John was making all sorts of noise that early Valentine's morning as he tossed empty bottles and boxes across the room into the garbage. He was so focused on his task he didn't take notice of his sister, standing behind him with her robe loosely fastened over her pajamas, her hair set in curlers, and her foot tapping against the linoleum.
"What in the hell are you doing?" she bellowed, "It's sodding 730 in the morning; you don't even have trousers on!"
John looked down at himself to see, that in fact, yes, he was only in a pair of old boxer shorts. He just shrugged his shoulders at that realization, and went back to rummaging through the rubbish.
"I'm cleaning. Did mum and dad even teach you what a bin is for?"
"Of course they did. But it's Friday, and I do all my major cleaning on Sunday so you can just pick up during the week."
"I know that." John unnecessarily snapped back to her.
"Then why are you in the kitchen freaking out in your underwear?"
John threw an empty jar of jam down particularly hard against the other glass jars and bottles in the bin, "Because it's Valentine's Day!"
Harry let out a long, loud sigh to try and even the temper her baby brother was starting to make rise within her. "What does that have to do with anything?"
John suddenly threw wild, furious eyes in her direction, "Please tell me you have plans tonight. Some attempt at a reconciliation dinner with Clara maybe?"
"No. No dinner with Clara, but I do have plans; I'll be out with some girlfriends getting drunk and bitching about being divorced."
"Oh, good. Good."
John's eyes softened. He had thrown everything of unimportance away on the counter (and from the dining table and even from inside the fridge). He ran a cloth underneath running water, and sprayed some disinfectant onto it, and began wiping it across the surfaces of the kitchen.
"John, darling, you have got to explain to me what is going on before I get one of those sedatives you keep in the bathroom cabinet and shove it down your throat."
John stopped his furious wiping for a moment; shook in a ragged, anxious breath and met his sister's concerned eyes; she looked a lot like their mother in her current state of lingering sleepiness and worry. He started to wonder for just a moment when the last time it was that he had called his mum.
"For the past six years I have had a standing date for Valentine's Day."
"You what?"
"As long as neither of us were in serious relationships at the time, he and I have always met with each other. Usually it's a hotel somewhere between the two of us, I've been to his flat a couple of times, and this year he's coming here."
"Wait, you're having a stranger come to my flat to have sex with you?"
"First of all, it's our flat, seeing as I've been paying more than half the rent the past two years. Second of all, he isn't a stranger; I've known him for six years; we email sometimes- I just only see him once a year. And third of all, he's not just coming here for sex."
Harry turned up an eyebrow.
"There'll be dinner and wine too."
She laughed, "Where did you meet this bloke?"
"A conference on poisonous inhalants."
"Romantic."
"Shut it."
John resumed the wiping down he had abandoned, trying to ignore the feeling of judgment that was coming from Harry's gaze. He knew she wasn't judging him; neither of them ever truly thought poorly of the other or seriously questioned the activities they chose to participate in. John had always been there for Harry while she struggled through her addiction; being supportive when he needed to be, angry when he had to be and joyful when she had kicked the habit enough to start to pull her life back together. He was there with her when she came out, having secretly known for years about his sister, but never wanting to say anything to her for fear she didn't know herself. So, even though John had kept this annual date a secret from her, even though he had never brought men home to the flat, never as so much mentioned he had an interest in them to her until that very moment, the only look in her eyes, truly, was surprise, and eventual acceptance of him.
"What's his name?" she asked.
"Sherlock."
"Sherlock?" she repeated, and started to quietly laugh, "What the hell kind of name is that?"
"Some kind of family name, I think."
"I see. Well, what time are you expecting him then?"
"His train should get in around four."
"Would you like me gone by then?"
John shook his head, "No, I won't kick you out, but maybe by five?"
Harry smiled and ruffled the gray-blonde hair on her brother's head, like she had done so many times before.
"Let me have my tea, and I'll start on the living room, alright?" she said to him.
"Thank you Harry. You're the best big sister ever." John clutched his hands against his chest and batted his eyelashes at her.
"Alright, now it's your turn to shut it." She said to him just before he managed to burst out into laughter.
It was later, as he was changing out the well slept in sheets on his bed for freshly laundered ones, that he heard his mobile; first the harsh vibration against the wood of his nightstand and then the melodious string of beeps. He dropped the corner of a sheet before it got tucked underneath the mattress and picked up the phone.
Train running on schedule. See you in two hours. SH
It didn't matter how many times throughout the year they exchanged emails, surprise photos or the occasional dirty text message, he was always nervous just before he was expected to see Sherlock. John had felt a strong and instant connection to the man from the moment he sat next to him at that now glorious conference. His hair was dark, and the most unruly mess of curls he had ever seen, and his eyes; it was like they couldn't figure out what color they were meant to be, and just when they thought that had it figured out changed again, and again. And his face, and the way he carried himself was like homage to a majestic Roman sculpture; as if he was a walking, talking, breathing archaeological discovery. And when he opened his mouth to speak; not even to John the first time he had ever heard it, the world crumbled down around him; walls, trees, the sky and eventually the Earth's crust were demolished by the velvet purr that had escaped Sherlock's mouth.
