starlessnightly

The sun was going down as she rolled up to the shitty apartments that her friend Seth called home. She was blaring AC/DC and singing at the top of her lungs. She put it in park and had to lean heavily into the key to get it to the off position. Then she slipped out of the Impala, noticing the creaking door and leaned against the hood in full view. She counted to thirty and was about to get back in the car when Seth, a massive man with a green mohawk, came flying out the front doors of the apartments.

"'Bout time you got here!" He smiled at her, all warmth. He tossed down his back packs and folded her into a hug. "Thanks so much for picking me up, Cassie. My-"

"Room mate kicked your sorry ass out. Yeah, I remember." Cassie smiled up at her friend before directing him to the Impala behind her and having him admire it. If they hadn't been so preoccupied with the front bumper and how it had obviously been reattached by hand before, they would have noticed the pair of sad eyes peaking at them from the back left window.

-0-0-0-0-

Seth's things were crammed into the trunk, the false bottom being discovered after some shuffling and rearranging. They put the smaller bags into the little compartments, making it so nothing spilled over into the back seat. Food was pulled out of the cooler and they had dinner on the hood by the side of the road.

Seth offered to drive, as the sun sunk even farther down below the horizon, but Cassie just gave him the blankest look and forced him to get in the back seat. He grumbled as she threw a blanket back to him, and started up the car. The roar faded to a rumble and the cars on the road with them dwindled, but Cassie drove on. Eventually Cassie was sitting in silence with only her energy drink and thoughts to keep her company.

"Dude, the back of this car is cold as hell. Can you turn on the heat?"

Cassie nearly jumped out of her skin, making the car brake suddenly. "Jesus, Seth! You can't just ask questions after being asleep for three hours!"

Seth grumbled, sitting up with the blanket still wrapped around him. "Well, I'm sorry, but I'm freezing my nuts off and those things are important. I'd like to keep them."

Cassie sighed, "All right, here." She reached down and twisted the heat on. Seth muttered a soft thanks and laid back across the seat, long legs curling against the passenger side door. After a minute of two of something rattling in the vent, Seth sat bolt upright.

"Oh God, what the hell is that smell?" He glared at Cassie, who was looking at him through the rearview. "Did you rip one? Hit a skunk? Jesus, it smells like shit back here!"

Cassie made a face at him, "No, you ass, I've been driving. Quit complaining and - Oh. Oh." She coughed, as the smell grew stronger. 

"Pull over, I'm going to puke." Seth had his hand over his mouth now, a green tint in his face. 

She put on the turning signal, and drifted over to the edge of the road. Seth was dry-heaving now, and Cassie was trying her hardest not to crash because the smell was making her light headed. The Impala jerked with how fast she put it in park and they both threw the doors nearest to them open and tossed themselves out. Cassie hit the gravel by the side of the highway coughing. Seth was up and puking into the weeds, hands on his knees. 

Cassie just laid there for a little while as she listened to Seth recover. She didn't know where the smell had come from, and if it was from the heater, but she now knew why the dealer had sold it to her for so cheep. She sat up and looked back to her car, realizing that it was still running.

She groaned as she got up and leaned back into the car, holding her breath, to shut the Impala off. The smell wasn't there anyway. It was strange. The smell of something rotting in the back of the car was gone, now just left with the faint smell of leather and fabreze.

Seth stuck his head through the door he exited. "What the hell was that?"

"I don't know," Cassie answered. "Maybe it came from the heater."

"Or the trunk." Seth said, sticking his head between the seats.

Cassie shrugged and leaned back out of the car. She walked around to the trunk and popped it open. Seth leaned against her shoulder after a moment. There was a faint smell, but it wasn't nearly as bad as it was before. Seth reached in and grabbed his bag, then jerked his hand away. 

"It's wet!" He looked at his hand in disgust. Cassie pulled out her cell phone and shined the light on his hand.

His palm was drenched in red, and he let out a shout of distress, whipping his hand quickly against his jeans. Cassie turned her phone to the inside of the trunk, looking for the blood that was on Seth's bag.

There was nothing there. She then turned to Seth and examined his pants, which were clean.

They looked at each other.

"I saw a motel back down the road a little ways. Wanna go there?" Cassie asked.

"Yeah, lets." Seth shook his head, and started to go back around to the passenger's front seat. "Fuck taking the back, man, I ain't staying back there."

"Yeah. Yeah, okay," Cassie said, closing the trunk with a loud thunk. 

