Yeah, yeah, I know…I don't write slash…I don't ship the boys. Well, reading slash or Maple Leaf Cameo's influence must have rubbed off on me, because this plot bunny just would not go away. This is for the ladies in Mrs. Hudson's kitchen; it's a piece of fun that's safe enough (maybe) for Jack to read.
Sherlock barrelled through the door, taking the stairs at Baker Street at his usual two-at-a-time pace. He was half-way to the door when he stopped cold, his body stiffening, his expression alert. Something was…off.
It was unnaturally quiet. He knew John was home because he'd said so in his text when Sherlock had texted to say that he'd be home in thirty minutes. He should be smelling tea. John always had tea ready for him. He should be hearing clattering of dishes. Instead, he heard only silence; instead, his nose was with filled with a too-sweet scent. Images of Mycroft stuffing his face with birthday cake washed over him, his parents trying to force Sherlock to eat a piece of the confection drowned in artificial flavours and garish colours.
It was Sherlock's birthday. He'd asked John not once but three times to ignore it. But in the past week, John had spent a suspicious amount of time on line. Research, he'd said. Dread knotted in his stomach. It couldn't be a party. John wouldn't be so cruel. Cramming God knows how many people into their flat, their inane conversations, stupid gifts, unpleasant body odours, perfumes, hair product, touching…it made Sherlock's skin crawl. Steeling himself for the onslaught that came with a surprise party, Sherlock walked up the remaining stairs. He braced for the inevitable auditory assault of "Surprise!"
He opened the door.
Nothing.
No one.
He heaved a sign of relief. The scent of that something sweet and something else – vaguely floral/vegetable matter? – lingered. A birthday cake, then. If it was just John, his John, he could deal with that.
Sherlock took off his scarf and coat, calling out as he did so. "John?"
"In here."
The voice came from their bedroom. Better than cake, then. A smile pulled at the corners of Sherlock's mouth. The outlook was definitely improving. He tossed his suit jacket on the chair and double-timed it to the bedroom. The door was partially closed. He didn't knock – he never bothered knocking; why would he? – and there was John, lying on the bed wearing only a smile. Sherlock's breath hitched as he took in John in all his naked glory. He was on his side, one arm bent, his head propped up on his hand.
Well, he wasn't just in his birthday suit (irony noted, noted Sherlock).
John was covered in dots. A lot of dots. Coloured dots. Of icing. John looked like some child had glued papered strips of that horrific American confection, "candy buttons", all over him. The pink was particularly fetching against his skin, but the yellow, white, and light blue were—. Sherlock cleared his throat. "John, what—?
Sherlock's eyes drifted downward over his love's body and hovered there. John, clever man that he was, noticed.
"You were expecting me to tie a bow on my—"
Sherlock put his hand up to stop him from saying it. "That's an image I can well do without." Too late. You can't unsee something.
John grinned. "Well, are you just going to stand there?" and he patted the bed.
Confused but intrigued, Sherlock immediately set about becoming as disrobed as John. The folks at "Top Gear" would have been impressed with his speed. Sherlock leaned down for a kiss, his hand automatically going towards John's shoulder.
"Uh-uh," John said, intercepting the birthday boy's hand. "No touching. Well, not until I say so." Sherlock continued with the kiss, his hand gravitating to the safety of the dot-free back of John's head. The kiss was a gentle brush of lips before John leaned into it and they both came up breathless many seconds later.
"Care to explain?" Sherlock asked, as he once again let his eyes drift over John's body.
John's eyes twinkled. "You're the Consulting Detective. One and only, so I'm told. You figure it out."
Sherlock's grin broadened.
"You get to use your tongue on each spot after you—"
"Yes, yes," Sherlock said impatiently. "Obvious." He huffed out a breath. "There's no pattern. But there is an order." It was more a question than a statement. John started to say something but Sherlock cut him off. "Shut up! Don't answer that."
John suppressed a smile. He knew that he'd already given Sherlock the best present possible: a puzzle to solve. What would come afterwards would only be…icing on the cake.
"Dominoes? No, ridiculous, the dots aren't aligned properly. A cipher? Hmm. Unlikely. A code? Morse code? No, all the dots are roughly uniform in size; no longs and shorts. But there are groupings." Sherlock held a finger out toward one of the dots and raised an eyebrow, seeking permission. John nodded a yes. Sherlock was surprised to find that the dot of icing wasn't soft. "The icing is firm and keeps its shape when I touch it. That would explain why it isn't runny against the warmth of your skin. Royal icing, then, or a variant."
Sherlock leaned closer, then suddenly swiped his finger across the pink dot and, like a spoiled brat, stuck his finger in his mouth.
"Hey, cheating!"
"I needed data, John."
John snorted. "Just remember where it was, eh?"
"So it's not just a dot, but its placement in relation to the other dots is important."
"Cheater," John grumbled again. "You didn't need data, you needed a hint. The great Sherlock Holmes needed a hint."
"Ohhh, you are walking a very dangerous path, Doctor Watson."
Sherlock lunged forward and aimed his fingers at a particularly ticklish area of John's side that, not coincidentally, was not occupied with dots. John dissolved into giggles; Sherlock didn't let up until John was near tears and begging, "Play fair!"
"All right then," Sherlock said, switching into detective mode, his elegant fingers steepled under his chin. "What do we know? We know that there is no specific pattern, but there is an order. The groupings of dots are numbered sequentially?"
