Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1755011.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Choose_Not_To_Use_Archive_Warnings, Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mycroft_Holmes, Molly_Hooper, Irene_Adler
  Additional Tags:
      Greaserlock, Bad_Boy!John, Greaser!John, American!John, First_Time,
      nerdy!lock
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-06-07 Updated: 2014-12-13 Chapters: 7/10 Words: 9953
****** You Better Shape Up ******
by stuckinarhyme
Summary
     For aconissa on tumblr who requested this prompt:
     john is the bad boy from down the road and sherlock is the quiet nerd
     from the rich family and john sets about ruining sherlock completely
     and starts sneaking into his room to fuck him at night and teaching
     sherlock how to give blow jobs behind the shed while his family have
     tea in the garden
     Enjoy!
Notes
     Hey! I am looking for a beta reader, and possibly a Britpicker
     (though the former is a greater need right now). If you're
     interested, send me a message.
See the end of the work for more notes
***** I Got Chills *****
Sherlock liked walking home. Sure, he could get on the bus and be home in ten
minutes, but the walk did him good. Without Mycroft’s incessant whining about
unpacking his own boxes and his parents’ worrying whispers about how the move
was affecting him, he could concentrate.
Outside of the school yard and past the track field, the road opened to a park,
which in turn gave way to an arroyo. Beyond that, the neighborhoods began, and
in a lazily-walked hour, Sherlock would begrudgingly enter the door to his new
home.
221 Baker Street, Riverside, CA. USA.
In the park, the grass bent under the weight of his sensible brown shoes. He
stayed off the path in case joggers or a cyclist needed to get by, but remained
in the shade under a row of imported oak and elm trees as much as he could.
Beyond the short, manicured grass and a few palm trees, he could see brown and
army green mountains jutting out of the ground like a hangnail. He could see
for miles in every direction; the American sky felt like an endless chasm of
blue above him, with lazily rolling puffs of white casting shadows on the city
and mountains in turn. If he ignored the blue sky and mountains, he could
pretend for a few minutes that the green beneath his feet was really the field
near his home in England. Uncut, covered in beetles and rabbits, he had grown
up as Redbeard the Pirate for many long hours in that field.
He’d known that the great nightmare of America was coming before his parents
did. They made comments about how much sun California must get, how bad the
traffic would be, those ridiculous Americans driving on the right side of the
road. But they kept looking at travel books and circling “fun things for the
kids.” His mother would take mysterious calls upstairs, away from the fighting
brothers and their worrying father. She would come back downstairs with a
cautious grin on her face, as if she had succeeded at something she couldn’t
exactly put her finger on.
Sherlock had known before his parents made the decision because Mycroft figured
it out and spoiled the surprise. It was as bad as Christmas.
“She got the job,” he said one day while they built a city with Legos.
“What?” Sherlock asked.
Mycroft rolled his eyes and spoke with painful enunciation. “Mother got the job
a university--that’s a school for smart people--in California. We’re leaving
for America soon.”
That conversation, and many others, repeated through his head a few times in
the 20 degree weather.
70 degrees Fahrenheit, he reminded himself. You aren’t in England anymore, so
do the conversion.
He’d had many more confrontations with Mycroft over the matter, as well as his
parents (one ending in a particularly bad and useless argument about where
Sherlock would find people willing to be in his experiments). And then there
was the farewell party that no one attended, since all of his friends were at
Victor Trevors’ ill-timed birthday party. Trevor’s mum made him send a sorry
note when she found out about what happened, but it didn’t matter. What was
done was done.
Sherlock stepped on a twig and it brought him back to the park. He was already
at the edge of the grass and nearly at the arroyo. He slowed his step to savor
the rest of his walk home.
He made it to the arroyo. The Spanish word slipped off his tongue easily, but
it felt strange to use it so far away from Spain. It was a stupid thought, with
Mexico less than 220 kilometers away.
140 miles, he amended silently.
The arroyo, like much of the desert, had one bland color. The water gathered
here in the monsoon season like a wide reservoir road, but that time was long
behind them now, with autumn reaching an unseemingly warm end (20--no, 70
degrees). Above him, cars rumbled across a few overpasses. Sherlock kicked a
rock and wondered if he could figure out the trajectory of where it would go
based on the angle of his foot to the shape of the rock--
He heard another engine rumbling, but much closer than those on the overpass.
Sherlock turned around to see a shiny red Pontiac agitating the gravel down the
arroyo at what looked like 80 kilometers an hour (50 miles an hour). Sherlock
climbed up the angled concrete sides and out of the way of the car. As it
passed him, Sherlock saw black leather on the driver, and a flash of blond
hair.
The car screeched to a halt just as it passed him, and Sherlock groaned. He
didn’t want to deal with teasing and bullying out here, too. But there was
nowhere for him to run.
The purring motor turned off, and a shining red door opened. The driver stood--
not as tall as Sherlock would have guessed, but he had an attitude to make up
for it. Faded and ripped jeans, red high-tops, and the telltale leather jacket
that spoke of recklessness and inevitable daddy issues.
The guy approached him, hair slicked back into a pompadour and a cocky grin on
his face. An unlit cigarette hung out of his mouth.
“What’s buzzin, cuzzin?” the guy asked from around the cigarette. Sherlock took
another step back.
“Excuse me?” he asked.
The guy took out the cigarette and put it behind his ear and spoke louder. “I
said, what’s up, Sherlock?”
Sherlock looked at the approaching kid a little closer. On a second, more
intense, glance, he thought he recognized him. A lot of greasers wore that hair
and drove cars like that… but not many had filled his guilty fantasies like
Johnny Watson.
“Watson?” he asked, still taking a step back. The guy raised his eyebrows and
smirked.
“You keep climbin’ that arroyo, you’re gonna get trapped.” He nodded his head
to the top of the concrete wall, where a high gate blocked any exits or
entrances. “Can’t get out up there.”
Sherlock didn’t follow his gaze, but relaxed enough to take a step forward
rather than back.
“Good boy,” Watson said with a wink. “Want a ride home?”
“No, I’m fine,” Sherlock said. He mirrored Watson’s stance: one foot slightly
in front of the other, but avoided putting his hand quite so near his crotch,
as Watson did.
The blond must have noticed, because he hooked a hand in his belt loops,
perfectly framing his crotch with short but strong hands. “Cool it, pretty boy.
I’m not here to hurt you--well, not unless you like it that way.” He wiggled
his eyebrows. “You moved in down the street from me, right? On Baker Street.
I’m Johnny Watson, but you can call me John.” He held out a hand and winked
again.
