The perfect gift
Disclaimer: I do not own anything. A.N. Happy Birthday, missmuffin221! I hope you have an awesome day. Everyone, please check out her fabulous fics covers on AO3 and/or tumblr. I have been blessed by two of them, and I really have no words to thank her enough. Also, I am not sure where timeline-wise this happens…let's just pretend it takes place in a way less heartbreaking AU. This is not betaed or britpicked…I hope you like it!
Sherlock is going to do it. He's really going to do it. Forget Mycroft's warnings about heartbreak, forget his own stance on sentiment (John is the exception to every rule he's ever had, anyway), forget every self-protection instinct and every wall he's guarded his heart with. He's tired of pining from too close yet still infinitely afar. He doesn't want to be haunted, in his retirement, by the regret of never saying – never doing – of losing for want of courage. He wouldn't forgive himself the missed chance.
He has to attempt – put the ball in John's court – admit, "I love you more than life itself" (true, however dramatical it might seem) and (if he's very, very lucky) see his gorgeous flatmate smile one of his blinding smiles at him and say it back. His chances are…he's not actually sure. For all of his flatmate's protests every time someone (and there were so many) assumes they are a couple, there was that flirting attempt at Angelo's (which John denied, but Sherlock was there, and he's not blind) and the ongoing lip-licking that is more than enough to drive the sleuth to distraction in the best of circumstances.
He has some hope – maybe slim. But exactly the fact that he could have a chance means that he has to get things perfect. Absolutely perfect. Because the least blunder can remind John of his flatmate's every flaw and persuade him to reject feelings Sherlock cannot conceal or stifle anymore. The detective has already decided – he'll declare himself on John's quickly-approaching birthday. His love will be happy already and probably plied by a toast to many happy returns and as long as he can find a meaningful present he'll be halfway to convey "I love you" already.
That, of course, only ends up shifting his anxiety from declaring his feelings to finding the perfect gift. It's not as easy as one would think. One ordinary person would think that John not being very finicky about…oh, anything, and almost surely being happy with any kind of gift – because it means people cared enough to remember – would make things easier. But people are idiots – it's exactly the opposite. It's much simpler to aim for perfection inside narrower parameters. Look at train accidents versus car accidents.
The fact that he's never had a relationship before doesn't help either. He has no guidelines, and he cannot mess this up. It's his one chance at happiness – because he'll never love anyone else, the detective knows this deep down to his very cells. What to do, what to do, what to do…in a bout of desperation, he turns to the rescuer of all ignorant, socially awkward people globe-wise. Google. And like all his precursors, he finds it entirely useless.
The suggestion spans from flowers (isn't that more traditional for wooing women? And anyway a dead-dying thing for a gift would send bad signals) to silly jewellery, like these half-hearts complementary pendants (Sherlock can easily see a murderer holding onto the chain and exploit it to choke any of them to death) to hand-made coupons. These are the ones that baffle the sleuth the most. 'One free kiss'? 'One free hug'? He's pretty sure that all kisses, hugs and whatever else should be free – if (like he hopes for his future) you are in a relationship and not in a…business contract à la Adler. And he suspects that he's the one likely to want more affection after being starved of it for so long, anyway.
Really, the world's only consulting detective should have enough ability to deduce the perfect gift for anyone. (The grit in the lens, mind-palace Mycroft reminds him smirking smugly, before being angrily shooed away.) He has an entire wing of data about his (still only) flatmate, from the way he takes his tea to what violin pieces will soothe his nightmares the quickest – the detective's nocturnal concerts are not entirely selfish. Perfection, though? That is hard to attain. He lives with John, brings him on cases, and observes him – really, it's a wonder that the sleuth can focus on a crime scene long enough to solve it when there is his blogger to analyse instead.
Grasping at straws, he decides to exploit his love's passion for jumpers. The man can never have too many of them in his wardrobe, apparently. And if t-shirts can be customized with your preferred image, he doesn't see why jumpers shouldn't. One… blue, to bring out his love's eyes…with a photo of them both and the caption 'Sherlock loves John' should convey the message nicely. And if his flatmate rejects him, he'll have something to happily experiment on until it's destroyed.
Now decided, the sleuth bounds downstairs. Their landlady 'accidentally' (he suspects on purpose, possibly for blackmail purposes, the old sweet woman is devious) captured one of the worst pining glances Sherlock sent the doctor's way – and that, as always, John managed to miss – with her phone. That would do nicely.
