By the time they had finished two laps around the room, socializing with the little knots of people scattered here and there, John was both thoroughly aroused and thoroughly glad he wasn't required to hobnob with these sort of people on a regular basis. There was a limit to how much chatting he could stand when his only possible conversation partners were either besuited men with peerage titles after their names or the women half their ages on their arms. John tried to keep his military posture best he could, despite his leg, and stuck close to his Sherlock.
"You're the distraction," Sherlock whispered in his ear during a lull in the introductions. "And you're doing brilliantly."
"Please." John shifted a little closer, trying not to be obvious about it, but he needed something, needed-
"Easy," Sherlock murmured, reading John's distress in his tone, and snuck his hand up the back of John's jacket to run two elegant fingertips firmly down his spine. "Relax. You don't need to do anything but be seen, right now. Watch how they're eyeing you - see the man in the navy suit, there near the windows? He runs half the banks in London. And he's so jealous of me having you that he couldn't even finish our conversation - he excused himself to go get a drink, but he never made it to the bar. Just as far as that alcove, where he's been sulking and eyeing you for the last ten minutes. Blindingly. Jealous. His wife's a switch, not really all that interested in dominance games with him anymore, and he's aching. She's got a sub on the side, someone who works for them - gardener, perhaps, or a handyman. Our banker, though - ooh, he's looking again. Hold still." And then he grabbed John's jaw - rough but not cruel - and brought their lips together.
And oh. Oh. John felt his spine melt under the combined pressure of Sherlock's hand at the small of his back and fingertips capturing his chin and the feel of Sherlock's mouth, Christ his mouth, lips and teeth and a tiny hint of tongue, just enough to make them both want more. The kiss only lasted a few seconds, nothing socially unacceptable, but John was shaking by the time Sherlock let go.
"Watch him walk away," Sherlock whispered deliciously, directly into John's ear. "Watch his gait. He's trying desperately to cover up the fact that he's bloody hard, just from watching me snog you. Look at what you do to him."
John looked. And he'd be lying to himself if the thought of eliciting that reaction in someone - even a complete stranger - wasn't flattering. But it was the fact that it was on Sherlock's behalf - that he was doing everything tonight because his dominant wanted it - which brought the observation from "mildly arousing" to "bloody hot." And it was seeing Sherlock's reaction to his submission, the heat in his eyes and the proud angle of his chin, which kicked "bloody hot" to something absolutely indescribable. John wanted nothing more than to be dragged into some abandoned alcove and snogged senseless, and if that didn't make him feel like an awkward fifteen-year-old -
"John."
He blinked and looked back up at his client. Who had a bloody smirk on his face. Crap.
"I think," Sherlock said slowly, "that we both need a drink. I'm going to go investigate to the last few people I haven't chatted with yet - see that woman in the red dress, with the bifocals? Go bring me something. I'm not picky, as long as it's not too sweet. And then I'm going to pull you off to the side, somewhere we can whisper without anyone overhearing us, and I'll tell you exactly what I plan to do to you when we get home."
It took all John's military training to keep his spine straight and his feet moving as he wove his way through the crowd toward the open bar. He had no idea what his client had in mind, none whatsoever, but the possibilities were enough to have him mostly-hard already. It felt strange to not have pants, too, nothing constricting him or getting in the way of his erection as it did its level best to escape the confines of his trousers-
"Doctor Watson?"
"Hmm?" John started at the hand on his shoulder, only slightly surprised to see Sherlock's brother behind him.
"This way, please. We have a few things to discuss."
"Discussing" things with Mycroft Holmes wasn't really high on John's list of things he wanted to do right at that moment. Quite a long ways below "retrieve drinks" and "get dragged off into a corner by Sherlock Bloody Holmes and listen to him murmur deliciously dirty threats in that seductive voice of his," actually. John raised his hand, the beginnings of a polite rebuff, but Mycroft caught his wrist and growled softly.
"Now, Doctor Watson. Follow me."
Well. Domming someone without their permission - especially a relative stranger - was so rude as to be bordering on unforgivable, but what surprised John even more was the fact that Mycroft's dom voice was . . . lacking? The words were right, the tone was right, but obeying wasn't the compulsion it should have been. Not that he was really free to laugh it off - having extreme submissive tendencies was a royal pain in the arse sometimes, and this was one of them - but John found himself following Mycroft feeling more bemused than bewitched.
They ended up in a largish room away from the main corridor. John's first impression was library, although that didn't feel quite accurate - there were certainly floor-to-ceiling bookcases lining two walls of the room, but the decor was too casual for something so formal. Parlor? Withdrawing room? Did posh people use terms like that anymore? John took a few more steps past the doorway to put some space between himself and Mycroft and decided it was probably easiest to just wait this out. "What do you want?" he asked.
