

    Sherlock eyes him from the rug, seemingly uncaring about the small trickle of blood seeping from his temple where his cranium collided with the corner of the coffee table in his miscalculated Hauling Of John Watson. Then he gracefully gets to his feet and absolutely stalks towards John, shirt rumpled and suit jacket missing a button, trousers most assuredly tented, hair disheveled and positively reeking of sex. John lets out a small (manly) whimper and scampers for the staircase, making it only halfway up before Sherlock’s absurdly long legs close the distance and he tries Take Two on the Hauling Of John Watson, managing to keep his balance this time and succeeding in quite literally sweeping John off his feet.

    He shoulders John’s bedroom door open and actually throws John onto the bed, ignoring the creaking of bed springs and the ominous and rather foreshadowing sound of the headboard bouncing harshly off the wall. John then finds himself completely covered in six feet of ridiculously hard Sherlock and stops giving two fucks if he’s bruised for years to come because This. Is. Glorious.

    There are sounds of cotton tearing, buttons pinging off of slightly peeling wallpaper, zips easing apart, clothing rustling as it’s shoved, wrested and manhandled off of flesh and then two twin sighs of absolute bliss as naked skin comes into contact with gloriously naked skin. John’s head is tipped back and he’s finding breathing to be terribly inconvenient at the moment, and probably overrated anyway as his mouth is currently occupied with Sherlock’s tongue. The slide of Sherlock’s cock against his perineum is distracting enough to tense his body of its own volition, causing Sherlock to groan into his collarbone and buck his hips harder against John’s.

    This results in John arching his back so hard off the bed that his spine might never straighten out again (much like his sexuality, come to think of it). Sherlock’s tongue is doing truly wicked things to John’s left nipple and really, that should be considered terribly unfair since it seems to be short circuiting John’s brain and turning his limbs into sexually-crazed jelly. He cannot be held responsible for the fact that he’s writhing against the sheets now, spreading perspiration and endorphins across the cotton and really if Sherlock hadn’t wanted John to be completely wrecked after a simple five minutes of mindless frottage, he shouldn’t have started this whole mess in the first place.

    Sherlock seems to be in a similar situation, however, as his cock is now throbbing against John’s inner thigh so hard that John can actually count the heart beats as they pulse through Sherlock’s veins. He is mumbling filthy suggestions into John’s skin while simultaneously attempting to map out every inch of John’s body with tongue and teeth.

    John, on the other hand, ever the clinical physician, takes the opportunity to lean over and fumble with his bedside table, producing a condom and a well-used bottle of lubricant, fingers shaking with adrenaline and serotonin. Sherlock’s tongue, however, is tracing the jut of John’s hip bone and John’s brain completely shuts down. An animalistic growl of pure lust rumbles through John’s chest and his hips thrust upwards, dragging the head of his leaking cock along one atrociously sharp cheekbone.

    Sherlock’s eyes flick upwards and the heat and intensity of his gaze has John gasping for air. The sight of Sherlock’s lips, parted and red, obscenely wet and open around the head of his cock just about finishes him off right there. One side of Sherlock’s mouth quirks upwards slightly into his trademark smirk before he lowers his face and his lips close tightly around the head of John’s cock. John’s skull thumps backwards against the bed and his hands scramble sharply across the sheets in search of purchase. He settles for gripping one side of the mattress so hard his knuckles whiten and one hand whipping downward to bury his fingers into the soft curls at the back of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock groans, the vibrations thrumming up through John’s cock and settling a heat low in his abdomen. He is absolutely not going to last, and really who would expect him to at this point?

    Sherlock’s hands grip the back of John’s thighs, pulling them out and up, spreading John even further right as Sherlock breathes sharply through his nose and makes a quick motion with his jaw. John feels a tight sensation against the head of his prick and it takes him two solid seconds before he realizes he’s actually in Sherlock’s throat. The realization has him reeling and before he can do so much as squeeze his fingers into the back of Sherlock’s hair in warning, John is coming. An eye-squeezing, muscles-trembling, throat-shattering, vision-blurring, sensation-overloading orgasm tears through John, bowing his back off the bed and causing the panes of glass in his windows to actually rattle with the impact. Well, not really, but it sure feels that way. All the while, Sherlock’s eyes drink John in, just as his throat swallows around John’s cock, milking the last jerking dribbles of semen before he releases the oversensitive flesh and rests his forehead on John’s pelvis, chest heaving with near suffocation.

