There are songs recommended in the text for each concerned part for the story being more enjoyable.
And a huge thanks for my beta, StormySkyLeaf!
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Lights off!
#1.
[ Mo Cash! – Vegas Audio Ninja ]
Stepping onto the stage, Sherlock closed his eyes for a second to avoid being blinded by the sharp lights. With slow but confident movements, he walked toward the end of the stage and he let the collar shirt slip off his shoulders, as if it was just unintentional.
The mixture of sighs and screams, which was keyed even more now, surrounded him like the deepest fog, behind which the club seemed to collapse. No limits, no rules behind the invisible bars of the endless universe. Nothing left but the colorful, contourless spots.
He united even the smallest movements with the rhythm of the music; his hip was slewing and as his knees hit the floor with a soft thud, arms reached out to grab him.
No names, no faces, just fingers and wrists (bones of the hands; phalanges, articulations – all the same, no difference). Skin on skin, which was ticklish particularly around his hip. As he laughed, the pulsing crowd writhed again. He followed the urge – let the music take control over him – and he stretched on the ground in the most sensual way.
Sighs, screams, laughs.
Hands on his waist. Hands on the inner side of his thigh.
He grabbed one of them, led it down on his chest, his belly, even lower and lower, then he released it and gripped his own groin.
Sherlock slipped off the stage and cut his way across the tables.
There was a woman with brown hair, eyes sparkling with tipsiness. She waved some money with one hand. Sherlock grabbed it and laced their fingers together. Obediently, he swung a leg over hers, sliding onto her lap, and as she was waiting breathless for their lips to meet, Sherlock drew apart.
He closed his eyes again. He wished to be an outside viewer with insensible, cold stoicism, to be able to get out of his head and rule the chaos. His body was about to blast with adrenalin; it tightened and was on fire, his blood hammering in his ears mixing with the sound of the music.
He had opened his fly earlier, so the miss of the underwear could be seen easily, and as he stood up with his back to the audience, he pulled down the jeans a little, and women blustered all at once rapturously.
With a light, graceful movement, he stepped back onto the stage. A soft smile lingering on his face, he shifted his glance from a woman to another. He looked at them questioningly and pointed at his jeans.
Hands lifted up in the air, someone shouted; 'Take them off!'
In the very second when Sherlock tore off the last garment from himself, the lights went out, and no one could see the bank notes, which were once pinned under the waist of the jeans, flying up into the air around him.
"I hate this shit" Sherlock sniffed as he was crossing the aisle to reach the changing rooms.
He tried to get rid of the Vaseline* on his belly using his shirt, but couldn't obtain the hoped result without having a shower.
He turned on the shower, but without waiting until it was at the right temperature he stepped inside.
He let the cold water flow and enjoyed that the sound of it locked out every other noise. The pounding rhythm didn't reach him here. There were no screams, no knocking of glasses, only the deep silence and the water, which washed off the burning marks of touches on his body.
With a towel tied around his waist, half wet, he stumbled out from the shower. Mirrors girdled him, enlightened with spot lamps. 'Ridiculous, just like in some theatre,' he thought. His pupils were wide; they looked as if they were black holes sitting in the eye sockets and they were watching him – nothing else but him. He saw himself in every dim reflection.
He slid a finger onto his wrist: quick pulse, dry mouth. Familiar symptoms, nothing abnormal, but he had to check himself, just like he did every single time when he took pills.
The Tiger slapped his back as he rushed into the changing-room, the others following him.
"End of the shift!" someone shouted. "Look at this!"
The man's – Anderson's (a.k.a Andy) – underwear was stuffed with money – some spilled out when he threw himself down on the beige leatherette couch.
Sherlock hated that couch. He always stuck to it. It was uncomfortable, ugly. Now he was watching Andy and trying to imagine how it felt as the sweaty skin pressed against the leatherette.
"Okay, boys" Jim was the last one who arrived. He wore black trousers, but nothing else. He didn't strip, not today. As a host, he barely had the chance for it, but when he did, he did his best and everyone went crazy about him. "You boys were awesome! Especially you," he pointed at the Tiger. "Be here at six tomorrow, got it? Otherwise the chief will chop your willies off, and you'll have nothing to sway on the stage."
The bar closed exactly at four o'clock at night.
The place became irrationally silent and empty, but Sherlock liked this fragile calmness the best, when the sweltering desire didn't pollute the air.
"Tiring day, wasn't it?" Molly put down the tray onto the counter, and took off the black apron.
"Indeed."
"Well, we had quite a lot of guests. Look, uhm, if you'd like… I could take you home… By car. You know, it's snowing, and I thought you might don't want to walk…"
Sherlock threw a questioning glance at the girl, who started to fold the apron shamefacedly, but it turned out to be a more difficult task than usual.
