The Dirty Picture (Part One)

Sherlock has always minded his own business throughout school. Never creating friends or doing after school activities, Sherlock has never gotten into anything school related. He outright refused to attend the after-school chess club when the head teacher tried to get him to join up in his first year of secondary school and after their numerous attempt of joining him up for science club and chess club, they backed off. Leaving Sherlock alone to do his own things, teachers even stopped asking him questions in class and people stopped attempting to talk to him.

The jeers and name-calling from the school rugby team is the only time someone bothers him.

They always make fun of his head of wild dark curls, unique features and lanky form. Always jeering when he changes into his school P.E. kit and calling him names such as queer, freak and faggot. The words hurts the most. But he doesn't let it show. Sherlock ignores them or spits out a nasty deduction such as their mother cheating on their dad with the old man next-door or their ejaculation time is only a minute. No one has ever praised his deductions before. It's only been Lestrade who hasn't shown any disgust by them or name-called him, only a quick shrug and a 'whatever'.

All until the new boy – John Watson – joined the school in sixth form when their parents decided to move down from Scotland and back to England. He was, in all matters of the words, gorgeous. With his short but lean and muscular body, pale golden hair that flops into his eyes when he's furiously scribbling down, kind – almost pretty – smile that seems to always be naturally on his face and the darkest lapis lazuli blue eyes that Sherlock has ever had the privilege of seeing.

Sherlock is instantly smitten.

John had started a fire of desire burning in his abdomen and mind that had Sherlock wanking furiously every night and waking up in the mornings with a burning erection. John is actually the first person Sherlock has ever felt any sexual attraction or attraction in general to. Although there was the slight phase when he was in his early teens when he had the biggest crush ever on Bradley Cooper but that was quickly dismissed and forgotten into his mind palace to be forever forgotten.

Of course John had joined the school rugby team straight away. Joining into the ranks of the idiotic and only ever glancing at Sherlock when they all laughed at him. Although what got Sherlock's attention even more was that John never seemed to laugh at him or sneer, there was always a soft look in his eyes that made Sherlock think that the blonde wants to help but doesn't know how or as if it's not his place to stop it. But that could all be in Sherlock's John infected mind.

Sherlock is thankful that now he's in sixth form he no longer has to put up with P.E. and therefore he won't disgust John with his terribly thin body, not that he's out to impress John in any way whatsoever. A level Chemistry, Maths and Biology are the only subjects that Sherlock has with John but he knows by asking for a second copy of John's timetable that John's only other subjects are P.E., in which he trains with his other rugby players, and English.

They sit on the same table during Chemistry, a hairs width away from each other. Sherlock savers every moment of that class. Holding his breath when John speaks or blushing when their arms accidentally knock together. John even attempted to talk to him the first week he was here but Sherlock stayed true to himself by ignoring the blonde even if his stomach was filled with 'beautifies' and his mind palace was screaming at himself to answer the teen. John eventually stopped and turned to the people across from him, getting into easy conversation with them and, furthermore, an easy friendship. Jealousy always twists in his gut when he sees John talking to anyone, the curly-haired teen knows that he has no right to feel that way though. He ruined his chance at friendship with John and therefore has no right to be jealous of people having something he does not.

A voice in the back of his mind is always muttering to him that John would have left him anyway when he found out about his freaky ability. And Sherlock also knows in his gut that that's true.

Although that idea was wiped out of his mind palace when John utters that 'amazing' and 'quite extraordinary' when Sherlock snaps at the rugby team for making him drop his books. The words make him stop from picking up his book and look up at the blonde on his place on the floor in utter shock, not sure if he hurt him right. Ignoring the calls of his rugby mates to follow them and to get away from the 'freak', John kneels down next to him and helps collect his books. A soft grin on his face all the way through the exchange as Sherlock stays frozen and tries to proceed what just happened.

