**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Okay so some lovely Guest requested this story from me. Here is the original request:

I would love to see a Reverse Greaserlock/Teenlock fic, with motorcycle riding, rugby playing John and a shy, nerdy, not really grown into himself Sherlock. You can throw them into any situation you wish.

I avoided the standard Greaser/50's style because I would have royally fucked it up so this is more of a modern-day Greaserlock, Teenlock, Nerd/Virgin!Sherlock and Cool/Popular!John.

Feedback is more then welcome (I'm getting better at replying to things :D) and please send more prompts/suggestions/requests either here or on my tumblr: mssmithlove1

Enjoy!

He can't remember ever running like this.

He can't remember ever running at all.

Down the corridor and through the back entry hall, he launches himself behind the line of lockers, panting dramatically and checking his pulse - because really, how could he pass up an observation? - flattening himself against the cold metal.

He straightens the frames of his black horn-rimmed glasses on his face. They'd gone crooked from the running.

He tries to listen over his heavy breathing for the sound of footsteps coming his way, closing his eyes and bracing himself for the inevitable. When he hears nothing, he chances a look, peering around the corner into the open hallway.

It's empty.

Sherlock blows out a breath.

Maybe he'd beaten them.

Maybe he'd outrun the entire rugby team.

Unlikely but one can dream.

It's the first day of the new school year.

The rugby team decided the best way to start off the new semester would be to beat up a 'nobody.'

Sherlock has flown under the radar all these years, quiet and shy as he is, mostly lost in his own head.

Apparently, that makes him a nobody.

He's fine with being a nobody. It's allowed him to keep his teeth. Until today, apparently.

"Alright?"

Sherlock whirls around too quickly at the sound of a voice, falling back against the lockers with a loud clatter.

Pushing his glasses back from where they'd fallen to the bridge of his nose, Sherlock blinks several times.

Shimmering blue eyes bore into his cloudy gray irises. Sherlock doesn't need a mirror to feel his own pupils dilate.

Those blue eyes accent that sandy blond fringe that lays messy atop that perfectly round face, arms crossed in front of a broad chest.

Sherlock swallows thickly, feeling rather lightheaded as this blond boy reaches his hand out.

Sherlock's eyes never leave those ocean deep baby blues as he slips his own hand into that rather tan palm, just barely suppressing a shudder as his fingers glide over rough, callused skin.

The boy tightens his grip and hauls Sherlock to his feet in one swift pull.

Strong as hell, this one.

Not that Sherlock is heavy, all long limbed and gangly and awkward, but he can see the muscle contract in the boy's bicep. It's oddly alluring.

Which doesn't help put an end to this impossible crush Sherlock is rapidly forming.

This blue-eyed boy is sporting a different look. An odd one that should be ridiculous. It shouldn't work. Really, this isn't a look just anyone could pull off. But it's doing it.

For Sherlock, oh yes, it's doing it.

A mix between the bad boy and the good. His clothes scream danger, fitted jeans leaving nothing to the imagination, red v-neck t-shirt wrapped snugly around the rippling muscles of his torso and shoulders. But his features are soft and kind, young and cherub-like. The reverse of a wolf in sheep's clothing.

Sherlock cannot get a read on him. Which is alarming.

Sherlock can get a read on everyone.

He's staring, he knows, gaping more like, ogling like the Year 11 that he is but has never identified with.

Like he's never seen a good-looking boy before.

A boy who is smirking, eyebrows raised knowingly, as if to say 'Yeah, you like what you see, don't you?'

Sherlock's face is immediately on 's normally in better control than this.

Bloody transport is unreliable.

And the boy is still smirking.

Sherlock swallows hard, glancing downward to end the humiliation, when his mind finally clicks into place.

Ah.

The smug jock.

How had he missed that? It's so obvious now.

Strong, broad shouldered, tanned. The boy is obviously a goddamn rugby player.

If that smirk was any indication, he's probably captain, all confident and sure of himself. New but not new to the team, probably having trained with them over summer and transferred here to join permanently.

Sherlock thinks he remembers hearing something about the team needing 'shaping up.' A new captain would do that. Stupid stupid. Of course he's a rugby player.

"You better run," the boy suddenly murmurs and Sherlock's eyes shoot up to meet those baby blues. "The boys'll be along any minute."

Sherlock takes an immediate step back, eyes darting behind the boy's head to the exit he should have taken in the first place. He's unable to find his voice.

Unable to scream.

The boy's smirk never slips.

Then he moves. Sherlock flinches, closing his eyes, anticipating the first blow.

But it never comes.

He opens one eye to see the boy has moved just to the side, away from the door, opening a path. Sherlock looks from the door to the boy, who nods his head toward it. "I'd hurry," he says.

Sherlock doesn't need telling twice.

He takes off.

He hides out the rest of the day in the closet only the night janitors use. The one he uses sometimes to be away from all the people he doesn't speak to. As the final bell rings, Sherlock holds his breath for another thirty minutes before unfolding himself from the floor and slipping out into the empty hallway. He makes his way down the path behind the school. The one that leads a shortcut back to his house.

The one that overlooks the sports fields.

He can look but he can't be seen.

He sneaks a peek at the rugby team practice, just to see if he can catch a glimpse at the boy who'd let him go.

And sure enough, that blond head is glimmering in the afternoon sun, short but strong body bound in stripes and shorts, matching socks pulled up to the knee, arms crossed in front of his chest. He looks...serious? Angry? Powerful?

"Keep going," the boy shouts and it's only then that Sherlock notices the rest of the team sprinting away from the blond boy, down the field, touching the end line and then coming right back.

"How many more, cap?" one of them dares to ask and even from here Sherlock can see the blond's face darken.

"As many as I see fit," he barks. "That's nine. If I see you slacking, I'll double it."

Cap.

Captain.

So Sherlock had been right. That still didn't answer the question of why the rugby team leader let the geek walk away from a planned pummeling.

"Come on John, it was just a joke!" One of the runners gasps as they near the boy again.

John.

His name is John.

Sherlock can't decide if that makes him feel better or worse to put a name to the face he's been thinking about all day.

"Well it wasn't very funny, now was it?" John yells as the boys hustle back down to the other end. "If it happens again, this little exercise will look like a fucking walk in the park. Do I make myself clear?"

'Yes sir' was murmured across the line of sweaty, panting boys.

"What was that?" John hollers and the unison 'yes sir!' is sharp and loud.

"Good. Three more."

Sherlock turns away, decidedly not mesmerized by the boy on the pitch. Decidedly not thinking about John and John's strong body and John's sky blue eyes and John's captain voice and John John John.

Really, Sherlock has no idea what he's doing here.

Really, Sherlock can't even remember consciously deciding to come here.

Really, Sherlock can't look away.

It's the first rugby game of the season and John Watson, as Sherlock has learned his entire name since that first day, is a fucking powerhouse.

John Watson was born to be on this field.

John Watson was made to play rugby.

John Watson is hot as all fucking hell in his rugby shorts.

Sherlock's body temperature skyrockets as he watches from his hiding place beneath the bleachers, peering out from around one of the beams. His head spins as he watches John's strong legs run circles around the rest of the players. His heart falls to his stomach as the crowd chants John's name.

John Watson is a Year 13, Sherlock has learned since their meeting. John moved here at the end of last school year. John has sparkling eyes and rides a Bonneville 3000 and has the love of all the girls in school. He seems obviously attractive. He seems quite smug. He seems like he should be boring.

He's not.

At first glance, John Watson is everyone's man. John Watson is for public consumption. John Watson belongs to the team and the school and the crowd and the world.

At second glance, John Watson is his own man. John Watson is not for public consumption. John Watson belongs to no one.

Sherlock wonders who belongs to John Watson.

Sherlock bites his lip at the want that nestles deep in his belly.

Sherlock would like to belong to John Watson. Sherlock would like that very much indeed.

