As I managed to finish my first exchangelock (Scales and Skin)before the halfway check-in point, I offered to pinch-hit for gifters that hadn't responded and I was given a second giftee, sherlockpins (sherlockpinsDOTtumblr)who requested greaserlock/teenlock (Johnlock). I really hope you enjoy!

Mrs Hudson's Malt Shoppe was as busy as it could get for a Friday night, rock'n'roll playing in the background as dates and friends chattered over the music and barhops skated skillfully through the joint. It was hectic and too crowded and entirely stressful. And John couldn't have been happier in it. Adrenaline buzzed pleasantly in his veins as he ducked and dodged the ever-pulsating crowd, tray in hand, the food and drinks on it expertly balanced.

"Three burgers, fries, and chocolate shakes!" he announced as he skidded to a stop at table three. Silently, he laughed to himself as he turned his smile onto the small group sitting at the table, three girls from his school all dolled up and hair perfect. As he doled out their food, making sure to keep eye contact with each girl in turn, the trio blushed and he knew he would be getting a decent tip from this particular table. Every waking hour not spent studying to get him into a decent school to become a decent doctor was spent attempting to make as much money as he possibly could to get him into a decent school to become a decent doctor. His parents weren't rich, never had been, and his hopes for his future far exceeded their financial reach, so he decided early on to do as much as he could to extend that reach. Lucky for him, he was rather good with the opposite sex and it seemed to work well in his favour when they arrived en masse to Mrs Hudson's.

The jaunty wink he gave the table as he spun away was almost ruined when he nearly ran into the gang of greasers that had just come into the door. Now, John had been at this job since he'd started high school, and though he was perhaps a little clumsy in the beginning, he'd quickly mastered the skill required to move about such an establishment without tripping over or on anyone. So it wasn't the fact that someone had been standing there when they hadn't the last time he looked. Nor was it because they were greasers. Sure, because of the way he kept his head out of trouble as best as he could and spent all his spare time working and studying, he'd fairly be considered a 'square'. Someone to make fun of and pick on. But at heart, he felt a kinship with them: their need for adrenaline rushes in the form of races and motorbikes and brawls. In fact, on rare occasion, when he'd watch them zoom by on the streets, he'd let himself daydream he was in their place. He would've loved to join them, but the life he wanted to end up with couldn't fit them in and he'd accepted that. So it wasn't that they were greasers either. It was the fact that he'd almost run into Sherlock Holmes himself.

Sherlock was one of the more well-known greasers. Well, most greasers tended to be well known just so one could avoid them. But Sherlock... Sherlock was a little something else. There were whispers of him in the hall, tells of the lack of filter between brain and mouth, the things he could know just by looking at you. John had never had such focus directed at him before. He'd always seen Sherlock off in the distance, or had been out of sight when he was nearby. But John had seen his face and fallen in lust. Then John had heard him, heard the 'deductions' he could lay out detailing the state of your home life and who you'd been sleeping with, and he'd fallen in love.

It was stupid, irrational. Girls did it all the time, developed crushes on people they'd never met. Singers and actors and that upperclassman who just happened to pass them in the hall and meet their eyes. He'd never actually spent any time with the greaser, didn't have any personal knowledge about what he was like. And yet, he found himself wanting to. He wanted to feel the freedom of riding on the back of his bike, something he'd yearned to do for years, even before he'd heard about Sherlock Holmes. But even if he managed to fit time in between studying and his work to be a greaser, his father would beat him black and blue if John so much as showed up at home in a leather jacket. Didn't stop him from dreaming of it: the smell of leather and the sound of engines and the rumble of a machine between his legs.

He found himself wanting those intense grey eyes focused on him, flaying him alive with their focus and laying out all his dirty laundry. He found himself wanting to know why Sherlock was so quiet compared to his fellow greasers. He wanted to know what his interests were and his favourite malt and if his eyes looked as stormy up close as they did from far away. He wanted to take the teen out on a date just like he'd take Sarah Sawyer out, to a different diner or the movies or hell, even just a picnic. But right now, standing nearly chest to chest with the taller teen (had he always been this tall?), having those stormy eyes focused down and locked on his own common blue ones, he felt his heart freeze in his chest and all breath pulled from his lungs. It was ridiculous and stupid and he hated it.

