Holy moly. Here's chapter twelve. I hope this installment finds you all well. This story is almost finished and only has one chapter left. As always, please let me know what you thought through a comment or a review. Cheers.
Leather is more crowded than Greg remembered. He worked his way inside, trailing just behind John and Sherlock. Making his way over to the bar, Greg got his first glimpse of Clarissa, the suspect, as she weaseled her way across the room to hang indecently off of Charlie. Lestrade barely managed to stifle a shudder as Charlie's hands raked over her form, feeling her up in plain sight. It's indecent, he mused, sinking into an empty seat at the end of the bar. Absolutely indecent.
Greg ordered a pint, turning so that he faced the open layout of the club, all the exits clear in his sight. He did his best to not appear startled when John rested a hand on his shoulder, leaning over him to order a couple of drinks from the bartender.
"Didn't mean to scare you, Greg," John murmured, throwing a few bills down on the counter in exchange for two glasses filled with an electric blue liquid.
"You didn't," he countered, a weak smile turning his lips up at the corners. "There's just a lot of people; more than what I'm used to."
"Mmm. Yeah, I haven't seen the club this packed in a long time," John commented, sipping from his drink. John pressed the other glass into Sherlock's hands, the command to drink passing unsaid between the two men.
Greg was silent, his eyes tracking Charlie's movements as he dragged Clarissa onto the dancefloor, his hands settling possessively over her ass. Two additional pairs of eyes joined him in looking, and both he and John grimaced as Charlie started feeling up his partner, hands and mouth exploring everywhere.
"He has no tact, does he?" Greg asked, turning to check the exits again.
John shook his head. "There's a time and a place for possessive behavior, and this is not one of them," he commented, taking another sip of his drink. The three men hovered at the end of the bar for a few minutes, eyes raking over every square inch of the place they could see as they downed their drinks. Sherlock pressed closer to John the longer they stood there, and by the time his glass was empty, John had draped an arm casually around Sherlock's shoulders. Never before had he seen the detective act like this, and it both confused and elated Greg.
"We're gonna go dance for a while, see if we can get closer to Charlie," John said, setting two empty glasses on the bar. "If you need anything, just speak up. We can hear you just fine." Half a minute later, John had somehow made his way to the center of the dancefloor, Sherlock trailing close behind him.
John and Sherlock were careful for the first few songs, John's hands bracketing Sherlock's hips as they moved slowly. After the third song, they're pressed much closer together, Sherlock's arms slung around John's neck, his cuffs prominent even in the low lighting. They're quiet, ears strained to hear whatever they can pick up from Charlie as he grinds Clarissa against him.
"I was disappointed you didn't come in last night," she said between kisses, her breath coming in hot puffs against Charlie's neck.
"I'm sorry. John wanted to meet up, said he had a few ideas for me, for us," Charlie replied, bending to suck a mark into her neck.
Clarissa's head tipped back and she moaned obscenely. It sounded forced to Sherlock, and he told John as much, murmuring his thoughts into the doctor's ear.
John shivered and tightened his grip on Sherlock's hips, squeezing the skin just enough to cause the detective's breath to hitch. John smirked and pressed a kiss to Sherlock's neck, his lips ghosting over Sherlock's throbbing pulsepoint. He kept listening, both to Sherlock's words in his ear and to Charlie's conversation with Clarissa.
"It better be a fucking spectacular idea," she growled, hand fisting in Charlie's short, brown hair.
Charlie grinned and bent to kiss her. "Oh it will be. It has to be in order to satisfy a slut like you," he growled. He crashed his lips to hers a moment later, hands kneading the twin globes of her ass.
Sherlock saw her freeze for a split second out of the corner of his eye. She didn't like being treated like that, but Charlie and 80% of the other men here were too idiotic to pick up on that. She deserved to be treated well, he mused, by a man who saw her needs and catered to them instead of thinking he knew better because of a self-imposed title. She needed a man like John, he thought, needed a man who had earned his title. But not his John, he amended. Sherlock couldn't help but smirk as he saw his cuffs, so dark against his pale skin. It was a proof, that even for a little while, Captain Watson was his.
As more bodies swarmed the dancefloor, John pulled Sherlock closer still, dancing chest to chest, hip to hip with his flatmate. He could feel every breath Sherlock took, every shiver that skittered down his spine, every minute detail of his body, and John thought it was delicious. People were bumping into them left and right, but John didn't care. He kept swaying to the music and slid his hands to the small of Sherlock's back.
Being so close to his flatmate, John knew the exact moment that Sherlock started receiving unwanted attention. John knew, that anyone else watching would be clueless to the brunet's discomfort, but he felt it. It was in the way Sherlock's hips stuttered for a brief moment, clear in the way his breath hitched, obvious in the way his barely audible sentences tapered off unfinished. John's eyes darted around, fixing on the taller man behind Sherlock. John glared when the other man's hands slid around Sherlock's waist, his eyebrow raising in a clear challenge to John.
"Hey, fuckwit, he's taken," John growled, tightening his grip on Sherlock.
The other man chuckled. "Oh really? Doesn't bother me if it doesn't bother him," he commented.
