Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/630100.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes_&_John_Watson
  Character:
      John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes, Victor_Trevor
  Additional Tags:
      Pining, Crush, Resolved_Sexual_Tension, Explicit_Sexual_Content, Non-
      Penetrative_Sex, Frottage, Alternate_Universe, Alternate_Universe_-
      College/University, Masturbation, Mutual_Masturbation, Alternate
      Timelines, Foreshadowing
  Stats:
      Published: 2013-01-08 Words: 4331
****** Better than a Thank You Card ******
by lockedin221b
Summary
     John has had a crush on his very gorgeous classmate since the term
     began. His one chance to actually speak with Sherlock Holmes seems
     thwarted, until an unexpected visit--at 3AM in the middle of finals
     week.
Notes
     I KNOW IT'S TAGGED UNDERAGED BUT IT'S BY LESS THAN A MONTH I SWEAR.
     Also real sorry for the feels I don't know how those happened. They
     just did. Oh god I'm so sorry.
     Based off of/inspired by/for this lovely NSFW piece by Ree [x]
It wasn’t that John Watson had never noticed the guy before—it was impossible
not to notice someone that handsome with that kind of arrogance—only he hardly
ever showed up to the chemistry lecture they shared. In fact, John noticed him
quite a bit. Not only when he did manage to attend class, which was usually
only for exams, but also whenever John spotted him even in the corner of his
eye. It was like he had an innate proximity sensor for Sherlock Holmes.
But, on the last day of class before final exams, everyone’s attention was set
firmly on Holmes and their professor. Ten minutes into class, Holmes began
arguing one of the problems from a previous exam they were reviewing. It didn’t
take long for their professor to grow flustered, which gave John the impression
that he had realised his mistake but was too arrogant himself to give any
ground. It was steadily growing into a battle of egos rather than minds.
“Mr. Holmes,” the professor snapped at last, slamming a hand on his open
textbook. “Perhaps if you had made an effort to attend my lectures on a regular
basis, you wouldn’t be having difficulty with the material at the end of term.”
Holmes narrowed his gaze. “I only attend those lectures given by competent
instructors.” He stood and strode out of the room, leaving all his things
behind, including his long wool coat. He was going to be freezing, and it was
going to be an embarrassment to come back and fetch it.
But Sherlock Holmes didn’t return for his coat or any of his things. At the end
of class, everyone scooted around the abandoned desk like it was cursed. John
shuffled through his bag as if he’d lost something until everyone, even their
still somewhat riled professor, had left. He shoved his things in his bag and
collected Holmes books, wrapping them in the long coat.
On his way out of the room, he looked over his shoulder to make sure he hadn’t
left anything, and ran straight into someone.
“God, sorry!” A hand grabbed John’s shoulder to steady him. Its owner was
another student, a tall, curly-haired blonde with a bright smile. “You alright,
mate?”
“Yeah, thanks. Wasn’t watching—”
“Oh, cheers!” Without an explanation, he snatched the bundle of Holmes’ things
from John’s arms. “I was just coming to fetch these.”
John stared heavy-hearted at the coat. “You, uh, know Sherlock?”
“As well as any man is able to.” He chuckled. “We’re roommates. Victor Trevor.”
He shifted the bundle and offered a hand.
“John Watson.” He shuffled his feet. “Well, glad you came along. I wasn’t sure
how I’d figure out where he lives.”
Victor flashed a toothy grin. “Wouldn’t matter. He’s hardly ever in. Though, at
the moment, he’s sulking, as he was foolish enough to leave this behind,” he
indicated the coat, “and too proud to come back for it himself.”
“Yeah, it got pretty ugly in there.” He nodded his head back to the classroom
behind him.
“It always does,” Victor sighed. “It’s not a good term for Sherlock if he
doesn’t pick a fight with at least half his professors, and otherwise embarrass
the other half.”
John frowned. “He was right, though, wasn’t he?”
Victor shrugged. “Probably. He usually is.”
“Have you known him long?”
“Years.” He smiled warmly. “Our families are old friends. We often spent
summers together.”
