A little cliché, this one… One more chapter after this! Thanks to all readers and reviewers!

John returned to the dance floor after a couple of blokes staggered in as he was washing his hands, slurping at each other's faces and groping like there was no tomorrow.

He made his hasty exit as one put his hands down the other's pants.

Sherlock and Stenson were nowhere to be seen, and John stopped his brain from conjuring up images of the two of them in some other dirty lavatory, going at it. Sherlock wouldn't do that; he was sure- not because he had some high moral principle but because it didn't directly help the case.

John ordered another drink, standing a bit awkwardly in the corner, as far from the crowds as possible. He would wait for a bit, then call Sherlock, who had probably sniffed a lead and ran smack out of the club without a second thought.

"John."

Startled, the doctor spun around to find the other man standing at his elbow.

"Sherlock- What happ-"

The detective cut him off briskly. "He's outside making a phone call. But he's still suspicious," he continued, eyes roaming the room. "He's never gotten this much attention on his nights out- possibly because of his natural antipathy to people, probably because he forgets to wear deodorant on a daily basis." He wrinkled his nose.

John kept his eyes on the crowd. "So we're done here?" he asked, wincing as his voice came out abrupt.

Sherlock looked at him. "Problem?"

John shook his head. "What am I doing here, Sherlock? How am I supposed to help?" He tried sounding matter-of-fact, and not like a whiny child.

Sherlock was studying him. "I need to make him want me, enough to forget his doubts and open up." He moved a barely noticeable step closer to John.

The doctor swallowed. "Well, I don't see what I've got to do with that. You seem to be getting on fine on your own." He cursed his stupid mouth, blushing.

Sherlock seemed to see something, and grabbed his elbow suddenly, dragging him towards the dancers. John yelped in surprise, attempting to wrench his arm back.

"He's here. I need to make him jealous," he hissed into John's ear. "Just go along with what I do."

John shook his head in disbelief, but let his flatmate pull him over to the edge of the undulating bodies. He kept his eyes on the floor.

"John." Sherlock sounded impatient. "Put your arms on my waist."

The doctor's head snapped up. "What?" He reddened as his voice came out high and shrill. "No!"

Sherlock sighed in irritation and grabbed John's wrists, placing them on his hips. He held them in place as he leaned towards the other man, eyes flashing with annoyance. "Come on, John! We need Stenson. He's the key to Edward's murder!

The doctor pursed his lips. "Alright!" He glared up at the other man.

Sherlock removed his hands, placing them on John's shoulders. They were warm and light, and John wondered what they would feel like if he weren't wearing so many clothes- would the palms be callused or smooth? Probably the latter, he decided distantly, while Sherlock swayed uncomfortably above him.

Then the other man chose to press himself against John's chest, hands lowering to his hips and rubbing his crotch against John's with evil accuracy. It felt good, bloody great, actually- but this wasn't the best idea, because John was quite adept at getting hard at the absolute worse times.

He pushed the other man away angrily, breathing hard and mouth unable to work for some reason. "What the bloody hell was that?" He snapped finally, staring up in fury at Sherlock's face.

Sherlock looked irritated, and a little bit of something else. "Dancing with my grandmother won't make him desire me, John!" he lashed out. "I can't understand why this is so difficult."

John sputtered. "It's- I'm not-" he clenched his fists. "It's not difficult. Just tell me what I need to do, don't expect me to just go along with everything! I want to know!"

Sherlock frowned. "Fine." He stepped closer again. "We're going to grind, as they call it. Is that alright with you, doctor?"

John gritted his teeth. "Fine," he spat, then swung the other man around so his back was to John's chest. "Go ahead, then."

Sherlock was immobile in front of him for a moment, then backed into John determinedly. He ground his arse into the other man's groin, hard, and John gripped his hips tightly, wishing he could reach out and taste the smooth neck that was bobbing in front of him.

John thought desperately about something other than the tufts of dark hair in front of his mouth, and the man whose bottom was firmly rubbing itself against his cock.

He thought about the cat his mother ran over when he was four, the color of a dead man's eyeballs, Mrs. Hudson naked, Mrs. Hudson naked with Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson naked with Anderson- but nothing worked, because Sherlock was moaning slightly and tipping his head back onto John's shoulder and John had reached his limit. He was sure Sherlock could feel the half-hardness of his cock through his bloody trousers, and he couldn't face the detective's eyes as he shoved him away.

John didn't say anything, didn't explain, couldn't explain, because it was all so fucking embarrassing, all of it. He could feel Sherlock's eyes on the back of his neck like lasers as he walked away, burning and scorching, and he pushed people out of the way a bit rougher than necessary.

