Chapter Three
Sherlock paced up and down his room. He hadn't slept at all and it was nearly four in the afternoon. He had been too busy trying to figure out his feelings; he used the word grudgingly, because he had to face the fact that he did indeed have them for John Watson. It was ludicrous, that after such a small amount of time he had actual feelings for this, blonde-haired, blue-eyed football player, and it made him want to pull his hair out.
He had attempted to rebuild his walls on Saturday when they were torn down the first time, but it quickly became obvious to him that John was the one exception. John was the only person who had ever been able to break through, and he would be the only person Sherlock would ever let near him on an emotional level. There had been no point in attempting to refortify his defenses, he realized, because they would only be torn down again, in less time than it had taken on their second meeting.
Not only were there ihis own/ifeelings to mule over, but there were also those of John. John, whom he had assumed to be not gay. Sherlock had been watching him the day before and was pleasantly surprised to find how flustered the boy was around him. He was constantly biting his lip and averting his eyes, and at one point he had blushed so noticeably that Mrs Hudson had though he'd had a fever. Of course John had said he was only hot and Sherlock had had to literally bite back the grin at the innuendo of the footballer's choice of words, worrying the inside of his cheek. When he had glance over to John, he notice that the blonde was fighting back a smile as well, indicating that a similar thought was passing through his mind.
So, John Watson, who was so obviously inot/igay, showed all the obvious signs of being interested in Sherlock Holmes. It was all very confusing and something Sherlock wanted to get sorted out as soon as possible.
Mind made up, Sherlock snatched his coat and scarf from his bed and pulled on his trainers. He glanced out his window to check the weather and decided he would be fine without an umbrella. Unbolting his bedroom door, he stepped cautiously out into the hall. He wasn't sure if his brother was home or not and wasn't going to take any chances.
As silently as he could, Sherlock crept down the stairs into the foyer, wincing at the sound his shoes made against the hardwood floor; a hollow sort of /itap tap tap./iHe paused briefly at the door to make sure his set of house keys were in his coat pocket along with his wallet and mobile, before swiftly stepping out into the chilly December air. He flagged down a cab as soon as he could and told the cabbie the address in a hurried voice.
Sherlock tapped his fingers impatiently against his knee as they made their way slowly through the city. This was one of those times when he wanted to get to where he was going as quickly as possible.
"Excuse me," he called from the back seat. The cabbie looked at him in the rear-view mirror, a little startled. "I realize you have to make a living somehow, but I would appreciate you taking the most direct route to my destination please. I'm in a bit of a hurry. And please don't try to be clever. I have every street of this city memorized," he added.
The cabbie grumbled grudgingly, but didn't argue, and they pulled up to 221B in less the fifteen minutes. Sherlock hurried up the front steps and knocked on the door, stepping back and waiting impatiently. He heard Mrs Hudson's foot steps through the flat and when she answered, he all but shoved passed her, looking around and listening for John.
"Sherlock," Mrs Hudson said, concern colouring her voice. "Is something the matter?"
"John. I need to speak with John. Where is he?" Sherlock said, his words coming out in a rush. He turned to Mrs Hudson.
"He's upstairs. Came back from a run and hasn't come down since," Mrs Hudson answered, worry still apparent on her sweet features. "Is something wrong, Sherlock?"
"No, Mrs Hudson, everything is fine. I just need to speak with John." And Sherlock took the stairs two at a time. He was at the door that led into the flat John had claimed as his for the duration visit in no time at all and paused to check that it wasn't locked. To his relief, it was indeed unlocked, saving him some trouble.
As quietly as he could, Sherlock opened the door. He didn't want to startle John with his sudden presence. But then, perhaps he should have knocked first…. Ah well, it was too late now. He stepped into the flat and found that the telly was on and that John was asleep on the sofa, his right hand tucked adorably under his chin and his left dangling over the edge of the cushion. Sherlock drew in a sharp breath and let it out slowly, smiling.
