Work Text:
John loved jam.
Sherlock despised jam. It was sugary artificially flavoured gelatine.
But John loved jam. And since John was his favorite human being, Sherlock tended to indulge his ridiculous conceptions. Such as breakfast.
That was why Sherlock was currently looking at the toast John had made for him, analysing the 9 different ways he could get rid of it without John noticing. The man thought it was important that Sherlock ate. It didn’t mean Sherlock had to eat. Just that John had to think so. It wasn’t as if he was paying much attention anyway. He was currently stuffing his mouth with a jam covered bagel and reading an article in the papers. As he put the bagel back in its plate, eyes not leaving not words in front of him, jam got smeared on his cheek. Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated.
“What is it with the eyeroll?” John asked without looking up from the page.
“You got jam on the corner of your mouth.”
John hummed, still hooked in his reading, and brought a thumb to his face. Slowly, he passed it over the jam, and brought it to suck in his mouth, his pink tongue darting for a second against it.
Sherlock eyes darkened. His breath hitched.
That had been… not exactly negative.
John must have sensed his gaze on him though, because he raised his head, a frown on his face. “Everything ok, love?”
Sherlock regained his composure. “Obviously.” He took a sip of his tea to make it pass better.
John didn’t seem convinced but went back to the newspapers. Making sure the man was paying no attention, Sherlock slipped his toast in his robe pocket, getting up and aiming for the washroom.
“Don’t even think about it,” he heard from behind. With a sigh, the detective went back to sit at the table in defeat, biting in the offensive slice of bread.
Sherlock could not stop thinking about it.
Sitting in his chair, hands brought together under his chin, he considered the situation. The man could not deny the physical reactions he had had that morning. He seemed to be sexually attracted by John licking jam. Well, not jam specifically. John licking, generally. But in order to lick, one ought to have something to lick, and Sherlock felt disgusted by the idea of using something as cliché as chocolate syrup or whipped cream . And John loved jam above all other type of food. So jam it would have to be.
But still, even though Sherlock knew that food sex was a rather popular kink among the population, he felt a bit uncertain about it. John had never once demonstrated the slightest interest in it, and the detective was a bit afraid about how well his idea would be received. With jam, nonetheless. It seemed a bit weird, even he had to admit. But even considering this, the man couldn’t help but feel more and more excited about the idea. John, enjoying something he loved while simultaneously enjoying Sherlock’s body and giving them both pleasure was extremely arousing.
So, to make sure his enthusiasm would be shared, he came up with a plan.
Sherlock was still in his chair, now waiting for John to come back from the clinic. In order to fulfill his plan, he hadn’t changed since the morning. He was wearing his pyjama pants and his robe. The only differences were that he had opened the front of the said robe, and the fact that he had a jam pot on his lap. 4:17 pm. John had finished at 4. He should be there any second now, unless he had caught the red light at the corner of the street.
Right on time, Sherlock heard the door downstairs open, then John’s distinctive footsteps in the stairs. He removed the lid from the pot. Just before John appeared in the doorframe, he dug his finger in the jelly mixture. As the doctor stepped into the sitting room, Sherlock started to bring his finger to his mouth, stopping the movement mid-way when he noticed John. The man had froze, a frown of confusion on his forehead.
“Hello John,” Sherlock said, trying his best to sound like his natural self. “How was work? Heroically saved any old ladies from the seasonal cold?” Just as he ended the sentence, the blob of jam on his finger fell on his chest. He looked down at it and frowned. “Oh, well, isn’t that distasteful.” He passed his index on it and brought it to his lips, smearing a bit on them before sucking on the digit, eyes locked with John’s. Sherlock made sure that the man saw a little flash of his tongue stroking his finger. He was satisfied when he notice John’s pupils dilating and his mouth opening a little, not pronouncing a word. The detective made sure to keep his expression neutral though. “Well?” he asked, putting an impatient tone to his voice.
“Uh, it was alright,” John answered. “Since when do you eat jam? You hate jam.”
