Day 5…
This day, the air was warm and cheery; so rare an occurrence in a part of the world where windy and wet drafts tended to dominate. This day, a light breeze fluttered by, almost carelessly caressing the passerby on the sidewalk. This day, birds seemed to find reason in just about anything to break into song. And, if one sat on the banks of the Thames on this day, the brilliance of the sunlight dancing amongst the sparkling wavelets could mesmerize their cares away. Such perfection as could be found in this day was normally reserved for those among the Heavens…
Ping-Crack! The rock zinged off of the wall where one of those annoying avian creatures had just been attempting such mesmerizing feats on a certain consulting detective…who held a slingshot….already reloaded. His silvery-blue eyes darted back and forth as he sought out whether his threat had been taken seriously by the pack of disease-ridden vermin. Better to do one more just to be certain they had taken the message to heart. A slow draw back, an aim at one particularly fat pigeon, and…Crash! The rock sailed straight through a window several feet below the offending fiend. And much as the rock dropped once its impetus had been slowed, so did a certain dark haired detective hit the floor and crawl to hidden safety, out of the view of the deceased window across the way.
A few spare minutes later, John walked by on his way down to grab his coat and head out for work. He caught sight of Sherlock just as the other man was leaping back up to his feet and righting himself, in a most suspicious manner. The younger man gazed down around himself suddenly in a pitiful attempt at pretending he had been looking fiercely for something on the floor. The doctor's eyebrow quirked up at this, his expression asking, And why are you looking like you just did something wrong?
A tilt of the dark haired head and an innocent widening of the eyes asked back, Why would I do anything wrong?
Golden blonde brows drew down, almost frowning now, with an expression that said, Come on.
Nope, nothing of the sort, says the drop of eye contact and flick of an elegant hand over a bit of imaginary dust on the sleeve.
Another drawing down of the blonde brow states that… John shook his head suddenly, "What the hell, Sherlock? Now you've got me doing it! It's not enough to communicate nonverbally with your own brother; now you've got to train me?!" The detective stood remote, his ever-shifting eyes attempting to send yet another voiceless message, which was met by, "Unbelievable!" And the door slammed as John turned and jogged down the stairs, off to work. Sherlock merely quirked one side of his mouth upwards and spun to face the window once more, noting that ample time had passed so that the birds should be back to roost by now. He glanced at the clock as he snuck up to the open glass. Too early, he thought. Cyndy is in America. I have at least another 4-5 hours before she'll be available. His eyes narrowed as he watched a pigeon alight on a nearby pole. It shifted its weight for a second or so before settling. Thwack!
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Cyndy, where are you?
…..
Cyndy
…..
Cyndy
…..
Cyndy
Cyndy
Cyndy
Yes, I'm here! Sorry, I just got on shift!
I will have to locate your home number then, so we can converse at an earlier time.
…..
…..
That was a joke. I do make them from time to time. Do they not have jokes in America?
Oh right! LOL!
Wait a minute.
How did you know I am in America?
So the last suggestion you made… It went…well, it went. He didn't approve of how I went about it, but he got the point, I'm sure.
Oh, good! Progress!
Yes. So I am looking for a more direct approach this time. Maybe.
You want to come on stronger? Well, that's good. Being direct is always appreciated I've found.
Good. So what am I to do?
You really have not had much experience with these situations have you?
Irrelevant and incorrect. I have established relationships with many others before this.
So what makes this one a special circumstance?
…..
…..
Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. I'm just trying to get a feel of where you're coming from.
…..
He's…
Well he's…
Different.
I'm quite a hard person to be around…
I'm getting that…
…much less live with. And for some reason, he stays.
Ah! Sounds like a perfect pairing!
Yes, I have often thought so. He ignores my…unusual tendencies. And he appreciates the things about me that seem to utterly annoy other people.
Yes, you meeting was definitely divine intervention.
While I hold all theories of creation to be of interest, I do not particularly subscribe to any one.
