Disclaimer: I own no part of the BBC Sherlock empire and make no profit from this.
A/N: I discovered a couple of stories in my notebooks that I never really completed or posted anywhere, so decided to give them a Sherlockian twist and offer it up to the fandom. I hope you enjoy it!
As with all of my works, this has not been beta'd or brit-picked, so any errors are my own and I apologize profusely for them.
He was supposed to be enjoying this date, or at the very least he was supposed to be giving this guy a fair shot. He was sure Paul was a great guy somewhere under that idiotic façade – and he would give him the benefit of the doubt that it was only a façade.
"So then Stephen was like 'Pink isn't your color' and Rob was like 'Pink has always been my color' even though Stephen was totally right. So I finally broke in and was like 'Why fit in to the homosexual stereotypes, guys?' I mean, am I right?" Paul finishes and looks at him expectantly, confident of the response he would receive.
He rolls his eyes and takes a drink of his wine before nodding absently, mostly to shut the guy up for just one blissful second. He's sure, somewhere very deep down, that Paul was a decent fellow, but it becomes increasingly difficult to believe as his IQ drops lower with every second he spends sharing air with the man. Sure, Paul was blessed with a handsome face and a nice body, but it takes more than good looks to really catch the full interest of John Watson. You have to at least know how to read, and he's fairly certain that Paul doesn't possess that skill from the quality of conversation they've been engaging in tonight.
Why had Greg insisted that he meet this man? So what if things had fallen through with Mary once he finally accepted that he was bisexual? And so what if he hasn't dated anyone for a while? And so bloody what if his last relationship ended after he returned from his last visit with Sherlock? He could find someone else. On his own. He can overcome this…this…whatever he has regarding Sherlock.
John hasn't told any of his friends that he might have more than strictly-platonic feelings towards his best friend because it doesn't matter; it'll never be anything. Hell, he hasn't even seen the man for four months since he's been running all over the continent helping Mycroft with cases to pay off some debt they both feel requires settling.
Anyway, his friends probably don't even need to hear the words to know they're true. They probably deduced it and that's why he's sitting here right now listening to Paul go on about hair products. Hair products! Do people really talk about these things?
"Of course I had to pick the one place you'd be tonight, John," a silky baritone that John knows well brings him back to reality.
"Sherlock," he says in surprise.
"Excuse me, but we were busy having a private conversation," Paul interjects with no small amount of sass.
Sherlock's eyes narrow towards Paul in distaste before turning teasingly back to John, "Caught you on a little date, have I?"
"Not really," John says at the same time Paul says, "Yes."
"Ah," his eyes twinkle conspiratorially, "So I see there's a misunderstanding."
"It's not really…well, yes, it is a date…a blind date…that's what I meant by it not being a date," John rambles, trying to find a delicate balance between not offending Paul, not giving Sherlock the impression he's unavailable (for some stupid unknown reason; like the man would even want him), and not embarrassing the shite out of himself. Success on two out of three isn't so bad.
"Well, I'm sorry to have interrupted your…" Sherlock rakes an unimpressed gaze up and down Paul before returning his attention to John, "whatever this is. I was merely coming over here to ask if you would be free to stop by Baker Street tomorrow to assist me with a couple of cases. I was going to text, but since I had the good fortune to see you here with your date," he sneers at the word, "I thought I would simply come over and inquire instead."
John is surprised by the request for his help; he was under the impression that these cases were very top secret and exclusively need-to-know, so maybe these are for their typical type of clients instead. After his divorce with Mary he moved in to his own flat, feeling like he needed some space to himself for a while, and thus hasn't been aware if Sherlock's been taking pedestrian cases at the same time as Mycroft's.
"Yes, I'm available all day tomorrow," he eagerly agrees, having missed being near his best friend and the thrill of solving crimes, "When should I arrive?"
"As early as you'd like; we'll need most of the day and you know I don't sleep often," Sherlock smirks, fully realizing the implication that resounds in Paul's ears at the reference to John's familiarity with his sleeping habits.
John chuckles, "How could I forget?"
There's a rather awkward silence following the exchange in which Paul glares between Sherlock and John, Sherlock glares at Paul challengingly, and John nervously looks around the restaurant to avoid eye contact with either of them.
"Well," Sherlock finally says after clearing his throat, "I'll leave you two love-birds alone, then, shall I?" and turns to leave. When he's nearly out of range, he calls back to the table: "See you tomorrow, John."
After that the date continues in a blur, ending with no plans to see each other again.
"So how'd your date go?" Sherlock asks around 9am the next morning.
"Horrible, as I'm sure you already know," John smirks and Sherlock returns it, "He kept going on and on about himself and his friends and clothes and hair products," John shudders, "Honestly, it was traumatic."
"So I take it that you won't be seeing this…" Sherlock begins but then gives John his patented I cannot recall the name of your date face that John has had plenty of cause to memorize over the years.
"Paul," John supplies.
"Yes, this Paul guy again?" He asks with a hint of approval.
