I wanna suck, I wanna lick
I want to cry and I want to spit
Chapter Fourteen:
John called home to tell his parents of his changed Christmas plans but wasn't sorry that he only reached the answer phone. He could anticipate his mother's disappointment and all his father's questions and his inability to understand that his son didn't want to come home.
When he sat down to breakfast with his team for the last time for that term it was difficult not to wonder what his teammates would have done to him if they knew that he was going to spend the holidays in the company of Sherlock Holmes. He barely dared to speak while he sat with them, he didn't completely trust himself not to blurt it out loud in his own dizzy sense of relief and happiness.
Afterwards he went back to his room to pack the remainder of his belongings. He had packed and unpacked his bag at least three times. He kept thinking of things he wanted to take or things that suddenly seemed stupid to take. Billy wandered in soon after and shoved a handful of clothes into his backpack and spent the remainder of the morning lounging on his bed, playing with his phone and occasionally making conversation that fortunately required very little input from John, whose anxiety was gradually building with every pair of jeans he packed.
"We better get to assembly," John said, finally standing at five minutes to midday and staring down at his freshly packed bags with a small glint of satisfaction.
Billy grunted. "'Spose. Don't know why we have to go to these stupid fucking things."
Every year there was a final assembly before Christmas where they received the usual blurb about the dignity of the school and their responsibility in upholding it wherever they may be and a prayer from Father Theobald, who could rarely resist lapsing into a longwinded sermon when he had the entire school as a captive audience. What was supposed to be a twenty minute last hoorah usually dragged into an hour long conference of miserable proportions.
The corridor was choked with students and no matter how Billy might swear or threaten they couldn't push through and found themselves stranded amongst a seething mass of grey uniforms. John soon found himself separated from Billy by a throng of grade ten students.
The crowd was moving slow and he could hardly move in anything more than a shuffle. Without Billy beside him to force a path through he couldn't do much more than wait and hope that he got to the assembly hall before teatime.
At the dormitory stairs he found himself jammed amongst a gaggle of grade eight students with their ridiculously large school backpacks still adorned so that every time they moved too quickly to the left or right they almost knocked out anyone unfortunate enough to be standing behind them. The older students expressed their irritation at this by either kicking the boys' bags with no small amount of force or shoving them into walls and promptly taking their place in the procession.
On the stairs John felt his phone buzz in his pocket and managed to struggle it out with one hand.
Ditch the assembly. I'm in the dark room.
John hastily stuck it back into his pocket and glanced around. He didn't need much convincing to skip assembly but the prospect of spending it with Sherlock sweetened the deal.
He spotted a tiny glimpse of corridor through the mass of bodies and clawed his way out of the mob, feeling like he was trying to elbow his way through a moving, seething forest of limbs.
The route to the dark room was in the opposite direction to the assembly hall and was almost deserted. John expected that his friends would wonder where he got to but he was getting better at lying to them. The last couple of weeks of school had been a stressful exercise of trying balance his friends on one hand and Sherlock on the other, and it felt like as soon as he moved too far in one direction the entire set of scales threatened to collapse.
The door of the dark room was closed and the ground floor corridor was empty. John tried the handle and found it unlocked. He slipped inside and was immediately overwhelmed by the almost gelatinous darkness.
It suddenly struck him just how dangerous it could be for someone to get stuck in here if they didn't know where the light switch was. John wasn't entirely sure he could have found it himself as he groped his way to the bench.
His fingertips came into contact with something smooth and soft and he jerked back when a cold hand gripped his wrist.
"Sherlock?" he said uncertainly.
He heard a dry laugh. "And that is why you don't go wandering blindly into dark, small spaces without knowing who's inside."
John relaxed at the sound of the familiar voice. He heard Sherlock shuffle across and switch the light on. They were bathed in sickly yellow light. Sherlock wasn't in his uniform. He had a black trench coat on that John had never seen. His cheeks were red and he smelt faintly of cigarette smoke, suggesting what he had been up to before his text to John.
He leant against the bench, flashing John a smirk. "Packed?"
"Yes," John replied, feeling sheepish as to just how many times. "When do we leave?"
"As soon as they open the gates," Sherlock replied. He reached out a hand and brushed John's fringe back, looking closely at his face. "We'll take a cab."
"All the way to London? That'll be expensive," John remarked.
Sherlock made a non-committal sound in his throat, which John took to mean that someone other than himself was in charge of that particular detail.
"Did you call your parents?" Sherlock said, looking sideways at him.
John shrugged. "They didn't pick up so I left a message."
He left it at that. Sherlock raised his eyebrows but didn't comment.
