Here's the third part. Up until now, I've been posting pretty regularly. From this point on, I'm not sure how that will hold up. My work tends to be pretty quiet at night, allowing me time to write, and I do hope it's quiet tonight so I can work on the fourth chapter, but no promises on punctuality. I should, however, have it up by Friday at the latest. The rest of this is all outlined, I just need to spend a few days cranking out the actual story.
As always, all mistakes are mine. (I think I got rid of all "Americanisms".) I hope you enjoy the third chapter.
Two days passed before John was comfortable taking Sherlock out to Leather. During his lunch break, he had fired off a text to the detective giving him instructions for the afternoon before tucking into his ham and cheese sandwich. The only reply he got from Sherlock was a picture message of a sandwich and an apple, side by side on one of their plates, about fifteen minutes after he sent out his instructions. With a smile, John silenced his phone and went about finishing his day at the clinic. Sarah had been pleased with the hours he'd been putting in, and the paycheck he would earn would be a bonus.
When six pm rolled around, he strolled out the front door, sparing a wave to Sarah as he made his way to the tube station. The journey back to Baker Street took longer than usual, and by the time John passed through his front door, he was beginning to second-guess going out tonight. It was the sight of his flatmate that changed his mind. Sherlock hovered by the kettle in the kitchen, clad only in his pants and his dressing gown. His hair was still damp from the shower John had asked him to take all those hours ago. Instantly, John found his weariness melting from his body, the feeling being replaced by his pride in Sherlock.
"You showered," he said, toeing off his shoes.
Sherlock turned to look at him and nodded. "You asked me to," he commented.
"Thank you. I'm proud of you. But why aren't you dressed?" John asked, swallowing thickly around nothing. He wasn't sure why the sight of his flatmate dressed as he was bothered him. After all, he'd seen Sherlock parade around the flat in that particular get up before, and it hadn't bothered him then. So why now? John refused to think on it.
"I didn't know what to wear. I've never been anywhere like Leather before. I wanted to ask you, but I didn't want to bother you at work. That would have made you mad," Sherlock replied.
John nodded and walked through the kitchen, pausing in front of Sherlock's door. "Shall I help you pick something out?" he asked, waiting for his flatmate's permission.
Sherlock nodded and followed John through the threshold to his room. He sat on the edge of his unmade bed and watched as John leafed through his closet. He paused at each article of clothing, silently scrutinizing the cloth before sliding each hanger away from him and moving on to the next one. After what felt like a lifetime, John finally settled on a pair of black jeans Sherlock never wore accompanied by his plum button down.
"Wear shoes that are comfortable, but still look nice. I'm going to have a shower and get dressed. When I'm done, I expect you in the kitchen with some noodles boiled, ok?" John said, walking towards the door.
"Yes, John. Thank you for helping me," Sherlock replied, promptly pulling the jeans on. Satisfied, John retreated to his bathroom and cranked up the hot water. He needed all the help he could to wash the day's weariness from his body. He needed to be on high alert tonight; he knew he had to both watch out for Sherlock and for the potential killer.
As he washed, John wondered about how the night would go. Anyone could appreciate the fact that Sherlock Holmes was beautiful, and some would even go as far to say that he was sex personified. John knew that his flatmate would draw a lot of attention; new meat, especially beautiful new meat, tended to do that whether the person was claimed or not. As he rinsed shampoo from his hair, John hoped that the people in Leather believed that Sherlock was his. It struck John as he was toweling off that he didn't have a way to show others that Sherlock was claimed. Shit.
With that problem weaving through his mind, John tied the towel around his waist and stepped into his room. He didn't notice Sherlock hovering in his doorway, breezing by the detective to open up his armoire. John dug out his old fetish bag, and turned around to set it down on the edge of his bed. Carefully, he unzipped the black duffle and pulled out items he used to play with all those years ago. He laid out his ropes, first the black, then the red. The two floggers he owned came out next, followed by a gag, a paddle, and a riding crop.
