Chapter the Tenth
Three days later, Anderson gets expelled. Somehow, his hall director manages to stumble upon the massive stash of weed he keeps hidden under his mattress—not to mention the fairly extensive collection of Japanese tentacle porn (pages of which mysteriously appear throughout the school, taped to bulletin boards and bathroom stalls so that the whole world can see just how sick this guy is). Needless to say, by the end of the week he's gone, slunk shamefully back to the family mansion in Sheffield or wherever the hell it is. John's just relieved that he doesn't have to see the stupid bastard grinning at him every time he passes him in the hallway.
Sherlock, oddly enough, doesn't say a single word about it. John doesn't ask, but that day he does catch himself smiling at his boyfriend a bit more often than usual.
But aside from that, not much changes. Sherlock takes to squeezing John's hand—always warmly, always briefly—every once in a while when John seems a bit down (and honestly, more gratifying than the physical contact is the reassurance that Sherlock's paying attention, that he cares about how he feels), and he even lets John hug him once or twice in the safety of his own room. Once, they actually hold hands all the way from one end of a hallway to the other before Sherlock dashes off to class, head ducked low in a futile attempt to hide the pink edging its way into his cheeks.
Strangely enough, John isn't frustrated. Dating—if that's what they're doing, considering they haven't been on a single date and John hardly dares to put an actual name to what they've got going—Sherlock is an entirely new experience, and not just because of the obvious fact of the matching genitalia. With Sarah it was…well, different.
They first kissed at a party, before they'd even agreed on, in Sherlock's words, mutual affection and attraction. Sarah was pretty, confident, and experienced, and John could barely stammer out a sentence (something dreadfully moronic along the lines of I think you're really pretty that makes him cringe even now). Fortunately, she kissed him before he could make too much more of a fool of himself by actually attempting to converse with her, and…well, he could taste the faint tang of alcohol on her tongue but he was too dumbfounded to even think of objecting. Besides, later that night when he asked her to a movie, she agreed. Five days later it was Facebook official, and Harry was giving him a vicious noogie and exclaiming over what a 'cute little straight boy' he was (the significance of which he didn't quite understand until later).
If only she could see her cute little straight brother agonizing over how best to go about his brand-new relationship with another bloke. Somehow, he thinks she wouldn't be all that surprised.
The fact of the matter is that now, the tables have turned. All of a sudden, John is the experienced, well-socialized half of the couple (couple, god, they're actually a couple now, and it still blows his mind every time he thinks of it). And the other half is…well, a secretive, devastatingly brilliant, infuriatingly attractive, unfathomably wealthy boy genius whom John has at various times privately diagnosed as bipolar, autistic, and sociopathic.
And John has absolutely no idea what to do. Yes, he's the well-socialized one, yes, he's the experienced one, but he wouldn't exactly nominate himself the dominant personality of the partnership. Besides, he's deadly afraid of somehow fucking up, of being too pushy, of wanting to move too fast, of frightening Sherlock off and becoming just another reason for him to give up on the human race.
So he waits and watches and tries desperately to feel for the moments when it feels right to touch Sherlock, to bump their shoulders together or lean back against those bony legs when he's sitting on the floor and Sherlock's perched, as usual, on the windowsill. One time, when they're walking down an otherwise deserted hallway (Sherlock has a penchant for wandering the castle at odd hours, and John of course indulges him), John hooks his pinky finger into Sherlock's trouser pocket and keeps it there in a gesture so gently possessive that when Sherlock looks down at him, his expression is about as close to pure delight as it will ever get. It's moments like this that make John dare to think that maybe, just maybe, he's getting somewhere.
They start going on long walks along the cliffs (John figures Sherlock must be failing physical education by now, though what with the smoking and the ankle and the not eating he's not entirely sure that he'd do much better even if he did actually show up). Sometimes they talk, but more often than not they just wander, and although he would never admit it, John is more than content to trail along beside Sherlock and just look at him with his hair blown back by the wind and his cheeks ruddy from the cold and a cigarette dangling from the corner of his mouth (and the only thing that John hates more than the fact that Sherlock smokes is how bloody dashing he looks doing it).
Sometimes, when John's ribs are bothering him or Sherlock's ankle aches a bit (he's finally rid himself of his boot and crutches, but the ghost of the fracture still pains him whenever there's rain in the air), they sit at the cliff's edge, shoulders just touching and feet dangling out into oblivion. Privately, John suspects it's a really terrible idea, but he gets such a rush out of it that he can't quite bring himself to object.
It's one of these particular times that it happens. Sherlock's been acting odd all day, but John knows for certain that something's wrong when they sit down in the damp grass at the edge of the cliff and he doesn't make the slightest move towards his cigarettes. He always smokes out here—always. Still, John knows better than to push; Sherlock will talk when he's ready. They sit in silence for quite a while, and John goes into a bit of a trance, staring out to sea and watching the white-crested waves speed relentlessly towards the shore.
And then, out of the blue, Sherlock says, "You know, I've never kissed anyone."