"Now you're just looking for tips again."
Sherlock gasped a breathy, "Oh!" His deep baritone rumbled, "Tips! Tips, John! You are my perfect beacon of light!" He grabbed John's head in both hands, careful to avoid the dots of yellow and blue on his neck, and planted a very wet and sloppy kiss on his beloved. He vaulted off the bed and ran from the room. John could hear him tapping furiously on his laptop keyboard.
"You do realize that you're naked?" John shouted from the bed.
"I'm aware."
"Are the curtains drawn? Passers-by—"
"Their problem, not mine."
"Sherlock?"
"Shhh!" Sherlock stopped typing and shouted out a jubilant, "Yes! Yes! Of course!" He fell silent, his eyes scanning the webpage, allowing his eidetic memory absorb the knowledge he needed. Barely sixty second later, he snapped the laptop closed, jumped from the chair, and ran back to the bedroom so quickly that he overshot it and had to stop himself by grabbing the door frame. He stood in the doorway for a moment, staring admiringly at John, sweet John, surprising John.
"Brilliant, John."
John stared back in unabashed adoration. "That was…fast. Amazing." He gulped. "So, you ready?"
Sherlock gently lowered himself onto the bed, careful not to jostle any of the dots. John stopped breathing when Sherlock reached out and gently guided John to lie on his back – no dots – on the bed. Sherlock's eyes, hooded in expectation, skimmed John's neck, arms, torso. He scrutinized all of the groupings, then riveted his eyes on the area just below the fifth rib on John's right side. Sherlock's fingertips softly moved over the series of dots on his chest. He closed his eyes and smiled, nodding when he understood the message.
1 - Happy
John was mesmerized watching him. "What gave it away?" John whispered, because he wasn't able to speak any louder, not while Sherlock was licking all the dots into his mouth.
Sherlock hummed softly. "Tips, John. Tips."
"What about tips? How do tips-? Ah! Of course. Obvious!"
Sherlock's eyes crinkled with approval. "I knew you'd get there."
"Just as I knew you'd get there."
Sherlock moved to the second location – at the posterior of the abdominal oblique muscle, where John's left thigh met his torso. Once again, Sherlock allowed his fingers to move over the raised dots of blue, yellow, and pink.
"The colours, John. You remembered."
John nodded. Of course he remembered, Sherlock thought. Sherlock could not abide the garish reds, dark blues, and hideous greens of artificial food colouring and their dreadful, bitter taste and chemical smell. John had used organic colouring – the floral/ vegetable scent Sherlock had noted.
Sherlock decided to forego his tongue and let his teeth slide over the colourful dots. John twitched at the contact. More specifically, various parts of John twitched.
2 Birthday
Sherlock looked up at John with a vaguely predatory stare, only moving when the intensity proved too much and John blinked, then huffed out an endearingly embarrassed laugh.
"Go on, then. No dessert until you've finished."
That raised a chuckle that rumbled into John's belly.
Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows. Hmm. He scanned John again. Finally, his eyes came to rest on the arch of his love's left foot. Clever. He'd almost missed it. Four dots. White. He started to lick the dots, thought better of it, opened his mouth and proceeded to suck on the nerve-sensitive area. John gasped, both hands clutching desperately at the sheets. Served him right.
3 I
After taking a steadying breath, Sherlock scrabbled to his knees. His eyes went to the dots around John's neck, minus the one that Sherlock had already stolen. He moved up the bed and sat on his knees, his mouth near John's head. He breathed into his partner's ear as his fingers glided over the array of dots. A simple, "Hmmm," echoed into John's throat.
4 Love
John turned his head toward Sherlock's. "You stole one," he said, low and dangerous, "now it's my turn." He kissed his lover's neck. Sherlock sighed deeply, then moved to go but he was held in place by the very insistent hand on the far side of his neck. Their breaths had started to stutter when John finally released him.
It took a moment for Sherlock to gather himself before he felt grounded enough to continue the hunt. He sat back on his knees, which afforded him a perspective of John's full body. The final grouping, on the inside of John's left upper arm. Excellent choice. Pale skin, mostly protected from the sun, hairless, tender. John willingly offered up the prize to him, turning his arm to accommodate the reach of his partner's long, elegant fingers. John trembled as he felt them ghost over the gathered dots that were waiting to reveal their secret.
5 You
"Tips. Fingertips," John whispered.
"Braille. Beautiful. Inspired. Perfect." With painstaking slowness, Sherlock licked each dot individually, then swiped his tongue down the length of John's upper arm, wiping away any traces of icing. "I… This was… I'm not…"
John smiled gently: Sherlock was never good at voicing sentiment. Then Sherlock's hand went tentatively back to the still-moist area of John's neck. It hovered there momentarily before his fingers once again made contact. John's breath hitched when he realized that Sherlock was retracing the word that had been there: Love.
"Yes," he nodded, and pulled Sherlock down into another kiss. Just when John thought that things were about to progress from there, Sherlock broke free, eyes alight, and jumped from the bed.
"Don't move! Be right back."
Sherlock ran to the bathroom, stayed there but a moment, and ran back, pouncing on the bed before throwing himself down on top of his love and snogging him breathless. Sherlock finally relinquished John's mouth, and issued a challenge.
"John, I have put one very, very small dot of cologne somewhere on my body. You have all night to find it."
Both men had the same thought at the same time: This was turning into a magnificent birthday.