It took a little practice for Sherlock to get used to holding John's hand. Initially he was nervous about participating in any PDA in the hallways at school in case John's ex-teammates took it as an excuse to attack John, but apparently they all still lived in fear that Sherlock would sneak into their bedrooms at night and gouge their eyes out, so they left John and Sherlock alone for the most part, occasionally shouting a few homophobic slurs at the couple but keeping a safe distance from them.
John hadn't realized before how many gay couples attended Paddington Academy. With all the dirty looks he and Sherlock received from students and teachers as they walked through the hallways hand in hand, it was nice to get a friendly response from someone. Other same-sex couples passing by gave them knowing glances and raised their interlocked fingers in a sign of solidarity. John always nodded back, the evidence of how proud he was to have Sherlock as his boyfriend written all over his face.
Of course, there were times that Sherlock's personality quirks drove him up the wall. He was often very distractible, but he became completely oblivious to the world around him when he was working on a case or an experiment. Also, there were moments when John couldn't tell whether Sherlock was talking to him or to thin air, but he was expected to know the difference. Still, John could never stay mad at him for very long.
"You guys are too damn cute," Dannie said as the three of them sat in the living room at Baker Street waiting for the next episode of House MD to finish loading. John and Sherlock were nestled together comfortably on the sofa. "Seriously, I'm getting chest pains from all the adorableness. I can literally feel my heart squishing itself."
John paused the show as it skipped to the next episode and inched away from Sherlock a bit. "Sorry if we're being inconsiderate."
"No, it's fine," Dannie reassured him. "It's not your fault that I've become a third wheel. I need to find myself a girlfriend."
Sherlock glanced over at her now. "A girlfriend?"
Dannie nodded. "Yeah. Of course, the only girl at school who ever makes eye contact with me is Irene Adler. Apparently she has a thing for damaged people."
John furrowed his brow. "So, you're a…"
"Homo-romantic frigid bitch," Dannie finished for him. "Anyways, Irene gets around a lot. She's probably out of my league."
"Well, you never know," Sherlock said, giving John a sideways glance. "I was quite sure that John was out of my league."
"Shut up, it was the other way around," John said grinning at him. He shook his head. "My God, everyone in my life is gay."
"Really?" Dannie asked. "Everyone?"
"Well, my older sister Harriet is. It took a while for my parents to get used to the idea. I've been trying to work up the courage to tell them that I'm bi, but I know they're still hoping that at least one of their kids is straight."
"My parents did too," Sherlock muttered. "They got over it soon enough." He reached for John's hand and interlocked their fingers. John leaned over and kissed him on the nose, though it was apparent that he was holding back.
Dannie grabbed the remote and turned the TV off. "Seeing as you guys are six episodes ahead of me, I could go back down to my basement apartment and watch on my own. Leave you to do… whatever."
"You sure?" John asked. "If you'd rather keep watching up here we can… behave."
"Oh by all means, misbehave," Dannie said on her way toward the door. Before going down the stairs, she called over her shoulder, "You two know where the bedroom is."
John leaned back against the cushions and sighed. With a quick glance towards the bedroom door, Sherlock raised his eyebrows at John and said, "Shall we?"
The room was dimly lit, and the king-sized bed with its soft white duvet cover was big and warm and inviting. Sherlock settled himself against the pillows and sighed contentedly. John hesitated by the door. He and Sherlock had never lied down on a bed together before, and just entertaining the idea felt a little overwhelming. Then Sherlock looked up at him with bright eyes and patted the adjacent empty space on the mattress, and John gave in to the gravitational pull.
The springs creaked under John's compact weight as he clambered onto the mattress. "Damn," John muttered. "We're going to have to be quiet or everyone will hear us downstairs."
A playful smile twitched in the corner of Sherlock's mouth. "You know, this bedroom is right above Mrs. Hudson's kitchen."
John flopped back against the pillows, "Oh God," he muttered.
"That's the idea," Sherlock whispered encouragingly.
John took a deep breath and said it louder and more dramatically, "Oh God. Oh God, yes."
Sherlock joined in and moaned, "Oh John." He took off his socks and shoes and stood up on the bed. John did the same, and the two of them started bouncing lightly on the mattress. They both had to fight the urge not to giggle.
"Oh God, Sherlock," John said, closing eyes. He was enjoying this a bit too much.
Sherlock smacked his hand against the wall. "Oh John, yes," he called loudly. "Don't stop. Don't stop."
They kept jumping, increasing their rhythm, until finally they heard Mrs. Hudson knocking at the ceiling below them with a broom handle. "Settle down up there. I'm not the one paying for it if you break the bedframe."
Sherlock gripped the headboard for support and doubled over to in suppressed laughter. "Sorry, Mrs. Hudson."
"Sorry, Mrs. Hudson," John echoed. "We'll try to keep it down."
A bit winded, the two boys flopped back down on the mattress. John chuckled up at the ceiling and turned to face Sherlock. The sight of his boyfriend lying there panting as if they'd actually just had sex made his chest tighten. The he felt some tightening in another region.
Sherlock grinned at him. "John, must you be so transparent?" he said softly, his breath evening out.
"What do you mean?" John asked. He shifted the lower half of his body in an attempt get more comfortable, but it didn't work.
"You can do anything you want to me, you know. I'm very compliant."
