**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Warning: This is where the story descends into gradual new relationship smut. Not your thing? Probably should stop reading now… The rest of you lovely people who've been AMAZINGLY supportive? Enjoy!**
He was storming through campus like a bat out of hell, willing himself not to break out in a full run but moving as quickly as possible. His body language demanded people move out of his way because he needed to be somewhere right this damn minute and he didn't have time to worry about being polite.
It had been five excruciatingly long days since he and Sherlock had that fateful conversation, and if John were being honest, he couldn't remember half of what was said. He knew what the overall decision had been, and he knew where they stood, but if anyone asked him to repeat any sentence, he may be able to recall two or three before going entirely blank.
A man John had been mad about for months finally told him he was interested, kissed him soundly, made him breakfast, exchanged a few chaste touches, and then informed him he wanted to court John. Court him. Like they were living in the fucking Victorian Age.
At the time it had sounded romantic.
Now it felt utterly ridiculous. And absolutely terrifying.
Because John was horny. So fucking horny, 18 years of fucking horniness, and now, finally, finally he had a gorgeous bloke who had expressed deep interest in him and damn it all to hell, he wanted him. So badly. So badly it ached. Almost worse then when he thought he had no chance at all. He wanted to touch him, to be touched by him, to learn each other's bodies, to feel and listen and give and take and fuck he needed him. He needed Sherlock.
But what the hell did he know about any of this? The things that came along with that gorgeous bloke was intense sexual experience and expectations and possibly demands and John's brain went in to overdrive with absolute panic all week long. He wanted him, he knew that, but what if he wasn't enough? What if teaching John wasn't something Sherlock was interested in? The man was not much for patience. What if he couldn't wait for John to catch up? What if their sex life was awful because of John and Sherlock lost interest immediately?
That thought alone brought a lump to John's throat.
He'd figure it out. He would sort this all out, do his very best to pleasure and please and ensure that Sherlock did not get bored or annoyed or uninterested. He'd make it good. To keep someone like Sherlock Holmes, he'd have to.
So for five long, painful days, John had gone back and forth between aroused an terrified in the same second over and over again. He wanted everything with Sherlock, every bit of everything. But what if everything he had to give back wasn't enough?
Shortly after breakfast and their discussion, Sherlock had kindly tossed him out, truly kindly, saying Mike was worried sick from the night before and Sherlock didn't want to keep him from his flatmate, giving some speech about not interfering with friendships. John had protested and Sherlock had promised dinner Friday, then hailed him a cab and kissed his cheek.
It felt sweet and exciting in the moment.
A day later it felt cruel and frightening.
Because now John had had all the time in the world to think. Really truly think about what this all meant and what could happen and what was most certainly going to happen. None of this had ever been a possibility in John's short life and he'd never thought that when fantasy turned into reality it would be feel so foreign and unknown and scary.
But that first day? Oh, that first day had been all magic and wonder and exciting anticipation and lovely, really and truly lovely. A few hours after he'd left his flat, John received his first text message from Sherlock Holmes. And it was a good one.
I think I rather regret sending you home. –SH
John had grinned like a fool and replied:
Not my choice, mind you. –JW
Make it up to you Friday? –SH
How about tomorrow? –JW
Can't. I'll explain later. –SH
The mysteries around Sherlock only seemed to intensify after they "came clean" about their feelings to each other. Sherlock had gone on a rant during their conversation and the only phrases John could remember were 'can't reveal everything about myself right away' and 'things I will need to tell you but not all at once' and that he wanted John to 'be very observant' when they spent time together. The one clear sentence John could cough up was: 'I don't want you to make your decision until you've seen and heard everything about me.'
Unfortunately, all the things John wanted to see and hear involved a naked version of Sherlock, and wished he could explain how deeply disappointing it was to not have all his fantasies come true after they'd discussed their situation. John had tried to inform Sherlock his mind was made up and he wanted to be with him, but it had been no use. Sherlock wouldn't accept an answer until after he'd fully courted John and revealed all of his secrets in the process.
Of course that had been on Sunday. Now it was Friday and reality was descending upon him like a fucking meteor shower.
After a full week of frustratingly teasing text messages, Friday was here. John hadn't seen Sherlock at all in five days.
But Sherlock had seen John. And it sent him spiraling into panic every single time.
While on his run Monday afternoon:
I can't decide if I like a clean John Watson better then a sweaty John Watson. Need time to think it over. –SH
While in the library Tuesday night:
So serious and studious. –SH
It's sexy. -SH
While walking through campus on Wednesday:
I like that color on you. Wear it Friday? –SH
While out to lunch on Thursday:
Extra fries today? Naughty boy. –SH
While sitting in Chem Lecture Friday morning:
Hopefully your pens have been holding up better now that a woman is teaching your class. My office at 5:00 tonight? –SH
John had given up trying to find him, resolving he probably had cameras planted all over campus. Or something equally creepy.