“And you’re still willing to be his roommate?”
Victor quirked a brow questioningly.
“He seems like the kind of guy who would drive people mad.”
“Oh, he did, and I started to hate him after primary. Couldn’t stand the
bastard. Still can’t sometimes.” He smirked and held up the bundle. “Thanks
again, John. Good luck with exams.”
John blinked at the sudden break in conversation. “Yeah, you too.”
Once Trevor was gone, John huffed a sigh and adjusted his bag before turning in
the opposite direction.
 
John was awoken by a banging at his door. “Mike,” he groaned, rolling into his
pillow. When a second round started, John remembered Mike had already finished
with exams and gone home for the holidays. He growled a few select curses under
his breath and stumbled down from his top bunk. By the time he got to the door,
he heard a few people swearing at whoever was on the other side of his door.
He blinked rapidly at the fluorescents in the hall before registering the
figure in his doorway. Once he did, his annoyance was besieged by shock and a
heat quickly rising to his cheeks.
“Erm, hullo,” he said, unsuccessfully trying not to slur.
Sherlock Holmes, dressed like it was mid-afternoon under his long coat, brushed
passed him into the room.
John closed the door as annoyance began regaining its ground. “What are you
doing here? What time is it?”
“Three,” Holmes muttered, eyes flicking about the room. “Both pre-med, though
you’re of a lower class.”
“Excuse me?” John glared, his lethargy rapidly dissolving.
Holmes stripped his coat and tossed it on the back of John’s chair as he took a
small circle around the room. “Your books are used, whereas your roommates were
purchased new. However, you are more mindful of their condition, the condition
of your things in general, which suggests you place a higher value on the
everyday. It comes with a lower socioeconomic background. Full scholarship
then? Most likely, not that it means much.” He flopped down into the chair and
crossed an ankle over his knee, continuing his catalogue. “Don’t get along with
your brother—ah, sister,” he corrected as his eyes settled on a family portrait
pushed to the back of the desk.
“How—”
“Simple.” Holmes indicated the note John had scratched down four days ago to
remind him to call Harry, the note he had been ignoring since.
“Brilliant,” John murmured as he sat on the edge of Mike’s bottom bunk.
Holmes quirked a brow, finally settling his cool gaze on John. “Interesting.”
John did his best to ignore the pleasant twist in his gut and asked as coolly
as he could, “What is?”
“Not how most people react.”
“Oh? How’s that then?”
“‘Piss off.’”
John chuckled.
Holmes was clearly surprised by this reaction as well, but his expression
turned into a smirk. “Yes, well. You can imagine how one might be offended,
despite the fact that I am merely stating what is observable.”
“Right. And why are you here? John, by the way. John Watson.” He winced. “But
of course you already knew that because you found out where I live.”
“Quite. And you are clearly aware of my identity, as most people would demand
one after a stranger barges into their place of,” he gave the room another,
this time sour, onceover, “dwelling.”
“We have a class together. Or, well, had, since the exam was yesterday. Shit,”
John hissed. “I have one in five hours. So what are you doing here? I really
need to get some sleep.” A part of John, the part that had been agog over this
man for the past three months, was violently berating the sensible pat.
“I’m supposed to thank you,” Holmes said, suddenly sounding extremely bored by
everything, even existence itself.
“Were you? For what?”
Holmes picked at the wool coat. “Victor said you had intentions of returning
this to me the other day. As well as those useless pages passing for
educational material.”
John scratched the back of his head. “Oh, right. Your, uhm, friend?”
“I’m not sure if ‘friend’ is the appropriate term,” Sherlock said with another
sharp upturn in the corner of his mouth.
John’s gut sunk. It was a stupid reaction—like he had a chance with this guy,
even if he was gay or bi.
“Chaperone,” Sherlock continued, interrupting John’s undeserved pity party.
“Sorry?”
“Victor is all but paid by my family.”
“What for?” Silently, John told himself to shut up, it wasn’t his place to ask
questions.
“To chaperone me. Make sure I go to classes, don’t cause a ruckus.”