"You think I'm an idiot?" John asks without thinking it through.
Sherlock merely raises an amused eyebrow in response.
"Alright," John laughs, causing Sherlock to smile again, "Stupid question, I get it," he concedes.
"So will that be the end of your gay dating, then?" He asks nonchalantly, trying to pretend that he doesn't care about the answer personally.
John only hesitates in answering because he forgot that he hasn't seen Sherlock since he accepted his own sexuality and began exploring it, "It's not gay dating," he corrects.
"Finally accepted your bisexuality, then?"
"How…?" John starts but then shakes his head, "No, never mind; of course you always knew."
"Obviously," Sherlock sniffs pompously.
"Yeah, well, it's still a bit new to me, but I'm comfortable with it," he says a bit defensively, ready to fight Sherlock on the concept.
"John, I'm not judging you," he placates honestly.
John laughs, "You're always judging everyone."
"Not you," he corrects and John has no response for that.
After an awkward pause, John clears his throat, "So these cases you wanted me to take a look at?"
Sherlock appears to come out of his own head at the reminder, "Ah, yes," he says and then leads them in to living area where there are some files on Sherlock's chair.
They walk over and take their respective chairs and Sherlock hands him the first file. They settle easily back in to their routine like no time has passed since they last worked like this together. It seems like a lifetime ago, being that all collaboration ended once John got married.
After the third case file where John has listed his observations and medical opinion and Sherlock has simply agreed with a "Yes, that's how it appeared to me, as well," John stopped and looked at the other man.
"Have you already solved these cases?" John asks suspiciously.
Sherlock's eyes dart around the room quickly before he admits, "Yes."
"Then…what in God's name am I doing here?" He looks very confused and only slightly angry.
"I wanted…" he starts but fumbles for how to finish the thought. Just as he opens his mouth to try again, John's cell phone rings.
"It's Greg; he'll be wanting to know how things went last night, I should take it," he says as he stands and heads to the kitchen. It's a false sense of privacy, but it makes him feel more secure.
"So how did it go?" Greg asks optimistically once John picks up.
John sighs, "It was okay, but we're not going to see each other again."
"What happened? I thought you'd really get along with Paul."
"First of all, he couldn't stop talking about himself, every word his friends have ever said, and hair products," John starts but Greg interrupts.
"Hair products?! Does he even use them?"
"Apparently yes; a lot of them."
"I'm sorry, mate," he sounds deflated and continues with trepidation, "What else happened?"
"Well, Sherlock found us and just had to come over to talk," John blushes, lowering his voice in hopes of the detective not overhearing him.
There's a few seconds of silence before Greg responds, "John, I set you up with Paul so you wouldn't…so you could…" but he's too embarrassed to finish the statement with anything relating to John's romantic feelings towards Sherlock.
John sighs again, heavier this time, "I knew that's what you were doing," he accuses, "but it's fine. There's no need for that, Paul and I just didn't fit."
"Mmhmm," Greg says unconvinced, "So what did Sherlock interrupt to talk to you about anyway?"
"He needed some help with some cases, so we've been working on those all morning," I continue with the lie, like I didn't discover mere minutes ago that it was all a ruse for some unknown ulterior motive.
"You're with him now?" He sounds hopeful at the thought.
"Yes."
"Do you think you two could help me with a case? There's been a few murder-suicides that appear to be linked, but we're floundering a bit."
"Let me check," John says before walking back in to the living room and addressing Sherlock, "Lestrade wants to know if we could help with a few linked murder-suicides."
Sherlock looks up from his laptop calmly, though John can see the joy evident in his eyes, "The murders of the homosexual couples? Finally coming around to sense, are they?"
John rolls his eyes and speaks in to the phone again, "Yes, we'd love to help. Should we come in to the Yard?"
"It's where all the files are, so it'd be easiest if you can get him here."
"Not a problem," John assures him, "We'll see you soon."
"Thanks, John, and I'm sorry again about Paul."
"Don't worry about it. The failure wasn't all that surprising, to be honest."
And with a few closing remarks the call ends.
"When will he be here?" Sherlock asks, entranced by his computer again.
"He won't; we need to meet him at Scotland Yard."
Sherlock sighs dramatically, "Tedious."
"Shall we go and try to solve a case that hasn't actually already been solved, then?" John asks with a pointed look at the other man.
Sherlock meets his eyes for just a second but can't hold his gaze out of embarrassment. John knew that he wouldn't fight the statement's validity and it was the most likely to get him moving. Within a few short minutes the pair is walking out the door to catch a cab.
"About time you two showed up," Greg says by way of greeting when they arrive.
Sherlock rolls his eyes, "It's hardly our fault that the majority of the human race is inept in almost every area."
Greg looks at John questioningly, so John clarifies, "He means traffic was bad."
The DI's brow furrows and he mouths a silent, "What?" to which John merely shakes his head and shrugs a shoulder.
"So these murders," Sherlock redirects their attentions, "where are the case files?"
They gather in Greg's office and sit around the desk to discuss the facts so far.
