Sherlock was desperate for money. He'd just begun his first year living away from his parents, and found the anticipation of gaining freedom far surpassed the actual event of it. So, he took any job he could, which was why he ended up tending the bar at Le Saut Baiser. It was a nice place, classy, even, but was an establishment Sherlock never thought he would find himself, as Le Saut Baiser was a gay strip club. More of a gentleman's club, really, for the business held a full working kitchen, a main floor adorned with the finest plush couches and individual arm chairs, and, of course, a large bar holding every expensive drink known to man.

Due to the fact he was told he was too slim to be a dancer and too inept in the kitchen to be a cook, Sherlock was quickly hired as a bartender. He would be working alone, he learned, the prospect making him a bit uncomfortable. Yes, he always found a way to place on a confident facade, but beneath the familiar, comfortable protection he was always a bit insecure, a bit unsure of himself. But, he was desperate for money, and was an expert by that time at convincing both himself and others he was cool and confident.

That was, until a chilly Saturday evening in November. Sherlock had been working for a little over four months, finding the pay adequate, and, if he wore tight shirts, the tips generous. He may have been too slim to be a dancer by the club's muscled standards, but he was fit enough to turn some heads.

The night he first lost his confident composure, he was working as he always did, preparing orders to perfection before personally bringing them out to the floor where the patrons sat. A customer had just taken a seat on the far side of the club, near the stage where a fit lad was doing an alluring strip tease to a heavily bassed song. Ever the attentive employee, Sherlock made his way over to the new man swiftly, nearly stopping at the sight of him.

It wasn't uncommon for the club to cater to attractive men, in fact, Sherlock had come to expect it. However, the new customer of whom he'd never seen, the one that sat comfortably in a single arm chair, suit-clad legs crossed as his deft fingers smoothed down his expensive tie, was far more alluring than the others Sherlock had seen. Not only did the stranger have unfathomably good looks, his personality dominated the very air around him, giving him a sense of authority in the business he'd never previously entered.

"I'll have a Highland Park 30. Two fingers, please."

After a few seconds, Sherlock realized the man had talked, effectively pulling him from his thoughts and inappropriate open stare. "I'm sorry?" He managed, cursing inwardly as he felt his cheeks flush at his lack of attention.

"Highland Park 30, two fingers," the stranger repeated, letting his deep eyes rake contemplatively over Sherlock as he pulled out forty quid, handing it over between his first and middle finger.

Sherlock nodded quickly, suppressing a self-conscious squirm under the man's gaze as he took the currency. "Right away, sir," he replied, clearing his throat politely as he turned away just in time to catch the customer running his thumb and forefinger along his dark ginger beard in thought.

Highland Park 30. No one had ever requested the top shelf scotch before, as it was insanely expensive for such a small amount. And yet, the man had just strolled in, ordered, and handed over forty pounds as if it were mere pocket change. Puzzled at the enigma of the stranger he was serving, as his presence was so dominating it made everything nearly impossible to deduce, Sherlock quickly pulled down the previously untouched liquor and poured the requested amount into their best crystal tumbler, wiping up the drops that had splashed along the rim.

Approaching the customer slowly, Sherlock tried to deduce anything he could about him, still blocked by some unfair unseen force that only allowed him tidbits of information. The man was of a military background, possibly an army doctor judging by his current occupation of an obviously successful surgeon, lived somewhere in Knightsbridge, was in his mid to late thirties, and kept a strict routine which he had deviated from tonight for some reason or another. However, that was all Sherlock could see about him. Everything else surrounding the stranger was an enigma sheathed in riddle and conjecture, questions that had answers that would not be uttered.

Fully perturbed by this fact, Sherlock bit the inside of his lip and cleared his throat once again, taking the man's attention from the stage. "Here you are, sir," he greeted, holding out the shining glass that seemed to vibrate with every sultry note of bass in the air around them.