The final whistle blows, tearing Sherlock from his reverie, and he slips back into the shadows, going unnoticed as the crowd files out. He doesn't need anyone to see the nerdy boy with the giant glasses attending a social event that he certainly doesn't belong at.

He waits quietly, wrapping his coat tighter around him as the sun has long since faded away. Quiet settles upon the field and the roar of the cars and the patrons has calmed. Sherlock wiggles out from his crouch and turns to make his way home, marching into the open and across the field.

"Sherlock Holmes."

He's startles, unable to stop the gasp from escaping his lips. A dark chuckle comes from behind him and Sherlock is frozen to the ground.

The grass rustles with footsteps and then John Watson is standing in front of him, smirking that stupid, knowing smirk and Sherlock's breath catches.

"Didn't think I knew your name, did you?" John says with a raised brow. Sherlock shakes his head because he definitely did think that and because he's never said a word to John Watson before.

John chuckles again. "You're a quiet one."

Sherlock swallows in response. Why he can't speak properly is far beyond him. He pushes at his glasses, a nervous habit he's developed since John bloody Watson has started attending his school.

John watches and then says, "I hear you're smart."

In all fairness, John is not giving Sherlock much to work with in terms of responding. What does one say to that? Agree? Yes, in fact, I'm the cleverest boy in school. Deny it? No, I'm dumb as a rock. Which would make him seem cooler?

But he isn't cool. Neither answer would make him any cooler.

John is cool. John is so fucking cool it hurts to look at him.

Sherlock's response is a nod.

John cocks his head, still smirking. "Want a ride home?"

The whimper that escapes Sherlock's lips is so humiliating he almost turns and runs in the opposite direction. John can only mean one thing. John only has one type of transportation.

John laughs. "What, you scared?"

Sherlock musters a half-hearted glare. "No," he attempts to say defiantly but the word comes out as a croak.

John laughs again. "Ah, good to know you have a voice."

He steps around Sherlock and walks briskly back to the car park. Sherlock stares after him, unsure of how to proceed.

"Coming?" John's clear voice rings out in the silent night, and before Sherlock has made a conscious decision, he's hurrying to catch up.

John unhooks the helmet from the bag slung around his shoulder filled with his rugby kit, and pushes it into Sherlock's shaky hands. "Ever been on a bike before?"

Sherlock shakes his head and John smirks. "You're going to love it."

The involuntary shiver that runs through Sherlock is as unexpected as it is unwelcome. He needs to stop having these reactions. It's unfair the upper hand John already has on...whatever this qualifies as.

The shiver turns into a tremble as they near that gorgeous piece of machinery that has John Watson written all over it. It's never been a thing for Sherlock, boys with bikes. Sherlock didn't really have a thing until John Watson arrived at school. Now Sherlock has a thing.

Now, Sherlock has a thing for John Watson on a bike.

John secures his bag on the back and swings his leg over the seat. Sherlock stops dead, still gripping the helmet. John smirks. "Need a little help?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes shrewdly. "No."

"Is that the only word you know?" John asks, looking quite amused.

Sherlock glares and marches to the back, waiting until he's out of John's eyesight to shove the helmet over the chaos of his curly hair. It's far too large and falls to one side of his head and Sherlock glares upward for a moment before clipping it in place. Then he hesitates.

"Come on, it won't bite you," John laughs, doing him the favor of not turning to see him standing there with a rather large piece of plastic sitting off to one side of his head.

Sherlock blows out a silent breath, mentally preparing for the first time touching John because that was inevitable in this situation. He climbs on clumsily, saddling as far back on the tiny seat as possible, which isn't far back at all.

"You're going to want to hold on," John throws over his shoulder and Sherlock grips the seat on either side of him. John glances down behind him and laughs. "To me, you berk," he chuckles, and then gives a flick of his wrist and a kick of his heel and the beast beneath them roars to life.

Sherlock is so startled, he throws his arms around John's middle out of panic and he can feel more then hear John's laughter. He's flush against John's warm back and he can feel his own body curving gently to fit just so around this strong athlete. He decides he can get away with it, seeing as there really isn't anywhere else he can go.

John back pedals out of the thin parking spot and turns the bars and then they're off, flying out of the car park and on to the deserted street.

Sherlock can feel the wind pounding against them and watches John's blond hair fuss in the whirl of the air. He wants to stick his nose in that golden fringe and inhale, but resists. He decides instead to peek over John's shoulder, watching as the road seems to zoom by underneath them, the lights of the street disappearing within seconds of coming into view. His eyes begin to water a bit but he blinks back the moisture, heart pounding too hard to want to focus on anything else.

It's thrilling, this ride with this boy in the night. Sherlock truly never understood why someone would drive such an impractical vehicle until right this very moment.

They ride, Sherlock tapping John's arm when he needs to take a right or a left, but otherwise, there is no communication. Only the sounds of the powerful engine in the silent night.

It's only when they pull up to Sherlock's house that he realizes his chin is hooked over John's shoulder. He pulls back immediately as the bike falls silent, hands flying to the hook under his chin, unbuckling it and pulling the helmet off quickly. He all but throws it at John and attempts to dismount gracefully, unaware that his legs are practically jelly from squeezing his thighs. Something he wasn't aware he was doing.

John catches his elbow as he's on his way to toppling over, pulling him up to his feet again and laughing. "Careful there," he smirks, dismounting in one swift, practiced, perfect motion. "Wouldn't want that pretty face of yours getting dirtied up now would we?"

Sherlock freezes. He doesn't think anyone has ever used the word pretty and his name in the same sentence before tonight. John's smirk tells him he's blushing. He ducks his head and mumbles "Thank you for the ride."

Strong fingers are in his hair and he doesn't move, fighting an urge to close his eyes and push into the touch. He sees John's feet move into his view of the ground and suddenly hot breath is in his ear. "Thank you for accepting," John murmurs, smoothing Sherlock's riotous curls with deft fingertips. Sherlock stays very still, certain the tiny gasp he just heard did not come from his mouth. John's hands glide down the back of his neck and then are gone.

"There," he says in a low whisper, pulling back to look over Sherlock's face. "Wouldn't want mummy asking questions." He moves back toward his bike and Sherlock's hand pushes at his glasses, pretending to fix them, nervous tick becoming his default.

"Right," he mutters, looking back to the ground. "Well. Goodnight then."

"Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes," John says with another smirk.

Sherlock watches stupidly as John kick starts the Bonneville and takes off.

Sherlock watches stupidly as John disappears into the night.

Sherlock does not spend the weekend dreaming about John Watson's hands in his hair.

Sherlock watches as his books go tumbling to the ground in slow motion.

It's easy to run into someone who is trying very hard not to be seen.

Sherlock kneels, gathering the rather heavy textbooks he'd been balancing in his arms, panic swelling as the students around him continue to walk to class, trampling all over his work.

Heels stomp his hands and legs bump his shoulders and Sherlock grits his teeth, scrambling to gather his things.

He reaches for another page that had gone flying, when a hand lays over his on top of the paper and a body is suddenly crouching down next to him.

Without looking up, Sherlock knows who it is. He attempts to continue to breath.

"You ought to be more careful, Sherlock Holmes," John Watson breathes in his ear.

Sherlock nods, staring down at their joined hands.

John chuckles softly and moves, gathering up the remaining pages and sliding them into one of Sherlock's books.

"Let me know if I need to save you again," John murmurs.

There is a slight pressure to the side of Sherlock's head and then John's body heat is gone.

Sherlock can't be sure.

But if John Watson didn't just plant a kiss in his hair, then Sherlock definitely doesn't need two attempts to stand up on trembling legs.

He already feels stupid hurrying to the locker room.

He never thanked John. He has manners and he should thank John.

That's what he's telling himself anyway.

He stops just before the boy's locker room door and lingers, unsure of how to proceed.

"Sherlock Holmes," John's voice comes from behind him and Sherlock shouldn't be surprised but of course he is. He turns around.

