A/N: For Vince, who demanded I name a character in a story after him, and who was once upon a time a regular feature in my own submissive fantasies. Happy now? For the rest of you, I've planned out the rest of this story and it will be a grand total of 9 chapters long, including a porny epilogue. Also, The Edge is a real Soho bar but I've never been there so my representation of it is fictional, as is the Ball and Chain.
Sherlock realised very quickly that he had underestimated how difficult it would be to tell John what he wanted.
It had seemed like the work of a moment; compose a short speech and then deliver it in tremendously awkward style over a late lunch that he considered making himself, but that John turned out to have already begun by the time he emerged from his bedroom.
But John had acted as though the entire role-play had never happened, plonking a sandwich in front of Sherlock and commanding him to eat it as he had every day or so for months. Sherlock did so, watching John carefully for any flicker of interest in the fact that he had obviously finished himself off as soon as the doctor had left the room. He didn't find one until after they had both finished their lunch, chatting idly about nothing in particular and shifting simultaneously into the kitchen to stack their plates by the sink. John turned around from the kitchen bench and apparently found Sherlock closer than he had expected; he stared, transfixed, at Sherlock's chest for a moment, but just when Sherlock was reaching out to tip up his chin and deliver his speech he started guiltily and moved off as though he had been shocked.
By the time Lestrade called again late the next morning Sherlock was thoroughly frustrated with the whole affair. He had not even been able to think about alternate ways to find their killer because John had been around all the time, casually bumbling about the flat tidying things or sitting in his armchair with a book or the laptop. Sherlock would begin thinking that he evidently couldn't count on his sources in the London swing scene to know someone fitting the description (and yet she must be finding her victims from somewhere)and then discover that he had actually spent the last ten minutes staring idly at the doctor and wondering whether John actually wanted a relationship with him or just wanted his body in much the same way Sherlock had wanted John's before he began to know what it would be like to have it.
"Are you staring at me on purpose?" John had asked at one point.
Sherlock had started, asked John to repeat the question, and then replied nonchalantly, "I didn't realise I had been, I'm sorry." He'd tried to stop but it hadn't worked, and John had eventually given it up as simply being something interesting for Sherlock to look at while he thought.
It was around eleven the next morning that Lestrade called again to inform them there had been another murder. Sherlock looked at the clock in surprise. "Interesting," he replied simply. "Text me the address and we'll leave straight away."
John lifted an eyebrow at him as he stood, already putting his book aside in preparation for getting up and leaving. "Already?" he asked eagerly.
Sherlock nodded briskly. "She's accelerating. And I imagine Trent's behaviour would have reinforced her cause somewhat." His mobile chimed with the address. "Come on, John," he said brightly. The doctor scrambled out of his chair with a brilliant smile, tossing Sherlock's coat and scarf to him as they passed the door. Sherlock folded the crime-scene and ID photographs from the first two murders into an inside pocket of his coat.
There was always a certain thrill in being called to a murder scene, but this went beyond that somehow. It was difficult to judge the reaction in John because of the sparks flooding his own veins, but there was a certain undercurrent of anticipation between them as they kissed Mrs Hudson goodbye and bundled into a cab. Another murder would mean another role-play.
Lestrade met them at the door of the spacious central London flat building. "This one's different again," he said glumly, apparently not sharing their enthusiasm for the case.
"Excellent," Sherlock said, patting the worn DI on the shoulder in an attempt to rub off some of his good humour. "Everything she does differently tells us something about her." Lestrade smiled weakly, glancing at John and evidently hoping for some sort of conspiratorial look of the sort the two often shared behind Sherlock's back. He smiled triumphantly when the doctor didn't offer him one.
"His name was Vincent Stephens," Lestrade said wearily when they reached the penthouse apartment. "Inherited the family business last year, seemed to have been doing pretty well running it. His cleaner found him right before I called you, we reckon he'd been dead for about an hour then but we'll get a better estimate when we send the body to the coroner. Otherwise… have at it."
Stephens' body had been neatly arranged on the bed, fully dressed. Even his flies had been refastened, his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes pressed closed. Sherlock frowned. "Well," John said from behind him. "I see what you mean about different."
This was the presentation of a completely different killer than the one who had so crudely disposed of Trent. If it weren't for the fact that Stephens fit the pattern of the other two victims and the scarf that had quite clearly been used to tie someone's hands to the headboard, Sherlock would almost have assumed they were a different killer's handiwork. "What do you think, John?" he asked, looking back at the doctor. He had plenty of ideas himself, of course, but it was always helpful to get John's opinion first, and he was slightly hopeful for a repeat of the last time he had asked it, when John had completely surprised all of them with his analysis.
