We are young. Heartache to heartache we stand.
Chapter Eleven:
"Mail!"
The word was accompanied by a loud and unwelcome rap on the door. John didn't move. He kept his eyes determinedly closed as Billy's heavy footsteps lumbered across the room. The door gave a squeal on its hinges.
"Morning, Mr. Pip," came Mr. Blake's voice and a swell of noise from the outside corridor.
Billy grunted in response.
John opened one eye, just enough so he could see the door and Blake's bald crown. Billy was clutching two letters in his broad hand.
John saw Blake's eyes flicker in his direction. "Wake Watson up, will you? He'll be late for class. You both will be if you don't hurry up."
Billy gave another indistinct grunt and slammed the door shut. He walked past John and dumped the letters on his desk. Both were for him. Of course. Nobody else's parents wrote.
John pushed himself upright. His head hurt and the last thing he felt like doing was reading a letter from his mother and then go to English. As the due date for the rough draft drew closer, all English classes were devoted to writing their play. John had never dreaded it more.
"Mor-"
He had to stop to cough up some phlegm that had lodged itself in his throat from the night before. Great, and he was getting sick. Just what he needed.
"Morning," he tried again.
"Hey," Billy replied thickly, halfway through stripping off his pyjamas.
John hastily grabbed his school uniform from the chair beside his bed and followed suit. It was crumpled. On closer inspection he found a long, dark hair clinging to the shoulder of his shirt. He thinned his lips and carefully plucked it off.
"You got s' mail," Billy said from behind him.
John glanced at the two letters. One looked like a mobile phone bill. He glanced at the cramped, stilted writing on the other envelope. He looked away.
"I'll get them later."
Marty was still in a foul mood in home class. He could no longer verbalize his hatred for Sherlock, so he resorted to surly silence, barely opening his mouth except to bark orders at those around him. He loved the sound of his own voice too much for this to be permanent fixture. Once his humiliation faded away, all of his thoughts would be turned to punishing Sherlock.
John didn't think that Sherlock knew what he had gotten himself into. But, then again, he and Sherlock weren't speaking. Or, more specifically, he wasn't speaking to Sherlock. Ever. Again.
He saw the taller boy's eyes rise up to fix on him as he entered. His body temperature rose a few degrees but he successfully resisted the urge to throw himself at Sherlock's feet and beg him to do whatever he wanted to him. That would have been a serious breach of what "not speaking" involved.
"Morning, Marty," he said mildly, glancing at the boy's stony countenance.
"Hi," Marty said shortly, which was more than what most people had managed to extract from him.
Ben rolled his eyes at him, carefully screened behind Marty's head.
John unconsciously found his eyes had immediately settled on Sherlock. He forced himself to look at the whiteboard instead.
Hurst arrived ten minutes late to class and didn't give out any of the announcements because they were already cutting it incredibly fine for their first class as it was. He read out the roll in record time.
John tried not to listen for the "Sherlock Holmes" but it was difficult to block out. Marty didn't even bother commenting on Sherlock's smoothly delivered "present". John knew that wasn't a good sign.
"John Watson."
"Here," John said, already halfway out of his seat.
"John, could you stay behind a couple of minutes? I need a word."
John stared at Hurst's unsmiling expression. Cigarettes and dirty magazines immediately hurtled through his mind's eye. He saw Sherlock glance at him sharply as he made his way to the door. John ignored him and stayed behind his desk.
"Tough luck, man," Ben said, glancing at him. "I'll save you a seat."
John just nodded. The rest of the class filtered out, throwing curious glances at Hurst and John. Hurst sat down behind his desk and beckoned to John with one finger, without looking at him.
"Sir?" John said, his heart doing a somersault in his chest.
"I just wanted to check on yours and Sherlock's progress with your assignment," he said in a deceivingly casual manner.
"F-fine," John said clumsily, Sherlock's name immediately making him feel uncomfortably warm under the collar. "It's almost done."
"Good," Hurst said, finally looking up and fixing him with a calculating and not altogether friendly expression. "I trust you witnessed what occurred yesterday."
"Yes," John replied coolly. "I did."
"Were you here for the extent of the argument?" Hurst asked, a distinctly sharp aspect to his voice.
"Yes," John said, wondering where this was leading.
"I'm disappointed," Hurst said, raising his eyebrows. "I would have thought that a boy like you would have intervened. I'm sure you saw that Hester and Holmes's conversation was hardly friendly."
