Synchronized
by VII
John/Sherlock, Sherlock (BBC)
WARNINGS: Male intimacy, a little cursing, definitely undertones of sexual intimacy, and awkward!Lestrade. Lestrade always knows what's up. Always.
Hello! Thanks for giving this a chance; I got hooked on Sherlock from BBC and I can't stop thinking about it. Then I listened to "Titanium" by Sia & David Guetta, and this little ficlet was born.
Please excuse the lack of knowledge if you're a hardcore shipper, I've only seen season 1. BY GOD. It was brilliant. Anyway, please correct any OOCness and, if possible, give me a British slang lesson.
Sorry for wasting your time reading my ramblings! Enjoy!
"And where are you off to?"
Sherlock pulled on that ever-so-attractive coat, and John looked up from the post to watch him slide on his gloves.
"Off to the club. Would you like to join me or mope here because Sara didn't invite you on a date tonight?"
"A club?" John sounded almost repulsed by the idea, "Why a club? And I am not moping!"
"Your cellular had an unread text saying she couldn't see you tonight. Obviously you are moping." The younger Holmes was pulling on his favorite scarf as John flushed with a bit of frustration.
"Sherlock, stop reading my texts!"
"I'm leaving now, come along!" John blinked one moment too slow and Sherlock was down the stairs.
He huffed, irritated at having to stand again after a long day at the hospital. All in the hopes of Sherlock not leaping right into Death's maws once again, he wanted one evening to relax. He jumped to his feet, yanking his jacket from the hanger and attempting to catch up with his longer-legged companion. Right as the front door of 221-B Baker Street slammed behind Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson came teetering out with a flat paper bag in her tiny, wrinkled hands.
"Oh! John, dear, could you give this to Sherlock when you get the chance? He's been asking for it for a while now; couldn't imagine how much he would need something like this, but boys will be - !"
"I will, Mrs. Hudson, thank you!" John swiped the bag from her fingers and flung the door open. Sherlock was hailing a cab, long fingers extended to demand the road's attention, and John paused a moment to check for his phone and keys before slamming the door behind him. He heaved a few breaths and fell into his usual place next to Sherlock, who cocked an eyebrow at him.
"Getting out of shape, Doctor?"
The army doctor scowled, "I suppose I'm getting older."
An attractive smirk brushed Sherlock's face widely, "Hardly. You're too vibrant to be old."
"I'm too what?"
"Taxi!" There was the unmistakable flush on Sherlock's face. John eyed him, letting the smallest of smiles break through his skin, as he watched the usually detached detective squirm under his scrutiny.
This was not the first time John had caught Sherlock in an unprepared moment of emotion. There were a few more instances that this had occurred – a short, yet flattering, remark about John's physical existence or a quick observation and mindless blurting of deductions that made Sherlock seem… almost nervous of John's presence. It was as if Sherlock had realized his relationship with John was not so much colleagues and flat mates, as being someone whose presence was enjoyed. Was Sherlock feeling? The idea seemed foreign, but definitely not impossible.
John had left it ignored for the last few weeks, even after the time he caught Sherlock emerging from the shower accidentally. Gods, that was a sight to behold. He was a doctor, for Christ's sake, the human body had been drilled into his skull for years now! But, watching that body, supple and gleaming with the last drips of warm water was nothing like feeling Sara's body under the sheets or any past lover before her. It sent strange, tingling needles to his thighs and his eyes almost rolled in the back of his head.
A physical attraction? John could not deny it; Sherlock was a young, attractive man. But, within that taut body was a huge undulation of genius, rumbling just beneath Sherlock's skin, waiting to burst from his quicksilver eyes and between his lips. Such beauty was something easily seen, but not easily grasped. John had to ignore the advances, possibly out of fear of driving Sherlock away, or having it all be a sham in the pursuit of data. He most certainly did not want to throw the detective into a position he felt was a take-it-or-leave-it. Beyond the boundaries of companionship risked too much of the life he had built around the detective's world, as much as his body and heart may have begged him to cross it, to plunge the drug into the vein and ride it out, and no matter of how Sherlock seemed to purposely tease him with stunts like the shower.
