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"No! Hold it like this," Sherlock instructed, placing his hand over John's without thinking. They squeezed the pipette together, and a thin stream of clear liquid shot into the test tube.
Sherlock released the other boy's hand quickly, coloring. He kept his back to John as he fumbled with the petri dish by the sink.
Thankfully, his mother had been absent when they first arrived, crunching up the long gravel driveway. John had stared up at his house in wonder. It was quite large, Sherlock had to admit, an old Victorian home that looked eerily foreboding in dusk or nighttime.
They were having work done on the east wing, as well as Mycroft's old room, which his mother wanted to turn into a studio for her decorating business. She had wanted to tear down Sherlock's laboratory, but he had fought tooth and nail, sulked and starved himself pointedly until she agreed to leave it as it was.
John's mouth had fallen open at the sight Sherlock's lab: the piles of books, the ominous looking containers, the strangely colored flasks. Sherlock had felt an alien spark of pride, showing him what each held and stifling a laugh when he knocked over a bowl of rat eyes with a yelp.
Then they had embroiled themselves in Sherlock's hastily thought up experiment, attempting to determine how John's friend hydrogen peroxide affected the microbial biodegradation of polychlorinated biphenyls. It was something Sherlock had wanted to investigate for years.
"Now hold this," he told John, who took the petri dish carefully, cradling it in his hands. "Watch it for color change or any unusual odor."
"How will I be able to tell if it's unusual?" John peered questioningly at the yellowish fluid.
Sherlock smiled. "You will." He crossed the room and plucked a test tube out of the rack. "And now we just add this."
He poured the clear liquid into the dish. They waited for a few moments.
"Oh, ugh!" John pinched his nose, gagging. "What the hell is that?"
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. "The sweet scent of bioremediation," he declared, smirking.
They looked at each other. John burst into laughter, sliding down onto the floor. Sherlock smiled down at him.
"I don't know why that's funny," John admitted with a breathless laugh, clutching at his stomach. "But it is."
Sherlock sat down beside him, resting his chin on his knees. "I've been called many things, but never 'funny'," he commented dryly.
John stilled, looking at him, mouth parted slightly as if he was going to reply.
"Sherlock!"
Ah. Mummy had arrived. Sherlock grimaced, getting to his feet. He stalked out to the hallway. "I'm here."
Violet Holmes was a fashionably slight woman, immaculately dressed. She draped her mink coat, covered in snow, in the hands of their butler. "The roads are an absolute travesty," she announced, displeased. "Your father had to send a car to pick me up."
John had wandered out uncertainly behind him. Sherlock sighed. "Mummy, this is John Watson."
His mother looked up, and if she was surprised to see that Sherlock had brought someone home, she didn't show it. She crossed the room, peeling off her gloves. "A pleasure to meet you."
John smiled awkwardly. "Nice to meet you too." They shook hands briefly.
Mrs. Holmes smoothed her wet hair, frowning. "You might want to call your mother, John," she said.
John looked alarmed. "Why? Has something happened?"
"No, no, nothing of the sort. You two must have been very focused on your experiment not to have noticed the blizzard outside. My husband tells me they will have to close off the roads." She sighed, continuing, "Please tell your mother that we'd be delighted to have you stay over with us until the storm lets up."
Sherlock felt a strange swooping in his stomach. "Mummy!" he cried, looking at her murderously. She glared back.
"I'm sure Sherlock would love a sleepover," she told John.
"Erm." He looked at Sherlock, who was glowering at the carpet. "Thanks."
"It's no trouble," Mrs. Holmes assured him with a frosty smile. "I'll go see Andrew about bringing Mycroft's bed into Sherlock's room."
Sherlock started. "My room?" he repeated. "We have many other rooms he could sleep in!"
His mother tutted. "Yes, darling, but those are all either filled with toxic paint fumes or in the process of being torn to the ground." She gave him a reproachful look. "And your play-laboratory is next on the list. I need another sitting room for my new Monet."
She swept out of the room, perfectly coiffed hair bobbing.
John looked uncomfortable. "Well, I'll just..." He waved the phone. "Be a second."