Sherlock knew better than to refuse a handshake--or so his parents had taught
him--but he still hesitated before locking palms with John. When he did,
something intangible looked satisfied in the blond’s eyes. Sherlock glanced at
his neck to see a flash of blue and green. A tattoo? He’d seemed so wholesome
and appropriate at the Holmes house.
“I remember you,” he said at length, dragging his eyes from Watson’s neck. “You
took my dad to get us all lunch while we unpacked over the weekend.”
John removed his hand from Sherlock’s and put it in his back pocket. The sun
shone into his eyes but he didn’t seem to notice. “And here I thought you’d
forgotten about me.”
“Impossible,” Sherlock said automatically. He cringed and cursed himself.
To his surprise, John just grinned. His eyes worked their way up and down
Sherlock, but he didn’t seem to care if Sherlock saw him do it. “Oh really? And
why’s that?”
Because you’re the first person who spoke to us, he wanted to say. Or Your car
is the only one I’ve seen with white lightning bolts on the side. He could have
gone with any number of believable or rational responses. Instead, his mouth
decided to go with the truth.
“You’re easier on the eyes than other boys.”
John squinted at him for a second, and Sherlock got ready to run because he
(once again) said the wrong thing. He heard Mycroft’s tired voice in his head,
saying, And this is why we don’t have nice things, Sherlock. A small huff
escaped John, and Sherlock braced himself.
He made a mental note to stay away from any man he thought attractive for the
rest of his miserable life.
“Is that so?” John asked. If Sherlock didn’t know better, he’d say that the
blond actually looked pleased. But that couldn’t be right. He was probably just
in shock and would never speak to him again.
Instead, he said the most impossible thing Sherlock had ever heard in his life.
“Plenty of time for that later, pretty boy. For now, let’s go for a ride. Get
in the car.” He turned around and made his way back to the car.
“Wh-what?” Sherlock sputtered.
John turned around and rested his hip against the car. “I said, get in the car,
Brits. You need to get an eyeful of the city.” He took out a lighter and
removed the cigarette from behind his ear. Sherlock watched, entranced, as the
cigarette got prime real estate between John’s pale lips. “Don’t worry, babe,
I’ll be gentle.”
Watson sucked in the flame on one end, and smoke billowed out behind him in the
wind. Sherlock watched it and glanced back at the blond, dumbfounded. When a
response finally came to mind, he didn’t trust himself to say it (“You don’t
have to be”), so instead he silently glided to the passenger side of Watson’s
hot rod and opened the door. He turned to John and raised his eyebrows.
“Shall we?”
John was already grinning rakishly. “Oh honey, we most definitely shall.”
***** No Beauty School Dropout *****
Chapter Summary
     John takes Sherlock out for something sweet.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
It made Sherlock nervous to be so near (but not actually on) a proper road, so
he felt a rush of relief when John screeched onto a back road and eventually
onto a main street. Without a top on the car, the wind screeched in his ears
and made it hard to hear anything that John said. Watson didn’t seem to mind;
the man was an endless litany of tour guide information. Sherlock had to lean
in really close to him to hear anything. He could smell John’s cigarette breath
and spicy cologne.
He learned a surprising amount about Riverside from this monologue. John was
clearly pretty fond of it, and didn’t seem at all disturbed that it was a part
of the cancerous mass called the United States. After a few minutes screaming
across the highway which left Sherlock white-knuckled and breathing heavily,
they finally pulled into a parking space at an outdoor mini-mall. John took the
key from the ignition but didn’t get out immediately.
“Too much for you, Brits?” he asked, looking at Sherlock’s dazed expression and
frizzled hair.
“What? Oh. No, it’s fine,” Sherlock said. He collected himself with a shake of
the head and patted his hair. “A bit turned around though. Where are we?”
“At the best part of the tour,” John grinned and got out of the car. Sherlock
followed suit. They walked into the main square, where a bookstore, a fabric
shop, and a Subway gathered. Sherlock squinted into the sun and put a hand
above his eyes.
“Are we buying fabric?”
“You need less clothes, not more,” John said with a huff and put an arm around
Sherlock’s shoulders. “This way, and if you say you don’t want any, I’ll know
you’re lying.” He turned Sherlock to a corner he hadn’t seen, where he could
see a cleverly hidden malt shop.
The truth was, Sherlock loved any kind of ice cream. It rarely made an
appearance in the Holmes household, but he would sneak the treat whenever he
got the chance. Mycroft liked to tell him it would make him fat.
A bell rang to signal their entrance. This place looked like it came straight
from the 50s: black-and-white checkered floors, red-and-white tablecloth, Route
66 signs, and what Sherlock was pretty sure looked like a shrine to Marilyn
Monroe at the far end. “Stay” by Maurice Williams and The Zodiacs played softly
on an honest-to-goodness jukebox.
Stay, just a little bit longer
Please please please please please,
Tell me that you’re going to
“Come on,” John said. He grabbed Sherlock’s elbow and led him to a table toward
the back, since all the other guests were at the bar. They sat down. Sherlock
felt a little winded, but it couldn’t be from the walk, or even the drive over.
John let go of his elbow when he sat down, and he could breathe properly again.
Ah.
They picked up menus sitting on the table and started perusing the different
flavors of malts, and Sherlock wondered if American burgers and fries would
live up to the hype.
“So… how do you wanna taste?” John asked without looking up. Sherlock nearly
dropped the menu.
“What?” he sputtered. John glanced at him innocently, but somehow managed to
look like a wolf licking his chops.
John leaned forward and spoke so quietly that Sherlock had to lean forward too.
“How do you want to taste, Sherlock?” His eyes flitted between Sherlock’s eyes
to his lips and back again. “Choose wisely, because I--” He broke off,
abruptly, because a waitress was walking within earshot.
“Hey guys,” she said with a shy smile. “I’m Molly, and I’ll be your server
today. Do you know what you want to drink?”
John closed his menu and smiled at the girl. Sherlock was still staring at
John’s lips, wondering if he’d ever hear the end of that sentence. Unbidden,
the idea of John tasting his mouth flooded his mind. John moaning his approval
at the taste, John tasting more than just his lips, Sherlock testing what
John’s tattoo might taste like covered in sweat…
“And for you?” the waitress asked loudly. Sherlock blinked and turned to the
girl. Absently, he noticed that she had a pretty smile (even if her lips were a
bit small), and she was blushing. It looked like maybe she’d asked the question
once or twice already.
“Sorry,” he said in a rush. “A butterscotch malt, a burger, and some fries
please.”
“Oh, good choice! Butterscotch is my favorite,” she said, and seemed to wait
for an answer. When she didn’t get one, she looked embarrassed. “Yeah. Okay.
Anyway. So butterscotch, burger, and fries for you, and coffee malt, burger,
and fries for you.” She dashed off, her long hair swooping behind her.
