Archive of Our Own

Sherlock was trying to get a better view of his back when Mycroft walked into his room.

There was a pause after Sherlock met his brother’s eyes before Mycroft asked carefully, “Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Turning and grabbing the t-shirt hanging from the end of his bed, “Labeling the bones of the spine.”

“Might one ask why?” When Sherlock failed to reply, Mycroft quirked an eyebrow, his lips tightening slightly.

“I just want to help.”

“Sherlock,” for all there was a warning in Mycroft’s words, his tone was gentle.

“He’s straight,” Sherlock said in a rush. He closed his eyes and took a breath before meeting Mycroft’s eyes again, “He has a test and is having trouble remembering where things are. I thought it might help to actually see them on someone – see how they connect.” When Mycroft just continued to look at Sherlock, Sherlock mumbled, “Besides, he sees naked boys in the locker room. This will be no different.”

“For him, perhaps.” Turning to leave, Mycroft said over his shoulder, “Be careful, brother mine.”
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Sherlock met John two weeks before school started three years ago. John had taken a ball to the head and, on his way to see the nurse, had found Sherlock nursing a bloody nose.

The nurse had spent 30 minutes lecturing them on the ills of picking fights with your friends.

John had started to say that they hadn’t been fighting only to stop short when Sherlock had told her that he didn’t have friends, clearly. And that it should be obvious from the knot on the back of John’s head and the fact that the only damage to Sherlock was a bloody nose that they had not been involved in the same altercation.

Patched up to go, Sherlock had left quickly only to find John Watson hard on his heels and pulling him to a stop in the corridor by means of a hand wrapped around his elbow.

Sherlock turned to look at the other boy. They were of a height, but John’s shoulders were broader and Sherlock’s lean frame did nothing to offset that.

Sherlock tilted his head, his posture rigid. “Yes?”

“Nothing,” John said, releasing his elbow. Sherlock could see that he wanted to ask about the no friends comment, but instead all John said was, “You ok?”

Sherlock nodded, then glanced out the window to see the rugby team making its way to the locker rooms. “Your practice is over.”

John followed his gaze. “Bugger. Right – I have to. Um. Nice to meet you,” he held out his hand, clearly hoping to be provided with a name.

Sherlock shook John’s hand and when John refused to release it, he said, “Sherlock. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes.” And, in his head, promptly cursed himself for an idiot in every language he could come up with.

“John Watson,” John smiled. “See you ‘round.” John released his hand and took off at a jog to rejoin his team.

They hadn’t become friends right away, of course. Oh, John said hello to Sherlock whenever he saw them in the hall, but it wasn’t until the next year when they ended up in the same creative writing class.

John was talking to the teacher, trying to explain that it would be better for him to not pair up as he would be missing several classes due to travel with the rugby team, when Sherlock reached the classroom. He’d missed class inadvertently, having got caught up in an experiment in the chemistry lab.

“It’s fine,” she said. “You can partner with Sherlock, since he evidently couldn’t be bothered to show up to class. I’m certain you can arrange to meet up outside of class time when the two of you can align your schedules.” With a thin smile, she’d gathered her books and made her way out of the classroom before either John or Sherlock could object.

“Uh, hi.” John scratched the back of his neck.

“Hello,” Sherlock was puzzled by John’s apparent nervousness.

“So, basically, I’m gone every Thursday when we’re supposed to use the class to critique each other’s –”

“We can meet on Tuesdays. You don’t have practice. There are study rooms on the second floor of the library. I’ll reserve room B from 4:30-6,” Sherlock had offered, hoping his voice sounded calmer than he felt.

“Yeah, alright.” John sounded vaguely bemused.

At first, they’d actually used their Tuesday meetings to go over the writing assignments, until they figured out that the critiques weren’t actually used for anything in class. Sherlock had expected John to simply stop showing up at the appointed time, but week after week the older boy turned up. Sometimes they did homework in companionable silence.

Well, John did homework. Sherlock sent anonymous tips to the police and made notes of experiments to try and, occasionally, corrected John’s homework for him.

And sometimes John complained about his sister. Or his girlfriend du jour.

And Sherlock made very sure that his somewhat more-than strictly platonic feelings for his friend were kept very firmly under wraps.
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John’s final year was, for him, a bit of a rough one. In theory, he could do biology. But he’d missed the first three weeks of school after a rugby injury had him laid up at home, unable to navigate the schools stairs. He’d had some special dispensation as regarded homework, but the exams were non-negotiable and the mid-term exam revision on the skeletal system wasn’t going well. At all.

Sherlock had agreed, when John made the request, to take John his assignments. All it took was one look at John’s face for Sherlock to realise that things weren’t going to plan.

“Having trouble?” he had asked.

“What was your first clue?” John’s voice was tight with frustration.

Sherlock frowned. “But you’re quite good with biology.”

“But apparently not anatomy,” John ground out. “As if the injury wasn’t bad enough, I’m going to fail this bloody class because I can’t remember the bones of a bloody hand.” John huffed. “Sorry, you should go. I need to keep at this if I’ve any hope of learning it.

