John Watson picked up a crisp and tossed it into his mouth, watching Sherlock carefully. The detective simply stared back at John, amused.
"You're not eating anything," John half asked and half stated. He had lived with Sherlock long enough that he was accustomed to the man's habit of not eating, but it still puzzled him.
Sherlock's eyebrow arched. "Great observation, but you're not the genius here."
"Thank God," John scoffed. "The world can only handle so many men like Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock didn't reply, not for a few more minutes.
"It bothers you when I don't eat," he said, returning to the previous subject. "Why?"
John shrugged. "I suppose I'm concerned about your well-being. Given that you are the genius, I'm sure I don't have to explain to you why your body requires food."
Sherlock's brows knitted together, as though he were trying to recall something. "I seem to have deleted that specific piece of information. Remind me, will you."
John sighed, and delved into a complex scientific description of the way cells rebuilt themselves using proteins and amino acids. Sherlock stayed perfectly still, his hands steepled beneath his chin as he stared intently at John. No, he hadn't actually forgotten about the processes surrounding cell maintenance; he just enjoyed watching John explain things. He'd seen it a few times, never directed at him, but he enjoyed it the same. John really was intelligent compared to most people, even if he wasn't nearly on Sherlock's level, and the way his face would light up when he was imparting knowledge was utterly fascinating. He had a sort of passion that Sherlock found entirely too enticing.
"I think perhaps I ought to eat something," Sherlock said after John had wrapped up.
John nodded. "That decision has nothing to do with my explanation, does it?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Only very slightly. But I'm not in the mood for much of a meal. I'd rather snack a bit. I was thinking strawberries with… whipped cream, and perhaps chocolate."
John narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "That sounds like-"
Suddenly, Sherlock's lips were on his, and Sherlock's tongue was parting them roughly. He didn't even pretend to try to fight it. He'd given up on the "I'm not gay" excuse after the incident several weeks earlier, when he'd confessed the depth of his obsession with Sherlock in a drunken stupor. Not gay, perhaps, but that didn't mean he wasn't attracted to men. Or, rather, man, as he hadn't shown interest in any man but Sherlock.
Sherlock's hands rested on the small of his back for a moment before making their way downward, and John wrapped his arms around the taller man's neck.
Sherlock pulled away too quickly, and John released him. The detective made his way to the refrigerator, pulling out the plastic container of strawberries, the squeeze bottle of chocolate syrup, and the can of whipped cream.
"You have got to be kidding me," John laughed, but his eyes widened in anticipation. "I thought for sure you were joking."
Sherlock smirked. "Of course not. Are you ready to be horribly cliché?"
John bit his lip, and nodded. Sherlock responded with a more genuine smile and set the items on the counter before quickly clearing off the table. It was quite lucky that Sherlock had just finished his latest experiment, and there wasn't much left on the table itself, otherwise they might have earned themselves any number of chemical-related injuries, like the time when Sherlock had forgotten that he was holding a beaker with a (relatively) weak concentration of hydrochloric acid and John decided it was a good idea to try to distract him. Sherlock ended up with acid burns on both hands, and John…
Well, John preferred not to think about that particular situation.
Besides, John didn't have time to think, because suddenly Sherlock was pushing him back toward the table, tugging at the hem of his jumper until it was over his head and on the floor, along with the shirt he had been wearing under it.
Through heated kisses, John reached for the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, but Sherlock pushed his hands away, shaking his head slightly. Suddenly, John's trousers were on the floor, and Sherlock was pulling at the waistband of his pants until they, too, slid off, down his legs, and Sherlock followed through the motion.
Sherlock was really tempted to stay on his knees and give the good doctor and his magnificent cock a proper blowjob, but then realized that defeated the purpose of clearing off the table. Sherlock stood, and raised an eyebrow at his now naked lover, who got the message and lifted himself onto the table.
Sherlock closed the distance, kissing John gently before pushing him back so that he was lying down on the table, his knees bent at the edge so his calves dangled. Sherlock then reached for the chocolate syrup.
John bit his lip as Sherlock slowly, purposefully, flipped open the cap, and carefully, just as slowly and purposefully, tipped it over John's stomach, until, little by little, the syrup began to drizzle out. Sherlock's face contorted into an expression of concentration, as though John were his canvas, chocolate his medium; as though he were creating art. The syrup dripped into a pattern of swirls and hearts, then he broke the line, skipping over a small portion of skin and dribbling the syrup along the delectable "v" leading to John's now perfectly hard cock (which he also covered with a nice helping of the syrup).
Sherlock stepped back to admire his handiwork, and John tried to lean up on his elbows to see, too, but he was promptly pushed back down.
"I'm not done yet, John," Sherlock said, putting the syrup back next to the can of whipped cream, and grabbing the latter. He considered his unfinished masterpiece, then, in the same manner with which he wielded the syrup, he cautiously filled in various spaces between the lines of chocolate. When he finished, he squirted a long, thick line up the underside of the increasingly glorious erection in front of him.
He didn't waste any time in getting the strawberries. He'd been planning on using them for an experiment, and had already cut the tops and halved them, but this was a much better use for them. He set one into the center of each heart, then up the line of whipped cream he had created, before he was finally completely satisfied.
"Don't move," Sherlock murmured. "You might mess it up."
John rolled his eyes at Sherlock's perfectionism. "But I want to see it," he complained.
Sherlock wordlessly reached into his pocket for his mobile and took a picture. "There, now you can see it." He showed John the picture.
"Alright, now I've seen it, delete it," John insisted. He didn't particularly want anyone to accidentally find nude pictures of him on Sherlock's phone, if they happened to be flipping through it for some strange reason.
Sherlock hesitated. "Actually, I might keep this for later."
