Chapter Four
John could have pinched himself. There he was, sitting on the sofa in the upper flat of 221B Baker Street on his winter holiday, with Sherlock Holmes' lips whispering teasingly against his neck. He had to be dreaming. And if he was dreaming, he never wanted to wake up, ever; he wanted to live in that dream, just the way they were for the rest of his life.
He had just made up his mind that this would be okay with him, when his neck was bitten in a particularly sensitive spot. His heart leapt and before he could stop it escaping, a breathy moan left his mouth. His cheeks burned at the realization that such a needy sound had come from him, but before he had enough time to dwell too much on it, Sherlock had repeated the bite and, again, a similarly needy sound was dragged from his lips.
"Stop that," he complained, shooting a half-hearted scowl down at Sherlock. What was supposed to be an irritated voice, sounded, he realized, more like the voice of someone who, indeed, did not want the biting to stop. John blushed.
"But why?" Sherlock said into John's neck, looking up at him, his eyes clearly laughing. "You make such pretty noises. I like it." As if to prove a point, he moved he mouth to an area nearly at the back of John's neck and skimmed his teeth along it, causing John to shudder against his will, before nipping playfully and sucking.
John's eyes snapped wide and he groaned, clutching a fistful of Sherlock's silky purple shirt in both hands. He hadn't even realized he was sensitive there, but then, how would he? He was usually the one giving all the attention, not receiving. Rarely, did any of the girls he'd dated attack his neck as thoroughly as Sherlock seemed to want to. And never had they drawn from his mouth the sounds that Sherlock had. He decided it was actually nice to have the attention, but he told himself that he would draw noises just as needy from the lips of Sherlock Holmes, if not tonight, then soon.
Panting rather heavily, his heart racing, John resituated himself so that he was straddling Sherlock's lap, his arms wrapped tightly around his neck. He moved his mouth back to Sherlock's, biting at the raven-haired boy's bottom lip, pulling him into the kiss. He felt a tongue dart against his lips and parted them, welcoming Sherlock into his mouth.
A pair of arms tightened around his waist and his body was pressed even closer against Sherlock's. John pulled away from Sherlock's mouth, gasping for breath, and the other immediately laid siege to his exposed neck. He tilted his head back as Sherlock kissed from his chin down his Adam's apple and on to the hollow of his throat, trying desperately to fill his lungs with an adequate amount of oxygen. But every time he seemed to get his breath back, Sherlock would run his teeth, or his lips, or his tongue over a sensitive spot at the crook of his neck, or the pulse-point under his jaw, or just behind his ear, and John would loose it again, as if it were being sucked from his body.
John let out a low moan as Sherlock licked from the hollow of his throat back up to his chin, kissing its underside. Without his consent, his hips rolled against Sherlock's and the other froze. For a moment, the footballer was afraid he would be thrown off Sherlock's lap and that would be the end of that, but a second later, Sherlock had buried his face in the curve of John's neck and moaned in an almost animalistic way. It sent a shiver down John's spine.
He suddenly found himself on his back with Sherlock gazing down at him, his usually calculating blue eyes nearly unrecognizable. They were soft and slightly glassy with lust and John saw the hint of an emotion in them and he didn't quite understand why it was there: fear. It made Sherlock look vulnerable and suddenly, all John wanted to do was wrap his arms around him and protect him from the evils in the world.
"You okay?" he whispered, gazing up at Sherlock, letting his eyes memorize every line, every shadow, every angle.
"I—" Sherlock cut himself off, uncertainty in his eyes. Finally he nodded. "I'm fine," he whispered, lowering his body so that they were touching from groin to chest, supporting his weight on his forearms, which were placed at either side of John's head.
"Are you sure?" John couldn't bear to raise his voice above a whisper, it didn't seem right. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through Sherlock's dark hair.
"I couldn't possibly be surer."
And his lips were back on John's. John let out a pleased hum as their kiss heated up. His hands found their way to Sherlock's waist and he gripped the fabric of the boy's purple shirt tightly, holding him in place. He felt fingers combing through his hair and practically melted at the feeling. John had always liked it when the girls he had dated ran their fingers through his hair, but for some reason the feeling was amplified at Sherlock's touch.
