Archive of Our Own

"John! Hey, Johnny!"

Already grinning, squinting against the bright sun, Greg Lestrade is making his way over, hair gently fussing in the light breeze, face flushed with excitement. He looks practically the same since the last time John has saw him, just a year previous, waving out the window of his mother's four-door sedan shouting 'See you next summer!'

John finds himself grinning right back, the familiarity of his best campmate and the start of summer something he'd longed for all year long. The heat is something he always has to get used to, living in London during the school year, but it's worth the acclimation to be back here again. He dreams about this place for months on end, having attended sleep away camp since he was a boy, finding the ten weeks away from city lights is like living in a whole other world. He loves it here. It's not that he has anything against London - he loves it there too. But there is something about warm, starry nights and clear blue skies that just gets to John. That makes him so unbelievably happy.

Greg claps him on the back as they greet each other, smiling and laughing and already telling stories of the months they've been apart, even though they do keep in touch during the school year.

John doesn't miss the other campers eyeing them both, waving shyly or whispering timid hellos. It doesn't hurt that John is rather… popular here, for lack of a better term. It's a silly thing to be proud of, he knows. He has similar recognition back home, being the rugby captain and all, but somehow it feels different here.

He's made great friends and had countless encounters here. Boys and girls equally on these grounds, never one to shy away from a little meaningless fun, and even allowed a couple 'relationships' if you could even call it that, seeing as the romance could only last a total of ten weeks, but in any case, John had had a great time. He'd explored and experimented and gotten downright dirty, and loved every minute of it. It wasn't that his hook-ups were faceless and nameless, but he'd just never let himself get attached. It was mutual enjoyment. This was the space for that. This was where John had truly believed he'd found himself.

And this being his last summer here before completing his thirteenth year and heading off to university only meant he truly had to make these ten weeks count.

He'd been preparing all year for the best summer he could manage.

"So I've already got the lay of the land," Greg chatters excitedly after they've dropped their bags in the bunk they've shared for several summers, heading over to the main lodge for the welcome ceremony. "Mostly the same people 'round here. Sarah is back." Greg pauses to give John a knowing look. "She looks damn good this year, too."

John chuckles, shrugging with an air of nonchalance. He isn't one to brag about his conquests, hardly ever speaking about it directly - he isn't a dick and tries to keep it that way - but he's gained a bit of a reputation. And Greg being his best friend loves to remind him of it.

Greg raises an eyebrow. "Or are we into boys this summer?"

"Fuck off," John laughs, giving Greg a shove.

Grinning, Greg shoves his hands in his pockets. "Oh and there is a new kid in our age group. Haven't met him yet, just heard some stuff from Molly over e-mail."

John raises an eyebrow, realizing he hadn't had time to check the latest messages from his friends before hopping on the train to get here. "Really?"

"I guess Molly goes to school with him," Greg replies with a shrug. "She said he's uh… intense I guess? Smart as shit apparently."

John nods. New kids are always interesting.

They file into the main hall with the rest of the crowd, hands slapping John's back excitedly and whooping welcomes in his ear. It's good to be back, that's for sure.

"John! Greg!" Molly Hooper's voice comes through the crowd before they can see her but John is already smiling. Molly and Greg are the only two campers John has never had any physical interest in. They're his friends, nothing more and he wouldn't have it any other way. The three of them have become quite close over all these years, staying in touch via e-mail when not on campgrounds and John likes to think they'll always be friends.

Molly throws her arms around his neck. "Good to see you!" she crows, pulling him into a tight hug before releasing him and doing the same to Greg. "Jesus, how are you both tan already?"

John laughs. "Nice to see you too, Molls."

She pulls back to stare at them both, tears forming in her eyes. "It's our last summer, boys," she murmurs, reaching out and squeezing both their hands. "What in the hell am I supposed to do without knowing I'll be seeing you two idiots every summer?"

It stings a bit to see Molly this way, but John smiles reassuringly. Especially since Greg is sniffling next to him. "We'll keep in touch," he murmurs.

Greg goes in for another hug and John stifles a laugh. It's rather sweet how sensitive his friends are.

And that's when he sees him.

The new boy.

Obviously new.

No one looks like that here.

He's standing just off to the right of Molly, hands clasped behind his back, pulling his deep green t-shirt tight across his chest. John can't be sure if the color of the fabric or the dark ringlets shaping his face make him look sharper and paler than he actually is, but Christ almighty, it's doing it for John. Tight jeans wrap around slim hips, lining every angle of this stranger's tall and slender body. John bites his lip hard, eyes trailing up every curve and line of this gorgeous creature, taking in subtle muscles and severe edges where bone meets. Silently picturing running his tongue along that long neck and sharp jaw, John's gaze meets a pink and only getting pinker cheekbone, and John can't help licking his lips at the sight before he realizes the reason for the rosiness. His gaze snaps to the stranger's pretty sky blue irises that are currently sitting rather wide and trained on John, the boy's deeply bowed lips parted slightly, looking comically shocked.

And why that is such a turn on, John will never know but god have mercy, it is. For someone so unbelievably gorgeous to be so surprised by attention, Christ it was sexy.

John smirks and winks with his usual charm, deciding he'd like nothing more than to lay hands on this pretty boy and see what other faces he can get him to make. The boy looks away immediately, flushing beautifully all the way down his neck, eyes trained on the ground.

John laughs and begins to step forward when Molly beats him to it.

"Guys, I want you to meet a friend of mine. This is Sherlock Holmes," she says gesturing to the reddening face standing behind her. She flicks her hand at him, beckoning him closer. "Come here, you," she laughs as the boy seems to hesitate.

John feels a stab of guilt, wondering if maybe he made him uncomfortable with his attention, and goes to move forward with a hand outstretched. "Good to meet you, Sherlock," he says with the brightest smile he can manage. "Welcome to camp."

The corners of Sherlock's mouth quirk in the softest of shy smiles. "Thanks," he mumbles, grasping John's hand with a firm shake.

Tiny shocks shoot their way up John's hand, fingertips buzzing against the the soft skin underneath them. Sherlock feels as smooth as he looks, but there is a warmness to him, a bit of heat radiating from below. It's a bit intoxicating and John has to physically pull his hand away before he does something truly embarrassing.

Sherlock drops his hand to the side and looks away, nodding once in acknowledgement.

John is absolutely enthralled with every move he makes.

"Sherlock is my best mate at school and the smartest kid in our class," Molly says proudly, side-eyeing the boy who, to John's surprise, rolls his eyes.

Sassy, this one. When he's comfortable.

"Molly," Sherlock scolds softly, cheeks reheating at the praise.

Molly snorts. "Oh please, you know it's true. You're the first one to say it."

John takes his opportunity. "The smartest kid in school huh?"

Sherlock ducks his head. "Well when you go to school with mostly idiots, it's not difficult to achieve."

John freezes for just a moment before he genuinely throws his head back and laughs loudly. Sassy and sexy. John could definitely work with that.