Sherlock marched off to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. Of all the times to have a snowstorm...
He glanced around. His bed was made, rather sloppily, a condition from his mother after he had refused to let the maids touch it. It was large and soft, and Sherlock liked to curl up in it and read, nestled in the covers.
His journal lay on the nightstand. He snatched it and shoved it in the closet, where he was sure John would never find it.
Generally a bland room, Sherlock decided, pleased. It showed nothing about him.
There was a tentative knock on the door. "Sherlock?"
John. He crossed the room and pulled open the door.
"My mum says thank you," the boy mumbled. "For letting me stay over," he clarified.
"You are welcome," Sherlock replied stiffly. He let John in grudgingly, closing the door behind him.
"This is - nice."
Sherlock chuckled. "That's a matter of opinion." It was beginning to get dark already, and he could see thick white haze falling outside the window.
"Sherlock," his mother called, knocking once and entering. She held a neatly folded pile of clothes. "Here you go, John. Pajamas and fresh underthings." She held them out, unembarrassed.
John reddened. "Thanks," he said, taking the clothes.
Mrs. Holmes smiled. "My pleasure. Let Andrew know if you need anything," she called over her shoulder as she left.
Clutching the stack of clothes, John cleared his throat. "Do you mind if I take a shower?" he asked nervously. "I dunno why, I just always take them at night."
Sherlock gazed at him. John, in his shower. "Fine," he said, attempting a disinterested tone. He held his breath, feeling his heart pump loudly and desperately in his chest. Just go.
"Er, alright." Sherlock saw the other boy make his way to the loo. "Do you mind showing me how to turn it on?" he asked, pausing at the entrance.
Sherlock scowled, and then brushed past him, making sure not to touch the other boy with any part of his body. "It's relatively uncomplicated," he told John coldly, pressing a button underneath the lever, and then turning it to the hottest level.
John squirmed beside him. "Thanks."
Sherlock tightened his lips. "I shall be in the laboratory," he informed John, and fled.
As soon as he got himself under control, he set about recording the data from their experiment, focusing on keeping his mind fully on measuring, and labeling, and far away from his room and anyone inside it.
Except to calculate the density of the gas they had created, and identify it, Sherlock was going to need to use his computer. The one in his room, which had a special plug that went in a socket that he had specifically ordered be drilled into his wall.
Not an option, he told himself firmly. He spent a total of forty three seconds glaring at the beaker in front of him before stomping off into his room.
Sherlock had an estimated eight to ten minutes before John would finish showering and exit the lavatory. Perhaps twelve, if he was lucky and John decided to use the toilet. He booted up the computer quickly, stubbornly refusing to think about the steady thrum of water through the wall beside him.
The door creaked open during the sixth minute, and Sherlock looked up in alarm. He prepared to explain what he was doing, but the words died somewhere in his pharynx.
John stepped out in nothing but a towel, dripping wet and flushed pink from the heat. He seemed not to notice Sherlock, who was sitting on the armchair in the corner. He crossed the room and bent down, holding the towel carefully across his lower half, while Sherlock tried to say something, anything, but couldn't.
Finally, John procured a pair of boxer briefs from the side of the bed. He turned, saw Sherlock, and yelped, nearly losing his grip on his towel.
"What the hell -" John tripped, and then regained his balance. "I thought you were -"
"I had to use my computer," Sherlock returned, wincing at the catch in his voice. He swallowed and forced himself to keep his eyes locked on John's. "The water was still running," he accused. It was John's fault, obviously. His hair was stuck in damp spikes, and Sherlock watched a fat drop of water dribble over his belly and get swallowed up in the towel.
John had a flat, tanned stomach, and a broad, subtly muscled chest. From the rugby, Sherlock thought faintly, and wondered if his legs were as defined from his habitual running.
John's indignant voice broke into his consciousness. "I couldn't figure out how to turn it off," he muttered. "Bloody thing."
Sherlock wished he would just return to the shower. He was bringing an abnormal amount of heat with him, and Sherlock felt the humidity surround him with each breath he took.
