A/N: OMG what is my life? I don't understand why when I actually have things that I need to be doing, inspiration to write this stuff seriously hits me! Sigh. Well, I hope you guys enjoy this anyway – rest assured that my insomnia is increasing tenfold while I stress about the fact that I've spent hours over the last couple of days writing this, instead of working on my damn assignment! Gah! But honestly, the enjoyment I get out of writing these things easily outweighs the suffering that I then endure from real life stuff.

Warnings: Explicit sex scenes. Gay sex, at that, if it makes a difference to your reading choices. Although, if you're not into the green carnation brigade, and you haven't noticed by now that 99.999% of is ALL ABOUT THE SLASH, then I somewhat pity you. Not enough to not continue writing these stories, of course.

My canon is that Sherlock/John is an established relationship, although relatively new. I *think* I would place this story as occurring after It's Not ALL Bad, but don't worry, you don't have to have read that for this one to make sense. They're a wee bit stand-alone.

What else? No, I think that's it. Please enjoy!


Kitchen Surprise

John opened the fridge door, inwardly glad that there were no obvious body parts currently contained within. Dinner seemed to be his responsibility tonight, again. He somewhat resented his being inadvertently treated like a housewife from an archaic, misogynistic society – just because Sherlock refused to even acknowledge that there was housework that needed to be done! Instead, Sherlock was currently focusing all his attention on the bubbling and smoking vials filling the table in front of him: twisting a dial here, scribbling down a note there. It all seemed relatively controlled despite the chaos; John hoped that Sherlock really did know what he was doing, and that nothing was going to explode before they'd had a chance to sit down and eat.

Soup tonight, John thought. Quick and easy enough to make, and tonight was perfect weather for soup. Unsurprisingly, London was particularly chilly, and the flat's heating was on the fritz. The fire in the living room had been built up, thank goodness, but its heat didn't quite extend into the kitchen.

John efficiently and silently collected what he needed to make the soup. He didn't bang the cupboards anymore, or slam the ingredients onto the bench, or crash about with the utensils. His passive-aggressive expressions of annoyance with his flatmate had gone unacknowledged when he had employed them in the past, and John eventually came to suspect that he was merely causing himself to jump at the loud noises more so than Sherlock.

The water was boiling in the pot on the stove, only stock and potatoes in it so far, while John turned his attention to slicing up what carrots they had that didn't seem to be developing their ecosystems. Sherlock unexpectedly materialised, kneeling right next to where John was standing, barely brushing his shoulder against John's trouser leg. Getting something out of the cupboard, obviously. Although, what was in there that would assist with his experiment? John dreaded to think.

"Interesting." Sherlock announced, and John offered the top of his flatmate's head a quizzical look, but still said nothing. Sherlock could be on the receiving end of the silent treatment, for a change.

He shut the cupboard door after a moment, and quickly, fluidly, positioned himself in the gap between John's body and the bench. He was crouched, his heels close together, his knees spread on either side of John's legs, and his back pressed against the cupboard doors. John started slightly, but was held in place by Sherlock's hands gripping his pockets, meaning that the overall effect of Sherlock's pose was perching...or begging.

John controlled himself with the incredible discipline bestowed upon him by years of military service and medical training, and managed to place the very long, very sharp knife he'd been using, carefully on the bench, out of harm's way. He placed his hands squarely on the bench, on either side of Sherlock's mess of hair, and sighed heavily as he looked down at the detective's face, whose expression advertised beyond a doubt that Sherlock was far too pleased with himself right now. It was pretty much the manic grin that did it.

"Mmmm?" Sherlock hummed, leaning forward to nuzzle at John's crotch, then re-establishing eye contact. Although John's body reacted instinctively to the contact, he still didn't speak, merely pursing his lips and raising his eyebrows. Sherlock could interpret that well enough. All too often lately, he'd been demanding that Sherlock explain himself. Well, now Sherlock could just sodding make his intentions clear without John prompting him every step of the way.

"You do realise I'm cooking both of us dinner here?" John finally attempted to explain, since Sherlock seemed intent on getting him out of his pants. Well, that was the overwhelming impression created by the way that he was fidgeting with John's belt buckle. With his teeth.

