Work Text:
The first one comes from Mike Stamford.
"Sorry, I know it's a few days early," he says, pushing his glasses higher on his nose and shoving his other hand into his satchel. "But I'm going to be out of town for a conference until Tuesday, so I thought better to catch you beforehand." With a triumphant smile, he retrieves a paper-wrapped box. "So, er… happy birthday, Sherlock."
Sherlock darts a glance in John's direction, but John seems utterly absorbed in something on his mobile. Mike is still watching him with an expectant smile, so Sherlock puts out a hand to accept the proffered gift.
The wrapping paper is bright green. Leftover from Christmas, Sherlock thinks as he slides his index finger behind the flap and unsticks the tape, but just generic enough that Mike convinced himself Sherlock wouldn't notice.
"A tie," Sherlock says, lifting the lid from the narrow white box to reveal a strip of striped fabric in shades so garishly uncoordinated it might easily be a school tie. Sherlock rubs it between his fingers; acrylic. Precisely the sort of thing he'd expect Mike to select, if he'd ever given something so thoroughly mundane a moment's thought. "I don't wear ties. When have you ever seen me wear a tie?"
Mike lifts one shoulder in a shrug. "John thought you might want to start."
Behind him, John shoves his mobile into the pocket of his coat. "He means thank you, of course," he says hurriedly. "Kind of you, Mike."
In the taxi, Sherlock sets the box on the seat between them. John touches his tongue to his lip, then turns his face to the window and doesn't look round again for the whole ride back to Baker Street.
*
Two days later, just as they're about to leave a scene—nothing left but the debrief, dull—and head over to the lab, Donovan calls out for them to wait.
"Oh, what now?" Sherlock snaps, but John just gives him a blank look and turns to watch her progress across the carpark.
Donovan jogs over to her car and retrieves something from the boot. It turns out to be two long, narrow boxes made of cheap, folded plastic, held together by a length of crime scene tape done up in a bow.
"From both of us," Sally tells him. "Sorry about the wrapping job."
The contents of both boxes are plainly visible. Each a different shade of burgundy, the ties are clearly from the same manufacturer. Obvious enough that both were purchased at the same time, even without the faintly gummy residue of the price stickers still clinging to the sides of the boxes.
"Putting the partner's name on a gift tag is really a spousal prerogative, isn't it?"
Donovan's eyes pinch tight at the corners. "John thought if you had something to wear them with, you'd stop being so rude about the tiepins, but of course I told him there wasn't anything that would stop—"
"Thank you, Sally," John says, bringing a hand to Sherlock's lower back to steer him toward the main street.
"Should've known basic manners were too much to ask," Sally calls after them.
Sherlock opens his mouth to retort, but John's hand at his back increases its pressure. "Just keep walking," John tells him.
"You know," Sherlock says, slanting a glance at John's face out of the corner of his eye, "she didn't wish me a happy birthday."
"Mm. I wonder why."
*
Molly, to her credit, at least waits until they're done examining the body to pull out her gift.
"John said it was your birthday on Sunday. I mean, we all knew it was already, of course. Well, I did." A quick, nervous smile slides across her mouth, no sooner there than gone. "Anyway. This is for you."
Sherlock accepts the box with its careful, elaborate wrapping and by-now familiar shape without comment.
The box itself is heavy paper. Spencer Hart, by the label. Sherlock has to fold back a layer of tissue paper to reveal the expected necktie. It's a fine silk blend, blue-grey, with a subtle, closely-woven textured pattern.
Molly makes a small sound in the back of her throat. "I… thought the colour would be nice, with. With your eyes."
John coughs once, very quietly, which is entirely unnecessary. Sherlock learned something from the debacle at Christmas, at least. There are half a dozen questions sitting heavily at the back of his tongue, but he keeps them to himself.
"Thank you," he tells her. "I'm sure it will."
*
That night, when Sherlock strides rapidly across the sitting room to brace both hands on the armrests of John's chair and lean in, John hardly even seems surprised.
For the space of several uncomfortable breaths, Sherlock thinks John might attempt to ignore him altogether. Then he sets his book in his lap and looks up, eyes wide, giving away nothing.
"Can I help you?"
Sherlock leans in until he can press their cheeks together with a faint rasp of stubble on stubble. He closes his eyes and breathes in the clean scent of John's hair. When he speaks, his voice is very low. "If I'd known you were going to tell everyone, I'd have sworn you to secrecy."
"Oh yes." Even at a whisper, the curl of amusement in his tone is obvious. The movement of John's warm breath against his skin sends a shiver down Sherlock's spine. "Birthdays. State secrets. Highly classified."
"I've never been much for them."
