Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/5808622.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms, Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Sherlock_Holmes_&_John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes
  Additional Tags:
      Teenlock, Sherlock_is_17, please_don't_read_if_this_bothers_you, John_is
      20, Sex, First_Time, Bottom_Sherlock_Holmes, Top_John_Watson, twelve_in
      twelve, Mycroft_is_a_cockblock, Mention_of_Victor_Trevor_-_Freeform, they
      don't_use_condoms, Unsafe_Sex, Teenlock_AU, Use_suspension_of_disbelief_I
      just_wanted_to_write_the_sex, Virgin_Sherlock, Loss_of_Virginity
  Collections:
      TwelveInTwelve2016
  Stats:
      Published: 2016-01-24 Words: 4138
****** The First of Many Times ******
by TeaHouseMoon_(orphan_account)
Summary
     “You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”
     The words had etched themselves in John’s mind, and stayed there,
     since two nights before, when Sherlock’s older brother had caught
     them kissing - well, a little more than kissing, if he had to be
     honest – out in the back porch of their house.
Notes
     My entry for the January prompt of the TwelveInTwelve challenge!
     Thanks to the always lovely @burning_up_a_sun for betaing this bit of
     nonsense for me! What would I do without you. <3
 
 
“You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”
 
The words had etched themselves in John’s mind, and stayed there, since two
nights before, when Sherlock’s older brother had caught them kissing - well, a
little more than kissing, if he had to be honest – out in the back porch of
their house.
 
It had been embarrassing, to say the least. John was a twenty year old man,
honest and hardworking, a future doctor, planning to enlist in the British Army
to help in missions – and yet he'd felt like a kid being caught stealing from a
shop. He'd been so hard in his half-open trousers, because damn it, Sherlock
was gorgeous and moaning in his arms, how could he not react accordingly? But
his arousal had vanished in a millisecond right there and then as if he'd been
doused with a bucket of ice water.
 
 
                                      ***
 
 
The night had started with a nice dinner, over at their favourite little
restaurant in Hampstead. Their one-year anniversary. John wanted to pay for the
both of them – Sherlock usually did; he had an allowance and a trust fund in
his name, and no matter how loudly John protested he seemed to want to drain it
little by little anyway, so they may as well - but this time, John insisted.
Sherlock had lowered his eyes, demurred, but John knew he was just being
purposely prissy: Sherlock loved to be the centre of John’s attention,
constantly.
John had bought them a bottle of the nicest wine he could afford, had enjoyed
getting Sherlock a little squiffy. The kissing had started in the car –
initiated by Sherlock, first, in the car park, his lips swollen and sweet and
wanting to be bitten. It was John's turn when they pulled up by Sherlock’s
street. He could not get enough of the kissing, of the feeling that gripped his
body when he deepened the contact and Sherlock moaned from his throat, little
needy pleading sounds that, in John's ears, were an invitation for more,
clothes off, hands on skin, fingers and tongue and teeth in and over the most
delicate corners of his body.
By the time they separated John was breathing heavily, pupils blown wide, eyes
practically black. Sherlock has smiled, deviously. Like only he could.
“Come with me?”
“Sherlock. We can't,” John had breathed. Forced himself to ignore his screaming
body – cock, instinct, animal brain. “You know your parents said that--
“You know my parents aren't in.” Sherlock was already opening his car door,
pulling at John’s arm to dislodge him from the driver’s seat. “We won't be
seen.”
And John found himself following Sherlock, like the besotted fool he was. Out
in the tidy, prim and proper back porch of the Holmes villa they stood,
Sherlock with his back against the white painted wall, raven curls striking
against it and against the paleness of his face, John on him, kissing and
kissing, the moonlight the only way to see each other.
They kissed, missed each other’s mouths at times, kissed someplace else. John
licked down the curve of the delicate throat, growled approval when Sherlock
tilted his chin up and more skin was exposed. Bit once, first; then sank his
teeth in; felt himself get even harder, if possible, when Sherlock moaned in
pained lust.
He kissed apologetically, kissed lower on the tendon, down on the bone and then
back up at the base of the throat. Bit down again. Held there, breathing hard
and moaning quietly.
“John.” Sherlock's beautiful dexterous hands slithered down in between them to
unbutton John's trousers, pressed hard against the bulge there and rubbed, up
and down.
“Sherlock, you’re testing me”, John warned, laughed humourlessly. He was so
gone he couldn't even see or smell or hear anything that wasn't Sherlock.
“It’s my intention to,” Sherlock replied, as cheekily as expected.
As if John was about to fuck him there. As if he would take Sherlock’s
virginity like this, out on a porch, trembling in the night air, and scared of
being seen by prying eyes.
“Oh, yes, you would.” It was Sherlock, reading his mind, as usual. John kissed
him, holding a slim wrist roughly against the wall with his own hand like how
dare you, shut up, stop tempting me, you minx.
“You do remember he's only seventeen, Mr Watson?”
The voice had cut like a knife, sliced through the air like a shard. John had
frozen on the spot, heart suddenly hammering in his chest so hard that he felt
lightheaded. Sherlock’s head had come up, his eyes on fire and blazing in the
direction of his meddling, ever-overbearing big brother. His voice had boomed,
deep and commanding for someone his age.
“Mycroft!”
Mycroft had not been looking at Sherlock – John felt his eyes on his back like
knives. He let Sherlock’s hand go, took a step back. Did not turn.
“This has got nothing to do with you, Mycroft! Back the hell off!” Sherlock
shouted again, his face contracted in distress, frown deep between his eyes and
on top of the bridge of his nose.
“You can scream and shout all you like, little brother, but you know the rules.
You know what Mother thinks about this, and she will not be happy once I tell
her.”
John was frowning; his face rigid. Sherlock's eyes moved to him for a moment,
then back to staring furiously at his brother.
“Father will like it even less. I've just sent communication in fact – John,
would you like to stay for a night cap with your future in-laws?”
“He's lying, John, he hasn't said anything,” Sherlock said, cheeks red with
fury and eyes still on Mycroft. “You will pay for this, Mycroft!”
John grimaced, fixed his jacket so that it covered his waist. Stuffed his hands
in his pockets. “Right. I'm going.”
He scuttled away with no look back at Mycroft, and he knew that Sherlock stood
there, breathing hard in frustration, tearful eyes watching him leave.
 