It takes a moment or two for John to snap out of it and come back to earth, but when he does, his breath kind of catches in his throat for a moment because what did he just say? When he looks over, Sherlock's gone kind of small and hunched, ruthlessly tearing at blades of grass with his restless fingers and very carefully not meeting John's eyes.
"Y-you haven't?" John asks, and god he's stupid, so bloody stupid but to be quite frank his brain has ground to a complete halt because unless he's completely incapable of processing verbal cues, it seems to him that this is it, this is the moment he's been watching and waiting for but now that it's come he's completely paralyzed.
"Are you surprised?" Sherlock rips up a clump of grass like it's done him a serious personal injury. "I barely speak to anyone, John, let alone engage in casual lip-locking."
"Yeah, but I'd always sort of figured-" John cuts himself off with a shrug, and oh god his heart is going to break through his ribs at any moment now. "Y'know, at some party or something, with the…y'know, the drugs or something…"
"John." Finally, Sherlock looks up, and when his eyes meet John's the bitterness there is almost overwhelming. "Do I really seem like the sort who does drugs at parties?"
Biting his lip, John does his absolute best to push away the mental image of Sherlock doing solitary lines in an enormous, empty bedroom, tries to ignore the feeling of dread that the very idea conjures up in his stomach because what if something happened, what if something went wrong and there was no one there to help? Clearly, his pity is too obvious on his face, because in a moment Sherlock turns away and goes back to picking at the grass, shoulders more hunched than before.
"Sherlock," John says quietly, and when the boy doesn't look up he says it again, but louder this time and with less of that irritating wobble in his voice. "Sherlock. Look at me, please."
Something about that is right, because in an instant Sherlock has raised his head and those too-blue eyes are fixed on John and for a second John forgets who he is and what he's doing because dear god how did he ever get to be with someone so bloody gorgeous? Because Sherlock is dark-haired and blue-eyed and practically male model material, and John is…well, John, with dishwater hair that never lies flat and dull grayish eyes and a funny sort of nose and weird ears and-
"John?" He comes back to Planet Earth to find Sherlock staring at him, eyebrows raised to somewhere between confusion and amusement.
"Sorry," he mutters, scrubbing his hands over his face in an attempt to force himself to pull it together, for god's sake what is the matter with you. "Got a bit, um…sorry, yeah, um." What are coherent sentences? he thinks bitterly, and god, why does Sherlock even put up with him?
Sherlock cocks his head at him (and Christ he's so damn adorable when he's confused) and says, "You're nervous."
"No shit, Sherlock," John huffs, shoving his hands into his armpits and trying to will the red out of his cheeks.
"I've upset you," Sherlock says quietly, and John can't help but stare at him because what?
"No," he says hastily, shaking his head fervently. "No, no, not at all. You didn't—I'm not—oh, Christ." His head drops back and he stares hopelessly up at the sky, as if begging for a bit of divine intervention so he can pull himself the fuck together and just kiss his boyfriend already.
"But something is clearly wrong," Sherlock says slowly, and John can feel those eyes on him but he doesn't dare look, doesn't dare take his gaze off the flat gray clouds overhead. "Your sentences are disjointed, your arms are folded in a clearly protective position, and you won't meet my eyes…are you hiding something?" Before John can ask him what the fuck he could possibly hide from him, Sherlock goes on, "No, no, that's wrong. You're…anticipating something. Preemptive anxiety, clearly. You're… trying to work up the nerve to say something, perhaps. But what?"
"Oh, for Christ's sake," John snaps, and leans over and kisses him.
It's a bit awkward, slightly rushed and involving a bit more nose and teeth than John would've liked, but more important than that is the fact that he's actually kissing Sherlock and he's really sort of surprised by how good it feels. Those wide, pale lips are just as soft as they look, and really quite warm and pliant and…well, unmoving. That's a bit odd, to be sure. And then John realizes that Sherlock is entirely frozen, not in shock, but because he doesn't know what to do.
After a moment or two, John decides that this is going about as well as kissing a wall and pulls away. The instant that Sherlock catches sight of his expression, the pale boy squeezes his eyes shut, and dear god, is he actually embarrassed?
"I've done something wrong," Sherlock murmurs through his teeth, cringing almost as if he expects John to punch him or something. "I'm sorry. I told you, John, I-"
"Sherlock, Sherlock, it's okay," John says gently, shaking his head with a smile. And then, without quite meaning to, he puts one hand to the side of Sherlock's face, molding his fingers around one knife-sharp cheekbone and making those bright eyes snap open in shock. "Just…relax, okay? It's alright. Come here."
Reluctantly, the taller boy leans back towards John, who carefully takes his face in both hands and kisses him again, tilting his head slightly so that their mouths fit together a bit better. And Sherlock's still stiff and frightened under his touch, but there's less nose-mashing this time, and he thinks maybe he feels Sherlock soften a little bit into the kiss.
After a moment, he pulls away just the slightest bit so that his lips just barely brush Sherlock's when he says, "So, you can turn your head a bit this way-" he nudges Sherlock's jaw in the opposite direction from his own, "-And we'll try again." They do, and this time their lips seal together effortlessly, until John pulls away with a faint noise of appreciation.
"Mm. Better?"