"Thank you, but I'd rather walk."
"Uhm, okay, of course! See you tomorrow, then!"
Molly left with a sheepish smile, though Sherlock couldn't enjoy the solitude for long. In the following minute, Lestrade showed up.
"Chief!" Sherlock stifled a yawn. "How's today incomings?"
"Bad as always. Though, maybe it's a bit better than last Friday."
Lestrade threw his small booklet onto the counter and leaned next to the younger one. Sherlock knew he had to ask – no, in fact he didn't have to, because he could deduct everything from the tangled hair and the circles around the eyes, but they expected him to ask it. Lestrade did.
"Carol?"
"She confessed she's got an affair." Lestrade turned his back to the counter. "She wants to divorce."
"It'd be better that way."
"Maybe."
"For sure. If you hadn't listened to your unnecessary sentimentality last time, you'd have got off her hands by now."
"Okay, you know what?" Lestrade rounded the counter and stepped behind it. He grabbed two glasses and a bottle of whisky and, after he filled them up, he gave one of them to Sherlock. "I won't let her to destroy my club." He sealed the confident statement with quaffing his drink. "It's not sentimentality but business. If we divorce she gets the half of the club, and she wants to sell it. There's already a purchaser, called Irene… someone."
"Adler." Sherlock twirled the glass with his fingers and watched how the lights broke on the tessellation markings. "She has two stripper bars, and she came here last week."
"I haven't met her."
"She just wanted to sum up the situation, but I spotted her. She was too excited, yet spent such a long time sitting right here. Too conspicuous. Even if she proved herself to be really generous."
"How much did you get?"
Sherlock eyed his drink for another second or two, then he decided to follow his boss's example and he drank it at once.
"Three hundred."
"Bitch."
~oOoOo~
"So, how is it going?"
"I went through every advertisement and I found nothing. I could get a job as a kitchen helper at some restaurant, but the payment is ridiculous. And my pen ran out."
John threw the pen onto the table and in the same movement, he shoved aside the newspaper as well – on which there were quickly marked, lined through advertisements. In the noise of the buffet at the university, he barely heard even his own thoughts, but now he felt happy about it – he feared that if he'd be alone with them, they'd destroy him.
"I should ask for some loan from Harry" he mumbled.
"Maybe I've found something for you." Mike Stamford grabbed his shoulder. "I've heard they need a helper at the Cashmere Club."
"Cashmere… I don't know that place."
"That's okay. My friend works there, maybe he can get you in."
"I would be very much obliged."
"Come with me."
John grabbed his stuff and, reciting a small prayer in his head, he followed Mike. They crossed the park to reach the other building of the university. John's cheeks were crisped red by the cold wind. He tried to cover his face with the scarf, but it was an abortive attempt. In the end, he gave up and only focused on the task: make the best impression on Mike's friend in order to get the job.
To be able to pay the bills, he was willing to accept almost anything – the lack of money raged over his head like huge stormy waves.
Bills, the charges of the uni, maintaining the costs of Harry's car that John borrowed, bills and bills, and to top it all, John even had to take care of other little nothings like food.
He needed a job acutely.
"How was yesterday's dinner with that biologist?" Mike asked when the front door closed and the snowing didn't assault them anymore. "What was her name again? Eva?"
"Sandra."
"Oh, right. So? Did you…?"
"What?" John frowned. "God, no! I'm not gonna shag her right on our first date! I'm not meeting her again, anyway."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We are just not a good match."
Mike rolled his eyes smiling, and after a five-minute walk they finally found the wanted person.
"There he is!"
John glanced towards the shown direction and tried to figure out who "he" could be. They stopped next to a man lonely standing about – on his dark hair some snow could still be seen.
"Sherlock, this is John Watson."
Sherlock analyzed the shivering John narrowly and they shook hands. He even let himself show a soft smile.
"Sherlock Holmes." His fingers slid up on John's wrist, turned it to the side to be able to observe it more thoroughly. "You have no experience, but you'll get the hang of it soon. You don't smoke, it's an asset, but… you're not good with late nights. You've got stamina that comes in handy, though you haven't got the luxury to be queasy about jobs right now. Are you patient towards people? Ah, you are, obviously, since you're a medical student."
John switched his glance from Sherlock to Mike, frowning than – with a little force – he could manage to get his hand released.
"When did you two talk about me?" he asked dubiously.
"Never." Mike shook his head. "Sherlock's always like that. You can't keep a secret from him."
"Ah-ha. And uhm, what kind of job would it be?"
