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Study Sessions

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Sherlock sighs, shouldering his bag as he saunters through the quad towards the Student Union building, eyes scanning the crowd for his newest pupil. He spies a blonde in a striped jumped lounging against one wall, a heavy Chemistry tome under one arm, eyes glued to his mobile phone, and rolls his eyes, making a beeline for the boy. Really, the explosion hadn’t been that destructive. Tutoring another student was a highly unfair punishment and a complete waste of Sherlock’s time.

“Grab your things and be quick. I have an experiment to get back to,” Sherlock sighs, ruffling his curls with one hand. The blonde looks up at him and blinks, his lips curling into a faint smile.

“You must be Sherlock.”

“And you’re obviously John. Dull.” 

John laughs, pushing away from the wall and following Sherlock off towards the Science Building, quickening his pace to keep up with the broad strides of Sherlock’s long legs. They weave in and out of the crowd, Sherlock leading him down the hallways towards the wing of unoccupied classrooms, a set of lock picks in hand. Sherlock picks open the door, letting it sway aside and throwing John a smirk.

“I’ll just make myself at home then,” John murmurs, arching one brow at Sherlock.

“Do as you like.” Hauling a few desks together, Sherlock dumps stacks of papers onto the table, noting the twitch under John’s left eyes as he does so. Military background, enjoys things being organized in an sensible fashion. Highly useless in the battle with entropy, that. “Now, you’re struggling with the basics of Organic Chemistry, not with nomenclature - as a medical student, you’re quite adept at naming things - but rather with synthesis of compounds. Take out your things, stop obsessing over cleanliness, and we’ll get started.”

“How did you know all that?” John takes the seat next to him, head tilted to the side, satchel still settled on his shoulder.

“Obvious. The first sections of your textbook are unmarked - all of which generally pertains to basic naming of compounds and childishly simple reactions - but the later part has been marked with multiple scraps of paper, the pages more frayed, indicating that you spend more time on later sections because you don’t understand them. As for the rest of it, you’re not in any of my other classes, yet you’re taking Organic Chemistry. Few people would take that type of class unless it was necessary, so it’s a prerequisite or a course credit that you require for your program. Likely the latter as I have yet to see you in any of my other Chemistry related lectures, although I barely bother to attend, but that’s beside the point. Hands are well-manicured, you dislike mess, posture says military upbringing or a plan to enlist, and you’ve got an RAMC pin on your bag. Additionally, you’ve got coffee stains on your sleeve. It’s a particular light roast blend favoured by the cafe just off campus most often frequented by the medical students after a long lecture or for studying purposes. The smudge from a pencil on your left hand says that you were copying notes, so you came from the cafe to meet me. The Principles of Integrative Physiology lecture let out about two hours ago and you went there with your classmates to study. Sciences, RAMC pin, course schedule, coffee stains, degree of personal hygiene: Medical student. ” Sherlock blinks, realizing that he’s said too much. “That’s enough to be going on, don’t you think?”

John gapes at him, his bag hanging askew off of his shoulder. “That…was amazing.”

“You think so?”


Sherlock ducks his chin, fighting the urge to grin. “That’s not what people normally say.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Piss off,” Sherlock chuckles, flipping over a page from his notebook absently. John giggles, the sound high and jubilant, settling in next to him with a dangerous edge to his smirk.

“Alright then, genius. Teach me everything you know.” 

Sherlock’s stomach gives a flutter and he swallows. Definitely not boring.

They meet every Thursday after John’s Physiology lecture, slipping off to the Chemistry department and commandeering a vacated classroom to study. John catches on quickly, asking intelligent questions and cutting Sherlock off mid-rant when things get too complicated. As the exam draws closer, Sherlock comes to the devastating realization that his time with John Watson is also drawing to a close. He’s more subdued at their sessions, and John definitely notices, but he doesn’t comment.

“Well, you’re not a complete idiot,” Sherlock offers, shooting John a wan smile. “I dare say you’ll even manage to pass the exam at this point.”

