John looked out the windows and reflected on how that last year had changed him. One year ago, he was about to start his first teaching job for real (after his practise year that he really didn't count), and was nervous, still fighting a stupid limp and other annoying psychological injuries. He let his gaze wander by the view, consisting on the busy street below and the skyline of Victorian brown-reddish roofs. He turned to look at Sherlock with a fond smile plastered on his face.

The boy, on the other hand, was striding up and down the old apartment, reckless, touching every piece of furniture and commenting of every detail.

"John, I don't think there's enough book shelves… And what do you think about the kitchen? Is it big enough? I don't know if I will have enough space for chemical experiments in there…"

"Relax, Sherlock… And for God's sake, we are talking about a kitchen, not a lab. You are not supposed to run chemical experiments in it!"

Sherlock turned to hide his crooked grin, but John managed to see part of it.

"Yes… sure", the young man said.

He climbed up the stairs to the second floor and called out:

"And what are we going to do with the second bedroom? We won't need it!"

John shushed him as soon as he ran downstairs again, seemingly unable to keep still for a moment.

"Will you keep your voice down? We are supposed to take two bedrooms, because you are seventeen, remember? So for the landlady, who lives downstairs on the ground floor, please remember, that bedroom up there is mine, and the bigger one on the first floor is yours."

"Let me look again at it!"

Sherlock made a run for the bedroom and he threw himself on it, landing with his arms wide open on the comfortable king-size bed. John followed him, chuckling.

"Is it nice?"

"Oh, yes."

John leaned on the doorway and watched him, still smiling. Sherlock looked back at him, suddenly serious.

"John. Can you believe we are going to live together?"

"It's a great step, isn't it? Are you sure you wouldn't rather live with someone from college?"

"Sssshhh… According to my parents, my flatmate is a college mate, so everything will be alright. And this flat is almost inside the campus; it's just a five minutes walk!"

"Criminology, in the end", John sighed.

"I have tons of subjects about Chemistry, John, don't grieve about it…" Sherlock mocked him.

The doctor shrugged, not really concerned (although a tiny part of him would have been in ecstasy if Sherlock had chosen Chemistry or Medicine) and walked to the window to check the view: a back patio and more Victorian terraced houses. It was quite nice, in fact. Way better than the view he had at his current apartment.

"And are you sure Mycroft won't interfere?" he asked.

Sherlock let go a dramatical sigh.

"He says he won't… but who knows, when it comes to him. The bad news is that now I owe him one, and I'm sure he will have me pay him back."

John grinned.

"Ha! It can't be that bad!"

"You don't know Mycroft…" Sherlock mumbled, distressed. Then he changed his tone and called him in a low whisper: "John. Come nearer."

The doctor acquiesced and sat down close to Sherlock. Their hands intertwined and the boy gave him a pointed look.

"We should try the bed, don't you think?"

"Sherlock… We still haven't signed the contract, and the landlady is downstairs."

"We are signing the effing contract tomorrow, isn't it? And Mrs. Hudson is rather deaf. Close the door, and she won't hear a thing."

John licked his lips, uneasy. Sherlock's eyes glowed in excitement. The landlady could come and see them at any given moment, but then they surely would hear her before she reached the door… And wasn't it thrilling, knowing that someone could interrupt them? He stood up and closed the door firmly.

Sherlock snorted and started unbuttoning his shirt, his eyes fixed on John. Excited, the teacher took his own t-shirt off, too, and drop it to the floor.

During the scarce month of summer holidays they had enjoyed, without leaving the city, they had made advances in their intimacy, of course. Sherlock would had jumped at it, but John remembered fondly his own first months discovering sex, going step by step, and he didn't want to take that away from Sherlock, those memories that, in time, would be precious for him. So they advanced slowly. It made Sherlock cringe and whine, but he didn't complain about the outcome. They had started with handjobs, languorously slow, accompanied with sloppy kisses, that some days later evolved into blowjobs, delicious and hot. They had explored each other's body with the same intent as if they wanted to chart it, and John was sure he would be able to draw it with his eyes closed, given he was a good artist, that wasn't the case, of course. After that, Sherlock turned really impatient, but John was intent in not skipping the next step. He had been working Sherlock with his fingers for weeks now, until sliding them inside his ass took him only a minute and a squirt of lube. The next day, though, Sherlock's family was going abroad in a family trip for a week; hence the teen was eager and not looking forward to wait any more.

