Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/510108.
  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, Jim_Moriarty/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes/
      John_Watson/Jim_Moriarty
  Additional Tags:
      Threesome_-_M/M/M, Teacher-Student_Relationship, Manipulation, Dubious
      Consent
  Series:
      Part 1 of In_Session
  Stats:
      Published: 2012-09-12 Completed: 2012-09-17 Chapters: 2/2 Words: 8713
****** Respect Your Elders ******
by angelblack3
Summary
     John has never hated his stupid hormones more than when he fails the
     biggest exam of Mr. Holmes' class. Yet, his teacher seems to be
     fairly compromising, while his Maths' teacher is strangely ecstatic
     for this unbidden opportunity. That means everything's going to be
     fine, right?
Notes
     I put on the Underage warning, but John's about 16/17. I don't know
     what the legal age limit of Britain is, so I decided to play it safe.
***** Chapter 1 *****
John thinks, sometimes, that he must have killed someone very important in a
past life.
Why else would he be in this situation?
Here he is, trying to concentrate on the most important Chemistry exam of his
school year, and he's getting too damned distracted by his teacher.
Said instructor has his feet propped up on his desk, with a book on something
that John can't pronounce in his hand. His pale face is tilted into his hand on
the chair, silver eyes skimming the lines on the page. Absently, the man
brushes his fingers over his full lips, and John chokes.
He ducks his head back down to his test when Mr.Holmes sharply looks up from
his reading. John resolutely tells himself that he's not going to look up
anymore, that he's going to get this damned thing finished. He looks up at the
clock and winces. He's barely halfway through and he only has half an hour to
spare.
As John goes through the questions, his mind wanders unerringly back to the
tall man that's held his attentions for the past month. John didn't use to have
this problem. He used to be a normal student that fought lethargy during boring
lectures about basic elements like everyone else.
Now that his old instructor has retired, John can't help but stay awake and
alert. If only to hear that deep voice in its entirety. Or watch him stalk
around the room like a predatory cat. Or to meet those piercing eyes in a
passing glimpse before they're focused on something else. Or to watch those
long, long fingers trace delicately over a glass flask and imagine them--the
bell makes him jump in his seat.
Well, piss.
Students sigh in a mix of relief and frustration, all of them packing away
their things. "Remember," Holmes' voice carries over the din, "there are no
make-ups. If you were too dull or lazy to bother to study then you will receive
no pity from me."
John glances down at the whole page of answers that he's left blank, and feels
his heart drop into his stomach. He shoves his things into his army green
knapsack, slinging it over his shoulder. Maybe he can find a wall somewhere,
bang his head on it a hundred dozen times, and blame everything on a
concussion.
As if Holmes would take pity on him for having an actual head injury. Hah.
He's halfway through his next class, drowning in his own depression, when Mr.
Moriarty startles him from his spiraling thoughts.
"Something the matter, Johnny?" Most of the students think the cutesy nicknames
from their Maths teacher is a little disturbing. Most of the time, John agrees.
But he knows the man is just trying to be friendly.
John gives a tight smile that he knows isn't reassuring at all and says, "Fine,
sir. Just, got back from a test with Mr. Holmes is all." A test that he
spectacularly failed. Even if all of the questions that he answered were right
(which he highly doubts) the amount that he didn't finish will still land him
in the lowest percentile. He's doomed.
Mr. Jim (which he prefers, though John always says 'sir') cracks a smile. "Not
to worry Johnny-boy" John winces at the odd endearment,"you're a clever one.
I'm sure you did fine." He winks, and leaves John to his problems. Mathematical
and otherwise. John doesn't grip his hair and slam his head onto his desk, but
it's a close thing.
It's not until he's at home in his bed, tossing about and wondering how he's
going to break it to his parents that he's failed Chemistry, that he remembers
that Mr. Moriarty called him 'clever.' It strikes him as odd, and John searches
for the reason. When it hits him, John is simultaneously confused and obscenely
flattered.
In all of his time in Mr. Jim's class, not once had John ever heard him call
someone 'clever'. Unless he was referring to Mr. Holmes.
The next day when John is in Chemistry, he avoids looking at Mr. Holmes for the
whole period. Usually, he enters with a polite smile, even if the man never
responds more than with a nod and a "Hm."
But John feels that if he looks at him now, there will be a disappointed
accusation in his gaze. So he slumps into his seat, and pulls out his notebook,
ready for the lesson to begin. During the lecture, he never once looks up from
his notes, even to answer a question addressed to the class. He usually jumps
on an opportunity to impress the man, but he keeps staring dejectedly at his
paper.
Finally, with ten minutes on the clock, the moment of truth has arrived. "Much
to your dismay, I did in fact manage to grade your exams last night. The
results were, well, what I expected." John doesn't need to look up to know that
there's a twist in his lip. Whenever John overhears other students talking
about Mr. Holmes, it's usually with unmitigated hatred. While John does agree
that he can be harsh, John never for once thinks that he's overcompensating for
a lack of intelligence. The man is brilliant, and John feels the sharp ache of
disappointment in himself that he might have let the man down.
"I'll be passing them around now, and if you have any opinions about your
grade, I suggest you keep them to yourself." John hears the shuffling of
papers, followed by groans of dismay and sighs of relief. With each step
closer, John slumps further in his seat. When he sees Holmes' shiny shoes
beside his desk, John squeezes his eyes shut. The paper is placed, and his
teacher moves on. John opens his eyes, his heart in his throat. The paper is
placed face down, and John slowly brings it over to him. He wishes Holmes had
just left it face up, and let him get it over with.
