"Sarah ended it."

John pulled the door closed behind him and doffed his robe, tossing it carelessly on to Sherlock's chair. He shrugged, hoping to seem casual. "More or less." When he looked up at Sherlock, he realized he was being watched. Intensely watched, at that, and there was a splash of colour across Sherlock's cheeks that he hadn't seen before. They locked eyes and John's breath became shallow, his heart drumming painfully.

It seemed to take ages for Sherlock to cross the small room, but when he did he was suddenly close, much too close, and John pressed his back and his trembling palms against the door, his head tipping up to meet Sherlock's eyes. Sherlock regarded him in silence for a long while, his eyes searching John's, before whispering, huskily, "Good," and pressing his lips to John's.

John felt shot through with electricity. He gasped against Sherlock's mouth, his hands jumping to Sherlock's thin waist automatically. Using John's parted lips to his advantage, Sherlock kissed John more deeply, letting their tongues slide together, and John pressed into it, into Sherlock, a small, muffled noise escaping him. "John," Sherlock mumbled against John's lips, kissing him again, bringing up his hand to stroke John's face. John shuddered at the touch, his body clamoring for more.

John slid his hands up Sherlock's back, pulling his shirt free of his trousers and rucking the fabric. He let go and slipped his hands up underneath, savoring the slightly damp heat of Sherlock's skin. Had he ever guessed the younger boy could be so warm? Sherlock arched into his touch, groaning into their kiss, and John shivered again, his hands tightening and nails scratching. He needed…he needed…

"Too many clothes," Sherlock rasped, echoing his thoughts perfectly. John nodded, unable to speak, and let Sherlock step away from him with only a small whimper of dissatisfaction. The reward, though…Sherlock's deft fingers worked their way down his shirt, flicking the small buttons open and revealing a V of pale skin that grew as he worked, the sight of it knocking John back against the wall and snatching his breath away. God, Sherlock was gorgeous. Unbelievable. John couldn't think-

"I haven't done this in awhile," Sherlock said, his fingers paused on the last button and his voice too rough to truly drawl, "but I believe you're meant to be undressing, as well."

"Ah," John managed, shucking his jumper off in one quick fluid movement. He undid the first couple of buttons at his collar and tore his shirt off as well, throwing it aside. "Sorry."

Sherlock's playful smile faded into something more serious as he looked John over, eyes flitting from the small scar on John's shoulder to the dip of his clavicles and then down the line of his chest before settling on the small, dark patch of hair just below John's navel. There was no way John could just stand there, not with Sherlock looking at him like that. He surged forward, pulling Sherlock towards him and pressing their mouths together roughly as his hands came up and pushed Sherlock's shirt off his shoulders and to the floor.

He slid his hands down Sherlock's arms and brought them to the boy's belt, moving his fingers to the buckle and fumbling with it, hampered slightly by the way he was trembling. Breaking the kiss, Sherlock breathed, "Here, let me," and took John's hands away, pressing them to the warm, soft flesh of Sherlock's stomach. It had surprised John to find that everything about Sherlock was soft: his hair, his skin, his lips. For such an abrasive character, Sherlock was extremely touchable.

They were close enough that John could feel the whisper of Sherlock's fingers against his own stomach as Sherlock unclasped his belt and undid his trousers. Then the whisper became a reality as Sherlock moved his hands to John's zip, brushing against the bulge underneath and piercing John with a delicious sort of agony. "God," John panted, nipping at Sherlock's lower lip and moving his hands lower, down Sherlock's abdomen and to the silky fabric of his pants. He eased his hands under the waist band, grasping the sharp bones of Sherlock's hips and smiling at the soft hiss his actions elicited.

"Off," Sherlock growled, his gentle motions now frenzied as he tugged at John's jeans. "Off, now, for Merlin's sake."

John laughed, a little startled at the rumbling depth of his own voice, and kissed Sherlock almost sweetly, grabbing his wrists and pulling his hands away. "Patience," he whispered, kissing Sherlock again. "I don't want to rush this."

"No," Sherlock sighed, as John released his hands. He slid them up John's chest and wrapped his arms around John's neck, pulling them closer. "Nor do I. But," he kissed John deeply, slowly, sucking at his bottom lip, "I want to touch you."

Sherlock's words shot through John like a spell. "Christ," he rumbled, pressing his nose into the delicate hollow of Sherlock's neck. "Okay, yes. Less clothes. Now."

