John made a little sound of pleasure as he bit into his third gingerbread man, still slightly warm from Mrs Hudson's oven. She'd made small ones this time so he could eat half a dozen and not feel too guilty, dipping them in his tea and inhaling the fragrance of spices and winter and holiday memories.

"You always eat the heads first. Why is that?" asked Sherlock, without looking up from his laptop. His own plate of biscuits sat cooling next to his tea, untouched.

John shrugged. "I dunno. Seems kinder somehow, I suppose," he said, chuckling. "Finish them off in one go instead of making them suffer."

Sherlock looked intrigued. "They don't suffer, John," he said, in a tone that wasn't quite his usual 'do keep up' brusqueness.

"I bet you nibbled at the edges as a boy, drew it out until all that was left was a head and torso," said John teasingly. It's what Harry had done, though she always claimed it was because Mum drew on mittens and shoes and she liked the icing parts the best.

"That was Mycroft," said Sherlock with a snigger. "He always liked the icing. I prefer them un-iced, so I stole the torsos when he was done. Just a few dotted buttons there."

"Yeah, Harry always liked the mittens best. Said she could taste the blue," said John absently, letting nostalgia colour the memories for him just this once. "I like the spices best, myself."

Sherlock plucked an icing-free biscuit from the plate and contemplated it. "Mrs Hudson used to ice them, you know. Elaborately."

"How'd she figure out you didn't like the icing?" asked John, curious.

Sherlock gave him an opaque look. "She didn't. You told her last week you loved ginger biscuits just plain, with plenty of good spice and molasses, but you always botched the recipe and were afraid to use our oven regardless. Even though I told you I'd cleaned it out." He dipped the head into the tea and bit it off thoughtfully. "These are nearly perfect."

"They are, aren't they?" said John. "She made them small for me, I said I always ate half a dozen no matter the size and felt terrible later."

"She likes you," said Sherlock, and it sounded like an accusation.

"She likes you, too," said John, "She just doesn't understand she's got to deduce you."

Sherlock smiled, then, one of small, genuine ones that were less rare than people thought. John spent enough time watching him, trying to figure out his mercurial moods, that he saw what others missed when it came to Sherlock. "You do, though."

"Which is why you have tea and biscuits despite waving her away," said John, amused.

Sherlock picked up another one and examined it, leaving its headless fellow by itself on the plate like a crime scene. He bit off one leg and chewed thoughtfully, then set the second one atop the first. "They are very good biscuits," he said, picking up another.

John watched, horrified, as he experimented with biting off each limb in turn, leaving a pile of biscuit corpses on his plate. There were seven, so Sherlock snapped the sixth in half and ate the top of the middle, and then with the last one he repeated the experiment with the middle bottom, leaving neat teeth marks in what John couldn't help but think of as the lower abdomen and groin.

"You are so disturbing," said John, shaking his head and going back to his own half-eaten biscuit.

"I wanted to see if they tasted different," said Sherlock. "The limbs are crunchier, and the middle is softer, but the head is really the best combination of both," he added.

"You wanted to make your plate look like a crime scene," said John, not fooled for a moment.

Sherlock smirked. "You have the highest rate of accuracy of anyone I know," said Sherlock. "At least, for me."

"It's a bit of a speciality," John teased. "Detecting the consulting detective. Helps keep Lestrade out of our kitchen, for one thing."

"I knew I kept you around for a reason," said Sherlock. "After all, Mrs Hudson will make me tea, despite her protests." He picked up the headless biscuit and proceeded to dunk each limb in tea for a different amount of time before eating it. When he was done, he left just the torso on his plate, still damp around the edges from tea and Sherlock's mouth.

John swallowed, then took a sip of his tea. "I'm not your housekeeper, either," said John dryly.

Sherlock paused, then gave John a considering look. "No, but you are my doctor."

"Stop deducing me," said John placidly, trying to calm his racing heart, "or I'll blog about your gingerbread man massacre."

Sherlock laughed delightedly, then picked up another of the discarded men, this one the head and arms with a hollow space where its upper chest belonged. "Anderson would have a field day," he said, continuing his experiments to find the optimum dunking time for gingerbread limbs. When just the head was left, he fit it onto the discarded torso.

"So now you're Dr Frankenstein?" asked John with a laugh.