"The three couples have all been pairs of men in long-term relationships. The reason we thought they were murder-suicides is because they all happened in their own homes," Greg explains, at which point Sherlock snorts in derision. Greg continues without sparing more than a second-long glance towards the disgruntled man, "but after having talked to their families we learned that they were all very happy in their relationships and in fact barely ever had domestics period."
Sherlock has been looking at photos of the victims and crime scenes during this statement, "What was the order of the killings?" He asks once Greg stops talking.
Greg reaches over and finds the first two victims, "First was Ricky and then Brian," he points to Ricky's picture, "It appears that Brian beat his partner before shooting him in the chest and then the head. We think he tried to shoot Ricky in the heart but missed, so shot him a second time in a place more likely to cause immediate death."
In Ricky's picture Sherlock observes the damage done. He had a black eye, his front left canine tooth was missing, and overall extensive bruising around his cheekbones though mostly his left.
"Next were Mike and Scott. It appears that Mike was also beaten by his partner, though not to the extent that Ricky was. However, Mike's littlest left toe was cleanly cut off before - again - a non-fatal shot to the chest followed by the kill shot to the head."
Sherlock noticed some definite similarities in the bruising on both Ricky and Mike's faces: bruises centered on the left cheekbone and mouth. There was no black eye or tooth missing, and the toe is a glaringly obvious difference between the two murders.
"David and Zach are our victims from last night. Does not appear that more than one hit landed on David's face, but he's missing two fingers: right index and left ring. There's only one bullet wound to the head."
Another bruise to the left cheekbone and the same efficiency in removing the fingers as the toes. The head shot was made at far range towards the middle of each victim's head.
"And the ones who were not beaten and mutilated? How did they die?" Sherlock questions calmly, still analyzing the pictures.
"A bullet at close range to their temple," Greg says simply, cringing at Sherlock's choice of words.
Sherlock separates the pictures by victim and alleged killer before focusing on the latter pile, "All were shot through the right temple it appears?"
"Yes," Greg affirms.
Sherlock finishes looking at each picture and nods resolutely, "Well, these are definitely not typical murder-suicides," he starts and pushes the pictures away as he addresses Greg and John picks them up to look at them closer, "John and I will go undercover tonight to draw him out."
John looks up from the pictures in shock, "Sorry, we're doing what?"
"Sherlock, I can't send you undercover, just tell me where they are and what my men need to do to solve this."
Sherlock sighs heavily, as if it's so difficult to be the smartest person in the room all of the bloody time, "John and I fit the killer's MO perfectly, it'll be much easier this way. We'll go to Stardust tonight pretending to be a couple and draw his eye."
"How do you know he'll be drawn to the two of you?" Greg asks.
"Each couple is comprised much the same: one shorter man of a stockier, solid build and the other taller and thinner. Hair, eye color, and age don't seem to be much of a factor. We'll head to Stardust since that's where each of these couples found the killer."
"The gay dance club?" John asks at the same time Greg asks, "How do you know that's where they met the killer?"
"Obviously," Sherlock directs towards John condescendingly before turning to Greg, "Each man has a stamp of a red star on their left hands which is the token symbol for that club only. Surely even your lot noticed that," he says, but at the look on Greg's face he adds with genuine surprise, "Really? Not even that? Honestly, how do you do anything without me?"
"Sherlock," John admonishes out of habit, still trying to wrap his brain around needing to go to a gay dance club and pretend to be the boyfriend of one Sherlock Holmes. Greg gives John an unsure look, meaning he's also not positive that sending John - who's been pretending not to have feelings for Sherlock - to pretend to be in a relationship with said man is the best plan anyone's ever had. It's the whole reason he tried to set him up with Paul in the first place, after all.
Greg sighs in defeat, "If I'm letting you two do this," Sherlock gives him an 'Oh, please,' eye roll, "then my men will be waiting outside and you'll be wearing wires."
"Loud thumping bass beat," Sherlock points out.
Without missing a beat Greg amends his statement, "You'll have your phones to text me when you know anything and you'll have trackers in your pockets in case things go wrong."
"Fine," Sherlock agrees with a dramatic flair before standing and moving towards the door. He doesn't stop until he's sitting in the cab next to John.
"So we're boyfriends now, is that it?" John asks with an edge of anger.
Sherlock looks over at him quizzically and frowns slightly, "Not real boyfriends, obviously. I know I'm not your first choice for a partner, but it's just for a case," he forces out with false nonchalance, when in actuality it hurts somewhere within his mind palace to know that it's not men that John doesn't prefer, it's specifically Sherlock himself.
John wants to come clean about his feelings - he's been thinking it might be easier to just be open about it lately anyway - but something stops him. Something just…stops everything in that regard.
"Well Paul wasn't my first choice either, and I think tonight should go much better than my date with him, even being fake," he smirks instead, as close to the truth as he'll allow himself to be at the moment.
"That was a blind date," Sherlock waves his hand vaguely, "hardly a comparison."