John couldn’t help but grin. “So you do that often?”
“When I’m bored, which in this place is often.”
“Why are you here? I mean, it’s obvious you’re brilliant, especially after what
happened in class last week. Why not Oxford or Cambridge?”
Holmes let out a sound between a sigh and a groan.
“Or not.”
“London, John. It’s all about London. London is interesting, even if this
particular institution is not.”
“But not university?”
“If my parents weren’t forcing me—”
“They can’t be forcing you.”
Holmes shot him another wry smile. “I’ll be eighteen next month. I’m not
bothering with this purgatory again after this week.”
John gawked. “You’re seventeen?”
“Please don’t state the obvious, John,” Holmes sighed with a grand eye roll. “I
abhor when people state the obvious.”
“But- How long have you been attending university?”
“This would be my second year.”
“So you’re not just brilliant, you’re a genius.” A bloody gorgeous genius,
sitting in his room, talking to him. Morning exam? What morning exam?
“Fascinating,” Holmes mused, his gaze resettling on John.
“What is?”
“You?”
John choked out a laugh. “Me?”
“Quite. Not many people are so obviously aroused by intelligence.”
“I- What?” John looked tactlessly down, realising he was more than a little
hard, discovering the slight pressure against his pyjama bottoms. “Oh, fuck.”
He scrambled for something to cover up, though of course it was too late, and
Mike’s pillow was the closest thing besides. “Sorry. God, shit, I’m sorry.”
John crouched over, elbows on his knees, red face buried in his hands.
He heard Holmes chuckle, though it was without malice.
John peered up through his fingers. He grunted. “Are you just going to sit
there?”
“You are quite interesting.” Holmes stood and stretched his arms behind his
head. “More than I expected you to be, that’s for sure.” He made no move to put
on his coat or leave, though. He walked over to John and squatted before him,
looking up from under dark lashes and curls.
Well that wasn’t very helpful for John’s current state. “What?” John felt a
little breathless.
“No concern over the fact that you are aroused by another man?”
John bit his lip. “I’m bi. Known since I was fifteen.”
“And you’re, what, twenty now?”
“Twenty-one,” John murmured. “And Harry’s gay. Not really been an issue in our
family. No sexual suppression or anything.” A voice in the back of his mind was
buzzing itself mad, wondering why the hell he was having this conversation with
this man at three in the morning with his prick steadily growing hard as a
rock. It was also fervently reminding him that Holmes was a bloody seventeen-
year-old.
Eighteen in less than a month.
Holmes just kept staring at him, like he was memorising him or something.
“Erm.”
“I still haven’t thanked you.” Holmes’ voice had dropped into something almost
sultry, and John felt it down his spine and up his cock.
The only sound he could manage was a pitiful, dumbstruck, “Huh?”
Holmes raised a hand and began trailing a finger down John’s forearm, only John
leapt in surprise and yelped when his head collided with the underside of his
bed.
“Fuck fuck fuck,” John groaned as he clutched the top of his head.
Before he could register what was happening, Holmes had grabbed his arm and
pulled him off the bed, only to crowd him close to the bunks. Despite the
throbbing in his skull, John looked up. Holmes was a solid half-foot taller
than him at least.
“Holmes, what are you—”
“Sherlock, please.”
“Okay, but what—” It wasn’t so much an action or words that broke off John’s
question for a second time, but the grey eyes grazing every bit of his face.
John swallowed.
“Curious.”
“What is?” He was surprised he could still speak.
“No, as you put it, ‘sexual repression,’ but there’s still- Ah! I see.”
Sherlock smiled as if he were pleased with something, probably himself. “You’ve
never had a sexual encounter with another man before.”
“What?” John cried. As soon as he had, he remembered the hour and slapped his
hand over his mouth. He turned the surprise to anger and lowered his hand.
“That’s a bit presumptuous.”
Sherlock smirked. “But accurate. What, then, snogged a boy when you were
fifteen?”
John didn’t mean to, but he nodded.