The next day, Sherlock had shown up with his left hand carefully labeled and sat still for three hours while John looked and manipulated and finally learned more than “phalanges.” Had remained until John knew anything that could be gained from a human hand with the entirety of the metacarpus labeled.

At the end of the 3 hours, John had looked over at Sherlock, said, “Thank you,” and had fallen asleep.

The end of term exam covered the bones of the torso and Sherlock had watched his friend grow more and more frustrated, Sherlock decided to help. Which had lead him to label the bones on himself, as he had done with the hand months earlier.

Drawing a deep breath outside John’s door early on Saturday morning, Sherlock raised his hand to knock.

“Yeah?” John called out. He looked up as Sherlock walked in. “Oh. Hi. Ehm.”

“I’m here to offer help as a study aid, if you like.”

John leaned back in his desk chair and Sherlock tried to block his awareness of the stripe of skin that showed at the bottom edge of John’s shirt as he stretched. “How do you expect to manage that?”

Sherlock felt a flash of something sharp that felt like disappointment and nerves, but kept his voice level as he said, “Much the same way I managed to help you learn the bones of the hand.”

“So, what, you’ve labeled all the bones of the torso?” John grinned.

“Yes,” Sherlock said with a frown of confusion and a tilt of his head. “Not the skull, obviously, but I know them, so, I can tell you what they are if you need. I wasn’t sure if the skull was included and it seemed a little odd to label.”

John blinked at him. “Really?”

Sherlock nodded once still frowning.

“Just to help me?”

Sherlock swallowed. “If you don’t think it’ll be helpful, I can leave.”

“No, no. That – if you’re sure you don’t mind me just poking at you, that would be…great. That would be really lovely. It worked really well with the hand. Cheers.”

Sherlock nodded.

They stared at each other a moment. John stood. “Well, get your kit off?”

Sherlock flushed. “What?”

“I can hardly review what I can’t see.”

“Oh. Right. Yeah.” Getting himself firmly under control, Sherlock stripped off his jacket and shirt and stood in the middle of John’s room, arms at his side.

John’s mouth dropped slightly open at the sight of Sherlock, his chest covered in neat writing.

Growing uncomfortable with the silence, Sherlock said, “Obviously, some things are labeled where they would be though the label isn’t over the actual bone because of where the bone is situated.”

“Uh huh.” John walked around behind Sherlock and trailed a finger down Sherlock’s spine, tracing the words there.

Sherlock closed his eyes against the onslaught of sensation and said, in voice he was surprised to find still steady, “I didn’t label each vertebrae, just where they switch from cervical to thoracic to lumbar and so-on.”

Coming back around in front of his friend, John searched his face, “This must have taken ages.”

“If you keep delaying, it will have been a waste,” Sherlock replied, ignoring the unasked question of how long he’d spend on it.

John gave a half smile, “You’re right. Um. Do you want to sit? I could start with the spine.”

Sherlock nodded and moved to straddle the chair, and, crossing his arms across the back, laid his head down. While John mapped the bones with his fingers and repeated the words to himself under his breath, Sherlock let his mind wander back to an experiment he was planning for the break involving mud samples. It was an attempt, paltry though it was, to distract himself from the gentle way John felt for the bones that lay under his fair skin. To ignore the sweep of fingers, the warm breath on the back of his neck as John felt for C-1 through C-8. The heat as those same fingers, that same warm breath marked carefully where and how C met T and how that related to the edges of his scapula, where they joined up with his ribs as he progressed his way through the thoracic section.

As John’s fingers moved to the lumbar portion and traced along Sherlock’s floating ribs, Sherlock drew a shaking breath. John paused. “OK?” he asked.

“Hm? Yes. Fine.” Sherlock said. He knew he sounded off, but hoped John would accept that he was drowsy and not think anything beyond that.

As John’s fingers took up a sweeping, soothing motion against Sherlock’s lower back, Sherlock fought the urge to arch into his touch.

“Should we move to the bed?” John asked. Sherlock stiffened and John seemed to realise what he’d said. “I mean, you seem tired. I could work on memorizing the front portion and you could sleep.”

Sherlock lifted his head. “Sure.” As he stood, his stomach grumbled and was answered with a similar noise from John.

John laughed. “Apparently it’s time for a break first. Lunch?”

Sherlock smiled. “Yeah, alright.”

“Fancy beans on toast or take-away?”

“Either.”

“Take-away then. Chinese alright?”

Sherlock nodded and reached for his shirt, then followed John out of the room.

“How late can you stay?” John asked as they finished eating. “Only, I was planning on studying until 5. I’m not meeting up with Sarah until 5:30 tonight.”

“That’s fine,” Sherlock said.

“Great.” John hesitated.

“I can come back tomorrow,” Sherlock offered with a half-smile, knowing John wanted to ask and wouldn’t.

John looked vaguely embarrassed as he made a vague gesture at Sherlock’s chest, “Will that last or will you have to redo it?”