Sherlock seems startled and stays quiet, throwing glances to Molly for help.

John bites his lip on a smirk.

Oh yes, this is going to be a delightful summer indeed.

John just can't help himself.

"Did you get your bunk?" he asks shamelessly. "I can show you where it is if you have the number."

Sherlock shakes his head, slowly backing away. "No, I - I got it. I think I have to do some orientation or something since it's my first year, though." He leans back and throws a thumb over his shoulder.

John nods. He does in fact have to do orientation but it doesn't help the disappointed swoop in John's stomach. He wants to stay near this dark, beautiful boy. He wants to talk to him and make him blush again. He wants to see what happens when he gets him alone.

For now, John waves and follows Molly and Greg back to their section, already deep in his head with possibilities.

They've barely taken their seats before Molly is turning on John. "Don't fuck with him, John," she scolds immediately. "I saw the way you were making eyes at him. I'm serious about this. He's very shy and has no experience with anything like...that."

John furrows his brow. "What? Molly I would never-"

"I know," she says with a wave of her hand. "I know you wouldn't mean to but just... just don't do what you do with everyone else. He's not like anyone else. He's not... he doesn't like... date or anything. And I'm fairly certain he's a virgin."

He should be ashamed, he knows it, but John's mouth begins to water slightly. That gorgeous creature was... a virgin? Never been with anyone? Never been... never been touched?

God, it was sick, he knew. Sick how enticing he found that. To be the first to lay hands on that smooth skin, those sensual lips, run fingers into those tumbling curls...Jesus.

"Hey!" Molly snaps her fingers in his face. "I'm serious, John. Please, just keep it in your pants."

"Oh that's nice," John bites back, getting a little irritated.

Greg snorts a laugh beside him.

Molly huffs loudly. "I'm just saying…be careful. He only just came out to me a few months ago and he's never had any type of...hook-ups or anything."

"Okay," John snipes back. He's a bit offended if he's being honest. He never intentionally hurts anyone if he can help it. "Geez, you act like I'm just some prat dicking people around."

Molly shakes her head. "Sorry, that's not... I don't mean it like that." She glances down at her hands twisting in her lap, seeming to consider her words. "Just don't... don't hurt him. Okay?"

The way she says it makes John's heart hurt just a bit. Makes him clamp down on his lust for Sherlock and consider things.

"Alright," he replies softly. "Is…is everything okay, Molls?"

She nods, still staring into her lap. "He just... has a tough time at school. He's brilliant, really truly brilliant and some kids... they don't like it. He takes a lot of shit and he doesn't deserve it. Not any of it. People just don't... they don't understand him." She glances up and narrows her eyes at both Greg and John. "So I'm counting on both of you this summer to treat him well, okay? You two run this place for the most part and I want him to... have that experience I guess. Show him what it's like to be...well-liked. Not have to worry about being knocked around. Yeah?"

Greg shrugs. "Sure."

John nods too. "No problem." He pats Molly on the shoulder. "Is it really that bad?"

Molly nods. "Yeah. It is."

Something churns low in John's gut, something he very much doesn't like as the head counselor begins shouting into the megaphone a booming welcome to camp.

He doesn't know why exactly. It's not like he has any loyalties to Sherlock Holmes.

But already John is forcing any infatuation he's forming toward Sherlock, determined to leave that poor, obviously bullied boy alone and make this a summer Sherlock will never forget.

It's not working.

He's tried.

Really, he has.

He's tried not to notice the precious pink of Sherlock's cheeks in the mornings at breakfast. He's tried not to notice Sherlock's pouty lips sucking on a spoon or a fork while they eat in the mess hall. He's tried not to think about smoothing out the chaos of Sherlock's curly dark hair in the cool breeze of the late afternoon. He's tried not to notice the way Sherlock laughs so softly when John makes a joke, like he's not sure if he's allowed to enjoy himself or not, ducking his head as his shoulders shake.

John has tried.

And tried.

And tried.

And it's starting to wear on him.

To drive him just a little mad.

Sherlock talks a mile a minute. Sherlock has plans and experiments and stories. Sherlock blushes and grins and occasionally lets his gaze linger on John's chest or his hair or his hands. He seems entirely unaware of it and when John catches him he looks away, face flushing with embarrassment, fingers fidgeting at his sides.

John has even seen him blow out a shaky breath to compose himself.

It's fucking adorable.

And fucking intoxicating.

To have those incredibly deep, ever penetrating eyes focused in on him, untouched body twitching toward him, pink lips curling into a small smile… it's making John crazy.

He's been into plenty of people before.

Attracted to someone's looks? Sure.

Turned on? Absolutely.

Lusting after someone? Certainly.

Wanting someone so badly he may spontaneously combust?

No.

That has never happened to one John Watson.

And it's very slowly driving him insane.

But he keeps his promise. He promised Molly he'd be very careful with Sherlock and he plans to keep that promise. He will keep that promise.

Or, well. He's definitely going to try.

That promise lasts about thirteen days. Just shy of two weeks, after several late-night ice cream runs and giggling over Sherlock's stories of failed experiments and explosions he'd set off at his school, after doing several activities a day together, spending every moment laughing and talking and he'd eve dare say flirting, John simply cannot take it anymore.

Everyone is at the evening bonfire. John stands bundled in his blue rugby jacket from home, sipping at a cup of orange juice and watching the flames, this being his favorite part of the day. Free time after dinner is the best part of camp by far.

John is doing his best not to watch Sherlock on the other side of the crackling fire. He's doing his best not to notice the way the flames dance across Sherlock's pale skin, glowing a mesmerizing orange and making him look mysterious and sacred.

John shoves his free hand into his pocket, clenching his fist around the fabric, trying to distract himself from the fact that more people have seemed to notice Sherlock. John had done as Molly had told him and introduced his mates to the new boy, wanting him to feel welcomed. Some campers had been nice to him. Others had been a bit too nice for John's taste.

Specifically one John is having rather graphic fantasies of throttling right about now.

Sherlock is sitting on one of the log benches next to Jackson Evans, who seems to be scooting closer with every breath John seethes through his nose. Jackson turns his head to murmur something and Sherlock, to John's horror, laughs. He throws his head back, curls bouncing with the motion, and really and truly laughs.

And something inside John snaps.

Thirteen days.

That was all it took.

He's barely aware of his hand dropping his half empty cup. He's barely aware of Greg asking if he's alright. He's barely aware of Molly eyeing him suspiciously.

All he is truly aware of is Sherlock giggling with another boy, sitting far to close for comfort, looking like he's bloody enjoying himself and just simply no. No, that will simply not do. That is simply not on.

John takes off, rounding the fire and making his way to this cozy little pow-wow these two seem to be so hell bent on having, and stops directly in front of Sherlock. Who seems startled to see him.

"John?" He asks with a raised eyebrow.

