Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1649114.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/Victor_Trevor
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, Victor_Trevor, Mycroft_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade
  Additional Tags:
      Teenlock, Diary/Journal, Pre_and_Post_Reichenbach, Memories, Porn_With
      Plot, Porn_with_Feelings, Drug_Use, Drug_Addiction, Prostitution,
      Unhealthy_Relationships, Codependency, They_love_each_other_so_much, it
      hurts, Alternate_Universe_-_Canon_Divergence, Underage_Sex, Consensual,
      they're_both_almost_fifteen, it's_not_the_creepy_kind_of_underage,
      remember_the_legal_age_of_consent_in_the_uk_is_16, Oral_Sex, Blow_Jobs,
      Angst, Anal_Sex, Sex_Toys, Anal_Fingering, Gunplay, Kink, Homelessness
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-05-18 Updated: 2014-06-30 Chapters: 7/? Words: 11770
****** The Flower and the Buzzle. ******
by HarleyMischief
Summary
     In the days that have passed since the news reached me of the death
     of Sherlock Holmes - things have been difficult. It seems as if I
     have spent the last 72 hours systematically trying to relive every
     moment we passed in each others company. In a way I suppose I am
     hoping that writing it down will be cathartic, though I was resigned
     long ago to the fact that his memory would never be completely lost
     to me.
***** Thief *****
In the days that have passed since the news reached me of the death of Sherlock
Holmes - things have been difficult. It seems as if I have spent the last 72
hours systematically trying to relive every moment we passed in each others
company. In a way I suppose I am hoping that writing it down will be cathartic,
though I was resigned long ago to the fact that his memory would never be
completely lost to me.
I suppose the very act of starting a story at the beginning is unoriginal but
I'd much rather start here, unfortunately I myself am not much prepared for the
unhappy ending which awaits us.
I doubt it comes as any kind of surprise to you that both Sherlock and I first
made our acquaintance at school, both term time boarders, both from wealthy
enough families that we avoided the purgatory of having to share a room with a
dorm mate.
He was - even then - more than a little odd. Two years of lower forms without
so much as exchanging a single word to each other. We were fifteen by the time
we finally shared a class in which we were situated beside one another in the
higher set for Biological Chemistry.
If it were ever possible to take ownership of a subject, then Sherlock
possessed chemistry, formulae and reactions were imprinted upon him like
birthmarks and I must admit to having congratulated myself on my luck for
having scored the seat beside him. All the good it did me, or at least, not at
the beginning.
In the very same way that Sherlock Holmes' blood sang of catalysts and
equations, my particular love and talent was focused wholly on the consistent
certainty of numbers. Mathematics.
If I had been a romantic I probably would have known then that we would
compliment one another so perfectly.
As it was, we sat together for almost a full term without speaking a single
word to each other that wasn't relevant to the class subject matter and even
then any verbal exchange was brief and to the point. To me, he was an oddity
and to him, I was just another face.
In the end it all came down to the very plain fact that I was failing chemistry
and that, at the time, my morals were rather loose.
The day I stole Sherlock Holmes' chemistry notes from his bag would change us
both irrevocably for the rest of our lives and yet the action itself seems so
pathetic.
Of course he knew it was me, as it turned out he'd been mentally placing bets
with himself as to when I would finally cave and ask for help- apparently my
penchant for theft was a 'pleasant surprise'. Or so he informed me that evening
when he appeared outside my room, arms crossed over his chest, dark curls
sticking out every which way.
Neither of us had really grown into ourselves yet. I was thin, awkward and my
thick black hair was untameable. Sherlock - well, he lacked much of the grace
he adopted so well in the years that followed.
He stepped right past me and dropped down onto my desk chair without a single
word. I simply shut the door with a small click and lent back against it,
watching him carefully. The conversation that followed went something like
this:
'My chemistry book'
I nod - there isn't really much I can offer at that.
'You have it.'
Another nod - no point denying it.
'How did I not see?'
I finally respond, perplexed by the question, a little entranced by the way his
lips moved when he spoke. He notices, of course.
'You weren't looking?'
'Im always looking. I see everything.'
'Well. I guess you missed something.'
'Obviously.'
There's something of a drawn out pause then, he spins back and forth on the
chair, picking up bits and pieces from the desk top. Papers, the rubiks cube
next to my Oxford English. His slender fingers drift over my folio copy of
Frankenstein - odd, how that particular fact sticks in my memory.
I just watch him until he speaks again, his eyes fixed on something I can't see
up on one of my shelves.
'I could help you- obviously you're worried about your parents reaction if you
should fail a core subject, and with your father being a chemist himself...'
I don't ask him how he knows, it doesn't seem important and besides - I'd heard
enough rumours.
'Why would you help me? You don't even know me. We've been sitting together for
an entire term and I doubt you even know my name.'
'Victor Trevor.'
I wouldn't realise until much later in our acquaintance just how much hearing
him say my name for the first time had affected me. It was one of the few
things I expect he never deduced and that I never had the opportunity to
express.
I blink slowly at him and I have no doubt that he was considering exactly how
much of an idiot I was. This was, after all, Sherlock Holmes. Stand offish,
unapproachable, intimidatingly brilliant and painfully dismissive. This was
Sherlock Holmes offering to help me pass chemistry. I wonder now If it wasn't
more than that. If it was in fact, his was of reaching out to someone. Of
finally risking a part of himself in the pursuit of friendship.
I say yes, not quite as eloquently as I would have liked but the whole
experience had left me a little confused. I vaguely remember having the urge to
offer him tea, which would have been ridiculous given the complete lack of tea
making essentials. Instead, I go to the end of my unmade bed and fish his note
book out of my bag, taking a few steps and placing it on my desk for him to
take.
'It wouldn't have done you much good anyway.'
I incline my head, not even needing to ask why - he's already started telling
me.
He flips the first page.
'The majority of this would be illegible to someone so...'
He pauses and I'm certain that he's consciously trying to search for a less
offensive word.
'It's fine.' I tell him. 'I know I'm shit.'
He smiles. Oh he smiles. It's like a secret, one he always kept quite well
hidden and I answer it with a small one of my own.
'Do you think you could bring yourself to dumb it down for a novice like me?'
There's a pause and I get the feeling that he's struggling with something. He
opens his mouth and closes it again, looking determined down at the square
graph paper strewn across my desk. When he next speaks it's a mumble and I miss
every word but one - 'ridiculous'.
I scratch a hand through my hair. I don't need to ask him to say it again
because he already knows I haven't got a clue. He seems to take a moment to
steel himself before he tries again, each word enunciated perfectly, clear and
utterly coherent, yet no less surprising.
'I find myself, despite my far superior intellect, having to...'
He pauses.
'I need help with algebra.'
I very nearly laugh but thankfully I think better of it. My response is quiet,
friendly.
'I can do that.'
'Its not that I can't do it, I just haven't the time patience to waste my...'
I shake my head and interrupt.
'I can help you.'
He nods and clenches one pale fist before standing, shoving his chemistry book
under his arm.
'Classes finish at four tomorrow, be in the library at five. I won't wait
around for you.'
A few moments later I open my mouth to say goodbye but he's already pushed past
me and shut the door behind him. I spend a good few minutes pondering the
encounter and then an entire sleepless night considering what might happen
during the next one.
***** Blush *****
Fifteen was very easy as an age, of course at the time I couldn't think of
anything worse. I was almost certain that being fifteen was tantamount to a
hideous curse. Too young to drive, to drink...At least another year of school,
two of college and three at university if I was ever to make anything of
myself. Not that it worked out that way in the end.
I'm getting ahead of myself, I tend to do that, skip ahead, tell a story the
way I want it to go rather than the way it really came to pass.
This is different though, when I look back on that year now I realise it was
full of exploration, new experiences and a kind of youthful happiness that I
would never feel again. It was a good year, that very first one. We were young
and in the midst of falling in love. The truth is, both of us were a little
terrified by the whole thing.
After that first proper meeting we saw each other increasingly often. There
were stages - brief explanations and silent study, both bent over our own work.