“You should be nice, Sherlock,” John said gently. “I think she likes you.”
Sherlock glanced her way. “Hard to tell, I’m sure,” he said.
John rolled his eyes. “She practically drooled over your accent, Brits. Looks
like there’s gonna be competition for your affections.”
Hardly, Sherlock thought, but had the good grace (for once) to keep it to
himself. John unzipped his leather jacket and shrugged out of it. Underneath,
he wore a tight white t-shirt. Sherlock could finally see more the tattoo on
his neck. He pointed at it.
“British army captain stars?” he asked. John’s eyebrows knitted together, and
then he grinned and pulled at the neck to reveal just a little more of the
larger piece that clearly went much further down.
“Yep. My gramps was a captain in the British army. I’m going to join the
military too, as soon as I’m done with school.”
“How long will that be?” Sherlock asked with a sudden clenching of anxiety in
his stomach. He shouldn’t care how long until John graduated from high school,
but if he only had a few months with Watson…
“Oh, it’ll be at least ten years. Gotta get through med school.” John covered
up the tattoo again and looked a little bashful, as if dreams of becoming a
doctor were something to be embarrassed about. Sherlock nodded.
“Fascinating,” he said.
“What is?”
“You.”
John’s jaw dropped for a second, but then he started to laugh. “Sherlock, it’s
you who’s interesting. I saw what you did with Carl’s shoes last week. Now that
was impressive.”
Carl Powers lost his nice new shoes at school the week prior. Not only were
they shockingly expensive, they were a gift from his father who was often away.
Shy little Carl didn’t normally make a fuss from what Sherlock could tell, but
he threw a fit when the shoes disappeared after gym. While the class (and
anyone else playing ball in the gym) gathered to watch Powers explode, Sherlock
broke into Jim’s locker and brought them back to him.
“It was obvious,” he said. “Jimmy had been eyeing them all morning, and he was
the only one who didn’t dress back into his school clothes right away, so he
wanted to be sure Carl left before he stuffed them into his backpack and took
them home.”
Something like awe--or anticipation--filled John’s face. He gave a little half-
grin and cocked his head to the side. “What did I say? Amazing.”
Sherlock shrugged and played with the tablecloth. “I just notice things.”
Not as much as Mycroft, he reminded himself. You’d bereallyimpressed with him.
“No I wouldn’t,” John said. Sherlock snapped to look back up at him, realizing
he’d said that out loud. “Mycroft’s stuffy and way too protective of you.” That
last bit didn’t make any sense to Sherlock, but he didn’t say anything. John
winked at him a little, gaining back the confident air he’d had at the arroyo.
“I, on the other hand, want to break you apart and put you back together
again.”
Molly showed up again--damn her timing!--and gave them their malts. She said
the burgers would be out in a second. John had the good grace to thank her, but
Sherlock was still thinking about how break you apart could sound so
frightening and enticing at the same time.
“What do you mean by that?” he asked when she left. It took all his courage to
let the words out.
“I could tell you,” John said slowly. He put the straw to his malt in his mouth
and sucked up the coffee-flavored concoction, his cheeks hollowing out with the
effort. He didn’t take his eyes off of Sherlock. When he’d had his fill, he
swallowed and licked some of the malt that gathering at his lip. He smirked.
“Or I could show you.”
“Sh--show me?” Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was asking for clarification or
saying that that’s what he wanted. His head spun. He thought of that smirk, the
taste of coffee and cigarettes and butterscotch together, of sweat on a tattoo
and hollowed-out cheeks… He swallowed, just as their food appeared.
“Show me,” he said again, and this time he meant it.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments take away my psychosomatic limp!
***** Those Summer Nights *****
Chapter Summary
     John gets coy, and Sherlock gets a surprise after finishing his
     homework.
Chapter Notes
     Wow, thanks for all the support guys! You're the umbrella to my
     Mycroft, the riding crop to my consulting detective, the... well, you
     get the picture.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
John didn’t respond to the “show me” comment, because their burgers and fries
showed up just then, and then he seemed to be wholly caught up in attacking the
food. Sherlock took an experimental bite at the burger. It was not unlike the
beef he’d had in England. The chips came with ketchup instead of vinegar,
though, for which he felt a shocking amount of bitterness. He remembered one of
his schoolboy friends saying that Americans didn’t even carry malt vinegar for
chips, so he didn’t think it would be worth it to ask about it, but the ketchup
just didn’t satisfy him.
“Mm?” John asked from around a mouth of food. He raised his eyebrows and
pointed at the burger.
“It’s great,” Sherlock said and gave a smile that Mycroft often called his
‘creepy lizard grin.’ Or, on particularly kind days, the ‘posed corpse.’ John
watched him for an extra second, as if he wanted to ask about the fake smile,
but decided against it with a shrug.
Molly walked by with a tub of silverware and some napkins. She sat within
earshot and began wrapping up knives and forks into white paper napkins. She
glanced at Sherlock and blushed, but ignored John when he smiled at her.
Sherlock noticed the flirtation for what it was. A frown tugged at the edge of
his mouth. John ignored it, swallowed a fry smothered in ketchup and lowered
his voice so she couldn’t hear. “So, do you have a girlfriend back in England?”
“Girlfriend?” Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “No, not really my area.”
John grinned. “So, boyfriend then?”
Sherlock just stared at John. Did he really need to say it out loud?
John put his hands up in surrender. “Which is fine, by the way.”
Sherlock’s eyebrows knit together. “I know it’s fine.” This was America, after
all. Land of the free, home of the gay.
“So, boyfriend then?” John repeated. His face was carefully blank, like he
didn’t care one way or the other, but Sherlock could see his eyes shift from
Sherlock to his food uncomfortably.
“I’ve always been too busy with school to think much about dating,” he said. It
didn’t seem to be the answer John was looking for, since he sat back and nodded
but wouldn’t look at Sherlock directly.
“Right.”
“The answer is no, John,” Sherlock said. He hoped it would clarify whatever
John was actually asking. “I don’t have a boyfriend, in England or elsewhere.”
John played with his food instead of looking at Sherlock, but he seemed
pleased. “That’s… good. Yeah, that’s all fine.”
They couldn’t speak much more without Molly overhearing them, so they packed up
to leave. At the counter, John paid for Sherlock’s meal.
“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have his own money.
John waved him away.
“You’re new in town, and it’s our first--you’re my guest,” John amended at the
last second. That was the second sentence Sherlock dearly wanted to hear the
ending of, but he didn’t know how to ask. They left the malt shop with John’s
arms around his shoulders again. Sherlock made sure the rhythm of their feet
matched up. He turned to John’s, and their faces were surprisingly close. From
here, Sherlock could see the flaring of John’s nostrils, the clearness of his
skin, and the way his mouth opened just a little when he didn’t have anything
to say but wished he did.
