Archive of Our Own

John looks wistfully down at his beer.
The tavern around him is loud and hot with jubilant excitement.
He finds himself drowning in a cacophony of boisterous shouts and drunken singing no doubt caused by the news of the royal wedding that has been scheduled to take place tomorrow.
Logic would dictate for John to be just as happy about the upcoming festivities as everybody else, especially since he'll actually be one of the two grooms that will be walking down the aisle, but.......he's not.
Absolutely not.
He doesn't want to get married.

John hunches his shoulders where he currently sits at the bar and takes a sullen drink. The lukewarm beer settles into the pit of his stomach like lead.
He's not exactly supposed to be here tonight but, amidst all the hustle and bustle that the upcoming wedding provided, he had been able to evade his personal guards and sneak out of his rooms and away from the castle for one last evening of uncomplicated and simple pleasure while his life is still somewhat his own.
He's not really concerned he'll be recognized by anyone out here.
As the crown-prince he's led a pretty sheltered life and, besides, even if one of the commoners thought he looked familiar, nobody would expect a prince of the realm to turn up drinking cheap beer in a run down place like this. They would probably chalk it up to coincidence and assume he was just a pretty close look-a-like.

Of course he had always expected that, someday, his position as crown-prince would end up forcing him into a political marriage with a spouse he barely knew and would probably end up liking even less.
He just hadn't expected for that hypothetical 'someday' to come so soon.
For that 'someday' to be the day after this day.
For this day to be his last day as a free man, or......at least as free of a man the first prince of the kingdom could really be.

He takes another sip of his beer. It tastes awful. It tastes like defeat and a future already written for him in words he doesn't understand. He downs the rest of his glass in one big gulp and winces.

Apparently he's supposed to marry the son of some duke from the neighbouring country, a young boy still, just 19 years old opposed to John's 25.
John doesn't know a whole lot about the young man he's supposed to spend the rest of his life with. He just knows his age and that his name is William and he knows that the only reason he's marrying him in the first place is the discovery of a rich vein of lightning ore on the old duke's lands.
Lightning ore is one of the most sought after materials in the entire world, it's uses almost endless as it is the key ingredient of just about every magic spell.
John already knows what his father will be using it for.
The army.
Expanding their borders.
Power.

A marriage between John and the son of the duke who holds the precious material will ensure John's father exclusive trading rights.
John sighs as he lifts his glass to his lips only to find he had already emptied it.
He'd forgotten he had.
His mind far too full with worry tonight.

He lifts his heavy head and looks up in an attempt to find the barkeep and order another drink, preferably something with a bit more alcohol this time, he finds himself desperately in need of getting absolutely hammered.
The barkeep is nowhere in sight and so John turns on his stool and looks around and then ….he sees him.
Not the barkeep.
But a young man. Standing alone at the other end of the tavern's bar.
This young man is by far the most beautiful man John has ever seen and once his eyes land on his slender and delicate form, raven black curls, full lips and piercing blue eyes he seems to be unable to make them go anywhere else.
John swallows against a suddenly far too dry throat as he watches the young man nervously twist a glass of what appears to be wine between his long and elegant fingers.
Those fingers....those hands........those.........before John is aware of what he's doing he's already gotten up from his position at the bar and his feet have started moving of their own accord.
As he walks, inevitably towards him, he still can't seem to tear his eyes away from the young man.

As John weaves himself a way around the bar and through the sea of patrons that surrounds him he briefly spares a thought for his upcoming marriage and the briefest flash of guilt pierces through his clouded mind but he quickly brushes it aside.
He is not married yet.
He doesn't even know his betrothed.
His betrothed doesn't even know him.
They are still practically strangers.

By this time tomorrow all of that will have changed.

By this time tomorrow every decision he will make will get coloured and shaped by the wants and needs of another.
Another person that.......he doesn't even know yet........another person who he did not choose and who did not choose him but......they will be stuck with each other regardless.
And John will try his very best to make it work.
Once the marriage is official he will honor William and try to make him happy to the best of his abilities but........that will not be until tomorrow.
Tonight he is not married yet.
Tonight he is still a free man.
Tonight he is still himself and he still has his own thoughts and agency and if, tonight, he wants to look at and talk to a very pretty young man then that's exactly what he'll do.

From up close the young man is even more beautiful. His skin pale and smooth and the look in his sapphire eyes piercing and bright like stars.
“Good evening”, John says, “mind if I join you?”

The look in the young man's eyes dims ever so slightly as it grows more guarded and he gives John an assessing look.
“I suppose”, he replies after a couple more moments.

John can't help but smile, finding the other man's sudden guarded nervousness around him surprisingly endearing.
John nods towards the wine glass now held just a little bit too tight in otherwise soft and tender hands.
“Would you like another?”, he asks.
The man looks down at his glass, startled, as if he's only just realizing he's still holding it.
There's still a fair amount of liquid in it but suddenly he lifts his glass to his full lips, tips his head back together with the glass, and with one gulp he downs whatever was left in it, his throat stretches and curves in a most enticing way as he does so, making John swallow involuntarily at the same time as he does.
When he lowers his glass again the look in his eyes reads more like a challenge, enticing John, as the stars in their depths seem to burn just a little bit brighter than before.

“Are you buying?”, the young man asks, an amused curve forming around the shapely bend of his lips and for a moment John forgets how to speak entirely so he just opts for nodding instead.
Luckily this time the barkeep is close by and with a curt wave John is able to attract his attention and he orders them both a glass of the ruby wine his new companion had been drinking.
The barkeep hands both glasses to John and when John hands one of them over to the dark-haired, starry-eyed beauty beside him their fingers accidentally brush together leaving behind an invisible fiery trail on John's skin that makes him shiver.