"Can I talk to you for a minute?" John bites out through gritted teeth, his words coming about much harsher than he'd intended them to, hardly stealing a glance at a glaring Jackson.

Yeah, clearly Jackson Evans had some plans of his own this evening.

Too fucking bad.

"Uh- sh-sure" Sherlock replies, fidgeting slightly in the way John adores so much.

The curly-haired boy hesitates a moment, trying to decide what to do with the drink in his hand and John has to physically restrain himself from grabbing Sherlock by his sweatshirt, hauling him to his feet and dragging him away.

It's an overwhelming feeling and John suppresses a shudder.

He's losing it.

"Ready?" he barks as Sherlock goes to stand.

Sherlock gives a single nod and it's all the confirmation John needs before he spins on his heel and takes off toward the woods just near the fire. It's dark and out of the eye of the rest of the campers and not too far away that they won't get lost and the perfect place to-

"John, is everything okay?"

And it's the soft, innocent question that has John turning on Sherlock just as they step into the shadows, hands already outstretched to reach for- well anything. A wrist, a piece of clothing, hell even a grip of hair would do because John is just about certain he's going to explode if he doesn't lay hands on Sherlock Holmes right this bloody minute.

"John-" Sherlock gasps as John wraps his fingers into thick cotton and all but throws him - gently - against the trunk of the nearest tree, pushing at his chest until his back hits the bark. "John what're you-"

"I can't do it anymore," John breathes, head spinning with how truly close Sherlock's lips are to his as he crowds into him, body only inches apart from pressing together. "I can't…you can't… don't talk to anyone. Don't… don't talk to anyone else," John babbles nonsensically, and even he knows it's nonsensically because he can hear how completely absurd and psychotic and possessive he sounds but he can't… he can't-

"I can't… talk to anyone?" Sherlock breathes in reply, eyes hooded and dropping to John's lips as he speaks, heated breath puffing against John's face.

"Or look," John growls, "No looking at anyone else either. No talking or looking. No… no doing anything."

"Wh-why?" Sherlock stammers softly, licking his lips. "Why c-can't I… talk to or look at anyone?"

A small, angry little noise emits itself from John's throat but he simply can't help it. His world is blurring around the edges. "Because… Christ, because you should be mine," he bites out and descends upon Sherlock's pillowy lips just as the boy is twitching forward.

God, he's soft. So soft, his damp lips pushing out into John's, his body going somewhat pliant as John presses his own burly figure against it, his hands finding purchase on John's forearms where John's hands still lay wrapped in the cloth of Sherlock's sweatshirt. John pushes him back, effectively sealing his back against the tree, knee sliding between Sherlock's thighs. He slots Sherlock's bottom lip between his own and sucks it into his mouth, pulling a tiny whimper from the boy that shoots straight into John's body, zipping through his veins and right down to his pelvis, cock twitching with interest in this gorgeous creature's noises.

John groans, hands unclenching and sliding up into Sherlock's unruly curls, threading his fingers into what could only be described as silk and holds Sherlock's head in place while he explores his mouth. He runs his tongue along the line of Sherlock's lips, nudging them apart and delving inside, the heat of Sherlock's delicate breath swooping hot and heavy into John's own mouth. He does his best not to grin as Sherlock's tongue reaches tentatively toward his and taps it gently, timidly, like he isn't sure what he's doing.

Oh.

Oh fuck.

John pulls back, fighting against his animal instincts to grab and take and bloody do, and calmly releases the ringlets wound around his fingers. He gulps for air, trying to re-center himself and take in what is actually going on here, eyes fluttering open slightly.

And the breath he'd recently caught promptly leaves his chest again, swiftly knocked from his lungs at the sight before him.

Sherlock is panting heavily against the tree, eyes still closed, face flushed all the way down his neck and disappearing into his sweatshirt, hands still on John's hips, body tilting forward, reaching for John again.

Placing his hands atop Sherlock's, John slowly carefully unlatches his grip and laces his fingers between Sherlock's. "Sorry," he murmurs, even though he very much is not sorry for kissing this boy. He is, however, very sorry for essentially attacking Sherlock's mouth without permission, especially when he knows this gorgeous boy has never experienced something like this before. A pang of guilt pokes against John's stomach.

Sherlock shakes his pretty curly hair back and forth. "N-no, don't be... don't be sorry," he whispers, eyelids fluttering open, cheeks darkening again as he lays eyes on John. "I...I liked it."

John smirks. He shouldn't be so enthralled with this inexperienced boy but god help him, he is. He shouldn't want to do all the things he's been imagining for weeks on end. He shouldn't want- oh god but he does. He wants.

"I- I think I should tell you," Sherlock murmurs, fingers clutching into John's grasp, as though afraid after he speaks John may make a run for it. "I'm not... I've never... done anything."

Why that is so adorable and sexy all at once, John will never know, but it is and it doesn't deter John one bit. "Okay," he replies, leaning in to place a soft kiss on Sherlock's cheeks.

Sherlock stares at his feet, mouth twitching as he rolls his next words around within it. "I mean I... I don't... I never...I'm a..."

"Virgin?" John offers as delicately as possible.

Sherlock's shaggy head stays bent, a small tilt of his skull his only acknowledgement of John's words.

"Well," John murmurs, pressing his lips to Sherlock's ear and exhaling a damp, heated breath, "I could always… teach you."

That gets the boy's attention immediately. Sherlock snaps his head up, eyes skittering across John's face to find his eyes. "What?"

John smirks. He's a cocky bastard and he knows it, and for some reason the reactions he's pulling from Sherlock are making his smug attitude double. "You heard me, baby," he growls, popping a challenging eyebrow.

"You… you want to do that?" Sherlock sounds incredulous and shocked and slightly pleased, lips parted in surprise, eyes wide and wondrous.

John snorts. Because really, that's the only proper response to the most attractive human being he's ever laid eyes on to be this surprised that anyone would be interested in him. "Yes, Sherlock," John replies, deliberately dropping his gaze to Sherlock's lips and biting his own at the view, lowering his voice, "I would love to teach you."

The way Sherlock's lips curve into the sweetest 'o' makes John pounce on him again, devouring that hot, untouched mouth, slipping his tongue between those lips and tasting a smokey tang mixed with sweetness from the juice he'd been sipping.

It's divine.

Sherlock's precious tongue sneaks its way into John's mouth, tentatively reaching out and touching, followed by a soft whimper when John meets him half way, pushing back against the muscle and taking. Sherlock tears his mouth away, panting, holding onto John's jacket with sweaty fists, breathing heavily into his ear as John descends upon his neck.

"J-John-" Sherlock pants, tilting his head just so while simultaneously pushing into John's touch. "Do you… do you want to start now?"

John chuckles against Sherlock's skin because this just truly cannot be happening to him. This perfect boy is his for the… god for the taking. He's had plenty of sex but this… there is something different about this. Something very good and dirty about this.