Sexual attraction. It was something he had felt before, but idly, remotely. In any case, the great buffoons with their bulging biceps and trunklike thighs had only ever elicited a spark of lust, quickly forgotten when they opened their mouths.
There was no mistaking it, however. The treacherous twitch in his cock when he looked at John Watson was unmistakably and entirely lust, and Sherlock hated it, he hated it.
Growing uncomfortable under his stare, John retreated a few steps. "Be right out," he said quietly, and disappeared to change.
Exhaling sharply, Sherlock glared down at the bulge in his trousers, willing it to grow limp and flaccid again.
John reappeared a few minutes later, dry and clothed. He stood nervously in the middle of the room. "Um, so. Sorry about that."
Sherlock forced himself to look up. "No apology is necessary," he bit out, then put the laptop aside with a sigh. Time to entertain. "What would you like to do?"
John shrugged, and then picked his way over to Sherlock. "May I?" he asked politely, gesturing to the opposite chair. Frowning, Sherlock nodded.
He was silent for a few moments, then said, "So… thanks again for letting me stay."
"It's no trouble."
John shifted uncomfortably. "You ever had a sleepover before? Just wondering," he added quickly.
"No."
"Oh." John looked as if he was searching around for some other avenue of conversation. "Have you got a girlfriend, then?"
Sherlock looked at him disparagingly. "Girlfriend, no. Not really my area," he sniffed.
John nodded, biting his lip. He glanced around at the room, and then looked back. "Oh. I see."
Looking back quickly, Sherlock saw that his expression was surprised.
"Have you got a boyfriend? Which is fine, by the way."
"I know it's fine," Sherlock said, scowling.
"So…" John struggled. "You've got a boyfriend?"
"No." Was that relief in his eyes?
"Well. Alright, then." John gave him a tentative smile. "You're single. Like me. Good."
Sherlock stared at him. Good? "Are you attempting make a joke?" he queried, confused. His stomach fluttered.
"What?" John asked, eyebrows drawn together. "What do you mean?"
"You were pretending to make a pass at me," Sherlock accused, and pinched the fold of loose fabric on the edge of his chair. He wished again that the snow would melt and disappear, and then he could go back to his computer and forget all about damnable John Watson. "Not very original. Many others have beaten you to it, I'm afraid. I've learned not to believe it. Sorry to ruin your fun." Scowling, he got to his feet. "If you don't mind, I would like to return to my experiment."
John scrambled off his chair. "Sherlock!"
He turned imperiously. There was an annoying tuft of damp hair sticking up on John's head, and Sherlock's hand twitched with the desire to reach out and smooth it down.
John had flushed, though from heat or anger Sherlock couldn't tell. He took a step forward. "Are you saying," he spit out through clenched teeth. "That people have asked you out as a joke? And you believed them?"
Sherlock was perplexed. "Yes, at first. Then I realized it was intended as mockery." He couldn't fathom why John was so upset.
They were close, and Sherlock was trapped against the wall. He could make out each solitary eyelash, each fleck of light blue in the other boy's serious eyes.
"I hope you punched them in the nose," John said fiercely.
"I," Sherlock said, then blinked. "I don't see how that would have helped."
John looked up at him, and his expression was a mix of anger and disgust. "Just so you know," he began softly, but his voice had a hard edge, "I would never joke about something like that."
Sherlock said nothing. There was now a pounding in his ears as well as a rushing. "Is that so?" he managed.
"Yes." John had him against the wall, and their faces were alarmingly close. "Because," he continued, slow and deliberate, "when I fancy someone, they're different. I can't stop thinking about them."
Breathless, Sherlock could only gaze at him.
"I can't concentrate, because I'm thinking about…" John paused, coloring a little. "…what their hair smells like, and what color their eyes are, and what their voice sounds like."
He reached out a hand, and it lingered to the side of Sherlock's head, like it wanted to smooth a tendril of hair behind his ear.
John looked at him, as if to ask permission, and Sherlock dipped his head a little, a sharp jerk. John's fingers were gentle, and remained, cupping Sherlock's neck with a feather-light touch.