The next day in Chemistry Sherlock is more than eager to start awkward conversation with John. Wanting to see if his deductions were correct and what he missed. John replies if not a bit put-off at the start but soon joining in just as eager as Sherlock. The dark-haired teen even going as far as thinking of John as his only friend by the end of the lesson and makes the request for John to join him at one of the crime scenes he manages to sneak into. With a 'oh god yes' from John, the two of them are joint at the hip for the next four months leading to Christmas.

Sherlock kept his feelings buried though, not wanting to ruin his friendship with John. When the feelings became too much for example when John bites his lip when he hides a smirk, throws his head back when he laughs at one of Sherlock's deductions or simple smiles at the other teen, Sherlock just repeats in his head that John is straight. And from the number of dates and girls John has been through over the four months they've known each other is horrendous, Sherlock is sometimes itching to call John a man-slut because of the numerous amounts. Sherlock has even considered appointing John into a sex-addict clinic. Mycroft refused to help though.

Sherlock always feels a stab of jealous every time he sees John with a girl but he tampers it down and continues as if nothing happened, as if his feelings towards John are only platonic. Although it is hard to ignore when he has a raging erection due to the image of his friend sweaty and topless after rugby.

But if John notices he doesn't say anything.

John's current girlfriend has been the longest he's ever had. Sarah Sawyer is the cause of the distraction. Pulling his John away from the cases and away from Sherlock himself. More than a couple of times Sherlock has trashed their dates or interrupted a sexual act and yet she is still here, unlike all the others in the past. Sherlock has a sudden horrific thought that this may be the girl that John settles down with, has a life with, marries and has little humans with.

The person he forgets Sherlock with.

So Sherlock has tried for the last week before the Christmas break to get John to leave Sarah or vice versa.

It has not been very successful so far.

The teen has three days before school breaks up and in them three days he wants Sarah out of the picture for good. None of the on and off stuff they've been doing for the last month but he wants her out for good. Forgotten about and John back with him. The lack of cases this month has not helped Sherlock at all. His first plan was to use a case to split them up but none has come up, leaving him hopelessly trying to get John's attention away from her through other means such as cluedo or something even duller like homework.

The next day, the last Wednesday before school broke up, Sherlock had numerous plans to get rid of Sarah ranging from doing her head in all day and making John choose between Sherlock and her (because Sherlock is positive that he'd pick him) and ending at killing her. But his main focus is that at the end of the break up, John does not hate him.

"Hey, Sherlock!" John shouts, jogging over to him as Sherlock's walking to Maths, "I have a match tonight, the lads want to know if you're coming to watch, they love you ripping the shit out of the other team." That was another bonus of being friends with John. The rugby team has seemed to stop with their picking and left him alone and have even gone as far as asking him to do his 'guessing trick' – which he does not guess – to help them win games. Sherlock thinks that John had a huge influence in their change of behaviour but Sherlock has never asked or said anything, not wanting to say something wrong and make it all start again and Sherlock is more than relieved that they've stopped.

"John," Sherlock answers if not a little breathless as he watches John's check rapidly rise and fall beneath his thin black t-shirt and his arms bulge against the material, "I can't. Mummy wants me home early." Sherlock lies easily, actually meaning: I can't because I'm trying to get you to split up with your girlfriend so all your attention is back on me.

"The lads are going to be gutted. This match is one of the hardest and will win us a pass to the final." John grins, looking up at his friend beneath a thick layer of golden lashes, making Sherlock blush and turn away. Praying that John doesn't see anything odd with his behaviour, the wet dream from last night where John was on his knees with his seed dripping down his face is too embedded in his mind for him to push it away or delete it.

"I'm sure Sarah can join you." Sherlock spits out, the door to the maths room coming into sight. John sends him a pointed look before looking away to dodge one of the younger students whose rushing to class.

"The lads don't like Sarah, I don't think she's very welcome."