Sherlock lets himself inside 221A without even knocking,earnest now that he has a goal…and Mrs. Hudson welcomes him with a warm smile, eyes raising from her knitwork. A light blue knitwork which looks suspiciously like an almost-ready jumper. "Yes, dear? Did you need something?" she queries, looking fondly at him.
"That…is that…for John?" the detective stammers. His landlady has a sister, nieces and nephews, and – he supposes – a number of more distant relatives. Assuming is always the worst thing one could do.
"Yes. You know, with his birthday in a week…do you think it is the right shade, Sherlock?" the old woman asks, frowning uncertainly.
"It is the perfect shade, Mrs. Hudson, don't worry. He'll love it," he replies. It is true. Handmade gifts have that much more sentimental value. John will love this jumper to pieces – and it will compliment his eyes nicely. Now, if only his only creative skills didn't lie in music – which, being wordless, was all too easily misunderstood – he wouldn't be fretting so much.
"Thank you. So, what…?" his landlady asks again, but before she can end that sentence, he cuts in, "Nothing. I…made a mistake. Sorry, but I have a time-sensitive experiment to get to!" He doesn't, and probably she knows, too, but no matter how supportive and sometimes wise the woman can be, there's no way he can discuss his worries with her. Exactly because she's been rooting for them from the start, and if he fails, how can he confess to her he's been rejected?
The sleuth keeps pretending everything is normal, just peachy, thank you, hiding the mounting panic at his best, but two days later even John realizes something is odd. "You have been staring at me for the last two hours…did you drug me again? Sherlock, we talked about this!" he huffs.
"Of course I did not, don't be silly, John, using you as a guinea pig is not worth the following dressing down. Not unless the situation is dire," the detective replies, waving away the idea with a languid gesture.
"Then why are you looking at me so keenly? It's rather unsettling," the doctor inquires, crossing his arms sternly.
Deny. Deny deny deny – it's the only chance. 'I have been staring at you in order to figure out a gift that will tempt you into a relationship with me' is not acceptable. "I wasn't staring at you. I retired to my mind palace, and you just happened to be in my line of sight," Sherlock replies quickly and – coldly enough, he hopes.
"I thought that you closed your eyes when you were in your mind palace," John objects, doubtful.
"Are you saying that you know the mind palace technique better than me?" the sleuth spits, sounding haughty and bitter when really he's just defensive.
"No, no, of course. Sorry," the doctor apologises, placating. It's all wrong – John shouldn't feel bad for noticing things – for being smart. But Sherlock can't let him notice things before he's ready to say them himself. Just a little while yet.
To extract himself from a painful situation, he declares, "I'm going to see Molly." Why hadn't he thought of this before? The pathologist has always been willing to hear him out and help him, and she has more dating experience than him (like, honestly, probably ever adult in UK)…his problem could be solved.
And indeed, she welcomes him with a shy smile at the morgue, and informs him that these lungs he wanted aren't really available, sorry about that. Sherlock waves her concerns away. He's not here for body parts, and it seems a good look is enough for the pathologist to understand. "What's wrong, Sherlock?" she queries, frowning.
With a dramatic gesture, Sherlock wonders, "What does John want?" He needs a gift that will make his beloved happy. Molly is rather good at playing confidante.
"Well, the other day he expressed regret at not being able to keep as updated with the newest research as he'd like to," she says meekly.
That is an idea! He can give John a subscription to some medical journal…and highlight all sex-related words (like oxytocine) so he'll be giving him clues. Hopefully John will figure things out by himself. "Uh? Were you still talking, Molly? I seem to have missed something," he replies, shameful. He's used to tuning people out, but she might be talking about John still.
The pathologist sighs, used to him, and repeats, "I said, that's why I'm getting him a subscription to the Lancet for his birthday."
"Why would you?" the sleuth protests petulantly, seeing his special gift vanish.
"I'm his friend, Sherlock," she replies reasonably. "What's wrong with that?"
"Then what am I supposed to give him? It has to be perfect, Molly!" the detective queries, highly frustrated.
She chuckles lightly. "You're adorable when you want," she blurts out, promptly blushing afterwards.
"I'm not!" Sherlock objects, but the pout doesn't really help his cause. "It's just…I really need perfection, if I want to declare myself properly."
"Declare? As in…" she trails off, going red for an entirely different reason.
"I know, I know. It's not like me. Sentiment and falling in love and all that. But I can't help it! Believe me, I've tried!" the consulting detective admits, throwing his arms in the air in frustration.
"Then…have you tried simply giving him your heart?" the pathologist murmurs.
