A/N This story came out of no where and I just wanted to force myself to write a one shot.

Darjeeeling

"No, Sherlock. Just no," said the cold, exhausted doctor. "How can possibly expect me to walk into a coffee shop with bare feet, wearing a soaking wet shroud."

Bertram, the cabbie, looked at his fare, through the rear view mirror. The tall, posh brunet wore a fine, tailored suit. The little blond, however, was dripping wet. He was indeed barefoot and barelegged despite the cold weather. He had crawled into the cab wearing a long, dark coat, which was several sizes too large. He looked like a kid playing dress up.

At least now, Bertram knew for sure that the shorter man was actually wearing something under that large coat. Bertram had wondered. But a shroud? A wet shroud? It was disturbing the things people got up to these days. The cabbie did not understand why the loonies always ended up in his taxi.

"John, you already have my coat," said the tall man, who was busy playing with his mobile and all but ignoring the poor, shivering little bloke. "No one can even see the shroud."

"I have bare feet and it's sleeting," said the blond scowling. As his emotions rose, so did his voice, both in pitch and volume. "And I'm wet! And it's all your fault!"

"I am well aware of your bare feet as I am sitting on them," said the brunet. He sounded disdainful, but when John tried to pull his feet away, Sherlock grabbed a hold of the frigid extremities, keeping them positioned under his leg for warmth.

"Furthermore I don't see how it could possibly be my fault. I never asked you to follow that priest, John," said Sherlock severely. "Only an idiot would ha…"

"You said he had the hostages!" sputtered smaller man, shaking his finger at his friend. "You said he was going to sacrifice them! You said…"

"I remember everything that I said, John, and I never once suggested that you should offer yourself as a human sacrifice. Always, you have to make the grand heroic gesture and then nearly get yourself killed. I suppose you realize they'll be nominating you for some citizen of the year award or something."

Sherlock Holmes risked a sideways glance at his temporarily silenced companion. At least he could finally look at his blogger without his heart seizing up. It had been close, far too close. Had Sherlock not seen the receipt for the black roses on the parson's mantel…

The brunet's lips thinned, as he once more had to suppress his fear and anger. He had nearly lost John Watson, who was so much more to him than anyone knew.

"I didn't offer myself!" spouted John eventually. "I told you exactly what happened. And never mind that now! Look, I'm cold and wet. I haven't had anything to eat or drink for a day and a half, unless you count the "unblessed wine" and the "cursed wafers" that they shoved down my throat in their stupid satanic ritual."

"John."

"And all I'm asking for is a hot cup of tea," the doctor's voice was all but squeaking, between his chattering teeth. "Just a cup of tea!"

"John, I don't have a coat," said the consulting detective, as if reasoning with an unruly child. "You have my coat. So clearly, you'll have to go in to get the tea. Besides, Lestrade is being unusually obtuse tonight; I'm still trying to explain the obvious significance of the cat food," said Sherlock Holmes, as his fingers sent snarky messages to Detective Inspector Lestrade.

John was too tired and too cold to complain that it wasn't obvious to him either.

"Look, I don't have any money," countered the former army doctor, trying a different tack.

"There's plenty of change in the pockets of my coat, John. The coat. which you are wearing, " added the tall, pale brunet, smirking at the adorable yet angry little man in Sherlock's woolen Belstaff.

"Fine, just forget I even asked. But when I collapse from hypothermia and have to have my toes removed due to frostbite….'

"Gie yor change o'er, mate," said the cabbie, a middle-aged man who really wanted to end the bickering. Stopping to get tea for the poor shivery little bloke seemed to be the best bet. "I'll git the tea. Wat'll ya take innit."

"Um, you don't have to…" said John, red-faced and flustered. He hadn't even seen the cabbie pull over in front of the shop.

"Yes, he does, and he wants to," said the consulting detective. "John would like black tea with milk, no sugar. Keep the change," he ordered, sweetening the deal with a large bill.

Smiling at his very generous tip, Bertram hurried in to the shop before it closed for the evening.

John scowled at his best friend, with his broad shoulders and wide, surprisingly muscular chest. He remembered how strong the detective's arms were, when he pulled John off of the altar, bodily lifting him to safety. John glared at his stubborn, arrogant, bossy flat mate and imagined said flat mate warming him up in creative and inappropriate ways. He quickly suppressed those thoughts before the bugger read his mind.