Unable to stop himself, John pulled Sherlock's shirt from his trousers and attentively ran his hands over the skin of Sherlock's lower back. It was soft and warm and it felt extremely nice against his fingers. A low noise reverberated from Sherlock's throat at John's touch and his was inclined to continue, smoothing his hands further up the raven-haired boy's back. Sherlock shuddered, his back arching slightly so that their bodies were pressed closer together, and it was just the reaction John was looking for. On an impulse, he dragged his fingernails down Sherlock's sides and Sherlock gasped, reacting almost violently, his body jerking, serving to successfully grind their hips together all too hotly.
John bit his lip and pressed the side of his face into the sofa cushion, moaning rather loudly, and Sherlock did the same, hiding his face against John's neck. They lay there like that, breathing heavily, for a few minutes, John staring up at the ceiling, Sherlock breathing into John's skin. Finally the blonde spoke.
"Think we got a little too hot 'n' heavy," he mumbled, the tips of his ears heating up.
Sherlock nodded, not lifting his head, and mumbled something incoherent into John's neck.
"What was that?" John asked, his index finger doodling little figure-eights on Sherlock's exposed lower back.
The other turned his head just enough to be heard. "I said, I agree, but it was something I definitely thoroughly enjoyed."
John was suddenly glad that Sherlock had his face buried against his neck, because his cheeks burned with blush and his ears felt like they were on fire. Of course, he was sure Sherlock could feel the heat radiating from his face, but at least he could pretend he didn't this way.
"I'm not saying that it wasn't—erm…good. Because it was. I just think that we were—ah." He cleared his throat nervously. "Going a little bit too fast," he finished, his face growing redder still. Just then Sherlock yawned loudly, and John could feel his breath hot against his skin. He laughed quietly. "Am I boring you, Sherlock Holmes?" John asked, pretending to be indignant.
"Of course not," Sherlock replied tartly, his body suddenly feeling heavy on John's, as if all of his muscles relaxed, and, as it turned out, that was exactly what happened. "You could never bore me, John Watson. The past few days are just catching up to me is all."
"What do you mean?" John asked, pushing his hand absentmindedly through the raven curls pressed against his neck. Sherlock hesitated, and it seemed to John that he was debating on whether or not to tell the truth. "Sherlock," he said, his voice thick with a warning that said something along the lines of "if you don't tell me the truth, Sherlock Holmes, I will push you off of this couch and you can sleep on the floor."
Sherlock sighed reluctantly. "Oh fine. I slept for the first time in three days last night, and I'm just a little bit drained. But to be fair, it was all your fault."
"Oh, my fault, was it?" John laughed, shaking his head. "And how is that?"
"I couldn't get you out of my head."
For once, John was at a lose for words. He bit his lip and after a while, sat up, pulling Sherlock with him. He looked into those icy-blue eyes and they were no longer glassy with lust, but completely bottomless in Sherlock's exhaustion, and he seemed to see straight into the boy's mind. It was beautiful and intimidating all at the same time. John saw the gears turning and clicking into place as Sherlock figured him out. And all too suddenly he realized what the look of fear had meant earlier. Sherlock Holmes was frightened of letting another person so close to him, frightened that, in the end, he would end up getting hurt, frightened to trust another person so unconditionally, and most of all, frightened at the idea of possibly falling for someone. He looked away for a moment, feeling like he had intruded on something far to intimate for him to have seen, before taking Sherlock by the shoulders and standing him up.
"Bed," he said in a firm but gentle voice, leading the other to his bedroom.
Once in the room, he began to unbutton Sherlock's shirt.
"I can undress myself, you know," Sherlock said. It seemed like he wanted his voice to be snide, but the rudeness slipped away as sleep pushed itself into his mind, so John simply ignored him and continued on, pulling the purple shirt off and tossing it on the floor. Next he undid the button on Sherlock's jeans and unzipped his fly, blushing pink as his pulled them down and Sherlock stepped out of them, leaving him standing in only a pair of blue-grey boxer shorts and his socks.
When the other began to reach for the buttons on his shirt, John grabbed hold of his wrists, pulling his hands away. "Uh-uh. Into bed." Sherlock began to protest. "Now, Sherlock. You look like you're about to fall asleep where you stand."