 
 
                                      ***
 
 
I hope you're still talking to me. – J
 
You're not the person my wrath is reserved for at the moment. Don't flatter
yourself. – SH
 
Just checking. I'm sorry I left it to the day after to text you. I had to cool
down. – J

Sherlock? – J
 
Whatever. – SH
 
Sherlock? Are you sure you're okay? – J
 
 
 
John had already begun to frown heavily when Sherlock's call came. He jumped a
little at the shrill sound coming from his phone – he’d forgotten he'd raised
the volume of the ringer since he'd started falling asleep late at night on his
school books. Once, he'd snoozed for slightly too long and missed four of
Sherlock's calls, and as a consequence had to get Sherlock out of the biggest
sulk he'd worked himself into since they got together.
“Of course I'm not okay, John.” As Sherlock’s incipits went, this wasn't even
too bad, all things considered.
“Look, I'm sorry,” John said, with a sigh. “I just couldn't stay, you know
that. Please tell me you haven't been fighting with Mycroft this whole time,
the last thing I want is for your parents to-“
“Oh, forget Mycroft! And forget my parents!” Sherlock almost shouted – John
could see his hand waving with impatience, so vividly. “That's not what I
called about, you know that's all nonsense.”
“Okay.” John took another deep breath. The chewed nail on his thumb wanted more
biting, and he brought it to his mouth.
“The reason I called is – I want you to come over and have sex with me.”
“Sherlock!”
“What's wrong with that? You're my boyfriend and I want to have sex with you.
It's a perfectly natural thing.”
“I know it is,” John sighed, rubbing a hand over his forehand. He felt his
jeans starting to get tighter, already.“Love, I know you want to. I want it,
too. But you've seen what happened last night – no way in hell I am going to be
let in to the house after Mycroft-“
Sherlock huffed on the other end of the line. “Of course I'm not going to
announce you, am I? It will be in secret. You've snuck in through my window
before – did you forget when you weren't allowed to take me out because I was
still sixteen?” He coloured the end of the sentence with his personal shade of
scorn – at the time, he'd described that particular imposition as ‘ridiculous
and anachronistic’, but John had been resolute that he wouldn't break the rules
Sherlock’s mother had imposed - at least, not that early in their relationship.
Of course John remembered that particular episode. They'd locked the door and
stayed in Sherlock’s bed until six in the morning, kissing under the covers for
most of that time, and it was the first time John had pushed the boundaries,
stroked Sherlock’s bare chest, kissed him there. The thought of his beautiful
back and chest, arched in spasms of pleasure, still made John hard to this day.
“You do want me to die a horrible death.”
“Don't be ridiculous.”
“Your parents will hear.”
“We’ll do it tomorrow night. My parents have another of their stupid line-
dancing evenings.”
“Mycroft is waiting exactly for this! He'll set the secret services after me.
And I will die a horrible death.”
“Oh please! He's just an office clerk – he has no influence whatsoever no
matter what he says. Don't be a wimp.”
“Sherlock.”
Sherlock huffed, loudly.
“Do you know what, John? I feel like you don't really want to. And if this is
the case you should tell me and not string me along.”
“Sherlock!”
“It's fine. That guy in my Science class, Victor Trevor? He's into me. He's
been trying to seduce me – he wouldn't hesitate to come and fuck me if I
asked.”
“Shut up, Sherlock. I mean it.” John made his voice commanding. He'd had
enough. “I will come over tomorrow night. And we’ll talk about it.” He made
sure to put weight on the word ‘talk’; of course he wanted to fuck Sherlock,
but he wasn't going to do it as a result of giving in to a strop.
On the other end of the phone, Sherlock breathed, then exhaled.
“Okay.”
 
