John wrinkled his nose as he opened the front door to 221 Baker Street. Climbing the 17 steps up into their flat, he could feel the air getting thicker. Obviously an experiment had gone wrong, and the flowers he was about to present to Sherlock were going to be wilted within an hour. He opened the door, hiding the bouquet behind his back.

'You know there's no use hiding those. I can deduce what they are and even their species if you'll give me enough time to open the window and clear the air.'

'Really, Sherlock? I thought the pink smoke was quite befitting of the occasion, and I wasn't aware that this particular genus was your speciality. Go on then.'

'Obvious. Genus is Rosa, since you're going to make me prove it. Species is Camp David. No, John, it is not going to have a fancy Latin name as they're just hybrid tea roses. Really. You could have picked something a little less obvious, although I'm sure the flower shop you went to isn't really one for Rosa gallica of the "Charles de Mills" variety.'

'I was aiming for appropriate, not puzzling, Sherlock. Now go and get dressed properly. We are leaving in half an hour and you can't be going out in that state of affairs,' John said, gesturing to the plaid dressing gown covered in soot.

'The occasion, John?'

He sighed. Of course Sherlock had forgotten.

'No, wait John. I'll get there eventually.'

Sherlock is not to sharp in all areas of life, John thought.

'Ah, of course. Our anniversary, our one year anniversary, in fact. I do apologise, my experiment got the better of me.'

'Enough of that. Please get dressed.'

'You're not going to tell me where we're going?'

'Can't you deduce it? I'm sure your massive intellect can manage to figure out something this evening besides the roses.'

'Let's leave it to surprise this evening.'

'You're joking, right?'

'Obviously we're going out to eat, John. That much is clear to me without any brain effort, but beyond that I really have no idea. We are obviously on some sort of schedule, so the event must be timed, but that could simply mean a reservation at a restaurant. Whatever you have planned, I'm sure it will be nice and I am sure I can make it up to you later this evening.' A small smirk appeared on Sherlock's face as he headed up the stairs to their bedroom, his old one had been converted to storage for even more books.

Some time after their prescribed leaving time the pair were finally headed out the door, hailing a cab that was about to turn onto Marylebone Rd.

'Old Street and Whitecross, please,' John said, as they settled into the cab.

'Really, John? LSO St. Lukes? I thought we were eating.'

'We are, Sherlock. And we aren't headed to St. Lukes, I'm afraid.'

'Then what?'

'Do you honestly want to know?'

'Yes and no.'

They spent the relatively short cab ride chatting about the mundane people John saw at the clinic. Sherlock enjoyed trying to deduce illnesses by symptoms John gave him and he was right so often that John was beginning to wonder who was the ex-Army doctor in the cab.

Upon arriving at the restaurant, Pham Sushi, John was surprised at how enthusiastic Sherlock was about the food.

'John, this couldn't be better.'

'I heard this place was good, but I didn't think you'd be this enthusiastic. You never eat.'

'Well somehow you picked the right place,' he replied as if every single date before this one had been a massive failure, which it hadn't. 'We're not on a case, so digestion isn't going to slow me down, and there is enough variety on this menu to even satisfy my need for constant change.'

John smiled internally. This was precisely the reason he had chosen the restaurant in the first place. It was good to see that Sherlock was beginning to recognise John's skills in seeing his needs. While waiting, Sherlock also had a good time identifying (more) smugglers - John insisted they not get involved this time - and even somehow figured out that the waiter had a twin brother in the kitchen. This deduction wasn't even questioned, as John couldn't begin to fathom how he figured this out.

The food was good and the pair were out the door with enough time to spare a leisurely walk to Mystery Destination No. 2, as Sherlock had now nick-named it. About 10 minutes in, Sherlock had deduced it. 'Ah, the Barbican, of course. The LSO.'

'How did you know? Besides the fact that we're walking in that general direction. There's a lot going on this way.'

'You were very specific in your reply. "We aren't headed to St. Lukes". You aren't a man who is inaccurate in his words, even if I can berate you about it sometimes. So, the LSO. I still have no clue what we are seeing, so congratulations.'

'No desire to pick-pocket me like Lestrade and find the tickets?'

'Boring.'

As it turned out, John could not have picked a more perfect second half to their date night. 'John. The Schoenberg. Oh, perfect. I'm sure you know all about the mathematical interests of twelve-tone music, and Schoenberg was one of the founders of the system. But this piece! Oh even more interesting as he was using a combination of tone rows AND neo-classicism,' Sherlock raved.