This time, though, John simply gestured towards the body. "You're the expert," he said in a mock-deferential tone. Sherlock smiled gracefully.
"She redressed him and arranged the body in a respectful position," he stated, watching John like he was daring him to make a remark about stating the obvious. He didn't, so Sherlock continued. "They're clear signs of remorse. For some reason, she cared about this one more than the others." He performed his cursory calculating sweep of the room. "Judging by the photographs, he'd come out of a long-term relationship about…" he moved to the dresser for a closer look, "a month ago. He probably missed looking after someone the way he'd looked after his girlfriend. He was nice to her."
Lestrade folded his arms. "I thought this was all about dominance and submission for her?"
Sherlock gave him a scathing look. "Oh, he was definitely dominant," he appraised, putting the photograph down. "Perhaps our femme fatale is only just realising that not all dominants are cruel." He sighed at the Inspector's blank look. "There are different dynamics to this sort of relationship, Lestrade. Being the dominant partner implies a certain level of control, it's true, and many people do play up that element and use it to incorporate pain and humiliation and a degree of sexual servitude. But having power over someone also leaves you with a responsibility to take care of them. To look after them. My guess would be that that was the element Stephens showed our killer, and she wasn't expecting it."
"You don't think she'd know about that kind of dominance?" Lestrade interrupted sceptically.
"I think if you put yourself out there as a submissive, you're going to invite a lot of jerks and losers to subject you to sexual abuse under the name of BDSM," Sherlock retorted. "It's very possible that she'd just never been with anyone who took care of her the way they should have. Or she could be simply acting on principle - maybe one rich and arrogant dominant treated her badly and she's getting back at the stereotype without having much knowledge of BDSM herself."
The DI mulled this over for a moment before sighing. "All right," he said, as though the information really didn't make much difference. "Didn't you say you knew people who could find her?"
Sherlock shrugged irritatedly. "I had two. One of them isn't answering my phonecalls and the other hasn't seen anyone like her but is keeping an eye out. John and I will pay a visit to the first one on our way home, just in case there's a reason he's not answering."
He bent to examine the ligature marks on Stephens' neck; it looked as though strangling him had taken longer than the others. He lifted an eyebrow at John. "How long would you say it took him to die?" he asked.
The doctor bent close. "Ages," he pronounced scientifically after a moment. "It wouldn't have been pleasant for either of them."
Sherlock hummed. "I suppose we can hope that the trauma from this murder will stop her for a while," he mused.
John snorted suddenly. Sherlock lifted a curious eyebrow at him. "Sorry," he said brightly, not sounding sorry at all. "Sometimes it hits me all of a sudden that this is my life now. You know, if someone had told me at any point of my life up to about sixteen months ago that one day I'd be a doctor and solve high-profile crimes with my mad best friend I never would have believed them. I probably would have thought they were just humouring my overdeveloped sense of adventure."
"You solve crimes?" Sherlock teased. John made a face that was clearly one step short of sticking out his tongue.
He was touched, though, by the idea that meeting him appealed to the childish sense of adventure within John, the implication in his outburst that his life with Sherlock was a sort of dream he had never imagined would come true. And the title of 'best friend' kindled something warm and homely in his stomach; Sherlock had never been anyone's best friend before. John's fingers brushed his as the doctor stepped back from the body and Sherlock clamped them briefly between his own, squeezing in a subtle gesture of affection.
Lestrade seemed reluctant to interrupt the warm silence between them, so Sherlock bent forwards to examine the victim's fingers, clearing his throat briskly. "His fingernails were too short to scratch her too much, I would say. It does look as though he tried, though. If he'd cared for her I imagine it would have come as quite a shock when she all of a sudden turned on him." He remembered John's shock the previous night, the little bubble that orgasm created and how long it had taken him to react once Sherlock shattered it. And that was after years of army training. By the time Stephens mustered the brainpower to try and resist, the lack of oxygen would already have weakened his muscles. "Really, it's quite a clever strategy on her part, being someone who would never be able to overpower these men in ordinary circumstances."
"Could we maybe hold the meeting of the Serial Killer Appreciation Society outside of police time?" Lestrade interjected wearily.
Sherlock shrugged. "That does tend to drastically reduce attendance," he quipped.
