A/N: Thanks to prom, dry grad, convocation and other graduation ceremonies, I didn't have a lot of time to redo this chapter, HOWEVER, I don't care about the purge or anything, here is the original chapter uncut for your pleasure. Enjoy.
Of Shampoo and Sheers Chapter 7
TW: Mentions of drug abuse and self harm.
"Where do you live, Sherlock?" John asked, sitting beside him once more in the heated interior of the car he had come to admire and appreciate.
"In the flats, eight acres of land to do with whatever I please." Sherlock drove down the road of the country prairies, the mountains already disappeared from sight in the pitch black night sky; but thousands of stars shone in the tarry blackness of dusk. John was impressed, he knew other families that lived down here, it was all farmland, but no one he had ever visited for an extended period of time; or willingly, for that matter.
"Is it just you in the house?" John asked, knowing the answer already, but not wanting to assume anything too much.
"Other than my dog and my housemaid, yes, I'm all alone." Sherlock let out a sigh, tapping his long fingers against the steering wheel, listening to the quiet night air outside his rolled down window. He could hear the wind rushing past his car as he sped down the road, the whispering babbles of the river only metres away from the ditch; and animals singing in chorus in the fields and woods. Inside the car was the steady humming of John's intakes of breath and his heart against his chest.
"I didn't know you had a maid." John said, he wasn't horribly surprised, Sherlock was hardly ever home with his long work schedule and many competitions; he was surprised he even owned a proper bed.
"Someone has to look after Milo when I'm away, and I certainly can't do it." Sherlock stated as if it were extremely obvious. John felt like his intelligence had been insulted, but shrugged it off; he should have probably realized that anyway.
They pulled into the driveway of a three-car wide garage, the house they were parked in was three storeys tall, had an uncountable amount of windows and a textured panelling that looked as ornate and expensive as Saint Paul's Cathedral. John gasped inwardly and held his breath as he shut the car door and walked up behind Sherlock, gazing at the topmost spires of the house. It stood apart from everything else in the neighbourhood, he was surprised he had never seen it before, he certainly would have remembered seeing a house like this on his jaunts.
"You can breathe you know, you aren't going to contaminate the air or anything." Sherlock chuckled, taking the front steps three at a time, taking out his pocket full of keys and fitting the right one into the slot. John blushed and exhaled, listening for the tell-tale click of the lock, and once he heard it; Sherlock flung open the door with a 'bang', the sound reverberating across the walls and down the large expanse of a foyer.
"Wow..." He finally spoke, his eyes going wide as he stopped to bend over to untie his shoes, as all polite guests do. As soon as Sherlock had shut the door, a small dog with tall ears and legs that were smaller than that came running into the foyer, barking madly.
"Hello Milo! Yes you know Daddy's home, have you been good for Mrs. Cavalish? Of course you were, you're my good boy!" Sherlock was completely uncharacteristically cooing at the stout dog that he held in his long arms like a young child. John was taken aback at the sudden evaporation of Sherlock's shields and personal barriers. He was not that stoic, composed and frightening man that John had come to expect around all other human beings. No, this was someone completely different, this was a man, cheerful and playful; taking joy in the simple action of holding a puppy. It was odd, to say the least, one of the last things he would ever have expected from the older man.
"Mister Holmes, you are back for tonight, yes? Are you taking the weekend off or shall I come back tomorrow?" An elderly woman, around the age of sixty or so, waddled into the small gathering room as well, holding a primitive feather duster and aerosol can of room spray in the other. Sherlock swung the dog up higher, letting him droop over his shoulder as he turned to talk to the older woman. Milo, the dog, stared at John curiously; his tongue sticking sideways out of his muzzle, eyes criss crossed and confused. John sniggered; such a weird looking dog, probably a Corgi given it's ears and body form.
"No Mrs. Cavalish, It's only Thursday. You can work tomorrow but you get a three day weekend as I do not require you to come in on Saturday. Thank you for your help, oh, and tomorrow is Pay Day, so don't forget to pick up your check from the office tomorrow." Sherlock walked over to her, shaking her hand in a formal matter, dismissing her from duty. She smiled at him, and than it seemed she suddenly noticed that John was accompanying him. She grinned widely, hobbling over to the blonde kid, shaking his hand wildly.
"Oh Mister Holmes, you did not tell me you invited a friend over! I would have made tea, or done something romantic for you!" She had a thick accent that John couldn't place; Eastern European of some kind, but it was impossible to tell, maybe even a mixture of things. It was nice, but she had the drawl of a Grandmother, which he found himself lacking the warmth of a grandparent's voice.
"Oh no, it's fine, I am more than capable of making ourselves tea, thank you for your time, Mrs. Cavalish. Enjoy your evening." Sherlock bowed at the waist slightly, still holding his dog up in his arms. John felt a small spark of jealously for the animal being carried around like a precious infant. The housemaid left the house without another word, smiling to herself, and Sherlock remained quiet until he heard the door lock click into place when it was securely shut.
"So, she's your...uhh, maid?" John asked, walking gingerly into the connecting living room behind Sherlock, who set the canine onto the floor. The blonde watched as the docked behind of the dog waddled across the floor to keep up with his beloved owner. He hadn't given John a second thought after that look, so John figured he just didn't care. Something told him that Sherlock didn't get many strangers in his house, but Milo, for some reason, didn't have any opinion of the new intruder.
"She's really just to keep Milo company. Make yourself at home, John, I'll go get tea, unless you prefer a more caffeine infused beverage?" Sherlock asked, meandering into the kitchen to make the drinks, John plopped himself onto the wide leather couch, sinking into the folds of it, feeling all at once exhausted and comfortable; he really was at home.