But I accept your conviction nonetheless.
Um. Thanks. I think.
But anyway, let's get back to helping you through this!
Yes, let's.
So, so far now we've picked an activity together, done something nice for him, shown him you remember particulars about his likes/dislikes…and you want to be more direct…
I know! When was the last time you two went out together?
A few days back.
Where did you go?
To the police station.
…..
Okay, but when have you gone out together recently just for fun?
…..
I don't know.
That could be part of the problem!
I don't see it.
Please, take this advice: If you really wanna push the issue a little bit more, then you've gotta go out together. Be seen, you know?
Not particularly, but you are the consulting expert in these matters.
Here, let me find you a place to hang out. Give me a minute.
…..
Sherlock's mind worked as Cyndy did whatever she was doing. When have we ever just hung out outside of the flat? I can't remember if we ever really have, excepting a night at Angelo's every now and again. But John is more of a social butterfly than I. Perhaps he misses all the bore of mingling with other parts of humanity. That would be just like him. He sighed loudly. Socializing. With…people. He shuddered, but thought, John would like it. Cyndy is right. Again. She's really quite good at this thing. Then he saw the screen pop up another message.
Okay. I've found it. Maybe. But I need to know a bit about your status. Financially speaking.
Sorry, it's just that the place I'm finding online is pretty exclusive. Probably would take some major bribery or knowing someone to get in to.
No worries there. I can make it happen. What's the name?
Celtic Kaleidoscope. About a 30-45 minute drive from your location if my Google map is correct.
What a horrendous name choice for a club. Are you sure?
Oh yes. It looks very…how do you Brits call it? Posh?
Yes. That is acceptable terminology.
It looks like just the place to really show it off.
Very good then. I'll be in….
WAIT!
…touch.
What?
I was also going to tell you that if you're one of those who wears a typical type of dress, then you should change it up for this occasion.
What do you mean?
I mean that if you usually dress up, then dress down. And if you normally dress down, then dress up. That'll really let him know you're aware of changes needing to be made and aren't afraid of trying new things.
Um. Alright. Are you sure it won't seem a bit…strange?
Not strange. Noticeable. That way he'll know you're making an effort.
Very well. I shall suffer through it I imagine.
Ta!
He snapped the laptop shut. Celtic Kaleidoscope? What rubbish! He pulled up the website. Even its slogan on the advertisement was inane. 'Where you can be yourself.' He snorted, When is anyone NOT themselves? Stoically, he Googled the address, noted its location, and then whipped his phone from its hidey-hole in his pocket and began texting. The afternoon was still young. He had time to utilize Mycroft's influence.
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Mycroft looked up from his computer screen as his phone began to buzz with a message. He reached over and pulled it up for viewing. Sherlock. He closed his eyes when he saw the name of the sender. What now? He refocused and clicked the screen to open it up.
Need access and/or passes for John and myself to a horrible sounding place called Celtic Kaleidoscope. Before tonight would be sufficient. -SH
Mycroft stared at the phone in disbelief. The Celtic… Sherlock? Surely he didn't know that it was… Or did he? His mind raced around all of the known facts about his little brother. All of the social ineptitudes constantly on display to the world. Quickly, he reached the conclusion that, no, Sherlock did not know. A slow, and somewhat sinister, smile began to form on Mycroft's face. "Oh this is too good to be true…" he mumbled to himself as he replied.
Certainly little brother. I'll have them sent over in an hour or so. -MH
No reply. Of course. He sat back in his chair and stared at the screen where he had been planning the election of the next Prime Minister. Mundane. At least, it was compared to the events that would take place later that evening. Imagine. Sherlock. In a gay bar! With his eyes closed again, he pictured the hilarity of the situation. And when he opened them again, he flicked out his wrists, set fingers to keys, and accessed the CCTV circuits, and other video feeds, that the club had in its proximity or within itself. Oh no, he wouldn't miss this for the world…
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Sherlock was surprised at how easily he had gotten John to agree to going. Especially on such short notice. The pretense of researching human behavior in social situations hadn't even gotten a question from the doctor, so used to Sherlock's oddities. His plain Rolling Stones t-shirt and denim jeans had gotten an eyebrow raise, though. But still, John said nothing. And for this, the detective was grateful. Because it wouldn't do for the subject of his scrutiny to realize that he was the test subject, not the crowd in the club as he had been led to believe. And thus, the ruse of an experiment. So he had had to dress the part. Right?
