Hands On Education.
Chapter Ten.
Stretch out and Wait.
Usually, most days in fact, John is dragged out of consciousness. He was awakened violently from the gentle peace of sleep by a raging torrent of beeps, the mental equivalent of being wacked round the head with a sledge hammer. His alarm clock would pass through him like a steam locomotive, hurling him into another day, it was most impolite, as if someone was dragging him from his bed kicking and screaming. This day though, this day was different. His eyelids fluttered gently opened, his brain given plenty of time to adjust to consciousness, he gave a small yawn and rubbed his eyes with the bottom of him palm, though he was no longer tired. He hadn't slept so soundly for months; it had been such a deep sleep that he felt refreshed and energised as he awoke.
He closed his eyes again, allowing a few minutes to doze. Having the opportunity to doze, to feel the warmth and comfort of the bed they were in, was a treat for the working man. All woken by alarms, all wishing to stay in the glorious kingdom of bed when the misery of the working day awaited them. Trains, tubes, buses, roads, all full to the brim with the half awake workforce, clinging to coffee cups when they would much rather still be in their pyjamas. John loved this time of morning, everyone did, early enough to be before the dreaded alarm, late enough that having enough sleep wasn't an issue. It was a peace, a freedom, to lie back and relax. Man, women, school child, no one got up before they really, really had to, no one got up before the alarm. It was unheard of, it just wasn't done, ever.
In that mysterious, wonderful world between being asleep and fully awake, John noticed that something, or rather someone was clinging to him. Their body curled up beside him, arm covering his chest and a head snuggled between his neck and shoulder. John thought himself especially lucky that he had awoken in the arms of a lover. Of course it was a lover, who else would cling to him like an octopus?
He did not recognise the room he was in, the strange furnishings and unfamiliar wallpaper. It took him a few moments to realise the sharp lines of the hip bones digging into his side, and the long legs that where entwined with his, did not belong to his wife, or her soft curves. The feminine scent breathed into his lungs, was replaced by an altogether more masculine odour, and the bed was also far too small to be the one at home.
Something was tickling his nostril, he looked down to see a mop of dark curly hair, he grinned, the memories flooding back to him, the midnight confession of love, the soul baring conversation, oh god the kiss! He didn't regret it, if anything, waking up with Sherlock in his arms only made him feel stronger, more determined to have Sherlock. He smiled, his eyes adjusting to the unfamiliar room. He didn't regret anything, if anyone thought seeing him in the morning, cast in the cold light of day, would make him change his mind, they were wrong.
He watched Sherlock sleep for a few moments, the young man looked so peaceful, his cupid's bow seemed more prominent when his mouth was slightly open and his eyes were closed, he looked down to see the mass of limbs, not sure which belonged to him, Sherlock was silent except for the sound of his breathing, and the steady rise and fall of his chest. The small clock on the bedside table told him it was half six, he groaned, he wanted to stay like forever, perfectly entwined without a worry in the world. But no, life beckoned.
He felt his partner stir, Sherlock stretching out his heavy limbs and yawning. John planted a kiss to the side of his head, his nose buried into the mound of curls, and squeezed Sherlock tightly to his chest, running his hand up and down Sherlock's side.
'Wakey wakey sleepy head.' He cooed.
'Go away...comfy.' Sherlock groaned, his voice muffled by John. As an act of defiance he simply hung onto John more tightly, and nestled himself back into John's body. John gave a low chuckle. He dragged himself up and his student along with him, planting lazy kisses along his jawbone.
'Come on, Mrs Hudson can't see us like this.' Sherlock groaned, how could John mention the outside world at a time like this? His fantasy of waking up wrapped in John's arm had come to life, and now it was being brought to a halt far too soon. He rubbed an eyelid, pouting sternly which seemed to make John giggle, he was still clinging to John, his arms wrapped around his chest. He tried to relax, tried to enjoy these few moments of being John and Sherlock, before they went back to being Mr Watson and Sherlock Holmes.
John stared out towards the window, bright sunlight filling the room.
'It's the first day of spring today.' John grinned again. 'My favourite day of the year, means winters over and there is everything to look forward to.' He gave a small sigh.