Sherlock looked impassive, as always, while he insulted DI Lestrade via text. The consulting detective also searched his mind palace for the most innovative and stimulating ways that he could theoretically warm up his blogger; if only John wasn't so insistently straight. Really, the doctor had looked quite irresistible in the wet shroud he'd been forced to wear for the black sabbath. Sherlock blinked, as he recalled the way the thin wet fabric clung to John Watson's body.

John sighed, since he knew that Sherlock was married to his work.

Sherlock glared, because John stubbornly persisted in his mistaken belief that he wasn't gay, all evidence to the contrary.

John sulked and gazed longingly, when he thought his best friend wasn't looking.

Sherlock smirked because he was always observant, and he could hardly miss that look of wide-eyed adoration on the short blond sitting next to him. Maybe all was not lost.

"Blimey! There'll be none o'that in my taxi!" said the cabbie, noting the looks. He handed John the Styrofoam cup full of steaming tea. The ex-army doctor pulled his feet out from under his best friend. Then John sat up straight, staring at his cup of tea and blushing violently.

Sherlock scowled; the wretched cabbie had interrupted at a most inopportune time. "It is ironic that you spout homophobic rules, when your own brother is a prominent gay activist," said the consulting detective, glaring at his non-gay flat mate out of the corner of his eye.

"I an't homo-pho-bick," said the cabbie self-righteously, as he pulled back out into traffic. "Them's the same rules I gie to the boys what dates girls too."

"That's all rather beside the point," said John, with a sad smile as he tried to make a joke. "I mean, if he wanted to shag me, do you honestly think he would have begrudged me that cup of tea?"

Sherlock stiffened. Had he really just lost out on chance to shag his blogger by not buying the man tea? Could it possibly be that simple? He brought his eyebrows together and assumed his thinking pose.

John looked wistfully at his cup. Even just friends, even casual collueagues would have bought their cold, wet mate a hot cuppa. This showed once again, that John just wasn't a priority to Sherlock Holmes, which was no surprise really. Who was John Watson when compared to beautiful geniuses like the Woman or James Moriarty?

Regretfully resigned to his fate as the perennial sidekick, John pried off the lid and slowly inhaled the fine Muscat aroma of his Darjeeling. John immediately felt comforted as the pungent scent caressed him.

"Mmmmm," moaned John appreciatively. He could already tell that this was an exceptional cup of tea, and John temporarily forgot the romantic dilemma that had been brewing ever since he met Sherlock Holmes.

"John," interrupted said detective. "I would like to point out that I did in fact buy you that fine cup of tea. In so far as I paid for it," said Sherlock. If anyone got the credit and the benefits for this tea, it would be Sherlock.

The cabbie gave the tall brunet a sharp look via the rearview mirror, but the short blond only said, "Hmm," as he communed with his hot cuppa, breathing in its heady aroma.

Without warning, John's tongue darted out, flirting with the hot beverage. He sudderered delicately. It was still much too hot to drink, so he just teased his tastebuds with little flicks into the steaming, astringent brew.

The consulting detective affected not to notice his blogger's wonton tongue, and he picked up his phone and began texting some truly withering insults to Lestrade, his team and Scotland Yard in general.

His flat mate's tongue circled the rim twice and then just barely dipped into the pungent drink. John repeated the performance, adding a soft moan at the end. Sherlock sucked in his lower lip and dropped his phone into his lap.

Hoping to cool the piping hot drink, the doctor blew tiny puffs across the pleasingly bold, beverage. The teasing tastes were not enough; John needed more. He wrapped his dry, somewhat chapped lips aound the rim, with a soft, growl.

John took a small sample. His lips puckered from the searing heat, and his Adam's apple bobbed up and down as he swallowed.

"Ohhhh. Ohh, that's fine," crooned John to the hot cylinder in his hand. He took another small, scorching sip."That is fine," he murmured, as smoldering pain mixed with delectable pleasure.

"Ahh," said Sherlock, his mobile lay forgotten in the heat of the moment.

John slowly advanced his lips, and daringly took yet another sip of the piquant brew. "Ohhhh, groaned John, as the burning, slightly bitter liquid cascaded down his throat, "Oh, GOD! I needed this sooo bad!"

Bertram the cabbie had heard enough. He turned around, ready to put a stop to the gentlemen and their capers.

But there was really nothing that Bertram could say. The brunet sat in his corner holding his mobile in his lap. The blond sat in his corner, savoring his tea, while his hands stroked the length of his cup. The little bloke moaned into his steaming cup of Darjeeling yet again.