John grimaced against the pillows and sighed. "Dammit, Sherlock."
Sherlock lay still and studied him. "What, John?"
John inched forward and wrapped his arms around him, and Sherlock was taken aback by John's sudden rush of affection. "You don't have to be compliant. You don't have to do anything you're not comfortable with. Anytime you want me to slow down or stop, just tell me, okay?"
Sherlock rested his forehead against John's. "Okay," he whispered.
John kissed him slowly and tenderly, reaching up to run his fingers through those dark curls. Their bodies brushed together, and John could tell that Sherlock was hard too. He slipped a hand down over Sherlock's torso and palmed him through his jeans. "Is this okay?"
"Yeah," Sherlock panted. "Feels good."
Sherlock had been sure he could take anything. His past sexual experiences mostly involved him getting hit, choked, tied down, and fucked rough. However, the way John kissed and touched him so gently and lovingly wasn't something he was accustomed to. His conscious self was always ready to retreat from the surface and sink into nothingness so that he could feel dead. Now he felt all his senses buzzing with pleasure and warmth and life. It was at the same time wonderful and terrifying.
Sherlock closed his eyes and felt John's warm breath against his lips as the other boy's hand stroked harder and faster between his legs. John planted a line of kisses down his neck to his collarbone, licking and nipping at the taught, pale skin. Then right before John managed to slip his hand under the waistband of his jeans, Sherlock turned his head and glanced at the wall. Mind palace Jim was sitting in the corner watching, and Sherlock felt a phantom jolt of pain.
"No. NO!" Sherlock pulled away and slid off the side of the bed in his earnest to retreat. He hit the floor and scrambled back against the wall.
John peered anxiously over the side of the bed. "Sherlock, are you okay? I'm sorry, I shouldn't have-"
"No, you didn't do anything wrong," Sherlock muttered. "My mind is all fucked up. I need to think." He retreated into the closet and shut the door.
John pressed his face against the pillows and groaned. He couldn't help thinking that this was his fault, that he had been moving too fast. Guilt twisted in his stomach as he gripped the sheets. Then John heard a thudding sound and looked up at the closet door. "Sherlock, are you okay?" he asked. "What are you doing in there?"
Sherlock slammed the back of his head against the wall for the twelfth time. It was already over. There were four long cuts etched over the old scars on his forearm. His heart rate had slowed, but now that the panic was fading away, a terrible pang of guilt took its place. Why? Sherlock asked himself. Why can't I make it through one day without fucking everything up?
John opened the closet door and found Sherlock hunched in the doorway holding his bleeding arm. Sherlock turned and pressed his face against the corner. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
John let out a long breath. He'd never get used to seeing Sherlock like this.
Without a word, he turned and walked out of the bedroom. Sherlock looked up and watched him go, wondering if he'd finally pushed John over the edge. After a few minutes, though, John came back holding a damp washcloth. "Come here," John said softly, beckoning him.
Sherlock tentatively stepped toward John and let him press the washcloth against his arm. John backed up and pulled them both back onto the bed. Sherlock lay rigid against John's torso and pressed the washcloth to his wrist as John wrapped his arms around him.
"Don't think about it," he whispered, kissing Sherlock's temple and rocking back and forth a bit. "Whatever it is, don't think about it."
Sherlock looked up at him. "You're not mad at me?"
"Well, I am a little, but I don't think shouting at you will do any good."
"It might make you feel better."
"If you haven't noticed, I'm trying to make you feel better."
Sherlock looked down at his forearm. "I basically just took a small hit of morphine. Trust me, I'm good to go."
John shut his eyes and hugged Sherlock a little tighter. "I wish you could just hold off for a minute when this happens, give me a chance to… I don't know. I just wish I knew what triggers it."
"You don't want to know what goes on inside my head."
"Not knowing scares me more. It terrifies me, Sherlock. I don't know… I don't know how long I can take this."
Sherlock pressed harder against the cuts. "Do you wish now that we hadn't started dating?"
John cupped Sherlock's chin and tilted his face toward him. "No, I don't. Besides, even if we were just friends, I'd still be spending all my time with you trying to figure out how to make your life better."
Sherlock smiled up at him. "You do make my life better."
John sighed and planted one more kiss on Sherlock's temple. Then he slipped out from underneath Sherlock and crawled to the end of the bed to pick up his rucksack. "I've got an idea," he said, rummaging through the front pocket and procuring a red Sharpie. John crawled back to Sherlock and took hold of his wrist.
There was a small strip of unmarked skin on Sherlock's wrist right below the border of his palm. John planted a small kiss there before pressing the tip of the marker against the porcelain skin and drawing a heart.
"There," John said, filling in the lines. "Now every time you're triggered, you can look down at your arm and remember that… that you have someone who cares about you and who can't stand to see you hurt."
Sherlock looked down at the anatomically incorrect image of a human heart and smiled. "You know that it'll eventually wash off."
John leaned in and kissed him on the lips this time. "Then I'll have to keep filling it back in. To keep reminding you."
As the pair of them laid back against the pillows again, Sherlock rested his forehead against John's chest and let John wrap his arms around him. For a moment John wondered if he should have said what he meant to say when he drew on the heart. What he'd meant to say was, "…you can look down at your arm and remember that I love you." It didn't feel too soon. John knew that he meant it, but he wasn't sure if Sherlock understood yet what it means to be loved.