John stepped around to face him and slid a knee between Sherlock's legs. Sherlock smiled wanly at him.
"Trying to distract me?"
John raised a hand and brushed his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "What makes you say that?"
Sherlock shook his head but leant forward to kiss him. His cold hand cupped the base of John's neck, pulling him firmer against him and embedding John's knee deeper between his thighs.
When Sherlock broke away, John took advantage of the difference in height and lay siege to Sherlock's exposed, white neck. John took great pleasure in raising red welts on Sherlock's perfect complexion and knowing that it branded him as his. To own such a perfect concoction of human flesh was difficult not to be proud of. But to possess the affections of such a brilliant mind was far more satisfying.
Especially when he could excite such eager moans and gasps from his almost-lover's mouth. John was not unaware of the improvement in his ministrations, though he still enjoyed pretending as though he had no idea that his clumsy, untrained mouth could ever incite such excitement in Sherlock. It sent Sherlock wild and only encouraged John to play the part more enthusiastically.
He moved a hand inside Sherlock's coat to his woollen pullover underneath and could feel his heart beating against his fingers. Sherlock's nipple was already obviously hard below the soft material.
Not that Sherlock couldn't play that game with just as much skill. If not more. As soon as John thought he had the upper hand, Sherlock would turn the tables on him. John often got the feeling that Sherlock was only compliant when he wanted to be, but was always in control of the situation. John could have him pinned to a bed, writhing and begging for him and a moment later he'd flash John a look and John would know that he didn't have a hope in hell.
John would never admit just how much that turned him on.
Just as they were getting slightly too hot and heavy for a school dark room, Sherlock gently shoved him away, fishing John's hand out of the front of his jeans. "We better head back to the dorms now if we want to avoid the rush."
John felt like his cheeks were on fire and there was nothing more he wanted to do than shove his hand back down Sherlock's unbuttoned trousers but he controlled himself. With difficulty. "Fine," he mumbled, stepping away and flattening his hair.
They went back to the dorms together. Something they wouldn't usually dare to do, but no one was about today. Every student and teacher was in the assembly hall. In the dorms, Sherlock went along to his room and John went to his to wait until the bell rang, finally signalling the end of school.
...
Sherlock glanced once more around his room, overwhelmed by the feeling that he had forgotten something. He glanced at his packed bags and at his stripped bed and his strangely empty desk. It seemed like a different place to the one he had returned to three months beforehand.
He couldn't begin to wonder how a misfit like him had managed to ensnare John Watson. He didn't let himself wonder about it. Sometimes it felt like he was trapped in the centre of another wet dream and at any moment he'd awake, damp and panting and as far from John as he could possibly be.
He gave himself a shake and collected up his bags and began the tiresome journey down to the front gates. The corridors were congested with students, all nauseatingly overexcited and boisterous. He got collided into more than once and had to grit his teeth to keep from using his bags as battering rams. The fact that he could seriously injure someone barely constituted as a con.
"Hey! Holmes!"
Sherlock ignored the call and kept going. He had been flying surprisingly low under the radar these past couple of weeks due to the end-of-year excitement and it was somewhat irritating to think that someone was going to have a go on the last day of school.
"Don't you have anything better to do?" he snapped, when he felt a hand grip his shoulder.
He turned around and found himself face to face, not with Marty Hester, but with Mr. Hurst. He raised his eyebrows at Sherlock questioningly.
"Sorry. Thought you were someone else," Sherlock said, eyeing the slab of paper in the young teacher's hand.
"Just thought I'd give you this back before the end of term," Hurst said, holding it out. "Thought it'd give you some time to edit."
Sherlock stared at it and then slowly took it back. He glanced at the cover; it was John's play. "Oh," he said, not sure whether he felt pleased that he now had a rival for John's attention over Christmas.
"It's very good," Hurst said, studying his face with the typical unsubtlety of a teacher. "You and John did well. There's just a few things that could be improved but it's got potential."
Sherlock looked up at him. "Thanks... I'll tell John." He hesitated. "When I see him," he added clumsily.
Hurst nodded and pushed his glasses up his nose. "Good. Have a nice Christmas."
Sherlock just nodded and watched the teacher disappear back into the stream of students. He thumbed through the play as he walked down to the gates and found it littered with red pen. It would take a lot of work to get through it all. He felt a pang of selfish regret.
Sherlock wasn't the only one waiting for a companion at the school gates, but he and John had organized to meet under a nearby tree in the field opposite to avoid notice. Though they were probably safer on this day than on any other.
Sherlock glanced down at the play again. The desire to just stuff it in his bag and not tell John he had it was overwhelmingly strong. He knew it was childish and selfish but after all they had been through he just wanted John to focus on himself and, admittedly, him.
