I wanna be someone worthy of your conversation.
Chapter Ten:
Sherlock's family never wrote to him. It was not his mother's inclination and his father, frankly, had nothing to say to him. He sometimes received an obligatory text from his brother, but he was perfectly content in having as little unnecessary contact with his family as possible.
But when he woke on Monday morning, with a vastly different sensation in his stomach to what that day usually invoked, he had the most bizarre and unexplainable urge to tell someone of his successful seduction of John Watson. He knew it was not particularly gracious, but the stupid happiness which bubbled inside of him had no notion of grace or humility.
He lay in bed for ten minutes longer than what was sensible, replaying the night's events again and again in his mind. The memories were becoming warped from overuse. He couldn't help himself.
That John would shrug off the grasping hand of his deepest doubts and anxieties for him was almost beyond unthinkable. John was still confused and ashamed but, above all else, he was afraid. Sherlock was well aware of their position, but he could not feel the concern that John evidently did. He would, of course, keep their relationship, whatever that may be, a secret. But it was not entirely for John's benefit.
No. Sherlock's motive was tainted by selfishness. He wanted John to himself, and he didn't want to share him. Especially with the worthless creeps John called his "friends". They didn't deserve to breathe the same air as John, let alone inspire such trepidation in him. They were not so intelligent or so cunning that Sherlock thought them any real threat, unless John and he exposed themselves in the worst manner possible. That would be the only way that the notion of John being attracted to another boy could penetrate their thick skulls.
Sherlock rolled out from the warmth of the covers and dressed haphazardly into a clean uniform, which had materialized on his chair. He had no idea from where, because he couldn't remember doing any washing that weekend. The weekend had become a long stretch of rising and falling hope. It seemed like an age ago that he had stood on the football field and watched John run past him, completely oblivious to Sherlock's presence.
He ran a hand through his hair by way of combing it and glanced once into the mirror fastened to the door of the wardrobe.
He was seven minutes late to home class, which was the latest he had ever been. As though on cue, as soon as he pushed open the door there was a small explosion of jeers. Sherlock's eyes sought the back row and he saw John sitting like a trapped animal between Billy Pip's monstrous form and Marty Hester, contemptuous smirk firmly in place on his handsome face.
"You're late, Holmes!" he called, accidentally jostling against John as another boy attempted to snatch back his pencil case from Marty's tanned paw. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. Hester had no idea just how unworthy he was of physical contact with John. "Late night? Partying it up? We all know what your idea of a good time is."
Marty's smirk widened at the sneers that followed. Sherlock looked at John. His face was ashen and his lips were extremely thin. Sherlock looked back at Marty, wondering how long it would be until one of them noticed the change in John's disposition.
"What business is it of yours?" Sherlock shot back at him.
Marty's surprise was evident. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw John look at him.
Marty gave a short and not altogether convincing laugh. "Whatever, fag."
Sherlock saw John look away. He gritted his teeth. "Go fuck yourself, Hester."
The silence that fell was almost comical. Stunned eyes flickered towards Marty, all wondering what he would do. How he would react to this sudden rebellion.
Marty seemed too taken aback to react. He just stared at Sherlock, his eyes blank. Sherlock didn't dare look at John. He had succeeded in keeping everyone's attention away from John. That was all that mattered.
"You little cunt," Marty spat, standing up so quickly that Billy and Ben didn't have time to stop him.
"Leave it, mate!" Ben called after him. "He ain't worth it."
Marty came towards Sherlock like predator bearing down on a wounded animal, except Sherlock wasn't afraid of him. Marty may have been built like a bulldog and have all the physical advantages football had gifted him, but he was a coward. Sherlock knew it.
He heard a chair screech as Ben got up, clearly preparing himself to pull Marty off Sherlock if the worst happened. There were a few nervous titters, but no one seemed to be enjoying this turn of events. For all their big talk, his classmates' knew there was a difference between tormenting Sherlock and pitting him against a brute like Marty Hester.
Marty put his face close to Sherlock's. He stank of deodorant. He had layered it on far too thick and it stung Sherlock's nostrils and made him want to cough right into Marty's face. Marty's eyes were narrowed into slits.
"You wanna say that again, faggot?" Marty hissed, spraying Sherlock's face with saliva.
"You're pathetic," Sherlock said quietly.
Marty gave a short, almost erratic laugh over his shoulder towards the stunned class. No one laughed in return. "You sick little fuck," he breathed, turning back to Sherlock. "I know you want to fuck me. Just admit to it."
Sherlock came dangerously close to laughing. The look on Marty's face, the loathing and disgust and the vicious desperation that Sherlock realise his own defects was too ridiculous to hold any threat for him. He looked past Marty to where John was sitting, half in and half out of his chair. His nails were embedded in his desk he was gripping it so hard. No one was looking at him, everyone seemed mesmerized by the scene in front of them.