They didn't even need to stand in line. The passes Mycroft had either purchased, forged, or stolen got them VIP access into a special entrance at the rear of the building away from the press of the crowd. They even had a small section with a semi-circular sofa and table all to themselves. And since they entered through a back way and avoided the line, they also missed the most obvious and blatant of homosexual signs and references plastered about the front of the building. True as it could be, and to Mycroft's endless mirth as he watched through multiple angles, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson entered a gay nightclub together.
"This place sure is, um, upscale, Sherlock. Not too sure if I don't feel out of place, you know. Like I shouldn't be here." He had to practically yell over the music. Though they were a goodly distance from the DJ's stage and sitting in their roped off section, the noise level was still an impediment to conversation.
"Nonsense, John. Mycroft made sure we had the highest level of access to this club. If you're here, then you belong."
John studied the profile of his friend as the other man gazed out over the mass of human flesh that churned on the rather obstacle-course-like dance floor. Then he turned his attention to the rest of the building. It was enormous, and darkened, not too badly, but enough so that a light show of strobes and whatnot were very effective in disorienting the dancers. Here and there, in the corners, fog machines would let loose with a bit of mist, which further complicated matters. He observed there were multiple levels to the floor and made a mental note of it in case he drank a tad much later and decided to cross through. Wouldn't do to break an ankle over an uneven club floor, he thought to himself.
And thinking about the floor made him realize that he may as well grab a drink and get out there. There seemed to be plenty of women about. They all seemed to be having a good time with their female friends, too. There were quite a few who clustered near enough to each other that you couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. Yeah, if they're gonna stay in groups or pairs like that, then I'm really gonna need some help to get started. He stood up from their private couch to head over to one of the several bars that lined the walls, looking at Sherlock as he did.
"You want anything?"
"No."
"So are you just going to, well, sit here then?"
"Yes," the eyes hadn't left the crowd yet.
John huffed to himself, thinking that while Sherlock's odd form of friendship was a unique treasure, he also missed the company of his army mates who would hunt the floors with him for dance partners. But, Sherlock wouldn't be Sherlock if he ever did things like that. In fact, the very idea set him to laughing as he got his drink and walked about the club, seeking his prey.
As for the detective, he had retreated within himself, not quite to his mind palace, but far enough that the noise no longer bothered him. Was this what Cyndy meant? Bring him out and let him cavort about in this stinking hole? He didn't see how this had anything to do with anything, but she was the expert. And, the detective did recognize that normal people in normal friendships did accompany one another on outings such as this. So maybe that was it. This was allowing John some feelings of normalcy. Very well. He would suffer through it. For John.
It was almost 45 minutes before John made his way back over to Sherlock's side, the detective appearing not to have moved an inch since he had left him there. All in all, John was just a bit past drunk at this point, and he poked Sherlock in the shoulder forcefully enough that the other man almost fell over. Silver eyes flashed up to John's as the doctor stood over him. He's drunk, he thought to himself, Or well on his way. His eyes narrowed. And something else…is he mad? John's arm swung out to indicate the crowd behind him.
"So what, exactly, is wrong with me, hmmm? Am I not tall enough? Not well-dressed enough? Is it my cologne, or my shoes, or my accent? Hmmmm?"
"It could be all of those, John, but I don't know what particular failing you are trying to refer to."
