'Cause you were all I ever longed for.

Chapter Nine:

John arrived back at his room sometime before lunch. He had endured an hour and a half of shifting hymn books and trying to collect all of the numerous piles of music sheets together and had then deserted his post. He didn't care what Father Theobald had to say about it. He would probably tell Mr. Blake and John would have to wash up for a couple of nights, but that was preferable than being stuck in the chapel storage room all day.

"Where the fuck have you been?" Billy demanded almost as soon as he opened the door. "You keep disappearing every five minutes."

"Father Theobald wasn't too pleased about me being late for church," John muttered, dropping down onto his bed and resting his head in his hands.

"Are you serious?" Billy said, raising his thick eyebrows. "What a douche."

"So how late did you guys end up staying out?" John asked, not wanting to hear anything more about the chapel or Father Theobald.

Billy sniggered and stretched across the bed, very much resembling a gorilla sunning itself. "Aw, well. I was back around two." He paused, with a wide grin. "I think. Can't be sure. Ben came back with me. Marty disappeared off with some bird. I reckon that dickhead got lucky again."

"Ha," John said, hardly listening to a word he was saying. "Good old Marty."

"And where the hell did you get to?" Billy said. "You end up on someone's floor or something?"

"Oh, yeah," John said, jerking upright. He knew that he turned bright red when he was lying, but he also knew that Billy was too thick to make that connection. "You won't believe it. I woke up on Holmes's floor. It was the weirdest shit."

Billy snorted. "Fuck! How the hell did you even- What did the bastard say? God, I would have paid to see that."

John forced a grin. "Yeah, pretty funny. He wasn't there when I woke up. He must have bolted."

"I wouldn't trust him while I was unconscious," Billy said in a low voice. "The guy's a flaming fag."

John's throat felt like it was clogged with dry, tacky saliva. He needed to cough, but he didn't dare do anything that might suggest he was reacting to Billy's words. "Yeah," he almost choked. "I guess."

"He'll get fucked up one of these days if he isn't careful," Billy yawned, kicking his shoes off the end of the bed.

John stood up, he felt his knees buckle. "I'm going to go for a walk."

"Whatever," Billy said, not looking at him. "If you happen to see Marty, tell him from me that he's a grade A cunt."

"I will," John muttered and hastily quitted the room.

He needed to find Holmes. Sherlock. His name was Sherlock. Not Holmes.

He gingerly touched his lips and glanced up and down the corridor. There were a few students milling about but none of them were Sherlock. He hadn't seen him when he'd left the chapel. God knew where he had gone.

He walked down to Sherlock's door and, with a quick glance around him, knocked. There was no response. John didn't dare call out and risk drawing attention to himself.

He walked down to the grounds instead, though he doubted Sherlock would be out there. He took an umbrella from the teacher's cloakroom and made his way down to the main playing field.

As far as the eye could see there were green fields and grey sky. John never felt as isolated as when he stared out and saw all of that foggy greenness around him.

His parents lived some distance away. It took them two or three hours to drive there. That was why they only ever made the journey for a couple of the games. His father would have come to all of the games and all of the training practices if he could, but luckily his job was too demanding for that.

His sister rarely came. He still didn't understand why she had bothered coming to his first game. To pressure him into things he didn't want to do, it seemed. And that stupid magazine. He hadn't replied to any of her texts since that incident. He had nothing to say to her. He was beyond pissed.

He turned and stared back at the school. It was a substantial and not unattractive red brick building. The bits that had been built on in the 1970s and 1980s were the most unattractive parts, made of a sort of greyish type of cement.

He felt himself wondering where Sherlock was again. He couldn't help it. He felt he deserved an explanation after what Sherlock had done to him. His mouth still stung from the force of the... kiss. That word didn't seem to aptly describe what had happened. It felt more like an assault. Sherlock's fingers had left bruises on his skin from how roughly he had been holding him and how hard he had shoved him against the desk. He had treated him like he was his property, like John owed him something.

John hated himself for having gotten an erection. He hated that Sherlock had felt it and known that it was for him.

John clenched his fists. He could hardly stand the feelings that Sherlock had awoken. They niggled at him, filling him with self-doubt and intense frustration.

He hadn't even reached the boundary fence but he turned and began walking back towards the school, as quickly as the muddy grass would allow him.

...

Sherlock wasn't reading. He couldn't get past three words before his mind went pleasantly blank and whatever Dr. Kalpana Inderjit was saying about violent crime became a blur of unrecognisable words. He was the only student in the library but had still opted to sit in his favourite hidden nook in the very corner. He didn't want the librarians staring at him while he was trying to think.

