Disclaimer: obviously, nothing mine. Also, since she's clearly too indulgent, I sent this to my dearest Chrwythyn for Britpick and betaing, and she agreed. All hail to her. Also, someone once complained about it, so fair warning: this chapter has rimming in it.

When John's tread sounded on the stairs, everything was ready. Perfect. Sherlock welcomed him with the biggest, warmest smile of his repertoire, ignoring how exhausted he was. He didn't mention the significance of the day, though. John liked surprises.

John didn't, either. His blogger just kissed him, sweet and tender, before announcing he was off to shower. Sherlock nodded. If he slipped into his own room, because of the frosted glass panel on the door to the bathroom there, no one had to be any the wiser. It was nothing more than a vague outline, and if he wanted to, he could now see John undressed up close and personal. He only needed to say the word.

But the 'spying' (mostly imagining, really) – though probably a bit not good – had been such a delightful, if frankly masochistic, habit, that the sleuth was loath to shake it off. He'd never mentioned it to John. Obviously, his flatmate would have taken exception to it at the start of their relationship. After they'd become involved, he'd been invited inside the shower – more than once. If John wanted him there, he would have said. When John didn't feel like it, well, it wasn't Sherlock's fault that his beloved was addictive – the doctor had proven so even before they were together. A bit of daydreaming couldn't be faulted, certainly. Just in case, though, what his lover didn't know wouldn't hurt him.

Naturally, now it was less of an imagining feat and more of a pleasant memory – mind palace John had long since been updated to be a perfect replica of the beloved original. And Sherlock wasn't up to anything at the moment, strictu sensu. It didn't mean that he couldn't enjoy his love's overwhelming sensuality.

Sherlock sneaked back to the kitchen just in time, so that John wouldn't notice anything. His beloved had decided not to get dressed, and he came out of the bathroom still in bathrobe, rubbing his hair with a towel. The detective didn't mean to initiate anything. He meant to be romantic. But there was a distracting water drop on his lover's collarbone that he just had to remove if he was to think. Doing so with his tongue seemed the foregone option, and he did so before he caught himself.

John chuckled. "Someone's happy to see me," he quipped.

"Always, John," the sleuth rumbled. He'd meant to go out and get John flowers – roses, really – but the baking (and preparations) had taken him more time than he'd imagined, so now there was one of Mrs. Hudson's cyclamen pots on the kitchen table. It was the thought that counted, right?

His blogger inhaled deeply. "Something smells divine. Mrs. Hudson has been up, I see. Are you plant sitting or experimenting on it? It's poisonous, isn't it?" he remarked.

Sherlock pouted. John was missing the point entirely! "Neither. I thought the room needed a bit of colour. Something to liven it up. Cyclamens might not be traditional, but, well…" he babbled, dragging his feet. Ten minutes and he'd already botched it up. He decided to be brave. "I hoped you would like them. They were…well, not exactly for you, I imagine Mrs. Hudson will want them back at some point, but…"

His blogger took pity on him and cut in, "You remember today's my birthday!" He grinned. "And decided to decorate the table. I'm flattered."

Oh no. No, no. Flattered called for a 'but' in the consulting detective's experience. "Of course I did! I remember everything about you, John!" he pointed out. It was insulting to believe otherwise.

"But when I've left the flat," his lover quipped, smiling.

"You never do. You've taken residence inside my mind palace, so even when you are physically absent you're never farther than a thought from me," the detective revealed, with a small smile.

John's smile could have lightened a whole neighbourhood. "Really?" he queried.

Sherlock nodded. Why would he lie? There was nothing he could gain from it.

"Then it's not because I am inconsequential that you've forgotten so many times when I left," the doctor uttered softly.

"It's more like I can't stand being alone so I'd slip inside my mind, where I had you, until you came back," the sleuth admitted hesitantly. That was being a bit too dependent, wasn't it? Hopefully John wouldn't be annoyed.

"That's one of the sweetest things I ever heard," John remarked, beaming at him. "I am so lucky I met you."