John opened his mouth to reply, but he cut himself off with a groan as Sherlock's tongue began to trace the lines of chocolate on his stomach. He was trying very hard to be angry about something, but suddenly he couldn't remember what—because the place where that long, delicate tongue met his skin was the center of his universe.
That tongue continued to trace the chocolate for an eternity. Then, it broke its course, dragging up John's torso, leaving a trail of chocolate and saliva in its wake, until it made contact with one hardened nipple, which it swirled around twice before giving the other the same treatment. John moaned, now thoroughly frustrated with Sherlock for damn well taking his sweet time when John was already keyed up, and decided to resort to desperate measures.
"Sherlock," he whimpered. "Sherlock please, I need… something, anything, love."
Yes, John Hamish Watson had defaulted to begging his ridiculously arrogant, very male, flatmate to satisfy his sexual desires. If you'd told him months before that in a short while, he'd be laying out on a table fully naked while a man decorated him like a bloody ice cream sundae, he would never have believed you. In fact he may have shaken his head and told you that you'd gone completely mad. But the fact remained that this was, indeed where he was.
Sherlock smirked, and sucked a strawberry into his mouth from one of the hearts. And damn it all to hell if that wasn't probably the sexiest thing John had ever seen.
A moment later, he took back that thought, because Sherlock repeated the action—but this time with the strawberry at the base of his prick.
John let his head fall back and moaned loudly enough that he could have sworn he heard an echo.
No, wait, that was Sherlock, who was now pawing at his own erection through his slacks.
"Oh, God, Sherlock, please," John whined.
Sherlock lowered his head onto John's stomach again, this time more needy, not taking his time at all. Instead, he was trying his absolute hardest to clean of the mess of chocolate and whipped cream and strawberries that no longer even remotely resembled the work of a perfectionist consulting detective. He finally became too impatient (John's stomach wasn't really all that clean) and moved on to better things: namely, the cock that, to Sherlock's amusement, looked a bit like a banana split without ice cream. He debated a moment before deciding ice cream would be far too cold. He flicked his tongue out, relaxed it so it broadened, and licked one side, then the other before sucking the strawberries into his mouth one at a time, gingerly chewing them, and then swallowing far more dramatically than was necessary.
John's head was absolutely swimming, and each swallow sent electricity through his body in an entirely unwholesome way. "Sherlock," he groaned. "Get on with it!"
The man laughed, and continued until the last strawberry was making its way through his digestive system, at which point he began dragging his tongue through the whipped cream. This caused John's hips to unconsciously buck up slightly. Sherlock then wrapped his lips around the glistening head of John's cock and bob up and down for a relatively short amount of time, not quite enough to provide him with the consistent friction he would require to get off. John, of course, was too near climax for Sherlock to risk anything more.
So, he slipped it out of his mouth with an elegant pop as he began to fuss with the buttons on his shirt, shedding it and his trousers in record time. However, he waited with the black silk pants, rubbing himself slowly (oh, he loved the feel of the cool silk on his own aching cock), putting on quite a show for John, who was now leaning on his elbows, moaning his name over and over again before finally sliding the pants to the floor.
John slicked his tongue over his bottom lip at the sight of Sherlock's prick. So perfect, so long… then Sherlock was on his knees on the table, and John had no clue how he'd gotten that way. He was positioned just perfectly over John, and—when had he gone for the lube? The bastard had probably had it in his pocket the entire time.
Sherlock slicked up his own fingers, and, prodding at his tight little hole, slid one in. John instinctively reached down for his own cock, but at the last moment changed his mind and gripped Sherlock's instead. Sherlock, for once, actually seemed surprised.
Sherlock moaned his approval, slipping in another finger and brushing against his own prostate, lightly at first, then much more insistently. John watched Sherlock above him, wriggling on his own fingers and making positively obscene noises as John's fist pumped his cock. "John, I need you," he whimpered, adding a third finger, stretching himself as well as he could.
John pulled Sherlock's head down until their lips met in a passionate kiss, tongues battling for dominance.
"I need you, too," John whispered breathily as they broke apart momentarily.
With that, Sherlock removed his slick fingers and squeezed a fair amount of lube onto John's cock before lowering himself onto it slowly, centimetre by centimetre, until he was fully seated on John's brilliant erection.
They both moaned, John at the tight heat around him, and Sherlock at the feeling of the huge prick inside him. Soon, Sherlock had found a steady pace, rolling his hips, raising and lowering himself at just the right angle that John hit his prostate with every motion. Sherlock dug his nails into John's hips as he rode him, and John's hand was still wrapped tightly around him.
They kissed again, and this time when they parted, John bit into Sherlock's neck.
"Oh, John," he moaned, increasing his pace, rocking into John's palm as he did.
John groaned. "I'm so close," he muttered. "Make me come, Sherlock."
Sherlock bit his lip and began pumping faster, as eager to reach his own climax as he was to give John his, until John rubbed against his prostate just so, and all of the built up tension he felt in the pit of his stomach released in a wave of white hot pleasure that ripped through his body, his muscles tensing and relaxing and the white spurts of his come decorated John's stomach, where the chocolate was still smeared.
The feeling of Sherlock clenching around him spurred on John's own climax, and he groaned Sherlock's name as the sensation swept through him, as well.
After a moment, Sherlock slid off of him, dipping his head and running his tongue over John's chocolate-and-come-smeared stomach.
"Well, that took care of my appetite quite nicely," Sherlock said with a smirk.
Author's Note: Oh my god. I don't even know how this happened. I blame the lovely, beautiful tamikotheneko, who challenged me to write a smut-free Johnlock fluff fic about John getting Sherlock to eat. As you can see, that didn't really work out... Well, hope you enjoyed it! Review, please, and thank you for reading.