John stared at him, taken aback. "But- I-"
"It's just as bad to sit back and let things happen as instigate them," Hurst said in a hard voice. "I asked you to do this assignment with Holmes because I thought you would understand better than your classmates."
John's astonishment was quickly overtaken by anger. "Sir!" he said indignantly. "When I said I'd do this assignment with Sh- Holmes I didn't realise I was supposed to be his bodyguard."
"No," Hurst said, seeming to check himself. "That's not what I meant. I just wish that you, of all people, had stood up and said something. Hester can be..." He was clearly struggling for a word that wouldn't insult John's friend. "Headstrong."
John stared at him. "Sherlock doesn't need me to look after him."
Hurst sighed. "Alright... Well, I hope you two are getting along ok. I thought you had hit it off alright before yesterday."
John knew he was gradually flushing darker and darker where he stood. He hoped Hurst didn't notice.
"Ok, thanks," he said hurriedly, edging towards the door.
"See you in English," Hurst said tiredly, taking his glasses off to polish them.
John gratefully made his escape and hurried to catch up with the rest of his class.
...
Sherlock lit up his third cigarette of the morning and took a drag. He coughed into his sleeve and dropped the butt of his last onto the grass. The sun was struggling to fight its way through the clouds and he was shivering inside the thin confines of his school jumper, but he'd rather be out here freezing to death than inside with the rest of the hypocrites.
He noticed the fingers holding the fag were shaking. He hastily steadied them with his other hand.
The bell rang somewhere behind in the school. He stood where he was for five minutes more, not smoking and not bothering to even try and warm himself against the damp air. He dropped his unfinished cigarette onto the grass with the others and crushed it with his heel.
When he reached class, he was late but everyone had already been paired off in their groups. They hardly looked at him when he entered. Everyone seemed to have been stunned into silence concerning him. He was not naive enough to think that it would last, but it was nice while it did.
He spotted John sitting alone in the back row. His cheeks were very red and he was staring determinedly down at his desk. Sherlock knew he had seen him come in. He went over to him and stood at the edge of his desk, staring down at the smaller boy.
"Ah! Glad you could join us, Holmes."
Sherlock turned as Hurst came through the door. He saw Hurst's eyes dart towards John with an almost questioning gaze.
"You two can have the empty classroom down the hall. You should be well into editing now, so try and get as much of it done."
Sherlock heard John stand up behind him. "Yes, sir."
Sherlock followed John out. He was still not quite sure of what he was going to say. He stared at the back of John's neatly combed hair as they walked down towards the empty classroom.
It was dark inside and John hastily fumbled for the lights. Sherlock stood by the door, fiddling with his jumper and feeling himself growing hotter and more uncomfortable with every moment that passed. He had decided what he was going to say hours beforehand, but his mental teleprompter seemed to have broken down. He couldn't conjure the words up when John was right there watching him.
"I suppose I should-" he began clumsily, at the same time John had said something like: "We should probably-"
They both cut off, staring at each other in intense embarrassment. It had been one day and Sherlock felt like he might burn to ash if he didn't have John near him in the next five minutes. He was filled with terror at the prospect that his impatience with John had destroyed his chance with him forever.
John recovered first and went to sit down at a desk. "We should probably get started," he said coldly.
Sherlock numbly nodded and went to sit next to him. He stared at the pile of papers on the desk. John kept his head down.
"We might as well just keep going and try and finish this," John said, an almost undetectable strain to his voice. "There's no point in trying to edit."
"Ok," Sherlock managed to verbalize with some effort.
"I think we should have at least one scene where the son is a suspect, just to throw people off," John said, determinedly avoiding his eye. Even past the almost convincing layer of indifference was a frailty that Sherlock could clearly perceive.
He didn't say anything. He nodded, staring blankly at the page while John's hand scribbled something down. His insides were tautening and loosening by turns. It felt like every breath John took and every movement he made was magnified to a wild extent, so that he imagined he could hear each of John's individual heartbeats.
John turned the page over. "I'll try and get as much written tonight as possible. Unless you want to-"
He stopped abruptly. For a moment Sherlock didn't realise why, but then he realised that somehow his hand had become curled around John's wrist. He stared at it. It took John a few moments to collect himself and tug it back.
Sherlock let him go, though every part of him would have preferred to keep it firmly around John's wrist. The contact felt like a burn applied directly to his flesh.