"Not tonight," John whispers, planting kisses along Sherlock's jawline. "Too many people nearby."

Sherlock begins to nod, then freezes suddenly. "I… I don't mind."

It's John's turn to freeze.

Not so innocent after all it seems.

Still inexperienced.

But maybe a bit dirtier than John had anticipated.

"Mm," John hums in response, trailing his lips back up to Sherlock's ear. "Are you a bit naughty, Sherlock?"

The curly-headed boy hesitates, grip tightening in blue fabric, like he isn't quite sure how he should respond. John nudges his cheek with his nose and gives him an out.

"Because I would adore making you my naughty boy," John croones huskily, licking lightly at the skin under Sherlock's ear.

He can feel how thick Sherlock's saliva is as he swallows, John following the movement with his tongue as it slides down his throat.

"Yes," Sherlock croaks. "God… yes, John."

Jesus. John can't stifle the moan he lets slip from his lips, those words coming out so much filthier than they should be.

"Tomorrow night then?" John murmurs over Sherlock's trembling pulse.

Sherlock nods, turning his head to murmur into John's ear. "Yes."

He feels something like a predator stalking their prey. He's watching like a hawk, head on a constant swivel, searching for dark curls and light skin.

He doesn't see him.

Not for an entire day after snogging him breathless, John does not see Sherlock.

For a whole bloody day, John is metaphorically waiting on the edge of his seat, waiting for that slender, beautiful boy to come into view so he can ravish him properly.

It doesn't happen.

He sees Molly glaring at him.

He sees Greg eyeing him curiously.

He does not see Sherlock.

And truthfully, it's making him a bit anxious.

By the bonfire late that night, John is vibrating like a jumping bean, bouncing on the balls of his toes in anticipation.

And still, he doesn't see ethereal green eyes and deeply bowed lips.

He sees every other camper on the grounds except for one Sherlock Holmes.

And that is very simply not on.

He spins on his heel and takes off, ignoring Greg calling after him, and makes his way to Sherlock's bunk.

It's very quiet during this time of night on the campgrounds. Most of the campers go to the bonfire during free time, some sneaking off into the dark to mess around, something John is quite familiar with. Not many campers stay in their bunks.

Apparently one does.

There is a dim light coming from the cabin Sherlock bunks in, barely noticeable if one wasn't specifically looking for it. It's not quite entirely dark out but it's on its way and John finds himself able to peer into the lit window just fine, curious to see if his new interest is in fact inside.

And promptly freezes as he takes in the sight before him.

A long, thin, pale frame lays on the bottom bunk just across the room from the window. Torso completely bare, silky maroon boxer shorts standing out against almost translucent skin, Sherlock Holmes is sprawled out on his bed like a delicious feast for John to run his gaze and hands and tongue all over. Sherlock's hands are above his head, threaded in his hair, eyes closed, lips parted. He trails his fingers down his cheeks, sliding capable digits down his long neck, mouth twitching open further as he touches his own pulse. He glides his hands lower, over his chest and down, running his index fingers lightly against his nipples. John's mouth begins to water as he watches the sensual movement of Sherlock's hands exploring his own body, mouth parting in a gasp when he touches a sensitive area.

John's jeans promptly become unbearably tight but he can't look away. He can't stop watching this gorgeous boy touch himself.

Those long, deft fingers trickle down Sherlock's fit stomach, muscles fluttering under the touch, chest rising and falling more rapidly as his hands move further down.

He reaches the waistband of his pants and hesitates for only a moment before sliding one hand beneath the silk.

John barely stifles a groan as he watches Sherlock's back arch off the bed, curls falling back from his forehead, lips widening in what could only be an inaudible gasp.

John's certain he's drooling. He's biting his lip hard to keep from making any sounds, shoving his hands into his pockets to keep from touching his own cock and watches. Simply watches Sherlock experiment with plucking at his nipples, hand moving slowly beneath his pants, body rolling in time with his ministrations.

John can't take much more. John's fingers should be pinching Sherlock's nipples. John's hand should be gliding up and down Sherlock's cock. John's body should be the one Sherlock's is rolling against.

And before he realizes it, John's feet are carrying him to the front door of the cabin and opening it without a conscious thought. "Starting without me?" He blurts as he steps inside, locking the door behind him.

Sherlock bolts upright on his bunk, nearly smacking his head against the wood above, yanking his hand from his boxers and grabbing at the blankets to cover himself. "I- I…sorry, I-"

Oh no.

No, that will simply not do.

John is on him before he can completely cover his gorgeous body, ripping the sheets from his grasp. "No way," John growls. "Let me finish you."

Sherlock immediately stops struggling, body going obediently pliant as his pupils dilate. "John," he croaks.

John is already kicking off his shoes and unzipping his hoodie, yanking it off in one smooth motion. He crawls over Sherlock's body, pushing at his shoulders until the boy lays down, eyes still wide as saucers, body soft and waiting.

John licks his lips. "I promised I'd teach you. I wasn't aware you were going to start our lesson without the teacher present." He bends down to lay a kiss against Sherlock's breastbone.

Sherlock's breath stutters, nipples tightening on either side of John's lips. "S-sorry," he murmurs. "I didn't want to… I mean I've never… I didn't want to…end it too soon when you first…touched me."

John continues his slow kisses along Sherlock's torso, attempting to decipher that broken sentence. He can barely think, mind already zeroing in on soft skin and long limbs and a rather interested member down below-

Oh.

Oh, Sherlock.

"You didn't want to come too soon?" John asks for clarification, licking his way over one of Sherlock's pretty pink nipples.

A tentative hand slides into his hair, not grabbing or even resting its weight. Simply laying against his head, threading fingers into his short fringe. John can feel the movement of Sherlock shaking his head, breathing shallowly.

"I wouldn't have minded," John whispers, tonguing at the hard skin atop the pectoral muscle, trailing his hand down Sherlock's belly. "I'd be honored to make you come fast. That is what you want, isn't it Sherlock? You want me to get you off?"

The whimper that escapes Sherlock's mouth is the only answer John needs as he wraps his fingers around Sherlock's cock.

Sherlock's hips throw themselves forward into John's grip, hands falling to either side of the bed and twisting into the sheets, gasping for air as John strokes him.

"Now, we can start here," John murmurs, making good on his promise to teach this virgin boy the ways of sex. "I can get you off easily like this, with just my hand. I can jerk your cock until you come in your pants if that's what you want." He runs his thumb over the head and a guttural cry tears itself from Sherlock's lips. The boy sucks his bottom lip into his mouth and sucks, squeezing his eyes shut in concentration, clearly trying to keep himself from coming.

John smirks. "Or," he croones, giving a dirty flick of his wrist and bending down to lay his damp lips against Sherlock's ear. "I could suck you off. I could take you into my mouth. Take you all the way in until you come down my throat. The choice is-"

Warm liquid spills onto his fist within Sherlock's pants, the body beneath him pulling taut, Sherlock pinching his lip between his teeth so hard John thinks he may be in danger of biting right through the skin. He makes no sounds, although his throat works as though he's trying to keep himself quiet.