Now that catches Sherlock's attention and adds another twenty-nine ideas to the teens head in ways he can get rid of Sarah and still have John happy with him. He can't hold back the twitch of his lips as they shape into a tiny, happy smile, "Why is that?" Maybe his voice does sound a bit too overjoyed as John turns around to snap at him but stops himself when they enter the classroom.

The next three hours of school is left with Sherlock smiling to himself as he's filled with over-powering joy that the rugby team, John's best mates, prefer him, freaky, skinny, queer Sherlock, over the obviously beautiful, charming and nice Sarah. It doesn't seem to fit right in his mind palace but he forces it in anyway.

Later that night, still muddling over John's confession, Sherlock stared up at his ceiling, grinning to himself as he ignores his mother singing to herself in the kitchen below, his father listening to a book audio and Mycroft trying and failing to play the guitar. His mind is buzzing with John's voice, his face, his smell…his touch. It was doing all the right things in making a burning sensation start in Sherlock's abdomen. Making him moan at the sensation of his tight boxers rubbing against his hardening penis.

Making sure his door is locked and that everyone in the house is too preoccupied with their own activates to hear him, he kicks off his ratty blue pyjama bottoms and leaves them bunched up on the floor before climbing onto his bed and lying on his back, his mind never going off John. Rubbing his half-hard cock underneath his black boxers, he doesn't slip off his light green sweater but just rolls up his sleeves before lying back down and closing his eyes so his mind palace shows a clearer image of the blonde in his rugby shorts showing off his muscular toned legs, tight rugby shirt sticking to him with sweat and his face beaming up at him, red and dripping. His whole body dirty with mud.

Biting his lip to hold back a moan as he squeezes at his balls through the material and rolls his hips up to meet air, whimpering from the lack of friction. Running his other hand that isn't massaging his bollocks over his covered chest, he skims his fingertips over his sensitive nipples that are poking up through the material and up towards his neck. With the gentlest of touches, his fingernail on his index finger scrapes on the curve of his neck making him shiver into his covers. The image of John stoking his neck as he lies neck to him invades his mind palace and makes a horrifyingly loud gasp escape through his bow-shaped lips.

Moving his hand up over his lips so they're caressing them softly, he sticks his index and middle finger into his mouth, sucking on them violently and making them wet and moist. All the while imagining its John's long, thick cock inside his mouth as he twists and licks and gags around his violinist fingers. His hand that's fondling his balls move to graze his inner thigh, making his breath come short and his hips thrust upwards. The glazing touches has made his cock fully hard and dripping with pre-cum as it pulses looking for any kind of friction or attention. Not needing much to get himself going after years of not feeling any sexual tension before John.

Just as he removes his spit covered fingers from his mouth and is about to move his underwear down his thighs to release his dripping cock, his phone vibrates from an incoming message and mummy's footsteps echo from just outside his door. Moving his hand away from caressing his inner thigh, one of the places where he's most sensitive, he grabs for his phone just as a soft knock comes from the door. His erection is uncomfortable tucked away in his boxers still.

"Sherlock, sweetie, would you like some supper? I just made some apple crumble for you, I know it's your favourite." His mother coos through the door, "Oh, wait! That's John's favourite, isn't it? Well, you can bring some to him tomorrow, I'm sure it'll keep. Just come down when you want some, but be quick otherwise your brother will eat it all. We all know what your brother is like with sweet things."

The sound of John's voice being mentioned makes him turn his head and bite his pillow next to him to stop the wave of lust that settles into every nerve of his body. Clenching the phone in his hand as he sees a message from the blonde light up on his phone, he hears his mummy squeal from the other side of the door.

"Oh Sherlock dear! I'm so sorry for interrupting!" Mummy gushes, Sherlock can hear her taking a step away from the door, "Remember to use lubrication, sweetie, you don't want any blisters so I put some baby oil in your bedside draw the other day." A moment of silence as Sherlock turns onto his front to grind against the covers of his bed, to do anything to get rid of the painful throbbing building up between his thighs, not even caring if his mother hears the muttered John escape from his lips. Too far into his own desire to give a damn, "I'll leave you be, sweetheart."

