Day 5 (still), then Day 6…

John followed behind Sherlock as if in a daze, his body on autopilot as he dumbly shuffled through the night's events. No matter how long and hard he thought on it, though, the same question reared up, What the bloody hell just happened?! He went from having a mate's night out to snogging his flatmate in front of a group of men…in a gay club! And he hadn't just snogged on any man, oh no…it was his best friend! And while the ever-logical Holmes had clearly stated that it was meant as a ruse to free them from the unwanted aggressive physical confrontation with those same men, John felt something indefinable shift within himself. It was slow-moving, hidden; with no name and no surety that it was real in the first place. Am I just too drunk? Am I having an identity crisis? I feel so, so…odd. What's wrong with me?

He looked up at the silhouetted form of the detective as they slowed to a stop, outlined against the streetlights as he searched for a cab to hail. Clearly, the other man's mind wasn't even considering the recent events, and he had already moved past them. The potential of scrutinizing some fresh bodies in a morgue held sway over that enigmatic mind now, not some false act of impropriety. So why couldn't John himself work past it? He sighed, partway in frustration of the night's confusing events, and partway in awe at how quickly Sherlock always managed to attract a cab.

As they climbed inside, the detective's phone went off. A text. John gave the cabbie the destination as Sherlock's attention deviated to the chiming device, flicking out his phone and firing off a reply to his texter. When done, he set the phone on the seat between them and gazed out the window into the night air. John caught the clock on the dash and read 11:57. He groaned inwardly, hoping that the morgue didn't have too many interesting things for him tonight. He was on call tomorrow for the clinic, so if they became bogged down with patients, he might be called upon to come in. Perfect. The deep baritone of the man beside him brought him out of his contemplations.

"Lestrade has something for me, John. John? Are you feeling okay?

"Mm? Oh, yeah. Yeah. Fine. Just, thinking is all."

"Lestrade is at the morgue. Has something for me."

"Oh, well. Excellent, since that's where we were going to hang out after clubbing anyway," John attempted a joke.

Sherlock's quicksilver eyes stared in incomprehension as John's attempts at humor once again failed to reach past that analytical barrier. "Yes, rather providential," was spoken after a moment's consideration of the doctor's previous statement's implications. And then those eyes flowed back over to the side streets and darkness beyond the barrier of glass.

John remained quiet the rest of the way there, lost in thoughts that lead nowhere. At least, nowhere he was ready to pursue. Every time a particular pathway sprung up before him, he stubbornly kept to the trail he was on already and admitted no new evidence into his chosen route. He had gotten to exactly nowhere at least four times when they arrived back in their part of the city, pulling up to the hospital shortly thereafter.

Sherlock was out of the cab and through the doors of Bart's before John was finished paying the driver. He could almost see a comical vision of Sherlock as a puppy begging for the treat that Greg dangled. Of course, were Sherlock a dog, he would probably bite down half of Greg's arm first before then urinating on his leg. He shook his head of the outrageous silliness circling him just as he finally came to where Lestrade was watching Sherlock circle and hover over the body of a young woman. The detective looked up from his study as the doctor approached.

"John, finally."

"I've only just been paying the cabbie and came straight up. What do you mean finally?"

"We have a case. What did you think I meant?"

"I just thought…nevermind."

"Good. Stop thinking and start looking. Observe, if you would; but if it's as I already suspect, there won't be any physical traces of the cause of death visible to the eye alone."

Lestrade looked surprised, as usual, "You already know?"

"I have a hunch. One that I must research to be sure of accessibility. But yes. John?"

Ever amazed by his friend's brilliantly fast conclusions, yet annoyed at his unwillingness to share his breakthroughs immediately, he complied as he moved over to the young woman's body. "Right then. Who am I looking at?"

Lestrade answered before Sherlock could call the information irrelevant. "Nancy Petrosi, 27. Part-time college student. No medical issues. No allergies. No enemies. Known ones, anyway. Died tonight at her job about 2 hours ago. Found in a dressing room on the floor. No signs of attack or struggle. No recordings of anyone else entering the room with her during the time she went in to the time she was discovered."

