On Saturday night, Harry Watson came home from uni to see her brother off on his first prom date. Their parents were conveniently out of town that night, and so John didn't have to deal with ridiculous questions such as, "Are you just doing this because your older sister made it seem cool or edgy to be gay?" or "If you're still attracted to girls, why wouldn't you pick the more socially acceptable option?" Harry for her part helped him to feel like just another kid getting ready for prom.

"My baby brother's all grown up," Harry said, adjusting the buttons on John's navy blue vest. "Seriously, though, this outfit makes you look like a little old man."

John rolled his eyes. "You say that about everything I wear."

"Aren't you supposed to be in a tuxedo?"

"We're sneaking into a night club. It's best to try not to stand out."

"Right, this ensemble won't make you stand out at all."

"Shut up."

Harry giggled. "Alright, fine. You look quite adorable, actually. Your date is one lucky bloke."

"Trust me I'm the lucky one," John muttered, smiling to himself.

"Speaking of luck, I took the liberty of packing a few essentials in your overnight bag." She unzipped the outer pocket where she'd slipped in a packet of condoms and medical-grade lubricant.

"Jesus, Harry," John muttered. "We're not… we haven't-"

"You're spending the night in a hotel aren't you? I wanted you to at least to be prepared."

John sighed and rubbed his eyes. He and Sherlock had shared a bed platonically countless times before, and he hadn't planned on anything going differently tonight, but he was not about to have this conversation with his sister. Thankfully at that moment there was a knock at the door, and Harry rushed to answer it. John zipped up his bag and tugged nervously at the sleeves of his white shirt as his sister swung the door open. When John saw his boyfriend standing in the doorway, his breath caught in his chest.

Sherlock was dressed in black trousers and a fitted purple shirt that perfectly silhouetted his thin frame. His pale skin was luminous in the light of the lampposts shining a halo over the doorstep.

"Wow," was all John could think of to say.

Sherlock's high cheekbones briefly tinged pink. "You too."

"Alright you're both bloody gorgeous," Harry interjected. "Now get going. It's almost nine o'clock," she said nudging her brother out the door. As John and Sherlock walked down the front steps to the black Mercedes waiting in the driveway, Harry called after them, "Have fun, and practice safe sex!" John quickly glanced back and the two siblings affectionately flipped each other off.

They stopped at the hotel first and checked into their room. John set his overnight bag down on the marble countertop below the bathroom mirror. The silver tap sparkled and the scented bar soap in the corner smelled of lavender. John fiddled with the contents of his bag while Sherlock sat at the edge of the king-sized mattress and watched him.

"I don't think we'll be needing those," Sherlock muttered, pointing to the outer pocket.

"We won't be needing what?" John asked over his shoulder.

"The condoms your sister smuggled into your bag."

With a sigh, John turned around and leaned back against the counter. "I know. I didn't think… I wasn't expecting anything like that just because we booked a hotel room."

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I mean, if you did want to, we wouldn't need to use those. I was tested for everything at the hospital, you know, after they found me," he said, staring down at his hands. "I'm clean. Just in case you were… worried about that."

John took a deep breath and crossed the room to sit down next to Sherlock at the edge of the mattress. "The only thing I'm worried about is you trying to be 'compliant' and going along with whatever you think it is that I want even if that's not really what you want. It doesn't work that way. This has to be something that we both want."

Sherlock studied him for a moment. "How are people supposed to know what they want?"

"They just go with what they feel," John said, encompassing Sherlock's narrow waist in his arms. "We'll figure it out when the time comes, but it's okay if that's not tonight."

Sherlock stared down at John's thin, pink mouth and whispered. "I would like you to kiss me."

"I'd like that too."

The kiss was slow and soft and tender. John refrained from gripping the back of Sherlock's head or doing anything too invasive with his tongue, but soon enough they were both so lost in sensation that they fell back against the mattress.

"Okay, I think we're getting a little ahead of ourselves," John said, coming up for air. "We have a… thing to go to."

Sherlock nodded. "Right, yes. That."

They heard footsteps coming from the hallway. John peeked his head out the door and saw a small group of their fellow Paddington Academy students shuffling down the hall to stairs. He beckoned Sherlock towards the door and the two of them followed the queue of couples down the long stairwell. At the ground level they snuck out the side exit like a band of refugees fleeing a warzone.