He needed more.

Someone jostled his elbow and his heart came to life like it had just been given a jump-start. He shot the greaser (still staring at him) a blinding smile, one more sincere than he'd given table three, and a quick wink that surprised even him as he turned away and skated towards the counter (and safety).

"Are you a tomato now, John?" Bill called from the kitchen as he slid several baskets of food onto the counter between the kitchens and the rest of the restaurant. He didn't have to ask what his friend was referring to: his face felt hotter than a sunburn. Of all the idiot things he could do, winking at a greaser was one of the worst. No, not quite that. He wasn't afraid of greasers and they didn't seem to bother him. It was winking at Sherlock Holmes that had been the stupid thing. Idiot. Idiot! But maybe, if they just sat at some other table- No. They were heading straight for the large one in the corner, their approaching menace causing the tables current occupants to scatter like bowling pins. His table. Fuck.

Well used to this sort of routine (greasers weren't known for their manners after all), Sarah was out on the floor in seconds, scooping the previous people's food and dishware into her washtub before giving the table a precursory wipe. Even from by the cash register, John could hear the catcalls and her firm rejections, though he wasn't worried about them trying anything. As pushy as that kind were, they respected toughness, confidence, and if a gal employed both when turning them down, it might spark an admiration, but they wouldn't keep pressing like some of the jocks would. A minute later, she was skating away, shooting John an amused eye roll as they disappeared into the back.

A french fry hit him in the temple and he turned unamused eyes to the cook. "Alright, tomato, hop to it." Great. Now Bill's stupid tease was spreading to the rest of the kitchen staff. If it stuck as a nickname, he and his friend were going to have some choice words. Perhaps without speaking, depending on how well he got through this next encounter.

He held his breath for a full count of sixty, forcing his heart to calm. He was already a little high from adrenaline which couldn't be helped, and he could only be thankful that the more adrenaline he was full of, the steadier he got, rather than getting shaky like everyone else he knew. When facing a predator, the key was to make it appear as if you had no weakness. It's the same technique that the predator employs, just employed better. Well, in this scenario, John was clearly the prey, and he was approaching a pack of veritable blood-thirsty hounds. And all he had to do was not let them suspect that he was, indeed, their prey. A sheep in wolf's clothing. A rabbit in disguise. 'Hop to it' indeed.

.oOo.

People assume that because Sherlock doesn't care for anyone around him that he doesn't know who they are. He knows. There are quite a few that he burns out of his mind, but there are some that are simply burned into his mind instead.

Some like John Watson. A square. Seemingly. A golden boy always working and studying and helping. A kind smile and a gentle demeanour. He doesn't fool Sherlock one bit. He's seen the steel in his eyes when confronting bullies. He's seen the feral pleasure in the tilt of his grin when passing by the rugby practices. He's seen the way attention flicks up and down female and male legs alike. He's seen the other teen watching them race by on the streets, a contemplative expression on his face. And most importantly, he's most recently seen the way the barhop doesn't immediately pull away after almost running into him and the wink following. Oh no, John couldn't be a square. He was much too interesting.

"You gonna let that disrespect stick, Sherly?" Sebastian Wilkes egged, elbowing him in the side. Sherlock doesn't even spare the other greaser a look as he strides purposefully towards a table he already knows the small blonde will have to service. The group date already there takes one look at them and disappears, lickety split, like they'd never been there. He waits until the others are in place before he slides in at the end. If 'sweet, innocent' John was going to be serving his table, he was going to be as close to the other teen as he could get. The others were already trying to sweet-talk the girl cleaning the table off and he had to hold back a scoff at the absolutely terrible way they were going about it. There were much subtler ways to draw ones prey in, as long as one had patience. And when Sherlock really wanted something (someone), he had it in spades.