Then came the lengthier exchanges, the first sounds of shared laughter,
acknowledgement in the hallway, the dining area.
Four weeks after our first study session I found him waiting for me outside of
my French grammar class. I never needed to ask him how he knew my entire time
table.
Without really noticing we had fallen into an easy, comfortable friendship. He
was drawn to me as I was to him, a planetary rotation of sorts. Needless to
say, I passed chemistry with fly colours. There lies the next memory that
really clutches to me. Six weeks after the note book theft, results day for the
midterm exams. I was sick with nerves and he hadn't said much at all. I imagine
he knew I wouldn't listen and therefore refrained from saying anything. More
often than not the act of conversation was tedious for him and so I let him be.
He was handed his envelope first for no other reason that H comes before T in
the alphabet, not that it mattered. In the end his troubles with mathematics
lay more with his own laziness than any lack of understanding. As expected he
tore open the envelope, gave the enclosed piece of paper one perfunctory glance
before crumpling it, face blank and unaffected. It didn't help in the slightest
that he looked far more anxious when I was handed mine. I suppose he may have
been worried that the standard of his tutoring as below par but by this point I
had come to hope that perhaps his visible concern was due to his growing
affection for me.
In the end he was the one to open it, pull out the single sheet of paper and
nod slowly- which didn't do all that much to calm me down. I'm certain he
didn't leave me waiting by design. It was then and always would be his nature.
Sherlock was a selfish being, it wasn't conscious nor was it malicious, which
is why I accepted it so easily. After all, not once did he mention a single one
of my faults.
In the end I just took the results from him, looked down at the ink and allowed
myself a quiet moment of relief. A pass- and a good one. Enough to keep my
parents happy at the very least.
'I suppose we should celebrate...'
It strikes me as odd that the suggestion has come from him. Most of our class
mates will be sneaking off site to drink low alcohol hooch and pretend they are
drunk because teenagers in the mid ninties liked to do that sort of thing.
Sherlock and I were a little different in this case as in many others, which is
why I had no idea what he could have planned. We spent a lot of our time
together reading, a few times I had settled myself on his bed as he carried out
any number of weird experiments at his desk. Occasionally we would hang half
out of his window, passing a single cigarette between us. We didn't do it
because we wanted to break the rules. He didn't particularly care about that
either way. We did it because we wanted those moments which offered us freedom,
independence- something that often evaded us due to the confines of boarding
school.
That day we went back to his room. I felt relieved, elated and then without
warning everything was magnified by the briefest touch, the tips of his fingers
grazing my knuckles as we walked. The motion repeated with every step or so,
along with the natural rhythm of out bodies. I wanted to ask him if it was
accidental, but somehow I think we both already knew the answer to that.
The spell was somewhat broken when he stepped away to unlock his door, both of
us stepping inside together and throwing it bags to the floor. Conversation was
light and I struggle to remember it now- a discussion concerning the results of
his latest experiment, or whatever new samples he had retrieved from the river
bank. At the time I would have been fascinated, I always was when it came to
him.
Where usually I would sit myself cross legged on his bed and he in some
impossible position upon his desk chair, in this instance he shuffled up the
bed, back against the head board and with a single pat of his hand motioned for
me to join him. I did, without question, positioning myself between his body
and the wall. Our legs touching, socked feet meeting at the end of the bed. I
admit to being a little confused as to whether this was the celebration, not
that the close proximity would be more than enough.
'I knew you would pass.'
I snort and look over at him, thinking back to the badly hidden display of
anxiety that crossed his face before my results wet revealed. I don't argue, I
look ahead and let my hand fell from my thigh to rest between us. It rests over
his and even now I'm not sure if I'd meant to do it all along. Instead of
pulling away I hesitate a moment before speaking.
'Is this..?'
'Yes. Fine. It's fine.'
He turns his hand slowly under mine, our fingers interlocking loosely - my
heart stops, I'm certain it does.
We don't speak for a long time, a silence lays lightly over the room. I note
the strange acidic smell drifting over from an ominous looking container on his
desk. I don't ask.
At some point his fingers start to move, a vague, playful experiment of sorts.
I follow, my eyes fixed on the way we play carefully with one another, stroking
each gap between his digits, the bumps of his knuckles.
There wasn't all that much sensual about it, but as a fifteen year old boy I
can honestly say I had never experienced something so sexual. I ached for him -
mentally, physically. This wasn't some faceless fantasy. Compared to the sexual
experiences we would share in the years to come the whole incident seems rather
insignificant. Yet for me, in that moment and even as I think back on it now,
it was truly delicious.
He ran the very tip of his index finger over the sensitive skin of my palm,
tracing the etched lines right down to the blue veins at my wrist - veins which
would come to mean much more to us nothin. Few years but in that moment meant
nothing but the hammer beat of my racing heart,
I heard his breath catch so I raised my head just enough to catch him watching
the point at which his fingers touched to my skin. The milky complexion of his
cheeks dusted pink with heat and i imagine mine were much the same. His eyes
were dark, curious as always but burning with a new kind of fire.
I doubt either of us really knew what any of it meant. Though I was rather well
acquainted with my right hand by that point, I would later discover that
physical pleasure was as good as alien to him. It just turned into another
thing to love...that look of pure shock and confusion as the intensity of
his...
But I'm jumping ahead if myself again.
I think that I would have been quite content if all I ever got to do with
Sherlock Holmes was to hold his hand but that didn't stop my teenage mind from
thinking about what might come next.
We didn't sleep that night, I stayed right there, his hand in mine, eventually
moving so both of us lay flat on top of his covers. The darkness came and went
with the turn of our conversation and the comfort of it silences. My eyes
closed softly against the first sign of morning light and when he spoke his
words were lazy and heavy with tiredness.
'I could do this. We could do this. In fact, I'd like to do this, with you,
often.'
***** Specimen. *****
Chapter Notes
     Just a quick note to jump up and mention that my head canon for
     Victor is Ben Whishaw, so if you were expecting a Hiddleston-esque
     Vic I'm sorry to disappoint.
Things changed gradually after that. We spent more time together than we did
apart. One particular Thursday, in a quiet, almost embarrassed whisper he
extended me an invitation to spend the summer with him at his family home. My
parents were away in Europe for the majority of the holidays and I had no wish
to spend the summer entertaining myself in rural Norfolk. I accepted rather
bashfully, looking down at my feet as if I were misbehaving.
To think, there would soon be a time where embarrassment and uncertainty was
nothing but a distant memory between us.
As for the progression of our relationship, in the month or so that followed
the end of our midterm exams we never strayed much from the comfort and ease of
interlocking fingers. It had taken a while but by march of that year he would
start to take my hand in his out of habit, whether alone in the confines of one
of our bedrooms or under the ever judgmental gaze of our classmates. If they
were set against it, I certainly didn't hear a word of it - I never had much
time for ignorance.
Sometimes I would wait for him to finish in the evening, already half buried
under his covers with the work I needed to do that evening - sometimes if I had
enough of a head start we would finish at the same time (assuming he was
bothering to do any of his work that evening).
Sherlock's scent tended to get everywhere. I spent a long time trying to
analyse and replicate it with little success. Just as he did, his scent
evolved. The last in my memory is of antiseptic, stale breath and greasy hair
contained within the broken remnants of our life and the new, unwelcome stench
of a hospital.
But that, that is along way from when I laid myself upon his bed, face hidden
in his pillow, breathing him in. I can't remember if I was embarrassed or not
when I was caught. I know I must have smiled and watched him laugh, eyes
following each movement when he shed the layer of his school blazer and let it
crumple in a messy pile to the floor. There was something different in the way
he looked down at me then, edging towards the bed with a glint of something
predatory within his stormy eyes. I couldn't decide whether I was more nervous
or excited. He stopped right at the end of the bed, standing over me, our gazes
fixed.
 