He flips over the sheet to see a crimson marks all over his pages. John can't
help the pathetic whinge that escapes. Near to everything is wrong, even though
John had been so sure about those answers. Each turn of the page seems to
reveal more aggressive red splotches, until his test is practically bleeding
with crosses of ink. This is worse than he imagined. And he had imagined it
being pretty damn bad.
The turn to the last page makes him reel with anxiety. There, written all over
his blank lines in large letters are the words "SEE ME AFTER CLASS."
Oh, fuck.
John looks around, hoping to catch the gaze of his professor and gauge a
reaction. Across the room, Holmes puts down the last test and looks up just in
time. If John hadn't been looking for it, he would've missed it, and he wished
he did. When those haunting grey eyes look into John's worried blue, they
slightly darken, and his mouth has the barest traces of a frown. He's not just
disappointed, he's angry.
This is the absolute worst day of John's life. John looks back down at the
accusing words and swallows the lump in his throat. When he's packing away the
test, he dimly notices that his hands are shaking.
The bell rings, and everyone bolts out the door. All to either pat themselves
on the back or to curse their teacher into a dark oblivion without him
overhearing.
John's alone in the span of two minutes, and he hasn't moved from his seat. He
looks up, and Mr. Holmes is behind his desk, typing something onto his
computer. John would say that the man doesn't even know that he's here, but
that's not true. John's half convinced the man knows everything. He just hopes
that his wayward crush isn't one of those things.
He shrugs on his pack, and makes his way up to the desk. As he does so, he
looks over at the door, and entertains the wild idea of making a break for it.
But John's never been one to run from responsibility. No matter how much he
really, really wants to. He stands in front of the desk, waiting for judgement.
But the man hasn't even glanced at him.
John shifts, and coughs politely, but still no response. John looks over at the
clock. He's going to be late for Mr. Moriarty's class if he doesn't get this
over with. He opens his mouth to speak, but Holmes interrupts, "You know, their
answers may have been incorrect, but at least the majority of my students had
the decency to finish their exam."
John winces. He deserved that, "Mr. Holmes, I-"
"What happened Watson?" Sherlock finally deigned to look at him, spinning the
chair around to face him. "You're a very bright student, this is completely
unlike you. Your homework is well thought out and handed in on time. You are
usually able to follow my lectures with pointed questions and good answers. You
should have received one of the highest scores. Yet you received the lowest.
Why?"
On any other day, John would have swelled up and flushed with pride from the
praise. Instead, it just hurts that much worse. Holmes had such high
expectations from him, and he let him down. All because he couldn't control his
stupid hormones.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes," John says, throat tight with shame, "I don't have an
excuse." He really doesn't.
He could try and pass this off as an all nighter from preparing, or blame it on
his older sister's bad habit of coming home obnoxiously drunk at three in the
morning, but John doesn't have it in him to be dishonest. He doesn't want to
add lying on top of all of this. He could try and plead to him, beg him for a
make-up, but John knows how well that would work. He's heard the horror
stories.
Holmes peers at him from across his pointed fingertips, and sighs from his
nose. "I've told Mr. Moriarty about your blunder. He seemed rather surprised as
well."
John gives a start, he didn't know that the two teachers were so close. Holmes
continues, "He seems to think that there had been some great mistake. He,
apparently, also understands that you are well above this kind of mark Watson."
John drops his head. Great, he's disappointed both of his favored teachers.
Fantastic.
"Which is why, thanks to his pleadings," Holmes said wryly,"I am allowing you
to make up your grade."
John's head snaps back up. Wait, what?
"Since two very intelligent adults can vouch for your academic prowess, then it
stands to reason that this exam was a very rare flop-up. I am being very
generous Watson, please don't take it in vain."
Those sharp eyes lock onto him, and John chokes out, "Yes, sir! Thank you! I-
thank you so much!" He's so overwhelmed with relief that he misses the
predatory glint in his teacher's smile.
"Come to my office after school, we will arrange something then. Off you go, be
sure to inform Mr. 'Jim' of what has transpired here. I'm sure he'll be
pleased." John's too busy dashing out the door to catch the odd tone in the
last word.
***** Chapter 2 *****
John did reiterate the story to Mr. Jim, relieved and happy and needing to tell
somebody. His Maths teacher was the only one that he felt comfortable enough to
tell. His friends would have been his second choice, but they all knew the
reason for his far away look and why he practically threw himself into his
Chemistry homework. They would have teased him mercilessly about being so
distracted as to fail the biggest exam of the year.
Mr. Moriarty was quite pleased. John thought the exuberant smile that fit his
face so nicely was a little out of place, but he didn't question it. He just
took it as his professor being content that his student wasn't going to be
moping about in his class anymore.
Waiting for school to end was an exercise in patience, but John managed. The
thought that he and Mr. Holmes will be alone in his office hasn't escaped him.
But focusing on it may send John into an anxious and aroused frenzy. His
friends try and get him to come along to a movie, but John declines, saying he
promised Harry he'd make dinner that night.
He doesn't feel good about lying, but he feels somewhat guilty that he's
getting this special pass in the first place. He knows that a lot of students
would love to retake the thing, and John doesn't feel right that he gets to be
the only one. He also doesn't want to come across as a suck-up. Plus, if his
friends found out, he'd never hear the end of it.