John hummed in agreement and the rest of the ride passed in silence. John had assumed they were heading to Baker Street, but they pulled up to his apartment instead and he took a moment to recall ever hearing an address being given to the driver but couldn't think of one.
"We need to pick out your outfit for tonight and bring over a few of your things to Baker Street," Sherlock clarifies as they exit the cab, "All of the slain partners were living together and we haven't done that for a bit now."
"Can you not refer to them as 'slain partners' when we're going to be drawing that madman – or woman – to us tonight?" John asks as they enter the flat.
"It's definitely a man," Sherlock asserts with surety, "Besides, you know I'd never let anything happen to you."
He says it so easily that it takes John back for a second, but Sherlock doesn't show any outward sign of truly realizing what it is he just said. John tries not to read in to it - he's old enough to know better, especially when it comes to Sherlock and sentiment - but it's extremely difficult. He doesn't fight the warm feeling of affection, however; that, he reasons, is harmless.
"So what am I supposed to wear? I assume it's too much to hope that you'll let me pick out my own outfit?" John asks with a smirk as they enter his bedroom.
Sherlock moves past John to his wardrobe, "Obviously."
Sherlock literally throws things out of the wardrobe and on to the floor as he goes through them, uncaring about John's protestations to this as he picks up each garment to place it neatly on the bed to be replaced once the destructive tornado that is his best friend on a mission leaves.
The younger man throws him a pair of older, worn, but well-fitting jeans without looking from the wardrobe, "Put these on."
"What, right here?" John asks with a blush.
Sherlock finally turns to him with a look that is both perplexed and exasperated, "Oh, I'm sorry, have we not seen each other in various stages of undress enough times for you to feel comfortable with putting some jeans on while my back is turned?" He asks sarcastically.
John pins him with an impressive glare before replying, "No, I've seen you in various stages of undress since you have no concept of social normality's," Sherlock tuts in a way that clearly portrays how inane he finds the concept, "but outside of me wearing a robe after a shower, you haven't seen me in any stage of undress."
"That's simply not true."
John gapes, really trying to remember any time in their years of knowing each other where he was any sort of naked in front of him and can't recall a single one. With trepidation he forces himself to ask something that he's not entirely certain he wants an answer to, "Sherlock, please tell me you haven't watched me undress without me knowing."
It's Sherlock's turn to blush as he turns back to the wardrobe, "It has been vital for me to take stock of your body and its changes."
"Why in God's name is that?!"
He throws a few more shirts on to the floor and John doesn't bother reaching down to pick them up at this time, "To make sure you're all right. To know when you're not," he whispers, "If I can know what your body looks and acts like when you're well, I will be able to know when you're trying to hide that something is wrong," he turns to John with a cerulean button up shirt in his hands, held in front of him like a shield, and looks him in the eye again, "You're so used to taking care of others that you're incredibly stubborn about asking for help yourself."
"I…" John stammers, unsure how to respond to the statement and the feelings that it causes. Sherlock's making it increasingly difficult for John to convince himself that he's reading too much in to everything.
Sherlock pulls his lower lip in to his mouth nervously for a second before asking, "Not good?"
John huffs out one disbelieving laugh and shakes his head slightly, "I mean, a bit. I wish you hadn't done it without me knowing - that's more than a bit not good - but your intentions were surprisingly thoughtful."
Sherlock quirks a nervous smile at him and hands him the shirt, "Try this one, as well."
"Okay," John agrees and doesn't hesitate to step out of his current clothes to prove his trust as Sherlock turns his back to find Option 2 if this fails. When he finishes buttoning the shirt after pulling the jeans on he says, "What do you think?"
Sherlock immediately turns to assess the outfit. He's appraising but in a detached manner, giving John the impression that he could be a mannequin displaying the clothes in a store for all Sherlock noticed. Hardly how John would like to go out to a club pretending to be dating him.
"The jeans are very nice, but the shirt isn't quite right," Sherlock finally says and turns back to the wardrobe with purpose, going straight for another shirt. This one is a basic t-shirt in a light blue that John barely ever wears since it's a little too tight to make him feel comfortable.
He removes the button-up and slips the shirt over his head anyway. When Sherlock turns around this time his eyes grow a bit wider and he subconsciously licks his lips, and John suddenly loves this old shirt of his again.
"This is it then?" John asks with a satisfied smirk.
Sherlock clears his throat, "Yes, it's probably the best we can do with your limited resources," he attempts to be arrogant but John knows better, "Now pack up a few of your things to make it appear as though we still live together and then we'll head back to Baker Street."
John gathers some clothes, toiletries, and his laptop quickly before they take a cab back to the flat. By the time they return, they only have a few hours to stage the flat and find Sherlock's outfit, neither of which should take very long.
As John is arranging (aka cleaning) the living area, Sherlock disappears in to his room to change. When he emerges, John is shocked in to freezing in place where he was trying to make sense of there actually being a desk available in the room. He's chosen his deep purple shirt that pulls just a bit tight across his chest and jeans in a dark-wash.
