John stumbled up the stairs of 221B, gasping as he was slightly taken aback by Sherlock's display of gratuitous leather clothing. He was adorned in leather trousers and a surprising studded leather jacket, "What, uh, what is this?" he asked, motioning up and down the now-flamboyant detective.
Sherlock shrugged, shoving a neon pink mesh vest and a pair of skinny jeans towards the doctor, "Put those on," he said, "We're going to a gay bar."
"A gay bar?" John asked, poking his fingers through the openings of the shockingly bright mesh, "Why?"
"Because, John, we need to get out an explore gay culture here in London a bit more," he explained.
John nodded, "But, why the clothes?"
"There also might be a murderer there, so the clothes are to stay a bit more under the radar."
John quirked a curious eyebrow before turning down the hall and into the bedroom to comply to Sherlock's want, coming out five minutes later, awkwardly tugging at the hem of the crop-top and the tight-fitting black tanktop beneath it. He cleared his throat, moving his legs around uncomfortably as the tight fabric of the jeans clung to his legs, "Are you sure we have to do this?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded, "Yes, John. Now, get your phone and your handgun because we need to leave."
John complied, shoving his phone into the slim pockets of his trousers and the gun into the snug waistband, "Why is a murderer at a gay club, again?"
"Let's just say he has a certain type," Sherlock said, smoothing out his gelled, styled curls for a moment before letting out a small exclamation of realization, "John! Make your hair more gay, I can't bring you into the club looking like that."
John groaned, rolling his eyes as he made his way to the bathroom, loudly complying to Sherlock's want as he ran pomade through his hair, styling it into a very small, pointed fauxhawk. "Is this 'gay' enough for you, Sher?" he asked, voice coated in snark, face tinted red with annoyance at the fact that he was being dragged out to a club in the first place.
Sherlock displayed a small, closed-mouth smile, "Yes, John," he said, shoving his own gun into the waistband of his leather trousers and his phone into the pocket of his studded leather jacket, "Now, let's go."
"Can't I get a cup of tea first?" John asked, frustrated that he didn't have time to relax once he got home.
"No, John, they'll be beverages there. We have to leave," Sherlock answered, dancing down the stairs and out the door.
John let out a ragged sigh of light frustration, following the detective down the stairs in a far less graceful manner, clamouring into the back of the black London cab as silently directed.
A relatively quiet cab ride took place, dropping them off on cold, artificially illuminated streets. The strong scent of men's body spray and sweat flooding the area around the small line of men and glowing neon lights, and John groaned as he walked into the wall of overpowering smell, following Sherlock as he pushed his way to the front of the line, the men in line hissing and booing as they were shoved. Despite the rude display, the men were let it at the loss of a stray ten pound note Sherlock found in the inside pocket of his coat.
Heavy bass rattled the dark walls; a collection of men in similar attire to that of what the detectives wore stood, thrusting against each other in time to the loud music, the display making John wildly uncomfortable. "Are you sure about this?" John shouted, barely audible above the music as he wiggled and groaned his way out of an unwelcome, strange squeeze to his backside.
Sherlock lowed, scanning the room silently for a second before responding, "Yes, I'm sure, John," he said, taking John's hand in his own to silently confirm to the men that were eyeing him that he was taken, before leading him over to the bar and sitting down. He scanned the crowd again, spotting no murderer. He turned back to the counter and ordering drinks for the both of them, reminding John quietly to keep his drink with him at all times as they received their glasses from behind the counter.
John polished his off in an instant, setting his now-empty cup onto the counter, requesting another one from the bartender, "Is he even here?" John asked, downing his second drink as he scanned the crowd as well, becoming less annoyed at the fact that he was at a gay club with the help of his oncoming intoxication.
Sherlock shrugged, "It doesn't look like it," he said, nudging John on the shoulder as he noticed one of Scotland Yard's own grinding his pelvis against the back of another man.
John laughed, covering his face with his hands, "Is… Is that Lestrade?" he laughed, becoming shocked to see that the man he was holding at the hips was Sherlock's dear brother, "And Mycroft?!"
Sherlock nodded, an unsolicited chuckle forming against his lips as he led John out to the center of the dance floor, turning John around and placing his gentle hand firmly on his hips before pressing his pelvis into the small of John's back.
"What are you doing?" John shouted to be heard above the music, wiggling away from Sherlock's hips.
"Blending in," he replied in the same loud manner, "Obviously."
John nodded, pressing his back against Sherlock's front again. Wrapping a slightly awkward arm behind him and up through the back of Sherlock's neck, he wiggled strangely in time to the music. The almost unexpected actions excited a small giggle from Sherlock, but he followed suit and placed his hands on John's hips again before moving in unison with him, praying silently that he couldn't feel involuntary arousal pressing into his back as John ran fingers through his curls.
The doctor let out a slightly uncomfortable hum, trying not to focus on the half-mast erection pressing into his back as they still moved with the bumping, bassy music. "Uh, Sher? Do you want to stop dancing? Maybe, uh, cool off?" John asked, turning around to face him again, unable to ignore the fact that Sherlock was pressing into him.
"No, John," he asserted, "I'm fine as long as you stop running your fingers through my hair and pressing your bum against my thighs."
John chuckled, inaudible underneath the music, "I'll try," he said, "but I think that's how grinding works."
Sherlock nodded, swinging John around him to face him before pressing his hips to his companion's lightly and awkwardly moving with the music, "He's not even here, John!" Sherlock shouted, "Do you want to go back to the flat?!"
John groaned, pressing his hips awkwardly against Sherlock's in time with the music, "We just got here, Sher! I don't want to have just wasted all this time!"
The detective hummed, placing his hands back on John's hips as they moved rhythmically, being interrupted by taps on their shoulders. Mycroft was whispering into Sherlock's ear as Lestrade relayed the same information into John's; they needed to get out.
The doctor nodded, but his companion was less than willing to comply to his brother's words; a short and quiet conversation between John and the detective changed his mind. They bobbed and weaved through the crowd of closely dancing men with their hands latched together so they could not be separated as they were jostled around by the mass of inebriated individuals. The couple, only having violated once by a pair of stray hands on their backsides, made it out the back door and into a dark, damp alley way. "We were followed here by someone, weren't we?" John asked with an involuntary grin, ready for action.
Sherlock nodded, a small closed-mouth smile creeping over his features as well, "I should have known," he said, looking around them cautiously before taking John's hand and hopping slightly to run out into the cold street with a small laugh, taking all the back ways and alleys on their return to Baker Street.