Gack. So sorry again for the wait. Finals are over and I'm on summer break. For the next ten days. Bugger.
I'm aware this part is kinda short and probably very slow. My intentions for this chapter was to cover a lot of ground, but like always, I underestimated the characters, and it's grown beyond my wildest dreams. It may take a day or two for the next installment, but it should be posted on Sunday at the latest. As always, let me know what you thought through a comment or a review. Cheers.
When seven o' clock rolled around the next evening, Greg and Charlie were ushered into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street and promptly pushed down on the couch. A metal briefcase was sitting open on the kitchen table, microphones and various computer equipment glinting ever so slightly under the soft light. John was busy puttering about the kettle, pulling down four mugs and his container of tea bags. "Anyone else want a cuppa? This might take a while," he offered, turning to look at the two on the couch.
Both Greg and Charlie nodded, and continued looking around the flat. A moment later, Sherlock appeared, still in his lounge wear and dressing gown. He moved his armchair to face the couch and sat down, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, fingers steepled together under his chin. He kept quiet, eyes narrowed on the spot directly between Greg and Charlie.
"So, any questions about the plan?" John asked, breaking the silence as he handed a mug of tea to Lestrade.
"I've got a few," Greg replied. "How on earth is this all going to work? I mean, it makes sense in theory, but I have yet to see a plan like this executed without any hiccoughs. I'd rather not put anyone in danger if we can avoid it."
John nodded and settled in his armchair, sipping from his mug. "I believe Sherlock is the best one to answer that."
The detective was silent for a moment. "Everyone will be wearing a wire. Mycroft will aid us in surveillance, so even if Charlie doesn't go back to the murderer's apartment, we'll still be able to see him. He'll also be wearing a subdermal tracker, so we'll be able to pinpoint his exact location accurately within a yard. We have undercover police stationed outside the murderer's apartment, and more will be stationed outside of Leather," Sherlock started, pausing to breathe. "For us, we'll act as we always do. Charlie will treat his… partner like a piece of meat, Lestrade will sit at the bar and watch everything that happens, and John and I will attempt to blend in while getting closer to the murderer. When Charlie leaves with the murderer, we'll wait precisely seven minutes before following them in unmarked police cars. We'll enter the home, subdue the murderer after catching her in the beginnings of the act, and cut Charlie free from his bondage. John and I will go home, Lestrade will take Charlie back to Scotland Yard for questioning, and the remaining police will search the murder's home. Any additional questions?"
"So it's all going to be safe?" Greg asked.
"Subdermal tracker?" Charlie asked.
Sherlock sighed. "Yes, Lestrade. All safe. And of course the tracker will be subdermal. The murderer likes to have her victims naked, and we couldn't take the chance of using any other kind," he replied.
"How the hell do I get it in?" Charlie asked.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "John, please take care of it," he said, turning to drape his impossibly long legs over the side of his chair.
John huffed and walked over to the open briefcase, pulling out what looked like a small gun and his first aid kit. "I'm sorry about this, mate," he said, motioning for Charlie to come join him. "It won't be pleasant, but after a few minutes, you won't even feel it anymore."
Charlie rose and approached John. "Is this like a flu jab?" he asked rolling up the sleeves to his shirt.
John smiled apologetically and patted his friend's shoulder awkwardly. "I'm afraid I'm gonna have to ask you to drop your trousers and bend over the table," he said, avoiding the question.
"I suggest you do as the good doctor says. I know for a fact that he's stronger than he looks and not above pinning you down," Sherlock commented.
Charlie stared at John for a moment, his mouth hanging open. John raised an eyebrow at him, pulling on a pair of latex gloves. "It's the only place she won't see it," he said, ripping open an alcohol swab.
Fifteen minutes later, Charlie was sitting gingerly in a kitchen chair beside Lestrade, matching plates of chinese takeout in front of them both. John leaned against the counter, eating his own portion out of the box while he watched Sherlock, still sitting sideways in his chair.
