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Chocolate? Already slowly melting in a double boiler over the hob.
Strawberries? The plumpest, juiciest berries washed and patted dry, waiting patiently for their turn to take a dip.
Cream? Sweetened and whipped to perfection, sitting off to the side so they can indulge in something decadent with the leftovers.
They'd set up a neat little assembly line—which, by they, he meant William would be the one handling everything.
Sherlock watched his partner stir the chopped chocolate as it continued to melt. He'd just about balked at the price of those bars when they were at the shop, but William had turned his beautiful scarlet eyes on him with a, “It's for our friends and family, Sherly. Cutting corners won't demonstrate our love.”
So they got the expensive bars. And the biggest strawberries they could find.
William swayed from side to side, small spatula in hand, humming a quiet tune under his breath.
Sherlock’s hands twitched at his sides.
“Are you sure there's nothing more I can do?” he asked, tapping a staccato beat into the tiled floor.
“I'm sure.” William looked up at him, brushing his fringe out of his face—still just a little damp from his earlier shower. “Please continue to stand there and look handsome.”
He chuffed a small laugh and leaned back against the counter, fingers gripping the edge.
Finally, the chocolate was melted into a smooth, silky liquid. He watched as it fell from the spatula in lustrous ribbons when William scooped some up to check consistency.
Long, thin fingers plucked the first plump strawberry from the counter. Holding carefully by the stem, William dipped the berry in the chocolate, coating it liberally before letting the excess drip off and placing it on the prepared parchment at his side.
“How does it look?” William asked.
Sherlock leaned close to peer at the confection, his eyes catching on a smear of chocolate marring the pale skin of his partner's wrist.
“I want to bite it.”
William’s eyes flicked to his, lips quirking up at the corners. “The strawberry.”
“...Yes.”
He snorted adorably and turned back to the chocolate. Another strawberry was picked and dipped in short order. Then another.
Sherlock’s gaze never strayed from that smudge on the inside of William’s wrist.
Three more strawberries made it to the parchment before William reached up to push his hair back again. When his hand came away, there was a streak of chocolate running across his cheek. He didn't seem to notice it as he went back to his task.
Pluck, dip, drip, place.
Pluck, dip, drip, place.
“Liam.”
“Yes?” William turned towards him, eyes wide and innocent.
He stepped into William’s space and cupped his unmarked cheek, leaning in as if to kiss him. William’s eyes fluttered shut.
Instead, Sherlock’s tongue swept across the streak of chocolate. Sweetness—and something unmistakably William—lingered.
He drew back to find William watching him, unimpressed but not entirely displeased.
“You could have used a towel, Sherly.”
And then William leaned in and stole the kiss Sherlock had denied him.
It was soft, chaste, and wholly unsatisfying.
He turned away. Back to the strawberries.
Pluck, dip, drip, place.
Pluck, dip, drip, place.
That damnable spot still clung to William's wrist, drawing his attention, teasing him incessantly.
Pluck, dip, drip, place.
William grabbed one of the smaller strawberries they weren't dipping in chocolate and dragged it through the bowl of whipped cream. He popped it into his mouth, biting down just behind the stem. His tongue darted out of his mouth to lick up the cream that coated his lips. He tossed the stem in the bin.
Pluck, dip, drip—
Sherlock moved without thinking, hand wrapping around William’s wrist.
William’s hand stilled, the strawberry falling into the bowl of chocolate.
Fingers tightened—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to make his intent known. He could feel the pulse fluttering under his thumb.
“Sherly, the chocolate.”
He turned the heat off with his free hand as he pulled William away from the cooker. “Will be there later.”
Sherlock brought the trapped wrist to his mouth, pressing his lips to the pale skin there. Teeth grazed, causing William to tremble ever so slightly, and Sherlock’s tongue flicked out to clean up the chocolate still there.
William shifted—just enough for Sherlock to notice—the faint arch of his back, the slow roll of his hips brushing against him. He turned his head slightly, lips parted, eyes dark beneath lowered lashes.
“Getting ideas, Mr. Holmes?” he murmured.
Sherlock’s gaze sharpened. “Always.”
He stepped into him without hesitation, guiding him back a pace, then another, until the backs of William’s thighs struck the edge of the table. William’s breath hitched.
Sherlock’s hands closed firmly around his hips and turned him, pressing him forward. The table gave a soft creak as William’s palms hit the wood.
He held him there a moment, admiring the line of his spine, the rise and fall of his breath. Then his hands slid lower, fingers hooking into the waistband of William’s trousers.
The fabric yielded with a quiet hiss as he tugged them down, slow, deliberate.
And then—
He stopped and stared. Stared at the slick shine coating that fluttering ring of muscle.
“Liam, you scoundrel.” His fingertips bit harder into the soft flesh of William’s ass. “You planned this, didn't you?”
“I calculated the probability of such an outcome and accounted for the variables,” William moaned as Sherlock squeezed him harder, thumb pressing into his rim.
A shiver shot down Sherlock’s spine. “Brilliant. Devious. Perfect.”
He leaned in and licked a slow, hot stripe through the oily sheen dripping from William’s entrance. A groan escaped his throat as the flavor hit his tongue.