"I don't wear jeans, but going undercover for this I think my trousers would be out of place. What do you think?" Sherlock asks unselfconsciously as he does a slow spin.
John is thinking a lot of things that he cannot even begin to vocalize to Sherlock; mostly about how he'd like to rip the jeans off of him because they do nothing to hide his shapely arse.
Instead he clears his throat and shakes his head, "Yeah, I'm not sure I'd let you out of the house in that if you were really my boyfriend."
"What? Why?" He looks offended.
"Because that fantastic arse would be mine and I don't take well to others trying to woo my partners from me."
He flushes slightly but his eyes alight, "Are you the jealous type?" He asks curiously.
"Unfortunately I can be," John nods.
"Then this should work perfect for tonight," Sherlock says, satisfied as he heads towards the door, "I think it's time for dinner."
"But you're not hungry," John insists as he naturally follows him onto the street.
"You'll need your energy for the club tonight, and as a normal couple we would definitely share a meal first. Angelo's?"
They eat a leisurely meal - both of them actually consuming food - and neither says a word about the candle that Angelo brings to the table, though they do share an amused eye roll. Sherlock texts Greg to let him know they're heading to the club shortly and, after leaving a sizable tip for the owner who still refuses to even so much as show them their bill, grab a cab.
When they pull up to the club they can immediately hear the pounding bass line from inside, and John groans at the long line. Sherlock grabs his hand and leads him to a nearby alley where Greg is waiting for them.
"Here are your trackers," Greg hands each of them a small piece of plastic that they place in their front jean pockets, "I'll have undercover men stationed at each exit point, as well as a few inside. As soon as you can get me a description, send me a text and we'll take it from there," Sherlock and John nod in understanding, "This man - I'm assuming since it's a male-exclusive club," Greg says and Sherlock gives him a look of pleasant surprise at the correct deduction, "is very dangerous, so be careful," he stresses.
"As careful as we can be," John promises.
They head towards the door and Sherlock somehow gets them in right away without waiting, much to the displeasure of the long line. The pair heads directly for the bar where Sherlock orders a beer for John and a scotch on the rocks for himself. They stand and stare at the writhing crowd in front of them. John tries to be helpful, but without knowing the first thing about what could tip him off about the suspect, he mostly just enjoys the view.
"I'm sorry; I know I'm not your first choice of partner for a place like this," Sherlock says directly in to his ear due to the volume of the music.
John looks at him in confusion for a second before leaning in and telling him honestly, "You're hardly my last choice either, though."
Sherlock pulls back to look at John's face in bewilderment. John sees him mouth a silent "Oh" at whatever he sees there and suddenly feels very foolish for saying anything about it.
He drains his beer and then pushes himself off of the bar before leaning in to Sherlock's ear again, "Get me another drink, will you? I'm going to go dance and see if that encourages our murderer to reveal himself somehow."
Sherlock nods with a look of something very akin to pride in his eyes and a small smile. He turns to the bar to order each of them a second drink as John walks away. It takes a couple of minutes to accomplish, but once he's settled the drinks he turns to the writhing masses on the dance floor and his eyes are immediately drawn to John.
The shorter man oozes confidence and sexuality even from dozens of feet away. Sherlock's not really sure why that surprises him so much; he's obviously been fairly successful at getting both men and women's attentions.
Sherlock knows he should be glancing around the crowd now that John has given him an excuse to be looking in the direction of other people, but he can't seem to tear his eyes off of the enigma that is John Watson. The way his body moves to the beat with ease, his hands in the air, in his hair, down his chest, on his legs…the feelings of attraction that Sherlock has always kept subdued for his own sanity begin to rise to the surface thanks to this game they're playing. It doesn't help that he's caught a few questionable looks from the other man tonight that make him question if he's been overlooking something in regards to their relationship.
With a start Sherlock realizes that John is on his way back towards the bar and he has absolutely no idea how much time has passed.
"Any luck?" John pants into the other man's ear as he reaches for his new beer and drinks heartily.
Sherlock shakes his head before leaning in, "Not really, a couple seemed promising to keep an eye on, though," he lies.
"Maybe you should come out there with me," John asks boldly, blaming the alcohol for his forwardness.
Sherlock's eyes darken with the want of being close to John as his body moves sensually to the music, but he shakes his head again, "Not really my area."
"Come on, I'll lead," he says and then pulls back to give him a pleading look.
Sherlock laughs, "You start, and maybe I'll join you if you can convince me from there."
"Oh, I'll convince you, alright," John says confidently before dragging his hand slowly down Sherlock's arm and giving him an unmistakably sultry look.
Sherlock swallows down his stupidity and dread: he's allowing himself to become distracted from the case by this man, but he can't exactly say that he regrets one second of it.
With determination, John picks a spot near the edge of the crowd and turns so he's facing Sherlock, locking eyes. He's never been an exhibitionist by any stretch of the imagination - and he's not nearly drunk enough to become one - but he thinks that if he can just get Sherlock to come dance with him that it'll be worth it. He knows he's neglecting the case a bit, but he simply can't pass up this opportunity to put his hands on that body without needing to explain himself. With a reassuring reminder to himself that he never has to see any of these people again, he loses himself in the music.
