"It's my turn, John. Open a little…wider."

Sherlock's mouth was right against John's ear, his voice pitched exactly so. Even in a mood, a pique, a righteous vexation John's body would jump ship and react with aching hardness to that throaty rumble.

The good doctor was not in an ill humor tonight, however, he was in a suit and tie, his hair trimmed, his face most definitely not shaved since day before yesterday, at his lover's request.

Sherlock was equally dashing sitting beside his beau, lean as a snake in a black tuxedo, hair brushed smooth, both wrists and three long fingers tricked out in silver jewelry, at his lover's request.

"No, don't open your eyes, that's cheating."

They were on the rooftop of 221B. It was their first anniversary. They were celebrating with food, and it was John's turn to be fed.

John would congratulate himself for this later, his most magnificent idea for feeding Sherlock. Because of course celebrating their anniversary (dating from the night they first made love) by feeding each other had been John's idea. Anything at 221B relating to food was John's idea.

Erase and correct: Anything at 221B relating to eating food was John's idea. Sherlock had profound respect for foodstuffs as sustenance for maggots, every kind of larva, beetles, and bacteria, but usually not as actual, you know, human nourishment.

Of course Sherlock had liked John's plan, as the good doctor had made sure it involved the rudiments of deduction. Like so: Each man would feed the other something (or a combination of somethings) from the plethora of foods they'd brought up. It was up to the man being fed to work out what the food was. And good god, they had a lot to work with.

That's because John had basically lost his mind and all of a paycheck shopping for this event and had purchased everything remotely sexy, moderately edible, edibly sexy or just plain good. Including but not limited to strawberries, figs, oysters, chilled shrimp, fresh pineapple, chocolate-covered bananas, Pop Rocks (don't ask), canned cheese (seriously, do. not. ask.), cold spiced noodles, peaches, whipped cream, sushi, durian (don't try this at home), smoked salmon, toffee, slivered almonds, cherries, custard, popcorn, truffles, coconut, trifle, pecans, grapes, wine gums, four kinds of biscuit, eight types of jam, and honestly that wasn't even half of it.

Anyway, back to a scene already in progress: It was Sherlock's turn to feed John and the detective was not playing fair. Not only was he taking his sweet time getting food into his lover's mouth, but while he made the good doctor wait—and here's the part with the cheating—he breathed soundlessly against John's cheek, the scent of it as sweet as the caramel his lover had just fed him.

Finally something ghosted lightly against John's lips and then against his tongue and as he closed his mouth around it he knew immediately what it was: Chocolate mousse, fed to him on the tips of Sherlock's fingers.

Well, then. John knows how to cheat, too.

Instead of licking the mousse off, the doctor slid his mouth down along his lover's fingers, tongue pushing slowly between them. It took the good doctor nearly a minute to suck those long fingers clean. With eyes closed he didn't see the face of his lover, so he couldn't see Sherlock's mouth open, tongue trapped between his own teeth. The doctor could hear just fine though, and what he heard was nothing. Sherlock was so transfixed he wasn't breathing.

Good.

Finally John opened his eyes and lifted his chin, his lover's slick fingers dragging out of his mouth and down over his lower lip. Sherlock made the softest little grunt as they separated. Then, taking a deep breath, he leaned close, tried to claim John's mouth.

With a grin, the doctor turned away a little. "Wait," he whispered, then pressed his mouth to the detective's ear. "You're good at that," he breathed. "At waiting. At holding back."

Well, yes. Sherlock was indeed good at waiting, when the waiting was designed to tantalize John, to tease his body, which frankly, if you must know, looked extremely tasty in a midnight blue suit with that scruffy beard and—

Sherlock tried kissing his lover again and was again rebuffed. "Your turn," John said so softly Sherlock somehow got goosebumps from not quite hearing the words.

Yes, John Watson was good at this. Very, very good.

"My turn," the detective murmured, voice a little high, a little breathy. John wondered if anyone else had ever seen Sherlock this way: So…elemental. John didn't think so. Greedy and selfish man that he is, he didn't want to think so.

