It all started when John noticed Sherlock always made him tea after sex. At first he'd thought nothing of it beyond the small burst of love in the back corner of his heart; it's not often Sherlock Holmes brings someone fresh, hot tea in a clean mug so one learns to simply appreciate it when it happens. After a while, John had realized that there could be something to this, an experiment of sorts (he smirked into his lover's dark curls at the thought). Never, however, in his wildest dreams had he expected it to work so well.
John wasn't sure how to go about it at first. He didn't know why he'd thought leading by example would work in this area, but try it he had: when Sherlock would sidle up into John's space, silent, looming and fixing his bright eyes on John's like he did when he wanted that particular fix, John would make up an arbitrary chore he had to complete first. He had to wash the dishes, or he had to write up thank you notes for all the food Angelo insisted on dropping by every other week (Sherlock had scoffed at that one; who used the post anymore? John should just send him an email if he was insistent on being needlessly polite), or he had to reply to the comments on his blog and shouldn't Sherlock do the same? (That one had actually worked, after much cajoling and insisting that if he were more polite to his readers, or at least more social with them, they were more likely to link their friends who might have truly interesting problems, but such was the density of Sherlock's backlog that it had the negative effect of derailing any other plans for the evening.)
Besides the blog, John experienced failure after failure with these ventures: Sherlock would simply wait for John to finish whatever he pretended to need to do, sprawled elegantly in John's chair, until he could all but drag the doctor to whichever bedroom was more appealing that night (usually John's; Sherlock's was such a disaster zone that John hardly felt safe to stand in there, much less fuck). Occasionally if Sherlock was feeling particularly impatient he would shove in front of John and finish the task twice as fast and just as efficient, and while he was rewarded handsomely in bed, he never seemed to get the hint.
Giving up on that venture, and realizing that Sherlock was far too good for any games he could play, John had decided to just straight up tell him.
"Later," he would say when Sherlock had started his demanding looming. "Later. I've invited Mrs. Hudson up for tea to thank her for not kicking us out after the acid-eating-through-the-floor incident." And just like that, Sherlock would be packing away his experiments where their landlady wouldn't accidentally stumble upon them, and they had actually had a very lovely tea, during which Mrs. Hudson had been so glad to be able to chatter with her boys without being flounced out on that the holes through the floor hadn't even come up. And afterward, after she had left for cards night with Mrs. Turner, Sherlock had even helped wash up, though it had been an obvious ruse to stand very close behind John while he rinsed the tea mugs and that mess had ended up postponed till the morning.
"Not before you clean up after that fish rot experiment," John would breathe against his lover's neck, and to his surprise (why was IT surprising? Sherlock had never intentionally ignored John's requests, he just had more important things on his plate), the detective would clean up that fish rot experiment (results inconclusive; would have to recreate in more natural environment) and then some, and John would almost be tempted to take an actual meal on that kitchen table while he could, but then Sherlock would be crowding him again and oh yes, there were much better things to take on that table.
They were rather impressive to witness, if John was honest, Sherlock's tantrums. He couldn't blame the man for being bored; most of the "cases" they'd been presented with lately even HE could solve at a glance, and it was times like those that he started to see the appeal of the destruction for which he often admonished his flatmate/lover. He was glad for many reasons that his gun was locked safely away where Sherlock had yet to find it, but he was not as troubled as he knew he should have been to feel that itch in his trigger finger. Sherlock was handling the dry spell very poorly. He had been reading through the physical papers in search of something, anything interesting when John had made the mistake of commenting on it. Next thing he knew, the whole stack of newsprint had been fluttering down all around the couch and the grown man who had flung them was stomping off to his room like an angry teenage girl and John had tried his damnedest not to laugh when he heard the tell-tale screech of a spring mattress indicating that its melodramatic owner had flung himself, likely face down, upon it. There was only one thing for it, John had decided, and went to the DVD rental store.
