Exploring Sexuality

A/N: So sorry this took so long to get up; it's been written, I just haven't had the time to type it. I had a really bad week. But here it is!

Ch. 18

They read through files and notes for almost an hour. Sherlock made three lists. One of the things to look for at scenes and such. One of names he knew, who to look out for. And one he wouldn't let John see. The first two he gave to Lestrade, the last he slipped in his pocket. John wanted to, but didn't ask. Lestrade told them where the men and woman were being held, and they walked there in silence.

Of the three men, Sherlock only knew one of them, but he knew the woman too. He wanted to talk to them first and insisted on talking to them each separately, which John of course saw the logic in.

Sherlock stopped just before the door so abruptly John almost ran into his back. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and all the tension left his shoulders. He was acting, John realized. Without a word, he walked into the room, and John followed.

Gabriella Walker was in her mid-twenties, five foot two, dark hair and eyes. She wore contacts and had a pierced noes, tastefully done. Her shirt was too tight and too short, leaving an inch or two of skin visible above the waistband of her jeans.

If John didn't instinctually dislike her, he would admit that she was actually rather attractive.

She got into the business about the same time Sherlock started buying.

"I was wondering if you were going to come say hello, Lock. You're in the papers, you know. We hear about you still every now and then," she said conversationally as they walked in, smiling at Sherlock like she knew something he didn't.

Not for long, John thought to himself.

She looked him over and raised her eyebrows. "Never knew you to be much of a people person. So why does he get to stick around?"

Sherlock kept his composure perfectly. "If you read the papers, you'd know that this is Doctor Watson, my colleague. Usually the name next to mine," he replied curtly, straddling a wooden chair to face Gabriella. "Done asking questions?"

"I suppose you want to start, hm?" she asked in response as John leaned against the wall adjacent to them. He was really just here because Sherlock was, and he had that nagging feeling of being out of place that sometimes came across him while at a crime scene.

"You aren't just dealing crack now, are you?" Sherlock replied, only phrasing it as a question for show. "Are you still on pot? I'd say yes, due to the smell on you, but that could just be who you spend you nights with as well. Doubtful."

"You always were so much fun at parties," Gabriella said with a role of her eyes. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. "What did I get hauled in for?"

Sherlock smiled. The fake, dazzling smile. "Why don't you tell me?"

"Possession and sale of a class A drug," she said with a shrug. "Possibly kidnapping."

"Boring," Sherlock drawled. "I wouldn't be here if that was all it was. What's Javier cutting with these days? Not sugar anymore. Too expensive? Business going poorly as of late, is it?"

Gabriella just shrugged again. "I just sell what he gives me, I don't ask questions. You know how he is, how things work. Haven't seen him personally in a while, actually." Her indifference shifted to something like a predatory malice. "Do you miss it? The clarity, the buzz? You do, you have to. You were so passive Wednesday."

John's arms were crossed over his chest, and his fists tightened at the woman's words. But he kept his expression in check, not saying anything.

Sherlock merely shrugged, though some of the tension had returned to his shoulders. "You know how it is," he threw her words back at her calmly. He didn't look at John. "Or you'll find out in the next few days." With that he stood and left the room, leaving John to trail behind him.

"He's not worth it, in the end," Gabriella called from behind them as the door banged shut.

John watched Sherlock silently for a minute. He was standing in the middle of the hallway, perfectly still and incredibly tense, eyes closed. John put a gentle hand on his arm, and he didn't tense further or pull away, so John took that as a good sign. He opened his eyes, looking down at John. "Aren't you going to tell me everything?" he asked with a small smile, locking his fingers with the other and squeezing his hand tight. When John relaxed his hand, Sherlock didn't.

"Useless. That was useless. She wasn't lying; she doesn't know what Javier's mixing with, what they're selling. The business is in decline, but I don't yet know why, and- oh!" Sherlock cut himself off, face lighting up, then falling again. "Javier's not in charge anymore."

John rubbed circles with his thumb on the back of the other's hand. "Is that good or bad for you?" he asked.