There was a strange lack of grace to the blond's movements as he approached, though it was far from clumsy. Each shove of his legs was powerful, determined as he navigated the diners with long familiarity. Trapped behind the fly of his jeans, Sherlock's cock gave a heavy throb.

"All right, Hounds, cheeseburgers all around then?" the teen asked as he came to an abrupt stop at their table. Sherlock wasn't shy about the way he dragged his gaze from skates, up khaki-covered legs to the pressed white button-up emblazoned with the shoppe's name on his left pectoral, over a strong, clean, tan neck, and finally to bright blue eyes, already staring at him. Sherlock smirked and kept his gaze. A moment later, a loud chorus of agreement and calls for shakes and sodas pulled the barhop's eyes away. And so it would begin.

As the teen jotted down the group's orders, clearly distracted now, Sherlock leaned back in the seat and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles and purposefully placing his long feet right where he knew the skate-shod boy would trip on them when he would turn to leave.

"And for you, lone wolf?"

"Mm, how about a long," the not-square's eyes widened and the other around him quieted to watch and listen, "thick," now tan cheeks were suffused with a lovely shade of pink, "corn dog," he finished with a slow swipe of his tongue along his lips. "You know, extra batter. You've got extra batter for me, don't you, Johnny? Extra batter and a real good corn dog, just for me, right in the back, yeah?" he purred, smirk gone mischievous at the sight of that face gone slack in the face of his come-on.

"Uh, y-yeah. I uh, yeah, I do," the other teen stammered, eyes still fixed on Sherlock's. There was a collective snort from the table and the barhop's spine snapped straight, face clearing of expression even as it flushed darkly. "Yes, we have plenty of corn dogs in the back," he corrected himself. "I'll go put your orders in," he said in a rush, moving to turn back to the kitchens. He didn't have a chance.

His skates caught on Sherlock's shoes as the greaser had planned and a split second later, he had a lap full of solid square and a hard length pressing right into his thigh. Hidden from sight by Johnny's body, his hand rose and cupped the anticipated erection hidden behind those unflattering khakis, squeezing it firmly. Dropping his head to place his mouth right by the curve of a soft ear. "Or do you have one right here for me, Johnny?" He had just enough time to feel a breathless moan against the skin of his neck before his prize was hauled out of his lap by an suspicious and protective coworker. 'Bill', the embroidered name read.

"You all right, John?" the sturdy cook asked gruffly, hand wrapped firmly around John's bicep. The Hounds around the table stiffened, readying for a fight. As far as they were concerned, it didn't matter what Sherlock's preference ran, it mattered that he'd called dibs on this one and someone else was interrupting them.

"He's fine," Sherlock replied lowly, smirk near-cruel. The greasers relaxed and resumed conversation again, assured that he didn't feel his territory was being encroached on. Bill's expression hardened and he whisked Johnny off without another word, whispering furiously in his ear as they returned to the space behind the counter. He had just settled back, fully relaxed and completely ignoring the other bickering around the table, when the bell above the door jangled. Sherlock took one look at the newcomers and knew his original prediction of a boring evening had just burned rubber. Whether he would be crawling through Johnny's window after dark or not, he was guaranteed an interesting night.

.oOo.

"John, that ain't no bird; that's a greaser," Bill needlessly pointed out as he dragged John back to the cash register. "You gotta cool your heels."

"It's not my heels that need cooling," he muttered back. That had been... entirely unexpected and entirely welcome. It was a strange and yet exciting change to the way a girl would approach him. Sure, it was a bit on the sneaky side, but it was still incredibly blatant and left no doubts to who was interested in whom. Normally if you were interested in a guy, it was a strange game trying to find out if they were even interested in fooling around with the same sex. Most of them weren't. Even with girls it was rough, the way they could (and would) bat their eyelashes and smile so prettily, even if they weren't after a date. Especially if they were just after something you had they wanted but didn't want you themselves. But Sherlock had just went right for it-had made a filthy innuendo that made John harder than he'd ever been, and then had tripped him just to touch him.

