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Fic - Teacher Teacher - 2/5
Title: Teacher Teacher
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: R - NC-17
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: AU, yaoi, swearing, underage sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: He's been very thoroughly seduced by his student, and self-recrimination will only take him so far.
AN: This is a bit of a filler chapter, to be honest, but sort of necessary.
He hesitates before opening the door to the staffroom, closing his hand around the knob but not quite able to turn it. He knows that, during the five minute walk between here and his lab, the word ‘paedophile’ has not been tattooed onto his forehead, but there’s a tiny part of him that can’t help but fear that his colleagues will know, somehow, what has happened. That they will be able to look at him and know, as if Sherlock’s kisses have been branded on him for the world to see. He can still taste those kisses; he can still smell Sherlock’s deodorant clinging to his clothing. Surely, someone else has to notice.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and turns the handle. The room is empty except for Sarah Sawyer, the school nurse, and she smiles up at him as he enters.
She’s an attractive woman – very attractive – and until recently he would have said that she’s exactly his type, only now it seems that his ‘type’ has expanded to include fourteen-year-old boy geniuses. He’d thought of asking her out several times before, but had always bottled out before he could. He’s suddenly glad of it. She deserves better than him.
He forces himself to smile back at her and makes a beeline for the kettle. It’s empty, so he turns to fill it. He wishes he could have something stronger than tea without looking suspicious. It’ll have to wait for later, he thinks, at home, when he can get plastered and not have to worry about the guilt showing.
“Busy morning?” she asks him.
He slops water over the bench and soaks the sleeve of his jumper. “Ah?”
“You’ve got that look on your face,” she replies.
He switches the kettle on and mops up the mess with a handful of paper towels. “Reminded my A Level class about the coursework deadline,” he says. It’s not a lie, and he thinks it’s a good enough reason for him to look a bit stressed. “The panic… how do they think they’re going to get anywhere if they keep forgetting about deadlines?”
Not that he’d been much better. He’d been guilty of as many all-night rush jobs as the next kid, when he’d been at school.
Sarah laughs. “All new teachers say that,” she tells him. “Apparently you get used to it, but it just makes me glad I’m the nurse. All I have to worry about is the queue weepy girls coming and asking for the pill on Monday mornings and the occasional bit of sick.”
John casts a vague smile over his shoulder, but then the kettle clicks and he swallows his response in favour of pouring water on a teabag. He’d thought of going back into medicine after leaving the army, but he’d thought that after mortar wounds and gunshots that being a GP would be anticlimactic so he’d chosen a completely different career instead. Now he wonders if he’d made a mistake.
A big mistake.
But Sherlock is beautiful – far more lovely than Sarah could ever be – and brilliant and willing and entirely too young for the things that he claims to want. The things that John is hard-pressed to deny, even to himself, that he wants as well.
He sips his tea too quickly and burns his tongue, but he can still taste Sherlock in his mouth.
He’s doomed.
He drops into one of the armchairs and cradles his mug in his hands. Sarah is probably waiting for him to say something, but he can’t think of anything so he lets his head tilt back and some of the tension leave his body.
There’s one more double period to go. Then he can escape.
…
When he returns to his lab, Sherlock is waiting outside of it, frowning at the locked door and leaning with affected nonchalance against the wall. John’s heart leaps to his throat and he fumbles with the keys as he reaches for them.
This isn’t unusual, he has to remind himself. Sherlock often comes back to the lab after his Latin class to study the experiments that John lets him keep there. Currently, it’s the effect of different soluble chemicals on frogs’ hearts or something like that.
But seeing Sherlock now, all colt-limbed and lovely, makes his head swim.
He finally gets the door open and Sherlock darts inside first. He dumps his bag on one of the first benches he comes to and shucks off his suit jacket as well. It’s joined by his tie. John watches him – again, this is Sherlock’s usual behaviour; or it would be if he didn’t keep sneaking looks back at John from under his long eyelashes – and realises that there is no going back. Even if Sherlock told him, right now, that it had been a mistake, he would let him go but he wouldn’t be able to forget.