John felt the usual searing heat of Sherlock's gaze in his back as he worked over the body, and Greg's voice droned into background noise after those first few sentences. He didn't know why Sherlock valued his medical opinion so highly. He seemed perfectly able of solving most cases with no help at all. He hoped Sherlock never realized that, though, because he enjoyed this. All of it. Listening to the facts and clues as they came together to form a picture that led to a discovery and conviction. It was almost like practicing medicine in a way. With patients, you put together all of the verbally reported clues, the physical findings, the evidence of lab and diagnostic studies, and it painted you picture that cemented a diagnosis. He looked up at the other two men who waited on his judgment.

"You're right. No outward signs of trauma or attack. No signs of some undiscovered disease, not outwardly anyway. And no sign of drug usage."

"Not in the way that you mean, anyway," Sherlock said cryptically, his hand held fisted over his mouth as he thought; and he spun to Lestrade."You have the surveillance videos?" And Greg reached into his pocket to pull out a USB before speaking.

"We've got her last living moments clocked at about 2033 as she enters that dressing room. Until then, most of the time she's available on two different camera angles."

John spoke up, "Camera angles? What was she doing?"

"Working, John," Sherlock replied.

"At what?" And he saw the mental eye roll frolicking across the younger man's features.

"Take a look at her feet. Can you not tell?" And John stared dumbly. Greg, who already knew, but was still interested in hearing how Sherlock had figured it out, just looked on.

Sherlock moved down to the feet of the corpse. "Young female, well-proportioned, fake breasts, with feet that show patterned pressure marks up to the knee, most likely from the kind of footwear she had on at the time of death. The soles of her feet show callus patterns consistent with those who are accustomed to wearing stiletto heels, and often. No mark of a wedding band ever having been present." He paused for what John figured was dramatic effect. "So, unwed college girl with an altered body that was nice enough even prior to the additions made to it who wears stilettos on a regular basis, and is recorded on constant surveillance at her job. What profession do you think she's in?"

"She's a stripper? Oh." John felt befuddled and amazed and somewhat annoyed, as usual, at Sherlock's ability to call out the not so obvious facts about people. The detective merely threw him a half grin, palmed the USB from Lestrade who gaped (only a little), and swept out of the doors. John gave the older detective one more look before heading after him. Lestrade stopped him briefly with a shout, though.

"John! Hey, what's Sherlock's clothes all about then?"

John remembered then that the younger man had actually dressed down for the night and was present in jeans and Rolling Stone t-shirt. How to explain when he didn't quite get what was going on himself. He laughed at the confusion on Greg's face, shrugging with it and saying, "It's Sherlock." Which seemed to be explanation enough for the other man as he simply grunted in acknowledgment as John resumed his hurried pursuit. Greg stared on after the doctor, rolling the evidence around in his head as he had been doing for months now. Those two…. He chuckled suddenly then, thinking to himself that those two were about the biggest pair of idiots in the known world. And he couldn't wait until they figured it out, too.

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Back at Baker Street, John hopped straight in the shower when they got back, attempting to rid himself of the stink of the club. A gay club! he thought. Though he had never had any problem with those who went the other way, he had never thought to find himself in one of their venues. He'd have to talk with Sherlock about that later, in fact…no, wait a minute. Sherlock wouldn't have known or cared. But then, who would have…? Gah! Mycroft! He scrubbed his hair a bit harder as he made the connection. Didn't he say that Mycroft was the one to give him those VIP passes? Really, the man was insufferable. Playing a trick like that on Sherlock was like picking on a small child who doesn't speak yet. It was just plain mean. The man just doesn't get social niceties or, well, anything of that nature. He's completely daft. Sometimes endearingly so. Other times…enough so as to make a person want to beat him senseless with a rubber cane. Or something metal. And studded. Anywho…

John stepped from the shower with iron resolve to "speak" with Mycroft at their next encounter. He brushed his teeth ferociously as he contemplated the bullying that the elder Holmes was due. Wrapping the towel around himself, he then trotted upstairs to grab his sleep pants and housecoat, returning to the living area to find Sherlock zoned in to the screen of his laptop, switching back and forth between different camera angles of the club, all focused on one particular dancer. The detective motioned for him to come closer without looking up.