Sherlock leaned close, all without contact except for the hand on John’s arm,
the grip slackened, and whispered into John’s ear, “Would you like to try
something more?”
A few dozen sirens, red lights, and warning signs probably should have lit up
in John’s head just then, but at that moment he swallowed and rasped, “Oh god,
yes.” His face went warm when the more conscious parts of his brain caught up
with his libido.
“Don’t worry,” Sherlock whispered. “Nothing quite so invasive—” and the way he
said the word, like it was the lewdest the English language had to offer up,
turned John flat-out red “—as you’re imagining right now.”
John pressed his hands against Sherlock’s chest in an attempt to reassert
himself, but the soft material of his shirt and the surprising warmth from
beneath it caused his hands to betray him. Instead he just rested them there
and tried glaring up at Sherlock. “You may be brilliant, but you’re not a mind
reader.”
“No.” Sherlock hummed. “But one doesn’t need to read minds to observe what’s so
very clearly written in your physical reaction. Colouring of the face, pupil
dilation.” He let go of John’s arm and wrapped a hand around each of his
wrists, touching two fingers on each pulse. “Raised heart rate.”
John pulled his hands away, though he couldn’t do much else with the beds at
his back. “Close proximity with someone who has an unknown intent can easily
cause similar reactions. Anxiety and apprehension can exhibit symptoms similar
to that of arousal.” He silently cheered himself for managing something so
bloody coherent under the circumstances.
“Oh, but John,” Sherlock ghosted a hand over John’s hip, eliciting a visible
shudder, “you are aware of my intentions.”
“Am I?” John managed. “I mean, ‘sexual encounter’ covers a pretty broad
spectrum.”
Sherlock’s brow and lips twitched in amusement. “I did say non-invasive.”
That word should not have been so bloody arousing. John tried to shrug as
casually as possible, but one of his shoulder blades jammed against the
bedpost. “Still pretty vague. I mean, also depending on how we each define the
term.”
“Shall I elaborate?” He did anyway before John could answer, “What I have in
mind will not include the penetration of any body part of one of us into the
orifice of the other.”
John choked, “Well. You’ve got to get creative with those options out the
window.”
“You’d be surprised by how many options remain.” Sherlock stood suddenly
straight. When he spoke again, some of the depth had gone from his voice. “Now,
I’ve decided I want to do this with you, but if you’re unwilling, then inform
me so I can spend my time elsewhere.”
“No. I mean, yes, but—”
Sherlock’s eyes sparked. “I see. You were feeling emasculated.”
“What? No!”
“Honestly, the misconception that there has to be male and female roles in a
homosexual relationship is as tiresome as it is preposterous. From my
observations, we are both healthy and fit. There’s no need for you to feel—”
“I don’t feel emasculated,” John snapped.
“Excellent.” With a quick flicker of his slender fingers, Sherlock unbuckled
and undid his trousers and pushed both them and his pants down to the floor. He
had his hand wrapped around his prick before John could even appreciate what
was happening. “I’m not quite up to speed with you,” he said, resuming his
earlier tone, as he began stroking himself rather, well, methodically.
John couldn’t help but stare, and it was only partly out of arousal. After
watching several precise strokes, he blurted, “That’s how you wank?”
“Excuse me?” Sherlock glowered at him.
It was John’s turn to break into a smirk. “You’re treating your body like it’s
a bloody machine.”
“Isn’t it?” There wasn’t uncertainty in Sherlock’s voice, just retort. “An
organic machine.”
“Well, yeah, exactly. It’s organic. It changes and shifts and it’s always
different. You can’t treat it so mechanically.”
Sherlock huffed. “You’re going to be a doctor, aren’t you?”
“Surgeon, if I can make the grades.” He raised his hand tentatively and wetted
his lips nervously. “Can I?”
Sherlock relinquished his still very flaccid prick with a longsuffering sigh.
“I’ve never, um, done it from this angle. So bear with me?”
“Yes, fine, whatever.”
