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Sherlock is an idiot. That’s the only explanation, really.
He’s sitting on his bed, waiting, just like every other night.
Every night, John Watson climbs the tree in front of Sherlock’s bedroom and knocks on the windowpane.
Every night, Sherlock gets up from his bed, opens the window, and lets John fuck him senseless.
Every night, after the rough shag, John gathers his clothes in silence, dresses in silence, and leaves in silence.
Every night, Sherlock watches him run away through his window, feeling his heart break every time a little bit more.
Sherlock looks around his room. Everything is already in place. Three small packets of lube are on the bedside table, along with some condoms. Everyone in the house is already asleep, so no need to worry about making the room soundproof. Moreover, he and John always manage to be pretty quiet.
Sherlock’s heart beats fast against his ribs, and he’s having a hard time trying to breathe. It’s not that he doesn’t want John to fuck him – of course he does. What bothers him is that he’s fallen in love with John. Christ, just the thought makes him feel sick. He’s so screwed. There’s no denying it, he loves John.
He loves his blond hair, his deep, blue eyes; he loves his defined muscles, his tan skin pressed against his paler one; he loves his laughter, that he only hears those rare times when John stays a bit longer, when they speak in low voices, running idle fingers on each other’s bodies; he loves John’s low moans and muffled cries, he loves the way he says Sherlock’s name when he’s close to climaxing, almost as though… Sherlock groans. As though what? John has made it quite clear, hasn’t he? He doesn’t love Sherlock.
God, he needs a cigarette before John arrives. He takes the packet out of his hoodie pocket and places the cigarette between his lips, before shutting the packet away in his bedside drawer and lighting up the fag. He takes a deep drag – much better. John won’t like it but who cares. Certainly not him. He inhales again and God, what the hell is he doing? This thing has been going on for months. Sixty-seven days to be precise, though John has skipped a few nights (eighteen agonizing evenings, that Sherlock spent wondering if John didn’t want to come back anymore and why the hell he was so crestfallen at the idea).
Not for the first time since the whole thing started, Sherlock finds himself thinking back of when it all began.
The blame probably goes to their Chemistry teacher, who paired them for a project a couple of months ago. John had complained at the beginning because, seriously, no one ever wants to partner up with Sherlock. Moreover his teammates would have probably mocked John terribly, if they’d known he had the freak as project partner.
Sherlock hadn’t minded. Or better, he told himself he didn’t care, because what did John Watson have that made him different from the other brainless apes of the rugby team? Nothing, that’s what. John was no dissimilar from his teammates, so it was beyond Sherlock’s comprehension why his chest hurt so much when the blond boy refused to work with him.
Their teacher heard no reasons though, and that was how Sherlock found himself with the beautiful captain in his bedroom.
Outside school, John was different. He laughed at Sherlock’s dry humour, and showed genuine interest in his experiments. He even called him “brilliant” a couple of times, and Sherlock didn’t know why he had blushed so much.
John went to his house three times before it all fell to pieces. Just when Sherlock started to think that maybe…
They were both lying on the floor on their bellies, listening to a crap song John had chosen from YouTube when it happened. Sherlock was explaining him something about redox reactions (he doesn’t even remember what) when suddenly John leaned forward and kissed him. Sherlock was too stunned to do anything about it, so he let John take control of the kiss. After long, blissful seconds, John abruptly stopped, tearing his mouth away from Sherlock’s with a loud ‘pop’.
He looked at him with his navy blue eyes wide open, terror evident in every line of his face. He got up and, without a word, he flew out of the room.
Sherlock was heartbroken, and it hurt like mad. The pain hit him every time John looked away when their eyes met in the school corridors, every time he didn’t answer Sherlock’s texts about their project, every time he laughed when one of his teammates mocked Sherlock.
Then, a week after the kiss, John came back.
Sherlock was sitting on his bed, chewing on his pen as he tried to calculate some limits with trigonometric functions, when he heard three distinct knocks on the glass of his window.
His head snapped up, and the view that awaited him made his jaw drop.
John Watson’s face was on his direct line of sight, his hand still on the windowpane. He looked wrecked.
Sherlock scrambled to his feet, opening the window in a rush, and John rolled inside with ease.
He kneeled on the floor, burying his face in his hands.
“What-” Sherlock started to ask, crouching down in front of the boy, but he was interrupted by John’s hand on his mouth.
Their faces were so close Sherlock could feel John’s breath on his neck, could perfectly see the purple marks on his right eye and cheekbone.
