Sherlock looked up just as a folded scrap of paper was nudged to him. Turning his head, he saw John's hand hovering just beside the paper. Rolling his eyes, Sherlock opened the paper and stared at the words scrawling over the scrap.
Saw you walk by the pitch during yesterday's match. What were you staring so intently at? Saw something you liked?
Sherlock felt his face heat up at John's written words, instantly reliving the few moments he spent transfixed at the rugby pitch.
Sherlock had taken the very scenic route back to their dorm after a successful experiment in the science lab, using the excuse that some fresh air would do him some good, especially after being cooped up in the lab with all the toxic fumes. In all reality, he was curious to see what John liked about the game so much. When he reached the rugby pitch, Sherlock had walked around to the side and watched the game for a few moments, eyes scanning rapidly over the crowd, the referees, the teams. There was so much information flooding his senses all at once, the input overwhelming him. Sherlock was just able to identify which team had the ball when his eyes landed on John.
The day had been warm, Sherlock couldn't deny that, but he didn't think it explained the heat that had blossomed across his cheeks. When embarking on his rugby investigation, he hadn't given a passing thought at the uniforms. In hindsight, he should have done some research before showing up at John's match. John was attractive - Nearly 80 percent of their university could agree on that singular fact, Sherlock included.
There was something about the man's gentle nature and athletic appearance that made him popular amongst anyone that appreciated the male form. Naturally, it made sense that John would be most attractive when he was in his element, running and dashing across the pitch, his tanned body colliding with others, hands grappling for purchase on the strange looking ball. And yet, the sight of a John standing there on the pitch- his tanned skin glistening under a sheen of sweat, blood trickling down his right leg from the scrape on his knee, his back bowed and chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath, bright smile gleaming in the sun- took Sherlock's breath away.
All of the information that had been pouring in was gone now, replaced only with images of John. It was as if Sherlock's brain was unable to process the conundrum that was his gorgeous flatmate. He had stared wide-eyed at John until his roommate caught his gaze and winked his direction, turning his dazzling smile at Sherlock. All at once, his brain snapped back on, urging him to make a hasty retreat. Cheeks ablaze, Sherlock made his way back to their dorm room and sprawled facedown on his bed. He was asleep before John came back.
Sherlock was brought back to the present with a gentle nudge from John. Turning to look at his roommate, he saw another folded scrap of paper laying by his stagnant hand. Opening it, more of John's now-familiar scrawl greeting him.
You ok, Sherlock? You looked lost for a little bit.
With a huff, Sherlock turned John's note over and penned his response.
I'm fine. Just lost in thought for a moment. And the game was interesting. As for the staring, I was organizing everything in my mind palace.
A few moments later, another piece of paper appeared beside Sherlock's right hand.
Fair enough. Whatcha thinking about?
Sherlock sighed, rolled his eyes, and shot John a look, silently asking him if they were really going to do this. John raised an eyebrow in response, confirming Sherlock's suspicion. Sighing, Sherlock flipped the note over and wrote Rugby before shoving it pointedly at John.
John chuckled softly behind him and hastily wrote another note, pushing it to Sherlock with a grin.
Oh really? I hadn't noticed. Seriously though, what brought on the sudden interest?
Research Sherlock wrote, turning to look out the window. Class was extra dull today, and Sherlock found himself easily distracted. In the window, he could only just make out John's reflection.
John was much more interesting to study, Sherlock thought. He was always baffling Sherlock, always doing the unexpected, always surprising him. Sherlock wanted to know what made John tick, wanted to know where his thoughts were, wanted to know why he got up for school every day. He wanted to know what kind of juice he preferred, what parts of his body were ticklish, what the reason was behind John's smiles. Sherlock also found that he wanted to know the feel of John's lips against his, wanted to taste his sweat on his tongue, wanted to watch as John fell apart under the assault of orgasm… Blushing deeply, Sherlock shook his head, attempting to rid himself of his thoughts. He wasn't quite sure why his libido had so rudely interrupted his thought pattern.