The night air was cold, thank God, and John half-wanted Sherlock to burst out of the door like some knight in shining armor and beg him to come back. But of course, he had to get Stenson. Well, John thought savagely as he hailed a cab, Stenson can bloody well have him, for all he cared.

He slammed the door of the taxi hard, snapping "221b Baker Street" at the cabbie with venom he could not quite explain.

As soon as he arrived, John stomped up the stairs and threw himself down in his favorite chair. He debated sleeping, but the thought of tossing and turning and dreaming made him groan.

Then he felt a buzzing from his jacket pocket, and retrieved his cell phone. It was a text, from Sherlock- just three words- well, a number and two words. An address- 14 Wilhelm Street.

John cursed, not sure whether to be furious that Sherlock had agreed to go back to Stenson's flat or relieved that Sherlock had actually remembered to inform John of his whereabouts like the doctor had asked.

Worry won out, and John looked up the location of the address in a flash, grabbing his gun and tucking it into the back of his jeans as he jumped in another cab.

He told the cabbie to take him to one Wilhelm Street, because he had no real plan of action but make sure Sherlock was alright. Despite being easily seduced, the man they thought was the culprit was a real terror, and John had seen his type before- domineering and crazy and dangerous. This one was dangerous enough to kill. At that thought, he sent a text to Lestrade of the address and a brief description of the situation, in case John failed to save the day.

He walked along the street in the beams of streetlamps, squinting to see whether any of the houses said "14." He found the right one, finally, a nondescript building with a dark door. There was a lock, but John had brought a credit card and a paper clip, because Sherlock had taught him once when he was so mind-numbingly bored how to pick locks.

John got it open quickly and quietly, fear flashing in every loud beat of his heart. He doubted Stenson wanted Sherlock for a nice, vanilla night of lovemaking. The suspect was a dirty bastard, and John had a lot of experience with dirty bastards. They liked their things rough, and painful, and they liked feeling powerful.

He made no sound as he entered, closing the door so the light wouldn't shine in. He heard voices from upstairs, a chilling kind of laughter. His heart almost stopped, and he swallowed painfully.

John took the stairs one at a time, wanting to bound right up and shoot the brains out of the bastard, but his military training won out, and he opted for stealth. In any case, he wouldn't do any good to Sherlock dead.

Finally, the doctor reached the top. There was a light in the room to the left, but he couldn't see in properly. He stood completely still as he heard Stenson's voice again.

"-and you're lucky you're such a dirty little whore, because you're gonna love what I'm gonna do to you." He heard a muffled protest.

Sherlock.

John inched closer, slowly, every step killing him. There was another taunt from Stenson, and he heard a sharp crack and then a cry, louder this time.

John didn't think, just ran. He sprinted into the room, gun up, hands poised on the trigger.

Stenson whirled around, black whip in one hand, smile dropping from his face. Sherlock was on the ground in front of him, hands and feet tied, shirt pulled up to show a long red mark on the expanse of his back. He was gagged and blindfolded.

John wanted to drop to the floor and untie him, see his eyes, see that he was alright- but he kept his eyes on Stenson, hissing, "Don't move."

The man nodded, eyes wide. John gestured with his head. "Move away from him, now."

The man started to step away, but then grabbed Sherlock, a knife appearing out of nowhere from his hand. He placed it with alarming calmness on the detective's throat. "I'll do it," he warned, voice shaking. He tightened his grip on Sherlock's chest. "I swear, I'll kill him!"

John was gripping the gun so closely his hands were turning deathly white. He couldn't put down the gun-

But then Stenson's hand shook a little, and a thin crimson line opened up on Sherlock's neck.

John reacted instantly, fear exploding in his stomach, and shot Stenson's leg with smooth accuracy. The man howled, dropping the knife as John had hoped and falling backwards, grasping at his calf.

John hurried towards his flatmate, but Stenson grabbed the knife and tried desperately to aim it at Sherlock's back. John shot him once more, this time in the heart.

Sherlock was holding himself upright, but he was swaying, still blindfolded. "John?" he rasped out, voice cracking uncertainly. He held out his hands, searching. "John?"

The doctor took his hands in his own. "Here," he said, relief sweeping through him, hot and swift. He suddenly felt weak at the knees.

He took the blindfold and the gag off, and then untied the other man's wrists. Sherlock's eyes were a bit red, and John stared at them worriedly. "Alright?" he asked gently, resisting the urge to reach up and stroke the other man's cheek. Sherlock just gazed at him, swallowing, and looking for the entire world like a little boy who'd woken up alone in the dark.

He just nodded once, blinking a few times. John felt his heart almost break.

"Okay." He leaned down and undid the rope around the other man's feet, then stepped away carefully. "Let's get you home, then."