Which, John must admit, is a bit disappointing. So far, all the noises he's been able to provoke from Sherlock have been exquisite, making John shudder every time, the whimpers and the stuttered breaths and the gasps. They're all so beautiful and sexy as hell.

"Good?" John murmurs, hovering over Sherlock's slender body, placing his thumb on Sherlock's bottom lip and tugging to free it from its painful pinch. The boy blinks rapidly beneath him, chest rising and falling rapidly as he narrows his gaze in on John. His mouth opens and closes several times on aborted words before he quits trying and simply nods.

John laughs. "You know," he whispers over Sherlock's lips, "you can make noise if you like. It's completely allowed. And it can make the giving party very very hard." He presses his still jean-clad erection down into a bony hip.

Sherlock's eyelids flutter slightly, his shimmering gray eyes clouding over. "John," he chokes out thickly. "I...I'd like to...touch you."

John bites his lip and nods, because yes, god yes, yes yes yes. He rolls over and lays down next to Sherlock, deciding he'd better take the reigns here, seeing as Sherlock is currently sitting up and staring down at his bulging crotch, eyes giant, cheeks burning.

John grins and reaches down, flicking open the button of his jeans and pulling down the zipper. He pushes the band of both his boxers and trousers down to his hips and takes himself in hand. Sherlock stays still as a statue, eyes trained on John's flushed cock, hard and leaking in his grasp.

John can't help but tease, "Would you like to do the honors or would you like to watch?"

Sherlock's pretty eyes snap to John's, mouth working over a response he can't seem to bring himself to say. He trails his eyes down John's body, panting slightly, gasping as he yet again takes in the sight of John touching himself. He swallows hard, and slowly, so slowly it could have been in slow motion, reaches a shaky hand out toward John's naked hip. His fingers brush against the bone of John's pelvis, dangerously close to his erection.

Sherlock's eyes widen slightly. "You're so soft," he breathes, trailing his fingers along John's skin, watching in wonder as John wiggles slightly under the gentle touch, tickling him slightly. Sherlock does it again, seeming pleased with eliciting this reaction from John, his feather-light touch trickling along the edges of John's form. He glides smooth fingers toward John's own where they sit wrapped around his cock, slowly stroking himself as he watches Sherlock examine and explore him. "C-can I?" he murmurs, touching fingertips to John's hand.

He looks so nervous and so wanting and so unsure, John lets himself go and reaches for Sherlock. "Come here," John murmurs, wrapping a hand around the back of Sherlock's neck and bringing him down into a kiss. "We'll do it together."

He takes Sherlock's hand and places it over his cock, moaning quietly at lithe fingers curling around his sensitive skin. He keeps his hand atop Sherlock's and guides him up and down his hard-on, deepening the snog Sherlock seems to be barely participating in, thoughts clearly on the shaft in his hand. He tightens his grip, stroking John faster, a small noise coming from his throat as John twists their hands.

"Fuck- yeah," John groans, as Sherlock mimics the thumb drag John had performed on him, lips shifting around a gasp as John sucks in a sharp breath. "Yeah, yeah like that," John murmurs frantically, hand becoming less involved as Sherlock becomes bolder and takes over, giving a gentle twist on an upstroke, nudging the pad of his finger into the slit at the head of John's cock. "Oh, f-fuck, Sherlock."

That seems to get Sherlock to interact in the snog again, sweeping his tongue deeply into John's mouth as though trying to taste the filthy words. He strokes his tongue in time with his hand, delivering pleasure to either end of John's body, becoming increasingly better with every twist and every lick.

It shoves John right over the edge, a moan pouring into Sherlock's mouth as he comes, pulsing onto his stomach thickly, body twitching through it. Sherlock doesn't stop until John's body goes slack, pulling everything he can from him until oversensitivity hinders the reaction.

"Jesus, Sherlock," John breathes, pulling at the boy to lay down beside him, "Well done."

"Yeah?" Sherlock looks hopeful and timid, peering at John from under his lashes.

John nods soundly, tugging at his hand. "Oh yeah. Come here, love."

Sherlock stretches languidly along John's body, his heated cheek resting against John's sternum. John giggles and gives him a cuddle, deciding right then and there that he will be definitely breaking more promises if it ends in orgasms and snuggles.

John can't concentrate.

John can't think.

He's put a solid effort into paying attention to swimming around the lake, making sure he doesn't drown, attempting to pay attention to the game of water volleyball his mates have picked up but it's hardly working. In fact, if he were to be struck in the head with the ball, he'd probably barely notice.

Because Sherlock Holmes is currently sitting on the dock, shirtless, smooth skin glistening with a mixture of sunscreen and water in the hot sun, feet dangling into the lake and laughing with Molly. His navy swim trunks are damp from his swim to the dock and his curls are drying at all angles.

John would take him over that floating piece of wood right here and now if he didn't think they'd get promptly thrown out of camp but this cannot possibly be legal for someone so beautiful to be laying around in public in such little clothing.

He watches as Sherlock throws his head back and laughs at something Molly says, falling back on his palms, body shaking with mirth.

John stifles a low, primal growl in the back of his throat.

Christ, he wants. He thought maybe it would tame itself a bit, the burning sexual beast inside of him once he'd had an orgasm by the hands of Sherlock Holmes.

He couldn't have been more wrong.

The animal within him vibrates, sending liquid heat through his veins and down his stomach, flooding his hips and cock, filling it rapidly until he has to reach into the water and adjust himself, the touch alone forcing him to bite his lip. He closes his eyes, trying to will himself to calm down, taking several deep breaths.

Instead what he gets is several very graphic images of Sherlock on his knees in front of him, sweet, sensual lips wrapped around his cock, staring up innocently and taking him in deep.

It's a dangerous image to conjure up whilst out in public but the water protects any prying eyes. John isn't going to toss off right here in public but removing his hand is done with difficulty. His eyes flutter open, lids still a bit heavy with the heady image currently projected across his brain.

And finds silvery eyes watching him from the distance.

Sherlock is sitting ramrod straight, focus zeroed in on John, alert as though he could sense John's arousal from his perch on the dock.

It takes all of one look for John to make his desires known. He drops his head, peering up at Sherlock from under his lashes, tilting his head slightly toward the shore.

Even from here, John can see the shaky breath Sherlock releases.

Sherlock hops gracefully into the water, gliding through it like silk, making his way to the edge of the lake. He climbs out of the water without a glance over his shoulder, all but sashaying up to the boy's locker room.

John watches his every step, eyes trained on that ethereal creature walking away from him.

Then makes his own less than smooth way to the edge of the lake, ignoring Molly's knowing glare. After the other night and the woods, John is certain everyone knows, but he can't be arsed to care. Not when a most likely naked Sherlock Holmes is waiting for him in the shower.

