Chapter Two

John Watson let out his breath as the door closed behind Sherlock Holmes. He ran a hand through his hair and shook his head, a faint smile on his lips. Sherlock bloody Holmes. Sighing, John fell against the wall, leaning with his right shoulder, arms crossed. There was something unusual and unique about the raven-haired boy and he found himself undeniably drawn. Whether it was merely out of curiosity or because of other reasons, John could not quite pin down; all he knew was that he wanted to learn more about Sherlock Holmes.

John's thoughts were interrupted by Mrs Hudson, who had cleared her throat to get his attention. She smiled at him knowingly and said, "Fetching, isn't he?"

John's cheeks coloured and he coughed, looking away from the woman. "I don't know what you're talking about, Mrs Hudson," he muttered, keeping his eyes on the hardwood, pretending to find the patterns in the grain very interesting. John Watson was not gay….though, that evening's events had shown he was capable of finding another male attractive…. John shook his head violently, eyes squeezed shut. He did not fancy Sherlock Holmes he told himself firmly. Besides, there was no way he could, he had only known the other boy for five hours, maybe. Nowhere near enough time to deduce feelings for another person.

But Sherlock might be coming over again tomorrow, John thought, and to his surprise he felt the unmistakable flutter of butterflies in his stomach.

"I'm going to bed, Mrs Hudson. I'll see you in the morning," John announced after a few moments' embarrassing silence. He needed time to sort through his thoughts and feelings.

"Alright, sleep well, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, kissing him on the cheek goodnight.

And John trudged his way up the creaky staircase. Mrs Hudson had an empty flat on the level above and she had offered it to John while he stayed with her for the two and a half week long winter break. It was actually a very nice flat and he was considering asking Mrs Hudson to hold on to it for him, at least until he graduated and could move away from his parents. He could even possibly find himself a flatmate. But it was still a plan in progress.

He unlatched the deadbolt (Mrs Hudson always kept the flat locked, just in case. "It's better to be safe than sorry," she had said when John asked about it), and stepped into the flat. It was furnished nicely, a grey leather sofa pushed against one wall, a telly on the wall opposite it. There was what he supposed would be the dinning room table just between two windows and there were several bookshelves. John's favorite place to sit, though, was the chair he had claimed as his. Well, he would have claimed it, if there had been anyone to claim it from. It was a comfortable old chair with a Union Flag pillow. He enjoyed reading in it. And directly across from this comfortable chair it had a mate. Not the same chair though, more modern looking with a stainless steel frame and grey leather cushions. John couldn't help but wonder where Mrs Hudson had gotten it.

Sighing, John settled himself down in his chair to think. He was trying to sort out his feeling for Sherlock Holmes, but it was nearly impossible. Everything was just a jumble of confusion and he soon gave up, rubbing his forehead.

Glancing at his watch, he found that it was nearly 12 o'clockmidnight. He needed to get to bed or he would never wake up in the morning. Standing and stretching his arms over his head with a massive yawn, John slowly walked to his room. The events of the day were catching up with him quickly and he soon found himself lightheaded with drowsiness, his head feeling like a balloon full of helium whenever he moved it. Everything seemed to move too fast for his brain to process and his eyelids felt as if they were made from lead. When he reached his room, he stripped off his tee-shirt and jeans and fell into bed, falling asleep almost as soon as his head hit the pillow.

—

John was woken the next morning by a ray of sun that shone through a gap in the curtains. Groaning, he rolled onto his back and covered his face with his hands. After a few minutes, he work up his will power enough to drag himself out of bed and into the bathroom. Showering was his first priority, he hadn't had the chance yesterday. Between traveling into London, Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock Holmes, his day before had been completely busy. Sighing, he turned on the shower and meandered back to his room, gathering a clean change of clothes.

Back in the bathroom, John stripped off his pants and stepped under the warm stream of water. His muscles relaxed and he tilted his head back, wetting his hair. It felt nice, the warmth seeping into his soar body. Even on the off seasons, his father kept him practicing his football, even as he had toured through the deserts of Afghanistan; and as much as John loved the sport, it was nice to just relax for these two weeks, not worrying about the physical exertion that came from the intense training. Still, he had to keep in shape; two weeks of lazing around would do nothing but set him off course and cause him to have to work harder once he got home. John decided he would go for a run the next morning.