"No thank you, tea is fine, thanks." John called out, leaning his head back and shutting his eyes softly as to not fall asleep. He felt the cushion he was on sink to the left slightly as the light panting of Milo joined the rhythmic sound of his own breathing. Opening one eye to take a look, John curled the corners of his mouth up in a smile.
"Hey Milo." He said, lifting his hand to pet the Corgi's small, sharp head. Milo leaned into the touch, scooting closer towards the blonde's lap, his docked tail wagging furiously. John heaved a great sigh of contentment, utterly at peace with the world at that very moment, feeling that, even if his mother found him here, he wouldn't be upset because everything was just so right. Sherlock must have noticed the silence, concerned slightly, he called out.
"Bored, John?" The deep voice rang out, echoing, bouncing off the walls adorned with landscape photos and expensive looking picture frames. It mildly concerned John that the house echoed so much, it seemed far too lonely, but, than again, that's probably why he owned a dog in the first place, it was someone to keep him company in the lonesome hours of the night. The thought that Sherlock hired a nanny specifically to look after a dog was a most endearing, yet amusing thought to him. It displayed obvious compassion, almost to the quality of a mother.
"No, no, actually. Just really happy. It's quiet and there's no one barking orders, I don't have to clean, it's just nice." He said dreamily, only partially wishing that Sherlock would fetch him a blanket so he could just nod off on the couch. He hadn't realised how tired he was until he sat down on this blasted thing anyway, he wasn't all that tired rather than actually comfortable; he hadn't been able to relax since before he started the job when everyone decided to be nosy and try to work themselves into his personal life.
"All right, tea's nearly done, I'll be in there in a minute, okay?" There was Sherlock again. John knew it was wrong to be invited over to someone's house and then be so rude as to tell them to shut up, but at that moment he just wanted to sit down with his boss, huddled together for warmth and comfort in complete silence with the exception of the sound of their breathing. That thought both confused and annoyed John, as he knew it was entirely too rude of him to ask such things, he knew Sherlock liked the small talk and conversations they had; and it gave John an excuse to find out more about the roots of the man he adored so much. It seemed a downright miracle when Sherlock finally re-entered the den, tray of kettle and two cups with creamers and a sugar container all lined up on it.
"John, there were some things I would like to talk to you about." Sherlock stated, setting the metal tray onto the low coffee table in front of the couch. John opened both his eyes, his vision temporarily blurry as he had let sleep, and his thoughts, engulf him. Shaking his head and pressing a palm to his temples he woke up fully, leaning forward to sit up in a more sociable position.
"Yes?" John asked, clearing his throat and thinking to himself. 'What has gotten into you? You were nearly bouncing off the walls before you sat down, what happened?'
"John, I feel like...okay, no, I know we have a bit of an odd courtship, and me being the elder here, I wanted to confirm with you the speed of progress and how you wanted to take things. In layman's terms; what do you want out of this relationship? What type of companion are you looking for?" Sherlock held his own hands together, slightly nervous. John found it odd how the only time that Sherlock seemed to actually value other people's opinions were when he was around. Otherwise, Sherlock generally told other people to 'fuck off'. But not John, actually, he couldn't remember a time when Sherlock actually outed him on anything, sometimes he may be a bit harsh in his descriptions, but he never actually said anything bad about anything he did, not even when he first started.
"You're older than I am, and to be honest, Sherlock...I don't know. I mean, you're my boss, and I've never actually had any sort of relationship. I mean, I've had a couple crushes back in middle school, but nothing in any recent years. I don't know if I just really deeply admire you and crave your approval and at the same time find you incredibly handsome...or..." John stopped, his face growing more and more red by the second, and not because of the tea. He was utterly shocked at how easy the words flowed out of him, usually he stammered and stuttered with every word he said when he was talking to people about his feelings. Something about Sherlock made them flow out like word vomit, only, graceful word vomit, no, scratch that, there was nothing graceful about it, it was a mess, HE was a mess, this whole courtship deal was a mess...but it was addicting, he needed more of it, needed to be the only one Sherlock treated this way. He felt greedy thinking it, but he remembered that it was Sherlock himself who started this big awful mess by being so desirable in the first place.
"If I held your hand, would you object?" Sherlock asked, taking his cup from it's saucer and putting it to his lips, sipping slowly, his cupids bow outlining the rim of the cup. John noticed, gulping down his attraction, which didn't work, to be honest.
"You have held my hand before, you kissed me in your car! I...I don't mind actually. I mean, I don't object to it, but, I mean, I...I do like you, but what...what do you want to do if we were, you know, together?" There it was, there was the stuttering and stumbling over one syllable words. He knew it couldn't be avoided any longer, and here it was. He couldn't even bring himself to lift up his cup, he was drowsy and embarrassed and wishing that this conversation was just over already. He was no good with talking about relationships, what was it that Sherlock was even asking him? Did he want sex? Was that what this was all about? He preferred it when Sherlock just did things, he didn't need his permission.
"What most people in relationships want. I'm just asking you, John. Is it a relationship you want? Do you want to be with me? You're legal and able to make your own choices, but I really want to make sure you're okay with this too and you don't feel like I'm taking advantage of you or anything." Sherlock set his now empty cup down, John decided to focus on that, thinking how fast he had swallowed that steaming cup of tea. He really didn't want to answer any questions, he wanted to be in a relationship with Sherlock, yes, without a doubt, but why did he have to ask? He was so excited, thinking he was someone special in Sherlock's life, but at the same time, he didn't want to go through the tedious process of questioning, was he drugged? No, he didn't ingest anything that Sherlock hadn't ingested. Although he hadn't had a very satisfactory couple of nights this week, but why tonight, of all nights? Maybe Sherlock would understand, maybe he would offer to take him home?