Minutes later John's familiar figure appeared from the gates, but he was not alone. Marty Hester's brassy head was unmistakeable even from a distance. Sherlock was surprised to see them together. John's opinion of Marty had taken a dramatic dive in recent times. He didn't mention it, but Sherlock knew it. John clearly didn't realise that Sherlock was perfectly aware of what he was looking for when he studied his mouth, nose and eyes with decided unsubtlety every few days.
It was impossible to keep his eyes on them for longer than a few seconds without a gaggle of students hurtling past, hiding them both from view. They were clearly saying something more than just "Merry Christmas" to each other from the time it took them to part.
At length, Marty left with the other students. John glanced around him, clearly ensuring that none of his other teammates were lurking about.
Sherlock took another look at the play and shoved it into his backpack just as John reached him, looking vaguely red in the face. "Hey," he smiled. "Ready to go?"
"What the hell did Hester want?"Sherlock asked, deciding that he'd be honest if John was.
John glanced around, flushing redder. "Nothing. Just stupid stuff. You know... football stuff," he said lamely, tugging at his jumper.
Sherlock stared at him, caught between disbelief that John would lie and disbelief that John thought he could get away with lying to him. "What did he say?" he said, looking sharply at John's face.
"Nothing!" John said exasperatedly. "Can we go? I just want to get out of this place."
Sherlock touched his bag, hesitating for a moment. A corner of the play was sticking out of the zipper. "Yeah, ok," he said, swinging it onto his back. "Let's go."
The taxi ride took roughly an hour and a half, discounting a petrol stop and a bathroom break. John had a, Sherlock refused to call it cute, tendency to fall asleep almost immediately on a car ride and Sherlock was "forced" to lend his shoulder as a pillow more than once. While John slept, Sherlock watched the landscape change around them and began to feel that the magnetic drag of Redverse became less and less the further they drove from it.
London was exactly as he had left it, but the sight of buildings and people and cars was a welcome relief from the green emptiness of Redverse. London was where his thoughts seemed most logical and manageable. He felt a satisfied twinge.
He nudged John awake as they were crossing Westminster Bridge. John looked around blearily, his hair dishevelled and half his cheek damp with saliva, which had been transferred onto Sherlock's coat.
"Nice, John," he said, plucking a tissue from his sleeve to dab it dry.
"Sorry," John said hazily, through a yawn.
He glanced around him with foggy interest. They were passing St. James's Park. They'd be arriving at any moment and John looked like he had just gone through the wash.
"John, flatten your hair," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.
John sent him a strange look but obediently attempted to flatten the cowlick that had formed while he had been drooling all over Sherlock's coat. Sherlock impatiently leant across and patted it down himself.
He glanced down at John's woollen pullover, t-shirt and jeans. John looked up at him amusedly. "Are you checking me out?"
Sherlock sat back in his seat and said nothing. Up until now the thought that he was bringing John to meet his brother had been an almost distant part of the equation. But now they were here and he felt wholly unprepared for their meeting.
He bit the inside of his mouth and stared out of the window as the familiar streets began to filter in around them. Kensington was an affluent nest of tall, white terrace houses and for the first thirteen years of his life it had been all he knew.
The cab came to a halt and Sherlock glanced across at John with his heart in his throat.
"This the place, mate?" the cabbie said over his shoulder.
"This is the place," Sherlock replied, digging in his bag for the money his parents had wired him for the trip. As much as he disliked accepting their charity, he couldn't afford not to.
The house looked very much like every other house on the street. It was a tower of white stone with a black iron gate placed like a square jaw between it and the footpath. There was a small, very clean brick yard without flowers or ornaments beneath the bay window. He didn't feel any particular bond to his home, despite having lived there for the entirety of his life. He didn't have the usual feelings of affection and attachment to it, like other people seemed to have. To him it was just a building, like a shopping centre or a doctor's practice or Redverse School for Boys.
"This is nice," John remarked, as they struggled up to the door with their bags. "I've never been in this part of London."
Sherlock glanced at him. He had to warn him.
He turned away, rolling the words around in his mouth. "Look, John... my brother he-"
He hesitated, glancing down to where the cab was gliding away from curb.
"Look," John said, with a wry smile, "I won't say anything to embarrass you. I know how it is."
Sherlock started. "What?"
"I won't do anything that embarrasses you," John said again. "If you like, we can pretend we're not even together."
Sherlock couldn't even begin to explain just how badly the attempt to pretend anything in front of his brother would fail.
