My deepest thanks go out to ENTWolf. Drunken Strawberries, JGHB, HilsonAddict, Akochan97, DarkDamson , reflectiveless, HarmonyLover , Flavy, The Lord Writer, Elijah Carroway, dana-san, snapletonius, ilovebooksandmusic, and TakingItOutOnTheWall for your reviews. Many thanks also go to everyone who has followed and favorited this story; your support is much appreciated.
Thank you very much to my beta, Helena Chauby for her help with editing.
Thank you also to Lady of Clunn for her careful BritPicking.
And, naturally, thanks go to my flatmate, sounding board, and own personal Sherlock, Geoff, for all your input and guidance.
FYI, if anyone is interested, this is the "Lama Song" it's easily located on YouTube.
Okay, on to the story:
Chapter 10: The Rabbit Hole
John strolled down the steps towards the sitting room, his eyes blurry from looking at invitation samples. It was mind-boggling how complicated a simple task could become. He carried a stack of samples under his arm with his top five preferred choices on top, awaiting Sherlock's vote.
As mind numbing as the task of reviewing invitations had been, it hadn't been as bad as picking out the song for their first dance. That had been two hours of internet hell, ending with John proclaiming that he would have said yes to the "lama song" if it got Sherlock off of YouTube. It was at that point that Sherlock had ushered John out of the room to get some rest. John had been more than happy to leave the search to Sherlock. There was enough wedding planning to go around, that was certain. They still had to pick out their formal wear.
As he rounded the corner into the sitting room, John to an abrupt halt. "Pease tell me that's not for the wedding," John groaned, taking in the sight of Sherlock on John's laptop engrossed in a flagrant BDSM website.
Sherlock didn't even glance up. "Afternoon John, any progress on the invitation front?"
John stepped slowly towards the consulting detective. "Sherlock," he began again, "What is that?"
Sherlock glanced at him with one eyebrow raised in amusement. "Really, John, I didn't think I'd have to explain this particular sexual interest to you."
John glared and crossed his arms. "Sherlock." It was a warning.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, and pouted. "You're no fun." A few clicks later and he'd brought up his e-mail. "Mycroft informs me that Albert and Trevor are having a joint stag party at 'Club Wickedness' tomorrow. I thought we might crash the party."
John opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Why?" he sputtered.
Sherlock adopted his 'thinking' pose as he stared at the computer. "I want to make sure we're not overlooking the BDSM factor in the recent string of murders, and I especially want to know that we're not overestimating our killer." A shrug. "It makes sense to be there just in case."
John sat down in his chair, across from the sofa where Sherlock had planted himself. "What, exactly, are you going to make me wear?"
"Oh, your old military fatigues should do just fine," Sherlock replied, typing away as though he was composing the guest list. Knowing Sherlock, he might have been composing the guest list while perusing BDSM websites.
"You said we were going to crash the party?" John asked, still a bit uneasy, "How are we going to manage that? Security will be a nightmare."
Sherlock pointed at John's laptop, barely pausing in his typing. "Writing to Mycroft right now to make sure he arranges it. He's going to meet us at the Yard in an hour to coordinate with Lestrade."
It was John's turn to raise an eyebrow. "You're willing coordinating with your brother and Greg? Not running headlong into danger, and explaining yourself later?"
Sherlock paused, pressed 'send' with a flourish, then grinned at John over the laptop. "I think I've given you enough scares for the foreseeable future."
John continued to look sideways at his devious flatmate until he came out with the rest of it.
"Plus," Sherlock finally capitulated, "I want to see if I can arrange Mycroft and Lestrade becoming lovers."
John blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"I want to see," Sherlock explained more slowly, "If I can influence Mycroft and Lestrade into becoming lovers."
John blinked again. "Why?"
Sherlock let out a long suffering sigh, and gestured dramatically with one hand, "To get one over on my brother, to see if this will get him out of my hair. They both seem equally lonely, and, despite what my brother will tell you, susceptible to sentiment."
"What, exactly, are you going to do?" John asked, running his hand over his face in exasperation.