He stays in the bathroom once the last bell rings, and heads over to Holmes'
office when everything is relatively empty. He passes a few stragglers along
the way, but they're too busy rushing to the bus or their friends to even give
him a glance.
Classrooms are on the bottom floor, offices are on the smaller floor up top, so
when John reaches the last step, everything feels fairly deserted. Most of the
lights are off, and the doors are closed. Seems that the teachers also greet
the weekend with as much enthusiasm as the students.
John's memorized the number to Holmes' door, and finds it easily. The light is
on behind the frosty glass, but John knocks politely anyway. He hears Holmes
say, "Enter," and turns the knob.
John has a huge grateful smile on his face and gushes, "Hello sir, thank you
again so much for-" John stops when he notices Mr. Moriarty.
He's sitting casually in front of Holmes' desk, legs crossed and feet bouncing
in a playful rhythm. The Maths genius turns and regards John with a warm smile.
"Mr. Mori- I mean, Jim! Sorry, it's, hello sir," John finishes lamely. The
teacher that John had intended to see is sitting at his desk sorting out papers
into a file. The company crashes his hopes of spending time with Mr. Holmes
alone. Though maybe it's for the best. He would probably only be distracted
from anything discussed.
Holmes tucks the last of the papers away and says, "Mr. Moriarty is here per
his request. It was his idea that you should be allowed a make-up, and his only
stipulation was that he should be present and allowed to participate in your,
studies." He says the last word carefully, and John looks at him. He's sure
it's the lighting, because any trace of it is gone, but he could've sworn that
Mr. Holmes was sporting a smirk half a second ago.
Moriarty motions to the plush chair next to him, "Sit down Johnny, let's get
started. We don't want to be here all night do we?" There it is again,
something passes between the two men that John can't quite make out. He sits
down, quite confused at the inside joke that seems to involve him as the punch
line.
Before he can ask, Holmes pulls a blank copy of the dreaded test from out of
nowhere. "Now then, here's what I've come up with. This is the test in its
entirety, unaltered in any way. Since I can't have you simply retake it,
considering you've had all day to go over your botched one, this will be
something of an extensive homework assignment. You will write down your answers
as you see fit, and explain to me and Mr. Moriarty why you find it to be the
correct answer. Take us through it step by step. If, by the end of it, you have
answered and explained everything satisfactorily, I will give you the passing
grade. That should be sufficient, don't you agree?"
John more than agrees. He's fucking ecstatic. True, the idea of talking about
his thought process to the two most brilliant minds John has ever known is
daunting, but he'll lap it up like a kitten with cream. He nods, ready to
begin, and Holmes smiles at him warmly. "Excellent, very well then, begin."
He slides the paper over, and starts with the first question. Time breezes by,
with John's voice being the only sound in the room. John had studied very hard
for this exam, and it shows in the way he enthusiastically answers each
question. He slips a few times, overcome by anxiety every time he looks up and
sees icy blue and deep black eyes staring at him. He takes a deep, calm breath,
thinks over the question, then starts over from where he stutters.
The test is thick though, and halfway through John begins coughing. His mouth
is dry, and he tries to wet his lips with his tongue, but it hardly helps. He
stops talking for a minute, trying to make the cotton in his mouth go away.
Jim stands up, exclaiming, "Oh, how silly of us Sherlock," John startles again
when he realizes he just heard Mr. Holmes' name for the first time, "Johnny
needs some water. You take a breather, I'll be right back." He's out the door
in an instant, and John's somewhat startled from the sudden departure. He leans
back in the chair, and raises a hand to his throat and rubs. Now that he's
stopped, his voice feels close to raw. He wonders if he'll be able to speak
tomorrow.
"My apologies Watson, I didn't realize you were suffering from some
discomfort." John looks over at his teacher, and the silver eyes are tight with
concern.
John hastily tries to reassure him, "No, sir, I'm fine, really-" he completely
ruins his attempt at comfort when he starts coughing again. The small, tidy
room and surplus of bodies have heated the air, abrading John's throat. He
clears it away, and opens eyes he didn't realize he'd closed. Holmes is
kneeling right in front of him.
The shock of it has John leaning back against his chair in surprise. Too close.
Oh God, this is way too close. From this distance, John can make out the stray
dark curls flying away from his teacher's head. He viciously tamps down the
impulse to reach out his hand and smooth them down.
"Are you certain you're alright? You're flushing rather brightly now." Sherlock
reaches his hand out to John's forehead to feel his temperature. When the cool
hand rests on overheated skin, John swallows. Bad. Bad bad bad bad bad.
Holmes frowns, still uncertain, and leans forward and up enough to place his
own forehead on John's. John stops breathing. He can make out the delicate arch
of his teacher's cupid's bow, and he clenches his eyes shut and refrains from
whimpering. The sound of his fingernails scratching the upholstery reaches his
ears, and he hopes Holmes is too preoccupied to notice.
He feels hot breath waft across his face when his teacher murmurs, "I know how
you look at me John." John's eyes shoot open. The horror of the statement and
the awe of having his name uttered by that gorgeous voice leave him paralyzed
on the seat. "I'm quite brilliant, and far from blind. If your friends can
notice it, what makes you think I couldn't?" Holmes pulls back, and his hands
come to lightly cup John's face.
John can only stare. His brain can only manage stutters of "Not happening. Is
this real? Does he like me too? Did I trip and die on the stairs and this is my
heaven?" Then his mind completely whites out when the man leans forward and
kisses him soundly on the mouth.