"I want to know how you know Sherlock."
Ah - overbearing brother, then. "I may be wrong, but I believe that's none of your business." It came out rather more casual than John expected, but that was just fine because Sherlock would have appreciated John being rude to his brother anyway. Not carte blanche, of course, but close.
"I see - this is business, isn't it?" Mycroft crossed his arms and leveled a serious look in his direction. "You claim to be a personal escort for hire, yet you've never done this before. And somehow you end up with my brother for your very first client."
John crossed his arms, too, mimicking Mycroft's stance. "Seems that way, yes."
"And you didn't know him before today."
"Again - none of your business."
Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Kneel."
"You do realize that's rude, don't you?" It was taking every ounce of willpower John had not to comply, but he'd be damned if he was going to kneel for that smug git-
"You heard him." A new voice, a different voice. John whirled around and found himself face-to-face with - oh, he hadn't gotten her name, but the collared assistant with the Blackberry. Who, he couldn't fail to notice, was a much more powerful dominant than Mycroft Holmes was."Kneel."
His knees went out from under him. At the last second, John managed to throw himself to the side, landing flat on his stomach instead of on his knees. Little victories. There were footsteps, then a pair of black high heels came frighteningly close to his head and she was nudging his cheek with her toe.
"I believe my employer was asking you some questions about Sherlock," she intoned in a bored voice. "Talk. How did you meet him?"
John bit his lower lip so hard it drew blood. He wasn't going to give in like this, wasn't going to let them use his submissive side to get to his client-
"Mycroft!"
Sherlock's voice made all of them jump - at least, John assumed it did, although he couldn't see more than the lower part of the assistant's shin from his position flat on the floor. More footsteps, almost stomping in anger, and then Sherlock was there and John twisted his torso to see better and Christ, Sherlock's eyes were like liquid fire as he stared down his brother.
"Sit in that chair and keep your mouth shut, Mycroft," Sherlock growled.
The man hesitated for a second, two, then slowly and deliberately paced over to the chair and sat. Sensing a pending sibling confrontation, John started to sit up-
"No," Sherlock said, his inflection flat, and actually pressed his foot down between John's shoulderblades. Just over part of his scar. John froze, torn between horrified fascination at the scene unfolding before him and mortification that even just this much from Sherlock had him so bloody hard.
"I am furious with each and every one of you," Sherlock said, each syllable clipped and precise. "Mycroft, you are being an insufferable prat and I won't stand for it. Anthea, you should know better than to play with my toys. You both ought to be more worried about the anticipated assassination attempt tonight - an event which prompted you to actually ask for my help, Mycroft, I'll have you remember."
"He's not what he seems," Mycroft countered, not quite as stridently as his brother but combative nonetheless. "The report was that you picked him up in a brothel this afternoon - really, Sherlock? You're entrusting this operation to a complete stranger?"
"As always, you see but don't observe." Sherlock replied. "John has been my personal submissive for nearly a month now. Or did you think I loaned him one of my own suits for tonight? One I had tailored eight inches short for absolutely no reason?"
"You could have chosen an escort based on the size of the suit you already had," Mycroft countered.
"Ah, yes, so I chose a size which would have been too short for the majority of British males. Do use your head, brother dear."
John forced his body to relax under the weight of Sherlock's foot. This was obviously something well above his head - figuratively as well as literally - and it's not like they wanted his input, anyway. It was odd that his suit fit him so well, but maybe Mycroft had a point?
But then it didn't matter, because the weight on his back was gone and Sherlock was nudging him over onto his side with the toe of his shoe. John blinked up at his dominant - his client - and tried to make sense of the stern expression on Sherlock's face. Anger, frustration, and . . . resignation?
"Don't think I've forgiven you, either," Sherlock said coldly. "You know better than to disobey me like that - when I send you for drinks, I expect you to retrieve drinks and not take side trips to go submit to other doms. Clearly you need a reminder."
John swallowed hard. Surely Sherlock couldn't hold him responsible for his brother's actions? It's not like John wanted to be dragged away from the party-
"Mycroft, I fear I will need a few minutes to reprimand my submissive." The stress on "my" was subtle, but obvious. "I assume you have somewhere else to be? Some cake to eat, perhaps?"
"Not at present, no," Mycroft replied, his tone as bland as Sherlock's. "You wish to convince me that Doctor Watson has been your submissive for the past month and just coincidentally living at Madame Adler's brothel in the meantime? Prove it."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and heaved a dramatic sigh. "Always the voyeur, aren't you? Fine, stay and watch. I won't tolerate any interference, though." His gaze dropped down to John, his expression impassive. "I trust it will be blindingly obvious that John and I have a history together. Do be of some use, though, brother dear, and lend me your riding crop?"