Work Text:
The shimmering hearts and purple streamers curling down from the ceiling along with strings of pink and red tinsel taped haphazardly above the lockers lined along the hallway is Sherlock's first tip of exactly what time of year it is, unable to miss it considering it looks like St Valentine himself showed up in his Secondary school the day before and vomited shammed sentiments of love all over the place. Though it shouldn't come as a surprise considering the school Event Planning Committee, which handles all holidays, formals, graduations and so forth is made up of five teenage girls in his class.
Sighing heavily, Sherlock glares at his surroundings as he spins the dial on his locker, the splashes of shiny overly done color glinting all around him doing nothing to improve his mood.
He'd almost forgotten Valentine's Day was coming up until he'd practically walked smack into a dangling heart ready and willing to obnoxiously remind him this morning as he entered the school building. What a joy.
He pulls free his books and stuffs them into his bag, eyeing a table placed at the end of the hallway near the lunch room draped in a pink sheer tablecloth with a sign hanging on the front advertising a giant chocolate heart, his chemistry partner Molly Hooper and one of the rugby players Greg Lestrade perched behind it talking animatedly to several girls gathered around them.
Sherlock groans internally, tossing his locker door closed a little harder than he should, though he can't deny the loud rattle doesn't feel a little satisfying. He could do without this time of year, thank you very much. It's exhausting at best and depressing at worst and if it could just end altogether, that would be absolutely ideal. The sheer idiocy of a holiday created solely for the purpose of celebrating couples and specifically leave out those who do not have anyone special in their lives is just a bit too much to accept.
Especially considering every single time this holiday comes around, Sherlock is alone. Always bloody alone. Which of course didn't bother him up until two years ago.
Simpler times, he supposes.
"Hey freak!"
Ah, of course. Naturally this would happen right now.
On today of all damn days.
The nickname accompanied by the shove is less surprising than the sharp snap of the locker he'd just slammed shut as Sherlock's shoulder collides with the metal, only just managing to stay on his feet as Phillip Anderson cackles in his ear. "Oops! Gotta be careful there, eh fairy?"
Huffing out a curse under his breath, Sherlock readjusts the strap on his shoulder as his school books shift in his book bag. "Anderson," he smiles insincerely, eyes flickering over the small group of footballers passing him by, all of which have some sort of girl hanging off their arm, all of whom are laughing at the display like the imbeciles that they are. "Always a pleasure."
"Hey faggot," Sebastian Wilkes barks in response with a sneer, the brute always entirely unoriginal, only able to replicate every move Anderson makes, never finding a path of his own. "Enjoying your holiday? This is the most wonderful time of the year for you gays, isn't it? With all the pink and purple and flowers?" He's clutching Sally Donovan to his side, beaming at her when she giggles girlishly up at him like he'd just made the most hilarious joke anyone has ever told, the two of them indulging unpleasantly in making Sherlock's life hell.
Sherlock rolls his eyes at the display, the whole routine extremely tedious considering they have a very similar conversation at least once a week. This will be year four of this kind of harassment and Sherlock is exhausted. "Sally, Sebastian," he mutters with a nod of his head, flickering his eyes along them both, carefully picking up subtle queues and hints that everything isn't quite as solid as they seem to want everyone to believe it is. He smirks. "I see you two are still attempting to make a go of it. Pathetic really, considering Sally here stayed the night with Anderson last night."
The small group of teens falter in their steps and Sherlock silently berates himself, wishing his flippant mouth wouldn't open at its own will and instead let the danger pass by before he receives yet another pummeling in the car park, but his quick-witted brain just can't seem to unhinge itself from his jaw and considering his self-preservation is his brilliance it probably wouldn't matter anyway. It's the only thing he has against bullies like this; his mind. He's a genius and they know it and so instead of going after his intelligence, they go after his social status. It's safer territory. They hate it that he knows more about them than he should.
Although now as he's stared down and cornered by half the football team, he can't help cursing himself as Sally gapes at him with horrified shock, Sebastian's lips flap stupidly beside her. "What?"
Anderson whips around and stares Sherlock down straight on, ignoring his teammate's bewildered gaze as he shoves a finger into the curly-haired boy's face, long since unsurprised by Sherlock's deductions but still predictably furious all the same.
"You don't know what you're talking about, faggot," Anderson parrots the nickname like the idiot that he is, a fire sparking angrily in his gaze.
"Good one," Sherlock nods in feigned approval. "Well done repeating the most tiresome gay slur you can possibly cough up, considering your comrade here only just spoke the exact same word not thirty seconds ago - "
"You'll shut the fuck up if you know what's good for you," Anderson warns, stepping a pace closer but Sherlock can't seem to do as he's told as the words roll out of his mouth without a second thought.
"You're right, my apologies," Sherlock agrees with an overly furrowed brow, bogus concern etched in his features. "Sally must have just come round for a nice little chat and just happened to stay over." He gives her another glance over before turning his bored gaze back to the boy turning redder and redder before him. "And I assume she also scrubbed your floors going by the state of her knees."
The audible gasp from Sally's mouth is accompanied by several pairs of wide eyes staring at him, but none are blazing as brightly as Phillip Anderson's, his face darkening with rage.
"I told you to shut up," he snarls, taking another menacing step and leaning in, face gleaming with fury but still Sherlock doesn't miss the glint of something lingering just beyond that. Something that hints Anderson is enjoying this just a little too much, the portrayal of anger just for show, the chance to tear Sherlock down and belittle him to nothing again obviously an enticing one.
Swallowing hard, Sherlock leans back in an attempt to get out of the bully's range but his back collides with his locker as Anderson looms over him, a mix of hatred and pleasure twisting the footballer's features into a wicked smirk that makes Sherlock's stomach drop unpleasantly.
"You think you're so bloody clever, Holmes," Anderson growls, his voice dropping so low only Sherlock can hear which forces the genius boy to recognize just how serious the situation is. "Pretending to know things you shouldn't, prancing around these halls like you're better than everyone else, and now what? Stalking me? You pathetic little shit."
"Please, I would never bother to stalk you," Sherlock mutters, though he can hear his own voice shaking, unsure which way this conversation is going to go, whether he ought to be prepared to duck from a flying fist or just thicken his skin while Anderson attempts to verbally strip him of his humanity. "How utterly dull that would be."
The look on Anderson's face tells Sherlock he isn't hiding his fear and the bully leans all the closer, disdain dripping off every one of his words, an evil little leer curling his lips. "I think maybe you're jealous, eh Holmes? Too pathetic and sad to have your own sex life so you've got to peep in on mine?"
Scoffing in revulsion at the sheer idea of Anderson having sex at all doesn't seem to detour the footballer and Sherlock's skin begins to crawl just a bit as Anderson's irritating voice creeps into his ear and seeps into his pours like black sludge surrounding him in a thick sea of nauseating dread.
"Can't get anyone to touch you while I've got two birds chasing my dick," Anderson sneers before shaking his head in mock disapproval, lingering a repulsively meaningful look along the genius boy's frame like he and Sherlock are sharing some sort of secret, like Anderson knows he's hit the nail right on the head, that he's said the words Sherlock's been thinking internally and terrified of anyone ever saying, before the arsehole is finally turning away. Sherlock stands a bit straighter, no longer cowed against cold metal as the bully before him slinks back but not before he delivers one last parting shot tossed over his shoulder, loud enough for the rest of the group to hear, loud enough to make Sherlock want to shrink in on himself all over again. "Pathetic little virgin. You're such a fucking freak."
Anderson's entourage promptly bursts into comfortable laughter, the moment of truths Sherlock had spilled clearly forgotten, though the curly-haired boy can appreciate the awkward pinch of Sebastian Wilke's face as he eyes Anderson carefully, not ready to fully let it go just yet.
Sherlock supposes that's one win for him considering it feels like Anderson just shattered the fragile ground the genius has been walking for what feels like eternity now. It's not like Anderson actually knows anything, not really. He just assumes, like everyone else, baseless facts about Sherlock's personal life that he loves to use against the genius boy, poke and prod at any and all buttons, tug at any loose threads until he gains a reaction and then all bets are off.