"Hello," he says quietly to John's feet, unable to look at the obvious smirk John is sporting.

"What do I owe the pleasure?"

Sherlock clears his throat. "I...um, I just wanted to... say th-thank you for...earlier."

John raises an eyebrow, obviously amused.

Sherlock can feel the heat creeping up his neck to his face.

"Are you coming to watch practice again today?"

"What?" Sherlock squeaks, alarmed that his secret is...well, not a secret.

John laughs and takes a step closer. "Don't be embarrassed," he chuckles. He takes another step and leans in only inches from Sherlock's ear. "I like it."

Sherlock blinks hazily, something beating deep inside him.

John leans back, winks and steps around Sherlock into the locker room.

Sherlock finds himself perched on the path, eyes locked on sandy blond hair before he's fully thought it through.

If John Watson winks at him one more time, Sherlock is going to...

He doesn't even know.

He doesn't know what it means when John catches his eye in the hallway and smirks.

He doesn't know what it means when John licks his lips and winks at him.

He doesn't know what it means when he sees John leaning against a locker, propped up on one arm as the cheerleading captain Mary Morstan twirls a lock of hair around her finger and smiles shyly at him.

John grins that wolfish grin he has, the one that reaches his eyes and gives them an extra shimmer. The one that says 'I could do such naughty things to you if I were so inclined.' The one that all the girls swoon over. The one that when topped off with a wink makes Sherlock's knees shudder.

Well. He might know what that means.

And it hurts. So much, it hurts. It hurts to think John is giving his full attention to anyone else. Especially when all Sherlock's attention has been on John.

Sherlock grips his books tightly in his arms and ducks his head.

How could he be so stupid? How could he not know it was all just a game? Just a tease. Just having a laugh. Get the geek all riled up. Make him think he's special. Make him think someone wants him.

What a joke.

His throat burns with unshed tears as he hurries down the hall and around the corner.

He just wants to be alone.

Which, for the most part, he is. But he wants to be physically alone. He wants a moment to compose himself, shake it off and erase every shared moment he's had with John Watson.

Because it was all fake anyway.

He ducks into his usual closet and slides down the far wall, bringing his knees to his chest.

The realization that he's not anything to John Watson is unbearably painful.

He wipes shameful tears from his eyes and breathes deep in an attempt to calm himself, glasses fogging with moisture and hot breath.

There's a jostle at the handle of the door and Sherlock freezes mid-swipe.

Dread fills his slender body as the door swings open.

He forgot to lock it.

He never forgets to lock it.

And dread turns into humiliation in the blink of an eye as a foggy, blurred John Watson looks at him from the doorway.

Sherlock stares because apparently that's all Sherlock can do when in the presence of the rugby captain.

And then he remembers the state he's in and drops his head back to his knees trying unsuccessfully to hide.

The door closes and Sherlock breathes a sigh of relief. Apparently, his beating will be for another day. At least he won't already be in tears when it starts.

Hands are fisting in the front of his shirt and Sherlock is abruptly hauled to his feet. He coughs out a surprised gasp and blinks to see John Watson's narrowed eyes staring him down.

Sherlock can't breathe.

John's hands move from his t-shirt to the frames of his glasses. "Can you see without these?"

Barely.

"Yes."

John nods, then gingerly removes the thick black rims from Sherlock's face. He places them on the shelf next to them. Then turns back to him.

"What's going on?"

More tears spill over his cheeks and Sherlock closes his eyes and drops his head, unable to look at the boy who caused these feelings in him. He shakes his head.

"She means nothing, you know," John says.

What a line.

Sherlock hates himself for wanting to believe it.

"Hey," John says softly, taking Sherlock's chin in hand and lifting his face. "She's nobody."

"No, I'm nobody," Sherlock croaks, opening his eyes to stare blearily at John.

Something passes over John's face and then his features harden. And then his hand moves from Sherlock's chin to the back of his head and then his lips are pressing to Sherlock's and Sherlock's brain short-circuits.

He's being snogged by John Watson.

John Watson's mouth is on his.

John Watson is pushing his tongue between Sherlock's teeth.

And John Watson is not gentle.

Sherlock clings desperately to the rugby captain, opening his mouth and inviting that tongue that tastes like peppermint tea and honey in, gasping loudly, forgetting about everything else in the world.

John presses him back against the wall, hands gliding from Sherlock's hair down his arms.

Fingers wrap around his wrists and suddenly Sherlock's hands are pushed up over his head against the wall, the pressure in his wrists increasing as he struggles instinctually against the restraint.

"John," he gasps.

"You are not a nobody, Sherlock Holmes," John growls, biting down on Sherlock's bottom lip. "Don't you ever say that again."

Sherlock whimpers. His head is spinning, his heart is thumping and he can't catch his breath. He's surrounded by everything that is John, his scent and his strength and his body sealed against Sherlock's. John is dominating him like he dominates the field and Sherlock is fucking reveling in it.

He's the center of John's attention at this moment. He belongs to John Watson.

John shifts his hips and Sherlock lets out a guttural cry as something stirs deep in his abdomen.

"You have to be quiet," John breathes over his lips with a smirk. "I'll make you feel good but you have to be quiet."

Sherlock nods frantically, anything John. Anything. Just please, do that again.

John rolls his hips and Sherlock is panting heavily, never knowing anything could feel this good. John holds him down, arms still bound over his head and Sherlock pushes back and takes it.

"J-John," he let's out a quiet cry, the stirring in his belly coiling tighter.

"There you go, baby," John murmurs.

Sherlock is gasping for air, grinding his pelvis back against John's, the friction making his body thrum. He drops his head forward, shaking, and John captures his lips.

"Go ahead," John whispers. "Go on, then."

And Sherlock does, tossing his head back, smacking it hard against the wall as he's suddenly spilling thickly into his pants, whimpering and squeezing his eyes closed.

He's never felt anything like this before.

He already wants to do it again.

John lets go of his wrists and Sherlock's arms drop heavily to his sides.

"You're lucky it's the last period of the day," John says huskily. "You made a mess."

Sherlock's brain restarts and he's aware enough to gape. "I made a mess?!" he squeals indignantly. "You're the one-"

"I just came in here to see if you were alright," John shrugs too innocently. Sherlock can see the smirk playing on his lips. "You're the one who came in his pants."

Sherlock blinks down to John's trousers. "You-You didn't…"

John lets the smirk take over. "No. I have some self-control."

Sherlock gapes, feeling the heat rising from his already flushed chest to his cheeks.

John grins. An actual, real grin. Sherlock falters and cocks his head.

"Are you teasing me?"

John bursts out laughing. "I'll see you later, Sherlock Holmes," he says as he turns to the door.

"Wait!" He kicks himself for how needy he sounds. He scrambles for his glasses to see John's face.

John glances back expectantly.

Sherlock shuffles his feet and adjusts the frames on his face, looking anywhere but at the blond boy. "Do you…do you want to come to mine later? Like…after school or something?"

That sweet, kind grin turns predatory. "Why? So I can show you how to get me off?"

Sherlock's mouth runs dry. "I-"

"I can't," John continues like he hadn't just said the dirtiest thing Sherlock has ever heard. "Rugby practice."

Sherlock ignores the tiny crack in his heart and ducks his head. "Right. Sorry, I-"

"But what about Friday night? After the game?"

Sherlock nods hastily. "Okay. Sure."

John pops an amused eyebrow. "Alright then."

He drops a wink and Sherlock's eyelids flutter slightly.

Then John disappears through the door.

It's sentimental, but Sherlock can't be arsed to care. He feels light; elated even. Nothing can bring him down.

He's sitting next to the path, the one that overlooks the rugby field, arms wrapped around his knees pressed to his chest as he stares starry-eyed at Captain Watson.

He just wants to look at him. He just wants to watch him move and talk and breath.

Today, John Watson gave Sherlock Holmes his first kiss.

Well, he did more then that.

Sherlock bites his lip at the memory.

He's never been touched like John touched him today.

