"You're making pancakes. Again," says Sherlock, slumping down into the kitchen chair, his hair a wild mess and his bathrobe tightened around him as if to guard himself from the evil shenanigans of a fairly innocent pancake.
As said morsel is wordlessly offered before him, Sherlock pokes it with his fork and squints at John, inspecting the man's back while he's still plating his own food.
John can feel those eyes on him, and can't, for the life of him, suppress the grin on his face before turning to join Sherlock at the table.
"Again? It's been a year. An entire bloody year. It is what I do on this day, whether you like it or not."
Sherlock shovels an inappropriate amount of pancake into his gob and waves the fork around in an educational manner. His words don't come out as high and mighty as he might wish; "With all the people with hearts in their eyes, you'd expect rainbow unicorns with braided manes prancing along the streets, plump cherubs perhaps, swooping by, shooting arrows of amour made of toffee and fairy dust, and all this because of one commercially fabricated day, designed to sell mountains of useless knick-knacks to people who think that if they don't, they have somehow failed abysmally at something that should, and scientifically speaking, does, come freely."
John tries hard to swallow before he chokes on his mouthful, and lets out a heartfelt laugh.
This Valentine's should go by smoothly.
"So," Sherlock reaches behind the sofa with a passable attempt at nonchalance, and presents a parcel – no, fabric of some sort – before him, causing John to raise his brow near his hairline in utter disbelief, since this is Sherlock. This is Sherlock, but his hand is trembling slightly, his cheeks are beginning to tinge pink, he's avoiding eye contact, concentrating instead on his bare toes, and is that – - is that what is commonly construed as shuffling one's feet? But this is Sherlock, and there is nothing common about him. So it can't be that he's nervous, can it?
"Close your mouth, John, please." And if there isn't a quirk of a smile playing in the corner of Sherlock's mouth… Interesting.
Sherlock raises his head to look at John, the smile turning into a delighted grin when his eyes meet the widened ones of his lover. "You're acting as if you've never seen a jumper before," Sherlock steps forth, close enough to slide his fingers under John's chin, caressing his jawline, and to splay his fingers against John's cheek, Sherlock's thumb ghosting John's lips. "It has stripes," Sherlock glances down where the jumper is almost pressed between them. Sherlock clears his throat, betraying his emotions to no return, before seeking John's eyes again. "I've been led to believe that's how you like them."
Flabbergasted, wide-eyed, John can't think of a word in his vocabulary to thank his lover, so he stands there with jumper in hands, thumbing the fabric and staring at Sherlock. Until motion seems somewhat reasonable, and John lunges forwards and wraps his arms around Sherlock.
There's a witty remark lingering in the air, John is certain of it, but he ignores it and mentally tells it to piss off, since this is something too precious, something too fragile to spoil with banter. He can feel it stiffening in his arms.
With a kiss, Sherlock relaxes.
This is their moment. This is Sherlock recognizing John's need to shout their love from the rooftops, and this is Sherlock, kissing John hungrily, being held tightly and holding John with equal force. This is Sherlock closing his eyes with a kiss. This is Sherlock shouting his love silently against John's lips. This is who John, frankly, adores.
This is Sherlock on a Valentine's day.