“Shh,” John murmured, leaning his forehead on Sherlock’s collarbone, “Please, shut up, I can’t-” His voice broke off, as if he was on the verge of tears. Sherlock felt useless. He didn’t know what to do with himself. Would John have minded if he hugged him? Probably. So he did nothing.
Finally, after agonizingly long minutes, John’s hand slid from Sherlock’s mouth to the back of his neck, pulling him down. He pressed their foreheads together, closing his eyes, “I didn’t know where else to go,” he breathed, his voice so even Sherlock thought he imagined it. Then John lifted his chin and pressed his mouth against Sherlock’s, hard. It wasn’t gentle. It was desperate, and rough, almost violent. Sherlock went along with it, because, as already stated, he is an idiot. The kiss was all teeth, and he could feel the anger in John’s desperation, as he bit down on Sherlock’s lower lip, breaking the skin. Now Sherlock could taste blood, along with the salt of John’s tears. He hissed in pain, and John started to murmur “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m so, so sorry” against his lips.
Then John scrambled to his feet, dragging Sherlock with him. He pushed Sherlock against his bed, and Sherlock fell down on his back. John crawled on all fours to reach his mouth again, straddling his lap. This time, when Sherlock hissed, it wasn’t out of pain. John began to move then, sliding their erections together. Their lips quickly stopped moving, and the two boys started to pant in each other’s mouths.
“M-more,” Sherlock moaned, reaching for John’s fly. John groaned when Sherlock freed his erection, and he promptly started to undo Sherlock’s jeans as well. Sherlock almost cried out at the feel of skin on skin and God, John was so good, pumping their cocks together in his hand. Sherlock arched his back, desperate to get more friction, and he thought he heard John gasp and whisper, “So fucking beautiful.” But that could just have been his imagination. His hips began to thrust up involuntarily, and his mouth was now working of its own volition, forming words and sounds he knew he would regret later.
John was watching him with a sort of raptured look on his face, his pupils blown wide and fuck – he was magnificent. And Sherlock told him so. The rhythm John had set up faltered, and the boy tore his eyes away for a moment, before starting to pump again, purposefully this time – as if he wanted to get it over with. Sherlock closed his eyes, letting himself drown in the sensation. He let his mind go blank because he didn’t need his brain to start thinking of what would happen next, about why John was very silent now.
John passed his thumb on both their cocks, smearing pre-come on their shafts, making Sherlock moan loudly at the newfound slickness, which made the sliding much more pleasurable.
John cursed under his breath, increasing the pace, that became erratic within few seconds. They were both a panting, moaning mess now, frantically jerking their hips up.
Sherlock felt his orgasm build up in his stomach first, then his balls tightened and everything went white for few, blissful seconds. He was dimly aware that he had been repeating John’s name like a litany as he came, but right now, he didn’t care.
Everything was still. Far too still, wasn’t John supposed to be there too? Sherlock tried to open his eyes but fuck, why was it so difficult? Photophobia is common after an orgasm, a voice in his head suggested, and he groaned. Photophobia or not, he had to open his eyes and look for John.
When he finally managed to part his eyelids, he found that John was already walking towards the window.
“Wait!” Sherlock yelled, and who cared if his whole family heard him. John stilled by the window, but he didn’t turn. Sherlock tried to think of something, literally anything that would prevent that angry, broken angel from flying away from his life, again. Because this time, Sherlock knew it, it would have wrecked him.
But nothing came to his mind, and his mouth opened a few times to form words he wasn’t brave enough to say. “Stay.” “Please.”
“I love you.”
John’s face was turned towards the night sky though, and he couldn’t read Sherlock’s silent entreaties on his lips. He left.
Knock. Knock. Knock.
Three knocks. Sherlock stands up from his bed and walks towards his window. He opens it slowly, and John rolls inside, immediately taking off his shoes and crawling on the duvet.
Sherlock leans his back against the wall. When will he work up the courage to say no?
He has just started to assist the police with some cases, thanks to the fact that his brother is shagging a cop, PC Greg Lestrade. He's nice to Sherlock, and sometimes he allows him on crime scenes – as long as Gregson is on the DI in charge. Otherwise, Lestrade brings Sherlock some pictures, along with the official files.