"Yes, mummy," Sherlock grumbled, sitting on the edge of the bed to pull his socks off, before he crawled under the covers.
John undressed slowly and turned to the boy in his bed. He was laying on his side, facing away from the footballer, and it seemed as if he had already fallen asleep. John sighed and scooted in beside him, trying carefully not to jostle the bed. He laid on his side, back facing Sherlock, and reached over to turn off the lamp. Once the light was out, he closed his eyes and took deep breath, releasing it slowly and letting the darkness wash over him.
Just as he was about to drift off to sleep, Sherlock spoke.
"John?" he whispered, and John could feel the bed shake and heard the sheets shift as Sherlock rolled onto his other side.
"Hmm?" John mumbled, not moving or opening his eyes. His body felt too heavy to function.
"Have you ever done that with another male?" Sherlock's voice was soft and John had to strain his ears to catch the words.
"What?"
"What we did." And as if to make a point, John felt Sherlock place a gentle kiss to the back of his neck.
He shivered, and shifted so he could look over at him. In the gloom it was difficult to make anything out, but John could just barely distinguish Sherlock's silhouette from the rest of the shadows. "No, I haven't," he admitted.
Sherlock was silent for a long while, and John thought he had fallen asleep until he spoke again. "It wasn't bad, was it? Kissing me, instead of some girl?"
John thought he heard a slight injection of venom in the way Sherlock said "some girl" and it made him smile. "It wasn't bad at all. Not in the slightest. When I compare my experiences with those girls with my experience from tonight, with you, the girls don't even compare."
"You're just saying that," the raven-haired boy grumbled.
"I'm being completely honest, Sherlock. They never drew even half the sounds from my mouth that you managed to." He blushed.
The two were silent for a few minutes, then John felt Sherlock's warm chest press against his back and a pair of arms wound around his waist, holding him close.
"Goodnight, John," he whispered, nuzzling his face against the back of John's neck.
"Goodnight, Sherlock," John sighed, finally drifting off to sleep.
—
When John woke in the morning, the first thing that he noticed was that it was considerably later than he would have liked; he could tell by the way the sun slanted into his room that it was at least mid afternoon. The second thing he noticed was that there was a pair of arms wrapped firmly around his waist, a stomach pressed against his back, and a knee wedged between his legs. And the third and final thing John noticed was how completely content he was, just laying there with Sherlock Holmes folded around him. He drew in a deep breath, letting it out as a sleepy sigh, and closed his eyes again.
There was a low hum from behind him and John could feel Sherlock's breath against his neck. "Good morning, John," the other whispered, pressing his lips to John's shoulder.
"Mmm," John murmured, not opening his eyes or moving. After a minute, he rolled onto his back and smiled. "It's not exactly morning anymore, Sherlock."
Sherlock strained his neck to look over his shoulder and at the alarm clock resting on the bedside table. "Oh. I suppose it's not, is it? It's rather late." He chuckled, turning back to the footballer. "Well, good afternoon, then, John."
John chuckled sleepily and sat up, stretching his arms over his head with a massive yawn. He ran a hand through his hair, and glanced over at Sherlock, who was watching him closely, a thoughtful look in his eyes.
"What?"
"Hm? Oh nothing, just thinking." Sherlock smiled at him, sitting up as well.
"What about?" John asked, bumping his shoulder playfully against Sherlock's before throwing the covers off of himself and standing up. He wobbled a bit before catching his balance and making his way to the chest of drawers.
"Nothing in particular."
For some reason, John didn't believe him, but he didn't push. He stood up with a fresh change of clothes and walked to the bathroom before hesitating, glancing back to the bed, where Sherlock still sat.
"I'm going to have a shower, but I could find you something to wear first, if you like? I might have a shirt that will fit, but I'm afraid you're rather a bit taller than me, so all of my trousers will be too short." He bit his lip.
Sherlock smiled, causing John's heart to leap into his throat, and nodded. "That would great, thanks," he said, wrapping his arms around his long legs. "Don't worry about the trousers, though, I'll just wear the ones from last night, they should still be reasonably fresh."