John couldn't think it through too much. Truthfully, he didn't care. All he knew was it was a turn on to be messaged like that at random and equally awful to be reminded of what was soon to be expected of him and he'd been keyed up all week. His responses to each message were somewhere between requesting and begging to see Sherlock, but he'd barely get a one-word response of 'busy' or 'Friday.' He just wanted to see him, get started and get it done. He felt like his entire body was being torn in two, one side begging for a satisfying orgasm by the hands of someone other then himself, and the other side twisting with dread at the prospect of failing to assist another person in getting off. It was horrible and achy and made John consider going off sex for life. It had worn on John's libido all week long, wounding him so tightly he was ready to snap in half.
Now, he tore through the building's front doors and barreled down to Sherlock's office. No stopping now. He was doing this. He was jumping, taking a leap and getting it done. Sink or swim time. Either a beautiful beginning to a budding relationship or a miserable, embarrassing end. One way or the other, it would be decided.
He knocked hard three times, very nearly pounding in his haste, and was on his toes ready to pounce when-
A short, dark haired woman pulled the door open and John nearly lost his footing in his realization that the person answering the door was not Sherlock.
"Ah, John, nice to see you," Sherlock said from behind her, the smirk in his voice evident. John looked back and forth between the two of them, trying to wrap his mind around what was happening, slowly pushing through his lust and panic-filled haze. His hormones were raging on so viscously he actually genuinely considered pushing right past this woman and throwing Sherlock on the desk.
The woman eyed him for only a moment more then glanced down at the blackberry in her hand. "He's putting in an effort to be civil, you know," she spoke down in to her phone and John felt a tiny prick of fear on the back of his neck that she may be speaking to him, about what he had no idea. Luckily, Sherlock laughed condescendingly in response to her comment and John took it that they were carrying on a conversation he was most definitely not a part of. He stood awkwardly in the doorway as they continued to speak indirectly to each other.
"Think it over," the woman said. John turned to look at Sherlock who was scowling at the back of the woman's head.
"Good evening, Anthea," Sherlock said tightly.
The woman, whose name was apparently Anthea, walked toward the door, nose still in her phone. John watched her, still frozen in place until she finally looked up and raised an eyebrow. "Do you mind?"
John nearly jumped out of the way. "Right. Right, sorry."
She didn't respond, or look at him again and exited the office, sashaying down the corridor. John watched her for a moment, dumbfounded. He slowly turned back to Sherlock, who was settling back in his chair behind his desk.
"Who the hell was that?" John snapped, more then a little irritated that his plans to ravage Sherlock were derailed by some random woman.
"Someone as equally irritating as my brother," Sherlock said dismissively, then ran his eyes down John's tightly coiled body. "What's the matter with you?" Before he'd fully finished the sentence, Sherlock's mouth was turning up in a smirk.
John narrowed his eyes. "Nothing," he spat, knowing full well how unreasonable his anger was. He was being completely ridiculous but Christ, this was the closest he'd been to Sherlock in days and it was making John's body temperature spike to unhealthy levels.
Sherlock was no longer looking at him, gathering his laptop and some papers from his desk and shoving them into a bag as though he hadn't just caught on to everything going on inside John's mind. John knew better then to believe that. He would be fine with Sherlock thinking he was aroused. Hopefully, he'd hidden the panic with the anger.
"Right then. I believe I owe you din-" Sherlock's words were cut off by a shrill ring of his phone.
John almost growled with frustration. He didn't want dinner, or to be interrupted one more sodding time while he was alone with Sherlock. He wanted to get going, get this anxiety resolved before he lost his nerve entirely. Lust was slowly taking over him as he stared at those dark curls and he considered maybe he could get through this alright. He just needed to get started. And to stop bloody thinking.
"Sherlock Holmes," Sherlock answered his cell, pressing the phone to his ear and staring down at his desk, listening. John glared at him. Sherlock knew, he fucking knew, and he wasn't going to do anything about it. He'd wound him up all week, and now he was having strange meetings with random women and secret phone calls while John was raring and willing in the seclusion of his office. The fucking bastard.
John watched as the light changed in Sherlock's eyes, that familiar spark twinkling within the depths of his irises. Sherlock looked up at him, eyes wide with anticipation by whatever information was coming to him from the other line and John's heart sank all the way down to his toes. More waiting. More time to think and worry and stress. Great.
"I'll be right there," Sherlock said into his mobile.
