Thanks for staying with me, everybody! Almost there... And a special thanks to all of you who have taken the time to review! I have to say-many of the comments have made me smile :D
Obligatory Disclaimer—I don't own Sherlock or the Weather Girls' song It's Raining Men. (Though I did listen to it on repeat while I wrote this chapter and giggled the whole time...)
John arrived at the club early that night. Sherlock had told him to go on ahead, saying he'd meet him there later after he ran an errand.
As suspected, there were thirteen black-tipped roses waiting for him on the dressing room table. He sighed in relief. Even though the flowers were an omen of death, it meant that the killer most definitely would be there tonight and this whole bloody affair was almost over. That, and John had plans for Sherlock he was executing that very evening.
He grinned wolfishly as he thought about those plans. Sherlock was not as immune to the messy, emotional sides of life as he pretended to be. The doctor had the feeling that all it required was a slight push on his end to send the genius tumbling down the proverbial rabbit hole.
It was obvious that the killer had focused specifically on gay males who flaunted their sexuality openly. While the consulting detective was sure that the first two murders were probably more of a crime of passion, clearly the suspect had it out for blond, gay, stripper types.
So it was with all that in mind that the dynamic duo had decided that the best course of action was to entice the murderer with a show. During his solo act, John was to single out Sherlock as Eric Saab had done the night of his unfortunate demise. The detective had wanted to practice the interactive part of the dance together, but the doctor had refused. For what he had in mind for his own private agenda, John wanted Sherlock to react spontaneously. He didn't want the genius to rehearse his response—because it would have also given away what John had planned. After this, they would either end up in bed together or not speaking to one another. And the doctor was fairly certain it was going to be the former.
The other dancers slowly started to filter in while he sat there in contemplation. Rhys and CJ waived and called out a greeting when they walked in. Both were pretty decent guys and John had no trouble picturing himself actually being friends with them after this case was finished. He had shared a little of his past dancing experiences with them and they had gone out of their way to make this experience more comfortable for him than it would have been otherwise.
Rhys was a hulking brute of a man, build like a brick wall. He was taller than Sherlock and had a full beard and moustache which he wore in an old fashioned style reminiscent of medieval times. He also had flaming red hair that, when unbraided, reached down to the middle of his back. His shtick was a Highlander routine, which was really no surprise since he was very clearly Scottish—all he had to do was open his mouth and it left no doubt.
CJ was about John's height and had auburn locks in which his fringe was grown out and combed to hang down over the right side of face. He was a surfer, imported straight from California. He had told the doctor that he was studying at the University of London. John had to smile at that—of all the institutions in America, the kid had decided that he would rather be half way around the world from his home. "I wanted to be anywhere but there. Britain seemed logical, since I didn't have learn or know a whole other language," CJ had said. "So—here I am!" He remembered those days…although John didn't feel the need to actually leave the country in order to go to uni. The army had provided that for him.
The other men were soon joking and making jabs at one another as they lazily started prepping for the night. John joined in on occasion. This part was what had made it easier to be here, the comradery between the other men. They had welcomed John into the fold with open arms.
Mike Channing, the manager popped his head through the stage curtain a few minutes later.
"Oi! You slackers! Come on! We've got a number to rehearse! What the hell do I pay you tossers for?" he chided. "Oh and John—Sherlock's here. Dropping off a prop for you to use in this group act."
John hopped up and decided to use the hallway entrance, knowing that his flat mate was probably waiting for him there. And sure enough, the genius was there, just outside the curtained-off hallway.
"Here, John," Sherlock said as he handed his blogger an umbrella. "You'll need this prop for your group number later."
The doctor eyed the rain gear suspiciously. "Sherlock…I'm not using that. And where did it come from? You didn't nick it from Mycroft, did you?"
"Of course not, John," the detective stated with an odd look on his face.
"Oh, God! You did, didn't you?! He's going to kill me when he finds out!"
"What does it matter where it came from?" Sherlock asked in a huff. "You need it for the number! Didn't the manager tell you about the music selection you're dancing to, John?"
Crossing his arms over his chest, the good doctor glared daggers at his flat mate. "I refuse to debase myself to such a level by dry humping an umbrella—which may or may not be your brother's—while prancing around to that ridiculous song!"
Sherlock just smiled enigmatically at him.
Later—after rehearsing the very same number that required that damn umbrella—the dancers retreated back into their dressing room to finalize their initial prep for the evening. Several of them made trips out to the bar, or to chat with Mike before the Friday crowd started to filter in.
John was sitting on the stool in front of his dressing table, bending over to apply lotion to his calves when Rhys made a rather loud entrance.
"Ooh! Looks like you're popular tonight, Johnny Boy!" he called out in a singsong voice.
The other dancers started whooping and clapping, jeering at him good-naturedly. What now? The doctor thought as a finished his task. It wasn't until Rhys stopped directly in front of him that he understood. He glanced up to see the other man was holding out another bouquet of rose for him. He blushed profusely, knowing exactly who this was from. It sent a thrill through him and caused an odd fluttering in his stomach. Had anyone asked him before tonight, he would have sworn in front of judge and jury that Sherlock Holmes did not have a romantic bone in his body. It was nice to be proven wrong on this occasion.
He took the proffered bouquet and found the little burgundy florist card hidden among the leaves. Inked in silver pen was Sherlock's signature scrawl with the following sentiment: As a conductor of light, you are unbeatable.
