The case had lasted five days—five days that Sherlock had refused to do much but think about the serial murders, regardless of what John’d threatened to do if he didn’t take care of himself. Despite his rather loud yelling, John was easy to tune out—especially when there was a serial killer that crucified him victims to the floor running around. Sherlock would have liked to think he was so intent on catching the woman to keep her from harming anyone else, or perhaps it was John’s conscious that was telling him that, but most probably that wasn’t the case. It was the mystery, the lure of the siren’s call, the dark cloud that obscured her whereabouts and her next moves that drew him to her. It was the delightedly pointed staccato footprints leaving the crime scene, every time a different size but never faltering in her strides. It was the fact that she left imprints of red lips in the form of a kiss on her victim’s foreheads. It was the endless possibilities surrounding her identity, the fact that she didn’t seem to have one, and the fact that she must have had one. Sherlock Holmes wouldn’t have slept during those five days if he had been just this side of death, and John Watson couldn’t have moved him in either direction.

            Fourteenth of February, one small mistake in the process, a bundle of skin cells, a broken nail, intentional? Most probably. She smiled at him when they showed up, leaning on the side of her bathroom doorway in a sheer pink robe with a mug of chamomile tea. Have you come for me? She sounded only slightly scared, her resilience impressing Sherlock. “Vous étiez bâclée,[1]” Sherlock had replied, to which she smiled. Not sloppy, my dear man. Bored. Tired. Ready for the next step in life. He let her go without asking any questions, satisfying his curiosity by walking around her flat as she dressed.

            On the way home, he was asleep before five minutes had passed, leaning against John’s shoulder both unceremoniously and involuntarily. John chuckled to himself, opening his shoulders up for the black curls, lips trying to curl themselves again around the foreign words he heard. It didn’t come as a surprise that Sherlock knew French—but it was certainly something that he hadn’t counted on. When they reached Baker Street, he shook Sherlock awake and, before getting out, turned back.

            “Say something in French again.” Sherlock blinked for a few seconds, eyes zeroing in on John before his lips played at a smirk.

            “You like it.” John nodded.

            “Entirely too much, yeah. Come on, say something.” Sherlock thought for a moment, reaching lazily into his back pocket for some notes to hand the driver before pressing his gloved finger to his lips and then lowering it.

            “Vos pupilles sont dilatées,” he began, his voice almost not changed from the way he usually spoke. He pointed to John’s eyes. “Vous fléchir vos mains.” A smile on his face now, turned up just at the corners as he moved a little closer, dragging the tip of his finger across John’s knuckles. “Si je ne me trompe pas,” he purred, leaning forward to invade John’s space, “vous pensez à me pressant contre le mur,” he crowded John against the door of the cab, “dès que nous entrons dans l'appartement, parce que vous ne l'aimez alors comment mes yeux clignotent quand je suis fatigue[2],” he laughed, pressing a light kiss to John’s cheek and then moving back.

            “You bloody fucking tease,” John muttered as he reached for Sherlock, angry that the man slipped away. He shifted his hips on the seat.

            “Happy Valentine’s day, chéri. Don’t think I’ve forgotten.” Sherlock was out of the cab before John could properly respond, throwing the cabbie a look that dared him to say anything about what had just passed before he followed. The cold wind did a little to help his growing predicament, as did the fresh air, and the promise of a nice cup of tea. He was pleasantly surprised, perhaps, that Sherlock hadn’t forgotten Valentine’s day, even if he did think it was a “holiday born purely out of consumerism that helps to prolong unhealthy and unrewarding relationships by giving them a day purely of happiness that they’ve bought or are pretending to have and, really John, it’s quite unnecessary for us.” Still, he hadn’t forgotten, and though John had no bloody clue what Sherlock just said, it sounded promising.

            Or not. By the time John climbed the stairs after Sherlock and put up his coat and shoes, the other man had already passed out on the couch, causing John to roll his eyes. A cold shower, then, or a wank in the bedroom. That’ll show him to do what he knows will excite me and then fucking go to sleep, he thought to himself. But he knew that he would be daft to give up the option of some amazing “holiday born out of consumerism sex” just to spite his partner. Cold shower it was, then.

  ___

              Sherlock didn’t miss the looks that he got later—over tea, when their hands brushed. In fact, if he wasn’t mistaken, and he often wasn’t, John was still mulling over the few French words and close touches. This was, after all, their first Valentine’s day together. John had spent his past ones with girlfriends at the time, but aside from one small box of chocolates and a few stolen kisses, Sherlock was rather new to the whole ordeal. He could certainly guess what was coming next—John would want some romance, an exhausting and pleasing shag for both of them, and then of course the cuddling and snuggling afterward.

            Given that tomorrow was Saturday, John would relish the fact that they could both sleep in (unless there was a case, of course) and he would give out those strange touches that Sherlock didn’t know how to categorise—the little brushes on his spine, the movement of his lips among all easy-to-reach ligaments and muscles, the way he was just content to hold, to rub, in the state of half-sleep, half-heaven where nothing could go wrong.