It was Sherlock's turn to laugh, although the laugh turned into something more like a whimper as John kissed his pulse just under his jaw, pressing his tongue against the incessant tap of Sherlock's heartbeat. Sherlock smelled so good, like tea tree oil and warm amber and a touch of musky cologne, and something else, something that was only Sherlock. John breathed Sherlock in as he stepped out of his shoes and kicked them aside, ghosting a smile against Sherlock's shoulder as he felt the taller boy do the same, but more slowly, as though he were drugged or half-asleep.

"All right?" John murmured, putting a little distance between them as he looked up.

Sherlock met his eyes, his pupils wide and ringed with the nonsense gray-silver colour that drove John mad. He looked amazing, his cheeks and neck flush and his eyes half-hooded, and John felt a little rush of pleasure at knowing that he'd done that, that he'd made Sherlock lose himself and would soon enough make the boy come entirely undone. "All right," Sherlock echoed, his voice thick. He dipped his head and brushed his lips against John's, not quite a kiss, and whispered, "Please, John. I need more of you."

John had never undressed more quickly in his life, nor had he ever torn someone's clothes off with more urgency. He wasn't even aware of the fact that he'd pressed Sherlock down on to the bed until he was standing with his shins against it, Sherlock's legs on either side of him and their mouths hungrily searching each other's skin. Sherlock's slender fingers traced his hips and then moved inwards, lower, drawing a deep groan from John as they passed over the taut stretch below his bellybutton and wrapped around his shaft, both hands, one of his thumbs pressing into the slick slit of his cock and making him gasp. He bucked into the hold without meaning to, his hands leaving Sherlock and falling to the bed for support. Sherlock looked up at him and wrapped his legs around John's waist, pulling him closer even as his hands worked up, down, twisting a little on each stroke.

It was too much, too quickly, and John was already way too close. "Sherlock, Sherlock," he panted, prying those pale hands away and bringing them up to his mouth, kissing them gently so the action didn't feel like rejection. Thankfully Sherlock seemed to understand, unwinding his legs and sitting up slightly, pressing a kiss to John's lips, his jaw, his neck.

"Bed," Sherlock said, and John obeyed without a second thought, climbing up into the narrow space and letting Sherlock press him down and straddle him, the rub of their pricks together making his eyes screw up and his mouth fall open with a silent gasp. The touch didn't last long; Sherlock trailed kisses down his chest and lower, much lower, until John realized what he was planning to do and sat up on his elbows, his eyes wide and heart racing.

The first press of Sherlock's lips to the vein that run along the underside of John's cock was enough that he almost gave up on his resolve to watch. Almost. Instead he twisted his hands even more firmly into the sheets and gritted his teeth as Sherlock swirled his nimble tongue around the head of his prick and then swallowed it down, his right hand grasping John's shaft and his left holding John's hips down. John hadn't even realized he'd been thrusting until the hand pressed a little more firmly and he stopped himself, wrenching his shaking hand from the sheet and winding it into Sherlock's ridiculous curls. He very carefully didn't press down, even when Sherlock teased him with little flicks of his tongue that made John's hips twitch against his will, and when Sherlock pulled the length of him into his mouth again John moaned and said, breathlessly, "You're so beautiful, Sherlock. God. So beautiful." It was a foolish thing to say, probably, because John didn't really know what Sherlock wanted from this and making himself sounded like the hopelessly-in-love sop that he was probably wasn't the best idea. But it was true; Sherlock's full lips, Sherlock's dark eyes, the sprinkle of a blush across the bridge of his nose and the way his mouth almost looked heart-shaped around John's cock…it was the most beautiful thing John had ever seen.

Sherlock popped off of his cock with a little gasping breath and licked his lips, his eyes on John. "You mean it," Sherlock said, his voice broken but thoughtful. "When you say things like that, you mean it."

"Of course I mean it," John whispered, running his hand down to Sherlock's cheekbone and letting his thumb trail the length of it. "You're amazing. There's no one…" He cleared his throat and didn't finish the sentence: there's no one in the world like you. Instead he said something he should have said much earlier, something that had only just crossed his mind. "Sherlock, we should probably be using condoms at this point."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and shuffled upwards before letting himself fall indecorously to the bed, pressing himself against John's side. "Pureblood wizards aren't susceptible to Muggle disease," he said, running his hand across John's chest, "and aside from that, I acquired your medical records last month, so I know you're clean."

