Autumn Apples (Autumn Cuddles). Yes, that's right, this one has a title! Oh, the fickleness of plot bunnies. All recognisable content belongs to its respective owners.
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As september arrived, they had gone back out to the estate, wandering in their orchyard, which now held what seemed like a thousand apples, visiting yet another collection of beehives - John had come to the conclusion that Sherlock couldn't be the only Holmes obsessed with the small animals - and finally settling in the same little cottage where they lived last year, a little over a year ago now, when Sherlock had asked John to marry him.
In typical grand Holmes style, Mycroft had announced that when they finally did get married, the cottage would be their wedding present. And in typical weird Holmes style, Sherlock had become most excited over the prospect of the beehives near the cottage. John really did love him for all of his strangeness, after all.
John woke up the next morning, on his birthday, to a wonderfully smelling house and a breakfast of waffles, without him needing to even leave the bed. Sitting up, he enjoyed the sight of a shirtless Sherlock putting the tray down before him on the bed, and then walking around the bed to crawl back into it at the other side with a most adorable yawn.
"Where is my cake?" John joked, resisting reaching out to pull Sherlock into bed, as while the genius had doubtlessly grown far less uncomfortable with being touched, he knew very well that that would be pushing it. It wasn't like years back, after all, when he only had two options - to make Sherlock uncomfortable or to stay away.
As it was, all he had to do these days was wait, give Sherlock time to gracefully pad into bed and by his own volition curl against his shoulder. "I will bake one at Baker street. The kitchen here is dull" the genius replied rather blankly, his tone just the slightest bit sulky.
"Rubbish, at least" John agreed, chuckling and cutting the first waffle, making sure to put some on a plate for Sherlock as well, as the genius would surely not have any unless subtly commanded. Very subtly these days, when all John had to do was put it on a separate plate and the detective would simply eat it, no more prompting needed. Very manageable, really, and that wasn't all that common when a Holmes was concerned.
John spent the following hours of his birthday relaxing and watching old Doctor Who episodes, with a pleasantly - though somewhat strangely - compliant if not all that amused consulting detective. The genius however grew exceedingly amused when one episode showed a would-be-villain with a malfunctioning de-aging device who in his young form, however brief that was, looked remarkably much like his own big brother. John found himself laughing in the middle of the dramatic chase, merely because of his fiance's elation.
As they finished an absolutely wondrous dinner, sent over from the kitchen at the estate proper, John stretched out before the fireplace, home to a merrily burning fire, and heard with some surprise how Sherlock left the room. He returned moments later, kneeling next to him on the thick rug, carrying two flasks of massage oil and a heated towel.
John felt himself raise an eyebrow, but at the clear hint of the genius detective, he sat up properly to take his shirt off, and then rolled over to lie more cleanly on his front, exposing his back to the taller man, slightly puzzled as Sherlock had never done this before - indeed, this was more of his own modus operandi - but very happy to oblige, nevertheless.
Sherlock felt a slight, warm tug in his abdominal area as John closed his eyes and relaxed, trusting him though the doctor clearly didn't know what to expect. He ran his hands gently down the sides of the blonde's spine, much as his favourite doctor - alright, the only doctor he had ever tolerated in any capacity - so often used to do to him.
Sherlock felt satisfaction to soon hear John sigh slightly in enjoyment and relaxation, but he also felt a stab of regret that few - not including his John, of course - would believe that he ever felt, that he had not tried this before. John clearly wanted it.
"This is nice" the doctor suddenly said. "More unpractical than just rubbing each other's backs, but a nice change of pace". He opened an eye and looked at him, the doctor's keen eyes - so blind of the little details crucial for deducing, but always so aware and competent with sentiment - registering his mood. "What is it? If you do not like this, Sherlock..." the detective shook his head. "I should have known you wanted this. After all, you did it to me".
"I did not know I wanted it myself, Sherlock" John closed his eyes again, the simple action meant to encourage his perceptive partner to take it up again, which he did, pouring some oil into his palm and heating it before using it for rubbing the doctor's shoulders. "It is far more complex than that. After all, you are very kind to rub my hands after too much surgery has made the muscles sore, but the fact that you are willing to do that for me does not by any means mean that you'd enjoy it yourself, does it?" the slight tension in his partner at the mere mention proved his point. "See?" he said softly, smiling down into his arms, where he's rested his head. "We are different, love, but we match. Embrace it, Sherlock. I do".