Sherlock smirked. "Given the first crime scene, it's certainly what I'd expect to find at the second," he pointed out, eating the already-decimated lower body until there was just one leg left to place on the new, more disturbing biscuit arrangement.

"I'm not fetching icing for you to stitch the bits together," said John decisively. He ate another man of his own anyway, though a part of him kept trying to assign anatomy as he ate, fingers and femurs, ribcage and radius, scapula and sternum and stomach. His own did a little flip, and he set down the remains half-eaten.

"It still isn't suffering," said Sherlock, amused and still absorbed in his task. The stuck-together gingerbread man now had two legs of different lengths, and Sherlock was busy destroying another doughy life so he could steal its arm.

John had to laugh.

"I suppose it's only fitting," said John, dipping a leg into his own tea and then eating it before it could crumble away entirely. Sherlock gave him an inquiring look. "Married to your work, you even examine your biscuits."

"It's been over a year since I said that to you," said Sherlock, then he looked down at his cup. "Oh, seventeen seconds is too long."

"It was a mortifyingly memorable conversation," said John, with a small, pained smile, "And you've remained true to your word, not a single proper date since I moved in."

"Unlike you," said Sherlock, and John could swear he sounded disapproving.

"Yeah, well, as I'm neither married to your work nor mine, I do still sustain the hope I will someday get off with someone other than myself," said John wryly. His last date had been a while ago, before their last string of back-to-back cases, and he had lost all chances of getting a leg over when the pub she chose turned out to be a favourite of the Yard. Anderson's voice had been enough to cool even John's long-denied libido.

Especially as he'd been asking after Sherlock.

Sherlock chuckled. "If you'd date men, you'd have better luck with that," said Sherlock, sipping his tea and making a considering face. "The leg hasn't improved the texture, but the flavour is quite nice."

"Could you call it a biscuit, please?" said John, though he knew he was still grinning. The whole thing was too absurd; only Sherlock Holmes could make a plate of biscuits and tea into a crime scene and find it still worth examining.

"But the head might be different," pointed out Sherlock. "I don't suppose you'd make me six more cups of tea to experiment?"

"It would be the least disgusting experiment you'd ever done with our teacups," said John, though he knew he ought not to give in to Sherlock's mad demands. He often did anyway, because life was more interesting when he did, and besides, the shopping got done that way. And Sherlock let him stay.

That was important, too, that Sherlock, while being mad and impetuous and manic, moody and childish and selfish, had never gone out of his way to drive John out of the flat or his life.

"If you do, I'll tell you why I think you ought to date men," said Sherlock.

He was wheedling, realised John. "Don't be silly," said John, having a healthy swig of his own tea. "I know perfectly well that I'm bisexual, Sherlock. In fact, the date you spoiled last month by nearly poisoning me was with a bloke."

John didn't get to surprise Sherlock often, and he saved up the joy from each time as a sort of antidote to when Sherlock was being an utter bastard. "I hadn't. But you said. Stupid, obvious. Leslie can also be a girl's name, it is more commonly, in fact, but I should have known, after Harry, not to assume."

"Sorry to have thrown off your deductions, I'll try to stick with perfectly normal names from now on so you're sure to know which gender of date you're sabotaging," replied John, finishing off his tea. "I'll make the big pot full, and you have to leave me at least two cups out of it," he said, getting up.

"Bring the sugar and milk, please," said Sherlock, already lost in thought, long hands pressed together and resting against his full, squared-off lower lip.

John really hated that he knew what Sherlock's lips looked like, sometimes.

He filled the kettle full and put it on to boil, then gathered cups from the drainer, surprised to find that there were actually six clean ones still. "You haven't done anything to these, have you?"

"You just washed them this morning," said Sherlock, still staring off into space. "I haven't had time."

"Well, it's your funeral if you have," said John, setting them up on a tray with the milk and sugar and his own used cup. He got out their biggest teapot and gave it a quick wash just to be sure; they didn't use it much, and he couldn't remember if he'd bothered to wash it since Sherlock had last flooded the kitchen with a cloud of noxious chemicals. Then he carefully measured out leaves, and turned to watch the kettle take forever boiling that much water.

"If," began Sherlock, and then he went quiet again for a long, irritating moment. "What sort of men attract you?"

John laughed. "Are you asking me what my type is?" he asked, incredulous.

"You do have a type with women," said Sherlock. "Above average looks but not too far above, long hair in the blonde to medium brown range, curvaceous without being ridiculous about it..."

