Tears of pleasure
Tears of pain
They trickle down your face the same
Chapter Seventeen:
They hurtled down the hallway and burst out the front door into the cold. Sherlock could hear his brother's voice in the drawing room but he didn't stop to find out if he had heard them. He slammed the door behind them and they hurried down to the curb, where the cab was already waiting for them. A single sharp blast of the horn had relieved them from the torturous wait in Sherlock's bedroom.
Torn between vicious impatience and the most burningly painful lust he had ever felt, Sherlock had spent it pacing uncontrollably up and down the length of his room and trying to control his increasingly erratic breathing.
Every so often it became too much and he found himself dragging John into a kiss that was little more than the gnashing of his mouth against various parts of John's face. He knew they should have been avoiding contact at all costs to keep from making matters worse, but John looked so unspeakably fuckable when he was still sporting a visible erection through his jeans and his cheeks were tinged a furious shade of scarlet.
John was so angry with him it was almost comical. He couldn't look at him without giving a disbelieving shake of his head and his lips becoming a furious, thin line. He had kept swearing under his breath and more than once seemed close to kicking something. Sherlock almost could have laughed if he hadn't been so concerned John might try and strangle him. And so horny he couldn't seem to generate any other emotion.
He bundled John into the back of the cab and clambered in after him. "Take us to the nearest supermarket!" John yelped at the driver as he was thrown against the far door by a slightly too enthusiastic shove from Sherlock.
The cabbie stared at them through the rear-view mirror.
"Go!" they shouted in unison.
"What do you want me to do?" the cabbie said incredulously, exhilarating so suddenly they were both thrown back in their seats. "Drive around until I find a shop open?"
"That's what we're paying you for," Sherlock snapped.
The cabbie was an overweight man of about fifty with little hair and a seriously bad case of BO. Given that it was absolutely freezing inside the cab as well as out, Sherlock couldn't fathom how anyone could produce enough sweat to smell that bad.
It was just about as unsexy as anything could possibly be and Sherlock practically felt his cock wilt inside his trousers. Then he made the mistake of looking at John and he was right back to where he had started.
John had one hand wrapped around Sherlock's forearm so tightly that he was in danger of cutting off the circulation to his hand. Sherlock couldn't get his seatbelt around himself when John was hanging off him the way he was so he secured himself by linking his arms around John's waist.
It wasn't a wise decision. John's body was warm and soft in its few layers. He clearly hadn't thought to grab a coat on their way out and was only dressed in jeans and a jumper. Sherlock could feel every angle and curve of John's body through the wool in painful detail. The smell of John's deodorant and his shampoo and his flesh was so strong in Sherlock's nostrils he felt dizzy. The only way he could describe it or even begin to understand it was likening it in his mind to when an animal was in heat and inhaled the scent of its... soon-to-be mate.
He was aware of the strange looks the cabbie was giving them through the rear-view mirror, but it was difficult to care. John seemed to have got it into his head that if he loosened his grip on Sherlock even half an inch, he'd dissipate. One of his hands was lingering dangerously close to the barely controlled ache between Sherlock's tightly clasped legs.
"John," Sherlock hissed, as the cab hurtled around a corner and he was almost thrown right into John's lap. "If you don't get your hand out of my crotch, you're going to be losing your virginity in the back of a taxi."
John looked sharply at him, as though he wasn't entirely certain whether he was joking (to be honest, Sherlock wasn't entirely certain if he was joking) and moved his hand a few inches upward. Sherlock could still feel his index finger sitting in the incline between his thigh and hip.
"You wouldn't happen to know what's open on Christmas, would you?" he said in a strangled voice to the cabbie. It felt like John's hands were everywhere, his warmth and body was all over him. He could hardly think when the same three words kept repeating over and over in his mind. Fuck. Him. Now. "Convenience stores? Petrol stations?"
"If you're lucky, Tesco might be," the cabbie said gruffly at length, seeming to have caught on to their predicament.
"Then go there," Sherlock said sharply, feeling John's hand stray downwards again. He leant towards him. "I'm warning you," he said into John's ear. John shuddered against him.
The cab slowed down when they passed Tesco but it was obvious even at first glance that it was not open. The trolleys were chained in two mournful rows and there wasn't a car or person to be seen anywhere.
"Try Sainsbury's," Sherlock said, not letting the disappointment distract him for longer than half a second.
He saw the cabbie raise his eyebrows in a dubious fashion but he didn't comment. He knew better than to comment, since he was making a mint off them.
"Wait," Sherlock said suddenly, turning his head in a vain attempt to get John's hair out of his nostrils. "There's a general shop on Cromwell Road. Try that."
He really had no idea if it'd be open but it seemed to be open every hour of every other day of the year, rain or shine so he thought it'd be a pretty good bet that it'd be open today.
Sherlock fixed his eyes out of the window, trying to concentrate on controlling the sensation between his thighs. He could still see the outline of John's head so clearly out of the corner of his eye that it barely mattered where he looked but he could at least try and avoid ejaculating all over a cab seat.
Outside there was a only quiet drizzle of traffic. Since there was no public transport running, there were no buses to get in their way and no irate evening commuters. There were a few giddy pedestrians sliding around on the footpath and coming dangerously close several times to sliding right out onto the road.
Sherlock had never been so glad to be deprived of a white Christmas. He couldn't even imagine how the hell they would have gotten through London if all the roads had been frozen over.
"There it is," John said, sounding breathless.
Sherlock felt close to it himself. There it was. And it was open. It was open. To Sherlock, the glow of the artificial lighting through the gloom was better than a guiding star. The illuminated advertisements for cheap food and smokes was just about the most beautiful thing Sherlock had ever seen.
"Wait here," he said to the driver, already halfway out of the door and trying to shake John off of him like an overly affectionate kitten.
To his surprise, John stumbled out after him. "I'll come with you."
Sherlock stared at him for a moment. He didn't think John was going to handle his first condom-buying experience particularly well but he had no time to argue with him. He ducked his head down into the cab door. "If you're gone when we get back so help me I will call your company and tell them you robbed us."
The cabbie waved his hand over his shoulder in a "whatever" motion and Sherlock slammed the door shut.
He took John's cold hand in his and they hurried their way across the empty parking lot. The automatic doors rattled open as they neared them. A girl with blonde bangs glanced up at them from the counter, seeming mildly surprised to see a customer (let alone two) and then went back to staring at her nails.
Sherlock dropped John's hand and headed straight for the nearest aisle. He could see shampoo, toothpaste, bandaids, tissues, nail polish remover, toenail clippers. If they were anywhere, they'd be there.