"'on'k care." Sherlock mumbled, not distracted from his mission. He'd managed to pull the tail of the belt out of the buckle, but needed greater dexterity to remove the prong from the belt hole. His hands replaced his mouth, to John's dismay.

"You're being too quiet tonight," Sherlock continued, glancing up at John with a vaguely puzzled look. "I like it more when you're...expressive." he quirked an eyebrow to convey his implications. John still didn't break, only shrugged, reminding himself that he was mad at Sherlock, but realised too late that his hand had drifted to his lover's hair and was tangling itself among the curls. "Perhaps I shall experiment." Sherlock mused, sliding John's trousers down gently. "How quickly can I break my obstinate lover out of his funk – " he mouthed John's cock through his boxers, " – and make him scream and beg for more, like he normally does?"

John secretly thrilled at this self-imposed challenge Sherlock was setting himself, and eagerly wanted the detective to set about proceedings at a greater pace than he currently was, but he determined to himself that he wouldn't break so easily, and so, only shrugged in response to Sherlock's monologue. Sherlock growled at John's lack of verbalisation, and removed the doctor's boxers without nearly the same level of delicacy as he had shown with the trousers. The cold air hitting his skin in such a rush made John gasp in a breath, but there was no vocal sound included.

Although Sherlock's attentions had meant that John was starting to get hard, the cold air had a negative effect, prompting Sherlock to chuckle – just slightly inappropriately, John considered – but then he fastened both his hands around John's cock and began stroking firmly and smoothly. "Oh dear, must get some blood flow happening. Don't want you to get hypothermia, now." John was forced to grab a hold of the kitchen bench quite desperately to keep from falling over backwards, once Sherlock decided to include his mouth in the warm-John-up process, but, he was disproportionately pleased that he'd managed to not cry out.

He was, however, panting in what must have been a particularly unhealthy manner.

And Sherlock's mouth wasn't even making contact with John's cock – he was literally just blowing on it, the way that people automatically do on their fingers to provide extra warmth. John suddenly felt like he wasn't going to be able to hold out against Sherlock's attack as successfully as he'd anticipated.

Suddenly, Sherlock stopped stroking, and placed his right hand on the front of John's hip, and his left hand and John's arse, rapidly spinning him around that he barely realised how he'd gotten there. Sherlock recommenced stroking John's cock with his right hand, and lazily traced his arse crack from top to bottom with the index and middle finger of his left hand. John trembled. The next stroke of his arse crack was from bottom to top, and – that was most definitely not Sherlock's fingers. He exhaled shakily, and tried to get some stability by reaching back to hold the bench again. This pressed his arse and Sherlock's face closer together, which, John considered, was not entirely a bad thing.

With a greedy eagerness that was almost frightening, Sherlock committed to licking and probing John's arse, gradually easing his way deeper inside his lover's body, all while keeping a regular rhythm with his right hand. John's cock twitched and leaked precum, which ended up being smeared everywhere that Sherlock's right hand ventured, and all in all it was a very messy joining. John could fucking care less. His jaw was hanging open so that he could attempt to get enough oxygen, without his breaths being forced and undoubtedly issuing some involuntary sound, meaning that Sherlock would've won. Although, at this point, John was very tempted to just let Sherlock win already.

Sherlock was the one to move this time, deciding that spinning John around while he was in this state was probably inadvisable. He knelt in front of John, and slowly swallowed John's length down his throat, eyes closed in a beautiful, contemplative expression. His thumbs sat on each of John's hipbones, and his fingers splayed out over his arse cheeks, still kneading, still caressing.

John caved. Not completely, just a little. He couldn't resist Sherlock's face at that moment, and he adjusted his position, removing his hands from the bench and entangling his left in Sherlock's curls again, and overlaying his right over one of Sherlock's hands. Considering that he had a cock in his mouth, and was ardently sucking and licking and laving, Sherlock couldn't distinctly, easily smile, but John saw the change in his features and recognised it for what it was.

He moaned with pleasure.

And regretted it immediately.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and he completely terminated all his actions. He removed his mouth from John's cock, and plied his hands away from John's hips, shaking off the hand that John had placed over his. He rose to his feet smoothly, and smiled the most evil smile John had ever seen on another human being.