He could have just asked.

His friend was still muttering angrily under his breath when John heard the door's bell over the din and he turned, ready to skate over to the newcomers and find them an empty table. At first, he'd stopped because there was a strange sense of deja vu looking at the two strangers in the doorway. There was no possible reason he could know these clear out-of-towners, but something about their faces was frustratingly familiar. And then he was frozen because they were both toting revolvers in each hand and wicked grins across their faces. And then he realised why they were familiar.

Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran. The Bonnie and Clyde of John's generation, only more deadly. Their criminal exploits had been the talk of the news for months. There was no crime too petty or too ambitious for them, and they tended to target smaller towns because of their lack of protection. And because of their sporadic attacks, both in frequency and location, there was no way to predict where they would strike next and so no town could be prepared for the attack they didn't anticipate was coming. And apparently, they'd chosen John's town, John's diner, to attack next.

"Evening, everyone," the shorter, darker-haired one called out, loudly. Those around him went silent first, though most of the girls clapped their hands over their mouths as their dates stepped in front of them. The silence spread like ripples in a pond until the entire diner was as frozen as John was. Even the greasers had gone quiet. "We're all cool cats here, right? So everyone keep their wheels to the pavements and there won't be any accidents, yeah?" The criminal just grinned into the silence and started ambling towards where John and Bill were standing next to the cash register. Slightly behind him, Bill went stiff, his fear and anxiety a nearly-tangible presence. Oddly, John felt entirely calm, heart and hands steady.

"Hello... Johnny," Moriarty said with a genial smile as he approached, eyes dropping down to read the name on his shirt. And then his eyes did what Sherlock's had done just a few minutes prior. His face went tense as he waited for the other to look back up at him. "Well, aren't you a looker. Girlfriend?"

John almost laughed. "No."

"Oh~. Boyfriend then?"

This time he did laugh. "No."

"In that case, perhaps Sebby and I will take you with us. What do you think, tiger?" The taller man strode forward, stopping just at Moriarty's side and appraising John just as thoroughly.

"Mmm, he looks like he could be fun, Jim." Two pairs of steely eyes turned towards Bill over his shoulder. "That one doesn't." One of those revolvers raised and pointed right at Bill and only now did John's heart skip a beat. He could handle himself just fine, could tolerate most everything, but threats to his friends would not be well received. He took one step to the side, transferring the muzzle's attention to himself. Instead of getting angry, the two criminal's grins only widened.

"Oh! This one is going to be fun!" the dark-haired man exclaimed. "Well, baby, let's go ahead and get that register open and then we can beat feet," he said, almost as if it were a suggestion between friends rather than a demand for a hostage. Moriarty stepped closer to the register and turned to look at it, tapping it with his gun.

"No." Wide brown eyes turned to him, surprised. Interested.

"'No'?" the criminal parroted.

"No," John repeated. The smaller man walked back towards him and then stepped right into his space, pressed nearly against him and reminding John of the other man he'd been so recently pressed against. Only this time it was significantly less pleasant and he was significantly less erect. He was a little surprised to find that they were the same size. How had someone so small managed to commit all those crimes? Was it the guns? That decidedly creepy smile that seemed to promise unearthly amount of pain if his noncompliance continued? Or was it his indecently muscled companion with the dark eyes and the hard expression?

His heart was starting to pound harder now, but his hands were still steady and his adrenaline was rushing through his veins. Oh my, wasn't this exciting. He wondered if this was what it was going to feel like in the military. He couldn't help but grin.

"You're late." John jumped at the new voice, the familiar voice, the one that had just been whispering hotly into his ear not fifteen minutes ago. Blinking in surprise, the three of them turned away from the moment to face the greaser leaning his hip into the counter, arms crossed and looking entirely too disinterested for the situation.