With John hovering anxiously behind him, he cast his eyes up and down every shelf. There seemed to be everything anyone could possibly want at short notice from eye drops to laxatives. But no fucking condoms.
"Damn it," he hissed.
"What is it?" John said from behind him, sounding alarmed.
Sherlock turned to him, shaking his head briefly. "They're not here."
John blinked, looking ready to cry. "But- this is a-"
Sherlock walked past him and up to the counter. The girl straightened up with a brief, forced smile. "Hi, can I help you?"
Sherlock ignored the standard greeting and leant forward an inch, in a vain attempt to veil John from view.
He cleared his throat. "Condoms?"
The girl paused, glancing at John and then back to him. "Yeah." She jerked her head over her shoulder.
Sherlock straightened up. On an almost overly discreet shelf to her left was a small collection of various condoms. Some in small square boxes, some in longer rectangular boxes and each in a different colour. There were only two brands.
Sherlock scanned the two rows quickly. He could almost feel the heat rising in John's face behind him. The girl was staring at him with a would-be bland expression that Sherlock knew would be sending John squirming with humiliation.
He hastened to end John's suffering. "The regular Turncoats please," he said quietly. "Blue," he clarified when she looked blank.
"Just a small packet?" she said, one hand on the blue box and the other on the counter.
"Yeah," Sherlock said, his eyes travelling along to a small display of pregnancy tests and lubricant shoved unceremoniously to one side on the countertop. "And a bottle of... ah, lube."
He heard John shuffle behind him and give a severely discomfited cough. The girl almost smirked and then grabbed the bottle, which was covered in a thin film of dust and looked like it had been standing there since last Christmas.
Sherlock hastily handed over the money and placed the condoms and lubricant into the inside pocket of his coat. "Thank you."
"Have a very Merry Christmas," the girl said pleasantly.
Sherlock refrained from replying "we certainly will" for John's sake and ushered him out of the doors.
John had an expression on his face that Sherlock could only describe as shellshock. He only seemed to regain the ability to speak when they neared the cab. "Why the hell would they put them behind the counter! Of all the stupid things..."
"How do I know?" Sherlock said, battling with the urge to smirk at John's outrage. "To discourage adolescent promiscuity?" He opened the door for him.
The cabbie didn't turn around when they got in. He was probably afraid of what he'd see. Sherlock slammed the door shut and he jerked his head slightly to the side, but that was all the acknowledgment they received.
"Back to Eldon Road, if you please," Sherlock said smoothly, feeling remarkably more in control now that he had what they needed.
He glanced sideways across to John. He was shivering in his seat, his jumper clearly not providing enough warmth from the biting cold he had just braved in pursuit of condoms. Sherlock was tempted to move over and share body heat but he knew it was a bad idea. Just five minutes more. That was all.
The ride back passed in silence and Sherlock could feel his heart clambering higher and higher in his chest with every house they passed. It felt like a ridiculously long time before the cab finally slowed in front of the familiar hunk of white stone, though he knew it couldn't have been more than three or four minutes. John immediately dug a hand into his pocket for money but Sherlock was too quick for him. He shoved two fifty pound notes at the cabbie and dragged John out by his sleeve, ignoring his indignant protests.
He didn't let him go until the cab was safely away from the curb. "I was going to pay for that!" John burst out, while Sherlock was fumbling for his house key. "I can't believe you jus- just-"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and jammed the key into the door. "Do you really want to talk about this now?"
John seemed to weigh up his desire to berate Sherlock against his desire for sex and ruled in favour of the latter because he shut up remarkably fast. Sherlock thrust the door open with slightly too much force and it bounced off the wall with a deafening smash. The hum of voices from the drawing room abruptly stopped.
"Shit," he hissed, yanking John inside by the arm and slamming the door closed. "Come on!"
"What-" John began confusedly before he was rather roughly wrenched up the stairs.
"Sherlock! What is the meaning of this!" came Mycroft's cry as they were nearing the second floor landing.
Sherlock let go of John's arm and began to tear off his coat, blindly tripping on the stairs and almost falling flat on his face more than once. He yanked out the condoms and lube from the pocket and dropped his coat over the banister and straight onto his brother's upturned face below.
"Sherlock!"
He sniggered. Behind him John gave a laugh he hadn't heard for too long. He stopped in the hallway and whirled around. He took John by the waist and threw him (gently) against the closest wall. John's eyes widened momentarily with surprise but he didn't miss a beat. He threw his hands around Sherlock's neck and dragged him into a feverish kiss.
John's lips were still cold, but the inside of his mouth was perfectly warm. Sherlock hungrily deepened the kiss, wrenching John's lips open and running his hands over John's waist and hips. He could hear his brother on the landing below. He forced John's mouth wider until the shorter boy's eyes widened with alarm as Sherlock's tongue was shoved a little too deep in his mouth. He gave a helpless cough.
Sherlock broke away with a smirk, dragging John towards his room. Mycroft reached the top of the stairs just as they slammed the door shut behind them. Sherlock locked the door, slumping against it to catch his breath. The corner of the condom box was digging into the palm of his hand.
John was watching him, a smile pasted across his face and every inch of him gloriously ready to be had. He was very pink from the cold and his hair was almost all sticking up. He probably hadn't ever looked less like Redverse's star football player but he had never been so perfect to Sherlock.
Sherlock smiled and dropped the precious supplies onto his vanity. He stared at John, still panting from the violent ascent from the street. John's smile faltered. He turned a darker shade of pink, as though he was aware that Sherlock had already began undressing him with his eyes. He still got so flustered by Sherlock's attentions. If it had been physically possible, the mere sight of John like this would have made Sherlock even harder. But the pressure and heat between his legs was so intense that he doubted that anything could have made it worse.
Before John could fully catch his breath, Sherlock forced him backwards against one of the posts of his bed. John gave a surprised yelp that was muffled by Sherlock's lips violently claiming his again and his body coming suddenly into contact with the post and Sherlock's hips. Sherlock pinned him forcefully against it, wrenching a muffled whimper from John's mouth. His crotch was flush against John's, all that separated them were jeans.
Sherlock blindly ripped John's jumper upwards. John raised his arms without opening his eyes, not seeming to want to release Sherlock's lips from his for a second. Sherlock could feel the delicate woollen material giving against his hands but- hell he'd buy John ten new jumpers if he demanded it after this. He tore it off of him and dropped it beside them. John was wearing a very crumpled blue t-shirt underneath. Sherlock ran his eyes feverishly over John's torso.
