"Who are we looking for?" John practically yelled in Sherlock's ear.
"Haven't the faintest," Sherlock said, leaning against the bar and scanning the writhing crowd a few feet away from them on the dance floor.
"Then what are we doing here?"
"I'll know him when I see him."
John sighed and finished his drink, waving at the bartender for another. After a minute or two he gave up turned around, crossing his arms. Sherlock looked at him, then turned around at the bar as John watched the crowd.
A cold glass tapped John's knuckles a few moments later. "How did you do that?" John asked, accepting the drink and taking a long gulp. Sherlock sipped his own and didn't answer.
John pressed his lips together and nodded to himself. "Cheekbones," he said without looking at Sherlock.
The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up.
"Aren't we a little old to be here?"
"You are."
"You're not that much younger than I am." John looked into the crowd, shaking his head. "That person cannot possibly be old enough." He was looking at skinny blond in tight denims flailing a few feet away from them.
"Nineteen, university student," Sherlock said over the music.
"Great," John said sarcastically.
Sherlock pressed another freezing cold glass against his upper arm as John was sucking down the last of his current drink.
John thanked him, tugging on his clingy white v-neck that he found outrageously uncomfortable. Sherlock didn't seem bothered by his girl-tight denims and equally tight black t-shirt. It's all transport.
Sherlock downed the rest of his drink and placed it on the bar. The second after John did the same Sherlock's fingers clutched his upper arm and dragged him into the center of the hot, pointy mass of people.
"What are we doing?" John said, dodging flying elbows and hips.
"Better vantage point," Sherlock said, looking past John. His hips and shoulders began to move lightly on the beat.
John remained still, staring at Sherlock uncomfortably.
Sherlock sighed loudly and put his hands on John's shoulders, pulling him closer. "Stop drawing attention to yourself." He didn't have to speak as loudly from this distance.
"Sherlock, this is ridiculous-"
"Go back, then."
John left the crowd and went and sat on a stool at the bar once again. Sherlock kept dancing by himself, surreptitiously scanning the room. A tall blond slid in behind him, wrapping his arms around his middle. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, or notice.
One of the blond's hands moved up and down Sherlock's stomach until it drifted just over Sherlock's groin, pulling him closer. Abruptly, he tilted Sherlock's head back, exposing his neck and attaching his mouth to a spot just under his ear.
John was at Sherlock's side before he realized what he was doing.
"Fuck off."
The blond looked at him, then looked at Sherlock, confused. "Are you two..."
"Yes," Sherlock said bluntly.
He looked at John again a little incredulously, then walked off.
After the blond had disappeared into the crowd again Sherlock stared directly at John for the first time that evening.
"You're welcome," John said defensively.
Sherlock shrugged without looking away from him. "It didn't bother me until he obscured my view." He began dancing again, putting his hands on John's shoulders once more.
This time John made an effort to match Sherlock's movements, which wasn't difficult. John could stay on the beat reasonably well.
He realized he could feel Sherlock's hips moving against his now. Had they gotten closer? Must have done. He kept his gaze steadily focused at the intoxicated teenager dancing on stage over Sherlock's left shoulder.
Someone bumped hard into John's back, slamming him into Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's shoulder was hot where his face pressed against it and John could smell his deodorant. Sherlock's hands had tightened around John's shoulders to steady him.
John cleared his throat and righted himself, though they remained closer. Their hips touched more often as they moved now.
Sherlock turned them one hundred and eighty degrees, Sherlock now facing the stage and John facing the bar behind the dance floor. He caught glimpses of a mirrored back wall.
Sherlock pulled him and turned them at different angles over the next few minutes, pushing him to different parts of the floor until they were in the left back corner. It was darker here.
Sherlock's hands locked loosely behind John's neck and he felt an overwhelming urge to punch Sherlock in the face, to strangle him. He imagined beating him until Sherlock cowered before him and begged him to stop.
John knew what was behind that violent impulse, though. Even if he denied to others. To himself. You should have stayed at the bar.