"Sherlock, stop, I'll tell you, just stop deducing my love life, for god's sake," said John, shaking his head. "Such as it is, anyway."

"All right, tell me," said Sherlock, turning and giving John a surprisingly attentive look.

The kettle went off, giving John time to think as he poured the water and brought the whole arrangement carefully over to their table. "Give it a few minutes," he said, which got him a withering look from Sherlock. "Right, stalling, sorry," said John, fidgeting with his empty cup. "With blokes I like tall; I dunno, it's nice to kiss a girl and not be towered over but I like that feeling of looking up to a man when I snog him," said John, blushing.

Sherlock looked disturbingly satisfied at this. "Hair colour? Physique?"

"Fit, of course, but not overdone, much like women, really, only, y'know. Men," said John. He thought about the blokes he'd tried to pull over the last few months and, much to his dismay, started to see a pattern emerge. "Dark hair, usually."

"You chatted up the waiter at Angelo's last time we were there," said Sherlock, mind already ranging ahead, "I thought you were just trying to ensure we'd keep eating for free, people do grow tired of gratitude, but now I can see there were several times I was mistaken about that sort of thing. You're friendly for sexual gain rather than personal gain, and find the latter manipulative."

"I'm not... Sexual gain, Sherlock? It's supposed to be mutual, you do get that, don't you?" said John, offended. Well, as offended as he could get with Sherlock these days.

"That hasn't been my experience," said Sherlock coolly, before continuing on as though John hadn't interrupted him. "You used to chat up men who were more military in bearing, back when I first met you, but now you tend to try for the cold fish despite having a terrible track record of success, at least if my data about your dating history is accurate. You're very careful not to walk around the flat in a state of undress."

"What does that have to do with it?" said John, though he knew he was protesting too much. "And why do you care? You're always dressed, yourself, either in those ridiculous dressing gowns or posh suits."

"I get cold," said Sherlock, barely pausing for the plaint. "Despite being a doctor, you've never asked to examine me outside of the time I wounded my left arm, and then you left my shirt on and just pushed up the sleeve. You respect my tacit wish not to be touched but let me into your personal space without flinching away."

John let out an exasperated noise. "Flinching would do me no good at all, and you know it. Tea should be ready, do you want equal amounts in each cup?"

Sherlock blinked, then looked down at his forgotten experiment. "Yes, please," he said, then looked back up at John. "Social cues are annoyingly messy, especially once someone becomes too familiar."

"Sherlock," said John, and then he began to pour, resolutely not looking at his flatmate. "I'm sorry you've had bad experiences with, erm, dating."

"Sex, John. I've never found it very satisfying, just like sleep and eating, except that my body doesn't require it in the same way," said Sherlock. "It interferes with the brain."

John grinned wryly at Sherlock. "I can't argue with that," said John, adding milk to his own tea and taking the cup to sit down. "But you could use with a bit of switching off once in a while, or at least you deserve to try it with some bloke who's not a selfish bastard."

Sherlock's hands were busy measuring out milk and sugar into each of the cups. "You're not selfish," he said neutrally.

"True, but you're married to your work, and I can hardly come between the two of you," said John drolly. "I can't fault you for giving up on the lot of us, really. I wasn't meaning to imply."

"You like tall, dark-haired men," said Sherlock, sounding faintly irritated. He went back to his gingerbread massacre, letting body parts dissolve in the teacups and sticking the remains to his reassembled monstrosity. "And you think I'm fit, even when you also think I'm a selfish, arrogant child."

"A child would hopefully not be having this conversation," said John, idly dunking his own treat and trying not to think about Sherlock's long fingers and their strange task. "Why are we having this conversation?"

Sherlock paused. "I don't think I like it when you date," he said, his voice somewhat plaintive. He stirred up the six cups and began tasting them one at a time, as if he hadn't just said something outrageous.

John shook his head. "What do you plan on doing about it? You've already said you don't like sex."

"You are a considerate man," said Sherlock. "You feel I should experience good sex, and perhaps if I did we would both enjoy it enough that you'd stop dating."

John blinked.

"The flavour doesn't change enough in tea to make up for the texture, no matter which part of the man I dissolve," added Sherlock, staring unhappily down at the cup in his hands.

"Sherlock," said John, and then he paused, just watching. It wasn't like Sherlock to avoid a conversation like this except with Mycroft, and John hoped to god that Sherlock didn't talk about this sort of thing with Mycroft.