"What are you looking for?" Sherlock asked, his voice strained.
John jumped and turned to look at his flatmate. "Jesus, Sherlock. You scared me. Ever heard of knocking?" He noticed that Sherlock's pupils were slightly dilated, and he looked vaguely uncomfortable.
"I did knock. You were in the shower," he replied, licking his lips, taking care to avoid John's gaze. "Now what are you looking for?"
John huffed. "Some way to show everyone at the club tonight that you are mine. I was thinking either my dogtags or some leather cuffs. That way your chances of others interfering with us will be smaller," he replied, pulling out a pair of black wrist cuffs. He gently laid them down on the left side of his bag, in Sherlock's line of site. "What do you think about that, Sherlock? Would you be comfortable wearing something that tied you to me?"
Sherlock nodded. "Both sound good, John. That way there's no doubt who I'm there with," he said, walking to John's bed. He offered up his wrists, palm up, eyes frozen on the floor. He jumped when John's hand tilted his chin up.
"I'll put them on you later. Right now, I need to get dressed. Will you go downstairs and heat up some canned sauce for the pasta, please?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded and ghosted out of the room, leaving John's door open as he went. The doctor stood still for a moment, watching the path the detective had just walked, attempting to gather his thoughts. It was only when the microwave beeped downstairs that John had decided what he was going to wear.
It had been a good six months since he had last poured himself into his black leather trousers, but as John fastened the button at the top, he was proud to say they still fit like they had all that time ago. Socks and his black combat boots followed the trousers, and a maroon button down was quick to be added. For a finishing touch, he took the smallest length of black rope he had and looped it through his belt loops so that it hung loosely to one side. Looking in the mirror, John ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it just so. Giving himself a once over, he decided that he was happy with what he saw. By no means did he look like he did back in his twenties, before Afghanistan, but he looked good enough for his age. John nodded once at his reflection before turning away to retrieve his dogtags and the black wrist cuffs for Sherlock. His stomach growled as he left his bedroom.
Dinner with Sherlock was a quiet affair, neither man talking, nor making eye contact. Sherlock seemed jumpy, and John was quickly getting annoyed. When both were finished eating, John rinsed their plates and headed to the door.
Sherlock lingered in the kitchen, not quite knowing what to do. He felt so out of place, and was beginning to wonder if he should really go along with John. Taking care to pack away the leftovers, Sherlock worried his bottom lip between his teeth. When he turned towards the door, his gaze locked with John's. He wasn't sure why John was frowning.
"Sherlock, will you please bring me the cuffs and dogtags?" John asked.
Sherlock nodded and did as he was asked, his hands shaking as they wrapped around the lengths of chains and leather. He approached John cautiously and offered up the cuffs and tags, bottom lip straining white between his teeth.
John took a deep breath and locked his gaze with Sherlock's. "If you'd rather not do this, that's ok. I'll still go to Leather and take a look around with Greg. You can turn around now and go back to your experiments or something," he said.
Sherlock took a moment and let his mind race. He weighed the pros and cons of going as he was, and also of staying home. He even entertained going and attempting to pass as a dominant. One look at John though, and the decision made itself. "I want to go with you, John," he said.
John nodded. "Then will you wear my cuffs and tags for the night, Sherlock? From the moment I put them on you to the moment I take them off, you will be my responsibility. Are you okay with that?"
"Yes, John. I trust you," Sherlock said, offering up his wrists again.
John nodded and walked back to his chair, sitting on the edge. "Come here and kneel for me. Put your wrists in my lap," he said.
Sherlock did so, gracefully falling to his knees, placing his wrists palm up on John's lap. He swallowed thickly as the doctor buckled the supple black leather around his left wrist, taking great care to make sure it was neither on too tight, nor too loose. Soon enough, his right wrist was cuffed too and John was slipping his dogtags over his neck. Sherlock was overwhelmed by just how safe he felt.
John smiled at the detective and carefully placed a kiss on each cuffed wrist. "Let's go, pet," he said. "Greg is probably waiting on us."