Bugger.
John watched as Sherlock bundled up in his long coat and scarf, and strode right past him. "Got to dash, there's been a development," he said casually as he waltzed out the door.
John stood, still trying to catch up with what just happened. Not but ten minutes prior, John had been on his way here, ready to jump Sherlock, and now he was being ditched? How did the night he'd been anticipating for a week go to hell in a hand basket so quickly? John felt the rage rising again, his body almost shaking.
"John?"
He whipped around to find Sherlock peeking around the corner of the office John was still standing in.
"What?" John replied angrily.
Sherlock creased his brow. "Aren't you coming? We've got a date."
John stared at him for a long moment. "But I thought…you said…what?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "As I recall, I informed you I wanted to share things with you about my life. Do keep up, John."
John glared at him. "You just said you were leaving."
"I assumed it was implied that you were coming." Sherlock was pulling on his gloves as though John weren't seething in front of him.
The tension in John's body remained, as it had for five damn days, but the anger subsided. This was important to Sherlock. This was Sherlock sharing. John couldn't be angry about that.
Even if it kept him from finally getting to the resolution he'd been dreading.
"Alright," he murmured and narrowed his eyes at Sherlock's triumphant grin. John followed him out the door and, yet again, into a taxi. "Okay, but really, you have to tell me this time."
Sherlock frowned. "Tell you what?"
"Tell me where we're going. I want to be prepared for whoever we're spying on this time."
Sherlock sighed. "John, you must stop assuming things. Assuming we're going to a break in, assuming we're spying on someone. My work if often unpredictable, and it won't be easy for you to determine what comes next, so why tell you where we are starting?"
John rolled his eyes. "Unpredictable indeed," he muttered, trying to subtly adjust his trousers.
"Oh right. Sorry, I thought this was obvious but I will go ahead and tell you directly that we won't be having sex for a while," Sherlock said off-handedly as he stared down at his cellphone.
John sputtered and flushed immediately, wholly unprepared for that. He internally battled with disappointment, relief, anxiety and embarrassment in the blink of an eye, trying to process what and why the hell those words had just come out of Sherlock's mouth. He noticed the cabby eyeing them in the review-mirror but he ignored him. "Wh- I didn't-That wasn't-…" John sighed. There was never a point on lying to Sherlock. "Why not?" he decided on, as childish as it sounded. Truthfully, waiting just sounded so much worse then getting it over with. He didn't want to be in too deep when he was officially rejected. That just seemed cruel.
Sherlock looked up from his mobile. "I told you. I'm courting you. I'm going to take my time and make sure you're really prepared for all this before we move forward with our relationship."
John stared at him for a long moment. What a blow that was. No sex? Did that mean nothing at all? No touching or anything? John fidgeted in his seat, feeling more and more anxious.
"Besides," Sherlock continued, glancing back down to his mobile, "I like the idea of seducing you."
John pursed his lips, waited a beat, then decided a bold move might benefit him. He didn't want to be seduced. He didn't want Sherlock to drive him totally out of control to the point that he couldn't reciprocate properly and therefore be deemed a poor lover. He was so far gone already, so dizzy from the constant battle in his head the last five days, he needed to do something. He narrowed his eyes. Sherlock's denial was easy when John wasn't giving him a little nudge. How would he do when John was pushing a little bit more? He scooted closer to Sherlock and slid his hand onto Sherlock's thigh, slowly soothing it further between his legs. "I think you know," he murmured softly, leaning closer, "that I don't need seducing."
Sherlock turned his head, eyed John for only a moment, then nudged his nose against John's cheek to turn his head slightly and pressed his lips to John's ear. "Oh, believe me, I'm well-aware. And if I were interested in rushing this, I wouldn't have let you leave my bed last weekend. Ever." He snuck his tongue into John's ear, applying the softest bit of pressure and John shuddered violently. "But I promise you, John Watson," he purred, "the wait will be oh so worth it." Sherlock pressed a gentle kiss to his cheek, lingering a moment longer to breath a hot breath against his damp skin, then turned back to his phone.
John felt like his body was just lit on fire by a match only Sherlock possessed. His hand on Sherlock's thigh trembled as he stared at this ridiculously sexy man next to him, insinuating obscenely dirty things to him and then blatantly denying him all of it. Sherlock, without looking over at him, placed a gloved finger under John's chin and pressed upward, gently closing his gaping mouth.
"Unfair," John whispered, figuring it was useless to try to hide how turned on his was. He kept his body pressed to Sherlock's, overly enjoying the touch. "So you're just going to tease me until you see fit?" God that sounded positively miserable.
Sherlock only smirked in response as the cab slowed to a stop. "Ah, good, we're here."