If she had done some more digging at their bags, she would have seen the hand for a little boy.

starlessnightly
Rating: PG? PG-13?
Warning: Character Death, sadness, swearing.
Summery: On December 8, 1991 John Winchester kills his two sons in the backseat of the Impala. Their spirits never leave the car.

October 27, 2005

It was a beautiful Thursday in the middle of fall when she bought the car. The sun had been shining through the orange leaves of the trees overhead, leaving poka-dots of shadow and light on the ground and over the inky black of the '67 Impala's paint. The price of it had been ridiculously cheep, about two thousand dollars cheeper then any other sale she had found. She should have been suspicious, but it was a nice car in good condition. The miles were low and the car ran well. The engine purred with life.

The salesman- a small, nervous man- handed her the keys right after she signed the papers and she was able to drive it off the lot. She rolled her window down and turned up the radio, and sang as she flew down the road.

If she had really been listening, she would have heard the tiny voice singing along in the back seat.

November 5, 2005

She had the trunk completely packed. Backpacks with clothes, a bag with her laptop and phone and ipod. Then a cooler packed with a fridge worth of food. There was a little cardboard shoe box in the foot well of the passenger side, filled with mix-tapes she had made for this road trip. Johnny Cash, and AC/DC and Metallica ready to go.

The California air was ready to whip her hair around her face, and the sun was ready to bake her skin. She was ready to make her foot a little heavy, to go ten miles over the speed limit. She was ready to feel the power of her beautiful car.

Her best friend was waiting, four hours up the road. And now she was ready for her new life.

So was the little boy of eight years, invisible in the back seat.

London Needs To Burn
starlessnightly
Rating: Hard R
Warning: Violent themes; Character death; Swearing; This is my most twisted story ever. And that's saying something, because I can come up with some twisted shit.
Summery: Moriarty loses the only thing that was between him and the destruction of London.

You have been warned.

It was a mistake to bring Moran along. At the beginning, it had seemed like a wonderful idea, to have his right hand man there, an unwavering red dot over Sherlock Holmes's forehead. But he hadn't factored in the utter... devotion between Holmes and his little pet. The detective had blown the entire pool sky high. The explosion had torn through everything and it made the walkway above the pool collapse.

Moran had been on that walkway.

The dead henchmen around Moran were literally just burning stumps of torso and head; most of them had had their limbs blown off. Moriarty walked over them, not caring if he stepped on a half alive man and causing him pain. A piece of debris gone straight through the soft flesh of Moran's stomach, the same flesh that Moriarty had been marking with teeth and tongue that morning. He had knelt by Moran, pulling the soldier into his lap and stroking his hair. He didn't notice the tears going down his face until they landed on Moran's cheek.

Moran had smiled at him, blood bubbling up and over his lips as he coughed. Moriarty thought he was beautiful, and he told Moran so. That had earned him a weak laugh. Moran's fingers shook as he cupped Moriarty's jaw. He had croaked out a rough, 'I love you, James.' He was dying and he knew it, but he still pulled James down for a kiss. 

He had died the moment Moriarty had pressed his lips to the sniper's. 

The weeks after the pool had been living hell. Moriarty would come home, expecting to have things thrown at him for being late. But when nothing came flying his way, his heart would harden just a little bit more. There were still little things that would set Moriarty off either into a blind fit of rage or hysterical crying. The spotless British L96A1 leaning against Moran's armchair set him into the darkest of moods every time he saw it, but he didn't dare move it. He had buried Moran the day before, but it still felt like blasphemy to move Moran's favourite gun.

After a few days of moping around his far to empty flat, Moriarty realised that he should be getting revenge. It was entirely Holmes's fault for blowing the pool up and killing Moran. He had been the one who shot the bomb vest. It was his fault. Everything was his fault. 

He'd kill every thing that Sherlock ever loved. He'd burn the detective's heart, just as he had promised.

At first, he couldn't chose who he wanted to kill first. There was always that Doctor that Sherlock lived with, but he wanted to save that for last. He wanted to make Sherlock kiss Watson before shooting Watson in the fucking head. There was always New Scotland Yard, but that wasn't enough. St. Barts was another place he could blow up, but he didn't think that the loss of a hospital would bother Sherlock that much.

What did Sherlock love enough to die for? 

London. Sherlock Holmes loved London with all his heart. Holmes rarely left the city and only did if it was for a case. He had memorised the streets and had so deeply placed himself in it's grip that he practically lived off the energy alone.

London needed to burn.