"Of course not, Sherlock, I do like you, I wouldn't, you know, tell the police you're some...some...you know, the people who like children. Yeah, you're not one of those." John fought to keep his eyes open, blinking furiously. Words just weren't coming to him tonight. His forehead felt incredibly hot, his body was trembling under his clothes, he wanted to take them off to cool down, maybe ask for a shower-was this normal? He felt like he was overheating, but his brain wouldn't stop thinking, wouldn't stop racing to allow him time to think.
"Articulate as always, Baby Giraffe. If you're really that tired, you can have one of the guest bedrooms, I don't mind. I can drive you to school in the morning before I head to work, if you wish we can continue this discussion tomorrow." Sherlock put his hand on John's shoulder, pulling him forwards until his head slumped on Sherlock's flat chest with a small thump. John licked his lips before leaning back up, forcing himself to be a polite guest, taking his teacup, sipping the scalding beverage, trying not to burn his lips. It was just enough to spark his attention, sitting up straighter, his knee's pressed against Sherlock's own. His body was still on fire, he could feel his heart pounding mercilessly against his ribcage, he knew what it was now, he knew the feeling all too well. The blood from his head poured slowly, pooling underneath his stomach, yup, he knew he wasn't really tired, or drugged, or had a sudden bought of flu. He was turned on like Hell and he wasn't getting the proper satisfaction from it. Damn it Sherlock.
"No, I'm good, I still need to get my car...you know what, umm, can I possibly, please ask you if I can pick up my car tomorrow?" John curled his fingers around Sherlock's thumb, leaning forward, almost falling head first into Sherlock's lap, only stopping himself with his elbow, so his head was propped up and nuzzled into the older man's chest. His accent thick and syrupy in John's ears, it was like mother's milk, or, more likely, like thick maple syrup being slowly drizzled onto piping hot pancakes, steam curling around the cold ribbons of the partially solidified liquid, oozing down the sides and pooling onto the cold porcelain plates. John licked his lips yet again, for what felt like the millionth time that night, the combined thought of food and sex was enough to make any man go stir crazy, much less a normal teenager with a healthy libido. The low laugh that escaped the Englishman's chest cavity was like the humming of a bass guitar, which only made John love him, and at the same time, curse him even more.
"Of course, Baby Giraffe. Wouldn't want you falling asleep and crashing into a ditch now, huh? Come with me, I'll show you to the guest rooms. To be completely honest, I was only slightly hoping you could have stayed awake for a little longer, I thought we were going to get to chatting, but you know, your health is more important to me." Sherlock poured himself another cup of tea, by leaning forward he pressed himself against John's face, suffocating him with his intoxicating aroma. John moaned from the clothing that blocked his airway, but being overtaken by the musky cologne that curled into his brain, engraving itself into his memory. John took the hint that Sherlock was taking another cup as a sign that he was to sit up and at least finish one, especially since it was Sherlock who invited him over for that reason, or rather, under that pretence.
"I don't mind spending the night, and I don't mind talking, really. I would really rather not have to drive home, so, er, thank you? Really, thank you. This...this is good tea, what is it?" He asked, steering the conversation away from talks of driving and John going home, he didn't want to think of home...'Shit!' The thought overtook him, exclaiming inside his head. 'What are Mum and Dad going to think when they notice you haven't come home? Who are they going to call? After last night, they might even phone the police! Okay, no, no...no...if they ask, just say you tried calling the home phone-no, no, Mum knows you better than that...oh no, John...' His internal outbursts being drowned out by the flood of the pungent tea sinking down into his senses. He tried not to think of his mother, who would have every policeman in the township after Sherlock, his license and citizenship if they knew where John was that night. He was duelling inside himself, he hadn't even told his parents he was going to be late coming home, they would have two haemorrhages a piece if they knew where he was now.
"John, it's no problem, besides, I like the company. No offence to Milo, but there's only so much a dog can do for you. It's black chai tea, by the way, imported straight from the Chinese-Russia border where the leaves are the most aromatic." Sherlock smiled at how many lengths John was going through, forcing himself to stay awake to drink the tea he prepared. It wasn't even that late, and he had little doubt that if he had been at home, he would still be fully conscious and ready for an adventure. Maybe it was a good sign that he allowed himself to be so vulnerable here? He allowed Sherlock to see him with all barriers down and not able to run away from an attack, it was the ultimate sign of trust, in his mind. Sherlock saw that too, but he refused to allow himself to take advantage of the boy's weak state, it just wasn't fair.
"It's nice." John cough, stifling a yawn from escaping, trying not to sound rude. He finished his tea with vigour, setting the china back down with a small tinkle of the glass. He looked up at Sherlock, still pressed close to him, his body pressing against his lower body again as he laid down some more.
"John, do you want to go to bed?" Sherlock asked, John found himself wanting to listen to his voice forever, if only he could have him read the entire works of Shakespeare to him in that sweet, sultry voice.
"I want you to read to me, Sherlock." He said honestly, snuggling in closer, yearning to smell his scent on him some more, wanting to be flooded in the sea of cologne and musk. Sherlock found it greatly amusing that John seemed to evolve onto a kitten in mere minutes, exposing all his weaknesses.
"Are you always like this? I swear I didn't put any alcohol in the tea." The ebony hair dresser allowed himself to stroke the short spikes on the top of John's head, feeling the soft downy hair between his calloused fingers. It was soothing, like petting a loyal pet.
"No, no...I was fine until you let me sit down...but...now, I don't know I just...felt so tired. Like all my energy is gone." John yawned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist, his fingers tapping a small pattern across the fabric covered spine that he adored. That elicited a chuckle from Sherlock's chest as he leaned backwards to give John some more room to sprawl out.