He shut the door silently and toed off his shoes. He didn't want to wake the sleeping John with the sound of his trainers tapping loudly across the floor. When he made it to the sofa, there was no place for him to sit but the floor (John's body was stretched out over the majority of the piece of furniture), so Sherlock pushed the coffee table back a little and sat. He was actually kind of glad to have stumbled upon the footballer napping; it gave him time to think about what he would say, since he hadn't bothered to think of anything clever during the cab ride. He braced his elbows on his knees and steepled his hands together, placing the tips of his fingers against his lips, and thought.
The only way he could think of starting the conversation that was sure to come was to open with something along the lines of, "John Watson, you confuse me," –but that would be admitting he got confused— "you are obviously not gay, yet you give off signs that make it seem like you're interested in me." Sherlock shook his head. That sounded stupid, even he could see that. He groaned quietly into his hands; people were not his area of expertise, he didn't know how to interact with them, and he certainly didn't know how to go about asking another person whether they fancied him or not.
Some sixty or so minutes later when John began to stir and Sherlock still hadn't thought of anything clever to say, Sherlock's heart leapt into this throat. It was an unusual feeling, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't like feeling nervous. It was uncomfortable.
Sherlock watched as John's eyes fluttered open. They were a deep blue that was so distracting they caused him to lose his train of thought completely. It was only when John gave what sounded suspiciously like a squeal of surprise that he looked away from those eyes and focused on the blonde's face. There, there was shock, but there was something else too. A pleasantly surprised expression? Sherlock swallowed hard. John was actually pleased to see him.
"Sherlock," John said slowly, pushing himself up onto his left elbow. "What're you doing here?"
"I—um—I needed to speak to you about—something…." Sherlock had the hardest time focusing on his words when John was looking at him so intently with those deep blue eyes.
"How long have you been waiting for?" John asked, and Sherlock swore he could hear something like concern in his voice.
"Um—an hour? I think." He swallowed a hard lump that was beginning to form in his throat.
"And?" John said at length, sitting up further. His hair was tousled from sleep and Sherlock wet his lips, resisting the urge to reach out and push his hand through that blonde mess.
He shook his head, trying to clear it. "What? O-oh, right. Ah….Well. I'm not sure how to word it—exactly." He bit his lip, cursing himself for letting one person affect his thinking process so much. It was unnerving and a little bit frightening.
"Just spit it out," John suggested. He doesn't say it in an impatient or harsh way, he really meant it as a suggestion. Just get it out. Sherlock's heart fluttered and his cheeks warmed fractionally and he hated his body for giving in to emotion.
He took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. "John Watson," he finally said, his voice shaking noticeably. He cursed under his breath and tried again, trying to keep his voice steady. "John Watson. This is something I'm not used to dealing with." He looked up and saw John's confused expression and sighed. "Emotion—isn't something I handle very well," he tried to explain, looking down at his hands. "I usually keep emotion contained behind walls I've built up over the years, but—but you—when I met you two days ago," Sherlock shook his head, trying to grasp onto the proper words. "Um….Well, I guess you could say you shattered those walls with a single blow." He laughed shakily. "As if they were made of—of glass. I tried rebuilding, but—ah…the way you were acting yesterday, the way you looked up at me through your eyelashes…." He bit his lip. "It ripped those newly rebuilt walls right down and everything you did drove me mad. And—um—I…." Sherlock paused again, shaking his head with a rueful smile.
"What? Go on," John whispered, and Sherlock looked up at him. The blonde's cheeks were tinged pink and he looked far too adorable for his own good.
Sherlock straightened his back and continued as best he could. "John Watson. I—I was just wondering…. Would you happen to want to go to—to dinner….with me?" He looked away from John, his cheeks flushing very pink.
Everything was silent for a moment and Sherlock felt deflated. It was a ridiculous feeling, really. He shouldn't have gotten his hopes up in the first place. No, actually, he shouldn't have let his walls get battered down in the first place. That was what had ruined everything. Sherlock had been perfectly fine before those faulty walls had come crashing down.
"I understand if you don't—"
"Yes," John interrupted.
Sherlock's head snapped up. "What?" Had he heard John right?
"I said, yes," John repeated. His cheeks were even pinker and he had that charming smile on his face that had brought down Sherlock's walls in the beginning.