A breeze from the Thames cooled the warm night air. Sherlock and John held hands as they ran across the busy street aglow with streetlamps and headlights. The neon sign for the Globe loomed near, but they knew they couldn't go through the front entrance. Still, the group of kids they were traveling with seemed to know where they were going. The gay teen train wound around a corner into an alley and descended down a grubby set of stairs to a heavy wooden door.

"Apparently we're going in through the basement," John muttered.

"Seems a bit risky," Sherlock responded. "There could be murderers lurking inside."

John grinned. "Don't get your hopes up."

The dimly lit basement was a bit creepy but blessedly empty. Sherlock felt a little more apprehension going up the second flight of steps that led to the first floor. John gave his hand a reassuring squeeze as they stepped through the door into the club. They were met with a colourful myriad of flashing lights and the loud thrum of music. A vast crowd of people filled the dance floor, and at the edge of the throng they spotted a familiar face.

Molly beamed brightly at Sherlock and John as they approached. "Sherlock! John! Glad you guys could make it."

John noticed the way Molly's eyes dilated a bit while she was looking at Sherlock. He wrapped an arm around his boyfriend's waist and smiled amiably. "Well, we're glad to be here. Aren't we?" he said, glancing up at Sherlock. The boy was staring around the room taking in all the lights and the noise and the people. John rubbed his back gently and asked, "Sherlock, you okay?"

Sherlock pressed two fingers against his temple and muttered, "I need a drink."

"The bar's over there," Molly said, pointing him in the right direction. Sherlock nodded, which was the most he could contribute to the exchange of mundane niceties at the moment. As he walked away, John moved to follow him, but Molly held him back. "Just a heads up, all of us need to be out of here by eleven. That's usually when the police show up for a raid. They're pretty vigilant this time of year about high school kids sneaking into clubs."

John furrowed his brow and looked down at his watch. "That gives us only about an hour and a half."

Molly smiled sardonically. "Good luck keeping him here for that long."

"Thanks," John muttered. During the whole conversation, Molly's boyfriend Tom had been dancing nonchalantly in the background. It seemed that he had formed a habit of becoming selectively deaf whenever Sherlock's name came up. He nodded to John, who nodded back. "Have a good time," he whispered to Molly.

"You too," Molly responded.

Over at the bar, Sherlock was leaning against the counter with his shoulders hunched. John sidled up next to him and tilted his head in his own subtle, unassuming way of asking what's wrong. Sherlock picked up on this cue and mumbled, "I have to be careful."

"What do you mean?" John asked.

"I can't drink too much or Mycroft might try to put me back in rehab." Sherlock pressed the heels of his hand against his eyes. "Sorry, I'm doing it again. I promised myself I wouldn't think about stuff like that tonight."

John reached out and stroked Sherlock's arm. "Hey, it's okay. I should be careful too. Alcoholism runs in my family." He looked up at the colourful array of bottles lined up behind the counter. "We'll both have just one drink, and then that's it for the night, so we better make it a good one."

Sherlock took a quick glance at the selection. "How about a rum and coke?"

John smiled. "Sounds perfect."

He got the bartender's attention and paid for their drinks. Sherlock picked up his glass and knocked back the sweet, fizzy mixture. Then he saw John casually sipping his drink and realized that he ought to slow down. When it came to addictive substances, Sherlock had always found himself at one extreme or the other, either completely sober or dangerously intoxicated. It was nice for once to glide freely along the spectrum. Sherlock's mind was still relatively clear, but the sea of swirling sensory data seemed less bothersome now. He squinted up at the flashing lights and wondered if the pleasant sensation vibrating in his chest was something like… happiness. Then he looked at John again and he was sure.

John met his gaze. "How are you feeling now?"

"Splendid." Sherlock answered. He took another slow sip. "You know, John, you really do look incredible tonight."

"I guess the rum is starting to get to you."

"It's a simple enough observation, John. Alcohol isn't a relevant factor."

"Alright, smart-arse," John said, chuckling. "If you say so."

Sherlock finished off the rest of his drink and slammed his glass back down on the counter. "Come on, this is a club. We should be dancing."

John rushed to finish the rest of his drink as well. "Okay, but if you must know, I can't dance."

