A/N - This is an Xmas present for my awesomensauceness friend, tweeter and text buddy Kim (aka OryonUk). Some harmless, mildly slash, fluffy and vaguely cracky Sherlock/John sandwhich. I hope you enjoy, and any comments at the end would be appreciated! :D
Seduction by Confectionery
by
Blackcurrant Bonbons
Part I
Sherlock had always had a problem with words.
Of the more sentimental variety that is - when necessary he could fire insults at Anderson as if his life depended on it.
"Don't make me order you brother."
Sherlock snorted haughtily, crossing his arms.
"I refuse to allow you to order me on anything."
Mycroft tutted. "Don't play dumb brother, it doesn't suit you."
"I will not accept your pathetic suggestions on-" he huffed "matters concerning emotions of a sentimental or romantic nature," he decided upon.
"Then why did you approach me with your query?"
"Because I am out of ideas!" Sherlock snapped.
"How very uncharacteristic of you..."
Sherlock snarled. "Do not presume to lecture me on matters of which you have no experience or understanding!" Sherlock eyebrows narrowed into an angry V.
"So young..." Mycroft muttered patronisingly. Sherlock picked up his bow, preparing to poke. Mycroft involuntarily took a step back.
After a pause, the older man sighed dramatically, and then proceeded to shuffle into his immaculate trouser pocket, pulling out a tube like packet of confectionery.
Bowling it to Sherlock, the detective snatched it deftly out of the air. Eyeing the packet disdainfully, he sneered.
"Sweets Mycroft? How very uncharacteristic of you..." he mimicked. Mycroft merely raised an eyebrow in disapproval.
Sherlock held it to the light, scanning the label.
"Love Hearts? What do suggest I do with them – perhaps I should drug his tea? Or force them down his throat? A winning combination, I'm sure. Your perceptions on courting are grossly outdated, Mycroft." Sherlock's biting tone dripped with sarcasm.
Mycroft threw back his head and guffawed. "You have always had trouble articulating your heart brother. However, I am certain you will put my gift to good use."
Sherlock sniffed the packet suspiciously, like a blood hound on the scent.
"Well." Mycroft sighed. "I shall leave you to your courting."
Sherlock looked across at him sharply. "It is NOT courting!"
Mycroft's raised eyebrow hinted otherwise.
"Mycroft – if this does not produce the wanted results-" he brandished his violin bow dangerously at the unmoved man – "I am holding you personally responsible!"
"Good day, Sherlock. And as they say, bonne chance!" Mycroft called cheerily, his heavy frame plodding down the stairs of 221b. Sherlock sprang into action.
He had an hour until John returned from the surgery...
John stepped into 221b, hanging up his coat and dropping his medical bag on the sofa.
Walking into the kitchen, he froze. The kitchen table was clear - for once. His consternated frown faded as he shrugged absently. The doctor reasoned that Sherlock had in all probability thrown it out of the kitchen window in a fit of rage. Again.
Honestly, the cheek of that man sometimes...
However, he paused again upon realising that a crude heart shape made of sweets – oh god, was that Love Hearts? – took up a considerable amount of the table.
Peering in closer, John's heart stuttered, before stopping completely.
From what he had gathered, the hearts made up a broken - if stark - message. Starting on the innermost love heart, John began to read.
Hi baby. Angel face. Blue eyes. I'm shy. Love you. I want U. Cheeky boy. Kiss me. Dream boy. Hunk.
Oh god, John thought. Did Sherlock – did he – oh god. Fuck, fuck, fuck.
Considering the circumstances, perhaps John's choice of cursive was not entirely appropriate.
The stinging words 'not really my area' reverberated loudly in his mind.
No, this wasn't Sherlock...
John then caught sight of a small note written in the detective's familiar scrawl.
He gripped the table tightly as he processed the contents.
It read only, 'I'll be in my bedroom.'
