John flipped through his book, casually scanning over the words, not really paying attention to the events occurring within the pages even though he should considering he had the final test at the end of the week and he was only on the third chapter. He should have started it when they got it three weeks ago, he knew, but procrastination was a horrible habit.
Sighing, he snapped the book closed. The pages were worn and smelt like moth balls. It was odd, but perhaps that was what happened to a book that had been stored in an attic for twenty or so years. That, or because it was stuffed into the pocket of his great-grandmother's coat pocket. Either way, it didn't really matter because the fact remained the same. John was a piece of shit that never did things when he should.
Of course, he was an okay student. He got good enough grades so that his parents wouldn't pester him; he always passed in his assignments; always did his homework. True, he never did them to the best of his ability, but what could you do? The teachers never said anything to him, just gave him the B and moved on with their lives. They had more pressing matters. Like a certain dark-haired student that was constantly being bullied by Sally Donovan and Phillip Anderson.
He didn't have any friends, so no one stood up for him. John felt bad. He always felt like he should stand up for him, but what could he do? Sally practically had the whole school wrapped around her little finger, and Phillip had enough influence over the student body to have them bend in any which way direction he chose.
Still, it was unfair that Sherlock had to endure their torments.
Speak of the devils, Sally and Phillip strolled by John, hand intertwined together. They noticed John sitting on the stone wall, book bog resting beside him and beat-up book in hand. They smiled at him. The pair were nice enough to John. They occasionally invited him to sit with him when Harry deserted him to sit with Clara. They weren't bad people, really. They were just close-minded when it came to certain people.
John would often overhear them calling people freaks or something of the like. He never said anything, though. God, did it eat him up inside. John wasn't a social butterfly, but he wasn't a complete ass to think nothing of people being tormented for the mere fact they didn't fit in the cookie cutter mold. It was unfair. Nothing really was fair, to be honest. Though, certain things could be influenced, he supposed.
Sally came over to John, plopping down next to him. She snatched the book from his hand and read the title. "You still haven't finished Women in Love?" She asked with a half laugh, almost in disbelief.
John shook his head and plucked the book from her grasp and slipped it back into his bag. Sally looked over to Phillip, raising an eyebrow at the other. Phil just gave a quick roll of his eyes. "So, John," Sally said, looking over to John, "me and the rest of the kids that sit at our table are planning on heading out to the city and finding that shop Mike told us about last week. You know, the one with the best chips you've ever had."
John gave a small smile and nodded his head. He was familiar with it. He was actually the one to mention it first. Mike just said it louder, is all. He sighed and ran a hand through his hair. "I'd love to, Sally, but I've got practice after school and I have to finish this book or Mrs. Hudson will kill me. You know that." He slid down from the wall, his feet barely making a sound as they connected with the pavement.
Phillip chuckled. "It won't take that long. Mike says he knows a quick way to get there. Besides, we just want to bookmark it for later. We won't even be there for more than five minutes. I promise."
"I'd really love to, Phil," John said in a well-controlled annoyance, grabbing his bag and slinging it over his back, "but I just haven't got the time. Maybe some other time."
Phillip gave a weak "Yeah" before grabbing Sally's hand and tugging her along. Sally glanced over her shoulder, giving John a sort of sad look. She just wanted John to feel like he belonged somewhere. He never seemed to fit in with the rest of them, so maybe something like trip to London would have helped that.
She supposed not.
John hurried along, his bag hitting him rhythmically on the back. If he was late to one more practice, he was going to get a good shout from Sebastian. He was a good captain on the field, but a wretched human being. He and Jim Moriarty were like two peas in a pod. Sebastian was the muscle to Jim's brain. They were another pair that liked to tease and mock Sherlock.
It was like a horrible trend that everyone wanted in on. People every which way would snicker and shout taunts at the boy as he walked down the hall. Sherlock ignored them, keeping his chin high and his hands relaxed by his side.
John thought he was well-controlled. Things just rolled off his back. That wasn't true, though. He recalled one time after school, he caught Sherlock in an empty classroom, banging against the wall, tears flowing down his cheeks. There were cuts and bruises all over him. He looked so broken. He wasn't the kid John always saw walking around the hall, pride almost oozing off of him. Instead, he was a little kid, curled up in a ball, crying, as everything around him went to shit. He wasn't the stoic and untouchable soul John had originally thought him to be. Sherlock was….human.
Every time he saw Sherlock there on, all he could see was the side that Sherlock didn't want anyone to see. Sherlock was an incredibly adapt actor, used to schooling his features to fool others into thinking he was an emotionless robot that you could say and do anything to and nothing would change its manner. Yes, Sherlock was the very best actor John had ever seen.
He mind had trailed off. He didn't realize he almost ran into Mike until he felt a steady hand on his arm. John's head snapped to the side, his eyes clearing. "You okay there?"
John slowly nodded his head, clutching at the hem of his shirt. He forced a joking smile on his lips, assuring Mike that he was the best he could be. The other boy just laughed and clapped him on the shoulder, asking him to help him with his technique. Mike was absolute rubbish when it came to tackling and avoiding being tackled. Rugby was a rough sport, but John only did it to get his dad off his case. He knew he had to do something other than sit up in his room all day, reading books upon books.