“It should last.” Sherlock stood. “Let’s get back to it.”

John nodded. He quickly cleared their places and led the way back to his room. Sherlock stripped his shirt off as they walked through and flopped back onto John’s bed, arms splayed like the Vitruvian man.

John laughed and Sherlock grinned, letting his eyes slide closed. He was aware of John shifting around him and opened one eye to see what he was doing. John was perched on Sherlock’s left side, trying, apparently, to see what Sherlock had written.

“You can move my arms wherever you need them,” Sherlock said, holding his arm up for John to position. John smiled his thanks and shifted Sherlock’s arm to rest above his head, then leaned over Sherlock to do the same to his right. Sherlock let his eyes close again to block out the image of John hovering over him – or to commit it to memory for further contemplation later.

With intention, Sherlock shifted his focus to an article he’d been reading on cross pollination of fruit trees in a desperate attempt to block out the sensation of John’s fingers on him.

John could tell the moment Sherlock drifted off to sleep and took the opportunity to study his friend. Relaxed it was somehow more obvious that Sherlock had been tired. Looking at the words carefully written all over the pale skin, John thought that Sherlock had more than earned his nap. Shaking his head, John applied himself to the task of learning the bones with renewed vigor – he couldn’t let Sherlock’s work go to waste, after all.

John lost himself in memorization, tracking first the word, then using his hands to cover them, the positions both by feel and by sight. Sherlock continued to sleep, his breathing changing only slightly as John’s hands moved across his skin. John was careful to keep his touch light.

He was so lost in his study, that he was startled when Harry came into his room at 5:15. “Hey, John, have you…”

John looked up and raised a finger to his lips. Harry’s look spoke volumes. John shooed her out of the room, grabbing a blanket to cover Sherlock before following her into the hallway.

“So what’s all that then?” Harry asked.

John rubbed the back of his neck. “Uh, just studying.”

Harry snorted out a laugh. “Yes. That looks exactly the way studying looks when it does when I study with Clara.”

“No, I mean, he…”

“I know, John. Just teasing you. You should tell him, though. I think a year and a half is long enough to be sure of your own feelings. Well, and you should dump Sarah, who you have a date with.”

“Christ.”

“She’s downstairs.”

“Fuck.”

Harry’s look was somewhere between amused and fond. John looked back at his door. He should change, but didn’t want to wake Sherlock. He headed down the stairs.

Sarah looked up from the magazine she was flipping through. “Hi, John.”

“Sarah, hi. Sorry – I was studying and lost track of time. Didn’t mean to keep you waiting,” he crossed the room to kiss her cheek.

“I was early anyway,” she smiled up at him. “Studying going ok?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think so.” They were both quiet for a moment. “Should we?”

Sarah nodded, but gave John a look he couldn’t quite place.

An hour and a half later, they returned to the Watson house. John hadn’t actually managed to bring up their relationship at dinner, but had mentioned his intention to continue studying. As he leaned in to give her a goodnight kiss, she stopped him with a hand on his chest and started giggling.

“What?” he asked, pulling back confused.

“Oh, John. I’m sorry. I’ve been trying all night to tell you that we make great friends, but this is going nowhere,” she said, forcing the giggle out of her voice, though her lips quirked up at one side.

John breathed a sigh of relief, then immediately apologized. “I’m not. I mean, I’m… sad?”

“No you’re not.”

“I am a bit,” John insisted. “I do like you after all.”

“Not as much as you like Sherlock,” she said, tilting her head and giving him a knowing look.

“Uh. I’m not… did Harry say something?”

“No, but John? Seriously?”

“He’s asleep on my bed,” John blurted out. Flushing, he continued, “Or he was. He fell asleep while I was studying.”

Sarah started laughing outright at that and patted his chest. “Go get him, tiger. I’ll see you in class on Monday.”

She turned and made her way to her car, throwing her hand up in a half wave. John smiled at her retreating back, torn between being upset at the ending of yet another relationship and relief that it had been, at the end of the day, not all that bad. He drew a deep breath and made his way inside. The house was quiet. He vaguely recalled his mother having said something about dinner with friends that evening and Harry was almost certainly at Clara’s. The question, of course, was whether Sherlock was still upstairs.

John made a couple mugs of tea and a couple pieces of toast and took them up to his room. Either Sherlock would be there and hungry or John would eat the toast and drink both mugs. Never mind that one was decidedly not to his taste.

Sherlock sat up and blinked blearily as the noise of mugs being set down on John’s desk broke the silene of the room. He frowned at the clock. “John?”

“Hey,” John said, smiling and handing him one of the mugs he’d just set down.
Sherlock took a deep breath over the steam of the mug, but paused before taking a sip to look up at John. “Didn’t you have a date?”

“Did. Just got back.”

“How’s your girlfriend?”

“Ex,” John said, with a half-smile. “And you know her name.”

“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said, finally taking a sip of the tea.