“I wanted to see what was your big obsession with it. I still haven’t understood. It tastes horrible.”
“Uh-uh,” said John, not sounding completely there, and moved to sit in his chair. He looked up at Sherlock’s face for a second before lowering his gaze. He pointed vaguely in the direction of remaining jam on the man’s chest. “You should probably clean that up.”
Sherlock stared down too. “Yes, you’re right,” he agreed, and sucked on his thumb again. When it was well coated with saliva, he brought it down to the glowing jelly stain, rubbing it in slow circles. He fought the urge to smirk when he felt John’s eyes very concentrated on his movements. From the corner of his eyes, he saw the man’s tongue flick against his lips for the fraction of a second. A very indisputable sign that John was turned on.
And that was the moment that Mrs.Hudson chose to pop her head through the doorframe with a big smile plastered on her face. Dear God, Sherlock loved her, but she had such an appalling timing. John was startled by her characteristic “Woo Hoo,” jumping in surprise.
“Hello John,” she said to the man. “I just wanted to say hello, I didn’t have to chance to say good morning before you left. I just saw you coming in. Has Sherlock prepared you tea?”
“No, no, not that I am aware of,” the blond stammered.
“Oh, didn’t he learn any manners while growing up,” the landlady laughed. “I’ll bring you some, dear.”
“Thanks,” John said, and just like that, Mrs.Hudson was off. John turned toward Sherlock again.
“Well, I feel a bit disgusting, day spent among germs and all,” the doctor said. “I’m going to take a shower.”
“Quite right,” Sherlock answered, and turned his attention to his phone. He smirked. John never took showers after his shifts at the clinic. He always took them in the morning.
All in all, this plan was going quite well so far.
Part one of Sherlock’s plan had been completed and had gotten brilliant positive results.
That had been three days ago. Long enough for John not to forget about it, but not too short to be suspicious.
Now part two was on.
This time, John was typing on his laptop while Sherlock was in his chair, looking quite busy on his phone.
“John?”
“Mm?”
“I need your opinion about something.”
“Shoot?”
“A woman has been accused of poisoning her husband by putting cyanide in whipped cream, then using it for ‘food sex’. As I am sure you are aware of, cyanide kills from one to fifteen minutes after consummation. The problem is, the man died after intercourse and ejaculation, but the woman claims the whipped cream had only been used in preliminaries. I have difficulties believing that foreplay as complex as including food and intercourse would have taken less than 15 minutes altogether.”
John seemed a bit surprised by the case. Sherlock didn’t blame him, as situations like this one did not present themselves everyday. John didn’t comment on it, though. “And where does my opinion come in?”
Sherlock looked up from his phone. “Have you ever experimented with food sex?”
The doctor’s eyes widened almost comically. “I- uh- Why would- umm- Yes?”
“How long did the preliminaires go for?”
John didn’t speak for a second, looking in Sherlock’s eyes. Then he shifted slightly on his chair. “Have you… Have you ever tried food sex?”
“Surely John you know the answer to that question.” Which was no, of course.
“But you can’t try yourself to estimate the length of it?”
“I like the practical experience.”
John turned a little bit toward his computer screen. “I don’t know. It was for 20 minutes, maybe? I wasn’t really checking the time.”
Sherlock hummed, faking taking note of it in his phone. They didn’t speak for a minute, John restarting to type his blog entry. It was a few seconds later that Sherlock broke the silence.
“And did you… did you enjoy it?”
John stared back at Sherlock, who was avoiding his gaze. A curious look was on the doctor’s face, as if he was analyzing the situation like Sherlock always did. He had the smallest smile on his lips.
“Yeah. Yeah I did,” he answered, and his voice sounded like it usually did, but not quite.
The following day, Sherlock had hidden himself away to do an experiment in their bedroom. When John had offered help, he had been dismissed quite vigorously, so he had shut up. Sherlock seemed quite taken by it, more than usual. John could hear him pacing and feel his energy ripping off in waves through the door. So he just shot amused glances to the bedroom and waited for the water to boil as he was making his after dinner tea. Just as he was taking cups out of the cabinet, Sherlock’s head poked in the doorframe.