"No, it's not that," he said hurriedly. "It really isn't. Just be yourself. I'm sure... it'll be fine."
He couldn't have sounded any less convincing if he'd tried. He unlocked the door with the key that was always in the front pocket of his backpack and they went inside. There was a long, bare hallway leading from the front door to the kitchen at the back of the house. The walls were white like the house itself and there weren't any ornaments or paintings, just a wooden umbrella stand by the door and three iron pegs for coats.
"We'd better go straight up and see my brother," he said quietly, leaving his bags by the door and signalling John to do the same.
John looked at him searchingly but complied. Sherlock led him upstairs to where he knew his brother would be holed up. The second floor housed a bathroom, his parents' study, his parents' bedroom and a library, which had long since been commandeered as Mycroft's personal living space. He was barely ever out of it during the day and Sherlock didn't know where he went after dinner. He preferred not to know and he certainly would never ask.
Sherlock hesitated at the door. Every time he found himself here, he felt like a child again. But this time he had John next to him and he wasn't certain whether that gave him strength or took it all from him.
He had barely lifted his hand to knock when there was a brisk:
"Enter!"
Sherlock hesitated for a half a second and then hastily entered, almost tripping over the doorstep when he did.
The room looked very much like it had when he'd left. There were bookcases lining the East and West walls, crammed full of dusty books that would probably never be read. There was a single, large arched window behind a mahogany desk covered in newspapers, magazines, cigarettes, empty glasses and open books.
His brother was sitting with his feet up and crossed on the table. He was obscured by The Times. The two hands clutching it were well manicured.
"Mycroft," he said quietly, more than half of him wishing he had never brought John here.
Mycroft folded the newspaper and tossed it on the table in front of him. He lowered his legs, looking between them with a would-be unreadable expression.
"Sherlock," he said with a genuine smile, though Sherlock knew it wasn't from the joy of seeing him. His eyes flickered towards John and it widened. "I'm sorry. I don't think we've met."
He slunk out of his chair and came across, sticking out a hand for John to awkwardly shake. Sherlock inwardly cringed. He knew painfully well of all the things his brother would be gathering from John's appearance and his mannerisms and his facial expressions. Every second that went by, Mycroft knew a little bit more about John and he hadn't even opened his mouth yet. And God knew what would happen when he did.
He looked at Sherlock with barely concealed amusement. "So what brings you to our neck of the woods- ah, so sorry didn't catch your name?"
"John," John said hurriedly.
"Joh-n," Mycroft said it like he was inserting a throat lozenge directly onto his tongue and sucking it hard. "It will be such a pleasure having decent company here for a change I'm sure."
"Yes-I- thank you so much for having me," John said clumsily.
Sherlock inwardly sighed.
"Not at all! I'm sure we will thoroughly enjoy having you," Mycroft said with a syrupy laugh.
Sherlock tightly clenched his fists in the hope that the temptation to bring them into contact with his brother's jaw would lessen to a bearable extent.
Mycroft leant against his desk and crossed his arms, his eyes dancing with glee that no one but Sherlock had the misfortune of being able to distinguish. "It's not often that Sherlock brings a friend home," he said, his eyes flickering back and forth between them. "Ever, in fact."
"Oh?" John said uncomfortably. "I'm surprised."
"Are you?" Mycroft smirked. "Perhaps you can offer something that the others can't-"
Sherlock's knuckle gave a sharp crack.
"Ok, that's enough," he snapped, before he could stop himself.
Mycroft looked at him, his expression blank. "No need to be testy, Sherlock." He raised his eyebrows at John. "Not in front of your friend."
Sherlock gritted his teeth. He could feel his cheeks burning. He was letting him get to him and Mycroft knew it. "Is the guest room made up?"
"Yes, it's all ready," Mycroft replied lightly. "If John happens to need it."
John sent him a sharp look, as though he wasn't entirely certain what Mycroft meant. Sherlock knew exactly what he meant.
"Let's go," he said quietly.
He opened the door for John.
John smiled at Mycroft. "It was good to meet you."
The corners of Mycroft's mouth jerked up. "Pleasure was all mine, John."
Sherlock shot his brother a cool look over his shoulder and followed him out.
"John!"
John jerked his head back towards the library door. Sherlock touched John's arm. "Don't."
John looked at him and then at the door. "Wh-"
Sherlock heard a creak in the doorway behind him and knew it was too late. He hastily withdrew his hand from John's arm and jerked around. Mycroft's eyes were fixed on John.
"If you and Sherlock aren't too tired perhaps we could have dinner and I could show you London," he said smoothly.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him.
"Yeah, that'd be really good," came John's voice from behind him.
