"You're doing it wrong!"

John sighs and runs a hand through his hair, flour sprinkling the golden strands in white.

"Sherlock, out of the two of us, I'm the one who cooks and doesn't end up with the fire extinguisher in hand. So I think I'm pretty damn sure of what I'm doing. Do you mind?"

Sherlock pouts. "The recipe says that you have to add the eggs to the flour and not the other way around!"

"Fine," John says, lowering his demeanour to the one of a five year old. Perhaps if he tries to communicate in the same language, the man would actually understand. "Do it yourself then. I don't give a toss anymore."

Sherlock watches as John backs away, leaning his hips against the kitchen table, arms folded in his chest.

"I'm waiting, Heston Blumenthal," the good doctor says.

Sherlock frowns and turns to the counter again, carefully… no… meticulously measuring the flour and emptying the cup into the bigger bowl. He feels John's eyes pinned on him, and his lips quirk in a smile.

"Stop staring at my arse, John. You're distracting me."

John snorts. "Deal with it."

Sherlock breaks the eggshell and tries to separate the yolk from the egg white. A slip from his hands pops the yolk and he growls in frustration.

"See what you've done!" he thunders. "Stop staring at me!"

John rolls his eyes. "Shut up and focus, yes? My God, what a child!"

Sherlock tries to repeat the process, and again he fails. "John? I think I require your assistance, now."

"Oh is it? Are you sure? I would think that you're dextrous enough to accomplish such a basic task."

"You are a doctor. You have steady hands and skilled practice in delicate matters such as so. Now stop fantasising about how you want to take me from behind and just do this!"

John's lips stretch in a lopsided smile as he reaches the counter once more. Sherlock was right, though. His hands are considerably steadier and he manages to get through the task quite quickly.

"Now what?" John asks, his eyes trying to read the stupidly small letters of the recipe book.

"Now you go back to your stand and wait further instructions, soldier," the detective grins and starts working on the mixture again.

John nods and returns to his place by the table. He can't complain, actually. Between fighting with Sherlock every three seconds over a stupid recipe and watching him work as he was so deliciously wrapped around his tight jeans and his dark blue apron and—

"Damn!" Sherlock roars after a while.

"What now? Did you break a nail? Did you sprinkle flower on your immaculate hair?"

"I seem to have poured too much cinnamon into the mixture."

"How much? An 'Oops, that's okay, no one will notice' much, or a 'Well, they'll definitely notice that these are cinnamon biscuits' much?"

"Neither. It was more like a 'Bugger, there goes the whole flask' much," Sherlock mutters looking at him over his shoulder. "Well don't just stand there. Come and fix this!"

John laughs but he decides to help. The biscuits have to be done eventually. Besides, the figure of flour-covered Sherlock is just too irresistible to ignore. Hell, he would be dancing the Macarena if he asked him to.

No.

Maybe not.

God, definitely not.

This, apparently, is Sherlock's favourite part: the rolling the dough. John was able to fix it, a bit, so now Sherlock is taking all his frustrations down on the dough. He shoves his hand inside the flour package and sprinkles the counter before pressing the rolling pin on the big mess of unattractive stuff that will hopefully look a bit more edible after shaped into little stars and harts and whatever other sorcery John has in his mind.

"How thick?" John suddenly asks.

Sherlock grins. "Thick enough. How do you like it?"

"You know what numbers I played in the lottery just by looking at my underwear, I'm sure you know how thick I like it."

Sherlock is pretty sure they aren't talking about the dough anymore. And that is fine with him. He takes the damned biscuit cutters and starts shaping the dough into little hearts.

"This whole occasion is ludicrous. Why would one bake biscuits to celebrate the fact that they are involved in a romantic relationship with someone? I can think of a couple much more interesting ways to celebrate such reality. I don't need a day on the calendar to remind me that I am emotionally committed to you," Sherlock rambles as he lines up the biscuits in the tray.

John smiles as Sherlock bends to put the tray in the oven, deliberately turning his arse to John as he slides the tray.

"Oh you tease," he murmurs to himself as Sherlock straightens his back, with an unnecessary roll of his hips.

