A/N: Just a short teenlock fic I wrote before finishing up the second part of the 'Senses' series!
I did this last night with my fantastic friends (or a version of this, involving sparklers and hills and stars, though not exactly the same thing); it was one of the best weekends I've had in a long while so, naturally, I wanted to immortalize it in the wonderful world of Sherlock!
Hope you enjoy!
Sparklers and Stars; Kisses and Confessions
"Come on, Sherlock! It's New Years! The world is fucking celebrating and you're holed up there like some kind of naff old wanker. Come down here now."
"I swear John, your vocabulary deteriorates more and more with every passing year; your resolution should be to invest in a dictionary."
The blonde teen rolled his eyes at his characteristically grumpy best friend, his ever posh boyfriend. Of course Sherlock didn't want to be here, standing on the top step of the well-lit gazebo like some coat-clad king of the hill. John's plan wasn't going to work if the fucking tight-arse – and he meant that in the most loving of ways, Sherlock's behind was splendid – wouldn't cooperate.
Climbing up a step or two, a tanned hand took hold of a pale one and pulled. Successfully dethroned, Sherlock was helpless but to follow the particularly exuberant shorter young adult. John had recently turned twenty-one and Sherlock still trailed behind at nineteen but that had never stopped them from acting juvenile. Or at the very least, act childish and irresponsible. After all, Sherlock solved cold cases in his spare time and John blogged about it. Sometimes neither wore pants.
For the older boy, this night was the pinnacle of a year spent completely immersed in the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes. For the younger, it was simply another night where he could smile freely, laugh heartily and appreciate the things he wasn't truly interested in such as sparklers and stars and hills.
They were on a grassy park lot, overlooking the country town below. John had successfully acquired 25 sparklers to help bring in the new-year as well as a bottle of cheap cider. The drink was foul tasting and the sparks which fell of the brightly lit sticks felt hot on Sherlock's hand but they were worth seeing the glowing, goofy smile of John H Watson. The blonde boy giggled as Sherlock waved the crackling flame at him, writing fire on the air as the speed of light played with the eyes. The younger teen couldn't help but smile back as his heart filled with warmth, even in that cold time where December greets January and hands off the calendar.
The night was completed with a strikingly clear sky, which the two boys lied down to watch, side by side. John's fingers snaked between Sherlock's long ones. Both pairs of eyes mapped constellations, though only the genius' were actually true to chart. Neither cared that the snow was wetting their backs, or that the smoke from their fiery fun was sure to attract attention.
John checked his watch for the fifth time as Sherlock began explaining the scientific explanations for shooting stars. With a quick smile the shorter boy turned to sling an arm around the body of his boyfriend; with one on either side of that angular face and a knee between those impossibly long legs, he proceeded to lean down and capture those wonderfully pink lips in his own.
Lightly peppering slow kisses, sucking ever so slightly on that full bottom lip, John could feel the gasp of breath from his companion, feel the movement of hips below his own. He could feel those exploring fingers under his wooly jumper, and when they made contact with heated skin they sent shivers down the older boy's entire body. Desperate for more skin, John pulled down the navy blue scarf hiding that column of neck from his scrutiny; there he tasted sweat and snow. It was salty and wet and made the head spin. He felt Sherlock's quiet moan on his tongue as he bit and sucked at that perfectly pale space.
Framing that Greek-god face, John tenderly kissed the reddening cheeks, the frost-tipped nose, closed eye-lids and eventually returned to that supple home of lips. With a sigh of utter contentment and joy, he whispered the sentence he had been saving up all night:
"Happy New Year, Sherlock Holmes. I really fucking love you."