"Not ironed?" he couldn't help quipping. "You bad boy."
John flushed almost furiously red and licked his lips. The outline of his mouth was raw from Sherlock's kiss. He unconsciously snaked out his tongue and licked at it again and just about brought Sherlock to his knees. "Maybe I'm sick of being a... a good boy all the time," John stammered, his attempt to talk dirty sabotaged by his evidently overwhelming arousal. He had an almost dazed expression on his face and Sherlock couldn't help thinking how delicious it would be to push him over the edge. It wouldn't be hard.
Sherlock smirked and lowered a hand to the front of John's protruding jeans. "Intriguing. And what does this new, naughty John Watson want me to do to him?"
John looked up at him under his eyelashes with such an expression that made Sherlock almost take him then and there. "F-fuck me."
Sherlock's smirk widened, he pressed his body flush against John. "What was that?" he hissed into the skin of John's neck. It was positively clammy now. It didn't take much to make the boy hot.
Sherlock revelled in the double-meaning in his own words.
"Fuck me," John said, with a whimper that when straight to Sherlock's crotch.
Sherlock groaned and buried his face in John's neck. John dug a hand into his hair, raising his head a few inches with a barely audible gasp. Sherlock gave John's skin a firm suck. He wanted to brand him. He wanted John to look like he'd been ravished, like someone had used him until he ran dry. He ravaged John's neck with his teeth, with his tongue, with his lips. He knew how to suck, how to bite to make fierce red welts on John's flesh. By tomorrow everyone would know that John belonged to someone, that he was Sherlock's.
John's constant, breathless little moans seemed to all be purposely designed to add another simmering layer to Sherlock's already dangerously high level of arousal. His dick was straining against his jeans and it hurt like hell. He could feel the equally taut mound between John's legs pushed against his thigh and practically begging to be tended to.
He dropped to his knees, refraining from wincing as the material of his jeans tightened around his crotch to excruciating heights.
"What are you..." John said helplessly, gripping the post of the bed with one hand.
Sherlock's fingers were trembling but he managed to loosen the buttons and zip on John's trousers and yank them down. John's familiar grey underwear greeted him, barely concealing the magnificent protrusion of his hard-on. Sherlock gripped John's thighs and pressed his mouth against John's still sheathed sex. John cried out in surprise, bucking weakly against him and tangling his fingers into Sherlock's hair.
When he came away, he felt a thread of saliva between his tongue and the material straining over John's erection. John made a sound like a whine and his hand curled into a fist in Sherlock's hair. Sherlock put both his thumbs into John's underwear and with a firm tug, he was revealed in all his glory.
It was already beaded with pre-cum. He ran a hand gently up the underside of John's shaft. John bucked his hips with a hapless toss of his head. "Sherlock-"
Sherlock straightened up before John could catch his breath and firmly pushed him onto the bed. John tumbled backwards onto the covers for the second time that day, gaping up at Sherlock with a ridiculously delectable expression of helplessness on his deeply flushed face. His jeans and underwear were still wrapped around his knees. Sherlock yanked them down with some difficulty and little help from John, who seemed to have become momentarily immobilized.
He tossed them across the carpet and touched the buttons on his own jeans. This seemed to bring John sharply back to earth. He shot upright and yanked Sherlock into a messy, sticky embrace. John's cock was pushed so hard against his that his eyes almost rolled back in his head. John clumsily mashed his mouth against his, while his hands worked down the slim length of Sherlock's waist to the hem of his shirt.
"You and your fucking buttons," John mumbled against his mouth, taking one between his fingers.
Sherlock had been about to reply when he felt John rip his shirt open with enough force that most of the buttons were either completely torn off or much damaged. John groaned into the kiss, thrusting Sherlock upright and hurriedly yanking the rest out of their holes.
"Ah!" he burst out as John's mouth suddenly shot much lower on his person. "God, John..."
John's mouth slipped in an ungainly manner over his right nipple, but Sherlock had never felt anything better than John's untrained mouth on him. John's hands slid down to rest on his hips. The sensitive skin below Sherlock's navel flinched as John's fingers grazed it. John lapped at the erect nub, teasing it like he was about to devour it and then taking it gently between his teeth. Sherlock dug a hand deep into John's blonde hair. Even the sensation of John's thick hair between his fingers was close to orgasmic. He had to resist the urge to rub his hands through it.
Sherlock felt the crown of John's cock damply graze the inside of his thigh. He forced him back against the bed and hastily shed his shirt, the expression of unrestrained need on John's face more than compensation for the loss of his mouth. John blinked at him but didn't protest. His legs were splayed open and his dick was leaking pre-cum and practically begging for attention. Sherlock unbuttoned his own jeans, feeling John's eyes running over every inch of his body, every limb, every freckle, every bone, every line. He kicked his jeans off and touched the band of his underwear, avoiding looking at himself when he knew how embarrassingly hard he was. He knew John was taking in every inch of it, he could almost feel John's eyes on it, caressing it and touching it.
He crawled carefully onto the bed and over John. John touched his waist, leaning up to brush his lips against his. He opened his mouth in a manner Sherlock had never seen him do so before. It was wanton. It was meant to send spasms of lust down Sherlock's body to his crotch. He could already tell that John was losing his inhibitions, his awkwardness. He wasn't afraid to be dirty- for want of a better word- in front of Sherlock any longer. Or least not for tonight. Even if it was just for tonight, it was enough. John trusted him. John trusted him more than anyone.
Sherlock brushed John's hair back from his damp forehead. John released a soft breath. "C-condom-"
Sherlock nodded and slipped off the bed. He could hardly walk. His legs felt like they were going to give out with every step and he was shaking. His fingers were clammy as he fumbled with the box. He tore it open and hastily yanked out the paper instructions. He tossed them onto the vanity and plucked out one of the eight or nine condoms inside.
When he turned, he was greeted by the exquisite sight of John sprawled completely undressed on his bed, every limb damp and every inch of his body taut with anticipation. Sherlock felt for the lube bottle behind him without daring to take his eyes off John. John was still trying to keep his legs rather too close together, but Sherlock would soon change that.
He knelt on the end of the bed, conscious of John's eyes fixed on the condom in his hand. He handed it to him wordlessly and then tugged his underwear down his thighs. John was clearly trying not to stare but there was a slightly alarmed expression on his face that he couldn't completely disguise when he was half paralysed by lust. Sherlock stroked a thumb down his cheek.