Ten minutes later, he stepped out of the shower, hair a disheveled damp mess, towel wrapped around his lean hips. Before he dressed, he grabbed his toothbrush from the counter, may as well get his other hygiene tasks out of the way. Once his teeth were clean and his mouth tasted like mint, John dressed, pulling on his pants, followed by his jeans and a plain navy blue tee-shirt. Now ready for the day, John checked the time on his mobile. He was surprised to find how early it was, only 7:30am. He wondered if Mrs Hudson would be up by now. Only one way to find out.

Making his way to the door, he considered pulling on a pair of clean socks and his trainers. But what was the point in that? He didn't plan on going anywhere, only around the flat, maybe he would wander around London later, but why put shoes on now? So barefooted, he crept silently down the stairs. Everything was quiet, but that didn't mean Mrs Hudson wasn't awake. And then all at once, John was hit with the smell of fresh coffee. It sharpened his senses and seemed to wake him up further.

"Mrs Hudson?" he called softly, following the sent. Mixed in with the smell of the coffee, John detected toast and something sweet.

"In the kitchen, dear!" Mrs Hudson called cheerily.

John made his way to the kitchen and found the woman wearing a flowered apron; it looked like she was baking something and upon entering the room, John found that it smelled amazing.

"What're you making, Mrs Hudson?" he asked, coming up behind her and pecking her cheek good morning. "Smells heavenly."

"Oh, I'm glad you think so," she said, smiling up at him. "It's an old family recipe. Strawberry pie."

"Mmm," John hummed. "Anything I can help you with?"

"Oh, no, dear. Just sit down and eat. I made you breakfast." She gestured to the small table against the wall. On it, there was a plate with beans and toast and a steaming cup of coffee.

"You didn't have to make me anything. I could have done it," John said gratefully, sitting down and taking a sip of the coffee. It was just the way he liked it, no sugar, no milk.

"Nonsense. You're my guest."

John just smiled, taking a bite of the toast. It was good. While he ate he found himself thinking, infuriatingly, of Sherlock Holmes. Sighing, he set down his breakfast and clasped his hands together.

"Mrs Hudson," he said at length, keeping his eyes on his food. He gnawed on his bottom lip before continuing. "Will Sherlock be coming over again today?"

Mrs Hudson glanced over at the blonde, a little smile gracing her sweet face. "I don't know, dear," she admitted. "But I'm sure he will be. He's over here all the time. Comes to avoid his brother, you know." She nodded to herself.

John found that he was a little bit surprised. "He has a brother?"

"Oh yes," Mrs Hudson pipped. "He's practically the entire British government. He and Sherlock don't really get on. They used to be so close as children." Mrs Hudson clicked her tongue, a look of regret on her face.

John took a thoughtful bite of his toast. So Sherlock Holmes had an older brother who was important in the British government. But there was still so much he wanted to know about the other boy.

"What time does he usually come over?" John asked, finishing the last of his beans and toast. He stood up and placed his plate in the sink.

"Usually in the evening. During the summer and winter breaks, he's a bit of a night owl. He stays up late reading and playing that violin of his, and then spends most of the day sleeping. It's an unhealthy habit if you ask me, but he seems to enjoy being nocturnal." Mrs Hudson wiped her hands on her apron, looking at John as he sipped his coffee and leaned against the kitchen table.

John was struck. Sherlock Holmes had an older brother and he played the violin. How interesting. Well, if he was coming over today, and John dearly hoped that he would, it would be in the evening. He had plenty of time to see the sights at least.

"Mrs Hudson, would you mind if I went out later? I've never really seen this part of London and I'd like to take a look around."

"Of course not, dear," Mrs Hudson replied, placing the pie crust over the filling of strawberries and sugar. "It's your holiday and you can spend it however you like."

John smiled and placed his cup with his plate in the sink.

"Oh, one more thing," the woman called before he had the chance to leave the kitchen. He looked over his shoulder at her. "I'm you hostess, not your house keeper."