"I've noticed. And more fool you." John brings a hand up to the side of Sherlock's ribcage, sliding it down, down, until he can slip his fingers beneath the waistband of Sherlock's trousers. "Me, though," he says, his fingers trailing warmth along the back of Sherlock's hip, "I tend to think you're something worth celebrating."
"John, that's ridiculous, it doesn't have to be my birthday to—"
John's other hand slides up the back of Sherlock's neck. He spreads his fingers wide, briefly, before twisting them into the short curls where Sherlock's hair meets the smooth skin of his neck. His grip is hard, sharp and inexorable; to Sherlock's surprise, he yields, allowing John to turn his head to press their mouths together in a kiss.
When breathlessness finally forces them apart again, Sherlock opens his eyes to see John smiling up into them.
"As I say," John says. "Something to celebrate."
*
The next day, they go to visit Lestrade.
"A day early yet, but I have orders not to call you in tomorrow unless we get a properly interesting one."
"Oh, for God's sake," Sherlock snaps. "It's a birthday, not a bank holiday. And what do you mean, orders?"
Lestrade's eyes flick over to John, who is pressing his lips together in an obvious attempt to swallow a grin.
Whatever it is they're playing at, it's exasperating.
"At least open it, Sherlock," he says. Sherlock huffs out a breath and snatches the bag from Lestrade's outstretched hand.
The contents are obviously a regifted token from his wife: beneath a crumpled mass of tissue paper is a coiled length of wool. Another bloody necktie, in a dark green far more suited to Lestrade's own colouring than Sherlock's. As if this weren't all bad enough already—everyone reminding him of his birthday when he'd just as soon have forgotten it altogether, not to mention the relentless onslaught of pointless gifts—now he's being subjected to secondhand castoffs from unfaithful spouses.
Sherlock takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose. "Another necktie." He fishes the tie out and tosses it onto the desk with a snort of derision. "I don't wear neckties, John, why—"
"Sherlock." There's a clear warning in John's tone. He retrieves the tie and tucks it neatly into the pocket of his jacket.
Sherlocks turns on him. "Don't think I've forgotten your role in this," he snaps. John just returns his gaze, his expression perfectly, carefully blank. "I don't understand why yet, but if you think I won't work it out, you're even more—"
"Maybe he's hoping you'll show a bit more professionalism once in a while," Lestrade breaks in, pushing his lower jaw forward in a smug grin. "Project a better image."
"Given what passes for 'professional' with you lot, I'll stick with competence, thanks."
"Ignore him," John says. "And thank you, Greg."
Lestrade's laughter follows them all the way to the stairs.
*
On the morning—make that afternoon, he amends, taking in the slant of sunlight through the sitting room windows—of his birthday, Sherlock emerges from his bedroom to find yet another box propped up against the clutter on the kitchen table.
"You got Mycroft involved as well?" Sherlock says, lifting the lid from the small box to reveal a neatly-rolled length of raw silk. The colour is a reserved, ostentatiously understated slate. The whole thing is rather horrifyingly tasteful, in fact, and—
Sherlock groans. "Oh God, it's bespoke."
"Mm," John agrees. "Though in fairness, I'm not sure how much that means when it comes to neckties." The corner of his mouth quirks up in amusement, though he doesn't raise his eyes from the screen of his laptop. "There's a note."
Sherlock unsticks the flap on the envelope. The handwriting is his assistant's, of course. Pleased to learn you finally intend to present yourself properly. Sherlock lets the card fall back onto the table. "Of all the things I might call you, John, 'wasteful' has never been one, so I don't—"
He's interrupted by a knock on the open sitting-room door. Sherlock swivels his head to see Mrs Hudson step through the doorway with a tray balanced in both hands.
"Happy birthday!" she calls. "I've made you some biscuits, dear—they keep better than cake—and, well. I might have made a bit of cake to go along with."
Sherlock spies the brightly-coloured wrapping paper resting on the tray beside the biscuit tin.
"Not you as well. This is absurd." Sherlock throws himself along the sofa with his back to the room, tugging his dressing gown closer around his shoulders.
John voices his disapproval before Sherlock has properly heard the words he's just spoken. "Sherlock!"
Sherlock takes a deep breath and closes his eyes. "Thank you, Mrs Hudson, very thoughtful, another tie. Leave it with the others, will you?"
"Quite all right," she says, her tone curled through with amusement. "This once, mind." She sets her tray on the table, and moves to the mantle to deposit her unopened box beside the others. She makes a sound very like a laugh, and Sherlock twists until he can see her from the corner of his eye. "Oh, my," she says, her eyes sparkling with mirth. "Looks like you've got quite the collection here already." Then, with a nod to John, she disappears back down the stairs.
