Cheeky
John found Sherlock right next to the bar, impatiently tapping her flats against the floor. John approached her, with her head down -as all the other little subs were doing- and waited.
"Behind me, Joan," Sherlock drawled, her eyes flying over the room. "We are not equals here."
John took a step back so she was no longer level with Sherlock's shoulders. Which was absolutely ridiculous.
"Good gir-" Suddenly, Sherlock's head snapped to the left and she turned, adjusting her cleavage in her new dress and clipped, "Get us drinks, pet."
John shook her head softly. Like a dog indeed.
Sherlock bolted for the other side of the club, swaying her hips as if she owned the place. She definitely should have been the Dom to start with. It looked much more authentic than when she was trying to cow down in her sub persona. Between ego, personality, and beauty, Sherlock could fill the English Channel and charm the sailors too.
The bar was crowded and it took more than a few minutes to get Sherlock wine and whiskey for herself. Bad guy be damned, John needed a stronger drink to get her through this night. Besides, he did not look like the running type.
Thinking of their bad guy, John tried to find him, rolling her eyes when she saw Sherlock grabbing his full attention, gesturing at her. Of course, where else would Sherlock be but next to the crazy probable murderer?
John shuffled over with their drinks and handed the wine to Sherlock, swigging a large gulp of whiskey. Suddenly, her drink was snatched away and the back of her hand was beating red from where Sherlock slapped her.
"You forget yourself, my dear," Sherlock warned, sipping at John's drink, and doing a fine job of pretending she actually enjoyed that type of whiskey, downing the entire glass.
John bit her cheek and clenched her fist. There was no point in punching Sherlock in her pretty, bruisable jaw. It was for a case. For a case. All for a case.
"No more drinks for you tonight." Sherlock turned to the bearded bad guy and put on quite the mockery of an apology on John's behalf. "I apologize for her. I'm still breaking her in."
Sherlock? Apologizing for her? Did they suddenly enter an alternate reality?
The man nodded in understanding, looking John up and down, tutting. "She is a fine little slave. Let me know if you need any assistance."
John ground her teeth together, resolutely staring at the floor. Little slave? Give her five minutes alone with this moron in the alley and she would show him who the little slave really was. His face was not so pretty, but it was bruisable.
Sherlock turned up her charm, batting her eyelashes and pushing her breasts forward. And she wanted to call John a tasty tart?
"That would be fantastic." Sherlock laid a delicate hand on the man's shoulder, turning towards John. "I'm afraid I'm not quite ready to share her, but if you would come into the alcove, I'm sure we can think of something."
The two turned around, whispering conspiratorially, while John was left to stare at their backs and mutter, "Bloody hell."
The two were already sitting by the time she reached them, talking about when Sherly acquired Joan and how long they have been together. Clearly, John was not needed for a conversation of lies about herself, so she ignored them and stood, not sure what she was supposed to do. Sherlock told her to learn from Alex and Beth, but Beth did literally everything Alex asked only when she commanded it. She just waited in between commands, holding the same position.
"How rude of me," Sherlock's voice cut through her thoughts. "Sit."
John's knees bent automatically and she almost collided with the leather, but remembered her role in time, and sunk to the floor, heels pressing against the maroon backing under the couch.
Sherlock's fingers threaded through her bangs, pulling them out of her eyes and sending tingles over her heated face. Yes, John appreciated the ability to see, but it still felt like she was being pet just to shut her up.
"Oh, yes, very new," the man said. He reached forward with five grubby fingers and John leaned as far away as she could.
"It's alright," Sherlock said and nudged her with her flat. "He can touch."
John glared at the man as he grabbed her by the chin and tossed her head this way and that.
"She has defiance in her," the man said, tisking again.
"Not with me," Sherlock assured and the man released John. "She always listens to me." Sherlock smirked down at her and brushed her bangs away again, almost lovingly, clearly playing up the sap for the sake of the con. "She doesn't play nice with others."
John resisted the urge to smile at that, recalling the screaming match she had with Anderson the other week over the definition of medical degree. The truth was the truth.
"Too bad," the man said. "I was hoping for a dance."
Sherlock's glittering eyes snapped to John. Dread filled John's chest and she begged with every muscle her eyes had access to. Her pleas were disregarded as Sherlock smiled evilly and cheerfully ordered, "Dance for us, ma chérie!"
John put as much venom into her blink as could be reasonably asked. Her feet stumbled as she lifted herself up and she cursed her choice of shoe again.
It was not the dancing. John could dance with the rest of them and best a few, but it was one thing to dance with a partner on a dance floor, and an entirely embarrassing thing to dance by herself in a nearly empty alcove, eyes coming from every direction waiting for a show to gather around.
The man was staring at her like she were some piece of meat to be gobbled up at his liking, and John cringed away, turning to Sherlock. She smiled, knowing probably every thought that flittered across her very readable mind. John narrowed her eyes and Sherlock raised an eyebrow in challenge.
Fine, John mentally sent back. But she would be getting her back for this.