"Sherlock," he called between mouthfuls, "come and eat before it gets cold."
"Not hungry," he replied.
"I don't care. You're going to come here and eat with us. And then you are going to shower and get dressed properly," John said.
"Not hungry," Sherlock repeated. He jumped when a box of take out was dropped in his lap, the corresponding chopsticks following a heartbeat later.
"Eat your damn dinner. And then go shower. Not up for debate," John gritted out, his gaze locking intently with Sherlock's. "If you don't, I'll tie you to the bed and leave you there until the case is over. So, please, just do as I say."
Sherlock didn't reply, but smiled gratefully up at John when he realized that the carton was only half filled with his favorite pork dish.
When John returned to his spot against the counter, it was to a very shocked expression from a silent Lestrade.
Charlie laughed and made a lewd gesture that John ignored. Greg just blushed and murmured unheard words into his dinner.
Five minutes later, Sherlock pressed an empty take out container into John's hands before disappearing wordlessly down the hall into the bathroom. John smiled when he heard the pipes rattle as the water turned on.
After dinner was cleaned up, John excused himself to go change his clothes and get wired up, handing the second wire set to Lestrade. Once in his room, he stripped down to his pants and laid out his supplies in the middle of his bed. The microphone wires and earpiece, his gun, and two folded knives.
John opened his wardrobe and sat on the edge of his bed. For the first time since he came back from Afghanistan, he wasn't sure what to wear to Leather. His usual fare would do nothing to hide his equipment, but his classic jeans-and-jumper combo would stick out like a sore thumb. With a sigh, he started rifling through his drawers. He jumped when he heard a timid knock at his door. "If it's Sherlock, come in. If it's not, give me a mo'," he said.
The door opened and a dripping wet consulting detective clad only in a towel stepped inside, taking care to close the door quietly behind him. "You're not dressed yet," he commented, his eyes roving over John's form.
"Great deduction, Sherlock," John chuckled, running a hand through his hair. "I'm afraid I don't know what to wear."
Sherlock was quiet for a few heartbeats as he stared at John's wardrobe. "Might I make a suggestion?" he asked.
"Of course," John replied, gesturing to his wardrobe. "Pull whatever you think will be good."
Sherlock crossed the room and began rummaging, the hand not anchored on his towel on a mission. A moment later, his hand re-emerged, a familiar desert camo print clenched between long fingers. "I believe your old army fatigues will be more than suitable. Not only will they hide your weapons, but, from what I've observed at Leather, will be accepted as part of a power dynamic."
John took the clothes from Sherlock and kissed his knuckles. "My brilliant detective," he murmured. "Thank you."
Sherlock frowned slightly and let his hands drop. "John?" he breathed.
"Yes?" John asked.
"I had to take them off," Sherlock said, dropping his gaze to the floor.
"Take what off?" John asked, tugging on his white vest.
Sherlock shifted his weight, rocking forward on the balls of his feet before relaxing back on his heels. "Your cuffs. For my shower. I'm sorry, John."
John paused getting dressed to cup Sherlock's cheek and raise his gaze. "Hey, it's ok. We can always put them back on," he commented, stroking a thumb over his flatmate's cheek.
Sherlock nodded once and leaned into John's touch. "I'm glad. I don't like not having them on. I feel anchored to you."
John smiled softly and dropped his hand. "I like them on you," he admitted. "Now, I'm going to finish getting dressed. When I'm done, I'm going to come down to your room, put your wire on, and then I'm going to dress you. Go get everything laid out for me, pet," he instructed, picking up the smaller of the two knives.
"Yes, Captain," Sherlock breathed, exiting the room as quickly as he could.
John chuckled to himself as he tucked the small knife in a holding band anchored around his right thigh. He pulled on basic white socks next, followed by his trousers. His transmitter box was stored in his back pocket, and the microphone was clipped to his vest. John picked up his handgun next, checking to make sure the safety was on before tucking it into the waistband of his trousers.