Sherlock heaves a sigh and wrenches his shoulders around until he's once again staring at the back of the sofa, listening to the sound of her footsteps descending the stairs.
"So I suppose you'll have one for me as well, and then perhaps some wise words about proper decorum or acting my age. If that's the case, John, then I should tell you that my brother has never had particular success with that tactic despite rather extensive application, and I'd have expected you of all people—"
"Sherlock." John moves over to the sofa and crouches down beside it. He sets a hand on Sherlock's shoulder, then slides it forward, fingertips splayed wide across the ridge of Sherlock's clavicle. "Sherlock, no. That's not what this is about."
Sherlock draws his arms close across his chest and absolutely does not turn around.
"Then do please feel free to explain yourself."
For the space of several breaths, neither of them speaks. Then Sherlock allows the pressure of John's hand on his shoulder to turn him just enough that he can see John's face. His eyes are very close, almost startlingly so, his mouth curled up into a soft smile. Sherlock searches, but can detect no hint of the mockery he expected to find there.
"Well, Sherlock, you see," John says, and leans down to kiss him.
For the space of several heartbeats everything else is forgotten as Sherlock gives himself over to the sensation of John's mouth on his own: the soft press of John's lips, the wet slide of his tongue, the taste of John's breath as it curls into his mouth.
"— not actually an explanation," Sherlock says, pulling back. He can't help the petulant tone that creeps into his voice.
John sticks his chin forward, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "I know you don't wear ties, Sherlock. And no, I didn't get you one." He leans in to draw Sherlock's lower lip between his teeth, his left hand sliding along the outside curve of Sherlock's hip. "Tell you what," he says, a bit later. "Why don't you go upstairs—yes, Sherlock, to my old bedroom, and don't look at me like that, I have my reasons—and I'll be up in just a minute." John shoves himself upright and turns on his heel, leaving Sherlock to blink open-mouthed at the back of his head as he makes his way to the kitchen.
"Unless you're not interested in what I have for you," John calls over his shoulder.
Sherlock narrows his eyes and considers arguing, but in the end curiosity gets the best of him.
"If you're lying about it not being another bloody necktie, I'm putting poison in your tea," he mutters. When John doesn't respond, he heaves a sigh and swings his feet to the floor.
Upstairs, Sherlock pauses in the doorway to what is still, technically speaking, John's room. He hasn't been up here in ages; even John doesn't come up here much since they started spending most nights together in Sherlock's bed on the first floor.
It's an odd room. Apart from the bed—a creaky old four-poster that Sherlock is convinced is only here because, having found its way upstairs once, no one since could be arsed to carry such a heavy monstrosity back down again—the furniture is cheap, made of modular pressboard indifferently assembled. The only overt signs of John's presence are a short stack of books on the corner of the desk and two pairs of shoes lined up neatly beside the closet, just before the sloping ceiling dips too low for comfort.
"Sherlock."
Sherlock turns more quickly than he intends. John is standing in the doorway with his hands on his hips and what must be all seven of Sherlock's new ties draped around his neck. His breath is coming just a fraction too hard to be explained by the stairs.
"Sherlock," he says again, half a pitch lower, and steps forward until their bodies are pressed together. He tips his chin up and presses his mouth to the place where Sherlock's neck and shoulder meet, then slides his palms up over the planes of Sherlock's chest to push the dressing gown from his shoulders. Sherlock lets it slide down his arms and onto the floor, allowing himself to be inched backward toward the bed. When his thighs hit the mattress he sits, but John keeps advancing, bringing both knees up to frame Sherlock's hips.
He's still trailing kisses down over Sherlock's collarbone as he inches them backward across the bed. Sherlock can't seem to settle his hands. He wants to touch every part of John at once, but every time he tries to reach out John crowds him backward, forcing his hand back down to the bed as he scrambles for balance.
It ends with Sherlock's back hard against the headboard, his body caged in by John's: John's knees on the bed on either side of Sherlock's hips, his weight resting across Sherlock's thighs, his hands coming up to grip the headboard on either side of Sherlock's head.
"I promised you a celebration," John says, voice very low.
Sherlock tips his chin up. "I hardly see how a bunch of unwanted neckties constitutes a celebration."
"No?" The corner of John's mouth curves upward. "You're not thinking hard enough. 'Theorising ahead of data,' I think you'd call it."
His hands alight on Sherlock's shoulders. Sherlock swallows hard and fights to hold himself still as they begin to trail down his arms until he can wrap his fingers around the narrow columns of Sherlock's wrists. He curls forward to press both of Sherlock's palms flat against the mattress, and— oh. Oh.
God.
"I was over at Barts, and Molly asked me if I had anything special planned for you," he says, eyes gleaming. He's still holding Sherlock's hands hard against the mattress in a way that makes Sherlock want to move, just to feel him hold on.