"That's fine," Sherlock said, taking his hand and tugging him toward the dance floor. "All you have to do is stand there and look pretty."

"But you're the pretty one," John said, grinning.

"I beg to differ, John."

They nudged their way through the crowd of writhing bodies to the middle of the dance floor. When they found a spot with enough elbowroom Sherlock stopped and faced John with a blazing look in his eyes. Then all at once he began to move. The other couples dancing around them were mostly just grinding and flailing about half-heartedly, but Sherlock's movements were swift and deliberate, yet seemingly effortless. John barely noticed his own jaw coming unhinged as he watched Sherlock swivel and spin. The boy looked more impassioned and alive than he'd ever seen him. All around people had stopped moving to watch, but Sherlock paid them no mind. It was all for John.

Sherlock slid to his knees at John's feet, and then he slowly worked his way up John's body. John inhaled sharply as he felt Sherlock move against him, rolling his hips and sliding his hands all over John's body. He reached up and cupped Sherlock's jaw, pulling him in for a kiss. Sherlock stilled and leaned in, forgetting about everything but John's lips against his. Another song with a faster tempo started playing and the space around them became more tightly packed, but Sherlock and John stayed locked together in their own little world.

As they stood in the middle of the dance floor, the friction and collective body heat from the crowd made the air-conditioned club feel like a sauna. After a while Sherlock noticed that John was clinging to him. "You alright, John?" Sherlock said loudly over the music.

"Just feeling a bit dizzy," John answered.

Sherlock drew back and studied him. John's face was flushed and his hair was damp with perspiration. Only then did he notice that the heat was affecting him as well. "Come on," he said, taking John's hand. "We need to cool down."

They pushed their way out of the crowd and wandered back over to the bar. Sherlock glanced over at the other end of the long counter and saw the bartender chatting up a girl who was obviously in her late teens but trying to act like she was in her twenties. Seizing the opportunity, Sherlock hopped over the counter.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John hissed.

Sherlock moved quickly, grabbing a hand towel next to the sink and running it under the tap. Then he shot a quick glance at the bartender to make sure his presence had gone unnoticed and hoisted his long legs back over to the other side. Immediately he pulled John towards him and pressed the cool, damp flannel against his temple. John's bewildered expression was replaced with one of relief. He blinked up at Sherlock as the boy gently mopped at his sweaty forehead, his neck, the sides of his face.

"Do you have any idea how beautiful you are?" John breathed.

"Take it easy, John," Sherlock said softly. "I think the heat is getting to you."

"No, it's just you," John whispered. "You do this to me. You're a bloody health hazard, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock smirked. "If you say so, doctor."

The simple act of applying a cold washcloth was strangely intimate. It also felt strange for Sherlock to be the one holding the washcloth this time. He thought of all the instances that John had patiently done so to tend to Sherlock's self-inflicted injuries. He realized then that he never wanted to put John through that again.

These thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock and John heard a small, squeaky voice over the music. "Oh God," Sherlock muttered.

John glanced around the dimly lit corner of the club. "Is that Dannie?"

His question was answered when the spritely girl emerged from the shadows and ran right up to them, wrapping her arms around them. Irene Adler appeared behind her in a tight black dress and tall stilettos. Dannie gibbered excitedly, "Look, Irene. My mummy and daddy are here."

Sherlock rested a hand lightly on her shoulder and drew back. "Dannie," he said carefully, "how much have you had to drink?"

"Just a couple of shots," Dannie said, hiccupping slightly. Sherlock noticed that her scar had been traced over with some kind of body glitter that matched her maraschino cherry red dress. She beamed up at them and chirped, "I've got sparkles on my face!"

"You look lovely, Dannie," John said kindly, a hint of concern in his eyes. He watched Sherlock step away and beckon Irene over to the dark corner away from the noise so he could have a serious conversation with her.

"I trust," he said in a low voice, "that you have no intentions of doing anything with Dannie that she doesn't like."

"Of course," Irene responded silkily. "You know how I operate."

Sherlock nodded. "Good. The thing is, though, no matter how careful and considerate you are with her, there's still a chance she may experience a bit of anxiety. If at any point it seems like she's having a panic attack-"

"She knows about the epilepsy," Dannie interjected.