"Don't be scared. I..." He swallowed thickly. His mouth felt full of sticky saliva. "I love you." Each word trembled uncontrollably.
John looked at him. For a moment he seemed frozen where he was and then he gave a very slight nod and held out the unopened packet. Sherlock could see his hands and knees were shuddering as he crawled onto them. Sherlock swallowed as he took in John's new position. The perfect curve of his back, his utter vulnerability, his willingness to give himself to Sherlock even though he was scared. It was almost too much. It almost sent Sherlock giddy.
He gave himself an inward shake and crawled up and pressed a gentle kiss to John's ear. "Lay down. It'll make it easier," he said softly.
John shot him a sharp look but didn't argue. He collapsed flat onto the bed and pulled the pillow down to rest his chin against it. His hands were already half-buried in the covers. "Sherlock..." he said breathlessly as Sherlock straightened up.
Sherlock nodded and tore open the condom with as much poise as he could when he had John on his stomach, with his legs spread so wide for him. John tilted his head towards him when he rolled the rubber onto himself. His eyes were very wide. He bit his lip, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. Sherlock purposely slowed down, seeing John was clearly getting off on the sight of him almost touching himself. His hand was teasingly close to the aching, burning, pulsing mess that his crotch was in right now. He could hardly breathe. His whole body was tingling with almost feverish warmth.
"Hurry, Sherlock. P-please hurry," John said and his voice was choked full of lust. And the faintest trace of anxiety.
Sherlock knelt between John's legs and allowed himself a moment to reflect on the most glorious fact that he was about to fuck John Watson. That John was captain of the football team, the guy everyone wanted to be friends with, the object of his lust suddenly seemed minute details in the equation. What he felt for John had surpassed pure lust a long time ago. He didn't know when, he didn't know how but somewhere along the line he had fallen in love with John Watson.
"Bend your knees a little," he said, urging John's leg down a couple of inches.
John did as he was told, his arms wrapped around the pillow and his head tilted to one side. Sherlock could see him watching him. He watched John's back rise and fall with breaths that were a little harder and shorter than usual. He picked up the bottle of lube and tipped it upside down. It came out surprisingly fast, seeing how long it had been sitting on that counter.
He adorned the outside of the condom with a good handful of it. He knew it was way too much and subsequently had it all over his hands, but he wasn't taking any chances with John. He paused, glancing down to the spread of John's legs and the puckered pink entrance that was just visible and then squeezed some more of the gel onto his fingers.
He touched the inside of John's legs as warning. John jerked and strained to look at him. Sherlock kept one hand on John's leg and then gently touched the curve of John's arse, urging his legs a little wider for him. John was tense as hell. He could feel that every muscle in his body was tight. "Relax," he said unsteadily, his cock giving a desperate throb.
He slowly slid a finger inside of John, biting his lip to keep from moaning at the sensation of the taut muscle around it. John inhaled sharply, his hands tightened around the covers but he didn't protest. Sherlock pressed his finger in deep and then gently inserted another, gnawing on his bottom lip as the excruciatingly arousing thought that he was inside John threatened to send him over the edge.
"Sherlock!" John suddenly yelped, his whole body jerking.
Sherlock scissored his fingers and John practically writhed on the bed. He buried his face into the pillow with a barely suppressed sob. Sherlock slid in a third and John's back curled with a muffled cry.
"It's alright," Sherlock said, as soothingly as he could while every fibre of his being wanted nothing more than to fuck John senseless. "It'll feel wonderful. You just have to get used to it. I promise you."
John nodded, still half tangled up in the pillows. Sherlock pulled out his fingers and immediately pressed his cock against John's entrance. He realised he had stopped breathing, that his heart seemed to have stopped beating and his blood running and his brain functioning. There seemed to be nothing but ringing silence all around him, broken by the gasps of John below him.
He gave a shuddery breath and John another soft sob as he eased his way inside of him. He threw his head back with an unrestrained moan as John's hole swallowed him in. John tossed his head to one side with a silent scream of pain.
Sherlock wished he could have been capable of easing John's momentary distress but the sensation was too perfect, too unbelievably perfect. "Hgh-God! Oh fucking-" he garbled, almost shredding his bottom lip with his teeth in a fruitless attempt to silence himself.
John arched his back with a soft moan, the pillow case caught between his teeth. "Sherlock!" he cried out.
Sherlock pushed himself all the way in, almost speechless at the sensation, the tightness of John around him. He was deep inside John and it was so blindingly pleasurable that he thought himself in danger of dying from the sensation. He took John's hips in his hands, pulling John up another half-inch from the covers. John's body was trembling uncontrollably, his hands seemed in danger of shredding through the covers he was holding on so tight.
"Jo-John," Sherlock panted, rolling his hips back and releasing John from him for half a moment. He leant a hand heavily into the covers. "Feels so... so fucking-"
He thrust back in hard. John gave a violent spasm against the bed. "Ngh! Sherlock!"
Sherlock's hand was clutching John's hip so tightly he could feel he was leaving welts on his skin. John's back was curved at an almost 90 degree angle. Sherlock's head seemed in constant danger of colliding with his.
John twisted around, Sherlock felt his body shift against his cock. He caught his bottom lip viciously between his teeth. Fuck. It felt so incredibly-
"Sherlock..." John whimpered. Sherlock made the mistake of focusing on his face. His eyes were full of tears, his mouth was viciously swollen and red. He looked like he had been attacked by something and it was unnatural how it affected Sherlock.
"Fuck, John," he groaned, hunching over him.
Somewhere in his foggy, lust-drunk brain he realised that John was probably in pain and wanted this to stop, but he knew from experience it got better. And at the back of his brain, he just... Well, he knew it was terrible but he just didn't care at that moment. It was too hard to care. He was buried up to the hilt inside of John. He wasn't capable of caring.
John gave a weak groan and curled over into the bed. Sherlock had a hunch that John had a mouthful of his pillow. "Harder-" he said in a muffled voice.
Sherlock almost stopped out of pure surprise. John's hands curled into the material of his bed. "Harder, Sherlock!" he said in a shrill voice.
When Sherlock thrust into him this time, John writhed against the bed with a guttural sound that was almost ruined by the presence of the pillow over his mouth. "L-Louder-" Sherlock panted. "Tell me... Tell me where you... you like it-"
"There!" John sobbed, gnashing at the pillow. "Feels so good there!"
Sherlock hit John's prostrate with aggressive accuracy and John gave a violent convulsion. "Oh-Fu-"
Sherlock could hear the bed slamming against the wall in time with his thrusts. When he got faster, the bed got faster, when he slowed down, the bed slowed down. He had a feeling that there would be some serious damage to his wall in the morning. Not to mention his pillow.