"Molly asked me what you needed. I didn't know, of course. Then she made a joke about how maybe if she gave you a tie you'd start taking me out for some proper dates." John releases his hold on Sherlock's hands. Sherlock keeps his palms flat as John's fingers move over Sherlock's hips, then slip beneath the hem of his t-shirt. The warmth of his touch is almost shocking.
Sherlock sucks in a quick breath. "And you thought—"
"I didn't think anything, at first," John concedes, pulling Sherlock's shirt over his head and off. He twists slightly to toss it aside. Sherlock watches the shift of the compact musculature of his shoulder, visible even beneath the thick material of his jumper. "But then I remembered that time in the kitchen. With the— your hands." He reaches down to wrap his fingers around Sherlock's right wrist, brings it up to his mouth, and plants a kiss on the thin skin on the underside of it.
Sherlock's chest feels tight. God, that night. Just the memory of it is enough to bring his pulse, heavy and hot, to the surface of his skin.
They'd just wrapped up the sort of case they couldn't hope to see again for months - a genuinely interesting puzzle culminating in an actual rooftop chase. Brilliant. It had ended with Sherlock held at gunpoint in front of half of New Scotland Yard, until John had leapt out from behind a skip and simply tackled the suspect to the ground.
They were still giddy with adrenaline when they got home. John had hardly given him time to get his coat off before shoving him up against the wall. As a rule, Sherlock liked to take the lead—his mind always hopping ahead to the next thing, and it was easier to just get on with it; it wasn't as though John ever had trouble keeping up—but that night John had pinned both of Sherlock's wrists against the wall beside his shoulders. He'd looked up at Sherlock with a thoroughly perverse grin, then shoved their hips together and pushed—
Sherlock finds himself swallowing a groan at the memory of just how thoroughly he'd gone to pieces.
John's lips stretch into a wide grin. He drops his gaze, and Sherlock becomes aware of his own hips shifting, small, insistent movements over which he has no control. He's already more than half-hard inside his pyjamas.
"Yeah. That's about how I remember it, too, so." John reaches up to trail one finger down the front of Sherlock's throat, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver racing along his spine. "Then I got to thinking. All that pale skin of yours. How would you look wearing just a tie, and nothing else?"
John fans his fingers through the long tails of the ties where they lie across his collarbone. He selects the blue-grey one from Molly and pulls it free, slowly, silk sliding against wool with an audible hiss. Sherlock can't tear his eyes away as John plays it through his left hand, the bones of his fingers shaping the material into waves, the peaks shining faintly where they catch the light.
John leans in and threads the tie around the back of Sherlock's neck, both hands smoothing the ends down over Sherlock's collarbones. Warm; his palms are so warm.
Sherlock sucks in a breath, fingers clenching against the sheets on either side of his hips.
"You really do have such a lovely neck, Sherlock," John says, brushing the backs of his knuckles lightly against the dip at the base of Sherlock's throat. Sherlock's skin feels paper thin, the only barrier between the heated pulse in his throat and John's fingers rendered obsolete.
Sherlock tips his chin forward, seeking John's mouth, but John is too quick for him; he leans back just out of reach with a soft laugh.
"She was right, you know," John says as he slides his fingers up to begin the knot, the slight scratch of his nails a maddening contrast to the slick, cool silk. "This colour really does bring out your eyes."
Sherlock lowers his gaze until he's staring down at his own bare chest, at John's blunt, tanned fingers stroking down the material of the tie until it lies smooth against Sherlock's skin.
"Lovely," John breathes. "Truly, Sherlock." When Sherlock lifts his gaze to meet John's, John's eyes are shining and dark, the skin at the corners creased with his smile. "You have no idea. I mean, for all your open collars and tight shirts, really it's your throat—" John grips the tie high up near the knot, wrapping it once around the back of his hand, and pulls until Sherlock has no choice but to yield. He bites back a groan as John yanks his head back. John's mouth finds the sensitive skin below the corner of his jaw, then slides lower until he can scrape his teeth along the line of Sherlock's tendon.
John's mouth is— God. Sherlock can do nothing but gasp up at the ceiling, his pulse hammering hard beneath his skin, his fingers sliding blindly against the rough wool of John's jumper.
Until, abruptly, John pulls away, leaving Sherlock breathless and chilled with too much air against his skin.
"—that's begging for it," John says. His tongue appears at the seam of his lips—once, twice, gleaming softly—and it takes Sherlock a truly inexcusable amount of time to trace back to the beginning of the sentence.
John's voice, when he speaks again, is rough-edged but much steadier than Sherlock suspects his own would be. "And of course, once I'd thought of that," he says, dropping his gaze and sliding one of the burgundy ties free of his neck, "I started thinking that, if one is good, then... more would be better. If, of course, one were so inclined."
