Disclaimer: Nothing belongs to me. Except from the thought warming fantasy of Sherlock and John and chocolate, perhaps.
Note: First of all, big fat thanks to MrsNoggin for doing the very detailed beta work! It helped a lot and made this story considerably better!
Second: Please, let me know if you liked this and leave a review. Seriously, don't make me beg again. (But pleeeeeeaaaaaase!)
Chocolate Heart
John had always known it would come to this one day. Ever since that first moment they shared (not their brief meeting in the lab at Bart's – John had been way too distracted by being impressed with Holmes' unlikely behavior and extraordinary appearance then. Also not their first visit to a crime scene together – again Sherlock's brilliant mind, his deduction skills and his eccentric character had demanded too much attention. No, the first real moment) leaning against the wall of 221B's hallway and giggling like little boys John had seen it coming. He had felt it approach over the months and years he spent in Sherlock's company. The closer the two men got, the closer it drew – and it had gotten pretty damn close several times over the past few weeks.
That this should be how it happened, however, was not what John had expected or imagined to be a likely scenario. Not that he was complaining, well despite about the preceding fighting perhaps. No, he thought it figured somehow. It was all so strangely… them.
He had always thought that when it happened it would be rough and passionate, full of want. Heated, frantic, kinky and possibly in the face of mortal danger or in the immediate aftermath of a thrilling case. What he had not anticipated, however, was that it would be in so unexpected a moment one rainy Sunday morning in the kitchen, between the scattered remnants of Sherlock's latest experiment and amongst cleaning equipment, in the middle of an argument - and that it would be so, well, so sweet. In more than just one sense of the word.
Then again, had there ever, even only once in the entire time he had known Sherlock Holmes, been a day on which this insane and amazing man had not surprised him?
They had spent a quiet morning. After a positively Spartan breakfast Sherlock had succumbed to the apparently irresistible gravity of his microscope and buried himself in dubious work on what John assumed to be highly contagious pathogenic germs of the fatal kind or (hopefully) just disgusting kinds of bugs and maggots from the bowels of a decomposing body. You really learned to appreciate the small things with Sherlock. John had, after a slightly less Spartan and rather more Lucullan breakfast, grudgingly submitted to the task of trying to clean up their flat – in whatever modest capacity he was allowed and able. There were spots and places in the kitchen not even the most battle-hardened crime-scene cleanup men would dare to venture but John was determined to at least create a place where he could square it with his conscience to prepare meals.
After an hour or so he had resigned, considering briefly placing a white flag somewhere on the table so that it would stop revealing one horrifying battlefield after the other. John might have been a solider once, but on this Sunday morning he was sure he could take no more death and destruction.
Instead he had settled comfortably in a chair in the kitchen, pretending to be reading the paper while really enjoying the view of Sherlock, who looked all the more amazing when engrossed completely in some chemical phenomenon or other. He had earned himself a reprehensive I-told-you-so glance as soon as Sherlock had noticed he had conceded defeat against the overpowering enemy that was the chaos in their flat, but since then had pretty much had the chance to look up and briefly get lost in this elegant curl of ebony hair or that delicate curve of a long, pale finger unnoticed. Everything quite subtle, he told himself. Waaaay to subtle for Sherlock to ever notice he was being stared at. Way – or probably not.
Every now and then John rewarded himself for his outstanding subtleness with a delicious little heart shaped chocolate that came out of a box next to his paper on the table. He had bought the box to give Sherlock for his birthday yesterday but had received a rather harsh (even for Sherlock-standards) reply and been told he could keep them to himself. Granted, he had been informed about the no-gifts-policy. But there had been several oddly intimate moments over the past weeks, several intense looks, awkward face-to-face closeness situations and even, John was almost sure about that, several tension fraught almost kisses – they were starting to get somewhere, things were changing.
So, on his way from the supermarket he had decided to pick up a box of chocolates, nothing more than a tiny gesture, for Sherlock's birthday. Just to show him that, while he respected his wish to not get gifts, he had at least thought about him. And that he wanted him to eat more, while he was at it. Also, the fact that they were heart shaped (silly and corny and soppy, John knew. And he did feel embarrassed about it, he really did!) would maybe help to send a message.
It had been all the more hurtful how offhandedly and decidedly Sherlock had declined it, absolutely unaware that fact that he was hurting John's feelings. John had decided not to feel insulted and refrained from moping. It would not have done any good. Besides, the chocolate was really very tasty and it was Sherlock's loss that he had decided not to have any, John thought, as he popped the last of the little hearts in his mouth.
"Was that the last of the chocolates?"
Good Lord! Lost in his thoughts, he hadn't even noticed the detective had pulled his attention away from his work, let alone realised he had got up and was standing quite close John, peering into the empty box with visible disappointment at the very moment the last of the chocolates had passed John's lips and made contact with his teeth.
The question made John's stomach drop with embarrassment. There he was, eating the last of his flatmate and friend's birthday chocolates. Even with the memory of the detective's gruff rejection of this small gift in mind, the thought made him want to spit the chocolate heart out instantly and offer it to its rightful owner. Yeah, with teeth marks and spittle all over it. He certainly wants that back.