"Well, then," Sherlock muttered, "if that happens, just press something cold to her face and remind her to breathe."

"And don't let her do any more shots," John added. "Alcohol can lower her seizure threshold."

Irene looked from John to Sherlock. "Alright, Mum and Dad, no need to fret. I'll take good care of your little girl."

"I'm not that little," Dannie said indignantly. Irene just smiled at her and took her hand, and the pair of them made a beeline for the dance floor.

John sidled up next to Sherlock as he watched them go. "She'll be okay," he said reassuringly. "Irene will probably rip the balls off any guy that tries to touch her."

Sherlock chuckled. "Yes, that is probable."

John took his hand and interlocked their fingers. "You ready to go back out there?"

"I have to return this," Sherlock said, holding up the damp washcloth. They walked back over to the counter where the bartender was standing by the sink. "Here, this is yours." He tossed the flannel to him, and the bewildered bartender caught it. Then Sherlock and John walked away quickly before he could ask them how they got it in the first place.

Just seconds after they stepped back onto the noisy, crowded dance floor, the flashing lights overhead stilled and turned a pale shade of blue while the first notes of a slow song emanated from the speakers. Apparently whoever was in control of the sound system was aware of how many high school kids were hiding amongst the crowd tonight. The older patrons glanced around, confused by the sudden change in the club's ambience.

John looked up at Sherlock and asked. "Have you ever slow-danced with anyone before?"

Sherlock bit his lip uncertainly and shook his head. Then he cleared his throat and said his usual dignified tone, "How should we proceed?"

John just smiled at him and led him back to the center of the dance floor where the crowd had thinned and the air was cooler, more breathable. They both stood still a moment, just listening to the song. The slow tune sounded wistful, almost sad. Rather than trying to figure out the traditional slow-dance positions, Sherlock and John managed to entwine themselves together, John with his arms wrapped around Sherlock's waist and Sherlock clinging to John's upper body. He rested his chin on John's shoulder as they slowly rocked back and forth.

"Hey Sherlock?" John whispered, his lips brushing against Sherlock's ear.

"Mmhm?" Sherlock murmured.

"I know this is random, but did Dannie really get drunk enough to the point that she honestly thought we were her parents?"

"I don't think she was serious," Sherlock said quietly. "She's been in the foster system since she was four, and she told me she can't remember what her parents looked like."

John sighed, and then furrowed his brow. "Which one of us was she referring to as Mummy?"

Sherlock shrugged, unperturbed. "Sometimes even the most progressive individuals still use hetero-normative expressions. Obviously any child of ours would have two dads."

Absentmindedly, John moved his arms up further, pressing his hands against Sherlock's back. "Do you ever think about stuff like that?" he asked tentatively. "About the future? Stuff like going off to uni, settling down someplace in London, having a life together?"

Sherlock stilled a bit, his sharp cheekbone brushing against the side John's face. "I don't know. Before we met, I didn't really want to… stick around for very long. I just focused on surviving one day at a time."

Chilled by that answer, John closed his eyes. "And now?"

Sherlock was quiet. John tilted his head back to look at him, and Sherlock slowly met his gaze. "Now all I know is that it hurts to try to imagine having any kind of life without you in it."

"You don't ever have to worry about that. Okay?" John whispered. "I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere."

John reached up and stroked his cheek with his thumb. As much as neither of them wanted to dwell on it tonight, it was impressed upon them how fragile, how precarious it was, what they had, that as they stood there under the pale blue lights, shadows from Sherlock's past loomed in the dark waiting to tear them away from each other. Sherlock rested his forehead against John's and willed himself to breathe slowly. Locked in their own little world again, they almost didn't notice when the lights went out and the music stopped.

"Dammit," John muttered, looking towards the front entrance. "The police are here early."

Torchlights flashed in the darkened club. "Come on," Sherlock muttered. They dashed through the panicked crowd as all the other underage kids in the building scurried for the exits. Casting a glance behind them at the chaos, Sherlock and John slipped into the basement. They crept down the stairs, but rather than heading for the door, Sherlock veered left and kneeled down behind a stack of crates and boxes.

John followed him and muttered, "What are we doing?"

