Studying, apparently, was futile. John couldn't focus on the textbook in front of him, which didn't bode well for tomorrow. He really needed to do well on this history test. Since he'd been running after Sherlock and tagging along on cases, his grades had started to slip. Not so badly that his mum had noticed, but enough to make him worry about averages and scholarships for uni.

John sighed, rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms, then looked at the textbook afresh. He copied down a few more details he didn't remember. Turned the page. Wrote down a little bit more.

He was just finding a good rhythm and finally settling into study mode when the sound of his window being pushed up distracted him. John looked over in time to catch Sherlock gracefully swing himself into John's room.

"Sherlock!" John hissed, clambering up from his desk chair. John crossed towards him as Sherlock turned around and carefully slid the window back shut, then turned towards John again, a pleased smile stretched over his Cupid's bow lips. "What are you doing here?" John whispered, painfully aware of his mother and Harry were only separated by a few thin walls.

Sherlock thrust his hands into his pockets, then shrugged. "I was bored. And you were here." He sat down on John's made bed, then laid down and stretched out.

John frowned. "You're going to get dirt all over my bed," he said.

Sherlock simply flashed him a winning grin, and John sighed. "I really can't do anything tonight," he said, turning back towards his desk. "I need to study." He heard dull thumps as Sherlock's kicked-off shoes hit the floor, then sighed again. When Sherlock was bored, there was no getting rid of him. Not that he really minded, John supposed. He could put up with having Sherlock in his room. In fact, it was probably safer to have him here than let him run about in the city. There were more than a few worrisome people that'd love to meet Sherlock in a dark alley.

With that thought, John allowed himself a smile and looked back down at his history textbook and jotted down a few notes. Turned the page. Wrote down a little bit more. The sound of Sherlock's breathing was relaxing, but the flick of metal made John turn around in his chair.

"Oh, no sir," he said. "You are not smoking in my bedroom."

Sherlock paused, an unlit cig sticking out of his mouth while his lighter hovered near the tip. Long fingers snapped the lighter shut, then plucked the cigarette from between his lips. "Oh, come on, John," he said. "Don't be such a square."

John rolled his eyes. "I do believe you're the one that said I wasn't 'nearly as much of a square as you thought', and I'm not having my room stink like cigs for the next three days. Out on the fire escape or none at all."

Sherlock gave an almighty whine. John shrugged, and turned back towards his homework. "Though if you do smoke, you can be sure that my mouth isn't coming anywhere near yours," he added over his shoulder.

"John," Sherlock snapped. John twisted around to face him. Sherlock was pouting, a look which was ruined by the white stick jutting out of his mouth. John raised an eyebrow. Sherlock heaved an almighty sigh, but finally complied. The problem was, when he shoved the cigarette and lighter away, he canted his hips up into the air so that he could get access to his pockets. And John was suddenly very aware of Sherlock's tight jeans, and how they hugged different parts of his lower body. Like his thighs. And his arse. And other things.

John cleared his throat and quickly turned back around. He could feel his cheeks flushing and he stared at his textbook without really seeing it. Instead, he was vividly remembering the snog that had led to his staying the night at Sherlock's after going to the drive-in movie the week before.

If Sherlock noticed John's sudden change in demeanor, he didn't let on. Instead, the gangly boy had gotten up off of John's bed and was digging through his records. "You've no decent music," Sherlock complained.

John frowned, then pulled himself himself out of his memory enough to focus on what Sherlock was saying. "My music is perfectly fine, thank you," he snapped. The heat of his annoyance was rather taken out, though, distracted by Sherlock. His record shelf was next to his desk, and he had a lovely view of Sherlock's profile as Sherlock crouched to read the labels on the record sleeves.

He has a nice nose, John thought mildly (and not for the first time) as he stared. Suddenly Sherlock's head moved, turning towards John and catching him staring. John felt heat rush to his face as Sherlock grinned in a delicious, devilish way, and winked. John forced himself to look back at his notes, unable to keep himself from smiling.

"Mmm, John," Sherlock purred, his voice a deep rumble of a sound. John was barely able to suppress a shudder. There was the sound of a record being slipped out of the sleeve and put into the player. There were a few moments before the music started playing, but then Frank Sinatra's Lover weaved through the air.

"How have you kept a fondness for jazz hidden from me?" Somehow Sherlock had gotten behind John without him realizing, and John gasped when Sherlock was suddenly mouthing behind his ear.

"Sherlock," he breathed as sinful lips moved further down his neck.

Sherlock hummed in response, and John could feel the vibration on his skin. The sensation made him gasp again. "I'm just-" John broke off to gasp again as Sherlock nipped at his earlobe. "Full of surprises," he choked out.

Sherlock chuckled deep in his chest. "That you are," he said, and then Sherlock was shifting around him, pushing John's chair away from the desk enough so that he could straddle John's thighs, settling in and then kissing John properly. John responded in kind, his hands slipping up under Sherlock's leather jacket and rubbing his back, hands traveling up to shoulders and shoving black leather away. Sherlock let go of John's neck to help shove the jacket off, and then long fingers were tangling in the blonde hair at the base of John's neck.