Sherlock looked down at Marty, and shrugged. "You're not my type-"
He jerked back as Marty's fist curled around the collar of his school shirt. It happened too quickly for Sherlock to distinguish much more than being shoved roughly backwards into a desk. He felt it slam against his hips but was barely aware of the pain.
"Hey!" came a shout from somewhere behind Marty.
Sherlock didn't attempt to pry Marty's hands off of him. He knew it would be fruitless. Marty's grip was too strong.
"Hey!" shouted the same voice and Sherlock realised it was Hurst.
He felt Marty's fingers jerk away from him like he had been stung. Sherlock stared past him to where Hurst was standing, one hand curled around Marty's forearm and staring at Sherlock with disbelief.
"What the hell do you think you're doing!" he snapped. "I thought you were a bit old for this sort of crap!"
Marty wrenched himself from Hurst's grip, his eyes still fixed on Sherlock. "We were just talking," he said.
Sherlock ignored the silent threats Marty was making towards him. He had no intention of making trouble for John by making trouble for Marty. "Sorry, sir," he said calmly. "Just a lively discussion."
Hurst did not look convinced, but Sherlock didn't care what he thought. "Fine, if that's your story," he said testily, folding his arms. "Sit down. If I catch you fighting again, I'll put you in detention for a month."
Sherlock quickly took his seat. He could feel a roomful of eyes on him. He knew he had surprised them. They hadn't known just how little Sherlock heeded their slurs. He knew that he had made himself even more of a target now.
When home class was finally done, he took an especially long time packing away his things to avoid getting trapped in the hallway with Marty and his friends. When Marty passed his table, he swept his pencil case off the desk and onto the floor. A few pens rolled out across the floor. Marty gave a short laugh that was unaided by his usual chorus of supporters and went towards the door.
Sherlock knelt down to pick them up and almost collided with a flaxen head. He jerked back and found himself staring into John's face, as he scrambled to pick up Sherlock's fallen stationary.
"What were you thinking?" he breathed, glancing over his shoulder.
"I know it was risky," Sherlock replied, cramming his pens back into his pencil case. "We can't have them zoning in on you. They trust you. It's better for them to hate me for being a friendless fag than hate us both for being-"
He cut off. John stared at him. His forehead was crinkled with anxiety.
"We have to be careful," he said.
"I can't believe you did that," John said, standing up slowly. "I've never seen anyone talk to Marty like that before."
Sherlock laughed bitterly. "He's not so very intimidating. He's just loud and obnoxious."
John shook his head. "I have to get back." He glanced around again, clearly on edge. "Meet me in the library at lunch," he said in a voice barely above a whisper.
Without another word, he went towards the door. Sherlock took the unspoken hint and waited a few moments before following.
...
It wasn't easy finding an excuse to get out of lunch with the team, but it was not something John regretted. Marty had done nothing but viciously badmouth Sherlock since they had left home class. It was the same meaningless cycle of "fag", "cunt", "bastard", "douchebag", "dickhead" over and over and over. Marty's fury was evident and no one chose to contradict him. In fact, everyone seemed keen to keep well away from him. Marty was hard to get along with at the best of times but when he was in a bad mood, he was positively sadistic.
Fortunately, everyone was too shell-shocked by the morning's drama to react much. Billy was the only one who joined in with Marty's relentless abuse. Ben seemed very grim indeed all day and said very little to anyone. The rest of the team watched Marty out of the corner of their eyes, exchanging glances and seeming generally unsure of how to react.
Sherlock had disappeared. John had no idea where. The whole episode had shaken him to his core. It felt like a terrible preview of what their lives would be like if anyone ever found out about them. John's skin crawled at the thought. It felt like everything he did was giving away a little bit more of his true self, the self that his teammates had never come into contact with. The boy they had never met.
He managed to shake them off at the cafeteria doors with a lame excuse about forgotten homework. No one made any attempt to contradict him and he slipped away unnoticed. The library was empty except for a smattering of students on the computers. He knew immediately where Sherlock would be and made his way to the familiar nook in the far corner where he had argued with Sherlock the day before.
He slipped behind it and sat down at the end of the table. His heart was beating so hard. He was anxious about seeing Sherlock. He didn't completely know why, but the morning's events had made him edgy.
He let his bag slide down onto the floor and leant on his arm, staring out of the window opposite. It was getting colder. The sky outside was grey. It would be Christmas in just a few weeks and the holidays would begin. John dreaded Christmas. As though the holidays with his family weren't punishment enough, they had to add carols.
"Hey."
He turned around quickly and found Sherlock watching him. His uniform was unusually wrinkled and he wasn't wearing his school jumper, despite the weather.
"Hi," John said, staring at him.
Sherlock sat down opposite him. He was flushed from the cold. "How are you feeling?"