And Sherlock's brain is finally—finally—clicking into gear. He understands John's next move before it even begins, but his own arm feels heavy, distant, beneath the sure movements of John's warm hands.
Sherlock inhales hard against the heavy, hard throb of the pulse in his throat. He watches as John draws his wrist up to loop the burgundy material just above the head of the ulna. The knot he makes is ungainly, oddly heavy-looking, and somehow more compelling for its clumsiness. John's grip is sure; he pulls Sherlock's wrist over, and over, leaning up on one knee so that he can bend far enough to reach the thick bedpost.
"Okay?" John asks, and Sherlock can't quite force himself to keep meeting John's eye. Instead he drops his gaze to his own lap—oh God, there's a damp spot forming on his pyjama bottoms, a dark circle that makes Sherlock want to dig his fingers into John's hips and simply pull their bodies hard against each other. But— but that isn't the game, is it? So he nods and slides his gaze up to John's own throat—over the collar of the jumper and the shirt beneath, the colourful array of ties still draped around his neck—until he finds the quick flutter of John's pulse.
Sherlock keeps his eyes on that spot when John leans over to secure the other burgundy necktie around Sherlock's left wrist. John is watching his own fingers wrap cheap polyester around Sherlock's wrist, and his pulse is so fast. Sherlock wants to press his mouth against it; wants to taste the heat of John's blood rushing beneath his skin.
"There," John says at last, and Sherlock tears his gaze away from John's throat, slides it down the long line of his own extended arm. "That should hold you."
At that, Sherlock can't help raising an eyebrow. "Really, John? You really think I couldn't get out of these if I wanted to?"
John meets his gaze coolly for a long moment, then licks his lips and says, very low, "I hardly think that's the right question, Sherlock, do you?"
"Is it not? What is, then?"
"I should think that would be obvious," John says, running his hands down the front of Sherlock's chest to push the waistband of his pyjamas down until he can scratch his nails lightly along the crests of his hips.
"Enlighten me." His voice is low; he doesn't seem to have enough breath to lend the words any force.
"The question is, do you want to?" John skims his hands lower, lower, and Sherlock can't help the way he presses up into John's palm, heated even through the cotton barrier of his pyjama bottoms.
Sherlock turns his head again, staring down the length of his own arm to where it's interrupted by the shock of colour at his wrist. He flexes his fingers, tugs lightly, just enough to feel the way the hard shapes of the knots slide against the tender skin at the inside of his wrists, and says, "No."
"What's that?" John asks, inclining his head slightly in exaggerated expectation.
"No," Sherlock says, forcing himself to meet John's eye. "No, that's— I don't want to."
John presses his lips together, obviously trying—and failing—to hide his smile. "Glad to hear it," he says, then curls his fingers down to cup the hard length of Sherlock's erection. Sherlock gasps and strains into John's hand, lifting up as far as he can with John's weight still resting on his thighs, which isn't nearly far enough.
John's carefully-controlled expression shatters into an outright grin.
"Now. Whatever shall I do with the rest of these?" He furrows his brow in a mockery of contemplation; a moment later, his expression lightens. The effect is so cartoonish that Sherlock could very nearly have laughed, but the sound of it twists in his throat until even he can hear the abject need in it.
John hums and runs the fingers of his right hand through Sherlock's hair, scratching lightly at his scalp.
The flush in John's cheeks extends all the way down his throat to disappear beneath his collar. The collar of the shirt that he still hasn't removed, and God, Sherlock just— he wants to touch. It's only been a minute or two and already his fingertips are aching with the need for contact with John's skin.
John gives him a small, tight smile, then slides the green tie from Lestrade free of his neck and wraps it around Sherlock's eyes. It's long enough to loop around more than once, with the knot sitting awkwardly at the side of Sherlock's head. The material isn't thick enough to block out the light; if Sherlock angled his head back, he could see easily enough. But John wants him in the dark.
Beneath the blindfold, Sherlock shuts his eyes.
John plants a soft kiss at the end of Sherlock's nose. Then the mattress dips slightly to the left as John rolls his weight free of Sherlock's thighs. John's fingers skim down the planes of Sherlock's abdomen to hook under the waistband of his pyjamas. "Off."
— which is absurd, of course, since the way John has his arm pinioned leaves Sherlock no leverage at all, not to mention the added difficulty posed by being unable to see what he's doing.
"This... may have been poor planning," John admits after a brief and unsuccessful struggle. But finally Sherlock is able to shift his weight enough for John to wiggle the pyjamas down over Sherlock's hips, past the curve of his arse, and—after one awkward manoeuvre in which John only narrowly avoided knocking himself in the eye with Sherlock's knee—off altogether.