The genius is better off not returning jabs or facts of his own only to egg on the conversation endlessly, but it seems he can't really avoid it lately. It must be the time of year that's got everyone all wound up about love and sex and relationships, more people pairing off lately just so they're not alone on the most romantic day of the year, Valentine's Day already next week and considering the bully is currently secretly juggling two women, it makes sense for Anderson to become more crass, more careless and more vicious than usual, his outlet always being ruining Sherlock's day.
But that's not what's getting to Sherlock now. It's not that Anderson was any more brutal today than he is any other day.
It's the fact that he's fucking right.
On any other day, any other moment in time, Sherlock can easily shrug off the abuse. He can ignore the jabs about his relationship status and the insinuations about his sexuality and go about his life. He can roll his eyes and shake his head and pay no attention to the tormentors in his secondary school, hardly any of them having much of an effect on his everyday life. He knows who he is and he isn't ashamed, not a single bit, no matter what they say, no matter how hard they try to rip him apart.
But today…
Today there are symbols of love littering every inch of the school hallway and there are reds and pinks and purples a glittering representation of romance and there are fake flowers and paper hearts all obvious signs of relationships and Sherlock just can't do it. Not today. Not this year. Not when the last twelve months have been nothing but hell for the genius boy's feelings and libido and heart.
It's been a sodding nightmare.
Because it isn't about the fact that Anderson thinks he's a virgin, it's about the fact that he is a virgin and would very much like to no longer be a virgin because there is a boy. A beautiful, perfect, wonderful boy that he would very much like to be taken by and tended to by and loved by.
There is a boy who will never do any of those things for one Sherlock Holmes and the spot on comments from the meanest bloke in school and signatures of devotion and affection hanging all around him in subtle reminders of exactly that is just too sodding much today.
He will always be alone.
He will never have what he wants.
He will never have who he wants.
Ignoring the pain in his chest, Sherlock doesn't bother to move until the lot of the footballers are gone and then he's hurrying off in the opposite direction, adjusting the strap on his shoulder as he hurries down the hall to safety, already feeling drained and it's only first hour, trying and failing to pretend Anderson's words aren't currently bouncing around inside his head and making his heart hurt just a little more than usual.
"Hey Sherlock!" Molly Hooper calls from her post behind the table as Sherlock passes by, the Annual Chocolate Hearts fundraising sign glittering brightly in front of her, Greg turning at her side to offer Sherlock a grin of his own and a wave.
"Hey," Sherlock greets them both, sighing a bit in relief at the sight of two people he would consider himself friendly with, no longer being cornered by some arsehole and feeling a bit safer, though no less shaken by the encounter.
"You alright, mate?" Greg asks, waving a vague gesture in the direction of Sherlock's locker. "What did that wanker Anderson want?"
"'The usual," Sherlock shrugs, dutifully ignoring Molly's worried gaze. "I'm a freak and a faggot and now apparently a stalker?"
"Oh, Sherlock," Molly frets, wringing her hands a bit, her constant concern for the genius boy not unwelcome but also not all that conducive to the situation considering Sherlock would rather drop dead than discuss any of this with any of his friends. Sherlock picks at a thread on the tablecloth uncomfortably. "I'm so sorry."
"I fucking hate that guy," Greg snaps, shaking his head in the direction the small pact went off in with a glare. "He needs to get an attitude check. I'll talk to John about it. We'll make sure the sodding football team cleans up their act."
"No!" Sherlock cries a bit too quickly and a bit too loudly, prompting two troubled pairs of eyes to land on him in surprise. He swallows his embarrassment and looks down, ignoring the stare of his two friends only trying to help but whenever they mention John Watson helping with anything these days it only makes the genius boy panic, just hearing the name making his throat go dry and his heart race. He steels himself with a silent inhale and exhale. "I- I mean… Don't tell John. Don't… he doesn't need to… to know. You know how he gets."
"Why not?" Molly frowns, features tightening with distress. "He's the rugby captain, Sherlock. He can do something to make it stop. You don't deserve that, you know."
"It's been four years," Sherlock counters with a scowl. "It hasn't stopped yet."
"Yeah, because you never let us tell John," Greg counters. "You know he worries about you-"
"Exactly," Sherlock cuts him off. "Which is exactly why you don't need to tell him."
"But –" Greg goes to protest before Sherlock holds up a hand to stop him.
"I will handle it," he says calmly. "Just stay out of it."
Because he will handle it. He will explain it to John Watson in a way that won't make his best friend see red and chase down anyone who has ever made Sherlock Holmes feel anything less than wonderful because John Watson is just that reckless and just that infuriating and just that amazing.
And it will only make the situation worse, John running off to play knight and shining armour to Sherlock's damsel in distress and then where will that leave the curly-haired boy? How in the fuck is he supposed to get over John Watson when John Watson is being flawless and magnificent all the time?
Because John Watson is the boy. The boy that makes Sherlock's stomach do somersaults every time he looks at him, the boy that makes every day in this dark, dim school a little bit brighter, the boy that's got ahold of Sherlock's delicate, breakable heart without having a clue what he's done to the genius boy.
John Watson is the boy.
And Sherlock can't handle him doing anything or being any more perfect than he already is.
No, Sherlock will take care of it. He will take care of it without sounding an alarm and forcing John to come to his rescue like his two kind yet unhelpful friends here would do.
"Fine," Greg pouts, crossing his arms over his chest. "But you better do it before school ends. I have practice with him after classes and if you don't tell him, I will."
"Oh for godsake," Sherlock rolls his eyes impatiently. "It was a single conversation. No punches were thrown. It's fine."
Exchanging a loaded glance, Molly and Greg blink between each other, having a silent conversation before they both seem to drop the point, Molly's features smoothing from pinched worry to resigned acceptance, Greg still shaking his head but deciding to leave it as well. "Alright then," Molly shrugs before offering a sly grin and a small waggle of her brow. "But since you're here, wanna send a heart to someone special? It's totally anonymous."
"No," Sherlock replies flatly, ignoring both Greg and Molly giggling at his response with a sigh of annoyance.
"Please?" Greg requests with a grin, grabbing an order form and sliding it across the unbearably pink tablecloth and tapping his finger against it. "It's for a good cause!"
"What, the rugby team needs new uniforms?" Sherlock retorts, smirking a bit as Greg glares at him.
"Nope," Molly shakes her head, eyes skittering across the pamphlets and papers strewn across the table. "It's for a – er – charity."
"Really," Sherlock deadpans skeptically. "Which charity?"
It confirms his suspicions when Molly turns quickly to Greg for backup whose lips are flapping helplessly in response, attempting to support the untruth with another. "Uh-… it's for... it's the uhm…"
"Great lie, Molly," Sherlock snarks, flicking a thumb's up at her sarcastically. "Really well thought out."
"Oh shut up," Molly laughs, cheeks going a bit red but she's smiling good-naturedly all the same. "The money goes to the extra-curricular activities okay?"
"So, the rugby team's uniforms then?" Sherlock repeats with a smugly raised brow.
"Come on, it's fun!" Greg cheers, his toothy smile ridiculous and endearing all at once. "It's like two quid, that's nothing for your posh arse."
"You've got to have someone special you could send one to," Molly coos, smiling at him like they're sharing a naughty secret without saying a word.
Blinking for a long moment at the insinuation, worry creeping up the back of his neck that maybe Molly knows something she shouldn't, a flitting, loose thought floating through his brain that maybe she's suggesting he send an anonymous heart to his best friend and wouldn't that just be the end of his world as he knows it, before he realizes he's simply being teased and Sherlock snorts derisively, eyeing the order form with disdain and huffs. "No, thanks."
"Please?" Molly blinks, her big brown eyes pleading up at him, all hints of mirth pushed aside and Sherlock exhales in relief. "Ours sales aren't doing so well at the moment and… and you're right, most of the proceeds are going to go to the rugby team but if we raise enough then some of it will go to the science team and we could really use the money for traveling to some fairs this year." Her eyes have gone a bit watery as she glances down to the table. "Some of us really need the exposure for scholarships to university, you know?"
Turning just in time to see her partner in crime schooling his features, Sherlock watches as Greg nods sympathetically at Molly and places a hand on her back as though to comfort her. "That would be really good, Molls," he agrees softly with a gentle pat. "Hopefully we'll make enough for that."
