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It had been a couple of months since Sherlock managed to get himself a piece of John Watson.
Or as he liked to phrase it, “A couple of weeks since I decided that I could not live any longer had I not tasted his cum and told him I would very much like to, the world and consequences be damned.”
Which was, while sweet in its own twisted way, not entirely appropriate.
~
John was sitting in his arm chair, a mug of tea in one hand and the first Harry Potter book in the other which he wasn’t necessarily reading in favour of watching his boyfriend of two months strut around their flat in nothing but his loose silk robe that revealed more than it concealed.
His eyes alighted on a piece of paper under the leg of Sherlock’s armchair, a dark pink hue, stark against the wooden flooring. John set his drink and book aside and rose to fetch it, his curiosity peaked.
As he skimmed over its contents, a smile started to grow on his face.
“You really are the Queen of Sap, Sherlock,” he huffed, a chuckle leaving his mouth.
Sherlock ceased his agitated strutting and raised an eyebrow in John’s direction.
“Sap?”
“You know, the Queen of Acts-of-Such-Sweetness-That-it-Makes-Others-Want-To-Puke?”
Sherlock snorted, “I am no such thing. Where did you get that idea from?”
John waved the pink paper in the air and Sherlock’s cheeks suddenly became eager to rival the colour of the sheet, his high cheekbones tinted a deep red.
“What- where- Where did you get that?” he sputtered, a long fingered hand shooting out to grab the offending paper.
John tutted as he moved out of Sherlock’s reach, holding out a hand to stop him from even considering advancing towards him.
Looking down at the paper, he began to read out loud.
“Things John Likes:
- John doesn’t like his tea lukewarm- he likes it scalding hot with no sugar and just 10 ml of milk.
- John likes long showers.
- John likes hot baths with lots of lavender bubble bath.
-
John likes it when I give him a massage on rainy days because his shoulder bothers him more in cold weather.
- John likes my fingers (in most of his orifices).
- John likes it when I kiss him slowly and deeply.
- John likes it when I kiss him hungrily as if he were oxygen and I were a drowning man.
- John likes it when-“
John was suddenly cut off as Sherlock snatched the paper out of his hands and hid it behind his back.
“Just because I have a list of things you like, I’m the Queen of Sap? That’s hardly enough evidence!”
Sherlock’s tone was snappy but the flush still on his cheeks betrayed his attempt at anger for the embarrassment it was disguising.
John simply smirked and crossed his arms.
“Your robe.”
“What about my fucking robe?”
“You know it’s my favourite robe of yours. And I know that you only ever used to wear it if all the others were in the wash and yet, you’ve been wearing it more recently. Especially around the time we got together.”
“It grew on me,” mumbled Sherlock.
John snorted with laughter, “Firstly, sentiment. Secondly, you once told me it made you feel like a harem girl.”
The second point wasn’t far from the truth actually. The bordeaux silk hugged Sherlock’s figure deliciously, a deliberately seductive colour bringing out the paleness of his skin and the darkness of his hair. A contrast of colours that screamed ‘Breed me’ to John even though he knew that no matter how hard he fucked Sherlock, he couldn’t get him pregnant.
“Your point?” said Sherlock snarkily.
“You’re wearing it for me. For my pleasure. Which is a sweet thing to do when you hate a piece of clothing so much,” replied John, a small smile gracing his features.
“Alright then, that’s one action!”
“On our first date you serenaded me with your violin.”
“Angelo’s usual violinist canceled!”
“You publicly dedicated the piece to me and said that you’d composed it with me in mind.”
“…”
“You wrote me a poem about my eyes after the first time we had sex.”
“…made love,” mumbled Sherlock almost incoherently.
“You correct my use of ‘had sex’ or ‘fucked’ to ‘made love’ all the time,” John pointed out.
“Not all the time,” Sherlock protested weakly.
“You press random kisses on my left shoulder even when it doesn’t hurt as if you’re trying to heal it.”
“You just smell nice.”
“You insisted on having an experiment to figure out the exact ratio of tea to milk that is required to make my perfect cuppa.”
“It was for science…”
“You tell me you love me every morning and every night without fail even if we’re fighting. Do I go on?”
Sherlock sighed, his curly head hung low, “No, John. I get it. I’ll stop being ridiculously sentimental. I’m sorry.”
John chuckled as he walked over to his mad flatmate and tilted his chin up to meet his ethereal eyes.
“I’m not saying I want you to stop. I’m saying you’re a fantastic boyfriend and I couldn’t have asked for someone to spoil me better. And you do. Spoil me, that is. You spoil me rotten and I love you and I’d love you even if you didn’t. But you do it anyway because you love me even when I’ve been a right prick and don’t deserve your kindness.”
Sherlock softly pressed their lips together, a deep lingering kiss that had John breathless in minutes.
“Silly John,” said Sherlock softly, carding his fingers through John’s hair. “You’re the best, wisest, kindest, most beautiful person I know. You deserve everything good in the world and I intend to give it to you.”
“And you tell me you aren’t the Queen of Sap.”
“Shut up, John.”
“Yeah, I love you too.”