Sherlock had turned his head over his right shoulder. Maybe he'd seen something, finally. John looked in the same direction and saw himself and Sherlock reflected dimly in the mirror on the wall, both of their faces now watching their reflection. John looked away immediately, but Sherlock kept staring.
John couldn't think of an instance since he'd met Sherlock where it'd been clear that Sherlock was having sex, or wanted to. Maybe the lesbian dominatrix. A horrible and humiliating stab of jealousy pierced him at the memory; he was certain Sherlock had noticed at the time. You practically said it out loud, he heard it. The lengths to which they avoided the topic in conversation had allowed him to forget but he experienced fresh panic at the thought, and fought the urge to grab Sherlock's shoulders and say, "Let me explain."
Sherlock's fingers touched his neck and it felt like he'd touched John on his insides, right above his pubic bone. John looked up.
Sherlock was staring at him with a guarded expression; his mouth was soft, a little slack.
John swallowed, looking down at a corner of the dance floor. When he lifted his eyes again Sherlock's mouth pressed against his.
John went utterly still, eyes remaining open in shock. Sherlock's hands cupped John's face and John felt his stomach violently turn when Sherlock's tongue tentatively pushed through his lips.
Someone bumped into them again and they broke apart, Sherlock looking sharply at offending person before scanning the dance floor once more.
"He's not coming tonight, obviously." Sherlock's voice sounded strange.
John nodded, terrified to look at him.
"Let's go back."
When they arrived back at 221B John went up to his room without acknowledging Sherlock at all, pausing only to shuck his trousers before crawling into his bed.
The whole thing was probably a goddamn experiment. The thought crushed him. Pathetic.
Even more pathetic was that his cock didn't seem to understand that the evening was over.
He flipped onto his back and stuck his hand down his pants, nearly groaning when his fingers closed around himself. Don't think about him, don't think about him, don't-
But that was impossible; the warm softness of Sherlock's tongue on his own lips was too fresh. Sherlock had put his arms around his neck. Watched them in a mirror. He wants you, he does. John's whole body cringed at the thought. You see what you want to see. John leaned his head back, fisting his cock viciously.
The door clicked open and John nearly hurt himself pulling the covers up.
"Jesus, Sherlock," John snapped. "Knock, would you?" He realized his reaction would have alerted anyone, absolutely everyone, to what he'd been doing.
Sherlock was standing in the door, a silhouette against the light of the hall.
"What is it?" John asked in a more even tone.
Sherlock didn't say anything but walked in, looking around the room. John heard him sniffing the air and felt himself turn deep red.
"Need something?" John asked in a tight voice.
Sherlock sat on the bed and and deftly pulled John's sheets down, his hard cock and naked legs on full display in the dim light from the hall.
John frantically turned on his side and covered what he could of himself. "The fuck are you doing?" he hissed. He hated Sherlock in that moment, hated him-
Sherlock's fingers closed around his shoulder and pulled him onto his back before John could react, staring as John's swollen cock bobbed against his stomach.
John was paralyzed with humiliation.
Sherlock silently crawled over John until his lower body pinned John's to the mattress and his solemn face hovered above his. John felt his trapped cock leaking onto Sherlock's shirt. Sherlock still had his shoes on.
"What are you doing?" John breathed.
He said nothing in response. John realized, incredulously, that Sherlock was trembling.
John's arms automatically slid around Sherlock's shoulders, anger quietly deflating. "It's ok," John murmured, hand stroking the back of his hair, though he had absolutely no idea what Sherlock wanted or why he was here.
Sherlock buried his face into the space of pillow between John's head and shoulder as John lightly scratched his scalp. Maybe he's lonely. That thought amplified John's already considerable guilt.
Sherlock adjusted himself against John's hip and John went still. Sherlock had an erection; it was unmistakable. He resumed trailing his fingers down Sherlock's scalp and back, trying not to dwell on it. Natural reaction to friction, proximity. Sherlock's hips moved again, more deliberately this time, and John exhaled very lightly. Sherlock did it again, and again, until he was rutting against John in the near darkness of his room.