And Sherlock knows, he knows he's being played by his chemistry partner with her kind little face and giant heart and worry for all things science and as a scientist himself he knows she is playing to his soul, tugging on his heart strings that the poor science teams need to go to these fairs and showcase their talents and get into good schools and be huge successes in Chemistry and Biology and goddamnit, Molly Hooper.
It's one harmless heart, right? He could send one heart. It's anonymous. No one ever has to know.
There isn't even a question about who he'll be sending it to, which is reckless and dangerous all on its own but Molly's giant eyes are still looking at him pleadingly and he can't help the tiny thrill at the idea of John Watson getting a candy heart on Valentine's Day from a secret admirer that's actually his best friend. Besides, John loves these sorts of holidays anyway, Sherlock unable to forget the Christmas he'd been dragged out to sing carols with the rugby player in the snow, John pink-cheeked and grinning the entire time. He'll love getting a surprise on Valentine's Day, of that Sherlock is certain.
"Yeah, alright, calm down," Sherlock mutters, ignoring the real reasons he's doing it, snagging the form out of Greg's hand and signing quickly with a shaky hand, before he folds the page in half hiding his shameful secret, digs his wallet out of his back pocket and tosses the money on the table. "There. Happy?"
His two friends gape at him for a long moment before bursting into twin grins. "Yes, yes! Thank you so much, Sherlock!" Molly cries, watching with wide, excited eyes as Sherlock tucks the form beneath the small stack to the left of the table, though her excitement isn't that of a suffering student trying to make their way to a good university, but something else entirely, smiling brightly at Sherlock like he'd just done something delightfully shocking, Greg's expression mirroring hers as Sherlock backs away, deciding not to pull at that thread to hard.
"No problem," he shrugs uncomfortably, waving a goodbye to the two still smiling idiotically at him, and ducking into the crowd of students making their way to morning classes, ignoring the niggling feeling at the base of his skull that he'd just missed something he'd ought not to have.
Rolling his eyes and attempting to shake it off, he tugs his phone free from his pocket and glances over his screen before the first bell rings, finding a new unread message from the boy he can't stop thinking about, and the rest of the world falls away as he reads the two worded text.
Library today?
Tapping out a reply much too quickly but unable to care, Sherlock hits send and already begins to count down the hours until his free period, smiling all the way to maths.
I'll be there - SH
"If I see one more goddamn heart of any kind, real or paper or made from glitter, I am going to scream."
Snorting down to his textbook and steeling himself for one moment longer before he knows he'll be faced with glimmering blue eyes and a bright, happy smile, Sherlock bites his lip and glances up, only to be greeted with an even more breathtaking sight than he ever could prepare for, cursing himself for even believing he could have prepared himself in the first place.
John Watson, captain of the rugby team, adorned in said rugby jacket, navy thread bringing out those blue irises more than ever, white C fitted against his chest on the left and his initials on the right, blond fringe laying down across his forehead and winging to the side, looking gorgeous as all bloody hell drops down in the seat across from the genius at their usual table and Sherlock thanks his lucky stars that John is currently rummaging through his pack and not looking at the bloke who is currently attempting to find his voice again.
"Hello to you too," Sherlock teases back, hoping against hope the shakiness of his words can be overlooked seeing as it took all the effort in the world just to get them out in the first place.
"Seriously?" John settles in, opening his notebook with an incredulous shake of his head and tapping his pencil against the wooded desk. "Whoever gave those girls permission to plaster that shit all over the school should be fired. It's too much."
"Not a fan of Valentine's Day?" Sherlock bats his eyelashes stupidly as he says the title and John laughs, offering Sherlock a fond grin that definitely doesn't make the genius boy's heart stutter in his chest.
"No, no, it's not that," the blond boy giggles. "I just think it's too much, every inch of the halls littered in scrap pieces of paper and tinsel." He makes a face like tinsel has personally offended him during some dark time in his life. "It's annoying more than anything."
"On that we agree," Sherlock mutters with a affectionate shake of his head, leaning back down over his own notebook in an attempt to stealthily get his breathing back to normal, John's laugh always having an odd effect on Sherlock's pulse.
"Hm. So." John leans back his chair and crosses his arms. "I heard someone had a run-in with our resident bully this morning."
And just like that, the spell is broken and Sherlock's stomach drops to his toes.
Goddamnit.
Greg Lestrade and his big fucking mouth.
Freezing for a long moment before sighing in resignation, Sherlock glances up, ignoring John's assessing gaze as he narrows his eyes in a challenging glare. "It's not a big deal."
"Oh really?" John inquires, glowering right back at him. "What did he say?"
"Nothing," Sherlock replies with a fling of his hand as if to toss away whatever he'd heard from Anderson this morning and John's questions about it. "Just the usual."
"Are you okay?" John asks kindly but firmly, leaning forward to rest his weight on his elbows, lacing his fingers together in front of him and watching Sherlock carefully.
It's a habit John seems to have, being so goddamn caring and concerned and bloody wonderful. It makes it ten times for painful to look him in the eye when he's got his stern future-doctor face on, assessing the situation calmly but steadily, always gentle but determined, taking in all the information he can before diagnosing the problem and finding a solution. It's one of the millions of reasons Sherlock just can't help himself.
He loves this boy so very much. He loves him more than he'd ever thought possible.
John Watson has been Sherlock Holmes' best friend for the past three years. After witnessing the football team giving Sherlock a good beating in the car park that fateful winter, John Watson not only ran them all off, he then helped Sherlock to his feet and into the loo where he tended to his bloody nose and demanded to know everything so he could report it accordingly to the headmaster and protect Sherlock from any further attempts at similar behavior. Sherlock had only barely talked him down, but they'd exchanged numbers nonetheless, John's ever-worried nature kicking in, forcing Sherlock to promise to call him if this ever happened again, which Sherlock of course didn't do but John didn't give up after that easily, hounding the genius boy about his well-being for the next several days until Sherlock couldn't fend him off any longer, agreeing to let him come over to have a look at his bruised nose and determine the status of his injuries for himself.
They'd been inseparable ever since.
And for the past three years, Sherlock Holmes has been slowly but surely falling madly in love with his very best friend.
Something he can hardly be blamed for considering John Watson is… like this.
It's the little things that make up the big things and now Sherlock is hardly able to look at his friend without going red in the face because John Watson is still John Watson whether Sherlock wants to be in love with him or not and it's so bloody unfair to sit through this kind of torture every day, this need to be with John every waking moment mixed with the need to never want to see him again for fear of embarrassing himself. And Sherlock is certain he is right on the verge of embarrassing himself considering the entire sodding school is just as in love with John as Sherlock is.
Rugby captain and all-around nice bloke, John is absolutely adored within their secondary school. He's charming and witty and truly a kind boy, always there with a quick joke and a grin to make any dark day light, the kind of bloke you can count on to always have your back through thick and thin no matter what. Back when Sherlock wasn't aware what a fixture this boy was about to become in his life when they used to spend every weekend together, watching films and eating popcorn, Sherlock couldn't understand why John was even there. He couldn't see why this incredible bloke was spending all this time with the genius boy of all people when he could be doing countless other things with countless other people, finding better and more interesting things to do than keep Sherlock company in his big empty house while his parents constantly traveled on business, hardly ever there at all.
Looking back on it now, after years of time spent with the boy, Sherlock knows now that that's just John. He's just that thoughtful and just that concerned and if he could help it Sherlock would never ever be hurt or alone for the rest of his days. He's been there for Sherlock for three beautiful years of friendship, teaching the genius boy what it was to be a good friend, to support someone and cheer someone on and help someone through the hell that is being a teenager.
And here Sherlock is, mucking it up good and proper while instead of appreciating John's friendship, he goes and falls in love with him like the sodding idiot that he is.
"I'm fine," he mutters, cheeks flaming at the lie having nothing to do with Phillip Anderson or his goons. "It was nothing."
"Lestrade said you looked a little shaken afterward," John replies softly, staring at Sherlock with all the soft tenderness of a good friend.