John's cheeks flushed and he quickly returned to the sink to wash his dishes.

—

It was around four-thirty in the afternoon when John returned from his day on the town. He had a few shopping bags in his arms and quickly stored them up in his flat. He had done a bit of Christmas shopping while he was out and had picked up a few things he thought Mrs Hudson would like. Once the bags were safely hidden under his bed, John grabbed the book he was currently reading from the coffee table and settled into his chair.

An hour and three chapters later, a knock came from the front door, and John jumped, his heart fluttering. Stop that, he scolded himself, you do not fancy him. He's just interesting. Different. Nothing more. You do not fancy him! Sighing, he stood up and dog-eared his book, placing it on the side table next to his chair. From downstairs he could hear Mrs Hudson talking cheerfully to Sherlock and as they passed the base of the stairs, she yelled up:

"John! Sherlock is here!"

John blushed faintly and hurried to greet Sherlock.

The two were in the drawing room again and when John stepped in, his heart leapt into his throat as Sherlock looked up and flashed him a smile before resuming his conversation with Mrs Hudson. He took the seat opposite Sherlock and watched him from beneath his lashes as he poured himself a cup of tea. He had to admit to himself that he rather liked the way Sherlock's dark hair framed his pale face, and he couldn't help but ogle at the light blue of his eyes. Eyes that were now watching him closely.

Shit, John thought, looking away and focusing on the tea cup and saucer that rested between his hands, he's seen me watching him. God, why does he have to be so easy on the eyes? He bit his lip nervously.

And that was when it hit him. He did fancy Sherlock Holmes. Quite a bit actually. John fancied him more than he'd fancied any girl he'd ever dated. After knowing the boy for only five hours, John Watson found himself wanting to tangle his fingers in those raven curls and kiss that delicate neck. The thought made him blush and he ducked his head down, hoping Sherlock wouldn't notice. It was insane, completely unreasonable. He shouldn't want someone so badly after only knowing them for five hours. Of course, John had friends (if you could call them that) that had screwed girls after knowing them only a few minutes.

But somehow this was different. He didn't just want Sherlock for a quick fuck. He actually wanted to know him, be with him. And that thought made John even more embarrassed, his cheeks colouring a deeper shade of pink.

"John?" He jumped at Mrs Hudson's voice and her hand on his forehead. "You haven't got a fever, have you?" she asked, worried.

"Ah….No. I'm alright, Mrs Hudson. Just a bit hot's all." John smiled at her reassuringly. But at the same time he had to hold back a little laugh at the innuendo of his words.

"Hmm….well, if you say so." She sat back in her chair and resumed her conversation with Sherlock once again.

The two were talking about Sherlock's school, but the raven-haired boy didn't seem to be paying attention. His eyes never strayed from John's face and it made John a little bit uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair, keeping his gaze on anything and everything that wasn't Sherlock's body or face. It was difficult.

Five hours, and he's already got you hooked like a fish! he yelled at himself. Five hours and you already want to invite him upstairs. Oh, just look past the fact that you're not gay, I'm sure it'll be fine. What the hell is wrong with you?! John hissed under his breath, furrowing his brows angrily at himself. How could he let himself be swept off his feet by some boy he had never, until the day before, met in his entire life. It was frustrating to think about.

—

Finally, at a little past eleven, Sherlock left, and the tension of resisting the urge to jump him right then and there evaporated from John's body. It was a relief to see Sherlock go, but at the same time, he wished he had stayed for a little bit longer. He enjoyed the sound of Sherlock's voice, it was deep and rich and it sent a chill down John's spine ever time he spoke.

Sighing, John said good night to Mrs Hudson and trudged back up to the flat above. He was tired and wanted to sleep, but his mind was racing. He fancied Sherlock Holmes. Of all the people in the world, male or female, he fancied Sherlock Holmes. Though John had not seen Sherlock interact with other people besides himself and Mrs Hudson, he had the distinct feeling that the raven-haired boy wasn't very good with others. He was crass and spoke his mind truthfully to an almost hurtful degree. Despite these facts, John still wanted to be with Sherlock like he had never wanted to be with anyone else. It was maddening, truly maddening.