It's so exciting. Sherlock's body is still buzzing.

He feels branded.

He loves it.

He sighs happily, his head filled with the rugby player.

What does John want to be when he grows up? What is John's family like? How did John decide to play rugby? Why did John move here?

Does John want to be his boyfriend?

Sherlock wants to ask but he won't. No, he won't. He'll leave it alone for now. He'll stay in this little bubble for now. Their little bubble. Their perfect, happy little bubble.

John calls the team in, signaling the end of practice and Sherlock prepares to leave, wrapping his coat snuggly around him, hiding the incident from earlier.

He tosses one last glance toward the field, one last look at that beautiful boy, only to see the cheerleaders making their way to the team.

Mary Morstan is leading the pack.

Sherlock watches as Mary finds her way to John. John grins and Sherlock feels dizzy.

To Sherlock's horror, John begins to make his way across the field.

With Mary.

Sherlock can't breathe.

They arrive at the Bonneville.

John mounts his bike.

And Mary climbs on behind him.

And if Sherlock had eaten today, he would have vomited.

He watches as Mary scoots as close to John as possible, clips on the helmet Sherlock had worn what seemed like years ago now, and melts her body around the captain.

Sherlock turns on one heel and runs home.

He refuses to cry for the second time in one day over John Watson.

He refuses to think about John Watson.

He doesn't sleep.

She's nobody.

She's nobody.

She's nobody.

I'm nobody.

Today, Sherlock will not worry about John Watson.

Today, Sherlock will not dwell on Mary Morstan's arm linked in John Watson's as he passes them in the hallway.

Today, Sherlock will not watch rugby practice.

With all the effort of watching and then ignoring John Watson, Sherlock has barely noticed the rugby team has not bothered him once since the chase that first day of school.

On Friday, Sherlock finds a note in his locker.

Stop ignoring me. We have a date tonight. –JW

Sherlock hates the flutter his heart gives as he reads the signed letters.

JW.

Sherlock adores them already.

Just like everything else about John Watson.

Sherlock holds the note to his heart for a beat, then slides it into his pocket. This note is special. This needs to be kept safe.

Then he rereads the note in his mind.

A date.

They have a date.

Maybe that's what John is doing.

Maybe John is dating Mary, too.

Maybe John is dating lots of people.

Maybe it's a game.

Oh.

Sherlock loves games. He could play.

He may not win, seeing as the other contender thus far was head cheerleader, but still.

He could try.

He would try.

He knows he can't give John up that easily.

He needs to prove himself.

He will prove himself.

He watches the game from his usual spot, stomach churning the whole time.

John is impressive as usual, and tonight Sherlock can feel the crowd cheering his name in his bones.

How many of these people is John dating?

Who else gets closet orgasms with John?

Who else receives secret notes from John?

Who else gets dates with John Watson?

Sherlock ignores the ache in his chest and instead focuses on the game he needs to win, much like his prize is currently doing.

The team wins the game.

Sherlock couldn't care less.

And after what could have been eternity, Sherlock is finally on the back of John's bike, cuddling close and breathing him in.

They pull up to Sherlock's house and John puts on a sickeningly sweet smile for Sherlock's mother.

"Mrs. Holmes," he says winningly, "Such a pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock resists the urge to roll his eyes. It's easy to do since the next thing that rolls through him is panic.

His mother is gaping at John like he's got seven heads.

Granted, Sherlock had overlooked the fact to tell her in advance that he was having someone over.

He also has never had anyone over before. Ever.

She recovers quickly, but not quick enough to avoid the John Watson smirk.

"Pleasures all mine, John," she smiles back. They both glance at Sherlock.

They both wink at him.

Sherlock is too shocked to react.

"Will you be staying over?" His mother has always been a bloody psychic.

John doesn't miss a beat. "If that's alright?"

"Of course! I'll have one of the maids make up a bed in Sherlock's room."

She flits away and John turns to Sherlock, eyebrows raised in amusement.

"A maid, huh?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Shut up."

"A maid will be making little old me up a bed in Sherlock's room because I'm staying at the Holmes manner." John is using a ridiculously overdone posh accent and Sherlock purses his lips to keep from laughing.

"Do you want to see the rest of the house?"

The eyebrows drop but the smirk remains. "Lead the way, Mister Holmes."

Sherlock laughs and does just that.

They walk through the house, Sherlock doing his best to remain interesting. He needs to impress John. He needs to show him he's got things to offer. He needs to prove himself.

This is a big night for Sherlock.

John nods and smirks and laughs and grins all the way along and Sherlock thinks it's going well.

Sherlock deliberately skips the door before his room and John doesn't miss it.

"What's in here?"

"Nothing," Sherlock says too quickly and John's head is already cocked.

"Tell me."

"It doesn't matter."

John laughs.

Then turns and pushes open the door.

Sherlock stays stock still, watching John take in the room he sees before him.

It might as well be the Headquarters of Geekdom.

It's Sherlock's laboratory.

One entire wall is stacked with books. And not novels and fun reads, but real heavy stuff like biomedical engineering and physiology.

It's Sherlock's version of fun reads.

The other side of the room sits his chemistry set. Petri dishes and test tubes lay scattered about around it, because Sherlock never cleans up in here because Sherlock had zero intention of anyone seeing this room. Ever.

John's eyes are roaming over every item in the room. "Jesus," he breathes. "Have you read all those?"

"I…yes."

"Woah."

Sherlock doesn't respond. He just waits.

For what, he isn't sure. Laughter? Annoyance? A punch maybe?

"You really are a nerd."

Sherlock's heart free falls to his stomach. He's immediately crushed.

"I mean, I thought the lads on the team were exaggerating but you are the epitome of a geek."

"Yes, well-"

"I knew you were shy and all that," John continues.

Sherlock is staring at the floor, nodding at John's every word. He's not wrong.

"You're just a quiet little nerd, aren't you?"

Sherlock's cheeks are burning and he nods, unable to watch as John breaks his heart.

"That's so fucking adorable, I can hardly stand it."

Sherlock's head snaps up. "What?"

John is walking back toward him, smirking and reaching for Sherlock's hand.

"Come on, you darling little boffin."

Sherlock's heart seems to put itself back together and is pounding harder then ever as he laces his fingers with John's and follows him into his own room.

"Ah, good, the maid put together the bed to my specifications," John says, back in his posh accent, and Sherlock laughs, looking down at the blow-up mattress and pile of blankets.

Then John closes the door and Sherlock's breath catches.

And then Sherlock is being pushed backwards, stumbling over the bed on the floor, almost toppling over, but John catches him and gives him a hard shove onto his own bed.

Sherlock falls flat on his back, heart racing as John climbs over him, descending upon his mouth like a hungry animal. Sherlock whimpers and tries to give back as good as he gets, having no idea how his technique is. He considers asking but decides against it.

Mary Morstan probably doesn't ask such silly questions.

He's grabbing at John's silky hair and pawing at his back and doing his best to fight with his tongue. He's so focused on the skill of his mouth, he hardly notices John's fingers pushing up his shirt and then resting on his trouser button.

John flicks it open and Sherlock freezes.

"It's alright," John murmurs. "I'm going to teach you."

Sherlock immediately melts into the bed at those words and John pulls down his zipper.

"Now the trick," John says as he gently lifts Sherlock's boxers over his erection, careful not to touch it, "is to start slow. No need to start twisting and yanking immediately. A slow build is always better."

Sherlock nods, eyes locked on the ceiling. He can feel John's eyes on him but he can't look. He's too nervous.

Warm, callused fingers wrap gingerly around his cock and Sherlock whimpers. The heat is too much. He worries at his lip, praying he doesn't come too soon.

"Of course with sweet virgins like you," John continues as he pulls one languid stroke up Sherlock's shaft, "it doesn't matter if you start fast or slow. You're going to come quick and hard either way."

Sherlock tries to nod, tries to be the good little student that he is, but the edges of his vision are blurring and his cock is throbbing at every word that comes out of John's mouth.