Maybe... that's what he was missing. Sherlock had the mental capacity and agility to deduce a person's life by the wrinkles in their clothes and the rings on their fingers; John, on the other hand, could deduce a person's life by the wrinkles in their skin and the rings around their eyes. Yes! The human body was his chessboard; he could maneuver it just as well as any brilliant inferences Sherlock had up his sleeve. It was time to turn the tables on the world's only consulting detective and flip his own mind games against him. John mentally berated himself for not attempting to find out Sherlock's intentions earlier; as if the stubborn git was going to just one day blurt it out.
Breaking from his train of thought, the cab screeched to the side of Baker Street and the two men climbed in, John shutting the door as he got comfortable.
"I don't believe we're very appropriately dressed for clubbing," he tugged at his coat and jumper pointedly. Sherlock smirked, the last incident apparently forgotten.
"It's dark enough in any club for you to arrive naked and go unnoticed, if that's what you're concerned about. And 87% of the people attending one are too inhibited to have the slightest clue of where they've been, let alone where they currently are. I don't think anyone will judge you for keeping comfortable."
John furrowed his brow, chewing on his words, "And, remind me again why we're going to a club?"
"Data." Ah, the all-descriptive word that seemed to be Sherlock's absolute favorite.
"For what? There's no case."
"This is outside research," Sherlock eyed him, "And I needed your assistance."
"There's the face again. You know I hate the face." John noticed the cabbie's eyes on their conversation and gave him a pointed glare to bugger off, hearing Sherlock shuffle around awkwardly in his seat before gazing out the window with that fierce look in his eyes. Deep thought.
The cabbie was directed towards Cable, one of the highest rated clubs in London, John recalled (not from personal experience, of course, but from uni talk back in the day). Sherlock whipped out his phone, and John did a very poor job of peeking over to see what exactly was going on the device.
"Oh, by the way, Mrs. Hudson wanted me to give you this," John pulled the brown paper bag from inside his pocket and handed to the taller man. He took it with a strange flicker in his eyes, opened it and nodded, slipping it into his own pocket.
"Those aren't what I think they are, are they?"
Sherlock looked one moment away from being mortified, "Depends what you're obtusely creative mind could conjure up."
"Club drugs, Sherlock? You know I'll punch you right here and now if you say yes." John felt betrayed and infuriated that Sherlock thought he had to drug John to get results from a curiosity. If he wanted to try it so bad, why not do it himself? John ground his teeth at the mere thought of his flat mate attempting to alter his own consciousness again, even if he wasn't present for the beginning and end of his last drug addiction.
But, Sherlock's expression of relief confused the doctor and calmed his racing heartbeat, "God, John! That's the best you could think of? Boring."
They bickered the rest of the way about the on-goings of a club at this hour, John completely forgetting about the contents of the little brown bag for now. After they arrived, Sherlock threw a few bills over the seat, John noticing no tip being offered for his sour attitude along the way, and they clamored from the car. Night had fallen briskly over London, and underneath the London bridge the breeze crawled underneath all of John's clothes and gooseflesh ran amuck along his skin.
Sherlock had already made for the entrance of the club, walking down a slick set of stairs and glancing backwards to make sure his assistant was following him. John rolled his eyes and set forth into the music, literally. They made it in without showing ID's and the noise was immediately unbearable for John's sensitive ears; he was not one to listen to loud music unless Sherlock's violin playing was taken into account. He felt his ribcage rattling with the colossal base, within the tight walls, packed corner to corner with drunken students and wild women in ridiculously restrictive clothing.
What was the appeal? Sara wore things like that, and back when he was a young colt it would have had his mind in a daze. But, now, John found himself nowhere near interested, even when some female students eyed him with their tongues licking their lips. He visibly shuddered.
