Work Text:
—You're so gone, I've never met anyone who got it this bad— Mike said, standing next to his locker in the crowded hallway.
—I know, Mike! I am on the verge of madness — John grunted—. I can't help it; my knees weaken whenever I see him. I’m eager to kiss him until he passes out.
John's voice floated lightly above the heads of the hurried students who came and went. It was a voice like any other, but Sherlock recognized it among a million others. It was John's voice , his lifelong friend with whom he was madly in love. Of course, John had no idea, but that did not stop Sherlock from fantasizing about John's crooked smile, the twinkle in his blue eyes, the dimple in his left cheek, the touch of his hands on his skin, and the caress of his lips against his own. What would not he give to be kissed by those lips? John's voice used to flutter beside his soul, bringing new life to his spirit; however, this morning he managed to break his heart.
Amidst a group of teenagers, Sherlock stayed hidden, fearful to hear more of John's confidations to his classmate. John is in love, he admitted bitterly to himself. As John went on to enumerate the many gifts of the young man who had taken his breath away, he felt every hope crumble.
—It's easier than you think, John —Mike replied—. Find out if he is interested and then ask him out.
—How am I supposed to do that?
—Flirt with him. Pay him a compliment.
John looked at him, unsure. Mike gave him the most alluring look in return, spread his feathers like a peacock, leaned against the locker, and spoke softly.
—Hi, John. How you doing?
John burst into laughter. Mike continued, unaffected:
—Your hair looks good today.
A fresh torrent of laughter erupted in John's throat, which he tried to contain. His eyes stung with a hint of tears.
—Do you have free time this weekend? —Mike went on—. I want to go to the movies; do you want to join me? —he smiled slyly—. Something like that, you know? Casual but direct —he explained to John.
—Okay, I'll try that — John replied, still laughing—. Thanks for the advice.
Mike finished putting his belongings away, and they both walked to class together, their voices and laughter echoing down the corridor. No one noticed the tall, pale boy who walked away from him in the opposite direction, dragging his feet and sobbing softly.
✨✨✨
Seeing him and getting close to him, was all done in an instant. He was drawn to Sherlock constantly by an unexplainable force that made him seek out his touch, value his warmth, and enjoy his scent. That was the same force that turned his stomach pit, flushed his cheeks, gave him tingles in his hands, and gave his voice a quiver. As the years passed, Sherlock's influence on his mind and body grew, and John could not take it any longer. Weary, he was prepared to make the move that would let his best friend know how he felt.
—Sherlock! —he smiled broadly in greeting.
—Hello, John — he replied reluctantly.
—Are you OK? —John asked, his voice tinged with concern.
—Tired — Sherlock replied evasively.
—You have been working too much… you need to be distracted — John added with a strange gleam in his eyes—. Perhaps you could go out this weekend… have some fun.
Sherlock gritted his teeth bitterly. How could he look into those eyes every day, knowing they would never be his? How to bear the perfection of that smile, which now belonged to someone else? John's sweet voice would no longer induce delirium in his sleepy mind in the early mornings. Hope had died in his heart; that mouth, which craved another's kisses, would never join his own.
—Maybe —he replied with a snort of irritation.
John kept a close eye on him and planned his next words. Tell him now; why not? He felt uneasy, and the words he had recited so many times in his head appeared jumbled:
—Your... your hair looks good today — he mumbled, his voice breaking.
Sherlock felt as if the world had been ripped apart with a sharp slap. He could not believe his ears, his brain was in full gear. It could not be a coincidence; they were the exact words he had heard in the hallway. It's me, he thought in disbelief, it's me. He opened his mouth to speak, but only a tiny, unintelligible sound emerged.
—I… I'm sorry — John added quickly—. That was weird, right? Forget I said that —he nervously laughed, made up an excuse to leave, and vanished before his friend could respond.
For the remainder of the day, Sherlock walked on clouds, a foolish smile on his face and a lost expression in his eyes, all the while being ignorant of what he had done and said. The heavens had opened at his feet, whispering to him that he was the most fortunate of mortals. Suddenly, he received what he had longed for for a long time, not daring to harbor hopes in a heart afraid of disappointment. And he promised himself that he would be worthy of the grace bestowed, that he would carefully care for the precious treasure and keep it safe from all harm. It is me, he told himself for the hundredth time that day, amazed at the miracle. John pines for me and doesn't know how to tell me, he smiled to himself. My sweet John, if you only knew how I feel about you. Fearless, you have ventured beyond the imperceptible boundary separating friendship from desire. Your heart knows exactly what you want and you are ready to take a chance to get it. And me, silly me, did not know how to react when my fantasy came true, and I was unable to appropriately respond to your attempt to reach out and touch a shy and insecure heart. I may have caused you pain, but I promise to make amends. I am emboldened to be brave by your determination. I will let go and trust that you will be there to catch me when I fall.
✨✨✨
After history class, John picked up his stuff with a sour attitude. It had been a bad night, and he was exhausted and upset. Mike was standing next to him, trying to cheer him up.
—I swear, he looked like he would been hit in the head —John told him—. He simply stopped working, paralyzed. I ruined everything —he added bitterly—. I’m never following your advice again.
Sherlock walked briskly over, his gray eyes dancing over John's face.
—Hello, John —he said softly to him.
—Hello — John answered with his heart in his throat.