"Oh, I don't know," the DI said darkly with a meaningful look at Donovan. "Most of the new recruits would probably still turn up. It's incredible how many people join the police after an adolescence spent watching CSI or Criminal Minds, hoping to bag themselves their own personal Hannibal Lector."
"Yes," Sherlock interjected drily. "Could we maybe run the Senior Police Commiseration Session outside of consultant hours?"
Lestrade actually stuck his tongue out at Sherlock, who chuckled at him. "Maybe we could return to the case in question," he suggested. "Perhaps you should bring in a few of your new recruits with all of their telly-watching experience. Shock them out of wanting the serial cases."
"I would, if I weren't afraid you would shock them out of the Force entirely," the officer retorted. "Is there anything else, or can I get back to my interviews?"
Sherlock looked around the room again and pocketed the photograph on the bedside table of Stephens and his ex. "No," he said briskly, ignoring Donovan's indignant shout at his appropriation of evidence. "Text me if the interviews find anything, and I'll let you know if we get anything from our inquiries this afternoon. If he's actually avoiding us for a reason I'll need you."
"If it helps, I never expected this life either," Sherlock said softly when they were safely ensconced in the back of a cab.
John frowned up at him. "Which life?"
Sherlock heroically refrained from making a sarcastic remark about the improbability of reincarnation. "The one I have with you," he clarified. "Actually having my own environment, my own community - the feeling of coming home to Baker Street and Mrs Hudson and to you. I never expected to have that. I thought I'd spend my whole life by myself in some mouldy back-alley flat on the outskirts of London."
For a moment, the doctor just watched him. Then he smiled warmly. "I'm very glad you're not," he replied. Sherlock grinned at him, and he eventually turned his face back towards the window. "So where are we going?" he asked.
"The Ball and Chain - an extremely exclusive bar in Soho," Sherlock told him matter-of-factly. John gave him a familiar why do I get myself into these things expression, which Sherlock didn't believe a word of after his earlier confession.
John coughed carefully. "An exclusive BDSM bar in Soho?" he ventured, sounding almost afraid of the answer.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "It's one o'clock in the afternoon, it's not open. It's not as if I'm dragging you into a den full of whips and chains and asking you to pretend to be in a relationship with me. But the proprietor ought to be there at this time of day, so we can just make sure he missed my call instead of avoiding it. That's really the last thing we can do as far as that avenue of inquiry goes."
John's eyes narrowed slightly, as though he was critical of this plan, but he didn't say anything. Sherlock turned away from him and stared out of the window at the grey clouds building around them. He was critical of the plan too, mainly because it wasn't really a plan at all. Somewhere between now and that first murder he had become completely sidetracked by John, and really they hadn't made any progress at all on the actual case since the first role-play. It was embarrassing that his mind could be so derailed with so little to show for it - worse, though, was the part of him that was doing it on purpose, because the longer it took them to solve this case, the longer he had an excuse to be close to John, to be intimate with John, without having to face the reasons he wanted it head on.
There was a terrible part of him - the part that had survived on its own for the majority of his life - that thought that if a few cruel and abusive men had to die so that he and John could work something out, then so be it. The rest of him hated that part, but it was there nonetheless.
What would they do if their meeting with the proprietor of the BDSM bar proved fruitless? It was really the only thing Sherlock had thought to do on this case. Sitting back and waiting helplessly for precautionary measures and look-outs to come through was something that the police did, not Sherlock Holmes.
He sighed, his head resting on the cold window of the cab. He really ought to focus on other ways the killer might be finding her victims, but his mind wouldn't stay on that track, instead trailing back to the mainly unnecessary role-play that would happen when they got back to the flat. Stephens had been a caring dominant, intimate, familiar; once they got started John would undoubtedly begin treating him as though he was his most prized possession, gentling him and praising him like he was precious. If it had been difficult to separate role-play and reality before, it would be impossible this time.
Perhaps it would be for the best if Sherlock forgot himself and called John's name, or some similar slip. If the truth came out helplessly, and if John didn't like it Sherlock could pretend he never intended to tell him, pretend it was only something that lived in the back of his mind and was easily squashed.
The cabbie had given them a slightly dirty look when Sherlock had asked to be taken to Soho Square, and he gave them another as he pulled up the cab and announced their arrival. Sherlock counted out the exact amount of cash he could read off the meter, earning himself a raised eyebrow from John; usually he just threw the nearest whole note at the driver before taking off. Some people really didn't deserve tips.