Covering his face with his hands and groaning, John sat down in his chair. What on earth was happening? He had come to London to visit Mrs Hudson for the Christmas holiday, only to find himself completely smitten for a boy who went to a boarding school hours away. Besides that, John didn't even live in central London, no, he lived on the very outskirts of the city. It had taken his mother nearly an hour just to get him to 221B Baker Street with the usual traffic, how long would it take him to visit Sherlock on weekends if they ended up together? Long distance relationships were never a good idea.

Oh, but he really wanted to try. It would be worth it, he could tell. With a tired sigh, John stood and walked slowly to his room. He needed to sleep on his thoughts a little bit, get his mind sorted out.

—

Sherlock Holmes is here, in my room. He has a devilish grin on his face that I find incredibly sexy. Slowly, he stalks forward like a cat, his eyes gleaming. He's at the foot of my bed, pulling the covers down. I'm fully clothed, wearing the same thing I fell asleep in. He's crawling up and it makes him look even more cat-like. He finally reaches me and straddles my waist, pushing my shoulders back until I'm laying down.

He leans down and his lips skim my ear as he whispers, "Just relax, John." And I do, looking up at him, a small smile on my lips. I know what's coming.

Sherlock kisses me and I wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him closer against my chest. I feel his lips moving against mine and it's like heaven on earth. His kiss is soft and sweet, but slowly it starts to heat up. His teeth graze my bottom lip and I shiver involuntarily. He slides his tongue along the edge of it before prying my mouth open. I moan quietly, arching my back so that our chests are pressed even tighter together and our stomachs touch. Kissing Sherlock Holmes is like nothing I've ever felt before, it's amazing. His mouth is soft but demanding.

His tongue touches mine fleetingly before diving in, causing me to moan more loudly. He swallows the sound up, his mouth moving perfectly against mine. Suddenly he pulls away and we're both gasping for air. As I'm catching my breath, Sherlock ducks his head down and begins attacking my neck. His lips touch a sensitive area that sends a shudder down my spine and I feel him grin before he begins to suck at the spot. I groan and one of my hands moves from his waist to tangle in his dark curls.

After a moment, he pulls away slightly, running his tongue over what I'm sure will be a fantastic love-bite in the morning. I pull him back to my mouth by his hair and kiss him softly, running my tongue over his bottom lip. Before I know it, he's in my mouth and as he explores, I role my hips unconsciously against his and I think I hear a noise that sounds suspiciously like a quiet moan escape his lips. I want to hear it again, so I throw myself into the kiss and grind my hips hard against Sherlock's. He pulls away and tilts his head back, letting out a breathy moan.

For a moment his just sits there, looking up at the ceiling and panting, but then his eyes move back down to my face and his hands slide under my shirt. His fingers are warm as the move along my stomach, stroking my sides softly. From the look on his face, I know he wants the clothing off, so I sit up and decide to tease him. As slowly as I can, I pull the hem of my shirt up, revealing little by little my stomach and finally my chest.

As I discard the unwanted clothing, I suddenly find myself being pushed down again, and Sherlock's mouth is on my throat, kissing softly. He moves at a torturous pace down my body and he has me withering as he places a trail of love-bites all down my chest and stomach until he reaches my navel. I feel his tongue dance against it and I let out a gasp, arching my back.

Unable to stop myself, I move his head back up to my mouth and kiss him feverishly. His tongue moves against mine and when I moan, he pulls away and his mouth ghosts back down to my stomach. I feel his fingernails scratch against my sides and arch my back again, biting my lip to fight the groan that is threatening to burst out.

Sherlock moves his hands from my waist down to my fly and begins to undo the button. My heart leaps into my throat as I watch him. He looks back up at me before resituating himself so that he is nestled comfortably between my legs, rather than straddling my waist. He massages my sides and stomach and I practically turn to putty beneath his hands. I moan and gasp and arch my back, and all the while, he grins at me, satisfied that he is able to draw such noises from my lips. It would have been embarrassing if it didn't feel so good.

I feel him pull at the elastic of my pants with his teeth as he begins to tug my jeans down lower. Soon the denim jeans are around my thighs.