He’ll never be able to forget. He’s damned now, for this.
Sherlock leans against the bench and smiles at him slightly. His long fingers are twitching where they’re curved around the edge of the wood. He’s nervous. John realises he’s still staring and averts his gaze.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” Sherlock says softly.
John lets out a shaky breath. He’s half relieved by that; half devastated.
“Neither have I,” he admits.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s thinking, but he crosses the room towards Sherlock and the boy leans in and up and their lips meet in a kiss that’s just as dangerously wonderful as the first.
…
He grades papers while Sherlock drips acid onto spare sheep eyeballs he’d let him take from the dissection supplies. Occasionally Sherlock makes an offhand remark that’s usually relevant to neither his previous statement nor what he’s doing. It’s not unusual – John thinks that Sherlock’s having a conversation with himself but not voicing the whole thing out loud, and secretly he finds it quite endearing if not a bit worrying – and the eerie domesticity of it soothes him.
One of Sherlock’s statements catches his ear. A simple “Anderson’s an idiot.”
He tries to think who that might be, and his thoughts land on Tim Anderson – a weasel-faced Year Nine (the year that Sherlock’s supposed to be in) with dark hair and a nasal voice. He’s B-average, so not entirely thick, but he supposes that Sherlock’s standards for intelligence are different from the average person’s.
“Didn’t realise you knew him,” he comments. The essay in front of him is terrible. He draws a red line under yet another typo and scribbles an ‘s’ in the margin. He glances towards the name at the top of the page and sighs faintly in despair – a Year Ten unable to spell ‘mammal’.
“He follows me around the cafeteria and insults me for being intelligent,” Sherlock says.
John looks up at him. Sherlock is carefully extracting a sample from a partly burned eyeball and applying it expertly to a slide. “You’re being bullied,” he says. He feels sick when he says it because that’s another layer of vulnerability that he hadn’t considered even though he really should have seen it.
But before he can sink into his self-recriminations, Sherlock makes a vague noise of consternation. “It only counts if it bothers me. It doesn’t.”
He thinks about trying to argue. Yes, Sherlock, it does. You’re human, of course it does. But Sherlock’s not as fragile as all that. He doesn’t think. Maybe he’s telling the truth – John will keep an eye out, regardless.
…
He’s down to his last three essays when Sherlock approaches him. John looks up just in time and leans back in his chair to receive a lap full of teenage boy. Sherlock licks his lips slightly and peeks up at him – odd how he can look so devious and innocent at the same time – as his hands snake over John’s shoulders to link at the back of his neck.
“You don’t mind?” he asks, and John can feel his breath on his face.
He answers Sherlock with another kiss. One so deep and desperate that it has Sherlock moaning. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s thin hips and pulls him closer and Sherlock mewls into his mouth before breaking away, panting. John kisses a line down his jaw and throat and to the dip of his clavicle that peeks from his loosened shirt collar.
He nips the tender skin gently with his teeth and Sherlock hisses softly, his fingers tightening in John’s hair. He flicks his tongue over the spot before nipping again. Sherlock’s hips cant forward against his own and the boy is hard. John’s restraint is so close to snapping; so, so close, but he knows that Sherlock isn’t ready for more than this. Not yet, anyway, and he has a feeling that he won’t really be ready when they do go further.
He kisses back up that long, pale neck and bites gently at Sherlock’s lower lip. It’s already swollen and red from their kisses and Sherlock is perfection when he’s debauched like this.
He thinks he must be losing his mind. But then Sherlock gasps out his name between glorious kisses and he realises that he’s already lost.