He had never had this much trouble trying to organise his thoughts into a coherent row. Whatever the state of his physical body, he had always been able to rely on his mind but it felt like they had melted into an impenetrable mess. A giant melding of lust- God suchlust- and frustration. And terror.

He slammed his book shut and sat back in his chair. He had probably made the biggest mistake of his life. He had allowed intuition to overtake cold, hard facts. What if he had misread what he had felt? He had never had problems misreading what he saw, but this had been different. He had felt John's desire, rather than seen it.

That was one thing that he hadn't yet mastered. He couldn't tell if people lusted for another person. It manifested itself in so many ways. Anger, revulsion, fear, confusion. How could he possibly know for certain that John wanted him?

However, he knew that kissing John had had little to do with what he thought John wanted. It had everything to do with his being no longer able to control himself. John was an idiot if he thought that Sherlock could physically take him throwing himself at him and then playing dumb about the whole episode. He was crazy, as well as stupid.

Sherlock knew he wasn't being fair but he was in no mood to be fair. Especially to John Watson, who's body he'd had pinned to a desk just two hours ago.

He let out a frustrated growl. Sweet, unassuming, boy-next-door John Watson. It seemed like a crime to want to fuck him quite as badly as Sherlock wanted to.

He stood up, stuffing the book back into his bag and swinging into his shoulder. There was no sense in trying to direct his thoughts elsewhere. They were clearly determined to fix themselves on John and it would be just as depressing brooding about him in his room as it was here.

He turned to leave and, through the gaps of the bookcases, saw a flash of blonde hair and a slim figure that he recognised only too well. He waited where he was. Well, it was going to come. Here was as good as anywhere to face John's humiliated wrath.

John rounded the corner and stopped short. His blue eyes were narrowed, his fists were balled up and the thought that he might punch him across the face did cross Sherlock's mind.

"You," he said instead, sounding incredibly out of breath and increasing the probability of Sherlock's getting an inappropriate hard-on by about 70%.

"Me?" he said, raising an eyebrow.

"How dare you pull that shit with me!" John hissed, glancing around him, as though there was even the smallest shred of a chance that someone would overhear them in the uninhabited mass of the library.

"What shit, precisely, did I pull?" Sherlock said archly, taking solace in his ability to deflect John's fury with his seeming indifference.

John flushed beautifully and Sherlock could almost have laughed, had he not been so annoyed. "I'm not fucking queer!" he spat. "Get that through your head!"

"Nobody said you were," Sherlock replied coldly, his amusement dissipating rapidly. "Is that all?"

John stared at him, his chest still rising and falling a little harder than what was natural. "Why?" he said.

"Why what?" Sherlock snapped.

"Why did you..." John faltered, rolling the words around in his mouth. "Why did you kiss me?"

Sherlock had known John's natural frankness and lack of pretence would win the fight against the equally natural urge to lie to himself. "Because I..." Sherlock didn't know how to word it. "Like you" made him sound like he was ten. Want you? Need you? Want to fuck you until you can't walk? Well, that was the most accurate phrase, but also the one most likely to get him physically injured. "I..."

He couldn't. Just when he needed the words most, they had deserted him. He shook his head and turned away. Suddenly the brilliance of John's blue eyes when he was angry was unbearable.

"I don't understand you," John said. There was no anger in his voice now. He sounded helpless. He truly didn't understand how deeply Sherlock felt for him. It was maddening. "You could have had me when I was drunk. I wouldn't have put up a fight."

Sherlock laughed bitterly. "You demand everybody's esteem and then you are so suspicious and critical of everyone else. You truly think that I would do something so low-"

"No!" John burst out. "Of course not. I just... I just..." He exhaled. "I... don't understand."

"That's the problem with your crowd," Sherlock said, risking a glance at him. "You don't seem to understand attraction unless it's sexual."

"You're attracted to me?" John croaked.

Sherlock heard the creak of a floorboard as John jerked back. "It's ok," he said sharply. "I won't force myself on you. I'm not the depraved maniac that you seem to think I am."

"I don't think that," John said furiously, taking a step forward again. "God, Sherlock! You're more intelligent than any person I've ever known. You seem to have everyone figured out. How do you think that makes me feel? I feel like a moron most of the time. How the hell would someone like you ever, in a million years feel attracted to me? I'm less than average."

Sherlock finally looked at him. He saw no lies, no falseness in John's face. It was, as it always was, as frank as a child's. "Are you that blind to your own charms? Well, I'm not going to stand here and recite them to you. You don't need your vanity stoked any higher than it already is."

