Nothing Like Love and Everything Like a Phoenix

Chapter Two

It turns out hell is on the back of a motorcycle at 79 miles-per-hour where John could feel the wind on his face and Sherlock's body beneath him. It turns out hell is black curls and agitated gravel, and it turns out John doesn't mind. John doesn't mind having to grip Sherlock's waist for dear life, or not knowing where he's going or what he's leaving behind, and it turns out that John likes more of this than he thought he would.

Sherlock turned onto a road that seemed to go on forever, one side tall trees that blocked out the sun and the other, flat land, grass that moved together in waves.

Sherlock got off the motorcycle and held out his hand for John. John could've left right now. He could've said sorry, and asked Sherlock to take him back. Instead he breathed in and took Sherlock's hand.

Sherlock led John to the center of the clearing and sat, looking up at John.

"You gonna sit, or just stare at me?"

John shook his head and sat next to him, looking up at the sky.

"I'm not gonna bite, ya know."

John turned to look at him. His eyes were almost clear in the sun. He wondered if Sherlock knew his eyes looked like that. He wondered if beautiful people recognized that they were beautiful.

"Why'd you ask? Why'd you talk to me to begin with?"

Sherlock looked at the grass, then back to John, and with a small shrug said, "I wanted to see if you'd say yes."

John didn't know what he was doing. He knew that grass was under him, and Sherlock was on top of him, and Sherlock's eyes were burning brighter than he had ever seen. Hot breath lingered with his, and all he saw was pale skin and pink lips, and he was so close and so far from where he wanted to be.

He didn't know where his hands were, or if he would ever find them again as Sherlock's mouth moved in ecstasy around John's.

Slow. He held back, yes, but guided instead of dominating. Simply teaching instead of taking. Their mouths were open but no tongue intruded. John instead got hints and glimpses of it. Nothing more.

Traces of Sherlock's tongue on his neck, hints on his jaw. He hoped marks wouldn't be left, but in the back of his mind he wanted them to show. He wanted everyone to see what Sherlock Holmes did. How he claimed John, and how John wanted him to.

Everything was so new. Lips on his, hands in his hair, fresh marks on his neck, all by a guy. It made his mind stop dead in it's tracks.

All by a guy. A man. A hard body and flat chest, little curves and such a talented mouth. Cold, rough hands under his shirt and sharp edges cutting into him, threatening to tear him apart.

John couldn't tell you how he felt about it. His only thought was the mouth now at his stomach. Tongue darting out, flicking, driving John crazy. There was ringing in his ears and he didn't know if those sounds were from him or Sherlock.

John's mouth was half open, and his heartbeat was through the roof as he could feel red, black, blue, and purple, form under his skin. As he could feel humming on his chest and a hand traveling lower than it should. His mind caught up, and his body stiffened.

"I can't..."He pushed Sherlock to arms length. "I shouldn't be doing this." Sherlock just looked at him, his gaze shifting from spring showers to harsh winter with just those few words. John's shirt fell like a curtain, shutting down the show.

Goodbye folks, hope you had fun, time to go back to real life.

"I mean... I can't." He couldn't take Sherlock's glare. John stared down at the space between them, at the negative space, only filled by wind and tension.

Why did real life have to be this?

It was all hypothetical. Sherlock not liking girls. Sherlock liking boys instead. It had to be hypothetical, because they both knew- everyone knew- you don't go with guys. You don't do anything with guys other than be friendly.

"You can't?" Was all Sherlock said.

John shook his head, his hands still pushing Sherlock away, wishing, pleading that he would leave because if he didn't, John wasn't sure he would be able to muster up the courage to do it himself.

All of it made John dizzy. All of the ice and warm blood. Sherlock looking at him like he was seeing right through him. He looked like he wouldn't stop until John was completely gone. Until John was someone else.

Sherlock shook his head, "You can, John."

John shook his head back urgently, "No... Sherlock, please."

His breath found it's way to John's ear, and he could feel the vague shape of Sherlock's mouth as he spoke.

"Please, what? Please, touch you? Please, leave bruises and marks and please, Sherlock, keep going."

John shuddered. Yes. Yes, he wanted all of that. He could feel his breath quicken at the words, at the hot breath in his ear, whispering and kissing, and before John could push him away again, Sherlock's hands were under his shirt and John's were in his hair. Pale flesh seen through a mess of dark curls, and John gave in under him. He didn't let Sherlock's hands go lower than his waist, nor his mouth lower than his neck, but just a tiny bit of him broke free on that grass.

On the ride back, John felt something he never had before. His heart was too big for his chest, and a smile was glued to his face. John felt like he was in a world all of his own when he was with Sherlock. A world no one could touch.

When John got back to school he felt like he was keeping a secret. Like every mark under his clothes and every word Sherlock whispered in his ear was another one he was forced to hide. It was almost a relief coming home to an empty house, where no one would ask questions about where he had been.

The moment Sherlock's lips connected with his kept replaying in his head. Eyes so blue it almost didn't seem possible and how time slowed and sped up all at once as Sherlock came closer and closer and....

John couldn't get over that he had kissed a boy. Not just anyone, but Sherlock Holmes. James Dean aftermath. Leather and motorcycles. Whispered breaths of girls in the hallways. On the tip of every tongue, and now on John's. Actually on John's. Not just a fantasy, but a memory.

He pulled at his sheets with one hand, as the other felt at the marked skin through the fabric of his shirt, the only evidence of Sherlock's hands on him, his lips on him. John blocked everything from his mind except his own hands. If he focused on anything else, he would end up punching a wall or throwing a vase.