The stranger nodded his thanks as he took his order, sipping at it. "Perfect," he approved, letting his tongue drag along his liquor-soaked bottom lip, fully aware Sherlock's eyes were fixed upon it. "Thank you, love." Then, with the confident, unabashed nickname, he shamelessly uncrossed his legs to lean forward, placing twenty quid into the belt of Sherlock's black trousers.

Flushing crimson once more, Sherlock nodded his silent thanks and turned, walking back to his post at the bar. As he cleaned his workstation, arousal and discomfort warred beneath his young skin, the scrape of the note a highlighted contrast against the background of his starched white shirt. Its presence would not be ignored, much like the presence of its previous owner, who sat back comfortably in his dark pressed suit, sipping leisurely at his single malt scotch.

Sherlock kept an eye on the man the whole hour he was at the club, always quick to glance away when his gaze was caught until he stood, alcohol long gone. Usually when customers left, they'd place their glass on a table somewhere to be picked up by a staff member whenever they should pass it. However, instead, the customer approached Sherlock's bar, clearing his throat confidently as he set the crystal upon the bench top.

"I never did learn your name," he said simply, running his thumb and forefinger along the corners of his mouth as his eyes yet again trailed along the length of Sherlock's body.

Sherlock tried to hold the man's almost powerful gaze, but found he couldn't, and flicked his eyes down to grab the glass presented to him. "Sherlock, sir," he replied, keeping the formal address in accordance with the club's policy.

The stranger hummed, low and curious in the back of his throat. "Sherlock," he said, trying it out as he clasped his hands behind his back, thumb stroking absentmindedly against the back of his hand. "I'm John, though sir will do just fine."

Sherlock was taken aback slightly, as the usual follow up to a customer's real name was a request to be called by it instead of 'sir', not the other way around. But, he had to respect this man's- John's- request, especially if he did return to the club. "Of course, sir," he replied quickly. "Thank you for coming in."

John simply smiled, holding Sherlock's gaze carefully. "It was my pleasure," he replied, the words sultry and free of any cliché, cheesy innuendo. Then, with the sentence, the wealthy doctor turned on his heel, posture poised and military as he exited the dark establishment.

It went on the same way for weeks. John would come in, sit in the same place, order two fingers of the same single malt scotch, stay for an hour, and return his glass personally to Sherlock. Sometimes words (which were pleasantries at the most) would be exchanged, but usually their meetings were silent, save for Sherlock's consistent "thank you for coming in, sir" before John left.

Sherlock always seemed to catch John's eye at the most inopportune moments, blushing each time much to his embarrassed frustration. He barely knew the man, could barely deduce him, and yet he continued to attract him, continued to whisk away his facade of confidence, forcing him to face his problems. It was good, he supposed, but still frustrating in the fact he couldn't figure the man out, couldn't figure out why he craved each encounter they had.

His question was answered, in part at least, a month later, when the unspoken routine they had established was broken.

"Thank you for coming in, sir."

"Tell me, Sherlock... Do you say that because it's good for business, or because you actually enjoy having me here?"

Fingers brushed, breath hitched, eyes met. Oh, god, his eyes, boring into him, demanding an answer to his out of the ordinary question.

"The latter, sir." Sherlock's answer was careful, clipped and cautious in the exchange that felt it could be shattered with one wrong move.

John smiled, dragging his tongue along his bottom lip slowly in contemplative thought. Never breaking Sherlock's gaze, he slipped a folded bit of paper into his empty glass. Then, without a word, he turned on his heel, hands clasped behind his back to complete his stiff, dominating military posture as he exited the club.

Exhaling a breath he hadn't realized he was holding in, Sherlock cleared his dry throat, still put off in the fact John always ripped away his seemingly uncaring mask to reveal the somewhat insecure boy he was beneath all his deductions and harsh words. Tearing his eyes away from the door, he retrieved the paper from the glass, its bottom edge soaked with expensive scotch.

You've been watching me. Didn't your ever mother tell you staring was rude?

However, I'm willing to overlook this faux pas. If you'd like to learn how, meet me in the back alley.

Five minutes, no more.