John's face was one of angry disbelief as he plopped down beside the detective and glared at the floor. "I just don't get it. I've asked at least, what, eleven women to dance? And not a single one would. Ha! And what about you? Are you even going to dance? Can you? Nevermind. They all just gave me this funny look, like, you know, I'm not in their 'league' or something." His face snapped over to gaze at Sherlock. "What's my problem? Deduce me, or something," he commanded, waving his hands quite comically in the air before himself.
Ah, John is frustrated at the female attendants of this place, this 'club.' Hmmm, how to rectify that…. He continued staring into space, only now he was looking in John's general direction, which gave the other man the idea that the detective was still listening.
"I just don't get it. I asked them, and very nicely, I might add. And every one of them just blew me off." The doctor looked back to the floor again, chuckling. "Shit, I had three men ask me to dance. Men! Is that the kind of vibe I give off? Because I mean, it's all fine, and I'm glad that this place is open to all kinds and whatnot, but geez. Eleven!" He reached out and pushed the younger man again, who rocked a bit and came back to reality, leaping into a standing position at once.
"Come John. Follow me." And without further ado, Sherlock glided out towards the main floor purposefully, as if he was walking into a crime scene, his natural habitat. John's somewhat slowed brain followed his progress for a few seconds before he realized what the other man had said, and he heaved himself out of the couch and after him.
Sherlock thought silently to himself. How to attract partners for John? Drag him around to every female here? Too time consuming. Hang a sign on his neck? He'd never go for something so easy. Act as an intermediary and hunt one out for him myself? Gah, he shivered, I could never pull it off without scaring them away. 'Oh, hi, would you cavort about and then later have sex with my friend'? Rubbish ideas. And then his gaze alighted upon a few choice dancers, and he noted how they paired up, dancing beside or in front of each other. As they did this, others seem to seep out of the crowd and approach them, and then they each seemed to be drawn out to pass around to many and various partners as the song went on. Drawing them out with their display of physical prowess on the floor…holds promise. But then, who will dance with John to start him off? I certainly can't dance to this horrendous drivel.
He reached the space of the floor reserved for those with the special passes, still clustered and thronging, but not quite as badly. He looked around for a possible partner for his friend, his hopes slowly dying as he analyzed each dancer's motives, level of sobriety, and attractiveness. Damn. His eyes narrowed, taking in the basic pattern of several of the more talented bodies before him. His mind drew lines, calculated, and extrapolated on the rhythm of the movements and strategic placing of appendages. He focused then on the more masculine appearing dancers, whether or not they actually be male or female in reality. His mind recorded the patterns they displayed, merged them with the already evaluated and integrated gyrations, and…he began to move. For that was all it was in his mind. Moving. Just at different tempos. It could almost be likened to playing an instrument, in which the instrument was instead the body.
It took Sherlock Holmes mere hours to learn a foreign language when he had a headache and a stomach virus. It took a bare twenty seconds to develop his own style of dance. And John, who had followed from so far behind, almost walked right past his friend, so different was his appearance. He stopped, and stared, and thought, What the bloody hell just happened? He was there, in front, walking. And now he's here, in front…dancing! Sherlock Bloody Bleeding Holmes is dancing before me! He looked down for a second before concluding, I must be really drunk.
The detective stopped for a moment, breathing only slightly heavier than normal, and he motioned with a hand for John to join him. John returned the gesture with a resounding stare of disbelief. Then he rationalized it, What the hell? Can't turn out to be any worse of a night. Been turned down by several women, might as well have a dance with my best mate and get all this tension out. And so he sidled up slightly perpendicular to the detective who, Where the hell did he ever learn to dance like that, looked as relaxed as when playing his violin. So confident, with precise and flowing motions of legs and arms. It was almost intimidating to dance beside him. Ah, whatever, John's drunken mind fed him, I've been in a fuckin' war, this is nothing. And he danced.