"Okay," John mumbled, setting his own clothes on the bed and returning to the drawers to fetch another shirt. There were several that he knew were fitted on him and would surely fit Sherlock, even if they were a bit loose. He pulled out a white tee-shit and held it up, thinking. Finally he nodded to himself and stood up. "This should do, I think." He handed the shirt to Sherlock and gathered his things. "I'll be out in a few minutes, then you can shower if you want."
Sherlock just nodded, keeping his gaze fixed on the wall opposite the bed.
—
When he returned from the bathroom, John found Sherlock sprawled out across the bed, head dangling over the edge. He leaned against the doorjamb and grinned at him.
"What on earth are you doing, Sherlock?" he asked, pushing himself from the molding and into the room, toward him.
"Bored," was the reply.
"What?"
"Bored, John. You took a long time," Sherlock whined, rolling onto his stomach.
"I was in the shower for five minutes," John said, his voice coloured with disbelief. "Well, anyhow, you can use the bathroom now. I think there's a spare toothbrush under the sink, and the toothpaste is in the cupboard."
Sherlock jumped up and brushed past him, into the bathroom. He emerged a moment later with a toothbrush in his mouth.
"You're not going to shower?" John asked, perching on the edge of the bed, watching the raven-haired boy as he brushed his teeth.
"Nah," Sherlock said through a mouthful of toothpaste. "Ah shawa wh-n ah ge' h-ohn."
John suddenly felt panic fall like a stone into his stomach. He fidgeted with the bedspread, twisting it between his fingers. He didn't want Sherlock to leave so soon. He had been counting on spending the day with him, granted, most of the day was already spent sleeping, but that didn't count, damn it! He chewed on the inside of his cheek.
"You're not leaving now, are you?" he finally asked, peeking up at Sherlock from under his eyelashes. He had retreated to the bathroom to rinse his mouth.
When he returned, his eyes were calculating and John looked away, his cheeks colouring slightly. He knew Sherlock would be able to read him like a book.
"You don't want me to leave." It was a statement, not a question. John blushed brighter.
He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Yeah," he finally admitted, letting his hand drop into his lap. He didn't look up, keeping his eyes fixed on the dark blue of the bedspread. When he felt soft fingers against his cheek, he looked up, startled. Sherlock was standing in front of him, his eyes still sharp, but distinctly soft around the edges.
"I won't leave if you don't want me to," he said, and he leaned down to kiss John chastely on the lips.
Sherlock pulled away before John even had time to react, and was tugging on the tee-shirt and the previous night's jeans. John had been right. While the shirt had fit him perfectly, clinging to his chest and stomach, it hung off of Sherlock's thin frame. It was rather attractive, really, and John couldn't help himself. When Sherlock walked within an arm's reach, the blonde grabbed him by his denim clad hips and pulled him onto his lap, ensnaring his waist in his arms. Before a gasp of shock even had time to escape Sherlock's mouth, John had his lips to his throat.
"John," Sherlock gasped out, his hands grasping the footballer's shoulders tightly.
"Hmm…. Sorry. I just couldn't resist you," John whispered, nuzzling his mouth against Sherlock's skin. "Your own fault."
A short laugh left the boy on his lap. "My fault? How is it my fault?"
"For being you." And John captured Sherlock's lips with his own before he had time to say anything more.
Before anything could become too heated, however, a knock came to John's bedroom door, along with a cheerful "woo-hoo" that signaled Mrs Hudson on the other side, and the woman let herself in.
"I just wanted to know if you'd like me to make you something to eat, John," she was saying, before she stopped dead at the sight in front of her.
John jumped in surprise, looking over Sherlock's shoulder at Mrs Hudson, who looked equally surprised and was rapidly being to colour, her cheeks flushing red. She wasn't alone, though, as John's cheeks changed to an equally alarming shade of red. Sherlock merely glanced over his shoulder at the woman, as calm as can be.
"Hello, Mrs Hudson," he said in an even voice, not moving from his spot on John's lap. John was glad for it, he really didn't want the comfortable weight of his….boyfriend? to leave. He kept his hands firmly on Sherlock's hips.
"H-hello, Sherlock," Mrs Hudson stammered. "I didn't realize you were still here."