“What's your name?”, John asks, leaning over and bringing his mouth close to the younger man's ear as he speaks. There really is no need to get this close to make himself heard over the din in the tavern around them, their position all the way at the far end of the bar is relatively quiet, but John just can't seem to help himself.
Something inside of his body just aches to be as close to this other man as he can possibly get.
He quickly takes a large sip of wine in order to stop himself from thinking too much about that little fact.
Not tonight.
Not if tonight is all he'll get.

For a moment the young man's eyes dim again as he looks down at the now new and full glass he holds, as if the ruby liquid in it somehow holds the answer, his fingers twitch almost imperceptibly as he seems.....unsure? Shy? Nervous?
John furrows his brow at the sudden shift but before he is able to come to any conclusions the young man rights his shoulders and lifts his head and the look that's now in his piercing eyes seems to burn itself a way straight through John leaving him hot and flustered and.......wanting.

“Sherlock”, the young man says after a moment, “my name's Sherlock.”

“Nice to meet you”, John replies, “my name's....”, he only hesitates for a moment, “Hamish.”

When he's not in the castle and he needs an alias he always uses his father's middle name. Somehow it feels wrong giving it to Sherlock tonight. Somewhere hidden deep inside of him a part of him revolts at the thought of lying to Sherlock, of not being able to be himself completely.
Up until tonight he had believed it had been his upcoming arranged marriage that would be the thing to finally take away his freedom and trap him, the final nail in the coffin, but he's now slowly starting to realize he has been a prisoner for far longer, buried under a mountain of demands, dictates and rules, none of them his own.

He takes another large gulp of wine, the liquid just a little bit too sweet on his tongue and the alcohol in it causing a slight burn at the back of his throat.
“Sherlock......”, he repeats the name the young man had given him, the taste of the foreign name far sweeter on his tongue than any wine ever could be, “I like it....I've never heard that name before.....it's very pretty. You're not from around here, I assume?”

It's probably because of the alcohol but for a moment Sherlock's cheeks colour with the slightest flush and John's mind can't help but conjure up different scenarios where Sherlock might flush that prettily for entirely different reasons.

Sherlock shakes his head.
“No, I'm......I'm just visiting....traveling....I mean.....”

He doesn't say anything else. He takes a sip from his own glass. Just the tiniest amount, his glass still almost completely full. When he lowers it back down his lips are wet and shiny and John can't look anywhere but at the soft curve of their Cupid's bow.
“Are you here for the royal wedding?”, John hears himself say. He doesn't know why he asks it. The longer he spends in Sherlock's company the less his mind seems to be his own.

Instead of answering the corners of Sherlock's mouth turn down as his lips form a tight line, forming an expression as if he's just tasted something absolutely vile.
“I'm not really interested in weddings or royalty”, he finally says.

John laughs.
“No, neither am I. Not really a fan of the royal family.”

At his words Sherlock's facial features form themselves into something softer as he laughs with John.
“I'd be careful if I were you, Hamish.
Prince John might have you arrested for treason if you keep talking like that.”

John just lets out another laugh.
“I reckon prince John has far more serious problems than what I think about him or his family.”

And now he just feels sad again.
If only Sherlock knew how true that was.
What he's said or thought or, heaven forbid, wants, no longer seems to matter and, maybe, it never has.

When John pulls himself back from his own depressing thoughts he notices Sherlock is once again looking down into his wine and has gone back to twisting the glass between his fingers just like John had seen him do before and, just like before, there seems to be something nervous and unsure about the way he does it.

John wants to ask him about it but......he doesn't know how.
He doesn't know Sherlock well enough yet to to know which words to use to ask him about it, which words will calm him and set his tense nerves at ease.

And you never will, a voice that might be his own whispers somewhere at the back of his mind.

Does he want to get to know Sherlock?

Maybe.

Probably.

It doesn't matter what he wants.

It doesn't matter who he wants.

And, never before, has it upset him as much as it does now.

“What's he like? Prince John, I mean. Do you know anything about him?”, Sherlock's words are soft and the same strange nervousness that make his fingers tense and tremble seems to have found itself a way into his words as well, colouring them with something that sounds an awful lot like melancholy and hopelessness.

John downs the remnants of his too sweet wine, giving himself a moment to think the question over.
Does he even have a proper answer?
He's been 'a prince' first and 'John' second for far too long.
He's been so busy with becoming what others want him to be that he has been starting to forget who he truly is underneath all those layers of laws, etiquette and doctrine.

He places his now empty glass somewhere on the bar behind him without really looking.

“I like to believe he's a good man”, he says.

Sherlock's brow furrows, seemingly not too pleased by John's answer.
“That's not really a ringing endorsement.”

John shrugs.
“Well.....I'm not here to sell him......and if I were, I'd be too late anyway. I think that ship has sailed. Judging by tonight's festivities it's fair to say he's already been sold.”

Sherlock's fingers unclench themselves just a bit from around his glass as some of the unease seems to slide from his shoulders.
“Good point”, all he says.

There's a moment of quiet between them then but to John's surprise it doesn't feel uncomfortable. If he lets himself he can almost imagine the two of them together like this on a different evening, somewhere in the future, where it's just the two of them, a fire burning low as they sit side by side in front of it, enjoying the last residue of warmth from the dying embers until it's time to retire to bed and......

This time John is pulled from his thoughts by the low sound of Sherlock chuckling.
The sound of it slow and heavy and somehow light all at the same time.
John gives him a questioning look.
“What's so funny?”

Sherlock's shoulders start to shake as his low chuckle transforms itself into an actual laugh.
“Everything is”, he manages to wheeze out, “everything is funny.”

And, John finds, he completely agrees with him.
This entire situation is completely ridiculous.
John being who he is and Sherlock being.......beautiful and lovely and honest and somehow both strong and fragile at the same time and.....perfect.
Of all the evenings he has lived through so far to have this be the one where they meet......it would be hilarious if it wasn't so absolutely tragic at the same time.

