As an apology for the delay in publishing this next chapter, I give you more jealous Sherlock, a dressing down from Lestrade, and John in black leather trousers! I hope you will accept this token of my regret.
Several house later, they had found their way to The Admiral's Arms at last. Damon had made good on his word and got them into the club as promised and made a few cursory introductions. Sherlock and Lestrade had gone off some time ago to question several promising people in depth about their victim.
John had been left with Damon—not that he minded in the least. The American was a pretty interesting fellow and a great conversationalist. What he did mind, however, were the damn leather trousers he had been forced to wear that evening. Why people subjected themselves to such torture was beyond him.
His inseam was chafing something fierce and his bollocks were being squeezed to death as he sat there at the little bar table with Damon. John was contemplating various ways he could possibly alleviate the pressure yet remain fully clothed. It was a shame really—those trousers did fantastic things to his form. They hugged him in all the right places. Unfortunately they were also by nature, extremely tight in certain areas. He shifted uncomfortably once again as his companion started to speak again.
"So what's up with your friend?" Damon asked before he took a casual sip of his bourbon. He scanned the crowd once before his eyes rested back on John's.
"What do you mean?" the doctor wondered innocently.
"I don't know," the American said. "He just seems like a dick—no offence. I'm just trying to figure out how a guy like you ended up with a guy like him."
John shrugged and replied, "He's actually a great guy once you get to know him. A bit difficult at first, I imagine, but…there's no one like him."
"Bet he's great in bed, especially with all that pent up frustration and anger," Damon declared with a wolfish smile.
John could feel the hot blush creeping over his cheeks as he averted his gaze into his pint. "I wouldn't know," he answered honestly.
"You mean to tell me that the two of you have never had sex?!"
"Umm…yeah. Pretty sure that's what I meant."
"Wow. Well I guess that explains a lot," Damon exclaimed good-naturedly.
With a frown, John asked, "How do you figure?"
"All his hostility. At first I thought you two were an item, but you're not—kind of explains why he reacted so negatively to me being friendly towards you," was the answer.
With a laugh, the doctor shook his head and responded, "He just doesn't like people getting in his way is all."
"Oh no—that's not it, maybe part of it but not all."
"What then?"
"Competition."
John had just taken a sip of his drink and coughed it back up. "I'm sorry?" he sputtered.
Damon rested his elbows on the table and leaned forward slightly. "Come on, John—you've had to have noticed! I mean I've only been in his presence for a grand total of an hour and I can tell that he's into you."
The flush found its way back onto his face as John once again denied the words he was hearing. "Sherlock's not like that. He doesn't 'do' relationships."
"Hmm. Well, despite that he clearly sees you as being his. Or he'd wants you to be," Damon informed him. "Explains all the male posturing at the Yard earlier. Can't say I really blame him though—you are a good-looking and intriguing individual."
"Ah…thanks," John said, slightly uncomfortable with the compliment. He wasn't sure if it was because for some reason (as Sherlock managed to point out earlier) the American reminded him of his flat mate or if he was mutually attracted to Damon for Damon. Probably both, he concluded. What was with that? He had never been attracted to other men before. John long ago acknowledged and accepted that Sherlock would always be an exception to every rule…Transference maybe? He saw the genius as untouchable and here was another tall, dark and handsome man who clearly was interested in him. Could he do it? Could he give in and take pleasure from this man if offered?
He looked back up and his gaze met the American's. Damon offered him what he was quickly learning was his patent crooked smile. Oh yeah, I could go there, John thought. Aloud, he replied, "As are you—an interesting bloke, I mean."
Damon leaned back in his seat and took in the crowd of the club once more. "Do you dance at all, Doctor?"
Ah—fuck it! If I'm here and he's offering, might as well make the most out of the situation, John thought and answered, "Yes, I do."
The younger man pushed himself to his feet before offering his hand to his shorter companion. "Care to join me then?"
There was no hesitation in him as he slid his hand into Damon's. Once they found themselves in the middle of the floor, John wondered at how easy it was for him to relax into the American's hold. To lean back against his muscular chest and relish in the heat of those hands on his hips as they began to sway to the pulsing rhythm.
Damon pressed his face to the left side of John's neck and inhaled the doctor's clean scent. He smelled of some exotic spice, earl grey tea, and wool. It was an odd combination but it worked, and it was intoxicating. He couldn't help himself as he licked and nipped at John's throbbing pulse point. While he liked partaking of blood play, he never bit a lover without their express consent beforehand. Though John had all but given him permission to have him, he was pretty sure that it didn't extend to drawing blood. Yet.
