A/N: I'm feeling kind of stupid now that we've met Sherlock's parents in canon... So here have an other version. Sorry about that.

A/N:Also sorry it's a rather short chapter, but I'll make it up to you tomorrow! X


The university of Cambridge is really rather impressive (even more so than it was shown on several pictures) and even the light drizzle raining down on us as we arrive, can't lessen it's appeal and cautiously we make our way through the hall.

"Oi, Sherlock! Look at that!" John exclaims, moments later, a few feet away from me in a more or less whisper tone. I look up from where I'm inspecting the inscription of one of the photos on display: He's pointing to his left and above. I walk over to him and narrow my eyes at the dark corner.
"What?"
"You have to-" John tells me and with a hand around my upper arm pulls me down a bit in his line of sight.

I blink at the corner; there is nothing. Or is there? How can I not see it? Me? "OK, what am I looking -" I begin with a frustrated sigh after a moment, but the rest of the question dies in my throat: John had pressed warm lips just under my ear in a soft kiss.
Far too quickly though, he releases my arm again and giggles triumphantly.
God.

Paul and Mike break out into hysterical giggles where they're standing inconspicuous in the shadows. When did they plan that? I'd been around them almost constantly!
I'm still embarrassingly shocked into immobility, my heart pounding mercilessly quick in my chest. I haven't yet found the strength to react.
It's John who has pity with me after a round of laughter and finally breaks the spell when he gives me a pat on the shoulder and leads me behind the rest of our class, a smile still lingering on his lips.


It's far too easy to be close to John under the cover of male friendship and juvenile affection: A pat on the shoulder here, a ruffle through the hair there. An arm slung around shoulders and waists; boisterous taunting and dares. And if my arm rests around John's neck a few times too often, neither of us mentions it.


We've never really talked about sex in our home (or in school) and it makes me really uncomfortable when the boys talk about it. That's why I only stand by and earn curious glances from the others when they do, luckily though they'd never tried to involve me into their conversation.

Mummy had only told me the most necessary things, like that there are (actually) male and female beings walking the earth and that both are needed to beget a baby. With tidy, clinical facts they unsettled me of the whole idea when I was about five years old and I didn't dare to ask again later on. What else should there be to know? They probably also should've mentioned that feelings for the other person were most preferably involved in the entire experience of intercourse.

I think our parents just waited for the problem to resolve itself in time; be it to extinguish desire altogether or to leave us to our own experience. (While I belief they hoped for the first.) I avoided the subject of sex successfully for nearly ten years, till that one night my body betrayed my mind when I was fourteen: the first time I woke up with sticky pants under my pajama bottoms. I was quite horrified to say the least, the drying sensation on my skin growing more and more uncomfortable.

I fled to the bathroom at 3:17 am and tried to wash out the worst of it in the sink; already pondering over an excuse - if someone asked. I stared at the stain of dried semen and decided that I didn't wanted anyone to know about any of this. So I wringed out the cloth and folded it carefully. At last I gave my pajama bottoms and shirt a quick once over for equal horrible evidence, luckily though, they turned out to be clean.

I put the trousers back on, hid the fabric under my shirt and made my way back to my room silently.

Between my bed and the wall was a small gap and I dropped the discarded underwear there with the intention to burn it later. I climbed back under the covers wearing only my pajama bottoms and lay awake for a few hours, forging a plan to abduct one of the many medical books in father's office. I'd rather have died, than ask anyone for advice.

Thankfully we had holidays at that time, and so I spent my days reading through all the medical stuff I could find concerning the human body.

Each time I stole a book out of the shelf, I rearranged the remaining until the absence of one of them wasn't too obvious; and if someone ever noticed it, no one ever said anything.

Luckily.

During this week, I learned not only about the male and female body (there are rather interesting and even more disgusting things to know), but also about the fact that it was perfectly normal for a boy my age to come in my pants during the night. (Apparently due to a wet dream I didn't remember having.) I should even discover that with fourteen it was an almost late development. But then I was pretty gangly and skinny (still am in fact), so the necessary hormones probably hadn't settled by the expected time. Well, I've never been 'normal' and will, almost certainly, never be.