Sherlock dove out of the cab and John hurried after, willing his lower half to calm the fuck down and his brain to focus on normal things like walking and speaking.
A very serious and angry man was barreling toward Sherlock and grasped his arm before John was even fully out of the car.
"Over here," the man hissed, yanking Sherlock by the arm around the side of the building they'd pulled up in front of.
Sherlock didn't seem one bit perturbed. "Sergeant Lestrade. Pleasure, as always."
"What the bloody hell are you doing here?" The Sergeant spat. "I told you- who the hell is this?"
John slowly approached the two feeling awfully unsure of himself, fully aware he was missing something vital but had no idea what it was.
"He's my partner," Sherlock replied flippantly.
John's insides warmed immediately. Partner? Yes, absolutely acceptable. They hadn't discussed what their titles were to each other (Boyfriend? Lover?) but he'd take the title of Sherlock's partner any day of the week.
He tried to ignore the wave of anxiety at the prospect of sex ruining that.
Lestrade looked a little confused and glanced between John and Sherlock then said, "Your…partner?"
"Of course. You wouldn't expect a detective to work alone, now would you?"
Oh. Not romantic partner. Work partner. Wait, what? Detective?
Lestrade glared at him. "You always work alone."
Sherlock shrugged. "Well not any longer. Now may I have a look at the crime scene?"
Lestrade was still eyeing John as Sherlock spoke, and bristled as he looked back at him. "Absolutely not," he snapped. "I told you I'd send you information that you could work on later. I absolutely cannot have civilians trampling around a crime scene."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Don't be so dramatic. Do you or do you not want that Sergeant to be replaced with Detective Inspector one day? Come now. DI Lestrade? Has an awfully nice ring to it, wouldn't you say?"
Lestrade was glaring at him. "Stop trying to butter me up, Sherlock. No way in hell am I letting you in now."
"You texted me, remember?"
"To let you know I'd be sending you information! We cannot continue this. Not after the last time. You were taken hostage for Christ's sake."
John's stomach turned at that statement. Sherlock had been in trouble? Held hostage? When? He didn't like the sound of that at all. He stole a bewildered glance at Sherlock, who was decidedly not looking back. John resisted the urge to reach out and touch Sherlock, just to make himself feel better. To make sure he was alright.
The emotional turmoil John was experiencing was almost unbearable as every thought he'd had in the last five days collided with this new worry and he prayed to God it wasn't written all over his face.
But Sherlock was waving his hand as though Lestrade's statement was a ridiculous concern. "I had the situation under control."
"Yeah, you always say that," Lestrade retorted.
Sherlock tried to step around him and walk back to where the taxi had dropped them off, but Lestrade stepped in front of him. "No, Sherlock. I'll send you the information. Do I need to call your brother?"
It sounded like a threat to John but Sherlock laughed. "Is that meant to deter me? Yes please, call my stuffy, annoying brother, see if he can tear himself away from saving Britain from the attack its not under to help you keep me away from here. Go on, give him a ring. I'm sure the British Government wouldn't mind wasting precious time on Holmes the younger."
Lestrade rolled his eyes, then looked around as though he may be overheard. "I can-" he paused and glanced down at John.
"He's fine," Sherlock barked.
Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh. "Look, I might be able to sneak you in the back in a few minutes. I can't let the others see you, alright?"
Sherlock nodded, looking off behind the man, obviously aware he would cave eventually.
Lestrade looked at John. "He stays here."
"Fine, fine," Sherlock mumbled, strolling toward the back of the building, apparently happy to leave John standing alone.
"I'm John, by the way," John said bitterly, sticking out his hand.
Lestrade eyed him for a moment, then shook his hand. "Greg Lestrade. Wish I could say it was a pleasure but anything concerning Sherlock usually isn't."
John actually wanted to laugh. Sherlock seemed to have one of two affects on people. They either fell all over themselves for him or absolutely hated him. John didn't have to guess to know which side he fell on.
"So a crime scene, huh? What happened?" he said, unsure what else to say to a sodding police officer.
Lestrade shot him a look. "I really can't say."
John shrugged. "Sorry." He thought for a moment and then said "Sherlock will probably tell me anyway."
Lestrade laughed to John's relief. "You're probably right. Still can't though. What are you doing with him, anyway?"
"We're friends."
Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Friends?"
John shrugged again, trying to keep his face from heating up. "Yeah."
"Huh. I didn't know Sherlock had friends."
John could only nod, unsure what the hell to say in response to that. The Sergeant's phone dinged and he glanced down, eyes widening. "Precious time my arse," he mumbled down to his phone.
"Everything alright?" John asked curiously.