"What have I got to be vain about?" John said bitterly. "My winning personality? People only give two shits about me because I can play fucking football. My own father only gives two shits about me because I can-"

He broke off, shaking his head.

"Sorry," he mumbled.

Sherlock sunk back down into his chair with a sigh. He didn't know how to tell John just much he admired him without humiliating himself and John. Caring about another human being was beyond anything he had felt, caring this deeply about another human being was almost unbearable.

"You have no idea of what you have," Sherlock said quietly. "You're better than those other bastards put together. With or without football."

John was silent. Sherlock looked at him. Distrust and desperation were fighting for dominance on his face.

"You don't trust me," Sherlock said wryly. "I don't suppose you have any reason to. But if I may just ask one question, who exactly in this school can you trust? Do you think those friends of yours will stand by you if worse comes to worst?"

John stared at him. He opened his mouth and then abruptly closed it. Sherlock didn't know what he expected him to do, but turning and walking away hadn't been top of the list of possibilities.

He listened to John's footsteps cross back to the door. It wasn't like John to run away. He must have had an excellent reason to. Sherlock just wished he knew what it was.

...

Dinner was a miserable affair. John had to have dinner with the team to discuss their training schedule and he found it an impossible task to sit there without giving into the temptation to look around the cafeteria for a glimpse of Sherlock's dark hair.

He clearly wasn't there. He was probably still in the library or in his room. Stuck in some book. He probably didn't even care that everything he said had been like a wound inflicted to John's skin. John had gone to speak to Sherlock for answers and had ended up more confused than when he had found him.

"Hey! Johno! You listening?"

John jerked around. "Yeah. Yeah," he said, without having any idea of who had spoken.

If the team thought his behaviour was strange they didn't say anything.

"So," Marty said, glancing at Billy with eyebrows raised. "You got anything to share with the class, Mr. Watson?"

John's heart stood still in his chest. Someone had overheard them in the library. His blood went cold.

"Wh-what?" he stammered blankly.

Marty smirked. "A little bird tells me that our little captain got some last night."

The other boys guffawed. One of them gave John a congratulatory slap on the shoulder. John coloured. "She wasn't anything special."

"Don't be so modest," Ben grinned. "She was wet for you."

"Fuck off," John snapped.

"Ooh!" Marty crowed. "We've offended him! I didn't realise you were so sensitive."

John forced himself to stay calm. He couldn't lose it. Not here. It felt like every muscle in his face shuddered with the effort of smiling. "Look. She was ok. But I was drunk. She could have looked like Frankenstein and I'd probably still have got off with her."

Ben laughed, sending him a strange look that John didn't entirely like. "Whatever. We better get back down to business or we'll be here all night."

John didn't hear a word that was said after that. They finished at seven and almost all of them decided to go to the common room to catch whatever was on television. John shrugged off their attempts to coax him hither, and instead made plans of his own.

He waited until they were out of sight and then began his way back to the dormitories.

Listening to his team talk had been unbearable. Their vulgarity and immaturity had struck him more heavily than usual.

He walked past his room and past five or six other doors until he reached number 22. He paused outside of it. The corridor was empty. He could go inside and no one would know. He just had to have to courage to knock.

He raised his hand and, almost without meaning to, quickly glanced around. Without waiting for his brain to catch up with his body, he knocked. He waited. There was absolute silence and no one came to the door. He knocked a bit harder. Still nothing.

As a last resort he put his mouth close to the door. "Sherlock, it's me," he said as quietly as he could while still being heard.

There was a pause and then, almost immediately, footsteps approached the door. John was almost taken aback to be faced so suddenly by Sherlock, but he managed to hide his alarm. Sherlock looked at him silently and then stepped back.

John stepped awkwardly inside and heard Sherlock close it behind him. He glanced around the room. It was exactly as he had left it that morning. Sherlock's clothes were still in a pile below his bed. There was a new heap of books added to his already overcrowded desk. His laptop was almost swallowed by the massive pile of volumes.

The covers of the bed he had slept on the night before were still impressed from where he had lain on it. It sent the blood rushing to his cheeks.

Sherlock went across to his bed, apparently folding clothes, though John wasn't certain he really was. On his bedside table was a lamp, his phone, a packet of Pall Mall cigarettes and a watch.

"How many packets do you smoke a day?" John asked, not intending to break the silence that way but overtaken by his curiosity.

Sherlock stopped and turned to him, still holding a pair of blue boxers. "One. At most," he replied, almost without hesitation. "I have no reliance on them. They aid me when I need them. When I need mental clarity."