John ignores the hollers of his friends asking where he's going and takes off toward the building marked Men.

He's losing it.

Officially, he's lost it completely.

He books it around the brick wall and into the entrance, heart pounding against his ribs as he anticipates what he's about to lay eyes on.

The room is already filled with steam, a single shower curtain pulled closed, Sherlock's blue swim trunks hanging from the hook to the side of it.

John swallows hard, his pace quickening, stripping his own kit off and tossing it to the side. He pulls the curtain back just enough to reveal the curve of a perfectly smooth, pale arse, sitting just below miles of lengthy torso, topped with dark tumbling curls that seemed to never end.

John doesn't waste another moment.

He slips inside, pulling the curtain tight behind him and wraps his arms possessively around Sherlock's hips.

"You know, for a virgin," John croones into Sherlock's ear as the boy gasps, "you are quite the little sex kitten."

He inches closer, slotting his cock just between Sherlock's arse cheeks, rutting slightly against the crevice. Sherlock drops his head back onto John's shoulder and moans.

"Fuck- I can't stop thinking about you," he murmurs into the steam, one hand pressed flat against the tiled wall, the other winding its away around the back of John's head and into his soaking hair. "I can't stop… thinking about the other night."

"Mm," John breathes, slipping one hand around Sherlock's cock and stroking long, wet pulls under the spray of the shower. "What were you thinking about?"

"Fuh- god – you… your… hands…o-on me," Sherlock stutters, body rolling with the movements of John's hand.

"Just my hands?" John pries, pushing his hips more insistently into Sherlock's smooth arse cheeks. He trails a finger down Sherlock's spine, dipping it just below his tailbone.

"Ohh," Sherlock moans, pushing his backside into John's touch, "Christ, yes, your - your hands and your – your…"

"Cock?" John supplies, smirking as he flicks his wrist and slides his finger lower, brushing just over the sensitive, puckering skin of Sherlock's entrance. "You've been thinking about my cock, haven't you? Thinking about me… fucking you?"

Sherlock throws his head back, eyes slammed shut, mouth spitting water as it rains down on his face, canting his hips into John's grasp, then pushing back into his touch on his arse. "John-" he gasps, "Yes, god, do it, please-"

John's already slick digit finds Sherlock's hole and slowly, gently, pushes it inside, Sherlock instinctively tightening at the intrusion.

"You like that, baby?" John murmurs, pushing his middle finger further in, working his hand over Sherlock to distract from the discomfort the first time always is. Just until-

Sherlock sucks in a sharp, watery, rather loud breath, and suddenly he's coming, gushing into John's hand, hips rocking frantically as John barely nudges against a soft spot inside his body.

"There you go, love," John croones, stroking him through it, unable to keep the filthy words he's been thinking from escaping his mouth. "There you go. God, I can't wait to fuck you, Sherlock. You'd like that wouldn't you? To have my cock inside of you? Fucking you hard? You'd like that, wouldn't you, baby?"

Sherlock is groaning, nodding hastily over and over, hips still stuttering through his orgasm.

He's perfect like this. John is certain he's never seen anyone look quite this good when they come. Sherlock's body is so sensitive and sensual and he doesn't even fully realize it.

But John does.

And it's his now.

All his to do with what he will.

To do what he wants.

To touch and fondle and play and fuck.

Christ, it's a power John never knew he craved.

Not until recently.

Not until Sherlock Holmes.

The boy in his arms slowly comes down, body shaking slightly from the release, the grip on John's hair loosening. He spins on the wet floor and pushes himself into John, intertwining their legs and wrapping his long arms around John's shoulder, kissing him deeply, as though thanking him for the intense orgasm.

John smiles against his lips.

He's perfect.

And suddenly, without warning, Sherlock drops to his knees.

On the wet tile beneath their feet, Sherlock lands lightly, lays his hands on John's hips and lowers his mouth to John's cock.

And everything in John's vision promptly goes white.

Except for translucent eyes that are trained on John's and dark hair that it matted back off his forehead and pretty pink lips that are wrapped around his shaft, John sees nothing else.

Only Sherlock, on his knees, sucking John's cock.

Fuck.

John bucks his hips shallowly, careful not to choke his lover but Christ, that wet concave of heat is making it difficult, sliding slowly up and down his length, tip meeting a strong muscle that can only be Sherlock's tongue, swirling in slow, languid circles. John's mouth drops open, hands suddenly digging into Sherlock's wet ringlets, body rocking in time with the drags of Sherlock's mouth.

"Fucking… Christ… don't…. stop…" John moans, vaguely embarrassed by his lack of speech but at this particular moment he can't give a fuck because his cock is being swallowed down Sherlock's long, beautiful throat.

And without warning, he's coming.

And coming.

And coming.

He could be coming for hours, he has no idea. All he knows is his cock is enveloped in the mouth of the boy he's been obsessing over for weeks and he's currently pulsing down his throat and god it's making his legs shake with the intensity of it.

But he doesn't close his eyes.

Not once.

Water pours from his face and his fringe, but his gaze stays locked on his cock disappearing into Sherlock's mouth.

And finally, as his hips falter and halt, Sherlock pulls that gorgeous mouth of his off John's shaft with a pop.

But not before a small dollop of come lands directly on his bottom lip.

John's eyes darken.

He swipes the pad of his thumb over the spot, gathering the liquid onto the pad of his finger and slips it between Sherlock's still parted lips.

And John is the one to gasp as Sherlock willingly sucks the digit into his mouth, eyes still trained on John, with difficulty as the water still sprays from above them, and drags his mouth up and down. His wet eyelashes finally close as he takes John's thumb further in.

Like he's sucking cock all over again.

Like he's enjoying the taste of John's come on his tongue.

Like he wants more.

John hauls him to his feet and shuts the shower off because if they stay in here one more minute, John may never allow Sherlock to leave this stall ever again.

"You are filthy, Sherlock Holmes," John murmurs, slipping his tongue into Sherlock's mouth without preamble. "Absolutely filthy."

"Only for you, John Watson," Sherlock whispers back, clutching at John's shoulders. "Only for you."

"So, how're things?" Molly's sharp voice comes from the left of John as he settles into his usual seat for lunch a few short weeks later. He's been teaching Sherlock so many many things, he doesn't quite know how to answer Molly's question without giving anything away. He's been sneaking Sherlock into dark corners and behind buildings and into the shower when no one is looking and occasionally into his bed when everyone is out at the bonfire, and still, John hasn't been able to get enough.

"Any news you'd like to share with the class?"

John shoots a look to Greg who is currently ducking and snickering like the arse that he is. He glares at him for a good ten seconds before turning back to Molly. "I made a mug in pottery yesterday," he replies flippantly.

Greg snorts into his cup.

Molly rolls her eyes. "Come on, Watson," she demands. "I know you're fucking Sherlock."