The music thundered through his body like a pain in his head; John was never one for dancing, especially club dancing. He was more of a quiet, fine art admirer personally, and this was far beyond his usual activities. After straightening his coat, John stood his ground from a few dancers almost knocking him over; he couldn't have felt more out of his element at a Holmes family dinner than here.
While on the thought of Holmes, he spotted Sherlock slinking between heated bodies, like a prowling cat – the bar, from the direction he was headed. John craned his neck to see over the crowd, but the bar barely flashed in his vision, and he blindly followed. After bumping and apologizing to a few too many rude club-goers, he started shoving through, soldierly presence and all, and made his way to the edge of a well-endowed bar with a pretty bartender. There was more breathing room near this corner of the bar and he allowed himself a few huffs to re-establish his composure.
"Can I get you something, soldier?" He blanched as the blonde bartender smiled to him. She was much more attractive closer up, too.
"How did you…?"
She seemed confused, "Oh, you're actually a soldier? Sorry, just a term of endearment, sweetheart. Can I get you a drink?"
He smiled politely, "Thanks, but I'm actually looking for my friend. Tall, dark hair, has a scarf on?"
She laughed over the loud music thumping in the club, "Well, he would stick out in a crowd like this with a scarf on. You look a little bundled up to be here too! Are you a cop or something?"
John smiled, more to himself than to her, "Not exactly."
"Well, it seems like news got around; another cop was just in here earlier for some fun! You guys getting bored at the station?" she grinned, "Over there, the guy with the brunette. Says he's off duty!"
John followed her pointed finger and nearly busted out laughing on the spot, "Lestrade, what the hell are you doing here?"
"Doctor Watson?" Lestrade was seated at the end of the bar, a buxom brunette standing between his legs with her hands on his thighs, his mouth swollen, "You're a clubber?"
"Shouldn't I be asking the same question to you?" John found a chuckle escaping, the Detective Inspector in the same spirits. He murmured something to his lady friend, and she kissed him full on the mouth before sliding away into the darkness of the club, her hips swaying wondrously.
"I didn't figure you the kind of guy to get off with the crowded bar and loud music."
John scanned the crowd, "I'm actually here with Sherlock."
Lestrade guffawed, "He's here too? Good God, it's the end of the bloody world. He can't be that bored, can he?"
"Well, there hasn't been a case for over 48 hours; this is usually the breaking point."
"Hm," Lestrade took a sip from his ice drink, "I'd love to see him try to pick up a girl before the night ends. He hasn't been studying lines or anything?"
John gave Lestrade a look, "I don't think he would ever consider it."
The Detective Inspector shrugged, downing the rest of his drink, "Can't wait to see Sherlock Holmes acting like a human. Just don't let him cause a scene, please."
"I've been able to keep him in my sight for about 5 minutes all day, so no promises."
Lestrade chuckled, standing and brushing off his coat. He clapped his hand on John's shoulder while scanning the crowd, "Oh, look, there he is."
And in fact, there stood Sherlock Holmes, a severely drunken woman pulling at his clothes, her lips parted and her body twisting against his. The woman was dancing on him, her breasts jumping out of her dress, touching his chest and arms as Sherlock seemed to be trying to talk to her, his face flushed and his body rigid. John felt a sick sort of emotion rage in his stomach, his throat twisting into an angry knot suddenly, and he felt his brow twitch. Why? He hadn't the slightest clue, but if Sherlock had dragged him all across London just to watch him get his rocks off in public, he'd be in the next cab on his way to a quiet flat.
Lestrade laughed again, giving John a strange look like looked similar to the one Sherlock had given him earlier that day, "Look at that, she likes him! Sorry bloke doesn't look too pleased! You might need to save him, Doctor."
John watched a while longer and did finally see the pure disgust on Sherlock's face, a scowl lined deeply in his skin, and the stiffness in his shoulders that communicated unease. His brows were very close to his eyes, pinched together in frustration as the girl refused to leave him be and danced almost on top of him. The twisting knot in John's throat disappeared into a feral growl.
No one touched Sherlock without consent if John could help it. He subconsciously fumbled for his absent gun holster and began walking into the crowd, "Have a good night, Lestrade!"