Sherlock wanted to ask John if he still meant what he said last night, but was unsure how to, he had never been in this situation before and everything was so new. Awful thoughts had crept into his brain during the night, spreading though him like fire. What if, now it was morning, John wouldn't want him? What if he decided the whole thing was a mistake and reject him? To have John, then to lose him in only a few hours would be worse than anything else he could possibly imagine. To know what it was like to kiss John, to wake up wrapped around him, to have John say that he was in love with him, then to have it all taken away? He couldn't bear the thought. Like the poor man who didn't know he was poor till he was rich, he would rather have the whole thing never happen, then to be so cruelly snatched away. He would rather his heart didn't beat at all, then to know love and have it break.
John saw the worry in Sherlock, it was written all over his face. He smiled at his pupil, reached out a hand and cupped his jaw, before running his thumb along the impeccable cheekbone. Hoping this small act to work to dispel some of the anxiety he knew the young man must be feeling.
'I meant everything, don't think daylight and sleep has changed that. I love you, I loved you then and I love you now. It's going take a lot more to have me not want this.' Sherlock swallowed, then nodded and smiled, he wondered if John had read his thoughts.
Whatever train of thought he was on quickly ended when John kissed him, his mind went deliciously blank and suddenly he was filled with a sweet nothingness, his strong hands on his hips, fingers shorter and blunter then Sherlock's own long, thin digits, weather beaten, and oh so utterly fascinating. He felt sense of security that came whenever John kissed him, he wondered if everything could be solved by John's kisses, if every worry, every anxiety he felt, could simply be kissed away. Their tongues massaged each other, running alongside each other, till John took the upper hand and pushed his tongue into Sherlock's mouth, Sherlock gave a small groan, the act so stirringly erotic, he loved John's tongue invading him, exploring, it made him feel dominated, causing his head to fill with want. John then drew his tongue back, and guided Sherlock's into his own. The gesture was so shockingly intimate that it made Sherlock feel light head. He was careful not to push in too far, he had overheard a girl complain to her friends one day of another boy doing that, causing her to choke, from her friends reaction it seemed this was defiantly not a good thing, but other than that he felt lost, having never kissed anyone else before, he had no practise or any experience in the matter, nothing else to go on but a base instinct. He had thought after their kiss in the snow, which he knew was sloppy, that he could quickly pick it up, have a perfect technique and be able to turn John into a puddle of goo, the same way John did to him. He copied, as best he could, what John did, but it seemed some things were not as easy to learn as the violin.
John pulled away, at first Sherlock thought maybe he had done something wrong, but then he saw John panting, murmuring 'Jesus Christ.' over and over again. A tell tale bulge in his trousers made Sherlock grin, maybe he had done something right after all.
In the distance the unmistakable sound of an alarm clock was heard and they both froze.
'Shit, Mrs Hudson.' John murmured hastily. 'Quick, go to your room, I'll see you at breakfast.'
Sherlock gave him a quick kiss on the forehead and was gone.
John was smearing a thick layer of marmalade on his second slice of toast when he saw Sherlock finally emerge. His hair was more skewed them when he had left John's bedroom, rubbing his eyes sleepily he stretched and yawned.
'Morning.' Sherlock grumbled.
'Morning.' John said nonchalantly, trying to suppress the urge to he had to grin at Sherlock like an idiot, the boy was clearing enjoying acting like he had just woken up, to present himself as the picture of innocence, and most defiantly hadn't spent the night curled round his biology teacher. He better get used to lying, John mused, and so did he. He wondered how good he was at it, he had never had to lie before, he had always been sickeningly honest his whole entire life. A strong moral compass and honesty was the John Watson he had known, before all this had started. If he was a bad liar he better get good, and fast.
Mrs Hudson ran around them like a mother hen, cooing over Sherlock and himself.
'What do you want for breakfast Sherlock?'
'Coffee.' He shrugged.
'Anything else?' She hinted unsubtly.
'No'
'Oh Sherlock.' She tutted in mild rebuke. 'You really must have something.'
Sherlock shook his head in defiance. Mrs Hudson sighed and went back into the kitchen to boil the kettle. While she was gone John managed to catch his eye.
