Sorry for taking over two weeks for this chapter. School has been tiring. I participated in my first protest on Thursday, too. Woot woot.
After the incident against the chalkboard, things felt odd. For one thing, John was getting bolder at work. He didn't fuck Sherlock again, although he expressed his desire to.
"I wish we were out of here," he whispered into Sherlock's ear, his hand reaching down Sherlock's trousers. "Can't wait to be inside you again."
Sherlock got very close to coming in his pants when John said that.
There may not have been any anal sex, but they kissed every day now. Sometimes the kisses were short and sweet, only a little more than a peck before someone saw, or sometimes they led to a frantic hand job or two. They were having fun, but Sherlock felt an ache in his chest.
That was where the odd part came in. At first it confused him, but now Sherlock knew why he felt that way. Sherlock was having doubts about what he meant to John. Whenever they were done having sex, John would smile and joke around with Sherlock, maybe pet him a bit, which was all fine and good, but that could be attributed to endorphins. It was common knowledge that the human body craved cuddling after orgasm. Sherlock was craving non-sexual physical contact to confirm that he wasn't just a nice fuck. He was beginning to wonder if their activities meant more to him than they did to John. He loved John. He wanted to hold him close, he wanted to make love. What a ridiculous term. Ridiculous, but applicable. He wanted to show John how much he cared, if not through his words then through his actions. He wanted their sex to be something more. He wanted them to be official.
But, how could he bring it up such a sensitive matter? What if John didn't love him, and would go away when he learned of Sherlock's true feelings? He could not bear the thought. This is why he never engaged in anything like this before. It was so emotionally taxing.
Maybe he could test out if John also wanted non-sexual contact. Maybe he could experiment.
Two weeks after the sex in his classroom, Sherlock took a deep breath and went into John's room at lunch. John was the only one in there. Perfect.
"Hey, Sherlock," John smiled, rising from his chair. "I didn't see you this morning in the lounge. What have you been up to?"
Sherlock had no transition. He had to be brave and just go for it. He pressed his lips together, went over to John with four long strides of his legs, and attacked John in a bear hug. He heard John grunt in surprise. Sherlock closed his eyes and buried his face in John's neck, wrapping his arms securely, but not too tightly around John's back. His fingers spread out on the soft fabric of John's jumper. It was the blue one that matched John's eyes. Sherlock liked that one a lot.
John tentatively embraced Sherlock, his arms near Sherlock's lower back. "You okay?" John asked.
"Mmm," Sherlock cherished the warmth of the skin of John's neck against his cheek. John wasn't pushing him away yet. He slowly moved forward and brought their bodies closer, chests together, hearts beating against each other. Sherlock's face warmed at the overwhelming feeling and he breathed deeply.
John brushed his lips over Sherlock's temple. "What's going on, Sherlock?"
"Why do you think something is wrong?" Sherlock's defensive tone was muffled by John's skin.
"I dunno-you waltzed into my room and hugged me without a word. Are you upset about something?"
"I can't just hug you?"
"You can. It just seems unlike you."
Sherlock shrugged and hugged John tighter. "I have a headache," he lied.
"Oh," John held him tighter and soothingly stroked the length of Sherlock's neck, moving up to his curls, then moving down to his back. Sherlock sighed. John's warm hand felt blissful. He have lied about having a headache more often. This was a good sign: John cared enough about his well-being to comfort him.
"Too much going on in your brain today?" John asked.
"There's always too much," Sherlock said.
They stood in silence for a couple minutes. Sherlock felt tension slowly melt from John's body. Sherlock kissed John's shoulder and stood up straight, feeling a little more at ease. John wasn't smiling, but his gaze was affectionate. Sherlock cupped John's cheek in his hand.
That made John's lips quirk up in a tiny smile, but he looked away, his expression suddenly bashful.
Sherlock frowned and stroked John's cheek with his thumb his left arm tightening around John. John kept looking away. This wasn't the first time he had such a reaction to Sherlock's touch, and it was worrying, especially because everything was going well just a moment ago.
"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked softly.
"Yeah," John looked at him. "Yeah. Sorry. I guess I'm not used to this."