John just laughs with him.
He realizes he finds it almost impossible not to be happy when Sherlock is like this.
When Sherlock laughs, honest and bright, he can almost imagine himself floating amongst the same stars that reside in the depths of his eyes.
Far away from the world and its worries below, floating and free to go where he wants, a place where no-one can find them.

******************************************

John spends the rest of the evening by Sherlock's side.
John orders them both another glass of wine after they finally stop laughing.
They leave the subject of the royal family and the upcoming wedding behind and, instead, talk about other things.
It turns out Sherlock knows a lot about a lot of things.
At one point in the evening he spends a good twenty minutes explaining to John where exactly the wine they're drinking comes from, what the best weather conditions are for it to grow, how it should be pressed to preserve most of the flavour and for how long it should be bottled before you drink it.

John doesn't care about the process of wine-making, he isn't even that fond of wine, he'd rather have a good whiskey, but when Sherlock talks about something he's apparently passionate about....... John can't help but hang on his every word.
It's intoxicating to see Sherlock so enthusiastic about something and John feels drunk off his excitement alone.
He never wants this evening to end.
But it will end at some point.
It has to end.
And then John will have to sneak his way back to the palace and tomorrow.....he will get married.......and he will never see Sherlock again.

Sherlock is talking animatedly about........something......John has let his mind wander a good five minutes ago. It's just nice to hear Sherlock talk, it doesn't matter what it's about but.....it's getting late. He will have to leave soon. He will have to leave Sherlock and.......

“Oh.....I'm sorry.....am I boring you? Sometimes I do tend to ramble.......”
Apparently Sherlock had picked up on his sudden unease and had assumed it had been because of another one of his endless stories. Where he had been loose and relaxed before now his shoulders and hands are once again tense as he looks anywhere but at John.

“No...no...I...”, John searches for words, any words that might be enough to ease Sherlock's minds but not so much that he gives himself away, “I like hearing you talk”, is what he eventually settles on, “it's just that.....it's getting late and......I should probably head back home soon.”

“Oh, of course”, all Sherlock says but he still seems just as tense as before and maybe also just a little bit......sad?

“Well, I guess this is.....”, Sherlock says at the same time as John says: “do you want to get a room and spend the night with me?”

He doesn't know why he says it.
Well.....he knows why he says it. How can he not want Sherlock?
How can he not want this night to not end quite yet?
How can he not want to spend as much time with Sherlock while he still can?
How can he not want to explore every inch of him now that he still has the chance?

He knows he's moving fast.
And maybe he's moving too fast.
He's probably moving way too fast.
He wouldn't blame Sherlock one bit if he just turned around and left after John had just shamelessly propositioned him like that but.....

John feels desperate.
He still feels as if he's floating.
He's floating through a thick and sightless darkness and he needs the stars in Sherlock's eyes to guide him back to something solid and true.
He wants to tell Sherlock........but he can't.
He can't tell him anything.
All he can tell him is that he wants to spend more time with him but he can't tell him that this is probably all the time they'll ever get and the reason why John is moving so fast is because he is trying to squeeze an entire lifetime in just a single night.

For a moment his racing mind brings him back to William.
William who he doesn't know.
Who doesn't know him.
They are not married yet.
Tonight he feels he can still make at least one decision that is purely selfish.
He lets his mind wander to the possibility of William doing the same tonight, of William spending the night before their wedding in bed with someone else and......it leaves him feeling rather indifferent, but when he thinks about Sherlock with someone else.......something hot and angry and possessive takes a hold of him then.
He needs......
He wants.......

“Alright”, Sherlock says.

John blinks a couple of times.
“Excuse me.....what?”

Sherlock shrugs, something enticing and daring hidden in the deep sparkle of his eyes.
“I am assuming you are trying to proposition me, or am I wrong?”

“No....I mean.....yes....I mean....that is....if you want to I would very much like to......”
John's words run away from him. They scatter and get lost into the noise of the tavern around them like a handful of dropped marbles. Every thought in his mind is drowned out by the single notion that Sherlock......wants him? Apparently......

Sherlock's mouth – that lovely and full and delectable mouth with lips lightly coloured by the dark red of the wine – curves itself into a mischievous smile.
“Good", he says, “I was starting to fear you'd never work up the nerve. Lead the way.”

His words are bold but the subtle nervousness that belies them does not go unnoticed by John but when John finally takes Sherlock's hand in his the grip of it is strong and sure and when he starts to lead him away Sherlock follows without hesitation.

*******************************************

They manage to rent one of the rooms situated above the tavern for the night, they don't speak as they ascend the stairs but Sherlock does reach for his hand again.
Their room is all the way at the back of the tavern's upstairs area and the lock makes an ominous creaking sound as John twists the key.
John enters first with Sherlock close behind him and as John takes in the room he hears Sherlock close and lock the door.
The room is small and sparse with just one small window in the back wall and a bed that only a very gracious person might call a double-bed shoved up against it.
There is a small nightstand to the right of the bed with a vast array of 'supplies' on top......John quietly assumes this particular bed gets used for a lot of things but very little actual sleeping. Above the bed, on the ceiling, a round sphere of a lamp hangs, probably powered by a few grains of lightning ore, providing some much needed illumination.
The irony of the situation does not go unnoticed by John and at the sight of the lamp he lets out a soft but mirthless chuckle.

When John turns back towards the door he finds Sherlock still standing in front of it, his expression tight and his body tense.
Once again he seems unsure and ill at ease and at the sight of him something cold and sharp moves itself through John's chest.

“If you don't want to we don't have to.....”, he starts to say but Sherlock interrupts him:
“Come here and kiss me.”

The words are commanding but they do nothing to dispel the unease residing deep within John's chest.
They should talk more.
He should ask Sherlock if this is really what he wants but.......they don't have time.
All they have is tonight and when John looks into Sherlock's eyes he sees something there that is so needy and desperate that whatever else he might have wanted to say dies on his tongue.