"Luck doesn't exist, it's just a concept spread to fool the masses into ignoring their actual probability of success. But if it did, it would be entirely on my side," the detective declared, biting his lips. He was tempted to kiss him again – and again – but he needed to get his head straight (yeah, wrong adjective, but still) and go on with his romancing plan. "Tea?" he offered, affecting nonchalance despite his inner turmoil.

"Yeah, of course, I'm getting to it," his blogger agreed, moving towards the kettle.

"You just sit down," Sherlock prompted, flitting around him. "It's your birthday. I'll pamper you a bit. I hope you trust me to be able to manage tea."

"As long as you don't add anything untoward to it. I'll be really cross if you drug me on my own birthday, Sherlock, this is your only warning," his lover stated, obeying the suggestion anyways.

"Oh for the love – that was one time, John!" the sleuth groaned, frustrated.

"That I know of," the birthday boy pointed out, voice fond despite the subject. Oh, but he was smart. Smarter than he looked. As if the sleuth wasn't enough smitten with the man, he had to go and say something that made him fall even harder, impossible as he'd have sworn it was.

"I promise, it is all untainted and safe for consumption. I'll be partaking of it too, anyway, and I would not if I needed to be unaffected to record the results," the consulting detective sworn, getting busy with the kettle. He'd bought a special, loose leaf tea, which was supposed to be heaven in a cup. After a handful of minutes, a cup was fixed to John's tastes. He'd observed the man long enough to have memorised every detail, from exact seconds of steeping to milk-to-tea ratio.

"Is there any of Mrs. Hudson's baking to go with it? I'm assuming the smell is not just from her popping up with the flowers," his lover inquired, licking his lips. It always drew Sherlock to distraction. That pink, peeking tongue.

"Not Mrs. Hudson's, I'm afraid," the sleuth rectified, smiling bashfully. He took the cake out of the oven with a flourish. "I've been led to believe that a birthday cake was a requirement for one's natal day, so I decided to try my own hand at it."

John looked on the icing and slowly blushed a deep red, "What does it taste like?"

"Lemon. I thought it was your favourite?" the detective replied nonchalantly. He hadn't done it wrong, had he? He couldn't stop the butterflies in his gut.

"It is," the blond man confirmed, with a groan. "And now I'm very happy that Mrs. Hudson or anyone else had nothing to do with this cake." He giggled.

The sleuth giggled back. His lover never failed to warm him – from his soul, he'd swear, no matter how insensate it sounded - in the sweetest, most adorable way possible.

Still, his stomach dropped when John remarked, "This masterpiece lacks just one tiny detail," and got up. Figures that he would have made a mess. He did his best to tamp down the wave of disappointment and panic.

His flatmate came back with a candle from their stash in case of blackout. It was a gift from Mrs. Hudson, who insisted they was a necessity, but with a little wink that betrayed how she was thinking of more romantic uses for them. John perched it on the cake and alighted it. "Can't have a proper birthday cake without a candle. I can't make a wish otherwise."

The detective blushed in shame. How had he forgotten it? It should have been basic. "Which wish did you make?" he queried, eager for any insight, as soon as the candle business was done with.

"I can't say it, or it won't come true. But I am sure you could deduce it," his blogger replied, grinning. "I can't confirm it for you, though. I really really want this to come true."

The consulting detective pouted. He could try deducing it, but as open as John was, he never ceased to surprise him. It was part of why the detective had fallen so hard for him. And knowing what was important to John was paramount to make him happy. Maybe a bit more slipped drugs should be in the doctor's future. Though that would make his love livid…though choice.

The fear running through his mind was derailed by the need to pay attention to the actual, breathing John in front of him. At the very least, it seemed like – candle notwithstanding – he found nothing wrong with the cake and tea mix per se, if his moans were anything to go by.

The sound his beloved emitted, when the just the right amount of sweet concoction hit his palate, were frankly obscene. If Sherlock had hoped this would lead to the irrepressible urge to declare their mutual undying love, though, he was disappointed.