John handed him the plate of toast. “I’m not. It was, essentially, a mutually agreed not-a-good-fit.”

Sherlock nodded both his understanding and as a gesture of thanks for the toast.

“So,” John said, “Do you mind staying for me to study a while longer or do you need to go?”

“Uh, just let me,” Sherlock shifted to set the tea down on John’s bedside table and pull his phone out of his pocket. As he expected, the only message was from Mycroft letting him know that Mycroft had told their parents that Sherlock was at John’s. Sherlock sent Mycroft a message that he would be home some time the next day at the latest. Tucking his phone back away, Sherlock looked to John, “I’m good for as long as you want me here.”

John smiled. “Eat your toast. Do you want something else?”

“No, this is fine.”

They sat there and drank their tea in companionable silence. John was studying Sherlock with a look Sherlock couldn’t quite place. Anything that Sherlock would normally attribute the look to made no sense in context.

Once he finished, he set the plate and empty mug aside and looked to John. “So. Top or bottom?” As John quirked an eyebrow at him, he flushed. “I meant, uh, front or back. Do you…How do you want me?”

“I think I’d like to review the spine first, if that’s ok?”

Sherlock nodded and shifted until he was face down on the bed, his head pillowed on his arms. Sherlock heard John set his mug down and turned his head to watch John slip his shoes off. John settled on the bed on Sherlock’s right side and started reviewing by placing one warm hand on the back of Sherlock’s neck. Feeling his periodic shifting, Sherlock mumbled a suggestion.

“Sorry, what?” John asked, pulling his hand away.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John. “I said you could straddle my hips if that’s easier. You seem to be having trouble reaching.”

John narrowed his eyes, but smiled. “Are you mocking my height? Again?”

Sherlock grinned back, then settled his head back on his arms. He felt John shift then settle his weight over Sherlock’s hips. The heat of his body and the solid strength of his thighs made Sherlock’s head swim briefly and he was glad to be laying down.

Sherlock let his mind wander as John hands traced and covered. John’s murmured repetition of the bones created a sort of white noise for Sherlock’s thoughts. So lost was he in his thoughts that he didn’t notice – at first – that John’s touch had changed. Somewhere along the way, he’d stopped his systematic review in favour of stroking his hands down Sherlock’s sides.

Sherlock shifted. “John?”

John’s hands stilled. There was a moment of silence before John spoke. “Can I ask you something?”

Sherlock made a noise of assent and John’s thumbs began to stroke small circles where the rested on Sherlock’s skin. Sherlock heard John swallow and clear his throat and wanted nothing so much as to turn over to see his face, but with John still settled on his hips, he had no choice but to lay there and wait.

Finally, John spoke, “Christ. This is hard.”

Sherlock stiffened. John moved one hand to rest on Sherlock’s lower back, a gesture clearly intended to comfort, soothe.

“No, sorry. Just. I don’t want to screw up our friendship, but you’ve been here all day and I’m – I should be studying and all I can think about is how much I want to kiss you.”

John continued to talk, but Sherlock’s brain went offline at the word “kiss.” John wanted to kiss him. John wanted to remain friends. But friends who kissed. Sherlock tried to sort out what to do with that. At the moment it was putting John’s studying at risk, though.

Still. Sherlock thought about kissing John. It was late and, despite spending the day studying, John was relaxed. So, not like to be the exuberant kiss that he’d give after a game he’d won. Something slower then. Maybe it would become heated, though. Sherlock would like John to take control a bit. He had more experience after all.

But John’s experience was with girls. So maybe he would rush it a bit. Sort of, get started quickly and then maybe slow down, once he figured out if he liked it. Sherlock tried (and mostly failed) to ignore the twinge of anxiety that John would not like it and that it would go horribly wrong. But he was so close to finally knowing, he just needed to say yes.

Sherlock attempted to shift under John and felt John move to let him up. Sherlock rolled over and sat up. When he looked at John, John was looking anywhere but at him and had stopped talking.

“Ok,” Sherlock said, unsure of how else to indicate his willingness to engage in some sort of kissing to someone who was no longer looking at him.

John’s shoulder drooped and he nodded. “Right. Ok. Um. Are we still on for tomorrow anyway?”

“What?” Sherlock asked, confusion bleeding through in his tone.

John shook his head, still not looking at Sherlock, “Right, of course. I’ve pretty much got it anyway. Thanks for this, though.”

After a moment or two of silence, Sherlock found himself asking, “So the kissing – some other time, then?” utterly confused and becoming afraid that he’d misunderstood.

“What? I thought – I asked if you wanted to forget I said anything and just call it a night and you said ok.” John looked up finally and Sherlock was surprised to see an answering confusion and tinge of frustration on his friend’s face.

“Oh. I meant ok to the kissing. I got lost imaging it. I wasn’t paying attention to anything after you said you wanted to. Kiss me that is. You want to kiss me?”

It took barely a moment for John to grin, his whole posture shifting, “Imagining it?”

Sherlock felt himself flush even as he said words he wished he could call back the moment they were out of his mouth, “Replaying my favourite scenarios.”