Shallow and softly thrusting into his bed covers, he turns his attention to the message from John. Not at all expecting what he saw as it stills his movements altogether and makes his whole body shiver and buzz in uncontrollable need. The message: We won the match. Join me? –JW has an attachment of a photo of John that Sherlock has dreamt and wished to see for nearly five months now. It's an image of John in the bath – naked – his legs sprawled naturally and relaxed, the hair on his legs dark from the water and his nipples hard from the contrast of cold air and warm water. His six-pack is glistening with water and his chest is dusted with very light blonde hair that has yet to become dark from the water. Only one arm is in the picture and his elbow is rested lightly on the edge of the bath, showing the bulge of his bicep and the broad length of his shoulders.

Sherlock notes that John has an outie belly-button. Something Sherlock finds oddly cute and erotic at the same time as he turns his attention to the only covered part of the photo: the bubbles covering John's cock and Sherlock deduces from John's goose bump legs, erect nipples and the large amount of bubbles John has used to cover it that his cock is erect. John's face is also not in the picture, which Sherlock notices with a flicker of disappointment before shock finally settles into his system that John has just send him a nude. John of all people! John the guy whose made Sherlock suffer intense erections for five months, whose Sherlock's best friend, whose Sherlock's first crush, whose captain of the rugby team, who has a long-term girlfriend of a month, whose straight, whose obviously not interested in Sherlock of all people, whose everyone's fantasy man, whose the most popular guy in school, whose had more girlfriends than Sherlock's done experiments.

John who is also the nicest guy at school, who puts up with Sherlock because he likes him, who gave Sherlock a chance, who welcomes Sherlock for being himself, who likes being with the drama-queen, who enjoys his company, who helps him on cases, who always has friendly advice, who tells him when he's being socially unacceptable, who isn't afraid of his deductions, who thinks of his deductions as a gift, who thinks of him as a genius, who no matter how many girlfriends he's had, always comes back to Sherlock.

John who Sherlock is hopelessly, irrevocably, obsessively in love with.

Not even thinking that the photo might be sent accidentally to him and was meant for John's girlfriend, whose name has complete left Sherlock's mind, Sherlock turns onto his side, strips off his sweater, and gets the camera ready on his phone. Making sure his body is twisted slightly, showing off his slender figure, too-thin legs and hairless body. He doesn't care that his erection is now only half-hard due to the sudden shock and looking smaller than it normally does and that his boxers look baggy at this angle or that his body resembles a young boy, all he cares about is that he shows John just how much he likes him.

Just as Sherlock sends the image another text from John comes through:

Oh shit! Sherlock I am so sorry! That was meant for Sarah! Do not look at that last text! –JW

A sudden rush of panic fills Sherlock as he attempts to delete his own dirty picture he sent. Humiliation burning at his cheeks and making his bottom lip tremble from just the thought of John leaving him. Cursing foully at his phone as he sits up straight and throws the phone at the door, the sound of Mycroft abruptly stopping his guitar playing only just registers into Sherlock's ears as he curls up in a ball in the white sheets.

How could he be so stupid? Thinking for just a fleeting second that John would want him? That the image was meant for him? John is straight for god's sake! Of course he wouldn't be interested in the likes of you. Even if he was interested in men, he would not turn to someone like you. Someone who looks as if they need a decent meal inside of them, who has never came across a body hair on their chest before, who is just a stupid little boy in love.

The voice is Sherlock's mind palace continues and screams at him with verbal abuse. Making the teen curl even more up in his bed-covers. His phone lays silent on the floor, the back cover of the phone a meter away from the actual phone. The teen waits for the dreaded reply from John, or even having no reply at all. His lip starts to bleed from biting it as time passes and from attempting to hold back his sobs and his body erupts with goose bumps from the winter air, he can't be bothered to move though. He'd much prefer to lie here and freeze to death then head to school tomorrow to face John.