"Nothing you would've been able to notice if I hadn't told you. Mycroft actually observes where most others merely see. No, I'm simply going to bring certain things to Mycroft's attention, and see if he acts on them."
John peeked out from between his fingers. "Such as?"
Sherlock continuing smiling. "Greg hasn't been doing well since his divorce. Lives alone, in a bare bones flat, keeps to himself, besides an occasional drink with friends-yourself included-, throws himself into his work, skipping meals, not eating enough. Worst case scenario is that Mycroft ignores what I've told him, and no one's the wiser."
John sighed, and shook his head. As Sherlock 'experiments' went, this one seemed mostly harmless.
"Just don't handcuff them together," John muttered, grimacing when Sherlock's smile widened. "No, Sherlock, no. Behave."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and closed the laptop. "You are no fun."
"Right," John began sarcastically, "I'm no fun, because I'm game to pretend to be your boyfriend, to marry you, to crash the BDSM stag party of the cousin of the Queen because you say so, but I won't let you handcuff your brother to a detective inspector of Scotland Yard."
"Exactly," Sherlock replied, rising and moving for the door. "Come along John."
John rolled his eyes, but followed.
"It is quite unusual for you to call me, dear brother," Mycroft drawled as he approached them outside the yard. "Care to inform me of the occasion?"
Sherlock looked gravely up at Lestrade's window. "Lestrade's been worked a bit thin lately." He paused, squinted, and frowned. "Slept in his office again." Sherlock sighed and looked back to his brother. "I thought it would be better to present a united front."
If John didn't know Sherlock so well, he would've missed the small quirk to his lips when Mycroft looked up to Lestrade's window and frowned.
"I can see the wisdom in that," Mycroft conceded, turning to look back at Sherlock and John. "This does have the potential to become...complicated."
They moved together into the building.
"God, you've brought Mycroft," Lestrade groaned, leaning his forehead against the palm of his hand, "This is bound to be interesting."
Mycroft looked slightly miffed. "I am hardly the harbinger of bad news, Gregory."
Lestrade chuckled, and shook his head, "No, but you're always up to something, usually something big."
Mycroft wasn't sure if this mollified him, or irritated him further, and he opted to remain silent while Sherlock explained his plans to the detective inspector.
For his part, Lestrade listened quietly, and only frowned a few times. "It sounds like you'll only need a car or two of officers in the area as backup."
Sherlock nodded. "That seems about right. It's a slim chance that something will turn up, but I don't want to take any chances."
Lestrade's expression grew dark. "Neither do I; this bastard's ruined enough families." He thought for a moment before adding, "Do you want a wire?"
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "It will hardly be necessary. If anything happens I'll have enough time to text you."
"And you will text me either way, right?" Lestrade asked seriously, "Instead of leaving my people out there all bloody night?"
"Yes, Lestrade," Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Lord knows your blood pressure is high enough already."
Lestrade's eye twitched. "My blood pressure is fine," he hissed.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "If you say so." He twirled around and began making for the exit. "I'll be in touch," he called over his shoulder. He even managed not to giggle until John and he were safely in a cab. If all went well, Mycroft would be eating his words about being removed from sentiment before long.
"Shouldn't you be getting along too?" Lestrade asked, looking up at Mycroft from his position behind his desk. "Don't you have some foreign country to terrorise?"
Mycroft glanced up from his phone, where he was texting. "Not at the moment," he mumbled.
"Then, what are you doing here?" Lestrade asked, "And why are you texting? Sherlock says you never text."
Amusement glittered in Mycroft's eyes for a moment. "I do, when the situation calls for it." Mycroft finally looked up from his phone. "You are an extremely stubborn man, Gregory, but you are now working in collaboration with my team. That means your liabilities, become our liabilities."
Greg straightened in his chair. "What do you mean your team? This is my case, Mycroft. And what liabilities?"
"It was, until the killer decided to go international, and after a member of the Royal Family besides."
Mycroft's lovely assistant entered the room then, dropped off a smallish white paper bag on Greg's desk, and, after Mycroft gave her a brief nod, left. Turning back to Lestrade, Mycroft continued, "Not eating, and sleeping in your office are liabilities. I push my people hard, but not to the point they need concealer to cover the dark circles under their eyes."