'For me?' he mouthed, pushing the plate of toast and marmalade towards him, Sherlock scowled, but took a piece anyway and began to munch earnestly.
After breakfast John collected his things, he offered Sherlock a ride and the pair left together. He squeezed Sherlock's leg as he did up his seat belt before setting off.
'Probably best if I drop you off a few streets away, best not be seen arriving together.' They would arrive relatively early, at least early enough not to be caught in the crowds but John wanted to be careful.
Sherlock nodded. He doubted anyone would really notice if they came in together, they would see of course, but they would not observe, they would be quite safe, however he didn't want to upset John, if this was what he wanted, this is what they would do, besides it was hardly life or death if he had to walk an extra few minutes, so he kept quite.
'Listen, I probably should get straight home to Sarah after work, are you going to be alright getting back?' Typical John, Sherlock thought, so considerate despite the fact Mrs Hudson's home was easily in walking distance.
'I'll be fine.'
A long, but not awkward pause transpired, he found he didn't mind sitting in silence with John. Sometimes nothing needed to be said.
'When can I see you again?' he blurted out, completely unaware he had been holding the words inside.
'I don't know Sherlock, don't worry I'll think of something.' John smiled at him and Sherlock felt weak at the knees, truth shone out of John's eyes, his voice possessing a quiet determination.
'Promise?' he asked though he did not need to ask as he already knew the answer.
'Promise.' John answered anyway and gave a low chuckle.
A song cam on the radio, one that John began to sing along to quietly.
'What's this? I don't recognise it.' A man's mournful singing filled the car. John rolled his eyes.
'Jesus Christ what are they teaching you in school? It's The Smiths, I worshiped them when I was your age.'
They didn't say another word till John pulled up.
'I meant it Sherlock, I'll see you soon okay, have a good day at school.' John wanted to lean over and kiss Sherlock goodbye, but that was perhaps unwise. He settled for giving Sherlock's hand a firm squeeze.
Sherlock climbed out the car, he watched intently as John drove off, then walked the short distance to school.
He tried to slip into the shadows once again, tried to be the ghost he had always been. But once he walked he couldn't help but break into a grin wider than the Cheshire cat. He didn't walk, so much as strut past the wrought Iron gates of St Bartholomew's. John Watson loved him, had snogged his face off, had spent the night sleeping beside him. Every single one of the snivelling school pupils he passed would kill to do what he had just done. They had all rejected him, had cast him out as an outcast, a freak, a nobody, best to be left ignored, but now he had something they all wanted. He had John Watson. He was above them all, he walked with his head high in the air, nose to the sky, and his arms swinging from side to side. Two words, two small, one syllable words flooded his head. Fuck Yes.
'You look happy.' Molly commented at morning registration. 'Good night?'
'The very best.' Sherlock smirked.
He didn't see John till lunch time. He was in the school canteen eating a sandwich Mrs Hudson had given him, when he saw the blonde man approach him. His heart skipped a few beats as it usually did when John was in close proximity, he heard a few whispers and giggles, a chorus of sounds that always followed John around St Bartholomew's. This morning he noticed a new piece of graffiti in the boy's loos 'I'd go gay for Mr Watson's biology.' He so desperately wanted to yell at the top of his voice, to everyone around him, that John Watson was his. That the strange boy everyone had called a 'freak' and a 'psycho' had made the one man that was universally adored, fall in love with him, but he kept quiet.
'Hi Sherlock.' John smiled, holding a similar lunchbox to the one Mrs Hudson had given him. Sherlock tried to keep his expression even.
'Watson!' A teacher cried out across the room, pointing at a chair beside him at the teachers table.
'Just a second.' John cried back.
He sat down next to Sherlock. 'Was just wondering how the assignment is getting on?'
'Fine.'
Underneath the table John felt a hand squeeze his knee, he suddenly felt his cheeks flush, he dove his hands underneath his table, desperate for any kind of contact.
'I have a few journal articles, there a bit old but could be useful.'
Something was being placed in his hands, light and square, envelope.
'That would be great.'
John's thumb grazing over his knuckles.