Sherlock shivered against him, the brunette's head dropping to his neck. "John, please," Sherlock whimpered, attempting to step forward into the doctor's familiar embrace.
"You're making my submissive uncomfortable," John said, voice steely. "Now, please, remove your hands from his body before I remove them for you."
The other man smirked and stepped closer, pressing his body against Sherlock's back. "I'd like to see you try, hobbit."
"You can punch him, John. I'll just slip off to the bathroom so I don't see anything," Greg said, his voice tinny and slightly muffled through the earpiece.
"Please do," Sherlock whispered into his neck, his breath ghosting across John's sweaty skin.
The other man wasn't prepared for John's fist colliding with his jaw, nor was he prepared for the second blow to his gut. He stumbled back and glowered at John, eyes blazing. "You little shit!" he exclaimed, lunging forward towards John.
Sherlock watched as John easily side-stepped the other man, blinking as he ended up ploughing over a trio of women who had been dancing together. He blinked again in surprise when John's hand fisted in his hair and pulled back, a soft moan falling from his lips.
"Do not touch what is mine," John growled, glaring at the other man. "You can try and take any other sub you want, taken or not, but you will not take mine."
Sherlock gasped as John's lips found his pulse point again, the sound turning into a strangled moan when John fastened his lips to his neck and sucked. John's hands were everywhere, roaming up and down his back, across the upper swell of his ass, pulling him impossibly close. Teeth nipped at his neck, and Sherlock couldn't stop the noises that tumbled from his throat. Everything John did was intensely good, and he couldn't help but want more.
When John pulled away from his flatmate's neck, he was satisfied with the still-shining bruise gleaming at him. It almost matched the shirt Sherlock was wearing, and John knew that if he sucked on the spot just a little bit more, it would darken further and last much longer. "Mine," he whispered, leaning forward to press a gentle kiss against the bruise. "You are mine, Sherlock."
"Yours," Sherlock breathed, his eyes boring into John's. He knew then, that everything had changed between them. He no longer wanted to be distanced from the man pressed against him. He found, instead, that he wanted more with John. He wanted for them to share the same air, to be able to wrap his legs around John's waist as he was pinned against any surface in a feat of impossible strength, he wanted John to kiss and nibble and bite at his lips, and he wanted to be so close to John that they couldn't tell where one body ended and the other began.
Sherlock was pulled from his thoughts when John pulled away from him. Charlie was there, stammering through some excuse about leaving early with Clarissa. He watched as John smiled and patted his shoulder, assuring his friend that all the trouble was almost over, and that he'd be along shortly to save the day. Charlie smiled nervously and left without another word.
They lingered on the dancefloor for a few moments, waiting until the song was finished before backtracking to regroup with Greg at the bar. John ordered a pair of bottled waters and pressed one into Sherlock's hands. Sherlock drank his without being prompted, earning a smile from John.
Once again, Greg was gaping at them. Sherlock endured it for a moment before snapping. "What?" he asked. "Do I have something on my face or something?"
Greg shook his head and ran a hand through his hair. "No, but you do have something on your neck. Blimey, John, this is not my division," he replied, his cheeks burning.
John blushed, too, and raised a hand to trace the bruise he left. He was silent, but his touch said it all. I'm sorry' was found in the gentle swipe of a thumb over residual wetness. This will last a while found in the way John's thumb lingered over the bruise. You're mine as John pressed ever so slightly, eyes burning in a way Sherlock had never seen before.
They waited for another song to finish playing before Greg settled up his tab and they all left. They piled into a sleek black car, courtesy of Mycroft, locked into Charlie's tracker, and set off to catch a murderer in the act before her victim count increased by one.
It's a good twenty minutes before they pull up to a shabby building. There's a few lights shining through the upper windows, and John could barely make out Clarissa's profile against the curtains. The rest of the cops arrive shortly after, and John is anxious to move. "She's up there," he said, pointing to the lit windows. "I'm going to go in first and secure the ground floor with Lestrade and Donnovan. Once we're secured, you'll come in and hold the first floor, start your searching, and we'll advance to the second floor. Remember to make as little noise as you can, if she catches us, another man could die tonight."
Sherlock caught various police members rolling their eyes and chuckling under their breath. Very few seemed to take John seriously, but twin glares from himself and the Detective Inspector had them all sobering up, pulling guns out of holsters, preparing to invade the apartment building.
"Go on and pick the lock for us, pet," John murmured in his ear before pressing a familiar kit into his hands.
Sherlock nodded and did as he was told. The lock wasn't difficult, and the door hung wide open a scant thirty seconds later, providing John all the room he could want for a first look inside the building.
It was dark, but empty. The furnishings were minimal and broken. The pristine collection of items lined up on the dingy coffee table stood out against the starkness of the room. Silently, John made a motion with his left hand, directing two men to investigate the items.
"These belonged to the victims," the first one whispered, picking up a well-cared for leather belt in gloved hands.
"This should be evidence enough to arrest her," the second one murmured, pointing his gun towards the stairs.
"We have to get her in the act," Greg hissed. "In the act!"