"Cigarettes can't help your mental state," John said critically, knowing how naive he sounded but not caring. "They're filth."

"Who is it?" Sherlock said drily, dropping the boxers onto the chair beside the bed and sitting on the edge of the mattress.

John glanced away. Sherlock's gaze felt like it was burning straight through him. "What?"

"Who is it that smokes in your family?" Sherlock prompted him.

John hesitated. No doubt Sherlock would make a big deal of whatever he said. Make it out like he had a problem with his family. He was like a walking psychiatry textbook. "My father. And my sister apparently."

"You have a sister?" Sherlock said, sounding surprised.

"Yeah," John replied, not eager to enter this sort of discussion tonight. "Older than me by five years. She's in university."

"I have an older brother," Sherlock said in a very dry tone. "He's seven years my senior."

"What does he do?" John asked, venturing to take a seat on the bed he had been splayed unconscious on hours beforehand.

"I hardly know," Sherlock replied shortly.

John raised his eyebrows. "Sibling rivalry?"

Sherlock scoffed. "Don't try and profile me, John. You're not any good at it."

"Oh, of course," John said acidly. "Because no one is as clever as you."

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock said wryly, and it was difficult to tell if he was joking or not.

John stared around his bare walls. There was a strange lack of posters. John was used to the girly centrefolds and football teams that decorated most of the other boys' rooms. It made Sherlock's room look strangely empty. He didn't seem to have applied any personal touches to his room. There were no photos, magazines, personal items like moisturiser or cologne or, God forbid, stuffed toys.

"You keep a very clean room," he said.

"Thank you," Sherlock replied. "Why are you here?" He had apparently seen straight through John's attempt to stall him.

"I-" John broke off. He didn't quite know why he was there. Actually... yes, he did.

He stood up. He forced himself to look at Sherlock. It was like staring into the sun and the desire to look away was immense, but even as he felt himself flush he kept his eyes on Sherlock's. Sherlock's expression was blank. Most of the time it was beyond impossible to tell what he really felt and it made John's position even more intimidating.

His heart was fluttering uncontrollably; his pulse seemed to be getting faster and faster as he found himself more or less face to face with Sherlock. Sherlock's skin was so pale and his eyes were so dark. It was impossible for anyone to be so lovely and so unreachable at the same time.

He knelt carefully on the bed and felt the inside of his thigh press against the outside of Sherlock's. Sherlock's hands touched his waist and he knew that this was what he wanted. John leant down and Sherlock arched his back ever so slightly and their lips met.

John gently pushed Sherlock back until he was resting against the wall and straddled his waist. He was terrified of hurting him but Sherlock made no sign that he was anything but incredibly aroused. John could feel Sherlock straining through his trousers again. It made him colour with embarrassment to think that it was for him, but he somehow managed not to squirm when he felt Sherlock's erection slide between his thighs.

He moaned lightly, rolling his hips forward without being fully conscious of it. Their mouths, which had been so violent and brash in the chapel, now seemed to have melted together. Sherlock was being so gentle that John almost wanted to force his mouth open and take the liberty himself of putting his tongue in Sherlock's mouth, but he didn't quite dare to.

He hadn't ever felt anything like this. All of the sex education, all of the trashy magazines and hearsay couldn't possibly have prepared him for what being with another person truly meant. He felt Sherlock's hands encircle his waist, treating him so softly this time after they had grasped him like an animal when they'd kissed the first time. He felt Sherlock spread his legs a little wider so that John was wedged on his hips. The pressure created by his tight jeans and Sherlock's crotch being crammed so hard against his was unbearable.

Sherlock finally could no longer resist the temptation and plied John's mouth open, slowly snaking his tongue inside. John gasped, his mouth opening wider for Sherlock. He tentatively ventured forward to touch Sherlock's tongue with his. Sherlock's mouth tasted so familiar. Mingled with the smell of their entwined bodies, it was exactly what John had imagined it would be like.

He realised Sherlock's grip had tightened on his waist and he was urging him back. John thought for a moment in dismay that Sherlock wanted to break away, but instead he found himself being guided down onto his back, while their mouths never parted for a moment. Sherlock laid on top of him, sliding a knee down between his thighs and teasingly touching the growing mound between John's legs.

John thought he should feel vulnerable lying on his back, completely at the mercy of a taller boy but he didn't. He trusted Sherlock more than anyone else he had met in his life.

John slid his arms around Sherlock's waist and pinned him harder against him. Sherlock took this as a sign that he wanted it rougher and the kiss that had been so careful and gentle until now, suddenly heated up. Sherlock licked the inside of his bottom lip and bit gently on it every time the kiss deepened. It sent electric shivers up John's spine and he had to control himself not to tell Sherlock to bite harder. He felt like a kinky bastard for liking it so much.