The most unfortunate aspect however was, those spontaneous ejaculations during the night couldn't be stopped. But at least prevented by regularly pleasuring oneself, so the book supplied almost tauntingly. Though I couldn't just consciously will myself to get an erection now, could I? And the thought of sex merely puts me off: all those fluids and presumably the smell... I couldn't fathom the possibility to consider it stimulating some day.

So, how to?

I needed more data.


It was only a few days later when I was forced to reconsider my denial: I was sitting in the bus home from school, when I needed to hide the beginnings of an unexpected (and very unwanted) erection, whilst trying not to embarrass myself at the same time.
To blame for this occurrence was the young couple sitting a few rows down: They weren't together for long, even I could sense the cloud of new, yet unexplored arousal surrounding them.

From my point of view I could barely make out their faces, my view blocked by other seats and persons. All I was able to see was the left side of his head, his arm entangled with her's, their bodies pressed together from shoulder to knee.
I averted my eyes when the man took a quick look around, but turned back after mere seconds, as soon as I dared to.

The girl was stroking his thigh in barely noticeable circles. I could see the tips of her fingers slowly tracing down to the inside over the seam of his trousers, and eventually over the swelling bulge there.
He rested his head back against the seat and closed his eyes with a sigh. She smirked at him, her fingers became braver with each forbidden stroke.
I craned my neck with the effort to follow her hand with my eyes, until suddenly her fingers stopped and I got uncomfortably aware of eyes on me. And sure enough when I looked up, our gazes met and I could feel my cheeks heat up when I turned my head rapidly to stare down at my shoes.

The next time I gathered enough courage to gaze back up at them, they were both looking out the window, his jacket folded over his lap, their hands entwined on top.
God, the embarrassment I felt... and the strange, helpless arousal- I'm somehow still disappointed that I had been so obvious to even got caught. Though I'm not sure what I was expecting to happen further.

For almost six months the sheer memory of this incident was a reliable source to coax me to hardness. And with each time, the entire business of self pleasuring became easier to get it over with, the release at the end - almost mockingly - soaking the tissue I prepared beforehand.

Over time the scenery changed - the place, involved people - I invented my own surroundings. Though my fantasies were never attached to someone in particular. Just hands, lips and tongues; shoulders, necks and the graceful curve of a firmly shaped bottom - all but savoured with kisses, licks and caresses.

Mostly though I kept the setting, only instead of me being touched by the girl, I fantasized about touching the boy myself. I was never concerned about this, when I thought about boys that way, did this make me 'gay'? Because I don't care and its my business, not that from others. I just don't want John or the others of our group to know, that with our kiss game and all. At least not yet.

I don't want to make him feel… uncomfortable around me - or betrayed somehow.

Inevitably I should discover that neither memory nor amplified fantasy was enough anymore. Instead I found myself more and more often recalling some of the imaginary pictures I'd taken of John, while he'd smiled at me or laughed.
And for a few more weeks, John's smile guided me out of my desperation into shuddering release, until- until this one night when it couldn't: I lay in bed with an aching erection that wouldn't fade in spite of whatever rhythm my fingers were stroking or whichever of my favorite pictures I chose to think about.

That had been the first night I ever dared to picture an entirely new scenario: John underneath me, hard and needy just like I would be for him. He would be broader in the shoulders than me, more flesh stretching over his bones, his skin tanned. His hands calloused from hours and hours of rugby training, his firm, warm lips on mine...

Orgasm took me by surprise with a force I'd never experienced before or would even have expected - not a single drop landed on the prepared tissue.
No - instead I ruined my sheet. And my duvet. Maybe even the rug on the floor.

At that time though, I couldn't have cared less, as I was fighting for breath, inhaling in large gulps of air. It took me several minutes of measured breathing to calm down and before I even knew what was happening next, I was fast asleep.