    John lies in the middle of the bed, limbs flung outward like a sunburst, eyes glazed over and a dopey, dazed expression stretching his mouth into a dazzling smile.

    “That,” he eventually pants, “was brilliant.”

    Sherlock merely gazes up at him, chin resting delicately on the soft flesh of John’s thigh and a slow, self-satisfied smirk tilting one side of his lips up in approval. His own body is thrumming with unfulfilled tension and as John watches, his eyes darken, pupils dilated so large they almost obscure the pale irises completely. He licks his lips, now swollen and red and practically crawls up John’s body, skin slick and flushed hot with desire.

    John takes a deep breath and resigns himself to the fact that this man will probably be the death of him someday. Not today, if he can help it, but certainly not for lack of trying. John’s limbs are shaky and twitching with aftershocks, but he winds his arms around the back of Sherlock’s neck anyway, pulling him down into a breath-stealing kiss which tastes unsurprisingly of John’s own come and pure sex. Sherlock’s purring groans are completely satisfying and as he slots himself firmly between John’s thighs, the weight and heat of his cock doesn’t startle John at all, which he finds oddly disconcerting.

    Having been straight all his life, one would think that the imminent impaling of John Watson onto anyone’s cock might be cause for mild alarm at the very least. John, however, is a complex and multi-faceted man who seems to find the delicious friction of Sherlock’s cock against the crease of his arse a rather tantalizing sensation of marvelously wicked promise mixed with a heady sense of absolute power. As stated previously, John is not an idiot. He knows that coaxing Sherlock Holmes out of his self-induced asexuality is not a small feat to be undertaken by just any individual. The fact that it’s John Sherlock seems to want is proving more of an aphrodisiac that anyone could have ever predicted.

    It is therefore with a rock-steady hand that John pushes the lubricant into Sherlock’s fingers and pats around on the bed blindly for the condom. He finds it sticking helpfully to the side of his sweaty thigh and after a brief tousle with the unhelpfully slick foil wrapper, John manages to extract the latex and hold it out expectantly to Sherlock who is consequently busy at the moment slicking up two of his ridiculously long fingers and re-capping the lube.

    Right about now is the time when John’s brain decides to go offline again, curling up into a defensive pose of self-preservation and pathetic warning labels because somebody really should remind Doctor John Watson that first-time anal sex is Probably Going To Hurt. John is blissfully ignoring that part of his brain, however, in favor of listening to Sherlock’s breathy moans as he positions his fingers against the entrance to John’s body.

    Sherlock is staring up at John again, but with an intensity bordering on reverence at present that is making John’s bones melt and his heart clench with an emotion he’d really rather not think about right now. Sherlock’s lower lip ends up trapped between his teeth at the exact instant he slips the tip of his middle finger past the tight muscle of John’s anus and the world seems to narrow into a precise point and a momentarily startling flair of unexpected pain.

    John gasps and unconsciously shifts his hips, pulling Sherlock’s finger farther in instead of out and that sensation definitely warrants a sharp hiss of pain instead. Sherlock freezes immediately, concern and alarm sharpening his gaze before he quickly pulls his finger back, trying to remove the source of discomfort. John’s eyes begin to water and he grabs Sherlock’s wrist, stilling it inside of him for just a moment. He knows he needs to relax. He knows, as a doctor, that this is simply the tensing sensations of muscles previously unused for this type of activity and he groans, also knowing that if Sherlock can tilt his fingers just so and brush against his prostate gland all other sensations will be drowned by the intense pleasure that will radiate through his whole body.

    And right then is the time when Sherlock, the aforementioned genius who can read people better than most people read books, realizes that all he needs is an extra inch of finger and about ninety degrees to make John Watson positively scream with pleasure. And scream he does.

    Rocking his hips now in tangent with Sherlock’s increasingly quick stretching, John arches his back again and sobs Sherlock’s name along with a litany of broken pleas and the fantastic word fuck on constant loop. All pain is lost in the slick sensation of Sherlock’s long, elegant fingers, so talented at playing the violin, picking through crime scene details at typing out rapid texts, currently buried knuckle-deep in one quivering mess of John Watson.