A couple of weeks ago, Sherlock found himself in a stinking alley, crouched beside the corpse of a young woman. He delivered his deductions with rapidity and precision, and then he and Lestrade went running after the killer. Sherlock had in fact figured out that the murderer would have wanted to get rid of his blood-soaked clothes, and the closest place to do so in complete privacy. The chase was fun, as well as the compliments that rolled off Lestrade’s tongue, and the look of approval on Gregson’s face – even though the other cops didn’t look that pleased to have Sherlock around. To congratulate with him, DI Gregson offered him the opportunity to participate in the interrogation of the man he’d helped to catch. Sherlock wishes he never did.
The killer was a wealthy young man of the upper class, who happened to fall in love with the wrong girl. He was married with two kids, and he had one of those jobs in which preserving one’s good image is paramount. He had never been the cheating type, always faithful to his wife. He had fallen in love by chance, and he couldn't stop seeing his lover. They would meet in the middle of the night, always where he said, and she was so gone on him that she would never complain of the secrecy. Then, the girl got pregnant. She wanted to keep the baby. He couldn’t risk his dirty little secret to be revealed. He killed her.
Sherlock didn’t wait for the interrogation to end, he just ran away. Because Lestrade had used words like “abusive” and “self-destructive” in describing the relationship between the dead woman and her killer. Because he’d said that “You don’t even imagine kiddo, the amount of people we see in these toxic relationships. They usually end up on slab down at the morgue, or behind this glass”. And Sherlock couldn’t stop his mind from applying those terms to his and John’s thing.
He was John’s dirty little secret too, after all.
John has already taken his shirt off. He’s holding one packet of lube between his palms, to warm it up. Sherlock doesn’t move from his spot. John looks up at him for the first time since he entered the room.
One of the few nights John hadn’t run away just after they were finished, he told Sherlock about the first evening.
“I have never thanked you for letting me in that first night,” he said, tracing invisible patterns with his index on Sherlock’s chest.
“I had nowhere else to go,” he whispered, and Sherlock barely heard him, as he snuggled in his side. “Tell me,” Sherlock breathed against John’s hair, and the boy shivered, clutching at Sherlock’s bare skin.
“There was this… family thing. Everyone was there: my father, his sister with her husband and their three daughters and my grandparents. My sister and I are a bit the black sheep of the whole family, and they were all giving us hell because our cousin is getting married, while we never brought anyone to meet the family. They were also making some pretty homophobic jokes, harmless mind you, the always do it but... My sister, Harriet, stood up and said that she would have brought her girlfriend, but she was busy. Everyone was gobsmacked, and when we got home-” John stopped abruptly, swallowing around something painful. Sherlock held him closer. “When we got home my father beat the shit out of her and shut her out. I don’t know where she is, she went away Sherlock, I don’t know who her girlfriend is, hell I didn’t even know she was a lesbian and now she’s not coming to school anymore either and I…” John’s breath was laboured, uneven, and his grip on Sherlock’s flesh painful.
That was how Sherlock knew why John had bruises on his face that night.
That was how Sherlock knew he was in love with John. Before, it was just a terrifying suspicion, to which Sherlock gave voice only in those regretted words he unintentionally shouted as they fucked (“I love you, my God, John”). But now, oh, now Sherlock knew he loved him, but he didn’t say anything. He just wrapped his arms more tightly around John’s still figure.
John left sixteen minutes later.
“Are you okay?” John asks and he’s so beautiful it takes Sherlock’s breath away.
“Yes I’m… I’m fine,” he lies.
John looks at him quizzically, and still Sherlock doesn’t move.
“Christ Sherlock,” and Sherlock actually shivers when John says his name, even though he sounds particularly miffed, “I don’t have all night, if you’re not in the mood just fucking tell me so I can leave.”
Sherlock’s heart sinks. He didn’t think he could feel more and more miserable every time. He thought that maybe, one day, it would have stopped hurting.
John never wants to be seen with Sherlock when they are at school. So it shouldn’t have surprised him what happened when he went to one of John’s games, and the celebratory party afterwards.
“Aww, look what the cat dragged in!” One of John’s mates yelled amused when he spotted Sherlock, drawing the attention of everyone around him, “Isn’t he the little freak?”
Laughter. Stares.
Sherlock tried to disappear by pressing himself against the wall. It didn’t work.
“What are you doing here, weirdo?” Another one spat out, glaring at Sherlock with eyes full of hatred. It wasn’t Sherlock’s fault if his girlfriend cheated on him, so why was he still mad at Sherlock for pointing it out?