"This part is the most sensitive," John says as he brushes a thumb over the head.

Sherlock swallows a shout.

"And these can be quite tender." A warm hand cups his balls and Sherlock's hips buck.

"But when you touch them at the same time," John says, as he tugs on the sack and flicks his thumb over the head, "it can be-"

Sherlock lets out a strangled cry and fists his hands in the sheets as he comes, quick and hard just like John said all over his stomach.

"Exquisite," John finishes his sentence, but Sherlock only half-hears it as the blood rushes in his ears and his body shivers.

He can feel John press his lips to his and Sherlock hums. John chuckles.

"Your turn."

Sherlock nods and rolls up to a sitting position, cheeks flaming as sticky white semen streaks down his belly.

John laughs. "Tissues?"

"Bathroom," Sherlock says without looking at him, pointing to the door on the other side of his room.

John bounces off the bed and hurries off to the loo, returning a moment later with a handful.

Sherlock gives a small 'thank you' as he takes one and wipes his stomach. John helps.

It's an oddly tender moment.

Sherlock tucks himself back in his pants, then turns and pushes John onto his back. John smirks. "Eager, are we?"

Sherlock's not listening. His eyes are on the button of John's jeans, and he tries to remember all the things John did.

He tugs John's shirt up under his arms, then stares down at those defined muscles lying just beneath lesser-tanned skin. He runs his fingers over them one by one, mesmerized as the skin flutters underneath his touch.

John's breath catches and he squirms. Sherlock stops immediately and he looks up, only to find that damn smirk. "Ticklish," John says with a wink.

It emboldens Sherlock.

He drops his head down and plants a kiss on John's belly button.

His reward is a squirm and a huffed laugh from the rugby captain. "Improvising?" John is obviously attempting to sound amused but his voice is a bit breathless.

Sherlock's own stomach flutters.

He unhooks John's jeans and pulls them down with his pants in a rather rough tug, immediately blushing at the sight of John's cock.

"It won't bite you," John chuckles and Sherlock chances a look up.

John's face is a bit red, not quite as red as when he's running down the field but a nice shade nonetheless. He's grinning at Sherlock, eyes lidded with arousal.

A pulse beats in Sherlock's pelvis and he wraps lithe fingers around John's cock.

John's breath hitches and Sherlock tries to remember everything he was told.

Slow.

He drags his hand up in one smooth motion, eliciting a low groan in John's chest.

"Tighten your grip," John instructs and Sherlock is encouraged that if he messes anything up, John will tell him. He obeys and glides downward.

On the upstroke, Sherlock watches a bead of pre-come pop out the tip.

The urge he has to lick it is overwhelming.

He glances up to see John's eyes closed, lips parted, hands clenched in the comforter.

A little improvisation never hurt anyone.

Sherlock bends forward and licks the come from John's cock.

John snaps up to a sitting position so fast, Sherlock almost falls off the bed.

"N-no, baby," John gasps, grabbing Sherlock's face frantically. "You-you can't do that."

Sherlock blinks, seeing the very heavy arousal and very faint trace of anxiety in John's eyes. He doesn't understand. "Why not?"

John shakes his head, trying to catch his breath. "We don't have a condom."

Sherlock frowns.

Then cold dread flows through him.

Of course they need a condom.

Sherlock isn't the only person John is doing this with.

John has another, possibly several other people he does this with.

Of course he practices safe sex when he's sleeping with multiple people.

Clever John.

Sherlock clamps down on the beast of jealousy that's threatening to rear it's ugly head, and instead glances to his drawer.

He plans to win this, and the answer seems to be staring him in the face.

"I have a condom," he says, because he actually does. Mycroft thought it'd be funny to buy him a pack before he left for uni. They lay unopened in Sherlock's night table.

John's eyes shoot wide and Sherlock gets to be the one to smirk. "Will you teach me John?" he murmurs in his most innocent voice. "Will you teach me how to suck you off?"

John bites his lip and nods and Sherlock floats away on a cloud.

He reaches for the drawer and pulls free the box he'd long since forgotten about. Tearing it open hastily, he hands a single packet to John, shoving the rest back down and closing the drawer.

He turns to find John eyeing him curiously. "And why does Sherlock Holmes have a giant box of condoms in his room?"

Sherlock flushes immediately. "A parting gift from my brother," he murmurs and John smirks.

"Sure it was."

And just like that, they're back to their original roles.

Sherlock watches closely as John rips the packet and rolls the condom over his cock. "This part is easy," John says as he secures it in place. Sherlock laughs.

John looks to him, smirks and nods and Sherlock takes his shaft back in hand.

"Same rules apply," John says. "Start slow, and work it all the way in your mouth."

Sherlock nods eagerly and leans down, sucking just the tip into his mouth.

The latex tastes horrible but John groans and Sherlock's insides light up so he continues.

He takes the head of John's cock in and swirls his tongue around it. John sighs and Sherlock drags his lips further down the shaft, sucking lightly as he goes.

"Suck harder," John murmurs and Sherlock complies, hollowing his cheeks.

"Fuck yes, baby," John moans softly, and fingers find their way into Sherlock's hair. Sherlock hums contentedly.

The reaction that gets is so pleasing to Sherlock, he takes another inch into his mouth. That inch is the last one he is able, and he gags a bit.

"Careful," John tries to scold but it's clear he's barely coherent. Sherlock rights himself and drags his mouth back up. He fists the base of John's cock and takes him back in.

"Mm, there you go," John groans. "That's it, just like that."

Sherlock obeys. Soon, John's hips are bucking shallow thrusts and Sherlock is meeting them, finding a rhythm as John squirms beneath him.

"Don't stop. Oh fuck, yes baby, don't stop."

John is babbling stupidly because really, why would Sherlock ever want to stop doing this when the reaction he pulls from John is this divine?

One more long drag of his tongue along the underside and John goes still.

Sherlock can feel the condom filling and he wishes so much that he could taste it.

John is panting softly as Sherlock pulls off, waiting up until John stopped twitching to do so.

"Wow," John breathes and Sherlock is grinning. "My little bashful geek just gave me an excellent blowjob." Sherlock's face flushes and John grins. "I'm quite impressed with you, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock drops down to John's side and curls up next to him.

John tugs the condom free, ties it off and puts it in his pocket.

Then he rolls over and pulls Sherlock to his chest.

Sherlock wonders how many people John has spent the night with.

Sherlock wonders how often John gives a cuddle like this.

Sherlock stops wondering when John places a kiss to his forehead and whispers "Goodnight, Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock wakes to a fading roar of an engine and a note on his pillow.

Had to get home. See you Monday? Text me. -JW

A number is scrawled below the message and Sherlock holds the paper to his heart, grinning madly.

"Where's John?" His mother beams at him as he enters the kitchen.

Sherlock turns to the toaster to hide his blush. "He had to get home."

"Oh that's too bad," his mother says knowingly. "I was going to make you boys breakfast."

Sherlock toys with his glasses as he waits for his toast. "Oh. Well, thank you anyway mummy."

"Of course, dear," his mother grins. "Maybe next time?"

Sherlock knows she knows.

"Maybe."

He picks up his breakfast and goes to carry it back to his lab.

"Honey?" His mother calls him back and Sherlock turns to her. She worries at her bottom lip and says, "You're being careful, yes?"

Sherlock knows his face has just reddened to the point of a ripe tomato. "Mummy!" He cries, horrified.

Mrs. Holmes chuckles at her youngest son's reaction. "No," she says between laughs. "No, I don't mean like that. I know Mycroft handled that."

Sherlock is sure his face is going to melt off it's burning so hot.

She sobers and blinks at him. "I mean your heart, Sherlock. Are you being careful with your heart?"

Sherlock blinks, then swallows.

His mother gives him an out. "Just something to think about," she murmurs. Then goes back to reading her paper.