    The overwhelming pleasure shocking through his system is making his cock twitch feebly, but John is not a young man and knows that the idea of his cock hardening again is laughable at best. That doesn’t stop the electric pulses singing through his veins at every gentle nudge of Sherlock’s fingers against his prostate, nor the intense ache in his chest every time he allows his eyelids to flutter open and take in the incredible sight of this impossible man, flushed with desire and watching him come apart so completely with a rapt attention previously only granted to the decaying bodies of bloated corpses. How utterly romantic.

    At the slight stretch of three fingers, the twinge of discomfort returns, but Sherlock is being so careful that John barely notices. He feels a brief moment of uncertainty, but then Sherlock is reaching up, licking into John’s mouth and he feels the moan as it vibrates up through Sherlock’s chest, velvet deep and unbelievably smooth. John’s fingers tangle into Sherlock’s unbelievably soft curls, tugging him forward and therefore unconsciously slipping his fingers from his arse. John’s pulse races and his vision swims until he remembers to breathe when he feels Sherlock position himself gently, but quite insistently against the loosened muscle of John’s hole.

    Chest heaving with labored breath, John glances up into Sherlock’s damp, flushed face and notes the question lurking behind his entirely blown pupils. He nods briefly, reminding himself to relax as Sherlock’s cock starts the unbearably slow slide into him, every delicious inch stretching John and turning his quivering thighs into mush. The careful preparation seems to have paid off because John is feeling absolutely no pain, just an exquisite heat licking up his spine and a powerful sense of connection with his not-so-obnoxious-anymore flatmate. Lover. Boyfriend? Sherlock.

    Sherlock, who is kissing John frantically, mumbling gentle platitudes and words that sound suspiciously like French into his skin. Sherlock, who is running his tongue up along the underside of John’s jaw and sinking his teeth into the soft flesh, marking and claiming John with unequivocal possession. Sherlock, who burns brighter than the sun, filling John’s whole life with heat and excitement and incendiary bliss. Sherlock, who is definitely slamming his hips against John’s hard enough to bruise, to claim, to send the blasted headboard crashing into the wall on every upward thrust. Sherlock, whose eyes are boring into John’s as pleasure crashes through him, causing his breath to stutter to a halt. Sherlock, who seems to only remember one word as he nears climax, chanting it in rhythm with his rolling thrusts, a steady litany of John, John, John, John, John.

    Sherlock, who is groaning and swearing and pleading and sweating and thrusting and panting and grinding and mumbling and rocking and slamming and coming and coming and coming and coming.

    John’s own cock twitches in sympathy as he feels Sherlock stiffen, head thrown back and tendons straining along his long, pale throat, breath gusting out on a long sigh tinged with the ghost of John’s name. Fuck, but he’s beautiful like this, John thinks. All stiff armor and caustic cynicism dissolved in the face of such delightfully excruciating pleasure, melting his walls and leaving him vulnerable and approachable and wonderfully human.

    Sherlock levels his gaze back at John, breath still labored and chest heaving. John watches as an errant bead of sweat rolls languidly down Sherlock’s temple, sliding down his neck and pooling in the sharp hollow of his clavicle. His unbelievably full lips stretch into a lazy grin and John can’t help but return the expression, with interest.

    Sherlock tips forward and drapes himself across John, capturing his mouth in a slow, sinfully sensual kiss that has John’s toes curling against the damp sheets. He reaches down and grips the base of the condom, sliding his cock out of John with a slick pop that has both of them giggling madly again. John wraps his still-shaking arms around Sherlock’s back, tangling his fingers into those ridiculous curls that are even more wild that usual. Sherlock stretches his muscles and settles heavily, resting his full weight on top of John and seeming to absolutely purr with satisfaction, nuzzling his face into the sweaty crook of John’s neck and inhaling deeply.

    “John,” he mumbles many minutes later as the afterglow settles down into a marvelous feeling of incredible contentment.

    “Sherlock?” John answers, because it’s honestly the only word he thinks his tongue is capable of enunciating at the moment.

    “When did you say the lasagna will be ready? I am absolutely starving.”

    And so it is, with great pleasure and no small amount of pinkened cheeks, that Dr. John H. Watson adds number eleven to the list of Things Sherlock Likes:

  12. Lasagna, with homemade Bolognese (preferably eaten directly from the pan at half eleven at night, and after a considerable amount of time to set and cool. See recipe for details.)