Obediently, Sherlock rose and followed John as he left their apartment. He was quiet and went willingly when John maneuvered him into a cab with one strong hand pressed against his lower back. He leaned against John's body inside the cab, resting his head on the doctor's shoulder, breathing him in. John smelled like home, and Sherlock couldn't stop the small smile that spread across his lips.
John gave the address to Leather and turned to his flatmate. You ok, Sherlock?" he asked.
Sherlock nodded. "Just feel a little floaty. I'll snap out of it soon, I think," he replied, closing his eyes. He must have dozed off there on John's shoulder, for he didn't remember anything else of the cab ride until John was shaking him awake, his voice softly calling his name. Sherlock let John led the way into Leather, that warm hand strong on his lower back again, and smiled as the doctor greeted the bouncer with a handshake and a smile.
Going into it, Sherlock had no idea what being inside Leather was going to be like. Theoretically, he knew there would be a lot of people, and that most of them would be scantily clad. But nothing could have prepared Sherlock for the sheer onslaught to his senses. His mind was reeling as he tried to take in all the stimuli around him, all of it screaming "sex!" Sherlock was so thankful for John's hand steering him through the crowd; the doctor's touch seemed to anchor him and pull his mind back a bit. Still, he looked around, his eyes wide and pupils dilated under the dim lighting, attempting to make sense of something. He was brought back to the moment when he heard Lestrade speak.
"John, Sherlock, it's good to see you both. Please, have a seat," the detective inspector said.
Sherlock turned to John, glancing back and forth between the two empty seats next to Lestrade and John's eyes. The doctor nodded, and Sherlock made to sit in the stool farthest from Greg. He stopped when John slipped into the seat before he could.
"I want you between us. You look like you're having trouble adjusting, and I want to keep an eye on you, ok?" John explained, leaning in to whisper into Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock nodded and smiled softly at John. "Thank you," he mouthed, turning his gaze to the bartenders on either side of them. If he concentrated hard enough, he could probably deduce them…
"Is he ok?" Lestrade asked, gesturing to Sherlock.
John nodded. "He's… surprisingly receptive to submission. He almost dropped into subspace when I put his cuffs on tonight," John replied.
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up towards his hairline. "His cuffs? You two are together, then?" he asked.
John shook his head. "We're just flatmates. I asked him to wear the cuffs as a precaution," he said.
"Precaution? Afraid someone will snatch him up?" Lestrade teased, chuckling at the blonde.
"No. To prevent him from getting felt up. It's clear as day that Sherlock is a beautiful man. He'd get eaten alive here if everyone thought he was unclaimed," John replied.
Lestrade was silent, looking over the two with a glint in his eye. "If you say so, John," he said after a moment, smirking at him. "Now, how should we go about this?"
John quickly looked around the club, thankful that it hadn't changed much, if at all, since his last visit. "Divide and conquer," he said. "You should stick close to the bar and the dance floor. Talk to pretty women, single men, basically fish around for information."
"And what will you and Sherlock do?" Lestrade asked.
"I'll take him on around the room. We'll sweep from one side to the other, and then we'll go up by where public play is popular. We may watch something, we may not. When he tells me he has enough information for the night, we'll touch base with you before heading back to Baker Street," John decided. He could already tell that Sherlock would be out of his comfort zone the entire night, and he didn't want to ask more of him than he could give.
Lestrade nodded. "Works for me, John. Think you can handle the great Sherlock Holmes?" he asked.
"I'm certain I can," John replied. "While Leather can be overwhelming for first timers, I have the upper hand advantage here."
"You act like you've been here before, John," Lestrade commented, nursing his pint.
John smirked and winked at the DI. "Who says I haven't?"
Lestrade gaped, his gaze fixed on the doctor and jaw slack as John gently roused Sherlock from whatever daze he'd been in. He noticed John's hand on Sherlock's lower back as he steered the detective away from the bar.