Now that she paid attention to it, the music sounded like someone tried to push the rhythm of salsa into the bass and drop of the modern electronic club music. The beats were almost amplified by the groans and grunts that sounded in time around them. It would not be John's pick for public dancing, but she could make it work.
Next time, she would need to knock on wood after thinking she would not be stripping if Sherlock asked.
John closed her eyes and soaked up the beat, her hips slowly rocking and her shoulders swaying. Sherlock raised the other eyebrow and smirked, crossing her legs and raising her wine glass. Cheeky.
The music crescendoed and John accommodated, rolling her hips faster and puffing out her chest, stabilizing herself as she dipped to the floor. It took a few thrusts to shove herself back to her feet but she was nearly graceful when doing it, subtly throwing Sherlock the bird as she spun around. Sherlock could not contain her smile at that, shaking her head in mock disappointment.
They were both distracted from their fun when the man rose and crept towards John, grabbing her hips, and placing himself behind her in the uncomfortable way men always assumed girls wanted them to. As if girls were there for nothing more than to be a post for them to rut against until they came in their pants like barbarians.
John's face truly showed disgust as she kept her body fluid but stopped her dancing, only moving as much as he made her. She turned to beg for Sherlock, but the woman was already glaring daggers at the man, a look filled with so much cold fury, it was hard to believe he was still left unfrozen.
Deliberately, Sherlock placed her wine glass on the ground and snapped upright. Even in her flats and John in heels she still seemed to tower over them both. She prowled to the pair and reached for John. John grabbed her hands like a lifeline and yelped when Sherlock pulled roughly, spinning her so Sherlock was the one behind her, elegant hands curving around her hips and lanky body swaying with the beat.
The man seemed confused about his role and simply stood by, licking his lips.
Sherlock growled in John's ear and moved her hands up and down John's arms, spinning her around so they were chest to chest, taking a few steps with the music before turning them in place, spinning around the man.
Right, Sherlock knew ballroom. Oh, John was going to make her pay double time if they suddenly broke out into a full dance number.
Instead, Sherlock spun them around again, coming up on the other side of the man. Lost on his own, he walked back to the couch and picked up his drink, adjusting himself in his pants without a care in the world.
Sherlock continued to rotate and sway, her arms curling around John's sides, pulling her close. The sides of their dresses caught as Sherlock did legwork and John dipped her back, confident in their ability to hold each other up. Thigh rubbed against exposed thigh and hands grasped at skin as they moved and slipped and slid. Hearts racing, sweat beading, John could not help the smile. Then she and Sherlock dipped back simultaneously, a hand each around the other's waist to keep them from a concussion, in perfect balanced harmony, and she broke out in a full blown adrenaline induced laugh. Sherlock smiled wide and wrapped her up again.
In their spins they missed the small group of people that had gathered, cheering them on as the beat sped towards a crescendo to a finish. A wink was all the warning John had before Sherlock grabbed her close and spun her out, forcing her to turn at least three times before she caught her.
Well, as far as dance numbers went, that was not half bad. And in heels from hell too.
When the song ended, they were both out of breath and smiling like loons, resting their foreheads together while they failed to get under control. It was nice to see Sherlock found that just as fun as she had. It almost made her want to go clubbing with the girl. At an actual club, not a sex club. Though, this almost made up for the sex club thing. Almost.
It took a full minute before they recalled their purpose and retreated to the couch, Sherlock sitting first and John standing by.
"On my lap, prima," Sherlock tapped her thighs and waited.
John hesitated, wanting to sit down and rest her thumping legs, but knowing she was much more compact than Sherlock's skin-and-bones self. Still, with company and their personas, it would not make sense to voice her thoughts, so she sat as far away from the man as possible while still resting between Sherlock's thighs, her head pillowed against the couch next to Sherlock's damp curls.
Sherlock shifted and laid her cheek against John's, pressing her ruby lips against her ear, rapidly whispering, all laughter gone, "I need you to grab his phone. He moved it while you were dancing to his other pocket. I need it to prove he made the wire transfer for the assassin."
John shifted, her eyes peeking over Sherlock's head to see the man now gawking at Sherlock, her dress riding up all the way to her arse. John gracefully curled closer and hid anything the man may have wanted to see with her calves.
Sherlock squeezed her gently and ran a hand over her exposed arm, adding, "What if I told you he snapped a photo of you dancing?"
John pulled back, "He-"
"Did." Sherlock squeezed tighter, warning her not to lose character. "Just as Beth did to you. Grab the phone. Right pocket front. Already nearly falling out. We've practiced pick pocketing. It will be easy." Sherlock pushed John away and she stumbled to her feet. Sherlock slid a nail over the back of John's hand and batted her eyes, flirty once again. "Go on, my lovely whore. Thank your partner for the dance. Be extra polite about it."
John approached the man as if he were about to pull her teeth out with one of his beard hairs. She stepped up to his feet and had a hard time looking away from the curly red bristles, littered with what looked like sandwich crumbs.
"You have a wonderful body, little slave." The man continued to leer and gestured with open arms for her to come closer. "Come thank daddy for the dance."