Lestrade's hand lifted to his cheek, and he glowered at Mycroft.
Mycroft leaned towards Greg with a meaningful expression. "My brother has enough bad habits, without other people picking them up." Mycroft gestured towards the bag with his chin. "Eat, and get some rest tonight."
Greg looked suspiciously towards the white paper bag. "Is that your lunch?"
Mycroft shrugged. "Inconsequential."
Greg narrowed his gaze. "No it's not, Mycroft. Sit down."
Mycroft raised a surprised eyebrow at Greg. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," said Greg defiantly, "If you really want me to eat, sit down."
Mycroft glared, but lowered himself to the chair in front of Greg's desk. "I am not accustomed to receiving orders," he grumbled ominously.
"And yet, you're taking them," Greg quipped, riffling through the bag, and pulling out some kind of sandwich. Thankfully, it was already cut in half.
"You are surprisingly insubordinate," Mycroft observed stiffly, as Greg pulled away the plastic packing surrounding the sandwich.
"But I'm still here," Greg noted, offering half the wrap to Mycroft. "You eat too."
Another raised eyebrow. "Pardon?"
Greg rolled his eyes. "Your hearing is not deficient, Mycroft. Take the bloody sandwich." Mycroft did, but slowly. "See? Was that so hard?" Greg offered a quick grin, before biting into his portion of the wrap.
Mycroft finished chewing, and swallowing before he answered. "I believe in picking my battles."
Greg snorted. "Please. Sherlock's got it in your head somehow that you need to lose weight, and I bet your schedule doesn't afford you the best eating habits either. If you're going to lecture me about mine, be prepared to follow through with your own actions."
Greg meant it too, Mycroft didn't need to lose weight. He might have at one point, and he certainly could if he so chose, but at the moment Mycroft was pleasantly overweight. Greg didn't like it when people unnecessarily maligned their own bodies.
Mycroft looked a bit surprised at his comment, and Greg smiled. If he was going to be 'forced' into lunch, he was damn well going to try to enjoy himself.
John finished buttoning up his uniform, and looked himself over in the mirror. Running all over London with Sherlock had helped keep him in good shape; his fatigues still fit him perfectly. He gave himself a nod, and went down the steps to find Sherlock.
John's breath caught in his throat. Sherlock was leaning against the windows of 221 B Baker Street in tight leather trousers, with his god damn purple shirt sinfully untucked. Sherlock turned towards him, and John could see that Sherlock had unbuttoned the first few buttons of his shirt, showing a bit of his chest.
A smirk curled at the edges of Sherlock's lips as their eyes met. "You look nice,"
John swallowed, and nodded. "So do you."
Sherlock pushed off the wall, and strode slowly towards John. "You have your dog tags?" Sherlock drawled.
John nodded, pulling them out. Sherlock hooked a finger underneath the chain, and tugged, forcing John to lean closer; keeping him off balance. John's eyes widened. His face was millimeters from Sherlock's, their breath mingling. Sherlock's eyes bore into John, searching, pinning him there.
"This will probably be a light party on the BDSM aspect," Sherlock began, his baritone voice making John shiver, "However, should we find ourselves in an unexpected situation, can I count on you to follow my lead?"
It was unnerving to have Sherlock repeatedly actually asking for permission to rope John into his schemes. John wanted to put Sherlock more at ease. He had said he was all in, and he meant it. "I've always trusted you, Sherlock," John murmured, "and I always will." Following his instincts, John knelt in front of Sherlock. The consulting detective lowered his hand, but did not let go of John's dog tags. The chain pulled at his neck a bit, forcing John to look up. He met Sherlock's surprised blue gaze with his own. "I'll go where this goes; just lead the way."
Sherlock was very rarely stunned, and yet, somehow, cute, cuddly, stable, normal John Hamish Watson never ceased to amaze him. John really was always, always there for him. Sherlock was no longer surprised that he had fallen for such a man, just that it took him so long. Sherlock fisted his hands in John's shirt, yanked him to his feet, and crashed their lips together.