I'm at my limit, too, I must admit, John thought while he eased his trousers down his hips and his legs. Sherlock raised his hips and put down his jeans and his underwear in the same pull, dropping them on the floor, on top of his shirt. Completely naked, he grinned and sat up, planting his hands behind him, on the bed covers, and flexing his knees to seat with his legs wide open, offering John a fully pornographic view. Cursing, the teacher hurried to get rid of his pants and socks while his dick reacted with interest at the sight of the curly line of hair going down Sherlock's navel and the half-mast erection greeting him below. He crawled on his hands and knees across the bed until his lips found Sherlock's. The boy started to lean back, trying to pull John on top of him, but the teacher stopped the motion, having other ideas. He sat as close to Sherlock as was possible, and then he grabbed one of the boy's legs and placed it on his lap, shifting still closer and forcing Sherlock to put his other leg around John's hip. They hold each other for a moment, enjoying the shared breath and the way their chests brushed at every inhale and exhale. John felt Sherlock's heartbeats under his hands, marvelled at how strong and fast his heart beat. Suddenly, the teen's lips were on his pulse, sucking, and John closed his eyes and stopped thinking for a while. Feeling through his five senses was better. Much, much better…

Smell. Sherlock's nice scent of shampoo and cleanliness soon started to mix with the salty sweat of his neck and back, and John breathed it deeply between licks, enjoying it before it got swallowed by the not so lovely smell of their mixed saliva drowning almost completely the rest of scents. Still, there was something spicy there, something musky and heady that turned out to be the fragrance of their sexes, and soon John felt intoxicated by the aroma, but at the same time he couldn't get enough of it, chasing the scent up and down of Sherlock's body.

Touch. Of course touch was the predominant sense right then, invading John's brain until it couldn't function any more, and all that was left to do was just keep on touching. He had got addicted to Sherlock's skin during the last months, and then he felt as a junkie getting his fix at last… He caressed every inch of skin that he could reach with his fingers or his lips… and felt at the same time Sherlock's hands on him, as greedy as his own, caressing lightly at first, then pinching, and rubbing, and scratching, and following with lips sucking on the same abused spot.

Sight. From time to time, John dared to open his eyes, and each time he was faced with Sherlock's eyes studying him just inches away, forcing him to close them again, overwhelmed. Because it was too much, the amount of emotions in Sherlock's eyes were too much to cope with right then, a dangerous kaleidoscope in those greyish green orbs that made John's heart pump loud and painfully.

Taste. It was much better, oh, yes, to let taste guide his acts, leave aside every strong and painful feeling that threatened to choke him to death and content himself with being drowned by the taste of Sherlock, all the while cataloguing the slight differences between the skin of his clavicle and the skin of his wrist, going South and finding all of a sudden a delicious patch in the hollow of his hip, and dipping his tongue there for a moment, enjoying the taste until his own saliva erased everything else. He then chased the musky and bitter taste still farther south, the only one that grew stronger and wouldn't vanish, no matter the amount of saliva he would put on it.

Hearing. Sherlock started moaning softly and sighing as soon as his breath got laboured. And then, from time to time, his breath got caught and he would gasp, and very soon a litany of 'John' and 'Oh, there!' and some other half-formed incomprehensible words were whispered, and John took a while to realise half of the moans and groans and sobs were, in fact, coming from himself.

When, after a while, he found himself lying on top of Sherlock, the boy had already opened his legs wide and had wrapped John's hips with them, and was now pushing the teacher's bum down with his heels, softly but insistent. John opened his eyes and was tempted to close them again, faced with the piercing and solemn gaze of his lover. But, instead, he lowered his face to kiss his lips again. He was about to ask him if he was really ready, but he knew it was a useless question. What about me?, he wondered then. Am I ready? After waiting so much for this, he found himself so wrapped out in his emotions that it was almost scary. He wanted… everything. He wanted to be deep inside of Sherlock, but for the first time he was afraid that that wouldn't be enough.

He tried to turn his brain off again, because Sherlock, his Sherlock, was waiting for him, frowning slightly at the wait. So he braced himself, one hand on the bed and the other on Sherlock's hip, and he thrust his body onwards to meet the boy's heat. He slid inside rather easily, the canal slick with lube and already prepared, pressing against the barrier of muscles and surpassing it, pushing on to the core of Sherlock. The boy shuddered and moaned his name, the pressure of his thighs on John's sides suddenly tighter. John ran a hand along one of his long legs, whispering reassuring nonsense on the boy's ear, and took the chance to regain his breath. The overflowing of sensations and the nervousness of being inside of Sherlock for the first time were tricking with his body and he felt his orgasm awfully near all of a sudden, and although when they were finally living together that wouldn't be a problem at all, he wasn't seventeen any more, so he needed at least half an hour to go for round two, and sadly they didn't have so much time right then. An only time would have to suffice until the next week, so he better didn't ruin it.