Sherlock hears a thud as the offending article hits the door of the wardrobe. "Bloody hell," John says. "Do you really have to be so tall? I mean, every day?"
Only on the days you insist on being so short,, he wants to say, but he's just opening his mouth to speak when John gives a breathy exhale. Sherlock closes his mouth, the retort unspoken, and John falls entirely still.
The moment stretches between them for what seems like a very long time. Even past the blindfold, the force of John's gaze is like fire under Sherlock's skin, his mind's eye conjuring the expression on John's face as he rakes his eyes over Sherlock's body. As the silence stretches on, Sherlock finds himself straining his ears for reassurance that John is still there, fighting against a compulsion to move.
An interminable time later, John breathes out, "God, Sherlock, if you could see yourself." He jerks back at John's touch, quick touches to the curve of his ribs, the side of his throat, the sensitive skin on the inside of his upper arm, too-brief contact that leaves him panting, desperate for more.
"John."
John's finger strokes against his cheek, once, then he inches back on the bed and begins to— oh. Well, Sherlock wasn't anticipating that. With three ties still unused he anticipated that two would go around his ankles, so John's firm grip there is no kind of surprise, but when he pulls hard enough to draw Sherlock's legs straight along the bed, Sherlock squeezes his eyes tight against a sudden rush of disorientation.
John straddles Sherlock's calves, pressing them tightly together with the strength of his own thighs.
Sherlock nudges one leg upward, experimentally, and yes, there: the hard shape of John's erection trapped beneath the thin material of his trousers. Sherlock presses just a little harder, letting out a quick, triumphant sound at the sound it wrings from John's throat.
"Oh, very clever," John mutters. Then he shoves a hand roughly beneath Sherlock's calf. Several quick tugs later, John cinches his legs together just below the knee.
Which is... surprising. Sherlock hikes one hip up and his knees slide past each other. "Can you— tighter," he says; another surprise. After a moment, he adds, "Please."
And he'd swear he can actually hear John's grin, but then the pressure increases, just a bit. Just enough.
"Too tight?"
"Perfect."
John adds another tie just above Sherlock's knees, sealing his legs together. "There you are then. All done up in bright ribbon like a bloody great maypole."
Then John runs one finger lightly up the underside of Sherlock's erection, teasing the skin with the back of his nail, which is—
"Fuck," Sherlock gasps, helpless to keep his hips from twitching upward, trying to follow John's finger as it disappears. He can feel his pulse shuddering outward through his skin. He shifts his legs, testing the new restriction; pinioned and helpless, unable to see, barely able even to rub his thighs together. Friction, he needs— but there's nothing. He jerks hard at his wrists but the ties don't yield. God. He clenches his hands into fists, digging his fingernails into his palm, but his fingers won't stop shaking.
He swallows hard against the tightness in his throat. "Maybe you and your Napoleon complex should come here." It sounds far more like a plea than the challenge he intended.
And the hell of it is, it works. The mattress dips as John makes his way up the bed, and God, Sherlock wishes he could see his face. He straddles Sherlock's hips—close, so close to where Sherlock wants him, a scant few inches of air separating them, but Sherlock can't get enough leverage.
"John."
John slides his thumb along the angle of Sherlock's jaw, back and forth. Sherlock strains through his shoulders until he can drop his head far enough to press his cheek into the solid warmth of John's palm.
"All right," John says, very quiet.
John drags one fingertip along the underside of Sherlock's jaw, then up across his bottom lip. Sherlock snakes his tongue out, tracing the line of John's nail, then parts his lips to draw the tip of John's finger into his mouth. He's rewarded by a shuddery exhale and a sudden hard pressure as John tilts his hips back to press himself against Sherlock's thigh.
"God, John." Sherlock is helpless to stop the way he pushes himself forward, fighting to get closer. "Will you— I— please."
"Please what, Sherlock?"
But all Sherlock can do in response is shake his head. He wants... he wants everything; he doesn't know.
After a moment John goes on, his voice very low, near enough that Sherlock can feel the heat of his breath against the skin of his cheek. "And then there's your mouth."
God. God. Sherlock's next exhale emerges with a force that would surely be humiliating if he could bring himself to care. Pinned by the weight of John's body, Sherlock's hips shift restlessly from side to side.
"It's a very nice mouth," John continues, his voice infuriatingly even. "Seems like a shame not to put it to use, wouldn't you say?"
There's a whisper of cloth against cloth at roughly the level of John's hips.
