Night at the G-Bar
Blog Entry N°... November...
Another day, another case, but not like any other (and I'll be damned if we are doing something like that EVER ! I MEAN IT ! ) !
Heard about the series of murder in LGTB friendly bars ? Bodies dismembered puzzle-like, showing up near Gay bars, victims last seen at various gay or lesbian parties, no signs of violence, clean parts, their belongings gone ? It took four victims to finally send Sherl
John stopped. Not good. Not even sure he will have the guts to write it all. Too much on this case. Too, too much... Thing-y... Is it good to talk about it anyway ? Nothing in this story is right...
He doesn't know what's worse. The fact that Sherlock never wanted to do it in the first place (said it was rather low on that incomprehensible scale of his and therefore « without any interest whatsoever »), that Greg and John practically begged him to go (making the whole disaster THEIR fault, by the way...) or that John had to face something he didn't even realized it existed. It's not only an elephant lying comfortably in their old sofa he can see now. Nope. There is the one on the sofa, plus the one trying all of Sherlock's dressing gowns, plus the one waltzing around the kitchen in a tutu, plus the hippopotamus in the tub with Sherlock's last disgusting experiment (you don't want to know...) and the two polar bears playing chess in the fridge. Honest.
Okay, now John knows he is overreacting a bit, but nonetheless. It sucks. Because now he has to acknowledge facts about him and Sherlock. Facts he has constantly denied, facts he didn't even want to discuss but are put forward permanently, whether he liked it or not. Especially the G-thing. Yelling that he was not gay to almost everyone that could listen must have done something bad in the tangled web of Fate. Now he was writing like a schoolgirl. Screw kharma...
That night started badly from the beginning. John was uncomfortable in this ridiculous leather outfit, sticking to his bum, making him feel naked to the waist. The belt and boots looked cool but he was far too old for this kind of fancy costume. Sherlock, on the other hand, dressed in a similar manner, with a white t-shirt on his (very) tight black leather trousers, his hair (for once) stylishly combed. Which made John wonder how could he do this on his own and, anyhow, it was likely not going to last long in the club's usual steamy atmosphere.
Anyway, on their way they went and John hoped they wouldn't look out of place or attract attention or something. As Sherlock kept reminding him, they were walking in the dark. There were not many leads in this case and, though Sherlock had a few ideas, they were scarce and thin. The killer was intelligent and well-prepared. A high-ranked predator. Sherlock wasn't even sure he was male for some damages done to the victims looked like female retaliation while some other wounds seemed caused by a very tall individual, rather male... Not very logical.
Once in the place, the usual loud, full of weird laser lights, packed with stud-like dudes with even weirder outfits (his and Sherlock's were rather casual considering the others on display), Gay-friendly place, John felt a little uncomfortable. It was seriously crowded, they could barely walk. No surprise anyone could be abducted without notice. Furthermore, John didn't really appreciate all the groping and unwanted attentions... Although, it was not so bad for a middle-aged worn-out military doctor to impress some kids dressed like bdsm bad cops. Good for the ego, not good for the case because if John didn't look more eager for all the flirting and attention, they would seem suspect. « First things first, John, » said Sherlock « Blend. Have a drink and a few conversation. We need to have an overall vision. If I'm not feeling anything interesting, we'll move on to the next bar. » Roger that. Sherlock in charge, as ever.
A bit later (and a few gropers later), Sherlock was being restless and John got used to the loud noise. He had brought non-alcoholic drinks (the place was getting awfully hot). It would be a waste since Sherlock was clearly showing signs that, whatever he was looking for, it wasn't there. « Two more minutes and we are out of here, » said Sherlock with mild annoyance « clearly, the murderer follows a distinct pattern and hunts for specific preys. Newcomers, lone, inexperienced young wolfs and she-wolfs, without a ''pack'' to watch over them. Unknown to the regulars and patrons, no one will report their disappearance fast enough for the police to found them. IF they are reported at all. » He gulped the drink too fast for John's liking « That's why there are no leads. There's nowhere to start with since no one knows exactly where and when they were spotted and taken. And how. » He releases the glass « But here are only the hard-and-boiled crew. They're all long-time known customers, too dangerous for our target. We need to move on. » Sherlock was starting to go when John stopped him. « Hold on. Need to go to the gents first. I'll be right back. » Sherlock barely held an annoyed sigh.
Retrospectively, it took only a few minutes to John to do his business, get ready and come back but it was sufficient for Sherlock to disappear... Again. Damn it.
Diabetes... One cat, two dogs... Single with sadist tendencies... Dyed hair and working out implies self confidence issues... Had unprotected sex and maybe caught herpes... Mother has cancer...
Sherlock let the deduction screen roll. But still nothing conclusive. Where is John ? Need to go. No clues of significant importance. Where is John ? Starting to feel the horrible steely pressure of boredom. Plus, some oversized (Excess of steroids... Recently received the "Dear John" letter... Heart condition...) cliché-biker wearing the depressing usual "biker from hell" outfit was openly ogling him. That kind of fancy outfit could be fun on Lestrade though...
Booooored. Where is John ? Must be seriously tired to be so slow. Emergencies at Bart's today (or is it yesterday already ?), typical dark circles under his eyes mean extra load of interventions and a session to the pub with Stamford and Sarah for debriefing. Without me. Where is John ? What takes him so long ? Booooored.
So much colours. So much noise. Colours mix with noises. Who is that ? Tall. Chestnut hair. Broad shoulders and …. suspenders ? Who on this day and age still wears suspenders ? Turn around so I can see you, deduce you... Nope, Suspenders-on-broad-shoulders is talking to a more chubby, smaller, posh guy with a purple waistcoat (Wait, what ? Waistcoat ? In a leather club ?). Almost juvenile though over thirty. Kinda cute. But also with a hint of dangerousness. Beware the meek ones, like some well-known sandy-haired cute doctor... Where is...