"You're early."
 
I note, well aware that he hates it when I state the obvious. Though this time,
instead of chiding me, he simply inclines his head.
 
"I've not much patience for German Vocabulary - besides, I knew I had something
far more interesting waiting for me here..."
 
His momentary confidence seems to falter after that, cheeks darkening, his eyes
averted to the side. I laugh quietly.
 
"I hope you're referring to me and not the strange dead insects squashed
between those slides on your desk."
 
Though he continues to look away I can see the edge of a smirk playing at his
lips and I lean up on my elbows to get a better look at him.
 
"As a scientist I hate to admit that said specimens had little to do with my
return..."
 
"I promise to keep your secret."
 
He turns to me finally with one eyebrow raised, humming quietly.
 
"Make sure you do."
 
I roll my eyes and flop back down onto the bed, letting myself wonder what
would have happened had Sherlock maintained his determination a little longer.
He rolls up the sleeves of his shirt to just above his elbows and sits on the
side of the bed, still apparently fighting with himself over what should be his
next move. I watch him for a short while, the back of my hand breaching the gap
between us until it is pressed over his shirt at the small of his back, itching
to slip under the material and meet with the warmth hidden beneath the cotton.
Instead I play the fabric between my fingers and he looks to the side, down
towards where my head is rested back upon his pillows. His lips are ever so
slightly parted, one of his own hands reaching between us to untuck the shirt
from the band of his trousers. I touch him then, that hidden piece of skin,
massaging the planes of it with the very tips of my fingers, stroking the width
of his lover back until he practically purrs which in turn gives me shivers.
 
"Lay with me?"
 
My words come as a whisper, as if speaking too loudly would frighten him away.
The touch breaks when he moves, laying on his side to face me one hand hovering
across my waist for a moment until his nerves allow him to rest it there, the
length of him pressed up against my side. I look up at him, lifting a hand to
his face and worrying a few stray curls between my fingers.
 
"Are you my boyfriend?"
 
I'm surprised and fail to answer straight away, the cogs in my brain grinding
against one another. I'd thought about it, of course. Boyfriends. Two guys who
happen to hold hands- but it was far more than that. I hadn't been plagued much
by the idea of sexuality and I doubt it registered at all with him which is why
my hesitation on the subject was less to do with panic and more the sheer shock
and joy of it.
 
"I'd like that. Yeah...Yeah."
 
He tries not to smile too widely at my answer, giving a small nod and burying
his face away against my shoulder and the quilt. I laugh at his reaction and
make so we are both turned towards one another, his face still partially
hidden. My hand rests at his waist, pulling our slender bodies close, our
foreheads touching when he finally looks towards me.
Everything rind to a halt when our eyes meet again. Thinking about it now,
writing it down - well it all sounds a little cliche. I suppose it was, most
first kisses are.
His hand appears at my shoulder and I'm sure it was trembling, sliding along
the curve to rest at the side of my throat. I can feel the warmth of our breath
int he small space between us, a mix of smoke, warm tea and sweet marmalade.
That fist kiss is - messy, awkward. Our faces don;t quite know what to do and
my lips are pressed completely off centre. It comes in a series of slow,
lingering kisses, our lips locking again and again in some strange display of
fading innocence. My whole goddamn body is singing.
The initial uncertainty has faded, his hand becoming a little more persistent,
thumb stroking small circles just under my jaw as I dip beneath the hem of his
shirt with my fingers. I finally feel the sharp edge of one hips bone against
my hand and the glorious pressure between us as I squeeze against the skin.
In the first instant that we pull apart enough to look at one another again I
see his hooded eyes and blush stained cheeks, the way his lips are red and
swollen, his tongue dipping out to taste whatever remains of me upon them.
 
"Sherlock..."
 