'Good, come see me after school and I'll give them to you.'
'Thanks.'
'See you soon.'
He clutched the envelope tightly, before slipping it into his coat pocket.
'Bye.'
'Bye.'
He finished his sandwich, his eyes kept wondering to the back of John's head but his teacher did not look back.
He ran to the loos in the school library, locking himself inside a cubical. The only place he could think of that guaranteed privacy. Pulling down the lid he sat on the toilet and tore open the letter. His heart thumping in his chest, he couldn't concentrate and it took a few minutes to settle his breathing down enough to read the words, handwritten in John's own hand.
Dear Sherlock.
God this feels weird, to be writing you a letter like some thirteen year old girl, or the heroine in a Victorian romance novel. Anyway this was the only way I could think of doing this without anyone overhearing. Not that writing a letter is any better, if anyone found this, or it got into the wrong hands. I don't want to think what would happen if anyone found out about us. I could lose everything, my job, my wife, my home. You can't tell anyone else, and we are going to have to be really careful. But whatever happens, please remember I love you. I would do anything for you. I am nothing without you. Before I met you, before I fell for you I was nothing, I was a shell, living in a darkness, I was alive but I wasn't living. I was just killing time. Then you came along and you turned on the light, you shook up my life and changed everything.
I can't stop thinking about you, I think about you every second, every minute of every day. I keep thinking about that mouth of yours. It's beautiful, just like the rest of you. The cupids bow, I love kissing it. I want to kiss you everywhere, hands, neck, feet, head, the soft skin on the inside of your thighs, that smooth piece of skin behind your ear, everywhere. You feel so good underneath my fingers, I have to see you naked, if I don't see the expanse of milk bottle white skin you have I may combust. Are you a virgin Sherlock? In my dreams you are, in my dreams you have known no other touch but mine. I can give you bliss Sherlock, we can give each other such bliss.
Remember I love you, I want you like I have wanted nothing else in my entire life. There is nothing else in this world I am more certain of then this.
I am yours. Always.
J
Sherlock read the worlds written so carefully down on the paper. He read then again and again till he could read it with his eyes closed.
Every doubt he had seemed to be washed away, a few words on a paper and suddenly everything was so lucid. It was so clear he could almost see his reflection through it. He could build his life on the surety of it all. Him and John. John and him, it was meant to be. It was love, he didn't care if some thought it immoral, or wrong. He had wanted John so badly for so long that he had almost not believed it when he happened. Now he had this paper, as a tangible, physical proof.
The seconds past agonisingly slow, every minute seemed to last a lifetime, he kept staring at the clock over and over again yet no time seemed to pass at all, he waited and waited until finally, after what felt like an eternity the final bell rang, signalling the end of another school day. He waited outside till the crowds had dispersed and he could be sure that they would be alone. When he was the only one around he ran across the corridor to John's room, knocking on the door as hard as he could.
'Come in.'
Sherlock opened the door, the room was empty and John was at his desk marking some books.
'Hello Sherlock.' He beamed at him. Sherlock giggled softly to himself. God how does one look from John make him loose all control of himself?
'I'm here for the journal articles, the one's you told me about at lunch.'
'Oh really.' John gave a low chuckle. He leapt from his desk, running over and grabbed Sherlock's wrist, pulling him inside, and slamming the door shut. He grabbed Sherlock by both shoulders, pushing him against the door and crushing their lips together, bodies flushed against the other. Hands roaming everywhere.
Sherlock gave a low groan, he wrapped his arms around John's waist. Pulling him tightly against him, trying to get more of him, more friction, more tongue, more taste, more John. Tongues tangled together in an intricate dance.
Minutes, hours, days, weeks, years, past, Sherlock had lost count and John pulled away, he ran a line of kisses along Sherlock's jaw and down his neck.
'God I've waited for this all day.'
Sherlock grinned, turning in neck to the side to allow John more access, a small nip of his earlobe. A low moan.
'I 'am.' Sherlock groaned.
'Sorry?'
'I 'am. In your letter, you asked me if I was a virgin, I am. You are my first kiss, my first touch, everything'
'Christ Sherlock.' John moaned.