Author: Evandar (yamievandar / hikarievandar)
Fandom: Sherlock
Rating: R - NC-17
Pairings: John/Sherlock, Lestrade/Mycroft
Genre: Romance/Angst
Warnings: AU, yaoi, swearing, underage sex.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock and I am making no profit from this story.
Summary: He's been very thoroughly seduced by his student, and self-recrimination will only take him so far.
AN: This is a bit of a filler chapter, to be honest, but sort of necessary.
He hesitates before opening the door to the staffroom, closing his hand around the knob but not quite able to turn it. He knows that, during the five minute walk between here and his lab, the word ‘paedophile’ has not been tattooed onto his forehead, but there’s a tiny part of him that can’t help but fear that his colleagues will know, somehow, what has happened. That they will be able to look at him and know, as if Sherlock’s kisses have been branded on him for the world to see. He can still taste those kisses; he can still smell Sherlock’s deodorant clinging to his clothing. Surely, someone else has to notice.
He takes a deep breath, steeling himself, and turns the handle. The room is empty except for Sarah Sawyer, the school nurse, and she smiles up at him as he enters.
She’s an attractive woman – very attractive – and until recently he would have said that she’s exactly his type, only now it seems that his ‘type’ has expanded to include fourteen-year-old boy geniuses. He’d thought of asking her out several times before, but had always bottled out before he could. He’s suddenly glad of it. She deserves better than him.
He forces himself to smile back at her and makes a beeline for the kettle. It’s empty, so he turns to fill it. He wishes he could have something stronger than tea without looking suspicious. It’ll have to wait for later, he thinks, at home, when he can get plastered and not have to worry about the guilt showing.
“Busy morning?” she asks him.
He slops water over the bench and soaks the sleeve of his jumper. “Ah?”
“You’ve got that look on your face,” she replies.
He switches the kettle on and mops up the mess with a handful of paper towels. “Reminded my A Level class about the coursework deadline,” he says. It’s not a lie, and he thinks it’s a good enough reason for him to look a bit stressed. “The panic… how do they think they’re going to get anywhere if they keep forgetting about deadlines?”
Not that he’d been much better. He’d been guilty of as many all-night rush jobs as the next kid, when he’d been at school.
Sarah laughs. “All new teachers say that,” she tells him. “Apparently you get used to it, but it just makes me glad I’m the nurse. All I have to worry about is the queue weepy girls coming and asking for the pill on Monday mornings and the occasional bit of sick.”
John casts a vague smile over his shoulder, but then the kettle clicks and he swallows his response in favour of pouring water on a teabag. He’d thought of going back into medicine after leaving the army, but he’d thought that after mortar wounds and gunshots that being a GP would be anticlimactic so he’d chosen a completely different career instead. Now he wonders if he’d made a mistake.
A big mistake.
But Sherlock is beautiful – far more lovely than Sarah could ever be – and brilliant and willing and entirely too young for the things that he claims to want. The things that John is hard-pressed to deny, even to himself, that he wants as well.
He sips his tea too quickly and burns his tongue, but he can still taste Sherlock in his mouth.
He’s doomed.
He drops into one of the armchairs and cradles his mug in his hands. Sarah is probably waiting for him to say something, but he can’t think of anything so he lets his head tilt back and some of the tension leave his body.
There’s one more double period to go. Then he can escape.
…
When he returns to his lab, Sherlock is waiting outside of it, frowning at the locked door and leaning with affected nonchalance against the wall. John’s heart leaps to his throat and he fumbles with the keys as he reaches for them.
This isn’t unusual, he has to remind himself. Sherlock often comes back to the lab after his Latin class to study the experiments that John lets him keep there. Currently, it’s the effect of different soluble chemicals on frogs’ hearts or something like that.
But seeing Sherlock now, all colt-limbed and lovely, makes his head swim.