Sherlock wasn't daft, not by anyone's standards. He knew what meeting others in the back alley meant, and while the offers he occasionally received turned his stomach, John's did nothing but pool arousal in his abdomen. Tucking the crumpled parchment in his trouser pocket, Sherlock looked to the clock. Three minutes until his shift was over. Oh. Oh. John was observant. Interesting indeed.

When he opened the back door, a lone figure stood at the end of the small alley near an empty skip, hands still clasped behind his back. "Bit of a rebel, are we?"

"I'm sorry?" Sherlock asked after a moment, stealthily rubbing his damp palms on his trousers.

John stepped forward, his shadowed face illuminated by a nearby streetlight. "I'm sorry, sir," he corrected, standing directly before Sherlock in a matter of seconds. "Five minutes on the dot. You seem to have a defiant streak in you." He shrugged. "Though, it's nothing I can't fix."

Sherlock flushed, frustration nagging at the back of his mind at his lack of emotional control. "You mentioned overlooking my 'faux pas'," he responded, lifting his chin in a half-fake show of confidence.

John chuckled softly, the sound dark and rich, pulled from his chest in an impossibly dominating manner. "I did, didn't I?"

Sherlock nodded, biting the inside of his lip to control his tongue.

John circled round the back of Sherlock, one hand cupping the back of the Holmes' neck as he walked, the other stroking at his carefully clipped beard in thought. "I'm sure you've figured out by now what it is I want in retribution. You seem like a bright young lad."

"Genius, actually, sir."

John raised a brow, coming to stand before Sherlock once more, his hand never leaving the back of his neck. "Oh?" He asked, his tone wavering on the edge of clipped at the correction.

Sherlock nodded.

"Oh, come now, surely with that mouth of yours you can come up with a response."

Holding John's gaze, the edge of Sherlock's mouth twitched, hinting at a smirk he tried his best to keep up despite his composure, which was steadily careening towards submission. Silently, he shook his head.

"Well then," John mused, moving his hand to Sherlock's slim shoulder, "perhaps we can find a better use for your tongue, then." Then, in a swift movement taught in basic training, John hooked a foot around the back of Sherlock's knee, pushing him to his knees none too gently.

Sherlock gasped at the sudden action, wincing momentarily when his knees hit the harsh pavement beneath him. However, the pain was forgotten the second he raised his eyes, finding himself face to face with an apparently aroused and in-control John. Whimpering softly, he allowed the hand now at the back of his head to move him forward until his cheek was pressed against the older man's erection.

"Go on, then," John commanded, dominating gaze then dark with lust.

Sherlock did as he was told, all but wilting beneath the former soldier's power. Mouthing at John's cock eagerly over the expensive suit trousers he wore, the bartender moaned, feeling his own prick press against his far inferior clothing. Reaching down, he gave himself a forgiving squeeze, reveling in the sensation for but a moment before his arm was yanked away. Raising his eyes, his lips still draped over John's cloth covered erection, Sherlock looked to the doctor through his lashes in pleading question.

"Not until you have permission," John replied to the look, opening his trousers with unnerving precision.

Sherlock, as soon as John's trouser zip was pulled down, reached into the ex-soldier's pants and pulled out his cock, the flesh hot and velvety in his eager grasp. Never having done anything of the sort (except for in his elaborate fantasies), Sherlock licked curiously at a drop of precome beaded at the head, moaning softly at the heady taste.

John let out a small gasp, revealing his slight lack of self control with this young picture of perfection on his knees before him. Grasping his fingers in silky black curls, he tugged back on Sherlock's head until he was looking up at him, all lust and- innocence? A jolt of arousal rushing through him, John's grip tightened, earning him a beautiful whimper from cupid bow lips. "Tell me you've done this before, Sherlock."

Sherlock, at the firm tone, ignored his urge to lie and shook his head as best he could, eyes glancing back to the large cock before him as it gave an enticing twitch at his response. "No, sir. Never."