"Well Lestrade doesn't know everything, now does he," Sherlock spits in reply, gut swooping guiltily at the harshness of his own words when John is just trying to help, but he can't help it when John is looking at him like he's some sort of kicked puppy and Greg Lestrade can't keep his damn mouth shut.
"I know that," John says patiently, the sentence falling so easily from his mouth like he has all the time in the world for Sherlock to lash out. "We just want to make sure you're okay, you know. We worry."
"Well maybe you shouldn't," Sherlock growls, stabbing his pencil down at his notebook and scribbling a few lines furiously. "I'm so sick of people worrying about me, like they know anything at all."
"I do know you, though," John says with a frown. "Wouldn't you say?"
"Not you," Sherlock rolls his eyes, anger flaring in his throat. "Everyone else. They act like they know me so well, like they know anything about me. It's infuriating."
"I don't think that was Lestrade's point," John argues, still soft and reassuring, taking Sherlock's attitude in stride.
"I know it wasn't," Sherlock barks, earning him a few withering glances from tables nearby but he can't be arsed to care as he looks more and more foolish in front of his best friend. "I didn't say it was."
Silence falls between them and Sherlock steels himself a moment to cool off, his irrational irritation stemming from neither Lestrade nor John, the ugly words spoken to him this morning still burning bright in his mind.
"Sherlock," John finally says and the genius looks up at him and just like that it's like John has read every single one of Sherlock's thoughts. "What did Anderson say to you this morning?"
Blinking for a long moment, Sherlock finally drops his gaze, thumbing at the pencil marks he's just made on his paper and shaking his head. "He's just a tool," he tries to say lightly. "It's this stupid holiday. Seems to somehow bring out the worst in him, needing to poke fun at me for… well, it's just exhausting."
Even without looking, Sherlock knows John's face has gone a bit dark, reading between the lines of Sherlock's aborted sentences. "That bastard," John mutters under his breath more to himself than anything before his hand is reaching into Sherlock's view. "Hey," John whispers for his attention but Sherlock can't bring himself to raise his eyes. "There is nothing bloody wrong with you Sherlock Holmes, do you understand me?"
Nodding down to his page and feeling unbelievably foolish for even having this conversation, Sherlock still can't look up. "I know that's what you think."
"It's what I know," John replies fiercely, words quiet but firm as he says them and Sherlock can't help chancing a glance from beneath his eyelashes as John continues. "You are absolutely perfect exactly how you are and Phillip Anderson can fuck right off."
Their eyes lock for a long moment, Sherlock unable to look away and John stares forcefully back, holding his gaze and willing him to understand and believe his words to be truth, the deep blue of his irises boring into Sherlock with everything he has.
It's too much.
Sherlock has to look away, the intensity too much for his fragile heart to manage, his stomach flipping under the attention of this beautiful boy telling him he's perfect.
"Well," he murmurs to the wall, forcing himself to relax and ignore the stunning boy in front of him murmuring the kindest of words.
"Yes well," John agrees with an indignant huff. "I'm right."
Grinning to himself, Sherlock still refuses to look at him, though the soft chuckle he hears in reply only makes him smile harder.
"Whatever he said to you… just, don't listen okay?" John prods gently, clearly unsatisfied with ending the conversation like this.
Sherlock sighs, Anderson's words rushing back to him and a wave of anger pulls the genius boy back under as he remembers that nasty sneer so close to his face only hours ago, the wound still fresh from where Anderson's words cut him deep. "I just wish everyone would leave me the hell alone about my sodding sex life," he grumbles to his paper. "I don't understand why he even cares. It's not anyone's business, especially not fucking Phillip Anderson's."
A long pause follows his statement and his cheeks are beginning to heat at the admission just as John finally replies, clearly choosing his words very carefully and Sherlock's face might as well be on fire.
"You're right about that," John replies slowly. "It shouldn't be a topic of conversation for anyone unless you want it to be."
"But that's the whole point, John!" Sherlock cries, embarrassment mixing with anger making him feel unnecessarily anxious and defensive. This is John he's talking to after all. John would never make him feel bad about any of this. But still, he keeps bloody talking because he apparently has zero self-control. "It's never on my terms, everyone just assumes something and never deigns to find out the truth and so I'm deemed some pathetic little virgin to the general public of the secondary school and it shouldn't matter but it does and I wish I could just get it over with and never worry about it again."
The last words snap out before Sherlock can snap his mouth shut and he immediately feels the panic and uncertainty rise in his chest, threatening to strangle him and his eyes dart to John's to assess, to find out exactly how much damage he's just done with his rogue mouth speaking out of turn at its own accord.
John's features is doing something complicated like he's fighting between fury and focus, trying to keep his face neutral as his lips tremble slightly where they're pressed together. His brow is furrowed over his blue eyes, tan cheeks pinched at the corners.
"You..." he starts and stops, taking a deep breath before continuing, again picking his words with care. "You want to... no longer be a virgin?"
It's so diplomatic and so John, Sherlock's lips twitch for a long moment before he nods, appreciating the delicate care his best friend is taking with this conversation, before his subconscious snaps back into focus.
Oh god.
Oh fuck.
It's not some big secret, he knows everyone seems to know he has yet to be deflowered but Jesus to just bluntly say it? Out loud? To John Watson of all people?
Anderson's in his goddamn head and now he's complaining to the boy he's madly in love with about still being a virgin and good god he's lost his mind officially. He's officially gone completely mad.
"I... It would just be nice not to have to be teased about it anymore," Sherlock says defensively, although he and John both know he'd never tell the boys who tease him that he'd actually had sex. "Besides, It's not even that big of a deal. Everyone else has done it."
His gaze lingers meaningfully on John Watson long enough for the rugby player's cheeks to pinken before he seems to gather himself and plunder on like they aren't currently having the world's strangest conversation. "So you just want to... what, exactly? Shag a random stranger just to say you've done it?"
John's tone is a little accusatory and a little horrified and lot concerned but all Sherlock can do is shrug. He hasn't actually thought this all the way through, sex with a stranger not exactly an appealing thought, but it would nice to no longer be seen as some freak no one will touch, wouldn't it? Not that he'd tell anyone if he did have sex considering the person he'd like to have sex with is a boy and that would come with its own set of problems but... but for his own peace of mind, for his own internal turmoil he'd like to be on the knowing side of the teasing that no, actually, he isn't a virgin any longer, and wouldn't that feel good? Wouldn't it be nice to be on that side of things?
Of course that endeavor comes with another person involved which Sherlock literally cannot imagine being anyone besides the boy sitting across from him. The very straight boy who has no romantic interest in any other boy let alone Sherlock Holmes of all people.
It's an entirely lost cause.
But for the sake of conversation, Sherlock carries on because he's gotten himself this far into it and truthfully can't see a way out. "Doesn't have to be random," Sherlock replies nonchalantly like his virginity isn't anything important, which, to be quite honest he isn't sure if it is or not. "Someone I know would be fine."
John's mouth is hanging open as he stares at his friend. "You're serious," he murmurs, blinking uncomprehendingly. "You want to just... just fuck someone just to do it?"
"I just don't want it to be a big deal," Sherlock counters, ears going hot at John's blunt vulgarity. "Plus it would be nice to get it out of the way before uni. No use in bringing that lovely reputation as a freak to a whole other school."
Several emotions war for dominance on John's face, twisting and turning his features as he visibly determines how to react, several indefinable emotions flickering in his deep blue eyes too quickly for Sherlock to catch a single one, blinking each away with the flutter of blond lashes and its akin to waiting for the world to end as Sherlock watches with baited breath, having no idea where this conversation is going to end.
Until John seems to settle something internally, kicking his shoulders back a notch and nodding slightly to himself, his resolve evident in his sturdy features.
Sherlock waits, unable to move until John speaks.
"Aright," the rugby player said firmly. "I'll do it."
Frowning, Sherlock cocks his head to the side, too caught up in John's facial expressions to keep up with the conversation. "Do what?"
Eyes widening for a split second and swallowing hard like his throat has just gone very dry, John's fingers fidget along the seam of his jacket. "Oh- well, you... you said ... I- mean if you want to get it over with, I can- I'll do it."
