Betaed by the wonderful yalublyutebya, thank you!
Summertime
John walked down the path into the dark part of the garden and there he saw Sherlock, sitting on the grass, his back against the wooden side of a shed, empty gaze staring into space. He wore a black tailored suit, with a white button down shirt and a bow tie, which hung open and unbound around his neck. He looked so … young, and vulnerable … and so sad.
John sighed and crouched next to him; he was tempted to tousle Sherlock's hair, but he thought he'd better not. "Hey," he asked tentatively, "what happened? I looked round and you were gone. I've been looking for you for half an hour. You ok?"
They had been invited to the annual summer festival at the Holmes family estate. It was a wonderful summer night, the band was great and John flirted and danced with almost every woman; it had been a long time since he'd had such a good time. But then suddenly Sherlock had disappeared. It had taken some time for John to realise he wasn't just in the bathroom, or something like that. Sherlock had been in a good mood when they arrived, so he hadn't really been worried as he went to look for him. He'd probably just got bored and gone looking for a distraction, or perhaps he'd had an encounter with his lovely brother. But John had found Mycroft on the dance floor, so no sibling dispute this time.
Sherlock sat up as John approached and his whole demeanour changed immediately, his face closed up and when he looked at John there was nothing left of the lost boy John found two minutes ago.
"I'm fine," he said in answer to John's question. "Just bored. What're you doing here? I thought there were enough women to amuse you for the whole night. You couldn't have scared away all of them by now." Bitter, he sounded bitter, and the words tasted like bile in his mouth.
John frowned, his eyes narrowed. "Are you angry? You're angry with me." He knelt down opposite Sherlock. "Why are you so angry? What did I do?"
Sherlock didn't answer, he didn't even look at John but his jaw was tense, his teeth were clenched. "It's nothing, I told you." His voice was slightly trembling now and he tried to get up but John's strong hands held him down.
"Oh no, don't you dare run away. You're upset and angry with me, and I want to know why," John demanded.
John's hands were on his shoulders and Sherlock couldn't think about anything else but those hands. It had been like an electric shock when John grabbed him, he felt as if John's hands were burning through the fabric of his suit and leaving marks on his skin.
"Sherlock. Sherlock, did you take ... something? Sherlock, look at me!" Now John was concerned, Sherlock was acting too strangely. Sherlock tried to pull away, but he failed. John's hands were now on his forearms and on his face, they left burning traces wherever they touched him and Sherlock shivered. When John's hands cupped his face and lifted his head, Sherlock was lost. Their eyes met and Sherlock just stared at John, drowning in his dark blue eyes. And John kept speaking, but Sherlock couldn't understand the words, he only heard John's voice, this beautiful voice. John drew him in like a magnet, he couldn't fight any longer; he'd tried for so long, but he had failed, failed miserably.
"Sherlock, can you hear me? Sherlock, please, talk to me, please!" John was begging now, was getting desperate. "What is it? What ..." He abruptly fell silent when Sherlock's face came closer, his mouth slightly open. "Oh, ..." he whispered just before Sherlock's soft, warm lips met his own. It was a tender, chaste kiss and when they parted Sherlock looked at him in terror, his face hot and red. He tried to get away, to stand up, but John held Sherlock's face still in his hands. "Shhh, stop it," John whispered, and Sherlock obeyed. "I'm sorry, Sherlock, I didn't know." This time John kissed Sherlock, a loving, more passionate kiss. Then John stood up and Sherlock watched him, startled and anxious, until John held out his hands. "Come on, let's go home."