John let out a shuddering breath at the expected answer and nodded, closing his eyes to collect himself before gently running his fingers along Sherlock's scalp. "Don't worry, love, I'll teach you. Come on now," he coaxed, voice soft and gravelly as he nudged the willing bartender towards his waiting cock, "try it out."

Sherlock, breath rapid in arousal as John gently urged him forward, wrapped his lips around a prick for the first time, finding the moist, heavy weight of it far surpassed his fantasies. Moaning wantonly, he went at it eagerly, sucking and slurping around the doctor's thick length. However, just as he was getting into a rhythm, John pulled him off and up to his feet.

"I con't want this to end before it's begun," John explained, gripping Sherlock by his shoulders before pushing him up against a wall, pressing their entire bodies together. "You're a natural, you know," he whispered, raising his hand to let his thumb swipe at a bit of stray saliva lingering at the edge of the young man's lips.

Sherlock, despite what he'd just been doing, flushed with a small whimper, hips canting forward at the searing weight of John's length against his. "Please."

"Please what, Sherlock?" John asked, just a hint of teasing in his words as he slid his hand down Sherlock's slim abdomen, letting his palm hover just above the jut of the other man's erection.

"Please, sir, touch me," Sherlock said in a rush, rolling his hips forward uselessly. "Touch me, taste me, fuck me, I don't care, just ple-"

"What was that?" John asked calmly when Sherlock's own gasp cut off his desperate words, unbuttoning the young man's flies in a matter of seconds to swipe his thumb over the head of his straining erection.

Sherlock let his head fall back onto the wall, a whining moan pulled from his gasping lips as John ran the rough pad of his thumb right through his precome slick slit. "Please," he managed a final time, knowing John wouldn't stand for silence in the face of a question anymore, "Daddy, fuck me." Then, realising what he'd said, Sherlock blushed hotly, looking up to see John's reaction. However, instead of what he'd expected to be a pausing reaction, John's gaze only darkened before he surged forward, capturing his lips in a searing kiss.

The kiss was different from any John had experienced before. Sherlock, unlike all of his previous partners, was an inexperienced virgin, someone pure and untouched by any but him. To say the fact turned him on would be an understatement, and a vast one at that. Groaning, John let his mouth travel along the soft skin upon Sherlock's jaw, murmuring a question as he slowly tossed the bartender off. "How old are you?"

Sherlock tried to catch his breath, licking the expensive taste of scotch from his lips. "Twenty-three, sir," he replied, fingers gripping John's suit jacket.

"Do not lie to me, Sherlock."

Sherlock whined at the response, thrusting his hips forward unashamedly. "Eighteen," he stammered out, remembering himself a moment later when he added, "sir."

"Such a young lad," John murmured, leaving his ministrations of Sherlock's then dripping cock to shove his cheap trousers and pants down about his ankles, leaving him exposed to the night air (and anyone who might pass by). "Never been touched before?" He asked, watching carefully as Sherlock's pupils took up most of his wide blue gaze when he shook his head. Stealthily sliding his hand behind the bartender, John dipped a finger between his cheeks, pointer sliding over the young man's furled hole. "What about this? Ever touched yourself here before?"

Sherlock nodded, tempted to hide his face in John's neck at the overload of sensations. "A few times, sir," he replied, gasping when the tip of the ex-soldier's finger just barely breached him, massaging in gentle circles.

"Ever used any toys on yourself?"

Sherlock shook his head, whining as John retracted his hand to retrieve a small bottle of lube from his trouser pocket.

Casual and collected as ever as he poured the slick substance onto his thick fingers, John hummed contemplatively, looking Sherlock up and down as he had the first night they'd met. "This'll be a new experience then. An experiment of sorts."

Sherlock nodded, moaning softly as John's finger returned to its place, this time coated in warmed lube.

"So eager," John muttered, leaning forward to nip at Sherlock's earlobe as he eased his finger in up to second knuckle, smoothing it around the hot, tight passage. "Just you wait until I'm shagging you in a few minutes."