Sherlock looked at John oddly, like that was a weird question. "Good for me, I guess," he said after a minute, his voice much quieter than it was only a little while ago. "Bad for the case, though. Now I know less than I thought I did." He glared at the door they had just came through, and the one next to it.

"You'll figure it out," John said confidently. "I know you will." He followed Sherlock's line of sight, his eyes lingering on Gabriella's door. "She'll go through withdrawal." It wasn't a question.

"She's just recently started; it won't be that bad." He knew John would hear the unsaid 'not as bad as me' no matter how hard he tried to cover it up. He wished secretly that it would be worse, but that was decidedly Not Good.

John almost felt bad for her himself.

Instead he squeezed Sherlock's hand again, though what he really wanted to do was kiss him and hold him close, telling him it would all be alright. "I think you'll be more than worth it, by the way," he said quietly as a compromise. He didn't ask about the history Gabriella implied they shared. Wasn't sure he wanted to know.

Sherlock didn't respond, but squeezed John's hand tighter in return. The dog tags hanging comfortingly around his neck were proof enough of what John thought.

Not that he didn't like the verbal reminders.

Secretly, of course.

Sherlock closed his eyes, let go of John's hand reluctantly, and took another deep breath. "You go in first," he murmured, opening his eyes again to look at John. Bill will be worse. "Don't let what he says get to you."

John nodded, holing Sherlock's gaze for a second. "You either," he said, squaring his shoulders before leading the way into the next room.

Sherlock followed with the ghost of a smile. This was Captain Watson, the soldier. Not John the doctor. He was strong enough for the both of them. The door closed behind him, and Sherlock straightened his back.

Bill was in his late thirties, but he was fit. A boxer. Dealer, but not a user. Short hair, close to the military style John wore, but it was almost black. Tattoos up and down his arms, leading up under his shirt. He was higher up in the chain of command than Gabriella.

Sherlock used to buy from him.

He hurt John at the house.

Sherlock would find out what he needed to know.

He straddled another chair, crossing his arms over the back of it as he face Bill.

"Been a long time, hasn't it? Since you can remember, anyway," the man said, his voice deep and gravelly. "What, a whole year?"

"Two," Sherlock corrected curtly, letting Bill play his games for now while he observed.

"And now you get to start back at none," Bill said cruelly.

"You can't push me any farther back."

Bill chuckled, as if that was a challenge that he was fully planning on accepting. His eyes flickered to John. "Does your new boy toy have something to do with that?" he asked, enjoying watching how both men tensed, even if it was imperceptibly. "Ex- military, doctor. Very impressive, I must admit, but he doesn't really seem your type to me. Must be really good in the bedroom. Or in the hall. Over a table."

John was physically fighting every muscle in his body to not go over and punch the man. Sherlock's reply almost made him drop his jaw in shock, though he kept his composure by sheer force of will.

"Better than you, by far."

But then the urge just increased.

Sherlock wanted to crawl under his chair and die, but he wouldn't let Bill win. Not again.

"Military man. Must be strong, demanding. In control. Does he enjoy watching you break, watching you beg?"

Something inside John snapped. "Sherlock topped," he said, his voice low and threatening as he glared at the man a mere yard from him. "And if you keep talking to him like that, I might enjoy watching you break."

"John," Sherlock warned, his scrutinizing gaze not leaving Bill.

But Bill was just smiling smugly. "Of course, Captain," he replied, rolling out the title like an insult before turning back to Sherlock. "The man you're looking for is Eric Vant. Don't know if that's his real name, but that's what he goes by. Six foot three, bald, early forties, they say. He's not good for the business and I want him out."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, calculating. "Javier?"

Bill shrugged. "Dropped off the face of the Earth about two months ago. No one's heard from him since. Might be his wife."

Javier's wife had been expecting, wanted Javier to quit the job. More likely though, he was dead. "Who took over? Eric?" A disapproving nod. "And the other business?"

The color left Bill's cheeks. "I'm not in for that."