Moriarty never really liked getting his hands dirty. But now that Moran was... Now that he was alone, he didn't trust anyone to do any of the really important jobs themselves. That was the only reason why he was here. Of course, he had brought henchmen with him, but he needed to be there to make sure everything went smoothly.

That was the only reason he was there at Waterloo Station, with a knapsack full of ammunition and a sub-machine gun tucked into the side of his trench coat.

He and his henchmen strolled right into Waterloo Station and started shooting. Men, woman and children were shot down. Not a soul was allowed to leave alive. After the first few shots, someone had started to scream, triggering mass panic. All the running and grouping only made it easier to shoot them.

It didn't last long, not more then ten minutes, but by the end of it bodies and spent ammunition littered the floor. Blood, guts and brain matter was everywhere. His followers had stopped to look at him. Moriarty had just turned to them and shot them all, letting them join the empty bodies on the floor.

It was ridiculously easy to flee. No one had survived long enough to call the police. All Moriarty had to do was walk out of Waterloo Station, and climb into his car. He was gone before the first wails of a siren started up in the distance.

The next place to be targeted was the business district of London. He sent five SUVs into the five most populated buildings; the drivers had the five most powerful bombs Moriarty had ever made strapped to their chests. He watched from the top floor of the tallest building near enough to see but far enough not to be caught in the blast. A cold sense of satisfaction ran through him as the first bomb went off, the flames tinting the lenses of his binoculars red.

He got a text nearly a half hour after the bombings.

Why?
SH

He glared at the screen of his phone before carefully tapping out his reply.

Think. M

His phone didn't chime again after that.

The third target was New Scotland Yard. The collapse of London depended on the fact that there would be no one there to stop the madness. The little policemen had been trying so hard to bring order back to the panicking streets of London. They had been doing an okay job but Moriarty needed it to stop.

There was also the bonus of the deaths of all of Sherlock favourite crime solving buddies. 

All it took was a text. He had sent it to one of his moles in the force, telling him to pick up the package that was sitting on the corner of his desk and take it to Detective Inspector Lestrade. 

He sat in the building across the street with an empty chair next to his. The table held two glasses of red wine but only one was being drunk. Moriarty gently tapped his glass against the untouched one the moment the bomb went off.

The next text he received was a little bit angry, a little bit distressed.

No one else needs to die. SH

Moriarty just smiled, stroking his thumb over the screen, almost as if he could caress the message.

No, I think they do. M

He leaned back and laughed. He would never admit that the tears sliding down his face were from anything but amusement.


Next was St. Bart's. Moriarty felt no remorse for blowing the hospital to kingdom come. He felt as if were an act of mercy. Only the dead and dying were there anyway. He didn't feel bad about Molly either. She had been annoying anyway.

He had stuffed explosives down the throat of one of his underlings, forcing him to swallow about a pound of C4. He let the man stumble his way to St. Bart's only for him to explode in the middle of a crowed emergency room.

Moriarty sat and watched the news that night, drinking his wine. He smiled as the woman behind the desk obviously trembled as she read the news off the prompter. They had been changed from the daily rounds of who had died, what had been bombed and a plea to please stop panicking and to please stop the violence to a message that Moriarty had written himself.

He watched the light from the television dance over the rifle and empty arm chair as the host of the nightly news talked.

"You know what's coming next. Your heart is burning but I still have so much more left. I took your brother, your co-workers, and your friends. All that's left is the thing you love most. I'm keeping my promise." She finished with a soft sob.

Moriarty reached across and stroked his fingers down the barrel of the riffle.

It ended at the pool. It was little more then rubble now, but the changing stations still stood and the pool was half filled with debris and water but it was still enough.

There were still some changes though. This time Dr. Watson wasn't strapped to a bomb, but kneeling on the floor blindfolded and beaten. Blood trickled from the wound on the side of his head and his lip was split. The ribs Moriarty had kicked at for the past hour must be broken by now, but that wouldn't matter in a little bit. 

He pressed the gun to the back of the doctor's head a little harder.

Nothing mattered but this anymore. London was razed the ground. Almost everyone who had been living there three weeks before were either dead or the had fled. Buildings still burned, and the smoke had permanently changed the sky inky.

Sherlock stepped out of the shadows, cheek scraped and his own lip split. He wore jeans and boots, looking nothing like the put together professional that he actually was. He was dirty and his hair stuck up in every direction and a deep bruise was forming over his left temple.

