Chapter Text
Sherlock is about to do something stupid.
He knows he shouldn’t be here. Just like he knows there’s a high chance he’s going to ruin everything just because he can’t stop his feet from taking him closer and closer to the right cabin. He pushes the back door open, listening for any sign or sound of anyone approaching before closing it carefully behind him. The place is dark except for a ray of light passing through the old wood walls. Most of the forain had the same cabins for their attractions, most likely due to the budget cuts coming from the headmaster. The man wasn’t particularly fond of these gatherings (a shared sentiment) but the publicity for the University was too important to ignore, and really, why would anyone try to stop students from doing charities.
Sherlock takes a deep breath, walking toward the furthest room with a determination he’s certain will falter soon. That’s where he will be. As the captain of the rugby team, John Watson will of course be the last one to participate in this event. Sherlock has no interest (at all) in the other member of the team (or the other students in general), so he avoids all the other doors. He vaguely hears a girl giggling in one, quickly followed by a deeper laugh, but doesn't stop.
Idiots, he thinks.
He reaches the last door quicker than expected, and now that he’s staring at it, Sherlock isn’t so sure anymore. He should turn around, walk away and pretend he never had this idea in the first place. He doesn’t even know why he came in at all. He had only intended to drop by the Chemistry lab and then go back home immediately, but as he was walking by, the same rumors kept on going around him, the entire team is collecting money, five pounds for five kisses! And even Watson is doing it!
Any students or inhabitants of the town know about the famous Rugby team and more importantly, about its captain, John Watson. The fact that even Sherlock knows about him is a bit more alarming.
“Better come in or you’ll miss your chance.”
Sherlock snaps back to reality, staring at the door in front of him again, suddenly well aware of the person standing behind it and waiting for him to come inside. This is stupid, the stupidest thing Sherlock has ever done, and yet, he pushes the door open.
“Finally,” John says, a blindfold over his eyes and a grin on his lips. “I thought you were never coming in.”
Sherlock doesn’t reply, taking a step closer. He’s not sure he’s breathing anymore, and each step towards John makes the heaviness in his chest grow more and more.
“Thank you for donating to the team,” John continues, a phrase he’d most likely said to all the people who opened the door before Sherlock. “It’ll help us win this season for sure!”
Sherlock lets out a quiet breath. What is he doing? He can’t just kiss John Watson. Even when he allows himself to think about it, to think about him , it’s never like this. There’s always John’s blue eyes, watching him as they lean closer to each other. There’s John’s constant, contagious smile, meant only for him in a moment that turns into forever. There’s John’s strong, calloused hands on him, keeping Sherlock close and shivering as they exchange kiss after kiss.
Not this.
“Not much of a talker are you?” John jokes, his laughter echoing in the room.
Sherlock closes his eyes and considers leaving without him noticing.
“Come on,” John says.
One year, seven months, fifteen days and forty-two minutes since Sherlock’s path crossed John’s for the first time.
“Claim your kiss,” John continues.
Sherlock’s eyes drop to John’s mouth.
One year, seven months, fifteen days and forty-one minutes since Sherlock can’t seem to stop wondering what it would feel like to get to know John, to talk to him, to touch him, to taste him.
“The next student will arrive soon so you bette-”
Sherlock takes the final step and all but presses their mouths together in one brief, clumsy touch. It only occurs to him now that he has no idea what he’s doing, or what he’s supposed to do next, and panic starts to invade him. He forces himself to focus on John’s lips, soft, tasting of coffee and ginger biscuits, and his breath, hot against his skin. Holding his own breath, Sherlock pulls away, opening his eyes and committing everything to memory. He fights back the urge to lean for another kiss, for more data, for more time, for more.
“Wait,” John interrupts him, his voice almost a whisper, “again, tilt your head to the side.” Sherlock stares at him, unable to move. “Again,” John repeats.
John leans forward blindly and Sherlock finds himself kissing John Watson a second time. He follows his advice and remembers to tilt his head before pressing their lips together again. Oh. It’s different. Sherlock exhales loudly and curses himself immediately, but he feels John’s lips stretch into a smile against his own, and soon he’s applying just a bit more pressure to the kiss. Sherlock closes his hands into fists by his sides, stopping himself from gripping John’s shirt, and lets John teach him without a word how to kiss.
Sherlock barely holds back a protest when John lets go of him, pulling away for the briefest of seconds before he’s kissing him again. Sherlock is not certain he understands what is happening. He had thought he could steal a kiss from John without him ever knowing, and pretend it never happened. He would have shut down his constant need to know more, and he could have focused on what really mattered again. Far from John Watson, far from the medicine Hall, far from the rugby field.
Stupid .
A sound echoes in the room, and for a second, Sherlock fears he’s the one making it. But here it goes again, and there’s no doubt who’s the source. Sherlock shuts his eyes tighter, feeling something close to pride as he realises John is sighing happily because of him. Their lips are moving on their own now, pulling away and meeting again. Sherlock wonders for a moment if John had kissed all of the previous donators like this, but pushes the thought away quickly. It doesn't matter. It doesn’t matter because John is never going to kiss him again afterward, he’s never going to know he kissed Sherlock Holmes in the first place.
It doesn’t matter.
Danger presents himself when John pulls away for the sixth time and tries to reach for him. Sherlock takes a step back instantly, eyes snapping open and his heart pounding. He allows himself another second. John. Smiling. Lips partly open. Short of breath. Hand hanging in the air. A frown on his forehead. John.
“What are you doing?” John asks, hands going for the blindfold.
Sherlock flees the room.