Sherlock and John stumbled out of the car and Sherlock dragged John up the steps to the door of 221B Baker Street. "We still have to talk about this later!" Greg shouted at them, but Sherlock quickly slipped his key in the lock and shut the door, cutting off the policeman's words.
"Sorry you couldn't examine the body," John hiccuped. "I guess we drank too much."
Sherlock narrowed his steel-grey eyes. "There's another body I'd like to examine," he replied, tugging John upstairs and guiding him to a bedroom.
The room was clustered with newspapers and full of pictures and maps pinned to the walls. Sherlock quickly shoved everything off the bed and gently pressed John back, until he was falling onto the mattress with Sherlock on top of him. Sherlock's kisses were passionate and hungry, but definitely sloppy, although John was drunk as well and hardly noticed anything more than the wonderful sensations vibrating through his body.
Sherlock's lips moved from John's to trace his jawline while his hands were desperately unbuttoning his shirt. John moved his own hands to help, watching the silk fall away to reveal smooth, pale skin that glowed faintly in the dark like moonlight. John let out a slight whimper as Sherlock's lips brushed against his neck and began sucking. He was too intoxicated and caught in the waves of pleasure to realize he'd have a noticeable hickey the next day.
"Sherlock," John moaned, tangling the fingers of his left hand in Sherlock's thick curls. His right hand began stroking the soft skin revealed from the removal of the shirt. John traced the contours of muscles, relishing the heat that rose from Sherlock's skin.
Sherlock lifted John's shirt above his head and began moving his lips lower down John's body, leaving a trail leading directly above the zipper of his jeans. Sherlock glanced up briefly with a glint in his eyes before tugging on John's zipper.
"Sherlock," John said again, this time in a different voice. Sherlock stopped and looked up as John shifted beneath him, sitting up. "I... ah..."
He could feel himself straining against his jeans, wishing to be freed from his pants, but... he wasn't ready. Kissing was one thing. Going further, with his teacher, so soon... that was another. And being with a man was something rather new to John. He had received quite a number of handjobs in high school, and even a blowjob once, but mainly from girls. If it had ever been revealed that he was gay, his father would likely beat him within inches of his life. John had only physically been with one other male before Sherlock.
"Sherlock," his voice cracked, "I'm not ready."
Sherlock sat up abruptly, scanning John's face with his sharp grey eyes. "Did I do something wrong?" he asked after a moment, cocking his head to the side.
John bit his lip. "No, you were great, I just... I've never really... been with a guy before." He could feel the blood rushing to his cheeks.
"Ah." Sherlock sat back on his haunches, staring at John.
John squirmed under the gaze and nearly felt like crying. He quickly pulled his shirt back on and pulled his legs up, curling into a ball. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
Sherlock moved forward and John cringed, expecting an abusive hand. Instead, Sherlock lightly kissed his forehead. "You have nothing to be sorry for," his deep voice rumbled in John's ear. "Don't ever feel pressured into something you're not ready for. I'll wait for you, as long as you need."
It was then that John could no longer hold back tears. Here he was in bed with a brilliant man, who accepted him the way he was. After years of living in an abusive home and dealing with controlling and demanding girlfriends, it felt so good to be there, where he actually felt safe. Safe was a feeling he hadn't known in such a long time. And Sherlock was willing to wait for him.
Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and cradled his head against his bare chest. John's tears fell hot against the exposed skin, but Sherlock just pressed his lips against John's forehead and whispered, "It's alright. You're okay, John. I don't mind waiting."
John sobbed into Sherlock's chest, breathing in his scent for comfort. He felt stupid, crying in Sherlock's arms after their first official date. It was embarrassing. But Sherlock just held him and whispered support and stroked his blonde hair until he calmed down. When John finally composed himself, he pulled away from Sherlock's embrace and sat up, rubbing his sore eyes.
Sherlock grinned at him. "Even with puffy eyes, you're still beautiful," he whispered, and softly kissed John. John smiled into the kiss.
For a while they sat up, Sherlock rambling about the crime scene, but eventually the alcohol eased them into a deep sleep. In the morning, John woke with Sherlock pressed against his back and a pale arm around him as the older man breathed softly into his ear. It was tranquil and almost enough to ease the hangover John could feel pulsing in his head.
Sherlock stirred behind him. "Coffee?" he whispered lazily.
"Please," John replied, touching his forehead.
Sherlock pulled himself out of bed and strolled to the door. "Mrs. Hudson!" he shouted out, making John wince.
"Sherlock, what the fuck?"
"My landlady," Sherlock replied without turning around. "Mrs. Hudson!"
A petite elderly woman came bustling up the steps. "Sherlock, dear, what is it?"
"Coffee, please. Black, two sugars. John?" He shifted his tall frame so John was visible in the bed.
Mrs. Hudson peered in and made a face of surprise. "Oh? Who's this one? You didn't tell me we had guests! I'm not proper!"
"You're fine," Sherlock insisted, placing a hand lightly on her shoulder to keep her from running off. "How do you want your coffee, John?"
"Uh..." He was surprised by the woman looking at him in bed. He had assumed Sherlock lived alone. "With some milk, please."
"Alright dears, but just this once. I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper, Sherlock," she chided, before scurrying away and adding on, "and I'll bring up some biscuits!"
John stared at Sherlock, who was stalking back to bed. He flopped down and pulled John against his chest.
"Is it okay that she knows?" John asked.
"Mrs. Hudson is the most brilliant woman I know. She'll keep our secret," he assured John, casually stroking his arm.
John thought about who knew about the secret relationship. Nigel, the restaurant owner. Greg, the cop. Mrs. Hudson. Sherlock had said something to Greg though, last night. Don't tell Mycroft. Greg had referenced something about 'the last one.' John bit his lip.
"Sherlock," he began cautiously. "Who's Mycroft?"
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