"Harder!" John cried out, managing to untangle himself from the pillow for long enough to scream that word into the silence of the bedroom. Well, silence apart from the sound of Sherlock slapping against John as he pushed into him.
Sherlock moaned aloud. God, John was so good at talking dirty and he didn't even know it. He knew he was hitting John's prostrate every time. He had read enough biology books, had enough experience to know when he had the perfect angle and was hitting someone's sweet spot over and over. John's cries mutated from "Oh Sherlock! Fuck Sherlock!" to an intelligible jumble of "ngh-fu-ah!" Sherlock didn't think he was physically capable of feeling smug at that moment but the mere thought that he was giving John the most intense pleasure he had ever felt filled him with a fierce glow.
Sherlock wasn't in any position to verbalize anything more than the vaguest cries of John's name. Sometimes they didn't even sound like John's name. His mouth seemed to just want to make taut groaning, grunting sounds that were forced from his throat without him even being aware of forming words.
John didn't seem to be in any state to speak now. He was clearly being fast overcome by his impending orgasm. He was absolutely out of his mind with pleasure and it was obvious. He probably would have agreed to sell Sherlock his soul if Sherlock had asked him at that moment. He was perfect in this state. He was writhing around like a stuck animal and all but fucking the covers beneath him. Sherlock was vaguely aware that he was going to have John's seed all over his covers but unless his brother decided to inspect his bed (though Sherlock wouldn't be surprised...) there was really no danger in John being all over his cover, all over his belongings-
"Jesus," he snarled. That image was too damn hot when he was in this position.
John choked beneath him. "Sherlock- Go- Gotta-ngh- Going to-"
Sherlock felt fiercely close to it himself. He felt like he had coated himself in lube, he was so wet and so... slimy. There was really no other word for it. He was drenched in sweat and his body was burning. He couldn't imagine being cold when he was this hot all over. John was equally damp. Sherlock thought he was probably well and truly sealed to the bed covers now.
"Louder, J-John-" he managed to splutter out. The heat and pressure around his crotch felt like it was beginning to fuse together. "I... I want... to hear."
John whimpered into the pillow. "C-can't."
Sherlock gripped his waist hard. "Now!" he said sharply, thrusting roughly into John's prostate.
John made a heady, needy almost strangled sound that Sherlock had never thought he'd be able to wrench from his self-conscious, repressed mouth. His figure gave an uncontrolled thrash against the bed. "Ngh-O-oh. Sherlock... I- I love-you s-so much." He was definitely beyond being reached now. Sherlock would have smirked if he hadn't been balls deep inside of John's arse and incapable of forming words.
John was so close to coming. Sherlock could feel it in his body movements. The way John's breathing was close to non-existent and was coming in violent, sporadic spurts. Sherlock slid a hand underneath him. John's hips were propped up about three inches from the covers and it was a squeeze getting his hand under but John, whether intentionally or not, arched his hips a little higher and granted him full, glorious access to the underside of his naked form.
He took John's erection in hand. It was wet as hell. John hunched back over the pillow, harder and closer than before. He was reverting back to his inaudible strain of half-muffled sobs. With about as much skill as a chimp, Sherlock began to clumsily pump John's cock in time with his increasingly rough, ungainly thrusts. John turned his head towards him and Sherlock caught sight of his face. It was pasted with sweat and positively glowing. His eyes were wide open and leaking. And he had a corner of the pillow wedged between his teeth.
With the image of John's blank ecstasy burning in his mind, Sherlock threw his head back with a strangled moan and thrust once more inside of him, he hit John's sweet spot with dizzyingly pinpoint accuracy, more than even he had anticipated.
John shuddered uncontrollably and screamed. It was half-muffled by the pillow but it was still enough to echo around the confines of Sherlock's room. Sherlock screwed up his eyes as he felt his own orgasm take hold of his body.
"Sherlock!" The volume of John's voice had reached a perfect squeal.
"Fuck!" he growled, yanking John so hard against him that it was more than a little painful. "Fuck! John!"
His seed burst against the restraint of the condom. His left hand was still wrapped around John's cock. He could feel John's ejaculate dripping down his hand. John's face was buried into the pillow.
Sherlock leant on both hands to support himself. He tried to catch his breath, when it felt like he would never breathe (let alone walk) normally again. John was panting desperately, every so often Sherlock heard a barely audible whimper or sob. He carefully pulled out of him, staring down at the uninspiring sight of his softening cock in its plastic glove. The half an inch space between his crown and the tip of the condom was brimming. There was a little bit of blood on the outside, but that was to be expected seeing as John had been tight as all fucking hell.
He left John on the bed and peeled it off, wrapping it in a tissue and dropping it into his waste paper basket with a resounding clunk. He walked back to the bed, his legs quivering and his head spinning and his mouth dry and his crotch aching and his knees burning. It was the best feeling in the world.
He sat behind John on the bed and gently touched the base of his back. When John didn't move, he lowered himself over him and planted a soft kiss in the centre of his shoulder blades. John's skin was salty and wet.
"Are you alright?" he said gently.
John slowly shook his head into the pillow. "Can't walk ever again."
Sherlock contained the desire to laugh and sat beside him, running a hand through John's sweaty hair. "You're such a pillow biter," he said, trying to tug it out of his boyfriend's grip.
John tilted his head in his direction. There were tear tracks on his face, mingling with the sweat on his face. "Ouch, Sherlock."
Sherlock felt a pang of remorse. "I'm sorry," he said, stroking back the hair that was sticking to John's forehead. "I didn't mean to hurt you."
"It's alright," John said in a raw voice, attempting an unsteady smile. "I knew it was going to hurt. It just... hurt a lot more than I thought."
"But it felt good after that?" Sherlock said, partly for his own ego's sake.
John studied his face, too used to Sherlock's occasional moments of intense self-satisfaction to be fooled by that innocent question. "It was ok," he said mildly, his eyes glinting.
"Oh, please!" Sherlock burst out. "You climaxed like a bloody fire hose! Don't you dare try and tell me you didn't enjoy every moment of that."
John rolled his eyes. "Thank you for wording it so delicately," he said flatly. "Bloody narcissist."
Sherlock just smirked. John struggled up onto his knees and slumped over on his back. His stomach was plastered with the remnants of his orgasm.
Sherlock eyed it. "Need help cleaning up?"
John nodded almost shyly.