"Bill took me there once," John said with a wry grin as they walked through the Square, gesturing to one of the few bars that was open, fielding a gentle flow of lunch-goers. Sherlock frowned at the sign above the door. The Edge was a fairly well-known gay bar. He'd been there himself a few times, in pursuit of contacts or suspects. "Totally oblivious. I mean, it's not as if this area is discreet in its target audience - but no, someone recommended it to him without telling him it was a gay bar and then he was surprised when men kept hitting on the two of us."
Sherlock kept his face carefully clear of the rush of something that hit him at the thought of other men 'hitting on' John. "You agreed to go, even though you knew it was a gay bar?" he asked drily, leading his friend gently away from the partitions around the empty outdoor area.
John snorted. "At first I thought he was trying to come out to me, you know. By the time I realised he had no idea it was already hilarious and I wanted to follow it through. Plus, the food was pretty good. It's not like I have anything against gay bars."
They ducked down a side-alley, Sherlock still imagining the jovial, irritatingly-clueless redhead Murray fighting off the sleazier of the men who frequented The Edge. Of all John's army friends he had met, Bill Murray was the one he had liked the most; he was friendly and unerringly polite, fairly intelligent if not particularly perceptive. "So how do you know this place exists, then?" John asked as Sherlock pointed out the russet door halfway down the alley, evidently noticing the lack of signage. "Did you come here on a case once?"
Sherlock smirked. "Maybe I'm just a regular," he teased. "Maybe this is where I spend my downtime."
John shook his head as though to dislodge the image from it. Sherlock chuckled at him and knocked on the door.
"We're closed," came a muffled voice from behind it. Sherlock frowned and knocked again, not wanting to let them know who it was before they opened the door so that he could tell if they didn't want to talk to him. The voice grew louder. "I said we're - Sherlock!"
He smiled brightly at the young man who had opened the door. "Tom," he replied cheerfully. The tawny-haired man clapped him on the shoulder, looking genuinely pleased to see him. There goes that possibility, Sherlock thought glumly. He hadn't really thought that Tom would attempt to hide things from him; they had got on fairly well the last case that Sherlock had required his cooperation for, and Sherlock had developed a genuine affection for him. "Can we come in?" he asked, remembering belatedly to introduce John. "This is my flatmate, Doctor John Watson."
John shook the barman's hand; Sherlock noticed that John was standing straighter than usual, puffing out his chest slightly with a sort of firmness in his eyes that he recognised. Asserting his dominance, Sherlock realised with a slight thrill. John was attempting to convey through his body language that Sherlock was spoken for, so subtly that it was probably subconscious. He smiled brightly as Tom stepped aside to let them into the bar.
"I left you a fairly urgent message yesterday morning on the house phone and didn't receive a reply," Sherlock explained as Tom pulled out barstools for them. "I need an answer to my question as quickly as possible, so I thought we'd pop by in person."
Tom frowned slightly, ducking behind the bar. "There wasn't anything from you when I checked the house phone last night. Whiskey? On the house." Sherlock appraised the bottle he was holding out and nodded gratefully; John, still looking like he was daring Tom to challenge him, declined. "Eliza took the messages during the day, I think, but she said there was nothing important."
Sherlock lifted an eyebrow; Eliza was Tom's partner, and while Sherlock had heard a lot about her during the last case that had brought him to the Ball and Chain he'd never actually met her. He'd gathered from what Tom had said that when they incorporated elements of BDSM into their relationship she usually took the submissive role. Could she have concealed the message from Tom for her own reasons?
"Eliza!" Tom called out, sliding two fingers of whiskey across the bar in front of Sherlock and pouring out a similar glass for himself. With a clatter, a young woman tumbled down the stairs to the living quarters on top of the bar and straightened expectantly at the door with a wince at her own clumsiness. Sherlock relaxed slightly at her unruly shock of auburn hair. It had been dyed, but not recently; hints of darker brown were creeping out from her temples. "Did anyone call yesterday? I know you said nothing I should worry about, but was there anything at all?"
Eliza ran a hand through her messy curls, leaning against the doorframe. "We had a couple of membership requests, which I just processed myself. The internet provider finally called back." She frowned. "I know there was something else - oh, yeah, some posh wanker called about us cooperating with a police investigation. I had no idea what he was talking about, but the message should still be on the machine."
Sherlock smiled tightly at Tom's apologetic expression. "Well, that clears that up," he said cheerfully.