Sherlock hurries to his lab and shuts the door, panting in earnest.

Are you being careful with your heart?

The answer is no.

No, he has not been being careful with his heart.

Not in the least.

Sherlock does not send a text to John Watson.

There is a rumor.

Sherlock has noticed the odd looks here and there more then usual but he never thinks much of it.

Until Irene Adler saddles up to him in Biology.

"So," she grins wickedly and Sherlock immediately blushes.

"So," he murmurs.

"Molly Hooper likes you," she says bluntly.

Sherlock frowns.

Molly Hooper?

His chemistry partner?

Irene grins wider at his reaction. "She's going to ask you to formal," she says. She's practically vibrating.

"Really?" Sherlock blurts, because it really does sound absurd.

Irene raises an eyebrow. "You really didn't know? Come on, the rumor mill has been buzzing about it for days!"

She's rather giddy for someone with information that doesn't affect her life in the least.

Sherlock looks down. "I'm just a bit surprised is all."

"Hm," Irene says, her ruby red lips pressing together. "Well, I think you'll be perfect together. Besides, Molly is friends with the cheerleaders so you might even get to go in the popular group."

Sherlock swallows.

The cheerleaders.

He hates the cheerleaders.

Well.

Maybe not all the cheers.

Just the main one.

"Right," he says softly and Irene laughs.

"God, you are shy," she giggles. "It's okay, it'll be fun! I mean, I know the rugby boys are a bunch of brutes but you can just ignore them. The girls are nice. And if Greg asks me like I've heard he's going to, then I'll be there too."

Irene clearly wasn't aware that her selling points for this group date to formal were making Sherlock's stomach churn with anxiety.

"Don't worry, it'll just be a small group," Irene grins. "Right now it looks like it'll be you and Molly, me and Greg, Mary and John, Phillip and Sally..."

Sherlock doesn't hear the rest.

Mary and John.

John and Mary.

Sherlock tries to soothe his suddenly dry throat with a swallow.

"Oh, I know you had that little...misunderstanding with the team earlier in the year," Irene prattles on, misinterpreting his silence. "But John's really set them straight. No fighting, he says. Keep the team focused on the game."

Sherlock nods because he doesn't know how else to respond, but Irene doesn't seem to be looking for him to participate.

"He's different, that John Watson. Great captain and all but those blue eyes and that motorcycle? Have mercy." Irene doesn't seem to notice she's staring at the wall in a dreamlike state.

Sherlock is battling with jealousy and relief all at once.

He's glad to know he's not the only one who is affected by John Watson like this.

He hates to know he's not the only one who is affected by John Watson like this.

"Mary's a lucky girl," Irene mutters, then shakes herself out of her reverie. "Anyway. All I'm saying is it'll be fun!"

Sherlock offers a weak smile before being saved by the bell.

Are you being careful with your heart?

He's been so stupid.

He's been reckless.

He needs to stop this.

He promises himself that he will stop worrying about John Watson.

Molly asks him to formal.

Sherlock accepts.

Strong, familiar hands wrap around his arm and yank him into the closet he knows all too well.

Sherlock barely manages not to fall over as the door slams.

And then his back is pressed against it.

"Hi," John smirks, obviously enjoying the shock on Sherlock's face.

"Hi-" Sherlock breathes, then stops his question as John's fingers are on his flies.

"Miss me?"

Sherlock nods before thinking because he has missed John so terribly. He can't remember why he's been avoiding him.

"Good answer," John growls.

And then John drops to his knees.

Sherlock gasps as his pants are dragged down to his thighs and wet heat engulfs his cock.

"John!" he cries.

"Hush, baby," John murmurs, then takes him all the way in to his mouth.

"J-John," Sherlock whispers. "John, please." He's not sure why he's begging but god, it feels too good. He knows he won't last. He's panicking.

John drags long pulls over him with his hand as he pops his mouth off and smirks up at Sherlock. "Are you going to come, Sherlock?" He murmurs in feigned innocence. "Will you come for me?"

Sherlock nods hastily because yes, he is going to come.

Right.

The fuck.

Now.

"Oh god, I'm coming," he hears himself muttering shakily, hips bucking. "I'm coming, I'm coming."

John lets out a low chuckle. "Yes you are, baby," he agrees, stroking him through his orgasm.

Sherlock barely registers the tissue John has produced, catching his release.

Clever John.

Sherlock falls back boneless against the door, eyes squeezed closed as John rises from his crouched position, knees popping.

Sherlock is still catching his breath when he feels a hand brush his curls back from his forehead.

"Like that, did you?" John says huskily and Sherlock nods dazedly. John laughs and kisses him. "You've been playing hard to get."

Sherlock kisses him back, barely listening and grabbing at him but John is pulling away already.

"I gotta get to class," he says with a grin and Sherlock opens his eyes and adjusts his glasses.

"Right," he agrees, looking down and John laughs again, planting a kiss on his cheek.

"Text me, Sherlock Holmes."

"What...about you?" Sherlock asks, waving his hand to John's trousers.

John smirks. "Don't worry. I'll let you finish me later."

He winks.

Sherlock nods and moves away from the door.

John grabs his wrist and plants another quick kiss to his lips.

Sherlock refuses to classify what he does as swooning.

But he's swooning.

As soon as John is gone, Sherlock remembers.

John is going with Mary Morstan to formal.

John chose Mary.

Are you being careful with your heart?

He doesn't understand.

He thought he'd lost.

Mary Morstan won.

Mary Morstan was going to formal with John Watson.

So why is John giving him blowjobs in closets and demanding he text him?

Sherlock doesn't like this.

His stomach slithers with a sickening twist as he bows his head.

He doesn't want to see Mary in her new position permanently attached to John's hip like she's been.

Sherlock squeezes his books to his chest to keep his heart from shattering.

Sherlock avoids walking by the janitor's closet.

Sherlock avoids eye contact in the hallways.

Sherlock does not watch rugby practice.

"Mummy," Sherlock says, clearing his throat, all business-like.

Mrs. Holmes looks up from her book in the study. "Yes, dear?"

"I...just wanted to let you know," he says quietly, "that I will be attending formal tomorrow night."

It's Friday evening and his mother is practically glowing, she's beaming so hard. "Well, that's wonderful dear. Is John picking you up on that monstrosity he drives? You tell that boy he needs to get another helmet. It's not safe for him to not wear one, even if it is so you can wear it."

Sherlock swallows hard. The reminder alone hurts him so much. "Um...I'm actually not going with-with John," he mumbles.

His mother blinks at him, then furrows her brow.

Sherlock's heart sinks.

"Oh?" she says cautiously. "Well who is the lucky...person then?"

Sherlock clears his throat and kicks at something imaginary on the carpet. "Um... her-her name is.. M-Molly Hooper?"

He doesn't know why it sounds like a question. He knows that's her name.

His mother offers a strained smile. "Well, that's nice too, dear. If that's what you want."

It's not.

But Sherlock nods anyway.

They stand in silence for a moment and then Sherlock turns and hurries to his lab.

Even his own mother knows this isn't right.

If he had Molly's number, Sherlock would call and cancel.

But that's probably not true. He'd be too embarrassed. And it would feel too mean.

Molly didn't do anything wrong.

He supposes John didn't really either.

John's allowed to date whoever he wants.

They never talked about it.

They aren't together.

The only person that did anything wrong is Sherlock.

He knows it.

Are you being careful with your heart?

He should have known better.

Sherlock bolts upright from where he'd fallen asleep on his desk at the sound of the door slamming open. He scrambles for his glasses, shoves them on his face and turns to see a very flushed John Watson standing in the doorway.

"Are you alright?" John demands, taking the words right out of Sherlock's mouth.

"John?" Sherlock replies dumbly, still dazed with sleep.

"Your mother let me in," John says with a wave of his hand, still staring hard. "You weren't at the game." He blows out a breath as his eyes run all over Sherlock's body. "You're always at the game."