John jerks his head back and fixes Molly with a shocked stare. "And when did the nice Molly Hooper who used to be my best friend become so rude?"

Molly narrows her eyes. "You better not be-"

"I'm not," John says, waving his fork. "I'm not… I'm not just fucking around with him, Molly. I'm… it's not like that."

It really isn't.

It's…more.

So very much more.

It isn't just screwing around, experimenting and teaching. It's… god it's laughing and tickling and teasing and snogging without anything more and just being… god, just being happy.

Being with Sherlock is something like magic. It just works. It isn't explainable. It isn't worrisome. It just… is. They just are.

"And what is it like?" Molly demands furiously. "Because I swear if you-"

"I won't!" John all but shrieks. He gathers himself slightly, glancing around for prying eyes before continuing. "God, I would never… I can't hurt him. I won't. Not ever."

His voice has lost the bite and sounds rather soft now.

Greg has stopped giggling and is now staring at John with one eyebrow raised. "Oh my god," he mumbles, mouth falling open.

John refuses to meet his eyes. He can feel Molly glancing back and forth between them. "What?" she barks. "What did I miss?"

"You're in love with him, aren't you mate?" Greg breathes, eyes wide. "Jesus… well this is a momentous occasion. The great and easy John Watson is in love."

"Shut up, Greg, Christ," John spits viciously, glancing around to be sure no one else heard. "I don't… I don't know what it is, alright? I just… it's different."

"Different how?" Molly asks cautiously, her shoulders relaxing from their previous tense state when she was ready to jump down his throat.

John's cheeks flame, feeling foolish to have to reveal this to his friends. "I don't know," he mumbles. "It just is. He just is. He's… he's incredible."

There is a beat of silence at the table, the three friends picking at their food awkwardly until Molly claps her hands. "Good," she declares, settling into her seat, demeanor completely changing. "Now, don't fuck it up."

John huffs a laugh. "Thanks for the help," he grumbles.

John watches Sherlock step quick once to the left, faking a move and barreling forward, flags flapping behind him. He's surprisingly quick and agile.

Even in a game of Capture the Flag, even after months of fooling around, John still gets side tracked by the gorgeous boy he's currently sleeping with.

Although, even when sweaty and panting, John still manages a smirk.

He takes off toward the boy adorned in red, having no intention of allowing his lover to beat him in a game of Capture the bloody Flag. He races toward the finish line Sherlock is currently only meters from and takes an impressive dive toward the running boy, one hand clutching around maroon plastic, the other catching on Sherlock's waist.

He takes them both down, Sherlock landing with a rather hard oomph and John gracelessly falling beside him, red flag still held tightly in his fist. He raises it in victory from the ground, attempting to catch his breath.

"No goal!" Their counselor yells. "Blue wins!"

John drops his fist to the ground as the crowd around them bursts into cheers.

He rolls over toward Sherlock and lays a hand on his arm. "Alright?"

Sherlock blinks up into the clear blue sky, grinning. "I wanted to win," he whinges but the smile on his face hinders the petulance.

John smirks. "Oh no, baby," he croones. "You know I always win."

Sherlock giggles, cheeks darkening slightly under the already bright flush they hold from the running. "No fair," he grumbles, rolling toward John.

"And since when did you ever believe I play fair?" John teases poking his side.

A still giggling Sherlock grabs his hand and kisses the top of it. "Never. I thought maybe you'd be a nice boy for once and let me win."

"Well maybe in the future I will," John teases, "You'll just have to wait and see now won't you?"

Something passes over Sherlock's now gray eyes, smile faltering only just before it's right back to where it was. It's only a flash, barely noticeable really, but John catches it and is just about to ask when Sherlock jumps to his feet.

"Come on, captain," Sherlock spits the word disdainfully, although the hint of a smile still playing on his lips makes the jab less successful. "Wouldn't want your team getting restless without their champion, now would we?"

"Oh, absolutely," John laughs, "I am the man of the hour." As the rest of the teams filter off the field and toward the mess hall, John gives Sherlock's arse a gentle pinch. "And I expect victory sex later from the loser."

Sherlock's lips twitch. "I'll ask Greg if he's amenable for you."

John gives Sherlock another sharp pinch, eliciting a yelp from the boy's mouth. "Cheeky git," John growls with a grin.

"Only for you, John," Sherlock grins back. "Only for you."

John snorts, and grabs his hand. "I-"

And it's just like that. Just that simple, off-handed comment that almost brings those heavy words tumbling right out of John's mouth. Those three words that could destroy them both if spoken aloud. Those words John thinks about day in and day out, as the days of camp slowly wind down.

Those words that have John making silent promises to Sherlock. Promises of long distance and keeping in touch. Promises of one day and in the future. Promises of forever.

Because John really can't imagine his world without Sherlock Holmes.

He catches himself just in time, and turns, swallowing the words back down and turning toward the mess hall.

And is promptly yanked back by Sherlock's tight grip.

"Wait," Sherlock murmurs, pulling John to him. "Everyone is… in the mess hall."

John raises his eyebrows with a smirk. "Yes, thank you for that information that I already had," he teases.

Sherlock doesn't laugh.

He glances over John's shoulder then back toward the bunks. "I… no one is in my room."

John slinks closer to his lover, still enjoying the innocence of Sherlock asking for sex. "Are you interested in getting off with me, Sherlock Holmes?"

Sherlock gulps, then gently shakes his head. "N-no… well I mean yes but I was hoping… you would… be willing to… go to the next step."

John's mouth fills thickly with saliva.

He'd said that once to Sherlock.

Only once.

When Sherlock had requested penetrative sex.

John had explained that it was the next step that he didn't think Sherlock was ready for quite yet.

But now… those words… a simply euphemism… it did things to John. Things that have been happening non-stop since Sherlock has come into his life.

Sherlock is fidgeting, shifting his weight from side to side, looking embarrassed and hopeful and nervous and so goddamn perfect.

John grins, leaning up to lay a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "Come on you," he murmurs. "Let's go."

It starts out quick.

Clothes are shed hastily with practiced ease.

Bodies are pressed together frantically in their usual way.

Sherlock's back is pinned against the wall, legs wrapped around John's waist, grinding their cocks together, moaning and panting and grabbing and rutting.

And then, just like that, everything slows down.

Slowly, Sherlock murmuring encouragement in John's ear, limbs wrapped around him like a vine, John lays Sherlock down on his bed. They cling to each other, stroking and cooing and whispering.

It's tender.

And quiet.

And deeply loving.

Sherlock spreads his legs, pulling his knees up to his chest as John slides his slick fingers inside him, preparing him slowly. Sherlock stares up at him, curls fanned out against the pillow, eyes wide and trusting as John opens him up.

"You okay?" John murmurs, feeling protective of this vulnerable boy beneath him, suddenly having no interest in fucking him into oblivion but making slow, sweet love to him.

Because he loves him.

God, does he love him.