John gripped Sherlock's hips tight, then sucked on his lower lip. Sherlock gave a breathy exhale, then licked into John's mouth-

A loud thump on the wall made John and Sherlock separate with a wet noise. "Would you turn that bloody music off!" Harry screeched from her adjacent room. "Some of us are trying to sleep!"

John's heart was in his throat as he called back, "Sorry, sorry!" His voice was a bit rougher than normal, but he banked on Harry being too tired to really notice. He looked up at Sherlock, who was still perched on his thighs. "I need to get up," John whispered to him. He shoved a little at Sherlock's legs. "Move."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him. "Give me a good reason to," he whispered back, voice pitched, purposely, John was sure, low enough to send a shiver down John's spine. Then he rocked his hips forward, which was a low blow and made John gasp.

John screwed his eyes closed and tried to focus on the problem at hand. "If I don't turn the music down, Harry is going to come in here and find us," he bit out, using every bit of his restraint not to buck up against Sherlock's all-too-willing frame.

"What if I don't care?" Sherlock purred, wrapping arms around John's neck and dipping his face close enough to John's that John could feel his curly fringe on his cheek.

"Sherlock," John whined. "Please."

Sherlock sighed. "I could take that an entirely different route," he said, but finally lifted himself off of John's lap. John fumbled himself up, then slipped around Sherlock and over to the record player. He turned the volume down so that it was almost white noise instead of actual sound playing, then turned back around to face his room. He was met with a wall of white t-shirt and pale skin.

"Do you really think I'm letting that go half-finished?" Sherlock rumbled before cupping John's face in his hands and attaching their lips once more.

The surprised gasp that came out of John's mouth probably wasn't dignified in any way, but he couldn't bring himself to care. Instead he wrapped his arms around Sherlock's waist, then dipped his hands down to grab Sherlock's arse.

He felt Sherlock's lips turn up in a grin against his, and the taller boy pulled back just enough to say, "You're learning," before their mouths were together again and Sherlock's tongue was inside of John's mouth and this is going to be over far too quickly.

With that thought John was walking forward, effectively shoving Sherlock towards his bed. Sherlock went without fuss, and then they were on the bed, John straddling Sherlock as they weren't so much kissing anymore but licking into each other's mouth.

John's heart was pounding with exhilaration as he trailed from Sherlock's mouth and down his neck. His hands trailed down Sherlock's lithe body, and John still marveled at the fact that he was allowed to touch this gorgeous creature, even after having done it multiple times over.

He lingered on Sherlock's waist before dipping to the waistband of the tight jeans that had originally captured his attention that night. Suddenly, though, there was a hand on his wrist.

"John," Sherlock breathed, and John was shocked at how wrecked his voice was. Sherlock nudged John's leg with his foot, and John looked up to meet his blue grey eyes. "We both know that if this goes much further, I'm going to be far too loud for the present company," Sherlock said, without a single ounce of modesty in his eyes.

John felt his face go red as his cheeks heated. He did, in fact, know this. And he didn't quite fancy Harry hearing any noises that might give her any inclination as to what was happening in her little brother's bedroom, if she didn't have any already. He squeezed Sherlock's hip. "Yeah," he said, rather lamely. He cleared his throat. "Yeah, um, the walls. They're."

"Thin," Sherlock finished helpfully. Then he unhelpfully pulled John's face back down to his and sucked John's bottom lip into his mouth. Then he unhelpfully rolled them over so that he was on top, and grinning down with a devilish smile. He lowered himself down, so John could feel that while his mouth was saying they were stopping, Sherlock's body was still very much interested in continuing. "I could, though," Sherlock said, "Suck you off." John was fairly certain he stopped breathing. "You're not near as loud as me."

The strangled noise that came out of John's throat begged to differ. But it didn't stop Sherlock's hands from skimming over his chest, with a pointed downwards direction, rucking his jumper and his shirt up around his chest.

Lithe fingers were on John's belt buckle not nearly quick enough, and dear God we should stop, we really need to stop.

"Sherlock," John started to say, but he was promptly cut off by his own groan because Sherlock had yanked his trousers and pants down at the same time, exposing his hard-on to the cool air. "We really," John tried to say, voice faltering as Sherlock crept up his legs. "Really should..." Sherlock's face came level with John's cock. "Really, really shouldn't-" John's head slammed back into his pillow as Sherlock's lips wrapped around him. "Oh, Christ," he exhaled.

Sherlock chuckled, low and dark, and John flung his forearm over his mouth to stifle the moan that poured out of his mouth. He tried to be conscious of the fact that Harry was literally just a few yards away, but as Sherlock began sucking in earnest, dark curls bobbing, it was becoming harder and harder.

John's chest heaved as Sherlock licked the underside of his cock, slowly pulling off. "Fuck," John whispered, one hand fisting itself in the sheets as cool air assaulted his spit-wet erection.