John begins by merely moving his hips and upper body, nervous as he feels Sherlock's gaze searing through the outfit that he picked out personally. Soon, however, he loses his inhibitions and begins to let the music wash through him as his hands sensually run up and down his own chest and legs, eyes closing and head tilting back.
Suddenly he feels a hard body press against him from behind and his eyes snap open, locking once more with the man he was putting the show on for still at the bar. Remembering the case for the first time in what seems forever, his heart speeds up and he ceases all movement.
"Don't stop moving, love, you're so hot," a smoker's voice yells in his ear.
He's a soldier – he invaded Afghanistan - but he can't move, can barely even breathe as he's struck by fear of this unknown body behind him. He begins to struggle against the arms that have wrapped around him, but to no avail.
"Come on, just a dance," the mysterious man persists.
"Let go of him," a voice that John knows all too well yells sternly above the music, and his heart leaps in gratitude. Of course Sherlock wouldn't just let this happen, not with a murderer on the loose.
"Who the fuck are you?" The man asks indignantly.
"Let him go this instant," Sherlock insists, stepping closer to the pair.
John struggles harder to get away and to the safety that is Sherlock, but the man simply tightens his hold yet further.
"If you didn't want to be touched, you shouldn't have been dancing like that," the man says as John finally breaks free and faces him with a look of rage on his face.
"I was dancing for him," John seethes as he points to Sherlock.
The man turns to Sherlock again, "Then mate, you need to either join him or stand closer, because he's one hot piece of ass," he winks at John before he turns and walks away.
Sherlock immediately moves to wrap John in an embrace, "I'm sorry, I should have come sooner but I didn't notice him moving towards you."
"Is that him do you think?" John asks, feeling infinitely better with the man close to him again, practically caging him in his arms.
"No, doesn't quite fit the profile and I doubt he'll approach us before we're ready to leave."
"So you're saying that we should dance now that I got you out here?" John asks cheekily.
"It wasn't so much your convincing as that swine forcing himself onto your person."
John laughs, "Now who's the jealous type?"
Sherlock blushes at the accusation and stammers, "I didn't mean to imply…"
John steps further forward to close the remaining distance between them with a smile. His arms wrap around Sherlock's neck and he says, "I didn't say I minded."
"Oh," is all Sherlock can think to say before his body surges forward on its own accord, and just like that they begin to dance to the rhythm of another unrecognizable song.
As they become increasingly entranced by the other, Sherlock's hands mark a trail down John's back to his hips where he grabs on tight as John's hands play in the hair at the base of Sherlock's head.
For one of the first times without the aid of drugs, Sherlock's brain goes blessedly quiet and all he can think of is John - getting closer to him, touching him, kissing him. With a growl he leans down and begins to suck and kiss at John's neck causing the shorter man to gasp and throw his head back to allow better access.
"Sherlock," John groans, loud for their intimate space even with the music blasting, but unnoticeable to the crowd packed in around them.
"God, John," Sherlock mumbles in to John's neck, and for the life of him John can't reason how he hears it.
John moves his hands to cup Sherlock's face, gently pulling him away from his neck to search his eyes. This is a life-altering moment; for a case or not, this could be the start of something good, or it could completely ruin everything if he's wrong. He places his mouth half an inch from the taller man's, glancing between eyes and lips as his own lips move in a mimic of words or a kiss - he's not exactly sure - pleading for the other man to make the decision before he himself ruins it all.
When he feels Sherlock move forward with another growl, his eyes dark with want, John dodges his lips. The choice has been made and John is glad for it, but he's not done teasing his genius quite yet. He gives a mischievous grin to the confused man before turning and placing his back to Sherlock's front.
The first thing John notices in his new position is how aroused Sherlock is, and it sends a shiver of desire down to his already achingly hard cock to know that he caused this. A man that he thought unattainable and immune to any sort of carnal urges is turned on by him, and he has never felt so powerful or elated in his entire life.
With renewed vigor John resumes dancing to the pounding beat of the bass, making sure to move his arse more than is strictly necessary. He smiles as he feels Sherlock's hands circle around him to travel up and down his torso tantalizingly while moving his hips contrary to John's movements.
John raises his left hand to tangle in Sherlock's hair, pulling gently as he moans quietly, "Oh, God."
"Louder," Sherlock demands in to his left ear before he licks the shell.
"Sherlock!" John feels as though he nearly screams it, but no one around them takes any notice.
If pressed Sherlock would not be able to say where the inspiration or nerve for his next move came from, but before he can think twice his right hand moves down to cup John's cock through his jeans. John reaches down and removes his hand, and suddenly Sherlock's mind returns to him, fearing that he's made a mess of everything.
John immediately feels the change in demeanor and quickly turns around to finally kiss him hard, claiming Sherlock's lips as his.