They stayed beside each other for the most part, occasionally facing, and John saw Sherlock's lip quirk up every now and then, though his eyes remained mostly closed it seemed. He's enjoying this, I bet. Bloody berk would never let on to that, though, would he? People tried to approach a few times, but they were either intimidated by Sherlock's newfound ability, outright rebuffed by the man himself, or steered away when John refused to allow them in to his circle of influence. Mostly men; a couple were actually female, though, but dreadfully not the doctor's type. And, despite the depressing beginning of the night, and the fact that he still had not had even one single female partner, he was actually having fun just dancing here with Sherlock.
And as he was thinking this, the music changed once again. This time to a somewhat slower paced, sinuous, grinding rock song. John thought he recognized it as being "Sail" by Awolnation, but his head was still a bit too buzzed to register it fully. And then he turned around to see if his mate wanted a break. He felt like he could definitely use one, anyway. And. He. Stopped…. Because before him, Sherlock Holmes, a man that John Watson had heretofore imagined could never lower himself to such things as modern dancing, was moving in a way that could make even a straight man blush. Which John did; as he stared. Though he needn't feel embarrassed, because nearly every pair of eyes within a twenty foot radius was focused on the same region of the dance floor. Can you actually have sex with the air? he wondered. Because I am seeing some pretty incontrovertible evidence for its argument, right now.
And then, Sherlock's eyes flicked open and met John's, and his entire demeanor returned back to what passed as normal for him. He was sweating lightly, dark curls plastered in places to his forehead, as he cocked his head in silent question. John realized then that he was still kind of staring, and so he averted his gaze as though watching someone pass behind Sherlock. The detective, figuring speech perhaps was a better approach with John while he was partially inebriated, stepped over to his friend, close. Very close.
John acted as though nothing perturbed him when the other man invaded his personal space. Not like he knows what that is anyway. Then Sherlock's hands reached up and gripped his arms, just below the shoulders, causing John's attention to instantly refocus on the source of contact. The younger man was still looking at him quizzically and seemed to reach a decision of some sort as he leaned in so as to be heard over the music. Hot breath puffed across the doctor's earlobe as lips that were close behind, Too Close, asked a question.
"You stopped. Why?"
It took him a moment to redirect his thoughts, but eventually John managed to beg off with, "I think I'm going to head out for some air." His face was still hot from the dancing…and other things that made him uncomfortable. "It's a bit warm for me."
The detective nodded and stepped back, waving toward a door on the side. John looked at him in silent inquiry, Are you coming?
Not quite yet. Going to move about and do some observing for a moment.
Oh, alright, then, I'll just be… "Dammit! I'm doing it again!" he yelled, voice lost in the surrounding noise. But his expression and gestures came through loud and clear to Sherlock, who merely turned his head a bit and twitched his mouth, the sly look of a gratified trainer. An exasperated army doctor then made his way through the uneven flooring and across the grand expanse to the door that promised a little escape: cooler air, less noise, and some time away from Sherlock to process (and discard) those uncomfortable feelings. He shook his head at that last thought. Now I'm really beginning to turn into him. Process and discard feelings? Ha!
He passed through the door, and the blessed peace of night enveloped him. It wasn't quite a back alley so much as a private expanse of concrete that the owner of the club hadn't bothered with yet. But right now, it was a sanctuary. And he leaned up against the wall in relief.
The door banged open suddenly as three men came through. All of roughly the same height, fashionably dressed, and with an air of violence. The second one through spotted John against the wall, pointing him out to the others. They began to move slowly towards him. Uh oh… passed through John's mind. He didn't have any weapons, and he was half-drunk. Even with his training, he didn't like those odds, especially if one of them might be carrying a weapon. A flash at the side of the third man, and John spotted the telescopic night stick. Great.
They formed a semi-circle around him, each looking to the others for nerve. No one made any threatening moves, but the air was filled with tension. John was actually about to speak up when the door banged open again, and out strolled Sherlock. The attention of the pack shifted as the three sized up the new threat, and then two turned back to John while the last hollered at the detective, "Get outta here! None of your affair, mate! Just making sure we keep the club swept clean of his kind," the man gestured with obvious distaste toward the doctor.