Blinking rapidly for upwards of thirty seconds, Sherlock's brain decides to short-circuit at this very moment, unable to connect the dots of the conversation to its obvious conclusion, John's words muddling in his head like he's spoken under water, the meaning around the determined and then stuttered sentences evading his normally genius brain.
So he blinks. And blinks. And blinks. Until his eyes start to itch a little and John is shifting uncomfortably in his seat looking at anything besides Sherlock, just letting his offer hang between them like a giant elephant stamping its feet but somehow making no noise.
Until finally Sherlock's stupid mouth finds its voice without any help from his brain. "But you're straight," is his idiotic retort, like somehow that will magically make this conversation any less bizarre.
John's cheeks darken immediately, the blush deep and prominent and adorable, and Sherlock stares for a moment too long until John clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. "Er- Yeah I was gonna talk to you about that actually. I… I think I'm bisexual."
Again, Sherlock gapes. There is so much new information coming out of this conversation with his best friend and it's rather difficult to comprehend, none of it sinking in or making a lick of sense. "You were gonna talk to me about it?"
"Of course," John shrugs, looking a bit incredulous like this should have been the most obvious thing in the world. And after what he says next, Sherlock realizes it should have been. "You're my best friend. Who else was I gonna tell?"
"Oh," Sherlock breathes, feeling all warm and tender in his chest. "I - …thank you."
"I mean, you told me you were gay, right?" John shrugs like it's no big deal. "Friends tell each other stuff."
"Sure," Sherlock agrees, biting his lip in an attempt not let his grin get out of control.
"So I would... I'd be amenable," John mutters, back to picking at a thread on his sleeve. "If you are."
It takes a monumental effort for Sherlock to reply with any semblance of comprehension or coherent response, all of this hitting him a bit hard while simultaneously not making any sense at all, but somehow he's able to cough up a shaky, "Alright," before the silence reaches a minute.
It's only after John's smile has grown to spread across his face brilliantly from one cheek to the other and informed Sherlock that his mum is working the night shift Sunday night, and it's only after Sherlock responds that his parents will be out town until next week and it's only after they make a plan for John to stay over Sunday night and it's only after John has departed with an awkward wave and stuttered goodbye that Sherlock realizes exactly what he's just agreed to.
And considering it's Friday, that gives him plenty of time to have a colossal fucking meltdown.
He's changed his mind at least eighteen times by the time 7pm rolls around on Sunday evening, the magnitude of what's about the happen only made real two hours prior when John had text him after radio silence for 48 hours:
Still on for tonight?
And much like the last 48 hours have gone, Sherlock's fingers take on a life of their own replying with an easy yes like he hadn't spent the day before running five miles and cleaning the entire mansion he lives in from top to bottom in an effort not to bloody think about what is about to happen.
The weekend somehow zipped by in a blur while the clock simultaneously refused to tick any faster as the fateful evening approached and before he can even comprehend the fact that it's Sunday at all, the doorbell is ringing and Sherlock is suddenly consumed with reality.
He'd spent the day entirety of Sunday preparing, washing, making and then remaking his bed, carefully ironing his favorite jeans and creasing his collared shirt to perfection, and then soaked his body in a hot bath before scrubbing every inch of himself until he was red and raw and ready, fixing his curls and dabbing just a gentle hint of cologne on his wrist, keeping his hands and mind busy with preparing for what is probably the biggest moment of his life but since he hasn't truly let himself sit down to think about it too hard without starting to have the beginnings of a panic attack, Sherlock practically jumps out of his skin at the sound of the doorbell.
And just like that, the genius boy's silent, calm, preoccupied world shatters into millions of tiny little pieces as his fate stands just beyond a few inches of wood and it's daunting and terrifying and real.
Oh god.
Oh god this is… this is happening. Really and truly, John Watson is here, here to fuck Sherlock Holmes and oh god. Oh good god.
Willing his hand to stop shaking unhelpfully, Sherlock makes his way on unsteady legs to the front door and steels a last single inhale and exhale before he whips the door open, resolve finally settling that maybe this isn't the best idea, that maybe John will have changed his mind, that maybe they hadn't quite thought this through and maybe they should re-evaluate and maybe not do this.
Good. That's settled.
And then there is John standing on the other side of the threshold, all dressed up in a dark blue button-down and navy jeans, looking the most put together that Sherlock has ever seen and the most bloody beautiful and all thoughts of discussing this away go right out the window as Sherlock's mouth fills with saliva and want settles deep in his abdomen, the thought of John not fucking him tonight making his stomach churn unpleasantly, realization crashing over him as he takes in the boy on his porch.
Christ, he wants John Watson.
He wants John Watson so fucking badly.
Even if it's just tonight. Even if it's only once.
Sherlock wants him. Sherlock wants everything with him.
Looking equally stunned, John hovers in the doorway for a long moment, raking his eyes up and down Sherlock's frame with those gorgeous blue orbs, taking in every inch of him before he seems to come to, realizing he hasn't said a word yet and snapping his gaze upward to offer an apologetic smile, lifting a brown paper bag up that's currently clutched in his left hand.
"I brought dinner," he says but his voice is rough and a little wobbly, deeper than Sherlock has ever heard it like liquid chocolate pouring out of his mouth, his eyes reflecting the heat currently radiating off of Sherlock's skin and from there it's all over.
"Sod the dinner," Sherlock growls with a confidence he has no business having and John's dropping the takeaway into the entryway and kicking the door shut before either of them can think twice.
And then his thick, muscled arms are around Sherlock's waist and his hands are on Sherlock's back and his body is colliding with Sherlock's and it's…
Christ.
It's so much more than Sherlock ever thought possible.
It's like fireworks going off as their lips collide in a slow, heated kiss, feeling each other out so carefully and gently and Sherlock's toes are curling in bliss as he practically melts into John's frame, winding his arms around John's shoulders, heat racing up his spine as John kisses him so tenderly, tucking Sherlock's bottom lip between his own and sucking carefully. It's full of tentative wonder and heated promise, the slow push and pull of their mouths gentling against one another, finding their own unique rhythm and already the genius boy is trembling, the possibility of more hanging heavily between their bodies as they touch and explore and get to know each other this way.
John pulls back and smiles rather shyly, tucking a stray curl behind Sherlock's ear before lacing their fingers together with a quick tilt of his head toward Sherlock's room and the genius boy follows dutifully in a daze, almost unable to believe this is happening, gripping John's hand tightly like if he lets go, this may all disappear into some awfully vivid dream.
It's so quiet as John silently closes the door behind them, Sherlock's bed looming before them on the opposite side of the room, but the blond boy doesn't pull him there immediately, instead wrapping him up again in his arms and holding him close, cradling his body like Sherlock is something precious, something delicate John needs to take care of. It makes Sherlock's heart ache, the kindness John is showing him drudging up so many feelings, so much emotion that no one prepared him for, no sex education class, no online research telling him this is what sex would be like.
A thumb runs along Sherlock's cheekbone and he opens his eyes to find John's soft features beaming at him. "Alright?" the rugby player murmurs with another sweep of his finger against Sherlock's skin.
"Yes," Sherlock breathes, taking John's hand and guiding it to the first button of his shirt, reassuring the best way he can when he's incapable of verbalizing it.
John smiles and carefully undresses him, silently checking in with him every time a new inch of skin is revealed and Sherlock is struggling to breathe properly, John's tender touches making his heart swell to an unhealthy size, watching with lidded eyes as John pushes his shirt down his arms and lays a kiss against Sherlock's bare shoulder.
"You're beautiful," he whispers, trailing reverent fingers along Sherlock's naked torso, feeling his muscles with the pads of his fingers and dropping open-mouthed kisses to his neck. Sherlock drops his head back and moans without thinking, never being tended to like this before, so carefully and delicately and sweetly.
"Christ," John murmurs against his skin, and Sherlock notes John's shaky fingers speeding up their movements as they unsteadily unbuckle Sherlock's belt, pulling it free as his thumb pushes valiantly at the button locking Sherlock's denim in place.
The urgency in the blond boy's movements makes something pulse in the base of Sherlock's spine and he bites his lip as his jeans fall open, silently agreeing with himself that he is simply going to enjoy this. He's not going to worry about what happens later, that this is a one-time thing, that tomorrow he will see John at school and it will be like this never happened.