Research for what, Sherlock? Are you helping the police again? John had scribbled, raising an eyebrow at his roommate.
No. Research for the sake of research. You seem to enjoy the game. I was merely curious as to why. Hence the research. Sherlock replied.
John grinned as he read Sherlock's note. Pausing before penning a reply, John nibbled at his bottom lip. It was dreadfully distracting and Sherlock found that he wanted to pull John's lower lip into his own mouth and suck on it. Finally, John pushed a note at him.
That's kinda cute, Sherlock. Didn't know you cared.
Sherlock flushed deeper at John's praise, his embarrassment only growing as another note followed the first.
You're beautiful when you blush.
That's hardly appropriate, John. Sherlock quipped.
John just grinned.
I don't give a rat's arse about being appropriate right now, Sherlock. If someone is gorgeous, then I'm going to tell them. And you are so bloody gorgeous.
Sherlock swallowed thickly again, his mind spinning.
Don't be daft, John. We both know that isn't true.
John shot him a quizzical look, furrowing his eyebrows.
Isn't true my arse. Jesus, Sherlock. Do I need to spell it out for you? Tell you why I find you gorgeous?
Sherlock nodded minutely, hands folding carefully on the desk before him.
John takes a moment to scribble a few words and shoves a scrap of paper at him before ripping a clean sheet of paper from his notebook.
Your mind.
What about my mind?
John took a few moments, but answered Sherlock's question.
It's absolutely beautiful and brilliant. I can't fathom having a mind like yours. Always running, always processing information. It's magnificent.
So you like me for my brain?
Among other things, yes.
What other things?
Fishing for compliments, are we?
No. I'm merely curious.
You're serious, aren't you? God, has nobody ever told you how breathtaking you are?
Oh I've been told I'm breathtaking before, but I don't think it's the way you're thinking.
Jesus Christ, Sherlock. For the record, you are the most attractive man I've ever met. Do you have any idea how hard it is to keep my hands to myself when we're alone in our dorm room? You look like sex personified.
I do? How so?
Well, I'll start with your hair. It's dark, and curly, and looks like it's really soft. Everyone always talks about wanting to card their fingers through it.
It is soft, John. Is that all people like though?
No. People also like your eyes, your fucking gorgeous eyes that can never seem to settle on one color. They're expressive, too. And they remind me of starlight. It also doesn't help that when you deduce people it looks like you're mentally undressing them.
Starlight, John? That's an over-romanticised concept.
Shut up, Sherlock. I like your cheekbones, too. Your bone structure is so sharp everywhere, and parts of your face always seem to be in shadow. It makes the highlights of your face look razor sharp. When you brush your curls out of your face, I half expect you to pull back with your fingers sliced open. Makes you look like you're above everything else.
That's because I am, John. My brain is far superior to those of the commonwealth.
John breathed deep, frustrated at Sherlock's words. "Seriously, shut up," he whispered, hunching over the paper. John's pen flew across the page, words smearing against his hand as it dragged across wet ink trails.
Don't even get me started on your mouth.
My mouth?
Fuck, Sherlock, that goddamn mouth of yours. You're always so sharp with your words, and it's kinda hot to see you rip into Anderson when he's being stupid. And your lips are so plush. And pink. Christ, it's like they're begging to be kissed. And bit. And I know that they'd look so fucking amazing stretched and wet around, the word my was scribbled out, a cock.
Sherlock shifts behind him, awkwardly attempting to cross his legs as best as he can underneath the table, no doubt hiding his erection. If John looked hard enough, he could see Sherlock's pulse throbbing in his neck. John took a deep breath to steady himself attempting to quell the erection growing in his trousers.
Your skin is so gorgeous, all soft and pale. It's like you're begging to be covered in love bites. And bruises. And you should always be flushed. It's so goddamn beautiful, and I bet it goes all the way down your neck to spread across your chest. You look like sex, Sherlock. And you drive me mad.