“Wait, I bet you're here because you fancy one of us, don't you?” The large boy let out a mean laugh. “Sorry for you fag, but no one would ever want to touch you even with a stick, just go home,” he pressed on, and damn, that hit too close to home. Sherlock took a deep breath. He’d never forgive himself if he cried in front of these people. He took a step forward, but found himself surrounded by the members of the rugby team. John included. Sherlock desperately searched for his eyes, but the blond was looking at the floor.
“What, you can’t speak?” A third boy asked, shoving him backwards, hard. Sherlock fell down on his bum, and everybody laughed.
“Pathetic.” “Fucking miserable.” “It’s disgusting how much a of loser he is.”
Sherlock looked up, pain and rejection written all over his young features. He looked for John’s eyes again.
He saw him laughing.
That night, when John came, they fucked in complete silence, and if they were a little more brutal than usual, neither said anything.
John flew out of the room as soon as they were finished.
“Why do you keep coming?”
Sherlock’s voice is broken.
“To fuck,” John answers readily, but he bows his head, and it's that gesture that makes Sherlock press on.
He shakes his head, “No,” he murmurs.
John looks at him angrily, but Sherlock doesn’t let him speak.
“You have plenty of girls who are dying to suck you off. You could have any of them. I’m just… Why me? Why me, John. You must know that this is killing me.” Sherlock doesn’t know if John heard him, because the boy is expressionlessly staring at the duvet beneath his knees and Sherlock has spoken in barely audible whispers.
Long minutes stretch on, and Sherlock starts to think that John isn’t going to answer.
“I don’t know,” John says at last and… Does his voice sound like he’s crying?
“I just can’t stop, Sherlock. I tried to stop coming here, to forget all about you, but...”
Suddenly, John changes his whole posture, and his eyes shoot up to glare at Sherlock.
“What are you asking me, some sort of commitment? Trying to beat some sort of soppy love confession out of me?” His rage is almost palpable in the air between them, and Sherlock presses himself against the wall.
“What, you think we’re like together?” John laughs bitterly, without any humour in it, and Sherlock knows his heart cannot handle all this pain, “You’re nothing to me, Sherlock. Just an easy shag. I mean, all I have to do is come here, knock on that bloody window and then I can have you in any position I want.”
Sherlock is physically hurting, the words hitting him like relentless gunshots in his chest. He cannot survive this.
It’s always like this with John. He’s either the worst asshole to ever walk this planet, or the sweetest guy ever. Last week, for example.
Last week was different. That night, instead of thrusting into Sherlock with the usual mix of anger and self-hate, John had been slow, careful, almost... loving. Instead of pounding into Sherlock like a fury, he had stroked his belly, his thighs, he kissed each and every vertebra on Sherlock's back.
Suddenly, while John was kissing his scapula, Sherlock had found himself weeping.
It had never happened the other times. Sure, it was painful knowing that to John having sex with him didn't mean the same, but Sherlock was prepared. He knew that to John it meant nothing, and Sherlock took what he could, because he could never have more. But this? John being sweet and slow and oh-so-attentive, this, this Sherlock couldn't take. It tasted almost like hope, and it hurt, because what was the point in hoping, if it was only going to end badly?
Then John came with a muffled cry against Sherlock's skin, and Sherlock followed a few seconds later, because John's cry painfully sounded like his name.
Sherlock lay down on his belly the, turning his face against the wall, away from John.
John tried to say something, Sherlock could feel him hovering over him. But he didn't move, and when John called his name, he didn't reply, and John eventually left.
Sherlock still feels weird when he thinks back of that night. So he doesn't. He tried to delete the entire evening from his mind, but every cell in his brain opposes some sort of barrier, and Sherlock doesn't know how to breach them.
He doesn't know why his subconscious holds on that tight to that one night, but it does, so Sherlock just tries not to think about it.
John puts his shirt back on, throwing the packet of lube on the floor. He stands up, and walks up to Sherlock, facing him. His hot breath against his skin is almost too much for Sherlock.
“I’m not gay,” John seethes, and Sherlock’s eyes widen in shock. Where did that come from?
“I never said you were.”
“I don’t like blokes, I was just looking for some fun,” he growls, his tone growing louder, as if he's trying to convince someone. Himself, probably.
“I have proof of the opposite,” Sherlock replies, and he’s barely finished uttering his sentence that John’s hand has gripped his throat, and now he’s pressing Sherlock’s head against the wall.
“Fucking try me, Holmes.”
Sherlock is paralyzed. He understands, seriously. John comes from a deeply homophobic environment, and he probably doesn't even understand, let alone accept, his bisexuality. How could he, if his father had no problem beating up his gay sister and his teammates were always shitting on whoever they deemed a 'fag'? Sherlock understands, really, he does. But the fact that he understands doesn’t mean he can do something about it.