John stands directly in front of Sherlock, Sherlock's back pressed against the door, still tense and uneasy but.....Sherlock still has a hand on the key. He can leave if he wants to but.....he doesn't. He stays and looks up into John's eyes, his lips slightly parted, his cheeks flushed, his eyes deep pools filled with secrets John wishes he had the time for to uncover.

John places his left hand on the side of Sherlock's face. The touch featherlight and careful but it still manages to send a shock through his skin and veins.
Sherlock lets out a sudden breath at the touch and John can feel the moist warmth of it on the skin of his own face. Sherlock's breath smells faintly like wine.
Sweet and intoxicating.

“Hamish”, Sherlock says, his voice soft and barely more than a whisper and for a moment John is confused but then he remembers.......tonight he is 'Hamish'.
Sherlock is talking to him.
Sherlock is asking him.
He hates that he cannot tell Sherlock his real name.
He hates that the one true thing they get to have together is still built on a foundation of lies. He fears that, because of that, maybe not even the memory will hold in the long run.

Sherlock opens his mouth as if he is going to say something else but John doesn't want him to, he is afraid that if Sherlock calls him 'Hamish' again he will not be able to stand it, and so he leans himself forward and presses his lips against Sherlock's own.
For a moment Sherlock tenses even more, still caught off guard even-though he had asked for the kiss himself, but soon enough John feels him melting into it.
Sherlock's lips pliant and supple underneath his own, tiny whimpers and gasps that escape from between them as John carefully and playfully bites his bottom lip and sneaks his tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. Tasting, wanting, devouring, selfishly having.

Sherlock's hands and arms move to John's shoulders and then hold on tight to the back of his head and neck, those long supple fingers guiding him where Sherlock wants him to go.
It appears that Sherlock is just as desperate as he is and when John wraps his own arms around Sherlock's waist and lifts him up Sherlock's legs secure themselves around John's hips automatically, as if this is something they've done before.
They fit together.
John both loves and hates how well they fit together at the same time.

John groans as Sherlock rubs his still clothed erection against John's body.
John isn't far behind. He is just as hard underneath his trousers.
He has been from the moment Sherlock asked him to kiss him.
Maybe even before that.
He can't really remember.
Tonight he can't seem to think straight.
There is too much wine in his veins and too much lust on his mind and......something else......something that skirts a fine line between absolute elation and crushing sadness and he feels he's not ready for it.
Not ready at all.
But he has to be.
He just needs to......

“I need to.....”, Sherlock gasps as he rubs himself against John's body once more.

John's hands tighten around him. The grip of his fingers probably leaving behind bruises on the fair skin of Sherlock's body. The thought of it igniting something hot and volatile inside of his chest, easy to ignite, almost impossible to put out. He wants Sherlock to wear his marks. He wants him to wear them for as long as possible. He wants Sherlock to remember him for longer than just one night.
He wants.......

“I want......”, Sherlock says. His voice a hoarse breath that tickles the shell of John's ear. He's so warm. When had this room gotten so warm?

John is still carrying Sherlock in his arms and so he carries him towards the bed and lays him down on top of it.

Sherlock is beautiful.
Sherlock is.......everything he's ever wanted.
He can't have Sherlock.
Even if tonight......if they.........he can't have him.
But just for tonight he will pretend that he can.

His fingers only tremble slightly as he undoes the buttons on Sherlock's shirt, the skin of his chest just as pale and flawless and gorgeous as the rest of him. John leaves soft and reverent kisses on every new part of him that he uncovers, an attempt to burn the heat that he feels inside of himself permanently into Sherlock's flesh.

Underneath him Sherlock moans and writhes with every touch.
“Please”, he says, he sounds desperate and already wrecked. He sounds just as wrecked as John feels.
Sherlock is begging him and John wishes with all his heart he could give him what he wants but......he can't.
He can't even give him his real name.

They undress in a heated, desperate and somewhat awkward frenzy but eventually they both manage to get all of their clothes off.
Sherlock is still on his back on the bed and John lowers himself on top of him.
He knows that he should take things slower, he knows he should wait, he knows they might be rushing things too much but he also knows that the sun has set hours ago and it will rise again in just a handful more and if he is not back in the palace before sunrise......

He doesn't want to think about that.
He wants to think about Sherlock now.
About Sherlock's perfect body that fits so perfectly underneath his own, his small waist that fits perfectly in the palms of John's hands, the flush on his cheeks and neck, the sheen of sweat on his chest, his kiss-swolen lips and the dark pools of his lust-filled pupils that now almost completely drown out the blue galaxy of his irises.

“Have you ever....”, John starts to ask. Because he needs to know how experienced Sherlock is, he needs to know how far he can take this without hurting him, how much preparation he needs......Sherlock still seems so young. Especially in this moment where he is naked and vulnerable and completely at John's mercy.

But before John is able to finish his question Sherlock shakes his head and shushes him:
“Sssssh, please, just, let's not talk, just, please.....”

Sherlock wraps one of his long legs around John's waist, pulling him down against him, pressing their hard cocks together and as they both groan every other rational thought John might have had leaves him.
He bends his arms and lets the rest of his body and his weight come to rest on top of Sherlock, pressing him further into the mattress underneath.
Sherlock groans but it does not appear to be an unhappy sound as his arms come up and wrap themselves around John's lower back and as John reclaims his mouth and kisses him Sherlock's fingers tighten, leaving marks of their own.

****************************************
There is a vast array of oils on the bedside table, some scented, some not, John just chooses a vial at random. With Sherlock spread out underneath him so prettily he doesn't really have the patience left to concern himself with such trivial matters as having to choose between rose or lavender.