The conference had lasted five days. Each day John and Sherlock found their way to the same seats, found their way to small joke and jokes. Sherlock told John every possible little thing he could ever want to know about the strangers that milled about around them, and then broke John down in the same fashion; pulling out every detail he thought he had kept hidden within himself. It should have terrified John, but it didn't. It was brilliant. It was dizzying, and the sheer genius of this already impossibly gorgeous man was an absolute turn on. So, it was on the last day that they took their now usual seats, made their now usual morning acknowledgements, and tried; tried as hard as they could to listen to the speaker, but there was no focus beyond counting each other's breath or teasing against one another's fingers. They laughed at what they imagined was an inappropriate moment due to all the eyes that flew very quickly in their direction, and fled from the auditorium, letting the heavy doors crash behind them. Still laughing, and holding onto each other's hand they crossed the lobby, banged into the elevator and impatiently rode up to the top floor where Sherlock's room was booked. They had then proceeded to spend the next five hours intimately learning about the other. John had never felt the kind of desire and passion that Sherlock gave to him; he was so focused on John that if John had been a weaker man he might have cracked and began to weep at the exquisite attention lavished upon him. That room became a haven of carnal love, a sacred space of never before uttered secrets and wishes from both men. Eventually bright day turned blissfully into night, then early morning and then bitterly into another bright day. Though they both agreed the need and the desire to see one another again, neither of them wanted to make a relationship out of it. Sherlock claimed matrimony to his work; a consulting detective (whatever that was. John had thought), and John had been starting at a new practice; partner to a friend he had known for ages, just outside of London; they were two hours away from each other. Not to mention, John didn't date men the same way he dated women. Not that he had been ashamed of that side of himself; it just wasn't something he did openly. So, they threw a steak knife from the dinner that had ordered at a calendar and stuck with the date it had chosen for them to meet once a year; Valentine's Day.
When John thought about it now, on the days that he found an unexpected email in his inbox from Sherlock detailing a case he had just finished or the random deduction of a woman, man or child he had stood behind in the queue at the coffee shop, he wished, just the tiniest little part of him, that he was there when those things had happened, rather than just a contact in Sherlock's address book.
He went back to tightening the sheet across the bed, smoothing the wrinkles down and fluffing the duvet back over the top before tossing the pillows back on.
Harry appeared at his door, leaning against the frame; her curlers out, and hair bouncing against resting against her shoulders. She was showered, and dressed with a cup of tea warming between her hands.
"Bathroom is clean, and I shoved those papers and magazines under the sofa into my room."
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." She took a sip of her tea, and disappeared as quickly as she had shown up. Although, John had been so lost in thought that she could have been standing there for hours and he wouldn't have noticed.
When there was nothing left to clean or pick up in his bedroom or the remainder of the flat, John went into the sparkling bathroom, undressed from the pajama bottoms and gray army shirt he had slipped into shortly after his nervous breakdown in the kitchen with Harry, and stepped into the shower after placing them into the hamper behind the door. The water was hot, hotter than his body should have been able to stand, but that was the way he liked it; like to pink his skin until he couldn't stand it anymore. He scrubbed, and washed and rinsed, and then did it all again before blasting the water on the coldest setting he could find, and then finally turning it off and stepping out. He toweled off, wrapped it around his waist and leaned over the sink to inspect the state of his cheeks and chin. There was enough there to shave it away, but Sherlock was the kind of man that appreciated a little burn against his face, and other sensitive areas; and John liked to see the red irritation that it left behind on Sherlock's pale flesh. He skipped the shave then, and went to vigorously rubbing a small towel through his hair, taking away the moisture before placing the smallest amount of product into it; swishing his fingers around in a haphazard manner until it appeared to do something he liked.
He left the bathroom, went back into his bedroom and took out his nicest pair of brown trousers. He dipped one foot into the opening, and then the other and slid the cool material against his calves and over his thighs; fastened the button. He reached atop the dresser to his cologne collection, and sprayed his favorite into the air a few times before twirling himself into the lingering particles of rosewood and cinnamon. He reached into the open wardrobe, and pulled a red button down from the hanger it was on; not red for the day, but red because he had always been told it was the best color for him, and because he wanted his external to match the internal fire he was feeling.
He glanced at the time on his watch as he was fastening it to his wrist; 15:20. The butterflies, no, the full grown, edgy, anxious birds in his stomach fluttered faster and harder for a second until John swallowed hard and evened out his breathing. He left his room, walked barefoot down the hallway, and smiled when he saw Harry on the sofa watching the television. He thought maybe, just maybe she would hide herself away in her room, and maybe closer to four, she would, but honestly, she was probably going to hang around and take the chance to meet the man he had been keeping secreted away from her for over half a decade.