John can't quite suppress a smile as Sherlock nods fervently. But those dark brows quickly draw together as he asks, "But…I'm afraid I don't entirely see the point. It's…nice, but what else is there to do? Do people sit about with their lips pressed together for minutes on end?"
Stifling another chuckle, John shakes his head and says, "Oh, there's lots more to do, believe me. But we'll start slow, okay?"
"Slowly," Sherlock corrects him, but there's a smile behind it, so John's not too offended. Besides, it's really horribly distracting, the way that those blue eyes are focused on John like he's the only other soul on this earth, like he's new and strange and fascinating and beautiful, which sort of makes him nervous but mostly just makes him draw Sherlock's face closer to his and kiss him again. Only this time he moves his lips, gently, to capture and release Sherlock's only to recapture them again, and after a moment Sherlock starts to copy him and oh god it's working. When John tilts his head to the other side, Sherlock follows suit in the opposite direction, and when John pulls away they're both smiling a little.
"So, there's that," John murmurs, a little breathless. "And then there's this," he adds as he slides his hands from Sherlock's jaw into his hair, trying not to exult too much at finally being able to thread his fingers through those unruly curls and watch those eyes widen slightly as he pulls Sherlock in for another kiss. It seems that the other boy is getting the hang of it, because as his lips easily capture John's his hands slide into his cropped blond hair and John can't help but shiver because that feels good.
"Okay," Sherlock nods as they pull apart, a faint smile of satisfaction quirking the corners of his mouth as he takes note of John's slightly more labored breathing. "I think I follow so far. What else?"
"Well, your hands can go other places," John shrugs without thinking. The moment that he actually hears himself, he feels his cheeks go hot as he hastily adds, "Not, uh, not like that. Necessarily." Oh, for the love of god, stop talking!
Clearing his throat, he manages to compose himself enough to clarify, "I meant, uh, you know…neck, shoulders, back, waist, hips, like that." Frowning, he realizes that many of those words sound quite strange when not in relation to a girl…though he supposes that boys have waists and hips, as well. It's all very new and strange and confusing and exciting.
"All right," Sherlock nods again, eyebrows furrowing in concentration as he lets his hands slip out of John's hair and glide downwards—John's breath hitches slightly as his mind cries ohgodohgod what is he doing—and come to rest at John's, well, waist. Guess I do have one, he thinks faintly, but he's kind of distracted by the feeling of Sherlock's hands on him, warm and gentle but also somehow possessive, and the very idea makes him want to lean up and kiss Sherlock yet again but this time Sherlock leans down and beats him to it.
And this time it's perfect, because Sherlock seems relaxed and happy and John, for one, is absolutely overjoyed to be able to run his fingers through that hair and kiss those lips and oh god just everything. It's not exactly the best kiss he's ever had, in terms of the simple mechanics at least—there's a bit of fumbling and teeth-clacking but honestly none of that matters because it's Sherlock he's kissing, and he's so astounded by that fact that he hardly even notices when he opens his mouth slightly to swipe his tongue along Sherlock's lower lip—that is, until Sherlock jumps about a foot into the air and pulls away so fast that John practically falls off the cliff.
"Sorry," they say simultaneously, and John would laugh except Sherlock quickly adds, "You didn't warn me."
"Sorry," John repeats, though now there's a chuckle half-hidden in the word. And somewhere deep down, he thinks maybe he shouldn't be laughing, that he should be freaking the fuck out because he just frightened Sherlock away, but there's a curiosity flickering in those blue eyes that keeps him calm. "Um, got a little…caught up there. Didn't mean to, uh, startle you."
"It felt good," Sherlock mumbles, and instantly his eyes widen in a clear oh fuck did I really say that out loud expression, and John realizes that he really kind of enjoys it when Sherlock's face is an open book. This is what it must feel like to be him, he thinks absently.
"I'm glad," John grins, and after a moment Sherlock's deer-in-headlights expression disappears, to be replaced by a slow, shy sort of smile that shouldn't really be that sexy but burns straight into the pit of John's stomach anyway.
"Well, then," Sherlock says softly, and somehow they've gotten much closer and he can feel Sherlock's voice vibrating through his own chest, which is pretty much sending an express train of warmth straight to his groin. "Consider me, erm…warned."
This time, Sherlock wastes no time in sliding his tongue along John's lower lip, which John quickly parts from his upper to open his mouth up to Sherlock. Cautiously, Sherlock's tongue dips into John's mouth, only to retreat in order to allow John to return the favor. For his part, John takes his time, trailing his tongue over Sherlock's and tracing the inside edges of his teeth. To his delight, the other boy groans quietly and pulls him still closer, until they're flush against each other and oh god this is fantastic. What's even more fantastic is the embarrassed twist that Sherlock's mouth takes on when he realizes his involuntary action—no, scratch that, what's actually more fantastic is when John gets to kiss it away.
What's less than fantastic, however, is when Sherlock pulls away. Like, all the way away, so that John can't even lean up and kiss him anymore. The displeasure swelling in his chest must translate directly onto his face, because Sherlock half-smiles apologetically as he whispers, "Your next class starts in five minutes."