When he uncorks the vial he has grabbed at random he momentarily catches a whiff of something flowery and sweet that he doesn't recognize but he is certain that, from this point on, this will forever be the scent he will associate with Sherlock.
Somehow it seems fitting. If he had to describe Sherlock he would also describe him as sweet, lovely and, at the same time, mysterious.

*************************************************

John applies far more oil to his fingers than is strictly necessary but no matter how desperate he is to feel Sherlock all around him and no matter how pressed for time they are, he still doesn't want to hurt him.

Sherlock still winces when John presses his index-finger inside.

“Sorry”, John says as he leans forward and kisses the inside of Sherlock's bent knee in apology, “we can.....”

But Sherlock shakes his head.
“It's fine, keep going.”

When John looks up at him the determination in Sherlock's eyes is so sharp and immovable that John gets the feeling that arguing with him would probably just be futile.
Not that he wants to argue with Sherlock. Not about this.
He just wants him. Desperately so.
And so John applies even more oil to his fingers and goes even slower and eventually, gradually, slowly, Sherlock opens up for him

By the time John is able to fit three of his fingers inside and Sherlock moans and arches his back every time he presses them deeper, John deems him ready.
He pulls his fingers back, ignoring the annoyed grunt Sherlock rewards him with as he does so, and applies another ample helping of oil to his more than eager cock.
He groans as even the touch of his own hand almost proves to be too much.
He closes his eyes and takes a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself down, trying to at least slow down the heat that he feels coursing through his veins, consuming him from the inside out.
He knows it will consume him eventually, in the end he will burn, but when he looks up into Sherlock's eyes he finds he is surprisingly alright with that.

As he looks at Sherlock now, spread out in front of him, for him, breathing heavily, completely naked and at his mercy and.......so trusting.........an unknown calm washes over him, temporarily dousing the raging fire inside of him.
But it's only temporary, he knows this.
They are temporary. It's all they'll ever be.
And yet........he can't help but want.

John places the tip of his hard cock at Sherlock's entrance and when he slowly slides himself inside Sherlock is still far tighter than he had expected. Sherlock winces painfully again but this time John is there to kiss the sounds from his lips and ease the tense muscles of his arms and legs with his hands and slowly, ever so slowly, Sherlock melts into bliss underneath him as John slides inside all the way to the hilt.

They don't talk.
The only sounds left in the room are their joined ragged breaths, Sherlock's occasional whimpers and John's groans.
John had wanted to go slow, to make it last, to make them last, but.....once he feels Sherlock tight and hot and soft and completely around him every single thought he's had about either the past or the future leaves him and all that's left to him is the here and now.
He slams himself inside over and over again and Sherlock lets him, welcomes him even, Sherlock's hands grab onto John's back like hooks and he's pretty sure that at some point on a particularly good thrust his nails draw blood.
John doesn't care, he is too far gone to care, and, besides, there is a part of him that thinks he deserves at least a little bit of pain.

It's still over far too soon.
John feels it when Sherlock is close, the tightening of his channel a wholly new and mind-blowingly amazing sensation on his cock.
Sherlock's breath comes in short gasps now, puffs of air that ghost along the skin of John's chest, his neck, his chin, his lips.......

“Hamish.....please”, the words are more air than sound, Sherlock is breathless, exhausted, dangerously balancing at the edge of a cliff and more than ready to tip over.......

John has never hated the name Hamish more in his life.
He crushes his lips to Sherlock's mouth violently, biting him, claiming him, shaping Sherlock's lips into the shape and form of his true name without actually having to say it.
He might taste blood as they kiss. He is way too far gone to know for sure.

With his left hand John reaches down between their bodies and takes Sherlock's leaking cock in hand. It only takes two strokes for Sherlock to come undone.
Warm fluid leaks between John's knuckles and onto Sherlock's belly as Sherlock stops breathing entirely and his channel suddenly goes impossibly tight around John's own cock.
John follows him over the edge.
With a grunt he empties himself inside of Sherlock's body, yet another piece of himself he leaves behind with this perfect young man forever, and as he does so his vision whites out and for a moment he actually believes he is floating between the moon and the stars.
But he finds himself back down on earth and in reality far too quickly.
He pulls his spent cock carefully out of Sherlock's body and as he lays down on the bed he lays down next to Sherlock and carefully, protectively wraps him up in his arms.

Sherlock is shaking.
John tries to lift Sherlock's chin to get a proper look at his face, see if he's alright, see if he's hurt him after all, but when he tries to do so Sherlock hides himself away against John's chest.

“Sherlock?”, John tries, his voice soft and careful as if he is trying to soothe a wounded animal. Maybe he is. It sure feels like he is, “are you alright? I didn't hurt you did I?”

Sherlock lets out a sound that might be a laugh or a sob, John isn't really sure, and when he answers he leaves his words against the skin of John's chest where he still hides his face.
“I'm fine.....honestly.....I'm.....fine. Just....please don't leave yet, alright? Just....stay.....just for a little while longer?”

Instead of answering John tightens his arms around the fragile body in his arms and places a gentle kiss on the top of Sherlock's head.
Apparently that's all the answer Sherlock needs because John feels him gradually relax until eventually his breathing evens out and Sherlock falls asleep.

********************************************************

John wishes he could fall asleep next to Sherlock.
He wishes he could go to sleep and wake up with the enchanting young man in his arms every night and every day for as long as he lives but......he can't.
They can't.
The sun is about to rise and when his servants don't find him in the palace when it does they will alarm the guards and they will come looking for him and should they find him here with Sherlock.....well......John will not be the one his parents will choose to blame.
They might hurt Sherlock.
John does not ever want to see Sherlock get hurt.
He might have already hurt Sherlock anyway.

And so, he carefully slips out of the bed, Sherlock lets out a small sigh as John arranges the blankets over him, quietly dresses and leaves the room.