John went into the kitchen, turned the radio on to try and settle his nerves, though it would prove to only amp them up even more, and opened the fridge to take out what he needed to make dinner; the fresh ravioli he had prepared the night before (sweet lobster blended with a heavenly mixture of mascarpone and ricotta cheese); the lettuce and vegetables for the salad (leafy red and romaine, sliced carrots, cucumbers, mushrooms and black olives), and the freshly minced garlic and butter he would need for the ravioli sauce. He opened the cupboard for an assortment of spices (saffron, basil, thyme, cilantro). He filled a pot with water, let it boil as he raggedly cut up the lettuce and tossed it into the large wooden bowl his mum had bought for him, then tossed in the bag of vegetables, mixing them together with two forks and sprinkling salt and pepper on the top for good measure. He sang along to the music, setting the salad aside and preparing the drop the ravioli into the water.
So if it's just tonight
The animal inside, let it live then die
Like it's the end of time
Like everything inside
Let it live then die
He looked down at his watch once again, 16:11. The train station was only a ten minute cab ride away; given the time it would take Sherlock to gather his things, get off and hail a taxi, he was due to arrive shortly. Those birds were going crazy inside his stomach again. He opened the fridge once again, took out a slightly chilled bottle of merlot he had stuck in there just before his shower; he replaced it with another from the rack on the kitchen counter next to the fruit basket. He took down two glasses, and poured himself a small splash to take the edge off. He barely had time to swallow the sip before there was a buzz on the intercom. John wiped his sweating hands on the tea towel hanging above the sink, and crossed into the living room. He pressed the button to allow entrance without even checking to make sure it was him first; in that moment, if he heard Sherlock's voice, deep and crackling over the barely functioning intercom he might have passed out right there and then; been down for the count before he even started.
Harry turned off the television, and reached for a copy of National Geographic, opening to the first random page she found that wasn't an advertisement. John shook his head at her, and stood a few feet back from the door, listening to the footsteps approach. He waited, knots in his chest, tension in his shoulders, breath trapped between his throat and his mouth.
There was a knock; a quick, sharp rap of two, maybe three knuckles.
John waited a second longer, then reached for the doorknob, and opened the door to the beautiful sight he knew was waiting for him on the other side.
"Hi." John said, fighting his breath the entire time to speak
"Hi." Sherlock said back.
John was right not to speak to him through the buzzer; those two letters, two little letters, barely even a word at all, from Sherlock's lips made John's knees shake just a fraction, and then he smiled. Sherlock smiled; whole and wonderful, and beautiful, and John's knees shook a little harder.
"I brought dessert." Sherlock said, effortlessly holding out a white box tied with twine.
John's brain managed to let his hands know to reach out and take the box, "Something that survived the train ride I hope."
"Just a fruit pie; should still be intact."
"Great; I'll set it in the kitchen. Come in; please."
John stepped away from the door, and let Sherlock enter. He slipped his coat; a great, overpowering thing made of blue and black wool. Underneath there was a dark green button up. The top two ivory buttons undone to show off his perfectly pale neck, and just a bit of chest; enough for John to see the freckle that he remembered so fondly, and sleek black trousers. John took the coat from him, along with his blue scarf and hung them on the rack next to the door.
"Uh, Sherlock, this is my sister Harry; we share the flat."
Sherlock gracefully turned around the heels of his shiny, expensive shoes, and smiled at Harry who had now stood up.
"It's nice to meet you Harry; I've heard a lot about you."
"It's nice to meet you too Sherlock." She said, almost stuttered actually, taking in the tall, drink of water her brother had just let it into their flat.
"Harry will be leaving shortly. Won't she?" John asked between gritted teeth, still trying to sound as polite as possible. Sherlock laughed anyway, catching on to the small sibling tiff.
"Yes, I uh- I just have to go put my face on. Pretend I'm not even here." Harry smiled and faffed off down the hallway and into her bedroom.
John motioned for Sherlock to follow him into the kitchen. He set the pie down on the counter, checked his ravioli; all floating at the top, and picked up the pot to pour out the bowling water into the colander sitting in the sink.
"Need some help?" Sherlock asked, looking at John through the rising steam.
"No, thank you. There's uh-" he fumbled a little, placing the pot back on the stove, "There's some wine over there; go ahead and pour yourself a glass."
Sherlock did as John told him, and poured another as well. John went about placing the hot pasta on the plates he had brought down from the cupboard earlier. He covered them in the sauce mixture (the butter, garlic and other assorted spices), and lightly sprinkled fresh parmesan cheese over the top. He set the plates on the table next to a setting of silverware of napkin, then brought the wooden bowl of salad down to set in the center along with a glass bottle of balsamic dressing and two empty bowls he set next to the plates. Sherlock placed the wine glasses in each spot and sat down; John followed; off his feet for the first time that day.