"Your turn," John echoed, holding Sherlock's gaze until finally the good detective closed his eyes, chin dipping until it rested on his chest.

John took his time, too. For a few long moments all he did was gaze at Sherlock, a beautiful fallen angel who looked as if he prayed.

The doctor grinned. With any luck the thoughts going through that dark head were more depraved than virtuous. And if not, well…

John plucked the next item from the table and stood, letting his still-sitting lover feel his movement with a soft hand trailing up his chest. Instinctively Sherlock tipped his head back—good god that neck—and opened his mouth. For a moment John wanted nothing more than to slide his fingers into that mouth and feel Sherlock suck, but instead the good doctor squeezed a dripping, succulent slice of plum, dipped in honey, until juice and honey drizzled into Sherlock's mouth.

The detective hummed happily in recognition—honey, of course he loves honey—tongue snaking up to catch drops as they fell. And fall they did, John reaching down repeatedly to swirl another slice of fruit in the amber liquid, then let that too drip thick and warm and sweet into Sherlock's mouth.

By the time they had worked through four slices, Sherlock had his arms wrapped tight around his lover and John, quite unawares, was slowly thrusting his hips against Sherlock's belly.

Things were quite close to going from great to fucking fantastic about then but fortunately (?) they ran out of plum and John came to his senses. He thrust his hips once more (twice) (okay three times), then leaned down and whispered against Sherlock's open mouth, "And so?"

Eyes still closed Sherlock slid his hands down to cup John's suite-clad arse. Tugging, grinding John's hard-on against his stomach, Sherlock whispered, "Honey and plum and…" he licked at his lover's mouth, opened his eyes, "…John, my John."

The good doctor knows he's too old to go weak-kneed, but tell that to his knees. For a moment he couldn't remember what he was supposed to do, then when he did he sort of sat down with a thump and a shuddery breath and took a moment to gather his wits. When Sherlock grabbed the legs of the chair on which he was right now sitting and dragged it toward his own, pulling them close together, John's wits scattered again. Because, honestly, seriously? Sometimes all you can say to a delicious show of strength is oh-my-yes.

"Close your eyes," Sherlock purred.

John said nothing. He thought oh-my-yes, and closed his eyes.

Silence a long while, then soft noises, then silence once more and this time it lingered.

When he finally felt the banana press against his lips—just the size difference between Sherlock's fingers of before and the fruit was quite enough to be going on with thank you—John groaned in the back of his throat, slipped from his chair and to his knees, lips sliding up along the banana and oh my good god why did that look so damned sexy that Sherlock could feel his cock moving as if alien life had suddenly landed inside his trousers?

Hands settling on Sherlock's knees, John's mouth slid back down that banana and objectively this all should have looked absurd but the alien in Sherlock's pants said it looked fucking magnificent and so just as the good detective shifted, leaning forward to claim his lover's mouth, John bit that banana's tip clean off, murmured, "Chocolate-covered banana," and got back in his chair.

When John opened his eyes he actually giggled (for two grown men they are plenty fond of the giggling) at the sight of Sherlock tipped a bit forward, eyes and mouth wide open, looking a little fluster-stunned.

After a moment of combobulation the taller man frowned briefly at the shorter man, wondering when, just when, in the last year, John had turned the tables on him and become the one who could tease like this, the one who was evil and genius and so damned, damned sexy?

Well it didn't matter, did it? No, it did. not. matter.

With a shaky sigh Sherlock closed his eyes. Left his mouth wide open, and waited.

For awhile the detective detected only soft motions, the brush of a cuff along the tabletop, a fingernail against a plate, maybe an exhaled breath, and his mouth drifted wider. He waited for a fork, for fingers, for food…and he waited some more and still waited and finally he probed the air with his tongue as if it would amplify the sounds he was no longer hearing and—

—there it was, an unquantifiable sound and John's open mouth was pressing at his open mouth and the consulting detective started to sort of smile, to shove his tongue forward and into his lover when he felt instead…something-not-John push into him.