"I know I have nice furniture, but really, John? Do you want to go upstairs? Maybe you'll be in a more talkative mood up there." Sherlock pressed him slightly, trying to make some headway in the least. Milo decided to join them on the couch, he had disappeared for a moment there, presumably to get a drink or a toy, but in either case he was back now, stepping on top of John's side, gaining a surprised gasp from the younger blonde as the small paws weighed down on his organs.
"Ow, ow, yes, okay, all right, I'll go." He bolted up, grabbing Milo with his hands, pulling him off of his body. The dog yapped, informing him of the canine confusion.
"Oh, sorry, Milo! John's not very friendly, is he? No, he's not." Sherlock apologised, taking his loving pet away from John, gently, and setting him back onto the hardwood floor, turning his attention to John, who was in the act of sitting up, sinking farther into the soft ripples and folds of the leather. Sherlock grabbed John's smaller, stout fingers, clasping him in support as he managed to plant his feet on the floor and pull himself up into a standing position.
"Sorry about that, Milo doesn't have very many boundaries." Sherlock said, as John giggled drunkenly, tipping over slightly, only cementing the nickname 'Baby Giraffe', and he knew it.
"Watch yourself there Baby Giraffe. Do you always crash this hard?" Sherlock snickered, holding John closer to him, keeping him steady. John looked up, his eyes clear, pupils blown wide but not hazy, which meant he hadn't been secretly drugged or taking any narcotics. John knew in his head he wasn't as tired as he was just in a haze of attraction and lust for the older man with his arm around his waist.
"No, only when I've have a really stressful couple of days and I finally get comfortable. It's impossible for me to stay awake at that point." The blonde hugged his elder tightly, the embrace warm and empowering, making John feel stronger just by being held close to the body he admired so much.
"New job, new relationship, struggling to manage your time between school, work, homework and still maintain a social life...I hear you, John. Here, look, no games tonight, I can help you settle into the guest room and you can sleep it off. God knows you've had any ability to sleep more than a couple hours." Sherlock swung one of John's arms around his shoulders, half carrying, half dragging John up the spiral staircase in his foyer, the plush carpet softening any noise they made with their dragging feet.
"I'm sorry, Sherlock...I know it wasn't your idea of how today would go down." John sounded ashamed partially; it made Sherlock cringe, he hadn't meant to make John feel bad, this wasn't a good idea, not until he was more settled into the routine, it was something better saved for weekends when he didn't have to worry about school or anything else. He knew better than to bring relationships into the picture, especially at his age.
"No, it's my fault, really. I should have saved it for a weekend or a day when you didn't have school." Sherlock let him go once they reached the top of the stairs, a lengthy corridor lined with thick door panels and white embellished walls. John, through his tired eyes, could still appreciate the decorations, wondering how anyone could even afford such a lavish lifestyle. He heard the distinct clanging of metal tags signalling that Milo had joined the group, tramping up the stairs, his small paws only being able to make one step at a time. Smiling, Sherlock padded over to the nearest door, twisting the handle and swinging the door open dramatically. John stepped up after him, letting his eyes adjust to the dark atmosphere of the bedroom. It certainly didn't look like any guest bedroom he had ever been in ever. It was more like a four-star hotel than a house room.
"Sherlock, this...this is lovely." John walked towards the four poster bed against the far wall. The mattress was thick, John could tell just by the way the covers were draped over it. He still had hold of Sherlock's hand as he walked into the room, marvelling at the rich oak desk and Victorian style décor around the room.
"This is the room I use when family comes over, which, as you might have guessed, is never, so it's actually never been slept in. You're the first person, John. Not even I've slept here." Sherlock detached himself from John's grip, sitting down on the box-spring mattress, the down duvet and thick blanket crinkling around where his backside had imprinted itself.
"Sherlock, do you usually have guests over?" John asked, inquiring further about the secret life of the man he loved. He saw the pained expression on the clever, narrow face, and felt as if he had crossed a bit of a line. In apologies, the blonde crawled onto the bed behind Sherlock, his hands tapping over the sharp shoulder blades, caressing the muscles tenderly, a light warmth spreading from his fingertips through the fabric and radiating down into Sherlock's skin, blossoming over where John was massaging. Sherlock felt a low growl form in his throat, and he moaned softly, the sound comparable to a lion's roar. It sent bolts of electricity down John's spine, leaving goosebumps in it's wake.
"John, I should have you know that you are the only person I have ever allowed to do that to me." Sherlock, forgoing his abandon, undid the topmost buttons on his silk violet shirt, exposing his protruding collarbone, allowing John to move his fingers northward, slipping underneath the fabric to actually touch flesh. The feeling was just as exciting for John, who closed his eyes and dropped his head onto Sherlock's neck, his lips grazing the short hairs that grew. The smooth texture of his lips sent a sweeping feeling of twin currents of shock and heat race down Sherlock's frame as he leaned back into the touch, needing to feel more of it.
"Sherlock..." John breathed, putting more pressure onto Sherlock's shoulders, pulling him down onto the bed. He landed on his side with a padded thump, letting out a breathy moan, shuddering under John's amateur touch. Although inexperienced, felt like thousands of little heated spots erupting on the wide plane of his shoulders, it was pleasurable in the extreme. Sherlock stretched out, his muscles tightening and relaxing, the feeling rippling down to his toes. John stopped his ministrations and curled his hands around Sherlock's chest, feeling the rhythmic beating of his heart; the shirt hanging lower, exposing far more skin than John was able to touch with his hands at once.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, facing the wall, feeling John's nose brush up against the nape of his neck, his breath warm and smelling sweet like the tea.