"Another time," Sherlock murmured, his voice gravelly and just this side of wrecked. John's free hand curled into a fist and went to his mouth, muffling his groan. John managed to crack his eyes open and saw Sherlock grinning devilishly at him. The greaser slowly crawled up John's body. "My voice is affecting you," Sherlock observed, and John only barely muffled the sound that threatened to burst out of his chest. Sherlock hummed, head dipping down to suck on John's neck, and John's hips bucked up on their own accord. Sherlock continued his path up the straining tendons with open-mouthed kisses, and John could only pray he wasn't leaving a mark.

As Sherlock reached John's ear, the greaser wrapped one large hand around the base of John's cock. "Next time," Sherlock said, his voice little more than a rumble that shot straight down John's spine and to his already-straining cock. "We'll fuck," Sherlock whispered hotly, timing the expletive with a solid stroke, and that was it, John was done.

Several toe-curling moments later, after the whiteness had faded from behind his eyes, John slowly became aware of his surroundings again. It took effort, but he managed to pry his eyes open. Sherlock was propped up on one elbow beside him, smiling unabashedly. John huffed out a breath at him, turning his head towards the ceiling as his eyes drifted closed again. "Was I terribly loud?" he managed to mumble.

Sherlock chuckled, still low and more than half in his sex voice. "You were sufficiently quiet, I assure you," he murmured. John felt the mattress shift as Sherlock rolled off his bed, and he made some feeble noise of dissent. "I'll just be a moment," Sherlock said, and then there was the barely perceptible sounds of his socked feet padding out of John's room.

Satisfied that Sherlock was coming back, John drifted for a few moments, feeling warm and satiated as he waited for the greaser's return.

It seemed that those few moments were enough for him to drift off. The next thing he was aware of was a warm, damp flannel on his stomach, cleaning up the worst of the stickiness. He pulled his eyes open, blinking away his bleariness and Sherlock manhandled him into a sitting position, then went about yanking his jumper over his head.

"Should I...?" John said vaguely, gesturing towards the obvious bulge in Sherlock's obscene jeans that had started everything.

Sherlock batted John's hand away, then went about undoing the buttons on John's shirt with a ruthless efficiency. "It's fine, John," he said, shoving the button up down John's shoulders and whipping it towards the laundry bin. "Just transport. It'll go away."

John hummed, laying back down on the bed and lazily kicking his trousers and pants the rest of the way off. "If it's just transport," he mused, "and you have complete control over your transport, then how come you can't control how loud you are?"

A lazy smile on his face, John watched as Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, seemed to find himself unable to come up with an answer, and then wrench his jaw shut with an audible click. John chuckled, and Sherlock through an angry scowl his way. "I never said I had complete control over it," Sherlock snapped, but there was no real bite to his words as he turned around to pull a set of pajamas out of John's dresser drawer.

John smiled more broadly at him, even when the sleep clothes were hurled at his head. He laughed, and Sherlock's scowl faded a bit. "D'you wanna stay the night?" John asked, tugging his shirt over his head and then canting his hips up to yank the pants up. "Just...y'know. Sleep. Here. With me?"

Sherlock's scowl disappeared entirely, and his expression seemed to lean towards fond as he sighed. "I don't suppose there's much of a way out of it?" he said lightly, already sitting on the edge of the bed and going to pull off his socks.

John hummed, wrapping a hand around Sherlock's arm and letting it wander around to rub his back through the thin white t-shirt. "There is if you don't want to stay," John said sleepily.

The smile that was thrown over Sherlock's shoulder dismissed any such notions, and John felt his lips turning up into a grin as Sherlock stood to shimmy off his jeans, then crawl back onto the bed in just his t-shirt and boxers. With a careful yank, Sherlock pulled the covers out from under John's body and then up to cover both of them.

John's twin bed had not been made to host two teenage boys, but John didn't care, and Sherlock hardly seemed to mind. They wrapped around each other, shifting until they were comfortable enough for John to begin drifting off.

"You have changed me, John Watson," Sherlock murmured into John's hair.

John smiled as Sherlock's words from several months previously tumbled through his mind. You're an enigma wrapped in a puzzle, and never have I wanted to spend time figuring out what makes a person work like I do with you. And perhaps they weren't quite there with emotions and being able to talk things out, but they were only teenagers. They still had whole lives in front of them. John pressed a sleepy kiss to Sherlock's collarbone, and didn't think again as he drifted to sleep.

Rustling roused John early the next morning. He rolled over onto his other side, and found pleasant warmth. He sighed and settled down into the sheets, dozing off again. He truly woke up a while later, feeling well-rested and happy. John rolled over to his side and glanced at his alarm clock. He was up ten minutes early.

John smiled and got out of bed.

Later, after he was dressed and as he left his room for breakfast, he noticed a piece of paper stuck on his record player. Curious, he picked it up.

Your music selections are still deplorable, with the exception of that Sinatra record. SH

John grinned, stuck the note in his pocket, and went out to eat breakfast.