"Unless you medical professional have been holding onto secrets I don't know, I need it to keep living. Of course, if John needed a heart transplant to survive, and if we were compatible, I would not hesitate to…you are not implying John has a heart condition I never noticed, do you?" Sherlock rambles on, working himself in a panic.
Molly's convulsive laughter interrupts him. "No," chuckle "no," giggle "not literally, Sherlock. Metaphorically. That's what you do."
"Well, metaphorically how?" he grumbles. She shouldn't laugh at him!
"In some way that is…significant to the two of you? How am I supposed to know?" Molly replies, once she's regained her breath.
"So you're useless," he declares, storming off.
The following day brings enlightening. In the form of breakfast, and John's frankly obscene moaning over jam. Honestly, Tesco's products are unworthy of such a display of…affection. But if you want to enter someone's heart, you might as well ride on the tails of something that's already firmly ensconced in the deepest of it. There are actual jams that – if Tesco's earns this reaction, what he has in mind could have John coming in his pants (and now isn't that a nice, if slightly disturbing, mental image?).
The detective leaves the flat in a hurry (before his flatmate can notice the erection his moans have brought on and lead to revealing conversation in less-than-ideal circumstances). Before he can get to the shop he has in mind, though – one Mycroft had mentioned in passing months ago, he must have kept the knowledge because he subconsciously knew would end doing exactly this – his phone rings. His annoying brother.
Sherlock is half tempted not to answer, because he is a man on a mission, darn it, and whatever matter of international importance can wait until he's selected an appropriate gift whose taste he wouldn't mind for his first kiss ever (and he's blushing even thinking about it). But Mycroft is nothing if not stubborn, and answering means his little brother gets to hang up on him, which is a satisfaction in his own right.
As soon as he answers, the fat git's first words are, "Turn around, Sherlock."
"What?" the younger Holmes queries, indignant. He most certainly will not! He's finally had a good idea.
"John is already getting all the quality jam he can eat for a year for his birthday," the British government informs coldly.
"I thought John wasn't on your payroll! And here you are corrupting him!" the sleuth screeches, in the middle of the street.
"He is not on my payroll," Mycroft confirms. "But I know more than anyone how vexing it is to deal with you 24/7, so a little show of gratitude is really the least our family can do for him."
"But why you?" the younger brother all but whines.
"Because I am the smart one, who plans and thinks ahead, so I already placed an order three months ago, that's why," his hateful sibling declares smugly. At that, Sherlock really does hang up on him. He's fuming, and has still no viable option.
He remains in his frenzied panic for the following days. More sifting through his mind palace brings up nothing useful. John, by now, is convinced he took a case without telling him – and the detective lets him think that, because it is better than admitting the truth. A measly day before the big day, he does what he would have never thought he'd do. Calls Gavin for help. From Regent's Park, because he does not want John to overhear.
They meet there (thankfully between his not-entirely-coherent blabbering he's managed to reassure the DI that this is NOT a criminal related emergency, though an emergency nonetheless) and Geoff hears him out with surprising equanimity. He mentions all his failed projects and consultations, and Lestrade only smiles a little and does not mock him at all. "You know" the Inspector replies when the river of words finally dries up "I think that Molly was onto something."
"My heart? But I need it!" Sherlock points out. He thought there was hope for the man as a detective yet, but if he doesn't realise such simple truths…or is he speaking metaphorically too? How does one offer a metaphorical heart? John is irritated by the body parts in the fridge.
"Why so little? Why can't you just give John yourself? All of it?" There's a mischievous glint in the Inspector's eyes, but the consulting detective does not dwell on it. That's the best idea he's heard since forever!
"Thank you, Greg!" He exclaims, running away and leaving a doubly stunned Detective Inspector in his wake.
The next morning, one former army doctor – still yawning – comes down from his room. It's his birthday, and he's looking forward to it. in the sitting room, though, he stops. And stares. Next to the sofa, there's a package. Pretty red wrapping, and a lone golden bow taped on the top. The dimensions, though, are what make him wonder. It is a huge package – and since it magically appeared without him noticing, it's either from Mrs. Hudson or Sherlock. Most probably Sherlock. Oh my – don't tell me he's finally got an extra fridge so they can keep food and body parts separated!
Then, John yawns again and decides that opening gifts can come after tea. After all, there isn't even the detective around, and he wants to thank him. The blogger can't help but be disappointed by the lack of flatmate. Where has his madman disappeared to? Dashed out for a case after he procured the gift? Usually John is all for not being woken at the wee hours of his off days, but today he longs for Sherlock's company. His mobile phone rings with a text message. Open your gift. SH
How does his friend know that he hasn't yet? Is he ensconced in his bedroom and waiting for John's reaction?...Is it maybe a less innocuous present than what John surmised? He's tempted to ring Lestrade and ask if he can tell Anderson to bring over a hazmat suit to don before following Sherlock's instruction, but that would be ridiculous. His friend does not aim to murder him.