"I won't bring it up again," said Sherlock quietly, his face blank, the way it always was when the feelings he professed not to have had been hurt.

John pressed his lips together, then asked carefully, "Is this something you actually want, or something you think would be convenient for you to provide me so I'll stop dating?"

Sherlock gave him the look that meant he'd said something actually interesting. "A bit of both," he admitted, "in addition to several other incidental motives."

"All right," said John, standing up. "All right, this is an experiment, so you have to honestly report the findings, understand? No shamming to get your way."

"All right," agreed Sherlock, abandoning his gingerbread experiment for this new line of inquiry without another thought.

If only John could get him to stop putting eyeballs in the microwave so easily.

John went to stand in front of Sherlock, giving himself several selfish moments to look, really look, with as much proprietary interest as he liked. He hadn't allowed himself to think about Sherlock this way before, not with the memory of that initial brush-off to keep him on track, and he felt he deserved a minute or two to get his mind up to speed on the idea.

"You're stalling," said Sherlock.

"I'm anticipating," John gently corrected. He reached out and stroked his fingers over Sherlock's cheek, sighing to finally feel the hollows and contours, then he gently tilted Sherlock's face up and stepped closer. Like this, John was the taller one, but somehow that felt appropriate for their first experimental kiss.

When John finally leaned down, Sherlock stretched up and they met in the middle. Sherlock's lips were softer than John had expected, both warmer and more pliant against his own thin mouth. John took a breath, inhaling the tea-spice-skin scent of Sherlock in that moment and committing it to memory, even as he shifted the angle of their mouths and stroked his thumb over one impossible cheekbone. The kiss became more intimate, Sherlock's hands coming up to slide over John's hips and lower back, to slip up under his jumper and splay over his skin.

John gasped at the cold touch, and Sherlock pressed his advantage, taking over the kiss and sliding his tongue over and into John's open mouth. John took the hint and matched it with his own, opening wider, letting Sherlock taste him and exploring right back until they were both breathless.

John had never thought so much about a kiss in his life, but he supposed it was inevitable when one was kissing Sherlock Holmes.

"Now," said John, after bringing the kiss to a satisfying close, "report your findings."

Sherlock's grin was as wide and real as John had ever seen.

"Very enjoyable," said Sherlock. "I want to try it standing, though."

John laughed. "That wasn't a very thorough report," he said, stepping back and tugging Sherlock up out of his chair.

"I require more data," said Sherlock, and John found himself pushed back against the edge of the desk with Sherlock's mouth on his, hungry and hot. John twined his arms around Sherlock's neck, fingers finding the soft tangles of his hair while Sherlock's hands explored the shape of John's torso. Sherlock's hips twisted and pushed, making a space for himself between John's legs, though their height difference meant that the evidence of his enjoyment pressed into John's stomach.

John gasped. "You. You're turned on," he said, not sure why the idea shocked him. And aroused him right back, not that he hadn't been most of the way there already from the kisses.

"I find you very arousing, John," said Sherlock, and it was all John could do not to moan at the matter-of-fact declaration. "I'm not incapable, no more than I'm incapable of being hungry. I simply choose to ignore it most of the time."

John nodded. "So you're choosing not to ignore it with me?" he asked, just to be sure. "And if this, erm, experiment goes well..."

"Then we will have something else to do when there are no cases on. I see you understand perfectly," said Sherlock, lowering his mouth back down to resume their interrupted kissing.

John indulged them both for longer than was perhaps wise before interrupting. "So this is just something to do between cases for you?"

Sherlock blinked, and John felt a bit of smugness that he was the one to have put that slightly dazed expression on the detective's normally sharp face. "Of course not," said Sherlock. This time John dodged when he tried to resume kissing, and Sherlock made a small noise of frustration. "I wouldn't bother with it at all if it wasn't you."

"And if you didn't want me to stop dating," said John dryly.

Sherlock growled and pulled away, only to start one of his rants. "Why is it that I can have complex motivations for everything else I do, but not this? I brush my teeth so my mouth doesn't taste bad, but also so I don't get toothaches. I eat because my body needs fuel, I eat biscuits because I like the taste, I eat Mrs Hudson's biscuits because it pleases her to see me eat them, I eat them methodically because it amuses me -- and you -- and I learn things when I experiment, but this, this thing between us, you think it's going to be simpler than eating a biscuit?"