"Yes?" Sherlock said dumbly. "Yes, you'll go to dinner with me?"
John laughed and leaned forward, resting his forehead against Sherlock's. "Yes, I'll go to dinner with you. Don't make me repeat it again."
Sherlock could barely contain his excitement. He could feel the smile pull at his lips and couldn't help but wind his arms around John's torso, hugging him tightly. He felt silly with happiness. He was going on a date with John Watson! He could have jumped with joy.
"When?" he half heard John mumbled. The footballer sounded drugged and when Sherlock pulled away, he found that John looked as happy as he felt.
"Sorry?"
"When will we go on this date?" John asked more clearly, a smile on his lips.
Sherlock thought for a moment, not releasing the blonde from his grasp. "How about tomorrow evening? Eight o'clock?"
John looked thoughtful and he began to feel a slight pull of worry. Was he going about this the wrong way? But to his relief the footballer smiled and seemed pleased with the way things were going.
"Eight o'clock tomorrow evening sounds great," John whispered, one of his hands wandering to Sherlock's hair, combing through it gently.
"Mmm," he purred, closing his eyes and leaning into John's hand, very much like a cat. John's fingers felt nice against his scalp. He would have liked to stay like that until the sun rose, stay there with John's fingers combing softly through his hair, down his cheek and neck. But he had to be home; there was no telling what Mycroft would do, or who he would send after him if he didn't answer his phone for another full day. It was something Sherlock preferred not to think about. Reluctantly, he pulled away from John's soft touch and opened his eyes. "Tomorrow evening, then. I have to get home. My brother will go mad if he finds I've stated out late again." He stood up and John protested, grasping the hem of his shirt.
"You can just call him," the blonde suggested, a hint of desperation and disappointment in his voice. Sherlock's heart soared. John didn't want him to leave.
"My brother is insane," he mumbled, looking down into the footballers eyes. "I'll be back tomorrow, I promise."
John bit his lip and hesitated before standing up. Sherlock watched him curiously, wondering what he was going to do. When John leaned forward and pressed his mouth softly against his own, he started, his heart leaping into his throat. When he got his bearings back together, Sherlock returned the kiss before pulling away. "I'll be back before you know it," he whispered. He was at the door, slipping his trainers on when he turned back and said, "Oh, and wear something nice." Sherlock grinned and made his leave.
—
Back at home, Sherlock took one of the longest showers he had ever taken in his life, standing under the hot spray until the water began to run cold, stepping out nearly two hours later. As he was toweling off, he was suddenly stricken with gladness that he had brought his purple button up shirt, because he didn't have any other nice clothing.
As he pulled on something comfortable, barely paying attention to his actions, his hair dripped down his back, making him shiver. He glanced at the clock hanging on the wall, 8:41pm. It was far too early to even consider sleeping, he had at least another seven hours before he would even begin to feel drowsy. So he sat down on his bed, wearing his most comfortable pair of sweat pants and one of his oldest tee-shirts, and thought. He stared at the wall, thinking, until his back began to ache. And then he laid himself down and stared at the ceiling, thinking some more. He wasn't even sure at what time exactly he fell asleep. He estimated around five or six in the morning, because before everything went black, he recalled the sky growing lighter with the dawn.
—
When Sherlock woke again, it was nearly two in the afternoon. Groaning, he rolled over and burrowed beneath his covers, trying to will sleep to wash over him again. After about twenty minutes of laying cocooned in his blankets, he sighed and sat up with a massive yawn. The sun was slanting through the curtains and he squinted against its light. He sat for a moment as the previous day's events washed over him, and his heart skipped a beat when he recalled that he had a date with John later in the evening. It was more excitement than he had ever felt in his seventeen years.
Finally he crawled out of bed, creeping to the door. Sherlock had no idea whether or not his brother had left for work or not, but he was starving and would have to risk finding out. Slowly, he made his way down the hallway, padding silently. Before descending the staircase, he peeked down, making sure the coast was clear. It was and he took the steps two at a time, avoiding the places that creaked and groaned underfoot. At the base, Sherlock paused and listened. The house was silent save for the clock ticking on the wall in the foyer. He was not about to let his guard down, however, and crept to the kitchen, peering around the door. It was completely deserted. Sighing in relief, Sherlock entered the room and meandered to the refrigerator. His stomach was growling at him angrily and it was a sensation he wanted to get rid of as soon as possible. He didn't like have his stomach calling the shots.