"Done," the detective announces, running the back of his hand over his forehead.

"And now?"

"We wait."

John nods and unfolds his arms. With a quick, swift motion, he gets rid of his apron, tossing it to countertop, carelessly.

"Look at you, all dirty," he murmurs as he brushes a hand on Sherlock's nose, wiping away traces of flour. "How long until we have to start worrying about burnt biscuits?"

"Twenty to twenty-five minutes," and Sherlock has no idea why his voice sounds so raspy. No, that's a lie, he does. Oh, he does.

John brushes his lips on Sherlock's, a light caress, a tease, a promise, a challenge.

Sherlock smiles and grips on John's hips, steering him back against the table. He unceremoniously props his knee up between John's thighs. "If those biscuits come out all wrong, I will hurt you," he murmurs, lips so close to John's ear he can almost feel their touch.

A shiver runs down the good doctor's spine and he hears himself whimper. The hell?

John shakes his head and pulls away. "Sit down," he says.

Sherlock just stays there, looking at him with his brows furrowed. "I'm sorry, what?"

John narrows his eyes. "You heard me. What, did you think that you could tease me and leave me with a fucking hard-on and then tease me some more, without any consequences? Oh you naïve man. Sit. Down." he roars motioning to a chair.

Sherlock does as told, sitting down in a chair next to the kitchen table. He knows better than to go against John. Even more so when every single word he spoke went straight to his groin.

John walks to him and nothing but straddles Sherlock's hips, fingers entwining in his soft ebony curls as his mouth looks for his pale, swan neck. "You're such a fucking tease," he whispers, nibbling on Sherlock's earlobe, his breath hot against the soft skin.

Sherlock's hands run down John's broad shoulder resting on the small of his back, pulling him closer. His head lolls back as John's tongue slides through his skin, teeth barely grazing on his Adam's apple. He feels him shifting his hips, his firm arse teasing the forming hardness inside his jeans.

John's hand loosens the knot on Sherlock's apron and somehow manages to take it off. Then he starts working on the infuriating little buttons of Sherlock's pale-green shirt. Oh, to hell with Sherlock and his shirts. They're so not sex-friendly it actually hurts.

"Just get it on with," Sherlock growls pressing his hips up.

And that was all John needed. He carelessly tore the shirt open, ignoring any flying buttons, mouth hungry, exploring the paleness of Sherlock's chest as he eases himself off Sherlock's lap and kneels down on the floor.

"Beautiful," he murmurs, his hands undoing the fly and zipper of Sherlock's jeans. "Up."

Sherlock props up his hips just enough for John to pull his jeans and pants down to his ankles. A low moan escapes his bow-shaped lips and he shuts his eyes at the feeling of John's hands caressing his inner thighs.

The good doctor carefully roams his lips over Sherlock's skin, so close but never touching, deliberately avoiding any proximity with his erection. He looks up.

"So bloody beautiful."

It is. A pleasant view, indeed. Sherlock sprawled down on the chair, head thrown backwards, cheeks bright pink, lips slightly parted, revealing his rodent teeth so perfectly framed in those plump lips, so… edible; his chest uncovered, long arms hanging on both sides of his torso, jeans pulled down to his ankles and then that marvellous, majestic erection, so inviting. So… inviting…

John curls one hand around his prick and strokes softly, rubbing his thumb over the head. He grins, satisfied when he hears a gasp from above.

"Gorgeous," he murmurs his lips kissing along Sherlock's length.

"John," Sherlock moans, his hips rocking gently, asking for more.

And John gives him more.

Because, honestly, seeing Sherlock this aroused is actually causing him physical pain.

So he takes him in his mouth, sucking at the tip as his left hand strokes him, tightening the grip just enough to cause a different kind of friction.

Sherlock's noises… Sherlock's noises. Desperate, rough moans, whimpers, pleads. His hand grasps John's flaxen hair and bobbing his head faster. John closes his eyes focusing on brushing his tongue around the head of Sherlock's cock. His free hand travels up his pale chest, teasing on his nipples before he brings his fingers to Sherlock's lips.

"Come on, love," he whispers, backing away for a moment. "Leave them nice and wet for me, will you?" and then he resumes his ministrations.