Sherlock felt his heart rise into his throat and leaned forward, pressing his lips to John's with a steady carefulness that hid the frantic pounding of his heart.
John made a sound like a closed-off groan, and reached up to stroke Sherlock's cheekbones, pads of his thumbs rough. He backed Sherlock against the wall and slid a knee between his legs, which were open unconsciously.
Sherlock gasped at the contact, and rutted against John's thigh in quick, involuntary thrusts. He bit his lip to keep from making any embarrassing sounds, hands clutching John's hips so hard he worried about leaving blue-black marks.
John kissed soft and eager, tongue darting in deviously and twisting around Sherlock's with a deft movement. Sherlock was passive now, letting the waves of blissful sensation wash over him as John's tongue laved his mouth and his leg pressed insistently against his groin.
In the daze he felt John's erection poking urgently into his hip. The boy moved smoothly from his mouth to his neck, apparently having no compunction about making noise as he mumbled, "Fuck, Sherlock. God…"
His hands left white hot trails where they snuck up under his shirt. Sherlock felt the tell-tale tightening in his abdomen and bit his lip so hard he tasted blood, because he wouldn't come, not here, not in front of -
There was a knock on the door. John leapt back, hair wildly askew, lips red and swollen and face flushed. He gulped, frantically straightening his shirt and looking anywhere but Sherlock.
Sherlock took a few moments to stop feeling like the world had collapsed on him, focusing on steadying his breathing. In the sharp shock his erection had subsided, but his trousers still felt shamefully tight and restricting.
The door rattled again. Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, avoiding John's eyes, and opened it.
The butler had his hand up to knock again, but lowered it as the door swung open. "My apologies, Mr. Holmes," he said smoothly, wisely not noticing his general state of disarray. Sherlock scowled; the man would run off to Mummy within minutes. His business was her business. "Mrs. Holmes would like me to inform you and Mr. Watson that dinner has been prepared."
"Fine," Sherlock replied shortly. "We'll be down in a moment." He shut the door before the other man could respond.
John was fiddling nervously with his jumper, but looked up when Sherlock stomped back to face him.
"Our dinner is ready," he told him tersely.
John looked dubious. "Okay." He took a few steps closer to Sherlock, but didn't touch him. Sherlock hated that he wished John would. "So. Are you - alright, with this?"
"Am I alright with what?"
John chuckled hesitantly. "Us, snogging?"
Sherlock felt a strong urge to kiss him again, to have his hands wrapped around him, strong and tight, and he abhorred it. His right hand clenched into a fist.
John's eyes flared in concern. "Because if you aren't, because I know you don't like touching and that kind of thing, but I just -" He waved his hands miserably. "I don't know. You were looking at me like a bloody lost puppy, and I couldn't handle it."
Sherlock wasn't sure if he liked being compared to a young canine. "Is that meant as a compliment?"
John grinned. "Yep," he said. "At least, I think. Just don't do it again."
Sherlock frowned. "Why not?"
"Because! Sad eyes, and everything."
"Sad eyes are not good?"
"Bit not good, yeah." John looked mischievous. "Except it did make me want to snog your arse off, so..." He smiled. "Sort of good."
Sherlock felt heat coil in his gut. Perhaps he could muster up the courage to march over those few steps to John, smooth out that ridiculous ruffled mess on his head, and kiss him again.
But Mummy would notice if they were late. Oh, she would definitely notice. And furthermore, Sherlock was not ready to face the humiliation of coming in his pants like a thirteen year old, especially in front of John. Even if the other boy experienced the same ordeal.
Sherlock bit back a sigh. "It would be a good idea if we went downstairs," he said. "My mother has an unfortunate habit of poking her nose where it does not belong."
John huffed. "No offense, but this isn't exactly making the best first impression," he joked. "She's got the worst timing," he added archly, grinning.
Sherlock's feet suddenly decided, completely of their own accord, to cross the few steps that separated them and kiss the smirk of the other boy's face. He carded his hand in John's hair, kissing demandingly against his surprised mouth.
"Hello there," John said once he had drawn back. His hair was an absolute mess again. "Bit eager now, are we?"