He says nothing, just hums quietly as if I've interrupted hum by daring to
speak. I don't try again just yet, instead I push my feet between his two
resting ankles to entangle us even more thoroughly, drawing the tip of my nose
a long his jaw and across on soft, warmed cheek.
I remember the feeling of never wanting to stop, of desperately wanting to have
my hands on his body for the rest of my life and to never move again. I want to
tell him but every time I make to open my mouth he stops me with a kiss and
it's as if he's discovered something fascinating, unable to bring himself to
stop. It doesn't matter to me, I would happily lay there for hours and be his
specimen, gifted the precious entirety of his attention and affection. What i
wouldn't give to feel even the slightest glimmer of that now.
***** Buzz *****
That summer held an extraordinary number of firsts for me and I can remember
each specific one in such detail that I could almost be back in that manor, the
cool water at the lake lapping my toes.
Some of the firsts would mean little to me at the time - Such as my
introduction to Mycroft. I liked Mycroft Holmes the first time I met him. He
was actually rather charming, showing both care and consideration for his
brother which appeared to be reciprocated. Somehow that only makes me angrier
now- at the ease in which he quite single handedly broke his brother’s heart.
It would take another year for the fraternal relationship to fracture and
another one after that for it to break beyond repair.
Fortunately, the other firsts were rather more pleasant though possibly just as
sinful.
I arrived at the Holmes manor on the 17th July, my suitcase trailing behind me,
greeted by an overexcited Sherlock who had by that point been waiting at the
gravel drive a good two hours before my arrival. I can remember exactly what he
was wearing- a pair of light denim jeans with a rip at the knee and a t shirt
from the British Museum, black with a white print of the Rosetta Stone. At that
moment it was one of the funniest things I had ever seen, though now I guess
it's possible that my teenage brain may have mistaken elation and love for
comedy. Either way, it tickled me.
He approached me slowly though I could tell he was holding himself back. I
wasn't even sure if his parents had been enlightened to the nature of our
relationship at all. I half expected him to hold out his hand for me to shake.
"Buzz."
The pet name was a reasonably new development, for a long time the relevance of
what he had chosen to call me eluded me, until I asked him and he responded
with:
'Bees are small, under appreciated and inexplicably fascinating. They shouldn't
be capable of flight and yet...Our entire ecosystem would disintegrate without
their continued existence and still they remain ultimately over looked,
unheard. Except perhaps, for the occasional buzz.’
I've far too much pride to record my reaction to those words.
I'd yet to gift him with a name of my own, it would take me until the end of
the summer - needless to say it was suitably mortifying.
And so he greets me thus, the slight breeze blowing stray hair across his face.
We stop about a foot away from each other. I think he might be worried whether
or not I am comfortable with showing affection in this situation, after all we
had spent no time together yet outside of school. As is happens he wasn’t
particularly bothered about that after all.
Another second passes and he breaches the gap between us, his right hand
cupping my cheek as he leans forward on his toes and kisses me squarely. I
laugh into it, letting my hand fall from my case so both arms may wrap around
his body, it takes me a good minute or so to look up from where my face is
buried in his shoulder and notice someone standing in the doorway. I flush
immediately and step back, my face a painful shade of red.
"Mr. Trevor."
He sounds so well spoken that even with my boarding school drawl, I feel
hideously under educated.
Sherlock turns at the sound of his voice, slipping his hand into mine and
entwining our fingers, his thumb stroking circles over the back of my hand.
"Don't try and scared him off before he's even stepped foot inside the house,"
The older man, Mycroft I assume, laughs at that and shakes his head.
"I assume that if you haven't managed to frighten him away, then he has a
disposition unlikely to be shaken by me."
Sherlock promptly offers up his middle finger which just makes the older man
laugh louder.
"Careful mummy doesn't see you waving that around. She may very well cut it
off."
He pauses before looking to me again.
"It's a pleasure to meet you."
It takes me a moment but I manage to respond eventually.
"Thank you, for having me."
I know now that he was truly as shocked as me, that Sherlock had never so much
as mentioned another name to him outside of the family or as anything more than
something in passing other than mine. At the time Mycroft Holmes was pleased
that Sherlock had finally found someone.
A few years later and he would desperately despise the fact that the someone
Sherlock had found, was me.
I didn’t meet his parents that day, Sherlock offered a vague explanation as he
escorted me up to his bedroom, blatantly ignoring the existence of a guest
room.
There was no mistaking who it belonged too, from the mystery mixtures bubbling
away at the desk to the Fibonacci spirals scribbled in marker on the far wall.
It was more the evidence of organised chaos than outright mess. I've no doubt
that he could have told me the location of anything had I cared to ask.
I close the door behind us and push my case to the side, pulling my navy blue
hoodie from my shoulder and saving it draped over the desk chair. It gives me
the opportunity to look out of his window across the grounds. Acres of
manicured green roll out in my vision, blemished only by the blue shimmer of a
lake, the banks decorated with reeds and water flowers.
I imagine falling into it with the heat of the sun burning the back of my neck,
his body already dripping with cold water droplets like carved ice.
"We can swim whenever you like."
I look over my shoulder, no need to ask how he knows. In that moment I can do
nothing other than smile at him, there's no need for me to say anything. Of
course I do eventually, though I can’t recall exactly what.
The day is slow, easy and comfortable. I sit up with my back against the
headboard and he lays across with his head resting in my lap. With one hand I
thread my fingers through unruly curls and with the other turn the pages of the
book I am reading aloud from. Something I had rested from the school library a
few months ago, of course by rescued I mean stolen.
I was very good at that, stealing things.
And so I read to him, anything I care too. From Sassoon to Coleridge, Shelley
to Kipling. I let the words slip past my chewed, dry lips until my throat is
sore and my voice becomes nothing more than an inelegant scratch. I wonder when
he first noticed my discomfort though. Shan't bother to ask, he wouldn't tell
me either way. In the end I close the collection and drop it off of the bed,
listening got the tell-tale thump when it hits the floor. He's still, steady
breathing, hardly moving other than the rise and fall of his chest. I've no
idea if he's sleeping or not until I still the movements of my fingers which
were, until then, still nestled in his hair.
"Don't."
His voice is quiet, a little rough. If he wasn't sleeping then I’m sure he had
been not too long ago.
I know what he means, can finish the end of the sentence for him and despite
the fact that my wrist aches I continue to stroke him like some kind of
domestic animal.
“We don’t talk about sex.’
It’s a statement not a question so I happily avoid making a response. Inwardly
my brain has crashed, I’m glad he’s facing out so he can’t see my ridiculous
gaping mouth.
‘I thought that after a month or so, give or take. Though that may have been
subject to error as I’ve little evidence to go on…What I mean to say it –
shouldn’t you be asking…’
He paused and I wish I could see the expression on his face as he searches for
the right words.
‘Shouldn’t you be wanting more than breathy wet kisses and quiet embraces on
top of the covers?’
‘I’m…’
I allow myself a moment to gather my thoughts – out of all of the things he
could have said – of all my guesses – that wouldn’t have been on the list.
‘Aren’t you – Sherlock, I don’t…’
I realise then that he’s made damn sure that this conversation is happening in
such a way that I have no way of being able to see his reaction.
‘I’m not sure we really have to worry about…’
‘It’s natural progression.’
‘I suppose, but…’
‘Do you not want to – ‘
I laugh and push him off of me, not out of anger but I’m damned if I’m going to
have this conversation with the side of his head.
He sits up, crossing his legs and glaring across the small gap which separates
us.
‘Where is all of this coming from?’
I ask, bridging the space and taking his hand. It’s only then that I realise
they are shaking.
‘Sherlock?’
He looks away from me again at the sound of his name.
‘I’m not ready.’
The way he suddenly blurts the words out almost have me falling sideways off of
the bed. He crashes on like a steam train.
‘I know what you should be expecting but I’m certain that by now you have
realised the extent of my experience is wholly contained to what has happened
between us. I wouldn’t – ‘
I hold up my hand and shake my head slowly. Yes, I know where this is going –
In fact, I have a list of curious things about Sherlock Holmes, one of which is
how he had reached the summer of his fifteenth year without so much as touching
himself let alone anyone else.
Hell when I discovered where it was and what it did, I couldn’t leave it alone.
‘It’s fine.’
He’s about to speak again but I take counter measures by leaning forward and
clamping a hand over his mouth.
‘Just because I’m – because I do that – It doesn’t mean I want to have sex.
Understand? Yeah, when we’re ready, when we’re both ready…Christ it will be a
fucking honour to be the one you choose, if you ever want to. But just to be
clear – the kissing, the laying together and waking up with your elbow in my
face. Well that’s enough, more than enough.’
I let my hand drop so he can respond.
‘And when…’
‘And when we decide – we talk about it. You know you only have to ask, I’ll
give you anything – Jesus, you know that.’
Sherlock stares dumbly at me for a good few seconds before giving and nod to
demonstrate his understanding.
We don’t talk much more that evening – he perches on his chair, eyes closed,
somewhere in his mind where I have no chance of intruding.
I fall asleep first whilst he’s still at his desk but I wake a few hours late
to the warm pressure of his body curled around mine.
When I wake fully in the morning, its business as usual, except perhaps his
eyes linger on me a little longer than usual when I disappear into his bathroom
to take my shower. Even if it’s all I my head, it certainly goes a long way to
contributing to my morning routine.
***** Heat *****
Chapter Summary
     The porn begins, the rating has gone up - things will probably
     escalate quite quickly from now on. I have now tagged this as
     underage simply because - they are...it's consensual and both are
     nearing sixteen which is the legal age of consent in the UK.
Sherlock and I fell into something of a routine during that summer, the entire
experience held an odd sense of domesticity which evolved from the relationship
commenced during the months we spent together at school. My first meeting with
his parents was uneventful, his mother was obviously a little too interested in
how much gin was in her glass and his father – his father was certainly
different. The man would spend hours in his green houses or wondering around
the grounds collecting samples. He and Sherlock would talk in half conversation
that I had no chance of understand – which wasn’t anything at all compared to
when all three of the Holmes men were in one room, hardly saying a word to one
another apart from the occasionally snark between siblings or the affectionate
huff from their father. It wasn’t uncomfortable and often I felt more at ease
with their father than I did with my own whom I hadn’t seen in a number of
months.
I suppose it should have been difficult for me, to be away from my family for
so long. Even as I write this, I haven’t seen either of them in over sixteen
years. It didn’t matter, I don’t care now that our relationship never recovered
from my decisions, I am glad that Sherlock made some kind of peace with his
family before…before he…
Mid-august of that year was painfully hot, I remember nights waking up half
tangled in sheets which Sherlock had already kicked from his body, my t shirt
stuck damply to my chest. He’d spread out as much as humanly possible, leaving
me a sliver to contort myself onto, my body bending to fit around his own, the
occasional hand in my face or elbow in my stomach. There had been a few nights
when he would move close to me, press right up against me, his body sticky from
sweat, t shirt ridding up just a little, just enough to see. I wanted to touch,
to kiss – the tension in my body grew every day and it also became like static
between us – catching each other’s eye mid conversation, breath quickening just
a touch, my heart beating so hard it could have wrecked my rib cage.
Sometime nearing the end of the month we came up from dinner late having spent
most of the day swimming, lazing in the sun and smoking concealed away in one
of the green houses. It was getting on for thirty degrees and the heat had made
us lazy. I go into the bathroom to brush my teeth, pull of my shorts and t
shirt so I can change into my pajamas. Just a light white cotton tee and a pair
of blue cotton pants. I splash my face with cool water, pushing my hair back
from my face. When I enter his bedroom Sherlock is just standing there in his
underwear, a pair of dark grey boxer briefs. I pause, open my mouth, shut it
again, clear my throat.
 