Purple Waistcoat realizes that Sherlock is looking. Damn. Whispers to Suspenders who turns around. Holy Mary. Purple Waistcoat is quite handsome but Suspenders is charismatic. Suspenders smiles in a wolfish way, with lots of white teeth, murmurs something to Purple Waistcoat who nods rather shyly, a little submissively. Whoever they are, Suspenders is dominant in the relationship. Both of them come Sherlock's way. Uh-oh...
John searched the dance floor for his stupid partner. Once he would lay his hands on him... John scanned the crowded area but no trace of tall git with lots of curly dark hair, trying to antagonize the whole audience with his witty remarks. Hang on. There was a tall curly dark head dancing (?) between... What the HELL ?!
John stood open-mouthed, stupid and motionless because what he was seeing right now, almost in the middle of the dance floor for everyone to see (and man, did they see), couldn't be true. It just couldn't.
Sherlock, eyes closed, moving languidly (quite good actually), sandwiched between two unknown hunks. Right there for everyone to see.
Sherlock barely hears Suspenders when he starts talking in his ear, barely feels Purple Waistcoat guiding him through the scene. Hmm. Nice. Purple Waistcoat has soft hands. Sherlock barely registers that Suspenders (mint breath, nice musky scent, strangely faultless tanned skin, no traces of anything, there is something seriously weird about him... oh, who cares...) lets his hands caress Sherlock's sides with calm confidence. Certain that Sherlock wouldn't mind. That Purple Waistcoat (showing manners and breeding to hide low class birth, welsh descent, one sister married, one niece, parents dead, bisexual, engaged once, ended tragically with fiancée's death, mated to Suspenders in a free relationship, both of them looking for stress release, picked me out but... Huh, what was I saying ?) is behind Sherlock, dancing to the loud rhythm a little awkwardly, gently holding Sherlock by the waist. Obviously, he is unused to this, contrary to Suspenders who is breathing in Sherlock's neck, which makes him shiver a bit because it's hotter than anything he can remember. This is... unexpected but not disagreeable. Hot, very hot...
Suspenders slides closely to Sherlock. Purple Waistcoat comes closer and lets his mouth rest on Sherlock's shoulder. Both of them feel warm, feel... wonderful. Far, far away in the deepest recess of the Mind Palace, Sherlock can hear a familiar (and beloved) voice screaming indignantly something at him. But the sound fades quickly because Suspender's hands is now caressing Sherlock's cheek. Because Purple Waistcoat makes an attempt to reach Sherlock's skin under the shirt. Because Sherlock can feel both their hips and groins pressing gently against his own hips and bottom and it becomes hotter and hotter and... Sherlock wants to feel him, to taste his mouth, to feel his hands on his chest, to pin him down or being pinned down, to feel him rut hard against him, hard and fast and... Suspenders grabs Sherlock's head with both his hands and starts for a kiss... Feel the short sandy-haired... "John..."
Suspenders and Purple Waistcoat stop at once. "...''John'' ? No, I'm Jack, I..." starts Suspenders. "Hang on, Jack. There's something wrong with him !" yells a surprised Purple Waistcoat who manages to grab Sherlock before he hits the ground.
The rest was a little confused for John to remember. Sherlock fainted badly and the two hunks tried to help him (good point for them) while the rest of the herd was stupidly gawking. Idiots. John was on Sherlock in two seconds. Apparent symptoms John knew all too well from rape reports. Rohypnol. The rape-drug. Someone had drugged the drinks (but why Sherlock's drink and not his ? Was it a lucky try ? Were they spotted before that ?). The Killer ? Maybe. It was ruined for tonight. They had to go. John noticed the discreet disappointment in the two hunks' faces. And there came the punchline because John, while handling a quasi-unconscious Sherlock to the cab, thought very distinctly, too clearly for himself to try and deny it: "Sorry, jerks, he's all mine."
There. That was the starting point. Because, while Sherlock was fondled like a piece of meat by the hands of two super-hot studs, John could do nothing but watch... Could not do anything else besides picturing himself in the place of the stallion with chestnut hair and amazing blue eyes and the handsome cutie pie who he wanted to throttle because he dared touch Sherlock's skin in front of John Watson, like a goddamn dog in heat. Even John's anger was starting to frighten him, because it was jealousy...
John looked at the pale face, the soft (finally shut...) mouth . Sherlock was stoned but still more or less conscious and drifted in and out of it dreamily. His head bobbed at the movements of the cab until it rested on John's shoulders. John felt himself blushing and was ashamed of it. Luckily, Sherlock will never see it. Sherlock whose locks of hair hid his eyes who softly breathed a barely audible "John... John... Yes..."
And today, everything is back to normal with an irritated Sherlock who took the case personally and is currently madly typing to Lestrade and Molly so he can check on the last bodies at the morgue. Whoever the killer is, Sherlock is on its tracks and will not leave it until he gets him (or her...). Whatever happened last night is faraway in the deepest cellar of the Mind Palace. John doesn't even know if he remembers it or not... Until the game is off, John cannot resolve this particular issue. And he tries very hard not to think about the warmth in his belly each time he sees or hears Sherlock...
John is writing in his stupid blog again. Let him be. Follow the lead. Suspicion that the killer is actually one of the bartenders. Only one who could calculate the risk of the drug in the right drink. Check the profiles with Lestrade. John is still writing like Sherlock is not here.
Once the case is closed... Once the case is closed, he'll tell John.