Horns blared. The taxi swerved, sloshing a some of the tea onto John's hand. The doctor quickly licked it off his hand.

"Oh for God's sake, Bertram," snarled the consulting detective. 'Keep your eyes on the road. Can't a man have privacy to…to…consume his beverage in peace."

John looked up from his damp hand, blinking innocently. "What? What happened?" he asked with raised voice and brows. John sipped placidly at his tea, no longer entranced by the beverage. "And who's Bertram?"

"The driver. The driver is Bertram," snapped Sherlock who was truly frustrated, now that John was sipping his tea so…prosaically.

"How do you know…"

"The licence! His name is on the licence; surely even you can see that," said the consulting detective, "And he's married. No children. One dog. Oh and he is in a rush to get back to his flat because…Oh, because he and his lovely wife will be celebrating Candice's birthday tonight. How touching."

"Wait, who's Candice," asked John, pursing his lips and blinking at his flat mate.

"The dog, of course. Do try to keep up John."

John only smiled and muttered an apology to Bertram before he could become offended by the detectives intrusive deductions.

"Candice, in fact, is a corgi," continued the stropy sleuth. "And do you want to know how I know it's a corgi?"

"Noo," said John, wanting to spare the cabbie any more of Sherlock's antics. The doctor half-closed his eyes again, the better to taste the bitter yet creamy treat that still rested in his hands. "No, just wannna drink my tea, Sherlock," added John, his voice turning low and husky.

This cut the detective off in mid-rant, because he, too, wanted John to drink more tea.

John swallowed another mouthful of the Darjeeling, with its penetrating flavor. The doctor was once more intent on his mouth-watering beverage. John sipped, groaning involuntarily and shifting to get more comfortable on the firm, hard seat of the taxi.

SHerlock shifted in his seat too; his clothes felt just a bit too tight. "Is the tea… is it really that good, John?" asked the consulting detective, his voice dropping into a rough, low baritone. His eyes fairly glowed in the back of the cab. "Tell me, John. Tell me… how is it?"

The shorter blond hummed his approval, "It's… hot, so hot. And God, the taste...full-bodied with a hint of musk. And then the milk just makes it slide down...smooth, just so smooth."

The cabbie looked back again, almost sideswiping a parked car.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes to glare with deadly intent at the back of Bertram's head.

Fortunately, all of John's rapt attention remained focused on satisfying his desire. It wasn't long before Sherlock was rewarded with another deep-throated groan, as John swallowed another mouthful.

Sherlock leaned closer to his best friend, watching the lights dance on John's gleaming, tea drenched lips. The detective reflexively licked his lips, which parted expectantly, when John's slick, pink tongue once more sampled his tannic treasure.

John began to caress his cup, sliding his fingers up from the base and then back down, trying to warm them the cold digits.

The World's Only Consulting Detective imagined John's fingers caressing him like that, up and then down and then up...

The doctor shrugged and slid his hand further out of the overlarge Belstaff, He smiled to himself, and slowly stuck his finger in the still hot tea. He swirled it around and then pulled the finger out. The glistening liquid on John's dripping finger shimmered in the passing city lights. John held his finger up and then licked it once from the base to the tip. "Mmmm, so good," he moaned again, leaning his head back.

Unable to stop himself, John stuck his finger back in the cup, and then he pushed his digit past his eager lips and sucked off the rich milky goodness. Humming with pleasure, he pulled his finger out of his mouth with a audible pop.

The driver shifted uncomfortably. Sherlock noticed that it was a bit warm in the cabin and tugged at his shirt collar.

Then the ex-army doctor threw caution to the winds, he lifted the firm yet yielding cup to his soft pink lips. He tipped the cup carefully, allowing a few beads of creamy dew fall onto his waiting tongue.

Sherlock moaned in sympathy.

John savored the bitter drops of pleasure. Humming loudly, John Watson put the brim of the cup in his eager mouth and swallowed a large mouthful. "Mmmmm," he he groaned. "Ohhh, God….ohh, ngghhh."

Bertram lowered the steamed-up windows."Lemme know if ya gets too cold," said the taxi driver breathlessly. Sherlock barely noticed the cabbie.

"Mmmmm," moaned John, then he looked up. His wide eyes were dark, with undisguised lust. "Sherlock, d'you want… a taste?"

The consulting detective wanted a taste. He wanted a taste badly. But the cabbie was ogling his blogger via the rear view mirror. The cabbie had surely just adjusted himself before adjusting the mirror, the better to ogle John with.

