Some warnings:

1 - English is not my native language.

2 - First chapter is the biggest of all. It's about half of the fic.

3 - Johnlock. Lots of Johnlock.

4 - I use this as a prompt on omegle.

5 - Reviews are very welcomed (is this even a warning?)

Chapter 1 - Bruises

Arms and legs, all over two bodies.

The young John Watson cupped the other boy's face, his strong hands caressing the line of Sherlock's jaws with tenderness and affection, despite the fact that he was pressing the thin body against the wall. Sherlock, a bit taller, moaned when he felt John's lips biting his long neck. His hands pulled the school's uniform shirt from the shorter boy's trousers so he could touch the burning tanned skin of the rubgy captain. His long fingers pressed the hipbones (or hip muscles?) as he felt the bulge against in his leg. With some experience, Sherlock moved his hips in the exact spot, making their arousal rub against each other through the fabric of pants and trousers. John moaned and rushed to unbutton him, shirt and everything else. Soon, Sherlock was completely naked, pressed against a wall, with his pale marble skin gaining a few reddish spots where John's hands pressed and his lips sucked, always slightly.

Sherlock pushed John with him to one of the beds of the dorm, where he pinned the older and stronger boy, holding his hands above his head. He kissed him, playing with his tongue, dancing in his mouth, making him hum and twitch. John opened his eyes when Sherlock stopped the kiss to strip him naked.

John was paying attention to Sherlock's skilled fingers undoing his shirt when he saw a detail with the corner of the eye. He moved his sight to Sherlock's neck, where he saw a purplish bruise.

Not good. Though John, getting distracted by it. He hates to have marks. It makes him remember of his past.

But when did he do that? He never left hickeys on Sherlock before. Not after they started the relationship. He couldn't have done it now, he hadn't sucked that spot. Or had he? Well, certainly not that hard, the bruise was big and John was not even sure he'd be able to do it. Even Sherlock being so pale.

"You're distracted." Said Sherlock, making John blink back to reality. "I have to punish you."

John closed his eyes as he felt Sherlock crawling down to his waist. His long fingers drew a soft line from John's chest muscles till his hipbones, where they stopped before the waistband of his pants, the last piece of cloth left. Sherlock palmed his erection through the fabric, moving it so that only the head appeared above the waistband. And without touching the rest, he licked it, his tongue drawing small circles around it, giving a special attention to the slit.

John cocked his head back, pulling the sheets, his legs opening involuntarily. "Sherlock, please." He begged, but for about a minute, Sherlock kept the same movement, and only when John was dropping the precum, he pulled his pants down, grabbing the shaft of his cock.

"You like it, John?"

John was going to nod, but instead he suddenly cocked his head back again, arching his body, when Sherlock swallowed him down. John could feel his cock getting warmer in the younger boy's mouth, rubbing against his inner cheek, being sucked, his tongue on some sensitive veins and spots. The boy's hand stroked the base, that he wasn't able to cover with his mouth. John was being pumped by mouth and hand, and after about three minutes, he felt near the edge.

"Sherlock, stop it, please…"

Sherlock smirked at him and forced him to open his legs a bit more. John didn't offer resistance, spreading his leg open as much as he could. Sherlock raised the boy's hips a little, and John felt a shiver through his body when Sherlock's tongue was caressing and watering his entrance. The feeling was unbelievable good. Sherlock licked him and then blew in the same area, making him moan at the warmth in contrast with the cold of the damp skin being blew.

John moved his hand to stroke himself, so near the edge. But Sherlock held his wrist. "I wanna make you come just like this." He said. And John obeyed, whining a little. He knew Sherlock could do it. He knew Sherlock could do whatever he wanted. And the thought of how he had learned that didn't even cross his mind. He simply arched his body and his mind went a blank state when Sherlock entered his arse with about an inch of his tongue. He moved it inside, making John's cock let a trail of precum in his own belly, begging to be touched. But John still didn't.

Sherlock still licked John, pulling his tongue in and out, until he decided it was time to penetrate him with his finger. He raised his hand to John's mouth, making him suck it. "Lick it right, it's gonna be the only lubrication." He said with a smirk.