"You." That did it, Sherlock's groin felt tighter than it had before, John tracing his ear with his tongue, shaking slightly, in both fear and inexperience, fear of being inexperienced actually. He was worried that Sherlock would be turned off of him rather than waiting for more. They lay on the bed on their sides, spooning close to each other in their warm embrace. John wished it could just stay like that, with him nuzzling into Sherlock's back, and Sherlock being held in his arms. It was peaceful, even though it was sexless and dry, it was just so pleasant being together like this.
"John, we don't have to do this if you don't want to." Sherlock pushed back, his feet entangling with John's legs, as he purred lowly. John's head spun in different directions, pulling him in ways he didn't even know existed. He wanted to stay like this with Sherlock, he wanted all of him, wanted to be a part of him, but he just...sex was a whole new beast. Something he wanted, but he was just perfectly happy cuddling like this.
"Could we maybe just...be together?" John propped himself up awkwardly on one elbow, bringing his face closer to Sherlock's, his nose brushing against his, his lips parted slightly, touching the corner's of the older man's.
Sherlock took the hint and rolled over so he was on his back, closing his eyes as he started to kiss back, slowly sucking on John's lower lip, testing him by gently nibbling on the sensitive skin. John mewled in a muffled manner; his face becoming hot again as the supple wet sounds increased in volume and in quantity. Sherlock bowed his head to create more room for John to manoeuvre, his tongue seeking solace inside of Sherlock's mouth. He noticed, in that instant, that the feeling of the tongue belonging to someone else was akin to sucking on a live oyster; for the other organ moved in the others volition, and John couldn't control it's movements, he could restrict them, but not cease them indefinitely. It was a thought that not not encourage him, but amused him. He felt some slight mirth at those books he had read in school, where the girl describes the kiss as 'overpowering' and how she 'lost all train of thought and only focused on her lover'.
John was thinking about everything, how Sherlock's lips were slick with the saliva that spread from their entwined tongues; how his hands were sedentary on Sherlock's back, and how his spine rippled as the older man pushed himself into the younger boy. It felt odd, being kissed like this, it wasn't horribly messy, but not organized, more of a bit of chaos. Sherlock had his hands on the top of John's head, the short hairs being manipulated against his scalp. It was relaxing, having his head massaged like this, but it wasn't passionate as much as it was just a comforting feeling. He heard Sherlock's heartbeat, he felt Sherlock's tongue against his, he heard the soft noises that is elicited, from whom, he did not know, it could have been from him, or Sherlock, that alone he could not tell. He heard the straining of their noses trying to intake air to feed on, the excited breaths increasing in speed as they stayed entwined at the mouths.
It was all too good to last forever, as Sherlock broke their kiss to inhale, his forehead flush against John's. They were both panting heavily at this point, trying to take in a sufficient amount of air into their lungs.
"Do you want this, John?" Sherlock breathed out, his nose still tightly pressed to John's face, a light sheen of sweat coating his skin, his pale pallor standing out more through the wetness.
"I've wanted you the moment I laid eyes on you, I only believed it was real once you started to compliment me and notice the things I did you you." John admitted, his eyes shut, not daring to look at the man he loved dearly, he was afraid to see an emotion, or a feeling that he was avoiding, he was afraid of seeing rejection, or doubt.
"I don't want you to do anything you don't want to, do you understand why I'm asking you?" He knew John was legal, and able to make his own choices, but being a student, still favoured by the courts of law, being under the scrutiny and the judgemental eyes of those who opposed him was a highly unfavourable fate that await him if he didn't take every precaution to make sure John was thoroughly asked, and every permission was given.
"Sherlock, I promise I'm not going to tell anyone, I won't let anything bad happen to you, or your reputation, I want this. Really, I promise you." The blonde teenager nuzzled into Sherlock's hair, the damp strands sticking to his skin. He didn't realize how humid it really was in the room until he felt Sherlock's breath against his skin, his every pore opening, secreting the unpleasant feeling liquid across his body, Whether that was purely from the heat, or if everyone sweat like this in the throws and wiles of passion he didn't know.
Being with Sherlock didn't make him nervous, he trusted the older man; it was how he would feel afterwards. Being a virgin wasn't something he paraded around town to everyone, but sex was never something he raced off to have, he figured he would be in a deep and meaningful relationship by the time he even got the chance to get laid but now everything was speeding by so fast, he had barely known this man for a week and already they were lying in bed together, their limbs fitting together like gloves.
He only knew of a couple kids who had the experience of sex before, and he only knew them because they had all suffered consequences for their actions. He knew a girl in his previous class that had gotten pregnant, he knew two boys to whom she had accused of being the father, both of them vigorously denying all accusations. He didn't want to end up like them, he knew that biologically that was impossible since they were both of the male gender, however, the horror stories of things going wrong were an astounding amount. That was what he was scared of, not the sex itself, it was the possible outcomes, how would he change afterwards? He dare not tell Sherlock that he had even been considering stopping now, the curly haired man looked so lost, so hopeful yet so confused, as if he had been at war with himself their entire relationship. John opened his eyes, he looked into the dusky grey orbs hovering above him, scanning him over and over. They were almost vibrating, it seemed, never settling on one particular point of interest.
John reached down awkwardly, his arms slightly trapped underneath his partner's torso, he felt a small pinching in his wrist when he bent his arms to clasp the hem of his shirt, pulling it above his face and over his arms, his abdomen was a single shape, his small stomach was soft, with no definable muscles. His pectorals were flat and slightly more hard, he had more strength in his upper body due to his constant use of his arms and shoulders. Sherlock, looking down on this, felt a great appreciation for the younger form. How soft and yet how fragile the body was before years of stress and hard labour took over and either formed a rock or a puddle. This was the age when boys turned to men and their bodies changed, and Sherlock had to appreciate John's figure. He was the epitome of youth, his flesh not sure of itself, unchanging. He wasn't ripped out, or look like he had lived with definable abdominal muscles, but he was not a flabby kid either.