"I feel fine," John said, a little testily. "I wasn't the one having punch ups in the classroom."
Sherlock lowered his eyes with a small smile. "It wasn't a punch-up."
"You provoked Marty Hester," John hissed, unable to stop himself. "Are you completely insane?"
"I can't have those charming friends of yours noticing any changes in your demeanour," Sherlock replied. "Better they intensify their hatred of me than begin to suspect that they have a shirtlifter in their midst."
The heat rushed to John's cheeks. "I'm not-"
He broke off. Sherlock smiled wryly at him from across the table, as though he knew exactly what he had been about to say.
He stared down at his hands on the table, no idea of what to say. He couldn't stop thinking about Marty. There seemed to be a shadow over them. Maybe he was just imagining it.
John glanced across the table to where Sherlock's pale, long fingers were rested on the table opposite his. He slid his own smaller, tanner hand across the shiny plastic surface and touched Sherlock's. Sherlock looked quickly at him. John's breath caught in his throat. He thought for a moment that he had overstepped the line, but a moment later Sherlock opened his palm and threaded his long fingers through John's.
John gave a shiver in his seat. He didn't know why, but that simple act seemed so sensual. He leant forward slightly and thankfully Sherlock too the hint. He rose out of his chair partly and bent over the table towards John. Before John could react, Sherlock had pressed his lips against his.
Sherlock cupped a hand to the back of his hair, gripping it and pulling him harder and deeper against his lips. John was aware that they were in a public place, with students sitting just a few feet away from them but somehow that only made it all the more arousing.
He edged forward in his seat, gently opening Sherlock's lips wider apart and pushing his tongue inside. He felt Sherlock's hand tighten around his neck. Sherlock emitted a strained, breathy sound that John had never heard uttered by his usually well-controlled mouth. He felt the place between his legs give a twinge.
All too soon, Sherlock broke apart. He was panting.
"Come back to my room," he breathed into John's ear, making him shiver. "We can skive off and..."
He leant forward and planted a brief, firm kiss on John's lips. John glanced over his shoulder. The bell had just rung for class.
"We shouldn't," John said, though he didn't extract himself from Sherlock's grasp. "They might notice."
"They won't," Sherlock said softly, grazing the rim of John's ear with his lips.
John thought about what the remainder of his day would entail if he didn't go with Sherlock. Three and a half hours more of Marty bitching and everyone else too on edge even to piss. It was not an inviting thought.
"Alright," he said."Let's go."
They got back to the dormitories without meeting anyone and slipped into Sherlock's room. Sherlock locked the door behind him and shed his bag. John did the same. He was warding off a sense of awkwardness that he hadn't yet managed to shrug off when he was in Sherlock's room.
"Sherlock," he said, staring around the room. "Where are you going for the holidays?"
Sherlock glanced at him from the bed. "Home?"
"Oh," John said, fidgeting uncomfortably. "I thought maybe you... Well, never mind."
Sherlock cocked an eyebrow. "And where, may I ask, will you be going?"
"Home," John replied shortly, not eager to enter a discussion in which everything he said would be used as some sort of evidence against him.
To silence whatever inferences Sherlock was about to make, he joined him on the bed and, though almost paralysed with self-consciousness, straddled Sherlock's lap. The material of their school trousers was very thin and soft and the firm mound between Sherlock's legs was extremely obvious. He could feel his own body responding. The most embarrassing side-effects were his nipples, which had hardened into two firm nubs and the hairs on his arms, which were standing on end.
Sherlock encircled his waist with his hands and kissed his neck, his lips damp against John's clammy skin. John tilted his head, unable to constrain his whimper when Sherlock's mouth came into contact with the place below his chin, which had always been a hypersensitive spot for him.
"I'm sorry," he gasped, words almost failing him as Sherlock's teeth gently nipped at his skin.
"Why would you be?" Sherlock said softly, his mouth vibrating against John's Adam's apple.
"I... I'm not...doing anything," John panted.
Sherlock laughed in a manner that clearly indicated that he didn't mind.
John was glad. He didn't feel ready to touch Sherlock yet. He had touched others. Girls. He knew that they liked having their backs and shoulders caressed, they like having their necks kissed and suckled and their breasts touched, but there was at least one problem with that prescription in Sherlock's case.
Sherlock's hands moved gently down the curve of his waist. John arched his back with a small, barely contained moan and felt his crotch press harder against Sherlock's. Sherlock's fingertips slid down into the incline of his thighs. John bucked in surprise, not expecting to feel Sherlock's hands in such an intimate place of his body.
He fought the urge to push Sherlock's hands away from his crotch. It felt good. He wanted Sherlock to touch him there, but the sense that they were doing something sinful was difficult to shake.