By the time he reaches the palace the sun is just peaking over the horizon, it's promising to be a warm day and, even-though the sun is still new, the palace and its gardens and courtyard are already bathed in a warm and golden light.
John notices none of its lovely splendour.
He makes his way through the familiar halls, around well-known corners and often used doorways and by the time he reaches his own rooms he just feels nothing but a tight and shattering cold inside of his chest and the realization that he's let something precious slip right through his fingers, that he's let something end that, maybe, had the possibility of finally being something that could last if only he had held on just a little bit tighter.

***************************************************

The wedding is scheduled to take place in the early evening but by the time the afternoon rolls around John has already made up his mind.
He cannot possibly go through with it.
He cannot possibly marry William after the night he's spent with Sherlock.
He knows it has only been one night, he knows you can't really claim to know a person after just one night but he also knows that how he had felt when he had been with Sherlock......he's never felt like that with anyone else and.......he does not want to lose it.

His father's personal servant brings him a stack of papers with information about his future husband. A list of likes and dislikes, a family tree, a summary about his childhood, there's even a portrait of him in there somewhere but John doesn't look at any of it.
He lust leaves the stack of papers somewhere in a corner of his room, unseen and unread.
He doesn't need to see it. He doesn't need to know what William looks like. None of it will change his mind and his mind has been most assuredly made up.

******************************

Sneaking back through the palace's hallways unseen is significantly more difficult now that the palace's ample staff is awake. There are people everywhere and John almost gets caught a handful of times but he eventually makes it to the stables.
He carries a small bag with a change of clothes and some money.
He won't need much.
He just needs Sherlock.
He hopes he'll still be able to find Sherlock somewhere in the city. Maybe the tavern owner will still remember him. Maybe he will at least know in which direction Sherlock had left.
John is willing to try.
For Sherlock he is willing to try almost everything.
He's had a good and long think about it for the better part of the morning and with every second that had passed he had been more sure that his heart had never beat so beautifully and warmly as when it had beat in sync with Sherlock's own.
If he ever gets to choose just one thing for himself in his entire life then.......please........let it be this.

He is able to saddle his horse without anyone noticing and straps his meager bag of belongings to the saddle. As quietly and carefully as he can he takes the reins and leads his horse out of the stables, across the courtyard, every time John thinks he sees someone who might recognize him he ducks and hides his face behind the tall shoulder and neck of his horse.
The castle gates are already in view, once he manages to get through them he'll be able to mount and ride as fast as he can and........

A stern hand on his shoulder stops him in his tracks.
John freezes.
No.
Oh no.
Slowly he turns around but he already knows who that hand belongs to. When he was a lot younger, and quite often up to no good, he had been stopped by that same unforgiving hand far too often.

Sir Gregory Lestrade, his father's favourite knight, looks down at him with an unforgiving look on his face. His hand is still firmly on John's shoulder. Unmoving and immovable.

“Where do you think you're going?”, Lestrade asks.

John quickly tries to come up with some halfway believable lie but he fears the truth is already written all over his face plain as day. Gregory knows him far too well.

“You're not trying to run away now, are you?”, Gregory asks.

John winces.
“I'm not getting married.”

Gregory raises just one of his thick eyebrows.
“I beg to differ.”

“But......”, John starts but it is of no use. Gregory has already stopped listening, both of his strong hands turning John around and leading him back toward the palace that looms over him dark and menacing and just for a moment John thinks the massive building is actually leaning towards him ready to crush and smother him. He takes one more desperate look over his shoulder as Gregory pushes him along ruthlessly, with every step he takes the courtyard gates grow smaller until they disappear from view completely.

************************************************************

It is impossible to try and escape after that.
Gregory is assigned to permanently stand on guard outside of John's door and his rooms are way too high up to try and escape through the windows.
John glowers at the stack of papers in the corner of his room that hold the details to William's life.
Eventually he picks them up and burns them in the fire unseen.

******************************************************

Eventually the hour of the wedding arrives.
Several footmen and maids arrive to wash and dress John and make him look as handsome and presentable as he can be for his future husband.
John could not care less.
They dress him in a form fitting, and probably very expensive, dark blue suit with a high collar. Someone mentions something about the colour of it suiting the colour of his future husband's eyes. John doesn't really listen to them.
They might as well be dressing him for his funeral for all he cares.
He feels lost and empty and cold and.......just a little bit frightened.
After tonight his life will never be the same again, for better or for worse, but he fears it will probably be the latter.

But.....all of this.....it isn't really fair on William either.
It isn't his fault.
John is pretty sure this isn't the life that William would have chosen for himself if given the choice either.
Neither of them has had a proper say in the matter.
Maybe their marriage won't be one out of love but, in their common misfortune and lack of agency....maybe there they can still find some common ground at least.

**********************************
John feels faint when he is ushered towards the palace's great hall where the ceremony is going to take place.
Apparently William and all the guests are already waiting for him there and John is supposed to be the very last person to arrive.
Apparently the future king does not wait for anyone.
Great.

The heavy and ornate doors swing open and a hush falls over the gathered crowd. John can just make out William's shape as he waits at the far end of the aisle with his back towards John, another pointless tradition, the two grooms are not supposed to be able to look each other in the eyes until there is no more distance between them.
William's hair is dark and slicked back artfully and he wears a beautifully tailored white suit that hugs his body in all the right places.
William is tall but slim and, for lack of a better word, elegant.

John's heart hammers loudly inside of his chest, seemingly keeping time with his steps.
His throat is dry and his lungs are tight, every breath a chore.
If only he had stayed with Sherlock last night, if only he had gone back to him sooner this morning, if only......

But it might not be fair to William to have his future husband thinking about another man during their actual wedding.
John clears his throat and shakes his head in an attempt to clear it from thoughts of Sherlock, his bright blue starry eyes, his pale and flawless skin, his full lips, the sound he'd made when John had thrust in to him and.....