"Good luck!"
The words were drowned out as John dove deep into the dancing mass of sweating bodies, shoving his way through mostly couples and ducking from many interested men and women. He was finally within arms reach of Sherlock and his attacker before someone launched into him and sent him flying towards the pair.
"Hey, watch it!" the girl snapped, shoving John backwards feebly as she wrapped her body around Sherlock, "Go find your own, faggot!"
John felt the fire in his eyes burst into outright fury, but Sherlock finally used his strength to wrench the shrew free, "I'm not a customer; idiots aren't my type."
She looked positively livid, her speech slurred, "Customer! I'm not a prostitute!"
"I'm sure you told your fiancée that when you met; does he believe you when you say you're not dancing anymore?"
"Piss off!" she went to kick Sherlock in the shin, but John restrained her immediately.
"Move along, ma'am."
The soldier's command was definitely a rare voice from John Watson; even Sherlock seemed to stand at attention. The girl shrunk away, fearful of the voice as if struck by it, and John was surprised at his own voice. She yanked free from his iron grip and glared at him before retreating back towards the bar, a few more women accompanying her while eyeing the two of them, frightened.
Sherlock locked onto John's arm and dragged him through the gyrating crowd, John feeling his heartbeat accelerate at the feeling of Sherlock's gloved hand wrapped tightly around his wrist. This was all happening so fast, but after a quick look at Sherlock left all doubt behind as the music flooding his senses and the consulting detective pulled him up against a wall with little breathing room. John felt his heart thumping double-time, blood pressure elevated, and watched Sherlock's pupils dilate a bit wider to accommodate the darker room. Every flash of lights shone brightly on his pale face, a bit flushed.
"Are you alright?" John huffed close to Sherlock's ear, feeling Sherlock's fingers twisted tightly around him still, as if to feel grounded.
"Fine. Couldn't get her off of me." The whisper into John ear, Sherlock's face too close to his lips, body's pressed against one another. John felt his physical control ebbing away slowly. If Sherlock kept this distance, or better, closed it…
"Obviously mental prowess can't repel all types," John laughed, "She didn't hurt you or… touch you, did she?"
Sherlock seemed repulsed, "What kind of socially inept moron do you take me for? I'm a sociopath, not handicapped."
"Watch what you say," John sighed, feeling his free hand brace on his companion's shoulder as they drifted even closer, their proximity getting to John's head a bit, "I'm just glad I found you. How did you know she had a fiancée?"
"Fresh tan, manicured fingernails, single tan line on the left ring finger. She's getting married very soon, and I bet this is her bachelorette party and she has had a bit too much."
"And the prostitution comment?"
"Just to get a raise out of her."
John shook his head, "Brilliant, again."
Sherlock shrugged, smirking.
"Oh, and I just saw Lestrade at the bar."
The detective didn't look surprised, "I suppose tonight is his night to unwind. I'm more shocked you haven't seen Donovan."
"Be nice, Sherlock."
"You're awfully commanding tonight, John."
A shiver breached John's spine when Sherlock practically hissed the words into his ear. Looking for an outlet to relieve some of the tension, John scanned the crowd for the girl's return for round two, the soldier in him keeping a sharp eye out for anyone with body language ready to pick a fight. But, everyone seemed drowned in a sort of synchronized dance to the beat of the music, gliding and jumping haphazardly but as one. It was almost beautiful, not including the wretched smell of vomit and filthy sex.
"Did you get enough data yet? I'm gathering a nice headache."
Sherlock visibly shivered – the cold, the noise… the proximity? They were still grasping each other, and the tension of the past encounter seemed to have them both teetering on edge, "Not quite yet. I have enough to test my theory."
"Theory? The theory of deranged drunk women?"
The detective snorted, "Not my type."
"Sherlock, do you have a type?"