"Do it now," Sherlock begged, hips canting in his want to fuck himself on his daddy's finger.

John clicked his tongue, shaking his head with a soft smile that somehow managed to be everything but condescending. "Not yet, love. We've got to get you prepared first."

So, with gentle kisses to Sherlock's neck and collarbone, John prepared him slowly, making his way up to nearly four full fingers before he deemed the young man ready. And, considering the way he was sweating and trembling due to the large digits brushing against his prostate on every other scissoring motion, Sherlock was more than ready.

"Here," John said, voice more than a bit wrecked at the wanton look of Sherlock, his face and chest flushed to match his damp, disheveled hair, "hop up."

Sherlock did as he was instructed, kicking his pants and trousers out of the way as John picked him up by his arse, letting his legs wrap around his still mostly clothed torso. Then, in an instant, he felt himself being lowered down onto the hot, thick length of John's prick, which now held a lubed condom he must've slid on sometime during his preparation. Crying out at the sensation, Sherlock didn't deny himself that time and buried his face into John's neck, facial hair scraping his cheek as he was slowly filled.

"Shh, baby boy," John reassured, voice gravelly as his thumbs stroked gently along the spread globes of Sherlock's arse cheeks, "I've got you."

Sherlock nodded, the pain-pleasure of John filling him almost too much. However, just as he was about to protest the intrusion, John angled his hips perfectly, hitting his prostate with practiced precision. Moaning, Sherlock lifted his head, wanting to sob at the overload of pleasure assaulting his every nerve. "Daddy," he begged, meeting John's lust blown gaze, "fuck me."

John, never one to deny such a polite request, held Sherlock in place against the wall and slowly fucked into him, loving the wide eyed look of awe he got each time the head of his cock grazed his prostate. And oh god, the young bartender was so tight and hot, so unlike anything he'd had before, calling him daddy and sir and everything good and fuck he wasn't going to last if Sherlock kept whining like that.

"So needy for me," John grunted, hips snapping forward as he neared sweet release. "You'd like to touch yourself, wouldn't you? It'd be so easy to just reach in between us, toss yourself off just to find relief."

Sherlock nodded eagerly with a choked off sob, tears burning the back of his eyes at the sensations that were nearly too much for him to handle as John fucked him. "Daddy, please let me touch myself," he gasped.

Despite the sweet request, John simply thrust into Sherlock harder, nipping roughly at his sweat-damp neck. "Not right now, love. No, right now, you're going to come from my cock alone. Do you understand me?"

Moaning loudly, uncaring of his public surroundings, Sherlock felt tears slip down his face. "Yes, sir," he responded, barely noticing the way his hips were cramping from their position.

John looked up at the almost hiccuping response, finding Sherlock nearly sobbing in his need for release. Determined to get him there in one piece, John angled his hips so he would hit the bartender's prostate with each thrust and fucked into him at a ruthless pace, not slowing until Sherlock threw his head back with a loud, sobbing moan and came all over his starched work shirt.

It only took a few more seconds until John too was coming, pulsing inside of Sherlock with deep grunts of pleasure, his muscles weak and giving out in his overwhelming orgasm. Pulling out gently, John set Sherlock down, letting the young lad drape against him as he removed and tied off the condom.

"Get tested," he said, breaking the silence that filled the air as a pink faced Sherlock sniffed and wiped at his eyes, obviously a bit embarrassed at his reactions. "Because next time, I'd like to feel you without a condom on."

If Sherlock hadn't just had the orgasm of a lifetime, he was sure he'd be hard again at John's commanding words. Unable to do much else, he nodded, still trying to comprehend what had just happened as John cleaned and redressed him gently, the simple act only showcasing the ex-soldier's dominating nature. "Next time?"

"If you'd like."

"I would, sir," Sherlock responded without hesitation, meeting John's eyes cautiously as he now felt much smaller than he usually did.

Straightening his tie, John cleared his throat and placed a hand on the small of Sherlock's back. "Lovely. Now, let's get you home, shall we?"

"Yes, daddy."