For the past month, he's dreamed and fantasized about this exact moment. And
all John can think about his how much he wishes he'd eaten some minty gum
before coming here. Those lips press with firmer insistence, and John melts in
his seat. Closing his eyes,(though his teacher hadn't) John finally presses
back.
The hands cupping his face trace little patterns in his skin, and one moves to
lightly grip the back of his head. Like John is thinking about moving away at
any moment. Only a divine force could pull John away right now.
That divine force comes in the form of his Maths professor drawling, "My, my,
what a scandalous sight."
John's partial arousal is chased away to be replaced with sheer terror. He saw
them. He saw him kissing his teacher. Of his teacher kissing him. Oh God what
does this mean? Is Mr. Holmes going to get fired? Is he going to be expelled?
His parents will never forgive him. Mr. Holmes will be branded as a sex
offender. Oh God, John can't feel his limbs.
"Jim," Sherlock bites out, "you're back sooner than I thought you would be."
John's inner panic screeches to a halt.
"I was getting water dear, didn't have to run to the store to get it," Jim
says, his voice dripping like honey laced with acid. He walks over to the desk,
coming directly behind Holmes, and John can see the little smirk that plays at
his lips. John's still too frightened to say anything.
He places the water bottles on the surface, and looks John in the eyes. His
breath is stolen away from the amount of lust in that gaze. Jim's lids lower,
noticing the small gasp.
"You were interrupting," Sherlock says, slightly petulant. It's only now that
John notices that he hasn't turned his attention away from John at all. Which
means he saw him react to Jim's expression. But he doesn't look jealous at all.
He looks...intrigued?
"By all means," Jim says, and he moves to sit in Sherlock's chair. He scoots in
closer, folding his hands below his chin and placing his elbows on the desk.
"Continue. Don't stop on my account," the grin at that statement sends a
mixture of arousal and fear down John's spine. His mild-mannered professor is
gone, to be replaced by this downright predatory man leering at him.
John opens his mouth to protest, either the continuation or the audience he's
not sure, but Sherlock's mouth closes over his, and he forgets to say anything.
Sherlock gently probes John's mouth with his tongue, and the young man groans
from the sensation. His eyes are closed, reveling in the smooth texture of
their tongues dancing over each other. He comes back to himself when he
remembers that Sherlock has been kneeling for quite some time, and he must be
aching by now.
He pulls away, and there's a flash of disappointment in his body. There's a
similar emotion in Sherlock's eyes, and John can't see the surprise in Jim's
face. The two men didn't think John would willingly pull away from what he's
clearly wanted for a long time. John says, "Wait, Mr. Holmes-"
"Sherlock, please," the man interrupts, "I think we're well past the point of
formality by now John." He grins at John's embarrassed flush, and waits
patiently for him to make his point.
"Sh-Sherlock," John tries it out, and he loves the way the name resonates in
the room, "aren't you, um, uncomfortable?" Both men blink in surprise. Oh, of
course. Of course John's first concern is that his crush should be enjoying
himself. Sherlock chuckles, while Jim watches with a small grin.
"Not really, but if it will ease your mind," Sherlock grabs John under his
arms, easily lifts him up and swings him around so John is sitting on the desk.
The back of John's legs collide painfully with the surface and John lets out an
irate, "Hey!", before he's being kissed again.
God, the man's mouth is positively sinful. One hand is on his hip, while the
other gently cradles the back of his head. Sherlock playfully nips at John's
lips, and the teen is so distracted that he momentarily forgets there's a
second person.
Until Jim speaks up, "No fair Sherlock. You've blocked my view."
Sherlock pulls away from John long enough to say, "Then find some other way to
enjoy this." before diving back in.
The words don't really register in John's mind until he hears Jim get up from
his seat. There's a creaking, and a warm body is suddenly pressed against his
back. Jim is kneeling behind him on the large desk, and another pair of hands
appear around his chest. Slowly, Jim begins unbuttoning the uniform white shirt
from the top. His chin digs into John's shoulder, watching the progress while
Sherlock continues snogging the student.
Panic and sense crash John down from his aroused stupor, and he pulls back. He
grips the desk edge to steady himself, and jolts when pulling away from
Sherlock just pushes him firmly into Jim. Suddenly, the realization of where
they are and who he's with comes roaring back.
"Wait-wait," those deft fingers don't even pause in revealing the little strip
of skin, "I don't think-"
Sherlock's hand grips him firmly behind his neck, and pulls him back into a
kiss. The lust is now dampened with fear, and both men notice the sudden
stiffness in his body. With small swipe of his tongue over John's lips,
Sherlock says in the opposite ear, "Hush, John. It's alright. We're not going
to hurt you."
"Hmmm, quite the opposite in fact," Jim purrs, his hands now parting the loosed
fabric. He leans back enough to pull the shirt down to John's elbows, leaving
him exposed and trapped in his own clothes. The air, while warm, still causes
John to shiver.
The masterful fingers tease over his belly, up to his chest, then across the
slowly hardening nipples. John quickly forgets why he shouldn't be doing this,
and gasps into Sherlock's exposed neck. The air ruffles his curls, and Sherlock
shudders. John grins, and does it again with a slightly overdone moan.
Sherlock pulls back, and those silver eyes regard him shrewdly. John's too busy
paying attention to the pupils that are so blown they minimize the color into
tiny grey slits. Behind him, Jim giggles into the back of his neck. "Oh, we do
like you Johnny. There is a delightful spark in you. It's just waiting to be,
hm, stoked."