True, it seemed to prompt the doctor to spew superlatives, "You amazing, amazing man," and, "So good to me," spaced out with soft, butterfly kisses, but the terrifying L- word was still not uttered. (With his other partners, John was rather liberal in using it. So, he was consciously restraining himself from using it. But why? Should he despair? No, no. He wasn't going to – not until he'd exhausted all his cards.)

The detective reciprocated, showing more tenderness than enthusiasm, when his lover tried to deepen them. It was rather easy – once John steered them to a bed – to persuade him to go for slow and gentle rather than wild and passionate. A whispered prayer, "Let me worship you, John," was enough to make the birthday boy lapse into an almost dreamy state. He allowed the raven-haired man to taste, tease and nuzzle his way along his beloved's body.

Surely this would help pass the message, too? Sherlock carefully swallowed the words, but each soft touch of fingertips and tongue was meant to convey, "I love you, I love you, I love you". This wasn't their usual, quickly heated release-seeking. It was a simmering, appreciative, truly reverent show of affection.

Judging from the deep moans elicited, John was utterly liking this choice of celebration. He didn't even try to get his partner to hurry up, enjoying the slowly mounting pleasure and – apparently – losing any chance to form coherent words.

The birthday boy would have every right to be demanding, or greedy. But his beloved was – as always – trusting, and open to whatever initiative the sleuth cooked up. How had someone like him decided that a mess like the ex-junkie was worthy of his company, much less of touching him? The bewilderment and devotion clamoured in the detective's mind, mixing with love, each feeling somehow intensifying the others.

No matter how blind his blogger could be to rather obvious clues, he would pick up on that, wouldn't he? Everyone who'd met them since day one had seen how besotted the consulting detective was. Rather, he'd been too noticeable – it was the very reason John ended up so often in the crosshairs, much to his partner's dismay.

The more his beloved literally melted under his hands, the more Sherlock seemed to become keyed up, not just by his own physical arousal, but by sheer awe. He'd received permission to love this man. As long as he kept quiet about it, maybe, leaving everyone with their mental frameworks intact, but still, it was an undeserved grace.

He should have been grateful. And he was, but…not content. He couldn't help wanting more. Always more. Everything. With the blond pliant in his hands, sighing and moaning, the detective decided to push boundaries a bit. It was what he did, after all. Push and run when the backlash was too destructive.

He was already mouthing down there, when he gently – almost imperceptibly – maneuvered his lover to have access to his most secret place, and chanced a kittenish lick there.

John bucked his legs, surprised. The sleuth almost expected him to make a run for it, or start yelling. Instead, apparently the scientist in him had decided that one single instance was not adequate to form an opinion…the blogger relaxed anew and even positioned himself so that his lover would have better access to the once taboo part of him.

Sherlock – properly appreciative of such a privilege – started lapping at the treasure trove in front of him with great enthusiasm. He didn't breach John with anything else, though he ached to – but one thing at a time. When John suddenly came, it surprised both of them.

Afterwards, his beloved pulled him up and murmured, "A little nap before anything else?" The sleuth's aim was to please him in the first place, and the day had been rather harrowing, so he simply nodded and snuggled him.

If the detective thought such a display would work as a love confession, though, he was destined for a rather bitter disappointment. The rest of the day had been charming, but none of them had still approached the matter of feelings.

Indeed, the only result of his 'romantic' gesture was John, in the following days, looking up – not even so secretly – books with recipes to include semen in food or cocktails. It seemed that the only thing his partner had deduced from his display was…what… a new kink? (Also, why would these things even exist when there was only a handful of people at present with tasty ejaculate?)

Tamping down a sulk, he offhandedly mentioned that this was not the way to get him to eat whatever his partner would come up with. Thankfully, he was dismissive enough that at least this one initiative was trashed before even starting. Of course, this led him back to the start… how did one get John Hamish Watson to see the whole picture?