And John obeyed, he always obeyed. When Sherlock's fingers were lubricated enough, he circled around John's entrance and then finally forced his way in. John remained still, relaxing, getting used, and moaned when Sherlock moved inside, avoiding his prostate.

"Oh, please, Sherlock, I need to come, please…"

His cock was so hard it was aching. A few strokes would be enough. But Sherlock didn't let him. He kept fucking his ass with one finger, avoiding the spot that he knew so well. His eyes were focused on the action, watching his forefinger disappear inside of John, his muscles clenching around it. "You wanna come, John?" he asked, with an evil smile.

"Yes, please! Please, Sherlock!"

"You'll come…" he said, and moved his finger inside of him, bending it a little. "Now.". And started to stroke his prostate with no mercy. John arched and didn't moan, because no sound came out of his open mouth as he came in long spurts all over his belly, chest and chin. Sherlock only stopped pumping his finger against John's prostate in the last spurt. Then he crawled up, licking the trail of cum that he had done, from his belly to the chin, and with it in his mouth, he kissed John.

At the end of it, John was panting, exhausted, his mouth opened and Sherlock resting his head on his chest.

"You're still hard." Said John, after a few moments recovering. "What do you want me to do?"

Sherlock looked down at his erected cock and thought about it. Fucking John was out of question, the boy was still sensitive after coming. Being fucked either, at least for fifteen minutes. So Sherlock raised himself, kneeling in the bed, and put one leg at each side of John, sitting on his chest, his cock right in his face. "Like this I'll come in your mouth." He said.

John nodded and started pumping the boy's cock. He caressed the taller boy's thighs, grabbing his arse while he sucked the head of his deliciously wet cock. He opened his eyes to look up at Sherlock's expression. He loved the face he did without knowing it. His lips trembling slightly and his eyes so focused on seeing John swallowing him.

And John saw it again. The bruise, or hickey, whatever it was, wasn't exactly on the neck, or he'd have seen before. It was in his collarbones. Purplish, but a bit yellow on the edges. It was old then. But not older than 3 days, the last time they had sex, and John was sure he didn't have the bruise by then.

"What are you looking at?" asked Sherlock, when he noticed John getting distracted again. His hand was raised to the bruise, almost instinctively. So he knew about it.

"Suck me John." He ordered, covering the bruise with his palm.

John got even more confused. A lot of thoughts crossed his mind, but he pushed them away. It was not the time to think, it was time to make Sherlock scream and melt in his mouth. And he did.

Sherlock took about 10 minutes to come straight into John's throat, and John happily swallowed him. The two boys cuddled after that, tired, relaxed, still enjoying the orgasms each one had.

After a while just hugging each other, John caressed Sherlock's neck, sliding his finger till the bruise. Sherlock had his eyes closed, enjoying the caress, so he didn't notice when John stopped on the so said hickey and pressed it slightly. If that was an hematoma, it would hurt. But Sherlock didn't seem to feel anything. So hickey.

John's stomach hurt. He swallowed hard, trying, in vain, to push away any wrong thought. But they were inevitable.

First of all, it is necessary to say that John was Sherlock's boyfriend for about six months, but their first time was a lot before that. The reason was simple: John was one of Sherlock's fuck buddies for 7 months before the relationship started. During that time, John was pretty far from being the only guy Sherlock kept having sex. He didn't even knew how many they were, and he doubted that even the taller boy knew. He had a few names, about four or five, that were more frequent, but beside that, Sherlock would have constant sex with nearly 20 different people each month. He had a fame, a fame that John promised to ignore when they started dating and Sherlock promised that he would be the only guy he'd sleep with from then on.

Of course John doubted in the beginning. It was always some kind of game for Sherlock. Making people fall for him, or simply beg for him. He liked to dominate all sorts of people, even teachers and other grown up men. Mr. Fieldstone had 38 years when Sherlock managed to press his chest against the chemistry lab wall. The biggest 'slut' of the college was not a girl – though the liked to compete with his only female friend, Irene – but a boy.