"We'll be back later, Lestrade. Don't wander too far," John said. He was in full dominant mode, and he loved making people squirm. The look on Lestrade's face was priceless, and John was sure he could at least get the man to blush by the end of the night if he tried… No, he had to focus on Sherlock and steer him through the crowd so he could absentmindedly sweep the crowd with his glazed-over eyes.
It was moments later when he bumped into a tall, sturdy form, Sherlock jumping at his side. "I'm sorry, mate. Wasn't paying attention," John said, offering up an apology to the man.
The man turned around and grinned at John and Sherlock. "It's fine, mate. I'd hardly be looking where I was going if I had someone like that on my arm," he said, gesturing to Sherlock. "It's sure been a while since I've seen you around, Captain Watson."
John smiled up at the man, recognizing his face. "It has been a while, Charlie. How are things?" he asked, offering up his hand for a shake.
Charlie grasped John's hand, squeezing it as he shook it. "It's been going swell, mate. Been through a few subs, but that's how it goes. This is the girl I'm considering. Say hello to Captain Watson, Clarissa," the larger man said, gesturing to the petite girl by his side.
"Hello, Captain Watson," she said, her voice meek.
John turned to look at her, his eyes raking over her form. She was small, only standing as high as John's chest, with dark hair and wide, green eyes. She was thin, too, her waist impossibly tiny in the blood red corset she was wearing. John couldn't help but wonder if it was one she was wearing for appearances, or if she was actually laced tight inside the fabric. John was snapped out of his assessment when Charlie cleared his throat.
"Who's this delectable hunk on your arm, John?" Charlie asked, eyeing up Sherlock.
Instantly, John bristled. Even though he liked Charlie, he was uncomfortable with the way he was eyeing up Sherlock. John wrapped his hand around the detective's hip, pulling him against his own body. "This is my… Sherlock," John said carefully. He wasn't sure how to introduce Sherlock; this was something they'd never discussed. John mentally kicked himself for allowing such a precious detail to slip.
"Hello, Sherlock," Charlie said, offering his hand to the detective.
Sherlock turned to John, silently asking permission to shake the stranger's hand. It was only with John's nod that Sherlock grasped Charlie's hand and shook it once before dropping it as if the other man's touch had burnt. "Hello," he murmured just loud enough for the four of them to hear.
Charlie tsked in disappointment. "This one doesn't have manners does he, John? I expected better knowing he's your sub," he commented, frowning.
John froze. "This is his first time out in public, Charlie. Surely you can forgive him for forgetting his manners." John turned to Sherlock and locked his gaze with his flatmate's stormy eyes. "Don't forget to address other dominants as 'sir' or 'ma'am' again, pet. I don't want to have to punish you tonight, especially after you've been so good lately," John purred.
Sherlock felt his cheeks blaze. "I'm sorry, sir. I won't forget again," he said, his voice quivering. He wasn't sure why John's correction affected him so, but he went with it, cataloguing the rule for future use.
"He really is something, John. I bet you could cut yourself on those cheekbones… Have you tried?" Charlie commented, raising a hand to trace the top of Sherlock's cheek.
"It seems," John began, bristling at his friend's actions, "that Sherlock isn't the only one who's forgotten his manners tonight."
Sherlock turned to look at John and was surprised to see that John looked murderous. His eyes promised a painful end if Charlie even thought about touching Sherlock again, and his mouth was turned up ever so slightly on the right side.
Charlie stiffened and withdrew his hands. "You've never had a problem with me touching before, mate. Sorry."
"That's because you asked before, Charlie. Now, if you'll excuse us, I want to show Sherlock the place," John said, placing his hand solidly against the small of his flatmate's back once again, using it as leverage to steer him away from the taller man. John could practically feel Charlie's eyes fixating on Sherlock's arse as they walked. John's hand lowered ever so slightly, resting on the fleshy swell that had captured Charlie's attention. John was staking a claim, and he wanted everyone at Leather to know that Sherlock was spoken for, that Sherlock was his.