Sherlock sat still, staring pointedly at his hands, breath falling in an even, overly-controlled tempo.
Why does it drive you mad, John? And I didn't realize how badly I affected you.
It drives me mad because I'm so close to you. All the time. And I can't do a damn thing about it because you're not mine to touch.
John flinched as he heard Sherlock suck in a breath through his teeth. It was a few moments before Sherlock moved, hand gripping tight around his pen, forming words on John's paper.
Do you want me to be yours, John? Do you want to be able to touch me whenever you want?
Fuck, Sherlock. Don't joke about this.
I'm not joking, John. I'm amenable to being yours.
John paused. Does this mean I can touch you?
Obviously, John. I've been yours from the beginning. You keep me right.
At Sherlock's written confession, John scooted his chair closer to Sherlock's, leaning into his body. His left hand slipped under the table and moved to rest hot and steady over Sherlock's throbbing erection. "Don't mind if I do," he whispered, his words ghosting over Sherlock's neck.
John's hand was warm, even through his trousers, and it took every ounce of self control over his transport for Sherlock to refrain from thrusting up against John's palm.
"Shh, love. Be still. We don't want to draw the professor's attention, do we?" John murmured, smirking as Sherlock's breath hitched. John squeezes Sherlock's cock once before releasing him, pulling his hand back over his own lap.
Sherlock took a moment to calm down, one of his hands clenching rhythmically around nothing. When his breathing was normal again, Sherlock noticed a new note resting by his hand.
We'll continue this later. One of these days I'm going to strip you down to nothing but that gorgeous blush. And then I'm going to spend all night seeing how far I can make it spread.
The class dismissed then, John slipping out of the room before Sherlock could notice that he'd gone. The rest of Sherlock's day passed by in a haze, his mind fixated on the memory of both John's touch and his promise. That night, when John returned to their room, he pulled out an overnight bag and started throwing clothes at it.
"I have to go home for tonight. Harry's gotten herself into a bit of a jam, but I should be home tomorrow," John said, pausing to sit at the end of Sherlock's bed.
Sherlock blinked owlishly at John and raised an eyebrow.
John's hand settled just above his knee, his thumb rubbing gentle circles into Sherlock's flesh. "I'll be thinking about you though, wishing I was here instead."
"What will you be thinking of, John? It sounds like you have something specific in mind," Sherlock asked, his legs falling open under John's touch.
John winked and grinned. "I'll let you know when I get there. Keep your phone on, I'll be texting you tonight," John replied, stroking his hand up the offered expanse of Sherlock's leg, resting dangerously high on his inner thigh.
Sherlock swallowed thickly and nodded, lips parting to allow his lungs to pulling more air.
"Feels good, doesn't it? My hand on your body?" John asked, leaning in to ghost his lips across Sherlock's hairline.
Sherlock nodded, eyes fluttering closed at John's nearness.
"Mmm. I'm glad. Because I like it, too," John murmured, pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead. "God, you're gorgeous."
John rose from the bed a moment later and quickly finished packing, zipping up his bag when he was finished. Before he slipped out the door to make the trek home, he returned to Sherlock and wove a hand into his curls. "They are soft," he whispered.
Sherlock hummed under his touch, the pleased sigh morphing into something far more heated when John's hand gripped hard around a fistful of hair.
"And perfect for grabbing," he commented, trailing his other hand down Sherlock's chest to settle over his cock once more. "Keep this nice and hard for me," he breathed, squeezing around the half-hard erection.
Sherlock's eyes widened and he nodded, adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed.
"Perfect. I'll message you before bed then, gorgeous. Feel free to touch yourself, but don't you dare have an orgasm without me," John said, winking. He released his hold on Sherlock, blew him a cheeky kiss, and sauntered out the door. He was anxious to get home and finish taking care of Harry. The sooner he could get on the phone with Sherlock, the better. After all, he had plans. Glorious, glorious plans.