Note: In this story I found out how hard it is to write good mystery. I also found out it's very difficult to write a convincing villain. If you can, let me know how I did. Please review and thanks!

14. Close up and face to face

'We'll have a lovely dinner date', were his words. John had mixed feelings about dressing up tonight. These were the clothes he had bought to go out with Ella. Part of him wanted to wear something else, so his brand new clothes wouldn't get damaged. Yet, as ridiculous as it sounded, if he were honest, he wanted to look good for Sherlock. As usual, he showered and shaved. After some thought, he decided on one of the new patterned shirts. The salesgirl had said the blue hues went well with his eyes. With the dark grey trousers and the black jacket he thought he looked sharp. He tried not to spend too much time in getting ready so as to not draw attention to the fact that he did care about how he looked.

Sherlock also decided to shower and shave. He had sweated a bit in all his doings today. And, well, he was going out with John. Fake or not, it was still a date, and he needed to show respect for the occasion. He decided to wear a dark red shirt with a black suit, a combination that always made him feel confident. Tie? Mmm, no. There's the nightclub afterwards.

Sherlock liked the way John looked. That jacket really did wonders for him. He looked trim and that shirt made his eyes look almost navy blue. He looks tense and a bit pale. The shoes were a little old, but he had polished them recently to go out with Ella, so they didn't look too off. They looked comfortable, which was more important tonight. He watched as John checked his pistol again, then lifted his jacket and tucked it behind his back as he walked past Sherlock. He could see the new trousers hugged John's body in a flattering way.

As usual, Sherlock looked really nice, John thought. Not unlike his everyday attire. That particular type of red looked good against his pale skin. John felt tense and fearful. They could be facing a serial killer tonight. He didn't feel hungry; in fact, he felt a little sick to his stomach. He'd have to be on guard and stay focused the whole night. It helped to feel his gun on his back, but not that much.

They took a taxi and John felt self conscious, as if the driver had read them as a couple. At the restaurant, it didn't help when Sherlock, with that singsong voice, told the waiter to bring Champagne, 'It's our anniversary tonight!' The waiter congratulated them, but seemed to smirk as he walked away.

'Did you have to say that?' John hissed.

He leaned forward and replied so quietly, John had to strain to hear. 'We need to remain in character. What if we're being watched?'

Sherlock proceeded with his role, John trying to play along, but not so well. So Sherlock asked John about his experiences in Afghanistan to take his mind from all the worry. It gave John something else to think about, at least for the moment. Sherlock suggested a three course meal to slow the pace of the evening, for he imagined John was going to be a bit uncomfortable at the nightclub and wanted to minimize the time spent there. Neither drunk much of the Champagne. Sherlock didn't think the killer would attack between the two places, but still, it was best to remain alert. And he usually didn't drink anyway. John too wanted to stay alert and only had the first glass. He didn't care much for Champagne and thought this was a bit extravagant and a waste. Sherlock wasn't too concerned about the expenses, he said he'd put the dinner on Mycroft's card. John didn't want to know how.

Given that the restaurant was very upmarket, the portions were small. Considering how little Sherlock usually ate and how nauseated John felt, it worked well. Sherlock insisted on them sharing a piece of cake, to 'celebrate their anniversary', but in reality, more to drag the time spent at the restaurant. John was embarrassed, but Sherlock ended up just having a couple of bites, then pushing the plate away from himself. While Sherlock asked for coffee, John was starting to feel too sick to eat or drink anything else, now that this part of the evening was ending. Once outside, they immediately hopped into a taxi.

...

As they walked into the nightclub John's senses were brutally assaulted. The music was painfully loud (he immediately stuffed his ears with crumpled pieces of paper napkins and Sherlock imitated him), there were colourful strobe lights above the dance floor, and some couples were dancing, drinking, chatting or snogging. It wasn't very crowded yet, it was too early as far as nightclubs go. John went to the bar and got a pint for himself and a Ginger Ale for Sherlock. He caught himself thinking just like in a regular date, here I am buying us drinks. They sat on one of the high tables around the bar, overlooking the dance floor. It seemed like all the guys were eyeing Sherlock, then looking at him. Their faces showed envy, disbelief (which was quite insulting to him), and sometimes, an occasional knowing smile ('you lucky dog!'). Strangely, he was slightly proud to be the one with Sherlock. In their nice clothes, they really stood out. You can look all you want, he's still going home with me, he thought smugly, chuckling to himself.