"Here is where she is last seen outside of the dressing room. Watch." And John surveyed from two cameras as the girl, very talented indeed, performed her routine. There were two other women on stage at other poles, as well. He had walked up to the end of one set, a slow, almost ballet-like performance with a bit of modern dance thrown in. Pretty sure he recognized it as a song by Evanescence called 'Together Again.' It was actually quite mesmerizing to watch. If you ignored the gaudy outfit. He only caught the last 45 or so seconds of it, but he had to admit it was quite a good ending at the least. Then another song broke in, a harsher, yet more fitting tune for this venue, crashing against the subtle, melancholy melody of the previous. First she began with the stereotypical pole dance, although it was a decent enough choreography. And the music chosen, well, it was certainly grungy and rock enough to get most any man going. 'Closer,' he thought to himself, I think that's the name of it anyway. By Nine Inch Nails or some sort. Been a while since I've listened to that stuff.

She started out at the pole, but then moved with swift purpose to a member of the audience. No one seemed to pay this any mind, so it must be a common occurrence for the girls to do things like this. Sherlock clicked on another viewpoint and the angles shift, one view from behind and to the man's left, the other slightly to the man's right and facing him. The woman, Nancy, dropped to the floor and sort of crawled the last few feet to him, rising up to his knee level when she reached him. John stopped watching her for a moment and scanned the people around them. Nothing suspicious that he could discern. And when his eyes sought the pair again, Nancy was giving the lap dance of the century. Even with these poor quality cameras and bad angles, John could feel his face heating up at the intimacy such moves suggested.

The subject of her attentions seemed almost shocked and scared, unable to figure out where to put his hands. So he ended up just holding on to the bottom of his chair. Sweat poured off of his face and darkened his shirt. Geez, must have never been to one of those places before, thought John as he watched the man's hands shake while they gripped his seat. And when she finished, she merely gave a fond pat on the cheek and trotted off to her dressing room while he sat there shooting glances around, stood up suddenly, and ambled off. Sherlock switched cameras to show her entering the room, and then switched again, rewound, and they watched the sweaty man leave the club within five minutes of the end of the dance.

"Alright. I've got nothing. I saw no one suspicious, other than her last customer who appeared very uncomfortable with the whole lap dance thing. But he left right after. And she never gave any impression of being distressed or anything untoward." He finished and watched Sherlock's face, waiting for the inevitable drill down of how he never saw anything and couldn't he just pay attention and blah blah blah. But, it never came. Instead…

"You're right."

"Excuse me?"

"I said, you're right. There is nothing here on film to indicate this was anything other than a usual night's work for her."

"Oh. Well, then. What next? Go to the club itself?"

The detective sat back in his chair, eyes still attuned to the screen. "Perhaps. Perhaps not. Everything I need visually is here. And I believe I've worked out the murder weapon. However, I need to complete some research of my own before I'm sure. I just can't quite figure how it…well, no matter. An experiment or so should provide the data I require."

John yawned down at him, "Well, I'm for bed, then. On call tomorrow," he said as he glanced at the clock, blinked hard, then corrected himself with a groaned, "Today, that is." And he pivoted away, heading to the kitchen for some water before finally trudging back upstairs to bed. Meanwhile, the detective watched the various angles of recorded footage again, cataloguing the precise movements the woman made, down to the last detail. Every flick of the wrist, set of the foot, and fluttering of the lashes was recorded, categorized, and sorted. He looked at the time on the corner of the screen, eyes narrowed. I need information. Experience. Data. With that thought, he typed in a Google search and found what he was looking for within a few minutes of sorting through useless results. And nearby, too, he thought as he caught the address of the business he had sought online. His eyes narrowed, and his lips turned into a half smile, half sneer. Perfect.

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John came home, heavy footed and thoughts bleak, after 10 hours in the clinic. On call. What a joke. He'd gotten the ring at 0730 that morning that someone else was going to be out sick, and there was already a line forming before they'd opened the clinic doors. Drudgery after drudgery. Snot nose after snot nose. He battled through the weariness and boredom of the mundane. Trying to focus on why he loved this whole being a physician thing again. He was too tired to remember, though. He sighed heavily as he pushed open the door to the flat.