"Mmm, hello dolly. Who might you be?" the shorter criminal asked stepping away from John and back towards the counter. He'd hoped Moran would follow but that one stayed resolutely where he was. On the other hand, he had no clue what Sherlock was doing and could only assume that the other teen was an idiot for throwing himself into such a situation.

"Sherlock Holmes," the greaser introduced and John fought the need to drop his head into his hands. How could such a smart person be so utterly stupid? "And you're Jim Moriarty and Sebastian Moran and you should have been here two days ago."

Moriarty turned to with a raised eyebrow to throw an amused look at his companion. "Everyone knows we have no pattern. How can we possibly be late?" To their continued surprise, Sherlock snorted.

"The pattern was as clear as day," he scoffed, rolling his eyes and sighing exasperatedly. "Everyone else was just too stupid to see it. So frustrating."

"Is that so? How fascinating. The brightest minds of the country couldn't figure it out but a greaser can?" The way he said 'greaser' was nothing short of derogatory and the group in the corner bristled at the slight. Sherlock didn't move a muscle, didn't seem to care.

"The brightest minds of our country are idiots. You're hitting towns in alphabetical order and you're using the Fibonacci sequence with the town's letters to decide when to hit next. It only took me three cities to figure out and five to confirm." Moriarty was staring at Sherlock with a contemplative look and then he, to John's surprise, holstered both his weapons and began to clap. The greaser just gave a short nod as if he'd expected no less.

"What a treasure to find in such a town!" he cried, apparently quite delighted with this find. "I think I want to take you home with me, too. Tiger, you can have that one. Though I'm not opposed to sharing. Mm, yes, that'll be quite fun. Just the four of us. Two brains, two brawn. I'm sure we'll have plenty to occupy our time with." The smile on his face, and his companion's, was absolutely perverse. Now, John had popped his cherry with plenty of girls and wasn't adverse to popping it with Sherlock, but he was going to have to draw the line at these two criminals. Which, he suddenly realised, were no longer looking at him. Or Bill. All of their attention was fixated on the greaser on the other side of the counter.

As discreetly as he was able, John reached the hand between him and Bill back to grab his friend's who startled at the contact, but thankfully didn't attract either criminal's attention. Slowly, he traced C-O-P into the rugby-hardened palm with the tip of his finger. The other's fingers gripped his tightly for a second and shook once, and then Bill was edging painfully slowly away from him. A tense moment later, full of a strange debate between Sherlock and Moriarty that he'd tuned out by now, John heard the faint fwish of the door between restaurant and the kitchen sliding closed and he knew Bill had gotten away.

Moran shifted closer to Moriarty and John realised he had a very small window of opportunity in front of him. Feeling around the counter at his back, his fingers brushed against a napkin holder. Testing the heft of it behind his back, he adjusted his grip on the cheap metal, took a deep breath, and then pushed off with the toe stop, shooting forward and slamming the makeshift weapon into the taller man's temple. The muscular criminal crumpled to the floor like a slinky, the guns in his hands sliding across the linoleum. There was a sick moment of stillness as everyone in the joint stared at the two revolvers. And then everyone moved at once.

Two jocks dove at the guns as Moriarty's hand dove into his jacket at the same time John dove at Moriarty. The colliding of their bodies was not unlike in rugby, his heart was even pounding in his chest the same way, as he took the smaller man to the floor. Though they were about the same height, John was apparently more active because the body under him felt much too slim. There was a crack as the dark head hit the hard floor and John couldn't help his sympathetic wince at the sound. But when he got up and he saw the two jocks aiming guns with shaking hands at the two unconscious criminals, he remembered the reports he'd seen and the death toll trailing the two and he no longer cared if they lived or died.

"He wasn't wrong," a quiet voice said from right behind him, making him jump, his skates sliding perilously on the slick flooring from his surprise. A leather-clad arm wrapped around his waist and pulled him against a solid body, one almost as slim as the one he'd just tackled but with a delicious firmness to it that had him licking his lips.