"Used to what? Me touching you?"
"Like this, yeah."
"'Like this'? What does that mean? "
John opened his mouth to answer, but the classroom door burst open loudly. Sherlock and John ripped their embrace apart and looked at the intruder with wide eyes.
It was Lestrade.
Cold dread filled Sherlock's stomach. He didn't dare look at John.
Lestrade looked grim. "Both of you in my office. Now." He walked away without waiting for a response.
"Sherlock," John said tightly.
"Come on," he walked out the door, eyes straight ahead. Lestrade knew. He had to know. There was nothing else he could look so upset about. He knew. But how? No one was ever around when they were intimate. Sherlock would have known if someone were ever watching them. He took out his phone and looked at the time: 12:07. That gave Lestrade thirty-eight minutes to lecture them before lunch ended and they had to teach.
Sherlock and John followed Lestrade down to the first floor to his office, none of them saying a word. Sherlock wanted to take John's hand and try to calm his nerves, but that would do nothing to help their case, and Sherlock himself felt too anxious to comfort someone else.
They entered Lestrade's office. John, who was the last to come in, shut the door behind them. Lestrade's office was small, but nice, easily capable of impressing any parent thinking about sending their child to the school. Lestrade had his degrees hung on the wall and there was a bookshelf filled with the classics.
Sherlock had been in this office too many times.
Lestrade sat in the red, leather chair behind his desk and Sherlock and John sat in the small, wooden chairs in front of it. The size of the wooden chairs was meant to make whoever sat in them feel subconsciously inferior to Lestrade because of the larger size of his chair. Transparent tactic, Sherlock almost said out loud, but he bit his tongue. It wouldn't be wise to call out Lestrade at the moment. Sherlock sat back and drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. He wasn't going to be rude to Lestrade, but he wasn't going to appear perturbed, either.
Lestrade sighed heavily and put his elbows on his desk, rubbed his face with his hands, and dropped his arms on the desk. Whatever he was about to say, he clearly didn't want to address it, but knew he had to.
"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Watson," he said, "do you know why I've brought you here?"
"You know," Sherlock said simply.
Lestrade nodded.
Out of his peripheral vision, Sherlock could see John was sitting rigidly, his back looking painfully straight and tense. "How?" John asked.
Lestrade scowled suddenly. "I was given evidence."
"Evidence?" John asked.
"Yeah, from Anderson."
Everything clicked and Sherlock knew exactly what happened. He inhaled sharply, and Lestrade must have heard, because his eyes flicked to Sherlock.
Lestrade shook his head in disgust. "Soiled tissues in the waste bins? Really?"
"Oh god," John whispered.
Sherlock wanted to run out of the building. How had he been so careless? He was a genius. He should have seen this coming. With the frequency of their activities, it was obvious they couldn't go on forever.
"He found soiled tissues in the bins in both of your rooms," Lestrade said accusingly.
"Why was he looking through our trash?" Sherlock asked. "His job is to clean and throw things away, not examine the content of our waste."
"Don't try to turn this around, Holmes," Lestrade said sharply.
Sherlock pressed his lips together tightly.
"You shouldn't have done it in the first place," Lestrade continued, conveniently avoiding any specifics of what they did. "This behavior would be inappropriate in any work setting, but this is a bloody school! There are kids here!"
"We're very sorry," John said, looking ashamed, but sincere. "It was wrong of us to bring our relationship into the workplace."
"Damn right, it was," Lestrade grumbled. "I'm severely disappointed in both of you."
"I apologize," Sherlock said and he meant it. He shouldn't have let his desires get the best of him.
Lestrade was looking at him intensely. "Sherlock," he said in a softer tone, "I don't want to do this."
Sherlock closed his eyes and breathed deeply, knowing exactly what was to follow. "Do what you must."
He waited, but only silence followed. He opened his eyes.
Lestrade looked troubled. "Look, you two are great teachers, and seem like pretty decent blokes. I'd actually be happy for you in a different situation. But, what you've done is against the rules. I'm sorry, but I can't have you doing this. I'll have to let both of you go."