His mother always asked him why he couldn't just read the school assigned books rather than ones on anatomy and other silly topics. John would only sigh in reply, shoving broccoli own his throat and chewing. Chewing meant avoiding conversation which was always the goal in the Watson house. He wasn't much of a chatter. Never had been, really.
"Oi, Watson! If you're just going to day dream, why don't you go and hang out with that Holmes kid? He seems like a real treat to be around," Sebastian snarled, earning a chorus of laughter. Even Mike gave a small chuckle. He knew Sherlock. They had been partners in a few chemistry projects back in their second year, but their friendship never extended more than business. Besides, Sherlock always did the work for him and allowed him to take half of the credit. It was easier that way, as he would always say.
John pursed his lips at Sebastian, but said nothing in reply. He turned back to Mike and instructed him on where it was best to grab. "The legs are the best place to avoid getting either one of you injured. Aim for there as much as you can. Now, knowing that, watch where people are. Keep moving and keep moving as swiftly as you can. Best thing you can do for now."
"You think I'm too incompetent for anything more challenging?" Mike challenged.
"I know you are," John replied sarcastically.
Mike laughed.
Practice went by more smoothly and quickly than it normally had. John guessed because Jim was in the stands and Sebastian got too sexually frustrated to handle any more time away from him. They weren't dating, necessarily. More like having episodes of fucking. That was their relationship. Fucking and bullying people they saw lesser than them.
It was nauseating, actually.
John tugged on his trousers, pushing the button through the hole. Everyone else had already left, in a rush to see if they could sneak in a quick shag with their girlfriends. People his age were horribly obsessed with sex. Not that he was exempt from this rule, but he had no one to do it with, therefore he was never in a rush to change.
He tugged on his jumper, the autumn weather rather cool for the time of year. He shivered at the thought of trekking across town in three-degree weather. Sometimes, he really wished that he had a car to avoid situations like this. Too bad his parents always asked him during the time of year where he actually wanted to walk places. He always forgot the Hell he went through.
John yelped at a voice behind him, tugging the hem of his jumper over the front of his trousers, as if he were naked. His eyes widened slightly when he saw Sherlock standing there. The dark-haired boy raised an eyebrow at him. His blue eyes ran up and down his body, picking out tidbits of information.
When he was done, he locked gazes with John. The blond blushed, dropping his hands by his sides. "Uh," he said, rubbing at the back of his head, "hi."
Sherlock gave no reply. He tilted his head to the side, staring John down. John furrowed his eyebrows at him. Why was he staring at him like that? All John could tell was that Sherlock was thoroughly giving him a run-over. His eyes flickered all over him, taking in everything they could. Was he checking him out or doing that weird (but brilliant) thing he did where he could read your whole life story by the way your eyes fluttered closed. Either way, John felt as if he were stark naked in front of him.
There it was again. The flash of seeing Sherlock broken and bloodied. He could tell exactly where the tears left trails against his skin. Where the cuts had been, how big the bruises were. He looked flawless; untouched. John could hardly believe it was the same kid. Sherlock was confusing. If everything was so Hell-ish, why endure it every day? Why sit through the pain? What was the point?
Sherlock sighed, tugging at a dangling strand of hair. He tucked it back into place before shoving his hands into his coat pockets. "I suppose you wish to know why I am here, yes?" His voice sent a cold shiver down John's spine. He had never heard it before. It sounded like it could turn any girl's (or boy's) knees to jelly. It was deep and shook your chest, vibrating down to your stomach. It was…..beautiful, to say the least.
John soon realized he hadn't replied. He squeezed his hands into fists and held them behind his back. "I think that perhaps in answer is in store, yes."
"Too bad."
"Wh-what?" John's eyebrows shot up. Typically, people didn't do things like that. Then again, Sherlock wasn't people.
"I said too bad. Meaning—"
"Yes, I got that bit."
Sherlock and John stood in silence, staring at one another. Sherlock with his hands in his pockets and long coat draped around him like a cape; John with confusion and slight annoyance on his face, hair still mussed from pulling his jumper over his sweaty head. The silence between them was thick and slightly awkward. John shifted from one foot to the other, smoothing down his hair. Sherlock made no move other than a normal rise and fall of his chest.
"I'll just, uh….go, I suppose," John muttered quietly. He grabbed his bag and walked past Sherlock, brushing by his coat on his way out the door.
The door closed behind him with a small click. He sighed and reached into his pocket for his phone. He knitted his eyebrows together in confusion. He threw his bag to the floor and opened it up. He pushed textbooks and notebooks bursting with loose papers. He looked through every pocket before he let out an annoyed sigh. He had left it back in his locker. He just closed it before even checking. John blamed it on Sherlock. He made him forget to grab it before he left.
Groaning, he zipped up his bag and placed it on a nearby bench. He walked over to the door and pushed it open. It slid open silently, as it normally did. He was glad for that. He didn't want Sherlock to know he came back in. That would most likely be another awkward affair.