—I am free on Saturday — Sherlock continued, his face flushed to the tips of his eyebrows—, if you want us to watch a movie at my house or something —his voice faltered slightly as he finished.
—Yeah… that sounds good — John whispered back.
With a smile, Sherlock said goodbye, but not before letting out:
—Your hair looks good too.
Amazing , John thought with hope, but he was speechless and watched in silence as Sherlock left, satisfied. Mike awoke him from his reverie with a gentle tap on the shoulder and a suggestive eyebrow wiggle accompanied by a giggle.
—Shut up — John snapped, unable to hide the smile that spread across his face.
✨✨✨
A date. Because it's a date, right? John tossed another shirt onto the bed, unable to decide what to wear. I need something more casual, he considered. He picked up a shirt and gave it a try before throwing it away with the others. He took another load of clothes out of his closet and sighed. That morning, Sherlock had sent him a message:
I'll wait for you. 4 pm
Nothing else. How could he know what to wear on what would be a near—date with his best friend, where he hoped to find the courage to confess his truest, deepest love? After the previous embarrassing attempt, Sherlock had approached him. He had not appeared uncomfortable or upset in his presence, and he had even invited him to his home . Grooming himself further, he clung to the hope that had been born in his soul—the hope that his love was returned.
He wiped his sweaty palms on his jeans as soon as he arrived at the doorbell and rang it. With his hands clenched in anxiety, Sherlock had been waiting on the other side of the threshold. He grinned upon hearing John's footsteps. He made himself wait a minute after the doorbell rang before answering it. His stomach lurched at the sight that met his eyes, and he felt an unanticipated surge of hunger. Delicious , was the first word that came to mind when he saw him. His hair looked perfectly imperfect—neatly messy—while the black t—shirt hugged his body like a second skin. Sherlock bit his lip to contain his sigh as John nervously ran his fingers through the strands, causing even more mess. He questioned whether his choice of black dress pants and a dark shirt was too formal for the situation. However, John had no objections to his appearance; instead, his eyes drank him with a hunger that made him shudder with pleasure.
—Come in — he said, and John smiled.
They would become so accustomed to their regular routine of lounging on the couch and watching TV that it had become second nature to them, allowing their muscles to release the tension that had held them, their tongues to relax, and their nerves to become less tense. All of a sudden, they were just the two friends having a laid—back weekend and enjoying each other's company. They had been talking about nothing in particular for a while, with the occasional laugh interspersed between their words, the movie long since forgotten on the screen. Sherlock settled into the sofa more comfortably, and all of a sudden John noticed the body next to him, the heat it gave off, and the overpowering scent of cologne emanating from his shirt collar. His gaze swept over that long, pale neck, and he had a burning desire to press his lips to that expanse of skin in order to feel the pulse just below the surface. So soft, he thought, I'm sure his skin must be awfully soft. Upon raising his head, he was met with amused gray eyes that made him feel like a child who has been caught stealing cookies. His friend smiled, and John forced himself to say something, anything at all. Flirt with him, idiot; show him you like him.
—Your hair looks g…
He could not complete the sentence. Sherlock had pounced on him and shut him up with a kiss that left him stunned. When he felt those lips on his, he responded with all the hunger and desperation that had eaten away at him over the years. The mouth that sought his displayed the same clumsy eagerness, a thirst that grew stronger with each caress and kiss. The hands that frantically ran over his arms, back, and neck did not know when to stop, wanting to push the boundaries of what was feasible in their struggle against an overwhelming desire. He had been brave, he had jumped into the void, and John had caught him without a shadow of a doubt.
—You really like my hair — Sherlock whispered in his ear as they parted their lips to breathe.
John seizes the chance to realize his long—awaited desire, methodically and delicately kissing every inch of Sherlock's neck, from his jaw to the beginning of his collarbone. The boy sighs in delight and presses John hard against the couch with all of his weight. John, Sherlock breathed the word, as if it were the only way to breathe.
—I adore your hair — he replied, his lips still pressed against the skin whose softness had guessed even before touching it—. So beautiful… so brilliant… funny… and warmhearted and… extraordinary — he finished, his voice flooding with affection.
Sherlock let out a strangled moan, expressing everything he had not said. Drop by drop, he had treasured a love he thought was impossible until he felt drowning within himself. Now that the dam had broken, he could no longer control the downpour, which poured over John in waves of fervent voracious appetite. He gave him a smile that John had never seen him give to anyone else. How could such a small gesture ignite a fire that shot through his veins, awakening every cell in his body and settling in his belly like a well of unspoken, fatal longing?
—Good — Sherlock shot back— because my hair adores you too.
Then he used a fresh round of desperate kisses to put an end to John's infectious laughter and traced his flanks with the tips of his fingers, trying to convince himself that the dream was real.
—I owe Mike an apology — John gasped, smiling against Sherlock's lips—. That pick up line really works.
Sherlock chuckled at the remark, a tiny tickle of his breath brushing John's lips. Rejoicing in the feeling, he sank his fingers into the smooth curls that caressed his forehead with every turn of his head and seized that mouth again with the ease of reciprocated passion. Sherlock moaned softly, and John felt the sound resonate inside his own chest. In that sound, John heard the full force of a desire they no longer wanted to suppress. And when the wetness of a fierce tongue impelled him to give in, he gave in to the pleasure that consumed his whole body and to the soft hands that caressed him with a deep devotion and a playful curiosity.
Mike did not cross his mind for the rest of the weekend.