John blinked, then laughed, shaking his head. "You're right, Sherlock, of course you're right. I'm sorry, come here and kiss me again, please?" He reached out a hand and spread his thighs just a touch wider, though it made him blush to do it.

Sherlock's face transformed as though he'd made a deduction, going from angry to ecstatic in a heartbeat. His fingers clutched at John's hand and his mouth against John's was clumsier now, but no less fierce. His hands moved up to touch John's hair and face but for once there didn't seem to be any method to it, just the desire to be closer to John.

"Does this mean you'll sleep with me?" asked Sherlock, once John's arms had found their way back around Sherlock's waist.

"Does this mean you want me to?" John retorted, kissing Sherlock's chin and stroking his face. "I do think further experimentation is warranted."

Sherlock made an agreeable noise and kissed him again, then pulled away. "If this is going to be an experiment, should we establish parameters? If I suck your cock, will you suck mine after or just use your hand or have me touch myself while I'm doing it? Will you want use of my arse?"

John moaned, finding it unbearably arousing to hear such questions in Sherlock's usual rapid-fire speech. "I'd like very much to suck you," he said, as that seemed to be an important point in the line of questioning. He paused, then added, "And I would never leave you to take care of yourself after you'd used that gorgeous mouth on me."

Sherlock blinked, then his cheeks grew suspiciously pink. "You like my mouth?" he asked, sounding surprised and pleased.

John ran his thumb over Sherlock's improbably full lower lip, then traced the Cupid's bow line of the upper one before replacing his hand with his mouth for another of those heady kisses. "I think all of you is bloody gorgeous, but your mouth is especially lovely," he said with all the honesty he put into every one of his compliments to Sherlock. The man had amazed John from the first, and after seeing how much it pleased Sherlock to hear it, John had allowed compliments to slip from his lips whenever they bubbled up, buoyed by the sense of wonder he always felt when watching Sherlock work.

"Amazing," said Sherlock, leaning in to kiss him again, cupping his face in those long, warm hands. "You seem so ordinary on the surface, but you're really the most generous, kind, amazing man, John Watson."

It took John a moment, but Sherlock wasn't the only one of them who could connect the dots. "No one's ever told you that before? Idiots, the lot of them," he said, wrapping himself around Sherlock and showing his appreciation quite directly.

Sherlock made a soft sound and held John close, and John found himself content to just kiss like this for as long as Sherlock wanted. John lost track of how much time they spent snogging like teenagers while their tea cooled, but he didn't mind one bit.

"Clearly, I was the idiot for ever refusing you," said Sherlock eventually. His cultured voice came out a hoarse, desperate whisper, and his eyes had gone dark and needy sometime while John's had been closed.

"Bedroom?" asked John, trying to keep his tone light though he suspected some of his own neediness leaked through.

"Bedroom," said Sherlock with a grin, and then he paused. "Yours? Mine's..."

"Definitely mine," said John with a chuckle, glad he'd bothered to stock his bedside table. He hadn't felt comfortable asking dates -- especially blokes -- home for sex, not with Sherlock there to deduce exactly how long they'd be at it and in what positions, but he was a man who believed in preparedness.

Now he was glad, both that he hadn't brought anyone home, and that he'd prepared.

"You've got the good brand of lubricant, anyway. I never remember to buy some," said Sherlock, tugging John up the stairs.

John laughed. "Have you been using it or just deducing my sex life with it?" he asked, finding himself unbearably aroused by the idea of Sherlock in his bed, having a wank with his carefully laid-in supplies.

Sherlock grinned impishly, "The latter. If I opened it, I'd have to keep closer track on the level in the bottle."

"Still sealed, then," teased John, slipping out of Sherlock's embrace and catching a hand. "Come on," he said, giving a tug.

"Not yet," said Sherlock, "but I'm hopeful."

John laughed again, pulling Sherlock up the stairs after him, though he paused at the top for one more kiss where he got to be the tall one. "I never thought sex with you would be so..."

"You won't find out if we never start," said Sherlock impatiently.

"Stop making me laugh, then," said John, warm and affectionate enough that it was clear he meant just the opposite. They kissed, John walking backwards until they were back to their usual height difference and finding that he liked it better despite the strain it put on his neck.

Sherlock made a rumbly, pleased noise in his chest when John backed into the bed. "You like it when I make you laugh," he said, pushing John down onto the bed and crawling on top of him.