Moriarty smiled and beckoned Sherlock over, who did so without a fight. He stood before Moriarty looking very much like a soldier in war. He kneeled in front of his doctor when he was told to. 

Sherlock's eyes drifted over John, taking in and cataloguing every little detail, pulling stories from the details on his face. His grey eyes flicked up to Moriarty, a silent demand to get on with what he had planned.

Moriarty smirked, "Kiss him."

Sherlock leaned forward, cutting off Watson's pleas of 'Sherlock no,' and 'Don't' with the press of his lips on the doctors. His eyes slipped closed and Sherlock reached up to gently cradle Watson's jaw.

Moriarty shot John in the back of the head. The bullet ripped through the doctors head before Sherlock's. They fell to the ground, holding each other in death. Moriarty turned away, in what he told himself was disgust, not jealousy.

It took him a moment to realise that he had nothing left to burn.

The moment the rest of John's family were snug and asleep in their beds, John threw back his covers and slipped his feet to the floor. He pulled down his bear and blankets, tossing them down by his bed. As quietly as he could, he pulled a nickel out of his bank.

He laid down on the blankets, stomach down, and tossed the nickel under the bed. He pressed his face to the blanket on the floor, bear tucked into his elbow.

A white hand snatched the nickel out of the air before it hit the hardwood. John smiled as Sherlock appeared, white face moving out from the darkness, laying on his stomach. He held the nickel out in front of his dark eyes. Then he very carefully put it in his mouth and chewed on it.

"Hello, John." He said, smiling a bit.

John grinned at his friend. "Hello, Sherlock. How are you?"

Sherlock reached out and pinched John's nose between his thumb and pointer finger. "I'm quite fine. And you?"

John giggled, smacking Sherlock's hand gently. Sherlock held on for a moment before tugging gently and letting go. The first time Sherlock had tugged on John it was also by the nose, but instead of continuing the little game, John had slid into the bedframe and smacked his head. Sherlock had never forgiven himself for that.

"I got in a fight with Jim again today at school." John said, picking at the fur if his bear. Sherlock would have raised an eyebrow if he had any, but he didn't so he just tapped his nails against John's floor.

"Why? He didn't hurt you did he?" Sherlock's lips pulled back, showing his black teeth. He had once pulled one out for John, and given it to him. The next time John lost a tooth, John gave it to him. He still had it in his pocket.

"No, we didn't hit each other this time. I yelled at him because he was being mean. Mary's hair was done up today and he was pulling on it and calling her ugly. It wasn't nice." John pouted.

Sherlock had to agree. "He's an evil little boy. I hope he has a mean monster under his bed. One that growls and bites." Sherlock plucked the nickel from behind his teeth, looked at it and then put it back in his mouth to swallow it.

John's mouth twitched up in a smile, "That's a bit not good Sherlock."

Sherlock just tipped his head to the side.

Sherlock and John talked until about three in the morning. Sherlock made sure John was asleep by then. He liked watching the boy sleep, round blue eyes closed, pale lashes brushing his cheeks. Sherlock would always reach out and brush his fingers over John's eyes, loving the feel of his eyelashes against skin.

He liked to compare John to himself. Where John was pink, Sherlock was white. Where John was brown, Sherlock was black. John had white teeth, smooth with only two sharp ones in the front. Sherlock had shark teeth (Not that he knew what those were, he just picked up the term from John.). John's mum dressed him in colours so bright that Sherlock's eyes would hurt (like the one time John had worn a yellow shirt. Sherlock's eyes nearly bled before John had taken it off.). The only colour that Sherlock's mum dressed him in was blue, but never the blue of John's eyes.

John started to shiver when Sherlock was starting to stroke his hair. At first he didn't know what was wrong, but then he realised that it was cold where John was sleeping on the floor. His little lips trembled, and he was curled into a tight ball.

Sherlock looked from his friend to the blanket hanging from tue bed, then out to the floor. If Sherlock was going to help his friend, then he would have to move out from under the bed.

Sherlock hesitated. His mum had always told him how dangerous it was to go near humans. He was breaking enough rules by just talking to John. But now John's teeth were chattering and John was really getting cold.

Sherlock slid from under the bed to the middle of John's floor. He snatched the blanket off the bed and threw it over John. Then he scrambled back under the bed. His heart pounded, and he had been holding his breath. A thrill ran through him, and Sherlock smiled.

Tomorrow night, he was going to talk to John on top of the bed instead of under it.