“It’s too hot.”
 
He explains, I can’t argue with it – I don’t want. In the end I just nod and
smile as if it’s having no effect on me at all. Every inch of that milk skin,
the small beauty spots dotted at random paces, the hair peeking from under his
arms and the trail of it from his belly button to the elastic of his shorts.
Fuck. I swallow thickly and with an uncharacteristic nervousness I grab my own
t-shirt by the hem and pull it up and over my head, leaving myself in my pajama
trousers. He eyes me and suddenly it’s even hotter, I can’t breathe or think –
so what I am supposed to do when he pulls back the covers and lays down on the
bed, pulling a single white sheet over himself. There he is painting the
picture of some Grecian statue, Apollo, perhaps…And I have to step across the
room and get in beside him, both of us maintaining a little of the distance
between us though all I want, all I honestly want is to have my hands all over
him. Our breathing sounds loud, I can’t work out whether it’s the stillness of
the room without the wind striking the windows from outside or whether we’re
both struggling a little, panting. I’m half hard dying to touch myself and the
proof of it is poorly hidden by the thin sheet and my flimsy bed wear.
 
“Sherlock…”
 
I whisper into the darkness, finding not response other than a small throaty
sound. I’m not sure whether he wants me to continue or not and I’m about to
speak when the back of his hand touches to mind – his fingers move backwards
and stroke the gaps, up and down, entwining the digits, constantly moving. It
feels as if he’s playing with me, teasing each harsh breath from my body,
controlling the want. I can hear his breath quicken and I move my own fingers,
it’s painfully sexual, the way we tangle our hands softly, stroke and rub the
skin together. I turn my head to see his face through the darkness but I can’t
see whether his cheeks are flushed. His lips are parted though and when he sees
me looking he turns his face – our eyes meet and I very nearly lose it.
He’s been the only subject of my fantasies for months now, everything I’ve
wanted to touch, kiss – and when we would I’d start to shake a little, press my
tongue to his bottom lips with a pathetic eagerness which he would accommodate
occasionally. Sometimes I think he was frightened because he’d always had such
control over himself – that when we kissed, when things finally started to
escalated – the animalistic nature of our want scared him.
I was fully hard, laying there looking at him, our fingers dancing together
between us and I can’t help it, I have to move closer – just a little. I hear a
small noise fall from his lips, watch his worry that soft bottom lip between
his teeth.
 
“You should kiss me.”
 
He finally murmurs, shuffling closer – leaving nothing but an inch between us,
bodies only centimetres away from being pressed close. I start to worry that if
he gets any nearer he’ll feel the hard presence of my cock.
 
“If I kiss you now I don’t think I’d be able to stop.”
 
I say honestly, unable to deny the rising level of my own want, determined not
to ignore his fears and uncertainties. I never wanted to push it – to take him
there before he was ready.
He moves again and that’s when I feel it, the warm press of his thigh between
mind, the throbbing of my shaft as the pressure of Sherlock’s leg move against
it. I gasp, my fingers clenching around one of his wrists.
 
“I don’t want you to stop. This – all of this. It’s been driving me insane.
Victor.”
 
Each word is whispered quickly, heatedly so the warm breath dance right over my
lips, I’ve no idea if he knows what he’s doing, what all of this is doing to
me.
 