"S-sorry, I-" Sherlock starts and then stops, realizing he has no idea what else to say.

"You never sent me a text," John says, stepping into the room, looking exhausted. "I don't have your number. I couldn't... I didn't know where you were."

Sherlock feels so guilty he's on his feet before he knows it, making his way to John. "I'm sorry," he murmurs.

John reaches up and threads his fingers into the hairs on the back of Sherlock's neck. "I don't like not knowing where you are."

Sherlock settles his forehead against John's. "I'm sorry," he says again.

"Why have you been avoiding me?"

Sherlock has no idea.

All he knows is his heart is aching watching strong John Watson look so hurt because of him.

He missed him so desperately.

John sighs. "Can I stay here tonight?"

He looks up at Sherlock from under his blond lashes and Sherlock goes weak in the knees.

"Yes," he breathes.

And then he's kissing John.

He doesn't know who initiates, all he knows is John's lips are so soft and not as rough and urgent as normal and Sherlock is melting into him.

They stumble back to Sherlock's room.

The door closes and John's fingers grab frantically at the hem of Sherlock's shirt, still kissing him softly. Sherlock lifts his arms and John tears his shirt clean over his head, taking his glasses with it.

John continues to undress him, and Sherlock complies, moving his limbs this way and that to accommodate.

John then removes his own clothing.

They stare at each other's naked bodies for a long moment.

Then John's hand is on his chest, pushing him back.

Sherlock tumbles backward onto the bed and lies alone for a moment before he looks up.

John is standing at his bedside drawer, pulling a condom free from the box.

Then he turns and picks up his jeans.

Sherlock bites his lip hard as John produces another packet from the pocket of his trousers.

John turns back to Sherlock, cock jutting obscenely from his body. He smiles, his features soft and gentle.

Sherlock blinks once then nods, beckoning John back to the bed.

John crawls over his sprawled out body, planting kisses along his torso. "Are you sure?" He breathes over Sherlock's skin.

A tiny prick of panic stabs the back of his skull, but Sherlock nods. "Yes."

John rips the packet and a gel-like material oozes from the plastic onto his fingers.

Sherlock gulps.

"We'll go slow," John promises.

Sherlock nods and pulls his knees up to his chest.

John's finger press gently to Sherlock's pink puckered skin between his arse cheeks. Sherlock gasps and blushes.

"It's alright, baby," John soothes, circling the sensitive skin. "It'll feel so good, I promise."

Sherlock nods, then sucks in a sharp breath as the tip of John's finger breaches his body.

"Alright?" John pauses his movements and waits.

Sherlock pants, trying to get used to the feeling. It doesn't quite hurt, but it's definitely not comfortable.

He lets out a shaky breath and touches John's free hand.

John smiles and laces his fingers through Sherlock's. "I'm right here, love," John whispers.

Sherlock nods.

And then John's finger slides all the way inside him.

Sherlock stops breathing altogether.

John curves his finger and Sherlock's world blurs white.

He squeezes his eyes shut, the pleasure of the touch almost too much.

He feels more pressure and bites his lip hard to keep from crying out as John adds another finger. He blows out another breath, trying to relax.

"That's it," John moans above him. "That's it baby. You're doing great."

Sherlock squeezes John's hand he's holding on to for dear life and John squeezes back.

Sherlock's eyes fly open as John's fingers scissor, stretching him open. "John," he gasps.

"You're doing so good for me, Sherlock," John sounds about as wrecked as Sherlock feels. "Just a bit more, okay?"

Sherlock nods hastily. He attempts a few broken breaths before he quits trying and just gulps air when he can.

John's fingers slip free and he untangles his hand from Sherlock's.

Sherlock glances up to watch John roll the condom down his cock. He turns to Sherlock and grins. "Ready?"

Sherlock bites his lip and nods.

John climbs back over him, settling an elbow next to Sherlock's head and Sherlock feels the tip of his gloved erection pushing against his entrance.

Sherlock reaches up and grips John's hand near his head. "John," he breathes.

John's blue eyes snap to his and Sherlock watches his mouth fall open as he pushes himself in.

Sherlock's jaw drops open in a silent scream.

John pauses and bends to kiss his lips.

Sherlock lets out an involuntary sob, tears pricking his eyes as his body is filled deeply with John Watson.

"It's okay, baby," John whispers over his lips and Sherlock closes his eyes, worrying at his bottom lip.

John squeezes his hand and brings his other one to Sherlock's cheek. "Hey," he murmurs. "Look at me."

Sherlock chokes another broken cry and opens his eyes, moisture falling down his temples in heavy droplets.

He finds John's own damp ocean blues and suddenly he's comforting John. "I'm okay," he murmurs, mouth thick with saliva, eyes burning. "I'm fine, keep going." He pats John's shoulder with his free hand.

John swipes away a tear on Sherlock's face with his thumb, and leans down to kiss Sherlock with trembling lips. "Are you sure?" he murmurs over his mouth, blinking away his own tears.

Sherlock nods. "Please," he whispers. "Please don't stop."

He's never felt so close to someone before.

It hurts but it's John and he loves John and it's all fine.

He loves John.

Sherlock loves John Watson.

John pulls back and then eases his way back in.

It's better.

They find a rhythm.

It's slow and tender and Sherlock savors every gasp and every groan that leaves John's lips.

Sherlock savors the flush on John's chest and cheeks.

Sherlock savors the sweat on John's brow.

And if Sherlock murmurs I and love and you as John strokes him to orgasm, well, John's kind enough not to mention it.

Sherlock's morning afterglow is shattered into millions of tiny itty bitty little pieces when he wakes alone to a note with a reminder of the one thing he'd promptly forgotten about last night.

See you tonight? Text me. -JW

The air abruptly leaves Sherlock's lungs like he's been punched in the chest by an unseen entity.

He rolls over and wills the world to end before he has to see John Watson take Mary Morstan to formal.

Are you being careful with your heart?

His mother is kind enough to drive he and Molly to the dance.

Molly is kind enough not to make him go with the group.

Molly looks lovely in a purple dress and curled hair.

"You look nice," he murmurs, because she does and he does like Molly.

Not like he likes John, but that doesn't need to be verbalized.

Molly giggles and kisses his cheek. "As do you," she murmurs back.

Molly is about as shy as Sherlock and they get along famously in Chemistry.

But out, like this, Sherlock's guilt is getting the best of him.

They enter the dance, Molly's arm hooked in Sherlock's, and Sherlock is already scanning for John and Mary.

He knows better but he was so hurt this morning, he figures why not twist the knife a little deeper.

He doesn't see them.

Molly asks him to dance and he complies, pulling her close for a slow song.

"Are you okay?" Molly asks. "You seem nervous."

Sherlock nods. "Fine," he says hoarsely.

"Is it about John?"

Sherlock immediately goes rigid and Molly chuckles.

"I'm not blind, you know," she murmurs, grinning.

Sherlock furrows his brow.

"Oh come on," she says in exasperation. "It's not hard to miss those longing looks in the hallway or the fact that you attend every rugby game."

Sherlock's face heats and Molly laughs. "But then-so why-" Sherlock tries to articulate.

"Because I've also seen John with Mary," Molly says sadly and Sherlock's stomach squirms. "And it didn't seem right to leave you alone on formal night."

"You could have just let me stay home," Sherlock mumbles and Molly laughs.

"You're right, I could have," she agrees. She glances over Sherlock's shoulder and her eyes widen slightly. "But then I'd have missed this."

Then a hand is on his shoulder and he's being yanked backward.

Molly gasps, but even when off balance, Sherlock can spot the act.

"Come here," John is growling in his ear and Sherlock's eyes widen, realizing the captain of the rugby team is dragging him across the dance floor.

People are staring.

Sherlock is stumbling.

It's humiliating.

"Out here," John barks and shoves Sherlock through a side door.

Sherlock falls over the threshold, barely catching himself on his feet as he turns back to a furiously red, very angry John Watson.

John is panting.