John inhaled and exhaled very quickly. Well, Sherlock wasn't the kind to joke, and quite frankly, this was his golden opportunity...
Shuffling out of his shoes, he leapt over the coffee table, hurriedly and rather awkwardly stripping off his outer layers.
"I'm coming Sherlock!" He yelled.
Part II
John stamped his feet on the doormat, the excess snow melting into the fabric.
The surgery had been hectic; the start of December hailed an influx of coughs and colds, and John was shattered.
Opening the door to 221b, his eyes lazily dragged over the lean frame of the silent detective. Sherlock lay despondently spread-eagled across the couch, eyes fixed on the flickering TV.
"Tea Sherlock?" John asked hopefully, pulling his eyes reluctantly off the marble figure.
No response. Shrugging, John walked off into the kitchen. Setting up two mugs, he picked up the kettle, barely noticing the love heart lying carefully placed besides it.
Doing a double take, John picked up the familiar sweet fondly, chuckling softly. Popping the candy into his mouth, he put the kettle on to boil.
John's eyes admired Sherlock's profile curiously. Licking the sugary powder off his lips, John's face split into a wide grin.
Sometimes, Sherlock could be an utterly adorably sociopath.
Automatically arranging their teas – and goddammit Mycroft had been at the custard creams again! – John placed the mug haphazardly down onto the coffee table, several hobnobs (Sherlock's favourite) clamped down between his lips. Placing the biscuits on the table, John chuckled.
"You need to work on your subtlety, love," John murmured jokingly, raising an eyebrow. He caught Sherlock's glance from underneath his eyelashes.
The detective snorted, arching his eyebrow to maximum effect.
"As I'm sure you are already aware, subtlety has never been my strong point."
"Understatement of the century." John returned deadpan.
Then, slowly, the wicked smile returned to the doctor's face.
He moved to sit down on the far armchair. Sipping his steaming tea, John eyed Sherlock carefully. The detective twitched minutely, his icy green eyes flickering over to John's still figure.
As their broken clock echoed away the seconds, John continued to smother his grin – and failed.
He relished this – the waiting, the flickering glances, the frozen breathing. It was a game - two silent figures stalking their opponent closely, attempting to anticipate the other's next move, waiting for their partner to strike.
It was rare that John had any control over Sherlock, but when he did; by God did he draw it out as long as possible.
By John's counting, it was approximately 10 minutes before Sherlock cracked.
"John." Sherlock's half-growled; drawing across the name in his seductive baritone and reminding John of one of Sherlock's better violin performances. A small shudder ran up his spine, leaving a tingling trail of smouldering heat.
It was even rarer when Sherlock had control over John, but when he did; by God did he draw it out as long as possible.
"Yes Sherlock?" John replied in a light tone.
"Must I stoop to explain myself?"
"Yes, I believe you must." John mimicked the detective's tone, his childish mirth evident.
Sherlock ducked his head, looking down at his lap. A faint blush reached his ears and John clenched his fingernails down into the fabric of the chair, dragging his burning hands across the soft fabric.
"I would not be adverse to a-a..." Sherlock stuttered off.
"A cuddle?" John finished. The sociopath did not respond, but John stood wordlessly, settling himself a few centimetres away from Sherlock, placing himself at the far end of the sofa. Swinging his legs up, he gently took Sherlock under the armpits. From there it was a few moments of shuffling and awkwardly positioned limbs before they managed to settle into a comfortable position.
Sherlock lay cradled against John, inky locks splaying across his partner's chest, and gangly legs dangling slightly over the armrest. John's legs lay slightly open, his arms wrapped around Sherlock's light frame, his fingers absently stroking his sociopath's belly as the telly droned quietly in his ears.
Pulling out a half eaten tube of sweets, Sherlock slipped a steady stream of love hearts into John's pliant mouth. The doctor licked the sweet powder off the long, tapered fingers, sucking gently. Locking eyes, the pair grinned.
And the rest, as they say, was history.
Finis