"You're one to talk," Sherlock shot back boldly, eyeing the not so subtle tenting in his trousers. John had the grace to look abashed.
"It's natural," he protested, covering himself with his hand and blushing furiously. Sherlock gave him a smug look. "Shut up!"
"You're good at that, you know," John commented as they descended the stairs.
"Good at what, exactly?"
"Snogging. How many people have you done it with? If you don't mind me asking."
Sherlock scowled. "None."
"None? You can't be serious."
"I assure you, I am perfectly serious."
John looked astounded. "But - how did you know what to do? I've snogged a lot of people who've never done it before, and they always stick their tongues in too early and start licking your teeth like it's supposed to be hot."
Sherlock frowned. How many constituted 'a lot'? The image of some idiotic oaf with his tongue shoved down John's throat was disconcerting. He chose a blunt response. "I've done research."
John let out a short bark of laughter. "Oh great, you reduced me to an incoherent puddle of goo from reading books. That's really going to do wonders for my ego."
"If it's any consolation, the experience was not what I expected." Sherlock felt a faint blush rise in his cheeks.
"Is that Sherlock-speak for 'I enjoyed myself'?" John teased, sliding down the banister and looking up as Sherlock stepped down carefully.
"I suppose so," he returned cautiously. John waited for him to reach the bottom, and then bounded ahead. He heard him say a bright "Hello!" to the cook, followed by "Can I help with anything?"
Margaret, a plump, rosy woman, was standing at the sink. She glanced at Sherlock as he entered, and he was all too aware that he was abnormally red in the face. Irritatingly, John seemed unbothered and carefree as a button.
"Hello, Mr. Watson. Good evening, Mr. Holmes."
"Good evening," Sherlock greeted her sullenly, taking a seat at the imposing wooden dining table. John settled in next to him.
"The soup is French onion, and the main course is braised lamb with buttered bread as a side dish," Margaret announced.
"Looks delicious," John enthused.
"Yes, thank you, Margaret," Sherlock echoed. He picked at his food, watching John shovel soup into his mouth at the speed of light. "It's not going to run away, John."
The boy paused, gulping ostentatiously. "I haven't had food this good in years," he said happily. He looked at his overflowing plate. "Maybe I should slow down." Grabbing a second hunk of bread, he continued, "I suppose you've never had a sleepover before."
"No."
"Well, you're not missing out on much," John told him wryly. "Most of mine consisted of watching porn with a bunch of blokes and wanking off. Not the best idea when you're –" he gestured hazily at his lower half. "Gay."
Sherlock tried to delete the picture that conjured up, John with his cock in hand, fisting it and stroking it, maybe fingering his balls. It would not delete.
He frowned. "They didn't know?"
John laughed. "'Course not. Would've bloody killed me. They were all mad."
"So you moved here."
"Yeah, well, you know the story. Harry was having a tough time of it." He stared into his water glass. "Then my mum lost her job."
Sherlock cleared his throat uncomfortably. "That sounds – difficult."
"It's no problem, really," John assured him. "Doesn't matter."
It obviously did, but Sherlock was not about to delve into that sore topic again.
John washed down his lamb chop with a large swallow of water. "So. Sleeping."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Please distinguish your statements from your questions, John."
He chuckled. "Alright. Do you sleep? You know, at night? In a bed?"
"I don't spend my nights in a coffin, if that's what you mean," Sherlock said dryly. "You saw my bed."
John scratched his head. "Oh, right." His hair was drying in different directions. Sherlock couldn't help but reach out and flatten it down again, reveling in the feel of the soft strands parting underneath his fingers.
John was looking at him expressionlessly. "Hello," he said again, softly.
His mouth tasted of food, but not repulsively, though Sherlock was fascinated to discover that he could discern a separate flavor, one he recognized from before, one that he would bet was unique to the boy sitting in front of him.
The pupils of John's eyes were blown-out and black when Sherlock leaned back. John watched him for a few seconds, swallowed a couple times, and licked his lips. "Sleeping," he repeated again, slower this time. "Not sure if that's going to work out after all."
Sherlock felt his ears heat up dangerously. It was going to be a long night.