Lestrade glanced up at John and then off behind him back to the curb they'd been dropped off at. "Yeah," he said. "Everything's fine." He gestured back toward where they'd come from. "Why don't we have you wait over here?"
John was herded back to the curb as a black sedan pulled up, looking rather official and rather ominous and a cold sweat crept down the back of his neck as Lestrade swept open the door.
"He's inside so I'd say you've got about ten minutes with the boy," Lestrade was saying to an unseen person in the car.
"Very well," a soft, almost familiar voice replied from within.
Lestrade began to turn back around. "Alright John, my friend here would- are you alright?" He asked as he met John's wide-eyed stare. John stared at him incredulously. This was not the time for him to be kidnapped. Not when he was already to wrecked with every other emotion on the sodding planet.
"Aren't you the police?" John snapped. "Shouldn't you be telling people to not get in cars with strangers?" His voice was shrill with panic, feeling as though he were trapped, his fragile emotional state surging him into unstable territory.
Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Nothing is going to happen to you, John. This man is a friend of mine and would like to talk to you for a few minutes, alright? It's safe. I promise." He offered a small smile. "I'm the police, remember?"
John eyed him for a moment longer. This didn't feel right but this Sergeant seemed genuine. And Sherlock knew him, so that had to be a good sign. Just a few minutes. He gripped his phone in his pocket with one hand in case he needed to call the police. The irony was not lost on him.
He heard a strained sigh from within the black vehicle, and hesitantly crawled inside the darkness, his legs shaking violently. As he righted himself in the seat, he came face to face with a slender, ginger-haired man, dressed impecibly from head to toe, his face settled into a rather unpleasant smile. He gripped an umbrella across his lap, the object somehow matching his demeanor. John stared for a moment too long as the familiarity of this man tugged at him.
"Have we met?" John asked earnestly. He swore he knew him from somewhere. If he knew him then maybe this situation wasn't all bad and maybe John's leg would stop bouncing up and down so vigorously.
"No Mr. Watson, we haven't met," the man chuckled and John narrowed his eyes. The cadence of that voice was so… familiar. "But I'm glad we have this time to be introduced properly."
John cocked his head. "And you are?"
"An interested party," the man's smile was a bit sickening.
John glared. "Interested in what?"
The man's smile widened as he said, "You're awfully curious, aren't you? You can settle down now. Nothing is going to happen to you."
"Well when a mysterious man invites me into his car, yes I believe I do get a bit curious and unsettled," John spat back.
The man's face was unchanging. "A mysterious man invited you into his bed the night before the semester began and you didn't seem all that concerned about who he was."
John tried to force the blush away from his cheeks as he remembered the night he met Sherlock. "I may be wrong," he glowered, "but I think that's none of your business."
The man let out a fake laugh. "My, aren't you interesting. I can see why he likes you."
"Can we cut the cryptic talk and get down to what it is that you want?" John was normally more collected then this, but today was really not the day to fuck with him. Calm was the furthest thing from him right now.
The man cocked his head. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"
John knitted his brows together. "What?" That was the very last thing he'd been expecting, although what he was expecting he had no idea.
The man rolled his eyes. "Of course he'd pick someone so normal," he muttered.
"What? Are you a jealous ex or something?" Why had he said that? Well, if it wasn't obvious where his mind was, it would be now.
The man let out a real laugh this time. "Heaven's no!"
"Then why do you care about my relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"
The man arched an eyebrow. "Relationship?"
John flushed. "I don't even know what to call it," he admitted, trying to push away all the uncomfortable reminders that he may not be worth a relationship with Sherlock Holmes.
"Well you should sort that out then, shouldn't you?" The man said almost angrily and John subconsciously cringed back.
"If you're not some jealous ex-boyfriend, then why do you care what I call it?"
The man fixed him with an intense stare. "I worry about him. Constantly."
And suddenly, John knew exactly who this man was. He slapped a hand against his forehead. "Oh Jesus. You're Mycroft, aren't you?"
The minute twitch in Mycroft's eyebrow gave his surprise away but he collected himself about as fast as Sherlock always did. "My brother has mentioned me."
John nodded. "Yes, all of one time. But it's clear you're here for the obligatory big brother 'break his heart and I'll break your face' speech. Am I right?"
Mycroft frowned. "I wouldn't have put it exactly like that. But I do want to discuss a few things with you."
John visibally relaxed. "Discuss away. Now that I know you're not going to murder me, I feel much better about this conversation. Although that was the point of this, right? To scare me?"
Mycroft smirked. "Not at all. I simply like to know who my brother interacts with, however unsavory they may be."
John couldn't help taking the bait, swallowing thickly. "Unsavory?"