He opened his locker and grabbed his mobile. It was cool to the touch. John smiled down at it, checking the time. Due to their practice being cut short, he would be leaving the school about now.
It was supposed to be a quick pop in and get out just to grab his mobile. That was it. He had reached the door, his hand on the knob when he heard the first sniffle. It was soft, but he definitely heard it.
John closed his eyes. No, John. Just walk out. Don't get involved. He won't like it. But, honestly, how could he? At the very least, he could just check up on Sherlock.
Yes, he'll just see what the matter was. In complete honesty, it was probably just Sherlock crying over a healing bruise or something of the sort. It wouldn't be anything more than that. No, it wouldn't.
John padded over to the row of lockers and peered around. Sherlock stood in front of the sinks, his arm under a stream of running water, his coat neatly placed on a bench behind him. His hair fell in front of his face, blocking Jon's view of his eyes, but he could tell from the faint line of tears that he was crying. John bit his lip. Why would Sherlock be cleaning a fading bruise?
The answer was simple. It was because he wasn't. It wasn't even an old cut. People don't clean old wounds.
It was new.
And, from what John could tell, it was a fairly bad one at that.
He walked around to the side where Sherlock was. The other boy heard him and his snapped to the side. He pulled his arm back and he hid it behind his back. A cold, stony expression came over his face. His eyes hardened and his mouth set it a straight line. "What are you still doing here? I thought you had left."
"I forgot my mobile."
"Have you got it?"
John nodded.
"Then leave."
John shook his head. "No, I don't want to. Besides, you need me."
Sherlock scoffed, raising an eyebrow at him, inviting him to explain himself.
The blond looked down at his feet. "I spend a lot of time pouring over medical books. I want to be a doctor when I grow up. So, I know what to do to treat an injury. Running it under water won't do."
Sherlock scowled at him. How dare he say things to him? Why couldn't people just leave him alone instead of constantly teasing him? "I don't want you help," he spat, pressing his arm harder against his back. John was seriously pissing him off. He just wanted to be left alone, so why couldn't people just get that through their stupid, little brains?
John looked at Sherlock sadly. There wasn't pity in his eyes, only understanding. Sherlock wasn't one to want the aid of those he saw as a threat. Which, from what John could tell, was everyone. All he had known was the teasing and bullying of his peers. Anyone would be distrustful. John understood that much.
He held his hand out, assuring Sherlock as best he could that he didn't want to hurt him. "Just….let me help you."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "Why should I trust you? You're on the same team of the people who did this to me," he snarled, thrusting out his arm forward. A long, shallow cut ran along the underside of Sherlock's arm, blood running down the skin slowly. Small, black marks surrounded and were burned into the wound. John winced at it. Cigarette burns. He knew what happened. Sherlock's arm shook with anger. Or from fear. Or from pain, John couldn't tell. All he knew was that Sherlock's façade was cracking.
"I'm not like them. I would never do that to you. I have some decency. Please. Let me help you." John looked up into Sherlock's big, wet eyes. The dark-haired boy stared back for a moment before he dropped his gaze. He nodded his head.
John let out a sigh of relief and instructed Sherlock to sit. He turned and walked over to the small First Aid kit in the corner. He grabbed it and carried it over to Sherlock. Slowly, he sank down next to him, placing the box neatly on his lap. He opened it up and placed gloves on his hands. Sherlock looked at him, a question in his eyes. "This needs to be addressed immediately. No time for me to wash my hands." He pulled out a small package of anti-alcohol wipes and held Sherlock's arm in his hand. He lightly ran the wipe over the cut, trying his best to clean it.
Sherlock winced occasionally, but he made no move to yank his arm away from John. Every now and then, he would give a tiny sniffle. He watched intently as John cleaned the wound. No one had ever really shown him this much tender care. Mycroft had his own twisted way of showing love, but he doubted he would do so much as to give Sherlock a bandage to cover it with.
John wrapped a clean bandage around Sherlock's arm, having done his best to treat the burns and clean the cut as best he could. "You'll need to have a professional look at that." John was silent a moment, tightening the sterile dressing. He glanced up at Sherlock. "Come on, my parents can give you a lift." John stood up, tugging Sherlock up with him.
"I have my own parents," Sherlock replied, his hand clutching at his coat.
"Yes, but I am sure I live closer."
Sherlock shook his head. "I live two streets away. You live all the way across town. I live closer."
John gave a dejected "oh" and dropped his hand from Sherlock's arm. He shoved his hands in his pockets and stared down at his feet. "Well, if that's the case, you best be off. The sooner that is addressed, the better." John picked his head, giving Sherlock a half-smile.
The taller boy gave a weak smile in return.
"Be sure to tell your parents about that. Next time I see you, I'll be asking about it. And, don't think you can just weasel out of it, either." John wasn't entirely sure why he was showing so much concern for Sherlock. His best guess was his natural compassion. Doctors were supposed to be compassionate, even if it is only a little. Otherwise, what was the point into going into such a profession?
"I'll be certain to tell you all about it, then."
John gave a curt nod of his head, a tiny wave of his hand, and he walked away. He pushed open the door and grabbed his bag, then walked out of the school. The sun had set a few minutes prior. "Looks like I'm walking home in the dark," he grumbled. He pulled at his jumper, wrapping it tighter around him and started trudging towards his house.