When he opened the refrigerator, Sherlock found eggs and sausage. He was suddenly glad that his mother had taught him how to cook when he was a child. It was virtually the only time they had ever spent together, but it had not been in vain. Sherlock was able to cook for himself when it was necessary, and the cook was on holiday until after Christmas. He didn't know what his brother was going to do about dinner on Christmas Eve, but he didn't plan on staying, so it really wasn't his problem. If he did stay, Mycroft would surely bully him into cooking all day for the family. It was simply not something he was willing to do; not for his family, the despicable people they were. Sherlock would be far too tempted to poison them or something of the likes.
He pulled a clean pan from the rack hanging above the island and set it on the stove top, turning the gas flame on to medium. Humming softly to himself, he returned to the refrigerator and plucked a stick of butter from the door. Once the butter was melted on the pan, he cracked to eggs and watched as they sizzled, the whites beginning to congeal almost immediately. After a moment, he added the sausage before returning everything to the refrigerator and tossing the eggshells in the waste bin. By the time he returned to the stove, his eggs were nearly finished and he salted and peppered them, before flipping them. Next the sausage was flipped.
Sherlock grabbed a plate from the shelf and a fork from the drawer and set them on the counter. He waited for another minute, his long fingers tapping against the polished granite. When he was sure his food was finished, he scooped it onto his plate and moved to sit at the island. The eggs were good, as was the sausage.
When he was finished eating, Sherlock stood and placed his plate and cutlery in the sink. By this time, he was sure his brother was not in the house. If he had been, he would have been in the kitchen as soon as Sherlock began to cook, hounding him for breakfast. Well, perhaps not breakfast; it was about two-thirty in the afternoon after all. Without the worry of Mycroft bothering him, Sherlock took the time to go through the library. He had not been in the room in a very long time and he wondered if his mother and father had added anything new to their collection. Sherlock knew that his father kept all of the books in the library cataloged.
The library was probably his favorite room in the house aside from his own. He would have spent more time going through stacks of books as a child if not for his father and brother. They seldom let him in, mostly because that was where meetings were held. Looking back, Sherlock wondered why they never used their father's study; it would have been the more logical decision. That didn't matter now, however. He was never home, and the Monkshood library was very well-stocked.
Sherlock was disappointed to find that there were no new additions to his family's extensive collection of tomes. With a sigh, he exited the room and made his way back to his bedroom. He still had a few books under his bed that he had not had a chance to read.
—
It was nearly 6:30pm when Sherlock looked up from the volume he was reading through. Startled, he threw his book to the side, not bothering to mark his place, and scrambled about the room, grabbing this item of clothing or that. He cursed under his breath, angry that he had let himself get so absorbed in his reading. He was in the bathroom, tearing off his pajamas, and under a scalding stream of water in record time. He scrubbed his hair and body and jumped out of the shower in five minutes, tops, his heart racing a mile a minute. It was an insane feeling and he disliked it very much. Anxiety was hateful.
Back in his room, he sat down on the bed with a deep breath. He was half dressed and his hair was dripping coldly down his back, making him shiver. You'll catch cold if you don't put a shirt on, Sherlock, he heard Mrs Hudson scold in his mind, and his lips quirked up in a smile. He took another deep breath, trying to bring his heart rate back to a reasonable pace.
A few minutes later, Sherlock felt his heart calm and his blood pressure return to normal. This emotion thing was exhausting, he decided, standing up and pulling on his shirt, buttoning it slowly.
7:15pm. Sherlock decided it was time to go; he wasn't going to be late because of London traffic. He put his scarf and coat on, and left his room, wallet and keys weighing in one pocket, mobile weighing in the other. As he made his way down the stairs, he had the unfortunate luck of running into his brother, who must have just returned from the office. He groaned inwardly. It had been three days since he had seen Mycroft, and those three days had been wonderful. He was not going to let his obnoxious older brother ruin his evening before it even had the chance to begin.
