A/N; This little thing was based off of Fever by Adam Lambert…Seriously, if you love Johnlock as much as I do, go listen to it. It describes them perfectly.
For those of you who read every single thing I write (I hope there's at least one or two :P) this and the following oneshot are both taken from my discontinued songfic (discontinued because of the lack of response) and edited just a bit.
Thank you once again for all the reviews, favorites, follows, and everything. You guys really keep me going :D
Oh, and happy belated birthday to Martin Freeman! This oneshot is dedicated to him, mostly because of the title…;)
Ta!
-Anonymoustache
"John?"
"Yes, Sherlock?"
"What does one do at a pub?"
John sighed. "Sherlock. Even you aren't that socially oblivious."
Silence.
John sighed again. "Dance. Order a lot of alcohol. Get drunk. Find a good shag."
Sherlock poked his head out of his room with a confused look on his face. "What does one wear to a pub?"
"Clothes would be a brilliant idea."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, John, idiotic as you seem to think I am sometimes, I am well aware that public nudity is frowned upon."
John threw up his hands in frustration. "Jesus, Sherlock, I don't know! Just wear something besides those stupid suits you always wear, okay?"
Silence.
Then, "My suits aren't stupid."
John grabbed a book from a table nearby and opened it. "Just hurry up, okay?"
Sherlock's head disappeared back into his room. "Why am I going again, John?"
John tried his best to keep his calm. "Because you promised me that for one night you would actually go out and have some good, normal fun that doesn't involve body parts."
John heard Sherlock pause in his dressing. "When did I promise that?"
John smirked. "I believe you were a bit 'tied up' at the moment," he muttered.
He heard Sherlock scoff. "Well, that hardly counts, does it? After all, one can't just tie one's flatmate to their bed and refuse to release them until they promise to refrain from keeping body parts in the ice box, among other things!"
John interrupted. "Very true. However, I think we reached a satisfying conclusion, don't you?"
Silence.
John smirked and went back to his reading.
Half an hour later they were on their way to the pub.
Sherlock had surprised John. The army doctor had expected him to just ignore what John had told him and wear something formal like he always did. However, Sherlock had strutted out of his room looking like he had just walked out of a fashion catalog. Dark denim trousers (God, but those jeans were tight, John thought to himself), white cotton v-neck tee, and a leather jacket that hugged the lithe man in all the right places. He had John's dog tags on a chain around his neck, and on his feet John had been surprised to see a pair of actual black and white converse, practically new.
John himself was wearing a fairly typical outfit. Seeing as they were going to a pub, which would most likely get very warm very quickly, he had forgone the bulky jumpers for a thin black sweater over a red-checked shirt. He had a pair of dark blue jeans and his everyday brown shoes.
Finally, the cab arrived at the small, downtown pub that Sherlock had finally agreed was the only place he would go.
The consulting detective practically leapt out of the car before John, who couldn't figure out why the man was so eager until he saw him walking.
Oh, God, thought John.
This man will be the undoing of me.
John had never been one to leer at anyone's arse, female barista or not. But when Sherlock walked towards that door, all long legs and gently swinging hips and just a bit of pale alabaster skin showing above the waistband of the trousers where his tight tee-shirt had somehow been pulled up into the jacket by the motion of the cab…he knew exactly why Sherlock had been so lenient about going tonight.
It was fairly obvious that Sherlock's main goal this evening was to get laid.
By John.
In a pub.
John stepped out of the cab, eyes narrowing. So that was how he wanted to play it, was it?
Well, fine.
If Sherlock 'The Virgin' Holmes wanted to play sexual tic tac toe with John 'Three Continents' Watson, he would certainly not disappoint him.
Ten minutes later, John found himself sitting at the bar beside Sherlock (who was way too close to John…not that he minded), drinking a beer. Sherlock had already had two shots of vodka, which had interested John to no end. He had never seen Sherlock drink before tonight.
"So, John…" Sherlock looked around, unimpressed. "Is this really all you do at a pub? Drink alcohol and stare at passing waitress's arses?"
John raised his eyebrow in a certain manner that had worked on countless woman (not to mention a few very strange men). "Really, Sherlock? You're staring at their arses?"
Sherlock leaned in close to John. "Why not? You were staring at mine." He grinned at John's awkward look. "Next drink's on me, John."
John sighed and cursed under his breath as Sherlock took another shot. For being called a virgin by the most powerful dominatrix in the world, Sherlock certainly knew what he was doing when it came to this sort of thing.
John ordered a scotch on the rocks and turned to Sherlock. "So…Sherlock," he said in his best seductive voice. "Girls are your thing, then?"
Sherlock laughed uneasily. "No, not really. As you're aware, John, dating in general is not really my area." Sherlock looked casually at his empty shot glass. "However, if the right person were to…convince me…I'm sure I could make an…exception."
Now why did those words sound so dirty coming out of Sherlock's mouth?
No, John, don't think about Sherlock's mouth, that isn't going to help.
Sherlock was definitely winning their unofficial game.
Sherlock threw back another shot (was that his fourth…or his fifth? John couldn't keep track) and grabbed John's hand off the table waaaay too casually for all that it implied. "Come on, John; let's dance."
John followed Sherlock down onto the floor. "I thought you hated dancing," he hissed.
Sherlock turned and began to swing his hips to the music. "Like I said, I make exceptions for certain…interested parties."
Damn. Sherlock really knew what he was doing.
John danced alongside his friend. It had been a while since he had been dancing, and he was, admittedly, a bit rusty. Nowhere near as good as Sherlock, who looked like he had come straight off one of those dancing competitions on the telly.
Sherlock looked different tonight, John realized. What was it? Clothes, obviously…but there was something else. His eyes traveled up and down the man's long, lean body, and then came to rest on Sherlock's face. Something about his facial appearance…
Just then Sherlock's eyes closed momentarily and it clicked in John's brain.
"Sherlock?" he hissed. "Are you wearing eyeliner?"
Sherlock swung in closer to John and began to grind against his hip. "Why? Does it distract you, Dr. Watson?"
John groaned. Oh, Jesus. Sherlock was too good at this. He was beginning to feel like he had lost his touch.
Sherlock's glittering eyelids (gold eyeliner, John realized) tickled John's cheek gently. "Well? What do you think?"
John sucked in a breath. "I think…I think we should probably take this back to Baker Street now." he said throatily.
Sherlock practically purred. "My thoughts exactly."
Half an hour later, the two of them were climbing the stairs to Baker Street while simultaneously snogging the life out of each other.
Sherlock broke off for a moment, gasping for breath. "J-John…"
John smirked and pulled Sherlock towards his bedroom. Sherlock may be a quick study in the seduction part of things, but the next part?
The next part was the reason they called him John 'Three-Continents' Watson.