John smiled as Sally, Mike, and Phillip raddled on about some nutter they saw on the way to get their chips. John was only half paying attention, though. He really didn't care about some guy that they saw on the streets. All they were doing was making fun of him. John groaned inwardly occasionally when he heard a word or two from their conversation. The people he hung out with….
John heard Sally snort, almost as if she saw a rather disgusting person. When John glanced up at her, he caught the annoyed expression on her and Phillip's face and the uneasy one of Mike's. He pulled his eyebrows together and followed their gaze.
Sherlock stood a few steps away from them, books held lazily in one hand and his other hanging loose by his side. He glared at Sally and Phillip, looked indifferent to Mike, before finally landing on John. His eyes flickered slightly. Jesus, he's going to think that I'm just another one of these twats, isn't he?
Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Perhaps you should keep better company."
Sally scoffed at him, looking between the two, ignoring the light blush creeping across John's cheeks as he looked down at his feet, slightly ashamed. "Whoever he hangs with is his business, freak. So, why don't you just toddle off and bother some other people. None of us are in the mood to deal with your shit so early in the morning."
Sherlock gave a tight and very fake smile to Sally, walking closer to her. "I'll speak to whomever I wish, Donovan. Why don't you go suck off Anderson and put your mouth to good use for once."
He smirked at her before pushing past, shoving between Phillip and her. Sally stared at him, bug-eyed and mouth open. Phillip had to hide back the small chuckle and hopeful look in his eyes. God, was sex all he could think about? Apparently so.
John thought Sherlock was bold for saying that, though. Sally already hated his guts and everyone knew she could tear apart anyone with just a whispered rumor in the toilets. Then again, Sherlock had nothing to lose, right?
John noticed the white bandage around his arm. He smiled at it. So he had done as John had advised. Good to know some people listened to him. Now, John only wished people would leave him alone. Despite his oddities, Sherlock wasn't a bad guy. He just wanted to fit in.
"I'll have to catch up with you guys later. Phil and I have got to get to class or else Hudson will pitch a fucking fit," Sally spat, grabbing Phillip's arm and tugging him after her.
That left John and Mike. They stood still for a moment, unsure of what to do. They both had free periods and usually walked Sally and Phillip to class before heading to wherever they felt like going that day.
"I'm going to go talk to Sebastian about practice."
"We haven't got it today, though."
"I know," Mike laughed, a bit embarrassed, "but I suck and I wanted to get as many extra practices in as I can. Plus, yesterday we were cut short, so I just want to make it up."
John nodded his head, waving Mike away.
Mike grinned and clapped John on the back. "Thanks, mate! We can hang out after school or something!"
"Yeah," John replied weakly. He didn't like being alone. Well, he didn't like being alone in school. It was awkward to wander around the halls with nowhere to go. He never had much interest in being a TA, so he was free for the first three periods of school. It was technically against the rules, but he managed to persuade the head teacher into allowing it somehow.
John found himself sitting outside on a bench, flipping through the book he had to finish for the end of the week. He didn't look up when someone sat next to him, assuming it was Mike. "That was quick. What did Sebastian say to your extra sessions?"
There was a low chuckle. Mike neither had a low voice nor the ability to chuckle. John looked over and nearly jumped out of his skin.
Sherlock was mere inches from him, a soft smile on his lips. Dark hair was mused and a split lip allowed a tiny trickle of blood.
John groaned at the sight. Again? Seems like all this kid do was run into bullies. It was exhausting. "Really, Sherlock? Who beat you up this time?" John asked, reaching into his pocket for a tissue to wipe the blood away with.
"Sebastian, as a matter of fact. Your friend Mike was there. He stood there, wringing his hands like an idiot." Sherlock rolled his eyes.
John normally would stick up for Mike, but he didn't have the energy to waste. He just sighed and wiped at Sherlock's mouth.
"He isn't a bad person, though."
John looked up at Sherlock surprised.
"He isn't. He's sort of like you, except you're clever. He allows himself to be pushed around by people who don't deserve his time simply for the fact they don't make fun of him and make him feel like he fits in. Mike was never anything special, nor will he ever. This is his time to finally fit in, as fleeting as it is."
"Did you ever fit in?"
Sherlock smiled softly, shaking his head. "No."
John dropped his hand, crumpling the reddened tissue in his hand. Sherlock stared at him like he was the only thing to look at. And, funny thing, John stared back.
He swallowed the lump in his throat. Sherlock was the only thing he could focus on—the only thing he wanted to focus on. He never noticed before, but Sherlock's eyes were probably the prettiest thing he had ever seen. His splash of dark hair against his light skin was absolutely alluring. His cheekbones were perfectly sculpted and placed neatly on his face. But, his lips were the best bit. Christ, his Cupid's bow was….amazing.
Sherlock watched as John's eyes slowly trailed across his face. He raised his hand to cup John's cheek. The other boy gasped, locking gazes with Sherlock. Everything went still around them, the world spinning at the speed of light and the place they sat was the only still area. Nothing else mattered; it was blurred and they were the only things in focus.