John shakes his head again, a little bit more violently this time, it earns him some strange looks from a couple of the wedding guests, he doesn't really care.
He doesn't care what they think of him. He should have never cared at all in the first place.

*************************************************************

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, he reaches the end of the aisle.
William is just a little bit taller than him and as soon as John stops beside him John can feel the young man tense. Apparently William wants this just about as much as John wants it and that at least earns the young man just a little bit of sympathy.

The officiary presiding over the ceremony gestures for them to turn towards each other and John suddenly realizes that this will be the exact moment he'll find out what his betrothed looks like.
Maybe he shouldn't have burned those papers with William's portrait earlier today......
He hadn't really been thinking too clearly right then.
He might still not be thinking too clearly now.
He wonders if William had been given a stack of papers about him as well.
He must have.
He wonders if William had liked what he had seen or if he had been disappointed.
By the cold tension radiating from the young man's body and posture in almost visible waves he fears that it quite probably had been the latter.

Slowly John turns around, looks at William and......stops.
Everything around him seems to stop. Sound, sight, sensation, everything momentarily fades away into the evening's sunset that seeps into the hall through its high windows because......this cannot be real.
Surely he is hallucinating.
Beside him he doesn't see some unknown young man or William but.......Sherlock.
His curls tamed and slicked back with some kind of product, his white suit new, elaborate and expensive, but.......John cannot be mistaken.................it is him.
John covertly pinches himself but the vision in front of him does not change.
William.......Sherlock........they might be the same person......unless......Sherlock has a twin?
But no, in the depths of the young man's glass-blue eyes he sees a small flicker of recognition before Sherlock schools his features again and levels John with a downright unpleasant scowl and......turns away from him...........cold, hostile, unfeeling.......

John himself can do anything but look away.
At first he doesn't understand but then he thinks he does.
If one unhappy participant of an unwanted marriage is able to slip away for one last night of pleasure then......who's to say that the other participating member isn't quite capable of doing the very same thing as well.
Suddenly Sherlock's questions of the previous night start to make a lot more sense.

What's he like? Prince John?

John had been a fool......

He should have known......

He couldn't have known......

He should have at least looked at Williams portrait. It could have saved him a lot of miserable hours but.....if William and Sherlock are the same person then......John doesn't really understand why Sherlock......or William.....whichever.....is doing his very best to ignore him right now.

**********************************************

The ceremony passes in a blur, John only barely registers the part where they both say 'I do'.
When they are pronounced husband and husband and it's time for their first kiss Sherlock resolutely turns his face and presents John with his cheek instead of his lips and after John places a rather confused and hesitant kiss on the pale and flawless skin Sherlock just nods and.......walks away without a word.

**************************************************

After the ceremony a dinner celebrating the new couple and a ball follows. The new husbands are not obligated to attend the ball but it is protocol to at least be there for the entirety of the dinner's proceedings.
John and Sherlock/William are seated next to each other at the center of a very long table and every so often, between courses, John tries to strike up a conversation with him but he either gets completely ignored or just a short hum in reply.

As soon as the king announces that dinner is over and the ball will start William/Sherlock gets up and......leaves.
John assumes it is to their now joined quarters. They are supposed to spend the night together and there will be courtiers strategically placed along the castle's hallways to make sure they both end up in the same bedroom.

John's feet feel as if they are made out of lead as he follows after Sherlock.
He cannot understand why Sherlock would suddenly be so......cold, towards him or.....maybe he does.
Maybe he does understand but his stubborn heart just refuses that that's what's going on.
Maybe, last night, hadn't meant the same to Sherlock as what it had meant to John.
Maybe, to Sherlock, one night had been all that he had wanted it to be.
Maybe his sudden coldness stems from the fact that his one night stand has now found itself a way back into his life........unwanted and......for good.

Neither of them has had a say in this wedding, in this marriage, and.....if Sherlock decides he doesn't want him or......had only wanted him for one night and no more than that then..........he tells himself that's fine.
That's absolutely fine.
But......he still needs to know for sure.........he needs to.........

He needs Sherlock.

But the thought of finding out Sherlock might not actually want him in return..........he's not sure his heart will be able to survive it.

But still.....

He needs to know.

*****************************************************

His hands shake as he opens the door to their now shared bedroom.
Sherlock sits on the bed with his back towards the door and towards John, his head hangs low between his shoulders and his back is bent.
The nape of neck is just visible above the high collar of his jacket and John's blood heats with the thought of what the soft skin there had felt like underneath the tips of his fingers.
He wonders if he'll ever get to touch Sherlock like that again.
He desperately wants to touch Sherlock again.
He wants to wrap him up in his arms, hold him tight, warm him up, drive away all this sudden strange and cold tension from his shoulders, his muscles.....he should have never let him go in the first place.

John clears his throat. He'd rather say what he has to say, ask what he has to ask with Sherlock....William.....looking at him but his new husband doesn't turn around at the sound of John's voice, he just let's out a heavy sigh and says:
“You can leave again if you want to. I'll tell everyone you spent the night here. Don't worry.”

He sounds so small and lost and before he realizes what he's doing John has already moved three solid paces into the room towards him.
John is confused.
He doesn't understand what Sherlock is saying or why he's saying it and why he just seems so incredibly sad and......hurt.

“Why would I want to leave?”, John asks.

Sherlock shrugs but still doesn't look at him.
“You've left me twice before already.”

John is at a complete loss now......what.....when......and then he sort of understands.
Well....he's left Sherlock once, after their night together, but.......he hadn't known who Sherlock had been back then.....he hadn't......he had been trying to protect Sherlock.
Surely Sherlock must realize that. Surely he'll be able to put two and two together but......
Twice?
Sherlock had said he left him twice?
When?

John has so many questions but exactly none of them make it past his lips at this very moment and all that comes out of his mouth is: “Twice?”