Carefully, the blond opens the package…and finds his wayward flatmate huddled inside, in pyjama and blue dressing down pooling around him. Sherlock blinks owlishly at the sudden light, and John laughs. Of course he laughs. How did the detective even manage to pack himself up? And how many hours ago did he? (Also, why is John imagining that for a perfect picture the world's only consulting detective should have put on cat ears and tails? Stop it, he tells himself firmly.)
"John?" the sleuth inquires, unfolding and leaving his shelter. "Why are you laughing?"
"Because I'm happy. And you are extraordinary, as ever," the doctor replies, grinning.
Sherlock blushes, a bit. "So you…like it? And there will be no more vexatious girlfriends?"
"Wait… what?" John blurts out. He's used to his friend's nonsequiturs, but this is a bit much to take.
"I thought I made it obvious," the sleuth protests, frowning. Why would John be happy if not…has he really not understood? "I. Am. Your. Gift. As in, I'm yours, John. Body, soul…the heart you forced me to discover I have…everything."
For a moment, John gapes. Can you blame him? "You're mine," he parrots. Sherlock nods impatiently. "As in…you love me? Divorcing your work, are you?"
"I'm not going to stop working," the consulting detective declares, waving away such an absurd concept. "But…yes, I love you. And the work and I would not be exclusive anymore. If you are amenable to that, that is."
John pinches his arm. Hard. He has to. He's awake, apparently. "Of course I am amenable. More than amenable. And I never told you had to give up the work, we'd both go crazy…crazier…then. But you don't have to word it as a chance. I mean, you obviously deduced I love you back, right?"
If Sherlock's brain is a computer, his blogger is pretty sure he's just been faced with the blue screen of death. For several minutes. Until, finally, his partner croaks, "You…love…me…back?"
"Of course I love you, my gorgeous genius. How could I not? I mean, everyone we met realized at a glance." And then, to seal things, he kisses his lover. On the mouth. Soundly. Sherlock moans in his mouth, blushes, and bolts to his room, leaving a rather puzzled birthday boy behind.
Slowly, John goes to knock on his love's door. "Did I do something wrong?" he asks, honestly concerned. The door opens just a crack, and he can see Sherlock shaking his head vigorously. No, then. That's a relief.
"I…that sound I made…" the sleuth mumbles, eyes looking everywhere but at his blogger.
"Was the hottest effing thing I've ever heard, and I look forward to how many sounds I can elicit from you – with your consent, of course," the doctor replies earnestly. Didn't Sherlock realize? Think that was a… bad thing?
The door opens entirely, Sherlock observing him with his laser gaze for traces of lies. Of course, he finds none. John has never been more honest. The doctor takes a step inside the room. "That wasn't very polite, you know – running away before I could end unwrapping my gift," he quips, with a crooked grin.
The detective takes a step back, to give him more room. And another. "Un…wrapping?" he echoes, despite his hate of repetition. He's already out of the box. What's there to…
"If I am going too quick, if you didn't mean to imply this, tell me and we'll just cuddle, or something. But well, you declared yourself on my birthday, literally gave yourself over with a bow, and I thought that meant that you wanted birthday sex. With me," John says, scratching his nape, suddenly awkward.
Oh, Sherlock thinks. So that's what Gavin's odd mischievous face meant. He wants sex. Of course he wants sex with John. He's wanted it for years. It doesn't mean that he's not terrified about everything that can and – by Murphy's law (John taught him that) – will go wrong. "I am yours," he declares again. He's not retracting that. Ever. Still, when John pushes his nightgown off to pool in a silky heap on the floor, the brunet shivers.
Slowly, gently, the doctor 'unwraps' him, taking away his pyjama top, and before Sherlock can start with the insecurities (he's too skinny, not classically beautiful – hell, a uni classmate said he looked like a cat's anus after he outed her cheating) his lover breathes reverently, "Gorgeous. God, Sherlock, you're…heavenly."
The praise makes the sleuth harder than he was (and since the kiss he's been in rather a state) and his hips unconsciously undulate in search of respite. John is now busy kissing and laving at his neck, collarbone and then lower still, and with his lover's reassurance, Sherlock doesn't even try keeping in sighs, whimpers and guttural moans. His hips wiggle his pyjama pants away, he needs John, all of John, please.