"I'm shorry." John mumbled guiltily, the chocolate still between his front teeth, unable to bring himself to just eat it and destroy his last chance of giving it back. "I shought you didn't want any."
"I didn't. But now I do. I didn't know you would devour all of them within hours." The detective's baritone was booming with that slightly appalled indignation he liked to display when John was failing to see something very obvious. Also, the condescending glance he threw with raised eyebrows into the general direction of where John's belly rounded a bit under his jumper did nothing to contribute holding up John's former level of repentant shame. The skinny bastard knew exactly how to do that – one moment you were apologising, the next you just wanted to punch his handsome face or kick him in the shin heartily. Preferably both.
The thought of eating the chocolate suddenly seemed like underlining that denunciatory look at his middle so John took it out of his mouth slowly.
"You can eat them yourself. I neither care for sweets or wish to partake in the expendable social convention of receiving gifts for being pressed through my mother's birth canal by no accomplishment of my own. Your words exactly! I remember them so distinctly because I thought it was one of your personal low points in social interaction. I mean, I was trying to be nice. It wouldn't have killed you to just say thank you and throw the box out secretly later if you didn't want it?" And I haven't gained weight, he added inwardly, wisely refraining from stating this out loud so Sherlock wouldn't notice the look had offended him in the first place.
Holmes waved the suggestion away with a derogatory flick of his hand and his nose crinkled in disgust. "You've always known how I am. Why is this starting to bother you now?"
"Starting?" John snorted. "But that's beside the point. I'm not complaining about your behavior, I'm just pointing out that you specifically allowed me to eat the chocolate. All of it."
"Well, I can't keep you updated whenever I change my mind, can I? You do have to pay a little attention yourself." With a stubborn flourish of his dressing gown Sherlock turned back to his microscope, leaving John in enraged speechlessness.
"Do you want it back, then?" he offered after he had rediscovered his ability to speak.
"You've already had it in your mouth."
"Coming from the man who drank tea from a cup with an eyeball in it!" John exclaimed in exasperation and opened his arms as if to present Sherlock to an invisible audience. "So a tiny bit of my spit is more repelling than dead peoples' eyes in your tea? I am this repulsive?"
Sherlock stared at him with an oddly hurt expression for a moment or two and then went back to the inspection of whatever was the object of his current analysis. John knew he was being a bit unfair, but right now he was just trying to lure Sherlock out of his stubborn aloofness and annoy him by expanding this argument further to keep him from his precious experiment just a little longer. He was half tempted to grab for some random object on the counter and lick it, slowly, deliberately and with the use of as much saliva as he could muster, just to aggravate Sherlock. He quickly dismissed the idea with regard to his own safety and health.
"Honestly John. I am in the middle of an experiment. I don't have the time to deal with your hormonal mood swings." said Sherlock, wiggling his hands fretfully.
This was too much. Seriously, if it hadn't been potentially fatal John would have licked that collection of unsluiced test tubes to death. Until they drowned. In drool. Seas of drool. Then Sherlock could see how repulsive that really was. Perhaps at some point of his life, John reckoned, he should sit down and think about why on Earth the fact that Sherlock seemed to find his mouth unappealing bothered him so much – but not now.
"Hormonal?" was what he asked instead, narrowing his eyes and pursing his lips, against his better judgment (Why? Why the fuck was he always obliging Sherlock by asking? After all this time he really did know better and still kept asking every single bloody time.) At least he had succeeded in drawing the other man's attention away from the microscope once again. It was a small victory, but he had learned to appreciate those when fighting with Sherlock.
"It is a scientifically proven fact that men have a hormonal cycle that influences their bodies physically and emotionally just as the female hormonal cycle does to a woman. With men the cycle is about six weeks, instead of four. Judging by your general crankiness and the rate at which you practically inhaled that chocolate, I'd say you're about in…"
"Ok! Sherlock, ok. I get it." Suddenly it was all too much. John didn't know if it was the fact that Sherlock seemed to be paying attention to his hormone balance, or the fact that he was repelled by a bit of John's spit, or that he hadn't accepted the really small and cheap and not at all important birthday gift of a box of chocolates. He couldn't believe himself for thinking that perhaps, just perhaps, something between them was changing just minutes ago. It had all been his fault, really. He knew Sherlock, knew how the man was. He had been told that he considered himself married to his work right from the fucking start. It was not John's bloody problem if the stupid bastard was not going to acknowledge there was something between them. Thinking about it, he decided, he was not really that interested in him at all. He was all rude and sociopathic after all, and so decidedly…male.
John noticed Sherlock watching him from the corner of his eye.
"I'll get you another box." He sighed, defeated. How did he always end up being the one making concessions at the end of a fight?
"I don't want another one." Sherlock snapped shirtily.
"Well, bad luck," replied John, full of spite as an aftertaste of his anger returned. He shoved the chocolate, which was already starting to melt in his fingers, into his mouth. "Becaush you can't have shish one. You don't want it, it'sh already in my moush and I'm shlobbering all over it." Ridiculous? Probably. Childish? Well, yes. Satisfying? Hell yeah!