When he pulls back, John attempts to assure him through the haze he's suddenly found himself in, "I'm sorry, I just need some air."
"But…you don't want to stop?" Sherlock clarifies, looking torn.
"God no! I've waited far too long for this, it's just that my head is swimming. Help me get some air?" He asks shyly.
Sherlock nods and leads John to the nearest exit: the back door. Once outside, John almost immediately slides down the brick wall.
"John, are you alright?" Sherlock asks, incredibly concerned by the sudden shift in his companion's awareness as he crouches down next to him.
"I think," he starts, eyes staying closed longer with each blink as the spinning and fatigue gets worse, "drugged, maybe," he says disjointedly.
And suddenly Sherlock becomes aware of his surroundings: the two of them alone except for one more set of footsteps behind him, but it's already too late. Before he can react, there's a needle in his neck and then darkness.
John wakes first, quickly taking stock of the situation without opening his eyes. Arms tied behind him in a chair, his legs secured to its legs.
"Welcome back," an unfamiliar voice says.
John finally allows his eyes to open and take in the rest of the scene. They're in the living area of 221B, Sherlock tied to one of the kitchen chairs a few feet from him still unconscious.
"Who are you?" John asks slowly, still a bit groggy from the drug, he assumes.
"A concerned citizen," the man says as he comes in to view. He's very average looking in just about every way: average height and build, short brown hair, basic fashion sense, but his brown eyes have a tinge of manic in them, and that's the scary part.
"Did you drug us?" John asks, stalling for time and hoping that Sherlock is close to waking.
"Easiest way, really. It was simple enough to get it in to your beer while your partner here," he spits out with contempt, "was distracted by your display on the dance floor. Then again when he was concerned about you passing out I was able to inject the drug directly in to his system. You're very bad for his concentration, you know; very distracting."
John's gut drops at the words. Nothing comes before the work for Sherlock, and yet…tonight turned out to be very much about John for him instead, hadn't it? How could he have been so selfish to put him in danger like that?
"You make everything clearer; you're not a distraction at all," Sherlock speaks up weakly, head lifting off of his chest slowly.
"Sherlock," John whispers in relief, fighting tears to know he's alright at least for now.
"Don't listen to a word he says," Sherlock cautions, "he's going to try to poison our minds towards each other."
"Your minds are already poisoned!" He says angrily, "I'm trying to help you."
"Tell me, why is it that you only go after committed couples? It's fine to live in sin so long as you don't try to tie yourself to the life?" Sherlock spits.
"It's not a life worth living," he insists.
"Ah, there it is," Sherlock chuckles tiredly but he's fully aware, "You thought you had a commitment with a man but he walked out. Ever think that it had nothing to do with him being a man and everything to do with your character?"
The man steps to the table and grabs something, "Of course not," Sherlock continues to goad. When the man returns he's ripping a piece of duct tape from the roll in his hands.
"That's enough of that now," he says as he moves towards Sherlock with the strip.
Sherlock's eyes flash quickly to John's, filled with terror at the turn of events, "John, don't…" but he doesn't get any further in his warning before the tape is over his mouth, and John has never been quite as observant as Sherlock so he has no idea how the statement should have ended.
"Ah, that's better," the man sighs in relief to which both John and Sherlock send a glare at him for. He then turns to John, "So, John, was it?" John simply continues to glare, not saying a word, but the man doesn't seem fazed in the slightest, "Let's play a game, John."
"No thanks," he grits out.
"It's not really a choice," he says with false apology, "See, you either play my game or I slowly torture – Sherlock, was it? – until you both wish he was dead."
John looks over at Sherlock who's shaking his head vehemently and trying to shout something through the tape. His eyes are nervous, unable to trust that sweet, caring, emotional John will be able to continue to think with his head and not succumb to this stranger's mind games.
"Tell me, how long have you two been together?" He asks with false interest, pacing between the two of them. John's eyes don't leave him as he moves around, waiting for the next physical move.
"Six years," John replies, technically not a lie since the man didn't specify in what capacity, and even when Sherlock was away dismantling Moriarty's web they still felt connected.
"Quite a long time," he nods in faux admiration, "and tell me," he leans down close to the side of John's face while John resolutely locks his eyes on Sherlock's again, "what would you do for him? To keep him safe?"
John's eyes flash with a fresh wave of fear but Sherlock merely inhales slow, deep, and calm through his nose and his eyes do not waver. 'I trust you' Sherlock is trying to say, but John hears 'Be calm, stay level-headed'
John refuses to answer.
"Gone silent, have we? Very well," the man straightens and heads to the table out of view from either man and lifts something from it. He then walks to Sherlock's chair with a knife made for cutting through bone visible to both men, "You talk and do as I say or I slowly mutilate your lover."
John thrashes against his restraints and can't stop his plea as flashes of the pictures of his previous victims appear in his mind's eye, "God, please no! No!"
"Then answer me: What would you do to keep him safe?"