Sherlock licks at lips that feel suddenly dry and keeps his eyes shut behind the ineffective blindfold. John is so close, so tantalisingly just out of reach, and yes he wants to take John in his mouth but if John doesn't touch him properly soon, now, he might actually die. He takes a deep breath and tries to force the rigid muscles of his neck and shoulders to relax, but all of it—the enforced stillness, the darkness, the inability to touch—sends an ache spiking through his chest, so when he opens his mouth what he hears himself say is, "Oh yes, let me guess, you think your co—"
— but the rest of the sentence is lost as John slides a thick bundle of fabric into his mouth.
"Hurrah for Merry England, and the raising of the Maypole," John recites under his breath as he nudges the folded tie deeper, centimetre by centimetre.
Sherlock's instinctive reaction is to push it out again, but John is expecting that; his other hand curls around the back of Sherlock's neck, hard and unyielding. The fingers between Sherlock's lips are insistent, and the only impact Sherlock's efforts have is that the cool, dry material against his tongue grows gradually wetter.
"Bite down," John orders, and Sherlock obediently sets his teeth into the silk. Nothing stopping him from spitting it out, of course, but... that's hardly the point, is it?
Satisfied at last, John releases his hold on Sherlock's neck and sits back. "You know, I honestly can't decide... do you think he'd approve of his gift being put to this particular use, or no?"
Which... of course. Of course. Devious, clever; downright perverse. The perfect use for Mycroft's gift.
With a mouthful of expensive, bespoke, ostentatiously understated silk, Sherlock's laugh is reduced to a harsh exhale down his nose, but it's wonderfully satisfying all the same.
"Maybe I'll make you wear it later," John says thoughtfully. "Let him see what we did with it." Which isn't appealing in the least, on its merits, but something about the way John says make you sends a wave of heat rolling down his spine.
"But first things first," he says. Then he wraps his fingers around the base of Sherlock's erection, inward pressure against blood-hot skin, and draws up.
Sherlock tries, and utterly fails, to swallow his groan. God. John's grip on Sherlock's cock remains steady—maddeningly so, with Sherlock's nerves screaming at him to move—as he begins to slide himself down the length of Sherlock's outstretched legs.
A quick, heated puff of breath is the only warning Sherlock gets before John takes him into his mouth. The sound he makes at the sudden wet slide of John's tongue along the underside of his erection is entirely involuntary, torn from his throat.
John slides his lips down, licking and sucking along Sherlock's shaft, until they touch the circle of his fingers. Then he hollows his cheeks and draws his mouth slowly—God, so slowly—up, up and off.
Sherlock's hips nudge upward into empty air, again and again, until John sets his free hand hard against his iliac crest to pin him to the mattress.
The sound Sherlock makes is absolutely not a whine.
"Well, this isn't going to take long."
Sherlock grumbles in a way that is intended to convey his indignation, but it shatters into something entirely breathless when John's fingers slip into the narrow space between his thighs to rub lightly against his perineum. Then John's tongue teases along the head of his cock, the tip probing at the slit, and Sherlock's head drops back against the headboard with an audible thunk.
Then Sherlock's world narrows down to individual points of sensation: the wet heat of John's mouth, the pressure of the ties at his wrists, the harsh rasp of John's breath. Sherlock's body winds itself tighter and tighter, fighting toward a release that is outside his power to achieve. Unable to touch—unable even to speak, any sound he makes distorted by the now-sodden material in his mouth—he has no choice but to give himself over to whatever John wants to do to him.
The scratch of John's nails along the sensitive skin of his inner thigh makes him bite down so hard that he thinks his teeth may have actually pierced the silk altogether. The low, throaty sounds that John's ministrations wring from him are swallowed by the muffling fabric in his mouth.
John does something with his teeth that makes light spark behind Sherlock's eyelids. His eyes fly open, the flood of light such a shock that he actually cries out and squeezes them shut again.
It isn't until John pulls off and whispers, "Shh, Sherlock, breathe," that Sherlock processes the sharp pain in his wrists from where he's been tugging against his restraints. He takes two long, slow breaths through his nose and nods, twining his fingers in the cool material running from his wrists to the bedposts. He wants to tell John that he doesn't want to go anywhere, it's just— God, it's so much, but of course he can't.
And John already knows, doesn't he? Of course he does.
Then John sucks in audible breath and swallows him down, and what had been so much becomes more.
When the first pulses begin at the base of his spine, Sherlock digs his heel against the mattress and forces his hips upward. And John, improbably, follows him, shaping his body to accommodate the arch of Sherlock's spine, sliding one hand around the back of his hip to grip hard into the tense muscles of his arse, drawing Sherlock even deeper into the heat of his mouth.
Sherlock's attempt at a warning is lost to breathlessness and the tie between his teeth. John seems to understand anyway; he hums an acknowledgement, his fingers clenching against Sherlock's arse, then John is swallowing and swallowing as Sherlock's orgasm shakes outward from his spine.