"Wasn't wrong about what?" John finally replied, relaxing into the hold as the diners around him broke out into loud conversation and some simply broke out, rushing out the front door and into the fading sunlight.

"You are a looker. And rather fun. What I don't know is if you want to join the military to become an army doctor or if you're simply joining the military to pay for your schooling." John blinked and then blinked again before turning his head to look at the greaser over his shoulder. The smile aimed at him was enough to take his breath away.

"How did you know?" he asked, feeling oddly breathless.

"You always carry around at least one medical text book though our school offers no classes on the subject. Other times, you'll catch yourself standing relaxed and you'll suddenly straighten and fall into parade rest, as if you're attempting to prepare yourself for the future. Then again, there's the... 'tattoos' you draw on yourself." The hand not cupping his hip rose and a finger traced the outline of the crest he'd drawn on his bicep earlier in the day during lunch.

"Amazing," he breathed, and the finger stopped. Grey eyes rose from the faint outline of his self-administered tattoo to meet his and he gave the other teen a delighted smile. "Absolutely fantastic." Sherlock looked surprised.

"That's not what people usually say."

"What do they say?"

"Beat it." John laughed and the fingers on his hip tightened. Before he realised it, he was being pulled into the kitchen and Mrs Hudson's empty office. It was a good thing she was off visiting her sister because John wasn't sure how she would have taken the evening's excitement. Nor was he sure how she would have taken a greaser barging in and locking them inside. Before he could even comment on it, his lower back was being pressed into the edge of a desk and his mouth was occupied by an insistent tongue. Almost as soon as it was sweeping over his own, he was hard again, even more so than when he'd first been innuendo-ed at.

"Oh god," he managed to gasp into the heating air, feeling dizzy with lust and arousal and Sherlock's affections. There was a hard thigh rubbing against him and an erection against his own thigh and he rutted desperately into both.

"I'm going to put you on Cloud Nine, baby," he felt, more than heard, murmured against his cheek. He didn't even have a chance to respond before the skin of his neck was pulled between blunt teeth, worried at at the same time it seemed to be sucked on. He was going to have a mark there that could be seen from down the hall. "I cast an eye on you months ago. I just had to wait for the right time."

"Well, once you start you don't go slo-OH!" John shouted as a wet heat closed over a nipple. When had his shirt even come off? Suddenly, those lips, that mouth, that tongue, pulled away to brush soft, gentle, barely-there kisses against his sternum.

"You want me to go slow?" It was a whisper against his skin and at the same time, the pressure against his cock eased, just as the cock against his thigh pulled away. Suddenly feeling desperate, he wound his fingers in the leather jacket and yanked the other teen right back against him.

"Don't you dare," he snapped, thrusting his hips up to recreate that delicious friction from before.

"Yessir," the greaser chuckled, and suddenly dropped to his knees. Before he'd even realised what was about to happen, John's khakis were unbuttoned and unzipped, his cock was pulled free of its tight white confines, and then his most sensitive flesh was sucked into a hot, wet mouth.

"AH!" he shouted in surprise, and then immediately shoved his fist in his mouth. After what happened up front, he didn't need someone to think a third person was in the back and attacking him. As that hot mouth sucked him deeper, slim fingers wrapped around his other wrist and directed his hand into soft curls.

"Sherlock!" he gasped around his fist, his fingers tightening in the dark hair as he gave a gentle thrust of his hips. Without warning, he was deep-throated, the tight heat of the greaser's throat working around him making him bite his hand so hard that he tasted blood, and he bucked into that clever mouth. Sherlock's head began to bob between his legs, pulling off with tight suction, pausing to tongue the slit, before sliding him back into his throat. As they fell into a rhythm, John grew more and more confident, slowly starting to raise his hips to match.

He was fucking Sherlock Holmes's mouth. He was face-fucking his months-long crush. It felt like some odd dream, the infamous robbers attempting an attack on his diner of all places and now this. A slick finger pressed between his arse cheeks, the tip pressing inside his tight rim and he bucked so hard that Sherlock gave an aborted gag and he released the curls like they were on fire.