'It did seem as though it might be of interest to you. Plus, I've heard Hilary Hahn is a very good violinist.'

'Very good, John? She plays with sparkling technical accuracy. I am envious.'

'Did you just say you're envious of someone, Sherlock?'

'Of course. There are few who wouldn't be. Her technique is immaculate, and she still manages to be musical and glamorous.'

She wasfabulous, John had to agree. And even he, who had picked the programme with Sherlock in mind, had managed to enjoy some of the complex Schoenberg. During the interval they stuffed their faces with the little cartons of ice cream that John was so fond of and he listened to Sherlock comment on her violin between shovels of chocolate.

'The violin isn't a Stradivarius, although everyone believes she must play one. It's a Vuillaume,' he said with a flourish, pushing another spoonful into his mouth. John had never known Sherlock to be so passionate about anything that wasn't science. 'However,' he emphasised, 'it is a copy of a Guarneri. That's another old Italian maker, John. Although, they say that one of the most illustrious owners of the violin, Paganini, couldn't even tell the difference, the copy was so good.'

'So what you're saying is that it doesn't matter that it's not a Stradivarius.'

'Yes.' Sherlock had began to eat out of John's strawberry ice cream as well.

'Hey!' he protested. 'It's my anniversary too! You don't even like food. It's boring,' he said in a Sherlock-like drawl.

'I'll need the sustenance for what I have planned this evening for us,' Sherlock commented, all too loudly. The people in the seats next to them gave them glances and then looked away, offended. 'Let them talk,' he moaned, obviously noticing the other patrons. 'I think you'll enjoy my plans. I believe you just told me that it was your anniversary as well?'

'I look forward to it, Mr. Holmes,' he replied as the final bell went off, signalling the end of the interval.

John enjoyed the second half much more. He found the militaristic feeling of the Shostakovich even more thrilling. Although he had enjoyed the technical prowess that the violin concerto had displayed, this appealed to a much more animal instinct. The audience raved at the end and they took their time to clap, but quickly got out of the centre in order to find a cab.

'You know it would be quicker on the tube.'

'You know how I feel about it.'

John knew, but he hoped that Sherlock would be able to get over the intense over-stimulation that crowds provided him at some point. However, the Circle line on a Friday night while everyone was headed to the clubs didn't seem like a good idea. John was anxious to keep the mood romantic, and Sherlock somehow, as if by magic, summoned a cab immediately.

'See, John. This is quicker, regardless.'

The ride back left John teeming with anticipation. Sherlock had been slowly stroking John's inner thighs with the tips of his fingers, raising hairs on the man's back. John paid and quickly bounded after Sherlock to the door of the flat. It had been too much: the silent staring, the stroking that nearly went too high. He needed Sherlock, now.

They were, unfortunately, interrupted by Mrs. Hudson coming out of her flat the moment she heard them enter the foyer.

'Yoo hoo! You boys have fun?'

'Oh yes, Mrs. Hudson,' Sherlock said, grinning.

'John was very enthusiastic about his plans, dear. He couldn't stop telling me about them. What was it you saw again?'

'Hilary Hahn playing the Schoenberg violin concerto and Shostakovich's Fourth Symphony,' quickly replied John. She clearly wasn't seeing the anxious looks on John's face from Sherlock's incessant teasing in the taxi.

'Ah right. I don't know either of them. I'm more a fan of Mozart myself.'

She would be, thought Sherlock. Now let's hurry this up. 'Lovely to see you Mrs. Hudson.'

'Oh yes, dears. Have a nice night! Don't worry about the noise. My herbal soothers will keep me nicely tucked up in bed.'

'Yes, Mrs. Hudson,' John blushed.

They almost ran up the stairs, not being very subtle about their intentions for the rest of the evening. Sherlock unlocked the door to their flat faster than he ever had before, throwing off his coat and helping John with his. The door slammed behind them, the lock clicked and Sherlock's low voice rumbled into John's ears. 'Now doctor, how can I make this wonderful evening up to you?'

'I'm sure you can figure that out yourself,' he teased, giving Sherlock a little smirk.

Sherlock took this as an invitation to pin John against the wall and kiss him forcefully. His tongue snuck inside John's mouth, weaving around and tasting the remnants of the strawberry ice cream he had been enjoying at the Barbican. John returned the favour, intertwining their tongues while pushing his hand through Sherlock's mop of brown curls. He would never ever get over the sensation of the surprising smoothness that his hair had. Although it looked wild in person, it was marvellous to touch.