John moaned softly, and leaned into the kiss, swiping his tongue lightly over Sherlock's full bottom lip. Sherlock's tongue pushed back against his, insistent, forceful. John ran his hands along Sherlock's sides, pulling him closer into the bruising kiss. When Sherlock pulled back slightly, John chased him, crushing their lips together again; running his tongue along Sherlock's lips and teeth, into the hot cavern of his mouth.
Sherlock pushed John backwards until they collided with the desk, the impact forcing their mouths apart, panting into each other. Sherlock leaned back slowly, reluctant to let go of his blogger, but more terrified of what he might do if he didn't stop now. "Well then," Sherlock began, raising his eyebrow slightly, "I do believe we have a party to crash." Sherlock whirled about, and strode for the door. "Come, John."
A small smile quirked on John's lips as he replied, "Yes, Sherlock."
The party was loud. John could feel the music thumping in his breastbone as Sherlock tugged him through the crowd by his dog tags. John tried to scan the crowd, but, if he was being honest, watching Sherlock slither through the crowd in front of him was more than a little distracting. Every time he saw the fabric of Sherlock's shirt slide over his skin John's hands itched to slide his hands under that purple cloth, and touch the skin underneath.
Sherlock steered them through the mass of people, towards an abandoned booth in the corner of the club. Sherlock seated himself on the edge of the booth, facing out, towards the crowd. He reached up and grasped John's shoulders, turning him to face the crowd as well, before pushing down on John's shoulders and forcing him to kneel. John knelt at Sherlock's feet, wrapped one arm around Sherlock's calves, and leaned his head into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock 'hmmed' in contentment as he began to rub John's scalp through his short hair.
They must have made quite the picture of dominance and submission, because they garnered a few stares, but no one approached. This was good, it left them time to scan the crowd, and speak to each other.
The lighting was dim, but still bright enough that they could make out most of the club. People were dancing and chatting. Some were in poses similar to Sherlock and John, and most people wore some sort of suggestive and/or revealing outfit. Still, all in all, it felt like a BDSM 'light' party. There were no 'scenes' set up, and, while some sported whips or floggers, no one was actually using them. There was a somewhat more relaxed, and festive air than John had expected. Probably because it was, at its heart, still a stag party.
The couple of honour was easily spotted on the dance floor. They were about the same height. Albert had short blond hair and Trevor had light brown hair, slightly longer than his fiancés. John recognized them from pictures that Sherlock had him review, but they were also easy to pick out because Albert was dressed entirely in white leather, while Trevor was dressed entirely in red. Both colors of the Tudor rose, if you were a student of history. And when one lived with Sherlock Holmes, one became a student on a myriad of subjects, whether one wanted to, or not.
"I did not expect to see so many happily married couples here tonight," Sherlock murmured, leaning over John, so that only he could hear.
John shifted his head so that he could gaze up at Sherlock. "Is it the number of couples, or the 'happy marriage' part that surprises you the most?"
Sherlock's lips quirked briefly with amusement. "You know me well." Sherlock looked out over the crowd again, fingers moving over the crown of John's head. "Couples never surprise me. People seem driven towards each other, latching on with unwarranted desperation to strangers they barely know. And still they are shocked and hurt when they fail to build something meaningful."
"All hearts are broken," John murmured sadly.
Sherlock nodded. "All hearts are broken, John, but not all hearts dare to love. For all the married people walking around, love, as people claim to think of it, is quite rare."
John arched to look up at Sherlock again, forgetting the crowd for a moment. "What do you mean?"
Sherlock glanced down at John for a moment before continuing. "What most people find themselves in is chemically, and behaviorally, no different from lust. Those 'butterflies' people are so obsessed with do not last perpetually. It hardly takes a scientist to tell you that the longest lasting fires have a slow burn."
John smiled, resting his head on Sherlock's lap again, listening to his rumbling, baritone voice.
"To love someone, the way most people talk about, requires a shift in perspective from those first 'butterflies,' and more faith than most people have. It also requires work. People have this ridiculous notion about 'happily ever after' as though once they arrive at a certain point in their relationship, it will be maintained without further effort." Sherlock snorted derisively. "That's as absurd as expecting a human to develop gills if they stay in the water long enough."