He had never expected it to work so well.
It couldn't have been more than forty-five minutes since John had left 221b, but he hardly recognized it when he got back (with a few older Bond films he had hoped Sherlock would enjoy just as much as the others, as well as a sea life documentary he'd heard good things about). The detective, last seen huffing to his room like a child, had apparently decided to use his energy for good. The flat was completely spotless, the carpet even swept, with the newspapers stacked neatly in the corner with the other mass publications that might someday prove useful. John went to stack the DVDs by the TV and noticed that it had been dusted, that Sherlock had dusted.
Then his sense of smell caught up with him, grabbed him by the nostrils, and pulled him to the kitchen, equally spotless as the sitting room save for a couple of steaming, bubbling pots of red sauce and noodles, a most enticing aroma of chicken from the oven, and Sherlock himself, lips resting undecided against a wooden stir spoon laden with sauce. He smiled briefly at John before turning back to the stove with a few bottles from the spice rack (wait, since when had they had a spice rack?), tossing in a pinch of this, a dash of that, stirring again before tapping off the excess sauce before bringing the spoon to John.
"Here, taste this," he said, holding it up to his lover's lips and swelling with pride at the sounds he made. Decided, he turned back and switched off the stove, pulling two freshly washed plates from the cupboard to dish up. He brushed John away when he tried to help, motioning him to the dressed table. "Sit down, John," he told him. "Get comfortable. This is for you, you don't get to help."
John, bewildered but impressed, did as he is told, and poured himself a glass of wine without looking at the label; he was certain that it would make his wallet weep (he was right). He turned to watch Sherlock pull a plate from the oven - there was that rusty chicken he smelled earlier - and creator its previously cut contents carefully onto each plate, still not quite believing what was clearly happening. Soon, skeletal hands transported the meal to the table, and the consulting detective pulled on across from John, steepling his fingers beneath his chin and watching John's reaction with obvious amusement.
"What brought all this on?" John asked, motioning unnecessarily to their surroundings. "Last I saw you, you were throwing about like a sulky teenager."
"You haven't yet realized my merits as a housekeeper." Sherlock smiled, offering no further explanation.
The spaghetti was incredible. John would be blown away for days that such a heavenly meal could be produced from things just lying about their kitchen, and would have suspected Sherlock of calling in a culinary favor if he hadn't witnessed it for himself.
He didn't care that the jig was up with his little game. As dessert (chocolate dipped cherries) moved to the couch with the intention to watch a DVD that never got put in, and as eventually the cherries were set aside since they kept getting in the way of the melted chocolate which, too, was shortly forgotten in favor of sweet, cherry-stained lips and jaws and collarbones, John Watson didn't care that Sherlock would never again put this level of effort into the state of the flat and it would soon be back to its usual state. He only cared about the thin but surprisingly strong man currently sucking a stray dab of chocolate from the tip of his nose whose hands, never seeming to get used to the terrain of John's body, were exploring somewhere dark and - oh god oh god yes!
AN: Hi! Firstly, I just want to apologize for not even pretending I'm not American. I don't actually much care, and probably wouldn't submit anything to be Brit-picked anyway (mostly because the only person I know who has the skills for it is actually American like me, despite her insistence to the contrary as the biggest anglophile I've ever encountered so I wouldn't feel right for it), but still. Courtesy and whatnot.
Also wanted to share the fact that this, somehow, was inspired by the following TFLN:
(619): Dude. He put me on a rewards point system for his dick. I have to do him favors now to build up to winning sex. This is shit.
Obviously I could never actually be so cruel, nor could I ever actually write a sex scene (damn you, asexuality! Do not you even ask why, that being the case, I ended up writing this and then POSTING IT ohmygod), apparently, but still felt like credit was due where credit is due.
I hate author's comments because I am shit at them and ramble and this really isn't compelling enough to warrant anybody caring what I have to say, so that's it for me. PEACE