“I know you want it, you lay there next to me, wide awake staring, your fingers
twitching – desperate to touch. When you – I want you to kiss me…”
 
He finishes, we both know there’s more to it but the act of making conversation
is more difficult now that we’re both panting, my hips are rocking in small
needy movements so I gain some friction from his upper thigh. I give up any
hope of being able to say no, I don’t even pause – our lips touch again but it
isn’t soft or delicate. Before I know what has happen his tongue it in my mouth
and we’re sliding together, wet pink muscles battling, dancing. Our hands are
frantic, scratching and groping at every inch of available skin. It’s messy and
wholly unromantic but I fear I’m about to achieve the best orgasm of my life
right then and there without hardly anything else. He’s making these broken,
wanton keening noises, biting at my lips and digging his nails hard into my
back so he can press our bodies together, I feel him then, finally – any doubt
that he wants me in the same way dissolves because the presence of his pleasure
is right there. Hard, hot, covered by soft cotton. I groan and clumsily push
the sheet away, our lips still crushed together, still panting and grinding,
all sense and rhythm abandoned in favour of this – this base need.
 
“Vic...”
 
His voice a wreck and it’s sexy as hell, the heat in my groin grown, throbbing.
 
“Touch me. Show me – Please. Please. I’ve waited and I…I don’t….”
 
He’s begging me, Sherlock Holmes is begging me to touch him and I haven’t the
heart to question or keep him waiting, I ignore any of my own fears and shove a
hand down between us, stroking lightly first, just over his navel so I can feel
his stomach muscles tremble, his hips buck. I've moved away a little so I can
focus on this, on him. My kisses become slowly, sensual – a tease f tongue on
tongue as I coax my way over his boxers and cup his prick for the first time,
squeezing the shaft, feeling the thick flesh. I crave it, right then, to have
it touching me in some way, pressed to my skin, to taste, to explore. If I
hadn’t known before I did hen. I wanted it and I would want it a lot, often. It
was nothing like touching mine, it was everything, I could swear it would send
me crazy.
He’s shaking, one fist tangled in the sheets clenching so hard it probably
hurts. Now he's not even kissing me back, not really, he’s just panting hard
against my mouth, swearing and cursing nonsense in whispers and broken noises.
I become braver, sneaking my fingertips down past the elastic, stroking the
through the thick thatch of hair until they press to the side of his cock,
until my hand is pressed fully against it. I don’t really know what I’m doing,
to horny and inexperienced to give anything of quality but it doesn’t matter
then. What matters is that he starts rubbing himself against me, small muffled
cries falling from his mouth as he struggles to keep quiet, his eyes are screw
shut and when I finally make a circle with my fist he grabs a hold of my
shoulder and uses it as leverage. Creating friction for himself. I start
stroking him, exploring ways I can twist my wrist, rub my thumb in small
circles over the swollen head, and now wet with beads of come. It feels like
hours but I know it isn’t, it’s minutes – Sherlock is shaking, spilling out
random words, bits of information I don’t understand. I’m close to frantic too,
willfully ignoring my own persistent arousal because more than anything I need
this, to see, to make him come. This boy who never so much as touches himself
and he’s about to fall apart. I see his eyes snap open wide in shock, his lips
opening, head thrown back as he screams silently. His whole body goes stiff in
the second before it begins to convulse – the orgasm ripping through his whole
body, ribbons of thick white come spraying out over my hand, up across his bare
stomach. I watched, completely entranced, hypnotise.
Without even thinking I draw my hand away and look at the sticky mess of fluid
between my fingers and over my palm, experimentally pushing it down, under the
band of my trousers and around my own prick. The slick wet, the knowledge that
my fingers are stained with Sherlock’s seed and currently wrapped around my own
prick – the sudden reality of everything that has just happen, strikes my
teenage body and within a few brief strokes I’m crashing over the edge. Crying
out, less successful at keeping quiet than Sherlock hand been. Now my hand is
painted with the essence of us both, two messy teenagers, half naked, sated,
panting and heaving on the bed. We’re wet with sweat, come and I swear the room
much reek of it but I can’t tell. I wonder if I should be scared, worried that
he’ll turn around and laugh – usual fears for someone our age. I wasn't though.
Somehow I just knew. Even more so when he looks up through wild mussed curls
and smiles at me, ignoring the mess of fluid to wrap his arms around me and
pull us close, burying his face in the crook of my neck.
I don’t hear what he says, I don’t need to. I just answer quietly, making sure
he can hear my response – because somehow I know he needs it.
 
“I love you, too.”
***** Fix *****
Chapter Summary
     This chapter may be a little hard to follow - I'm trying to capture
     the thoughts of a man who is really grieving and didn't want it to
     seem too coherent, especially as it progresses. There will be time
     skips in this chapter and future chapters, I am not done with the
     teen innocence. It will be a wild ride back and forth - I hope you
     stay with me for it.
     Drug use.
     No beta, little sleep. Mistakes are all mine and i apologise.
That summer passed in something of a haze, a sunlit flicker picture of
adolescent discovery, exploration and a growing love which never really
faltered – not even now that we are so – so very far apart. The distance
irrevocable. I still can‘t think of him as – as not here, somewhere else on
this planet living his life. I could deal with that. This other reality
threatens to overwhelm me, to eradicate any progress I may have made these past
few years. I was always the weaker one, he never needed it like I did – the
rush, the elation. Sherlock could have walked away whenever he chose because
cocaine did not have a hold of him – it wasn’t the drug, it was the feeling,
the alleviation of that crippling boredom…and there were other ways for him. My
mind did not carry the same level of strength as his. Cocaine had me. It
wrecked me, it still does. We never said anything about it, his brother always
assumed that I had introduced him to the life style and I never denied it, no
matter how untrue the assumption happened to be. Ignorance is bliss. I always
preferred that people would think ill of me rather than of him simply because I
don’t think he understood the repercussions of his actions. The pain, the
harshness – the reality of what words and actions could lead to further down
the line. Perhaps it would interest Mycroft Holmes to know that I did not give
Sherlock his first hit of anything, let alone cocaine. That the first drag on a
joint, snort of powder or prick of a needle came to me, from him. Accepted
willingly, asked for in some cases – but never the less. My chemist. I would
have followed him anywhere – and I did. To the darkest, darkest corners of
London, New York city.
I was sixteen when we first smoked marijuana together – I didn’t like it,
neither did he. The phase was short lived and more to prove we could than from
our finding any enjoyment in it. At first the dullness was pleasant, unusual –
after a few minutes he began to panic, I can hear it now – his breathing
fastening, chest heaving, skin all flushed and hot. Sherlock wasn’t illogical
but with the slightest hint that his control might be slipping he began to
panic, to really struggle. That cold, calm demeanour would come in the years to
follow and would build up around him like a brick wall. He went from boiling
heat to cold and clammy n a matter of seconds, that – slow sense of not quite
grasping what was happening, I can only imagine what it must have been like.
It’s not a memory particularly worth delving into but it is necessary perhaps
to make sense of everything that followed.
He could get his hands on anything, that smile, the glint in his eye. By the
time we had entered six form he’d grown out of his uncertain shyness and seemed
to realise that he had a magnetism that people were drawn to – right up until
he opened his mouth. Just a quirk of his lips would have someone bending over
backwards to do his bidding. Honestly? It drove me crazy at first, I wanted to
keep him in that shell, to wrap him, lock him away – he was mine…But – he
always was, despite all of that. He never cared for them, never really smiled –
that smile where his eyes just – they go from grey to stormy blue and he smiles
so wide that maybe, just maybe his face will split – so my heart swells and –
and then love scares me. Scared me. You don’t fall out of love with some just
because – because they slip away…
I seem to have digressed so thoroughly I’ve lost the thread of the initial
story. I had so much to say about that summer but now I think on it, it says so
little of the truth, tells the story with a painful irrelevance. If we had held
onto that innocence then maybe he would be here with me now – working in a lab
somewhere, coming home at five every day. But that isn’t what happened –
Every substantial event in my life has been caused by his actions, his
existence.
1. The day I met Sherlock Holmes.
2. The day I first kissed Sherlock Holmes.
3. The day I ran away with Sherlock Holmes.
4. The day Sherlock Holmes administered my first hit of cocaine and told me it
would be glorious.
5. Thirty seconds later, when I realised how right he was.
 