It was John’s turn to flush, much to Sherlock’s delight. “You’ve imagined it before?”

“I tried not to?”

And then John was on him, pushing him back onto his back and settling over his hips again, chest to chest this time. Sherlock expected John to rush into it and was surprised when instead John cupped his jaw and rubbed a thumb across his lips before brushing that same thumb against his cheekbone and tracing along his eyebrow.

His thumb remained on Sherlock’s eyebrow as John stared down at him. Finally, Sherlock asked, “Is there something amiss with my supraorbital arch or …?”

John grinned then leaned over to kiss Sherlock, touching his lips first to Sherlock’s gently, teasingly before pulling back. “So, what have you imagined then?”

Sherlock felt his face flame and watched as John’s eyes tracked the progress of the colour down Sherlock’s throat and across his chest. Sherlock closed his eyes, embarrassed and tilted his head back to more completely avoid eye contact.. He felt John shift slightly and suddenly there were warm lips on his neck. Sherlock groaned.

“Am I too heavy like this?” John asked, the words puffs of warmth against Sherlock’s cool skin.

Sherlock brought his arms up to wrap around John’s waist, drawing him slightly closer. “Perfect,” he mumbled.

Sherlock felt John press a kiss to the underside of his jaw and rolled his head to nudge John’s lips back up to his. John grinned down at him and leaned in to press his lips to Sherlock’s, more firmly this time. Sherlock made a pleased sort of hum and smiled in return.

John nipped at Sherlock’s lower lip and Sherlock answered by opening his mouth slightly to touch his tongue to John’s lips. John opened his mouth enough to give Sherlock room to explore and flipped them. Sherlock smiled against John’s mouth, shifting to rest his weight more evenly his hips stuttering forward slightly as his burgeoning erection brushed John’s answering hardness. Sherlock pulled back to look down at John.

John ran his hands down Sherlock’s back. “Ok?” he asked.

Sherlock studied John’s face. Pupils blown wide, flush on his cheeks. Aroused. Sherlock pushed his hips forward again and John groaned and pushed his own hips up in answer. They spent a few moments in a sort of gentle grind against each other until John’s hands came to rest on Sherlock’s hips and brought them both to a stop.

Sherlock bit his lip, feeling a bit as though he’d done something he ought not have, and started to shift off of John. John’s hands tightened on him, holding him still, and when Sherlock looked back up at John, John was smiling at him.

“No, just. Just need a moment. Going a bit fast.”

Sherlock’s lips curled into a smirk as he leaned into kiss John again. He let his eyes drift close, focusing on the sensation, on John’s hands on his back, on the rise and fall of John’s chest. There was a sort of lazy push of hips as they kissed and touched. Eventually, Sherlock pulled back, determined to have John’s skin on his and started tugging at John’s shirt.

John shifted slightly and Sherlock sat up, straddling John’s thighs. John followed him up, tugging his shirt over his head. They stared at each other a moment, and with a flash of insight Sherlock decided he knew exactly what needed to happen next, so he reached for the button on John’s jeans.

John rested his hands over Sherlock’s and Sherlock looked up. “We should maybe, um, talk. First.”

“About?” Sherlock said without looking up, focused on the task he’d set himself.

John huffed out a laugh. “Christ, Sherlock, this.”

Sherlock pulled his hands away, feeling wrong-footed, again. “You suggested kissing,” he said, hating the touch of defensiveness in his tone.

“Yes, I did,” John said, almost gently. Sherlock resented that a bit, but John’s hands had taken up a soothing refrain on his back and Sherlock suddenly wanted nothing so much as to curl into John. “But, I thought, you know. Just a kiss.”

Just a kiss. Just a kiss. It ran on a loop in Sherlock’s head. He had misunderstood. John wanted to kiss him, but not. Of course. He had kept stopping Sherlock. Right. But the kissing was good. “Ok. Just kissing,” Sherlock said, leaning in again.

John let him get a couple soft kisses in before pulling back again. Sherlock made a noise of frustration. “I’m not – I mean, I’m up for more if you are,” John said after a moment.

“More kissing?” Sherlock said, starting to lean in again. He’d be happier with this if John would stop stopping them.

“More whatever,” John replied pulling back slightly to maintain the distance. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page.”

That gave Sherlock pause. He took a moment, thinking back over the events of the day. “You broke up with Sarah. A couple hours ago.”

“Yeah,” John said softly.

“Because of me?” Sherlock asked after another moment of hesitation.

“No,” John replied, studying Sherlock’s face. “Not exactly, anyway.” He huffed out a laugh. “I certainly didn’t plan this if that’s what you’re asking.”

Sherlock stiffened.

“I’m not disappointed.”

“But we should slow down,” Sherlock said, curling in to rest his head on John’s shoulder.

“We should slow down.” John confirmed, nuzzling Sherlock’s hair. “Can you stay?”

Sherlock nodded without picking up his head. “I told Mycroft I might.” Sherlock pressed his lips to John’s pulse, which leapt at the pressure.