John just kissed Sherlock again, too used to being deduced to bother protesting. "So," he said, threading one hand in Sherlock's hair and slipping one leg around Sherlock's longer ones, "I believe you wanted me to suck your cock?"

Before Sherlock could reply, John shifted and flipped them over in the narrow bed, so it was Sherlock splayed out against John's pillows like a forbidden fantasy, and John on top and in control for as long as Sherlock would let him get away with it.

Given the look of surprised lust on Sherlock's face, John had a feeling he'd get away with it for a good long while, at least today.

Sherlock nodded, and John let his fingers go to work opening the crisp white dress shirt to reveal the pale chest and stomach beneath. Sherlock's clothes were well-fitted enough not to leave much mystery, but John was still a visual man and the sight of Sherlock's wiry muscles and almost-too-prominent ribs was a welcome one. Sherlock's skin was pale here, too, setting off the dusky pink colour of his nipples well enough that John couldn't help but dip his head down and take one into his mouth.

Sherlock made a surprised sound and his hips bucked up. "That, um, that was surprising," he gasped out, when John paused to look up at him. "I'm not normally sensitive there."

"I'll continue to feel special, then," said John, pleased. He sucked at the other one just to be sure, getting a needy groan out of Sherlock for his efforts, then he kissed back up Sherlock's sternum to lick along those ridiculous collarbones of his.

"You, yes, do that. Feel special," said Sherlock, and John got a swell of pride at having spoiled Sherlock's grasp of proper sentences so soon.

"Take off your shoes?" suggested John, shifting so he could toe off his own, sending them over the edge of the bed with a thump. His socks followed more quietly, and he blessed his dextrous toes -- the last thing he wanted was to be stuck wearing nothing but his socks during his one chance at impressing Sherlock in bed.

John indulged himself by sucking a mark on Sherlock's neck where his shirt collar would most likely hide it, listening for the sounds of Sherlock undressing as he did so. Sherlock's hands finally found their way to undressing John, pulling shirt and jumper over his head and leaving them both half-naked, flushed and wanting.

Perfect.

"It will show, you know," said Sherlock, amused, touching the mark unerringly while John stared down, trying to memorise the sight of that mussed hair fanned out over John's own pillow. "I don't mind."

"You haven't even given your final conclusions yet," said John, pausing to kiss him again, amazed at the colour rising up in those normally pale lips and cheeks. Like this, wet and bruised and red from kissing, Sherlock's mouth was positively obscene, as though made for the exact use to which John hoped to put it before they were through.

"I can see how the data is trending," said Sherlock, grinning. "You really like my mouth."

"God, yeah, I do," agreed John, stealing another kiss while he was at it. "But you'll like mine, too," he added, hoping he wasn't so out of practice as to make a lie of his boast. He slid down Sherlock's body and pulled off the slim trousers and boxers in one go, amused to see Sherlock had left on his socks. John slipped them off and then let himself kneel at the end of the bed and stare for another long moment.

Sherlock shifted and started to look uncomfortable, though, so John shook himself out of his reverie and bent down to kiss one bony knee. "You're gorgeous, Sherlock, every inch of you."

"You really think so?" asked Sherlock, his tone suggesting this was more wondrous than all the rest.

"I really, really do," said John, kissing his way up the inside of Sherlock's thighs between words. "It's hard to believe you're letting me do this," he said, then dipped his head down and licked along the warm, salty crease of hip and thigh, inhaling through his nose and mouth to better capture the intimate scent and flavour of Sherlock.

Sherlock groaned and spread wider.

If John had allowed himself to fantasise about this at all, he didn't think he'd have dared to imagine the way Sherlock opened himself so willingly to the pleasure John wanted to give him. John didn't make either of them wait long, taking first one, then the other of Sherlock's bollocks in his mouth, tongue moving carefully over the crepe-thin skin. Sucking on them produced the most obscene, delightful sounds, a wet noise accompanied by Sherlock's moan and John's own hum of enjoyment.

Sherlock's cock was too tempting to resist for long, though, and soon enough John was licking up the shaft and suckling at the head, tongue dipping into the slit there and his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face. Sherlock was flushed and his expression held the kind of amazement he usually reserved for a particularly fine deduction; John wondered if he'd ever again be able to watch Sherlock 'oh!' and 'ah!' at a crime scene without getting hard. The normally composed hands clutched at the sheets, and John spared a moment to wonder -- assuming there would be a next time for John to allow it -- how Sherlock's hands would feel tugging at his short hair instead.