"How-" John began, but then he shook his head. Mycroft, of course. How else?

Sherlock went on as he nuzzled against John's shoulder, "I'm clean, too, obviously, but if you'd prefer to examine the documents they're on my desk somewhere."

Searching the papers on Sherlock's desk would take more time than John was willing to give. "I'll take your word for it," he said, bringing Sherlock's mouth up to his. They kissed lazily for a moment, letting the heat rebuild until finally they were both gasping again as Sherlock drew back and ran his tongue along the curve of John's ear.

"John," he breathed, making John shiver. "How do you want to come?"

The rush of heat in John's stomach twisted. "Inside you," he said softly, pulling Sherlock closer to him. "If…if you'll let me. I'd like to…"

"Yes," Sherlock said simply. He sat up and straddled John again, running his hands over John's chest before lifting one hand and flicking his wrist carelessly in the direction of his desk. One of the smaller drawers popped open and a little tub flew out, landing in Sherlock's palm with a tiny thud. It was something of a rare treat to see Sherlock do magic outside of a crisis, John realized, and it always took him aback when he remembered that Sherlock did all his spells without speaking and half the time without even holding his wand. Sherlock held the tub, focusing on it, and John wondered absently what exactly he was doing until a small glob of- what, some sort of salve?- lifted out and coated John's prick neatly.

Oh, John thought stupidly, he was warming it up.

"Good?" Sherlock asked, and John had to laugh, then. His few previous encounters had been with girls and once, memorably, with a Muggle boy; sex with a wizard was already proving to be a unique experience.

"Brilliant," he said, grinning a bit lopsidedly, and Sherlock flushed anew, tossing the tub aside. His grin was replaced by a hungry grimace, however, when Sherlock grasped his erection and slid against it, his own cock flush and pressed against the flesh of his pale stomach. For a moment there was just that, just pleasant friction and Sherlock's dark eyes locked on John's, and then he pressing down, around, easing his way on to John and biting back a moan.

Heat; wondrous heat. John's eyes flickered closed, his hands falling to Sherlock's circling hips, and let the sensations roll over him until Sherlock cried out and he had to, absolutely had to, move against him. He thrust upwards, captivated by the feeling of Sherlock crashing down towards him in perfect, tandem rhythm, drunk from the sounds of Sherlock's low moans and his own heavy breathing. "Sherlock, yes," he gasped, sliding his hands to Sherlock's lower back.

Seeming to know what John wanted, Sherlock dipped down and kissed him, deeply at first but then only gentle presses of his lips, their breath mingling. John opened his eyes to find Sherlock looking at him and felt a little jolt of surprise and pleasure; Sherlock's gaze was hazy, yes, but it was unbroken, all of his immense and amazing brainpower focused solely on John. Still rocking against him, Sherlock searched his gaze and then dropped his head lower, pressing his face into John's neck. John almost didn't hear him as he whispered, "I've never felt like this. Never."

It was as if John's dreams had all decided to come together in one moment of perfect, blissful clarity. Sex with Sherlock was nothing to scoff at, of course not, but this… "Sherlock," John said softly, lifting the other boy's chin and meeting his eyes again, "me either. Not ever. I didn't even know it was possible to feel like this."

Sherlock held his gaze for a long moment before kissing him, the kiss different this time, something new in it that stole John's breath away. When he pulled away he smiled weakly and sat up, grinding his hips down and making John shout. "Touch me, John," he commanded, voice thick with want but imperious as ever.

John had never refused Sherlock before, not when he took that tone, and he certainly wasn't planning to start now. He reached up and took Sherlock's hip in one hand, stroking him with the other. At John's careful touch Sherlock's hips stuttered and his head went back, his back arching. He ran his hands across John's, briefly, before grazing them up the length of his own body and losing them in the mess of curls that bounced with every one of John's thrusts.

The sight was maddening. "Sherlock, I'm-" John gasped, struggling to keep his eyes open. "I'm-"

"Yes," Sherlock panted, bringing his head back up and looking at John with his bottom lip between his teeth. "Yes," he said again, "I- yes- I'm close-"

John groaned and quickened his strokes, feeling Sherlock's cock pulse in his hand just moments before his tight heat did the same around John and Sherlock's hips abruptly stopped, a deep, sobbing moan shuddering through him as his head went back and warm, wet cum dribbled down John's hand.