He can bloody hell try, though.
“I’m sorry your father is a jerk. I’m sorry you convinced yourself that what you feel for me is wrong. I’m sorry you think that we should be ashamed of what we have. But I will never be sorry for falling in love with you.” And as he says it, Sherlock knows it’s true. He can’t regret this, not even when John is being an asshole.
Because sometimes John’s kisses are tender and not aggressive.
Because sometimes John stays a bit more and caresses his skin reverently.
Because sometimes John looks at him the same way he looks at John.
Because sometimes, it almost seems like John loves him.
And that’s enough for Sherlock.
John stares at him with his eyes wide open. Yes, Sherlock has said ‘I love you’ more than once during sex, but he’s never, ever told John this clearly.
John gapes at him, and before Sherlock knows it, John’s mouth is on his.
It’s different. That’s all Sherlock can think about, as John’s hands caress his back and his tongue swirls on his lower lip. Sherlock shudders.
This is oh-so-different from any other kisses.
There have been angry kisses. Desperate kisses. Lustful kisses. Tender kisses, strictly reserved for the post-orgasm haze.
This kiss is… Sherlock finds himself at loss of words. This kiss tastes of longing and closeness and love. So much love that Sherlock feels his chest explode and implode at the same time.
Sherlock is so caught up in it that he doesn’t even notice that John has spun them around and is now dragging him towards the bed. He does finally notice when his back slams against the mattress and John’s mouth moves from his lips to his neck. John sucks and nips at his skin, leaving marks, that can be seen.
“John…” Sherlock tries to tell him that people at school will tease him, will ask him what freak would ever want to be with him and-
“Shh,” John murmurs against his skin, and Sherlock can sense some kind of urgency in that sound, so he doesn’t press on. John’s lips travel back up to his jaw, his cheek, the shell of his ear. Then, he grips Sherlock’s wrists and flips them over, falling with his back on the bed. Sherlock stares down at him, confused.
“It’s always me who… I mean, I choose what we do. Tonight, you decide,” John says, looking at Sherlock’s right shoulder, avoiding his eyes.
Sherlock doesn’t know what to do. He stares down at John, and feels his eyes fill with tears.
John is so beautiful splayed underneath him, his expression still broken and angry but somewhat also trustful and insecure. Sherlock’s breathing grows laboured and he’s just frozen in his place, unable to move, to do something before John understands what a goddamn emotional disaster he is.
“Oh God,” John whispers, his voice watery, “What have I done to you?”
Sherlock doesn’t understand what John is saying, because as he was speaking, John’s hand has started to caress his cheek. This goes against their Rule One: no intimate touching. But right now John seems to have forgotten, and Sherlock leans into the touch, his eyes closed. He doesn’t care that everything aches.
“You never said,” John breathes, “You never said how much this was hurting you. I thought… Hell, I never really thought about what I was doing, because that would mean I’d have to start questioning myself and… Fuck, I thought you didn’t care, that you just wanted to experiment.”
“Just two minutes ago, you said that I must know that this is killing you. How was I supposed to know? You were always so distant, never speaking to me when I walked in, never saying ‘no’ whenever I suggested something. And when you say that you-”
John’s voice falters, and he closes his eyes.
“When you say, those… You know what you say, while we fuck, well I guess I’ve always thought that was just you mumbling random shit during sex, ya know, many people do.”
John blinks up at Sherlock, smiling a bit, “I thought it was harmless fun to you.”
Sherlock’s heart sinks, a white noise surrounds him.
“John,” oh God Sherlock hates that his voice is trembling, “Is this just fun to you?” He needs to know, so he forces himself to ask, even though all he wants to do is hide himself in John’s skin and never let him go.
Silence stretches on for long. John’s face is doing something strange, and Sherlock finds it hard to catalogue all the expressions that cross the boy’s handsome features. He sees anger, hurt, fear, fondness and finally, determination.
“No,” he finally says, and Sherlock opens his mouth to ask so many more questions, but John’s hand covers his mouth.
“Please don’t ask me to say more,” he whispers.
Sherlock understands. He dips his head down, and John removes his hand from his lips, so that Sherlock can press a chaste kiss to the corner of his mouth.
“I don’t mumble random shit during sex,” Sherlock speaks brushing his lips on John’s mouth, and John shudders.
“I love you,” he says, simply.