John set that aside to concentrate on the moment, bracing Sherlock's cock with one hand and working his mouth down the spit-slick shaft as far as he could manage. Sherlock was big in his mouth, thick and solid just the way John liked to feel, and he felt pride blossom in his chest when he managed to take a good portion of the length after a few tries, though he knew from experience that it'd take practice before he could swallow the whole thing. For now, he stroked the parts he couldn't suck, fist moving in time with the bobbing of his head, eyes finally closing the better to concentrate on the task at hand and mouth.

He was barely aware of the contented hum he was making, listening instead for the increasingly loud sounds of Sherlock's approval, Sherlock's pleasure better than the finest violin music to John's admittedly biased ears. John braced himself for the crescendo, sucking with more force, curling his tongue and twisting it around the length and over the head when he could, hand tightening until Sherlock let out a strangled cry that might have been his name and spilled, thick and bitter, into John's welcoming mouth.

John swallowed and then wiped his mouth on the sheets before coming up, hovering shyly in hopes of a kiss.

"Oh, don't be absurd," said Sherlock, grinning as he pulled John the last few inches down until their mouths met. "How could I not want to kiss you after that?"

John grinned right back and asked impishly, "I take it you're pleased?"

Sherlock laughed as he was meant to, and rolled them over so it was John on his back this time. "Let me show you how pleased," he said, kissing John one last, lingering time before he began his own teasing journey down John's body.

Just the tone in his voice sent a shiver down John's spine, and John found that he wasn't nearly so polite as Sherlock, because he couldn't resist tangling his fingers in Sherlock's black curls, finding them soft and welcoming and slightly damp with sweat that John had caused. Sherlock bit down on one of John's nipples and his brain derailed, though a laugh tried to bubble up at the image of Sherlock telling him it was hardly an accomplishment.

"Won't last," gasped John.

"I know," said Sherlock, smug as ever. Clearly, he'd have to make Sherlock come again just so he could watch and forever cherish the moment when he'd rendered Sherlock's bullet-train of a mind non-functional. "Stop thinking," added Sherlock, before biting the other nipple slightly harder -- not quite too hard but almost -- enough to make John groan.

"You don't," John pointed out.

Sherlock chuckled, then bit his way down John's torso, leaving pink teeth-marks and purple kiss-marks, laying his claim to John's body much more thoroughly than John's one little love bite. John had to admit he got off on it, loved that Sherlock wanted John to be his, wanted any foolish rivals to see that someone had already staked a claim on John's sensitive flesh. His hips nearly left the bed when Sherlock sucked a bruise over one hipbone, then worked his way down in a trail of kisses to nuzzle at the base of John's needy cock.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss right at the base, and John thought for a moment that he could feel the precise shape of his lips, the dip in the top and the full curve of the bottom, absurd though the idea was. Sherlock's tongue was wide and flat and velvety when he dragged it up the length of John's cock, and Sherlock evidently had no problem remembering how to take the whole thing, because he managed it in one impressive swallow. John swore in heartfelt appreciation, hands flexing in Sherlock's curls.

Sherlock pulled back with exquisite suction, those wicked eyes fixed on John's face, and John just moaned and let his head fall back onto the pillow. Sherlock's tongue swirled around the head and then he did the whole thing over and over again, faster each time, until John lost count and lost control and came, pleasure sparking along every nerve and coalescing inside the heat of Sherlock's bloody gorgeous mouth.

From the insufferably smug grin on Sherlock's face afterward, John was positive he'd shouted Sherlock's name when he came.

"Just get up here and kiss me," said John, unable to keep from returning the grin even as he tugged on Sherlock's hair, fit their bodies together, and they shared the bitter taste of each other in a kiss that John rather hoped he'd never forget. Sherlock was a lean weight on top of him, cuddling close in a way John couldn't have imagined before it happened, and John let the kisses go on and on for as long as Sherlock would allow. Sherlock's skin was dry and pleasantly warm against John's cooling, sweat-slicked body, and Sherlock's cock was at the sort of half-mast that showed interest without demanding anything further, fitting neatly into the curve of John's body to nestle with his own spent bits.

"Experiment successful, then?" asked John, when the kissing had slowed down and finally stopped, their bodies still twined close and foreheads pressed together.