 
                                      ***
 
The climb up to Sherlock’s window was a familiar feat. John had done that quite
a few times before, yet he never failed to be surprised at how Sherlock always
managed to set the rickety ladder back from where his father moved it (down by
the garden shed, away from his room) without anyone noticing; John's hands
shook, with anticipation – and definitely fear.
Mycroft is going to see me, of course he is. And then he's going to kill me.
He hadn't even got the whole of his body inside the room – his left foot was
still half hanging from the ledge if he recalled right – that Sherlock had
already thrown himself at him, arms around his shoulders, lithe body against
John’s chest. Full lips on John’s lips, kisses thirsty and frantic. John kissed
back for a few seconds – there was no way he wouldn’t – but then, gently,
pulled Sherlock back by his arms. Turned to shut the window, pull the heavy
curtains closed.
“Hey,” Sherlock said, with a smile. He only had the desk lamp on in his room,
and the amber light made his face look soft, his eyes bluer.
John looked him up and down. Sherlock wore his light blue silk dressing gown
over just a pair of black underwear.
Nothing else.
“Sherlock.” John made to roll his eyes, forced his gaze to the floor - couldn't
help but let it slide down Sherlock’s body in the process. The dressing gown
was tied on his waist, but so loosely that the front was open on his chest,
edges showing the unmarred ivory skin beneath, barely covering the nipples.
John planted his eyes onto the floor, bit the inside of his lower lip.
“Come on, John. We both know why you're here?” Sherlock smiled, impish.
“I told you I was coming here to talk.”
Sherlock frowned. Took a breath, rolled his eyes once.
“Okay. Let's talk, then?”
John stared hard. “No. Take me seriously, Sherlock.”
Sherlock blinked. He didn't reply, but his face gentled – John knew it meant he
was listening.
“I need you to understand why I feel uncomfortable about sneaking around behind
your parents’ backs. Why I feel uncomfortable with – being caught by your
brother.”
“I told you – forget about them, forget about my brother-“
“No, Sherlock,” John raised his voice a little; Sherlock shut his mouth. “It's
important to me. Don't dismiss it.”
His gaze had wanted to stray downward, to the enticing, half-nude body on
display right in front of him, but he managed to hold it on to Sherlock’s face,
staring hard into his eyes.
Sherlock actually looked contrite.
“I'm sorry.”
John sighed. Bit his lower lip.
“You're important to me, Sherlock.”
A hand reached out to him; fingertips skimmed his cheek. Retreated.
“You’re- important to me, too. John,” Sherlock said, wrapping his arms around
his own torso, almost awkwardly. “You’re – you’re so important, that I wanted,”
he exhaled; “I want to do it with you. Take this – step, with you – before I go
away to Uni, before we live in two different cities and before there’s hours
and hundreds of miles between us.”
He lowered his gaze. John reached out, took one of the big, graceful hands in
his own. He’d never thought about that.
“Sherlock…”
Sherlock’s hand clutched at John’s, squeezed his fingers; he reached closer,
down, until his lips were a breath away from John’s. His eyes closed, he
nuzzled into John’s cheek.
“I wanted to be yours. Before all that.”
Even as he closed the gap and joined their lips, John wondered if they had said
enough. Wondered if he'd made his point across. Remembered it was Sherlock he
was talking about – remembered he was clever, cleverer than everyone he knew.
His hands flew to Sherlock’s waist on their own accord, wrapped around his
iliac bones and held on as the kiss deepened, became demanding. When faced with
an armful of Sherlock, John failed to reason properly, his brain misfiring - or
perhaps getting everything right, depending on the point of view. His hand
travelled up along the hem of the dressing gown, lifted it aside to expose a
pink-brown nipple; his thumb stroked over it, flicked, circled. Sherlock moaned
into his mouth and John's fingers pinched, squeezed, flicked until he moaned
again.
When the kiss broke John wanted to keep looking into Sherlock’s eyes, but his
gaze was drawn to the tight nipple, to his own hand pushing the gown aside to
expose the other.
“Please make love to me.”
Sherlock followed his plea with a kiss. Then another.
John looked at him. Bent a little, took a nipple into his mouth.
“Oh,” Sherlock exhaled. His hands went around John’s head, into his hair. John
sucked, slowly. Then kissed across, to the other nipple. Laved that too with
warm saliva.
“Please make love to me…” Sherlock whispered again, his voice low and warm, his