Eliza's eyes flickered from her partner to Sherlock and back again a few times. "Oh, fuck, it's you, isn't it," she said, looking aghast. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean -"
He waved the apologies away. "So you haven't seen anyone that matched my descriptions, then?"
She shook her head, her cheeks still resolutely stained scarlet. "Sorry. Petite and blonde covers a lot of people here, but we know almost everyone who comes in here. If someone turned up with bruises all over their face we'd know about it, and we'd make an effort to find out who did it to her and make sure it didn't happen again."
Tom was nodding as she talked, watching her with an odd mixture of affection and residual disapproval. "We were approached by the police when we first opened about the potential for abuse involved in encouraging BDSM, but we've always had very thorough abuse procedures; if we have reason to think someone's being abused we investigate, intervene if we can, hand it over to the police if necessary. Actual visible bruises would be reported to the police straightaway. Why are you looking for someone that bruised? Surely if they've gone into hiding because of their abuse they'd be better off staying there?"
Sherlock smiled to show his approval of their attitudes, then said, "Actually, we think this specific person's bruises were gained somewhere in the course of three murders in the last week. It's very important that this person is found - I'd appreciate it if you could keep an eye out for us."
"In the course of… do you mean that she was, like, a witness to the murders, or are you actually suggesting that she might be the murderer?"
"The latter," Sherlock said briskly. Eliza looked rather stunned, as though she didn't believe women could be murderers. "It's imperative that we find her as soon as possible. Do you still have my phone number?" he asked Tom, who nodded, gesturing towards a business-card booklet visible under the bar.
He pulled out the photographs of the first two murders and the one he had stolen from Stephens' bedside table. "Stewart Montgomery was murdered on Monday night," he said, laying the photo of his driver's license and that of his dead body stretched out on his bed side-by-side on the bar. "Charles Trent on Wednesday night," he repeated the process with Trent's photographs, "and Vincent Stephens this morning. Did you know any of these men through the Ball and Chain?"
Tom was staring at Montgomery's crime-scene photo; Eliza skipped over to them and pointed to his ID photo instantly. "Oh, God, Stewart came in from time to time. Murdered. Christ."
Sherlock removed the crime-scene photographs. "Had he been in recently?" he asked, watching Eliza closely.
She shook her head, her curls flying. "I hadn't seen him in about a month. He wasn't a regular, really, only came in every few months. I didn't work last week, though, did you see him, Tom?"
The barman shrugged apologetically. "Sorry, no. I'm not quite as good with names and faces as Eliza - I generally only remember the regulars who we see almost every week." Eliza flushed with pleasure at the compliment. Sherlock watched their exchange for a moment; the look of quiet pride Tom gave her and her pleased, docile drop of the head. He smiled softly. "I'll ask around for you - I'm in contact with the man who runs the London area of the more BDSM-based dating site, I can give him the names and your number and get him to run them through his records, see if they had profiles and how they used them in the last month or so."
"I'd appreciate that," Sherlock replied. Dating sites were going to be his next line of inquiry; if Tom knew the people who ran it he was likely to get more information than using the murder investigation line himself. He'd learned very early on in his career that people who catered to 'deviant' tastes didn't like talking to the police. "Keep those photos. Thank you, Tom, you've both been very helpful."
He drained the whiskey and thanked the pair again; John fidgeted uncomfortably when Sherlock's parting handshake with Tom lasted slightly longer than necessary.
"You were unusually friendly in there," John remarked as they stepped back out into the street. The clouds had thickened threateningly overhead while they had been in the bar, and Sherlock hoped they could hail a taxi before it started to rain.
"I can be friendly," he retorted, smiling nonetheless at the doctor's disgruntled expression.
John scowled. "Yeah, when it suits you. But that was genuinely friendly, not the scary normal-person thing you do when you're trying to manipulate people."
"I can be genuinely friendly," Sherlock maintained.
The doctor seemed to be fighting himself, as though there was something he wanted very much not to say but he knew he wouldn't be able to resist. "I've never seen you be genuinely friendly to anyone except Lestrade, Mrs Hudson and me."
Sherlock laughed. John's scowl intensified. "Jealousy is a very ugly emotion," he commented. "John, you're my best friend. That doesn't change just because there are other people in the world whom I happen to like."
Their eyes met for a moment and John smiled, apparently appeased, but Sherlock still thought he caught the words posh wanker coming in a mutter from the doctor's lips as they walked back towards the square.