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There was an awful lot of apples in the kitchen when John arrived that evening from the surgery. Green apples, Aceymac apples, Adanac apples, Macintosh apples, Cellini apples, Hawkeye Delicious apples — a boatload of them, all shapes and sizes, all colours and, possibly, tastes. He picked one up — one that looked particularly luscious and appetising — but was interrupted by a yelp. He dropped the apple and looked back to find his partner all dishevelled, covered in some kind of juice, eyes wide and covered with lab goggles.
‘What the hell are you doing?’ asked John. Sherlock huffed and snatched the apple from where John had dropped it.
‘I am trying to do an experiment — you are in the way!’ he snapped curtly, not looking at John, but movign behind the kitchen table to an enormous bowl. John pinched the bridge of his nose — he was way too tired for this. Sighing, he moved over to the kettle.
‘Fancy a cuppa?’ he asked. Sherlock growled.
‘I need space to work in peace, John!’
‘For God’s sake, what the hell are you trying to do anyway? And besides, this is my bloody kitchen too, so I can come and go as I please!’ John knew he was acting like a child, but since so was Sherlock, he didn’t bother keeping it to himself.
Sherlock sighed, clearly torn between telling the truth — and John thought that he’d better say the truth, otherwise he’d be sleeping on the sofa tonight — or keeping quiet. He gave John a strange look behind the goggles and then moved his gaze downwards, suddenly finding the apple skins on the floor incredibly interesting.
He muttered something, making John groan in response.
‘Say it clearly, please.’
‘Fine. I was trying to make apple cider,’ he told John, as if that explained why he was so angry. It didn’t. Sherlock didn’t usually get angry when his experiments went wrong — as long as the results were interesting, he actually kept quite the chipper mood. This was weird.
And John knew Sherlock had to at least have an idea that it would go wrong. There was a proper place to make cider — that being outside — and besides, Sherlock didn’t even have a presser. He raised eyebrows at the seemingly embarrassed man standing in front of him.
‘And why is that, anyway? You don’t like cider… Is there a case or something involving a case who puts some sort of poison into homemade cider that he sells in the farmers’ market?’ that actually sounded exciting, and John was secretly wishing it were it. But Sherlock shook his head.
‘No, that is ridiculous. No, hm… I was—‘ Sherlock stopped himself, straightened his back and continued,’I wanted to make you cider.’ After receiving another questioning look from John, Sherlock sighed and continued. ‘You like cider, and last year…’
‘Oh! I see!’ John beamed at Sherlock, stepped forward. ‘So you’re trying — and failing, apparently — to make me cider, because last year, after I got a bit buzzed from it at the surgery Christmas party, we got together for the first time!’ he explained to himself, smiling fondly at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes.
‘Well, Molly mentioned that couples normally celebrate anniversaries by presenting one another with romantic, meaningful gifts. Since this specific beverage was the reason why we got together in the first place, I thought that perhaps if I made it for you, you’d appreciate it.’
John chuckled. ‘You didn’t have to make it, though, ‘ he said with a soft smile.
‘I was told that the present carries more meaning if it’s handmade,’ Sherlock told him, a faint blush appearing on his neck. John wanted to bite it.
‘You ridiculous, precious idiot…’ he said, approaching Sherlock. They were inches apart, John looking up at him. ‘You know I love you, yeah?’
Sherlock nodded, putting both hands on John’s hips. He normally didn’t say the words, because sentiment still came out with difficulty from him, but John knew he felt it, too — it was in his eyes every time he looked at John and gave him that beautiful smile.
‘Thank you for trying, anyway,’ said John, squeezing Sherlock’s biceps gently with his hands. ‘Come on, let me show you just how grateful I am…’
John leaned in and kissed Sherlock’s neck. He purred, and his hands moved to encircle John completely. Now Sherlock moved closer to capture John’s mouth in his, their lips hungry for each other. John’s tongue made its way into Sherlock’s mouth and it tasted of apples, delicious and sweet and wonderful. He could stand there for days, but Sherlock had other ideas. He pressed John against the cupboard, hands sliding through his sides, then grasping his hair, their mouths never apart. Then Sherlock moved to place hungry kissed down John’s jaw and neck, nipping on it, leaving the marks he always loved to see in the morning — Sherlock had a catalogue on his computer of the marks he left on John, with pictures and dates. John moaned at his administrations, fingers running possessively through Sherlock’s curls. Then John’s hands moved lower, grabbing Sherlock’s firm buttocks, getting a slight whimper from the consulting detective. Sherlock bit a tad harder on John’s neck, and he responder by lowering his head, cupping Sherlock’s jaw urgently with his hands, and pulling him closer, with need and hunger. Their kissed grew wetter and messier, better and better.
After what seemed like ages of this, they parted, panting, both grinning like idiots. John looked up at his partner, tugging the hem of his T-shirt with one hand and sliding one sleeve of his dressing gown with the other. Sherlock’s eyes were dark and wanting, staring right into his soul.
‘Bedroom, yeah?’ asked John, mid-pant. Sherlock smirked. He pulled John by the hand into the bedroom, slowly taking his clothes off.
And they spent the rest of the night celebrating their anniversary really, rather loudly.