John's voice wavered, as he tried to continue as though nothing had happened. "I can probably finish this tonight, if you give me your notes about... about the... thing."
He stared at the play and Sherlock stared at him, his mouth growing drier by the moment. "John," he said hoarsely.
John barely glanced at him, though Sherlock could almost feel the heat rising off his skin. "And we can probably skip all the technicalities about characters and such and-"
"John," Sherlock said sharply. He laid a hand on John's forearm.
John jerked like he had been burned and looked at him with an almost wild expression in his usually mild blue eyes. "Sherlock, don't," he said in a would-be hard voice. "We tried that, it didn't work."
"You don't understand-" Sherlock tried to begin.
John cut him off with eyes flashing. "No, you don't understand. You treat everyone like shit and then wonder why you're alone!"
Sherlock was relieved that John had spoken, even if he was clearly furious and hurt. "You know I would never do anything purposely to hurt you-"
"I don't know that," John snapped, standing abruptly and almost tripping over his chair in his haste to get away from Sherlock. "I don't know anything about you! One moment, you're almost sweet and the next you... you just-"
"Almost sweet?" Sherlock said, wondering whether he should be flattered or offended by that description.
John turned to him and Sherlock saw the corners of his mouth twitch. The almost-smile vanished a moment later and John looked grim. "Who are you?"
Sherlock sighed. "Let's not play silly games. You know who I am."
"Barely," John replied, his eyes sharp.
"Who do you think I am?" Sherlock snapped, staring at John in blank frustration.
Why was John playing these games? Didn't he see what Sherlock felt for him? He must have been blind.
John looked stung for a moment and then his features rapidly hardened. He went to the desk and gathered up the play, his fingers fumbling clumsily with the pages.
"So you're going to storm off again like a child?" Sherlock snapped, his eyes desperately flickering towards the door. "Why don't you stay long enough so we can talk about it-"
"There's nothing to talk about!" John rounded on him. "You have no understanding of other people! You only care about yourself."
"I care about you... a lot," the words sounded unsteady and clumsy coming from Sherlock's mouth. "I didn't know you needed me to tell you that."
"Of course I do!" John said, his exasperation providing a handy distraction from his embarrassment at Sherlock's unintentionally tender words. "We're not all like you, Sherlock. We can't readpeople."
"I'm aware that I may have... slightly... overreacted," Sherlock said, looking away.
"Slightly," John said coolly. "You have a way of making feel persecuted for the simplest and most natural of human feelings."
"I'm not used to dealing with other people's emotions," Sherlock said, agitatedly getting to his feet.
He didn't trust himself to look at John. He fixed his eyes on the window and what he could see of the front courtyard below. He could feel John watching him, waiting for him to explain himself, explain his follies and just how difficult it was for him to explain what he felt, when he had never felt anything like it before.
"When I was younger..." he hesitated, raising his eyes to meet John's.
John was frozen in front of the desk, the play lodged in his arms. His expression was still vaguely suspicious. Sherlock felt his resolve slip.
"Well..." he said, clearing his throat, "I was wrong. I made a mistake."
John stared at him. "Is that it? Is that my apology?" he snapped, flushing. "You're impossible."
He stalked across to the door, but Sherlock got there first. He placed one hand hard against it. John blinked indignantly up at him. "Let me out, Sherlock," he said threateningly.
"No," Sherlock retorted. "I won't. You have to listen-"
"No, I don't," John said, trying to twist out of Sherlock's grip on his arm. "I don't want anything to do with you."
The words stung, but Sherlock knew better than to trust them. He dared to touch John's chin. John shrunk away against the wall.
"We can do this," Sherlock said softly, reluctantly lowering his hand. "We should be together."
"You had your chance," John snapped. "The way you treated me yesterday is not how someone who wants to have a relationship acts."
Sherlock felt his grip unconsciously tighten on John's arm. "Please... John..." he said. "I made a mistake. I've never been taught to read anything more than what I see. Intuition doesn't come easily to me."
He looked for a sign that John understood, that John would give him another chance. He needed John. So much more than he had realised. To think that he may have singlehandedly sabotaged his own chance with the boy he had longed for for so long was agonizing beyond belief.
"Look," John said, running a hand through his hair, "I'll think about it. I really can't talk about this now. We have a draft due in days and it isn't even finished. You may not care about getting good grades, but I do."