"Shit, I'm sorry," he started, leaning back against the desk and incidentally shoving that finger further inside him. God, his greaser had long fingers.

"Don't stop, baby, you were doing so well," the other teen murmured into the sensitive crease of his thigh. A shudder rolled down his spine at the sensation and then another as the finger in him started to pump in and out. "C'mon, Johnny," he was encouraged, those fingers from before wrapping around his wrist a second time and putting them back in his hair. "Just let the pleasure take you where it wants, but stop before you come. I'm going to be inside you when you come," Sherlock promised, voice dark.

"Shit, you look so good down there," he confessed, entranced by the spit-slicked and reddened lips, the blown pupils and the flushed cheeks. A second finger pressed inside him, the burn of the stretch counteracted by that mouth sliding around him again. This time, he felt a bit more confident and his fingers tightened in those curls, hips thrusting up and he exerted the gentlest pressure he could on the back of the greaser's head. There was a hum of satisfaction from the kneeling teen that had him seeing stars when it was combined with a press against something inside him he'd never felt before. The textbooks had all shown him where the prostate was. None of them had said what touching it felt like. He felt it was a vast hole in his knowledge and thank goodness Sherlock was there to rectify it.

He barely noticed the insertion of a third finger because it was at that exact time that the greaser simultaneously swallowed around him and hummed. But he did notice when those fingers began to thrust in him vigorously, only because they pressed against his prostate each time they became fully embedded. He was viciously caught by needing that throat moving around him and those fingers moving inside him. His orgasm was rising up fast and, remembering Sherlock's guttural promise, he began to tug at the curls rather than pushing on them. Sherlock only sucked harder.

"I'm going to come!" he gasped in warning with a harsh yank on the hair around his fingers. Slowly, and with a mischievous gleam in his eye, Sherlock pulled off, teeth scraping lightly over the sensitive glans as he did so. He shuddered as the hot heat finally left him, and then jumped when cool breath was blown over the tip. A shudder wracked the entirety of his spine at the sensation, and while he was waiting for it to pass, the fingers pulled out. He hadn't even come yet and he was sweating and flushed and his knees were weak and he could barely hold himself up against the desk.

"Turn around, Johnny," he was instructed as the greaser got back to his feet. John gave him one bleary, dazed blink before he complied. His hips lined up perfectly with the desk's edge and he draped his torso over the wood, arms too weak to hold himself up. His khakis were pulled down his thighs to his knees, restricting his movements, before two large hands each palmed a cheek, spreading him for the other's perusal. He felt vulnerable by the examination, exposed, and he squirmed. "You really are a lovely sight, baby," he heard sighed from above him. Before he could respond, return the compliment, something thick was against him and then it was following the path previously only taken by fingers. Specifically, only by Sherlock's fingers. He'd never even dared to try it on himself.

His fingers scrambled uselessly against the wood as a burn spread out from his hole, a strange accompaniment to the pleasure of being filled so thoroughly. Fingers snagged his wrists and stretched out his arms, increasing the weight and heat against his back as his hands were directed to curl around the opposite edge of the desk. The further in that Sherlock slid, the more the burn spread until finally his knuckles were white from pain rather than pleasure. By the time the cock inside him was fully seated, he was breathing through clenched teeth and trying to remember why he thought this would be a good idea.

"Relax, Johnny. You feel so amazing, so tight. I'll make it good for you, I promise. You just have to relax, all right?" Sherlock was laid across his back, panting in his ear, and it was all he could do to simply nod. For a long minute, he stopped focusing on the pain and started focusing on letting it go. When the burn finally subsided into something more manageable, he unclenched his jaw to speak.

"O-okay, Sherlock. You can m-move," he stuttered. A soft tongue licked a broad strip up his neck and familiar fingers wrapped around his cock, stroking the softened flesh back to full hardness when the greaser started to pull out. Overall, the sensations were fantastic, distracting from the strange feeling of being fucked free of his virginity, but they weren't quite enough.