But it all changed six months ago, when Sherlock decided he didn't need anybody else but John. He pushed away all the others fuck buddies, including Victor, the first of all the others, the biggest responsible for Sherlock's behavior. And John also fell in love with him, of course. Even before. His roommate was his crush for a long time, and John accepted sharing him with half of the school because he thought that 'fuck buddy' was the best he could be to him.

Back in those days, Sherlock was always with some purplish bruise somewhere in his body. He didn't try to hide, he would even expose it. So everybody would know that, even though people talked about him – always bad things -, even though most people hated him, someone had being fucked by him in the night before, and enjoyed it. It was a pleasure let them wondering 'who'.

But now there was no wonder who. It was John, it was always John, and John didn't let marks, so people would know that those days were gone. Sherlock had changed and belonged only to him.

Or maybe he hadn't change at all. Maybe some guy had sucked his collarbones during the weekend and let that big purplish hickey.

Maybe.

He had to ask. He needed to ask.

But he didn't.

He regretted the decision during the week, though, when another hickey appeared right below his jaw and people started to ask him if they had broken up. When he denied, the first reaction of nearly the whole college was to wonder who had being the one Sherlock had slept with. Who was the reason for him to cheat on John.

And Sherlock didn't say a word about it, during the whole week. Either did John. He waited. He was going to tell, sooner or later, he couldn't just ignore the fact that he was using a scarf during the summer to hide a damn hickey. And that during sex John was being forced to kiss and lick above those fucking hickeys.

But Sherlock didn't even mention them.

It became too much when Greg came to ask about it.

"Hey, mate… Heard about you and Sherlock."

John was in the library, studying, when Greg sat by his side with a Math book. John sighed and rubbed his eyes.

"Heard what?"

"You know. That he cheated on you."

"He didn't cheat on me!"

Of course, John also though Sherlock had done it, but the whole situation was way too weird, and all the proves had led him to believe that yes, Sherlock was fucking someone else.

"Oh… so you broke up?"

"No, we're still together." He frowned, looking back at his own book.

"Sure, mate. So you started marking him?"

John's eyes watered. "No." he answered, frustrated, humiliated.

Greg didn't say anything else. Instead, he tapped John's shoulder, showing his friendship and support, and left John alone again.

That night he was absolutely sure about asking him. It was now or never. It was becoming even ridiculous to ignore the whole situation. People were making fun of him, talking behind his back, and he was not going to take that for a boyfriend who was fucking someone else.

So John went back to their dorm around 8 pm. He opened the door already calling for his roommate, but he shut himself when he saw him packing.

"Where are you going?"

Sherlock closed the zipper of the big case. "Home." He answered. "Just for a week."

"And you were going to tell me this when?"

Sherlock looked at his watch. "My mother called me. She wants me to go spend the week with her. She called just now."

"Why would your mother want you to lose a whole week from school just to spend five days with you?" he asked, suspicious, accusatory.

"Because." He answered. "I don't know, she just wants, and I hate this place, I'll take the opportunity."

John clenched his fists, his eyes watered, and he didn't even know if it was from sadness or angriness. "So, you hate this place. You can't wait to leave."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, the only good thing about all of this is you, but you'll be here when I come back, so it's just for a week."

"Don't lie to me, Sherlock." John said, gritting his teeth. He closed the door behind him. "You're leaving because you wanna be away from me."

Sherlock frowned and put the bag on the floor. "This is ridiculous, you're the only person with whom I wanna be."

"You're lying! Ok? Stop this! Just-… Look, I'm not stupid. I'm seeing those marks. I'm seeing those damn hickeys. Just tell me who he is."

Sherlock stared at John with an indifferent expression, holding the bag. For some seconds, he didn't move, he didn't say anything. Then he simply walked towards the door.

"Answer me!"

"You seem to be pretty sure about where these bruises come from. I don't need to explain anything." He said, grabbing the door handle.

"If I'm wrong, tell me the truth!"