When the blond feels his lover go pliant and weak at the knees, he guides him the two steps to the bed. Having Sherlock collapse on the floor would not be good. Once the sleuth flops down on it, John in seconds removes his own pyjamas, too, before going back to kissing and caressing the slender, not-so-pale anymore (such a lovely blush now) torso. Between kisses, he keeps up the steady stream of praise. "Wonderful, love," and "God, you're stunning," and all the adjectives he was forced to edit during their cases.
Sherlock drinks his naked body in, forcing himself to keep his eyes open even when they want to close, and clutching at him for grounding. God, he feels high. Better than high. Oh John. John's name is the only recognizable word that leaves his lips among deep, lewd sounds. Again and again and again. Then finally he finds another word. "Please." He has no idea what he's requesting exactly. Just more. More more more.
"Of course, love," John assures, smiling. He's eager too – has been eager for fucking years. He can't help it though. Instead of moving to prepare his love for lovemaking, he indulges in one of his favourite activities. You see, he's always had a bit of an oral fixation, and it is his birthday – he should be allowed to indulge. Besides, Sherlock has a cat's instinct for cleanliness.
At the first contact of tongue to his rim, the sleuth yelps. He didn't know that people did that. John is…he is… oooh. Unsure if he should move away, embarrassed, or seek more of the delightful stimulation, Sherlock's hips tremble in a counterpoint movement. John's hands are there, to steady his hips, while he gets down to business, laving and teasing and tasting and then, finally, breaching the willing body with his tongue.
Velvety tightness welcomes him, and his tongue flicks and massages and then naughtily mimics what the birthday boy hopes another part of him will soon be doing. The reaction is a groan so deep the doctor wonders if part of it slipped in to infrasound. He almost expects the dogs of the neighbourhood to hear it and start howling in response.
Then finally his tongue becomes tired, and his cock too impatient, so the doctor reluctantly abandons the treasure trove offered to him. "Are you…" the sleuth queries between pants, eager and still a bit scared and unable to end that sentence.
"Soon, honeybee," John replies, momentarily leaving him alone to grope around for the lube any healthy not-sex repulsed male keeps at hand.
With a frustrated huff, the detective gets it for him before he can mess up the sock index accidentally. "Do we really need it?" he wonders loudly. After his love's actions, he feels wonderfully relaxed and loose.
"You'll thank me," the doctor replies. No matter how pleasant it is, a tongue cannot stretch enough, nor spit makes for really adequate lubricant, and he doesn't want their longed-for first time to be rough.
"Thank you," Sherlock dutifully utters, a bit breathless, at the stretch of the second finger. He might have felt looser than usual, but he's clearly not enough if he feels that so keenly.
John chuckles fondly and keeps going, slow and methodical. There will be no pain at all for his love – or at least, as little as he can ensure. "So tight…so wonderful…love you, Sher. Mon cher. Mine," he growls while preparing him.
It's so sexy, and his beloved echoes, "Yours, always, forever, John," by now so beyond rational thought and fears that he can't help but impaling himself further on the other man's fingers. Oh yes. Yes yes yes.
When, once again, John's hands wander from his body to the general direction of the nightstand, Sherlock glares. What is he waiting for?
"Condom," the doctor explains.
"Don't be silly. You're my doctor, you know I am clean. No need for that," the consulting detective objects, and the fact that he can finally string together coherent sentences means that something is going wrong.
The blond shrugs, accepting his point, and after lubing his steel-hard, poor till then neglected cock, he finally sinks into the welcoming body. So this is what Heaven feels like. It must be, surely. There is a slow, sensual lovemaking. John refuses to be hurried even by his rather desperate (by now) lover, and makes sure they both are almost vibrating out of their skin with pleasure. All these utterly unsexy prostate exams mean that now he can find one unerringly, and he exploits that unrepentantly to wring new whimpers and moans out of his beloved.
After a while, he decides it's finally time to pay attention to his partner's cock…but it seems almost as if Sherlock has suddenly developed telepathical powers, because as soon as he thinks of it – before he can actually act on that – at the nth hit on his prostate, the detective comes. Untouched. You can't blame John if that triggers his orgasm too, because it's the hottest thing that's ever happened to him.
They slump in a boneless heap, still hugging, and the doctor mumbles, "What do you say if we spend all day in bed?" Never mind that he's only recently woken up. He can't make himself move. And when he can move, he wants to do this all over again.
"Seconded," the sleuth agrees. Later on their home will be invaded by good-wishing people, and they'll have to deal with that, so there's no way this can really happen…but they can definitely cuddle until lunch.