As he slung his coat over the bottom rail of the stairs, he looked up as Mrs. Hudson came quickly down towards him. So flustered was she that she didn't even see John until she almost ran him down. She gasped at the near collision, and then nervously tittered a hello before dodging around him saying, "Oh, you know. Baking. Be up…um, later, dearie. Ta!" And she snapped her door closed, leaving John to stare in bewilderment at the strange behavior. Then his mind tracked her path back to his flat…and Sherlock. Oh no. The detective's experiments had never before sent her scampering away. Not even various body parts separated from their respective owners. So what did this time? His stomach sank. There was, literally, no telling with Sherlock Holmes, a man of multiple methods of freakery.

John set his shoulders and pivoted, army style, ready to face his flatmate's most recent concoction of the obtuse. The stairs seemed to drift beneath him as he passed over them. What would it be this time? Step. Another body? Step. More than one?! Step. Pieces of one…or many? Step. Perhaps a host of ferrets had moved in? Step. Or Sherlock had taken up crochet? Step. Maybe the wall no longer stood? Step. The windows replaced by giant pieces of bug tape? Step. Dead pigeons everywhere…..again? Step. All of John's socks used to create an escape rope out the window? Step. All of the clocks running backwards? Step. Blood on all the walls? Step. Stop. No wait, that's already happened. Resume. Step. Perhaps he's induced himself into a coma? Step. Then his heart sank. What would scare Mrs. Hudson away? Step. A woman who had been in the center of trouble with them all along? A woman who could just wrinkle her nose in disgust at the body parts occupying the fridge? What would scare her? Step. Stop. Drugs. He jumped the remaining few stairs and ran the rest of the way, bursting into the flat, banging the door wide and loud, breath rasping out in his fear.

Heart pounding, his eyes scanned the room…and found….not what he had imagined…ever… Much like Sherlock, his mind slowed everything down so as to take it all in at once. The room was darkened, some sort of reddish, ambient glow was present that softened the lines of everything in the flat. Molly was sitting beside Greg, both in folding chairs. One was empty beside them. There was enough room between the chairs for a person to walk through, though not much. She had a blush on her face the likes of which he had never seen before. Her eyes found his, and she choked, halfway between sob, speech, embarrassment, and laughter. Her hands were clenched tightly in the hem of her shirt, twisting it to and fro. Greg sat with a look of defeat, like one who has given in to watching a movie that their kids wanted to see. He was leaned slightly forward and to the side, elbow resting on his knee and hand up to his face, fingers splayed out over his forehead, and thumb touching on his cheek. Almost as if he were trying to avoid looking forward. The chairs were facing the kitchen, which was blocked from John's view for the moment. He caught Greg's eye as the other man flicked his eyes toward another strange thing that had decided to occupy space in the flat, and mouthed/whispered the word 'research' to John as the doctor's eyes found what was being pointed out. A pole. From ceiling to floor. Bolted down… …O….k…. He took a few more steps into the room, and froze as he heard the first few notes breathe into the air of the flat. I recognize that…it's….it's…

And then he died. Or he thought he did, as the aching choral tones that overlaid the piano turned into the voice that bespoke of two lovers, one always seeking the other, dreaming of unity, never finding it. The music floated out through the sound system, creating blanket of beautiful notes. And then, there was Sherlock: workboots with tight jeans covering their tops, Clockwork Orange t-shirt clinging to his torso, almost too small for his lithe frame. Wild curls as disheveled as if he had actually just fallen out of bed from a lover's arms. He strode slowly, sinuously into the room. John walked over, and sat/fell into the chair beside Greg, almost zombie-like in his stilted motions. All eyes widened as Sherlock began to move through the exact same routine as the woman whose murder they were investigating, the mixture of classic interpretive and modern dance.

Oh, so he's researching how someone could have gotten to her? Well, then, that's…that's… he watched as Sherlock snaked his way to the end, walking around Molly, running his hand from her clavicle and around to the back of her neck as he circled her chair. Suddenly dropping down behind her, he traced his hands up and down the length of the sides of her arms, bringing a shiver forth from the already flustered woman. His head found a perch at the side of her neck, and he nuzzled her face to the side as he breathed in dramatically, eyes closed as if in orgasm at her scent. One hand stayed lightly clasped on her bicep as the other trailed lightly up to her throat, and then chin. He tilted her face back toward him, eyes opening lazily as he slid them closed again and pulled her in to kiss.