“God, you’re going to be the death of me,” he said, breath ghosting against the sensitive skin. “Strawberry?”
“Variables—Ah!”
Sherlock dipped his middle finger into the tight heat, sinking in slow as William’s back arched.
“You know what pairs brilliantly with strawberries?”
He withdrew—not heeding the sweet, frustrated sound William made—and stepped away to the counter. The bowl sat innocently beside the container of strawberries. With a slow swipe of his finger through it, he returned and knelt behind his partner once more.
“Cream.”
A dollop dropped like a bullseye onto William’s entrance, and he gasped at the sudden chill.
Sherlock leaned back in, taking his time between licks to savor the sounds William made. Between flushed skin and hot tongue, the whipped cream began to melt, dribbling down. Sherlock lapped it back up before it could drip to the floor.
William moaned louder as Sherlock's thumbs stretched him, diving in deeper. He thrust in, strawberries and cream coating his tongue.
His cock throbbed behind the zip of his trousers and he groaned, the vibration making William rock back into him.
Sherlock's grip tightened just slightly, holding William open with reverent precision. His tongue dragged slow, deliberate paths through the mess he'd made, collecting every trace of cream like it was sacred.
He pressed a finger back in, pumping twice before easing in another. They curled deep as he suckled at the rim just above. William gasped—hips twitching—his body caught between clenching around Sherlock’s fingers and chasing the heat of his mouth.
William keened, the sound muffled from where his arms braced himself on the dining table. “Sherly—”
A kiss to the flushed skin just beneath his entrance. A soft scrape of teeth. Then the sudden, unrelenting press of tongue and fingers working in rhythm. Sherlock groaned into him, the sound low and hungry, hips rocking against his own clothed erection.
William’s body trembled beneath his hands, flushed and slick and trembling on the edge. Sherlock watched him—the arch of his back, the way his thighs quivered, the way his breath caught when Sherlock’s tongue passed over that delicate spot again.
God, he was beautiful like this. Ruined and wanting.
Sherlock pulled back slowly, savoring the last taste of him before licking the cream from the inside of his wrist where it had melted down. Then he rose, letting his fingers remain where they were, spreading and curling as he pressed a kiss to the small of William’s back.
“You’re shaking,” he murmured. “So good for me, Liam.”
The way William moaned at that, pressing back into his hand, made Sherlock’s restraint fray at the edges.
He straightened fully, one hand dragging along William’s spine before moving to flick open his trousers. The relief of freeing his cock was almost dizzying—he groaned low, the sound half-mad with need, and stroked himself twice before lining up. Slowly, he removed his fingers from William, leaving him open and asking for more.
Still slick, still clenching faintly around nothing.
Sherlock guided himself to the mark, the head of his cock nudging against William’s entrance.
“Breathe,” he said, though the instruction may have been for himself.
And then he pushed forward—slow, steady—sinking into him inch by inch, feeling the way William opened around him, took him in.
“Sherly—” William gasped.
Sherlock ran his hands up William's sides, pushing the fabric of his shirt higher, baring the arch of his back. Then he dragged them back down, palms hot and grounding, settling on William’s hips. He pulled him flush as he bottomed out, their skin meeting with a quiet, shuddering finality.
William trembled beneath him.
“Liam,” Sherlock murmured, leaning forward, chest brushing William’s spine, “you feel—”
He didn’t finish the sentence. Instead, he drew his hips back and thrust forward again, gentle but firm. William gripped the edge of the table.
He stayed still for a moment, buried deep, forehead pressed to the nape of William’s neck. The sounds between them—ragged breath, a faint creak of wood—seemed louder than they should’ve.
Then he pulled back, slow again, just to feel it. The tight drag. The heat. The way William twitched beneath him.
"God, Liam..." he breathed.
William didn’t answer—just reached back blindly, hand clumsy on Sherlock’s thigh, urging him on.
Sherlock set a rhythm, shallow at first, then deeper, sharper. He watched the way William gripped the table’s edge, the flush creeping up his spine, the shirt still bunched high. He couldn’t look away. Couldn’t think of anything but the way it felt to have him like this—open, gasping, his.
Sherlock thrust again—deeper this time—and felt the way William shuddered, his fingers slipping on the edge of the table.
“Sherly—please—”
It was barely a whisper.
Sherlock reached around, hand sliding over William’s stomach, down, until he found him hard and aching. He wrapped his fingers around him and stroked in time with his thrusts, the rhythm growing faster, messier.
William’s breath hitched. His whole body tensed.
“I’m—” he started, but it broke off into a gasp as he came, spilling over Sherlock’s hand, legs trembling, voice catching.
Sherlock groaned, hips stuttering as William clenched around him. He buried himself deep one last time and followed with a low, broken sound, spilling into him as the world narrowed to heat and light and Liam.
For a moment, neither of them moved. Just breathing. Shaking.
Then Sherlock leaned forward, pressing a kiss to William’s spine, just below where his shirt had ridden up.
“So,” he said, breath still shallow. “Back to dipping strawberries?”
William made a disgusted sound that turned into a moan as Sherlock started to ease back.
“Not until we sanitize the table and ourselves.”