John couldn't help but laugh. It had been ages ago that Sherlock had echoed that statement to him. This only served to solidify his decision to finally just go for it. He had come to terms with his feelings for the daft genius some time ago and after that dream he had this morning, John had to know what it was actually like to kiss his flat mate.
"They from your detective friend who's trying to solve the murders?" CJ asked as he eyed the roses curiously.
With a fond smile, the doctor replied, "Yes, actually. They are. Didn't think he had it in him."
"He fancies you," Rhys declared, smirking.
"No—well—I don't know if he does. I'm pretty sure he does—but I'm not a hundred percent sure. We're mates and all, but he's rather private about these things," John stammered.
"Nope—he does. My sister's a florist. Drilled into me the meanings of every damn color of roses out there. This and the number of 'em says he fancies you," countered the other man, his smirk stretching into a wolfish grin.
His heart hammered painfully in his chest as he stared up at the Scotsman. "What does it mean?"
Rhys contemplated him seriously for a second before answering, "That—I think—you should ask him about."
Like hell, John thought as he grabbed his mobile up from the table. Thank God for smartphones! It took him only a minute to find the website he was looking for. No—he can't…can he?! Surely Rhys was wrong… John knew that Sherlock had some sort of feelings for him—but this…this was on a whole other level…
And knowing the genius like he did, there was no doubt in his mind that Sherlock knew exactly what the meaning and symbolism was behind his choices.
Sherlock smirked to himself and whipped out his phone, firing off a text to Lestrade.
John is set, ready to go undercover. If you would like to catch your killer, I suggest you meet me at Midnight Equilibrium at half ten. ~SH
Hang on—what is John doing undercover?! ~GL
Lestrade, don't ask stupid questions. It's beneath you. John's involvement was necessary. ~SH
…….. ~GL
Honestly! He's the killer's type! I can't do it—too recognizable. Had to be John. ~SH
Hope the 2 of you know what you're doing. Will be there. ~GL
Greg sighed and pocketed his phone. "Slight change of plans, luv. Seems we have to do a bit of surveillance to do first."
"Oh?" his companion asked, intrigued.
Sherlock smiled up at Lestrade. "Ah, Detective Inspector! Just in time!"
Greg mumbled something in greeting as he fell into the vacant seat next to the tall genius. It was then that Sherlock recognized the man who had been trailing behind the DI.
"Mycroft! What the hell are you doing here?" the younger Holmes demanded.
Rolling his eyes, Mycroft sat down beside Greg. "Well, Sherlock, dear brother, we were on a date until we were so rudely interrupted by your summons. You really must work on your timing—it leaves something to be desired."
That left Sherlock sputtering in outrage. "How did I not know this?!"
The DI and the elder Holmes exchanged a glace before Greg replied, "Not sure how you could have missed it. John has known about us since practically the beginning—hell, he's the one that gave me the push to go after your brother in the first place! Didn't he tell you?"
"No," Sherlock answered sullenly. He was going to have a very long discussion with his blogger as soon as this case was over about the sharing of vital information.
He continued to silently fume until the first strands of the music started over the loud speakers. He smirked once he recognized the song John seemed to be so dispassionate about. It really was quite ridiculous, he had to admit, but it was incredibly amusing at the same time.
John stepped back out onto the stage, pilfered brolly in hand. If he didn't die of humiliation first, he was absolutely going to kill Sherlock for getting him into this. He sighed internally as that song started. He plastered a fake smile onto his face and just went with it for the sake of the case and danced like his life depended on it…
It's raining men! Hallelujah! It's raining men amen!
I'm gonna go out to run and let myself get absolutely soaking wet!
Sherlock licked his dry lips with the tip of his tongue. Raining men, indeed. Was it him or was it just too warm in the club as John's hips swayed to the beat of the music?
He was jolted out of his contemplation of John's hips when Mycroft abruptly asked, "Is that my brolly? Sherlock—did you steal my umbrella for a striptease act?!"
"Sod off, Mycroft! We needed it for the case! It's not like you don't have others."
"That's beside the point!" the politician snapped angrily. "That one is my favorite. It also happened to be a gift from Mummy! And now you have gone and defiled it by having your boyfriend dry hump it in front of a hormonal raging mass of women!"
"John is not my boyfriend!"
"Out of all that, that's what you chose to focus on?"
"Boys—enough! Please," Greg pleaded, trying valiantly to suppress laughter. "We're here to try and catch a killer, not to debate John and Sherlock's relationship status."
Sherlock gave a curt nod of agreement to the DI's words and turned his attention back to the stage. He was pissed that his brother had made him miss part of John's tantalizing performance.
The plot monkeys send their undying love to their wonderful auntie Captain Evil! When she suggested that Sherlock should steal Mycroft's umbrella, I nearly choked to death laughing at the thought of it. The bickering we reenacted over that scene between the Holmes brothers was quite amusing. Though my sister kept looking at us like we had finally lost it...perhaps we have!
And I LOVE It's Raining Men—it's really an absolutely ridiculous song, but it never fails to make me smile. Ever. It reminds me of certain gay nightclubs in Philly... xD If you've never been to one, that is your homework assignment for this weekend—fieldtrip to your respective gay (male) club! I promise you that you won't regret it ;D