“All thanks to you.” John gives him a pat on the shoulder, his hands lingering, and Sherlock shivers, leaning into the touch. John’s palm is a warm and heavy weight on his shoulder, the heat seeping through the silk of his shirt down into his very bones. A small hitch of breath pulls Sherlock attention back to John and Sherlock feels a bolt of sheer wanting surge through him as their eyes meet. John’s pupils are blown wide, cheeks flushed as he licks his lips, hands sliding up to cup the back of Sherlock’s neck.



John surges forward and presses their mouths together, tongue tangling with Sherlock’s, fingers tangling in his hair. Sherlock’s hands scrabble for purchase, running over John’s shirt, the waistband of his jeans, the broad expanse of John’s back. 

“Christ, I’ve wanted you for months,” John growls, nipping at Sherlock’s earlobe, tongue tracing the delicate shell before dipping his head to suck at the tender skin at the edge of his jaw.


“With your ridiculous shirts and your sinfully tight trousers. God, I could devour you.”

Sherlock makes a vague choking noise, nodding emphatically. “Please. Oh, God.” 

John hauls them both to their feet, shoving the papers aside as grabbing Sherlock’s arse, hauling him up to splay his limbs over the cool wood of the desk. He makes swift work of Sherlock’s shirt, fingers leaving searing trails of heat in their wake, and Sherlock arches into the touch, skin flushed a mottled pink with arousal. John’s clever tongue laves over collar bones and straining tendons in his neck, fingers teasing his nipples, hips pressing against the bulge in Sherlock’s skinny jeans. 

“Up. Flip over.” John presses a kiss to Sherlock’s navel before standing back as Sherlock scrambles to comply. He bends over the desk, looking back over his shoulder at John with a wiggle of his hips, feeling a surge of triumph as John’s eyes darken with desire. Rough hands tug at the waistband of his skinny jeans, pulling both them and his pants down over the swell of Sherlock’s arse to pool around his ankles. 

“John, what - FUCK!” Sherlock’s arms give out at the first brush of John’s tongue against his hole and he braces himself on his forearms, taking deep gulps of air. John’s hands spread his cheeks wide, tongue laving from perineum to arsehole, broad, flat strokes and pointed presses against the furled skin driving Sherlock mad. He lets out a strangled sound that is most definitely not a sob, resting his forehead against the slick skin of his arms. John’s thumbs help to spread him open further, his tongue making Sherlock’s toes curl, a flare of molten heat blooming in his belly.

“J-John. I’m going to…Oh!” Sherlock’s world goes white and he bites down on his forearm, body trembling and shaking with the force of his orgasm, his release paining the front of the heavy wooden desk. John stands behind him, undoing his flies and rutting his prick against the damp cleft of Sherlock’s arse until he comes, adding to the wetness between his cheeks. They stay there, heavy breathing echoing through the room, John’s ejaculate running down the back of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock starts to chuckle, John’s high-pitched giggle joining in soon after, their bodies shaking with laughter.

“That,” John gasps, pulling back and snagging some tissues from his bag to clean up Sherlock’s mess. “Was the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock snorts, shivering as John cleans him up, helping him pull up his pants and skinny jeans, John’s lips dry as he presses a kiss to the base of Sherlock’s spine. They keep touching each other, hands lingering, mouths dropping careful kisses onto flushed skin.

“I can’t believe I just rimmed you over a teacher’s desk,” John mutters, swiping at the wet traces left behind by the hand sanitizer John had had tucked in his satchel.

“Quite spectacularly, if I do say so myself. I give you full marks for it,” Sherlock teases, buttoning his shirt and fixing his curls.

“So.” John fiddles with the top button of Sherlock’s straightened shirt, chewing on his bottom lip. “Is this…I don’t even know.”

“Yes. But I refuse to be called something as plebeian as your ‘fuck buddy’.” Sherlock schools his features carefully, watching John’s face. It falls slightly, his cheeks losing their glow.

“I was hoping for ‘boyfriend’, actually, but yeah, that’s…yeah.”

“Oh. Yes. That’s, um, that’s good.” Sherlock blinks rapidly, feeling his mouth stretch into a broad grin. John smiles back, pulling him closer.