"Tomorrow night at 7:15, Cashmere Club. Get some shoes that are more comfortable."
"Wait!" John tried to hide the thin lace of surprise in his voice. "I don't even know what my duties will be! I haven't said with a word that I'm accepting it!"
"You will, if you need money. 7:15. Cashmere Club."
~oOoOo~
With a sharp contrast, the neon title was glittering in John's eyes as he stood on the street and starred at the building.
Male stripper bar.
The shiny words burned into the wall of his skull, continued flickering and he was about to turn and go home. He felt embarrassed from the received looks of the walkers – it was like every pair of eyes was watching nothing else but him.
Pleasuring warmness greeted him inside, a lovely sweet smell and pretty quiet background music. John had never been at such a place before; he couldn't even imagine what was waiting for him here. He grabbed a flyer at the cloakroom that propagated today's show.
Cashmere Club
Male dance revue
Cowboy night, in the heart of London
15th February
Doors open: 7.30
Showtime: 8.30
"Come on" he whispered, and let out a ragged laugh as well.
He really started to fear the offered job, which was worsened by the image that popped up in John's mind; he saw himself in red underwear with a pair of boots and a cowboy hat.
"Hell no…"
Followed by the look of the cloakroom attendant, John shifted uncomfortably. He wanted to escape before it was noticed that he'd ever been here, but he didn't even move. He needed money. Very much. Desperately, he continued his way into the bar and he could do nothing else but hope that he could keep his clothes on.
"John? John Watson?"
He turned in the direction he heard the calling from – he was glad he couldn't see the stage from this direction –, and found a tall, crinkly haired woman.
"Yes, but how did you-…"
"Men don't really come here, I think it's not a surprise. Freak said you were comin'. You're late."
She tossed a black apron onto the counter and indicated with a hand for John to put it on. He hesitated for a while, but finally obeyed.
"I know, sorry, traffic jam. Freak?"
"Holmes. I thought you'd let him down and I would have to do all of the work again. Come on, what are you waiting for?"
The woman stepped out from behind the counter, but John was just looking at her, uncomprehending.
"Actually I don't know what kind of…"
"Saloon bar. Now."
Shelves filled with drinks towered over John tremendously, and suddenly he got unsure – again. Eventually, relief spread inside his chest when he realized that if he decided to take off his shirt, it would be by his own will and no one would have to pay for it.
"You're new." A woman smiled at him kindly. She appeared unexpectedly, John hadn't even noticed her until she spoke. "My name's Molly. Molly Hooper."
"John Watson, and yes, I'm new." He smiled back. "Very new. I've never been at… such a place before."
"Your nervousness is really visible. Take it easy. You only have to take care of the guests here, but during the show we serve the drinks. It's going to be a calm time for you. You can sum up the situation."
Two young girls joined them in the next moment, but John could manage it perfectly.
In fact, he didn't have any experience as a bartender and he needed Molly's help to find the rum, but thanks to his sister, he made the best Mojito in London.
"Not bad, newbie!" Molly laughed when the guests stepped away. "The recipes of the other cocktails are over there, see?"
"Thanks." John grabbed the little blue pocketbook to flip it through, but the handwritten texts were squiggles at the first glance. "Who is she?"
The crinkly haired woman took a bottle of champagne and some glasses and rushed away.
"Sally Donovan." Molly's soft smile turned into a grimace. "She is odious sometimes, don't bother. When we don't have a regular bartender she is in charge with the job, and lately…"
"Yeah?"
"Well, the salary was cut, so Carl quit, and Sally hates to stand behind the counter all night long."
"The salary was cut? Great…" John just shrugged as a response for Molly's questioning look.
"I'll go and inform the boss that you arrived."
"Wait. Is Sherlock here?"
"He always comes at 8 pm."
But Sherlock didn't show up. John didn't care about it, he didn't even know what to say to him – the job engaged his discursive thoughts. People – only women – about a quarter past 8, arrived in huge groups, and because of John's newness, serving was slower than usual.
Right at 8:30, the soft background music stopped and lights went out – only the stage remained enlightened. John filled up two glasses with some liqueur, then – as the women wandered away from the saloon bar and back to their tables – allowed himself to have some rest.
A man walked onto the stage in tight leather jeans and, in spite of the comfortable warmth of the room, he wore a fur neck coat which whirled around his legs at every step. Theatrical elegance surrounded him and his nude chest was shining in the sharp light. Arms wide opened, enjoying the burst of applause, he spoke in a silky voice.
"Aren't you cold, my ladies? It's a bit chilly in here, isn't it?" He hunched as if he was cold. "Shouldn't we warm up the place?"