The fingers over his nipples are less exploratory. With one hand, he continues
to caress, while with the other, he slightly pinches and releases. Until John
doesn't know what sounds that he's making, just that it spurs Sherlock to
continue to kiss him senseless.
With Sherlock occupying his mouth, Jim satisfies himself with gentle nips on
all of the exposed shoulder he can reach. The combined mouths send John
spinning. He's caught in the indecision of who to touch, though it's not like
he has much choice, with his hands trapped behind his back. He clenches his
fists, but even the bite of his fingernails does nothing to ground himself.
He's floating in his own body, riding a wave of endorphins headier than
anything John's ever felt.
He only realizes he's been gently thrusting in the air when he brushes
Sherlock's leg with his groin. John pulls back, overcome. He doesn't see the
greedy smile Sherlock wears when he repeats the stimuli. John's hands jerk in
their bindings, desperate to grab, to hold. Sherlock continuously brushes his
leg teasingly over John's erection.
His hands tilt John's head up to watch the desperate expressions of arousal.
John doesn't notice, if he could see the depths of possessiveness in that gaze,
he would probably come in his trousers right then.
Then, he's completely undone when Jim bites down at the same time Sherlock
presses and rubs. With a shuddering jerk and a tiny cry, he spills himself into
his boxers. There's a heavy stillness while John breathes his way back to
sensibility. Jim licks the love bite adoringly. There's going to be a very
vivid bruise right on the top of his shoulder come morning. Jim should ask John
to take a picture and send it to his phone.
Sherlock cards his fingers through John's short blonde hair when he's back in
his body. John stiffens, mortified at what just occurred. Did he really just
come in his trousers? From kissing?
"Not to worry, John," Sherlock says, forever noticing the play of expression on
John's face, "that was only to take the edge off." He sends a look to Jim, and
the man nods. He moves back, caressing John's back as he passes, and unbuttons
the cuffs to slide the shirt off completely.
In a sudden bout of modesty, he tries to bring up his hands to cover his chest.
In between the two men who see everything, he feels rightfully vulnerable. But
both men catch different wrists before he can wrap them around himself.
Jim clicks disapprovingly, "None of that Johnny," and brings the wrist up to
his mouth. He suckles, and John's eyes roll back. With him thoroughly
distracted, Sherlock goes about to removing John's ruined trousers. He flicks
open the button, and pulls down the zip. John flails when the fabric is halfway
down his hips.
"Wait, wait!" Again, common sense and modesty override his lust, though it
probably helps that he's already had an orgasm. Obediently, both men stop their
attentions. Though there is something, anticipatory that fills the room. Like
two predators, waiting for their prey to bolt so they can begin the chase.
"I don't, I mean," John gulps,"I've never, um, I haven't had-" No, no
goddammit. Admitting he's a virgin is not what he should be concerned about. He
should be concerned that two teachers are engaging in sexual relations with a
student! He should be talking about how this is the absolute worst place to do
this! (No, no they shouldn't be doing this at all so that doesn't work either)
He shouldn't be talking about how he's never had experience! (snogging at a New
Year's Eve party on a dare doesn't count) That's the wrong thing to bring to
light!
But both men smile like John is a treat they're about to savor, and Sherlock
leans in to say, "Not to worry John. The inexperience is actually rather
endearing." That wasn't what he meant to talk about at all dammit!
Then Sherlock goes back to removing his clothes, and John means to actually
protest, he really does, but instead he's lifting his hips for easier removal.
His naked bottom is sitting on the desk, and in distant horror, he thinks of
other people coming to visit this office.
That concern is chased away when his Maths professor, who had been trailing
kisses up his arm, turns his head to face him, and kisses him for the first
time. Where Sherlock had been insistent and demanding, Jim is coaxing and
manipulative. His mouth moves languorously over John's, stealing his breath
away.
His tongue is seeking, and slowly explores every inch of John's mouth. When Jim
pulls away for a breath, John unconsciously follows with his lips. The man
giggles, pleased at John's cooperation. In the original discussion of the plan,
Jim had been worried that he'd be forced to only watch as Sherlock ravaged John
on the desk. But this, is certainly much more satisfying.
He goes back in, cupping John's jaw and rubbing small circles with his thumb.
Predictably, John goes boneless and moans into his mouth. Jim opens his eyes to
look at Sherlock, who's remained surprisingly quiet during this whole exchange.
He's standing there, avidly watching as John comes apart under Jim's lips. Now
the man knows how it feels to watch from the outside. It's utterly fascinating,
seeing him enjoy the attentions of someone else, to watch him be plucked apart
from the simple nerves in his mouth and tongue. Although, Jim enjoys the hands
on approach considerably more.
Sherlock watches for a considerable amount of time, before finally moving into
action. The soft, wet sounds of kissing permeate the room as Sherlock reaches
the drawer that contains the lubricant. He's quiet in its retrieval and sliding
the drawer back into place. He doesn't want to startle John, who's jumpy enough
as it is.
He watches as his love interest and, hm, colleague snog each other while he
takes off his blazer and his shirt. Naked from the waist up, he picks up the
tiny bottle and goes back to his original position in front of John. Sherlock
pointedly clears his throat while setting the tube within easy reach. He's
getting impatient. It's his turn now.