Sherlock shakes his head and makes a noise of dissent, ordering John to remain quiet. If he doesn't have parameters of what John is willing to allow or possibly do, it'll be more difficult for him to plan his next moves. John bites his bottom lip in understanding.
The man sighs, "I see," he says before moving behind Sherlock, "We'll start with the pinky. He'll hardly miss that, will he?"
As his hand moves down and Sherlock braces for the pain, John exclaims: "Anything! I'd do anything to keep him safe."
Sherlock's eyes close and he makes a frustrated noise in the back of his throat before opening his eyes and glaring at John. The older man's eyes are frantic; he's falling under this man's spell and there's nothing Sherlock can do to stop the obvious manipulation from unfolding.
The man stands up and smiles at John, "I was hoping you'd say something like that," he then moves over to the table and grabs a gun. He moves behind John and unties his left hand, his right still tied to the other side of the chair independently, "I noticed you were left dominant. This gun has one bullet only, and it's intended for dear Sherlock," the man says as he places the gun in John's hand and holds it steady for him, making it impossible for it to be turned on himself, "either you kill him with that bullet, or I torture him until he passes out, revive him, and start all over while you watch every wound be inflicted and hear every agonized scream."
John can't even speak past the sudden emotions caught in his throat, so he shakes his head as tears cloud his vision.
The man takes the gun from his hand and walks towards Sherlock, "I understand, it's a difficult decision, I know. Do you kill the man you love to spare him the pain, or do you sit and witness the torture being inflicted on him because of your cowardice?"
John's eyes lock on Sherlock, pleading with him to tell him what to do. He's the genius, surely he knows.
The man steps behind Sherlock again, "So what's it going to be, John? The pinky," Sherlock nods his head slightly, "or the bullet?" Sherlock shakes his head.
John takes a shaky breath in, "Sherlock, no," he begs, but Sherlock merely nods reassuringly at him.
John scrambles at the ropes around his right wrist with his now-freed left hand but the knots are too intricate and there's no way he can figure them out with one hand. He begins to fight harder again, 'The man can't do this; Sherlock needs his fingers!'
Sherlock rolls his eyes and makes another frustrated sound in his throat as though he can read John's body language perfectly, 'I don't need the pinky. For God's sake, John, think!'
"Sherlock doesn't get a say," the man says, "tell me now or I take the finger either way. The pinky or the bullet?"
Before John can muster the strength to instruct the man to mutilate his best friend, the door to the flat bursts open to allow Greg and around six other officers to enter.
"Freeze!" Greg shouts, pointing his gun at the man, "Put the weapons down and your hands up."
The man drops the knife then quickly moves to raise the gun to point it at the Detective Inspector. Greg is faster, however, and shoots the man in the thigh, causing him to lose his aim and fall to the floor.
As two officers move to restrain the suspect, Greg holsters his gun and moves to John, "Are you alright?"
"I'm fine, see to Sherlock," John insists before Greg can even reach him.
The DI stops in his tracks and immediately heads to Sherlock. He grabs the piece of tape and says, "Sorry, mate," before ripping it off in one clean go.
"Buggering bloody hell!" Sherlock yells at the pain.
Greg chuckles a little at the unusual colorful language before moving to untie his ropes.
"No, untie John first," Sherlock insists.
"Jesus, I can't untie both of you first and I'm here now, so you'll sit still while I get these off."
"Donovan, would you be so kind as to untie John?" Sherlock address the woman near the doorway.
Everyone's eyebrows shoot up in shock at the polite tone but Sally makes her way over to John in a wary way, unsure if there's a trap nearby or something of that sort.
Both men are free within a few minutes – the knots really were impressive since the suspect was a former sailor. They briefly give their statements and then promise to come in the next day to flesh everything out a bit more. If they stand a bit closer together than they typically do, no one mentions it.
Sherlock closes the door on the last officer over an hour later and sighs heavily as he leans against it.
"I thought they would never leave," Sherlock complains, looking at John tiredly.
John is only a few steps away looking slightly nervous, "I was thinking that I should stay."
Sherlock blinks, "Of course, you're always welcome to stay. Your room is still as you left it and it is quite late so it's probably best that you…" he rambles nervously but is stopped by John's hands framing his face. When did he get so close?
John laughs and shakes his head, then looks Sherlock deeply in the eyes expressing everything he's too afraid he'll mess up if he says them aloud. He knows Sherlock will see them all.
"Oh," Sherlock says simply with a dawning understanding, the closest he ever gets to becoming speechless.
He leans down as he wraps his arms around the shorter man and kisses him hard.
"You never knew?" John asks when they break apart.
Sherlock shakes his head, "Never."
"So you mean to tell me that you think you notice things, but you never observed how I truly felt about you?" He asks with a smirk.
Sherlock smiles and rolls his eyes, "There's always something."
John laughs as he pulls him down by his neck for another kiss.
A/N: Thank you for reading, and as always: I truly hope you enjoyed it even a bit!
I'd love to hear your thoughts or (preferably constructive) criticisms about this work or my writing in general.