Sherlock gazes up at me. His eyes are blazing with want as he bends his head down and licks me through my pants. I moan loudly, throwing me head back. I hear Sherlock chuckle and my pants are sliding down to join my jeans—

John sat bolt up in his bed, panting hard, heart beating so fast it felt like it would jump from his chest. He felt that his shirt was clinging to his back, damp with sweat, and he could tell that he was hard. Laying back down, John covered his face with his hands and focused on calming his racing heart and getting his breath back. He had just had a sex dream, a very good sex dream, about Sherlock Holmes, a boy he had know for a total of eleven hours. He felt his cheeks and ears heat up. Despite being mortified about the dream, John couldn't help but wonder if that was really what it would be like to have sex with Sherlock Holmes. He shook his head violently. He had to push the dream out of his mind and forget about it.

But John couldn't forget about the dream, not when he had evidence of it right there between his legs. That had been for Sherlock, and as much as the thought of being hard for another boy embarrassed him, he couldn't help but feel a little bit pleased.

—

When John woke in the morning, he was exhausted. He did not want to get out of bed. Groaning, he rolled over and covered his head with his pillow. After a few minutes, he sighed and pulled himself from under the covers. Judging by how high the sun was in the sky, John guessed it was nearly noon. It was no wonder his was so tired; he had seriously overslept. Yawning, he made his way to the bathroom, turning on the shower.

As the water heated up, he went back to the bed and lifted the sheets. He was relieved to find there were no telltale stains from his previous night's dream. Sighing and rubbing his forehead, John gathered a change of clean clothes and returned to the bathroom. The room was steamy, and the minute he stepped in his exposed skin was covered in a sticky film. With a huge yawn, John pulled his shirt over his head, it was the one he had worn the day before and it was wrinkled from being slept in. He ran a hand through his ruffled hair and yawned again. Next he tugged off his jeans and pants, and stepped under the water, his back arching as the hot spray hit it.

His muscles relaxed as his body got used to the temperature of the shower. He sighed and tilted his head back, closing his eyes as he wet his hair. Suddenly they flew open.

"Shit," he hissed to himself, shaking his head. He was going to go for a run that morning. Damn his over sleeping. Well, he would just have to take another shower when he got back. Turning off the water, John stepped out of the shower, wet, but no cleaner than he had been when he stepped in.

Toweling his body and hair dry, he pulled on his clean pants and went back to his room, crouching in front of the chest of drawers and pulling out a pair of sweatpants and a hooded sweatshirt. Once dressed, John walked to the bedside table and picked up his iPod, tucking it away in the pouch pocket of the sweatshirt.

"Mrs Hudson," he called and he took the steps two at a time. "Mrs Hudson, I'm going for a run."

"On an empty stomach, dear?" Mrs Hudson called from what sounded like the living room.

John made his way in that direction and popped his head into the room. Sure enough, there was Mrs Hudson, gazing at him from over what looked like a romance novel. "Yeah," he said, smiling to her. "If I eat then go for a run, I'll only end up with a stitch in my side. I'll eat when I come back."

"Did you just roll out of bed, John Watson?" the woman scolded, setting the novel beside her on the sofa.

"Ah, yeah," John answered sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck. "I got up about twenty minutes ago. Over slept." He didn't mention that he had had a wet dream about Sherlock Holmes that had woken him up some time in the wee hours of the morning; somehow he felt she didn't need to know that bit of information.

Mrs Hudson tutted then waved her hand dismissively. "Well, off you go, then."

John flashed her a quick smile before turning and jogging to the front door. As he walked down the two front steps, he pulled his iPod from his pocket and plugged himself in. He warmed up by jogging the first five or six blocks before picking up his pace. He focused on regulating his breathing and the ache of the muscles in his legs. He felt his heart beating behind his ribs and he felt the blood pumping through his body; it was exhilarating yet at the same time, relaxing.

After about a mile or so, John slowed to catch his breath and stretch his sore muscles. After a moment, he took a deep breath and continued on. Every now and then he had to dodge people on the sidewalk, though the foot traffic wasn't nearly as busy as it would have been if it were a weekend. It was Monday and people were at work, or out to lunch, so the majority of the pedestrians were tourists and other teenagers out for winter break.