No, he is going to take everything he possibly can from this. Give himself over entirely. Spend one perfect night with one perfect boy.
So he drops his head back down and finds John's lips again, capturing them between his and sucking gently, rolling his tongue into John's mouth when the boy takes a breath and tasting his afternoon tea and warmth and comfort that's all John Watson. Sherlock's jeans slide to the floor along with his pants and John wraps his fully naked body up in his arms holding him close as he kisses him, one hand sliding into Sherlock's curls and cradling his skull gently.
Sherlock's fingers sneak their way beneath John's shirt and he goes to work, unbuttoning and unzipping and disrobing his best friend until they're pressed against each other, bare skin to bare skin, arms wrapped around each other and holding on like a lifeline like if either lets go they both will drown.
It's John who shifts first, walking Sherlock slowly back toward the bed until he can lay him down in the sheets, crawling over top of him and descending upon his lips again, and John's weight is more than welcome, pressed chest to thigh and slowly sinking Sherlock back into the mattress. It's warm and soft against Sherlock's recently cleaned sheets, the air crackling with anticipation and promise and intention between them as naked flesh rolls against naked flesh. Fingers slide between Sherlock's slender digits and tug, pulling both his hands up and over his head, and Sherlock groans as John presses his palms to Sherlock's and holds him down on the bed, nipping at his lower lip. The genius boy's hips roll at their own accord and John's cock slots in beside his, sending sparks of real pleasure racing all along Sherlock's body, the dimly lit coals stoking in his belly suddenly lighting on fire at the touch.
"Fuck," John breathes, dipping his head and pressing his face against Sherlock's neck, moaning as they move with each other, brushing erection against erection with every push and pull of their bodies. "Oh god, Sherlock."
Short fingers drag down Sherlock's arms as John's lips move along down Sherlock's sternum, licking along his skin and swirling his tongue against Sherlock's nipple. The genius boy's hands turn down and grip the sheets overhead as he pushes his chest up into John's touch, the touch to his sensitive nipples and the feeling of John's hard cock grinding against his making his vision go a bit fuzzy. "Ohh my god."
John moves slightly, grabbing Sherlock's hip as he laves over Sherlock's nipple with his mouth and pinches the other gently between his thumb and forefinger and the genius boy keens, going slightly mad with need, outright growling as John plays his body carefully.
"God, you are so sensitive," John murmurs, the grin evident in his words as he continues his ministrations. "I love it."
"John," is Sherlock's incoherent reply, biting his lip hard as John delivers another roll of his hips and a pinch to his nipple. "Please."
Chuckling against his skin, John works his way down Sherlock's body that's currently spread wantonly along the sheets, but Sherlock truly can't care right now, his skin singing praises of John's careful hands and lips and words, sparks crackling all over his frame at every touch from John Watson.
Nipping and licking and sucking, John moves with purpose, and Sherlock props himself up on his elbows to watch from beneath hooded eyes which promptly fall closed as John's lips press against his bare hip, tongue flicking out to lick along the dip of his pelvis.
He's only just calming from the goose pimples bubbling up along his skin from that touch alone when suddenly there is almost unbearable pleasure sweeping his entire body and obscenely wet heat engulfing his cock and Sherlock practically sobs at the intensity of it, crying out without any decision to do so, the sound pathetic and needy and surprised and he can't, he can't, he can't -
"John", Sherlock gasps and even to his own ears it sounds like a plea, begging the boy delivering such unbelievable pleasure to his body to stop, scrabbling a hand along John's shoulder and hair. "John. John! Please, John stop, stop."
The blond head between his legs immediately complies, brows pinched in concern as he scrambles back up Sherlock's body to his face. "What? Are you okay? I'm so sorry, did I hurt you?"
Panting and shaking his head unsteadily, Sherlock smoothes a hand through John's fringe in an attempt to soothe him as he gathers his own thoughts, never wanting John to believe he's done anything wrong because, Christ, he hasn't done anything wrong, it's just… it's was just...
"I'm sorry, John - I- I'm too wound up, I'm too... I can't- I'll come if you keep doing that, I swear I will, I will come-"
John's worried face falls into something soft and tender, affection beaming from his cherub-like features and he presses a kiss to Sherlock's forehead as the boy beneath him catches his breath. "I'm sorry, love," he croones. "I didn't mean to overwhelm you."
Sherlock sits up and wraps his arms tight around John's shoulders, breath finally returning to a normal rate as he shakes his head again. "You didn't, you... you were so.. it was amazing - I just- I want-… I want more-… I don't want it to be over."
John's hand runs lovingly along Sherlock's back in a sweep of comfort, nuzzling his neck with soft kisses. "It's not over, baby," John whispers in his ear, making Sherlock's world tilt with another wave of bliss. "It's far from over."
Christ, it sounds like a promise and Sherlock makes a soft sound as John lays him back down and utterly worships his body, running the gentlest of touches over his skin, making him writhe and squirm and moan.
Hands fall to either of his knees and press encouragingly, and Sherlock obediently spreads his legs, biting down on his lip at how exposed he is, but John doesn't laugh or tease, he simple runs a palm down Sherlock's stomach and lightly over his cock, whispering, "So gorgeous. Absolutely gorgeous, Sherlock."
Sherlock shivers under the attention, focusing on John's hand against his thigh, holding steady as the other gropes around the nightstand for the supplies Sherlock had been in charge of purchasing, which he did on Friday before any of this became too real, a small box of condoms and a bottle of lube, all thoroughly researched, purchased with shaky fingers and red cheeks and not a hint of eye contact with the store clerk.
Sherlock closes his eyes and ignores the thrill that shimmies its way up the back of his neck as he hears the snick of the cap popping open, knowing what comes next and biting down on the nerves fluttering around his abdomen.
What he isn't prepared for is warm, soft lips pressing to his first in a chaste but solid kiss, John coaxing his mouth open until he can dip his tongue against Sherlock's, slowly relaxing his body with a gentle snog.
Sherlock melts back into the mattress, bones turning to jelly as John kisses him thoroughly, tenderly rubbing their tongues together so carefully Sherlock almost misses the sudden warmth between his legs.
"Relax," John whispers into the kiss as Sherlock gasps and tenses, the gentle fingers pressing behind his balls feeling foreign and exciting all at once, apprehension ebbing into certainty as John's clever fingers circle the tight ring of muscles between his arsecheeks, the slickness assisting the smooth slide of his movements, massaging Sherlock's opening patiently.
"Alright?" John whispers quietly, his voice a bit rough and gravelly and Sherlock practically keens as the tip of a finger breeches his body.
"Uh-huh," he replies raggedly, heels skidding across the sheets as he tries to lift his hips for more, his body opening itself to John like a flower blooming, thighs quivering with the effort to pull himself further open and higher up.
John's lips are against his ear and he's whispering as he dips a finger into Sherlock, nipping his earlobe and murmuring huskily. "Oh, love, you're so warm. I want to make you feel so good, Sherlock. I want to make you feel amazing. Do you like that?"
The first knuckle pushes passed the puckered ring of Sherlock's entrance and his hand flies to John's bicep, steadying himself as he pushes into the touch. "Oh my god," he mutters, grey eyes locked on John's wrist before they snap to John's blue eyes watching him closely. He melts like butter under the gaze, eyelids fluttering at how good that feels. "Oh my god."
And just like, it hits him. Like a runaway freight train on an endless track, it slams into his chest and knocks the breath from his body because when he says oh my god he means I love you and all of that nonsense about one perfect night promptly shatters in its fragility because Sherlock can't just have one night, he can't just have this once, not with John, he won't survive without this, he's going to need this forever and ever, there will be no going back after this, of that he is certain.
So he hangs on to his John for dear life and swallows the love burning a hole in his heart and gazes at John with everything he can't say, grey eyes shimmering all of his love and adoration and affection and John's finger falters for a moment before a second is pushing in along with it and god, Sherlock loves this boy, this boy delivering him the most exquisite pleasure he's ever felt, taking care of him and holding him and caressing him through it.