"To what kind do you refer?" Sherlock answered with a question as he turned to face them head on.
"The kind that comes here to gay clubs just to start trouble. This one was too obvious. No way he was gay from the moment I saw 'im."
John's mind spun. Gay club? We went to a gay club? Which made sense now that he reviewed the occurrences of the night. The poshness of the club, the women who wouldn't dance with him, and even the name alluded to it, with its many colored object of amusement, the kaleidoscope. Oh, I'm an idiot. And Sherlock, too. There's absolutely no way he would even be aware of it. Or care for that matter. And at that moment, the detective spoke again, laughing a bit as he did.
"Not gay? Him?" He strolled up to the side of the semi-circle of three, stopping right before them and fixing them with a glacial stare. His body was relaxed, as if to say he found them to be no threat. And his voice lowered, threateningly so, as he spoke only two words. "He's mine," floated out through the gathering; and the tone used was one of absolute surety, actually causing the one nearest him to step back a bit and speak.
"Hey. Hey man. Sorry, sorry okay? We just saw this bloke going up to women a few times earlier and thought…"
"Yes, you thought. That was your first mistake," snapped Sherlock as he stepped between the man and John. "Now, if you don't mind, we'd like to get back."
At first, the men seemed ready to comply, but then one, the first one that had been out of the door, gained a bit of courage and challenged the situation.
"No way. I don't believe it. This guy is straight."
"He's not."
"Prove it." And the man crossed his arms, thinking himself abundantly clever. John had been watching the proceedings with a growing sense of embarrassment, anxiety, and dread. Though dread was gaining more ground from the way this guy was talking to them. Sherlock on the other hand, rolled his eyes like nothing more than an annoyed rich frat boy who was told he had to hug his grandmother. He gave one last searing glower at all three of the men, turned, and pulled John against him in a forceful, and an outsider might say passionate, kiss that sent a jolt of fear, surprise, and acceptance through John's being. It lasted only ten seconds, but John felt as though both his mouth and his heart had been raped and pillaged. Turned inside out. Switched places. Imploded.
Meanwhile, while John's brain attempted a rebooting sequence, the men began to file away slowly, one even apologizing as he made his escape back into the din of the club's DJ and lights. And the detective turned back to John, picking and pulling at the doctor's shirt as if to assure that it was on correctly. John just continued to stare dumbly ahead as Sherlock began speaking.
"Really, John, you should have waited for me before actually going out. But at least the situation was kept contained by quick thinking and acting on both our parts, right?" He paused, " John?" As John looked finally at the younger man, he came partially back to his senses.
"Um, yeah. That was, pretty…quick…something…"
"Yes. And your physiological response was much more convincing than my false kiss could ever be. There's no way they could've refuted that! The perfect argument via literal body language! Excellent thinking!"
"False ki…physio…what?"
"Come, John, don't make me be crude," the dark haired man said with a subtle downward flick of his eyes.
John's brain finally caught on to what Sherlock was saying…and he almost passed out. Right there. On the concrete. And died. As he realized what physiological response was being spoken of. He groaned aloud.
"Don't be embarrassed, John. It was brilliant! Where did you learn how to do that?"
"I, um…special forces. Training, for unusual, um, circumstances…um…" he petered off into conversational death.
"Well, I think they must have thought of everything to prepare you for, then. Wonderful!" He spun and paced as he talked, John watching somewhat confusedly. "Now," he said as he faced the doctor once more, "we've been out together for the night, so what should we do now?" His head cocked, mouth moving through too many thoughts for anyone to process. "I know! Let's go to the morgue! There's supposed to be a nice married couple in from an MVA only a day or so ago. We could try to figure the particulars of their accident and correlate with Molly; supposedly, there is an insurance fraud attempt with…." John stopped registering what was being said as he followed listlessly after his friend. His head hurt, his mind hurt, and…what the bloody hell just happened tonight?!