John turned on his heel and glared at the Detective Inspector, one finger pressed against in his lips, demanding silence. Greg's mouth snapped shut, and John moved up the stairs, steps falling silently despite the heavy boots tied around his feet. His shoulders tensed as he paused at the top of the stairs, ears straining to pick up any sounds indicating Clarissa's whereabouts.
John heard Charlie's whimpering from the second door on his right, muffled sounds and pleas for help ever so faint. He motioned for Greg and Donovan to follow him as he crept towards the door.
Sherlock watched as John took two breaths to steady himself, his eyes fluttering shut. It was remarkable, Sherlock thought, to see John transform completely. Little by little, the doctor half of him slipped away, the Captain coming out in it's wake. John's eyes snapped open, and a heartbeat of silence passed before he exploded, boot crashing heavily against the door, forcing it open.
He swarmed in behind John, Lestrade and Donovan close on his heels. Sherlock's eyes widened as he took in the scene; Charlie was stripped naked and tied spread eagle on the floor. An assortment of torture devices, the still-cold branding iron, and a leather handbag with a long strap were laid out beside Charlie's naked form. Clarissa was fingering a particularly brutal looking knife as she stood over her victim's form.
John's gun leveled with Clarissa's torso, aimed not to kill, but to seriously injure. "Put your hands up and step away from Charlie," he barked, drawing her attention. "Now!"
Clarissa's gaze snapped to the side, zeroing in on John first, then snapping to Sherlock. "Fancy meeting you here, Captain Watson," she purred. Her smile went from pleased to predatorial as she abandoned the knife to wrap her hands around the branding iron. She winked at John before lunging at Sherlock, swinging the weapon towards his face.
Sherlock's arms instinctively raised, wrists crossing in front of his face to protect his head from the blow. John lunged at her as fast as he could, but it wasn't enough to prevent the branding iron from connecting with his left forearm, the iron ripping through his silk shirt and his skin as she dragged it up. John tossed his gun to the side and pinned her to the ground before she could take another swing.
"Hand me the rope from the corner," John barked, fastening a pair of Lestrade's handcuffs around Clarissa's wrists. He pressed a knee into the middle of her spine to hold her in place, but John knew that if she kept struggling, it wouldn't be enough.
Lestrade and Donovan gaped at John, their jaws impossibly wide, and Sherlock knew he didn't look much better. He's just as surprised as they are by John's actions, and it rendered him immobile for a few long heartbeats.
"Now! She'll get free from handcuffs alone!" John shouted, twisting Clarissa's arm a bit more than necessary, a pitiful whimper falling from her throat. Greg handed him a length of rough, jute rope a moment later, and John began knotting her pale wrists together a moment later, tying all the way up to her elbows in an attempt to limit her mobility.
It's quiet for a few agonizing moments, the only sound coming from the scratch of the rope as John worked. "Didn't know you had it in you, John," Donovan breathed, her tongue swiping across dry lips. "First you tame the freak, and then you turn into a BDSM soldier for us."
John's eyes snapped to her form. "Shut up, Donovan," he growled, pulling tight on a particularly vicious knot. "If I ever hear you call Sherlock a freak again, I'll tie you up and leave you somewhere even the Yard's best won't be able to find you."
Sherlock watched in awe as crimson burned across Donovan's cheeks. Her jaw dropped and her breathing rate increased, her pupils dilated, and her tongue wet her hips again. Sherlock was disgusted when he realised she was attracted to John. He did his best to ignore the fact that he was jealous.
"Are you trying to shut me up, or are you just looking for an excuse to play?" she asked, voice unusually flirty. It made Sherlock's stomach clench uncomfortably, and he couldn't help the quiet growl that vibrated in his throat.
John turned to look at Donovan and Lestrade, face contorted with disgust, and shook his head. "Not on the market, Donovan. You're just wasting your time."
The room fell quiet again as John stood up, hauling Clarissa roughly with him. "Please take care of Charlie, and see to it that any injuries are healed. This should hold her until you get her to Scotland Yard. Sherlock and I will be by sometime tomorrow to give our statements, Lestrade," John said, shoving the bound serial killer at Donovan.
With his hands free, John bent to retrieve his handgun. "Come, pet. Let's go home," he ordered, tucking the gun in the waistband of his trousers.
Sherlock nodded and followed John home, crawling into a cab with his injured arm cradled across his chest. He knew he was safe with John, even with the injury; he was still wearing his cuffs, after all. Later, as he sat shirtless on the toilet lid, wincing as John stitching his arm up, Sherlock would analyze his behavior from that night. He would pin his obedience on the fact that he was still acting as John's submissive and would ignore the whispered voices telling him otherwise.
After John had bade him good night and climbed the stairs to his own room, Sherlock climbed alone into his bed. It was only in the safety of the dark where he allowed his mind to wander. He was well aware that the dynamic between them had changed, he wore the proof of a violent, purple bruise on his neck. With a frown, Sherlock realized that he wasn't sure if his relationship with John would ever be able to shift back to how it had been before. The last thought he remembered thinking before he was lost to sleep, was that he wasn't sure if he wanted it to.