"Oh God!" John cried, and followed Sherlock as he always did, unable to stop himself and, like always, not really wanting to. His eyes closed, his hips bucked upwards once, twice, and then he slumped back against the bed, his ragged breathing making his chest heave.

Sherlock drooped down against him, panting warmly against his skin. For a moment neither of them was capable of moving and so just laid still, clutching each other loosely. John pressed a kiss against Sherlock's temple, and Sherlock smiled against his neck, but otherwise they were blessedly, bonelessly still.

Eventually, with a shaky sigh, Sherlock shifted off of him (John mourning the loss despite the oversensitivity) and fell down beside him, actually snuggling against him.

"Didn't peg you for a cuddler," John chuckled, kissing his forehead.

"Mm," Sherlock hummed. "Shut up, John."

John laughed, his chest strangely light. He hadn't lied to Sherlock; he'd never felt like this, so undeniably happy that he could easily run through the corridors shouting about it and yet so unerringly content that he wanted honestly do nothing more than lie here, carding his hand through Sherlock's damp curls and smiling like a fool.

"You're thinking," Sherlock whispered, angling so that he could see John's face without lifting his head from John's shoulder. "About me."

John grinned. "Yes, you little mind-reader."

"I've never been good at Legimency," Sherlock said seriously. "What were you thinking?"

"That I'm happy," John said simply, and he was pleased with his word choice when Sherlock's face lit up, a little smile playing at his kiss-plump lips.

"I am, too," Sherlock said, still smiling, and then he groaned and fell back against the bed, draping his arm over his eyes like a Victorian heroine. "Except that I'm meant to be packing. I'm going home for Christmas holidays." He shifted his arm a little and peeked at John. "Are you?"

John was not going home for Christmas, and he wasn't sure if he was happy about that or not. On the one hand, the castle was sure to be lonely and boring, especially without Sherlock around. On the other hand, Harry and holidays were a bad mix. Egg nog, mulled wine, and memories of John's father all led to a miserable drunk, an angry mum, and John hiding in his room. Which he couldn't do, because his room was being let out to a boarder- a uni student named Charlie, who John had met once- while John was at school, hence the reason he wasn't going home in the first place.

"Excellent," Sherlock said, yanking John from his thoughts. "Since you're not going to your house for the holidays, come to mine. My mother will be demanding and overly nosy, and Mycroft will be insufferable as always. My father is on the Continent and won't be returning, which is a small blessing, but that only means Mycroft will be even more overbearing and fatherly than usual, which mean you must come. I'll go mad if you don't."

"Some might argue," John said, turning to his side and snaking his arm around Sherlock's waist, "that it's a little too late for that."

"Then consider this a preventative measure," Sherlock smiled, "against your own madness. All alone in this big old castle, empty bed, quiet common room…"

"Yes, fine, I'll come," John groaned, pretending to be annoyed. "Although how surrounding myself with Holmes' will keep me from going insane, I'm not sure."

"I intend to keep you almost entirely to myself," Sherlock smirked. "Did you know I have my own wing? A whole section of the manor to ourselves for ten whole days." Thinking Sherlock was talking about sex, John opened his mouth to say something cheeky when Sherlock suddenly sat up and gasped, "Oh, John, I can show you my laboratory! And my Potions storeroom. Oh, and the greenroom. I'll think you'll like what I've done; I've been cross-breeding nettles to create a certain strand…"

John let Sherlock's voice fade into a happy but distant rumble, yawning and tucking himself closer to the chattering boy's satisfying warmth. A week and a half at the Holmes manor. If someone had told him this was going to be his life at the start of term, he would have blanched and stuttered in equal turns. But now?

"Go to sleep, John," Sherlock murmured, brushing his lips against John's cheek. "We'll discuss the trip later."

"All right," John agreed happily, snuggling into the blanket that Sherlock pulled over them. Ten days at the Holmes manor. Well, John had overcome greater challenges than that. And- here John considered their recent little escapade with a small smile- how hard could it be to keep Sherlock entertained for ten short days, with a whole wing to themselves?

A/N: Stay tuned for the next book in this series, The Great (Quidditch) Game, in which Sherlock has an admirer who likes to play his own sort of game, using the golden snitch as a timer.