“What about you?” Sherlock asked.
“Hm?”
“Got any girlfriends?”
John let go of his shoulders when they got to his car and went around to the
driver’s side. “One on three continents,” he said with exaggerated bravado.
Sherlock climbed into the passenger seat and rolled his eyes.
“Must be hard on her, being so many places at once,” Sherlock said. “Or did you
just scatter her remains?”
The engine revved, and John let out a laugh. “Clever, Brits. Very clever.”
They chatted a bit more on the drive back, and Sherlock was surprised to find
that he was, in point of fact, enjoying himself. John didn’t seem to think that
he knew too much, or noticed weird things. He started asking Sherlock to guess
what he could about people on the street every time they came to a stoplight.
He was having so much fun, he forgot to say that he never guessed.
John only used one hand to drive, and let his other hang out on the armrest
between them. Experimentally, Sherlock let his arm end up there too. Not quite
touching, but close enough that he could feel John’s body heat. John shifted so
that after a particularly harrowing turn, their arms touched, fingers nearly
intertwined. He found Sherlock’s palm and began tracing a small circle on it,
slowly. Sherlock didn’t move, afraid that it wasn’t really happening. They
stopped at a light.
“So… show you, huh?” John asked. His expression was a blend of curiosity and
heat. Sherlock, in a moment of courage he didn’t usually have, trailed his
fingers along John’s wrist.
“If you’d like,” Sherlock replied. Even if nothing came of this, he would need
to spend some quality time alone in his room imagining those fingers circling
elsewhere on him, fisted in his shirt, clenching his hair…
John’s eyes flicked down to his jeans, and he grinned. He removed his hand from
Sherlock’s and turned into a familiar neighborhood, and soon after, a familiar
house on Baker Street.
Sherlock’s eyebrows knitted together. What happened to how do you want to
taste? and plenty of time for that later? Had he done something wrong?
“Gotta get you home by sundown or your dad’ll throttle me,” John said by way of
explanation. Sherlock examined his expression carefully. He was still smiling,
and didn’t show any microexpressions of deceit. His breathing was elevated,
though, and his pupils were dilated. Was he… nervous?
“Uh--well, thanks for the malt,” Sherlock said, avoiding John’s face. He held
out a hand awkwardly. John rolled his eyes and sighed in exasperation.
“Sherlock, I’m just dropping you off so you can get your homework done, not
dumping you. Lighten up, Brits.”
Thirty-five calculus problems. The first half of a Language Arts essay on why
William Golding wrote “Lord of the Flies” about children rather than adults
(finished the second half last night but didn’t want to finish it. Violin
practice. Five “hard” physics problems. Two hours to complete at most, if I get
lost in the violin.
“I suppose,” he said. “Can we--that is, I should pay you back for the malt
sometime.”
A dangerous glint gathered in John’s eyes. “Oh, I’m sure you will, Brits. Get
that homework done.”
~~~
His parents asked him why he’d been so late coming home, but fawned over how
nice that Johnny Watson boy was, and how good it was that they should become
such fast friends. Did you know, Sherlock, that his grandfather was a captain
in the British army?
Sherlock excused himself from dinner, having already eaten, to finish his
schoolwork.
Up in his room, with the door closed, he wondered why John had just left him at
his front door, after all that flirting? What did he do wrong?
The sun set, and Sherlock was playing some old Vivaldi pieces he hadn’t gone
through since before the move. After Mycroft shouted at him to quiet down so he
could read in peace, put the mute on his violin and kept at it until he could
feel his fingers growing sore.
He was halfway through “Spring,” when he heard a knock. He set down the violin
and opened the door, expecting to find a (still) irate Mycroft. But the hallway
was empty. He closed the door again, frowning.
He heard the knock again. Instead of coming from the door, it was… the window?
He turned around to see a tuft of greased-up hair and a cheeky grin. He went to
the window and opened it a crack.
“What the hell are you doing here?” he whispered, glancing at the darkened
street. John couldn’t wipe the grin off his face.
“I didn’t know you played violin,” he said. He reached a hand under the
windowsill and lifted it up a bit more. “Can I come in?”
“What are you, a vampire? Get in here,” Sherlock snapped, glancing back at the
door in case his parents heard. Without his leather jacket, Sherlock could see
the clear definition of biceps, triceps, and forearms as John hoisted himself
up. Sherlock hurried to his door to lock it before he realized what that would
look like to John. He gestured at it nervously.
“I just don’t want them to think… or to walk in on--” he didn’t know how to end
that.
“No, that’s a smart idea, Sherlock,” John replied, shutting the window and
pulling the blinds closed. “And to answer your earlier question, I’m here
because I’ve been thinking about something all day and just couldn’t get it out
of my head. Figured I should just come over here and get it off my chest.”
Mixing metaphors, Sherlock thought. In your head, on your chest… are you
nervous, John? He couldn’t help but hope the answer was yes. At least if that
was the case, he wouldn’t be the only one shaking. Alone in his room with John
Watson. God, he was even in his pyjamas, silk ties hanging down to the floor.
At least he had pants on this time…
“What’s on your mind?” he asked, trying to sound casual. He set the violin back
in its case, along with the bow, and closed the latches.
“Do you want to make out?” John asked. Sherlock froze.
“P--pardon me?” he asked. Watson looked at him and his tongue touched his top
lip--in concentration more than teasing, he was pretty sure.
“I want to make out with you. Do you want to…?” John watched him carefully. He
still had the look of the confident playboy from earlier that day; he stood
with his thumbs in those damn belt loops, and his shoulders squared toward him.
But he wasn’t leaning forward into Sherlock’s space. He was… waiting. For
permission.
For some reason, Sherlock hadn’t thought John would be that considerate. He
straightened and faced John.
“I thought I made it clear how I felt about that,” Sherlock said, hedging.
“I gotta hear you say it, Brits. Yes or no.”
Sherlock licked his chapped lips and took a deep breath. “I--yes. Very much.”
John took a step forward, grabbing hold of the silk ties on his PJs. He smiled,
almost to himself, and pulled on them, bringing Sherlock closer. They were
nearly chest-to-chest. John’s lips parted slightly, and his eyes smouldered.
Sherlock could hear--no, feel--John’s breath on him, smelling of cigarettes and
coffee. Everything around him seemed to blur except for John’s face, blazing in
extra-fine detail. But John didn’t move any closer. Sherlock’s breath hitched.
“How is that still unclea--”
John closed the small distance between them and pressed their lips together.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments go in the Mind Palace.