'Will you be my first?' he whispered into John's ear seductively.
'Abso-fucking-lutely.'
Sherlock grinned.
'Whatever you want, take it, it's yours.' He said, his baritone voice dark and husky. It drove John wild with desire.
John pulled away, he cupped Sherlock's cheek, a cloud of seriousness enveloped him. He looked into Sherlock's mysterious eyes, he looked so much like a newborn foal, so unsure on his feet, awkward, his eyes bright and filled with a strange new world he had just stumbled upon, a world he didn't quite understand.
'We're going take things slow' John insisted. 'I know what I said in the letter, it's all true, I do want you, so badly, but I want to wait till you are ready.'
Sherlock pouted and John laughed. 'You're not ready and we both know it.' He paused. 'Emily Dawson.' He murmured, looking down at the ground.
'Who' Sherlock asked, running a hand along John's outstretched arm.
'Emily Dawson, the girl I lost my virginity to, I was seventeen like you, Harry, my sister, got us drunk on cheap wine, a quick fumble, a few thrusts and it was all over. I don't want your first time to be like that, I want it to be memorable, I want it to be wonderful, I want to make love to you and for you to love every second.'
Sherlock nodded, trying to calm his natural impatience. He knew one day John would take him. And it would be glorious.
'Sarah is round her mum's again tomorrow night, want to come over mine?'
'Of course I want to.' Sherlock grinned enthusiastically.
'Good. Meet me here after school.' John glanced down at his watch. 'I better get going, Sarah is expecting me.' He felt Sherlock bristle and the mention of his wife's name.
'Please don't hate Sarah, none of this is her fault. If you are going to hate anyone over any of this then hate me.'
Sherlock shook his head. 'I could never hate you, I'd rather die than hate you.' He spoke defiantly, the same way a man would rally his troops before leading them into battle. John gave a small smile, and pulled Sherlock in for another kiss.
'I'm so glad you're home.' Sarah had pulled him into a bear hug as soon as he got home, and was currently squeezing the air out of his lungs. 'Dinner's in the oven.' He followed her into the kitchen where she opened a bottle of red and poured out two generous servings.
'I was speaking to someone at the practise today, apparently Sherlock Holmes was staying at Mrs Hudson's to.'
'Yeah. So?' John felt like he was immediately on the defence.
'I'm just saying, don't you find him a little...odd.'
'No.' John snapped. Something inside of him was twisting, constricting, being pulled back like an arrow ready to fire. 'You know nothing about him.' He hissed.
A flash of fear in her eyes, but Sarah stood her ground. 'The lady said you had become friends.'
'Yes, what are you getting at?' He checked himself, blood cold, heart rate elevated.
'I know you John, I know what you like, and it's about time you realised not everyone can be saved. Some people are just beyond help.'
John brought the glass to his mouth, throwing the liquid down his throat. 'I can save him.' He said, whether it was to Sarah or himself he was not entirely sure.
Sarah sighed in defeat, then went back to checking on dinner.
Sherlock almost skipped back to Mrs Hudson's. He felt light and buoyant, euphoria ran though his veins, he felt like he could climb mountains and scale ocean's, he felt that there was nothing he couldn't do. He wondered when was the last time he had felt this happy, sure it was before his mother had died, but when exactly. He tried to pin point the moment, then gave up. He whistled as he walked, that's right, whistled. The soon to be great Sherlock Holmes was whistling. And all over a unassuming biology teacher with a love of woolly jumpers. John wasn't unassuming though, he may look it, but he really wasn't. Looks could be so deceptive, underneath the ridiculous jumpers and normalcy lay the John Watson he knew. Who was solid, strong, brave, dependable, Who was endlessly fascinating and was so not boring, who was about as far away from boring as it was possible to be. He replayed the kiss they had shared in the classroom, which had been over far too quickly, and the brief conversation. He didn't know why John wanted to wait, Sherlock's virginity felt like a weight, like an dead albatross hanging around his neck and he wanted rid, he wanted rid a quickly as he could, but John wanted to wait. It was so like John to wait, kind noble John. Maybe John was right, maybe it was the right thing, out of the two of them John was the only one that had even had sex, so maybe Sherlock should trust his judgement. It would happen eventually though, John had said he would be Sherlock's first. He would be his last to, Sherlock didn't think anyone could excite him the way John could, there would be no one else allowed inside of him, only one person and that would be John. And he would wait an eternity.