Sherlock leant over him, licking the salty fluid off John's stomach. John sucked in a breath. He cleaned up as much of the mess as he could and left John coated in a layer of his saliva from his ribs to his pubic bone.
When he looked up John's eyes were half-closed. "You're already falling asleep?" he quipped, without any real force. "Light-weight."
John swatted a hand at him and rolled onto his side. Sherlock crawled up next to him. Despite the stickiness and the way John's hair stuck up his nose it was supremely satisfying.
Sherlock certainly hadn't experienced an orgasm that was even in the same ballpark as the one he had just felt tear through him. He hoped it had been the same for John. Well... he had certainly screamed pretty loudly. Sherlock could hazard an assumption that it had.
"You alright?" he said again softly into John's ear.
"Yeah," John replied, his voice extremely husky. "I'm f-fine." He hesitated. "Better than fine. I... that was..."
Sherlock slid his hands around John's waist. "I know. I was there."
"So are you naturally that good, or was that a fluke?" John quipped.
"I'm just naturally a sex god," Sherlock deadpanned.
John laughed and twisted around in his arms to face him. Sherlock studied his face, he looked a complete mess. His eyes were puffy, his mouth looked like he had been stung by something, his fringe was sticking to his forehead but Sherlock couldn't have named one flaw on his face.
"I hope you clean your own sheets," John said in a low voice. He cringed. Sherlock could feel the damp patch too.
"Don't worry," he replied. "I'll make sure it gets cleaned discreetly. Don't want Mycroft to see the mess you made all over my bed."
John wrinkled his nose. "He better not. He already hates me."
"No, he doesn't," Sherlock said, tracing the outline of John's nose with his eyes. "He doesn't know you from a bar of soap. He'd be like that to whoever I was with."
John was silent. "Seems like we both have pretty fucked up home lives," he said at length, resting his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder. "If my dad knew what I just did he would..." He shook his head. "I don't even want to..."
"You'll have to tell him sometime," Sherlock said, as gently as he could. He didn't want John to think he was going to force him to come out to his parents. That sort of thing could mentally scar a teenage boy. He would know.
"Yeah, I will," John said slowly. "When I graduate Redverse and have a job... and own some sort of firearm... then I will tell him."
Sherlock shrugged. "Up to you."
John sighed and to Sherlock's disappointment, pulled himself out of Sherlock's grip and threw his legs over the side of the bed. "Your parents are different. They're... I dunno. Cool, I guess."
Sherlock leant against the bars of the bed with a short laugh. "Yeah, if you find borderline neglect "cool" then I guess they are."
John turned to look at him. Sherlock knew what was coming. He should have known Mycroft would only tell John enough to whet his appetite and make him want to ask questions. He wanted to make things difficult between John and Sherlock, telling John the whole story would have been counterproductive.
"What really happened?" John said uncertainly. "Back then."
"If you stop bleeding all over my bedspread maybe I'll tell you," Sherlock said drily.
John looked down quickly. "Fuck!" he exclaimed, standing up at the sight of blood spots on the covers where he'd been sitting. "Sherlock, you've-you- broke-"
"No, you can't break someone's arsehole," Sherlock interjected, rolling his eyes. "It's natural to bleed a little. Trust me. Girls bleed too."
"Yeah, but they have a fucking hymen! They're supposed to bleed!"
"Nice, John," Sherlock said flatly. "If you stop carrying on a hysterical lunatic for two seconds and calm down I'll have a look."
John stopped rubbing his arse and stared. "I'm not letting you look at me... there."
"I've done more than look at it, John," Sherlock reminded him. "If you remember."
"F-fine..." John said, almost pouting. He knelt on the bed with his back to Sherlock.
Sherlock gingerly touched the area in question. It looked a little sore and red but there was really nothing. Very little blood and certainly no evidence that Sherlock had done irreversible damage. "It's fine," he said, straightening up. "Just a tiny bit of blood."
John nodded. "Fine. You could have been gentler. You were ploughing into me like a fucking bulldozer."
"Oh, I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I must have misconstrued the meaning of the word harder."
John glowered at him but didn't argue. Sherlock slumped against the bars of the bed again and John sat next to him, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder. They stared down at the rumpled mess of Sherlock's bed covers, covered in John's blood and semen and the empty condom packet. Not to mention the lube. He was tempted to leave it as it was as a surprise for Mycroft when he came snooping.
"I made some really stupid mistakes," Sherlock said at length, reluctantly moving to face John. It would be better if he could just say all this crap very fast. He didn't want to think about the words leaving his mouth. "My parents never paid much attention to me. And Mycroft..." He gave a sharp bark of laugher. "Didn't really have anything to distract me. There were these boys at school. Everyone knew they were sods." John gave a disapproving cough at that description. "They smoked and drank behind the bike sheds and... well, did a lot of things behind the bike sheds in general."
John was staring up at him intently. It was extremely off-putting when he was trying to word spew everything up as fast as possible without taking note of John's facial expression. "I was bored," he said, in a pathetic attempt at an excuse. "I hadn't learnt how to deal with it... I was only fourteen. I was just too young and too stupid."
"You slept around?" John said, with a very blank expression. He obviously already knew that but it didn't seem like a good sign that he wanted confirmation.
"N-not really," Sherlock said, avoiding his eye. "Nowhere near as much as Mycroft makes it seem like. And I was just... fourteen. I was stupid."
He heard the springs of his bed give a low groan and looked up to find John leaning towards him. His expression was oddly devoid of anger for someone who was about to tell him where to go for being such a stupid idiot. To Sherlock's immense surprise, John leant forward and pressed a brief, soft kiss on his lips. "You were fourteen. God knows you weren't ready for whatever the hell you got yourself into, but it's the past. Do you really think I'd hold something like that against you?"
Sherlock gave an embarrassed cough. "Put me off sex for life," he mumbled, resting back against the bars. "Well, for two years at least."
John snorted. "Well, that's more self-control than most teenage boys have."
Sherlock didn't reply. He didn't really think he had shown a remarkable amount of self-control in his lifetime, especially since almost as soon as he had given up sex, the empty void had been replaced by lusting mindlessly after John. He decided not to say this aloud.
John exhaled softly next to him; his cheek was resting on his shoulder. "So... when can we do it again?"
Sherlock shook his head. "I've created a monster."
...
John awoke feeling much colder than when he fell asleep. Fortunately sometime during the night he and Sherlock seemed to have migrated under the covers. He slid his leg across the mattress, expecting to feel warm skin but Sherlock's side was empty.