John's eyes closed of their own volition as that wicked mouth kissed on his neck in the most erotic way. He leaned further back against the American and raised his left hand and cupped the back of Damon's head to hold him in place as they danced. The doctor bit his lower lip as the sensation intensified and one hand that had previously been resting on his hip crept forward to rest on his lower abdomen, just above the waistband to his trousers.
On the other side of the club, Sherlock turned and scanned the dance floor once more. It was hard to make out who was who under the palpitating red strobe light. Because of that, it took him longer to spot John than it would have otherwise. When he finally found his blogger, his hand tightened around his glass so much that he felt it crack under the crushing pressure of his grip.
Lestrade took a sip of his beer and leaned back casually on the bar and glanced curiously over at Sherlock. He quickly looked over the writhing mass of bodies on the floor and found what had set off his consultant.
Wisely, he hid his amusement as he said to Sherlock, "You know…if you just gave John a good seeing to you wouldn't have this problem."
The genius' head whipped around and treated the DI to a rare shocked expression. "I beg your pardon?!"
"You heard me," Greg said before taking another drink.
"Why is everyone so concerned about whether John and I are shagging? Can't everyone just mind their own business?" the younger man groused, irritated.
"Well, you don't make it easy," the DI explained. "Besides, if you weren't so close to the situation—or if you observed another pair that was just like the two of you, you'd come to the conclusion that they were together in a romantic sense too. But I don't think you've given any thought to how John feels about it."
Sherlock scowled at Greg. "Why are we discussing this?"
"Did it ever occur to you to all he wants is a little of your attention?"
"I pay attention to him all the time!" the genius cried in frustration. "He's the one who is only willing to make a pass at me when he's drunk."
"If you weren't so wrapped up in yourself you'd notice that perhaps he's interested but is looking elsewhere because you won't give him the time of day!" Lestrade retorted, jabbing Sherlock in the ribs with his index finger to prove his point.
The genius opened his mouth the say something but the DI cut him off. "No—you shut up and listen for once in your Goddamn life, Sherlock! That man is crazy about you! I don't know if you've noticed, but John very clearly has a type when it comes to men: you. Any bloke he's paid attention to oddly resembles you. Look at Damon—he's nothing but a lookalike—a stand in for you!"
Sherlock straightened and set his fractured glass on the bar behind him. "Well, as enlightening as this evening has been, Lestrade, there's nothing more I can gain here tonight. If you find out anything that might be useful, let me know."
Greg threw his free hand up in agitation. It was just like the posh bastard to turn tail and run the minute someone said anything remotely uncomfortable about emotions. "Sherlock!" he called after him, but it was too late. The consulting detective was already too far away to hear him over the music.
John grinned as he gyrated his hips in sync with Damon's. It had been such a long time since he'd been out dancing and he'd quite missed it. He had never danced with a man before, but he found that he liked the strong arms wrapped around him, guiding him—to not be the one to lead for a change. And with the American behind him, he could very easily just pretend that he was Sherlock if he wanted to.
He was already half hard and was contemplating whether or not he was going to ask (or accept and offer) if Damon would be interested in joining him for...coffee.
John was on the verge of making that suggestion when by chance he glanced up and saw Sherlock making a beeline straight for them. The doctor stopped dancing and pulled away slightly from his companion. Damon let him go without a fuss and allowed him the space he required, to which John was grateful.
"So?" the older man asked once his flat mate was close enough.
The detective leaned in to inform him, "I've gotten what I can tonight."
"Right—well, then let's get out of here shall we?" John suggested, completely forgetting his previous contemplation over Damon in lieu of joining Sherlock.
The genius nodded and started for the exit. The doctor turned back to his dance partner and said, "I'm sorry—I've got to go."
Damon shook his head. "Don't be sorry—I know how cops are. And if you need anything or you'd like to continue this at some other time, call me." He slid his business card into the back pocket of John's tight leather trousers and gave his fleshy buttocks a squeeze.
The extremely forward move caused a jolt of want to pulse straight to his cock. With a promise that he would indeed call, the doctor darted out of the club after his partner.
Lestrade stepped up to the American and started to move to the music. He leaned in to speak directly into his friend's ear, "Have a good time?" There was no small amount of amusement in that one question.