Mycroft arched an eyebrow in feigned surprise. "Oh dear me. He hasn't told you, has he?"
"Tell me what?"
Sherlock stepped back out into the cold. What a waste of time and a waste of a missed date with John that was. A robbery in a museum. Really? The Yard couldn't do something so simple on their own? Of course it was a security guard. How dull. And annoying. Sherlock glared at anyone who chose to look him in the eye as he swept the area for John.
He caught a blonde head jumping out of a black car and his insides went cold. He scowled at the car as it passed him, unable to see inside the tinted windows but knowing his brother was staring right back smugly. He rushed to John.
"Just met your brother," John said, running a hand threw his blonde fringe. "Nice guy."
Sherlock stopped short of reaching his arms around him and cautiously looked around. He then lunged for John's wrist and pulled him behind the building and out of sight.
John let out a small breath as Sherlock backed him into the wall of the alley.
"Are you alright?" he snapped, angrier then he'd meant but unable to stop the panic and fear from coming into his words.
Mycroft. Stupid, meddling, over-bearing Mycroft. Of course he would show up now. Trying to warn John about Sherlock, trying to scare him off. John was naïve, he may just believe him, may just buy whatever lies, or worse truths, Mycroft had told him. Mycroft's forte was manipulation. What had he said? What had he done? Sherlock's body shook as he spiraled into his own thoughts, dizzying and frightening as he realized that Mycroft may have just ended this for him before it even properly began.
While processing the end of his new relationship, Sherlock was scanning John's face for any signs of distress or horror or fear or anything resembling any sort of discomfort.
Staring back at him was none of those things.
Staring back at him was pure, animalistic arousal.
John's mouth hung open, his eyes planted firmly on Sherlock's lips, eyelids hanging low, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides.
The intended purpose of throwing John into a secluded area was to make sure he was alright. This was a rather welcome side-affect.
Sherlock wasn't sure who lunged first.
John's lips were just as soft as last week, warm and wet but more urgent today, more wanting. He pried Sherlock's mouth open as his fingers twisted into the lapels of his coat, yanking Sherlock forward. Sherlock didn't need an invitation, pressing John against the wall, their bodies flush against each other. Sherlock braced a hand behind John's head against the wall and grabbed John's hip as he delved his tongue into John's heated mouth, exploring every inch just to make sure he hadn't forgotten what he tasted like. But he hadn't forgotten, not for a second, because the tea and the coffee and the John spice was all there, just as he'd left it and he wanted more, so much more.
John was wrapping short arms around Sherlock's torso, rolling his hips and making those incredible noises again as he did the last time they'd kissed like this. A small whimper here, a sigh there, a gasp from a tongue twist or a lip bite, and a never-ending pull on Sherlock as though he couldn't quite get close enough. It was intoxicating and unsafe and not here, not here… not here.
"John," he murmured as John trailed wet kisses down his neck and hummed in his ear. "John, we're still outside."
John barely hesitated, freezing for all of one second before gripping Sherlock's hair and pulling his head back to get better access to his neck. "Don't care," John whispered between kisses. "Christ, I've wanted to do this all week." He licked a strip up Sherlock's neck and took his earlobe between his teeth. Sherlock shivered and John ran his fingers threw his hair again, soothing while he attacked his sensitive skin.
Inexperience was clearly not a deterrent for John Watson because when in the fuck had he gotten so good at this? Sherlock groaned quietly, enjoying the touches, not realizing until now how inattentive his lovers had been. Sure, he'd had his share of snogging in clubs and bars but not like this, not with someone attempting and succeeding at making him feel like this. There was always an end goal in those situations, both parties doing all they could to get to that part sooner, get the formality of kissing over with to get to the touching and the fondling and the orgasm.
And yes, all of those things were looming over this encounter with John but it was… more. So much more. It was enjoying and exploring and feeling and wanting to feel and giving and taking and while it was heated it was also tender and worshipping and caring about the other person. John was a little ball of pent up sexual angst and still here he was, paying close attention to how he was making Sherlock feel, how Sherlock was enjoying himself. It was beautiful and sweet and made Sherlock's only recently acknowledged heart ache to hold him closer and closer. He wrapped his arms around John's smaller frame and gently scooted him back. John whined at the loss of touch, his fingers still twined in Sherlock's hair.
"John," Sherlock panted. "We can't do this here. Let's-let's go back to my flat."
John's eyes widened and he paused for a moment before nodding. Sherlock wanted to laugh but John's blown pupils made him stop short. John slid his hand down Sherlock's arm and intertwined their fingers. Sherlock let himself smile as he turned back to the curb to hail a taxi.