His mind comes up blank with excuses he can use to John for sending the picture. And he dreads the fact that John will ignore him, pretend that he doesn't exist like most people at school do. But something at the back of Sherlock's mind is giving him hope. That John is nice if not rude at times, but John would do as Sherlock wishes. If Sherlock wants to forget that it ever happened, so would John. John is his friend and John looks after that friendship, he wouldn't waste that one thing on something as stupid as a picture.

To John that picture could have meant anything. It could have just been the two of them comparing each other's bodies or Sherlock conducting an experiment.

Sighing in relief that there was a way he could explain it to John, his phone pings from the floor a full sixteen minutes and thirty-eight seconds since he sent the picture. Uncurling himself from his place on the bed, he stumbles over to the phone as it lights up with another message from John. His heart throbbing in his chest, his palms sweating and his mind protesting and complaining about his emotional reaction to just a bloody text.

Chastising himself as he flops back onto the bed, he wills his mind to be silent as he opens up the message. Almost choking on his own spit at the image John has sent back to him. John's on all fours, nude, his arse raised up in the air as if waiting for someone to come up behind him. The picture is taken at the front, John's head down and showing the back of his head as he crouches and lifts up his arse into the air. It shows the curve of John's muscular back and the dramatic dip as it goes to his presented arse. The light from his bedside lamp doesn't help in making John's hair look darker but it does show-off his small waist and the dips and corners of his muscles and his broad shoulders.

It makes Sherlock moan at the image as the sight of John's golden globes stain themselves as the wallpaper all around Sherlock's mind palace. Scrambling up and knocking his hardening cock in the process, he ignores the voice in his head telling him that this may be John just showing-off his body (and – god – what a body it is) and that it would ruin their relationship and that John has a girlfriend. He bats all the arguments and side-effects out of his mind and just forces it on one thing: John.

His heart hasn't stopped thumping rapidly since the message came up. The buzz through his body and the light feeling in his chest is making him strangely uncomfortable as the lust starts forming in his abdomen again. The words: John wants me are the only words making any sense in his mind as he stands up and gets his phone ready to take a photo. Pulling down his boxers so they reveal his pale arse but still covers his crouch, one hand stays holding the boxers down as the other one takes the photo. His body is turned to show-off his own arse and the backs of his skinny legs. His back is curved in to show off the dip and his arse more, much like what John was doing, presenting himself to the camera. Sherlock quickly makes the photo black and white, not liking the way that his arse has acre scars on, and he wants to be just perfect for John.

Sending the picture with baited breath, his achingly hard cock is making a wet-patch of pre-come appear on his boxers. Stripping off his last item of clothing, he hisses at the feeling of the cold air on his reddening cock and balls. No bothering to go back to the bed, needing to get rid of the painful desire running through his veins as quickly as possible, he gets both pictures of John on his phone before tugging harshly on his left nipple and bring the other hand down to pull at his bollocks.

Running his thumb gently over his scrotum, a whimpered John falls from his lips as he twists at his nipple violently. His skin is alert and burning with want as he looks down at John's presented arse up in the air, smooth, tanned, hairless and highlighted perfectly from the light. It's all round, perky and just utterly perfect…utterly John. Running his hand that's messing with his nipple down and over his scrawny stomach, making him shiver from the sensitivity and throw his head back in pleasure, a much louder groan of the blonde's name coming from his mouth.

"Oh fuck. Oh yes. John."