The cheap tube of rubber is tight uncomfortable and I’m itching to pull it off.
I’ve never been a fan of injects and this all seems like a substantial amount
of effort when we could just be lining up some of the powder I still have
stashed in my wallet. I don’t bother asking how he already knows how it will
feel – I haven’t seen him for two days after all. He does that – runs away on
his own little adventures, I wonder sometimes if maybe he just forgets about me
– but he always comes back.
 
This places isn’t quite as dire as the last – the papers peeling from the
walls, the floor boards splintering and the sound of rats itching and squealing
make me want to claw my own skin off but there’s a mattress, an old record
player that has been playing out scratch Tchaikovsky or the last hour. He
brought it back, knows it’s my favourite. Then he smiles like he owns ever damn
star in the sky and tells me about this – tis magic…rattling away about
compounds and adjustments, substantial risk, blood thinning and worthwhile. I
miss half of it because I’m staring at him, because I love him and we both know
I’ll say yes to whatever it is anyway.
 
“Keep still.”
 
He starts, I nod and do as I’m told, eyes fixed on the syringe point, how it
dips into the clear vial and pulls up, filling the chamber, I incline my head,
or at least I start to before he glares at me.
 
“If this get an air pocket in it…”
 
I glare at him, still clenching my fist per instruction about ten minutes ago.
 
“Hurry up.”
 
I’m nervous but I won’t tell him. It’s not one of those times where I assume he
already knows, because he probably doesn’t. That’s not what he’s good at. He
doesn’t ask if I’m scared, if it’s what I really want. Sherlock is beautiful
even when he is preparing to inject illegal stimulants directly into my blood
stream, even when I don’t know where they came from or what will happen
afterwards.
 
He taps my life line once, twice – his tongue tip sticking out from between his
lips just slightly. I focus on them, I don’t look at the needle point, t where
he holds the chamber and the plunger in his right hand. It won’t be long, just
a sharp scratch and I can kiss him again – who cares if I’m here in some
derelict slum covered in filth, if either of us have showered for three days.
That’s why we ran away. Why we couldn’t let them tear us apart.
 
Sherlock and I had graduated sixth form that June, he had already turned
eighteen and I had another month to wait. We hadn’t slept in the same bed for
two months and I hadn’t seen him at all for one and a half. I suppose Mycroft
had hoped that would be the end of it – some teenage romance stopped in its
tracks, both would pine for a while and then move on. I thought that for a
while – that Sherlock would mourn my loss for a week, then he’d find something
suitably delicious to distract himself with and II would be a memory, rarely
visited, hidden away somewhere.
 
Sherlock never told me exactly what it was that Mycroft had said to him, the
reasons he had laid out for transferring him to another school, one where he
could live at home during term time. At that point neither of us had the power
to disagree or at least to do anything about it.
 
We both had places at good universities – he would be the graduate chemist and
I would be studying higher mathematic and accounting (much to his disgust
‘dull’).
 
Except – except running away was easier. Easier than being apart – than him
holding up the family name at Oxford and me being locked away in some hole near
Euston. We didn’t even make a conscious decision, no money, nothing and yet, by
the time we’d found somewhere to stay that first night I already had a hold of
two stole credit cards and a half decent bed for us to sleep in.
 
I’d always been an efficient pick pocket – though he’d never admit that I
taught him a thing or two.
 
This must be so difficult to follow – though perhaps that’s for the best. I
hate to think what outside eyes would think of this if they found it. I sound
half insane – some infatuated drug addled teenager rather than a half recovered
addict – still codependant after a decade. I’m not sure which is worse.
 
“Do you trust me?”
 
He asks and I nod, of course I do – yet, I appreciate the fact that he’s
concerned enough to even enquire. That’s his way of saying ‘I love you’. He’ll
whisper it in the night sometimes, but its times like these when he really says
it. ‘Thank you for following me, for being mine.’ I am his, I know that – its
undeniable as the slender metal point breaks skin and feel a kind of,
tightening –a wave of fear and then –
 
A slow burning fire. The distant dance of a super nova. Its love – no, it
brings my love into perspective. How could I have lived without this before –
without the clarity and contentment? The racing heart, the music – the first
violin playing pianissimo, quivering vibrations on the strings, dancing
Sleeping Beauty to the beat of the double bass in my chest. I gasp and fall
back, dully ware of the rubber tubing being loosed and set aside.
 
There are so many things I could say, that I think I should say – but I smile
and pout, lick my lips slowly just to hear his breath hitch. I feel powerful, I
can hear a rocket, a fucking speeding train but haven’t got a clue where it’s
coming from. He looks down at me – licking his lips and I know, I know he’s
turned on because he did this to me – or at least, that’s how he sees it. He’s
torn between having me right there and then – and sitting back, administering
his own dose…And so he does. Methodical, practised, although he can’t have done
it more than once or twice.
 
“Found this for us, baby.”
He breathes right over my ear once he’s disposed of the single needle, one for
us both, shared. His blood, his and mine. I swallow, my eyes roll and I just
want to touch, to be touched all over. Sherlock leans closer, his hot lips
parted, teasing just above mine, tongue pressing out – lapping into me and I
meet him.
 
“Fuck.”
 
I gasp and buck my hips immediately, groaning like some kind of animal, hardly
even touched.
 
“Oh fuck…”
 
I hiss again, my cock half full though the arousal is more heightened than I’ve
ever felt it before – even when we cut lines with MDMA or experimented with
pills. They were fun, they were a party but it isn’t this – this fucking
heaven. I’m writhing about on the filthy, reeking, forgotten mattress, fucking
up into nothing at all because now we aren’t even kissing – now he’s just
breathing heavy, body heaving, eyes fixed on mine.
 
“Let’s fuck – let’s just fuck and do cocaine for the rest of our lives.”
 
I whine my agreement and struggle to pull his body down so at least I have
something to grind myself into.
 