He didn't respond, and the silence left the doctor's brain whirling. Sherlock's body betrayed his straight face – he was allowing John to encircle him, showing uncertainty with his surroundings and a comfort in John's presence. He knew this already, yes. His eyes were wide and glancing, his breath a little short, his shoulders tight – nervousness. Lips parted, gaze jumping to John as if to make sure he were still there, tongue darting to lips – anticipation of contact.
Maybe he was getting his hopes up, and maybe he was a bad behaviorist, but Sherlock was definitely anxious about John touching him, and he was definitely contemplating a move that may be detrimental to their relationship. That, or he was oversensitive to touch right now from the woman's earlier interaction and he needed an escape.
"Do you need air? You seem a bit short of breath."
"John…" that whisper, "Either you're bloody blind or I am horrid at acting like a normal human being."
The doctor had to stare straight into those moonlit eyes, piercing, glittering in the flashing lights and dilating rapidly, "Might be a bit of both."
The music sunk into John's skin, allowing him to feel the beat in his blood, allowing the smell of Sherlock's dewy sweat seep into his mind, feeling Sherlock's shielded fingers burning into his nerves. He felt dizzy, overwhelmed with the doubt of Sherlock trying to make a move or just using him as an anchor in the chaos of the club. If he took the first step, it would mean risking ruin to their relationship. No, Sherlock was a thinking man. He had to have control over the situation before it was usurped by something more powerful, as much as John's lungs and lips screamed for him to make contact.
"Sherlock, maybe we should get out of here…"
The curly-haired man sighed, slipping forward and pressing his entire being upon John, "Maybe you should wait a moment."
"A moment for wha-?" And Sherlock engulfed his words with his tongue.
The kiss was surprisingly stunning for John's anticipation of it, Sherlock slid inside John's mouth and gave it his best shot, a searing kiss that bloomed in the army doctor's mind. Palms flew to brace John's head as he wrapped his hands around Sherlock's hips, his thumbs marking their territory and teased from the clothes barring him from full touch.
Sherlock pulled away for a brief moment; John knew some smartassery was going to come of it, "You didn't get jealous of that woman, did you?"
"Not jealous. Maybe a bit possessive."
Sherlock smirked against John's mouth, "Take me, then."
Where he learned the language of hooking John onto the drug that was now labeled as Essence of Sherlock, the man hadn't the slightest idea. But, there was no retort as he lunged for the sharp tongue and soft mouth once more, swallowing all of Sherlock's words and sliding his hands between his coat and shirt.
They wrestled against the wall, Sherlock pulling at John's short hair and curling his fingers around the back of his neck, tongues emerging from their connected lips. A sense of decency would have come from this occurrence if they were in a cab or on the street, but clubs were the place to disappear into the darkness and perform taboos against all law. And touching Sherlock Holmes should have been illegal for the things it was doing to John.
A tremble in the core – Sherlock was riding out the last waves of anxiety. A low, short moan – he responses greatly to his back being touched as John brushed his palm along his spine. A short thrust of hips into John's – there was a need unsatisfied as John's tongue softly caressed his. Sherlock was, indeed, a man. Lestrade would be having a field day.
Then the thought of the bag returned, and John knew what it was inside of it. He pulled away laughing, "You had Mrs. Hudson buy condoms for you?"
Sherlock turned a new shade of pink, even in the darkness, "Those were for another experiment that I was not going to attempt yet. And I didn't have the time to do it myself!"
"I think you're horrid at being a normal human being, Sherlock," John pressed his lips against Sherlock's ear, "Simply asking is a much better tactic with faster results."
"That's for the brave of heart and weak of inhibition; something I'm not quite capable of yet."
John pulled away from Sherlock's body against the wall, the last tremors of what was pressed against him just a few moments before echoing through his veins and thrumming in his throat, "I want to go home. Are you coming?"
When he offered his hand, he was very unsure Sherlock would actually take it. But, feeling those gloved digits slide between his own was something warm and rippling fell into his ribcage, nestling, burrowing.
It was the beat of Sherlock's mind synchronizing with John's heart.
Thanks for reading! Please Review! I'd like some opinions to see where this could go. :)
Until next time! VII