John makes a noise that sounds awfully like a sob, and before Sherlock knows it they are kissing again, this time with a passion that makes Sherlock feel dizzy.
John sits up and pulls his shirt off, quickly, so that his lips leave Sherlock’s only for a small amount of time.
Sherlock doesn’t really understands how, but in a handful of seconds John has managed to undress his upper half and pin him underneath him. John fumbles with Sherlock’s fly, and Sherlock readily lifts his hips, allowing John to pull his jeans and underwear down. Before the fabric even hits the ground, John’s mouth is on his chest, and Sherlock gasps loudly. John peppers Sherlock’s pale skin with open mouthed kisses. He kisses his sternum, his abdomen, his belly, his navel, his hips.
“My God Sherlock, if you could just look at you right now, hear the noises you make…”
“Trousers, off,” Sherlock whimpers, and John obeys.
The sound of the zip and the rustling of the fabric is music to Sherlock’s ears. He closes his eyes, ready to take whatever John has got to offe-
“Tell me what you want,” John’s voice startles him.
Sherlock opens his eyes, to find John watching him with a serious expression.
“I told you. Tonight, you decide. Anything you want, I want it too,” John presses on. Sherlock closes his eyes again.
“I… I want you close,” he manages to choke out, gathering all his courage.
“How?” John asks, with a trace of urgency in his voice.
Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. He knows why John is doing this, why it's so important to John that Sherlock takes a bloody decision. Because tonight is different from the others, and John wants to prove it. So Sherlock takes a deep breath, shoving down his fear of rejection and his embarrassment, and breathes, “I want you inside of me.”
The noise that John makes is not human, of this Sherlock is sure. Smiling, he starts to roll on his belly.
"No," John stops him, placing a hand on his shoulder. He pushes Sherlock down so that he's resting on his back again, and Sherlock looks at him questioningly.
“I-” John begins, running a hand through his perfect, golden hair, “I want to see your face.”
Sherlock knows it's biologically impossible, but he's sure that his heart skips at the very least two beats. Then it starts hammering relentlessly against his ribcage, and the its sound is so loud in Sherlock's brain that John must hear it too.
Sherlock’s only reply is to crush his mouth against John's. They kiss for what Sherlock thinks is an eternity, then John leans away and gets up. Sherlock can barely hide the desperate cry that escapes his mouth at the loss of contact, but before he can scream John's name and awake the whole household, the other boy is back between his legs, and he's caressing his abdomen.
“Here,” he says, throwing at Sherlock a packet of lube. Sherlock immediatly starts to rub it between his palms, never tearing his eyes away from John's. John leans forward, grabbing the pillow beside Sherlock’s head.
“Hips, up,” he whispers, licking his lips. Sherlock obeys, and John places the pillow under the small of Sherlock's back.
John looks at him intently, and Sherlock sees his pupils growing wider and wider with every second.
“Alright, gimme,” John growls, extending his hand. Sherlock gives him the lube, and John places another packet in his palm.
“This one too,” he orders, his voice low and dark, and Sherlock doesn't even roll his eyes saying that they have done this a million times, busy as he is shivering.
John tears the packet open using his teeth, and Sherlock whines embarrassingly. John smirks, looking with intensity at Sherlock's face as he smears the lube on his fingers. Sherlock is panting by now, and he's also incredibly hard. He takes a moment to curse his sensitivity, John hasn't even touched him yet, goddammit!
John puts his hands under Sherlock's knees, bringing them up.
“Spread your legs,” he says, and God, his voice is so much lower than before, so much more sensual. Sherlock closes his eyes, fearing he might come just from John's cheeky grin and hoarse voice, so it takes him by surprise when he feels John's finger circling his hole. He gasps loudly, and John freezes.
“Is it- is this alright?” John asks, caressing Sherlock's abdomen.
“You never asked, fuck, yes it's fine just get on with it,” Sherlock breathes, unable to refrain himself from panting the words.
Everything is a little frantic from then, and the next thing Sherlock knows it that he's fucking himself on John's hand, who is already three fingers deep in his arse.
“The-the lube, Sherlock, gimme more lube," John says, his breath hitching on every word.
Sherlock literally throws the lube in John's face, and when the blond removes his hand from Sherlock, he screams loudly, his body suddenly unbearably empty. John slams his clean hand on Sherlock's mouth, “Shut the fuck up,” he hisses.
“Hurry up then,” Sherlock retorts, taking John's hand off his mouth.