chest rocked by deep breaths as John still kissed his chest.
“You’re sure.”
“I’m sure.”
John felt as good as drunk. Had he not, he’d have protested more; because of
the situation, because of Mycroft. But of course, in reality, he wanted to do
exactly what Sherlock was asking him to. And so, in his drunken-without-wine
state of mind, he let Sherlock take his hand, guide him to his neatly-made bed.
Watched him pull the bedsheets back and then turn, push the dressing gown off
his own shoulders while looking at John expectantly.
“You need to take off your clothes, too.”
John smiled, somewhat nervously. He obeyed; pulled his jumper off, then shirt,
belt, shoes, trousers. Underwear. He looked straight at Sherlock when they both
stood, naked, one in front of the other, bathed amber in the feeble light of
the table lamp.
They were both hard; John ached to take his cock in hand already.
“You’re so big,” Sherlock said with a slight side-smirk, and took a step
towards John.
John smirked back, though a bit self-consciously. He growled, low in his
throat.
“You knew that.”
Still smiling, Sherlock took another step, his eyes glimmering with mischief.
“Well. No point in doing it for the first time with someone, unless they’re
really, really big.”
The purr in his voice went straight to John’s insides, and he let Sherlock kiss
him, kissed him back, cradling his head with one hand and his back with the
other. The contact with their skin, bare and feverishly hot, was electric, and
he bit Sherlock’s bottom lip, pushed his tongue into his mouth, made him moan
and growled back as a response.
“Bed, now.”
He followed Sherlock under the covers; lay behind him, wrapped him in his arms
until the younger boy’s back was flush against his chest. He felt him giggle –
and he knew it to be more out of anticipation, perhaps nervousness, than actual
mirth. He smiled wider against the side of his throat, rubbed his mouth over
Sherlock’s nape.
“What you were doing the other day. On my neck,” Sherlock started. Shivered a
little in John’s arms. “I want you to do it again.”
“What, the biting?” John lifted his head a bit, murmured. “Didn’t it hurt?”
Sherlock strained his neck to look behind himself at John.
“If I were scared of a little pain, do you think I’d be here right now with
you?”. His hand reached back, cradled the back of John’s head to hold him in
place. John frowned; and Sherlock laughed quietly, his eyes glimmering again,
this time with happy, impish playfulness. “That huge thing between your legs is
going to hurt, when you put it in me,” he purred against John's lips. “I will
scream and scream.”
John’s hand on Sherlock’s belly gave a sharp pinch to the tight skin there;
made Sherlock yelp.
“You berk.” He closed his eyes, lowered his own voice. “If you keep taking the
mick like this, then maybe you don’t really want this, hmmm…?”
Sherlock attacked his mouth at that, straining his neck even further back to
kiss him deeply, moaning louder and more demandingly into the kiss. John smiled
against his lip, felt his cock become even harder if possible. He was enjoying
himself more than he thought he would.
When Sherlock finally let his mouth go, he set upon doing what his boyfriend
had asked: he licked down the side of his jaw, kissed his way along the throat;
licked the skin just above the sharp clavicle, and then sank his teeth in it.
He felt Sherlock jerk in his arms, heard him let out a low moan from deep
within his throat.
“Maybe while I’m having you, I’ll bite you some more. I’ll bite you right
here,” he murmured, rubbing his nose against Sherlock’s nape, through the tuft
of thick curls there. “Like the lions in those nature programs? So that you
can’t escape.”
He felt the hitch in Sherlock’s ribcage before he heard him start to laugh;
laughed along with him, squeezed him tighter against his chest, high in
giddiness, and a sort of nervousness that felt good.
“Fuck me, you nerd,” Sherlock whispered on his mouth a moment later, when the
giggles subsided, his blue eyes staring into John’s as he looked over his
shoulder.
John found his hand shook a little as he turned to reach behind himself, on the
nightstand, for the tube of lube. His fingers trembled still as he coated them
in the liquid; he told himself to get a grip, because he’d done this before.
“I’m just going to get you ready now,” he said, feeling a bit awkward – but
Sherlock only nodded, laying still and keeping his eyes closed.
One finger, to start; John made sure to take his time. He kissed Sherlock’s
neck when he switched to two fingers; kept his eyes on him, on his face, as he
massaged and loosened and opened.
Soon, Sherlock was squirming.
“When?”