John's teacher worried about John's classwork. John was smart, and it wasn't as if he was having trouble understanding any of the work she gave him, it was just some of the things he wrote about in his morning journal or drew during art. And now, as she sat down with John's parents, morning journal and drawings in from of them, her worry was starting to become a little more tangible.

John's mother was sitting at the table, hand over her mouth as she stared at a picture that John had drawn. The prompt had been 'family' and sure enough, John drew his family. His father was first, a smiling man with mustache and a suit. Then his mother, with her curls and friendly smile. Then his sister, with her rainbow belt and short hair. Then John, who was smiling and holding his rugby ball. He had carefully written out 'Da, Mum, Harry, and Me' under each person.

But the thing that made everyone worry was the big scribble of darkness crouched next to John's knees, with a pale face and dark circles for eyes. Careful handwriting under it said, 'Sherlock, my monster.'

Sherlock was the only thing that John drew. Picture upon picture of dark crayon or coloured pencil scribbled in a mess. The first picture was just a ball of white and black on manilla paper. The next was the same. But over time they all became a bit more coherent. The monster took on a shape, his face became rounder, he had hands. But it's the morning journal took the cake.

The morning journal was just a five minute write that John's teacher made her students do at he beginning of class. It was pretty easy to do and most of the kids liked to write about whatever they wanted.

Recently, John stopped writing about what his sister did at dinner the night before, or how he missed his dad when he was away on business and started writing more about the monster under his bed. They all were loving, as of he was writing about his favourite dog instead of a creature only he could see.

I heard something under my bed last night. It was saying my name. I got really scared and ran into my parents room. I wanted to go to Harry's but she locked the door.

Last night Sherlock told me about his family. He has a mum and a Da just like I do. He has a brother though, and I have a sister. Sherlock said that I'd be able to meet his brother someday. Then Sherlock called him a git. I wonder why.

Sherlock can be really funny. I like him a lot. Other monsters didn't though, so he hid under my bed. I'm glad he hid there, instead of under Harry's.

Sherlock told me that he didn't like being a monster. He was so sad. I ended up going downstairs and getting him a cookie. Shhh! Don't tell my mum.

At the end of the morning journal, Mrs. Watson was in tears. She clinged to her husband and dabbed at her eyes with a tissues. They called John into the classroom and sat him down, his morning journal opened to the page about Sherlock's family and the pictures in a pile next to it. The one on the top was of Sherlock's face, mouth open, black teeth lined like a shark's.

John looked at the picture with indifference, not even batting an eye. That creeped Mrs. Nesbit out more then it should.

John's father sat by John's side. He pulled the pictures to him and rifled through them. He pulled out the picture of family and pointed to Sherlock. "John, who's this?"

"Sherlock." he answered immediately.

"It says that he's the monster under your bed. Aren't you a little old to believe in monsters?" Mr. Watson smiled.

"I'm not to old. No one's too old. They just start to ignore the monsters. And he's not under my bed anymore." John looked around at the three adults before him. "Am I in trouble for writing 'git' in my journal?"

The adults let out a nervous laugh. "No, you're not in trouble, John." Mrs. Nesbit reassured him.

"What do you mean he's not under your bed anymore, John?" Mrs. Watson asked, stroking her son's hair.

"He's with me." John smiled.

At that moment, Mrs. Nesbit noticed that John's shadow was much too long for a little boy. It turned, without John, and she would swear until her dying day, that it smiled.

Captain America was pretty good, lived up to my expectations. But then again The Watchmen was also well done. Iron Man was well written and fun enough to take my brothers to, and really set it up for the rest of the Avengers.

Funny how all the Marvel ones are better then the DC.

(A/N: this is an American AU. Both Sherlock and John are teens as seen asked for in the prompt HERE.
I was originally chocolatesyc but I changed accounts. Please don't comment that I stole the fic.)

Sherlock couldn't take it here anymore. His family didn't understand him at all. For some reason they always compared him to Mycroft. He was never perfect like Mycroft was. Mycroft could talk to people without making them cry. His parents had called him out at dinner, asking him why he couldn't be more like Mycroft. His brother had just sat there, absolutely still and carefully not looking at Sherlock. He had stormed out when his father angrily yelled "You are no son of mine!"

Sherlock threw another pair of jeans into the bag he was packing, digging his cellphone out of his pants pocket as he did so. He held down the 3 button on his speed dial. Angrily, he used the back of his hand to wipe the tears gathering at the edge of his vision.

