Disclaimer: This story is to be clearly understood as a pure work of fiction and nothing else*

Summary: John doesn't go to the library unless absolutely necessary, then, he does.

Reading Between Shelves

Ever since John had stumbled into the lab, interrupting one of Sherlock's experiments for his chemistry thesis, a little drunk and desperate after wild dreaming about his junior—who also happened to be one his only real friends; Telling him, in so many words that he needed him in his life. They had been "dating" if you can even call it that. John had stalled asking Sherlock about his feelings for over a year mainly because he was British and secondly because the man seemed to have no such inclinations at all. Although he had implied he preferred men, on further inquiry, nevertheless, the questions were shot down with a kind of nonchalant dexterity that had dissuaded John from pursuing them again. He didn't understand why he had an unspoken need to tell Sherlock that it didn't bother him—whatever he preferred; that his sister always liked girls and that hadn't bothered John either.

John Watson was someone who did not make friends easily. This particular inability really had nothing to do with his nature, only so much to do with the fact that John was an incredibly private person with very strict boundaries. If people cared enough to ask why—he would attribute it to being the eldest sibling who had been saddled with the responsibility of his sister during most of his adolescence and Harry's own diametrically opposite open-book personality acted as a foil to his—but people left him alone, and it had suited him perfectly. That was when Sherlock had entered his life, strange and bursting with energy, testing all his boundaries and fascinating him like no one else had, brilliant student and junkie.

That's how they'd met. Off-campus.

John trying to score a little marijuana for him and his small band of friends and Sherlock—well, Sherlock was definitely not there for just weed. John had spotted him negotiating the payment: a hooded figure talking in circles and a wad of banknotes crunched in the same fist with which he was clumsily—obviously having already taken a hit—trying to inject a needle into a vein. John had recognized him from his unmistakable voice. For a moment John had stood there, stunned, disbelief had taken over him and rooted him to his spot. Then he had run across the street to Sherlock, wrenched the needle from his shaking hand and dragged him back onto campus.

While he had to hear no end of Greg's incessant complaints about his no-show, he dutifully refrained from telling him about an extremely irritable Sherlock who had ranted about the terrible quality of weed that the 'pathetic' nitwits took and listed twenty-nine reasons why weed was a poor choice till John's ears bled and he slipped an alprazolam in his water before passing him his bottle in bed.

When John had been ready to leave, Sherlock's hand had shot out and grasped his wrist and he had muttered something that John couldn't hear. He'd assumed it was a thank you. Sherlock had held his hand till really late into the night, slowly dozing off under the effects of the drug.

Just like that, John's remaining physical boundaries in relation to Sherlock, simply melted away.

"Oi! John!"

Greg was gesticulating wildly from the football field. John jogged down the path to him.

"Holmes Jr said he needs you in the library." Greg made quotations in the air with his fingers when he said 'needs'. "God knows what for. You know better how chatty he gets in the lab" He added sarcastically.

"Did he say now?"

"But he did say 'now'" they uttered together.

John sighed.

"We're still on for drinks tonight, eh?" he asked, a little out of breath. Dammit, he was out of practice.

"Right on!" Greg's voice reached him from a distance as he was already running back to his game.

John didn't like going to the library, preferring to study outside or in the solitude of his dorm room—that is, when he did actually study—silently appreciating the distant cacophony from the fields for his company.

He briefly considered wondering why Sherlock needed him in the library of all places, as this was a first, but immediately let it go realizing the futility of his action since he would never be able to predict with any satisfaction, what Sherlock really wanted anyway.

John spotted Sherlock easily among the few students present, as soon as he turned right inside the library. He was sitting near one of the windows overlooking the football field, concealed in part, by two new shelves that had been installed hastily because of the lack of space and already filled to bursting with books.