"Good evening, Sherlock," Mycroft drawled. Sherlock gritted his teeth at the way the man took in his appearance, making deductions. "Going somewhere?"
"Yes, Mycroft, I am," Sherlock said in a hard voice. "If you'll excuse me, I have to be leaving or I'll be late." He paused. "Having a night in? Don't cheat on that diet of yours, I know the cakes in the pantry can be awfully tempting, but do try to be strong." Not waiting for his brother's retort, Sherlock brushed passed him and out the front door, shutting it snuggly behind him.
Sherlock hailed a cab as quickly as he could, instructing the cabbie to take the most direct route, and not to be clever, much the same as he had done the previous day. On the way, though, a thought occurred to him.
"Stop here, please," he said, sounding a little breathless. "Here!" The cab came to a stop and Sherlock stepped out. "Just wait. I'll be right back."
—
Mrs Hudson let Sherlock into the flat, smiling at him.
"He's upstairs getting ready, dear," she told him quietly, gesturing to the stairs. "Been in a bit of a tizzy all afternoon."
Sherlock nodded, swallowing nervously. He made his way slowly up the creaky old stairs, counting them as he went. One, two, three….. What would John be wearing tonight? Seven, eight, landing…. Would he be as nervous as Sherlock felt? Twelve, thirteen, fourteen, fifteen…. He was at the door. Hesitantly, Sherlock raised his hand and knocked. He waited for a moment then heard a loud thump and a groan, then John called out, "Just a second!" There was muffled cursing and ten seconds later the door was flung open to reveal the footballer.
Sherlock drew a breath, looking John up and down. He looked amazing. He was dressed in a black button-up shirt and grey trousers and a coat the didn't quite go with the shirt or the trousers, and it was absolutely adorable. The top button of his shirt was undone, revealing his throat. His hair was perfectly ruffled and his cheeks were tinged light pink. Sherlock swallowed, smiling.
"You look—um…." Sherlock couldn't find the right words to describe the way John looked to him.
The blonde's cheeks tinted darker and he looked away, chewing his bottom lip. "It was the only nice thing I brought with me. I hope it's okay?"
"No, it's perfect. You look amazing." Sherlock was pleased when John smiled up at him. Blinking, he gathered his thoughts enough to bring out what he had hidden behind his back. He looked down at the single red rose in his hand, then back at John. He cleared his throat. "I know it's a bit of a—er…cliché, but I brought you this." He handed the flower to John.
John took it, his eyes slightly wider than usual. He brought the rose to his face and drew in a deep breath, smiling. "Thank you," he said quietly, gazing at Sherlock with those eyes. "It's beautiful. Come in while I put it in some water?" He gestured to the kitchen.
Sherlock nodded and followed him into the flat. He watched as the footballer found a thin vase and filled it with water, placing the rose in it. He set it in the middle of the kitchen table and turned to Sherlock, smiling happily. "So," he said, leaning with his right hand on the table. "Where are we going?"
"Oh, that's a bit of a surprise. But let's get going? I have a cab waiting outside, and the meter is running." Sherlock held out his hand to John, who took it gladly. He laced their fingers together and it felt right.
They made their way down the stairs and Sherlock called out, "Mrs Hudson. We're off! Might be back late."
"Okay. Have fun, you two," she called from what sounded like the living room.
Sherlock opened the door for John and they stepped out into the cold night air. He noticed the blonde shiver a little and wrapped his arm around his shoulder, steering him to the waiting cab. Once John was safely in the vehicle, Sherlock slid in beside him, buckling his seatbelt. He gave the cabbie the address and sat back, watching John in the lowlight.
John gazed out the window, watching the streetlight pass, a content smile on his lips. Sherlock blinked and pulled his eyes away from him, staring out his own window. He couldn't believe this was actually happening to him. That he, Sherlock Holmes, was on a date with someone, that he had even asked that someone on the date. He couldn't believe how strongly he felt for John and he had barely known him a total of twenty-four hours. He drew in a breath, resting his forehead against the cool glass of the window. Everything was just a bit overwhelming.