“I love you…”
 
My voice is broken, wrecked it must be.
 
“I love you, too. Buzz. So much – do you understand? Do you?”
 
He’s adamant and I’m terrified because it’s the first time I’ve heard those
words fall from his lips so blatantly. In that moment and even when I think
about it now – I know why I’m an addict, why I always will be – and why I can’t
regret it.
***** Blow *****
Chapter Summary
     All mistakes belong to me. Sorry about the wait. If you're also
     reading Changes - there will be an update, the fic has not been
     abandoned, my Johnlock is just a little stuck at the moment.
     Thank you for reading.
I think a lot about those first few weeks, where taking cocaine in its liquid
form was less of an addiction and more of a recreational habit. It wasn’t so
much about finding the next fix as it was enjoying the high we were riding. In
a way it reminds me of the first times we had sex, the experimentation,
cautious uncertainty. As if we were testing something out to see how far we
could take it, stretch the limits. Sex with Sherlock is probably one of the
only things in the universe that surpasses a cocaine high. He knew what I
liked, straight away – no questions. No remarks. He didn’t care what it was,
wasn’t disgusted or confused and in return I learnt his body, his needs. The
way his back arched when I called him gorgeous, brilliant, perfect. How he
would almost sob with pleasure at the sight of me lapping his come up from my
fingers, the floor – from anywhere and off anything. There were days when it
was sick, filthy and then others where it was sweet, delicate. Always intense.
I miss it. I really – I miss him. Fuck. I’m allowed moment’s like this now,
aren’t I? Because – because even when he left, when he was taken away – even
then I never got to say good bye. I get his obituary now, an image of his
bloodied face, cold dead eyes. I get to read stories of his fraudulence though
he wouldn’t care – he never did. Fuck everyone else. And what I really want to
know is, was he happy? Did he find something that made him whole again?
Something to take away the bite of pain, to steal him for a moment from the
torture that he suffered when that mind really got lost or stagnant. Was there
someone? I hope so. Sherlock Holmes was so worthy of love – so desperately
brilliant, kind – perhaps it was hidden away – the fierce loyalty, that smile.
Christ. I think I’m losing my mind.
 
“Like this?”
 
He asks quietly, his hands are shaking, he’s nervous and blushing. I feel dizzy
because his hands are one me, one playing fingers tips over a hard nipple and
the other squeezing right at the top of my thigh, leaving the pressure of a
promise.
 
“I don’t think there is a right way, it isn’t chemistry…”
 
Though in a way I suppose it is, even then it strikes me as a cliché analogy.
He gives my thigh a sharp swat and I close my mouth, letting him explore,
discover.
It’s only a few days since we first really did anything, coming in a sweaty
messy, falling together afterwards, tangled.
Now the curtains are drawn, its midday and he has me completely naked, spread
out across the bed, my teen body pale, too thin and sharp – but he loves it. I
can tell. His clothes have been discarded too, his skin almost glowing in the
warm light. He’s creeping slowly down the length of my body, trailing kisses
which leave spots of burning fire along the path they make towards my lower
stomach. When he reaches the skin there the muscles beneath quiver, every inch
of me turning to goose flesh. He loves it – this discovery of power, I can see
how willing his is to gorge himself on it, to push me, use me.
 
“Talk to me.”
 
I whisper, my cheeks red, looking down just in tiem to see him look owlishly
back at me, face half hidden by his curls, lips twitching up into a slight
smile.
Somehow his sexual confidence has multiplied by a hundred in the past few days
alone. I should be worried – but I’m excited.
 
“Victor!”
 
His voice is a picture of mock surprise, as if my lack of innocence is a shock
to him, as if he hasn’t seen the frankly disgusting amount of porn I have
stashed under my bed at school.
 
“Please?”
 
There’s a soft quiet plea to the word when it falls past my parted lips, kiss
swollen and wanting for more. This is what he wants, to hear me beg, to know
that he has me exactly where he wants me. People say that Sherlock Holmes is
manipulative, but that’s okay, I like it when he manipulates me.
 
“And what should I say?”
 
The words are a hum. Or at least are followed by one. I become distracted by
the fingers drifting through my dark pubic hard, teasing the base of my thick
cock. It’s laying heavy between my thighs, curving up to the left, leaving a
sticky wet patch on my navel when it bobs. My hands turn to fists in the fresh
bed linen, toes curling, arching up as if insisting with my body means he’ll
give me what I want.
 
“Anything. Everything.”
 
In any other situation he would probably scoff and insist that I offer
something more specific, but it’s enough for this, for him to understand how
worked up I am – when he hasn’t really touched me at all. I could blame my teen
hormones but I was much the same in my twenties – I always was, with him.
 
“I never thought I wanted to engage with another human on this level…”
 
He starts, not how most people would of but that’s the point isn’t it? This is
my Sherlock, not anyone else.
 
“But you – The way you tremble. I doubt I’ve ever seen anyone want for
something so badly. I think it should be humiliating. How you whine and shiver,
all flushed and barely in control. It should be pathetic but – it’s gorgeous. I
want to feast on you…”
 
He pauses, kissing the top of my left thigh before pressing his cheek to my
hip, eyeing the length of my cock. I mewl like an animal, as if I’ve just been
kicked, wounded.
 
“Can I, Victor?”
 
I’m not sure if he’s really asking and either way, the question is moot because
his full lips have already puckered, laying a soft, decadent kiss to the gooey
head of my prick. I cry out, oblivious to the other people who might be in the
house. It isn’t like his hand – the pressure isn’t as firm but the heat is
magnificent. The way he opens wide and slides himself down over me, his curious
tongue teasing the small leaking slit, rubbing the base of the glands, using
suction to pull back my foreskin and really lave over the head.
He careful not to use his teeth, briefly testing how far he can take me before
it becomes uncomfortable. It’s almost funny to think about now when I consider
the way he would beg for me to fuck his skull not two months after but for
this, the first time – it was enough, just a hot saliva slick tongue, tasting,
enjoying – that was it – he was enjoying my body, my cock. And fuck – I was
enjoying him. His impossibly wicked mouth that could drip words of poison,
lavishing all of its attention on me, on my pleasure.
Of course it doesn’t last. Or that is to say – I don’t last. I’m fifteen. My
first boyfriend is giving me my first blow job and it’s all I can do not to
pass out.
I managed to tug him back by the hair and for a moment his face is comically
furious, confused right up until I gasp and spill seed all over myself. Anger
turns to awe and he’s blinking down at the gluey liquid, his expression
inquisitive when he moves his index finger through the small puddle of come and
places it on his tongue, sucking the tip for a good thirty seconds before he
leans in and kisses me on the lips.
 
“Next time you don’t have to pull me away.”
 
He pauses.
 
“It isn’t the foulest thing I’ve ever tasted.”
 
And I laugh, because this is Sherlock – the man that will put almost any
unidentified substance in his mouth in the pursuit of scientific accuracy. I
suppose I should be flattered and in a way I am. Just a little bit.
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