The crowd rumbled. They raised their glasses one by one. Suddenly, John felt as if he were a perfect stranger there.
"Let's turn on the heat!" The man shouted. "Come on, ladies, louder! That's it! Get your purses, and reward our cowboys generously, they took a long road here only to please you. My ladies, here are the western stallions!"
The dazzle lamps blew out to let some tender blue light replace them. The fur coat guy – Big Jim – got lost, and six other appeared.
[ Save a horse, ride a cowboy – Big & Rich ]
The happy rhythm resounded in the club. It even swallowed the screams. The six cowboy trotted to the edge of the stage with their back to the public and John almost burst out laughing when they turned. Sherlock was on the right side, wearing a white cowboy hat, worn-out jeans and a leather waistcoat. A holster was attached to his belt.
But now he was different. His face changed on the stage. John was watching every movement of his twinkling. He moved lightly, too lightly when compared to a cowboy, but was nothing like that man whom John had met before at the university. Here, he seemed to be playful. He was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing.
When they first met, Sherlock looked rather bored and breathless.
He pulled a woman closer with a lasso, picked her up and made a turnaround himself. He laid her down on the ground and squirmed between her legs.
He left his boots, his black underwear and his hat on, but nothing else.
John's initial nervousness had started to dissolve as time passed by, but now it returned as a lightning. It forked through his body and made its exit at the fingers.
By the middle of the show, he totally forgot about his duties. He gave silent thanks for the dim light, because as Sally poked his shoulder, his face turned red with embarrassment in less than a second.
"Three Daiquiris, a Grasshopper and two Cosmos, in case you stopped drooling."
~oOoOo~
After the show, Sherlock, with a pleasuring numb feeling, threw himself down on the hated couch to count his money. The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and some perfume. He took deep breaths anyway to make his flushed body relax. His chest was burning: it lifted and sank quickly. He gasped as if he had been running for miles, in spite of his last number being pretty slow-paced.
The ecstasy pills pushed him on; they gave him a surge of adrenaline which needed reduction.
He threw away the belt that replaced his underwear and, after a quick shower, he put on his trousers, his hat and rushed back to the club.
John was standing behind the counter. They couldn't see each other because a bunch of guests stampeded the saloon bar, but Sherlock had seen how John had been watching him while dancing.
Lestrade flounced out from his office troubled, right when Sally closed the front door. It was barely passed 4 o'clock.
"I'd like you not to screw up the orders next time!" he grunted on the phone. "Yes, I know what time it is, but tomorrow's supply is going to be late because of you."
As he passed by Sherlock – who was sitting next to a table –, he beckoned Jim as well and, without putting the phone down, he started. "There's a work for Friday, a hen party and you two go. Jim, someone should take your role for that night here. Arrange it in time."
He gave them a sheet of paper and walked up to the counter where he poured a glass of whisky for himself and for a long time, he argued over the phone.
John cleaned up – earlier he had spilled out some drink onto the counter – and after that he was waiting.
He was waiting, because he didn't know what to do, or even if he wanted to do anything here ever again.
He wanted to talk with Sherlock. Thank him for this opportunity, but it wasn't a job suited for him. On top of it, he had made quite a lot mistake ("You were good" Molly soothed him), and he felt discommoded all night long among the half-naked – or sometimes fully naked – men.
"It doesn't suit me." He let out a deep sigh when Sherlock walked to the counter.
"What is?"
"This job. This place. Look, I'm grateful, I really am, but…"
"You want to escape?" Lestrade turned to face him, laughing. He put his mobile into his pocket. "Just when I'm about to hire you?"
John sighed again.
"I'm an awful bartender."
"Practice makes perfect. I need people, I need you. And according to what I've heard," He shot a quick yet telling glance to Sherlock, "you need this job as well. I'm willing to negotiate about your payment, but only on Friday. We're closed on Wednesdays and Thursdays. Good night, boys!"
Molly and John were the last to leave the Cashmere. The wind felt even colder after the sweaty warmness of the club, John pulled his scarf up to his ears.
"I hope," Molly started, "that you're staying."
"Honestly, I don't know yet. I don't fit in here."
"That's what I thought on my first day too. I still do sometimes… but you'll see what a great group it is, and you'll like it."
"Thank you for trying to convince me. Guess we'll see each other Friday."
John was relieved as he finally got into his car. He was driving slowly because it was snowing again and, moreover, there was a dull ache in his members; his arms protested against any work. But right now, this slow pace didn't bother him. He knew he wouldn't be able to get into his first lecture tomorrow morning anyway.
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*Vaseline is used to make the skin shiny, and it makes the muscles of the body more visible as well.