He stepped out of Sherlock's direct view to appreciate the harmony of the present moment—Sherlock with a look of pure concentration on his face, one of his hands supporting his head, his longish hair, curling around his fingers. John had never met anyone so frustrating and so equally fascinating, he had never been put off by what others called Sherlock's "strangeness", instead, it had only served to draw him in further. Whenever he got the chance, which was exceptionally rare, John took his leisure studying Sherlock's face. He had the most peculiar eyes, John could never get enough of trying to discern their colour. And then the sharpness of his face, which would've almost been harsh, but for the contrasting shape of his mouth—something that had taken root in John's earlier fantasies of him—John had never seen a mouth quite like Sherlock's before, so perfectly curving and so full. He had been deeply embarrassed when during one of their regular pub visits, Mike was describing the best lay of his life and all John could think about was Sherlock's mouth in association to everything they chattered about.

When John sat down, scraping a chair more noisily than he intended to, Sherlock gave no indication of having notice. Exasperated, John went about his business,

"Hi, you wanted to see me? Lestrade was—"

"Could you find me this book?" Sherlock cut in, without looking at him and sliding a piece of paper across the table to him. More of a statement than a request. John set his mouth in a straight line.

"You're sitting right next to the shelf."

"And?"

"And?"

"Quite unable to leave my typing at the moment John, do catch up."

John took a moment, pressing his lips into a thin line.

"Sherlock," John started, extremely annoyed, "Greg told me that you absolutely needed—"

"The book," he said, finally looking up from his laptop and meeting his defiant gaze. "Please."

John wasn't exactly mad at Sherlock, he really couldn't stay that way for long, especially with someone who practically flew from thought to thought and action to action with remarkable energy, never stopping for a breath—but John was mad (partially at himself) because he had conveniently assumed that Sherlock's dizzying energy would translate into their own sex life—which was in a depressing state of affairs, in John's humble opinion. John couldn't even begin to articulate his frustrations, he was incredibly attracted to his partner but his partner only seemed to show perfunctory interest, John knew he wasn't being insincere, neither was he a cold individual, in fact, he was just the opposite in those rare moments that John had the privilege of commanding all of Sherlock's attention.

But they were rare and John had no manual.

However, something about the way he said 'please', something in his manner stopped John from retorting, instead, he sat there feeling a sense of being on the brink of something, trying to gauge what it was about Sherlock's minutely unusual tone, which quickened his pulse.

John stood up, as if in thrall, as if something were to happen and he felt it in the way Sherlock followed him with his eyes. He slipped into the narrow space between the shelves, looking for the book, all the while, highly conscious about being watched and realizing the book was out of reach, John is about to turn towards Sherlock when, with his heart thundering in his chest, he felt him before he saw him.

Sherlock's height towered over John even more pronouncedly in the small space. John turned around slowly, his skin prickling at the close distance between them, his throat had never felt any drier, only slightly unsure about what this might potentially lead to. John felt very conscious of himself, they hadn't been this close in a long, long time—what with Sherlock's bloody thesis.

John searched Sherlock's face deliberately, trying to make sense of his increasing anticipation and obvious evidence of desire. But Sherlock simply reached to retrieve the book, going immediately back to his seat, leaving John in a confused mess of heat.

"I…" John started, clearing his throat, sitting down in an effort to hide his arousal. "I'm going out for some air." He finally said, recovering quickly.

"Laters," Sherlock said, not looking at him.

John snapped.

"Damn you and your thesis" he cried, louder than he intended.

Sherlock looked at him and smirked.

And then things happened very quickly.

Sherlock's pen and an entire pile of documents fell off the table. The impact turned few heads but no one approached them. Sherlock said a very theatrical "Sorry" before disappearing under the table.

John almost jumped out of his skin when he felt Sherlock's hands groping his knees before sliding up to his thighs. Shortly after, the lower half of his face appeared underneath the surface, slightly more illuminated than the rest of his face, causing his eyes to glow in the semi-darkness.

"Christ, Sherlock, not here"

"Would you prefer I do this 'under the stars'?" he asked, rolling his eyes as he slid down on the ground.

"No." John giggled, "But, there are people here." He exclaimed.