John blushed. He knew Mrs Hudson would jump to the conclusion that they had slept together. While they had, in fact, shared the same bed and Sherlock had, indeed, folded himself tightly around him, nothing sexual had occurred….well, in the bedroom. It would be a blatant lie if he said nothing sexual had happened at all the night before. But they had not had sex.
John groaned inwardly. All he wanted to do was dig himself a hole some place far away and bury himself in it. How embarrassing it was to have his hostess walk in on him snogging another boy. Of course, he had had the feeling the first day he met Sherlock that Mrs Hudson was attempting to set them up. What she had said to John just after Sherlock had left was proof enough of that. But still. What teenager wants to be walked in on when they're trying to get off with someone? John blushed even darker when the thought crossed his mind.
"I should probably—" Without finishing her sentence, Mrs Hudson took her leave, closing the door behind her.
Sherlock turned back to John, and John shouldn't have been surprised to see the smile on his lips.
"Well, that was interesting," he said, looking away from Sherlock's face, focusing his attention on his slender neck, instead. This, when he looked back, was probably not a good idea, because soon he found himself scooting back on the bed and pushing Sherlock down until he was laying.
Sherlock just looked up at him with a calm expression. It was as if he was wearing a mask and it made John want to strip it away. It would be a very long time, though, before he would ever be able to see into Sherlock's mind the way he had the previous night. Even though Sherlock had said his walls were completely down around him, John always got the feeling that it wasn't quite true, that one wall was still up, that he could see Sherlock on the other side, but when he reached for him a sheet of cellophane stopped his hand. It was maddening at times. He just wanted to take a knife and cut it apart, but he was afraid if he did that, that Sherlock would be frightened and push him away for good. But none of these thoughts were with John at the present time, they would only be discovered much later.
So in his state of determination, John bent down and kissed Sherlock feverishly, his tongue sliding along the seam of his lips. Sherlock was being stubborn, refusing to part them and John grew frustrated. He pulled back and glared down at him, only to grow even more irritated to find him smirking up at him. With a growl, John moved his mouth from Sherlock's, down his neck. He wanted to unravel Sherlock. But most of all, he wanted to elicit from Sherlock the needy noises that had been dragged from his own mouth. He bit lightly, dragging his tongue over the mark, and felt Sherlock shiver. It gave him encouragement to continue.
John kissed the place where Sherlock's neck connected with his shoulder, letting his lips barely brush against it. The raven tilted his head to the side and the tendons were suddenly taut against his mouth. Unable to stop himself, John bit down and was rewarded with a soft groan and a hand gripping tightly at his still-damp hair. Grinning, he kissed up Sherlock's neck and nudged his chin up before dragging his tongue over the glands he knew were there. When the body beneath him arched up and he heard a gasp, John sucked lightly at the spot, intent on leaving a mark. Sherlock's fingers pressed into his scalp and a moan escaped Sherlock's mouth that made a shiver run down and back up his spine.
"Damn you, John Watson," Sherlock gasped, arching his body up further.
"What for?" John asked, kissing from under Sherlock's chin to the hollow behind his ear, where he let his tongue flick out. He could feel Sherlock shudder beneath him and smiled.
"For doing this to me."
John pulled away and looked Sherlock in the eye. The other was quite pink in the face and his calculating eyes were soft but still sharp. His hair was disheveled and he was absolutely beautiful. John was suddenly struck with the realization that he was the only person who had ever seen Sherlock Holmes in this state. It was humbling, really, knowing that he was the only person Sherlock let near enough, after only four days of properly knowing one another, to see him like that. He wet his lips and leaned down, pressing an appreciative kiss to Sherlock's mouth.
"Do you want me to stop?" he breathed against them, his hands rubbing up and down his sides.
Sherlock, whether unconscious or not, rolled his hips against John's and that was that. John let out a low moan and was kissing Sherlock hotly, his hips pressing down hard against Sherlock's. The hands in his hair sent him over the edge, and he pulled away, gasping.
He heard a disappointed whine leave Sherlock's lips as he rested his forehead against his.
"Why did you stop," he demanded, his breathing ragged.
"Because if I don't stop now, I won't be able to stop later. And I wanted to take this slowly." John couldn't seem to catch his breath.