He was desperate to hear any version of that story that didn't include Sherlock fucking some random guy.

"These bruises are not hickeys." He said, between his teeth, opening the door.

"What they are, then?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He slammed the door behind him, leaving John alone in the dorm to cry with some privacy. He lay on the bed – and he didn't even remember anymore which one was his – and curled into a ball, sobbing and crying. He should've seen it coming. He should have known. Everybody told him so, everybody knew, so why didn't he believed?

That was on Monday, and on Wednesday, John was still hearing a lot from people all around the school, but perhaps the feeling of missing Sherlock was even worse than the rumors.

That week was not different from a particular one, four months ago, when Sherlock had been away for about the same amount of days, since he went to Spain to spent some holidays there. They were boyfriends for about two months and John missed the boy like if a piece of him was gone. He remembers that they had a terrible fight when he came back. Sherlock accused him of some nonsense things, they nearly broke up, but John managed to convince him otherwise. Sherlock was weird that week, and he was weird now. Maybe he was thinking about breaking up with him and needed a week away to decide if he should or not. Maybe he was with somebody else right now.

So he texted him.

Where are you? – JW

The answer took about half an hour. That meant Sherlock was nowhere near the phone

Home. – SH

John pursed his lips. Sherlock always had the phone with him, and he always answered him within minutes. So either he was busy or he didn't care answering.

What are you doing right now? – JW

I'm fucking a delicious redhead. – SH

Sherlock. – JW

Isn't that what you think I'm doing? Don't you think I came home to fuck my lover? – SH

John frowned at the last text. He sat down in front of the notebook before answering.

It doesn't matter what I think, I expected you to tell me the truth. –JW

Another half an hour without an answer. John was finishing a long chemistry essay when the phone made the noise of message alert.

You don't believe me. – SH

It gets hard to believe you when you tell me nothing. - JW

I told you they are not hickeys, and that should be enough for you. – SH

Why that should be enough? Give me proves. – JW

Proves? Go to hell. – SH

John wanted to throw the phone on the wall after that. His boyfriend had a damn bruise on the neck and he was not allowed to know why? He was not allowed to think that the boy who fucked half of the college only six months ago could have fallen in temptation?

You're not helping your situation. – JW

My situation? Which situation? John, you can believe me and you can believe the others and break up with me. There's no situation. – SH

You're doing nothing to convince me otherwise. It's almost like if you wanted me to break up with you. – JW

That's hardly something I want. – SH

Then tell me what the bruises are! – JW

No. – SH

John put the phone on the desk, by the side of the notebook with an incomplete essay. He rubbed his eyes, rested his head on his hand and looked at the phone screen. No.

What was that supposed to mean? If he was not cheating on him, then why he wouldn't tell?

You don't want me to know because I doubt you? – JW

That's one of the reasons. – SH

What are the others? – JW

You don't need to know. – SH

Sherlock, just please… tell me what's going on. Please. – JW

John, I need you to know that I love you. You changed me, and I'll be thankful for that as long as I'm alive, and I will love you until the day I die, until my very last breath. I need you to know that. – SH

John burst into tears. He couldn't even see the phone anymore. He should feel stupid for crying like that, but he knew Sherlock Holmes, the boy who would never attach to anyone. The lonely boy who was never alone. Always with someone, but never feeling something for them. Never caring, never feeling.

But yet, the bruises.

John felt frustrated. He had been humiliated by nearly everyone he knew for that boy.

Nice words, but I wanna know where the bruises come from. – JW

He had no answer after that.

And he didn't send another text again either. So he only saw Sherlock again by Monday, when he came back before the first classes, waking John up at 6:30 am, unpacking his stuff.

John blinked a few moments and rubbed his eyes, sleepy. He looked to the taller boy putting clothes back on his drawers like if nothing had happened.

"Hey." Said John, sitting in bed. He yawned and stretched. Sherlock didn't look at him to answer with the same word.

"How was your week?" asked John.

"Marvelous." Said Sherlock, closing one drawer to open another.