Looking at the clock on his iPod, John saw that he had been out for nearly an hour and his stomach was growling fiercely. Deciding it was time to head back to Baker Street, he slowed and turned round. Somewhere in the process, he nearly ran into a man. Startled, John took two clumsy steps back and nearly tripped over his own feet.

"Oh, Jesus!" he gasped out, pulling the earbud from his right ear. The man looked equally startled, though about a thousand times better dressed. He was wearing a well-fitting grey three-piece suit and a black coat, and he clutched an umbrella in his left hand. Somehow, the man reminded John of Sherlock, but he couldn't quite place why. Once his heart was back under control, he looked up at him and smiled apologetically. "Sorry. I didn't see you."

"It's quite alright," the man said pleasantly, smiling politely. John couldn't help but feel that he was wearing something like a mask to cover his emotions, but quickly pushed the thought aside.

"Ah, yes, well…" John cleared his throat uncomfortably after a few awkward moments' silence. "I best be on my way. Sorry for nearly knocking into you." He smiled apologetically once more and began to step away.

"Have a nice day," the man in the three-piece suit called after him.

John shivered a little bit, not from the cold. Something about that man put him off and he couldn't quite place it. He began jogging again, slowly picking up his pace until he leveled out at a comfortable speed. He focused on his breathing once more, keeping it as even as he could. He didn't stop running until he was at the front steps of 221B, practically gasping for breath. Perhaps he had pushed himself a little too hard on the way back, but he wanted to put as much distance between himself and that smartly dressed man as possible. Something about him didn't settle right with John.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm back," he called breathlessly as he entered the flat, closing the door softly behind him.

Before he could hear his hostess's reply, he was taking the stairs two at a time. He wanted to shower badly, he was sweaty and hot, and his hair felt gritty and dirty when he ran his hand through it. The run had exhausted him and he could hear his stomach growling at him angrily, demanding to be fed right now. But John couldn't eat right now, he had to shower.

His clean clothes were still resting on the counter where he had left them when he woke; all he needed was a clean pair of pants, because he certainly wasn't going to put the pair he was wearing back on. He turned on the water, being sure not to make it as hot as it had been that morning; he needed to cool down, not boil in his skin. Once he was sure the water was at the right temperature, he pulled his sweatshirt over his head and tossed it on the bathroom floor. His sweatpants and pants swiftly followed and John was under the water, soaking his gritty hair and letting the water's cool flow rinse the sweat from his body. It felt more refreshing than it should have, but that was okay in John's mind, you could never be too refreshed.

Once he was clean by his own standards, John stepped from the shower and picked up his towel. It was still a bit damp from earlier, but he really didn't care, all he wanted was to be dry and clothed and to get food in his stomach before it began to eat him from the inside out. It was growling at him, angrier than ever at being neglected for so long.

Dressed, John made his way to the kitchen; luckily, there was one in the flat Mrs Hudson had lent him and she had stocked the fridge for him before he arrived. His hair was dripping down the back of his neck, but honestly, really, he didn't care. All he wanted was food. So, rifling through the contents of the refrigerator, John made himself a ham and cheese sandwich and grabbed a bag of crisps from the cupboard. It would have to do for now.

He sat down at the table and ate his food in silence, listening for Mrs Hudson. John couldn't hear her from his spot at the kitchen table and wondered if she was still reading her novel in the living room or if she had perhaps gone out. It really didn't matter either way, he supposed. He was planning on doing nothing for the rest of the day, probably watch telly, maybe read a little.

Finished with his meal, John stood and set his plate in the sink (he would wash it later). He gave a massive yawn, stretching his arms over his head, and padded to the living room, plopping down heavily on the sofa. He groped around for a moment before finding the television remote and flipping the telly on. He channel surfed for a few minutes before he decided there was nothing interesting on and settled for some terrible soap opera.

John couldn't help as his eyelids began to feel heavy and he started nodding off. Eventually, he just gave in and lay down on the sofa. He tucked his right hand under his chin and let his left dangle over the edge of the cushion. Within minutes he was asleep, snoring lightly, the soap opera going on dramatically without him.