The next thing that happened would forever stay an amazing, blurry memory in John's mind. The only facts he was absolutely sure about were that: one) he felt very, very hot the entire time, and two) the taste of chocolate would never be the same to him.
With an altogether unexpected movement, the tall detective suddenly leapt up from his chair and rushed over to John with a kind of grim determination in his eyes. For a second there, John really though Sherlock would hit him in the face just for finally eating the last chocolate heart. But the moment that the rich, sweet taste was starting to melt on his tongue, Sherlock reached a slender hand around John's neck (surprisingly tender, John noticed vaguely, but maybe that was just because he had expected a fist in the face rather than that) and pulled his head in for a soft, strong kiss.
An explosion of sensations shot through John's whole body and sent his heart into a wild chase for its life, hammering in his chest like a desperate prisoner trying to escape his cell. Sherlock was wasting no time. He had already met John's tightly closed mouth with slightly parted lips and did not hesitate to deepen the kiss as soon as John had quelled his initial shock and started to relax. For all the anger he had felt at the detective's behavior only moments ago, he melted into that kiss now, just as the creamy chocolate was melting on both of their tongues. There was so much more tenderness and softness than John had ever thought possible. He could feel almost as much of those feelings in the wet warmth of those smooth lips and tongue as he knew himself to feel for Sherlock. The realisation of reciprocality buzzed in the depths of his body, as if someone was trying to dissolve several packages of sherbet powder in his veins.
When they broke apart, the taller man leaned his forehead against John's, eyes closed, his hand still resting gently on John's neck and stroking the delicate skin there with feather light touches. His other hand lay tightly pressed to the small of John's back. For a moment they stood, breathing in each other chocolaty breaths. The warmth of Sherlock's body so close, the feel of his skin against his own, the intoxicating scent - all of it made John dizzy and flustered and swelling with joy like a balloon with helium. He swore that every minute now he was going to take off. Or maybe wake up.
"Hmmm." Was all he could manage to utter after a long Sherlock-scented pause. And perhaps that was for the better. "Thank you" would probably not have been a very dignified thing to say after a kiss like this.
Sherlock gulped down the last bit of the chocolate that he had cunningly stolen in the delicious heat of the encounter of mouths and grinned.
"I never said I didn't want it just because it had already been in your mouth," he said so quietly it was no more than a faint whisper, "Thank you for the chocolate, John." And he gave him another tender, lingering kiss before stepping back and releasing John from his embrace.
Outside, the rain was drumming on the window panes with hollow thuds. The cool draft the retreat of Sherlock's hand left on Johns neck almost made him protest in displeasure, but the sound of Mrs. Hudson's feet on the stairs brought both of them back to reality. Moments later she bustled in.
"Hello Boys! I was down at the shop and brought you the …oh." With a slightly perplexed expression on her face she froze in mid movement, staring at the two men in confusion. They were still standing suspiciously close, John realized, and the delicate blush on the detective's usually so pale cheekbones (plus the probably obscenely reddened face John was turning in her direction) certainly painted a quite accurate picture of what had just happened. Neither John nor Sherlock for once apparently, managed to say anything. Then the self-controlled bastard got his act together – much, much quicker than John could ever have managed in a moment like this he noted with ever so slight dismay – and smiled at her in cordial self-assurance.
"Ah, thank you Mrs. Hudson. Thank you very much. Why don't you give me the shopping bags and go back down to rest a little. In this horrible weather your hip must be bothering you quite a bit." He took the shopping bags out of her hands and ushered her back through the door elegantly, all smiles and polite determination.
"Um, there is a little something for your birthday in there as well. I know you didn't want us to, but…" Sherlock had already closed the door halfway behind her.
"Yes, thank you. That's lovely. Thank you." And the door shut.
And there they stood. John still frozen in the same place (yeah, when was his ability to move planning on returning?) where Sherlock had kissed him, the faint taste of chocolate still lingering on his tongue, Sherlock over by the door, fidgeting with the messy curls on the back of his head bashfully. Wait, bashfully? That was new. And slightly disquieting. And the most adorable thing ever. No, really: ever - John was prepared to stand on that in court.
"Wow, so you really wanted that piece of chocolate, huh?" He could feel his mouth stretch into the widest, toothiest and goofiest grin of all times (and Sherlock would probably be prepared to testify that in court.). It was not as if he didn't know the kiss had nothing to do with the chocolate but there was no need to fluster the poor man further. Or maybe just a little. "I somehow regret that it was the last one, though."
Sherlock smiled at him then and it hit John that he was probably the only person in the world who was able to detect the tiny change of expression in those beautifully pale eyes that instantly widened in relief almost impalpably.
"Well," said Sherlock, the grin still brightening his flushed face. He bent down and took something out of the bags Mrs. Hudson had left. "Good thing you are not the only attentive person who has chosen to ignore that I don't want gifts for my birthday."
In his hands, adorned with a red ribbon, there was a large box of little chocolate hearts.