"You could be if I said something," Sherlock said, taking the piece of paper from earlier out of his pocket and handing it to Bill, along with a pencil. "What addresses am I missing?" he demanded.

Bill didn't look nearly as smug now, but he eventually added two lines to Sherlock's short list. He was left handed. "That's all the ones I know," he said with as much defiance as he could muster.

It wasn't much.

"Where can I find Eric?"

Bill hesitated. "He's a bit of a mysterious bloke. I've never actually met him, just heard about him. Don't know many that really have. You'd have to poke around the market to get an answer to that."

Sherlock took the paper and pencil back, glancing briefly at the addresses the other had added before returning it to his pocket. "When we get Eric, you won't prosper. You might turn a short profit, but then you'll lose it. Not that you will be on the streets to know that," he said, getting up and heading toward the door.

"But you will. You and Captain Watson."

The door slammed shut behind John, but before he could say anything, Sherlock pushed him back against the wall, kissing him fiercely.

"I thought I told you," Sherlock said lowly, "not to let him get to you."

John's arms wrapped protectively around Sherlock's waist, but he didn't seem to mind at the moment. "I couldn't just sit there and let him degrade you like that," John replied with a barely apologetic shrug. "He's lucky I didn't punch him."

"You did, two days ago," Sherlock pointed out. "I didn't realize it was him you were describing at the time."

"Again, then," he amended, searching Sherlock's face for something he couldn't quite find.

"Do you believe him?" Sherlock asked, raising an eyebrow, focused on the case again.

It took John a minute to switch gears however, and when he understood the question, he hesitated. "Why would he tell us now if he didn't tell Donovan and Greg?"

"You heard Gabriella; I'm in the papers. He was waiting for me to come myself."

"So he could insult you."

Sherlock didn't deny it, couldn't wholeheartedly. So he kissed John again, though it was much more tentative then the one before. "To get me to react to it," he countered when he pulled back.

John sighed a little and nodded. "Do you still need to talk to the other two?" he asked, relaxing when Sherlock shook his head. "What's the list for, then?" he finally asked, curiosity getting the better of him.

Sherlock didn't respond right away. "Not Good."

John nodded; he had assumed so. "What is it?" he repeated.

Again, Sherlock hesitated, looking at John. "Human trafficking locations," he confided after a couple of minutes.

John tensed in disgust, nodding again, then taking Sherlock's hand. "Give it to Lestrade," he said plainly, walking back with Sherlock that way.

"I'm going to," he assured. Obviously he was going to. But he still felt the need to explain himself to John. "We've never had enough evidence to convict Javier, or find any of the actual rings. Bill knows he's screwed either way now, so he has no reason to lie."

John blew out a little sigh, hating these people more by the minute. But Sherlock was with him. Safe. He would give the addresses to Lestrade, and they would save those people too. "You do a lot of good, you know," he said a bit randomly, his voice soft and sincere. "Maybe not always in the socially best way, or within the boundaries of the actual law, but you help a lot of people."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not a hero, John," he chastised, always amazed at the good light John insisted on shining on him.

John only smiled, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "You are to some."

Sherlock decided not to respond to that, wordlessly putting the list of addresses on Lestrade's desk when they got back. "Paying attention?"

Lestrade sighed heavily, flipping open his own notebook. "Yep; what have you got?" he replied, jotting things down as Sherlock recounted what he had deduced so far. Lestrade sighed again. "Someone will have to go in, then. To find Eric."

"I'll go," John offered, knowing Sherlock would want to go and not wanting that to happen in the slightest.

"You know you're not actually with the Met, John. I can't send you in, much less alone," Lestrade said tiredly at the same time Sherlock exclaimed: "Absolutely not," his hand tightening in John's as he shook his head.

John hadn't exactly expected that to fly. But if Lestrade couldn't send him, he couldn't send Sherlock either. "At least Greg has a reason, besides being a hypocritical prat," he mumbled. Sherlock had the decency to look slightly abashed and guilty.