John carefully curled his hand around the warm skin. With a thick swallow, he
reiterated the changed angle in his head and began a slow push and pull, just
enough to edge back the foreskin. Though Sherlock’s body began to respond, the
man himself seemed rather bored. That was, until John gave a gentle but
unexpected twist around the half-hard cock. A surprised half-gasp, half-squeak
escaped Sherlock’s mouth, and John grinned to himself.
“That’s- that’s good,” Sherlock wheezed. “That will work.”
After the first bead of pre-ejaculate rubbed onto John’s palm, Sherlock pulled
his hand away. John looked up and was surprised to find that, while he was
pulling off the other man, Sherlock had unbuttoned his shirt. John’s confidence
wavered once again at the pale, smooth, vaguely toned torso right in front of
his face.
“You might want to take off that jumper. Wool. I suspect you may get
overheated.”
John nodded, though he’d felt overheated for a while now. He tugged off the
oatmeal-coloured jumper, remembering only as he did so that he didn’t have a
vest or tee on underneath. Nothing for it now. He tossed it onto his bunk,
forcing himself not to compare. Before he could start with his pyjama bottoms,
Sherlock was crowding him again. Without a word, he stuck his hands down John’s
pants. “Oi!” John cried, but it turned into a gasp as those beautiful fingers
found his achingly erect prick. “Warn a guy,” John hissed.
“Returning the favour,” Sherlock replied, his ego back in full now that he had
control of things again. He pushed John’s bottoms and pants low enough on his
hips to pull out his cock. “Red,” Sherlock commented.
John looked down and realised Sherlock was talking about his pants. “So?”
“Nothing.” Of course there was clearly something, but at that moment Sherlock
pressed himself closer to John and gathered both of their cocks together in one
long-fingered grip, and all intelligent thought flew out of John’s head.
“Oh my god. That’s- Oh god!”
Sherlock had begun stroking them together, and it was evident he was a quick
learner. His movements had less rigidity to it than they had had moments ago.
He used their pre-ejaculate as lubricant and quickened his strokes.
“Christ,” John groaned. He wasn’t sure if he could stand much longer. He groped
for something to hold onto, and only managed to find fistfuls of Sherlock’s
open shirt. And he couldn’t help but buck a little into that grip. His spine
bowed back and he unintentionally shoved his brow against Sherlock’s shoulder,
biting his lip to keep back as much noise as possible because he was feeling
goddamn brilliant, and part of him wanted to shout it out. Instead, he managed
to keep the noise level to low grunts and moans as he came.
As John’s orgasm rippled through him, Sherlock’s hand worked faster, further
slicked by John’s ejaculate. He clawed at the base of John’s neck with his
other hand and came with a sound more like a deep contented sigh than anything.
When the aftershocks faded, John wanted nothing more than to slump back into
bed and pass out. He managed to stand up straight, registering the hand on his
neck and the dull pain from the fingertips. He pried off Sherlock’s arm and
looked at him. His eyes were closed, and it sounded like he was humming a
concerto. John looked down at their stomachs and withering pricks. He ignored
the bizarre man for a moment and retrieved a box of tissues from his desk. He
pulled out several for himself and stuffed the box into Sherlock’s clean hand.
Sherlock opened his eyes, giving John the image of cat lounging in the
afternoon sun. But he began cleaning himself as well.
Before long, John’s bin was full of used tissues and Sherlock had his trousers
up and was buttoning his shirt. John slipped his jumper back over his sweat-
chilled skin and rubbed his arms. “So, uhm.”
Sherlock’s gaze flickered over him as he pulled on his coat. “Ah, yes. This
bit. I often prefer to delete it. Never mind. Goodnight.” He wrapped his scarf
about his neck and started for the door.
“That’s it then?”
With a grand sigh, Sherlock turned back to him. “Yes. That’s it. It was rather
enjoyable, and you’re haven’t half so dreary a mind as others, but that’s it.”
His eyes narrowed. “Even if I were interested in pursuing a relationship, which
I’m not, it would be irrational. I’m leaving university, and you’ll be off to
training as an officer for the military come summer. Even if I had—”
“How’d you know that?” John snap, quickly looking around his room for any
clues.