Sherlock was panting at this point and beginning to unbutton John's shirt. It didn't matter how many times he had done so before, he was still clumsy at it, all of his attention focused on kissing John silly. Some nibbling on his lower lip caused a groan to emit from John's mouth as the final buttons were undone and the shirt pressed off of his shoulders and onto the ground.

He then took to moving down John's body in what seemed like an attempt to kiss every inch he encountered. Sherlock took a luxurious amount of sucking on his Adam's apple, and John could feel himself becoming hard, the fabric of his clothing straining as his cock ached to break free. However, Sherlock was having none of this. He had begun to suck on John's left nipple while slowly teasing the other bud with his fingers. A quick bite left John gasping and Sherlock immediately moved lower, knowing that they were both anticipating more pleasure.

John came to his senses enough to stop Sherlock. 'We need to move upstairs,' he said, out of breath.

'Why? You seem to be enjoying the wall quite well.'

'Bed more comfortable. Lube,' and with that they were both rushing up the stairs into their bedroom. The kissing had returned the moment they slammed the door, even more anxious this time. Sherlock moved onto the bed, straddling John and feeling the sinking of the mattress under their mutual weights. John unbuttoned Sherlock's shirt hastily, anxious as always to see his beautiful, milky white skin and that small smattering of light chest hair he so enjoyed. He didn't have long to take in the familiar sight before Sherlock had moved down, unbuttoning and unzipping John's trousers.

'John?'

'Please, Sherlock.'

He pulled off John's pants and began to fondle his already-hard cock. Sherlock swirled his tongue around the glans, tasting salty pre-cum already. He heard a moan coming from John. It was glorious to have him so distracted from something so simple as this and he was beautiful as he came undone.

Sherlock took more of his cock in his mouth, licking as he went down and feeling John's hips buck involuntarily. He wasn't close yet, but he was obviously enjoying it. Sherlock took his unoccupied hand and fondled his balls, moving his tongue down the shaft of John's penis to lick them as well.

'So. Good. Sherlock.' John's voice was now coming out in grunts, his brain not able to fully process speech and pleasure at the same time. Sherlock took this as a cue to go a little further, knowing what the other man enjoyed. He quickly slicked his fingers with saliva before going back to sucking John. His fingers then found themselves just behind John's balls on his now ultra-sensitive perineum and he rubbed in circles, listening to the gasps coming from his partner.

'Please. Fuck me, Sherlock.'

'Getting there…' he said as he stopped licking the head of John's cock. Sherlock pulled out the lube that was conveniently placed in front of their bedside table and began to slick his fingers. He began to open John up, feeling the tight ring of muscle give way to his fingers as he again sucked on his balls. By now, Sherlock's cock was straining in his pants, longing to fuck John senseless.

'Now, Sherlock. Please,' he begged. The look on John's face was one of ecstasy as Sherlock removed his fingers from John's hole and removed his own trousers and pants. Sherlock moved back up the bed to kiss John and nibble lightly on his lips as he applied more lube onto his own cock and slid in. The tightness and warmth was fantastic. Although in other aspects of his life he craved variety, the partnership and sex with John was something Sherlock never wanted to change. This was something he never tired of. He moved slowly in John, savouring the moment and loving the feeling that being inside someone had. He knew John was close so he continued to kiss him, hoping to extend the him as long as he could for his partner. Within a few minutes and a few choice movements from Sherlock that allowed his cock to graze John's prostate, John was pushed over the edge into bliss, gasping for air.

Sherlock was still as he pulled out of John; however, John reinitiated the kiss and took Sherlock's aching cock in his hand, pumping it hard, willing him to come. Within another few minutes of deep kissing and pumping he too came into John's hand, relaxing.

They lay there in just the light of the bedside lamp, sticky, but content. 'You know, love, I wouldn't have this any other way,' Sherlock whispered, after a few minutes of silence.

'Really? It doesn't bore you?'

'How could it?'

'Well, knowing you…' he trailed off as Sherlock leaned in to chastely kiss his mouth.

'No. This will always be enough.'

'Happy anniversary, Sherlock.'

'I love you too, John.'

A/N: I hope you enjoyed! Feedback is always welcome.
Pssst. If you want to listen to the music that's in the fic, read here: I love both of the pieces I've put on the programme. A quick search on Spotify will yield many recordings, although my favourites are the Hilary Hahn recording of the Schoenberg (first result) and the 2009 CSO Resound recording of the Shostakovich (search Shostakovich 4, it's the 2nd result in the Album listing)... These were all on UK Spotify so no guarantees they're available elsewhere, although they should be.