Instinctively Sherlock opened wider still and only once it was past his lips did Sherlock realize that John had fed him the next item—from his mouth.

Nerve endings from the top of Sherlock's head to the soles of his feet sort of damn well sparkled right then, slammed with a hot, horny gush of oh-fuck-yeah endorphins. Good god Sherlock used to think that the best way on earth to be fed was with John's fingers. No. Oh no no so very much no. This. This was the way Sherlock wanted to be fed for the rest of his life. Forever. Period. Thank you.

It was a whole five seconds since the—Sherlock's tongue slicked around the slick thing in his mouth—avocado had been pushed into him (pushed into him by John's tongue; let's say it as basically and raw as possible because it sounds so much better that way), and the deducing machine, the super-genius? He was only just now gathering wits enough to groan gently, almost delicately, in good and clear appreciation of the moment.

So help him, even with his eyes closed, Sherlock knew John smiled.

Something else Sherlock knew was that if he asked for more—fed to him in exactly that way—he would be denied. A year ago, when they first got together, John would not have refused him. He wouldn't have been capable of it, Sherlock's pretty sure. But now? Now Sherlock knew what the hell BAMF meant, and it was damn well personified in one John H. Watson in every way it's possible to personify something, including sexually teasing the holy living hell out of your know-it-all-lover with great and furious frequency.

So Sherlock didn't beg as he was this close to doing. Instead he consumed that morsel of avocado, named it such, opened his eyes—noting the grin he'd deduced seconds ago—and said with great appreciation, "That. Forever. Please."

Then, with a deep breath he lifted an only-little-bit-trembly hand and ran his fingertips softly over John's eyelids, closing them. "Your turn, your turn, your turn," he murmured, possibly a little drunk from the absolutely giddy love he had for the utterly beautiful concept of John feeding him forever for-damned-ever with his mouth.

No time for daydreams of that now, though, no. Now it was time to feed John.

Later on Sherlock would admit that he sort of rushed things. That in his desire to be fed again himself he went a little crazy with what he fed his lover. And what he fed him was a four-year-old's grand and messy fantasy: a drippy, oozy, sweet mound of chocolate biscuit dipped in strawberry jam, slathered in whipped cream, then drizzled with chocolate syrup.

The moment that sugary explosion slid across his tongue John knew that Sherlock was now officially off the rails. That he was well and truly wound up and would do absolutely anything John wanted him to do. That the good detective would quite possibly eat the drapes if John just fed them to him with his own mouth.

Well then. That was good. It was time. Time to try something new. Something John had wanted to do since he was twenty-two years old. It was time to see how far Sherlock would go. And it didn't even require him to take his clothes off.

This was going to be good.

After chewing, swallowing, and naming the treat's component parts John opened his eyes. Legs spread either side of his, leaning so close he was breathing warm against John's face, Sherlock smiled back at him tenderly, eyes soft, and dear god suddenly it was overwhelming: John wanted to pet Sherlock, hold him, be under him, on top. He wanted to surround him with arms and legs and kiss his mouth until it was sore.

This time John leaned in, desperate for a kiss. Sherlock let him.

Surprisingly the kiss was soft, brief, quiet. Except the sigh as John pulled away.

Two heart beats, three, four. On the fifth he could speak, a whisper: "Ready?"

Sherlock nodded.

The good doctor stood, turned to the table, flushed when he felt Sherlock rise behind him. Reaching for a small object that had been there all night, John briefly wondered why Sherlock hadn't remarked on it, wondered if he'd have tried this earlier if he had.

With a tap and a few gestures John made his preparations. Then he turned toward his lover.

In the delicate cup of its own shell was a simple, perfect, raw egg yolk. Sherlock blinked at it several times. It was clear he had no idea where this was going.

Which was fucking fabulous. Because there are few things Sherlock loves more than not knowing what's going to happen next.