Apparently that had not been the right thing to say because at his words Sherlock finally does turn towards him. The previously gentle stars in his eyes have gone cold and violent like shards of ice.

“Yes, prince John”, he says, pronouncing John's name and title as if it's some kind of insult, “you left me twice. Now...the first time I thought I understood. We were both there under false pretenses and you probably thought you'd never be able to see me again so when they brought me your portrait this morning and I found out that you were.....well....you....I held onto the smallest thread of hope that you might be at least just a little bit as relieved as I had been upon seeing my portrait in return but....”, here Sherlock's fast stream of words momentarily halts and he takes a long and shaky breath filled with barely contained rage as the ice within his eyes goes a fraction colder still before he continues: “turns out that, for you, it had been quite the opposite, hadn't it, John?”
For the second time John's name sounds like an insult from those perfect and kissable lips.
“Upon seeing my portrait”, Sherlock spits out, “you ever so gracefully decided to pack your bags, get your horse and run away. Very, very mature prince John. Very prince-like.”
Now Sherlock gets up from the bed and as he takes a step towards John, John can't help but involuntarily take a step back, leaving some space for all the rage that surrounds him.

“Tell me”, Sherlock says, “what was I to you? Just another notch on your bedpost? One last conquest before you had to let yourself get shackled to some unwanted husband? Was the idea of spending even one more day with me so unthinkable that the only solution you saw was to run away and leave your home and even your country behind? Was I.....am I.....is the thought of me as a husband......that terrible of an idea to you?”

Finally, finally Sherlock seems to have run out of steam. With his venomous words a lot of the anger and tension seems to have left his body and what remains is just a kind of tired and sad desperation.
John wants to reach for him but he isn't quite sure if he'll be welcomed yet.
He needs to explain himself first.
He needs to explain himself properly this time.
He needs to make Sherlock understand.....

“I never looked at them”, John says.

Sherlock gives him a look that quite clearly indicates that he has understood absolutely nothing.

John tries again:
“I never looked at the papers...about you....I never saw your portrait.”

A small sliver of hopeful understanding seems to be emerging in the depths of Sherlock's eyes and so John continues:
“The first time I left you, after......after our night together, I left you because, yes, I thought you were a commoner and, if I was not found in the palace by morning they would come looking for me and if they were to find you with me.......I was afraid they might hurt you. So yes, that time I did leave you but not because I wanted to leave you behind. I wanted to keep you safe.
Now....this morning.....”, John feels his cheeks heat up slightly with shame as he thinks about the confession he's about to make, a confession that could have been very easily avoided if he had just looked at the damn papers, “I didn't look at the papers with your portrait in it because I didn't care who I was supposed to marry anymore. After last night.....after even spending a couple of hours away from you I found that......I couldn't do it.....I couldn't go through with it with someone who I........who I didn't love.
Listen, Sherlock.....or William.....or.....whoever you are. This morning I realized that, after last night.....I've never felt for anyone what I felt for you and.......I wasn't running away from you. I was running towards you.....or.....”, John rubs the back of his neck awkwardly, “that's what I thought I was doing anyway. I was going to find you and confess who I was and ask you to run away with me.....together.......if that's what you wanted.....so......yeah.”

John doesn't really know how to end his confession.
He's pretty much said all he feels he needs to say anyway so he just leaves it like that, hanging between them, heavy and awkward, waiting to see what Sherlock will do with it.

There is a long moment of silence.
And then another one.
And another one.
Until Sherlock finally says: “So......you left this morning because......you wanted to elope with me?”

John sort of shrugs and nods at the same time. A gesture that sort of says 'I guess'.

Another moment of silence until Sherlock says: “bit too late for that now.”

John glances up at him and to his relief he sees the barest hint of a smile forming around the corners of Sherlock's lips.

“Yeah, that ship has definitely sailed”, John replies.

Sherlock chuckles.
“You should have just looked at the damn portrait this morning.”

John sighs.
“I know, trust me, I know.”

Sherlock cocks his head as he bites his lip and seems to give John's body and his wedding suit an appreciative look.
“That colour really looks good on you”, he says.

John can't help but let out a chuckle of his own at the statement.
“It goes well with the blue of your eyes.”

The fragile beginnings of Sherlock's smile turn into something honest and much more radiant then and at the sight of it John finally feels sure enough to close the remaining distance between them and wrap Sherlock up into his arms, where he belongs.
Sherlock melts into him.
“I thought you didn't want me anymore”, Sherlock says, half of the words muffled and lost within the fabric of John's suit as he buries his face into it but John still hears him anyway.

“I'll always want you”, he replies, “I think I wanted you from the moment I saw you.”

Sherlock lets out a happy little sigh.

“I have just one more question”, John says as he strokes the tips of his fingers along the skin at the back of Sherlock's neck, “what should I call you? William or Sherlock?”
Sherlock huffs out a short laugh as he rights himself again in order to look into John's eyes as he answers.
“William is my first name and Sherlock is my second. I actually prefer Sherlock but for now”, he places a soft kiss at the corner of John's mouth before he continues, “I'd really prefer it if you called me 'husband'.”

And John will call him that, as often and for as long as Sherlock likes, but just for the moment he's not able to say anything at all, for the moment his mouth is far too busy kissing Sherlock to form any sort of words at all.
His mouth is far too busy tasting those perfect lips, sucking them in between his own and finding out they still possess a lingering taste of sweet wine. Or maybe it had never been the wine, maybe it had always just been Sherlock himself.
John doesn't know.
All he knows is he has a life-time to find out every little exciting thing about Sherlock that there is to know.
Starting with the taste of his kisses and lips and mouth and if there's anything he wants to say he'll just have to think it until his mouth is free again........something he doesn't really see happening in the near future.

And so thinking it is just what he does.

Husband, he thinks, my husband.