The ride home was excruciatingly slow. John was wrapped around him like a vine, one hand on his knee, the other on the back of his head, holding him in place as he drove his tongue into his ear, tasting and biting and licking and sucking and driving Sherlock absolutely mad with lust.
It was so unexpected it made it all the better. Sherlock was sure he would become John's sexual tutor, teaching him and showing him everything, and he was sure he'd still be doing that as they became more intimate, but this? This attention to every detail, every response? This couldn't be taught. This was natural and John was perfect at it already.
John ran his tongue along the ridge of Sherlock's ear and squeezed his knee to emphasize it. Sherlock stifled a moan, keeping an eye on the driver who seemed oblivious to what was happening in the back of his cab, and Sherlock was grateful as he leaned into John's touch and closed his eyes. How had he been missing this all these years? How did caring and sentiment make snogging so much better?
"God, you're gorgeous," John murmured, biting his lobe and sucking it between his teeth. His fingers began trailing up Sherlock's leg. Sherlock laid his hand over top of it.
"Not yet," he purred back, taking the moment to gain the upper-hand and spun toward John, capturing his lips with his own, tracing a hand along his jaw. John squeaked, actually squeaked in surprise and Sherlock did everything in his power not to moan at that delicious sound. He seemed to be the only one that remembered they were still technically in a cab as John was currently trying to gain more leverage by crawling on top of him. Before he could get too far, the taxi grinded to a halt.
"Here you are," the cabbie said gruffly, clearly now just realizing what had been taking place behind him.
John didn't let go and Sherlock didn't want him to. He tossed a wad of bills at the cabbie and dragged John out of the cab and into his flat.
He was on Sherlock before the door was even closed.
"John," Sherlock groaned as John crowded him against a wall. "John, I need to say something,"
John was obviously in no mood to talk as he dove his tongue back into Sherlock's mouth. "No talking. No more talking," he said between kisses.
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh. How was it that John could be funny and sexy and adorable all at once? It wasn't fair. Sherlock felt hands pulling at his clothes and he ducked his head into John's neck. "John, I meant what I said earlier," he gasped out as John bit down on his collarbone.
"Hm," John hummed, still actively trying to remove Sherlock's shirt, slipping fingers between buttons and tugging ruthlessly at shirttails. His hands were frantic and almost too quick. Sherlock chalked it up to inexperience and arousal.
"Yes," Sherlock moaned, cursing quietly as John's fingers ran underneath his under shirt. "Yes, wait, yes John, no, wait," he tried to form a coherent sentence. John didn't help with that as he twisted one of his nipples. "John!" he cried, not nearly prepared enough for John's untrained hands to touch him like that. It was almost violent and desperate and fucking brilliant, but Sherlock needed to think, he needed to think. He couldn't do this to John, not like this, not this way. Not fast and needy and panicked.
"John," he groaned, "I meant it when I said we... we weren't going to...oh god-have sex yet," he finally managed.
His words didn't seem a detriment to John's plans as his mouth traveled down Sherlock's front, licking and sucking and biting and needing every inch of his torso.
"John," Sherlock moaned again, one hand slipping into John's hair, hazily debating if he should be pulling or pushing and settled on just resting and enjoying.
John's fingers touched his belt and his tongue flicked over the skin below his naval and Sherlock's eyes flew open.
"Wait! John!" he gasped, looking down to find John on his knees, blue eyes staring back at him.
"Come on," John whispered gruffly. "Teach me Sherlock. I know this is what you like. And I promise, I'm a quick study." Slowly, Sherlock's intelligents came back to him as he replayed those words. They were meant to be sexy. They were meant to tease and hint and play. But they came out wrong. They came out harsh and frantic and frightened. John tucked his fingers into Sherlock's belt.
Sherlock stilled immediately and gripped John's wrists, yanking him back up harder then he meant to. "You... you know this is what I like?" Sherlock demanded, almost angrily, searching John's eyes. "You think this is what I want from you? Right now?"
The shocked look on John's face was almost enough to pull Sherlock out of his anger but not quite. He didn't want to hurt him but he didn't want this from John if the only reason John was doing it was because he assumed Sherlock wanted it. And dammit, he wanted to go slowly. He wanted these things to mean something. Not just a blowjob here or a quick fuck there. John was important. So fucking important and this wasn't how this was supposed to go. He barely kept himself from shaking.
John's eyes were the size of saucers, his cheeks flushed equally with arousal and embarrassment and… there it was, fear. John was scared as hell. Sherlock glared at him as he spoke. "I-I thought you'd...want that," John spluttered, so obviously confused and humiliated and lost. Sherlock placed his hands firmly on John's shoulders.