Or he would have, but she squealed and tittered, standing abruptly, sputtering. She finally decided that no speech at all was the better option and fled, almost knocking the chair over in her haste as Sherlock stood from behind her. Greg and John looked on as if paralyzed, unable to take their eyes off of the detective, so different in demeanor was he. It was almost as if he were a different person. But this is all an act, John said to himself with a huge gulp, for the Work. And Gregory Lestrade was thinking along those same lines, too, trying to grasp what was left of his manly dignity, when Sherlock's leonine attention snapped to his face. And a grin that was surely born in hell flitted across the detective's features as he drew the t-shirt over his head to reveal a tight cotton tank underneath.

Greg swallowed. Hard. As Sherlock flowed over to him, stepping behind him first and tracing a finger along the nape of his neck as he came to stand before him. Smoothly, the younger man straddled the DI's legs, settling down on his lap, pinning him with a burning fierce stare in those blue-lightning eyes. Greg's mouth moved as if to speak, and Sherlock's hands flew up, one going to the center of the DI's chest, holding him back, the other going over his mouth, effectively silencing him. Once sure that the silence would remain, Sherlock moved his hands up to hold each side of the older man's face, while the DI remained in pure shock of what was happening, right now, on his very lap. The wild, dark haired dream before him tilted its head with a shadowy little grin. One hand left the side of Greg's face and feathered over his ear lobe. Breath hitched in his throat at the sensitive area. And his eyes almost closed, so hypnotized was he by this creature, as that hand slid behind his head and pulled forward. And then that dark angel's grin found the DI's lips.

The moment stilled as Greg and John both shared the shock of the moment. Lips moving along his own, belonging to this beautiful enigma before him, had him almost caught up enough to not react as his body had been conditioned to over the years: with fear. But then, it broke through, and he pushed back from Sherlock's hands and mouth, almost falling out of the chair. He stood, and as he did, it pulled Sherlock up with him. He took a step back from this man he had thought he knew, took one look at John, and fled almost as quickly as Molly had. He even left his cell phone on the table in his haste. Sherlock watched after him as the last strains of the music vanished.

John was about to speak up, but Sherlock's eyes stopped him, and he twitched his head down in the negative, as if to say not to break the suspension of disbelief in the atmosphere. The doctor complied as the detective walked from the room to the kitchen from whence he had originally emerged. There was the sound of shuffling. Fabric shifting. A sound system being readjusted. And then, minutes later, a new sound came through. Harsher than the last, the new almost rock/techno beat was animalistic in nature. It pulled from the depths of one's most primal urges. And John put a name to this one as well. Apparently, Sherlock was recreating the last two acts of the woman's life. The introduction to 'Closer' by Nine Inch Nails was cranked so high as to shake the floor boards with its intensity. And out came Sherlock. Again.

He must've…changed…clothes…John's brainwaves disappeared as the dark angel came into the soft red glow once more. Bluejean fabric had been replaced by tight, thin leather bootcut pants that showed every….curve….of every…bit….ending in pale bare feet. The white tank had been exchanged for a thin leather vest, open at the front and ending a few inches before the top of the pants, revealing a good strip of muscled abdomen. John blinked. And blinked again, as Sherlock grabbed the pole and began to undulate along its length, alternately dropping low and then riding up it again as the words to the song began. He spread his legs and twined one backwards around the pole pulling his back flush against it, reaching up above his head to grasp along its length. He arched his back as if at the cusp of pleasure as the singer's words poured forth.

And just when John thought he could turn it all into some sort of joke in his head in order to make himself more comfortable…Sherlock's eyes fastened him to the spot as the detective's head snapped down to face him and those cupid's bow lips mouthed the words with the singer, I wanna fuck you like an animal. A jolt of something went through John. And he stared and stared and stared. It held him in its grip, sure as gravity held him to the earth. Sherlock pushed away from the pole at that point, much as the woman had done in her performance. He strode forward powerfully, purposefully. And then John remembered what the woman had done to her intended target in the audience, and his heart dropped from its perch. Surely not, he thought. Surely he'll just mime it all.