And Sherlock knows he's never going to want anyone else. He's never going to want anyone else the way he wants John Watson.
A calm washes over him, a knowledge that this is it, this is what he's going to have before his heart shatters into a million pieces and so he smiles because the pain hasn't swallowed him up yet, not while he hangs in this moment, not while John is still his, even if it's for the first and last time.
So he pulls his knees up to his chest and reaches for a lingering kiss before he's nudging John atop him, bracketing his waist with his spread thighs, murmuring, "I'm ready John. Please, I'm ready."
The blond boy gives two more strokes of his fingers inside Sherlock before he pulls out and reaches for a condom, dropping kisses to Sherlock's neck and chest as he rolls it onto himself, giving himself a stroke with a lube-covered hand before he pauses, hovering over Sherlock and brushing the curls off his forehead. "One more time for me love," he whispers tenderly. "Are you sure?"
It makes Sherlock want to cry and laugh all at once which results in a half bitten off sob, and he nods, threading his fingers into John's hair. "I'm ready," he breathes. "Please do it, John."
John's cheeks are flushed and warm when Sherlock presses a palm to one, his features soft with tenderness making Sherlock's heart ache, and he takes the moment to remember John's face just like this, open and kind and loving and careful, all of the things that Sherlock loves about this boy.
And on that note, Sherlock blinks, filing the mental snapshot away into his memory for all time and gives the boy above him an almost imperceptible nod.
And John pushes in.
It's so slow, John's eyelashes fluttering along his cheeks, blue eyes sparkling in the moonlight and Sherlock can't breathe for one long moment, his entire body feeling like it's about to burst with fullness. He blows out a shaky breath and clutches John's hip, holding him still for a moment. "Hang on," Sherlock whispers as his body slowly adjusts and John does, freezing in place as he immediately starts to apologize and then pull back.
Sherlock's legs fold up and around John's back at their own accord, locking him in place. "No no, don't stop," Sherlock begs, holding John in place. "Just... just give me a minute."
John holds unbelievably still, worried gaze watching for any twitch, any flinch, any sign of pain, and Sherlock smiles in return, appreciating the careful attention, running loving hands along John's flanks and taking steady, relaxing breaths. "I'm okay," he whispers. "It's just new. Takes some getting used to."
John still looks pained, pressing apology kisses to every inch of Sherlock he can reach, his cheeks and lips and forehead. "I don't ever want to hurt you," he murmurs fiercely. "Not ever."
"I know," Sherlock replies, because he does know, John would never purposefully hurt him.
Which is a bit sad considering currently John has no idea how badly he's going to hurt Sherlock.
But that's a problem for tomorrow because tonight, Sherlock Holmes is having sex with John Watson and he'd prefer to enjoy it without the looming nightmares of tomorrow.
So he pushes that thought aside and breathes until he feels his body give a bit to the intrusion and without warning John's cock sinks deep into him, his internal walls pulling the boy in all the way to the hilt. John curses against Sherlock's cheek and in turn Sherlock moans and then it turns into something else entirely.
They move together slowly, rolling against one another's firm body, gripping and growling and groaning as John slides in and out of Sherlock smoothly, a hand wrapping firmly around Sherlock's thigh and hitching him higher.
"Oh god, Sherlock, fuck," John moans and Sherlock has to kiss him, has to pull him close and let John push him into the sheets and envelope him in heat and passion and bliss, tasting the curses and his own name in John's mouth and it is glorious.
John goes willingly as sweat breaks out along his brow and Sherlock tilts his hips in an effort to assist in the deep, thorough shag he's currently on the receiving end of and-
"Oh!" Sherlock gasps, sparks showering behind his eyelids and trickling down his frame and out to all of his limbs as John nudges against a soft spot inside him, his whole body quavering at the touch. "Ohh- god John!"
Grabbing at his hand, peeling it off his own hip, John laces his fingers with Sherlock's and pushes it back over his head, gripping it for all he's worth as he drives his hips back into Sherlock, grinding down into him. "Yeah, yeah baby," John babbles, finding that spot again and pushing against it over and over as Sherlock bucks up against him with a sob.
"John. Oh- John," he cries, squeezing John's hand hard, the familiar tinglings of an orgasm pooling in his hips as he thighs tremble. "John. John. Please, John!"
A warm, slick hand releases his thigh and wraps around his cock with a firm grasp, stroking him from base to tip as John continues to thrust long and deep inside of him, the rhythm perfect to drive Sherlock absolutely insane.
His grey eyes lock in on John's, edging closer and closer to his peak, just as John's blue eyes flash with something so deep and honest and gut-wrenchingly raw and Sherlock loses himself in a wave of unadulterated pleasure, sweeping through him and knocking his whole world off balance as his physical body is taken over by John's and he's lost in sensations and false truths that if he didn't know better, he might have mistaken the gaze he just caught in his best friend's eyes for love.
It's the cold light of day that brings a bucket of freezing water poured all over Sherlock' bliss.
He'd had no illusions about what this is, not once, but still. Still, he hadn't realized how extremely ill-equipped he is for what comes next.
He knows now things will never ever be the same, kicking himself now for ever believing there would be a way around it. He's been so bloody naive thinking he could have one night, finally have what he wanted, for just once and then maybe be okay after, maybe survive this in one piece, maybe find his way back to normal but now he knows better. Now he knows it will never be okay.
John had snuck out earlier in the morning, no doubt to skip the unbearably awkward conversation they're bound to have at some point but maybe not yet, not when things are still so raw and new and painful. Sherlock had actually been awake, silently watching John gather his clothes and hurriedly button himself back up, covering that beautiful body that did unspeakable things to Sherlock all night long, things he'll never get to experience again with that gorgeous rugby player.
And the genius boy had almost called out to him. Almost demanded he strip off those useless clothes and get back into bed, into Sherlock's bed where he belongs, but now that would have just been foolish of him. He knows the score. He knows exactly what he's gotten himself into.
So he'd laid silent, pushing a hand against his heart in a weak attempt to keep it from shattering as John walked out his door.
God, it hurt. It hurt more than Sherlock could have ever prepared for.
But even now as he walks through the halls of his school, he knows the pain he felt this morning is going to be nothing compared to what happens next. Compared to the excruciating agony of seeing John Watson after what they shared last night, this morning is going to look like a walk in the fucking park.
The hallways have been blessedly busy today, not a single student noticing Sherlock making his way from first period to second and now to his locker, planning to stay as under the radar as he can possibly manage, misery fogging his thoughts and making him feel much smaller, much more alone than he's ever been in his young life.
Classes had gone by as nothing more than dull sounds around him as Sherlock stayed slunk in his seat, staring off into the abyss and wondering how he's going to survive without what he had for the first and last time the previous night.
He'd had no idea. Not a damn clue what sex would do to him. What sex with John Watson would do to him.
And now he knows, he bloody knows he's going to pay for it. He's going to pay a pretty big price for the most wonderful night he's ever known.
Spinning the dial weakly on his locker, he only just notes a small group of girls his age tittering nearby, the four of them surrounding a fifth girl who is speaking softly enough Sherlock can't hear the actual words, though the red in her cheeks and the grin on her face tells her excitement all the same, beaming at her friends as they ooh and aww and hug her tight with dialed down squeals of delight. Curiosity getting the better of him, Sherlock watches hazily, brain sluggish today with any kind of deductions, instead just observing with no ulterior motives, blinking owlishly at the display. The women slowly disperse from their tight group, the girl at the center of the attention finally coming into full view and Sherlock just sees the tip of something red held in her arms when-
"Sherlock?"
It actually hurts to hear his name in that tenor.
It's no longer liquid chocolate but instead warm honey that falls from John Watson's lips, his voice always the sweetest sound to the genius boy's ears, even on today of all days.
Closing his eyes around the pain shuddering through his heart, Sherlock takes a deep breath before turning to face down his best friend, the hurt threatening to swallow him whole.
John's eyes are somehow bluer today, like the ocean after a particularly heavy storm, opals and aquas and indigos and mints all crashing together, swirling in his irises and mesmerizing Sherlock Holmes.