With an answering grin John tipped the egg yolk into his own mouth, pulled Sherlock close by his hips. Still the detective wasn't sure what was expected of him. Then John opened his mouth a little, stood on tip toe.

Oh. Oh.

Slowly, very slowly Sherlock slid his long body down down down, until their mouths were level. One of them—maybe both—groaned a little, then each tilted his head to the right and, breathing fast, John leaned in and, lips barely touching, slid the raw egg yolk from his mouth and into Sherlock's.

Now it was a sure thing: Both moaned. Then slowly, very, very oh-fucking-hell-even-that-is-sexy slowly Sherlock moved out of his crouch, slip-sliding his body up along John's body, thigh dragging between John's legs, up against his very hard hard-on, until Sherlock was finally standing his full height, holding John's head, tilting his chin up, and then ghosting their lips together and with exquisite delicacy, passing the yolk from his own mouth and back in to John's.

Okay, pausing here for a brief message.

From the outside looking in what's going on right now may seem—odd. One might be given to thoughts along the lines of: "Well that's not very sanitary," or "salmonella comes from raw eggs, you know." And you know what? Noted, yes, duly noted. But John Watson will fervently tell you that until you try this at home you have no idea. Just. No. Oh. My. Damn. God. Idea.

As if to prove the point, right now the good doctor was pretty sure he couldn't have stopped shaking even if promised a million pounds, a butter dish with just butter in it, and walls free of bullet holes. It took him several very long moments to just calm-the-hell down, and rein in his breathing enough so he was no longer dizzy. And then a few thousand seconds more for Sherlock to slither back down John's front until his mouth was just a whisper lower than the doctor's.

John could feel the yolk at blood heat in his mouth. It was slick and delicate and seemed to tremble on his tongue. Some primal part of him wanted to bite it, drive his teeth into its tenderness, then press his mouth against Sherlock's, smear their lips together, make a perfect, perfect mess.

Instead he leaned slowly in, and this time the yolk was propelled on a small moan as it slipped from between John's lips and through Sherlock's.

It was then that John realized how heavy Sherlock was, that for a few seconds he was quite possibly supporting half the other man's weight—then those moments passed and his lover rose slowly as he'd done before, the press of his cock a wordless affirmation that this was doing to him exactly what it was doing to John.

Again Sherlock dragged his hands from John's hips to the back of his head, and with his thumbs lifted the smaller man's chin. This time he leaned over him so heavily that John had to crouch a few inches, the yolk falling from Sherlock's mouth and into his—yet remaining intact.

This time John's hands drifted up along Sherlock's back until they slid into his hair. Twining fingertips through the longest curls, John tugged gently, insistently, until his lover slid low again, bulging cock rubbing along the leg John pressed hard between his, until Sherlock was almost almost on his knees except he wasn't, he was holding tight to John and John was looking down and holding tight to him and the yolk was there, right there, trapped in John's mouth only by the hot, wet curl of his tongue and it took him a long, long time to lean over, so long to get close enough that he could unfurl that tongue bit by bit until it pushed between Sherlock's lips, slipping the soft, slick, wet, oh god yes wet tender morsel into his waiting mouth—Sherlock grunted low and long once, twice, three times—

—the fourth grunt turned into a ragged, low groan, Sherlock's cheeks flushed with scarlet and, going heavy and boneless in John's arms, Sherlock started coming, fully dressed in that fine, fine suit, washed in wave after wave of pleasure, bright yellow egg yolk dripping warm down his chin.

Now I've only ever seen one scene from the Japanese film Tampopo and it involved a raw egg and a fully-clothed orgasm (search for "Tampopo egg scene" on YouTube) so, you know, must give props where they're due. The rest of this fic came from either my humid imagination or the space aliens that pipe stories directly to my brain (which frankly is the best explanation as to where they're all coming from). Anyway, inventive suggestions as to what to feed Sherlock next, or thinky thoughts of any sort, are always welcome.