"Obviously," Sherlock replied, impatiently. "It is a library."

Sherlock's hands were already underneath his shirt, much before John could even begin to retort. He made quick work of his belt and was his fingers deliberately grazed the length of his prick through his jeans. Part of John felt like he should stop this here, or at the very least, pause it long enough to consider ramifications, be proper adults. But Sherlock sat there with both his eyebrows raised at him. Momentary panic seized John and he gripped Sherlock's hand, bending down to bring his face close to Sherlock's.

"Let me," Sherlock said, his voice deeper and quieter than usual, with only a slight edge to it and his breath hot against John's lips. And John trusted him.

John's grip relaxed and he groaned into Sherlock's ear as soon as his long fingers pried open his fly and slipped around his erection.

His lower body from waist down had given way when Sherlock had started stroking him in earnest, using both hands with maddening dexterity. Then, without any preamble, Sherlock took him in his mouth, sucking in his cheeks and starting to rapidly move his lips up and down along John's cock.

"Oh God" John moaned, involuntarily thrusting himself into the wet heat of Sherlock's luxuriant mouth and grasping at Sherlock's shoulders blindly. John's hand moved to Sherlock's hair in order to push it out of the way so that John could thoroughly memorize the stretch of those lips he fixated on, around his cock and those bloody cheekbones.

"Not quite" Sherlock replied, smirking.

John would've rolled his eyes but Christ this man was driving him to his end—quite literally. He writhed under Sherlock's touch, unable to form a single cohesive thought, lost in his own sensuality and utterly captivated by the scalding heat in Sherlock's eyes—which were now a dark green.

John leaned forward resting his forehead on the table and tried pressing his bare foot between Sherlock's legs just to feel the evidence of his arousal. But Sherlock pulled his mouth away with a soft pop which caused John's fingers to clench his hair and said,

"Let me do my work," almost as sternly as if he had been conducting an actual experiment in the lab and John had barged in. John panted incredulously, his breath condensing into laughter which instantaneously changed into a more guttural sound as Sherlock took him into his mouth once more.

John could feel his orgasm pressing behind his eyelids, he felt he was going to burst with it, and barely managed to gasp out a warning. Sherlock, always quick to assimilate, pulled away with another wet pop, his lips swollen red from sucking John. That sight of him was John's undoing.

When he finally peaked, he realized that this was better—much better than any porno he had used as a point of reference or any he could have imagined. John drunk in the sight of Sherlock—with John's come striping his cheek, a dull white over the flushed paleness of his skin and the dark of his eyelashes. This was a face that was completely new to him, distinctive and specific. This was the expression that felt decidedly private—an expression that Sherlock Holmes wore when John Watson came on his face.

When John sat back in the chair, slack with overwhelming pleasure and basking in the aftermath, waiting for Sherlock to emerge. He quite evidently failed to notice a taller figure appear behind him.

"Brother mine, how long exactly do you intend to look for your pen under the table?"

John froze faster than liquid nitrogen froze ice-cream. What. The. Fuck.

"Fuck off, Mycroft" Sherlock snarled from underneath the table, the effect of which was diminished due to his position there.

Mycroft gave John, who was now turning into an alarming shade of crimson from the combined feeling of an orgasm and the knowledge that this threatening individual's little brother still had John's not flaccid penis in his mouth, a scrutinizing once-over before turning around to leave.

"You better finish your assignment on time, Sherlock." His amused warning reached them from a distance.

"Was this your way of apologizing?" John asked after he felt steady enough to talk about ordinary things again.

"And what would that be for, exactly?"

"What? Are you serious?—never mind." Instead, he watched Sherlock put his books back, "But if this is indeed your idea of apologi—"

"Now, about that book..." Sherlock interrupted, busying himself at the other end of the shelf.

John stopped speaking and stood there for a while, grinning widely and watching Sherlock dash about between shelves.

*hahaaaaaaaaaaa kiddinggg ofc Johnlock is R-E-A-L, anyone who tells you otherwise if D-A-F-T.

~fin~