'No, no...stop saying kid. That doesn't make this any easier, Sherlock. Not kid, teenager, adult, young man, anything BUT kid.' Sherlock thought to himself, cursing inside of his head. He bent at his stomach, his clever features extenuated by his grin, showing straight teeth that were more than likely braced during his childhood.
"Are you a virgin?" He asked suddenly, he figured he would ask before his mind was too far gone with attraction and desire to bother. On experience he knew that once he got going, after a certain point there would be no turning back, and he didn't want John's first night to be a mindless blur of rough intercourse because Sherlock couldn't stop rutting against him. John hesitated before answering, looking up at the older man, he felt self conscious, trying to wriggle back into his safety cocoon where no one could look at him, he felt exposed suddenly, not just physically either, he felt Sherlock in his mind, in his eyes, boring down upon him like an animal.
"Yes...I...I've only kissed someone once...and it wasn't even anything like this. It was wild, without passion it was just because we wanted to and had the opportunity." John breathed out, lifting his leg slightly as it brushed up against John's sensitive thigh, causing the man above him to jerk involuntarily, his lower body giving small spasms of pleasure radiating in his groin, a dull throbbing concentrated at where his flesh became far more sensitive. All though at this point, if John touched even his arm, there would be no doubt of physical pleasure, even in the non-sexual manner.
"I promise I won't treat you like that." Sherlock smiled, peeling off his tight shirt from his skin, disregarding the buttons at the top, thankful he kept it quite low so he could effortlessly disrobe, throwing it off the side of the bed so the clothing was in one central area for easy clean up, he hated hearing people describe the act of unclothing as "carelessly tossing the garments area in an unknown corner of the room", it made them seem disorganized and loose with their lovers and partners, not at all passionate and romantic like he wanted John to remember it.
"I know, Sherlock." John's voice was lighter, almost airy as he bent his head at a sideways angle to take a look at Sherlock's physique. The older man had scars up and down his normally covered arms, his body was a roadmap of masked wounds and scrapes, his abdominal muscles tight and defined, but laced with lines like spider webs across his body. John dared not touch, but his eyes traced around all those lines, following them to see where they travelled, most intermingled into themselves, others wrapped around his body, and some lead straight up to his heart. Sherlock looked at John's face, watching the young boy's eyes round in concern and a bit of shock. He saw the scars of self abuse, scars that were trademark of every drug addict on the street, records of the poison they took, track marks that tell the horrific story of your life to anyone who looks. He tried to cover them up by wearing his suit jackets with long, thick arms, and long sleeved shirts so no one could ask about the origin of those marks.
John looked, he didn't vocalise his questions, but it was evident that he had them as his dark eyes continued to roam their many paths and endings. Sherlock felt equally as self conscious as John did when he had taken off his shirt, they both felt exposed, but at the same time, neither of them felt the need to shy away from the other. They wanted the attention, they wanted each other to see themselves in their true light, in their true, uncovered skin, their secrets ebbing out and surrounding them.
"John." Was the simple word Sherlock spoke, his voice husky and deep, the one word meant many things. It was asking permission, it was a confession of adoration and love, it was an expression of contentment and happiness. So many things were the meaning behind the four letter, one syllable word that, spoken aloud, was the most powerful word anyone has ever spoken to the blonde man underneath him.
When John nodded in reply, Sherlock ducked his head, his lips attached to his partner's collarbone, sucking gently, his tongue padding across the skin there. John felt his body heat rising again, his head tilted back and he finally understood when writers wrote about all thought process ceasing in their mind, he couldn't focus on a singular thought any more, all he knew was that his ebony haired lover was now heading down along the length of his body, heading downwards slowly. The act of the foreign mouth kissing his flesh and the wet heat leaving non-existent scorch marks littering his body was setting fire to his bones, his muscles turning to water and his bones were alight only barely holding his structure up.
He trusted that Sherlock knew what he was doing, he entangled his stout fingers in the older man's long hair, tugging gently as to not make his roots shriek in agony, only using it to guide his head to where he felt the need to release the most pressure, where he needed to feel it the most.
Grinning, Sherlock took the hint, his tongue outlining where the cotton met his skin, dipping into his naval cavity, loving the sound of John's loud gasp, trying to bring air back into his straining lungs, his heart beating faster than it had been when they were kissing. The older man had his left hand reaching up, grasping at John's shoulder to keep him from squirming too much, his right hand pressing against his hip, the tips of his fingers heading down into the edges of the pants, caressing the skin he felt there.
"I'm going to undo your pants now John, are you okay?" Sherlock asked, unlike John, he was able to focus on things properly, but that was mostly due to the fact that he was so concerned for John's satisfaction and trying to be a good, no, wonderful lover that the other boy won't ever regret having. Knowing how much he regretting all his one night stands and short weekend flings, but never remembering his encounters in coitus in full detail. He didn't want to become a forgotten experience for John, he wanted this to be engraved in John's memory for years to come, until the sun set on his time on Earth.
After hearing confirmation, Sherlock took his time, massaging John's skin at opposite ends where his hands were, his shoulder and neck being rubbed expertly in the same circular motions as one would do on the scalp, and his hip receiving the most exquisite tapotement treatment he had ever given, the motions fast and fluttery, feeling like dry raindrops on his skin. John, feeling a moment of clarity, thought that must be how meat must feel being tenderized, albeit much more painful in the meat's case. He felt that familiar melting feeling in his flesh as Sherlock's hands run over the length of his body in those wispy, ghost-like touches.
