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An Ode to Convenient Historical Inaccuracy

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“Oh my God.”

The gang howled and wolf-whistled. It was like a new chick had walked in or something, but that was dumb. Who could walk in that they didn’t already know? It was a graduation, for Chrissake.

“What?” John asked, not really interested. He turned around anyway.

His mouth dropped open. “Sherlock?”

There was Sherlock, his black hair wild, smoking a cigarette with a cocky smirk, his skinny body covered in a tight, thin black tank tucked into the tightest leather jeans John had ever seen, and to top it all off, on his feet were bright red stiletto heels.

He looked gorgeous.

“Hey baby,” he purred in John’s direction.

“Ooooooooooh,” cooed the guys. “Yo, Johnny boy, the crazy flit’s got the hots for you.”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge. How was John going to take that?

John smirked back, and stalked right up to Sherlock, putting on a show. By the way the guys were howling, they obviously thought John was gonna break his nose. Sherlock knew better, and his grin gave that away easy. He trusted John. He knew what was coming. He threw his cigarette down and snuffed it with the toe of his shoe in anticipation.

For a minute, John just stood there in front of him, staring him down.

“Yeah, well, I’m real gone on him myself,” John finally said, just so Sherlock could hear. Then he grabbed Sherlock’s waist roughly, pulling him closer and pressing a bruising kiss to his mouth.

“Johnny boy!” “Whatcha doin’?” “You gotta be kiddin’!” “Woah!” “Johnny!”

John deepened the kiss in just the way that he knew would coax a loud moan out of Sherlock without fail. Silence fell as they wrapped their arms more tightly around each other. The gang had been trying to laugh it off so far, taking it as a joke that would soon end, but even they had figured out this was the real deal by now.

“Hey, guys,” John said, turning back to his so-called friends, “Guess what. I’m a flit. I’m going to college. I’m gonna become a doctor. And I’ve had enough of you. Get bent! Oh, and I’m in love with this kid, and if I see any of you giving him a hard time again, I’ll pound you.”

He kissed Sherlock again.

The dark-haired boy kissed back, wrapping his lanky arms around John’s neck and screwing up his hair.

Just as he finished thoroughly tousling John’s do, however, he pulled away, dragging John by the hand into the nearest ride of the carnival, which happened to be the funhouse.

John was tripping over himself trying to keep up, but Sherlock easily kept his footing, even through the twisting tunnel. The heels made him strut just a little more jauntily than usual, and John couldn’t get enough of it.

As John chased the younger boy he seemed always to be just one step ahead of him, looking back and giving him winks and rolling his hips obscenely. John finally caught up with him nearly at the end of the ride, in the shaking shack, where even Sherlock was a bit unsteady.

John dragged him by the hips until he fell heavily—well, as heavily as the skinny boy could manage—into John’s arms. This time he allowed himself to be kissed, and he turned around to kiss back, which position John took advantage of by kneading the tight, leather-clad ass.

Sherlock let out a delightful whimper at this, and John noticed that he was actually starting to wobble precariously. He smirked, feeling better about being so uncoordinated throughout their chase.

“Why the show, Sherlock?” John asked between open-mouthed kisses.

“I wanted to see if you’d made up your mind to man up.”

John could hear the smirk and gave Sherlock a playful smack on the ass.

They kissed feverishly for a few moments, before John gently separated them again.

Sherlock looked down at him questioningly.

“Are you sure about this, Sherlock?” John asked, seriously, “Cuz we ain’t gonna have an easy time—”

“Yeah, I’m sure. Shut up, you square,” he interrupted, running his fingers through John’s hair before kissing him again.

John smiled up at him adoringly. “You’re the most.”

“Tell me about it, stud.”