He sat up, rubbing his head and feeling the tender area between his buttocks give a twinge. It wasn't as painful as he had thought. Well, when Sherlock had first stuck it in he thought he had just been impaled. But it got so much better. The initial pain was balanced out by the eventual mind-blowing, toe curling, stomach imploding high at the end. He didn't know if sex was always that good or Sherlock was just gifted.
Speaking of which, he had no idea where he had got to. John rolled over onto his stomach, groaning into the pillow. He could feel it was covered in teeth marks and imprints from where he had been gnashing his teeth into it.
"Still not up?" Sherlock appeared in the doorway, already dressed in clean clothes and with damp hair. "Seems to me that someone's forgotten the fifth deadly sin." He tossed his damp towel on his vanity and came to the edge of the bed.
John fought with the foolish grin that almost broke out onto his face at the sight of him. "I thought you'd skipped out on me," he said, conscious of how thick and gravelly his voice sounded.
Sherlock brushed back his hair with a small, almost undetectable smile. "You've been around Marty Hester for way too long," he quipped. "You probably expected me to make you do the walk of shame or something." He paused, his expression softening. "How are you, anyway?"
"Sore," John muttered, rubbing his back in a corroborating fashion. Though his back wasn't really the body part that was hurting.
"Don't worry, it'll pass," Sherlock said gently. "Though I'd admittedly be a little disappointed if you didn't have a permanent limp to remember last night by," he added slyly.
"I'll give you a permanent limp if you don't shut up," John snapped, swatting away his hand.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said, sobering a little too quickly to be convincing. "I noticed you haven't opened your present yet." His eyes were glinting in a vaguely discomforting manner. "We could do it now?"
"I guess," John sighed, flopping down onto his back. "You get it. I'm not hobbling around the house. Mycroft might see me."
Sherlock rolled his eyes but obliged. When he was gone, John finally allowed himself to smile. It was the widest, most ridiculous smile he had ever worn but he felt happier than he had in months. He had Sherlock, Sherlock had him (no pun intended) and nothing else mattered. He had the welts on his hips to prove it. And his neck.
He touched the tender skin. It was going to be very red. He didn't know if he and Sherlock could have done anything more perfectly designed to infuriate Mycroft. He'd see John covered in Sherlock's lovebites and bruises and know exactly what happened. John had no reason to resent Mycroft but it was satisfying to know that his best attempts to sabotage them had been foiled.
"Here you go," Sherlock said, reappearing and chucking the soft package into his lap. It was wrapped in green paper patterned with reindeer.
He went across to the window where he kept a packet of cigarettes hidden behind the curtains. John watched him take one out and light it. He looked back at the present and tore open the thin layer.
"A shirt?" he said blankly, staring at the white cotton.
Sherlock turned to him, his eyes positively illuminated. He nodded, taking a brief drag and exhaling out of the window. "Open it properly."
John pulled it out and held it up. His eyes widened. "Sherlock!" he choked.
Across it in curly black letters were the words "I heart cock", embellished with a large red heart in place of the word. John shook his head in disbelief. He had seen these in just about every trashy clothing store in London. He could feel a stupid grin threatening to overtake his features. He should have been furious. It was just about the most insensitive, vulgar present he had ever received and yet he was so close to bursting out laughing like a maniac.
He lowered it. Sherlock seemed to be struggling against uncontrollable sniggers that were making him choke on his cigarette smoke. "Serves you right," John shot at him. "You pervert."
"Well, see if it fits then," Sherlock said, grinding his cigarette out on the windowsill and coming across to kneel on the bed.
"I'm not wearing this!" John burst out. "It's not because I have a problem with being... being... gay." He said the word without actually saying it, mouthing the word like he'd seen his mother do with the word "sex" numerous times. "I don't have a problem with being..." He licked his lip. "Gay," he mouthed. "I just don't want to get beaten to death in the street."
"This is London, John," Sherlock said flatly. "Not the deep south of America. Besides, I have no intention of letting you walk around advertising yourself to all those unscrupulous people who would take advantage of a piece of blonde jailbait like you."
"Thanks a lot!" John spluttered. Sherlock didn't seem to hear him.
"Besides," he said, rolling across the bed and snatching his phone off the bedside table. "Seeing as you didn't get me a present..."
John stared at him. "You've got to be joking."
"Oh come on," Sherlock said bracingly. "It's not child pornography until I turn eighteen."
"No," John said flatly.
He tumbled off the side of the bed. He was only dressed in one of Sherlock's old, oversized t-shirts that he'd donned as makeshift pyjamas. He pretended he couldn't see Sherlock following him with his eyes.
John had to admit that the thought of posing for Sherlock made him unjustifiably horny. He was still aching from the night before and he was already thinking ahead to when he could have Sherlock on top of him again. That he could even be thinking about getting off again when he couldn't even walk properly seemed sick at best.
Sherlock sighed and stood up. "Oh well. Nobody said that losing your virginity would stop you being such a prude."
"I am not a prude," John said, narrowing his eyes.
"You can't say the word "gay" without looking like you're hacking up a hairball," Sherlock said archly.
"What about if you "accidentally" post them on the net or something?" John retorted.
Sherlock snorted. "As amusing as it would be to see Marty Hester's face at the sight of that, I have no intention of sharing you with anyone if I can help it."
John hesitated, the possessive edge to Sherlock's voice was a blatant turn-on. He glanced at the shirt lying limply on Sherlock's bed. He bit his lip. He could feel his cock twinge between his legs.
"Ok," he said finally, rolling his eyes in a long-suffering manner. He didn't want Sherlock to think he was actually going to enjoy this.
Sherlock's face brightened. "Excellent."
John got the feeling that he was giving himself an inward pat on the back. John shook his head and knelt on the bed. Sherlock sat on the end of the bed, fumbling with his phone and looking positively gleeful.
John touched the hem of Sherlock's old, misshapen t-shirt and hesitated. This felt so much more dirty... so much more intimidating than sex. He'd be on display. He'd have nothing to stop Sherlock seeing every flaw on his body. His heart seemed to speed up in his chest.
"You have nothing to worry about, John," Sherlock said quietly, seeming to know exactly what he was thinking. "You're perfect."
John gave a half shrug, though he felt a foolish, inward glow at Sherlock's words. He yanked the t-shirt off fast before he could have second thoughts. The cold air against his bare skin made him gasp aloud; he quickly grabbed the white shirt and pulled it over his head. It was only long enough to reach his hips.
Sherlock swallowed thickly. His eyes were tracing the outline of John's figure. The shirt was a little tight. No doubt Sherlock had been more than aware of that when he bought it.