Sherlock seemed to sense his hesitation and retracted his hands from their teasing position. John felt his fingers brush against his erection and his mouth went dry. The possibility that he had hit his head on a rock and was lying in a field somewhere had occurred to him. More than once. Sometimes the idea that he was kissing Sherlock Holmes seemed almost too incredible to him.
While he was still reeling from the new sensations, Sherlock pushed him gently down onto the bed. He seemed to like him on his back. John didn't mind. From below he could admire Sherlock's face and figure. He had developed a fondness for Sherlock's long, slim form and his pale, keen facial features. He couldn't remember when he had first noticed that Sherlock was stunning.
Sherlock brushed back his hair from his forehead. His fingertips caressed his skin ever so slightly. John closed his eyes in anticipation for Sherlock's kiss. He ventured to slide his fingers into Sherlock's hair as his mouth closed in on his. John loved twisting Sherlock's hair around his fingers and felt a little dirty for the amount of heat sent rushing to his crotch as a result of the combination of Sherlock's hair and a gentle bite to his bottom lip. It felt more erotic than his few clumsy, drunken experiences put together.
He almost protested the loss when Sherlock's tongue was suddenly taken from his mouth. He leant back, fixing John with an uncomfortably calculating look. "Are you a virgin?"
John choked. "Wh-what?"
"Are you a virgin?" Sherlock repeated.
"I heard you!" John spluttered, struggling to sit up.
"I'll take that as an affirmative," Sherlock said, sitting back on his heels to allow John upright.
John wiped Sherlock's saliva from the corner of his mouth and stared at him, trying to think of something to say that could redeem himself whilst not being an outright lie. "Does it matter?" he said impatiently, unable to think of anything. "Does my virginity have anything to do with this?"
"Of course not." Sherlock smiled beatifically, pushing him back down flat against the bed and holding him there with a hand on his chest. John could feel his individual fingers through the material of his jumper. "I look forward to taking it," he said, his lips teasingly close to John's.
John's eyes widened. He stared at Sherlock in shock. "W-what?"
Sherlock didn't reply. He slid a hand under John's shirt and jumper and pushed it up so his stomach was exposed. John's skin trembled from the mixture of cold and Sherlock's breath unconsciously caressing it.
His mind was still burning with Sherlock's remark. It must have been a joke. Except... Sherlock didn't seem to joke. Ever.
His mind went abruptly blank as Sherlock's lips suddenly came into contact with his stomach. "O-oh," he said shakily, gripping onto the covers. "Sherlock..."
Sherlock ignored him, dragging his lips down John's stomach to the sensitive skin beneath his navel. John threw his head back with a barely concealed groan. Sherlock's tongue flitted out and caressed him right above his trembling pubic bone.
"Sherlock!" he burst out, craning his head up to look at him. "Would you-you let me... speak!"
Sherlock emitted an exaggerated sigh and sat back on his heels. The corners of his mouth twitched to see the state John was in. John flushed even darker at his expression.
"Don't you think we're taking this a little bit fast?" he said breathlessly.
Sherlock raised a dark eyebrow. "As long as I'm not doing anything you don't want, no."
John couldn't argue with that. It wasn't like the experience was unpleasant. Far from it. But there was something so urgent about Sherlock's movements that made him feel increasingly out of his depth.
"I'll never do anything you don't want," Sherlock said, his grey eyes fixed on John.
John's managed to remain composed, though his cheeks were burning. "I don't want... I don't want you to feel like..." He looked away, his embarrassment too much to ignore.
"You're not leading me on," Sherlock said shortly. "I trust you. I wish you trusted me."
John shifted uncomfortably where he was. "I... do..." he said uncertainly. "I've never been in a situation like this."
Sherlock sat back on his heels. "Look," he said coldly. "I understand. I really do, but you need to decide what you really want."
"I know what I want!" John retorted. "Why do you have to treat me like an idiot?"
"Because I know what you're really feeling," Sherlock snapped. "You're almost paralysed with fear, with uncertainty. I don't want to feel like I'm forcing you into this."
John stared at him. "You don't know what you're talking about," he said numbly.
Sherlock turned away. John watched him, looking for some sign that he didn't really think John so fickle and pathetic. He didn't understand. He didn't know how Sherlock could be so certain about another person's feelings.
"You need to make sure this is what you want, John," Sherlock said finally, straightening up and sliding his legs over the side of the bed. "I'm not interested in playing games with you."
"I don't understand you," John snapped angrily. "Why would I be doing any of this if I didn't want to be with you? It really doesn't seem like you trust me at all. You might think I'm just a dumb footballer, but I..." He sucked in a sharp breath. "I know what I want."
Sherlock didn't reply. John felt an inward pang of irritation and unease. He felt like he had exposed himself in some unforgivable manner, but he was certain he hadn't done anything wrong.
Without speaking, he stood and left.
End of Chapter Ten