Mycroft smiled. "Excellent. We'll leave at eight."
His eyes darted triumphantly towards Sherlock and he withdrew back into the library.
...
Sherlock opened the door and stepped back for John. John glanced at him and went inside. It was a plainly decorated, rectangular room with a double-bed and a wardrobe and very little else.
"Well, this is cosy," he remarked.
Sherlock gave a dry laugh behind him. "My family aren't well-known for being cosy."
John turned to him. "I don't want to stay in here," he said bluntly.
Sherlock raised his eyebrows. "You don't?"
"Where's your room?" John said, not removing his backpack.
"Along the hall," Sherlock replied with a small smile. "But you can't stay in there."
"Why?"
John dropped his bag and walked back out to the hall. Sherlock followed him with a sigh.
"Did you not just meet my brother?" he said. "Do you think we'd be able to keep something like that from him?"
"Oh, come on," John grinned. "Your parents aren't home and you're going to make me sleep in the guest room? You frigid old man."
Sherlock sent him a stern look that was somewhat sabotaged by the smile that almost crept onto his lips. "We'd never hear the end of it."
John sighed. "Fine. At least show me your room."
Sherlock rolled his eyes but didn't argue. He led John up to a door at the very end of the hall.
His room was similar in style and size to the guest room, but the bed was larger and four-posted. The curtains had been pulled and the musty smell suggested that they were rarely opened. There was a desk beneath the window covered in an avalanche of textbooks and an overflowing bookcase beside it with an odd assortment of objects on top of it. From what John could see there was a rusted pocket watch, a compass, a slide rule, an animal skull and a fermenting container of what appeared to be carrots. There were clothes everywhere. On the floor, the chairs, the hangings of the bed, the window. There were shoes clumped in a heap by the door and a hat stand that didn't look like it had ever been used. The walls were bare except for a collection of newspaper clippings stuck haphazardly in the space between the desk and windowsill.
John suddenly realised that if he had ever wanted to see into Sherlock's mind, this is what he would find. Chaos and curiosity.
He took a seat on the covers of the bed, staring around him. Sherlock lingered in the doorway, watching John with his nonchalant, watchful expression.
"Your brother seems nice," John remarked, glancing at him.
"Nice?" Sherlock spluttered, almost seeming to choke on the word. "Psychotic, perhaps. Insufferable, undoubtedly. But nice?"
"He was perfectly fine to me," John said stubbornly. "You're biased. You're his brother."
Sherlock shook his head with a blank expression of disbelief.
John hadn't seen anything in Mycroft that seemed particularly adverse in an older brother. He was flamboyant, yes and a little flippant but there was nothing to suggest he had been a bully to Sherlock or caused him great unhappiness. He looked very much like Sherlock, just a little taller. He was probably twenty-four or twenty-five and had been dressed in a black pinstripe suit and patent leather shoes. His hair was shorter than Sherlock's and lighter. His face wasn't as striking as Sherlock, he wasn't as delicate and pale and sharp in his features. But there was something attractive about him. Perhaps just in his confidence and mastery of himself.
John glanced at Sherlock. Not that he could ever say that out loud. He'd probably find himself locked in his room for the remainder of the holidays.
"Where do you think he'll take us out?" he remarked, hoping to defuse some of Sherlock's neurotic irritation.
Sherlock approached his bookcase with a short, humourless laugh. He plucked up the skull and examined it closely. "Who knows? Though I can't say that a night out with my brother was my first choice for my first night back in London."
"It might be fun," John said, flopping back onto the covers and noticing that there were more newspaper clippings pinned to the canopy.
He felt the bed depress beneath him and Sherlock's face appeared above him. "Let's make a deal," he murmured, lodging his knee between John's thighs. "You make tonight bearable and I might let you sleep in my bed."
"That sounds suspiciously like a proposition," John grinned.
Soft lips found his neck and he gave a shiver as Sherlock mouthed the words "it is" into his skin. Sherlock's knee brushed against his crotch. He massaged the nape of Sherlock's neck with his fingertips, urging his lips harder into his skin.
An amused cough brought him sharply back to earth. He bolted upright, almost colliding with Sherlock's head.
Mycroft gave an apologetic grimace from the dooorway and glanced towards his brother. Sherlock stared at him, his hair sticking up from where John's fingers had disturbed it and his cheeks going more and more violently magenta with every passing moment.
"So sorry to interrupt," Mycroft said, with a small smile. "Best make it nine tonight. The restaurant insists they don't have a single free reservation before then."
He turned on his heel and left. Sherlock flattened his hair with a snarl. "Bastard!"
End of Chapter Fourteen