"I was this close!" Damon growled as he put his hands on Greg's hips. Then he sighed and shook his head ruefully and declared, "I think I really need to stop caring—it just makes things worse when they don't work out in the end. Sex seems much less complicated and better when I decided I didn't care."
"Come on, Damon," Greg chided. "The sex wasn't good because you didn't care—it was good because you're crazy. And crazy sex is always good."
A wicked grin stretched across the younger man's face. The DI did have a point.
"Did you get what you needed then?" John asked once they were seated in the back of a nice warm cab on their way back home again.
Sherlock sighed and responded, "Yes and no. I've learned that the victim was a newcomer to the scene. Only been around the last four or five months at the most. He was intimately involved with the 'master vampire' of the so called coven—his name is Constantine, but it seems he's out of town at the moment and won't be returning until tomorrow night."
John's brow creased as he thought about that. "Well, he's not the murderer then. Are we going to come back then?"
"I don't see how we have a choice," the genius answered, clearly not pleased with the turn of events. "No one seems to know his real name and they wouldn't divulge any personal information about him either."
The doctor shrugged and said, "It might be that they really don't know that much about him. Come on—you saw how it was in there. I imagine that all those people know very little about one another's true identities. That's a place where you can essentially reinvent yourself and be who you want to be."
"Hmm…that's true, isn't it?" Sherlock considered the implications of his blogger's words. "As well as we think we comprehend someone—even those closest to us, how well do we truly know them?"
That statement was said in such an odd tone that John turned to fully regard his companion with a curious gaze. He was just about to open his mouth to ask what Sherlock meant—because it was apparent even to John that there was a secondary meaning behind it—when the cab pulled up in front of their flat.
John dutifully paid the driver before he crawled out of the backseat and bound up the stairs to their sitting room. Sherlock had already thrown off his coat was in the process of sprawling out on the couch in his standard thinking pose.
"So that's it for tonight?" the older man wondered. He was dying to get the hell out those damn trousers. No matter how fantastic they made his arse look, he couldn't take the leather anymore.
The consulting detective hummed in agreement as he closed his eyes. "Yes—I need to review the data. You're clearly uncomfortable, go change John."
"Oh, right. Umm, thanks," the doctor responded, rubbing the back of his neck self-consciously. "I think I'm going to turn in and get some sleep while I can. If you need me, I know you'll come get me."
There was no reply as John stood there awkwardly for a moment debating on whether he should say something else, to bring up the last bit of their conversation from the cab ride home. After a brief internal debate, he decided to just let it go and turned to make his way to the stairs.
"Goodnight, John," Sherlock called after him just as he reached the steps.
It was so uncharacteristic of his flat mate that it gave the doctor pause. "Night, Sherlock," he called back before ascending to his room.
The genius opened his eyes and stared silently at the ceiling as he listened to John's tired footsteps tread up the steps. The row he had earlier with Lestrade came back to him. Sherlock knew that John would never seek male companionship, in the intimate sense, outside himself. He wondered though if perhaps he hadn't made it quite clear to his blogger that he was indeed interested in the overtures being directed at him. The genius knew that it wasn't acceptable under any circumstances to take advantage of a drunk person, no matter how they threw themselves at you. The DI could hardly fault him for turning down the overtures he'd received the other night…
That meant that this was not a new occurrence and that Greg had privileged information…Sherlock immediately concluded that John had taken Lestrade into his confidence on a number of things. Logically he knew they were friends—after all they hung out and watched the football matches on occasion and went out to the pub fairly regularly—so he shouldn't have been surprised to learn that the DI knew a bit more than Sherlock believed he did. Which meant that John had told Greg of his feelings for the consulting detective.
Sherlock wrinkled his nose in disgust. Emotional affairs were always so messy. They also got in the way of the work—because here he was thinking about John and his damned feelings instead of focusing on the case like he should have been doing. So closing his eyes once more, the genius toted that additional baggage to the room he had dedicated to John in his mind palace. He threw the information in there and mentally slammed the door shut before any other stray thoughts could escape.
This was precisely why he didn't do relationships—they were so tedious.
Please every one just bare with me-we've just had a new head boss come in a work and he's making a bloody mess of everything. And his asinine demands have seriously cut into my free time and my ability to write Johnlock porn. Clearly we do not have the same priorities. I will write as much as I can on my days off to make sure you don't have to go too long without an update. And thank you all for reading! You guys are the best!