"I want to go slowly with you, John," he almost whispered. "I don't want you doing this because you think I want it. I want you to want it too and I can wait. I can wait for you to be ready."
John's eyes narrowed. "I'm ready." He would have sounded convincingly angry if the hint of hesitation hadn't snuck in at the last syllable.
Sherlock's face softened. "John," he murmured, sliding his hands up John's cheeks. "You are very important to me. This," he said, waving his hand between the two of them. "is important to me. I'd prefer not to bugger it up already." He offered a small smile.
"I just really..." John started then dropped his gaze to Sherlock's bare chest. "What if… what if I'm no good at it?" He murmured this so softly, Sherlock wasn't sure he'd heard right.
"What if your-" Sherlock froze, then pulled John's face back to look at him. "What if you're no good at sex?!"
John looked so confused and scared it tugged violently at Sherlock's heart, staring into those beautiful blue eyes, blazing with concern and fear.
"John," he murmured. Then he kissed him. Softly, with no intention behind it. Just a kiss. A gentle kiss exchanged between two new lovers, reassuring and sweet with a hint of passion and a dash of care.
"There is positively no way that you, John Watson, could be bad at sex," Sherlock murmured over John's lips. "Absolute rubbish. You and I? We'll be brilliant together. We've got chemistry like you wouldn't believe. And I should know. I've almost got a doctorate in it."
Finally, John's body began to relax under Sherlock's gentle touches and words. "But I've got no experience and you…"
"I know. And if you have questions, I will answer all of them. But I promise, you will be my first for so many things, John. We'll have to cross many bridges together. But I think we can do it."
He felt John smile against his lips. "Yeah. Yeah, we can do it. I just…" John sighed heavily. "I just really want you."
"You have me. And you can have me like that too. Just not quite yet, alright? Not until you're sure and comfortable. We'll work through it together. You've seen me teach, John. I think you can vouch that I'm excellent at it."
John laughed and nodded, still looking a bit rejected but seemed relieved. He wasn't ready for all this yet. He certainly thought he was, but Sherlock knew better and was going to make him wait just a bit longer. It would be worth it in the long run.
"Alright," John nodded at his shoes and slowly backed away. Sherlock reached a hand out and curled his fingers in his jumper.
"Where do you think you're going?" Sherlock purred, pulling John back to him.
John's pupils dilated. "I thought-you said..."
Sherlock grinned wickedly. "Just because we aren't going to have sex doesn't mean I can't still get you off."
"Wha-God," was John's only reply as Sherlock palmed his erection through his jeans. "Sh-Sherlock, fuck, Sherlock." John's eyes fluttered closed as his breathing sped up. Sherlock applied more pressure, doing his best not to smirk. But this was exactly what he'd been waiting for. To see John like this. All wrecked from a single touch, it was perfect. And he understood now why John was worried that he may be no good at this because being allowed to be the first person to touch John like this was… oh god, it was everything.
"You think I'd let you leave before giving you an orgasm?" he purred into his ear as John's forehead fell to his shoulder. "Do you have any idea how long I've waited to see you come, John?"
"Oh f-fuck," John stuttered, his sensitive, virgin body shuddering as Sherlock gripped him over his jeans. "Mm, tha-that's good."
Sherlock smirked, and squeezed and John's hips bucked violently. He was so sensitive to every little touch and Sherlock was reveling in it, cataloging every response.
"Sh-Sherlock," he whimpered. His name slipped out of John's mouth like a prayer, begging and thanking and wanting so equally. It was gorgeous.
Sherlock stuck his tongue in John's ear, deciding if he wasn't going to properly fuck him, he would penetrate him with his tongue and his words and drive him right over the edge. "Remember the night we met, John?" John nodded as he rocked his hips more insistently into Sherlock's hand. "Remember what the first thing I said to you was?"
"Mmh-oh," John murmured as he moaned audibly and jerked his body forward, holding tightly to Sherlock's shoulders.
"I meant," Sherlock bit his earlobe, "every," licked his ear, "single," groaned deeply, "word." then ducked his head and sucked John's neck.
"Oh-Sherlock!" John's hips stuttered and stalled and the moan that came from his lips was absolutely perfect. He cried out, tossing his head back and rolling his hips again and again, panting and groaning like he was dying, and holding so tightly to Sherlock it was painful. Sherlock held his hand firmly in place, letting John ride against him through his orgasm.
John was loud during sexual activity. Fascinating information. Store for later.
**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. That may or may not be just a taste of what is on its way with this story. Sorry for that mother of a chapter but I hope it was worth it! THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR FOLLOWING AND COMMENTING AND FAVORITING! You guys are amazing!**