John arched back up against the mattress, desiring a more intimate touch from the older man now, his penis pressing upwards against the coarse fabric of his pants and trousers. Sherlock noticed the bulge, it was hard to miss when it was pushing on his throat.
After thoroughly getting John into a state of complete relaxation and calm, and easy to mould; Sherlock started divesting him of his trousers, slipping the button through it's security loop, and pulling the zipper down so they were easier to pull off.
"Lift up a bit." Sherlock ordered, taking his left hand down from the blonde's shoulder and resting it underneath his body, just above his rear so he could support his weight as his other hand tugged and struggled with the trousers until he finally managed to pull them off, leaving John's legs bare, exposing his groin and all that included. John had a short, curly treasure trail that started under his navel and grew thicker as the curly hairs surrounded his manhood. He supposed that John was about average length, being proportionate to his body and being circumcised, which brought down the girth. He smiled though, thinking not of himself, all though his own appendage wasn't making it any easier on him, but he tried to remain focused only on John which was truly a lot harder said than done even though he tried valiantly to make it so.
"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John breathed out, his chest rising and falling steadily, he was exhaling loudly, his legs spread apart to give Sherlock better access, his own hands slipping down and playing with the short curly hairs that covered his skin. The older man pressed a hand to John's chest, holding him down as he lowered his head and planted a quick kiss to the elongated shaft, his lips parted to allow his hot breath to enshroud over the heated skin. John shuddered, lurching forward slightly, his legs trembling and toes curling. Giving a sly grin, Sherlock opened his mouth wider slipping his tongue over his teeth, dropping over top of John's dick and giving a couple short flicks with his moist tongue on the sensitive flesh.
"Oh God, Sherlock!" John called out, his eyes scrunched close, neck craning back on the pillow, trying to get more leverage, not even pretending to try to stop himself from bucking his hips wildly into the other man's soft, wet cavern. Humming, sending the vibrations racing furiously through John's body, his skin becoming a minefield of goosebumps and spasmodic muscles and limbs. His fingers twitched greatly, taking hold of Sherlock's wild curls, knowing that he was definitely causing Sherlock's scalp some serious pain but neither of them was going to say anything about not, not when Sherlock had his mouth over his dick, creating an extreme amount of exquisite pleasure that surged throughout the younger blonde's body, melting his ever fibre.
Sherlock tapped his fingers against John's side to help calm him down a bit, keep him laying flat on the bed, trying to keep his erratic bucking to a minimum. It didn't help though, as the thick member slid into Sherlock's uvula causing his gag reflex to give its warning signal.
"Calm down there John." Sherlock detached himself from John's member with a loud, wet popping sound, strings of saliva still attached to his lips like spider webs, connecting the two men by the most common of bodily fluids. John was sweating, his skin moist and forehead gleaming. He was panting heavily, eyelids fluttering and mouth wide open, the air above him thick and pungent with their joined scents. He didn't even hear what Sherlock was saying, all he knew was that the cold air of the room was not assaulting his member with full force, creating a very discomforting feeling, he could feel it softening without the continuous stimulation.
"Please...Sherlock...I...I need..." He couldn't get the words out, only groaning and letting loose stringed words of sweet nothings and curses at the same time, wishing only for the older man's mouth on his penis once more, sucking him off with great arousal.
"Yes John, one moment, you have to sit still." Sherlock smiled, loving how John was so mindless, so set on this one human function. It was completely unlike the John Watson that he had grown comfortable with, and he enjoyed seeing the boy so hazed over with sexual arousal, so focused on only himself. His greed was overtaking him and if that didn't turn Sherlock on, nothing else in the world every would again.
Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, carelessly cleaning it off on the now soiled linen duvet. He bent back down and engulfed the now stiffening penis back in his mouth, allowing his right hand to let go of John's stomach, coming down the gently cradle his tightening ball sack. The twin energies of desire and physical need overlapped all his other senses as Sherlock's long spindle fingers gingerly cupped him, squeezing with minimum force, feeling the taut skin, smooth and flawless nestled up against his dick which was being rigorously sucked on, the vacuum ensuring maximum heat as Sherlock's tongue wrapped coyly around the member, wagging slightly to add extra pressure. The only sounds in the room were the breathy sighs and loud moans exuded by John, who was far more vocal in bed than Sherlock would have ever guessed. This accompanied the sounds of Sherlock's quite boisterous wet noises, saliva dripping down his lips, dabbing onto John's vibrating groin. He was unable to move thanks to Sherlock's good grip, but that didn't stop him from trying to get that extra feeling.
Sherlock made a deep sound in his throat as he tried to rearrange the position of his tongue to accommodate for John's girth. He wasn't particularly fond of the thought of having to deep throat John, as he didn't like the sensation of choking, but he took John as far as he could without making his gag reflex react, John's balls still being fondled in Sherlock's grasp, tugged on slightly,
"Sher-Sherlock...Oh my God, Sherlock, please, faster..." John groaned, arching off the bed, his toes curling, legs stiffening, stomach rolling to get more leverage on his hips. Sherlock noticed John's increased breathing and the rapid movements of his chest, he sped up a bit, trying to get John off in a magnificent climax, and he did, as Sherlock detached his mouth, only letting his tongue swivel around John's distinguished head, dipping slightly, noticing how odd it felt to feel the small movements underneath the thin layer of skin as pre-come ebbed out in small waves, Sherlock swiped the sticky mess away with his thumb, grinning at the excited gasp that protruded from John's chest, before he cried out lowly, Sherlock wrapping his hand tightly around John's penis, stroking roughly upwards, the remaining saliva creating a nice makeshift lubricant to avoid friction burns.