John turned his face into Sherlock's leg and chuckled. How he could sound so romantic and so analytical at the same time, John would never know.
"Mummy even has this ridiculous saying about love," Sherlock continued. "She says that if you marry someone, it should be someone who makes you laugh."
"And what do you say about love, Sherlock," John asked, looking up and leaning his head into the consulting detectives long fingers as he caressed the side of John's face.
Sherlock blinked slowly before lowering his gaze to look into John's eyes. His voice was deep and comforting as he spoke. "I maintain my stance that the chemistry to love is incredibly simple and very destructive." Sherlock's fingers were caressing John's face again-he couldn't stop himself. Perfect example to his point. He was here, trying to make a break in the case, and he could barely concentrate.
Sherlock forced himself to look up at the crowd before he spoke again, sliding his fingers over John's neck. "And you John?" he asked before he could quash the impulse to speak. "What is your stance on the matter?"
John stifled the urge to giggle again. Trust Sherlock to call love 'the matter.' John wondered for a moment if Sherlock's insistence on love being destructive was out of his own observations...or of fear.
John leaned his temple against Sherlock's thigh and thought about the question. "It's not about finding a perfect person," John agreed with Sherlock's earlier statements, "It's about seeing, really seeing a person for who they are."
Another derisive snort. "By your estimation, I am in love with everyone," Sherlock drawled.
Laughter burst forth before John could stop himself. He knew Sherlock cared about others a hell of a lot more than he would ever admit to, but elevating it to love was ridiculous. "Well, it's more than that. There would need to be those 'butterflies' you speak of, and then the person has to choose that's what they want. They may not be able to help the butterflies, but they don't have to stay, or work at it. As you said, not working at it will often bring things to an end quickly. But, if two people really saw each other, felt that affection, chose to stay, and chose to work at it, I think they could build something really beautiful."
Sherlock brought his whole hand down to caress the back of John's neck. It was a primal, possessive gesture that said more than he felt was safe to put into words.
John pushed back into the touch and closed his eyes, just feeling. And then he felt Sherlock stiffen. Opening his eyes, John tracked Sherlock's eyes to a couple, swaying together on the dance floor. One man was tall with short black hair and green eyes. He was built like a rugby player. The other man was more than a head shorter with choppy brown hair falling over his grey eyes. The shorter man was wiry, like Sherlock, but John could see compact muscles rippling under his skin.
John pursed his lips in thought, scanning their hands. He squinted and caught a brief gleam in the dim lighting. "They're married?" he asked.
"Happily, for three years. Look to the far wall."
John scanned slowly in the dim light, and saw a cloaked figure who appeared to be studying the couple on the dance floor. John and Sherlock were silent now, discreetly watching the couple, and the cloaked figure as Sherlock's fingers danced across the skin of John's neck.
The couple danced for a while, some fast songs, and some slow ones. For a moment John wondered if this would all lead to nothing. Then a thumping, sexual beat pulsed through the speakers, and the couple's dancing whet from sweet to explicit. The dark-haired man pulled the shorter man flush against his body, and gyrated against him. The shorter brunet writhed against his partner, tossing his head back. The taller man smirked, and dipped his head to suck and nibble at his husband's neck. The shorter brunet's mouth opened, but neither John nor Sherlock could hear anything over the music.
The taller man pulled back, and seemed to whisper something in the shorter man's ear. The shorter brunet nodded, and was promptly lead through the crowd, by his hand. The cloaked figure watched the couple go, waiting until they were nearly at the door to follow them. Sherlock stood, yanking John to his feet by his dog tags. John followed the rough gesture, stumbling along after the consulting detective as they made their way through the crowd.
Once they were outside, Sherlock released his dog tags and scanned the street, just in time to see a cab pull away. Sherlock immediately hailed a cab, and they clamored into it. "We're following our friends to another party," Sherlock explained, pulling John into his lap, before continuing in a slow, sensual drawl, "Please don't lose them."
