A.N.: yes, I am very much aware that "Silver Rose" is not advancing. But I promise it is not forgotten!
As for this, I was listening to "Lovestoned" by Justin Timberlake... and I thought to myself... "Why not?"
If it helps, listen to the song. Just know that the song and artist I'm referring to in the fic is this one.
DISCLAIMER: NO! I don't own them! Sir Arthur Conan Doyle created Sherlock Holmes and Dr John Watson. The BBC created "Sherlock" and Benedict Cumberbatch and Martin Freeman gave the two life on screen!
With that out of the way...
Enjoy!
The bar was loud. So loud, in fact, that Dr. John Watson could barely hear himself think. But his grumbling could be heard loud and clear to those around him.
"Why did that bloody prick have to choose a club, of all things?"
The bloody prick in question being his flatmate, and best friend, the self-defined sociopath, Sherlock Holmes. He had sent John a text earlier that evening, with orders to dress nicely and wait for him at a well-known club, downtown London.
Now, don't get him wrong, John was all up for a night of going out, but Sherlock had specifically told him it was for a case. Thus, John couldn't even get a drink (or more) to alleviate the awkwardness that had begun to settle in his stomach.
The club was full of young people, all much younger than John, all dressed to the nines. John himself was dressed in a pair of dark slacks, that, if he said so himself, hugged his behind very nicely, and a blue button-down shirt. The shirt had been a birthday present from Sherlock, to John's surprise, when he had received it. It had been accompanied by card and Sherlock's scrawl of "Happy Birthday!"
The music was quite loud, some pop song that John vaguely recognized from the radio. It was some sort of American singer, Justin-something-or-the-other. The song was very upbeat, though and Jon couldn't help but sway to the beat.
Suddenly, it was as if the Red Sea had parted. The entrance of the club was seen, and John could see a tall woman, with long, dark, curled hair. She swayed through the club, passing everyone, with an air of royalty that, strangely, seemed to cling to her.
Her smooth, white skin was glowing under the lights of the club, and John swallowed. She was gorgeous. And she was heading straight for him.
The woman stopped in front of John and locked gazes with him. With a start, John realized she had the same blue-gray gaze as his best friend. And the same high cheekbones. To be truthful, she looked just as Sherlock... had he decided to wear a disguise.
John flushed red.
"You are.. unbelievable! Simply unbelievable!" he bit out.
"Why, I have no clue what you are talking about, good sir!" Sherlock smirked. "But I do believe you could be so kind as to buy me a drink?"
John stomped to the bar, bought a stiff drink, and another for himself (he had a feeling he might just need it) and turned. Only to almost collide with the tall form of his best friend.
He pushed the glass into Sherlock's hands and drowned his own glass in one swallow.
"Slow down, John. If you continue, you might get drunk. And the expe... case will be ruined."
John gaped at Sherlock. He really looked at him, only to realize that his friend was, to put it mildly, doped to the gills. His pupils blown wide, his breath ragged, he was clearly drugged.
"Sherlock.. what the hell happened?" John asked concerned.
"Nothing!" the detective answered rapidly. Too rapidly.
"Come on! Let's get you home!"
"Buuuuut Jooohnnnn! We just got here! At least let's dance for a while!" the only consulting detective in the world whined.
"Oh, for..."
But John had to cave. After all, he always did when it came to Sherlock. So they danced. The song, now that John bothered to listen to it, was a catchy thing, with a beat that made you dance to it, whether you wanted it or not.
Sherlock, even impaired by the drugs in his system, was moving with cat-like grace. And, in the woman guise that he had adopted that night, all the eyes in the crowd were riveted to him.. 'And the insufferable idiot likes it!' grumbled John in his mind.
Suddenly, the beat of the song changed to a slow one. John, momentarily disconcerted, missed the look Sherlock gave him. But he figured soon that his best friend may, just may, have a hidden agenda. Especially when said friend put his long arms around John's neck and began swaying to the beat.
John flushed red again. "Sherlock, what the hell are you doing?" he hissed.
"Your deductive abilities decrease by the day, John. What does it look like I'm doing?"
"Dancing with me, Sherlock."
"Problem?"
John was very conscious of all the looks he was receiving from the other patrons of the club. He was sure that at least a few of them wanted Sherlock to go home with them that night and were planning how to swiftly do away with the little man the gorgeous "woman" was wrapped around.
"Let's go home, Sherlock. I don't know what you wanted to achieve tonight, but the only thing that's going to come from this is a trip for me to St. Bart's. In a body-bag."
Sherlock pouted, but let his arms fall from John's shoulders.
"Spoil-sport!" he pouted again.
John took Sherlock's arm and began making his way out of the club. But it seemed that the male population was not about to let the "woman" that had fascinated them leave. So John felt like he was swimming through molasses in order to get out.
Suddenly, he bumped into a tall, broad-shouldered fellow, blocking his exit.
John sighed and lifted his eyes to see who was in his path. He swallowed thickly, when he saw the scowl decorating the man's brow.
"Excuse me, said John, I'd like to pass through."
"You can go, little man. But the babe stays."
John sighed again.
"She's with me," he said.
"Yeah.. and this is me not caring. Beat it, hobbit, or get beaten."
Sherlock was shaking with silent laughter. John looked accusingly at his best friend. On one hand, Sherlock could very well take care of himself. But, on the other hand, he was drugged and his judgement was impaired. Battling with his duty as a doctor and friend and the impulse to just let Sherlock get out of whatever scrape this was by himself, John eventually chose his duty. He lifted his head and stared right into the man's eyes.
"She leaves with me!" he said in his Captain Watson voice.
The man lifted an eyebrow, and laughed.
From behind, Sherlock wrapped his arms around John and winked at the brute in front of them.
"If I were you, friend. I'd get out of the way!" he said in a purr.
John shuddered. He had just realized that Sherlock had changed his voice too. Although still deep, it had a feminine pitch to it. And, he had to admit, it made for one hell of a headache.
The man laughed again and made to throw a punch in John's direction. He missed and he did not have the occasion to punch again. John had come from below, with a punch of his own and winded the man. He then took Sherlock's hand in his and left the club.
They got to Baker St. and John threw Sherlock in his armchair.
"What the fuck was that, Sherlock?"
The detective smiled a large and predatory smile.
"Oh come now John. You must have realised it by now."
His voice was clear, his gaze, the same. The dilated pupils had gone back to normal and he was slouching, grinning.
John shook his head and sighed again.
"Why? Is there even a case?"
"Yes, there is. It's a somewhat old one, but the killer used a female disguise to lure in unsuspecting males and killed them. I wanted to see if i could do the same."
"And the drugged look?" asked John.
"Oh, a shot of adrenaline and I was set to go!"
"You crazy idiot! What would have happened if you had pulled a guy in the club?"
"I did!" answered Sherlock with an infuriating grin.
"Some other guy than me, Sherlock!"
"I knew you would not have left me there, John!"
John was torn between slapping his friend and ... Well, the second option was not even worth thinking about. So he settled for raking his hands through his hair and sighing explosively.
"I'm going to bed, Sherlock" was the only thing he said.
"Hmmm..." was the reply he got.
He looked one last time at his friend, slouched on the armchair, in his regular thinking pose, with a far-away look in his eyes. John though, for a second, that Sherlock looked lonely like that and that he wanted to ... to do what? John shook his head and went upstairs.
And if that night, the song he had danced to with Sherlock kept repeating itself in his head, well ... no one was going to know.