Author's Note: This story is dedicated to DaringD on AO3 (called dyggyd here at Fan Fiction) because I came up with the idea while we were yakking back and forth in the comment section of "Milking It." And to Sendai, who made a comment that reminded me about the idea, which made me finally decide that it was time to write it all down.
Another Author's Note: in American English, "loopy" means befuddled or dotty. Apparently it means something completely different in British English but oh man, I'm from the US and it is THE perfect word here to get at what I meant to say. So thanks to my Britpicker, johnsarmylady, for still talking to me even though I don't always follow her sage advice.
It probably goes without saying that John and Sherlock were lucky to make it up the stairs and through the door to Sherlock's flat before their clothes started coming off. And that they did not make it to Angelo's for dinner that evening, nor did they leave the flat for the next couple of days. Their lives immediately slotted together seamlessly in every way, and Sherlock certainly did not have to ask more than once to convince John to move in with him.
John's work schedule was irregular; he wasn't working every day, or even many full days. So he had plenty of time to accompany Sherlock on his cases, and of course, to make sure that the slender brunet got enough to eat and plenty of rest. It was soon clear that he was the only person able to control Sherlock's tendency towards being the World's Only Insulting Detective. John was a calming influence on Sherlock, and Sherlock put the excitement back into John's life. John had no complaints about the turn his life took the day Sherlock picked him up at Tesco's along with that bottle of milk.
If Sherlock had one complaint, it was that John wouldn't quit working at the surgery in order to become his full-time partner in crime solving. But John continued working at the surgery, because he was under the impression that he wouldn't be pulling his own weight if he weren't at the very least contributing his share of the rent. He simply didn't understand how indispensable he had become to Sherlock, and Sherlock could not find the right words to explain it to him.
The doctor came home later than usual from work one evening and was disappointed to find a note from his flatmate: "On bakery case. No time to wait." John changed into jeans and a ratty old t-shirt, then ran out to pick up some Chinese takeaway. He put the food in the oven to keep warm for whenever Sherlock returned, and he was pecking out a blog entry about a recently completed case when he heard quick footsteps on the stairs. The flat door opened and closed, and Sherlock called out, "Muffin, I'm home!"
John smiled. He sometimes pretended to grouse about being called "Muffin," but he actually loved the fact that Sherlock had a pet name for him, because Sherlock was so not a pet name kind of person. It was the only term of affection that Sherlock ever used, and he never used the name anywhere but in private — with the exception of the one time he said it publicly for that special situation involving line jumping, and he didn't know John's name back then anyway.
In point of fact, the only period of time during which John had not enjoyed being referred to as "Muffin" was a few months back, when he had put on a little weight and developed a muffin top. But Sherlock assured him he didn't mind at all — that there was just more of John for him to lo…enjoy. Still, John had remained self-conscious and started running every morning before work until he was back in shape. (And Sherlock lo…enjoyed him that way, too.)
The detective was carrying a box smelling deliciously of bakery goods. "Muffins for my Muffin!" he announced, plunking the box down on the coffee table. "Payment for a job well done." He sat down on the couch, looking expectantly at John, who rose from his chair with alacrity and went over to sit at Sherlock's side, welcoming him home enthusiastically.
Now came the part Sherlock always looked forward to: showing off to John how he had solved the case. "I wish you'd been there, John — I was brilliant!"
John smiled wistfully. "I wish I'd been there, too," he said. It was simply bad luck that the surgery had been busier than normal that afternoon.
They had been hired just the day before to find out who was stealing from a local bakery. Large amounts of baking supplies were going missing between the time of delivery and the point at which they were needed, which was sometimes not for days afterwards. This evening Sherlock proved that several of the employees on the overnight shift were stealing those supplies to open their own rival bakery, and he deduced it simply by noticing that one of them had reported to work with flour already under his nails! As far as Sherlock was concerned, the case rated hardly more than a "two." Nevertheless, he was now the recipient of not only a very large cheque, but a lifetime supply of free bakery goods.
He opened the box triumphantly. "Have one."
"Not now, Sherlock; it'll ruin our appetite for dinner," John said. He took very seriously his responsibility to keep Sherlock eating properly.
"It certainly won't ruin my appetite for what I want for dinner," Sherlock responded, still clearly on a post-case high. He peered into the box and pulled out a rather unassuming-looking muffin. He examined it carefully and then smiled whimsically at John. "If you were a muffin, you'd be this spice muffin."
"Why a spice muffin?" John asked.
Sherlock gently pushed John down flat on the couch. Positioning himself on top, he pressed his nose into the area just behind John's temporomandibular joint and sniffed. "Mmmmm. You smell like spice." He licked a stripe from just behind John's ear down his jaw. "You taste like spice." Then he started nibbling and kissing from under John's jaw down his neck to his frayed t-shirt collar. Slipping off the couch, he ran his hands up under the hem of the t-shirt, and stripped it off with the help of his eager flatmate. He then continued kissing and licking down John's bare chest to his abdomen until blocked by the denim waistband of the jeans.
John's jeans were feeling tight by now, and he fumbled for the snap. But Sherlock stayed his hands and did the honors himself. Then he unzipped the jeans and pulled them down along with the pants. He knelt on the floor and kissed all around John's groin, inhaling deeply. John would have been very self-conscious of sweat and odours if a woman had been doing this, but Sherlock…Sherlock preferred honest smells and was still murmuring about spice, gently licking and fondling John's bollocks, ignoring John's pleas to hurry up. When finally Sherlock got down to business, John didn't last long. Sherlock swallowed and murmured, "Spice."
Then John returned the favor, and Sherlock was unable to last much longer than John had; not that he really tried.
Lying in each other's arms on the couch once again, waiting for their breathing and heartbeats to normalise, Sherlock suddenly asked, "If I were a muffin, what kind of muffin would I be?"
John felt warm, comfortable and sated. "If you were a muffin, you'd be a sex muffin," he mumbled into Sherlock's suprasternal notch. His only excuse for such a loopy answer was light-headedness from all the sex hormones still circulating throughout his body.
"Is that even a thing?" Sherlock asked suspiciously. "That's not a thing," he concluded with mock severity.
"It most certainly is a thing," John murmured sleepily. His cheek sought the hollow between Sherlock's shoulder and collarbone and he drifted peacefully off to sleep.
Sherlock pressed his nose back into the spicy spot just behind John's ear and whispered, "You will never know how much I love spice muffins."