John pulls away, turns his head towards the source of the noise, and all higher
functions of his brain abruptly stop. His crush of a whole month is standing in
front of him, topless and, judging by the tent in his trousers, completely
aroused. He's all milky planes of skin and sharp angles. The only clear thought
John can form is that he can see Sherlock's ribs. Dumbstruck, John's hand
touches the torso in front of him before he even realizes what he's doing.
Coming into contact sends an electric jolt straight from his arm to down his
spine.
He doesn't see the little triumphant smirk Sherlock sends Jim's way. The
shorter man scowls. This totally counts as foul play, John wouldn't have turned
away if Sherlock hadn't made noise.
John's hand travels further up Sherlock's chest, until the man grips his hand.
He leans down to place a gentle kiss on his lips, and murmurs in his ear, "This
will be enjoyable John, I promise. Remember that there's no need to be afraid."
John wonders what he could possibly be afraid of in this situation, until
Sherlock moves to undo his belt. Anxiety sparks through him all over again.
Should he be doing this? Is this really happening? How far is too far? But Jim
notices, and trails a soothing hand up and down John's spine.
Slowly, the tension in John's shoulders eases up, and he watches as the man
undresses in front of him. Jim's own knees are starting to ache against the
hard surface of the desk. He shifts, letting both legs dangle on either side of
John. He pulls the young man back until he's flush against his chest, idly
tracing patterns in the skin, enjoying the show right along with him.
John nestles back into the warm, comforting body. He feels Jim's hardness
against the small of his back, and he playfully grinds against it. Jim hisses,
and grins into John's neck when he murmurs, "Easy now, don't spoil it too
soon." John hums in amusement.
Sherlock slides the belt off in a soft hiss, and drops his pants and underwear
in one push. He steps out of the clothes, his erection flushed and straining in
the air. John's gulp is audible to all of them, and he reaches out a hand to
the hard flesh.
Gently, he grasps it in his hand, feeling the velvety skin pulse in his grip.
Sherlock's breath stutters out of him, but he doesn't move. This needs to be
John's time to explore, to get comfortable. What comes next is crucial.
John glides his hand, slightly shifting his grip, applying what feels good to
him. Sherlock groans, and when John's thumb dances over the head, he stops him
by gripping John's wrist. "Too much John," Sherlock explains when John looks
confused.
John nods his head halfheartedly. Suddenly, the thought of having Sherlock
inside of him has become imperative. The image of Sherlock thrusting gently
with his long, hard prick sends the blood rushing back to his groin to make him
half hard.
"What-" John moistens his mouth, "what can I do?" Jim's hand stills in his
absent movements, and he looks at Sherlock. They hadn't fully discussed the
dynamics of this moment, leaving it to what would make John comfortable. They
share a silent conversation in the span of ten seconds, and Jim taps John's
hips with his fingers.
"Stand up and turn toward me lovely, there you go," Jim coos approvingly when
John obediently moves. Like this, he feels irrationally vulnerable, with his
back facing Sherlock and so much empty space between them. Two of them may not
be wearing any clothes, but John is the only one who feels naked.
Jim's hands come up to run over his goose bumped arms. The action eases his
anxiety, but he still jumps when he feels Sherlock's hands mimic the movement
on his back. He lets out a soft groan when those long hands reach down and
firmly cup John's bottom.
Jim grins and says, "What a sight you are, and we get to have it all to
ourselves too. Is it Christmas?" John smiles softly, his self consciousness
appeased at Jim's genuine eagerness.
Sherlock presses closer to John, his hard length fitting snugly between John's
cleft. John tenses all over again, but it's from arousal this time. John's head
spins, trapped between the two men. For a long moment, all they do is remain
there, breathing in each others shared air. Sherlock places tiny pecks up
John's shoulder, until those plump lips breathe against his ear, "Bend over."
John's eyes widen, and the words are so similar to bad porn dialogue that he
can't stop the laugh. His hand flies to his mouth, and he grins behind it as he
tries to stop giggling. "Sorry, sorry," John complies with Sherlock's words,
bending at his hips until his head is nearly touching Jim's shoulder, but
Sherlock is fairly put out from the mockery from what Jim can see. John's body
is still vibrating with giggles, and Jim is grinning at Sherlock like he's won
a coveted prize.
"Well if you had a better phrasing for the directive, I would like to hear it,"
Sherlock grumbles, and John releases another peal of laughter. Sherlock growls,
and bites down hard on the opposite shoulder of Jim's love mark.
John's snickering abruptly stops to become a loud groan. Jim protests the harsh
treatment, "Oh, come off of it Sherlock, he was just having a bit of fun."
But John pipes in with, "No, no it's-ah," Sherlock traces the bite with his
tongue, "it's fine." Jim looks down at John in surprise. So, little Johnny
doesn't mind a bit of rough play. It's a really good thing John can't see Jim's
face, or Sherlock's for that matter.
Sherlock's eyes flicker over to the tube of lubricant, and Jim hands it over
without a word. He lubes up his fingers in quick, efficient movements, and
trails the wet fingers teasingly over John's perineum.
John gasps, and grips Jim's thighs to steady himself. He nearly removes his
hands, thinking that he might be bothering the man, but Jim covers his tan
hands with his small, pale ones. John buries his face in gratitude in the man's
shoulder, and breathes as Sherlock's fingers trace upward.
Sherlock leans down to nibble on John's shoulder. When he's distracted, he
slips one finger in, and groans at the tight heat. John clenches at the
intrusion. His brain is on the continual loop of "Oh God he's inside of me,"
before that finger crooks, and then it's all reduced to white noise.