“When you’re comfortable with three fingers, first,” John said , cringing a bit
at the necessity for details. He’d known Sherlock would get impatient soon.
Things never went this way in movies, did they? But he wasn’t going to ruin
Sherlock’s first time, for any reason in the world.
Three fingers, and he felt Sherlock’s whole body tense.
“All right?”
“Feels like you’re splitting me open.” Sherlock bit out, eyes still closed,
breath laboured. “Feels so good.”
John made sure to keep his eyes fixed on Sherlock’s face, watched his
expression as he scissored his fingers cautiously.
“John, please,” Sherlock breathed out then. He still hadn’t opened his eyes.
“Please, do it now.”
And like in a daze, with trembling hands and hammering heart, John just obeyed.
He slicked himself generously, lined up; took a deep breath to ground himself –
he felt as if he was dreaming.
“Please” – and he chuckled, “scream,if it hurts too much.”
He heard Sherlock’s laugh as he started to push in. He felt the whole slim,
smooth body tense, whispered ‘relax…’ against his ear; bit really hard on his
own bottom lip to bear the tightness and warmth and hopefully stop himself from
finishing before it even started.
“John….John…”
“Hurts?” John murmured against Sherlock’s throat.
Sherlock nodded. “A little. Ow. A little bit.”
“Breathe. Just breathe. In. Out.”
And as soon as Sherlock did breathe everything felt less tense. John slid all
the way in; thought he was going to die. Had he not been worried about Sherlock
being in pain, this would have been the most perfect he’d ever felt in his
life.
“Shhh…”, he whispered once more against the smooth warm throat. Sherlock
managed a smile.
“I feel so full. So full, John.” Sherlock’s eyes hadn’t opened yet. “I feel
like – like I really belong to you,” and he turned his head, finally opened his
eyes. “Feels so good.”
They kissed, and John felt his heart skip a beat. He tried a couple of light
thrusts – Sherlock cried out quietly in his mouth – and he thrust again, set a
rhythm. Until finally he managed to pull back almost all the way, push all the
way in.
He’d never felt so good in his whole life.
His hand held Sherlock still by pushing with the palm down against his abdomen
and into himself; the other arm lay under Sherlock, fingers entwined with the
younger boy’s, having almost lost his feeling in the whole limb by now. He
chuckled as he breathed hard, sweat around his temples, felt so tired and so
full of energy and adrenaline at the same time.
“Don’t forget the bite,” Sherlock mumbled. He had his eyes newly closed, but
his cheekbones pulled tight and the corners of his mouth betrayed the smile
currently on his lips.
John’s right hand, the one under Sherlock, untangled from Sherlock’s fingers
and he pulled up a little, pushed with his hips until Sherlock almost rolled
onto his belly. With the free hand John brushed the curls away urgently,
without stopping the thrusts from his pelvis – he was grunting now – and he bit
the skin there, on the nape, hard enough for Sherlock to feel it, and moan, and
for him to moan loud in response.
When he came, deep inside Sherlock, and Sherlock convulsed around him, he felt
like he was going to pass out – and it was the best feeling in the world.
 
 
 
Once they had the chance to catch their breaths, pull from each other’s bodies
– ah, that had been more painful than they’d thought – they lay facing each
other, kissed for some time. The sheets felt damp, too warm, wet with sweat and
come. Sherlock would have been annoyed, had he not been so satisfied,
contented, proud. John knew that, and felt the same, felt like forgetting all
his worries and his stress - like he just wanted to be ecstatic forever.
“I knew Mycroft would fail to interrupt us this time,” Sherlock joked in
between lazy kisses.
“Ah. I forgot about that. A painful death awaits me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, you have to fuck me again many many times before that
happens. Then we can talk.”
John ended the last of a long string of kisses. Pulled back to look at Sherlock
from his own pillow
“I don’t want to talk about Mycroft. Victor Trevor, on the other hand? That, I
want to talk about.”
With that he reached over, grabbed Sherlock’s phone from the nightstand; held
it high over the both of them, pretended to mess with the buttons, grumbled
‘He’ll regret trying to pull my boyfriend!’, while Sherlock protested and tried
to snatch the phone back from him, and they laughed, and laughed, until they
fell asleep, stuck together and forgetful of everything but each other.
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
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