Sherlock parts his lips and sucks on John's fingers, in tempo with John's lips around him. He moans, the sound coming from deep inside his throat. John's fingers tasted of sugar and… cinnamon… oh and they were twisting in the most delicious way inside his mouth.

John takes him deeper and harder, his hand sliding down to tug at Sherlock's balls. Oh such immoral sounds… like fire through paper. His own cock is so hard now he was sure it could break glass.

"That'll do it," John says taking his fingers back form Sherlock's mouth and getting closer to him.

He holds up one of his long legs and folds it over his shoulder, his wet fingers brushing and pressing around Sherlock's opening.

"Fuck," he whines as he pushes one finger inside him, slowly. "You're so tight and warm, Sherlock. Oh, the things I could do to you. Fucking delicious."

Sherlock forces John's mouth back to his shaft, groaning impatiently. John's finger is getting deeper inside him, twisting and—

"Oh! Christ!" Sherlock's voice comes in a yelp. "Do that again."

Oh the joys of being a doctor and knowing exactly where to apply the right amount of pressure. John brushes his fingertip against the soft bump inside Sherlock and once again the helpless detective shouts, calling out for John.

Yes. He likes that.

John withdraws his finger only to push in again, and this time it brings a mate. He thrusts softly at first, but then harder, as Sherlock's movements on his head start to increase the rhythm. John listens as his breathing starts becoming shallow and uneven, his body tensing, his sack getting harder and tight under his hand.

Sherlock looks down, desperately looking for a glimpse of John's eyes. Those fingers scissoring inside him, finding his prostate with such a delightful precision… He needs more. He needs it rough. He needs his release.

"John," Sherlock calls, the way he knows will make John understand. "Please. Please."

John looks up, icy-blue meeting silvery-blue, cold meeting warm.

"Johhhn," Sherlock purrs, and the fingers inside him thrust again, hard quick thrusts that make Sherlock's voice fill the small space of the kitchen.

One last thrust against his sweet spot and one last graze of John's tongue over the head of his cock and that is it. His all body becomes inert, his eyes closing tight and muscles contracting as his orgasm rushes down his frame, thick even spurts shooting inside John's mouth.

John swallows every drop of the warm, salty fluid, his fingers still pressing against his lover's prostate, and he is still looking up at Sherlock's face. And oh, what a sight it is.

Silence falls in the room. Sherlock's chest waving to try and catch his breath and John planting soft kisses on his thigh before removing his fingers and lowering his leg back down to the floor.

The oven's bell rings, breaking the silence and both men look at the stove as if they've forgotten about the biscuits (which they did). They had been so entranced in their little pastime, they didn't even happen to notice the delicious scent that had spread through the flat. John smiles and looks up at Sherlock.

"Saved by the bell," he says, his voice hoarse.

"Mm," Sherlock looks at him as he gets up. "John, what about you?"

The latter grins, mischievously, and leads a hand down to arrange the hurting bulge on his slacks.

"It's always good to have someone owing you a favour. And you are owing me a colossal favour," he chuckles and turns around. "You try to get your shit back together. I'll mind the biscuits, yes?"

He bends down and kisses Sherlock's lips, deep and passionate. When he breaks away Sherlock smiles and watches, just watches, as John works around the kitchen.

The biscuits aren't perfect (yes, too much cinnamon), but they're good enough, and honestly, with a good warm cuppa the mistake is barely noticeable.

"I will pay back, you know?" Sherlock says after finishing his tea.

"Oh, don't worry," John says with a wave of his hand. "I know you will. I'll make sure you do."

A/N: Hey peoples! So, here. Have some smut. have all of it.

Filling for a prompt in sherlockbbc_fic in LJ. "Sherlock and John bake cookies for...some reason. Slash optional."

Yes. Valentine biscuits.

Yes. I know it said optional.

Yes. I accidentally porn.

Any more questions?

No?

Good.

Leave a review then.

I dare you.

*Bloo*

P.S: I do intend to keep going on with my multi-chap fic, but as I said, health issues keep getting on my way. I'll try to hurry up, I promise.