Sherlock grins into the shoulder, pleased at having found John's prostate.
Slowly, he eases the finger out and back in, effectively loosening the tight
muscle. Jim cards his fingers through John's sandy hair, and watches Sherlock's
finger disappear (he would love to watch John's face, but it's unfortunately
hidden, but his muscles are a wonderful indicator of his emotions).
Jim tries not to shift, but his erection is starting to strain painfully
against his trousers. He moves to get comfortable, and nearly dislodges John in
the process. Even in the swirl of sensation he's lost in, John doesn't miss the
movement. Jim clenches John's wrists to reassure him, but John moves anyway.
His hands shift to go in between Jim's thighs, and the man parts them in
surprise. John scoots back a little on his feet, and he bends so far he's
almost parallel to the ground.
John's intentions are already clear, but they become more so when Sherlock
slowly inserts the second finger. John rocks forward from the sensation,
bringing his face close to Jim's crotch. Before he can stop himself, Jim has a
hand on the back of John's head, keeping him there.
For a long minute, John breathes in the heady scent of Jim's arousal, while
Sherlock moves two fingers in and out of his body. Sherlock's impatience bleeds
into the pace of the strokes. They're more hurried, slightly stuttering, but
still able to manipulate John's body like a fine instrument.
John groans when both fingers hit his prostate, he's so blinded by pleasure
that he doesn't notice Jim unzipping himself. Jim breathes out a cautious sigh,
for the first time, he's unsure of how far little Johnny will be willing to go.
Did he only mean to stimulate Jim through his clothed crotch? Was he only
planning on being a maddening little cock tease?
Jim's hand doesn't remove itself from the back of John's head. But when John
still fails to notice the prick in front of him, he increases the pressure,
nudging his attention. John blinks at the floor, and lifts his head back
towards his Maths teacher's groin.
When he's staring the hard flesh in the face, John mindlessly leans toward it.
In the back of his mind is a little voice, chanting about how bad of an idea
this is. There's no protection, this is his first time, he's going to do it to
a man nearly twice his age, with his goddamn crush fingering him into oblivion.
But when Sherlock expertly adds a third finger, John abandons thought, and
takes Jim into his mouth.
Jim groans when that wet heat surrounds his length. He shifts his pants further
down, allowing John easier access. John's hands even move to help him, so his
trousers lie trapped on his thighs, with his erection fully freed.
The taste on John's tongue is certainly not unpleasant, but it is foreign. He
tongues the crown, licking at the precome curiously. The salty beads disperse
on his pallet, and John seeks out more. When that tongue curls around the crown
of his dick, Jim digs his hand a little more possessively into John's head.
"Good boy," he groans, before he can catch the endearment. He doubts John would
enjoy that particular pet name, but he hasn't seemed to notice. Sherlock, in
the meantime, has stretched John to a very acceptable level.
He looks up from his concentration, to find that the pair has engaged
themselves rather enthusiastically when he wasn't paying attention. Sherlock
chuckles, glad to see that John has seamlessly blended Jim into their tryst
without any difficulty.
John moves his mouth off of Jim's cock, tonguing it and holding the base steady
with one hand. With the other, he supports himself on Jim's bare leg. Both of
Jim's hands hold John's head steady, and it's a testament to his loss of
control that the little thrusts he makes into John's mouth and the air are
completely involuntary.
The hazy brown eyes focus enough to see Sherlock lubing his own cock. The two
exchange another silent conversation, understanding that John may need to be
supported in the next few seconds. Reluctantly, Jim tilts John's head away from
the sensitive organ.
John jolts when he feels Sherlock's wet cock probe his entrance, and he knows
what's coming. He breathes, trying to steady himself. There's no anxiety
anymore, because God, John's never wanted anything more in his life. Jim leans
over to blanket John, providing him comfort with his body heat.
"Remember to breathe out love," Jim murmurs, in the exact moment that the head
of Sherlock's cock breaches John's body. John's body reacts instinctively,
clenching down around the intrusion. Sherlock grunts at the tight heat, but
doesn't move. John may be stretched, but all of that could be ruined if the
doesn't relax soon.
Sherlock passes a hand over John's sweaty back and gently says, "It's okay
John. Take all of the time you need."
John nods, shaky, and breathes out as per Jim's instruction. When a few seconds
pass, and he calms himself down, John says, "Okay, okay, you can move."
Slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock slides himself forward. Inch by inch he goes,
stopping when John's breathing becomes too ragged. With enough murmured praises
and steady inhalations, Sherlock is fully seated in John. The feeling is
incredibly, all of that tight, shivering warmth surrounding his length.
Sherlock restrains himself from digging his fingers into John's pelvis.
All three of them are exercising their control. Jim watches Sherlock and John's
reaction with hungry eyes, his erection lying bobbing and forgotten between his
legs. John counts backwards from ten three times, easing his body around
Sherlock's cock. Eventually, the sting fades away to a dull ache, and an all
new kind of whimper is wrenched from John's throat.
He shifts, and the sound is renewed. The length inside of him remains damnably
still, no matter how much John rocks back into the man. It's a damned good
thing that both men are holding onto him from either end, because John's pretty
sure he would've collapsed onto the floor at this point.
Sherlock mistakes John's movements for adjustments, and grits his teeth when
John abortively thrusts himself against his cock. It's a shock to him when John
snarls below him, "For God's sake, fucking move already!"