“My pleasure,” John says cheekily, ripping the condom open and rolling it on himself, all under Sherlock's attentive and mesmerized gaze. John opens the other packet of lube as well, smearing it on his cock, and using the rest to lubricate Sherlock some more.
“There's never,” he begins, positioning himself between Sherlock's legs, “Enough lube,” Sherlock finishes for him, and they both grin at each other.
And those smiles feel so much like affection, that Sherlock cannot abstain from reaching up with his hand to cup John's cheek, stroking his cheekbone with his thumb.
They both freeze. Sherlock doesn't take his hand off though, because John is not jerking away from the touch, like he'd usually do. John is pretty firm about the ‘not touching’ rule.
God, Sherlock hates the ‘rules’. He and John had discussed them the fourth night John had knocked on his window.
“What, is this a habit now?” Sherlock snarled, setting his Apiology book aside.
“Do us a favour and shut your fucking mouth,” John replied, shoving his hands in his pockets.
“Came here to tell me to shut up? Good job, bravo, perfect performance. Now, if you don't mind, I have other things I'd rather do than listening to you,” Sherlock retorted, tapping on the cover of his book.
“Forget the bloody bees Holmes, we need to talk.”
Sherlock sighed, meeting John's gaze.
“Have you told anyone about... the last few nights?” John asked, approaching him. Sherlock nodded, “Oh yes, yesterday over breakfast i told my parents all about the secret shags I'm having in the room just above theirs. And didn't you notice the shirt I was wearing today? There was 'I shagged John Watson' on the front and 'FYI' on the back, everyone loved it.” Sherlock stopped blabbing and took a deep breath, avoiding John's gaze.
“You done?” John bit out, shooting daggers at Sherlock. “Just answer the bloody question.”
“Of course I didn't, God you're even more of a moron than your idiotic teammates.”
John worked his jaw, clenching and unclenching his fists. “If you tell anyone, I will fucking kill you,” he threatened, taking a step towards the bed.
Sherlock swallowed down the lump in his throat, forcing himself to roll his eyes, feigning casualness.
“Yes, yes I figured. God, you’re so cliché. What else?"
John glared at him, sitting on the edge of the bed.
“We need rules.”
Sherlock scoffed, “Are you serious?”
John didn't answer and Sherlock let out an unamused laugh. John lowered his gaze, staring at the duvet between them.
“Oh for God’s sake, out with it,” Sherlock exclaimed, slumping back with his head on the pillow, covering his face with his hands. He didn’t want John to see they were shaking.
He could feel John fidgeting on the mattress, shifting his weight in a nervous manner.
“Alright, rule one: no touching.”
Sherlock's head snapped up, “What?”
“I mean, obviously we'll have to touch, just, no useless touching. Ya know, intimate shit. We aren't boyfriend and girlfriend.”
Sherlock felt the words like blows in his stomach, but he swallowed around the lump in his throat. He tried to utter some sort of sarcastic comment, but he just managed to nod. John let out a relieved sigh, “Good, that’s settled then. Rule two: kisses are limited to when we fuck. Try to kiss me in every other situation and I’ll punch your fucking teeth out. Rule three: outside this bedroom, you and I don't know each other. Don't expect me to even say hi at school, because I won't. Rule four: you are never, and I mean never going to ask me some kind of romantic investment. We're nothing, understood? Good. Now take off that bloody hoodie and go fetch some lube.”
John furrows his brow, gritting his teeth. Sherlock can see he's fighting every instinct that is shouting at him to jerk his head away. He can almost hear John’s father’s voice screaming in the boy’s brain. But John is fighting it, and suddenly he surrenders, letting out a shuddering breath, leaning in Sherlock's palm.
Sherlock loves him immensely.
Finally John opens his eyes, and the look on his face takes Sherlock's breath away.
“The rules were more for me than for you, anyway,” he murmurs.
He places one hand beside Sherlock's torso, the other around his cock, guiding it towards Sherlock. When the tip of John's cock touches his entrance, Sherlock gasps, fisting the sheets in his hand, his body growing tense.
“Shh, it's fine, Sherlock, it's fine,” John murmurs, kissing the inside of Sherlock’s thigh, and Sherlock can't take it, John being so careful and attentive and caring. It’s too much.
John pushes in slowly, so unlike the other twenty-three times they have done this. When he's all the way inside, he stops, giving Sherlock time to adjust.
“Alright?” he asks, struggling to keep his hips still.
“Just one moment, it's always-always a bit uncomf-uncomfortable at the beginning,” Sherlock replies through gritted teeth. John waits patiently until Sherlock's body is loose and relaxed, then he asks again, his voice almost imploring, “Alright now?”