They caught up on the last year; John's partner selling his share of the practice to him, and how John was only living with Harry to help her through her divorce, and because he found that the older he got the more lonely he became, and his best option was to move in with his sister. He swore up and down that he wasn't pathetic, and Sherlock readily agreed. Sherlock recounted the cases he had solved for the Yard, mused on the general idiocracy of people, and how he had recently updated all of his lab equipment; donating the old pieces to the St. Bartholomew teaching school. John's nervousness waned; either from the way Sherlock made him feel comfortable or the wine; John really wasn't sure which, but it didn't much matter. All that mattered was that he was sitting in the kitchen with that gorgeous man; that it was his favorite day of the year, and if he was honest with himself, he wished every day was just like this one.
Dinner turned into dessert, and dessert turned into wine and wine then turned into kissing on the sofa. John realized, as he tasted Sherlock's lips for the first time in 365 days that he never really forgot the way they tasted. They were so masculine; rolled tobacco, coffee, and a linger of copper from a cut inside his lip that John always meant to ask where it had come from, but forgot by the time he remembered again. Sherlock's hands were masculine too, though they didn't look it from first glance, but it was hard for John not to notice the calluses of a man who knew the intimacy and intricacy of a violin like he knew his own soul or who's scars told of a man whose genius could be forgotten when deep intent is brought to an experiment with caustic chemicals when they were running up underneath his now untucked, and nearly fully unbuttoned shirt.
John leaned into Sherlock's touch, feeling not fully in control of himself or the sounds that escaped his lips as he dragged them across Sherlock's neck, leaving hard kisses in their wake. Both of their shirts had vanished from their bodies, finding new residence on the floor next to the sofa. As hands began to search for zippers and buttons in tandem, John tore himself away from Sherlock's body to stand, and reach his arm down to pull Sherlock up as well. They held each other's hand going down the hallway, and pushing into John's room. John laid Sherlock down on the bed; his back pressing against the clean linen, and nearly crawled over his body, matching the look of desire in Sherlock's eyes with his own as he lowered himself until chest met chest. John's hand slipped between the two of them, canting his hips up just slightly to work at the fly of Sherlock's trousers, and shimmy them down the thin man's legs for Sherlock to kick them off on his own accord. John followed his own example, and took his own trousers off as well. Not much time passed before they had their pants off, and were alone, naked together in the darkness.
There was such a beauty to Sherlock that John often reached for in the nights when he was asleep; restlessly searching for a release to the nightmares he suffered. The thing he loved, if there was anything to love about seeing the best lover you've ever had only once a year was that they got to rediscover the places of pleasure. Some were remembered, but John always found a place to touch, suck or kiss that surprised him when Sherlock escaped a moan, and John was supremely unaware that Sherlock had all of John's memorized, catalogued and organized for easy recollection. It didn't matter much if he knew anyway, because Sherlock never spared a single inch of John's body from his touch.
He sat backwards in Sherlock's lap, no real memory of how he got there, no real memory of how and when Sherlock ended up inside of him, but not really caring once he made the realization. Sherlock wrapped an arm tight around John's torso, bringing them as close together as they possibly could be. He bent his head down and kissed at the back of John's neck, across the breadth and over to one shoulder and then retraced his way to the other. John felt his muscles tighten further and further at the touch, at the anticipation, at the divine, awkward feeling. Sherlock's hand splayed across John's chest, above his heart that was quickly starting to beat out of his chest, at the same time Sherlock also pressed his lips against John's carotid artery; he tapped his finger against his chest and his tongue against his neck as if taking John's pulse; as if waiting for the right point, the right moment. It was three seconds later, but really it could have been three hours or three years later for all John knew before Sherlock finally and suddenly moved, and it absolutely broke John apart.
Completely. Udderly. Shattered. Apart.
He screamed.
Fuck!
Unaware that was even a response he was capable of.
He writhed; trying to push and pull away from Sherlock at the same he was trying to push back and down, and get closer, closer, closer. His fingers alternately dug into the duvet, and Sherlock's thighs, flailing behind to dig nails into Sherlock's back; gripping anything to keep him upright. Every time John started to sag forward, Sherlock tightened his one armed grip, holding him firmly against his chest. John could feel Sherlock's muscles (deceptively hidden by his lean figure, but there, wonderfully and perfectly there) flex and roll against his own muscles in his back. It wasn't long, no, wait, it was forever; forever and ever and ever that they went on. Between pantsmoansgroans from both participants, John found the strength to utter four breathless words to Sherlock:
"I'm glad you came."
And then a little bit more strength to say four more"
"Don't ever leave."