“Ok. Then. Get your trousers off and we’ll have a bit of a cuddle and some more snogging and we can talk in the morning.”

Sherlock swallowed his disappointment, sating the aching thirst left behind with the promise of an indefinable more in the near future. He slid from John’s lap and shucked his jeans. John did likewise and walked around to the other side of the bed, flipping off the light as he crawled under the covers.

They came together near the center of John’s bed – not quite big enough for the two of them, but neither one minded overmuch. There was a brief shuffling of limbs to figure out what worked best where, and then a soft meeting of lips. John kept it light, and the kisses slowly became lighter and fewer in between as they both drifted off to sleep, aroused but content to leave it.
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Sherlock had been drifting on the edges of sleep, unwilling to let go of the pleasant dream that had given him a willing John Watson to kiss and sleep next to.

As if through cotton wool, Sherlock felt a hand ghost down his back and across his hip. “Sherlock?” dream-John said softly. Sherlock huffed in response and nuzzled into the warmth without waking. The hand slid slightly lower, to the top of Sherlock’s arse. “Sherlock,” said the voice again and Sherlock felt a nudge at the top of his head.

Sherlock’s hips hitched forward, seeking friction as his brain slowly came online. “John?” he murmured, still only half awake.

“Yeah. You awake?” John asked softly.

“Dunno.” Sherlock rubbed his nose into the skin under his head, remembering that this was allowed. They had, actually, kissed last night.

“Well, if you were awake, how would you feel about something a little bit more?” Sherlock felt John shifting.

“More?” Sherlock asked, then stiffened slightly, picking his head up to gaze only slightly blearily at John. “More?” he asked again, seeking confirmation where the first question had been seeking clarification. More meant… more.

“I thought,” John smiled, shifting slightly under Sherlock. “I thought that we could maybe take advantage.”

Sherlock’s mouth dropped open into an “O” as he realized that there was a hot pressure from John on his hip. “Oh.” He dragged his bottom lip into his mouth, then leaned into kiss John, rutting his hips into John’s as he did so. Pulling back, he said, “Oh yes,” then went back for a second kiss.

After their rather surprising restraint the night before, it almost no time for them to find themselves on the edge. Kissing had given way to simply breathing the same air as their orgasms approached, but the pressure wasn’t quite enough and John could tell that Sherlock was getting frustrated.

Nipping at Sherlock’s jawline, John wiggled a hand between them and the simple touch of his hand on Sherlock’s cock, even over the barrier of pants, was enough to send Sherlock over the edge. As Sherlock sank boneless against him, John wiggled his hand into his own pants, and three quick tugs later sent himself over the edge.

As they both lay panting, Sherlock’s fingers stroked at John’s stomach, trailing rapidly cooling ejaculate across his skin. It tickled a bit and John fought the urge to squirm, only to gasp as Sherlock pulled his fingers away to examine them, then put them in his mouth. John watched as Sherlock’s eyes slid closed, his face a study in concentration.

John cleared his throat. “What… ah. What are you doing?”

Sherlock’s eyes opened slightly. “Tasting.”

“Tasting?”

“Yes. Your sweat is … saltier than mine. The ejaculate is about the same.” Sherlock, evidently unable to decipher the look John was giving him asked, “Not ok?”

“Hot, honestly. Unexpected, but hot.”

Sherlock nodded. “I would like to have you in me.” John choked, but Sherlock continued, “Preferably this morning unless that would be too soon or it would be too distracting to your studies. Or, is it – you said slower,” the last was almost an accusation as Sherlock once again trailed his fingers through the mess on John’s stomach.

Sherlock looked up to watch John struggle and felt slightly bad for asking. John did have studying to do. And he’d only just broke up with Sarah.

John blushed slightly, but found his words. “I mean, generally I like to have a proper date before I sleep with someone.”

Sherlock scoffed, a foot rubbing pointedly between John’s calves.

“Yes, alright. Point taken.” John was silent for long enough that Sherlock looked up at him again. “I’m not saying no, and I do need to study a bit more – although this,” Sherlock felt John trail his fingers along Sherlock’s spine again, “is amazing – but I need to know something.”

“Yes?” Sherlock brought one hand up to pillow his chin on John’s chest and look up at him.

“Is this… am I an experiment or are we doing this?”

Sherlock stiffened. He didn’t want John to be an experiment, but he hadn’t really thought beyond “John-naked-now.” Carefully, he said, “Not an experiment.”

“Dating?”

Sherlock cleared his throat and tried to look away only to have John grasp his chin to keep eye contact. “If you want?” Sherlock said at length.

“Do you want?” John asked, releasing Sherlock’s chin.

“This is more than I thought I’d get,” Sherlock answered honestly. “And I am selfish. I will take anything I can get.”

John’s answering grin was bright and fierce as he flipped them, then captured Sherlock’s lips with his own, kissing him with a fierce possessiveness. A short while later, John pulled back. “So. In you, huh? You don’t want to, um, top?”