Sherlock nods emphatically, and John lets out a relieved sigh.
It’s weird, but the first thing that Sherlock thinks when John starts moving, is that this time is different. And not only because now he can look into John’s eyes, and it feels so fucking intimate that sometimes one of them has to tear his gaze away. It’s not even because John is rolling his hips slowly, languidly, and Sherlock can barely breathe. But God, was it so intense the other times? Those were passionate and fast and rough and hard but this? What is this?
In a handful of minutes, Sherlock is already the usual mess of moans and unintentional confessions, only this time John doesn't ignore his words, he answers. For every “Please” John responds with a "Shh, it's alright.” For every “John,” he replies with a murmured “Sherlock.” For every “I love you,” a soft “I know” is whispered back. It seems to go on forever, that inconsequential dialogue they’re having, until Sherlock can't stand the slow rhythm anymore and starts babbling something that he hopes sounds like “Faster.” John understands, and increases his pace. He angles his body so that he's brushing Sherlock's prostate with almost every thrust, and Sherlock starts trembling.
He remembers the night they found that particular spot in his body. John was fucking him with his fingers, when suddenly Sherlock started to gasp and wither beneath him, arching his body at impossible angles. They both froze and stared at each other with their eyes wide open. Then John smiled, ever so slightly, and murmured, “There it is.”
Sherlock brings his arm over his mouth, biting down, hard. The pain only adds to the pleasure, and Sherlock finds himself moaning terribly loud in his flesh. John's mouth is hanging open, and his eyes are closed.
“Fuck, fuck Sherlock you feel so good,” he pants, leaning his head on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock is on the edge by now, but it's John's hand on his cock, pumping in time with his thrusts that ends him. He comes in a white wave, screaming John's name in his arm. A few thrusts later, John curses under his breath and comes as well, biting down on Sherlock's shoulder.
They stay wrapped up in each other for endless minutes, frozen in that blissful moment. But then John slowly tries to extricate from Sherlock's limbs, and Sherlock wraps his legs more tightly around the other boy’s waist, to keep him there.
“Sherlock, the condom,” John explains, and Sherlock snorts. Right now, going to the hospital to have a condom removed from his arse sounds a better option than John leaving him yet again. But Sherlock could never say this out loud, so he lets go.
John slips out of Sherlock's body with ease. He gets up and walks to the en-suite bathroom, moving around the darkened room with confidence. When he emerges from the bathroom with a damp towel, the condom has disappeared, as well as the stains of come on his abdomen. He approaches the bed, kneeling beside Sherlock, passing the towel on his navel. Sherlock purrs happily, when he feels that John used warm water. John smiles softly at him, then he tosses the towel on the floor. He stares at Sherlock, almost waiting for him to say something. Long seconds pass, then John lowers his gaze, shaking his head.
“I think I'll... I'll go now?" he says, but it sounds like a question, so Sherlock inhales deeply and murmurs, “Stay.” John’s head snaps up, a shocked look on his face, and Sherlock feels his stomach sink.
“I mean, y-you can stay, that is, if-if you want," he stammers out, blushing furiously.
John doesn't look at him, but he nods at the floor, sliding in bed beside Sherlock.
“Just a few minutes,” he mutters, covering them with the sheets.
The first thing that Sherlock notices when John is settled in bed with him, is that it's awkward. Generally, there are two types of night. The many nights John leaves and the few he stays. When John leaves, Sherlock usually cries himself to sleep, telling himself that next time would be different. When John stays, Sherlock holds on to every second, touching every inch of John's perfect body before he leaves.
This awkwardness is new.
“This is ridiculous,” John mutters suddenly, rolling on his side and slinging his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock relishes in the touch, but it's still not enough.
“So...” he begins, hoping John would help him say what he can't even process.
“So?” John asks, defensively.
“Wh-what are... I mean, this was- not that I- what I'm trying to say is, fuck, it's not easy, but this was-”
Sherlock's embarrassing babbling is interrupted by John's mouth brushing on his.
“Yes,” John murmurs against his lips.
Sherlock doesn't know what John is answering to, but he said yes, and his eyes are shining, and he's smiling fondly at him, so Sherlock doesn't ask. He beams at John, snuggling in his side.
“Stay for the night,” he whispers, when he's already half asleep, “Mom makes the best pancakes.”
The last thing he feels before his minds drifts off, is John nodding against his hair.