Sherlock leaned forward, connecting their lips. John's were soft and warm against his own. He tilted his head to the right, their noses lightly brushing against each other.
John melted into Sherlock's touch, a small noise escaping his lips. His hands gently grabbed at the fabric of Sherlock's impossibly fitted purple shirt. John's eyes were gently pressed together, allowing him to just feel the kiss. His heart pounded loudly in his ears and his mind buzzed with a million thoughts.
Their knees hit each other as Sherlock shifted to face John.
John's eyes snapped open as his mind finally caught up to his actions. His hands, which were clutching at Sherlock's shirt affectionately, pushed him away.
Their lips detached with an audible pop. Sherlock's eyes opened suddenly. He stared at John who stood up, his hand clutching one strap of his bag. Sherlock tilted his head, confused.
"Just…..please don't," John said in between pants. He turned on his heel and hurried off in the opposite direction. He shoved his bag onto his back and refused to look back. His cheeks burned with an embarrassed blush. He was so stupid! How could he just let Sherlock kiss him like that? And, moreover, what gave him the right to kiss him? John was nice to him once, sure, but why did that mean Sherlock could just kiss him like that?
He hated it. He hated it. He hated it! It was….good. God, it was the best kiss John had ever had in his entire life. He was ashamed to admit it, but it was true. Sherlock wasn't a bad kisser….
And, he was definitely not going to mention that to anyone. Nor is he going to talk to Sherlock ever again. Or, at least, until he could figure out exactly what made him so keen to kiss Sherlock back. Did he actually want to kiss the annoying twat?
He shuddered at the thought. He wasn't gay. He was most certainly not gay.
Yeah, keep telling yourself that.
Shut up.
John walked down the abandoned halls of the school. He stayed after to tutor an underclassman on biology. The girl was really sweet and talked nervously about how she wanted to be a doctor when she grew up. John advised for her to work in a morgue. "No one blames you for any deaths," he joked, bumping her on the shoulder. She giggled at that, furiously scribbling down the notes John wrote down for her.
He adjusted his jacket, buttoning it up for his walk home. His parents had gone out of town for the long weekend, having left earlier that day, if what they told him the other day was a reliable source.
John looked up, passing by empty classroom after empty classroom. The building was silent. John liked the quiet. It was much better than the busy bustling sound of kids rushing to get to their next class or lounging in the middle of the hall, testing John's patience.
He had to hold back a groan at the thought of it.
A hand reached out and grabbed the back of his collar. His eyes widened and he let out a weak yelp. His life suddenly flashed in front of his eyes. What to follow was unknown—he could get murdered, raped, or perhaps it was just a prank Sebastian wanted to pull on him. He was known to do that, especially after rugby ended and he got terribly bored.
He certainly did not expect to see a pair of blue eyes staring back at him. John took a step back and looked at the person responsible for abducting him, pulling him into an empty classroom. He raised an eyebrow at Sherlock. "What do you want?" He asked.
Sherlock let out an annoyed huff, adjusting the front of his shirt. John noticed it was different from what he usually wore. It was actually a normal sweatshirt. Plain, but it was different from his normal button-down getup.
"I wish to speak with you. You've been pointedly avoiding me for months." Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John.
John rolled his eyes. "I'm missing your point. Why should I care?"
"My point is that ever since I kissed you, you haven't spoken a word to me. Not one."
"Not true. I still helped you clean yourself up after someone ragged on you."
"Sure, but you never said anything to me. It's bothered me. The last time we saw each other was several months ago, after your last rugby practice. Thereon, I have not seen you."
John shrugged his shoulders and looked away. Why should he care, anyway? Sherlock wasn't his friend or anything. He was just someone John thought needed help, so he helped him. That was all Sherlock was. A kid John helped.
Something inside of John disagreed with that. Every time John thought of Sherlock, John would feel this nagging tug in his gut. He always refused to believe he had anything more than a professional interest in Sherlock. But, that feeling would always ebb on and on, telling him he really felt otherwise.
Christ, he was like a teenage girl that was horribly desperate to find the perfect boy to snuggle up to. It was embarrassing, actually.
Sherlock grunted and rolled his eyes at John. "Stop being childish, John." He walked over to John, standing incredibly close to him. John shrank back, flattening himself against the wall. Sherlock stared down at him, his gaze cold and calculating. This was all just a game of chess. Make the right moves and you're the leader of the board, no way for your opponent to escape your grasp.
John turned his head away from Sherlock's gaze, his cheeks flushing a dark color.
Sherlock placed a finger against John's cheek, turning his face to face him. His lips were parted, his breaths coming out shakily. John was all that was on his mind for months on time. He often thought of how John's careful hands tended to his cuts and bruises. His look of concentration and understanding whenever Sherlock arrived, not needing to ask for help. John just knew.
Sherlock licked his lips, looking deep into John's blue eyes. They were a deeper and more consistent color of blue than his own. They spoke so many more emotions than Sherlock could read. There was confusion and hesitation. Conflicted between pushing Sherlock away and storming away, avoiding him for the remaining weeks before school ended or grabbing him by the front and crushing their mouths together.