Whether Sherlock had charmed or intimidated the cabbie, John wasn't sure, but the cabbie took off after the other two cabs, staying close. With any luck, this cab would appear just like any other, and they wouldn't arouse suspicion. Even if they did, it was no matter, Sherlock wasn't one to give up a chase.
John followed the press of Sherlock's insistent fingers as they guided his head to Sherlock's shoulder. One of Sherlock's arms slithered over John's lap and around his hip, holding him in place. John shivered when he felt the fingers of Sherlock's other hand slip underneath his shirt to caress the bare skin of his back. He really liked that; Sherlock must have noticed.
John assumed they were maintaining the guise of a BDSM couple touring the clubs. It made sense. Their cabbie might have seen the couple and the cloaked figure they were following get into their cabs.
The drive was short, but as they arrived Sherlock pressed a sucking kiss to John's neck to delay their exit from the cab. This allowed him to watch the couple scramble up the steps, and into the unmarked building; the cloaked figure followed shortly afterwards.
"Oi, you two, getting out or what?" The cabbie asked, his eyes looking everywhere but Sherlock and John.
Sherlock pulled away from John's neck with a wet, sucking sound. "Come along, John," he murmurred in a deep, gravely tone that made John shiver. John slid off Sherlock's lap to allow him to get out. For once, Sherlock paid. It must have been part of this dominant disguise he was putting on.
John turned to scan the building, and felt his chest clench painfully. Was this another club? It wasn't marked... could this be the couple's home? John raced up the stairs as the cab sped away, ignoring Sherlock's voice calling after him. Maybe this couple was close to Albert and Trevor? If this was supposed to be some sort of side-kill or warning, John didn't want to be too late to stop it. John threw himself against the doors to the building forcing them open...
The lighting was dim and muddled because of the intermittent strobes of bright light and coloured lasers mingling in the smoky air. John didn't think anyone was smoking tobacco...or anything else, it smelled more like a smoke machine. The bright strobe flashes revealed images of the house like bursts of lightning. Here John saw people dancing in tight leather. There was a table where half the people were sitting and the other half were kneeling by the chairs. A bit further back, dancers in cages wriggled enticingly against their bars, with outfits that left little to the imagination.
John's sudden entrance had caused a few people look up at him in surprise, and he felt his mouth go dry. So much for subtle.
"John!"
John turned towards the sound of Sherlock's voice, and felt a vicious blow land across his cheek. John staggered backwards, clutching the side of his face, wincing against the sudden sting.
"Remember your place!" Sherlock hissed, and John's eyes widened in understanding even as he sank to his knees and bowed his head. This could work as a cover; they might be able to find the couple and the cloaked figure they were after.
"I'm sorry, Master," John murmurred demurely. He was glad he was facing the floor, because he couldn't quite hide the sour look that crossed his face. Sherlock may blow him away in so many ways, but John had still always felt like they were equal partners in their adventures. Still, the truth of their dynamic didn't matter right now, they were in the middle of a chase.
Sherlock's black boots came into view, and John felt a finger hook under his chin, pulling his gaze up to Sherlock's. Sherlock really was an amazing actor. John saw no apology in his face, just a hard stare.
"You will pay for your...little display," Sherlock drawled.
John swallowed, but otherwise remained perfectly still. "Yes, Master," he repeated.
Sherlock caressed the side of his face, but John felt the bite of nails over his bruising cheek. He winced. "One more outburst," Sherlock murmured in a tone that was part drawl, part hiss, "and we will leave!"
Sherlock's fingers left his face, and John let his chin fall back to his chest. He couldn't see, because he didn't dare look up, but Sherlock's quick thinking seemed to have restored order. John felt the minutes tick by as he knelt, and he hoped that Sherlock was scanning the crowd. They hadn't been far behind the couple and the cloaked figure...
John heard Sherlock snap his fingers and order, "Your hands, John."
John lifted his hands together as though he were bound at the wrist, and kept his head down. He felt Sherlock grasp both wrists in one hand, and tug John to his feet. "Follow me," Sherlock commanded, and John did.
