Chapter 13: The Disco Den

Sherlock and John come back to the club around ten o'clock that evening. They seat themselves on the stools they'd noted earlier in the day, John on that of the victim with Sherlock to his right. (Sherlock unconcernedly has pointed the fog machine in another direction, to keep oil off his clothes.) Sherlock looks absolutely stunning in a sharply cut, closely fitted black suit. The aubergine silk shirt under it has several buttons left undone. He seems very natural and at ease in the thumping bass of the dance music, pearly skin of his throat glowing in the flashing, restless lights of the Disco Den.

John is wearing his new suit, too, and had felt quite natty and unusually sharp when they left the flat. The deep chocolate brown of it flatters him, highlighting the gold in his hair. His blue shirt matches his eyes, making them brighter and less tired. And although he isn't exposing as much skin as Sherlock, or showing off as much of his figure via skin-tight clothes, he still thinks he'd cleaned up quite nicely.

Then Stacey strolls by. John and Sherlock rise to greet him, but John can't hear, even without the music, because the conversation is so high up. Stacey settles on Sherlock's other side, seeming to exclude John, which leaves him frustrated and out of sorts. Stacey has his gray suit on, and looks both imposing and exotic. Patrons keep coming over to talk to him, but he turns them away in favor of keeping Sherlock's attention.

Next to the other two men, John feels like a tiny, drab, brown thing. A mushroom. Or a sparrow next to peacocks. He has a childish urge to stretch out his wings. The suit would compliment them as well, and it would increase his stature enough to play with the big boys. Height, tattoos and a dangerous edge can't compare to wings, for god's sake! He glares at his drink and resists the urge.

Sherlock and Stacey are still talking. Flirting, rather, John thinks somewhat combatively. He notices the second shift bartender show up on the floor and waves her over. She busies herself in his general direction and arrives a couple minutes later. Her eyes flick to Sherlock, then her boss, who nods, but they otherwise ignore her.

"Hey, love," she smacks through her gum. He gives her his most winning, Three Continents Watson smile. She blinks then grins, leans on the counter and settles in for a flirt. "What can I do for you?" she asks in a suggestive voice. She's a pretty woman, perhaps 10 years younger than John, with big dark eyes and long dreadlocked hair. Silver and bead bracelets clink and clank every time she moves her arms.

"Hello," John smiles. "This is fast service, then. I feel special." The flirt is turned up. The woman grins back. This is her job, and it helps with the tips.

"That's it," she confirms. "Just couldn't resist those baby blues. Plus, the boss is right there," she adds honestly, jerking her head to the side. John grimaces slightly.

"Yeah, I know. I'm John Watson, by the way. And you?"

"Mandy. Can I get you a drink?"

"How about a scotch and soda, and then I have a few questions for you."

She winks at him when she returns with the drink. "What are your questions, love?"

John pulls the print-out of the dead woman from his pocket. "This woman was killed near here on Saturday night," he begins without preamble. "We know she sat on this very stool for at least 3 hours before closing. We need information on who sat next to her in," and he tips his head towards Sherlock, "that seat. Did you serve her that night?"

Mandy takes the paper and smooths it out. "Oh, yeah! Oh my god. Murdered? She was such a witch. She had these long green talons, and was a miserly tipper. Then a dude came up and started buying, and their service got a lot better then, I can tell ya! But... Holy shit. She's dead?"

"Yes. So we need your help. Can you describe her companion?" John smiles again, high-wattage puppy-dog, and Mandy relaxes a little.

"Hmmmm," Mandy thinks. Sherlock notices that John is interviewing a witness, and swings back to face him, listening for Mandy's response. She gives him a startled, appraising look (she'd only seen the back of his head before) and then a slow, seductive smile. Sherlock ignores it entirely, but John locks his jaw.

"He was shorter than you," she speaks to Sherlock now. "But taller than you," at John. "He had kind of shaggy hair. Dark. And little rectangle black glasses." She stares out at the throbbing dance floor, thinking. "I don't remember his clothes. Oh! Except his watch. One of those with the really oversized faces, you know? And wait. Maybe he had a goatee? I can't remember. Huh. I think he did. But she was on him like a limpet, though. Thick as thieves until we kicked them out." She shakes her head. "That's all I remember. He killed her, you say?"

Mandy looks genuinely scared. "I served a murderer drinks on Saturday? Jesus. He didn't look crazy. He was a good tipper. Fucking hell." She looks up at her boss, who is leaning in on the conversation. Leaning on Sherlock's shoulder, that is. John wants to reach over and knock his hand away. Maybe he'll fall. John smirks a little at the image. "That's fucking scary." Mandy concludes.

Fucking scarier if she knew how he killed her, John thinks, but doesn't elaborate. Stacey assures his employee that security is being stepped up, and she'd be walked to her car each night until the killer is caught.

Stacey bends to say something to Sherlock, who nods his head Yes, and then strides off to manage his business. Mandy goes to serve an impatient backlog of customers, and Sherlock and John are left alone. John takes a sip of his drink. He wonders if Stacey has just asked Sherlock out, or set an assignation. He frowns.