Sherlock honestly prayed for the latter.
His other arm rested against the wall just above John's head. He leaned his head forward, leaving only a centimeter between their lips. He looked at John. John looked back. His eyebrows were drawn together.
"Sherlock, I don't think we should…."
"And, pray tell, is that?"
"I…." John trailed off. He couldn't think of a reason. He wanted to so badly, but what if this only made it worse off for Sherlock? What if, what if, what if?
Sherlock smirked down at John. "That's what I thought." He pressed his lips gently against John's. It was just a moment, but John could feel heat rush throughout his body. He let out a tiny whimper.
Sherlock's arm slid down to rest at John's hip. His hand burned against John's skin, tiny threads of fire burned lines along his side. John gasped at the feeling. "She-Sherlock," he said, clenching his hands into fists. "We really shouldn't."
Sherlock grunted, taking John's chin into his grasp. "That's bullshit, John, and you know it. You want this as badly as I do, so what's holding you back?"
"You."
Sherlock's face went blank. He stared at John in utter confusion.
"If anyone finds out, they'll shame me, but they'll only further torment you. Things will only get worse."
"Or," Sherlock interjected, "they'll realize what dicks they were and come crawling on their knees for forgiveness. Naturally, their feeble attempts shall be rejected and they will have no choice other than to face the consequences of their actions. Basically," Sherlock said, lowering his head to John's, "don't worry about me."
John's breath hitched in his throat. He bit his lip, feeling a tightening in his chest and other places. Sherlock was actually seducing him. Into what, though? A kiss? A relationship? Sex? Sherlock never fit in anywhere, which would banish the possibility of the latter occurring. He just had to be a virgin.
"What do you want, then?"
Sherlock gave a pouty look, looking down to stare at the ground. "I just thought that perhaps we could talk."
"Talk?"
Sherlock nodded his head. "Talk. About….things. Us, namely. Where do we stand?"
"In Mr. Begley's room."
Sherlock smirked at him. "Cute," he murmured, moving impossibly closer to John. "I mean, where do we stand relationship-wise? What do you want?"
I want you in every sense of the word, John thought to himself. He couldn't say that out loud, that would be too embarrassing. He hoped that Sherlock could read it in his face. He prayed that Sherlock would be able to use those gifted eyes of his to tell how much John just wanted to—
His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock crushing their lips together. John's eyes widened in surprise. His body tensed with the sudden intrusion. Soon, he relaxed, his arms slipping to wrap around Sherlock's neck. He tugged at the collar of Sherlock's sweatshirt, the inside feeling relatively new. John rubbed the fabric against his fingers. It was soft and warm.
Their mouths moved fluidly together, despite only having kissed once and it only lasted for a few seconds. It didn't seem to matter, though. They fit together like puzzle pieces, one useless without the other—at least, their purposes unclear without one another.
Sherlock pressed their hips together, giving a small rock against John.
John moaned at the feeling, tugging Sherlock closer to him. John gasped when Sherlock ran his tongue along the seam of his mouth. He allowed the taller boy to slip his tongue in, feeling Sherlock's tongue trace over everything it could.
Sherlock rubbed at John's teeth, rubbing over his gums, and gliding over the roof of his mouth. He finally ran his tongue over John's, rubbing them together and moaning at the taste of the other.
John pulled back, a thread of saliva strung between their mouths. Sherlock opened his eyes and looked down at John, his eyes half-lidded. John bit his lip and moaned at the look Sherlock was giving him. "I think we should get in a more comfortable position. Standing grows tiresome after a while."
Sherlock nodded his head, kissing John hard on the lips before holding him tightly by the hips and pulling him down after him.
The pair sat on the ground, John straddling Sherlock's hips, and their mouths sliding against one another. John had his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, holding it in place as he turned his head from one side to the other, their noses occasionally brushing together. Sherlock slowly thirsted up into John, smirking at the small noises it elicited from John.
John made the best noises. The tiny grunts and moans. The soft whimpers and whines for more friction. It was music to Sherlock's ears.
John had pushed Sherlock onto his back so that he lay flat against the ground. Sherlock grinned up at him. John shook his head, his hand flat against Sherlock's chest. He slowly rolled his hips, moaning and tugging his bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock was an absolute mess beneath him. His hands were barely touching John's arms, his head was thrown back and delicious gasps of pleasure poured from his mouth in that sweet baritone of his.
John smirked, drunk with the power he held over him. Sherlock was such a sweet and innocent boy, John almost felt guilty for allowing himself to soil such a sweet and tender mind.
Almost.
He tipped his own head back, chin held up high in the air. He panted, bunching up the fabric of Sherlock's sweatshirt in his fist and tugged. He gave slow and drawn-out waves of his hips, rubbing their hard cocks together at a painfully slow rate. John was about to go crazy from the pressure build deep in his gut. He could tell Sherlock needed it, too.
John reached forward, undoing the button on his trousers and dragging his zipper down at a sluggish rate. The feel of the fabric tugging at the exact place he needed it to was amazing. He huffed and puffed, looking down on Sherlock's flushed red face.