He pulled his arm from Sherlock's grip. "Let me out."
Sherlock nodded and moved his hand, but before he stepped back he leant forward and planted a very chaste kiss on John's lips. It was brief and soft, and John didn't push him away. Then he turned and walked away.
A moment later he heard the door open and close behind him.
...
John unconsciously traced his mouth with his fingers for the umpteenth time that night. He shook his head, trying to concentrate on the unfinished play in front of him. He had spent two hours typing up what they had already written onto his laptop and it was already almost midnight. He had a couple of days to finish the storyline but no words seemed to want to come to him.
He would write a few paragraphs and then delete them. And that happened again and again. The storyline seemed flat. The murder seemed increasingly improbable. He had realised long ago that the play had seemed a lot more fun when he'd had Sherlock beside him.
But the boy had been such a jerk. Such an unfeeling jerk. He hadn't understood John's fears. He hadn't even seemed to want to. His explanations, if they had come from anyone else, wouldn't have been worth listening to.
John sighed into his hands. But because they came from Sherlock's mouth, John couldn't help but trust him. Against his will. And his better judgement.
"God damn it," he snapped, shutting his laptop and sitting back in his chair.
He checked his phone again. There were still no messages. From Sherlock or anyone else. Sherlock's texts were usually fairly to the point. "Come to the library", "bring food", "I'm coming to find you". John didn't mind. He probably should have, but Sherlock wasn't... normal. John liked that. Probably more than what was natural.
As he sat there, his subconscious kept demanding terrible questions from him. Are you happy, John? Are you happy living the way you are? He honestly didn't know anymore. He had been becoming numb in recent years. He had lived this way for so long, he didn't really know what real, lasting happiness was. He glanced at the unopened letter on his dresser.
He checked his phone again. Still nothing. Well, he couldn't expect Sherlock to chase after him anymore. He had put his feelings on the table, something which was clearly difficult for him. Emotions seemed to confuse Sherlock more than anything else.
John dropped his phone onto the desk and walked across the room. He was too agitated to stay still.
He didn't often have the room to himself. He had skipped dinner just so he could escape unwanted company for a bit longer. It wasn't a desire that his friends particularly understood. Wanting to be alone was only a hair's breadth away from wanting to have no friends or social life.
They'd all be back soon. Midnight was the latest that grade twelvers were allowed out of their dorm rooms. A niggling voice in the back of his mind reminded him that if he wanted to "do" anything he only had ten minutes in which to do it in. If he wanted to... go and find Sherlock.
His face was pale and tired in the reflection of the window. Sherlock had given him a few weeks of real, tangible happiness. It hadn't been lasting, but he had tasted real moments of bliss while he'd been with him. Sherlock had the power to hurt him, but he also had the power the make him happy. That was something he could not deny.
He turned and walked back to his desk. The light of his phone was still on. He picked it up and tentatively pressed "Messages".
Is it ok if I came down in a couple of minutes?
He dropped it again and agitatedly walked up and down his room until finally, a few minutes later the familiar chimes sounded. He walked hastily over and snatched it up, eagerly opening the one new message.
Yes.
Well, Sherlock wasn't one to mince words.
...
Sherlock threw his phone onto the bed and hurried across to his dresser, yanking it open and pulling out a clean shirt and jeans. He was still in his school uniform and it was heavily creased from lying down on his stomach all evening.
He tore off his shirt and trousers and tossed them under the bed and got into his clean clothes as quickly as he was physically able. He hadn't dared wait more than five minutes to reply to John. Anything less than five would have seemed obsessive and anything more would have seemed inattentive.
He was just flattening his always stubbornly untidy hair when there was a markedly hesitant knock on the door. He didn't move. He stood in the centre of the room, smoothing his shirt as well as he could and staring around the room for anything that would serve as an immediate mood killer. It was hardly a bachelor pad, but John seemed to like that.
Well, it was too late now.
"Sherlock?" John hissed through the door.
Sherlock counted to three and then went to open it. John almost fell through it when he did. He stumbled upright.
"Sorry," he mumbled, staring around the room in a clear attempt to avoid looking at Sherlock.
"Come inside. We have to close the door," Sherlock replied, though his heart was bounding up and down inside of him.
John stumbled inside and edged towards the bed. Sherlock closed the door and turned to him. John was still dressed in his school uniform, but it was in better shape than his. He looked very pale.
