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Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Rating: Mature
Length: 1530
Content Notes: Romantic fluff; Sherlock/John; first time; blow job; reference to "The Six Napoleons."
Summary: Of truth and lies and birthday wishes
Tap-tap-tap
“Fuck!”
Tap-tap-tap
“Fuck. I hate updating the blog on this bloody phone—“
“Happy Birthday.”
John looked up.
In front of him was a small plate with a fairy cake. One small, thin candle sprouted from a swathe of pale blue icing.
He blinked. “Thank you. How, uh--?”
“From Cheekbones.”
John’s eye drifted in the direction of the barman’s wave, but all the seats at the far end of the bar were vacant. He frowned.
“Happy Birthday, John.”
John jumped.
Sherlock had materialized on the other side of him. He produced a cigarette lighter and lit the candle, saying, “I’m told there’s a traditional carol. “
“Wait, wait. How did you know it was my birthday?”
Sherlock huffed.
“Okay, never mind.” John looked at the cake. “Bit romantic, this.”
“Really? Flatmates don’t wish each other compliments, etc. etc. on the anniversaries of their entrance into the world?”
“They don’t usually do it by sending each other fairy cakes in pubs in the middle of the afternoon and then threatening to sing.”
“I’m also informed that it is customary make a wish as you blow out the candle.”
John looked from Sherlock to the flame. “World peace? Winning lottery numbers?” he mused. Then he closed his eyes and let out a puff of air. “There. Satisfied?”
“Immensely.”
When John looked back, Sherlock was lowering his phone.
“What’s this all about, Sherlock?” John removed the candle, unwrapped the cake, and opened his mouth wide. Then he closed his mouth and eyed the cake suspiciously. “It’s not drugged, is it?”
“No.”
John gave Sherlock a hard stare.
“Lestrade bet me £20.”
“Now that, I believe.”
“An extra tenner if I sang.”
“Ha!” John sank his teeth into the cake. He hummed as he chewed. “Moist,” he mumbled with a smile.
Sherlock’s phone beeped. He looked down. “Speak of the devil…”
John swallowed and wiped his mouth. “…and he texts.”
Sherlock looked up and they spoke in unison,
“Case.”
“I would. Obviously. Do keep up, John.”
They were walking back to Baker Street.
“You were brilliant, Sherlock.”
“You were, um, good, John. With the young girl. She was so upset.”
“Sherlock, you smashed her bust of Zayn Malik into a million pieces.”
“It isn’t like it was Napoleon!”
“Have a bit of empathy! You broke that little girl’s heart!”
“Seeing as how I don’t have one, I can hardly be expected to—“
“Oh, leave off, Sherlock.”
John stopped walking, and after a two strides so did Sherlock. He turned back as John continued talking.
“My birthday wish is for you to dispense with the nonsense for,” John looked at his watch, “the remainder of the day, that is, for the next two hours. That means no ‘I don’t have a heart,’ no ‘not much cop this caring lark,’ no ‘I don’t have friends’ or anything of that sort. A bit of honesty, if you please. You do have a heart and you do care about your friends and your friends care about you, too. Thank you.”
John began walking again.
“A bit of honesty,” repeated Sherlock after two streets.
“Yes,” replied John.
“Your arse looks good in those jeans.”
John didn’t see how his legs were still moving as his brain was definitely not functioning. After three more streets, he stammered, “Excuse me?”
“Be careful what you wish for, John. Your bit of honesty made come back to bite you in, well, the body part in question.” Sherlock smirked.
“How long have you thought that? About me and, uh, the jeans?”
“How long have you had that arse?”
“Sherlock! I thought relationships weren’t your area.”
“Does the veracity of one statement preclude that of the other?”
They walked the remainder of the distance to Baker Street in silence.
When they passed through the front door, John said, “Just so you know, Sherlock, I think you’re a handsome man.”
“I know.”
Sherlock climbed the stairs. John followed.
“You know?”
“John.”
“Oh, well. Right. We’re just two blokes, sharing a flat, solving crimes, and finding each other attractive, nothing unusual about that. So, happy birthday to me, good night, and see you in the morning.”
When John reached the sitting room, he immediately turned toward the bedroom stairs. Sherlock’s words stopped his retreat.
“What about your birthday wish?”
“I think I got it. In spades! Thank you for your honesty.”
Sherlock shook his head. “Your true birthday wish. I’m not quite sure what constitutes a ‘decent shag’ but would my lips around your cock suffice?”