He started to move with all the gentleness he could muster, studying Sherlock's face for any sign of discomfort. The boy had closed his eyes, luckily for John, and kept shaking his head one side and the other. The grip of his thighs on John had slackened at last, and he looked boneless and too gone to react. John licked a trail along his Adam's apple and down, eliciting a soft moan. Then Sherlock half opened his eyes and gazed at John, and although they were clouded his eyes didn't lose any of their striking quality for John. He reached for his face with one hand, and Sherlock put his own hand on top, intertwining his fingers.

"John…"

"Is it good?"

The teen nodded.

John leaned in for a short brush of their lips, and focused on finding a pleasurable rhythm for the two of them. He kept watching Sherlock, who had closed his eyes again when he started moving with more purpose, studying the nuances in his breath and his strained face, until he found at last an angle that made the boy jump and open his eyes, startled. John grinned and insisted, keeping the angle and increasing the speed and the force of his shoves. Sherlock started whimpering louder and his hold on John's hips turned into a vice-grip that made John almost impossible to keep thrusting. But then Sherlock started to buck his hips to meet John's cock, in a fast and furious rhythm of his own, and John realised Sherlock was really close, and already chasing his orgasm. He quickly took the young man's dick and started pumping it, watching as Sherlock displayed his body with abandon, his eyes tightly shut, pushing his pelvis onwards to get John's cock deeper, sweating with the effort between loud grunts. John could barely move his hips, but the way Sherlock writhed and wormed his had him staring in awe. And then the young man arched his back and bucked his hips higher, and let go a growl, and John felt first, and then saw, the white spurts coming from between his own fingers, and the hold on his hips suddenly turning slack again. He lunged in, then, at last allowed again to move, and kept caressing Sherlock's cock until the teen wailed his hands, unable to speak, but obviously trying to beg him to let go of him.

John's first thought when he took himself out of Sherlock was finishing with his own hand; he was so close either way… But the sight in front of him was so erotic, Sherlock slumped on the bed with come painting white strips on his stomach, his lips and chin and neck red from all the kisses and love bites starting to take shape on the delicate skin of his thighs and his hips… He couldn't help himself and kneeled on the bed between Sherlock's legs, taking hold of those narrow hips and pulling them until they matched like a puzzle piece against his groin. He entered him again, prompting a light half-formed complain, and grunted his way in. He closed his eyes again, focused on his pleasure, and sank deeper and deeper, moving in desperate short thrusts, panting and cursing. And just when the sweetness was starting to overcome him and all his muscles were on fire, threatening to cramp, he cursed himself because again it seemed too little; all the pleasure wasn't enough, not when what he wanted was to go inside of Sherlock and stay there for a while, not only that little bit of flesh and muscle but the whole of him. He wanted to blend completely with Sherlock, mixing their blood and their bones until they were just one person, one soul, and for a moment, for a single moment that didn't last more than a heartbeat, he felt he was there, touching Sherlock's soul with the tip of his fingers, but as fast as the feeling had come, it started to slip between his fingers, and a rush of pleasure bathed him like a wave in the ocean, expected, but despite that still startling.

During the couple of minutes it took him to recover, John was barely conscious of his surroundings; of how exactly had he dropped to the bed or in which posture or anything, except for the grip of Sherlock's fingers on his own, those had never leaved them. When he felt able to open his eyes, the first thing he saw was Sherlock's bright eyes fixed on his, watching him openly.

"Don't close your eyes again", Sherlock begged… because he sensed John was about to do exactly that, of course.

John managed to smile softly and looked back at Sherlock, caressing with his thumb the long and nimble fingers of the boy.

"John…"

There was hesitance in Sherlock's voice, and John hummed in answer.

"Can I say now that I love you? I've been wanting to tell you for months."

John's smile fell, and he felt a lump in his throat and his eyes prickle. He sniffed in and swallowed the lump, turning it into a sweet pain inside his chest, one that was almost unbearable, but that he was glad to bear all the same. He embraced Sherlock tightly, and whispered on his ear:

"I love you too, Sherlock."

And they rested there, lying down and holding each other, listening to their breaths and heartbeats, and John wondered for a moment if it had been as overwhelming and significant to Sherlock as it had been for him, and how would the teenager cope with it in that case. He tightened his embrace, trying to be reassuring, but soon Sherlock's voice distracted him, mumbling about the latest cases Lestrade had told him about, and starting to make plans about the move to the flat and about their next future together. The sounds of the city started to creep in, dogs barking and cars horning and voices in the street, and it all seemed real to John all of a sudden: their new life together in London was just about to start, and it was the brightest future he could ever have imagined.