John thought it best to keep his eyes down for now, so he couldn't tell where they were going. That was probably for the best anyway; this club was much darker than the last one. The flashing lasers and strobe lights made it hard to see, and John knew Sherlock could see better than he could in dim light.
John felt them go through a doorway, and it instantly seemed darker, quieter. John looked up through his lashes and, when they seemed to be mostly alone, he dared to raise his head.
"Did you see something?" he asked quietly.
Sherlock nodded, released John's wrists, and held his hand up for silence. John complied, straining his own ears as well. The music was muffled in this hallway, but John wasn't sure that Sherlock, even with his keen hearing, would be able to pick up anything important. Still, they waited, and listened while the minutes ticked by.
A disappointed sigh was rising in John's lungs when he heard it. SMACK! Both their heads jerked in the direction of the sound, then they heard it again. SMACK! followed by a strained, "No..please, no."
And now they were running, down the hall, around a corner, and through a strong set of double doors. This room was well-lit compared to the club. Towards the front of the room they could clearly see the short brunet from earlier. He was shirtless, tied to a spanking horse, and his husband was looming over him with a whip. There were other people, in chairs, watching the scene. Horrified embarrassment began to sink in as John realised that this is exactly what they were seeing, a BDSM scene. The married couple probably had safewords and everything.
John briefly scanned the crowd, and spotted the cloaked figure they had been tracking in the audience. His hood was thrown back now, revealing him to be a red-haired man. He, and the rest of the audience, was glaring at the unknown intruders. John opened his mouth to apologise when a strong hand on his shoulder spun him around. John turned and looked up at a man in a tight black t-shirt, with the word 'SECURITY' written across it in white letters. A quick glance showed John that there was a second security guard in front of Sherlock.
"Um," John mumbled, running his tongue nervously over his lips, and looking back up at the security guard in front of him, "We can explain."
Sherlock and John sat in complete silence for the first three minutes of their cab ride back to Baker Street. Finally, John dared to glance sideways at Sherlock, and found his consulting detective peering hesitantly back at him. A shared, relieved smile turned into a chuckle, then a giggle fit. Before thirty seconds had passed they were howling with a deep, raucous laughter that made their stomachs hurt from the strain, and had them leaning hard against each other, gasping for air.
"Oh god," John wheezed, leaning his forehead against Sherlock's shoulder, "I can't believe our life sometimes.
Sherlock turned towards him, and snickered into his hair. "It certainly makes for an unusual Friday night."
"Ha! I can just picture talking to Lestrade about this," John forced out between chuckles, his voice high pitched in merriment.
Sherlock snorted in laughter before gathering enough air to mimic the detective inspector, "Have you two found anything useful?"
"Not much," John giggled, playing along with the fake conversation, "Just a bunch of leather and ball gags." Sherlock's mimed expression of horror had them laughing all the way home.
When they got out and paid, the cabbie couldn't pull away fast enough. "You really should text Lestrade," John murmured, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.
"Doing it now," Sherlock replied as his fingers danced over his phone. Sherlock was sucking in great lungfuls of air as he did so; he was still winded from laughing.
Instead of opening the door to their building, John leaned against it, breathing in the cool night air, and watching Sherlock. It was amazing and beautiful to him, the strange situations he found himself in when on a case with the world's only consulting detective. John remembered thinking not long ago that, if he were actually involved with Sherlock, the consulting detective would have no qualms about interrupting a night out to drag John out on a case. Now, John wondered if Sherlock would try to make cases into a night out. John's eyes crinkled in amusement as he realised that would probably be exactly what Sherlock would do, if they were really involved.
Sherlock glanced up as he finished his text, and placed his phone in his pocket. He approached John slowly, smiling down at him. John grinned back and, when Sherlock was close enough, he reached up to pull Sherlock down for an adrenaline laced kiss. Sherlock met John's lips willingly, pushing the shorter man back against the door, and invading John's mouth with his tongue. John arched into the contact, anchoring his fingers in Sherlock's wild hair. John knew he was playing with fire, but at that moment, as they moved against each other under the night sky, it felt like one hell of a goodnight kiss.