"They know you both now anyways," Donovan pointed out from her desk. "You'll need someone less in the public eye."

"A rookie?" Lestrade asked incredulously, staring at his Sargent.

"No," Sherlock and John said in unison, but Sally was shaking her head too, then she shrugged.

"Send me."

No one raised any immediate objections, but everyone looked a little wary, except Sherlock, who was calculating.

"Oh, come on. I'll straighten my hair, wear glasses or something. I'm not saying I can't have backup, just that I should go in. Poke around. Find this Eric guy and kick his arse."

"This isn't a game, Donovan," Sherlock snapped harsher than was strictly necessary.

"I'm not treating it as one, freak," Sally snapped back. "You need someone to go in, and I'm offering. Tell me what you need, and I'll find it," she continued, looking to Greg.

Lestrade held her determined gaze for a minute or so, before sighing. "We'll need to assemble a team. You're not going in alone. Sherlock, fill her in on the area and the market, the people. I'll get this through," he said, picking up the list off his desk. "You'll go in tomorrow."

Sherlock was in his element again, in charge, and John watched him in amazement as he explained everything he knew about the area to Sally. She grumbled a bit initially, but needed to pay attention, and eventually they stopped bickering for a while. John watched as Sherlock drew maps and made another list of names, each with a brief physical description. It was like he was talking about something he had studied, not something he had lived, John realized. He was trying to detach himself.

"Whatever you do, do not take anything they give you," Sherlock was saying very seriously.

"Is that your professional advice?"

Sherlock looked like he was going to murder her and probably already knew at least six ways to ensure her body would never be found, much less linked to him, so John put a gently hand to the small of his back. "Lay off, Sally," he said, glaring pointedly at her. Sherlock's muscles were tense under his palm.

"I need to test what you are going to buy, find out what's different about it. If you want to buy another dose, be my guest," Sherlock replied icily, ignoring John.

"I swear, if you respond to that in any way other than professionally, I am going to hit you both," John warned.

Sally opened her mouth, but Sherlock spoke first. "What Sergeant Donovan does in her spare time is none of my-"

John cut him off with a firm kiss, nipping his lower lip sharply. "You're keyed," he said when he pulled back. "I get it. But shut up." He looked to Donovan too. "Both of you."

"That was hardly the punch I was hoping for," Donovan mumbled. "And ew, by the way." Not homophobic, just obnoxious.

To keep the smart reply from passing his lips, Sherlock kissed John again. He pulled back with an almost satisfied smirk, which he perfected when he turned back to Donovan. "Buy something powdered. Easiest to cut, not too hard to fake. Tell Lestrade that he owes me one, and sleeping on the couch really is better than at his desk. And that I need the second list back," he told her curtly, taking John's hand and practically dragging him out of the room.

"Sherlock," John said softly.

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Well, I do."

"I don't care."

Jon smiled, just a tiny upturn of the corners of his lips. "Yes, you do," he replied. "And so do I, so talk to me."

Sherlock stopped in the middle of the hallway, pulling John into a tight embrace, just holding him there. "I don't want to talk about it," he repeated, the words muffled as he spoke them into John's hair.

John sighed, holding Sherlock close for comfort. "Okay," he murmured. "Alright, it's okay." He rubbed Sherlock's back as if he were soothing a child and felt the detective's fingers curl possessively around the back of his neck.

"I just want to solve this case and stop feeling the burn in my veins," he complained petulantly. He pulled back and looked down at John. "I want to go home."

John nodded, reaching up a bit to kiss Sherlock's cheek, but he tensed, so John drew back, taking the hand that was offered to him as recompense. "Let's go home."

A/N: Okay, so an actual note about the story. Out of the two hundred or so of you following this story, and, like, thousands of you that have read it (WOW) tatteredoll is the only one who noticed (or at least said something about- thanks, love) my kind of huge plot hole at Clueless- Sherlock shouldn't have had his phone to be texting Irene, it was still lost. I'm not going to rewrite the chapter, but just so you know it has been pointed out, and I do feel stupid about it. Sorry.