"Bartenders are observant. I'm usually happy to have them as witnesses," Sherlock shouts over the music. "That was a good description, given the chaos of the environment and the number of days that have passed."

"What... did Mr. Stacey ask you just now?" That is positively not what John had intended to say.

Sherlock gives him a mildly confused look. John isn't sure whether or not the confusion is manufactured. "If we are going to stick around for a while. Drinks on the house, he said."

"Oh." John is a little embarrassed at the relief he feels. "Why are we going to stick around, then?"

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Stakeout, John. We've got to find the suspect. We'll just come here in the evenings until he shows up. It's our best lead. I expect him to be alone. There's no point in the wet work partner hanging around during the victim selection phase. He probably calls him or her in once he's got someone chosen and is ready to leave. So. We wait and watch."

Oh. God. John isn't sure how long he can stand the crushing wall of dance beats, flashing lights and writhing bodies. He hopes they don't have to do it for too long.

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock impatiently pushes John's glass against his lips and tilts it up. "Drink up. Let's go dance."

"You've got to be kidding," John chokes, scotch dribbling around the corners of his mouth. "I don't dance."

Sherlock narrows his eyes. "You will now. We have to blend in." He snatches the glass out of John's hand, skids it down the bar towards Mandy, and pulls John off his stool. "Come on." He crowds John back the few meters to the dance floor, and pulls him into the buffeting crowd of flailing dancers.

The lights help, John thinks. In the dark, it's almost hypnotic the way a skittering light will glance across you, then move on to another person. It preserves anonymity, makes it safe to let loose. John lets his eyes sink closed and begins to sway. The specific piece of music is unimportant. The thudding bass invades his veins and informs his movement, sharp sounding synthesizer twitching his fingers and elbows. A woman is singing in an an obnoxious autotuned voice, but he filters that out. This isn't so bad.

Several songs pass by, and John opens his eyes to check on Sherlock. His movements slow and eventually still. Sherlock... is... amazing. His head is loose on his neck, swaying snakelike with the rest of his body. His bones have evidently melted, he moves like a ribbon in a breeze, or seaweed in a surf of sound. His arms trace the rhythm, his hips punctuate the beat, his feet glide in circles and wiggles that keep him in place in spite of the swelling crowd. If his wounded side is bothering him, it certainly doesn't show. The bandage on his hand glows blue.

His eyes are open, and he's staring at John. There is no color there except for the lights, green and red and blue. Flashes of white. Colors seep across the skin of his face, and render him alien, an impression reinforced by his boneless dance. He gives John a tiny smirk, reaches out and grabs him by the back of the neck, reels him in. "Don't stop, John," he says into his hair, oscillating in front of him, brushing just against the open edges of his suit coat. "Cover, remember?" His hand is very hot against John's skin.

"Ungh. Gah. Hmph." John gurgles. "Right. I need another drink. You?"

Sherlock gives him a lambent stare, and slowly shakes his head. John beats a hasty retreat.

When he turns back around, fresh scotch in hand, he just leans against the bar for a moment and enjoys Sherlock dancing. He's obviously quite at home on the heaving tide of the floor, and dances as if he were born to it, with a seductive, almost indifferent, sensuality. John notices that whenever someone approaches him, male or female, and begins dancing in his space, he turns a fraction, excluding them from his world. Beautiful buggers, too. Stunning women in skimpy dresses and gorgeous men in stylish, clinging clothing. John catches his breath. But he was dancing with me. He was watching me.

Then there's a small flurry near Sherlock, and Stacey comes sailing through, 25cm taller than anyone around him. The crowd breaks, waves and regathers. Stacey dances with practiced ease, nodding and smiling at everyone around him. But Sherlock is his destination, and when he arrives, Sherlock tips his head back and gives him a slow smile, including him in the dance. That's his fake smile, John thinks vindictively. But he isn't entirely certain of that, and he throws back the rest of the scotch, gagging a little.

It's fine, he thinks. I'll just look for the suspect, then. I'll do the job we actually came here to do. Instead of wasting time flirting and dancing. Why do I care who he flirts with? I'm interested in women. But that thought feels frail and fabricated, and the soft, hourglass-shaped figures shimmying in revealing dresses are doing nothing for him.

The drink warms his belly and fizzes gently in his veins as he pushes his way through the crowd, looking at faces along the way. John is at more of a disadvantage then Sherlock, in this situation, he realizes. Because of his height, he can only see the faces closest to him, and is otherwise blocked by shoulders and chests. A very tall woman staggers into him, leans heavily on his shoulder for a moment before regaining her balance. Cantaloupe-sized breasts are laid out, wobbling, at eye-level for a long minute before she pushes away and moves on. John realizes he's uninspired, and would rather dwell on an unbuttoned shirt straining over a lean chest and a long, gleaming neck. Shit. What does that mean? He takes out the jealousy he's been feeling all day... but then shoves it back without too much examination. Now is surely not the time.