Sherlock knew it was coming, but that did not lessen the blow. It felt like a punch to the gut. As much as he complained about his students, he genuinely enjoyed teaching. He truly enjoyed watching young minds learn, to grasp concepts and come to correct conclusions. He liked the school itself. The likelihood of finding another job was damaged by the reason he got fired. What was it going to say on his record, "Fired for shagging at work and getting semen everywhere"?
Worst of all, what was John going to do? Technically, Sherlock didn't need the money. He had come from a wealthy family and only taught because he wanted to. But John wasn't so fortunate. He lived in a tiny flat.
"We understand," John said quietly.
Sherlock kept his eyes fixed on Lestrade. He couldn't look at John's face.
Lestrade's mouth was set in a deep frown. "Listen, it's April. How about I let you finish out the year here? Sound fair?"
"More than fair," Sherlock said. "Thank you."
"Yes, thank you," John said, his voice enthusiastic. "That would be very kind of you."
"In the meantime," Lestrade said firmly, "I don't want to find any of-that-again."
"Of course not," John shook his head.
"Absolutely not," Sherlock agreed.
All right," Lestrade sighed again. "We'll get the paperwork started later. For now, go upstairs and get ready for your next class."
"Yes, sir," said John.
Sherlock nodded.
When they rose from the chairs, John made a point of taking Sherlock's hand. Their first public display of affection, right in front of their (soon to be former) boss. Sherlock looked to him for an explanation, but John just led him out of the room.
Lestrade looked at them with raised eyebrows, but said nothing.
They went upstairs in silence, lost in thought. When they walked towards John's room, he turned to Sherlock and let go of his hand. "Sorry about that. Just, might as well, you know?"
"You don't have to apologize," Sherlock told him.
John looked puzzled, but he just cleared his throat and said, "We'll talk about this later."
They went into their respective rooms, but Sherlock found it impossible to focus for the rest of the day. He taught in a fog. He wasn't even sure if anything he said was comprehensible, if the odd looks his students gave were indicative of anything. When the day was over, Sherlock left his room to go to John's. He saw Anderson on the way, but didn't have the energy to confront him. Later.
John held up his hand when Sherlock came in. "Whatever you're going to say, don't do it here. We've done enough here." He was frowning and his eyebrows were furrowed deeply. "Can leave?"
"Yes. My place?" Sherlock offered.
"Okay."
They rode to Baker Street in silence, neither in the mood to talk or knowing what to say. There was so much silence that day. Sherlock always found it odd how sadness could render someone speechless.
Sherlock was grateful Mrs. Hudson was out. He wasn't up for her asking about who John was and cooing and smiling and being annoying.
John had never been to 221B before, so he looked around a bit when they went into the flat.
"Is that a skull?" John pointed to the object on the mantle.
"Friend of mine," Sherlock said.
John looked like he was attempting to smile, but couldn't pull it off.
Sherlock gestured the the red arm chair in front of the fireplace. "Sit, please."
John did and Sherlock sat across from him in the green chair.
"Why do you have two arm chairs?" John asked.
Sherlock shrugged. "It all belongs to my landlady." He'd thought about what it would be like if John lived with him, spending quiet evenings sitting across from each other.
John squeezed the end of the arm of the chair nervously with his left hand. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."
Sherlock cocked his head to the side. "Whatever for?"
"I'm the one who insisted on having sex at work," he said sadly. "I couldn't keep it in my bloody pants. It's because of me that we were caught."
Sherlock furrowed his brow in confusion. "Why are you blaming yourself? I was a willing participant and even initiated at least half of what we did."
"You initiated kissing," John corrected, "not sex. That was all me."
Sherlock didn't understand why John felt guilty. If anything, they shared an equal amount of blame in this. Actually, Sherlock was more to blame. "I'm a genius. I should have known better, or at least hidden the evidence better."
John had smiled at the word 'genius', but it went away quickly. "This is bad, Sherlock."
"I know. But, at least Lestrade is letting us finish out the year."
"Yeah. He didn't have to do that. It was really nice of him." John cleared his throat, eyes darting downward. "I just wish we would've had more time together."
That made zero sense. "What are you talking about?"