            “Sherlock,” the voice finally broke through to him and Sherlock looked up from his spot on the couch as John raised his eyebrows. “I said, did you want telly and tea, or are you beyond that? You looked distracted. I can come back if another day is better for you?”

            “Monotone,” Sherlock whispered, standing up and walking toward John. He recognized the look in John’s eyes; many people would think he was just irritated if they looked at him, but Sherlock recognized the subtle nuance of tension in the way he was tensed—his fists, too, at his side. Sherlock smirked. “Vous me demandez si je voudrais, beaucoup, pour nous d'aller à la chambre et. Hm. Aimeriez-vous si je vous décompressé avec mes dents?”[3] John licked his lips, swallowing at he turned around and gestured toward the television.

            “Jeremy Kyle is on tonight. I know how you like him.” His voice was strained.

            “Non,” Sherlock purred, sliding a hand around his waist. The general Valentine’s day routine was not for them, but there was certainly something rather common that they could indulge in, though ordinary it never was. John’s breath hitched as Sherlock came closer, and regardless of how many times they were intimate, Sherlock never tired of the soft puffs of breath that John emitted from his mouth, or the way that his chest began to rise and fall more rapidly than before, or the way he didn’t quite move as he savoured for a minute the way Sherlock was coaxing him out of his shell.

            They both liked this moment of anticipation in the beginning. Neither were very overly affectionate men. Sometimes during the evening, when there were no cases going on, Sherlock liked to nuzzle his way into John’s chest while the latter was watching telly; when there were cases going on, John would walk up behind Sherlock and massage his head if he was getting too frustrated—it always helped to rejuvenate him and was a little reminder of what he would allow himself to have once again when the case was solved; they would brush hands as they passed tea, pens, papers, books, Sherlock get this bloody ear out of the microwave and Sherlock would press a hand to the small of John’s back as he leaned around him with a put-upon sigh to remove it. But neither were prone to very loud declarations of sentiment or affection—those came in small moments that gathered into a pile in each man’s chest as a reassurance of the other’s commitment. It wasn’t until they reached a breaking point during this dance of theirs that they both gave in.

            It had to start with Sherlock gently probing, as he’d been doing all day with the little phrases on French, hands on John’s hips and rocking them gently against his own—almost imperceptibly—while speaking to him. Should he recite a poem? A song? It didn’t matter much what he chose, given that John couldn’t understand it, and it would probably lose some of the magic if he did; all Sherlock wanted was that fire in John’s eyes to burn over into his already-trembling hands.

            It didn’t take long.

            “Fuck,” John muttered, as Sherlock’s murmuring lips passed over his throat, and he was done, his control broken. “Bedroom, now,” he commanded, pulling Sherlock along.

            “Yes, captain,” he teased, sauntering past a disheveled looking John to slip into their almost-always shared bedroom (they kept the one upstairs furnished in case Sherlock had to work in the downstairs one exclusively for a case) and began to take his clothes off.

            “No,” John said, taking Sherlock’s hands and holding his wrists down to his body. “You’ve been bloody teasing me all day. I’ll not have that smug face of yours. Before this night is over, you’ll have lost every single ounce of composure you’ve ever possessed. Got that?” Sherlock felt the words in his stomach, the inevitable tightness in his trousers a response to the way he went limp against John.

            “So romantic,” he teased. “Who would have thought you had such lovely plans for us today. You must be very practiced in the art of valentine-ing. So, was that a promise or a threat?” Sherlock was spun around by that, and the way John was hanging his head with a look of defeat and amusement was indicative enough that he had achieved his aim.

            “You’re such a tart, you know that?” he muttered, before gripping Sherlock’s face and pressing their lips together. The kiss was definitively not as heated as John’s words would have foretold, but it had something else in it that Sherlock was loathe to name and wouldn’t even if he could. It was something soft that John only displayed, as far as he knew, toward him. To say that was a source of some pride would be an understatement.

            Hands started moving under the new emotion that threaded through each of their actions, deft fingers untucking John’s jumper and pulling it off, starting on the buttons of his undershirt; clumsy fingers trying to pop the buttons on Sherlock’s purple button down while trying to direct the kiss even despite his height level. They hadn’t quite perfected this yet, but both men didn’t really want to. It was something new every time, and that was the best part. Five minutes, and the kiss only broken a few necessary times before they were both completely naked.

            John was already hard, pushing Sherlock back toward the bed so that he had to sit and it still came as a surprise to Sherlock every time John dropped to his knees; he preferred to bring Sherlock to total hardness with his mouth.

            “Fuck,” Sherlock breathed, tilted his hips just a bit forward as John slid onto him. Warmth, stimulation, the pressing of John’s fingers onto the inside of his thighs, the unceasing eye contact that John refused to break, every time, as he slid down. Sherlock felt his body like a puppeteer would work his puppet—strings, cause and effect, reactions to the way John would tilt just so and Sherlock gasped as he hit the back of his throat. “Fuck,” again, over and over, repeated into the air as his fingers threaded through short, sandy strands, encouragement, desire, need, all in one. John pulled away and Sherlock groaned his protest, but there were bigger and better things on the horizon for them. He heard the drawer open—his favourite drawer really and scooted back on the bed, bending one of his legs up to his chest and holding it there. When John moved to climb over him, stroking himself as he flipped open the cap with his chin.

