Part One: Cinnamon
John stared absently at the glowing television, displaying some unimportant progression of gaudy media. He was reclined in his chair, head cocked slightly to one side and hair lightly ruffled from a lazy day lounging about 221B.
Sherlock was stretched to the extremities of each of his own limbs over the couch in a lethargic combination of boredom and post-food coma. That is, until John pulled a small tin out of his pocket and opened it with a small metallic click.
Sherlock's mop of curls bounced up from its position draped over the arm of the couch. He watched with all the intensity required by John's nimble fingers as John pulled a tiny, pink and red flaked candy out of the tin.
Cinnamon, Sherlock thought as the little rosy thing traversed to John's lips and into his mouth.
John's focus hadn't broken from the television as Sherlock's became fixed on the fluid movements of John's mouth. The little candy rolled back and forth from one side of his mouth to the other. The movement would pause and continue in perfect rhythm. As it shifted position, John's tongue would peek tentatively from behind his lips and then vanish again, darting back behind a row of sharp, white teeth.
Sherlock decided he wanted one. He needed that cinnamon on his own tongue.
"Do you have another one of those?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
John only glanced momentarily at Sherlock. "Sorry, last one."
Sherlock scowled towards John who was now once again fixed on the television. His eyes narrowed as he was once again transfixed upon John's lips. Sherlock began to feel hot, sweat beginning to glisten on his forehead. His heart began to quicken in his chest as John's teeth grazed over his lips, warm, flushed, and glistening with use.
Wait just one moment. All this for a hint of cinnamon? Sherlock realized. It did seem a bit much didn't it. Then he realized it. Sherlock had not once thought of how the cinnamon would taste on his own tongue. He had only thought of the movements of John's as it brushed over that little bit of cinnamon behind his lips.
Sherlock sat forward, propelled himself off the couch, and in one swift movement, brought himself to loom over John. His shadow cast dark shapes over John's startled face. He leaned down and met John's lips, quickly parting them and slipping his tongue through John's teeth. John's jaw didn't fight Sherlock. It allowed access to his own mouth in surprised paralysis. Sherlock's tongue nimbly scooped the tiny shred of cinnamon off of John's petrified tongue and withdrew into his own mouth again.
Sherlock drew back from John, quickly checking John's pupils before reclining back into the couch. Meanwhile, John remained still, mouth slightly ajar, exasperated by Sherlock's actions.
A simple, unfinished "wha…" drawled out of John's mouth whose eyes had finally refocused from space onto Sherlock.
Sherlock was sucking contentedly on his newly acquired flavor, peeking out from under his eyelashes at John, watching, waiting for his next move.
Then, John surprised the unsurprisable Sherlock Holmes. He looked slyly over at Sherlock and said, "I wasn't quite finished with that." He then whipped out of his chair and glided over to him, grabbing hold of Sherlock's face with his army weathered hands, pressing his lips to Sherlock's, and forcing open his mouth with a powerful pair of jaws.
Sherlock, however, was quicker than John was; he battled John's invasive tongue for the fiery twinge of cinnamon with his own. The red hot candy was tossed from one mouth to the other until it was forgotten in the tangle of tongues and teeth between John and Sherlock. Soon, it had dissolved in the warm embrace of flesh on flesh. They kissed the cinnamon off each other's lips, running their tongues over the others teeth, taking the flavor with them, until the only taste left was of heated, wonderful soreness.
John drew back, cheeks flushed, pupils dilated, breathing heavy, eyes on fire. Sherlock smiled devilishly up at John. Suddenly, John realized where he was once again. This was Sherlock. He just snogged the cinnamon from the lips of his flatmate, his best friend, his partner.
"I…" John drew his hands back from their hold on the couch cushions on either side of Sherlock. "That was foolish. I'm sorry." John stood and looked down at the floor, ashamed of himself. He paused for a moment and then walked briskly to his bedroom and shut the door.
Sorry? Why was he sorry? Was all Sherlock could think in the silence. His lips hurt with the absence of John and his mind hurt with the apology, but most of all, Sherlock's normally guarded heart hurt with the rejection.