Sherlock liked the school in the dead of night best, when it was quiet and the classrooms were deserted. It was the only time he could really sit around and think. Plus, unsupervised time with the microscopes in the science lab; it was practically heaven, if there were such a thing. Getting Mr. Anderson, the overnight security guard, to turn his head while Sherlock roamed the darkened college—frequenting empty classrooms on a nightly basis—was child's play at best. It was impossible to miss the lipstick stains that painted his collar, or the perfume that clouded his person: the thick, flowery fragrance was suspiciously not unlike that one worn by Mrs. Donovan, the woman who taught advanced mathematics in room 103.

"Surely Mrs. Anderson would love to know what her husband gets up to while she's asleep," Sherlock had drawled, eyes aglow with he excitement one might see in a predator finally closing in on it's prey. "You two are such a lovely couple; it would be a pity to see you part ways. Not to mention that you and Mrs. Donovan could lose your jobs, as interoffice affairs are, as I hear, strictly forbidden." Sherlock feigned alarm, and then smirked.

"No, no, go ahead. Go wherever you like, whenever you like," the man had sputtered nervously, and just like that Sherlock had an entire world all to himself. Doors upon doors and empty hallways and best of all, gleefully deserted vending machines. There was a particular brand of toffee flavored crisps that Sherlock was quite fond of but could never seem to acquire in the daytime. Students surrounded the machines all day like insects to fly paper, gossiping and being their generally cumbersome selves, leaving Sherlock no choice but to stalk off and ask John to fetch them for him later.

Sometimes John would join him, often with a test or assignment due the next morning; Sherlock was a surprisingly good tutor when he wasn't calling John (or their instructor) an idiot. On those nights Sherlock found he was grateful for the company. John Watson was new at the school, his parents wanted him to go into military service once he'd turned 18 but John had insisted he get a proper education first. They'd become friends almost immediately, Sherlock pushy and brilliant, John silent but clear headed. They just fit.

Tonight, Sherlock was alone. No matter, John would show up soon enough. It was half past nine, the curfew bell had sounded well over an hour ago. He sat in his favorite classroom: it was an adjunct to the science lab, room 221b. It had large glass windows along the back wall that displayed a reasonable view of the darkened grounds and night sky above. Not that Sherlock was partial to such things. But he knew John was and left the blinds open, sharing his anticipatory smile with the moon.

Sherlock sat at the instructors desk, which was needlessly large and luxurious, a dark mahogany, well polished and while not glossy, surprisingly smooth. He propped his legs up on the wood and sunk his nose into a paperback he'd been meaning to read. Not that he thought he'd be getting up to much reading tonight. The story featured a fantastic serial killer who killed and flaunted his bodies out in the open, like an exhibition. It was daring and different and Sherlock rather liked him. Or her, as it might have been.

He sensed John's presence, even before the sand-colored head appeared in the doorframe. Sherlock didn't look up from his book.

"Evening, John. If you are here to have a look at my sociology paper you shan't have it. Though there was nothing difficult concerning the subject matter," he looked up, feigning reverence, "it is the principle of the thing, my dear Watson!" Of course, Sherlock knew it wasn't really the sociology paper but he was surprised at the look of shock on John's face. Needless though, Sherlock thought. He would always give John the answers in the end.

"It's not the sociology paper, look," John put a hand through his short hair. "I've just spent hours talking to Molly Hooper. She came into my room sobbing, Sherlock. Sobbing!"

Sherlock looked down at his book, already losing interest in the conversation. (The killer had just killed another person and left a pile of limbs on a beach.) "Molly Hooper is not my problem."

"She likes you!"

"Not my problem."

"For God's sake, Sherlock, she's your friend!"

"No, she is my lab partner," Sherlock snapped, looking up once more. "Any hint of a friendship perceived between us would be a complete and utter fabrication on the part of anyone involved."

"Jesus, Sherlock. That girl has fancied you for ages, beats the hell out of me as for why, but she does! And today you go and tell her—" John lets out an angry hiss, "today you go and tell her that her lab coat makes her breasts look too small? That her new hairstyle makes her look like a man? That—"

"All quite true, wouldn't you agree?"