Sherlock interrupted his search, “I read up on you.”
“What?” John’s head snapped back around.
“Honestly, you thought someone could really figure out so much about a person
with one look around a dingy dormitory room?” Sherlock rolled his eyes.
“Gullible, so eager to be impressed.”
“Wait, no. You couldn’t have just read up on me.”
“It’s quite a simple task actually. That amount of ingenuity I do have.”
John’s mind buzzed. “So you just wanted to impress me so I’d say yes to- to
that?”
Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t condone rape. I wasn’t going to force anything on
you.”
“But you—”
“Don’t take it personally.”
John seethed. “Don’t take it personally?”
But Sherlock only gave him another shrug before walking out the door.
John wanted to run screaming after him, to put his fist into that bloody
gorgeous face. Instead he sat down at his desk and leaned his forehead into the
surface with a groan. He couldn’t argue that he hadn’t enjoyed what had just
happened, but he’d had a higher impression of Sherlock before then.
Which really should mean something, because he’d seen Sherlock Holmes in
action. Against a well-qualified professor.
John sat up and began a slower, more careful search of his room. How could
Sherlock have known about his plans to go into the military? He hadn’t even
told his family yet. Unless—
He leapt to his feet and lunged for the corkboard above his desk. From behind
scraps of paper and notes about deadlines and final exams and reminders about
Christmas and gifts to buy, he tore off the letter from St. Bart’s. His
acceptance letter. He fell back into his chair and stared at it, and he smiled.
 
Epilogue: Fifteen years later...
They sat over some of the best Chinese John had eaten in ages. Or maybe it was
just the company. He kept trying to catch Sherlock’s eye, but he was too
focused on answering texts from the detective inspector from the Yard, or maybe
something else entirely.
It wasn’t until they had walked out the door that Sherlock brought it up. “It
seems you don’t remember, but we met once—”
“I remember,” John chuckled. “Not something you easily forget. Well, not
something most people easily forget.”
Sherlock looked mildly surprised. “I would have expected you to have brought it
up by now.”
John shrugged. “I wasn’t sure if it was worth your memory.”
“I see.”
“Glad it was.” He turned his face up. “Lying son of a bitch.” He said it with a
broad grin, and it brought Sherlock to a halt. John turned around to face him.
“You saw the letter.”
“Hm?” Sherlock was doing his best to appear uninterested, but it was already
too late. He’d let it slip that he remembered, and remembered everything at
that.
“My letter to Bart’s. That’s how you figured out I was going into service. I
hadn’t even told my family yet, and the school didn’t know I was transferring.
So you could only have known if you’d seen that letter.”
Instead of looking ashamed or annoyed, Sherlock’s features settled into a
pleased smile. “John Watson. I did always suspect you weren’t quite so
ordinary.”
“High praise, from you. I’m chuffed.” John stuffed his hands in his jacket
pockets. “But why did you lie?”
“To make it easier.”
“Easier? God, I could’ve punched you.”
“Precisely. I was being truthful when I said I had no intentions for a
relationship at the time. It was better to let you think I had manipulated you
than have you pining after me, for both of us.”
“Uh huh,” John said, raising a brow. “What, you think I didn’t know what a one-
night stand was?”
“I believe the saying is, ‘better safe than sorry.’”
John shook his head, grinning. “Of course it is. Right, well, that’s settled.”
He walked to the curb to hail a cab.
Sherlock’s arm loomed over him, and one appeared in seconds.
“Did you really drop out?” John resumed their conversation as they headed back
to Baker Street.
“Absolutely.”
“What did you do after that?”
“A number of things, most of which you won’t find appealing.”
“If we’re going to share a flat—”
“Another night at least,” Sherlock muttered and pulled out his mobile.
John rolled his eyes and leaned against the door. He glanced over his shoulder
and caught Sherlock looking at him. John smirked.
“What?” Sherlock said, a little defensively, as he refused to look away now
that he’d been caught.
“I knew you were for real.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and returned to his mobile.
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