John had to swallow the bile in her throat down and hold her breath as she pecked him on each cheek, hesitating before going in for those lips, hair jabbing her in the chin and nose. He was all too eager and gripped her face, shoving his tongue into her mouth.
With open eyes she could see the phone gleaming and knew, and regretted, what she had to do. She pushed him down, ignoring the way his tongue tasted of burrito sauce, and slipped her leg between his, pushing against the bulge in his trousers. He jumped and she snatched the phone away, pulled back quickly, putting as much space as she could between them, and stumbled towards Sherlock with the phone clasped in her hands behind her back.
Sherlock tugged her back into her lap and grabbed the phone, pulled it between them and slid it between John's breasts, petting her hand across her chest and over her arms. "You are perfect, aren't you?"
John froze, her eyes wide. What part of not wearing a bra did Sherlock forget? Yes, they were bigger than her companions but not big enough to stabilize other objects!
The moment John moved, the phone started to slide. Sherlock's eyes caught the slip and she cupped John's breasts with both hands, pushing them together. Their breath caught and they stared wide eyed at one another, Sherlock's hands frozen in place.
"Right, then," Sherlock said, pushing their foreheads together, her hand trying to manipulate the phone into staying, her thumb repeatedly flicking over her nipple. Whether that was for authenticity or by mistake was completely unimportant because who cared about a hardening nipple when that phone was already dipping past underboob?
Sherlock hissed, "I think it's time I brought you home."
"Already?" The man huffed, practically breathing down Sherlock's neck. Sherlock stopped moving the phone and crowded possessively over John, pulling her onto the other side of her on the couch.
The phone slipped straight to John's stomach, resting at her lower belly. Sherlock's eyes went wider and her hand dropped to it. The man grunted his approval and Sherlock cursed silently, looking up at John with an expression John did not like one bit.
Sherlock's hand slowly slipped down to John's waist and gently tucked under her dress. Fingertips trailed up her thigh, far too far up her thigh, up over her knickers until they tickled her stomach. John's eyebrows rose exponentially, her mouth opening to swear or yell or both when the man closed his eyes and groaned, opening his fly.
The phone glided against John's skin as Sherlock flipped it and quickly stuck it into her knickers, warm skin and cool glass brushing against her mons, making her hiss and her back arch.
"Let's go, Joan!" Sherlock demanded, ripped her hand away, pulled them both to their feet and practically ran from the alcove.
The man opened his eyes to find them dashing off, disappointment clear on his face. John flipped him two fingers behind Sherlock's back, nearly tripping and needing to lean on Sherlock until they were out of the club.
When they were safely three blocks away and hidden in an alley, they both buckled under the weight of their laughter and the beating of their hearts, adjusting their windswept hair and falling dresses. John fumbled trying to get the phone out of her knickers while crouching behind a skip and handed it off to Sherlock who wiped it on her dress before clasping it in both hands and easily cracking whatever information she required.
"Call Lestrade, John," she said triumphantly, holding up the device. "We have our murderer."
"With what phone?" John asked, still chuckling.
Sherlock looked at the phone in her hand to which John shook her head. They met the DI at a pay phone that was " only ten blocks away" because "they do still exist you know".
"Might look ridiculous but you have to admit it would be practical," John muttered.
"Don't say it."
"Bum. Bag."
Lestrade clearly had a few choice questions for the two of them, but wisely kept them to himself, allowing them to return home and fill out paperwork in the morning.
John instantly darted to the bathroom and immediately started brushing the taste of greasy mexican food from her mouth, all while cursing Sherlock with word combinations that even the American marines she bunked with would be proud of.
"It was one kiss for the greater good. There is no need to be so dramatic about it. We removed yet another murderer and rapist from the good streets of London."
John stopped brushing immediately and spat into the sink. "He was a rapist too?!"
"Obviously," she muttered. "His etiquette was all wrong. He never once asked me if he could touch or approach you."
"You could tell he was a rapist because he was rude?" John started pulling pins from her aching head, throwing them in the bowl on the sink.
"If it weren't for his handmade shoes and silver chain necklace, I would have been able to tell simply by the way he looked at you." Sherlock visually shuttered, stripped out of her dress and grabbed her dressing gown. "Vile man."
"I would love nothing more than to hear how you locked a man away by his shoes, necklace, and phone, but I seriously need to shower." John physically pushed her out of the bathroom and shut the door.
Sherlock called through the lock. "Prints. Allergy. And obviously the bank account John, do keep up."
John's phone was waiting for her on the toilet, a new message from Martin, checking in. Of course, she would not tell him she left her phone at home, for fear of another lecture about safety.
She texted quickly, realizing it was 2am and the man was probably long asleep. Home. Another creep in jail. See you tomorrow. Love you. -J
The water was steaming hot when she climbed in and plugged the drain so her aching feet could soak. It would take at least seven showers a day to get that man's funky odor off of her. Sherlock owed her new perfume for this. The expensive kind. And not on her brother's card.