But it was nothing to what he felt when Sherlock's lips suddenly left his and lowered to the far more sensitive skin on his neck. He let out a shuddery gasp and clutched the back of Sherlock's hair, trying not to grip too tightly. Sherlock clearly knew he liked to be bitten. He must have picked it up from his body language when he'd been experimenting with his mouth because he was using the same technique on John's neck, and fuck it felt so damn good.

When he couldn't hold it back anymore, he moaned. He blushed to hear the needy sound leave his mouth but it seemed to intensify Sherlock's excitement and he heatedly licked up the edge of John's neck, making him shiver all over.

Sherlock leant back. He was pinker than John had ever seen him and his hair looked pleasantly ruffled. He supposed that he looked far worse.

"You surprise me," Sherlock said archly.

"How?" John said hoarsely, unwilling to release Sherlock's torso.

"I thought you would be more experienced than this," Sherlock said.

John coloured and turned away. "I'm not that inexperienced."

Sherlock touched his forehead. His hand was a bit damp. "Your level of responsiveness is very unusual in someone with a lot of experience." He paused. "Unless you were faking it." He raised an eyebrow. "Which I have to say I doubt."

John squirmed beneath him on the mattress. "What is this?" he grumbled. "An interrogation? So I'm not experienced. Does that matter to you?"

Sherlock's facial expression immediately changed. "God no," he said. "Seeing you like this makes me want to-"

John choked. "I get the point!"

Sherlock smirked. "Poor little prude," he said in a muffled tone, lowering his mouth back to John's neck.

"Sher-" John arched his back with a mixture of what sounded like a hiccup and a gasp. "God."

Sherlock sniggered into his skin, triggering goosebumps over every inch of his arms.

"Sherlock!" John said reproachfully, trying to control his facial features when they seemed to want to adopt an ongoing expression of open-mouthed incapacitation.

To his surprise, and slight disappointment, Sherlock raised his head again. Though he looked far too pleased with himself.

"This is all very pleasant," John said, adopting as much dignity as he could whilst pinned to a bed on his back. "But don't you think we should discuss this?"

"Discuss what?" Sherlock replied, his eyes roaming over John's face.

"Can you stop thinking about your cock for three seconds?" John said flatly, nudging Sherlock off of him.

He was incredibly sorry to lose Sherlock's warm weight on top of him, but he wasn't going to clumsily blunder into a situation like this.

"We need to talk about this seriously," John said.

"What is this exactly?" Sherlock said testily, kneeling opposite John on the bed. "A few hours ago you weren't gay."

John blushed. "Well... you have to understand-"

"I understand perfectly," Sherlock said. "You're repressed."

"I am not repressed!" John spluttered.

"Of course you are. With your secret porno magazines and your-"

"That was my sister's idea of a joke," John bristled. "She bought it for me! You think I'd be that dumb? In this school?"

"Yeah, sure," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Your sister bought it for you. Right."

"It's true!" John burst out.

Sherlock gave him a sideways smirk, but didn't remark.

John flattened his hair and tried to straighten his clothes, all while attempting to obscure the bulge between his legs. No doubt Sherlock was already more than aware of it, but for once he chose to be gracious and pretend that he hadn't noticed.

"Well, at least you're honest about one thing," he said, glancing at John grimly. "This school is about the homosexual's equivalent to death row. You know it's going to happen, you just don't know when."

"Know what's going to happen?" John asked.

"Public humiliation," Sherlock said frankly. "You know what will happen to you if they find out, don't you?"

John felt an anxious twinge but ignored it. "You were the one who told me that nobody cares if I'm gay," he said staunchly.

Sherlock shook his head. "I don't know whether this is an overabundance of goodwill or a serious lack of common sense, but you have to stop thinking that everyone is going to be your best friend just as long as you're good at football and can play along with their little game."

John angrily scoffed and got up from the bed. "I don't need lessons from you on social acceptance."

Sherlock stood and tugged him around to face him. "John, if they find out that you're gay, they will hurt you. No matter who you are or what you say. You have to promise me that you'll keep this secret no matter what happens."

John hated what Sherlock was saying, the thought of being an outcast chilled him to his very core. He gingerly met his eye. "And what precisely is this?"

"Whatever we want it to be," Sherlock replied unsmilingly, leaning down to kiss him again.

John let him, but now the pleasure was tempered by the thought that just a few feet away were people who would destroy them both if they knew what was going on behind that door.

End of Chapter Nine