"Keeping an eye out for Dannie," Sherlock answered as several of their fellow Paddington Academy students passed by, fleeing out the door. He squinted in the dark for any sign of the spritely girl. Then on the right, the door to the cupboard under the stairs opened.

"Oh hi," Dannie said, peeking out at them. She was propped up on her elbow with Irene lying next to her.

"The police showed up for a raid," John said urgently, not bothering to ask the two girls what they were doing in there.

"Oh, right," Irene said lightly. "That's why we're down here."

Sherlock suppressed an eye roll. "So what's your plan?"

"Well, I guess we'll hide out here until they're gone," Dannie responded. "Then we'll take the tube back to Baker Street." All four of them looked up when they heard loud voices near the door. "Hurry, go," she squeaked. Then she pulled the door shut.

Out on the street, Sherlock and John saw red and blue lights flashing around the corner. They didn't hesitate for too long, which was fortunate. As soon as they hit the pavement, a copper burst out the door behind them and gave chase.

"Take my hand!" Sherlock shouted, holding out his palm. John took it, and they rushed forward into the traffic. They heard car horns honking and the copper yelling after them, but they kept going. They didn't look back or stop, not even when they made it back to the hotel. Only after they got in through the side entrance and dashed up the six flights of stairs to their floor and shut themselves in the room did they finally pause to get their breath back.

John leaned back against the wall in the entranceway and closed his eyes. "Why is there always so much running involved?" he said gasping for air.

Sherlock smirked, but he didn't bother coming up with a witty remark. He just strode over to the bed and took off his socks and shoes, fluffed the pillows and lay back on the mattress. As John tarried near the door feeling his adrenaline levels gradually subside, time seemed to slow down. He kicked off his socks and shoes as well and approached the mattress. This is not my first time getting into bed with him, he reminded himself, still a bit nervous. It'll be the same as all the other times before.

The low light of the bedside table lamps cast shadows in the valleys of Sherlock's high cheekbones and the triangular dip at the crest of his lips, just like on the first night John held him in his arms.

"What are you doing all the way over there?" Sherlock asked, reaching across the gap between them.

John laid a hand over his on the mattress. "Just looking at you. I could lie here all night and just look at you."

Sherlock closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Then I suppose I should give you more to look at." He rolled over onto his back and started undoing the buttons of his shirt. His nimble fingers worked quickly, but he moved slowly to each button, exposing smooth alabaster skin inch by inch. He shrugged out of the sleeves and cast the shirt aside while keeping his back against the mattress. Mesmerized by the display of his upper body, John nearly missed the moment when Sherlock unzipped his trousers and pulled them off, baring his long, slender legs.

"You too," Sherlock breathed as John lay there, taking in the sight of him. "I want to see you too."

Without needing further direction, John quickly stripped down to his tight red pants. Sherlock's eyes roamed over John's body, examining his broad shoulders and taut muscles and tan skin. Then their eyes met. Silently, like a couple of innocent kids playing "show me yours and I'll show you mine," they each removed the last piece of clothing covering their bodies. Now they were naked together in bed, which was something new entirely.

"This only goes as far as you want it to," John said softly. "I'm following your lead."

Sherlock's mercurial eyes shone brightly in the low light. The boy, usually so closed-off and withdrawn, now lay open and vulnerable and trusting.

"John," Sherlock whispered. "Touch me."

Tentatively, John extended his hand and laid his palm against Sherlock's bare chest. He inched closer, keeping his eyes trained on the boy's face as his hands explored the landscape of Sherlock's body. He heard a small intake of breath as his hands slid over Sherlock's hip down to his thigh. Everywhere he touched was incredibly smooth.

"My God, no wonder you're so cold all the time," John mused. "Your body has no insulation."

"I need you to keep me warm, John."

Sherlock reached up and pulled him closer until their bodies aligned. John kneeled between Sherlock's thighs to keep himself steady as they were pressed together, chest to chest, hip to hip, skin to skin, neither of them moving yet, just drinking in the feel of each other. John brought up a hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek, and Sherlock tilted his face up, his lips slightly parted. Slowly, John leaned down and kissed him. Sherlock latched his arms over John's neck, his body elevated from the mattress slightly as he gave himself over completely. John burrowed his face against Sherlock's shoulder, breathing him in. Then he reached around and pressed his hands against Sherlock's back. The boy tensed.