'Why are you laughing?' Sherlock had leaned over to scream in his ear.

'Oh.' He jumped and cleared his throat. 'Nothing really,' he screamed back. 'I was just being silly. Nerves.'

Sherlock gave him a sideways glance, raising an eyebrow.

As he had predicted, John seemed very self conscious. He was alert, scanning the room for Quinlan, but getting uncomfortable as his eyes stumbled on the couples around them and, seeing what they were doing, averting his eyes.

At one point, Sherlock decided to remove his jacket and go dancing 'for good measure'. 'You can't take your jacket off, so I'll just go by myself and save you the embarrassment. I'll be fine dancing alone.' Of course you'll be fine, John thought, all the guys will be hitting on you and you won't be alone for long. Sure enough, soon there were four attractive guys around Sherlock, flirting with him, dancing around him. One of them started backing up against him and another, getting close behind. Surprisingly, he was actually a good dancer, graceful as only Sherlock could be. Who also didn't seem to mind all the touching and the attention. He only played along, now sandwiched between the two guys, all swinging in unison. That started to make John uncomfortable.

A song or two later (they all sounded alike and blended into one another - the same non-stop thudding), the one from behind talked in Sherlock's ears, moving his hands to his friend's hips. But Sherlock smiled, shook his head and pointed at John. Looking in his direction, the guy had a look of disbelief on his face. Cross, John got up, went down to the dance floor and pulled Sherlock away by the arm, back to their seats.

'That's enough! Is it eleven yet?' he screamed in his friend's ears.

But Sherlock smiled and shook his head. 'Twenty more minutes!' he screamed back.

'You'll get yourself into trouble if you keep up like this!' The guy kept looking at them, disappointed. John just gave him a dirty look and the man finally moved on.

Eventually, it was eleven. They nodded at each other and stood up.

Outside, Sherlock casually threw an arm over John's shoulders and said, in his ear, as they walked leisurely, 'Be alert now and do try to act untroubled.'

As if that was easy, with him whispering in my ear, his arm on my shoulders and with a serial killer possibly stalking us! Try as he might, he couldn't remain impervious to his friend's presence and touch. That voice, his breath tickling his ear, the closeness of his body, the warmth of his arm. All this was messing with him. Sherlock remained untroubled, as if they did this every day. Mercifully, he pulled his arm away and walked with his hands in his pockets. They walked for a while, then Sherlock made him turn into a side alley. Where the passage intersected another alley, before John could react, Sherlock spun him around against the brick wall, placed his hands on either side of him at the wall and bent down. John had frozen on the spot, palms against the cold surface, eyes wide. Sherlock got close to his ear and whispered 'stay still, just pretend...'

Then Sherlock smelled John. It was a very unique scent, he had unconsciously noticed this long ago. It had always bothered him when John returned from his dates without showering. Now he understood why. He always prided himself on his command of the English language, but he could not describe John's smell. It was soft, inebriating, definitely not musky, unlike anybody else's. Being this close spiked his senses. His breathing became laboured. He couldn't resist and inhaled deeply.

His lips accidentally lightly brushed on the smooth neck. John felt shivers run through his whole body, and goose pimples rushed in their wake. Sherlock licked his lips, trying unconsciously to taste John's skin in them. Before Sherlock could stop himself, he pulled the shirt away and lightly bit John at the base of the neck. John visibly shuddered and dropped his forehead on his shoulder, exposing his neck, as if asking for more. He did it again, lower and a bit harder. This time John let out a muffled moan. Sherlock slid his hands and lightly touched John's waist as he continued inhaling that heady scent, dragging his nose up against the warm neck. John raised his arms but hesitated before touching his back, his hands remained just hovering above it.

Then a low voice behind them said 'You boys should get a room.'