"Sherlock?" Sherlock jumped at the soft sound of John's voice and the gentle hand on his arm. He looked over at the blonde and melted a little. His features were soft with concern, even Sherlock could see that in the semi-darkness. "Are you okay?"
"Couldn't be better," he breathed, his eyes tracing over John's face, trying to memorize every line, every curve, every angle. John was perfect in his mind's eye.
—
Sherlock chuckled at John's reaction to the restaurant. He had to admit it was a little bit pricey, but then, it wasn't his own money he was spending, so he really didn't care, as long as he gave John the best. It was strange to think of wanting to give everything to one person. This would take some getting used to.
"Order whatever you like," Sherlock told him, smiling faintly as he gazed over the menu. This was one of his parents' favorite places and he and Mycroft had grown up coming here. Everything on the menu was delicious.
"But everything is so expensive," John remarked sheepishly, his eyes raking over the different meals and their costs. "Really, Sherlock, how can you afford this?"
Sherlock waved a dismissive hand, scoffing. "Don't worry about it. And don't look at the prices, just order what sounds good. Everything here is fantastic. My family and I used to come here often."
John looked up, an interested expression on his face, and Sherlock swallowed. He knew John wanted to know more about his family, but really, he had no desire to dip into that conversational pot. He shouldn't have brought them into the picture.
"What's your family like?" John finally ventured to ask, resting his chin in his right hand.
"Self-absorbed," Sherlock said dryly, his eyes narrowing fractionally.
John seemed a little taken aback by his tone, and blinked. "Oh-kay…. Well…. Mrs Hudson says you have a brother?"
"Unfortunately."
"And he practically is the British government?" John pushed.
"Yes," Sherlock hissed, his fists clenching. "And because of that, he thinks he's the most important man on the face of the planet. I'd say the world would be better off without him, but probably some other dickhead politician would just take his place."
John stared at him, mouth open slightly. They were silent for sometime when John finally seemed to pluck up the courage to ask, "Why don't you and he get on?"
"Look," Sherlock snapped, harsher than he had meant. "We just don't. Can we not get into this right now?"
He looked up at John and found that he looked indignant and a little hurt. "Well, pardon me for wanting to get to know you better," he shot back, his eyes turning slightly colder.
Sherlock sighed, rubbing his forehead. "John," he said quietly. "John. This is not the way I wanted to start off the evening." He looked up. "My family and I don't really see—eye to eye, I guess you could say. If it were up to my parents, I would be locked up right now, that's why they shipped me off to a school three hours from home, it was the closest thing they could come up with. Because of that, I don't really enjoy chatting about them. Savey?" He looked at John closely, praying that the boy understood and wouldn't push any further.
John looked like he wanted to say something more on the subject, but seemed to think better of it and nodded. After a moment he did say quietly, "You know, Sherlock…. It's not a bad thing to let people in."
Sherlock couldn't help but laugh a little bit, smiling fondly at the footballer. "You seem to forget, Mr Watson, that I'm still new to this emotion game. I don't quite follow the rules yet. Besides. No one gets in without special permission."
Before John could say anything more, their waitress walked up to their table and they ordered. When she left, Sherlock took the opportunity to change the subject, turning the spotlight on John.
"So, John," he said smoothly, lacing his fingers together like a bridge and resting his chin on them. "You're a football player, are you?" He grinned.
John's cheeks coloured in a lovely way, and Sherlock's grin spread. He knew that John had guess that he was thinking about the way he looked in his football kit.
John cleared his throat and met Sherlock's eyes. "I am," he said, his voice was steady, but Sherlock could just detect the slight tremor beneath the calm exterior.
"And," Sherlock pressed, keeping his tone aloof, "are you any good?"
"I've been told I'm decent, yeah." John smiled, glancing up at Sherlock in an almost irresistible way.
Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement. "I've never been one for sports," he commented, sitting back in his chair, his eyes never straying from John's face. "Never been good at them. Father was so disappointed." He chuckled, clearly pleased at the thought. "I could run though, still can."