He finally gets the door open and Sherlock darts inside first. He dumps his bag on one of the first benches he comes to and shucks off his suit jacket as well. It’s joined by his tie. John watches him – again, this is Sherlock’s usual behaviour; or it would be if he didn’t keep sneaking looks back at John from under his long eyelashes – and realises that there is no going back. Even if Sherlock told him, right now, that it had been a mistake, he would let him go but he wouldn’t be able to forget.
He’ll never be able to forget. He’s damned now, for this.
Sherlock leans against the bench and smiles at him slightly. His long fingers are twitching where they’re curved around the edge of the wood. He’s nervous. John realises he’s still staring and averts his gaze.
“I haven’t changed my mind,” Sherlock says softly.
John lets out a shaky breath. He’s half relieved by that; half devastated.
“Neither have I,” he admits.
He’s not entirely sure what he’s thinking, but he crosses the room towards Sherlock and the boy leans in and up and their lips meet in a kiss that’s just as dangerously wonderful as the first.
…
He grades papers while Sherlock drips acid onto spare sheep eyeballs he’d let him take from the dissection supplies. Occasionally Sherlock makes an offhand remark that’s usually relevant to neither his previous statement nor what he’s doing. It’s not unusual – John thinks that Sherlock’s having a conversation with himself but not voicing the whole thing out loud, and secretly he finds it quite endearing if not a bit worrying – and the eerie domesticity of it soothes him.
One of Sherlock’s statements catches his ear. A simple “Anderson’s an idiot.”
He tries to think who that might be, and his thoughts land on Tim Anderson – a weasel-faced Year Nine (the year that Sherlock’s supposed to be in) with dark hair and a nasal voice. He’s B-average, so not entirely thick, but he supposes that Sherlock’s standards for intelligence are different from the average person’s.
“Didn’t realise you knew him,” he comments. The essay in front of him is terrible. He draws a red line under yet another typo and scribbles an ‘s’ in the margin. He glances towards the name at the top of the page and sighs faintly in despair – a Year Ten unable to spell ‘mammal’.
“He follows me around the cafeteria and insults me for being intelligent,” Sherlock says.
John looks up at him. Sherlock is carefully extracting a sample from a partly burned eyeball and applying it expertly to a slide. “You’re being bullied,” he says. He feels sick when he says it because that’s another layer of vulnerability that he hadn’t considered even though he really should have seen it.
But before he can sink into his self-recriminations, Sherlock makes a vague noise of consternation. “It only counts if it bothers me. It doesn’t.”
He thinks about trying to argue. Yes, Sherlock, it does. You’re human, of course it does. But Sherlock’s not as fragile as all that. He doesn’t think. Maybe he’s telling the truth – John will keep an eye out, regardless.
…
He’s down to his last three essays when Sherlock approaches him. John looks up just in time and leans back in his chair to receive a lap full of teenage boy. Sherlock licks his lips slightly and peeks up at him – odd how he can look so devious and innocent at the same time – as his hands snake over John’s shoulders to link at the back of his neck.
“You don’t mind?” he asks, and John can feel his breath on his face.
He answers Sherlock with another kiss. One so deep and desperate that it has Sherlock moaning. He puts his hands on Sherlock’s thin hips and pulls him closer and Sherlock mewls into his mouth before breaking away, panting. John kisses a line down his jaw and throat and to the dip of his clavicle that peeks from his loosened shirt collar.
He nips the tender skin gently with his teeth and Sherlock hisses softly, his fingers tightening in John’s hair. He flicks his tongue over the spot before nipping again. Sherlock’s hips cant forward against his own and the boy is hard. John’s restraint is so close to snapping; so, so close, but he knows that Sherlock isn’t ready for more than this. Not yet, anyway, and he has a feeling that he won’t really be ready when they do go further.
He kisses back up that long, pale neck and bites gently at Sherlock’s lower lip. It’s already swollen and red from their kisses and Sherlock is perfection when he’s debauched like this.
He thinks he must be losing his mind. But then Sherlock gasps out his name between glorious kisses and he realises that he’s already lost.