"SHERLOCK!" John howled, Sherlock's name bouncing off the walls, echoing inside the dark room, hitting Sherlock's ear with the ping of an angel's bell. John bucked up, his hips rolling with the spasms, his toes clinging to the bedsheets, his fingers attached to Sherlock's curly locks,
He came without any grace, his come flowing out like ribbons, his cock twitching and body clenching and unclenching as his muscles melted.
Panting heavily, the air thick with the smell of their coitus; Sherlock ran his fingers over John's softening cock, feeling the tingle of his skin as the sweat cooled on his body, his come thoroughly soiling the sheets, soaking into the fabric. John's body was limp, unable to move, he was in post-coital bliss, and nothing mattered, nothing at all.
"Thank you...thank you, Sherlock...thank you." Was all John could say, his breathing evening out, feeling more relaxed as he sunk into the mattress, feeling the warm embrace of sleep overcome him, all though Sherlock wouldn't have any of that.
"Thank you, John. That was...that was brilliant." Sherlock gave a quick peck on John's lips before wiping his brow with his hand, sitting up on the bed and standing up, leaving John confused and slightly hurt. Why was Sherlock leaving?
"You're not staying?" John asked, his body shaking slightly with the aftershocks of being so mercilessly assaulted with the deft tongue. Sherlock looked over his shoulder, seeing the expression John had, feeling his heart sink at the sight of John lonely, perched on top of his bed made Sherlock wince.
"You need to shower first, we can't have you falling asleep when you're messy. Besides, there's more rooms, I'll have the maid take care of the mess and that way you can sleep in a clean bed. Come on, the bathroom's in the hall, can you walk?" Sherlock asked, wiping his hands off on the sheets, kissing John's hand before helping him get up, his legs wobbly, unsteady as he staggered beside Sherlock.
"All right, Baby Giraffe, let's get you cleaned up."
It was well past Midnight, as far as John could tell. He wasn't too sure, the moon didn't shine through the window, nor did it face any main roads so there was virtually no light in the room, so the hands on the clock looked like blurry lines in an equally blurry pitch of blackness. He had been able to nod off for several short minutes, but feared that being with Sherlock had successfully damaged and killed any actual REM sleep that would have occurred. He was all set for sleep until Sherlock felt the need to shower and transfer him into a brand new room, now he was energetic, his body feeling as if it was made up of a million silver motes.
Sighing out loud, he pulled back the covers, he wasn't sure why he and Sherlock weren't in the same bed, but at the time he wasn't in a mood to argue, now he would give anything to have objected and demanded he stay in at least the same room. He was still adorned in his black pants and button down shirt that he wore the previous day. He wasn't sure how hygienic that was, but he dare not ask Sherlock use of his laundry machine at this hour.
He was, however, parched, and decided that he couldn't stand watching the shapes in his eyes move about this black hole he was sitting in. He couldn't see a thing, not even his own hand waving about in front of his face. It was like he closed his eyes and was trying to guide himself around a new city.
Miraculously making it to the door without any great injuries; John groped for the doorknob, he couldn't remember if the door hinges were rusty or squeaky, so to be safe, he opened it slowly, to guarantee that no noise escaped. Luckily, they didn't make any. Padding down the plush carpet, John could see that the hallway was more luminous than his room had been. The light came from a small night light plugged into each socket. Whether it was for safety or because Sherlock had a secret phobia of the dark, he did not know. But he didn't complain as he allowed to lights to carry him down the hall towards many unopened doors. He dare not try to walk down the stairs, for greater fear of being caught sneaking about.
The lights stopped at the wall, John had a brief encounter with the human notion of humour. 'Just like the films, this is supposed to be some sort of sign, some crazy destiny that the wall suddenly stops in front of this door.'
Listening to that thought, he turned the handle of the door in front of him. He could hear the gentle sounds of someone breathing slowly, in and out, in and out, a wave, rolling the tide out, rhythmic and timed perfectly, John lost his ability to see once again as he left the door open to allow the faint glow of the night lights flood into the room, ebbing to form shadows dancing across the wall.
Sherlock lay in his bed haphazardly. He was on his side, one arm draped over his head to cover his eyes, the other jutting out from beneath a pillow. The blanket was bunched up by his waist, his legs exposed and torso almost completely showing, it was as if he only used the blanket as an extra long pillow. Smiling, John sat down beside him on the bed, feeling the dip as the mattress was much softer than the one in his own room. It was foam, expensive and thick, a luxury that John had only heard about in films involving royalty and lost princesses.
Milo was stretched out at the base of the bed, his paws twitching as he lay in his own dream state. John grinned, of course Sherlock would ensure that his dog slept with him on the same bed, anything else would just be ridiculous!
Sleep overtook his senses once more, as if by magic spell, he instinctively lay down behind Sherlock's long form, tucking his arms in front of him as not to disturb the other man. The bed was soft, and enveloped him in Sherlock's smell. It was akin to being smothered in his shirt, only this was in his air, curling around his nostrils like plumes and tendrils of thick musk. He realized that this-falling asleep to the sight, smell and feel of Sherlock, was what he had dreamt of doing, and finally, tonight, he had it. His final thought before being whisked away into proper REM sleep was 'Even with this many material possessions, he still wanted human physical comfort. I'll do anything to assure he gets it every night if I have to. He deserves to be happy.'
A/N: I'm working on the next chapter now, it's exam week and therefore I have an extremely high amount of free time for the next five days. Thank you to my viewers for sticking with me.