Christ, he aches to reach out, to pull John into his arms and press as close as he was last night, to push his face into John's neck and smell that wholly John scent that's still lingering in his sheets and on his pillow and somehow has seeped into his skin and won't let up, the fragrance lingering in his nose and still somehow making him feel warm and safe.
It kills him not to reach out and touch this beautiful boy.
"I…-" the rugby player starts and stops, giant eyes falling away from Sherlock's and sweeping down to himself, shifting the item he's got clutched to his chest that the genius boy is only noticing now, nodding down to it meaningfully. "I...I got your Valentine."
The brain of Sherlock Holmes is very much not on today as he blinks uncomprehendingly in reply, the boy in front of his taking every ounce of his attention and the box he's holding making not a single bit of sense.
God, he's tired. It's been maybe two hours of this misery and Sherlock is bloody exhausted. "What?" is his stupid reply, because he doesn't get it and he doesn't know if he wants to get it, nothing making any sense now that he's had John Watson in every sense of the word and won't ever have him again.
On fucking cue, two familiar faces round the corner just behind John, Molly Hooper and Greg Lestrade talking animatedly to each other before either of them notice the shell of Sherlock Holmes watching them both and they freeze almost on command, stopping dead in their tracks.
Sherlock watches as Molly's eyes flick back and forth between John's back and Sherlock's front before she takes one step closer, peering round John's shoulder just enough to stay out of sight and catch a glimpse of what he's got curled in his arms before her eyes widen.
And Sherlock continues to watch semi-interestedly and mostly helplessly as Molly barely suppresses a squeak before offering a loaded glance at Greg and then they're both spinning on their heels without a second look at Sherlock or John, taking off back the way they'd come much quicker than when they'd arrived and it takes a solid minute for Sherlock's thoughts to squirm their way into place, the entire encounter completely bizarre and completely unnoticed by John Watson, so much so that Sherlock wonders if he hallucinated the whole thing, that maybe John standing here is just a figment of his imagination, that maybe he really has gone completely mad.
And then it's like the world is ending all over again as Sherlock's stomach rolls with fury and embarrassment and more bloody hurt, observations finally slotting into place to show the entire picture and Sherlock's cheeks go red.
Fuck.
Oh fuck, it's fucking Valentine's Day and… and Molly and Greg…
"Those wankers," he growls under his breath, glaring down the spot his two friends had been only moments ago like they might reappear at any moment and take the tongue-lashing Sherlock would really enjoy giving them right about now.
"Sherlock?" John's hesitant voice filters back in through the genius boy's anger and Sherlock blinks blearily at his friend, still wading his way through his outrage. "Are you alright?"
"Those idiots!" Sherlock exclaims, pointing a finger into dead space and glowering harshly at it, everything falling neatly and horribly into place. "They weren't supposed to... it was supposed to be anonymous!"
John's looking at him like he's grown a second head but Sherlock can't let this go, not when he's tethering every emotion he's currently feeling to it considering he can't actually be mad at John for last night and he can't be upset about his helpless feelings he can't seem to get over, but this. This he can be goddamn furious about.
"What was?" John asks worriedly, taking a panicked step closer in an attempt to help. "The heart?"
"Yes!" Sherlock cries indignantly. "They said it was anonymous. No one was ever supposed to
know, they promised that if I sent you... that I sent - that I-... I... "
He growls in frustration, his thoughts muddled and thick and slow, his admission barely obvious to his own ears but John is taking another step closer and Sherlock's mouth shuts thankfully on its own.
"So, you did though?" John murmurs, gaze so soft and filled with so many things Sherlock has been desperately wanting to see in them for so long, navy hope blooming in his irises. He peels back a square piece of paper taped precariously to the front of the box, revealing nine words that shake Sherlock's world all over again, the visual evidence almost too much to take.
To: John Watson
Happy Valentine's Day
Love: Sherlock Holmes
It's his note, it's most definitely what he wrote but he most certainly did not sign his name thank you very much, grey eyes staring in horror at his darkest secret being splayed out in public like this for all the world to see, for John to see.
"You sent it to me?" John asks again, his words going a little ragged and Sherlock stares up at him, realizing he has nowhere to go, no anger to hide behind, no lie to tell that will get him out of this.
So he nods. A simple movement of his head, the admission somehow so much more monumental than a card written on a box containing a chocolate heart, clocking John's reaction that is far less careful than anything they did the night before, face lifting slowly seemingly at its own accord and beaming brighter than the sun.
"Really?" he murmurs, shuffling just a bit closer. "Before... before last night?"
Another nod, another confession, another truth Sherlock hadn't intended on revealing but John is looking at him like that and Sherlock's heart is cautiously piecing itself back together without his permission, hope rising in his chest.
"Oh Sherlock," John murmurs, taking one final pace forward and closing the distance between them, threading his fingers into Sherlock's curls at the back of his head and pulling him down.
The box between their bodies squishes noisily but Sherlock can't be arsed to care when suddenly his whole world is righting itself after being off-kilter for the better part of a morning, John's lips sliding against his in a now familiar tenderness that's all John, always so careful, always so loving, and Sherlock finds himself locking arms around the rugby player and refusing to let go.
"The whole time," John is murmuring against his lips between gentle kisses, "the whole time I want this with you Sherlock. For years."
It's still not connecting, John's words falling on deaf ears as Sherlock's entire body relaxes away from the tension he's been holding all day long, what he'd thought he'd lost currently wrapped in his arms and whispering loving words and being perfect in every way possible. "Years?" He squeaks dazedly, not moving a millimeter from where he's pressed to John's front, not ever planning to let him go again.
"Years," John clarifies, pressing a lingering kiss to Sherlock's cheek. "And then you waltzed into the library Friday afternoon talking about giving your virginity to some random stranger-"
"Not what I said," Sherlock shakes his head but John keeps going, pressing at Sherlock's skull until his forehead rests against John's.
"-and I couldn't do it anymore, love. I couldn't just let you do that. I couldn't let anyone else have you, they wouldn't take care of you like I would, Sherlock, they wouldn't treat you like you deserve and my god, imagining you with anyone else was unbearable-"
"I was never going to do that John. There is no one else," Sherlock whispers, cutting John off with a press of his lips. "There has never been anyone else but you. Not for me. Not ever."
A soft, special smile turns John's mouth upward beautifully and Sherlock has to kiss it, has to taste that happy grin on John's face.
"I believe you," John whispers, gentling his lips against Sherlock's tenderly. "God, Sherlock I was so scared this morning. I thought maybe during last night that we could… but then I wasn't sure how you felt and I left and…" He takes a deep breath, gathering himself before peering up at Sherlock from beneath his blond lashes. "You sent me a heart," he murmurs, looking still a bit shocked. "You sent me a heart on Valentine's Day."
"Not on purpose," Sherlock clarifies, though he's grinning as John chuckles. "I mean it was on purpose but you weren't supposed to know it was on purpose."
"And this was before we decided to…?" John trails off as Sherlock nods, the beginnings of a smile curling the corners of his mouth. "And you really didn't sign your name?" John teases, grinning full-on now.
"I really didn't," Sherlock grouses, glaring at the now crinkled heart still in John's hand like it had personally offended him. "But I'm pretty sure I know who did." He glances to the side muttering, "Molly Hooper giving me some sob story about science fairs and university scholarships from the funds of these stupid chocolate hearts."
Pausing in his ministrations against Sherlock's lips, John pulls back with an amused little smirk on his face, eyes gleaming mischievously. "Molly has a full ride to some uni in America already," John grins and Sherlock's jaw drops. "And the hearts weren't a fundraiser, they were just expensive so the school made us charge for them."
"Oh my god," Sherlock grumbles, cheeks heating at just how severely he got played by his chemistry partner. "So why... what was the whole point..."
The answer settles in the silence between them, both gaping and lost in thought until John recovers first, backing Sherlock up against the locker and bracketing him in with his arms, sneaking kiss after kiss as they both giggle helplessly, the sheer ridiculousness of the entire situation not lost on either of them.
"I guess it was just us then, huh?" John teases, prodding Sherlock in the ribs with a smirk. "Everyone else knew about us before we did?"
And as it turns out, Valentine's Day isn't that bad when John Watson is grinning at you like that.
It isn't that bad at all.