"Make yourself comfortable," he said awkwardly.
"It's kind of hot in here," John said slightly breathlessly, not looking at him.
"I can open a window if you-"
"No," John said, almost sharply. "I'll just..." he motioned to his jumper.
Sherlock nodded and tentatively sat down on the unused bed opposite him. He watched as John tugged the jumper over his head and dropped it neatly beside him. Taut, pale stomach muscles were visible for a few fleeting moments before being swallowed by his plain white school shirt.
John shyly met his eye. Sherlock knew that he forgave him. He didn't need John to say it. This was one of the few times when he knew that what he felt was correct. John was giving him a second chance.
"I think we can make this work," John said in a very steady voice. "I think we owe it to each other to try. But..."
Sherlock waited, barely daring to breathe.
"But if you ever hurt me, I'll leave you," John said in a tone that was both hard and bashful at the same time.
Sherlock silently stood and went over to him, kneeling on the floor in front of him. He pressed a kiss to the corner of John's lips. "I will never intentionally hurt you. I'll die first." His voice shuddered. It wasn't a lie, it was the cold, hard truth.
John made a soft sound, desperate and vulnerable. Sherlock wanted to take him in his arms and protect him from the many hurts and disappointments in his life. He wanted to shield him from his teammates, his parents, his own mind. All of his uncertainties, all of his misgivings would vanish if he knew just how much he was worth.
Sherlock trapped John's waist in his arms and his lips with his. John's hand gripped the back of his shirt, urging him deeper against him. His legs, unconsciously or not, spread wider against Sherlock. Sherlock took the invitation and slid his hand down between John's thighs.
John gasped, though it sounded almost like a choke. Sherlock took advantage of his open mouth to press his tongue inside. He caught John's bottom lip in his teeth and gently tugged it as he moved back to ease John down onto his back.
"Why do I always end up in this position?" John grumbled, his features soft with lust and burgeoning arousal.
Sherlock stroked along John's hairline with his thumb. "Because it suits you," he said, his laconic tone failing him as his growing hardness was pressed against John's thigh.
John felt it too and squirmed on the bed. He tossed his head to one side with a barely suppressed moan. Sherlock couldn't verbalize what sensations watching John like this awakened inside of him. The urge to posses John's body was sometimes almost too strong.
Sherlock took John's mouth again with his. John's hands felt for his hair, his fingertips clammy and damp. Sherlock ran a hand through John's hair in return, deciding he wanted him to look utterly ravished when he had finished with him. He broke away from John's mouth and gently slid his lips down John's petite chin to his neck. John emitted a shuddery breath and his grip on Sherlock's hair tightened.
Sherlock pressed himself flush against John's body and they groaned in unison to feel their twin erections pinned against each other through the material of their clothes. Sherlock gently suckled on the curve of John's neck and felt goosebumps spring up where he bit.
John's back arched. His breathing was becoming more haggard, more desperate with every passing moment. Sherlock felt his hands slide down from his hair. Sherlock couldn't resist the urge to pin John's hands to the mattress with his and applied a bite to John's flesh, harder than before.
The reaction was immediate. John could hardly keep from crying out and he bucked his hips against Sherlock's, further serving to grind their crotches together.
"Sh-Sherlock-" John stammered, though Sherlock was confident that it was not from reluctance.
He leant back, resting on John's hips and undoing John's buttons one by one. He had meant to do it slowly, teasingly but his own reluctance to have John undressed won out and he found himself tearing at them. He yanked open John's shirt. John's chest was creamy white and very scarcely adorned by mousey hair on his chest and from the navel downwards.
Sherlock lowered his mouth to a dark nipple and took it gently between his teeth. John writhed. "Uh-God-Sherlock... st-stop-"
Sherlock hesitated, looking up at the flushed and panting younger boy. John tilted his head up with an impatient huff.
"Figure of speech, you idiot," he snapped, struggling against Sherlock's grip on his wrists.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, not releasing John. He licked the hardened nub and then moved down to the incline between them. He ran his tongue down to the shuddering area below John's navel. He risked the tiniest of licks against it.
John's groan was encouraging. One of John's hands managed to tear itself from his grasp and damp fingertips tangled in his hair again. He thumbed at the band of John's trousers and looked up at him, almost serving to get a chunk of his hair torn out at the same time.