One look in those shining eyes as they came within closer view told him he was wrong. So wrong, in fact, that he began to tremble a little. What? And Sherlock rolled his shoulders as he leaned down in John's face. One long look, a quick flick of his brilliant eyes downwards, told John all he needed to know about how far Sherlock was willing to go in the name of the Work. And he couldn't help but shiver from the intensity of the purely sexual gaze being blasted at him. He resolutely kept his hands at his sides, trying to act casual, as if this didn't bother him a bit.

The detective tilted his head like a dog hearing a far off sound. As if he could sense the train of John's thoughts. He bit his lip, looking down at John, and strode around behind him. John jumped as hands snaked up and through his short-cropped hair, massaging, sometimes brushing along the backs of his ears and the nape of his neck. Little pulses of that 'something' kept shooting down down down… And then Sherlock's lips were at his ear, "Hello, John." The loud whisper rumbled through his inner ear and down to the soles of his feet. And just as he figured he needed to get up and leave. Right now. Yes. Now. This very second….lips pressed to the base of his neck and fingers traced their feathered pathway down his arms. The lips then found his shoulder as one hand came up and pulled aside the knitted fabric. A quick flick of the tongue and there was another shock of the 'something.'

He suddenly decided to take control and wrested his head and neck away somewhat, which only seemed in keeping with the detective's plans, as the other man was already standing again and coming to face him. Or so he thought. Because, quicker than he could think, Sherlock's dark curls, poetic eyes, and angel's body were before him, crawling the floor on hands and knees, and pulling up slowly. Ever…so….slowly…up John's legs until he could meet those eyes full on. Long, artistic fingers splayed over each of the doctor's thighs as Sherlock suddenly separated them, pushing them apart and depositing himself between them. They were almost at a reversal of their height difference now, with John a few inches higher than Sherlock, so that he had to tilt his head down to look at the younger man.

Words of protest almost spilled forth at that last move, but Sherlock proceeded with shock and awe, surprising his prey into silence by grasping both of John's wrists and shoving them down and behind his back, restraining him. Sherlock's body still undulated, serpent-like, with the beat and crash of the song's crescendo, as if he was preparing to strike. His eyes, half-lidded; his mouth, parted; his skin, flushed… And that cold, hard, hot, soft, burning yet freezing length of his body was pressing up against John in such a way that even the most abstinent of monks could not possibly remain unaroused. He was mesmerized. Frozen. Heat building within himself that stemmed from a source he had yet to acknowledge. And the body before him was one of pure sex, carnal desire, and wanton fucking. Gripping, pulling, sweating, sliding…. Every breath released by this man holding him prisoner promised something of the baser of man's instincts.

Sherlock's face hovered within inches of John's own as he craned his neck upward, seeking, seeking…. And then the detective released his wrists, body flowing upward liquid smooth between the doctor's legs and then straddling them, sliding over them. Back and forth. Back and forth. There was that face again…those lips…before him… A lazy, wicked, smile lit the corner of the detective's mouth as he grabbed John's collar and pulled his lips against his own, continuing his writhing with the end of the song. Mouth open, teeth parted, tongues clashing, heads turning, seeking purchase. Hands went everywhere and nowhere, and grabbed and twisted and held tight. Electricity shot through John's body and straight to his groin. Someone moaned, maybe himself. Such burning heat and sensuality here within this kiss that was like the fucking of two mouths. And then…and then…

Sherlock stood up abruptly as the music ended, walked over and flicked on the lights. John blinked as harsh reality flooded over him. Shit. What…did…I…just…do…? But Sherlock beat him to the audible range of speech.

"As ever, John, your input is invaluable. Of course, I should have known that no matter how immobile one might appear on camera, there are still minute little motions that can't be tracked adequately with video! I need to draw up a formula, yes. Nicely done. I knew I could count on you, at least, to help with my research. Molly and Lestrade were reluctant at best to begin with, so I naturally ended…" Sherlock kept on talking as he went about things in the kitchen. Who knew what kinds of things? Probably bad. Could be dangerous. But who knew? Certainly not John, who sat. And stared. Into nothing. He remained like that for a good few minutes before raising his hand to his lips slowly and touching them. He looked at the fingers as if they were covered in some unknown substance afterwards, and then he stood and walked woodenly to bed.