"I need..." he panted, trying to corral his words. "I need you to distract me," he gasped. "If I don't have a black and blue neck come Monday, how will anyone know who I belong to?" he gasped, biting his lip at the way Sherlock's hips stuttered against his arse. "Bite me again, Sherlock," he demanded, tilting his head to expose the yet-unhickeyed side of his neck.

"With relish," he heard from behind him, right before teeth caught on his skin and he was entered with a particularly rough thrust. And apparently that was going to be the new pace because the greaser didn't stop his rough domination of his arse as that mouth continued to ruin his neck, sucking hot marks even across his shoulders. He was going to look like he'd been mauled by the time Sherlock was done, but he couldn't really find it in himself to care. He shifted one of his feet, his hips shifting the tiniest bit and suddenly the head of the greaser's cock was hitting his prostate with every stroke.

"Oh fuck, Sherlock!" he tried to not-shout as white-hot pleasure sparked through his veins.

"That's right, baby. That's it right there," the other teen murmured against his ear, stroking his cock faster and faster, the increased pace offsetting the slower one of the cock in him. It created a near-constant strain of white pleasure in his ears and his eyes and in no time, he was worked right back up to the edge of release.

"Oh, Sherlock, I'm so close," he gasped, tightening his fingers along the curved desktop edge.

"You're right there, Johnny," the greaser gasped back, the hot breath in his ear making him shiver. "You're getting tighter around me and it's so amazing to feel. I need to feel you come, baby. Can you do that for me? Can you make me come?"

After those words, that voice, the only response with which he was capable was compliance.

"Fuck! Sherlock!" he barked, his cock pulsating in the greaser's hands, smearing the wood below him with his come. Beyond the haze of pleasure flooding his system, he could feel the way Sherlock was fucking him animalistically, pounding into him as his walls constricted around his cock. There was a hoarse shout from the teen dominating him and then those hips stilled against him, a warmth spreading through his insides where Sherlock had come in him.

The greaser was heavy over him, panting just as deeply as he was as they both tried to catch their breaths. But Sherlock couldn't stay there forever and eventually pulled away. The tissue box he was reaching for was yanked out of range, and seconds later, he could feel the mess on his thighs being wiped away.

"I'll be feeling that for a week," he tried to joke as he stood up, pulling his clothes back into place. Turning around, he found the greaser already set to walk out of the door, hair-perfecting comb already being tucked into his jean pocket.

"Don't be stupid, Johnny," Sherlock admonished, sliding an arm around his waist and guiding him out of the office and back through the kitchen. "If you remember to leave your window unlocked every night, you'll get used to it in no time."

"So... does that mean that we're going steady?" Despite the fact that he'd just finished losing his virginity, that question still made him blush. Sherlock stopped right before the door to the restaurant and turned to look at him.

"Do you want to be, baby?" he asked, grey eyes bright but blank in the light. "Do you want to be mine?" In lieu of answering with words, John leaned up on the tips of his toes to press their lips together.

"Idiot," he scoffed with a smile that Sherlock returned immediately. His greaser's arm around his shoulders and together they walked through the kitchen doors.

Less than a second later, John marched right back in, alone, followed by the sound of raucous applause, congratulatory cat calls, and Sherlock's deep-bellied laugher.

FIN

I'm not saying I need money because I want to start commissioning all my favourite scenes from my fics, but I need money to commission all my favourite scenes from my fics. In this case, where John trips onto Sherlock and Sherlock cops a feel. uwu Anyway, thanks to the group (shjwwritersgroupDOTtumblr) for reading over before post and suggesting the corndog innuendo and suggesting the use of the "with relish" line from 'Grease', hope you all enjoyed (especially you, sherlockpins), please don't forget to review, and don't forget to drop by my tumblr (themadkatter13-fanfictionDOTtumblr)!:3