(The police had just found a third body in a children's park! Brilliant.)

John let his fist fall forward and hit the desk. "Damn it, Sherlock! Why do have to be such a gigantic dick to everyone all the time? I—" John took a deep breath. "I need you to find Molly tomorrow. I need you to go and apologize."

Sherlock whipped his feet off the desk and stood up. He leaned over it, his nose stopping only inches from John's. "Well John Watson," he said, the hint of a sneer settling like a rain cloud over his face, "I. Will. Do. No. Such. Thing."

They stood there for what seemed like an eternity. Sherlock didn't understand why John cared so much, or even at all, yet he knew he would. Is this what friends do? And funnily enough, it was at that precise moment that John leaned in and kissed him.

John was so angry at Sherlock he could slap him; in fact he had no problem imagining it: he saw his palm moving hard and fast over Sherlock's cheek, leaving a red mark on the pale skin, how Sherlock's eyes would widen in surprise and the shocked little "o" his lips would form. But instead of slapping the ever tall, frustrating boy he'd kissed him, was kissing him, and John found he never wanted to stop.

Sherlock hadn't missed a beat, kissing John back just as furiously, as if it was the last thing either of them would ever do. Slate blue against sea foam green, their eyes battled as well as their tongues. John gasped at how quickly his arousal was growing; it seared through him like oil slicked flames, as if he'd wanted this his entire life, and perhaps he had. He pulled away finally, whispering, "you prat." Sherlock only smiled.

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's long neck and climbed on top of the desk. With John on his knees and Sherlock standing they were the same height, which was quite nice indeed. Sherlock put a hand on each of John's hips and held fast. Meanwhile, John was peppering kisses along his jawline, and then moving down to nuzzle into the warm hollow of his neck. He was stopped by Sherlock's tie and shirt collar, standard issue uniform for the lucky college boys. "These clothes have got to go," John huffed.

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock purred, unknotting his tie as John did the same. Each boy locked his eyes on the other as uniforms were slowly shed, button by button. John sighed at the sight of Sherlock's chest, pale and magnificent.

"Gorgeous," John breathed. Sherlock was all long, slender limbs and marble skin, his half hardened cock peeking up with interest. John didn't think he could stand not touching him for one more second.

He hopped off the desk, suddenly, pushing Sherlock down in his place. The little breathy sighs he made as John kissed a trail down his chest were deathly adorable. His hips bucked as John nosed into the smattering of dark hair below his navel. He nipped Sherlock's thighs and kissed the skin stretched taught over his hip bones wanting to draw it out but Sherlock was having none of it. "John, please," he begged, and that's when John realized how ridiculously close Sherlock actually was to the edge. His entire body was vibrating, and his eyes were so dark they could be lumps of coal.

"Hey, hey, you've got to slow down or else you're going to come and I haven't even touched you!" John said, coming back up and planting long wet kisses on each of Sherlock's hardened nipples.

"Then shut up and do it already," Sherlock said through clenched teeth.

"Hold on, you twit," came John's muffled reply, his face buried in Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock hissed in relief when John finally made his way downwards, sweeping his tongue along the stiff line of Sherlock's cock. John put one hand on Sherlock's stomach and rubbed in slow, soothing circles and used the other to stroke the shaft while he ran his tongue over the head, gathering the moisture beading up. Sherlock was clearly appreciative, shifting from those deathly breathy sounds into absolutely obscene moaning.

John lifted his head. "Sherlock, shhh! You know Mr. Anderson—"

"Mr. Anderson can fall out of a window. Now for the love of God, John, don't stop!"

John giggled and dipped his head once more, taking as much of Sherlock into his mouth as he could and setting a steady rhythm. He could feel Sherlock's fingers drawing patterns on the back of his head, could feel Sherlock's body tensing under him as he trailed his fingers across Sherlock's testicles, down to the sensitive skin underneath. There he stopped to rest two fingers on the hard ring of muscle, pressing insistently but not entering it completely.