"Do you run track at your school?" John asked, his tone interested.
Sherlock's eyes raked up and down his face, memorizing the way the dim light of the restaurant played off his dark blue eyes and threw part of his features in shadows. He almost didn't catch John's question, he was so preoccupied with cataloging ever detail he could.
"Ah—um…." He blinked to clear his thoughts. "No, I don't. Considered it for a while, but decided against it. Too many people to deal with. And the coach in unbearable." Sherlock wrinkled his nose in distaste as he thought of the track coach. He really was a disgusting man, and Sherlock took no pleasure from being in or anywhere near his company.
"Do you like your school?"
Sherlock thought for a moment. Did he like MonkshoodAcademy? That wasn't a difficult question to answer. "No."
John cocked his head. "Why not?"
"I've never liked any of the schools I've ever been to. Mummy always wanted the best for Mycroft and myself, sent us to 'only the finest.' Her words, not mine." Sherlock clucked his tongue, furrowing his brow as he thought of the way his mother had always shipped him off to this boarding school or that one, because MonkshoodAcademy was not the first. Mycroft always got to stay close to home, Mummy and Father preferred him over Sherlock. He shrugged his shoulders nonchalantly. "That and the teachers are all idiots and the students aren't much better. It's all so dull."
He looked up and found John watching him intently. Almost instantly he was lost in those eyes and didn't catch the boy's next question.
"I'm sorry, what?" he mumbled, his eyes staying fixed on John's until the blonde looked away, his cheeks colouring prettily.
"Are the girls there pretty? Have you ever been interested in any of them?" John blushed deeper at having to repeat his question.
Sherlock couldn't hold back his laugh. It really was an idiotic question, but John couldn't have known that. He cleared his throat, trying to control himself, but his smile remained firmly on his face. "The girls are attractive, sure, but I've never been interested in any of them. Although, I did notice that one of them was pregnant when I was leaving the day break started, that was interesting. But I suspect that's not exactly what you mean."
It was John's turn to laugh. Sherlock liked the way it sounded. "No, that's not quite what I meant." The blonde smiled at him.
"Well, then. To answer your question properly, no, I've never been interested in any of the girls at Monkshood. None of the boys, either," he added. He could practically see the question jumping around on John's lips. "Up until very recently, I didn't think myself—ah….capable of being interested in anyone. You've proven me terribly wrong, though." He looked at John intently. "I wonder what it is about you that's so different than everyone else," Sherlock mused, mostly to himself.
Their food arrived just then, and Sherlock sat up a little bit straighter.
"Mmm, smells great," John murmured, picking up his silverware.
—
When the two left the restaurant it was very late, but it had been worth it, Sherlock thought, to see the expression on John's face while he ate his food. He knew the boy hadn't ever eaten anything that fine, and he enjoyed being able to give it to him, at least every once in a while.
It was chilly outside, and Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's shoulder, pulling him close against his side as he hailed a cab. When the two were seated in the back, he turned to his date.
"Did you have a good time?" he asked, trying not to let the anxiety leak through into his voice. He desperately hoped John had enjoyed himself.
"I had a wonderful time," John said, leaning against Sherlock's shoulder, smiling.
Sherlock felt a strange heat build up in his chest and he had to look away from John's face, biting his lip. He had never been happy because someone else was happy. It was a strange sensation, and one he found he liked, as long as it was John he was making happy, and no one else. No one would ever get as close as John would become. No one would be able to get him to open up the way John did. His walls were as strong as ever to those who weren't John. Sherlock sighed and rested his cheek against the blonde's hair, closing his eyes. Emotions were an exhausting thing to deal with, he had no idea how people managed with them every day.
When he felt John's fingers lace with his, Sherlock opened his eyes and gazed down at their entwined hands. He noted the way their skin tones contrasted and found that he liked it very much. Closing his eyes again, he breathed in deeply, taking in John's sent, trying to keep it with him for as long as possible.
All too soon their cab ride was over and they stepped out into the cold. Sherlock was reluctant to release John's hand and he could tell that John was just as reluctant.