            “Look at you, so eager,” he muttered, bending down to nip at Sherlock’s skin. “So ready to be opened, so fucking excited to be shagged within an inch of your life.” Sherlock shuddered at the words. John didn’t waste any more time, the heat between them reaching a boiling point that had both men reacting so fast they could be nothing but clumsy about it.

            When Sherlock felt one finger, smooth and cold with the lubricant, spreading him apart, he also felt a certain amount of tension drain from him. He hadn’t felt John in five days, maybe six, and being here, being opened up steady by him—one finger, two, starting to feel the stretch that John was worried about Sherlock loving so much—Sherlock clutched the sheets in his hands. Rocking back against the fingers, Sherlock eyes favoured the ceiling. Looking at John was entirely too much for his rather embarrassingly poor self-control. He was so lost in the sensation, that he didn’t notice John had moved on to three fingers until he was clenching around air and hissed upward, only to see John stroking himself with the lubricant.

            “You’re so fucking beautiful like this.” John’s voice was heavy with thickness, and Sherlock could only glare at him until he chuckled and complied by taking Sherlock’s hips and positioning himself before slowly sliding in. His eyes didn’t move from Sherlock’s face—he loved watching this. The pure ecstasy in Sherlock’s expression as he was filled slowly, John rocking shallowly at first before slipping all the way in, almost bringing him to orgasm, but he had to keep his composure. It would hardly be the picturesque shag for either of them if it was over before they were both thoroughly sorted out.

            It didn’t take long, though it was long enough. Dropping over Sherlock’s form, John held Sherlock’s knee carefully against his chest and his lips found all the indents in Sherlock’s neck before he started snapping his hips. He didn’t need much more encouragement except for the little ohs and sounds falling some Sherlock’s mouth each time he hit his prostate.

            “Je t'aime,” Sherlock muttered over and over and he gripped John to him, practically falling apart as John took Sherlock’s cock in hand and stroked him in time with the thrusts. They were both so terribly close that it was blinding. The room started to fade away until all that was left for either man was the feeling of smooth, slick, warm skin, cold liquid, pooling stomach, the little pudge of John’s belly pressing down on Sherlock’s until they both stilled, crying out in almost indistinguishable grunts, a few moments while they crested—

            And then breathing, long, deep, for a moment just skin resting together until hearing and eyesight came back, bodies heated up, and John pulled out of Sherlock, rolling over. Neither spoke for the longest time. Until finally, John turned sideways.

            “We should clean up.” But Sherlock was already turned over, facing John, and reaching out. His eyes were closed, and from the up and down of his chest, John could tell that he was well on his way to sleeping. He let out a little grunt, however, extending his hand more. Obliging—they’d clean up in the morning—John moved toward him and curled around Sherlock, with a soft I love you, too. He knew that much French.

  ____

  “Go back to bed. It’s three in the morning.” There was the soft wind behind Sherlock’s ear, just enough to tell him that John found the fact that the tables were turned rather amusing.

“I’m usually the one telling you to sleep,” John mused, though his fingers didn’t stop  the tracing of patterns across the bright streaks on Sherlock’s back that had woken him in the first place. “You’re still flushed.” Sherlock huffed, pressing backward in an effort to get comfortable again and, hopefully, fall back asleep.

“Well I would be, wouldn’t I?” he grumbled. It was common knowledge, however, that Sherlock didn’t mind the seemingly useless touches in the morning, especially not after such a long night. It was a privacy that he was willing to share with only one: and that worked for John Watson too. He’d never been the type to want to put his relationship out there for the entire world to see, and with Sherlock it was even more unnecessary. With the blog, and the papers, Mycroft, Anderson, yeah. John figured they all really didn’t know that in the mornings after a good shag, Sherlock liked to have his love bites doted on a bit, and he liked to be massaged by the pads of John’s fingers—on his spine, in his lower back to work out the kinks, the insides of his thighs, but only if they were both ready to go again. “Stop that,” Sherlock muttered, pressing his face into his pillow to stifle the sighs of contentment.

“You don’t have to play the game of pretending I don’t affect you, you tit,” John laughed, dragging his lips along the top of Sherlock’s shoulders. “Happy Valentine’s day.”

“Valentine’s day is over, idiot.” But he tilted his head back nonetheless, drinking in the feeling of John’s skin eagerly wrapping over his own.

“Is it?” John mused. “I plan to make it an all-year affair.” He smirked into Sherlock’s skin when the other didn’t have any smart response to that except the curve of his mouth as he closed his eyes again.

[1] “You were sloppy.”

[2] “Your pupils are dilated. You’re flexing your hands. If I’m not mistaken, you’re thinking of pressing me up against the wall as soon as we get up there. You do so love how I look when I’m tired.”