***** Look At Me, I'm Sandra Dee *****
Chapter Summary
     John and Sherlock made out some. Heavy petting ensues.
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John’s lips felt like fire cloaked in velvet; he held Sherlock close with hands
on his silk ties, but Sherlock wouldn’t have gone anywhere anyway. He trembled
at the feeling… so this is what kisses felt like. He’d always imagined it being
too wet, like letting Redbeard lick his face for too long. Instead, it was
surprisingly soft and gentle, while coaxing heat and moans and even some
aggression out of him. He gasped at the first touch of tongue, giving into
John, whose hand slid along his jawline, tilting his face down to make up for
their height difference, directing the kiss and controlling him.
But there was something else there, and he couldn’t quite place it.
John let his fingers lightly tickle the skin on Sherlock’s neck; it sent a
shiver through him. When Sherlock mirrored the motion on John, the blond
practically purred onto his swollen lips.
“Oh God, yes,” he whispered, not even aware he said it. Sherlock did it again
and felt its effects ripple through John to his toes. He felt callused
fingertips exploring his face, his jaw line, his neck. He, in turn,
experimented with different kissing techniques to watch for reactions. When he
flicked his tongue out to John’s lips, he liked the way that he could feel
John’s breath hitch. But when he nibbled on a bottom lip, he thought that John
would stop breathing entirely. The blond rolled his hips toward Sherlock’s, but
didn’t press them together until Sherlock made first contact. Then John moaned
and pushed back at him.
When he peeked his eyes open to look at John, his expression was a blend of
heat and curiosity. Absently, he let his fingertips trail along John’s wrist.
“Shit, Sherlock,” he breathed. Sherlock made a mental note to try that with a
tongue sometime. He stopped kissing John long enough to pull back and watch his
expression.
“Huh--why…?” John looked a bit dazed. He felt a welling of pride in his chest
that John was so affected.
“Is it still unclear whether I want to kiss you or not?” he asked with a smirk.
John huffed, his lips red and grinning. “Still kinda fuzzy.” He sat on
Sherlock’s bed and opened his legs so Sherlock could fit between them. “Make me
sure?” he said, as if asking for permission.
There it was again. Something--not wrong, but very different than he expected.
Sherlock searched John’s face for an answer, holding his chin with a firm hand
to keep John from squirming too much.
John glanced down at the hand and bit his lip. “Not gonna lie, Brits, that’s
hot.”
Oh really?
Raising an eyebrow, Sherlock tilted John’s head back to bare his neck. He
leaned down to kiss where his fingers explored just moments before. John
exhaled shakily. He let his teeth gently graze the sensitive skin, and suddenly
felt John’s fingers clenching his waist.
“You’re gonna ruin me,” John murmured.
“Hm?” Sherlock asked without taking his mouth from John’s neck, so the sound
vibrated through John, and he felt a moan growing in John’s throat in return.
John’s hands moved to Sherlock’s hips and pulled him forward, until Sherlock
finally got the hint. He leaned over John until he was practically on top of
him, one hand on either side of the greaser’s head. He moaned into the
surprising heat of John’s mouth, and the sound had an electric effect. John
took control of the kiss briefly, guiding and directing Sherlock. Sherlock
found himself panting, but still feeling like there wasn't enough air in the
room.
Gingerly, he let himself lie down on John, and felt a hardness there. Both him
and John. He rolled his hips forward, and John’s hands went to his sides,
thumbs digging into his hipbones.
Just as he was wondering what unfastening John’s trousers would do, they heard
a creak outside Sherlock’s door and a light knock. Their eyes widened and
Sherlock stood in a hurry, but didn’t face the door, instead opting to stare
down at the bewildered John.
“Shirley?” his mother’s voice asked. “Do you have Mycroft’s copy of Gray’s
Anatomy? He can’t find it.”
“It’s on the dining room table beneath his box of umbrellas,” Sherlock replied,
impressed at how calm--and bored--his voice sounded. He didn’t take his eyes
off John.
“Oh, of course,” she said, and they heard footsteps creak down the hall away
from his room. Sherlock waited for another summons. He listened intently until
he could hear the self-satisfied voice of his brother crying out in triumph. He
let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and smiled down at John,
whose carefully greased hair was a lot less tidy than before.
“Are you all right?” he asked, quieter now with the reminder of his family up
and about.
John stared at the ceiling and his stomach rose and fell once before answered.
“Yeah… Jesus Christ on a cracker, Sherlock…”
“Um… is that good?” Sherlock took half a step back. “There’s always more to
learn after the first time of cour--”
“Cool your shit, Brits,” John said, regaining his composure. He sat up and
raised an amused eyebrow, propped up on his elbows. “If you couldn’t tell that
was awesome, you’re an idiot.” His forehead wrinkled and then he held up a
finger. His eyes were suddenly wide. “Wait, did you just tell me that was your
first kiss?”
“No, of course not,” Sherlock said, blushing. John stood up and squinted at his
face suspiciously.
“It was, wasn’t it? Jesus, Sherlock, I’d give my right arm for my first kiss to
have been that good!”
“Sherlock?” came a voice from outside the door. His father. “Are you all
right?”
Damn, he’d missed the tell-tale creak in the floorboards. Or his father was
feeling particularly sneaky that night. Sherlock grimaced but responded with
his usual air of nonchalance and annoyance. “Yes, of course.”
“You sounded a bit… off,” he said. When he didn’t hear an answer, he coughed.
“Yes. Well, your mother and I are heading to bed. Goodnight.”
“Goodnight!” Sherlock replied, barely concealing his panic. When they heard his
parents’ door close, John dug his hands deep into his pockets.
“I think I should go for now,” John said. He nodded his head at the hallway.
“Just in case they decide to tuck you into bed or something at the last
second.” Sherlock rolled his eyes and groaned, because they would do exactly
that. Sickly sweet helicopter parents: his cross to bear. He nodded in
agreement. John shifted and straightened his clothes before heading to the
window. He threw back the curtains.
“See you at school?” Sherlock asked. He simply imagined the hope creeping into
his own voice. Obviously.
“Same bat time, same bat channel,” John assured him. He started opening the
window, and then stopped. He pulled Sherlock by the shirt collar and captured
the surprised Sherlock’s lips in another kiss.
Warm lips, soft and insistent on his own. When John finally took a step back,
something felt... better. Like they had ended things properly.
“Sweet dreams, Sherlock,” he said before jumping out of the window and into the
dark Baker Street neighborhood.
“‘Sweet’ is one word for it,” Sherlock said flatly to the emptiness in his
room. He doubted he’d sleep at all, with so much pent-up--feelings--to deal
with.