When he's finally spent, John eases him back down onto the bed. Sherlock is dimly aware of John pulling the sodden tie from between his teeth, leaving Sherlock free to suck in great lungfuls of air through his open mouth.
"Sherlock, God, that was— I... I have to, can I—" John says, desperate. Sherlock nods, tongue still too dry to speak but yes, please, whatever John wants.
John grips Sherlock's hips and tugs him lower on the bed. The shift in position makes the tensed muscles of Sherlock's shoulders ache, but the sensation reaches him as though from a great distance. He's dimly aware of the sound of John rummaging around in the bedside table, the shock of something cool against the heated skin of his inner thighs, the sound of John's zip being pulled open.
"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock," John says shakily, "that was— you are the most incredible—"
John shifts, sets his mouth against the skin of Sherlock's chest, and then— oh. Sherlock gasps, open-mouthed, as John pushes his cock into the narrow space between Sherlock's thighs—hot, it's so—while the rough material of John's jumper scratches across his skin. God, he hasn't even removed his trousers. Sherlock can feel the cold, irregular teeth of his open flies. Sherlock tenses his legs and John groans, and that—
Not being able to see is— it's intolerable. Sherlock pulls hard at his right wrist, rolling his head until he can rub the blindfold against his upper arm. Once, twice, three times, with John's cock rutting down between his legs and John's breath bursting hot against the skin of his chest, and the thought that he might not get to see makes him want to cry with frustration, but finally—finally—the slick material slips free.
Sherlock forces his eyes open, blinking against the sudden influx of light until at last his vision resolves itself into John's face.
"God, John," Sherlock hears himself say, because he is gorgeous like this: wide, gleaming eyes above flushed-dark cheeks; utterly wrecked.
John's lips part around a shaky groan. He curls down to drop his head against Sherlock's chest as his hips lose their rhythm. They jerk forward once, twice, then he groans and buries himself as deeply as he can in the space between Sherlock's thighs, his release pulsing over Sherlock's skin.
When his breath has steadied, John pushes himself up on one elbow and reaches up with his left hand to brush the hair back from Sherlock's forehead.
"Just... give me a minute," he says. "I'll get you cleaned up." His mouth curls up at one corner. "When my legs are working again."
Sherlock breathes out a quick laugh and tips his chin back to peer up at his right wrist. It's the work of a moment to twist his wrist until he can grip the end of the tie between two fingers; one quick tug unravels the knot. He reaches across and frees the other hand.
"What do you know," Sherlock says, easing his arms down past the ache in his shoulders. "I was right."
John's laugh is a sudden burst of sound. He doesn't even raise his head from where it's resting against Sherlock's chest. "Fancy that. I'll mark the calendar."
Sherlock uses one hand to loosen the tie around his throat until he can slip it over his head, then reaches up again to hang it from the bedpost.
It is, after all, rather a nice tie.
John gropes blindly with one hand until his questing fingers find the knots holding Sherlock's legs together. Once the ties have slid free, he sighs. "Really. I'll get a flannel."
"Don't you dare." Sherlock tugs at his shoulder with fingers already lax with impending exhaustion. "Up here. Now."
John tips his chin up, grinning at Sherlock's demanding tone, but obediently slides up the bed until he's lying at Sherlock's back, chest curled against Sherlock's spine. He threads an arm over the bare skin at Sherlock's waist, and Sherlock closes his eyes and allows himself to relax into the warmth of John's body surrounding his own.
"Sherlock," John says a few minutes later, his breath ruffling the hair at the nape of Sherlock's neck.
Sherlock is already slipping down toward sleep, but he drags himself up just enough to hum a response. "Mm?"
"Happy birthday."
*
Two days later, they're just settling in at Angelo's when the man himself comes over to their table.
"Sherlock!" he says, clapping him on the shoulder. Sherlock presses his mouth into a tight smile. "I have something for you!" He reaches into the pocket of his apron to produce a paper-wrapped box whose shape is.... oh.
Across the table, John coughs quietly, ducking his head to hide the heated flush that has risen to his cheeks.
"I know it's a bit late, but you weren't in beforehand. I've had it behind the register for nearly a week now, hoping you two would stop by."
Sherlock reaches out to take the package. He sets it carefully on the table beside his fork. John coughs again.
"Are you quite all right?" Sherlock says, raising a pointed eyebrow in John's direction.
"Fine." He takes a sip of water. The look he directs at Sherlock over the rim of his glass is entirely unreadable.
"Thank you, Angelo," Sherlock says, holding John's gaze and letting the corner of his mouth curl into a smile. "I know precisely what I'm going to do with this."