The club was unbearably hot and the music was several decibels too loud for John's tastes. He leaned back against the bar, sipping his beer, and tried to figure out what Sherlock was looking for.
"What are we doing here?" he finally asked, admitting defeat. "I didn't even know we had a case on."
"We don't," Sherlock admitted from his perch beside him. "You needed sex, so we came to get you some."
John nearly dropped his bottle.
"You haven't had a partner for almost three months," Sherlock continued, ignoring John's reaction, "and it's starting to impact your efficiency on cases. Would you prefer a woman or a man?"
"Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock," John groaned. "I can take it from everyone else, but surely you have noticed that I only date women."
"You're less picky about one-night stands," Sherlock replied. "You've had two of them with men in the past decade. I only wanted to ensure I picked out the best possible partner."
"I . . ." John raked his hand through his hair, then gave up and chugged most of the rest of his beer. Fuck it. "I'm not going to even ask how you found that out. It's really none of your business."
"A woman, then. Give me a minute - stay right there." Sherlock slipped off his stool and took off, slipping easily through the crowd.
John didn't have much of a bloody choice, given the press of bodies filling the club, so he slid into Sherlock's recently-vacated seat and polished off his drink. Sherlock had done stranger things. Not much stranger, mind - Sherlock as wingman was definitely up there - but at least they weren't in a young club. There were a fair sprinkling of gray and salt-and-pepper heads out on the dance floor, and the average age seemed to be mid-thirties to early forties. John didn't think he would have survived the excursion if they'd gone to a club full of twenty-somethings.
And it had been a while since his last actual date - well, his last date involving sex. All his more recent attempts seemed to end in either tears or yelling - and that's when he even got as far as the dates in the first place. Half the likely prospects were put off by John's frequent need to postpone plans every time Sherlock found a disembodied head in a hotel bathtub. Maybe this was Sherlock's (completely socially tone-deaf) way of making it up to him?
Sherlock was back less than five minutes later, now with a woman in tow. She was tall and dark, about John's own age, with close-cropped hair and four-inch heels which put her almost at an equal height with Sherlock. Just the right amount of makeup to telegraph "on the prowl" without tipping over into too much, and a predatory gaze which was locked very squarely on John.
"Yolanda, this is John. John, Yolanda." Sherlock took a step back, leaving them face-to-face. "See, I told you he was good-looking."
"You were right," she murmured. And extended her hand with a confident smile. "Hi, John. Nice to meet you."
John shook it, feeling very much out of his depth. "Hi. Sorry about him - he didn't really tell me he was planning to do this tonight. I, um. Can I buy you a drink?"
She cocked her head to the side and studied him for a long moment. "Let's see . . . late thirties, decent education, not married . . . ex-military, maybe? You have very good posture."
John turned to stare at his flatmate. "Sherlock, did you-"
"You're that John?" Yolanda asked, her eyes widening. "Oh, that makes so much sense! I thought you looked familiar - I saw you in the papers. So your partner here must be Sherlock Holmes. No wonder he was able to read me so easily. I'm honored, actually." She twisted around to grin at Sherlock over her shoulder. "You're a bloody incorrigible cheat, you know that? There's no fucking way I'd be able to guess more about John that you guessed about me. Not really a fair challenge."
"You did surprisingly well," Sherlock replied with an expression that rivalled his I-just-solved-the-case grin. "Got nothing wrong, at any rate."
"So you're together, then?" she asked. "I mean, when you told me to come meet your friend, I assumed . . ."
"It's not like that," John said through gritted teeth.
"Not like you think," Sherlock amended. And slipped closer to slide his arm around John's shoulders. "I'm gay, he's bi. And I find it bloody hot when he cheats on me."
John's jaw dropped. "Sherlock-"
"I think I see," Yolanda said with interest. "You choose someone to help him scratch that itch, then he tells you all about it and you both get off on it afterwards. Remarkably open-minded of you - my ex would have never managed that."
"From the looks of your dress, your ex couldn't manage much of anything," Sherlock said. "You're on the hunt for someone who is better in bed. And I can vouch that John is very, very good."
John stared at his flatmate. Please let this be Sherlock playing a role, and not an admission that he's followed me on a date, he thought to himself. Aloud, he just made a vaguely embarrassed noise.
Yolanda looked him up and down once, then stepped closer so she had him backed up against the bar. John felt a delicious frisson of adrenaline at the sensation - a beautiful woman caging him in from the front, Sherlock's arm an inescapable weight on his shoulders, and the bar pressing against the small of his back to prevent any further retreat. She leaned down (and oh, how John hated that he was so short, even half-sitting on the bar stool) and a moment later he felt a warm puff of breath against his left ear. "Show me, John Watson," she breathed.
They did stop for a long snog outside, wet and messy and aching, but after that they half-walked half-ran to her flat, three blocks away, and John had her out of her dress before they even made it all the way through her door. Sherlock just watched them go from the sidewalk outside the club, an unreadable dark heat in his eyes.