Sherlock's hand was shoved into his dark curls and he was abusing his follicles. He yanked at his hair, moans spilling from him like the filthy whore he was.
John blinked, a bit surprised at his own thoughts. Perhaps he should tone it down a bit on the dirty talk. That could probably wait for a later time.
Sherlock cracked open one eye, staring at the way John's trousers hung low and loose on John's hips. He reached down, pulling the button through the hole and yanking his zipper down.
John watched him, his pupils blown and greedy to capture as much movement as they could. Sherlock was so fucking perfect. Everything about him just screamed it. His fucking voice was like that first bite of food after not eating all day. His hair was an absolute mess, all curls and no order. Sherlock was just everything and more. It drove John absolutely mental.
He placed his hand above Sherlock's waist. Their eyes met and Sherlock gave a tiny nod. John smirked and slid down, resting between Sherlock's legs. He pulled down Sherlock's trousers, releasing a tad bit of the pressure on his straining cock. John could see a bit of wetness at the front of his underwear.
John licked his lips and leaned down, mouthing at the outline of Sherlock. The taller boy let out a cracking groan, arching his back off of the ground. John smirked, his tongue following the line of Sherlock's cock, stopping to suck on the head.
Sherlock's voice was already completely wrecked. He reached down and pulled at John's hair, the strands soft to touch. His fingers spread out, feeling the softness of his hair. John felt so nice against his skin. Sherlock's eyes closed, the feelings becoming slightly more prominent.
John took the waistband of Sherlock's underwear into his mouth and pulled it down. Sherlock's relieved breath came out in a big gust, his chest giving a slight shudder as it fell. Sherlock's cock sprang free of its confines. John's eyes widened slightly at the sight of it.
Holy shit, he's fucking huge.
John took a deep breath through his nose and hoisted himself onto his hands and knees. He hovered over Sherlock, tentatively licking at the head. Sherlock's leg gave a twitch.
John flattened his tongue against the side of Sherlock's cock, dragging it up and down. He licked away the pre-cum leaking from Sherlock's prick. He hummed at the taste, licking his lips. He smirked up at Sherlock and took him into his mouth.
"John," cried Sherlock, fisting a good chunk of John's hair in his hand. His back arched off the ground in an impressive curve. John moaned, the vibrations sending a shiver down Sherlock's spine. Sherlock was such a perfect and beautiful person. How he could have avoided fucking him for so long was beyond him. He must have had rock solid self-control. Key word being had.
Sherlock was all his and he would be damned if he was going to give him up. No, Sherlock was his guilty pleasure—his addiction.
John's head bobbed up and down rhythmically, taking in a little bit more of Sherlock with each downward motion. He felt Sherlock's cock hit the back of his throat and he swallowed around him. Sherlock moaned loudly, throwing his head to the side. John pulled back, dragging his teeth lightly against the surface. Sherlock bit his lip at the sensation, his hands clenching and unclenching several times.
When John pulled away fully, a long string of saliva hung from his mouth. He smiled up at Sherlock, chuckling at the flaming red blush overtaking the other's face.
John's own face was a picture of post-sex glowing, despite them not actually having sex quite yet. His hair was mussed to hell, his cheeks darkly painted with the crimson color to match Sherlock, and his skin seemed to radiate.
Sherlock honestly thought he was going to be the one taking control in the situation, but wind John up and watch him go, he swore. He laughed, covering his face with his hands.
John cocked his head to the side, curious as to what was so funny. He poked Sherlock in the belly, demanding an explanation. Sherlock only shook his head and pulled John atop of him. He smiled at him, pecking him on the nose. John pressed his eyes closed, smiling softly at him.
Sherlock lazily rolled them over, so that John was pinned beneath him. John stared up at Sherlock expectantly. "Are you just going to wonder at my endless beauty or are you going to actually do something?" The blond teased. Sherlock smirked at him, his teeth standing out against the darkened room.
He ducked down his head and kissed John lightly on the forehead. Then, on the nose, then on the lips. He smiled at John, tilting his head to the side. His hand crawled towards his trousers and dug around in the pockets until he felt a small packet. He pulled it out and glanced down at it.
John glanced at it, blushing wildly. Oh God, it was actually happening. John was unsure of whether he should be ecstatic or nervous. This wasn't his first time having sex, but it definitely was the first time he would be on the receiving end of it. To be honest, it was all a bit overwhelming.
Sherlock placed the packet in his mouth and ripped off the top half, a bit of the gel squirting into his mouth. He made a funny face at the texture and shook his head, his curls bouncing around erratically. John only laughed.
John yanked down his trousers and tossed them alongside his underwear to the side. He looked up at Sherlock, biting his lip invitingly. "What's the matter? Cat got your tongue?"
"Hush you," Sherlock muttered, squirting a bit onto his fingers and rubbing it all over. He kissed John tenderly on the lips. He moved his first finger in slow, lazy circles around John's entrance. He waited until John was completely relaxed to push in the first finger. John moaned at the feeling. There was a slight discomfort, but nothing more.