Sherlock nods. "Please," he murmurs, beckoning him forward. "Please."

John prepares himself, slicking his cock and positioning his hips between Sherlock's. He pushes the tip of himself inside, moving to hover over his lover, to make sure all is right, that he doesn't hurt him.

Sherlock, on the other hand, seems completely at ease. His cheekbones are flushed, but his body is slack and pliant, accepting the intrusion as John presses into him. He wraps his legs around John's hips and tilts his pelvis, mouth falling open as John bottoms out within him.

John watches carefully. "Good?"

"I love you," Sherlock murmurs.

John freezes, staring back dumbly.

Did he just-

"I love you, John," Sherlock whispers again, reaching up for a kiss. "It's okay if you don't say it back, but I do, I… I love you, and-"

"I love you too," John rushes out, bending down to meet Sherlock's lips. "Christ, I love you so much."

"Really?" Sherlock breathes into his mouth. "Are you sure?"

And John can't help but laugh, because this whole situation is completely ridiculous. He brushes the curls back from Sherlock's forehead. "I'm sure. I love you."

Sherlock looks like he's on the verge of tears, but he doesn't let them fall. He simply smiles. "Thank you for the best summer of my life," he says thickly. "Thank you."

And for some awful reason it feels more like goodbye than thank you but John pushes that aside for now and slowly begins to make love to his boyfriend.

Camp ends soon. And he's not sure when he's going to get to do this again. So he's going to make this last for as long as humanly possible.

"Will you please go talk to your boyfriend?" Molly asks as she sits heavily into her usual seat at dinner. "He's sulking out in the meadow."

John frowns. "Why?"

Molly gives him an incredulous look. "Take a wild guess."

John thinks he knows. Their last day of camp is tomorrow and he's been feeling quite miserable himself. But he gets up anyway, because if there is one person he'd like to be miserable with, it's Sherlock.

He makes his way to the meadow out back, seeing a folded dark figure amongst the colors of the nature.

"What're you doing out here?"

Sherlock doesn't turn. He sits cross-legged in the middle of the wildflowers, dark curly head appearing rather severe in contrast to his delicate surroundings, a perfect metaphor of who Sherlock is. Domineering and serious on the outside, with a soft, gentle center that cares and wants and needs.

He's perfect.

John's heart aches at the thought of leaving him.

"I'm watching the bees," Sherlock murmurs absently, long, pale fingers trailing over purple petals, only inches away from a small buzzing insect laying claim in the flower beside it. "I liked bees when I was small. I always thought I'd have a hive that I could tend to when I got older."

John smiles to himself, picturing a tiny Sherlock chasing after flying yellow and black creatures with a jar in hand, hoping to capture just one he could keep. "That sounds nice," John replies softly, daring to take a step forward.

That got a reaction. Sherlock whips his head around to stare at John, eyes wide. "You don't think that's weird?"

John frowns. "Why would I think that's weird?"

Lips parting on an abandoned answer, Sherlock gapes at him slightly, brow crinkling in the center. "Because… because they sting people sometimes."

John grins. Like that would ever stop Sherlock of all people. "So? Dogs bite people sometimes and I know plenty of families who have them."

His brow unwrinkles but his mouth stays open for a half a second before Sherlock snaps it shut on a retorting, "Never mind," and turns back to the flowers.

"Sherlock, what is it?" John presses, taking a chance and crouching down beside his complicated friend. "Are you mad at me? Did I do something?"

A small shake of his curls is Sherlock's only answer, eyes trained on another bee landing onto another flower.

"Then what is it? Come on, I know that big brilliant brain inside that head of yours wants to say something."

"Don't do that," Sherlock mutters. "Please. This is hard enough as it is."

John blinks. "What is?"

Sherlock sighs heavily. "This. Us. It's been such a nice summer and I... well, we go home tomorrow."

John frowns. "So?"

Sherlock shoots him an incredulous look. "So? So we won't ever see each other again."

Something uncomfortable slithers low in John's belly. Is Sherlock... breaking up with him? Ending things? The thought of never seeing Sherlock again is... too unbearable to think about. "Why not?" he murmurs, his usual smug attitude waning with his words.

Sherlock glares at him and scoffs, brows knitted together in what can only be fury. "Why are you being obtuse about this? We had a summer...whatever, fling? Romance? Hook-up? I don't know, but we had it and now it's time to go back to the real world."

"And…" John ventures, barely able to form the words, "You don't want to see me again?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock barks angrily, gathering himself to his feet, brushing furiously at his trousers, dirt flying in all directions. "That's not the point, the point is that-"

"That we'll make it work," John cuts him off, grabbing his flailing hands and lacing their fingers. "I don't care how far apart we are."

The tiny flicker of hope in Sherlock's face only lasts a moment before his pretty gray eyes darken to green, lids sliding into a glare. "You're being childish, John. You'll get bored of long distance, we both know-"

"Sherlock," John chides, "there is no one else on this earth I'd rather be with."

"But that's the whole point!" the dark-haired boy cries. "You won't be with me. Ever. We'll always be apart, always waiting to see each other again. I'll always be...without you."

The steady beat of John's heart stutters heavily as tiny cracks run through it.

Sherlock doesn't want to be alone.

Sherlock doesn't want to be without John.

God, he loves this boy. More than one person has the right to love another, John Watson loves Sherlock Holmes.

"I promise to make this work, baby," John murmurs. "I promise."

Sherlock simply shakes his head. "It won't-"

"Yes it will," John whispers fiercely, tugging on their laced fingers until Sherlock is close enough to rest his forehead against John's. "Trust me when I say I want to be with you always. We'll sort it out. You know, uni is only a year away."

Sherlock closes his eyes, bottom lip trembling slightly. "A year is a very long time."

"I can make it a year," John murmurs. "If in the end I get to keep you and your bees, then I can absolutely make it a year."

Sherlock's eyes fly open, so close to John's own blues, blinking hard. "I... the bees won't come for a while."

John presses his lips together to hide the grin threatening to spread over his features and pretends to think it over. "Well I suppose I can wait a little longer for the bees. But what about The Sherlock?"

Despite his lips twitching, fighting against a smile, Sherlock rolls his eyes and mumbles something intelligible.

"What was that?" John teases, leaning closer.

Sherlock huffs down at his feet, face darkening with embarrassment. "I said... I said The Sherlock will be there in a year."

Barking out a laugh, John threads his fingers into curly hair and pulls this impossible boy down to lay kisses on his lips. "Good to know," he giggles.

"Shut up," Sherlock grumbles, feigning annoyance, though his words are contradicted by his fingers finding a tight grasp on John's waist.

"Will you be able to keep your insatiable hands to yourself all year?" John teases, poking a finger into Sherlock's sides.

"Of course," Sherlock grumbles indignantly. "My hands are for one person only."

John leans in. "And who are your hands for?" he murmurs against Sherlock's lips.

Sherlock grins. "Only for you, John Watson. Only for you."