On the other side of town, John Watson's phone was vibrating against his leg in the movie theater. Lestrade looked over at him, eyebrow arched as he stood to leave. Sarah disentangled herself from John's right side with a sigh. For some reason John always had to leave in the middle of everything. She crossed her arms, ignoring John's apologetic look. 

John got to the doors and flipped his phone open. "Hello?" he pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the door leading to the parking lot. He sighed, shifting from foot to foot. A mother with three kids gave him a nasty look, and wrenched the door next to him open, flipping him off and complaining about lazy people blocking entry ways under her breath. Bitch, John thought, it wasn't like I was doing anything wrong...

"Could you come pick me up?" Sherlock's voice came over the little speaker, but it sounded off, like he had a bad head cold. 

"Sherlock, I'm with my friends. I told you we were going to be seeing "Inception"." John massaged his temple, a new head ache starting right behind his eyes. This always happened. Usually it was because John was the only one of them to have a car. Even though Sherlock was seventeen and perfectly capable to drive by himself, his parents never got him a car for the soul reason that they were scared he was going to run away with it if they got him one.

This time though, John was going to spend the night with his girlfriend instead of the world's only consulting detective. And possibly get laid, if he was lucky. 

That plan went right out the window when he heard the faint and broken sounding, "Please, John? I have to get out of here."

Biting his lip, John sighed. "I'll come get you. Where you at?"

After Sherlock told him, he hung up and ran back to the seats. He grabbed his coat, not bothering to stop. He had to when Sarah grabbed his arm, glaring. He shook her off gently, prying her fingers away from his elbow. She flipped him off and moved into John's old seat, snuggling against Lestrade. He looked vaguely surprised, but let her snuggle up against him, smirking at John as if to say, 'sorry buddy but I guess she's mine now.'

John just rolled his eyes at the two of them, throwing his coat on. He had bigger problems to attend to. He rushed down the stairs and out into the night air.

---

John hadn't expected the huge house at the top of the hill to be the one he was looking for. He shrugged, slowly driving his old Cadillac up the drive. It circled around a fountains like the drives of the fancy houses in movies. It was paved with gravel and it felt like he was doing something wrong with the way it crunched under the wheels of his car. He pulled around and parked in front the impressive steps. He had to fight the transmission to get it to shut off.

The front door threw itself open before John could get halfway up the steps. John paused, looking up at the doors. Sherlock came flying out of the house, backpack bouncing against his leg as he ran down the steps. His hair was a mess and his face was pale. Shouts followed after him. John stopped, opening his mouth to say something. But Sherlock shot right past John, throwing his bag into the car then sitting in there himself. John hurried back to his Cadillac before he was the one that was being yelled at. 

He started it up without a fight and sped off just as Mr. Holmes arrived at the front door. John looked over to Sherlock, who was staring into his lap. The car ride was quiet, only broken by the ticking of John's turning signal. Every once in a while, John would glance over to Sherlock. He started to worry about the dark-haired teen next to him and the speedometer slowly started to climb. 

"Do you wanna..." John started, but trailed off when Sherlock shook his head quickly. "Alright."

After about a half an hour, they pulled up to John's house, the porch light on and the air smelling like the grill that his father was operating. John's dad waved from the back porch. 

His parents didn't care that Sherlock was over. Sherlock stayed over enough that Mrs. Watson was getting used to setting the table for five instead of four and pestering John about the black haired teen when he didn't come over. But today Sherlock didn't even stop to say hello when he got inside. Instead he made a beeline straight to the steps up to John's room.

He flopped down on the bed, but not before he shoved all of John's comics and textbooks to the floor. John sat down next to him, his senses heightened because he'd never seen Sherlock act like this before. Sherlock took a deep breath and spilled the story out to John's pillows. John had to lean over him to hear what he was saying. 

When Sherlock was done, John pulled Sherlock up from the bed and hugged him. Sherlock froze, not knowing what to do. John pulled away from Sherlock slowly, arms still around Sherlock loosely. He looked up at John, then arched a bit, and kissed him.

A short thought of Sarah hit John, but it was gone once he closed his eyes, sitting down in Sherlock's lap. The kiss was slow and heated, partly comforting and partly desperate. Sherlock was the one who pushed it further placing his hands on John's hips and pulling him close. John put his hands on either side of Sherlock's face, holding him still, then opened his mouth.

A thrill went through John as he truly kissed a boy for the first time. Sherlock's tongue was running over his teeth, diving to brush against his. John was panting by the time they pulled away. A slight smile was pulling on Sherlock's lips now and John's heart soared.