Work Text:
Sherlock was pouting. That wasn't anything new. This time, however, was different in that he actually had something worth pouting to pout about.
John had promised him a kiss for every item he owned that he put in its respective place instead of leaving it out around the flat in various spots it didn't belong.
"I'm sure this is blackmail," Sherlock complained for the fifth time since he'd began about thirty-five minutes ago.
John looked amused. "I don't think it's blackmail if you like it."
"I don't like it," Sherlock spat. "I'm only doing this for the reward."
Silently pointing Sherlock over to the experiment on the kitchen table — he thought it had something to do with frozen maggots — John said, "But you like the reward, don't you?"
Sherlock didn't smile, but his mouth softened a bit in his version of one. "I do. God help me, but I do."
Another hour or so later, John made Sherlock begin on everyday household chores he never deigned to do, such as washing the dishes left over from lunch and making their bed. (It was actually Sherlock's bed, as well as his room, but since they were sleeping together in both senses, it didn't make sense to be in separate rooms.)
Sherlock complained and pouted and sulked and nearly worked himself into a huge strop, but John worked the usual magic and snogged him until he was a pink-cheeked, rumpled puddle of consulting detective. John almost told him he was adorable, but thought better of it. He didn't want to send Sherlock into another tantrum.
Sherlock, being Sherlock, had pretty much no idea how to do any of the most basic duties. He poured half the bottle of dish soap into the sink and then turned the water on as cold as it would go. Then he captured John in a mighty snog and promptly forgot about the running faucet.
He remembered when his feet, bare as usual, detected water on the floor. Pulling away from John hurriedly, and thanking gods he didn't believe in that the blond was faced away from the sink, he made some excuse for John to go find something in his room — that wasn't really there — while he cleaned up the mess.
When John re-entered the kitchen, the floor was sparkling clean, the dishes were on the drying rack, and, though he didn't discover until later, there were three rolls of sopping wet paper towels in the garbage.
He rewarded Sherlock with another snog, and the detective made sure that the faucet wasn't on before melting into the kiss.
John had to show Sherlock how to make the bed. Being a doctor, he always made it with hospital corners, so he demonstrated how to tuck and crease with military precision and medical efficiency. Then he promptly pulled all the sheets off the bed into a heap and left Sherlock to his task.
What was this nonsense? Sherlock griped to himself. What's the point of "making your bed" if you're merely going to get back in it within an average of twelve hours?
He picked up the fitted bottom sheet from the pile on the floor. It was a deep purple colour — erotic, his mind supplied, according to the masses — and made of a silky fabric that always felt cool to the touch. When John had first seen his sheets, somewhere in the second month of living together (thirty-six days, to be exact), he'd shaken his head and fondly called Sherlock a "spoiled, rich ponce."
It was fine until it was time to put on the top sheet. Sherlock had watched avidly as John did the hospital corners (how could he not? The man's arse was delectable and had been pointing straight at Sherlock as he bent over to tuck the sheet), but his mind got distracted by the slide of silk against silk and produced delightful Mind Palace images of John in their bed with the top sheet waterfalling down his bare (toned) chest.
Slipping through the front door of his Mind Palace, Sherlock went through the actions on autopilot. His fantasy John continued to produce the most erotic imaginary scene Sherlock had ever witnessed, and he was breathing heavily when the bed was finished and he finally left the Mind Palace with a longing glance back at his beautiful John.
When he opened his eyes and resurfaced in the real world, John was calling to him from the sitting room. "Tea?"
Sherlock cleared his throat, sure his face was bright red. "Yes, please," he called back.
With one more careful look at the bed — not as nice as when John did it, but that was to be expected, because John was perfect — Sherlock exited the bedroom to go see if maybe John would be willing to reenact his fantasy.
Tea was amazing, as usual. Sherlock swore John made the best tea he'd ever had, but John maintained that all he did was pour hot water over teabags and add the sugar the way he knew Sherlock liked it.
"How did today go, then?" John asked from the sofa. His laptop was open on his lap, and from the coloured glow reflected in his eyes and on his face, Sherlock deduced that he was looking at his blog page.
"Don't tell me you're going to blog about this," he said, slightly irritated. Was that all today had been about — John wanting a story to tell his readers? Had Sherlock just been a tool for the general public's amusement?
"Thought about it, yeah." John's fingers (short, strong, beautiful) drummed on his computer thoughtfully.
"Don't," Sherlock snapped. "When we aren't solving crimes, our lives are private. Understood?"
John shut his computer and rose from the sofa to perch himself on the arm of Sherlock's armchair. "I won't share anything you don't want me to," he promised before leaning down to capture Sherlock's mouth with his.
Ten minutes later, John's hair stuck up in all directions, thanks to Sherlock's roving fingers. It made him look somewhat like a hedgehog, but Sherlock thought it looked deliciously messy and wanted to continue running his hands through it. "What do you say we go mess up that freshly-made bed of ours?"
"Only if you make it again next time," Sherlock said truthfully, not even attempting sarcasm.
John chuckled, and the noise sounded like home to Sherlock. He gave Sherlock an Eskimo kiss. "I think that can be arranged."
bonus scene:
The two men tumbled onto the bed, still attached at the lips. The amount of clothes they wore had rapidly decreased as they made their way from the sitting room to their bedroom.
John, down to just his pants, fumbled for the top edge of the sheet. A second later came his bewildered voice, tinged a bit with hysterical laughter. "Sherlock. Sherlock, did you...did you put hospital corners on all four corners?"
Had he? Sherlock blinked rapidly several times. He'd been rather distracted by Mind Palace John at that time. "There is a possibility," he allowed reluctantly, though his mouth twitched.
John had rolled to face away and his shoulders were shaking.
"John?" Sherlock was instantly alarmed. Was John crying?
"God, you adorable idiot," gasped John as he turned his head. Though tears were streaming down his face, he wore a sappy grin and he was gasping for breath to continue —
"Laughing? John, you're laughing?" But even as he accused his lover of laughing at him, Sherlock's own lips turned up at the corners. This reminded him of what he'd done to all four corners of the bed, and soon both men were in stitches.
John rolled back over. "Come here, you great berk," he said as he stretched an arm out to pull Sherlock closer to him. "You're ridiculous and I love you."
Sherlock froze. They hadn't come close to the "L" word yet, and to be quite frank, he was terrified of saying it. But John had just blurted it out — even if he hadn't quite realised yet what he'd said — and Sherlock was hard-pressed to not say it back.
So he did.
He wrapped an arm around John, and buried his nose in John's neck, and told his John (God, he loved thinking about John as his [he was]), "I love you, too."