Sherlock closed the blinds, double-checked the lock on his door, and slipped
out of his pyjamas. His hands found a cock already-hard. He thought of John’s
lips, the goosebumps that appeared whenever he licked at John’s neck. What
would have happened if John hadn’t had to leave?
Sherlock purred in contentment and began to imagine.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments are my 7% solution.
***** Peachy Keen, Jellybean *****
Chapter Summary
     Back at school, John and Sherlock have an encounter.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the delay! But hopefully an update will make up for it.
     Also, this is from John's POV, because Sherlock didn't want to share.
John sat in class, staring at the Moran wuz here carved into his desk and
ignoring the shuffle of papers and the squeak of pencils. He looked at the
question--something about an old man in a boat that Hemingway thought was deep-
-but he couldn’t get his head around it. Instead, his mind wandered away from
his test, strolled down the street, and ended up back to Sherlock’s room.
He remembered the gentle velvet of Sherlock’s lips, peeling back to reveal
teeth that nibbled on him like he was candy. He remembered Sherlock’s voice,
already deep and rumbly, asking Is it still unclear? The excitement of possibly
getting caught, of being ready to jump out the window at a moment’s notice…
John could smell burnt chemicals and fine shampoo on him--he felt, he smelled,
he heard, he--
He ran away.
Not because he was scared--not really. Okay, yes. His heart started beating too
fast, but not for the usual “get my dick squeezed” reasons. The way Sherlock
held his chin while he searched John’s face for an answer. The way he felt like
he should (wanted to) ask for permission for things. Like kissing, or touching.
And letting Sherlock actually make the choice.
He could imagine Sherlock narrowing his eyes and saying, “No,” to his request.
And for some reason, that made his stomach fill with butterflies and his shorts
feel tight.
Damn it. Concentrate, Watson, he told himself.
We have a cable that weighs 2 lbs/ft attached to a bucket filled with coal that
weighs 800 lbs. The bucket is initially at the bottom of a 500 ft mine shaft.
Answer each of the following about this…
Instead, he kept going back to Sherlock. The way his skin smelled, how his
forehead wrinkled, and his mouth stayed open when he was caught off-guard in
awe of something… he’d fallen asleep with pleasant memories to keep him warm.
And a very long list of things he’d like to turn into memories with Sherlock.
The bell for lunch rang before he knew it. He wondered if he’d see Sherlock
going back to classes after lunch, but doubted it. He’d never seen the new kid
hanging out almost anywhere around this time. Instead, he got up and met his
friends near the back for a sneaked cigarette and a pizza.
Mike and Phillip rushed off to grab lunch for them, since John brought the
cigarettes from his house. They would share one, talk about girls, and then
inevitably sit through another rousing session of Phillips talking about Ms.
Donovan.
“She’s just so tall!” he would say, and they’d cringe. “I mean, have you seen
her legs?”
“Not a chance in hell,” Stamford would say.
Until the day it happened.
Anderson might have been lying. But John noticed his grades in English were
getting better. And Ms. Donovan stopped bugging Anderson about wearing ratty
jeans and V-neck shirts.
“Anderson, you’re gonna get caught,” John said as they approached with his
pizza. “She’s a teacher for Chrissakes!” Anderson punched him in the shoulder
and shushed him, but grinned conspiratorially.
“I’ll only get caught if loud mouths like you don’t shut the hell up,” he said.
He took out a comb and started to fix his hair, but stopped. “Stamford, what
the fuck are you doing? This way, asshat.”
Mike was looking down an empty hallway. Almost empty. John’s stomach flipped.
Sherlock sat on the floor with a textbook in his hands, ignoring them. “Hey,
isn’t that the little asshole who got Jimmy expelled?”
Before he could say anything, Anderson nodded. “Yeah, the English kid.” He
folded his arms and scowled. “His teeth are pretty straight for a Brit. Maybe
we should make them match the rest of his country for when he goes back.”
“It’d be a public service,” Stamford said, already bouncing on his heels. They
both glanced at John for his input. Watson tried to still his heartbeat as he
glanced at his pizza and patted his cigarette pocket meaningfully.
“Jimmy did it to himself, guys. Carl was crazy for those damn shoes. Besides, I
just want to eat, smoke, and skip chemistry.” He told himself that he was the
only one who heard the panic in his voice, but Sherlock glanced up at the sound
of it. His eyes met John’s, and then glanced at the others. He seemed to
understand what was happening immediately, and started to pack up his things to
move.
“Nah, I’ve been cooped up all week since my old man grounded me,” Stamford
said, “I want to do something fun.”
John’s hand came out steady on Stamford’s shoulder and he shook his head. He
kept his face blank, his lips pressed into a thin line, before calling out,
“You don’t have to move, Holmes. Stamford here’s just pissed ‘cause his
girlfriend got expelled.”
Sherlock’s eyes never left his his, and he didn’t know what else he could say
with the guys here. Hey, thanks for giving me the best spank bank donation in
months, hope you’re free tonight because I wanna take you home and--
Mike turned on John and narrowed his eyes for a second before huffing. “Fuck
you, Watson! Jimmy was a good guy.” He leaned forward, but Sherlock could still
hear him. “He was gonna help me get through algebra, and now he can’t tutor
me!”
John shrugged and nodded to Sherlock. He hoped that the guilt he felt made it
to the kid telepathically. “Why don’t you ask the other brain if he’ll do it?”
John and Mike glanced at Sherlock, who slipped out of a defensive position and
dug his hands into his pockets. After a tense moment, Anderson raised his
eyebrows. “Who knows? If you’re not an asshole, maybe he’ll even say yes.”
Stamford looked at his friends with wide eyes before grimacing at Sherlock. He
didn’t know how to save face. “You’re not even in algebra,” he said after a
second.
Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “No, I’m not. I passed it last year.” John doubted
that. He probably skipped it, because the kid was way too smart for that. He
watched Stamford’s face for an extra second before he added, “I spend my
Tuesdays and Thursdays after school in the library. If you want some help, you
can join me there.”
“See? Every freak has a use,” Anderson said.
“Too bad we still don’t know what yours is,” Sherlock replied automatically.
Anderson sputtered, but John and Mike burst into laughter.
***** We Go Together *****
Chapter Summary
     John goes to see Sherlock in the library. Porny bits in the next
     chapter, I promise!
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John doubted that Mike would show up for tutoring so fast--he had to save some
face first. He might start sometime next week, but for today… today, he could
go and talk to Sherlock after school before heading home.