"Nine minutes and...thirty-three seconds. My goodness, John. What restraint." He commended with no hint of irony, wiping daintily at the fluids that had made their way onto his face. He moved away with inexcusable grace, considering John's complete inability to move or think or even begin to articulate, and headed towards the living room.

"Shuh – !" John grunted, trying to make his mouth and vocal cords cooperate. "Shuhlog!" He tried again, but the other man was suddenly suffering from selective deafness. John cleared his throat a couple of times, and shook his head, to gather himself. "SHERLOCK!" He finally managed to shout. He stood up straight, and viciously kicked his shoes, trousers and pants off. He strode into the living room, not caring at all how ridiculous he looked with his jumper and socks on and nothing covering his messy, smeared, raging hard-on in between.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock was on the sofa already. He glanced over at John casually, innocently, raising his eyebrows as he looked over the top of a book he appeared to be engrossed in. He was impossible.

"You can't do that!" John raged, unable to contain himself. He was utterly frenzied by the state Sherlock had built him into, and then heartlessly abandoned.

"But I've finished my experiment." Sherlock pointed out, refusing to admit to any fault, and ostensibly returning to his reading.

"No. No you haven't!" John racked his brain, trying to remember what the experiment was. "I didn't scream, I didn't beg! You can't just leave me – "

Sherlock looked at him, bemused. "You're screaming now." He explained.

"Not the good kind!" John hollered, hands clenched into fists. He received a smirk for his troubles.

John decided to be proactive about matters, and strode over to the couch. He plucked the book out of Sherlock's hands and tossed it over his shoulder. He straddled Sherlock's lap and pressed their bodies close together, engulfing Sherlock in a hungry kiss. Still highly aroused, and needing release, he ground his hips eagerly against Sherlock. He broke off the kiss and pressed his lips close to Sherlock's ear.

"Please." He whispered.

When he drew back, the accomplished smile on Sherlock's face mystified him.

"You screamed, and you begged." Sherlock declared, twisting around so that John was laying back on the couch, knees still on either side of Sherlock's hips. John groaned, knowing that Sherlock was going to be insufferably smug about this success, but for the moment, just glad that he didn't have to finish himself off.

Sherlock didn't waste a moment, putting his exquisite tongue to work again, and John was soon repeating the detectives name in a much more desirous tone of voice. Not playing around anymore, John made every noise under the sun, almost none of them real words, but all of them entirely comprehensible as want and more and ohgodyes. It wasn't long until John came, with a groan and a sigh, and Sherlock swallowed everything John thrust into his mouth, still pleasurably licking his lips as he made his way up John's body to place a loving kiss on his mouth.

"You know I hate you sometimes." John said with a huge, blissful smile.

Sherlock nodded rapidly, but more with an incongruous pride, than any negative emotions that people would typically express at being told they were hated on occasion. Then again, when was Sherlock ever typical?

"Not right now, though." Sherlock confidently asserted.

"No...not right now." John agreed, contemplative, absently stroking Sherlock's back.

After a few moments of lying there together, it occurred to John that he hadn't finished cooking.

"Sherlock, I've got to finish making dinner." He pointed out, shifting so that he could get out from underneath the great gangly galumph.

"I'm not hungry though." Sherlock argued, playfully. "I already ate. Want to deduce what it was that I ate?" He asked rhetorically, capturing John in a kiss.

John couldn't help but laugh at that. Laughing while kissing wasn't the most conducive thing to do – it meant that the kiss became entirely uncoordinated – but John figured that when your lover was attempting to prove to you in a most crude manner that your semen had satisfactorily quelled his appetite, a bit of unconducive uncoordination was permissible.

Finally Sherlock let him up, and followed him into the kitchen, where John discovered that leaving a stove unsupervised for an extended period of time did not an edible dinner make, and was extremely disheartened by the solidified, charcoaled, entirely unappetising mass now contained in the pot.

Sherlock looped his arms around John from behind. "Never mind, throw it out. I'll buy a new one tomorrow."

John knew that this translated to 'I'll give you money so that you can go to the shops without me and buy a new one', but the offer was basically good enough.

"What am I going to have for dinner now?" John pouted.

Sherlock smiled, and took John's arm to lead him upstairs. "Oh, I'm sure I can think of something."