"Oh God," John breathed.

What John felt under his fingertips was a crisscross pattern of long jagged lines raised against the skin of Sherlock's back. Sherlock hadn't mentioned before that some of the clients used to beat him while they raped him. Sniffing back tears, John closed his hands into fists and held Sherlock tighter.

"It's alright, John," Sherlock whispered. "I'm alright."

John took a deep breath to steady his voice. "You have scars on your back."

Sherlock slowly lowered himself back onto the mattress. "At least you can be certain that those weren't my doing." Almost instinctively, he tucked his left arm against his chest.

Regaining his composure, John took hold of Sherlock's wrist and gazed down at the scar-riddled arm with tenderness. He planted a line of kisses from the crook of his elbow down to the faded heart below his palm. Then he pressed Sherlock's hand against his chest where his own heart was beating painfully hard. "Just do me a favor," he whispered. "Stay with me. Don't go getting lost inside your head. Just please, stay with me."

"Trust me, John, you're all I'm thinking about right now."

The corners of John's eyes were crinkled with emotion as his trembling hand brushed over Sherlock's forehead and stroked back his dark curls. It wasn't fair that this long-awaited moment had to be tinged with so much sadness. Sherlock wished that they had met sooner, that he hadn't run away from home when he was fifteen. Still, the past couldn't be undone, but they were here now, together. His mind was clear and calm. The choice was his. Sherlock knew what he wanted.

"John," he whispered, "I want you inside of me."

John's eyes widened, his breath catching in his chest. "Are you sure?"

"Yes," Sherlock said softly. "I need you. I need everything you can give me."

"I'm yours," John promised. "Everything I have to give is yours."

The soft golden glow from the streetlamps outside illuminated the windows, and John felt like he had fallen into a dream. He slid off the bed and reached for his overnight bag, his shaky hands fumbling for the packet of lubricant. The slick, shiny substance was cold, but John's hands were warm as his fingers slid inside Sherlock's body, soothing and stretching the tight ring of muscle. Sherlock tilted his head back, his long neck exposed, his breath coming in small gasps.

John kneeled between Sherlock's spread thighs once more. Arousal surged though him as he stared down at the beautiful boy lying underneath him and asked in a soft, tentative voice, "You sure you're ready for this?"

Sherlock gazed up at him with bright eyes and whispered, "John, please."

Giving in to the gravitational pull, John lowered himself down and kissed Sherlock as he slowly pressed inside him. Sherlock gasped and angled up his hips until their bodies were slotted together perfectly. John stayed still for a moment and watched Sherlock's face, checking for any sign of physical or emotional distress. Then he leaned over, pressing his lips against Sherlock's cheekbones, his eyelids, his nose, and his temple.

An amazing, earth-shattering realization finally hit Sherlock. This was going to be the first time someone made love to him.

John set a languid pace, rocking them both gently back and forth. Sherlock entangled his long legs around John's torso, pressing him deeper into his body, pressing them closer together. He felt a jolt of pleasure go down his spine as John gave a more earnest thrust and found the small bundle of nerves inside him. Encouraged by the boy's responsive gasps and moans, John increased the rhythm, hitting the same spot over and over again.

Soon enough John felt Sherlock trembling underneath him. He pressed his lips tenderly along the boy's collarbone and down his chest as it rose and fell with ragged breaths. The overwhelming sensation of his orgasm building made Sherlock feel like he was falling. He reached out seeking John's face with his hands, needing to see him, and John lifted his head to meet his gaze. The look of open desperation in Sherlock's eyes made John's heart contract with an ache so wonderful he wanted to feel it for the rest of his life. The words bubbled over before he could stop them. "Dammit, Sherlock, I love you so much."

Sherlock clung to him for dear life as he went over the edge. "John."

He slammed his eyes shut and came with a shuddering cry. John felt Sherlock clench and spasm around him, and he swiftly followed him down.

Before they cleaned each other off and put on their pajamas and brushed their teeth, before they turned off the light and got back under the covers, even before their heart rates slowed and their breathing evened out, they lay together for a brief eternity, just holding each other.

"Tell me you're real," Sherlock said softly. "You're too wonderful to be real."

John smiled and kissed him on the forehead. "You're the wonderful one."