He entered the library and tensed as he walked through the sensors, always sure
that they were gonna go off. He saw a few round tables, where kids whispered to
each other as they studied. As he searched for Sherlock, a few anxious faces
turned toward him, among them that sophomore, Irene Something-or-Other who
couldn’t seem to decide who she should flirt with among John’s group. She
raised an eyebrow at him for a second, studying his expression. Then, with a
second eyebrow meeting the first, she gestured to the other side of the
library. John followed her gaze and saw that the bookcases hid a small table.
Between the shelves, he could see a familiar mop of curly brown hair.
He didn’t like that she knew who he was looking for.
As promised, the Brit had his nose stuck in a textbook, skipping pages every
few seconds. He heard John approach and glanced up, looked away, and did a
double take. He didn’t say anything as John sat across from him, but his
eyebrows wrinkled a little. John settled into his seat and leaned back, tugging
at the zipper to his jacket and watching Sherlock’s eyes follow it down. He
smirked a little and winked at Sherlock.
“Hey,” he said in greeting.
“Hello, John.”
God, that British accent might just kill him--the way his name slipped from
Sherlock’s lips like it was melted caramel…
He set his backpack on the table, and took out a notebook and a pencil to keep
his hands busy. “Studying?”
Sherlock started at the textbook as if noticing it for the first time, and then
wrinkled his nose. “Hardly. I’m searching for typos.” He closed it and twitched
his mouth into something like a smile. “Do you think Stamford will ever come
for tutoring?”
John shrugged and rolled his eyes, but kept his voice low. “Once he gets over
himself, maybe. If you care, I can get him to.” He played with the much-bitten
end of his pencil. “I know they were shits today, Sherlock. I’m not going to
apologize for them, but I am sorry that I butted in. I wasn’t trying to white
knight you or anything.”
Sherlock shrugged smoothly. “I’ve been bul--in that situation before, John. I’m
more than capable of defending myself.”
Oh really? John wondered, and hoped his face didn’t show too much anticipation
at the thought. Instead, he leaned forward with a creak of his jacket and
grinned.
“I just didn’t want your pretty face to get all broken and bruised.”
A blush took over Sherlock’s cheeks, and he picked at the edges of his
textbook. “Lucky me,” he said. He chewed over that response and then tried
again. “You wouldn’t have needed to interfere had things gotten violent. But
you wanted to--to make sure I wasn’t hurt--and that… was good. Unnecessary. But
good.” Sherlock’s eyes stayed calm, locked on John, but his hands betrayed his
nervousness by tearing off pieces of the textbook’s bright orange cover.
John shrugged and put a hand on Sherlock’s to calm his fiddling. Sherlock’s
long fingers tightened around his, then hung limply beneath his hand. He
probably didn’t know what to do. John resisted the urge to embarrass the Brit
and kiss his knuckles--but only barely.
They sat in silence, holding each other’s hands, for a few minutes. Sherlock
had soft fingers--strong, but so thin they felt brittle. And they were so cold.
John rubbed at them--he always ran a little hot, so he had some warmth to
spare. He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers and pursed his lips.
“So I take it you like to get rough every once in a while?” he asked, voice
barely above a whisper. Sherlock blushed again and tugged his fingers away from
John in shock.
At first, he thought that was Sherlock’s way of turning him down. But then he
heard footsteps and turned his head to see Irene walking around the corner. She
ignored them to pick up a copy of Frankenstein. She checked the first few
pages, clicked her tongue at the book, and then rounded the bookcase and left
them alone again.
When John brought his gaze back to Sherlock, he found that Sherlock’s eyes were
already boring into his. He kept glancing at John’s lips, and pressing his own
together. A hint if ever he was going to get one from shy-as-sin Sherlock. He
stood up and grabbed his backpack and then nodded his head at the new kid.
“Come on. I’m taking you home, Brits.”
Sherlock’s eyes filled with anticipation. “You’re sure?” he asked, but already
had his backpack in his hand.
John just nodded and left the library. Outside, he took a cigarette from his
pocket and tucked it behind his ear. They left the school grounds pretty much
in silence, save a few goodbyes at people who waved at John. No one would think
it was strange that they were together--he’d let it get around that they lived
near each other and that the kid was a brain. It would be enough for them to
figure Sherlock tutored him; John didn’t need it, but he let people think he
did.
During the day, clouds had gathered and threatened to spill some end-of-the-
season rain. But they cleared out, leaving the hot sun in their wake. John took
off his jacket and folded it over his shoulder. In the parking lot, John’s
beautiful red Pontiac nearly glowed. God, she was gorgeous--John had never felt
quite so proud of a thing he owned in all his life. And he was happy to see
that Sherlock gave it a once-over whenever he saw it.
They reached the passenger seat first. John dug for his keys in his pocket and
unlocked Sherlock’s side. He opened it and leaned on the door.
For a second, Sherlock didn’t seem to get it. When he did, his eyes widened and
he blushed down to his neck.
“Thank you,” he said, and hurried into the door John was holding open. As he
settled his bag at his feet, John glanced around the parking lot. As he
expected, it was deserted. Good.
He leaned down to Sherlock’s level in the car, and pressed his lips to
Sherlock’s. The Brit gasped in surprise, but then grabbed at John’s t-shirt to
pull him closer. The kiss started out chaste enough--a quick peck, really--but
it wasn’t long before Sherlock deepened it, his tongue pushing its way past
John’s lips…
John pulled back, holding himself steady on the convertible hood. He was not
dizzy from a kiss. Definitely not. For all Sherlock’s shyness, how did he learn
how to make out like that?
“I hope you don’t mind,” he said, perhaps more breathless than he intended, “if
I take you home the long way round.”
Sherlock just sat back, face flushed, looking uncharacteristically smug.
Chapter End Notes
     Comments are better than Sherlock's 7% solution... and they're just
     as addicting.
***** The Power You're Supplying *****
Chapter Summary
     Pretty much all smut. In fact, if there's anything in here that isn't
     smut, I apologize.
Chapter Notes
     Sorry for the long delay before posting! Grad school sorta takes up
     all my time so I had to chip away at it page by page.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
“It’s… rather military of you,” Sherlock said. John followed his gaze around
the sparse bedroom and shrugged. He took of his leather jacket, revealing a
bead of sweat pooling at the nape of his neck. He wore faded blue jeans with
another plain white shirt underneath. Sherlock wanted to kiss him, taste his
skin. Taste the sweat and just breathe in his scent.
John stepped forward, but kept his lips carefully out of reach when Sherlock
leaned into the expected kiss.
“I want to try something with you,” he said.
“Naturally,” Sherlock replied. “You’ve been thinking about it since the
library.” He refrained from a smug grin at John’s surprised face. John
recovered quickly, though, and grinned.
“All right, smarty pants,” he said. “Remember when I asked if you like it rough
once in a while?” He tucked his chin into the crook of Sherlock’s neck and
nibbled at the skin he found there.