"You look-" Sherlock broke off with a small shake of his head.
"Well, I'm glad someone's having fun" John grumbled, leaning against the pillows and pinning his legs together.
"Oh no, open those legs," Sherlock said, raising his eyebrows. "You didn't get me a present, you can do it properly."
Blushing furiously, John fixed his eyes on the post behind Sherlock's head and slowly parted his legs. He knew he was hard, without even looking and he didn't need Sherlock's amused snigger to confirm it for him.
"Shut up," John said crossly. "It's your fault."
"I should think so," Sherlock said, tilting his head behind his phone.
It clicked. John flushed deeper. He could feel the shirt clinging to every single inch of him. His shoulders, his nipples, his stomach.
"I know you're getting off on this," Sherlock said, one eye closed. "So you might as well relax."
Click went the phone.
"Fuck you," John said out of the corner of his mouth.
Sherlock grinned. "Don't be shy. You could do this for a living. Personally, I think you could give those boys on Slab a run for their money." Click, click, click.
"How many are you fucking taking!" John snapped, looking at him.
"Wait, hold it like that," Sherlock said. John could see from where he was sitting that Sherlock was beginning to get into trouble himself.
He hesitated for half a moment, wondering if he dared. Then with an inward smirk he crawled onto his hands and knees. Sherlock lowered the camera. "Getting bolder, are we?"
John deposited himself in front of him and silently fingered the buttons on Sherlock's jeans. Sherlock immediately understood, though he didn't seem to completely believe his luck. He stared at him, his jaw going slack.
Without wasting another moment he swang around where he was, throwing his legs over the side of the bed and undoing his buttons and zipper at lightning speed.
John hurriedly got to his knees in front of him. He was still wearing Sherlock's present but he had a hunch that Sherlock wouldn't complain. Sherlock raised his hips and yanked his jeans down his thighs, his eyes fixed on John's face.
John raised a hand and rubbed Sherlock's erection through the material of his underwear. Sherlock groaned. "Don't you dare tease me. You think you're in pain now..."
John rolled his eyes but didn't retort. He jerked Sherlock's underwear down to his knees. Sherlock's hand gripped his hair a little harder than what was comfortable.
"If you pull my hair out, I'll bite you," he mumbled, teasing the crown with his tongue.
Sherlock made a non-committal moan, rocking his hips up. John took him deep into his throat and then slowly released him, leaving a trail of saliva behind. Sherlock liked it when he made him as wet as possible (in all senses of the word) and John was always at pains to get as much spit as he could on Sherlock's dick before he sucked him off.
"Your dick smells like strawberry," he remarked, as he lapped at the sensitive glands he knew drove Sherlock wild.
"Shut up," Sherlock panted. "It's Mycroft's shower gel."
"Gross. Just the image I want in my mind right now."
He slid his hand around the base of Sherlock's shaft, making a circle with his thumb and pointer finger and gently caressing Sherlock round and round in time with his sucks and licks. Sherlock was jerking forcefully into his mouth. He had to time his movements well or he had the danger of getting mouth fucked.
He struggled to push a hand between his own legs. His eyes threatened to roll back in his head for the umpteenth time in two days as he began to clumsily fondle himself. He was almost unnerved by his body's eagerness for contact so soon after the violence of the previous night.
"Feels... so good..." Sherlock gasped, still rocking roughly into John's mouth.
"Spread your legs," John said quickly, between licks.
Sherlock obliged. John removed his hand from its position on Sherlock's shaft and pushed it under him to play with the two sacs of flesh underneath. Sherlock tossed his head with fierce moan. When he made that moan that sounded like he was almost in pain, John knew he was getting close.
He took Sherlock in his other hand, abandoning his own aching hardness. He looked up as well as he could when he was being facefucked at an increasingly fervent rate. Sherlock looked extremely close to climaxing, if his breathing was anything to go by or the way he was clutching John's hair like a crazed monkey.
"John!" he cried out, almost choking John as he forced himself particularly hard into his mouth.
John was almost taken by surprise by the sudden burst of liquid into his throat but somehow managed to swallow it without suffocating. He felt it dribbling out of both corners of his mouth but Sherlock had a serious kink for watching him lick up his cum so he left it.
He gently pulled back, releasing Sherlock's softening member from his mouth and leaving a trail of saliva and semen behind. Sherlock released his hair less gently and John felt a hunk of his hair go with him.
"I swear you're a sadist," he said, rubbing his head and glowering at him.
Sherlock stared blearily at him. "Want me to help you with that?" He nodded to John's still hardened dick.
John knelt back and let Sherlock curl a hand around it. He shut his eyes with a soft moan as Sherlock began rubbing him with fierce intent. It didn't take long for Sherlock's agile fingers and his already brimming lust to work their magic. His seed leaked out of Sherlock's fingers and dribbled down his arm. John groaned and collapsed against him.
He panted breathlessly into Sherlock's shirt, Sherlock's hand still wrapped around him. "Better?" Sherlock said, cocking an eyebrow as he straightened up.
"Much," John said, fighting with a blush.
They cleaned themselves up in record time. John had a shower while Sherlock stripped the bed and hastily hid away any incriminating evidence. The lube and condoms were put away in his sock drawer. It was too much to hope that Mycroft wasn't already perfectly aware of what they'd been up to all night but they could at least attempt to make it less obvious.
John folded Sherlock's "present" and put it away under his other shirts. A voyeuristic part of him couldn't help visualizing what his friends would do to him if they found it in his belongings at school. Crucifixion seemed almost too mild an expectation. He shivered and closed his drawer.
When he returned, Sherlock was sitting on his bed and his room looked as though nothing out of the ordinary had happened. No condom packets, no mysterious stains, no interesting imprints on the pillows. John didn't think he'd ever be able to shake his reputation of being a "pillow biter" from now on but he could at least make sure Mycroft never found out.
Sherlock pulled him onto his lap and gave him an uncharacteristically affectionate squeeze. "What was that for?" John said, a little bashfully as he pulled away. "My reward for being successfully deflowered? You're not going to start leaving money on the bedside table every time we have sex, are you?"
Sherlock just shrugged. "No reason," he said, though his eyes were positively glowing.
John could have put it down to relief that he had finally gotten John into bed or another attempt to get into his pants but for once he chose not to torture himself by questioning Sherlock's motives and actions until his brain was sore. For once he was content to let himself accept the most obvious explanation as the true one. Sherlock loved him. Pure and simple.
End of Chapter Seventeen