“Come, John,” was all he said before he disappeared again.
Cautious because not really knowing what to expect, John got closer to their room. He turned the handle and walked in, looking around for the surely crazy experiment Sherlock was working on.
The room looked just as it usually did.
“Sherlock, what-” he began before he felt the man’s hands cupping his cheeks. John stared up at him in surprise, a question on his face. Sherlock kept coming closer and closer until John could feel his breath on his skin. Slowly, devastatingly slowly, Sherlock rubbed his nose against John’s cheek, eyes closed, and just the sound of Sherlock’s respiration sounded overwhelmingly loud in John’s ears. He wondered what the hell had caused the detective to act like that when full lips pressed on his and he forgot everything. A soft, warm tongue passed on them, silently asking for an entrance John greeted with enthusiasm. That’s when he tasted it, the kiss taking a sugary, fruity flavour as Sherlock’s tongue stroke against his. John separated their mouths.
“Did you have raspberry jam?” he asked while trying to catch his breath.
John felt more than he saw the nod, as imperceptible as it was.
“You hate jam.”
Another shy nod.
There was a second of stillness during which they just stared at each other, until John was the one to kiss him, hard and relentless. He grabbed Sherlock by the lapels of his suit and pulled him down, and the man moaned against him. Sherlock let John take complete control of the kiss, mouth pliant under his.
“You did that for me?” John asked against his lips. Sherlock nodded again before seeking his mouth urgently. John wanted to say something else but the words died as Sherlock kissed him, and dear God, it tasted like Sherlock but it also tasted like jam and it was so good . The mix of his two favorite flavours.
“You utter madman. How did you know I would love that? How do you always know everything?”John asked when they parted for breath.
Sherlock opened his mouth to answer but John pushed him down on the bed, cutting him. The blond put a hand on his shoulder and straddled his thighs with his knees, hovering above Sherlock. The man looked up to meet John’s gaze. Oh, Sherlock was gorgeous with his lips parted and wet, his breathing heavy, his impossible eyes and cheekbones. John passed his thumb on his lower lip.
“So beautiful,” the doctor said before leaning in and taking it between his teeth, gently pulling. Sherlock moaned under him, circling his arms around his waist. His jaw tingled where John has his fingers on it.
“You. Are the most. Surprising. And amazing person. I’ve ever had. The privilege of being loved by,” John managed between kisses.
“I- I do have something else.”
John shot him a curious glance. Sherlock turned around and stretched over the bed, opening his bedside table drawer. When he returned to John, he was holding a jar of jam in his palm.
“If you want some more,” he explained, avoiding the man’s eyes.
“Christ, yes, that’s brilliant.”
John took the pot from his hand and unlidded it. He smeared one finger in it, and spread it on Sherlock’s neck. Slowly, he leaned until he could pass his tongue over the warm expense of the man’s throat. He could feel Sherlock shudder under him, feel his fingers helplessly clasp at his arms. John moaned against his neck, nuzzling his way up to his ear.
“Is this why you were ‘experimenting’ with jam this week when I got back from work?”
Sherlock’s eyes were closed. “Yes,” he whispered.
“You knew how much I was going to like it. How it was going to turn me on, didn’t you?” John asked, pressing his lap against Sherlock’s.
“I wasn’t sure.”
“Are you now?”
“God yes.”
John smeared jam on Sherlock’s lips before kissing him anew, pushing gently on his chest.
“Lie back for me.”
Sherlock complied, and John removed his jumper, watching Sherlock staring at him. Then he started to unbutton the man’s shirt, one button at a time.
“I hope it’s not poisoned,” John joked with a smirk on his lips. Sherlock smiled back.
“Obviously not. Or I would have used whipped cream for authenticity.”
“Obviously,” John repeated, and bent to press kisses against Sherlock’s chest. He made his way down to his nipples, grazing one with his teeth. He started sucking gently, his other hand stroking Sherlock’s side. He could feel the man’s hand fumbling for the jar. When he finally closed his fingers around it, he pushed it into John’s palm.