After a couple circuits of the floor, he gives up on his hunt. It's surprising how few men are wearing glasses. It's been easy to look for a wristwatch, in the crowd of shoulders, but although he's seen several with bright bands and oversized and gaudy faces, none are attached to a person like Mandy described. He makes his way back to the bar. He's lost Sherlock, but it's easy enough to pick out Stacey in the crowd. John pushes his way through the dancers, thinking he'll tell Sherlock maybe it's time to go. Or take a break, or something.

Sherlock and Stacey are still dancing, but whereas Stacey's body is facing his partner full on, Sherlock seems distracted and remote. He hasn't quite excluded his partner, but he's flickering his gaze through the crowd, looking. For me? John wonders. Or the suspect? John crests the circle the two tall men have claimed as their space, and Sherlock sees him. His face remains remote, but he reaches out a long arm and pulls John in, until his lips are close to his ear. He continues to sway, perforce John must sway as well, to keep from breaking the connection.

"Where did you go?" Sherlock asks, not shouting, mouth pressed completely against the shell of John's ear.

Humid, warm breath curls deep in his ear; vibrations from Sherlock's words seem to render it more open, vulnerable.

Without any warning, John's knees turn to water, and a deep shudder runs through his body.

He reaches out reflexively and grabs at Sherlock's slim hips for balance, lost, just for a fraction of a second, in a wave of sensation almost as intense as an orgasm. He is half-hard and rising, and his body is on fire. Oh fuck. His ears.

"What?" John gasps.

The next song is slower, and Sherlock pulls John closer, nuzzles his head to his ear, and repeats the question. John lifts his hands to Sherlock's shoulders and pulls down on his neck, so he can return the favor. "Looking for the killer," he replies, like Sherlock did, in an intimate tone, lips to flesh. "Don't see him yet."

Sherlock nods and looks around the room for a minute. John turns to look, too, but Sherlock keeps his hold on his hips and pulls him back in. He notices with satisfaction that Stacey has disappeared, and then his world narrows to glowing, slumberous eyes. Sherlock directs their bodies to the music, but like the others on the dance floor, their feet have stilled. Sherlock lowers his head again. "We'll give it half an hour, and then look again."

The are standing like lovers, Sherlock guiding John with a hand at his hip and one along the side of head, holding him quiescent for conversation. John's still got his hands on Sherlock's shoulders. And then, instead of moving his head away, Sherlock... bites his ear.

John jumps

and moans

and paints himself against Sherlock, completely hard; and it's lava singing in his veins.

Sherlock nibbles, and licks, and tugs, and breathes in his ear until John is nearly shaking with desire, breathless and bewildered, and utterly slack and malleable in Sherlock's hands. This is the hair trigger of John's ears. He can feel the hard column of Sherlock's erection pushing against his belly, and his fingers are curved into the flesh of John's arse and tangling in his hair.

Sherlock pulls John's head back as he slicks his lips along the curve of his jaw, scraping through stubble, and marking his journey with his teeth. When he reaches John's mouth, his eyes open, catching that dazed gaze; he strokes his thumb over the swell of his Adam's apple, and comes in for a kiss. John's eyes fall closed again. Oh. God.

Sherlock's lips feel as lavish as they look, and Sherlock wastes no time in parting them, licking at John, and then sucking his bottom lip. Hard. John's mouth falls open under the onslaught, dizzy and desperate, and Sherlock tilts his head, fusing them together, plunges in with his tongue and basically plants his flag.

But John is a soldier. He's not giving that territory up without a fight, and so tangles his tongue with Sherlock's, seeking dominance, tracing it back into Sherlock's mouth for his own exploration. He feels Sherlock shudder under his hands... and still they are dancing.

The aggressive push and pull of the kiss slowly morphs into something more languid, harmonizing with the music, the sway of their hips. Sherlock is curled attentively over John, who has lifted to the balls of his feet, body arched against his partner. John holds Sherlock's head down to his own, fingers twisted gloriously in sweat-dampened hair, curved around the back of his skull. He pulls the Cupid's bow of Sherlock's upper lip into his mouth, slickly tasting it, scraping it with his teeth, feeling the faint line of stubble against the inside of his mouth. Sherlock grinds closer to him, panting.

And then they are bumped from behind, and John falls back to his heels, and so the crush of their mouths is broken. Their eyes open, and the gaze between the two of them is heated and urgent. John slides his hand around to Sherlock's cheek, and presses his thumb against the very corner of Sherlock's mouth.

Sherlock turns his head, minutely, and licks it.

Oh. Christ.

John feels an insistent pressure against his shoulder blades, and has to stop himself from spreading out his wings. They feel as uncomfortably trapped and bound as his cock. He wants to explode them both out, and push Sherlock down, and climb on top of him and flap in victory. He wants their clothes to evaporate. He wants to mantle them in his wings. He couldn't care less about the people in the club.

John is having trouble staying vertical, and all his alarms are going off, and then through the fog he sees a shaggy dark head with rectangle glasses around Sherlock's shoulder, and has just enough rationality left to pull his thumb out of Sherlock's hot mouth and say, "Bloody fuck. That's him!"

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