John laughed bitterly. "I thought we could have carried this over into next school year. Maybe the year after that, too."
Sherlock couldn't process that. "I don't understand, John."
"Come on," he said in irritation, "you know what I'm talking about."
"I really don't, John," Sherlock said, feeling confused and getting more than a little annoyed. "Would you stop being vague?"
John glared. "Am I annoying you?"
"Yes," Sherlock said honestly. "I'd like to know what you're going on about."
John snorted, "And you say you're a genius." John leaned forward dangerously. "Have you not worked it out by now, hm?"
John got angry when defensive. Sherlock knew that, but, emotions high, he leaned forward and looked directly into John's eyes. He was too stressed to play games. "Apparently not," he spat.
"Are you really so oblivious, or do you not care that much?"
Sherlock ran all of his fingers through his hair roughly. "John, just tell me."
John lowered his voice to a fierce whisper. "I wanted to continue this with you. I really did, even if you didn't. But now that we won't be working together, we won't see each other. I'm not happy about that, okay?" He practically jumped out of the chair and started pacing, muttering insensitive prick under his breath.
Sherlock blinked. He felt completely lost. He swallowed and found his voice, "John, why can't we keep going with this after the school year?"
John stopped pacing and looked at him, anger cooling into puzzlement. "You...You want to?"
"Yes!" Sherlock nearly exploded. "I thought I've made that crystal clear. Why-"
His brain screeched to a halt. John didn't think Sherlock wanted to go on with this if they weren't working together. That wouldn't be the case if they were in a relationship. "John, what are we?"
"What?"
"Our relationship status?"
John's hands clenched into fists and his chest heaved with a deep breath. "Friends with benefits, aren't we?" His body language radiated discomfort.
Aren't we? He was looking for confirmation. Why? Was it because he wanted them to be that, or he thought things were that way? Sherlock remembered what John said earlier that day when they were hugging (god, it felt like ages ago). John wasn't used to Sherlock touching him like this. Sherlock had wanted to ask John about that, but then they were interrupted.
"John, this afternoon, you said you weren't used to me touching you 'like this'. What did you mean by that?"
John took a moment to remember what Sherlock was talking about. When he did, he looked down at his feet, embarrassment taking over his features again. "Affectionately. Not because of sex."
Sherlock was missing something.
So, John wasn't used to non-sexual physical contact from Sherlock (Sherlock only held himself back because he thought John didn't want it), he thought they were friends with benefits, he thought their relationship would end after the school year and was unhappy with that thought, and he had displayed signs of embarrassment when Sherlock gave him affection. It looked like embarrassment, but it also seemed like John was holding himself back. Was John's reason for holding back the same as Sherlock's?
All of these thoughts pelted Sherlock's brain like bullets, and he held his head in pain.
"Sherlock?" John was at his side, kneeling down and grabbing his shoulder and knee. "What's wrong?"
"John, you think we're friends with benefits. Do you want us to be?"
John's mouth opened and snapped closed. He looked away and let go of Sherlock.
Negative. John didn't want to be friends with benefits. He wanted to continue their relationship.
Things were becoming a little clearer and Sherlock felt numb. "John," he gently grabbed John's chin and turned his head to face him. John's blue eyes looked frightened. Frightened of him? No, frightened of the conversation. His brave John, scared of emotional conversations. "What do you think you are to me?"
John cleared his throat and licked his lips. His most prominent nervous tics. "A nice shag?" he laughed weakly.
John thought he wasn't important. Sherlock almost gasped in horror. There he was just a few hours ago, consumed in his own insecurities, when John thought so little of himself. Sherlock was the fucking worst partner ever. He felt utterly disgusted with himself. He would he ever let John feel this way? He needed to set things straight immediately.
"No," Sherlock said, not caring about the roughness of his voice. "No, John."
John, god, he looked completely baffled. "I'm not? Then, what are we? What am I?"
Sherlock cupped both of John's cheeks with his hands, "Everything."
A lot of stories (including my own) deal with Sherlock's insecurities and doubts about their relationship, but less deal with John's. So, I decided that John needed some reassurance. Sherlock's going to take really good care of him in the next chapter ;)