"Come inside for a little while?" John suggested, steering Sherlock slightly to the door. "Please?"
The second Sherlock looked into those blue eyes, he knew he had lost. Any idea he had of getting home at a reasonable hour was lost in the wind and he could only nod his head, letting the footballer pull him into the warmth of the flat. Inside, only the entrance light was on, which meant Mrs Hudson was probably asleep, so the two of them crept as silently as they could up the creaky stairs. Once the door to the upper flat was shut and bolted, their coats shed and hung on the wrack, and their shoes toed off and kicked aside, Sherlock looked at John, worrying his lip.
He desperately wanted to kiss him, but didn't dare move. He didn't want to frighten away the only person he had ever been remotely interested in, that would be just too much. So he let John pull him to the sofa and sat down beside him, never loosening his grasp on John's hand. Sherlock watched him closely, tracing his facial features down to his throat where the shirt obscured his path. He was brought back to reality when he felt John's head press against his chest, his hair tickling his chin.
"What are we doing, Sherlock?" John said breathlessly, laughing in a quiet, almost desperate way. "How can I feel this way about you already? I've only known you for, what? Three days? Four days?" He laughed again and Sherlock felt it vibrate through his chest.
"How do you feel about me?" he whispered almost inaudibly, he was surprised John had even heard him.
The blonde sat up and looked him in the eye. "Like I want to press my fingers through your hair and just kiss you until you can't remember your own name," he said at length, and Sherlock shivered at how husky his voice sounded.
"Then why don't you?" Sherlock said in that same inaudible whisper, placing his hands delicately on John's waist, pulling him closer.
And they were together, John's hands combing through Sherlock's hair, his mouth melting against Sherlock's. And it was too good to be true. Sherlock's arms wound around John's middle, pulling him closer still.
John's lips moved perfectly against Sherlock's and Sherlock shivered as the blonde licked at them, letting his teeth skim across the sensitive skin. He opened his mouth, only slightly, and John's tongue was already pressing itself in, demanding more. Sherlock happily obliged, parting his lips further to deepen the kiss. He could taste the remnants of their dinner in John's mouth and groaned quietly, pressing himself closer against the footballer.
After a moment more, John pulled away, panting a little. Sherlock didn't want the contact to end and unable to help himself, he kissed down John's jaw to his throat, his tongue darting out every now and then. He heard the blonde gasp and the hands in his hair tightened.
"Have you ever done anything like this, Sherlock?" John gasped out, pulling a little on Sherlock's curls. Sherlock had to admit, he liked that a little more than he should.
"What do you mean?" he breathed, not removing his lips from John's neck. He ran his tongue from the depression above John's collarbone to the hollow just behind his ear, enjoying the shiver the action caused and the salty taste of John's skin.
John let out a whimper, tilting his head and baring his neck further. "I mean this," he said breathlessly. "What we're doing."
"Oh," Sherlock said blankly, pulling back to look into John's eyes. He saw there, disappointment that he had stopped and curiosity. "No, I haven't," he admitted. "It's not a difficult thing to figure out, though. The mechanics are fairly straight forward. It isn't exactly brain surgery."
He didn't know why, but he was pleased to hear John chuckle. It brought a fluttery sensation to his throat and stomach. "Are you sure?" John asked through the light laughter. "Because you're very good at it."
To say Sherlock was pleased would have been an understatement. The teen excelled in nearly everything he did, excluding social and sport activities, and maybe art, Sherlock wasn't sure how well he would do at art, but to learn that he was good at this, kissing, off all things, was something that satisfied him very much, especially knowing that John thought so. He didn't know why John's opinion of him mattered so much. It was a little frustrating in itself, knowing that he got such happiness from being told by another person that he was good at something. Sherlock never would have felt that way if, say, Mycroft commented on his violin skills. He would have simply scoffed at him and said something along the lines of, "Thank you, Mycroft, but I know when I'm good at something. I don't need your praise." However, it was very different with John.
"Would you like me to continue?" Sherlock purred, nipping gently at John's earlobe.
"Oh god yes," was John's reply and Sherlock chuckled quietly, lowering his mouth back to the other's, kissing him gently.