John stared at him, beautiful in his arousal and desperation. He wanted Sherlock's touch and Sherlock had never felt anything so glorious as the sense of being wanted. At length, John gave a very slight nod of his head.
Sherlock didn't need anything more than that. He knelt over John's lower half and loosened his belt and then his buttons. John raised his hips so he could tug them down to his knees. Underneath he was wearing a pair of red boxer briefs. They were rather tight-fitting and his cock was straining beautifully against the material.
Sherlock palmed it gently. John bit his lip and an expression of intense, taut pleasure flickered across his handsome features. Sherlock wanted so badly to extract that look from him again and again until John could hardly bear it.
He gently touched the inside of John's slender thigh and licked the telltale bulge through the cotton. He flicked his eyes up to catch the heated, needy expression that flashed through John's face again.
"Sherlock..." he panted, struggling to raise his head. "Stop t-teasing me-"
"Don't you like it?" Sherlock smirked, sliding a hand lower under John's crotch.
John made a noise that sounded suspiciously close to a squeak. "Stop!" he said shrilly, eyes very wide.
Sherlock wanted to do anything but, but he got the feeling that it wasn't a figure of speech this time. He slid his hand out and knelt back. "Are you ok?"
John was breathing very hard. Sherlock couldn't help watching his chest rise and fall with some fascination. His hair was ruffled almost beyond recognition and his complexion was splotched. "I don't think I can... yet..." he said, sounding embarrassed and turned on..
"Let me do something for you," Sherlock said carefully, conscious not to push too hard. "We don't have to go any faster than you want to."
John was silent for a moment; his eyes flickered with evident curiosity. "Ok," he said meekly at length.
As soon as he heard that brief affirmation, Sherlock ventured to slide his thumbs underneath the band of John's underwear. John responded by arching his hips up so Sherlock could move them more easily down his thighs. Sherlock could see him gnawing on his lip. He was frightened, but he wanted to show Sherlock that he wanted him. Sherlock knew there had never been any doubt that John felt for him what he felt for John, whatever insecure doubts he'd had the day before had been beyond idiocy.
He gritted his teeth to keep from moaning when he finally managed to free John from his constraint. John's fingers were curled into the covers, he was holding onto them so tightly that they had become twisted around his hands. He was struggling to keep his head upright, but it was clear that it wasn't comfortable.
"Lie down," Sherlock said, more sharply than he had meant.
John didn't argue. He rested his head down, though his figure was still taut and strained. His legs were stiff against Sherlock's thighs. He lowered his mouth to John's straining erection. It was beaded with pre-cum and the base was surrounded by a patch of fair pubic hair. Sherlock slid his fingers around the shaft and gently licked the crown.
John whimpered, writhing against the bed and making it shake against the wall.
"Hush," Sherlock said softly, sliding one hand up to John's stomach and gently caressing the skin beneath his navel.
John rolled his hips up, bringing the tip of his cock up almost against Sherlock's mouth again. Sherlock took the unspoken hint and gently took John deep into his mouth. He felt John shudder bodily against him.
"Sherlock... Ugh- Feels so-"
Sherlock licked the underside to the tip. The taste was familiar. Hot and salty, but it tasted far better because it was John's arousal he was tasting. John's need and desire. Sherlock was gentle with him. He knew it wouldn't take long for John to climax.
Sherlock didn't mind. He had come to relish the idea of tutoring John in pleasure, in what he liked and wanted. More than anything he wanted to see John's face when he climaxed. He wanted to see the expression in his eyes.
He gently sucked on the excited, damp flesh. He knew his actions were clumsy. The last time he'd done this had been some time ago, but John wouldn't know that. And he doubted whether it would make much of a difference if he had.
He could feel John jerking against his hand on his stomach. He was trying to suppress the sounds he was making, but Sherlock wanted desperately to hear them.
He paused for breath. "Let me hear you," he said softly, tightening his grip around the shaft of John's cock. "Don't hold it back."
John couldn't reply. He was unreachable at this point. His face was almost unrecognisable, it was damp and violently red. His lips were parted and shuddering. Sherlock moaned. He couldn't help himself.
He hastily moved his hand from John's stomach and rubbed himself between his legs. In time with his frantic self-inflicted caresses, he moved his mouth fiercely and increasingly clumsily against John's flesh, licking and sucking at the crown and the sensitive glands he knew would drive John crazy.