Sherlock frowned. “That would be fine, too.”

“But you’d rather I be on the giving end.”

“I thought you might. It’s what I’ve imagined.” Sherlock cursed his wayward mouth for letting the last thought cross his lips.

But John just smiled, “Imagined, huh? Does that mean you’ve… researched.”
Sherlock hesitated a moment, “Yes.”

“And thought about it.”

“Obviously yes.”

“Tried it?” John asked, studying Sherlock’s expressions with minute focus.

Sherlock closed his eyes, in part to escape the attention and in part to remember the sensations he’d elicited after an afternoon spent researching penetration. “Oh, yes,” he heard the breathiness in his own voice.

John’s kiss was fierce and startled Sherlock into opening his eyes again. “Ok, then,” John said. “What do we need?” He shifted off Sherlock slightly, clearly preparing to retrieve supplies if needed.

“For maximum safety and protection, a medical exam glove, lubricant, and a condom.” Sherlock’s response was both immediate and utterly factual.

“I have the second two,” John said, retrieving them from the drawer in his bedside table. “And might have a pair of gloves in the emergency kit under the bathroom sink.”

Sherlock nodded, and hoped he didn’t look as utterly poleaxed as he felt.

He must have, though, because John gave him an encouraging smile before leaving the room and heading to the bathroom. When he returned, Sherlock had stripped off his pants and smoothed out the covers on the bed. John held up the gloves he’d found and dropped his own pants before crawling onto the bed over Sherlock and kissing him.

Sherlock slid backward until his head was on the pillows. John pulled away and looked down at him.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “So, I can stay on my back or turn over.”

“I want to see your face, if that’s ok.”

Sherlock nodded, a feeling of warmth spreading through his chest at being able to see John. “I can prep myself, if you like.”

“No, if you’re going to be, um, generous and let me do this.”

“There’s really no letting about it.”

“Just tell me what I need to do,” John’s tone was somehow both exasperated and fond.

Sherlock explained the basic mechanics and, when John felt as though he had a firm grasp of it, he slid down Sherlock’s body.

His face was a study in concentration. Sherlock really felt he’d done quite well not laughing the moment John’s tongue came poking out at the corner of his mouth as John donned the gloves and applied lubricant to his fingers with all the attention of a neurosurgeon prepping for a procedure.

But when John’s brows beetled in concentration as he examined the area, Sherlock couldn’t help but snort.

“Oy. You could stop laughing, you know.”

Sherlock looked down at John whose face was a study in concentration. “I – you know this will go faster if I do this part myself.”

John cleared his throat. “That’s not the point. If you’re willing to – I mean, I should be involved in this part. I would be if –” he stopped.

“Ah. Yes. Well, that is highly illogical. First, I prefer things this way. It’s not just about me being generous, as you charmingly phrased it earlier. You are also clearly more used to being on the – I believe the word you used was ‘giving’ – end, so it makes sense to start there. At least the mechanics will be familiar to you. Second, I know what I need to do to prepare myself and while I can continue to try to talk you through it, if you’re this nervous –” Sherlock broke off as John’s finger breached the first ring of muscles.

Sherlock’s breathy “fuck” mingled with John’s, equally breathy, “oh my god.” John leaned down and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s hip, feeling Sherlock’s muscles relax as he did so. From his vantage, he looked up at Sherlock, whose face was now a study in concentration. John smiled. “What now?”

“Ah. You’ll, um,” John slid his finger slowly out then back in as Sherlock started to speak. “You’ll do that until the muscles loosen a bit, like I mentioned. Then – fuck, yes, like that – then add a second finger and spread them a bit. Then add a third if you want or if – stop a moment –” Sherlock closed his eyes and took a breath, John’s finger pressed entirely inside him. He was just shy of begging for the second finger, but if John was trying to learn what to do he needed to be patient. “You can add a third if you think your partner needs it. I, um…” Sherlock stopped, not sure how to express exactly what he wanted.

“You’d like that final bit to be more direct?” John was smirking.

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s expression.

John slid his single finger out and pressed two back in. Sherlock gasped, his back arching as he pressed down onto John’s hand. “Christ, you’re responsive,” John said. Sherlock watched John watch his fingers slide slowly in and out of Sherlock.

“And you’re teasing,” Sherlock all but gasped.

John hummed in the back of his throat, shifted a bit, made an educated guess clearly based on his anatomy textbook, brushed a kiss over Sherlock’s hip, and ghosted his fingers against the small bump of Sherlock’s prostate.

Sherlock’s reaction was immediate as he gasped out John’s name, his hips jerking up.

John smiled, “Yes?”

“Again,” Sherlock demanded.

So John did, then set a rhythm of alternating strokes. On one, he would brush Sherlock’s prostate. On two, he’d spread his fingers apart a bit more. John continued until Sherlock was writhing, his stomach hollowed, hips pushing down on the in-stroke, his breath coming in a series of groans and sighs.