Sherlock releases a breathy chuckle, and finally shifts his hips in little
teasing motions. He keeps his thrusts shallow, mindful of John's virginity.
Besides, there is a rather perverse pleasure he gets in watching John slowly
come apart under his teasing.
John rocks back and forth into the movements, clutching Jim's thighs. The other
man raptly watches John being fucked, content to stare, but John remembers his
previous task, and doesn't want the man to be left aching. Keeping himself
supported with both hands, John mouths the flesh in front of his face. He's
cautious, each little thrust leaves him groaning, and he doesn't want to cause
Jim any pain. He licks as much of the length as he can, his tongue becoming
broad and pointed at certain times.
Jim's head falls back, and his groans join in the chorus. John dares to suck at
the head, moving his tongue at the same time. The action causes Jim to clench
the back of his hair. John doesn't really mind. He lowers himself a little, and
bobs his head in the same time as Sherlock's thrusts.
Soon, Sherlock picks up his pace, which causes John to cry out. He releases the
spit-slick cock, suddenly caught up in Sherlock's prick brushing against his
prostate. His legs tremble, and his knees ache from their standing position.
Jim takes himself in hand, feeling the steady burn of orgasm rise up inside of
him.
Sherlock's faster pace continues, and John notices his bobbing erection between
his legs. Between the time passed and the stimulation, he's fully hard again.
His climax is a swiftly growing thing, but it's not enough. He can't come just
from this. He attempts to reach down between himself, but Jim is too fast.
He catches the hand that was straying underneath him, and brings the other one
up to pin it against his leg. He still strokes himself, and his breathing
becomes shaky when John moans in desperation. Sherlock pistons out of John now.
The squelch of wet flesh picks up in tempo.
John tries to angle himself down, to have Sherlock hit him fully against his
prostate. But it still doesn't help. He tugs on his hands, but Jim is
surprisingly strong. With a few more thrusts, John cries out, "God, I need to
come!"
Both men share wicked grins and Jim speaks first, "I don't know Sherlock, he's
already come once. Is he being too greedy?"
John whines in his throat when he finally processes the words. It should be
insulting, that they're discussing him like he's something to be owned, but it
just turns John on even more.
"Hm, I don't know Jim. Maybe he's just not, ah, asking nicely enough." One of
Sherlock's hands moves from around John's hip to tease up to his chest. Once
there, he pinches a nipple, and that's enough to erase any trace of John's
dignity.
"Please, ah, God, please let me come!" He tries to pull his hands free again,
but Jim just growls, and yanks his head up with the hand that was previously
stroking himself. John opens his mouth on another cry, and Jim shoves his cock
into throat. Jerking shallowly into his mouth, John obediently suckles.
Anything to please, anything to convince them to let him come.
"Look at him, erngh, such a good little pet. You should try his mouth next time
Sherlock, hah, he has such a clever tongue."
Both men alternate their thrusts in and out of his body, and everything becomes
a white haze of pleasure to John. All he knows is their heat, deep inside of
him, permeating his skin. Even the sharp edge of orgasm has faded, and John is
lost in the contentedness of giving these two what they want. And what they
want is him. The easiest gift he can give.
"Good John, very good," Sherlock groans above him. His hand travels down,
finally, finally wrapping around John's length. With a few short strokes, John
is coming for a second time. Before John can accidentally bite him, Jim pulls
him off by his hair, holding him there as he strokes lewdly in front of his
face. Watching those blown blue eyes startle open from pleasure is enough to
push Jim over the edge. He comes in streams, the mess hitting John across his
face and neck.
Sherlock shudders when John clenches around him. In the aftershocks of orgasm,
Sherlock stutters his hips, seats himself fully inside of John with one last
thrust, and spills into him.
When the grip around his hips becomes lax, John slumps to his knees,
overstrung. He presses his sweaty, messy forehead onto Jim's knee, trying to
remember how to breathe. Sherlock stumbles his way into the nearest chair,
carding a hand through his messy curls. Jim stares at the ceiling, reciting pi
in his head, a comfort technique he's done since he was a child.
Jim is the first to move, and he starts by undoing the tie that's still around
his neck. When he slips it off of his head, he brings over the water that was
left forgotten on the desk. He dips the material into the lukewarm liquid, and
moves to kneel in front of John.
The young man reluctantly scoots back to make room. Now that the cloud of
euphoria is gone, John feels a little sore and uncomfortable. He jerks when Jim
wipes the wet cloth across his forehead, behind his ear, over his neck. When he
realizes what Jim's cleaning up, he grins.
"You are so lucky that didn't get in my eye."
Jim stops his task to look at John in surprise. When he sees that John isn't
blustering, that he's really teasing him like he's a lover, Jim giggles.
Sherlock's lips pull up into a smirk.
When Jim's done cleaning, turning away to toss away the ruined clothing, quite
a bit of nervousness creeps back into John. Was this a one time thing? Just a
hasty (well, okay, drawn out as all sweet hell but still) fuck in an office?
Because God, how awkward is class going to be? Did they do this just because
they could? Because they knew the likelihood of John refusing a romp with his
long pined over teacher?
"Next time," Sherlock breathes, and all of John's doubts go out the window, "we
should certainly use a bed. That floor must be merciless on your knees John."
John grins back at him, feeling something like giddiness bubble up in his
chest, "I'm fine."
"Hm, little Johnny," Jim croons as he turns the head to give a peck on John's
lips, "ever the trooper."
-FIN
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