It took John a few minutes of rummaging to find his combat boots. After he tugged the boots on, John secured the larger knife in his left boot, lacing it up tight when he was finished. He tugged on his jacket last, his fingers working the familiar buttons quickly. Standing tall, he looked at his reflection in the small mirror on the inside of his wardrobe door. He was surprised to see that the uniform still fit him as well as it did in Afghanistan. John took a deep breath and with a minute nod of his head, he turned on his heel and exited his room, boots clunking down the stairs.
He bypassed Charlie and Greg on his way to Sherlock's room, ignoring the wolf whistle from the taller man. He grabbed the last wire set before knocking briskly at Sherlock's door. He allowed the other man a few seconds to gather himself before he let himself into the detective's room.
Sherlock sat on the middle of his bed, his form covered by his blue dressing gown. He seemed lost in thought, eyes fixated on the clothes laid out across the chair by the window.
"Ready for me, pet?" John asked, his voice gentle.
"Yes, Captain," Sherlock said, gracefully climbing off the bed and moving to stand in front of John.
John looked back and forth from the transmitter box in his hand and Sherlock's intended outfit. "How is this going to work with those trousers?" he thought aloud.
"If anyone asks, it's an insulin pump," Sherlock answered.
John nodded and set the wire set down on the edge of Sherlock's bed, picking up the dark wash jeans resting on the chair. Taking his time, John eased each of Sherlock's legs through the holes and pulled the denim up strong thighs. He buttoned and zipped the flies and slid the transmitter box into Sherlock's back pocket. If the detective noticed his fingers lingering a heartbeat too long against his arse, he didn't say anything.
Sherlock's favourite purple shirt was tugged on next, and John secured the microphone on the inside before buttoning it up. As always, the top two buttons were left loose, and Sherlock's neck was left temptingly bare.
"Where are the cuffs, pet?" John asked, righting the collar of Sherlock's shirt.
"In the bathroom, with the dogtags," he replied.
John patted his flatmate's shoulder gently. "I'll be right back and we can put them on," he said.
"No," Sherlock said hurriedly.
"No?" John asked, furrowing his eyebrows. "I thought you wanted to wear them."
"I do," Sherlock replied. "But I want you to put them on like you always do… it helps me get in the proper headspace for the club."
John smiled warmly at his flatmate and nodded. "Charlie and Greg are out there, you know," he commented.
"I know. It's ok. They'll see me with you all night, anyways," Sherlock said.
"Then let's go get your shoes on. When you're done, come kneel by my chair, and I'll take care of you," John instructed, heading towards the bathroom. He retrieved the cuffs and dogtags before returning to the sitting room to sink down in his chair.
"Everyone ready to go?" Lestrade asked, tugging on his jacket. Charlie nodded, already halfway out the door.
"Almost," John replied. "There's one last thing I need to do first."
Greg shot him a questioning look, his eyebrows nearly meshing with his hair line when he saw Sherlock sink to his knees in front of John's chair. Silently, he watched as the two flatmates performed their ritual.
"Sherlock, will you wear my cuffs and be my responsibility tonight?" John asked, resting his hands on his thighs.
"Yes, John," the detective replied, placing his hands in John's lap.
"Then from the time I fasten the buckles, to the time I take them off, you're mine, Sherlock," John said. He wrapped the first band of leather around his flatmate's wrist and placed a small kiss over the buckle when it was secure before repeating the action on Sherlock's other wrist. Finally, he placed his dogtags around Sherlock's neck, pausing to wrap a fist around the metal tags. He fought to suppress the urge to pull Sherlock up and crash his lips against the detective's. It took every ounce of self control he had to settle for pulling gently on the tags so he could press a kiss to Sherlock's curls instead.
"Alright," John said, standing from his chair, taking care to step around the still kneeling detective. "We can go now."