When the resistance to the intrusion of his hand levelled out, John, two fingers still buried in Sherlock, slid up Sherlock’s body, pressing kisses to his hip, stomach, chest, and neck, before capturing his lips in a quick, fierce kiss.

Sherlock’s eyes opened and met John’s. Everything felt alive and wonderful and he wanted to stay like this, with John, always.

“Now?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied, the word sounding as though it had been dragged from him.

His head resting on Sherlock’s shoulder, he looked down the long, lean body and wondered how he’d gotten so lucky.

Sherlock gave a choked, mocking noise as John continued to lazily slide his fingers in and out. “You’re stalling.”

John looked up at him with a frown, slowly sliding his fingers out. “No, not really. I was – am – enjoying looking at you.”

John would, perhaps, have continued to argue the point, but Sherlock, no longer tethered to John by John’s fingers, flipped them, straddling John’s hips. “Now?” He ground his hips against John’s.

John gasped at the pressure along his own, insistent erection and nodded. Sherlock leaned down and kissed him, fumbling for the condom he’d left near the pillow earlier. When he had it in hand, he pulled away and opened it with sure fingers before sliding it on to John, then reaching for the lube. John watched him with heavy-lidded eyes, groaning out as Sherlock’s hand closed around him in a warm, light glide.

John stripped off the gloves and tossed them over the edge of the bed then reached out, placing his hands on Sherlock’s hips, sliding them up along Sherlock’s ribs and back down again. He clearly wanted – needed – to be closer. With a groan, he tugged Sherlock down again. As Sherlock’s hand continued to stroke between them at the same maddeningly slow pace, John touched anything he could reach, running his hands along Sherlock’s back, tangling his fingers in Sherlock’s hair, nipping at Sherlock’s shoulder, until he could wait no longer and reversed their positions again.

Sherlock’s braced his hands on John’s hips as John shifted his legs so that he was kneeling between Sherlock’s thighs. “This ok?” John asked as Sherlock’s hands came to rest on John’s hips. The little he knew about it suggested that other positions were more comfortable or more likely to provide good stimulation, but he wanted to see Sherlock’s face if at all possible, at least this first time.

Sherlock nodded and canted his hips up, seeking contact with John. John slid his hands under Sherlock’s lower back, then lower, lifting him slightly and slotting them nearly together. He lined himself up, then pushed slightly forward, his eyes watching Sherlock’s face while Sherlock looked down between them.

When John was fully seated inside Sherlock, Sherlock’s eyes drifted closed and he huffed out a breath. John struggled with the effort to stay still, to let Sherlock relax before John started moving again. John could tell, by the infinitesimal shift of muscles where they were joined, a moment before Sherlock shifted his hips. His eyes flew open as that movement shifted the pressure over his prostate and John grinned, realizing what had happened.

He pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips, then nipped at his neck. He slid slowly out and back in again, adjusting until he had Sherlock gasping beneath him.

It was everything John could do to keep things slow. He wanted to memorize every moment, but the absolute pleasure of it made speed seem almost necessary. In some distant part of his brain, he acknowledged that Sherlock’s face, desperate and disheveled, would feature heavily in his fantasies in the future.

“John,” Sherlock groaned out. “Faster, John, please.”

John shook his head. “Too close. Need…” Sherlock tightened around him. “Jesus.”

“Faster, John.”

John gave a half-nod and pressed a quick kiss to Sherlock’s lips. Slow would have to wait. There would be other times for slow. As he increased his pace, Sherlock closed his eyes. John brought one hand between them to stroke Sherlock’s erection. Sherlock’s reaction to the pressure was immediate. His head tilted back and his spine arched, pressing John further inside, his climax overtaking him.

“Fuck, Sherlock,” John gasped out. He lasted through just two more strokes before he, too, came, his hips stuttering into Sherlock as Sherlock’s body relaxed below him. He felt Sherlock’s hands running along his back as Sherlock murmured encouragement.

He rested a moment, after, not fully collapsing onto the boy beneath him, but when he went to roll to the side to dispose of the condom and fetch a flannel from the bath, Sherlock’s arms tightened around him. “Just a minute,” Sherlock’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “Please.”

John nodded, running his nose along the underside of Sherlock’s jaw. “Sure. But I was going to come right back, anyway.”

With one last, slow caress, Sherlock let his arms flop back down to the bed and he nodded. “Hurry.”

John huffed out a laugh and pressed a kiss to Sherlock’s forehead as he climbed out of bed. Sherlock’s eyes were still closed and his breath was still a bit fast.

Once they were both cleaned up, John dropped the used cloth to the side of the bed and tugged Sherlock in closer. “Alright, then?”

Sherlock pressed a lazy kiss to John’s clavicle. “Mm. You?”

“I’ll say.” As their breathing leveled out, John huffed out a short laugh before, moments later, beginning to chuckle in earnest.

“Hm?” Sherlock rolled his head to look at John.

“That… was one hell of an anatomy lesson," John got out only to start giggling again, until Sherlock shut him up with a kiss.