Sherlock huffed out a warm, disbelieving laugh and kissed John one more time before he answered. "Very successful," he said, stroking a hand down John's body. "You were entirely correct; I only needed to find the right partner."

It was John's turn to feel insufferably smug, to have made Sherlock admit he'd been wrong about something. "Glad you finally have, then," he said, and then, because he thought it was probably important to clarify for Sherlock, he added, "I'll stop dating anyone but you, so long as you want me."

Sherlock lit up like it was Christmas morning, and he kissed John soundly. "A complete success, then, I wasn't expecting that."

"Mmm," said John, too busy sucking another mark where it would most definitely be seen to answer properly for a moment. "We're going to tell people; they all think I'm shagging you, anyway."

"Does this mean I get to mark you, too?" asked Sherlock.

John looked down his body at the wide variety of new bruises and contusions on his torso in the shape of Sherlock's mouth and laughed, but he bared his throat just the same. "I wouldn't want anyone to doubt the origin of yours."

Sherlock made a very pleased sound indeed and bent his head to his task, using teeth as well to make sure there would be a livid bruise for days after.

"Why do I get the feeling you'd rather write 'Property of Sherlock Holmes' on my forehead?" asked John, when Sherlock moved to the other side for a second go.

Sherlock's cock gave a twitch against John's, and he pulled away from his task to give John the most breathlessly possessive look that John had ever seen, let alone been on the receiving end of. "You wouldn't really let me," Sherlock said.

John laughed. "I can already see you planning ways to make me, and no, none of them will work as you intend to use indelible ink," he said, then kissed Sherlock again. "You'll have to content yourself with making love to me enough that I don't mind the body parts in the fridge."

Sherlock laughed. "I knew you'd figure out my other motives," he said, shameless as always. "I just didn't expect to enjoy it quite so much."

"Well, I'm glad that you aren't sacrificing your body for science after all," said John, pulling him down for another kiss. When they broke this time, John let his face grow serious and he said, "To clarify, I don't ever want you to be with me if you don't feel like it, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked as though John had exceeded his quota of remarkable things for the day and was moving on into the absurd. "That will mean long dry spells for you, if I'm on a case," he said dubiously.

"Yes, and it'll mean that when we're together, we'll both want it," said John. He brushed his lips over one of Sherlock's cheekbones and then stroked his face. "It's no fun for me if you aren't enjoying it, don't you see?"

Another look passed over Sherlock's face, and John wanted to go out and punch every single one of his past lovers in the face for putting it there. It was gone in a flash and replaced by Sherlock's thinking face, and eventually he said, "I suppose I do see, at that."

"Good," said John, and then he did his level best to kiss away the shadows their new status kept pulling up. After a while something occurred to him, and he had to laugh.

"What?" asked Sherlock, with the same annoyed curiosity he always got when someone knew something he didn't.

"I suppose I'll have to stop protesting when Angelo calls me your date now," said John, amused.

Sherlock laughed with him this time. "I'd say you're more of a partner, but I have to admit, I've always liked the candles."

"You just like having fire to play with," countered John.

Sherlock looked at him with fierce joy and said, "Yes, precisely."

Somehow, John knew just what he meant.

---

A few weeks later, John came home to find the kitchen table covered, not in chemistry experiments or books, but biscuits. There was a skull with a separate jaw bone, a pair of eyeballs, a tongue and even tiny ear bones, all outlined with delicate tracings of appropriately coloured icing. Vertebrae led down to collarbones, and under a complete rib cage and sternum there were disturbingly competent renderings of all the major organs, stacked neatly in an approximation of their proper locations, leading all the way down to the pelvis. Sherlock had even made a penis and testicles in frankly creepy anatomical cutaway style, but the figure had no limbs, though there did seem to be part of a hand over on the counter.

"Sherlock?" said John, setting the bags on the floor when they got too heavy.

"What is it?" said Sherlock, sounding a bit morose despite the clear evidence he'd been amusing himself during John's absence.

"That's what I was going to ask you," said John, busying himself putting the food away and trying not to disturb the shallow tubs on the top shelf, which appeared to hold a kidney each in different preserving fluids. At least they were covered; the smell would have been appalling otherwise. "Why is there an incomplete gingerbread man on our table?"

Sherlock sighed theatrically. "Mrs Hudson won't make me any more dough."