"Molly Hooper?" John growls low and dangerous. "Molly bloody Hooper?"

"W-What?" Sherlock stammers. He's still a bit dazed. Though he does notice John is not dressed for formal, in jeans and a black t-shirt.

"Don't play stupid when I know you're not, Sherlock Holmes," John spits.

It's the first time John doesn't say his name in a playful or nice or fierce way. It crushes him.

"John, I-"

"What, were you just using me?" John almost yells. He catches himself and continues. "Just getting off with me, learning all the tricks so you can bone Molly fucking Hooper? Telling me you love me so what? You can throw it in my face later?"

Sherlock's eyes shoot wide. "What?" He's so shocked, he can't even form a proper thought.

"Was it just all an act, Sherlock?"

"John-"

"Why are you here with her? Why...why are you doing this?" John sounds so broken, so hurt.

Sherlock gapes. And then he's yelling. "Because you're here with Mary!"

John goes from broken to confused in a blink of an eye. "What?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Oh stop it. I know you're dating Mary, and I know we never talked about being exclusive so it's not like I have a right to be mad but...but it still hurts," Sherlock's voice has lost all its original bite. He just sounds pathetic now.

John is blinking at him, face frozen in confusion. Sherlock can practically see the wheels turning in his head.

"So..." John starts, then scrubs a hand down his face and laughs a humorless laugh. "So you thought, this entire time, that I was also sleeping with Mary?"

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "Aren't you?"

"No."

Sherlock doesn't believe him.

"I've seen you in the halls."

"No, you've seen her following me around in the halls."

"I saw you give her a ride home."

"She asked for a ride home. I wasn't going to be rude."

"I see you laugh and smile at her."

"Because I'm not a dick!" John yells. "I'm not going to be mean to a girl who clearly has a crush on me, even if I have zero interest in her."

Sherlock crosses his arms. "Really," he says flatly. "You never even kissed her?" The sentence is meant to bite but John just shakes his head.

"Nope."

"Liar."

John's face falls. "You really think that little of me?"

Sherlock blinks. He'd never even thought of it like that.

"Even after last night? Even after…You...you really think I would just..." John's voice breaks as he flings his hand in the air. "Just take your virginity so callously? Just...just do all the things we've done and still be hooking up with someone else?"

Sherlock's throat is burning as he shakes his head. "No, that's not-"

"You really think I would treat you like that?" John's whispering now. "Like...like you're not the most important thing on this earth to me?"

Sherlock doesn't understand. He hangs his head in shame.

"Was I too casual?" John suddenly says desperately. "Was I too...relaxed about the whole thing? Because that's not how I meant it." He steps closer. "I just... I love it when you blush and the little 'o' your mouth makes when you're surprised and...and I didn't know if you were comfortable being out yet…which is why I didn't ask you to this bloody dance…but I couldn't stay away from you..."

"But you'd leave," Sherlock whispers, finally finding his voice. "You'd leave in the mornings after you'd stay over."

John nods and rubs the back of his neck. "Yeah, I'm sorry about that. It's just my sister and I. My mum...she drinks."

Sherlock wasn't expecting that.

"And I would have told you," John says hastily. "I just... I didn't know where you stood with me."

"I didn't know," Sherlock says because he's blind when it comes to John Watson.

John sighs. "Not exactly something I like to advertise."

Sherlock nods. "I'm sorry."

"Maybe I should be apologizing to you," John says, taking a step closer and reaching for Sherlock's hand. "I never meant for you to feel like you weren't important to me. Like you were one of several or something."

"I'm not... experienced in any of this, you know," Sherlock says, feeling so foolish.

John laughs. "I know." He closes the distance between them. "You just have to talk to me, okay? Just tell me what you want."

"You," Sherlock says quickly. "I-I want to be with you."

John grins. "I want to be with you too."

Sherlock blushes and looks down. "Good, that's...that's good."

John laughs again. "Glad to hear it." His eyes dart to the side and he says, "Do you... want to go public-"

"Yes," Sherlock blurts before the sentence is finished.

John grins his real grin and Sherlock grins right back.

And then John kisses him gently and Sherlock moans without thinking.

"Hush," John teases. "We're in public."

Public.

Sherlock pulls back, eyes wide. "Why are you here?"

John gives him a bemused look. "What?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "If…if you didn't go to the dance with Mary, why are you here?"

"Oh," John shakes his head in realization. "Right. Well, Mary had been trying really hard to get me to go but I kept declining and she called today and asked again, and I said I was busy-" he throws a glare at Sherlock "-because I thought I would be and she started prattling on about who all was going. And then she said 'even Sherlock bloody Holmes is going with Molly' and that's when I may have lost it a little bit."

Sherlock's face flushes.

John lost it.

Over him.

Over Sherlock bloody Holmes.

Sherlock feels light as a feather.

"Oh," he says and John chuckles and kisses him again.

Sherlock clutches at him and the kiss deepens.

"I wanna take you home," John breathes against Sherlock's neck.

Sherlock's fists tighten in John's jacket, the heat of John's words and breath burning against his skin.

"I wanna put you on the back of my bike and drive you straight to bed," John is growling and Sherlock is whimpering.

"B-but the dance," Sherlock gasps, even though he doesn't want to go back. He has better manners then to leave Molly behind.

His mother would kill him.

John pulls back, famous smirk already plastered to his face.

"Do you trust me?"

Sherlock's hand flies to his glasses, adjusting them nervously. "Uh-yes?"

John snorts.

Then grabs his hand and drags him back inside.

Sherlock is trying not to panic.

The crowd that gathered when they left is still milling around.

Sherlock would be curious too.

His face reddens at the attention.

John pulls Sherlock through the crowd.

And onto the stage the DJ is set up at.

John, still gripping Sherlock's hand, requests the microphone and murmurs something to the man with the computer. He grins and nods.

Then the music cuts off.

"Good evening everybody!" John says into the microphone.

The entire dance freezes and turns.

"This is your captain speaking," John says in a serious voice.

The crowd laughs. The school loves John.

Sherlock can see the whispers and curious glances.

Sherlock has no idea what John is doing.

"Listen," John says. "I have some news."

Sherlock waits along with the rest of the students.

"Sherlock Holmes is officially off the market," John says and stops speaking long enough for the curious titters to rise in volume. Then he continues. "That's right, ladies and gentlemen. Sherlock Holmes is no longer available. He's mine."

John searches out the crowd then smirks when his eyes land on his target. "Sorry, Molly."

Sherlock searches frantically to find Molly leaning on Mike Stamford and raising a glass full of red punch. "It's all good!" She calls, her words a bit slurred. Clearly, Molly Hooper has had a bit to drink while Sherlock was outside.

At least Sherlock knows he didn't ruin her night.

The crowd laughs at her reaction.

"So," John says, "if you have any further questions, please kindly fuck off. Have a wonderful formal!"

Sherlock goes from shocked to horrified in two seconds. "John!" he murmurs but the crowd is laughing and John is smirking.

"What?" he asked innocently.

And then someone starts to clap.

It starts with the rugby team, whooping and cheering for their captain, and then their dates join in. And soon the crowd is whistling and hollering and Sherlock is too embarrassed to do anything besides look down at his feet.

John tugs his hand. "They love you," he says as Sherlock finds his eyes.

"No, they love you," Sherlock argues.

"And I love you so they love you by proxy," John laughs.

Sherlock is so shocked all he can do is nod. He tries to swallow but his throat feels like it's closing.

John laughs again. "My favorite face," he teases, running a thumb over Sherlock's rounded lips.

Sherlock blushes and John's hand is in his hair. "Alright?"

Sherlock nods, standing just a little straighter. "Alright, John Watson."

John smirks. "Alright, Sherlock Holmes."

And then John is kissing him.

And Sherlock thinks he hears an explosion of applause but it could also be the fireworks bursting behind his eyes.

**I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters within it. Find me on tumblr and feel free to send requests for stories!**