A shiver ran through Sherlock and he angled his neck to give John better
access. In turn, he brought his mouth close to John’s ear. Without saying
anything, his breath ghosted on John’s hair.
“I remember,” Sherlock said, tentatively winding an arm around John’s waist to
pull him forward. He remembered being scared by the prospect of just anyone
being rough with him… and excited at the idea of John doing it. Remembering
last time, Sherlock kissed him, and lightly tugged at his lips with gentle
teeth. The greaser’s breathing came out in quick little huffs, and he pushed
against Sherlock with his hips.
John’s predatory grin made Sherlock’s heart quicken. He put his hands on
Sherlock’s waist and squeezed at his hipbones. “Unbuckle for me, Brits.”
Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He froze.
“Scared?” John asked. Sherlock reluctantly nodded.
“Is this okay?”
“Yes,” he said. It was a whisper, but it was confident.
Without a word, John kissed him while unbuckling his belt and undoing the
button of his khakis. John’s mouth opened and sent his tongue exploring.
Sherlock let him, almost without breathing, and waited for the liberating
release of pressure at his zip. John slipped his hands between Sherlock’s
trousers and his pants, and pushed his jeans down until Sherlock stepped out of
them. He tripped briefly over his shoes, but John held him steady.
“Do you do this a lot?” Sherlock asked, surprised and disturbed by his sudden
curiosity.
John’s eyes darted around Sherlock’s face for a moment. He looked amused,
rather than upset, at the question. “Three continents,” he reminded, and
winked. He cupped Sherlock’s tented pants and kissed him. Sherlock’s hips moved
forward of their own accord. John dipped his hand beneath the hem of his pants
and put a warm hand around him, earning a moan and a shaky hand on John’s
shoulder to keep Sherlock’s balance.
“I knew it,” John murmured into his mouth. “No one’s as confident as you are
without a big nut.”
Sherlock nearly choked. “John!” he said, but couldn’t tell if it was a
reprimand or a groan, because the hand began to rub slowly, sending fire all
the way to his toes.
“Oh, I’m gonna teach you all the moves,” John whispered. With strength Sherlock
hadn’t known he had, John directed him to the bed and laid him flat.
John climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. He unbuttoned Sherlock’s shirt
easily, as if he didn’t have the time to pretend to fumble. He helped Sherlock
out of it, and threw it into the pile his khakis and shoes had made. He took in
the sight of Sherlock on his bed like it was Christmas.
John began kissing and biting his way down his collarbone. John slipped his
hand into Sherlock’s boxers and wrapped a warm, callused hand around him. The
heat was astonishing, and it ran from John’s hand all the way to Sherlock’s
cheeks. His other hand moved to John’s hips and he pulled them closer together,
pressed his cock against John’s jeans. John hissed and bit his collarbone
again, like he would lose his grip if he didn’t.
They found a rhythm: John’s hand pumped and Sherlock’s hips rocked. Their
mouths met and parted in equal turn. Muttered gasps of more, yes, John and
their slowly synchronizing breaths filled the room. John kissed his lips, up
his jawline, down his collarbone, and back again. Sometimes he would murmur
something beautiful and dirty.
“Sherlock, fuck,” he’d whisper against Sherlock’s ear. Or, “Mm, yeah. Like
that,” at his neck. Sherlock could feel the rub of John’s shadow on his skin;
it burned and he groaned. He found a use for one of his hands and tugged at the
back of John’s neck. John kept pumping, but his breath hitched when Sherlock
spread his fingers through his hair and pulled.
“Yes,” he hissed, and began to work Sherlock faster. “You keep that up and I’m
never letting you go anywhere.”
Sherlock gasped, and moved his hips faster. “Likewise,” he managed. His voice
sounded deeper, raspier. John grinned. He pressed his jeans into Sherlock’s
leg.
“Should I--” Sherlock began, moving his leg to push back against John’s clothed
hard-on.
“You’ll get your chance,” John said. Sherlock pulled at his hair again, and
John gasped.
“Quick study I see,” he grinned before kissing Sherlock again. John groaned
into his mouth. Sherlock could barely breathe, barely keep his eyes open,
barely do anything but feel the hot, sliding heat of John’s hand on him and the
feel of John’s hair and his tongue and his breath--John was everywhere on him,
crushing and liberating together.
Sherlock felt a familiar heat coiled up in his stomach. For a second, his
rhythm against John’s hand stumbled, and a light gleamed in John’s eyes.
“John--” Sherlock groaned. He was surprised--he never felt this close so
quickly. It must be different when with someone else.
“Do it for me, babe,” John said. “I wanna see you.” He kept whispering into
Sherlock’s ear, licking at the lobe and shell of it. Sherlock was overwhelmed
by heat and pressure and movement and John--
“Oh my god,” Sherlock gasped, and arched into John’s embrace, and then gasped
again when John pinched Sherlock’s nipple with his teeth. He felt himself on
the edge, balanced over the cliff of orgasm, and stayed there as long as he
could. It was as if John was holding him there, and Sherlock was letting him.
“John--” he gasped once more, before everything exploded into light and heat.
He came with a long, low moan deep in the back of his throat. John guided him
through it, caught his cum in a sock that had appeared out of nowhere. He
encouraged Sherlock through all of it, pressing kisses against his temple and
wiping his sweaty hair out of his face.
Sherlock let out a long, slow breath that let out all the tension he’d held the
whole time--hell, maybe his whole life.
“God, John, that was incredible.” He wasn’t sure he’d said it until he felt
John’s grin against his lips.
“No, Sherlock, you were incredible. That was beautiful,” John said. He threw
the sock into a laundry bin and threw a fist in the air when it landed
perfectly on top of a pile of pants and tank tops.
They lay together for a while, while Sherlock came back to himself. Once he
could see straight and breathe properly, he realized he was surprised that they
weren't doing anything else yet. He’d thought for sure that John would want him
to return the favour. And even though Sherlock could still feel the erection
pressing at him from beneath John’s jeans, it didn’t seem as if John was in any
hurry to have that taken care of.
After a minute, Sherlock reached for him. “Do you want me to…?”
“My mom gets home in about ten minutes,” John said, and shook his head. “I want
to take my time with you, Brits. That just isn’t enough.”
“Are you sure?” Sherlock asked, his eyebrows threading together.
John laughed a little. “As much as I want you--” he kissed Sherlock with an
intensity that proved his desire, “--I really don’t want my mom to walk in on
me with a dude. We’ll call it an IOU, okay?”
Sherlock nodded, slowly. “Okay.”
Chapter End Notes
     Reviews keep me Sherlocked!
End Notes
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