"Oh God, John!" Sherlock practically screamed as his orgasm hit home, shaking violently and thrusting wildly into John's mouth. John flailed, trying to still Sherlock's hips with his hands and managing to swallow most of his release.

John made his way up to Sherlock's lips, kissing him long and deep, enjoying the pressure of Sherlock's thigh against his own erection.

"John."

"Hmmm?"

"I want you to fuck me now."

"Wha— I can't," John said, even though his cock stiffened almost painfully at just the thought. "We don't have—"

"In my trouser pocket." Sherlock smiled his I-got-you-good smile.

"You bastard!" John said, but he was smiling as well. "You planned this entire thing, didn't you? Molly, me, the argument..."

"Every time we fight you get aroused, John, don't think I haven't noticed. Your pulse races, your eyes dilate and you always find some excuse to run up to your bunk. We just needed some real ammunition. I had to get you angry enough to lose your inhibition. I suppose alcohol would have worked as well, but I do love a good experiment."

"It's called stomping away in anger because you can't seem to placate your enormous twat of a best friend," John retorted, but he was still smiling because Sherlock was right, and because he wanted to be angry about being manipulated this way but was finding it impossibly difficult when Sherlock was still sprawled out on the desk like that, looking impossibly sexy, his fair skin contrasting wonderfully with the dark wood. He could be a fucking two page spread, holy shit.

John bent over to reach for Sherlock's pants and—was that a wolf whistle? "Take as long as you like, John dear, no rush," Sherlock said, his voice smooth like velvet. John stood holding the condom packet and a small bottle of lube, trying to hide his blush.

"Ready me John, quickly." Sherlock rolled over and propped his elbows on the desk, his feet spread wide on the floor and his backside pointing up prettily at the air. John put on the condom and uncapped the bottle, squirting a good amount of the clear substance on his fingers and working it thoroughly into Sherlock, and as an afterthought, slicking his own cock as well, feeling breathless at the contact and then pressing himself up against Sherlock's entrance. From this angle John found he had a quite lovely view of Sherlock's arse, and the expanse of his back was pale and perfect like a blank canvas, awaiting John's brush.

"John, now," Sherlock breathed, pressing back against the other boy. John wasted no more time, pushing inside slowly so that Sherlock had time to adjust. They both let out a sigh, as if synchronized, and John began to move, still rather slowly, reveling in the tight, heated space. What could possibly be better than this, John thought, moving his hips lazily and feeling the warmth spreading slowly from his center to the tips of his fingers and toes. John briefly considered the fact that the noises Sherlock was making, a combination of breathy pants and whimpers with the occasional moan of John's name, were among the best noises he had ever heard in his life.

A pleasurable coil was building up in John's stomach and he increased the pace, his hips slamming against Sherlock's arse again and again, egged on by the string of almost unintelligible—but certainly filthy—words coming from the other boy's mouth. He just never stopped talking, did he? Suddenly John switched his angle and he knew he had hit the right spot because he could swear Sherlock screeched, coming undone, and John wasn't too far behind himself. Stars bloomed behind John's eyes as his rhythm became erratic and a knife of white hot pleasure sliced through him completely, shaking him to the core. Beneath him Sherlock was shuddering and gasping with the aftershocks, mumbling incoherently with the occasional "God, John," thrown into the mix.

John pulled out gently, tossed the used condom aside and lay back on the table. Sherlock rolled over and placed his hand over John's heart. "That," he said, panting, "was the best fuck I have ever had."

John burst out laughing, great big guffaws that bubbled out of him uncontrollably. "What?" Sherlock demanded sharply after a few seconds, sitting up.

"This desk," John managed, still giggling and gasping for air, "is fucking huge."

Now Sherlock was laughing as he lay back, resting his head on John's chest so that the giggles vibrated throughout John's entire body.

They lay on the desk for a while looking through the wide windows out at the night sky. John hummed contentedly, thoughtlessly massaging his fingers into Sherlock's hair.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John said after a while.

"Mmm?"

"Next time just ask for sex, all right?"

John felt the other boy's shoulders shake as he laughed. "All right, John. All right."

"And Sherlock?"

"Yes, John."

"Can I have that Sociology paper now?"