“Eager, are you?” the doctor laughed.
In response, Sherlock digged his index in the jam and pushed it in John’s mouth. John sucked his finger, eyes closed and moaning. He opened them slowly, heavy-lidded and looked at the detective as he stroked his tongue against Sherlock’s index. Then John scooped some jam and traced a trail on the other man’s torso. He passed his tongue over it, feeling the hollow between Sherlock’s nipples, the small bumps of his modest abs, the dip of his navel and the little hair under it. He looked up at Sherlock, eyes dark. The man was breathtaking, his head resting on the pillow, the white arch of his neck, the movement of his chest as he breathed…
“Tell me how it felt.”
“Umh?” Sherlock moaned weakly.
John put a hand on the button of Sherlock’s trousers. “Tell me. How it felt,” he said, and bit at the skin right above the line of the trousers. He felt the detective shiver slightly under him.
“It feels… so damn good John. The jam is cold, but your tongue is so warm, and when you pass it over it, God, John…”
The latter started unzipping Sherlock’s fly as he talked. “Go on.”
“You just make me feel so…”
His trousers and pants were brought down in one go, his dick emerging. He felt John’s hot breath ripple on it, and shuddered again.
“So…” his sentence was cut short by John’s hot mouth pressing a wet kiss to his balls. Sherlock curled one hand in his blond hair, back arching from the bed. “JOHN!”
Slowly, as if he had all the time in the world (which Sherlock strongly disagreed with), John ascended his way to the head of Sherlock’s cock, leaving kisses and licks on his path. Finally, finally, he took it in his mouth, sucking lightly. He began a lazy blowjob, fingers finding Sherlock’s bollocks and massaging gently. God, John loved to feel Sherlock’s tight grip in his hair, almost painful, the low chant of the man murmuring his name under his breath. The detective pressed his heels to the bed, thrusting lightly in the glorious, hot, wet orifice of John Watson’s mouth. It made John moan, the vibrations going straight to Sherlock’s dick, and suddenly it was too much. He was close, dangerously close.
“John,” he gasped. “John, stop, I’m close, John.”
With a plop , the man let go of his cock. He looked down at the utter mess of Sherlock, curls wet on his forehead, face and chest flushed, mouth open as he tried to catch his breath. As he let Sherlock recollect himself, he brought a hand to his own trousers, taking his shaft out of them and giving himself three firm strokes to take the edge off. He saw Sherlock noticing his dick and licking his lips at the sight. John almost gave in to the temptation of advancing to Sherlock’s mouth and pushing his cock between those soft, full lips, but decided against it. He had other plans.
“Pass me the jam,” he ordered, voice rough from his raw throat. All Captain John Watson, Fifth Northumberlamb Fusiliers. He spreaded Sherlock’s thighs and pushed them against the man’s chest, leaving him completely exposed, red and pink and creamy and his . He let a trail of jam from Sherlock’s perineum to his arsehole, following it with his tongue. He toyed around the edge of his hole, teasing until Sherlock lost his patience like he knew he would.
“Just get on with it, would you?” he asked, half ordering, half desperate and too shy to admit it. John loved that tone coming from Sherlock like little else. Arrogance mixed with vulnerability, so completely and utterly Sherlock. So he gave in, slowly pushing his tongue inside as he brought his right hand to Sherlock’s dick. At first it was slow, one thrust of tongue followed by a stroke on his cock, again and again until Sherlock was writhing and begging for more. Then John started on an unrelenting tempo, mouth and hand synchronized until Sherlock let out a small shout and spent himself all over his stomach and John’s palm. John circled his fist around his own dick tightly and jerked into it until he too was coming, moaning and resting his head on Sherlock’s middle. Sherlock brought a hand down in his hair, stroking comfortingly. They both caught their breaths in a comfortable silence.
“You really are a genius,” John mumbled sleepily after a minute. He felt the detective’s low laugh.
“Well, John, it’s really only because you are a fantastic conductor of light.”