The smell of them. Warm and strong. Comforting. He could spot that smell from twenty feet off.
Cloves. Sherlock Holmes loved the smell of cloves.
He didn't know exactly why he loved the smell, but for some reason it drove him mad, or, well, madder. As soon as he got a whiff of the exclusive sent he would be off like a hound to track it down, and be found a few minutes later in the corner of a bakery, eating some sort of pastry.
He was a nightmare at Christmas as well. All those hams baking, cloves poking from their warm pink skin. Never mind Santa Clause climbing down your chimney, the people of London should be more concerned with Sherlock climbing in through their windows.
Sherlock didn't know when his 'fascination' with cloves began. Ever since he was a small child, running around with his magnifying glass, the smell of cloves had always drawn him in. Maybe they reminded him of the quiet, normal family that he would never have? The lazy nights by the fireside, the warm conversations, the not trying to kill each other. All wrapped up with the smell of cloves.
One day, he was resting in 221B Baker St. It was just after another case had been solved. It was a simple one really, a dead-beat boyfriend who had killed his girlfriend to get the families diamond earrings. It took perhaps 30 seconds for the Great Detective to figure out who had done the crime and another minute to find the earrings. All was well. He closed his eyes and gave into the notion of relaxing. Allowing his tense muscles to sink into the sofa and his blue/grey eyes to shut. He let out a breath, trying to settle his ever shifting mind. It was dull and boring, but long lessons (and even longer lectures from John) had taught him that even he needed rest occasionally. If only for a few seconds.
Still, Sherlock was glad when he heard John exit the bathroom upstairs, he would, hopefully, slow the impending rush of boredom that was sure to occur. It always did, after the end of each case, the brilliant mind would quest for new puzzles and when if found none, it would not be quiet until it did. He heard his flatmate walk down the stairs and enter the room, as he did, the Detective opened his mouth to issue a barking command, but instead found his mouth just hanging open.
Cloves. Cloves, cloves, cloves. Where was it coming from?
The answer to the question became apparent as John approached the slack-jawed detective.
It was John! John smelt like cloves!
For once, the detective couldn't think. He was just so... possessed by the smell of John, it filled his head like a most exquisite drug. The scent filled his lungs as well as the rest of his body, until it seemed like every single cell of Sherlock Holmes was filled with the sent of delicious cloves.
"Um... Sherlock?"
John was unsure about what to do. He had just entered the room when Sherlock seemed to freeze, mouth open, seemingly gazing at nothing. He steeped forward to examine the man, hoping that it wasn't a drug or poison induced state. John didn't know about Sherlock's obsession with cloves. He had not been around long enough for a Christmas to go by, or a non case inflamed Sherlock to pass a bakery containing the special Sherlock type catnip. So, naturally, the Doctor was flummoxed.
"Sherlock? Sherlock!"
he reached forward and shook the detective gingerly. It seemed to work as the man stiffened in his chair, sitting bolt upright before launching himself off the chair and madly pacing around the room, his eyes reaching everything but the perplexed Doctor.
"Um, is everything okay?"
"Just fine. Did you know that the Australasian glow worm is carnivorous?"
"Um, no. but-"
"What about that cockroaches will not, in fact, survive a nuclear blast? Found that one out myself actually. By accident. But I suppose you wouldn't want to know about that one. Too many casualties for you John.
"Ah. Yeah. Okay..."
The truth was, the detective was having a hard time keeping control of himself. Physically and mentally. His heart seemed to be pumping blood at thrice its normal speed. And not to his brain either. That appendage did not seem to be fully functioning, judging by the was he was rambling. Which he should really stop soon.
Thankfully, John was to the rescue, he grabbed the Detective by the shoulders, which shut him up, and helped the man to get a bearing in what was a spinning room. Concerned, John placed a hand on the man's forehead. He wasn't overly warm even though his cheeks were flushed. Gently, he laid a hand at the side of his flatmates neck, checking a pulse and finding it rather erratic. There was obviously something wrong with him. But, surprisingly, when he opened his mouth to speak he found a pair of soft lips over his own.
Sherlock couldn't help it. He just couldn't control himself around the smell of cloves. Then John stepped forward and it was the smell of John and cloves. Then his hand was on his face and neck. Then his lips were parted.
So naturally, the thing to do was to kiss him.
John seemed to agree.
It was a long time before the pair in 221B Baker Street were ready to stop kissing, and a few days until they were ready to leave the bedroom. It was only a day later that Sherlock remembered how he had ended up in this situation, not that he minded, and decided to ask John why he smelt of cloves.
"Cloves?" Said John "Oh, that would be my new after shave... Do you like it?"
"You could say that. You should defiantly wear it more often." the detective tried not to give anything away, but he could not seem to help the smile that had infected his face. "Where did you get it from anyway?"
"It was an early birthday present from Lestrade. He said that you'd find it acceptable. What's with the asking?"
"No reason. No reason at all." said the detective with a chuckle. He made a mental note to send the man a gift basket or something, maybe he'd solve a few petty crimes for him, Just this once.