John's sounds became more erratic with every suck. He rocked his hips hard against Sherlock's mouth, almost bruising his lips in his fervour. The sounds were perfect. Sherlock could feel himself aching, straining against his jeans. He managed to force his hand down into his jeans and take himself in hand.
John balled his fist into his mouth. "Sherlock!" His cry was muffled and strained but Sherlock heard it clear as a bell.
John gave a violent spasm. He balled up his hand in Sherlock's hair, almost tearing it from his scalp. And then he orgasmed into Sherlock's mouth. Sherlock's eyes flickered and almost rolled back in his head. He crushed his hand against himself as his own seed burst out between his fingers.
He swallowed as much of John's ejaculate as he could, though some of it dribbled down his chin. John whimpered and Sherlock knew he had seen. "Sherlock..." he said uncertainly.
Sherlock got to his knees with some difficulty. His legs were shaking almost uncontrollably. His jeans were stained and he had almost torn the buttons off by shoving his hand down the band, but it was difficult to care about either when he saw how deliciously dishevelled John was.
"Sherlock," John said again. "Are you..." He hesitated, seeming unsure of what to say.
Sherlock smiled wryly. "I'm fine."
John scrambled upright and hastily yanked his underwear up his hips. His school trousers had wrapped themself around his knees.
Sherlock glanced down at his ruined trousers. "I'd better change."
He stepped off the bed and went across to his dresser. He pulled out a clean pair and changed, purposely taking a little longer than what was really necessary to give John a chance to collect himself.
When he turned back he found John sitting on the edge of the bed. His hair was still sticking up in several places but he looked miraculously well put together for someone who had been doing what they had been doing just minutes beforehand.
He stood, clearing his throat in an amusingly businesslike manner. "Sorry," he said awkwardly.
"Why are you?" Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows.
John shrugged, looking away. He may have blushed, if his cheeks hadn't already been extremely red. "I don't know."
Sherlock smirked and went to him. He gently tilted John's chin up towards him. "Don't be sorry. You made such pretty noises for me," he gently kissed him.
John tentatively put his hands around his neck, rocking up onto his toes to deepen the kiss. A moment later he broke away. "Where did you learn to do that?"
Sherlock shrugged. "It's not rocket science."
And that wasn't entirely the truth but he wasn't going to ruin their perfect evening with something as ugly as the truth.
John laughed. "I've never done anything like that before," he said sheepishly.
"You haven't done much," Sherlock said wryly, drinking in every inch of John's glowing complexion.
"You have," John said, studying Sherlock's face. "It seems."
Sherlock glanced away. "It's late. Your charming roommate might be missing you."
John sighed and untangled himself from Sherlock's arms. "Yeah. Probably."
Sherlock's heart leapt at the note of reluctance in John's voice. He wanted to stay with him. Sherlock wished he could keep John all night. He'd pleasure him all night long and all of John's moans and breathless pleas would be his.
John grabbed his jumper from the floor and pulled it over his head. "I've done stuff, you know," he said in a strange voice. "To girls. I've just never been with a boy. It's different."
Sherlock was a little puzzled by that statement. He frowned at him. "Ok?"
John went very red and mumbled something unintelligible.
He walked past him to the door and then paused and turned. Sherlock decided not to torture him by playing dumb and went to deliver the unasked for farewell kiss. The farewell kiss became rather more heated than he had intended and he found John's legs entangled in his and his hands gripping his shoulders as their mouths tumbled against each other in increasing fervour.
John was the sensible one who pulled away. "I have to go," he hissed, when Sherlock instead began attacking his neck. "Hah! Sh-Ugh-lock."
"Fine," Sherlock grumbled into his skin.
He reluctantly stepped away. John fumbled for the doorknob. The door opened with a quiet groan. John turned to him with a wild expression. "The door's not locked!"
Sherlock stared at him. "Very good, John," he said slowly.
"Shut up," John hissed. "We're trying to be discreet here. The least you can do is pretend to be concerned."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Where's the fun in a secret affair if there isn't the possibility that you'll be discovered and beaten to a bloody pulp?"
John shook his head at him with narrowed eyes. "Goodnight, Sherlock."
Sherlock looked away to hide his grin. "Goodnight."
When John was gone, and the door safely locked behind him, he finally allowed himself to give into the sensations inside of him, which were threatening to approach something like euphoria.
End of Chapter Eleven