His phone pings again with another image and Sherlock can't scramble to open it fast enough as his left hand stays pulling, pinching and squeezing his testicles. The next image is more of John's six-pack. The lighting is daytime so it must have been taken another day as Sherlock looks over it. A stab of jealously goes through his gut at the thought of John sending these images to someone else, of John presenting his arse and cock to someone else that isn't him. Shaking away those thoughts and turns his attention back to the task at hand, he looks back at the image and at the perfectly defined six-pack looking back at him. It makes Sherlock's mouth water with need. A need to lick and memorise the abs. The photo stops just as it ends to John's cock, showing the start of his crouch but not the place where Sherlock begs to see. It shows a line of blonde hair leading up from his crouch and ends at his belly-button, a shade darker than the hair on his head. His whole body is tanned and fit. And his nipples are rosy and pleading to be teased, bitten and ravished.

Placing the phone on the bed and standing over it, he turns it back to the previous image of John's golden rear. He dashes over to the bedside table to grab the bottle of baby oil and drizzles it over his length, not caring that most of the liquid tips onto his freshly laid sheets. Rubbing it into his shaft and over the top of thighs, bollocks and stomach before running both hands lightly over his gland and down to the base of his cock before letting his right hand – his most dominant – take control and grips his cock tightly whilst the other hand runs lightly up and down his sensitive stomach.

His eyes not leaving the picture in front of him as he roughly moves his fist up and down his cock, he imagines John is actually in front of him. Arse up in the air and eagerly ready to be eaten out and then shoved in to. Although vice versa also sounds like a brilliant idea in Sherlock's mind, "Oh, fuck, yes! Give it to me, John! So big!" Sherlock shouts to himself, now with one hand braced on the bed and his body bent forward, he thrusts into his fist and places his knees on the edge of the bed.

His arm turning weak from the oncoming lust, he drops his forehead onto the bed and shoves three fingers into his mouth. Wanting it to be John's cock furiously pounding into his mouth, using him as his personal sex-toy. Moaning around his fingers as his fist around his cock twists sharply and slows before he pulls his foreskin forward to collect the pre-cum and then pulls the skin back and watching as the liquid drips slowly onto the bed. Another strong twinge of desire runs up his spine and makes his thighs shake.

He grips the base of his shaft just as his orgasm is about to approach, making him remove his fingers from his mouth and cling to the bed covers so it scrunches into his fist. His blurry eyes landing back onto the pictures of John, he thrusts gently into his loose fist as his orgasm backs down. Sweat is forming on his forehead and making his curls stick to his head and the sheet clings to his knees but it doesn't bother him in the slightest.

Moving his hand off his orgasm-denied cock, his pulls his balls forward and grunts when he releases them and they slap against his bare arse, making his prick bounce from the force. He repeats it until his balls are stinking from the pain. The fire in his veins is now almost unbearable as he takes his shaft back in hand and makes his grip almost painful but he loves every single minutes of the pain mixed in with pleasure.

"John. John. John." He chants as he rubs his thumb over the glistening head.

The force of his thrusting has resulted in the headboard of his bed to slam against the room with a deafening strike and the bottle of baby oil on his bedside table to tip over and soak the most of his bed. His fist has also gone sorely dry. Spitting into his other hand, his quickly spreads it across his length before returning to his violence, muttering John's name louder with each stroke.

"Fuck me, John, please. Right there, yes. Yes. Yes!" He moans into the covers, "That's it. Fucking use me. Fucking make me yours. Oh fuck. O-Oh yes! Yes, harder, John, harder!" He bites into the covers in an effort to quieten his commands and grunts but his orgasm is slowly coming around and the sudden need to be loud is overpowering, "John. Perfect. Mine. Harder. Brilliant. God, yes. I love yo-"

He comes with a thunderous moan, teeth biting into his lower lips to try and quieten it.

The after-shock leaves his cock sensitive as he slowly runs a fist down it to ooze out the come that's splashed onto his chest and over to the other side of the king-sex bed: impressive is the word that rings through his mind at the sight of the liquid so far away. Fighting off the shivers as he rolls onto his back and leaves his sore, over-sensitive prick alone he dreamily sighs John's name before curly up into the semen, oil and sweat covered sheets and falling asleep.

John, as always, in his dream and on his mind.