It was not to be borne.

"Can you not pay attention to the road?" Sherlock snapped to the driver. "I don't fancy spending the rest of the night in hospital. Besides," hissed the detective,"do you want to make John spill his tea in the back of your taxi?"

Bertram shook his head; no one wanted that.

Suddenly, John moaned a bit louder. savoring the scandalously delectable Darjeeling, which he held in his mouth. He tossed his head back and swallowed the whole, hot, bitter load. The blond laid back against the seat as if he had actually passed out from gustatory bliss.

Sherlock studied his blogger in deshabille. His tousled blond hair formed a soft spiky crown over his blogger's gently flushed face. John looked younger at rest, his brow was lined for once. He seemed to have fallen asleep. Perhaps John was done? Perhaps he had fully consummated his beverage drinking desires?

But no, the tall brunet held his breath, as John leaned forward again, breathing in the heated, musty scent that still emenated from the half-empty cup in his hands.

Sherlock felt a moment of self-doubt. He probably shouldn't watch his best friend when he was so vulnerable, so lost while imbibing his beloved hot beverage. It smacked of voyeurism, but Sherlock couldn't help but stare, when John's pink, chapped lips somehow stretched and took in even more of the pale, firm cup than before.

John whimpered so softly, that Sherlock had lean even closer to hear, "mmmmmmm, oh, yess", the blond whispered. Then finally, he brought his lips back to the cup, and he took it in, slowly, reverently. John swallowed it again, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. "ahhh, yes…yes," said John, pausing.

Then it happened. John bit the cup, leaving his mark on it. The consulting detective drew in a ragged breath. He needed; he wanted…he wanted to taste the tea. He wanted to taste the tea on John.

John wanted to draw this out; he wanted to make his drink last. But he couldn't. He couldn't hold out anymore. This was his, and he wanted all of it now!

The blond tipped the cup up and swallowed and swallowed some more, arching his neck back as he moaned. Then his glistening, pink tongue darted out to capture the last lingering drops. Shamelessly, John licked the rim, cleaning it off.

Sated, John's head dropped back again, with a deep sigh. He loosely cradled the cooling, empty cup against his chest with one hand.

Sherlock licked his lips, watching as his blogger finally fell asleep. After waiting for a few soft snores from his flat mate, Sherlock reached out to take the cup out of John's hand.

"Mmm," murmured John. Not asleep then, though his eyes remained closed.

"I usually don't like it as much with plastic," muttered the blond. "The taste usually isn't the same, y'know. And the texture? The feel of it on m' tongue? It's just different." John moved and his feet once more burrowed under Sherlock's thigh. "But sometimes, like tonight, it just doesn't matter," John sighed, completely relaxed and satisfied. "That was just…perfect."

John licked his lips; a tiny drop of tea glistened obscenely on his chin.

With his hand trembling, ever so slightly, Sherlock gently swept the drop away with one long, elegant finger. He touched his finger to his tongue, tasting the bitter liquid for himself. He sighed. It was perfect.

The driver whimpered softly.

Sherlock hissed at the cabbie.

John snuffled quietly.

The taxi pulled up in front of 221 B Baker Street. Sherlock jostled his blogger to wake him up. The the tall brunet pushed the cab door open, flinging some bills at the flustered cabbie.

He grabbed his blogger's hand, and pulled the groggy blond up the steps.

"What's the hurry, Sherlock?" asked John confused. He was confused because he just woke up. And had Sherlock just paid the cabbie voluntarily. And why was his flat mate in such a hurry, when the case was over? "Sherlock?" queried John. And why was Sherlock holding his hand? "Sherlock? What…"

"John, you need to warm up. I shall make you tea, and then...then you shall drink it," explained the consulting detective. And then we shall see about the shagging, Sherlock thought to himself, his silvery eyes glistening with lust.

John's blue eyes darkened in response to the tall man looming over him, "Ohh," he said excitedly. "Ohhh… Wait, Sherlock, you're making the tea?" asked John eager, but even more confused.

"Indeed John," said the deep baritone rumbled. "Far be it for me, to begrudge you a cup of tea."

A/N Yeah, I did it. It's still longer than I had planned, but it is a one shot.

Thank you for reading and consider sending in a review, will you? I love reviews almost as much as John loves tea.

Disclaimer I know this is surprising, but I do not own any rights to SHERLOCK.