John felt disoriented, distant. The only thing anchoring him to reality was weight of Sherlock's body pressing him into his mattress as he thrust. Sherlock grunted in his ear and John closed his eyes, hands tightening around his back.
"Come on," John said, barely audible. "That's it."
Sherlock whined into his neck and thrust against him more frantically. John's prick was occasionally rubbed and jostled by Sherlock's hip and each point of contact seemed to erase a filter.
"Come on," John said through clenched teeth, beyond caring what he said. "Come for me."
Sherlock's shoulders felt like rocks underneath John's hands and his thrusts were getting jerky and uneven. John was dying to touch his own cock. "Do it, Sherlock," he whispered harshly in his ear, hand gripping a fistful of his dark hair.
One, two, three strokes and Sherlock's hands squeezed John's upper arms hard enough to cut off circulation. "AH!" It was obscenely loud in John's ear. "AH AH AH." Sherlock gasped with each jerk of his hips as he came, thrusting until he went completely limp and still against John. His head fell forward into crook of John's neck again, and the rest of his body became dead weight on top of him. John heard Sherlock's labored breaths against the pillow.
John bit his lip and couldn't help his hips jerking, twitching. He was about to go mad. Sherlock felt it and stirred on top of him, looking down at his face drowsily before his hand closed around John's cock and simply held him.
"You don't have to," John gasped. "Really." Sherlock's grip tightened around John's cock in response, and his damp palm slid up and down.
"Oh God," John whimpered.
Sherlock readjusted himself until his face hovered directly over John's again, his hand working between them. John had to close his eyes against Sherlock's flat and piercing stare.
After a moment Sherlock's hand left him and John opened his eyes briefly to see Sherlock unzipping his own trousers, running his hand through them.
When Sherlock touched him again his hand was wet with semen. John bit his lip, hands fisting the bedclothes beside him. He could feel puffs of Sherlock's breath on his face.
Without warning Sherlock pressed his mouth against John's again and John gurgled against him, feeling his orgasm approaching fast. "Sherlock," he said desperately against his mouth.
John felt the last clench in his stomach and his eyes drifted shut, mouth opening as his cock spurted into Sherlock's hand. He groaned loudly, gripping Sherlock's shoulders tight.
Sherlock held onto his softening cock until it was completely limp and John's head had lolled against the pillows.
Sherlock raised his hand in front of his face, the semen gleaming in the dim light from the hall. John watched unbelievingly as Sherlock put his hand under his nose and inhaled. When John saw the tip of Sherlock's tongue touch his finger John closed his eyes again, unable to bear it.
Eventually Sherlock rolled off of him and climbed out of the bed. With great effort John leaned up and pulled his shirt off. "Here, use this," he said tossing him his shirt and falling back into the pillows. A metal belt buckle struck the wood floor and John turned towards the source of the sound.
Sherlock was illuminated by the light from the hallway, rubbing John's shirt over his stomach and his groin. He was naked.
John looked away and felt bizarrely guilty for having looked in the first place.
After a few moments the bed dipped beside him and John turned his head to find Sherlock curled up on his side, staring at him from the pillow.
John recognized his posture, though he'd very rarely seen it. Awkward. Maybe frightened.
John could make a joke about his frankly lackluster technique, or assure him that it was fine, it was all fine. He could say nothing at all.
John recalled Sherlock shaking against him, and decided to tell him the truth, instead.
"That was brilliant."
He might have imagined it, but he thought he saw Sherlock's limbs relaxing into the mattress. John felt so strong an urge to touch him then, to hold him, that he turned over. Sentiment.
You need to forget that this happened. Sherlock will.
John closed his eyes but it didn't help. His bed smelled like sex, he could hear Sherlock breathing on the other side. Closing his eyes only made his looping memory of what had just occurred more vivid, sweeter. He felt the mattress shifting underneath him and his heart dropped. Don't get up just yet. Please.
Sherlock's hand draped carefully over his waist. He'd sidled up almost directly behind John, his breath tickling John's neck.
John's eyes opened to the wall in front of him. He felt unbearably full in his chest. Swallowing, he interlaced Sherlock's fingers with his own. Sherlock squeezed his hand back.