"To hell with slow," Sherlock grumbled, drawing in a huge breath.
"Sherlock," John warned, closing his eyes.
"Yes, yes, I know. Slowly," Sherlock snipped crossly. "If you're so intent on taking things slowly, then why are you still laying on top of me?"
John bristled a little at the tone of Sherlock's words, but opened his eyes slowly, raising his head slightly so he could look the boy pinned beneath him in the eye. He looked distinctly annoyed, but John could have sworn underneath he saw disappointment and something else he couldn't identify. But then again, maybe he was just imagining it.
With a huff, he rolled off of Sherlock and stood, crossing his arms over his chest. "If you don't want me on you, then I won't touch you at all," he retorted, stomping out of the room.
John knew he was acting childishly, but really, he didn't care. If Sherlock Holmes was going to get upset at him for wanting to take things slowly then that was his problem. He would just make himself some tea and carry on like he wasn't there. That'd show him.
In the kitchen, as John put the kettle on, he heard the soft sound of bare feet on the linoleum, but ignored it, continuing about his business as if there weren't another person in the room with him. He turned and found himself staring at Sherlock's throat. He didn't move for moment, his mind reeling with the desire to throw himself at the person in front of him. When his composure was gathered enough for him to step around the blockade before him, he retrieved the honey from its place in the cupboard near the refrigerator. He turned back and found Sherlock standing in his way again.
"Move," John said flatly, glaring up at him.
"No." Sherlock looked down at him with those calculating eyes and John looked away for a moment, taking a deep breath.
"Move, Sherlock," John hissed, his hand tightening around the jar of honey.
"No," Sherlock repeated and this time he took a step forward. John tensed and looked down.
He felt Sherlock's heat against his body and Sherlock's breath against his cheek, and didn't move. A hand rested lightly on his hip and John's heart fluttered without his permission. He cursed under his breath, glaring at the floor between their feet. The mate of the hand perched on his hip was ghosting against his neck, causing him to shiver.
"What did I do wrong, John?" Sherlock whispered, bending his head down so that his lips were millimeters from John's.
"Nothing," John said, turning his head after a moment. "It's nothing. Just—silly." He shook his head and smiled a little ruefully. Stepping back, he dodged around Sherlock as the kettle began whistling. "Tea?" he asked, taking two mugs from the cupboard automatically.
When Sherlock didn't answer him, John glanced over his shoulder and looked away immediately. The raven was watching him closely, more closely than anyone ever had. It made John feel like he was standing in the room naked.
"People always seem to think that just because they don't look at me, I can't see what's going on in their minds," John heard Sherlock say after a moment of silence. "But it doesn't work that way. I can see from the way your shoulders are hunched that you're trying to protect yourself and I can see from the way you won't look me in the eye and the tension in your muscles that you're upset with me."
Automatically, John straightened up, rolling his shoulders slightly, and turned to look Sherlock squarely in the face.
"Ah," Sherlock mused, he was now seated at the kitchen table. "Now you're trying to prove me wrong. But really, John. Trying to prove me wrong only proves me right." He raised an eyebrow in the most condescending way.
"You can be really hateful sometimes, has anyone every told you that?" John spat, grabbing the counter behind him for support. His eyes were hard.
"Every single day of my life," Sherlock said dryly, standing up. "Excuse me for a moment." He pulled a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his back pocket and walked from the room.
John was shocked in place for a moment then followed him, stomping just a tiny bit. "You smoke?" he demanded.
Sherlock was headed for the spare room up the stares and the fire escape that was attached to the room.
"Yes," Sherlock replied shortly. "Problem?"
Author's Note:
I'm not going to lie. This is probably my least favorite chapter that I have written. Not sure why exactly, but it irks me for some reason... I'll probably go back and re-write it once everything is said an done.
Aslo, I'm very sorry for taking so long to post this new chapter. I kept meaning to all last week and the week before, but life happened... and I've been a little bit lazy. Sorry!
I'll do my best to update on Thursdays though. At least with this story. I'll try to keep it consistant once I get more work up on here.
Well, anyway. Thank you for reading! Comments are always welcome. And I hope you all have a lovely day! =)