He couldn't keep the happiness from his face. Smiling all the way home, grinning like a fool. His head filled with John. John, John, John, John, John. His John.
He had to make sure to call him Mr Watson when he was around others. What they had, it was all built on a flimsy pack of cards, one slip an it would come crashing down. He couldn't lose John. They were going to have to be so very, very careful, every track covered, every word silenced, every touch, every look, carefully planned and utterly secret. He thought of all the ways they could have been caught so far, what if Mrs Hudson had walked in on them? What if someone had seen them in the snow? What if someone had read the letter? They needed to shape up. One wrong move and it would be game over. He realised his world would now be dominated by secrets and lies, backtracking and foreword planning, every impulse squashed, every move carefully choreographed.
John and him, it was as if they were playing an elaborate chess match against the world, and they always had to be a couple of moves ahead. He was ready for it though, John Watson was his, and he was going to put up a bloody good fight to keep him. He was already an accomplished liar, an actor easily slipping into a new role. Hiding an affair, pah, he had caught a killer, this would be child's play. He thought of Sarah, he didn't feel bad, no way could she love John the way he did. She couldn't love John, if she did she wouldn't have prized him away from London, and brought him here. She just wanted a husband to fit the picture perfect suburban life that she desired. She didn't need John the way he did. He was John's soul mate, she was only his wife. Maybe they could run away to London together? Leave all this behind. The school couldn't teach him anything more then he already knew, he didn't need to be here, he was trapped, just like John, and John was so unhappy.
The fantasies continued to fill his head, every thought was centred on John, and it was making him delirious, the sky seemed brighter somehow, the streets vibrant, he was excited, perhaps for the first time ever, over what was to become. His future was now so very bright indeed.
He had been so unhappy, and now a new, alien feeling was flooding his system making him so blissfully happy, locked away in his own little world, but the daydream soon ended when he walked through Mrs Hudson's front door and into the sitting room.
His father was there, sitting across the sofa from Mrs Hudson, he was big, not fat but tall and very broad, he seemed to take up every available space, filled the empty air around him with ease. Mrs Hudson was clearly intimidated by him, scared almost. He didn't blame her, everyone was.
'I've come to take you home.' He spoke gruffly. 'Go pack your things.'
'Do as your father says Sherlock.' Of course she didn't know the real truth, she didn't know the pain and hurt his father caused him. No one did, and no one ever would if Sherlock had his way.
He didn't fight, he accepted his fate. There was nothing he could do, nothing anyone could do. Mrs Hudson, Bakerford, they all saw a grieving man, they pitied him, pitied his decent into alcoholism, his dead wife and strange, unruly sons, only Sherlock knew the true monster that lay beneath. He gathered his things then quickly walked into the room he and John had shared the previous night, the bed made neatly, all evidence of John gone. The sheets were cold, he smelt the pillow, a faint scent still lingered.
Sherlock was driven back in silence, it wasn't until they were through the front door, till he had taken off his coat, bag put down, scarf hung up, then his father struck, his mothers riding crop this time, an old friend, he hadn't seen it in a while, the belt looked on mournfully, wishing it could join in the fun. The riding crop struck in quick succession, careful movements, avoid the face and lower arms, concentrate on the chest and legs. Bruises easily covered. Sherlock zoned out, fighting through the pain till he was in the dark recesses of his mind. He was with John, lying in a bed, in one of Mrs Hudson's spare rooms. Held tightly to his chest. Yes this would do, the scent, his smell, the comfort, the love. Stay here, he would stay here.
When it was all over he went to his room. He unpacked the letter John had written him from his school bag. Carefully placing it alongside a photo of his mother and the paper aeroplane. Before lying down on his bed, tomorrow he would be at Johns. They would talk and laugh and kiss, and maybe, if he was very lucky they would make plans. Tomorrow, he lived for tomorrow. He had to see tomorrow.