Sherlock pressed forward, his finger sliding in with ease. Sherlock moved it in small circles, stretching the muscle. John pushed down on his hand, so he added another finger. John bit his lip and clawed at the ground beneath him. Sherlock curled his fingers, searching for that sweet spot.
Sherlock was entirely familiar with human anatomy and how everything worked. He knew what most likely feel good and what would feel less than pleasurable. For example, due to the fact that the prostate was a bundle of nerves that, when a male was sexually excited, it would feel pretty good when brushed against. This theory was only proven true when a long, low, and drawn-out moan forced its way out of John's throat.
"Ri-right there, Sherlock. That's the sp-spot," he panted, moving his hips in small circles to get Sherlock to make him feel good again. Sherlock smirked at him, retracting his hand away from John.
The blond gave a whimper at the loss. He watched as Sherlock dumped the rest of the lube onto his hand and spread it across his aching cock.
Sherlock was so huge. John felt like he was going to get the best fucking in his entire life. Despite most likely being a virgin, Sherlock was no idiot, therefor he would have even the most basic knowledge of sexual intercourse. He would know how to move and when to move. How to make John beg to be rammed into again and again until he couldn't walk proper for a whole week. Sherlock was inexperienced, but he was a natural at this.
Sherlock held John by the hips, lining himself up to John. He sighed in relief when he began pushing into John. His head tipped backwards. He went in even more easily than he had before. "Don't tell me you fuck yourself with your own fingers."
John chuckled lowly. "Only sometimes," he replied, his hand pulling Sherlock's ear by his mouth. "The rest of the time, I use a variety of toys."
Sherlock shivered, his hips connecting with the back of John's thighs softly. He placed his forehead against John's chest, waiting for the go. John moaned, running his hand though Sherlock's impossibly curly hair. He let out a hoarse whisper of approval and Sherlock complied.
He pulled his hips backwards, sluggishly sliding back in. He rocked his hips, back and forth at a steady and slow rate.
John tossed his head to the side, his hair sticking to the side of his face from his sweat. Sherlock felt amazing. Christ did he feel great. He whimpered, whining for Sherlock to move quicker which only caused him to move slower. John was convinced he was trying to kill him.
Suddenly, Sherlock's hips snapped forward. John's eyes widened and his mouth fell open. Sherlock slammed himself against John again and again. Sweat rolled down his back, causing his sweatshirt to stick to his back.
They panted together, their hands running over the floor until they found each other and intertwined.
Sherlock pulled his bottom lip between his teeth and gnawed at the tender flesh. He muttered John's name along with a colorful variety of curse words.
Sherlock looked up at John, his eyes half-lidded. John looked back at him, his eyebrows drawn together. Their lips connected, tongues dancing together as Sherlock gave his last few shaky thrusts, spilling into John.
John, who was never far behind, came soon after Sherlock. Tendrils of sweet sensations shot through his body, leaving him foggy minded and limp limbed.
Sherlock fell on top of John, their skin hot and sticky. Sherlock planted a sloppy kiss to John's lips, not caring much for how good it was, just wishing to convey all the emotions he could through one, small gesture.
He rolled onto his back, his arm resting on John's chest. For a moment, they lay there, panting and staring up at the ceiling. Sherlock watched the light fixtures sway softly in the air whilst John stared into space.
Finally, Sherlock leaned on his elbow and looked over to John. "So, we're dating, right?"
John snorted, covering his face with his hand and grinning as wide as he could.
Sally, Phillip, and Mike stood off near Sally's locker as she gathered her books for the day. Her mouth was set in a pout and her shoulders were tense. Where the fuck was John? They always walked together in the morning, every morning. John was never sick, so she was certain it wasn't that. Plus, John was too much of a wuss to skip school.
Phillip straightened up, his eyes staring straight ahead like a bloodhound. Sally followed his gaze and found John standing in the middle of the hall, snogging on Sherlock Holmes whose hand was raised and his middle finger the only one left standing. She could see Sherlock looking over at her, a cocky smirk on his lips. "That bastard," she snarled, slamming her locker shut and storming away, Phillip quickly tailing after her.
Mike stayed for a little longer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his lips. "Good on you, mate," he said in a quiet voice before following after Sally and Phillip.
John drew away from Sherlock, grinning up at him. "Haven't you got classes or something to be heading off to?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I have the first half of the day class-free."
"Why don't you just stay home, then?"
"Why, for the simple fact that I wouldn't be able to see you bleary eyed and grumpy, not entirely ready to take on the day."
John rolled his eyes and shoved at Sherlock. "Maybe you can see that as the first thing you wake up to."
"Okay."
John looked at Sherlock. He chuckled lowly, placing another kiss to Sherlock's lips. "I'm royally fucked when it comes to you, aren't I?"
Sherlock stuck out his bottom lip, thinking for a moment. "Only if you call me—"
John placed his finger to Sherlock's lips. "I will not be calling you 'your majesty' or anything of that sort….Daddy," John purred, turning around and walking down the hall, his hips swaying dramatically from side to side.
Sherlock blinked at him, his mouth hanging open, and his trousers tightening slightly. "I think I've just found my new favorite kink," he whispered to himself, hurrying after John.