John stared. He blinked. Then he stared some more. How long the two of the stood frozen in that tableau, John couldn’t say, but when the faculties of speech finally returned, he managed a hoarse,
“How—?”
“John.”
“Sherlock, I don’t want to force you—“
“Do I strike you as someone gives blow jobs by force?”
One single high-pitched nervous giggle erupted from John’s lips. “Is this something we do for birthdays?”
“Perhaps. Mine’s January 6.”
“I’ll mark my calendar,” said John as he made his way slowly toward his armchair.
It was beautiful, Sherlock nestled between John’s legs. He bobbed and sucked while John gently stroked his hair and murmured, “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” over and over. John felt the tension in his body mount. He looked around, and with a grunt of urgency, yanked his vest over his head.
He patted the back of Sherlock’s head, saying, “I’m there, love.”
The last word came so easily. Too easily.
John came in Sherlock’s mouth and quickly thrust the wadded up shirt at him. “Here.”
Sherlock spit into the fabric. “Thank you,” he mumbled, wiping his mouth. He looked up and asked, “Decent?”
John met his gaze and shook his head.
Sherlock’s eyes widened and then frosted. “Oh, well—“
“Only half-decent,” said John, cupping Sherlock’s jaw and smiling. “The other half is when I take you upstairs—if you’re amenable—and do any and every wicked thing your heart desires.”
Sherlock’s eyes flickered. “My sex slave.”
A shiver went through John. “Christ, yes. If you’re amenable.”
A smile twitched on Sherlock’s lips. “I’m amenable, and we’ve got—. “ His eyes went to the clock on the mantle.
John inserted his head in Sherlock’s line of sight and said softly, “A bit of honesty, please, Sherlock. How long do we have? How long do I have you?” He looked over his shoulder. “Twenty minutes? Until morning? Or—?”
Their eyes met.
“As long as you want me, John.”
“Christ, I was hoping you’d say that!” exclaimed John as he launched himself at Sherlock. He threw his arms around Sherlock’s neck and kissed him soundly, sending them both sprawling onto the floor in a tangled heap.
Sherlock was unbuttoning his shirt. John was propped up against the headboard of the bed.
“Sherlock, if this is real, if this is the beginning of something—“
“It’s already the beginning of something, John. Surely even that could not escape your feeble powers of observation.” Sherlock wrenched the shirt tails from his trousers and let the garment fall to the floor.
“In that case, I have to be honest with you: When I blew out the candle, I didn’t actually wish for a decent shag.”
“I know.”
“You do?!”
Sherlock approached the bed, leaned forward, and kissed John’s lips.
“A bit of honesty, John. I will never, ever tire of your astonishment. Or your accolades.” Then he extended one long arm to the floor and set a wide heavy box on John’s lap.
“It’s going to be very difficult to write up a case about someone named Zayn Malik, however un-Napoleon, when your ‘Z’ and ‘K’ are missing and your entire keyboard is mired in a foul stickiness.”
“Sherlock!”
“It’s for my own sanity, John. Watching you update the blog on that thing you call a laptop has gone from being tedious to downright torturous.”
John smiled. Then his face fell. “If you knew, then why—“
Sherlock looked away. His voice took on a new tone, one unfamiliar to John.
“It seemed like the safest scheme. If you were disgusted or simply uninterested, we could laugh it off as a bit of silliness, Sherlock being, once again, a confused arse, etc. And, as usual, you provided me with the perfect set-up with your early insistence on honesty. I had ample opportunity to ‘prime the pump,’ as it were. And if you just wanted a quick shag, well, there was an easy way out. And I’d still have a nice memory.”
“Oh, Sherlock.” John put two fingers under Sherlock’s chin and turned his head. Then he kissed him gently. “You see everything, know everything, how can you be blind about this?”
Sherlock shrugged.
John set the box aside with a ‘thank you’ and drew Sherlock into his arms. “I’m in love with you, you mad, gorgeous beast. And I want you this birthday and the next from here on out and every day in-between.”
Sherlock’s eyes were shining, and before their lips met again, he whispered,
“Happy Birthday, John.”
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Comments
PS: It's icing not frosting, right? I always pick the wrong one.
I particularly liked:
“A bit of honesty,” repeated Sherlock after two streets.
“Yes,” replied John.
“Your arse looks good in those jeans.”
And:
“It’s for my own sanity, John. Watching you update the blog on that thing you call a laptop has gone from being tedious to downright torturous.”
And of course Zayn Malik substituting for Napoleon ^___^
I am proud of the Zayn bust, though, and that I remembered it's icing and not frosting!