John scratched his head, feeling tears coming to his eyes. That wasn't fair. It was far from fair. Damn Sherlock Holmes. He didn't even care proving that they were not hickeys, because he was so damn sure that John was not going to be able to break up with him. Was that a game of power? He wanted to know how much power he had over John? He doubted that he would be strong enough to break up even if he had cheated on him and let it pretty apparent?

"Sherlock." Said John, getting up. Sherlock ignored him, still unpacking, and only hummed to answer. "Look at me. Now." He ordered.

Sherlock frowned and rolled his eyes. He turned on his ankles and looked at John with pursed lips. "Yes?"

"What's his name?"

"His name?"

"Stop lying to me, ok? I just wanna know his name! He's not from school, or I'd know that already. It's not Victor, he would be bragging. Who's him!?"

Sherlock got up and fixed his shirt, calm and protractedly. Then he stood there, looking at John, with those completely indifferent and empty look.

"John, this is the last time I'll say that the bruises were not hickeys. If you insist saying they were, I'll have to break up with you. Was I clear?"

John gritted his teeth and clenched his fists. No. That wasn't clear. That was far from clear. That was an affirmation without any proof, and Sherlock Holmes himself was the one who told him that any affirmation without proof can be declined without proof. Bruises on the neck? Sure, were you hit by a ping-pong ball?

By the way, John noticed that there were no visible bruises any more.

What could they be? Not drugs, no one would inject drugs on the collarbones or the neck. Would? John didn't understand much about it, but when he met Sherlock, the boy was still addicted, and he remembered that he was quite good at using the syringe. He never let more than a small and barely visible little point on his pale skin. Eventually, on a specially bad day, he used drugs while already high, and a bruise formed on the injected area, but that was past. Right?

"Drugs." Said John.

"No." Answered Sherlock, frowning. "John, I don't do drugs in…"

"Seven months. I know."

Stop using drugs. That was the only condition John had imposed to start a relationship. He never felt more proud when he saw the boy flushing away everything he had.

"Is someone hitting you?"

"No. Nobody is touching me. Oh, and by the way, I told my parents about us."

John needed a time to understand those words. Of course the whole school knew about them, it was no a secret. But not their parents.

John was not sure why. Sherlock's mother was adorable, and his father was a serious man, but a good man. John had been in his house – or should he call it a mansion? – a couple of times, always introduced as a friend, though he was quite sure that Mycroft, his brother, knew the truth. There was no special reason to hide from them, but they never really talked about telling their parents, so John didn't know why Sherlock decided to tell them now.

"Well, how did they react?"

"My mother is happier than never and my father is proud." He answered, turning away to put the last clothes on the top drawer. "So no, before you ask, my father is not beating me for being gay."

"They didn't know?" asked John. Sherlock hadn't turned gay for him. No, he was gay ever since he knew the boy. The idea of Sherlock with a girl was even ridiculous. Irene had tried and Molly was still in love with him, and he declined both of them with a blink of an eye.

"It was not something we talked about at home, but they certainly assumed so."

It made sense. When John met the other Holmes he learned a lot about them.

First, they didn't use bad language. Bad words were simply not in their vocabulary. They would talk in the most aristocratic way possible, always calmly and passible, with the best diction John had ever heard. He couldn't even imagine one of them being angry and arguing. Sherlock's father beating him? Hard to picture.

So they were pretty nice, but at the same time, they were cold as possible. They didn't talk much, if they could avoid. They were all diplomatic, talking only the necessary and choosing the right words, so they wouldn't need to say it twice. Even Sherlock changed when he was at home. His whole posture and vocabulary changed. He would go from the 'slut boy' who fucked the Chemistry teacher in the lab, to a nice and polite teenager, just by crossing the door of his house.

"Sherlock… is something happening to you? Something I should be worried about?"

He looked away. For about one second. One second that meant everything. He was looking on John's eyes all the time while denying that those were hickeys, but now he looked away.

"This conversation is over." He said, tossing his empty bag on the wardrobe.

Hey, I just met you and this is crazy, but here's my fic, so leave a review maybe.