The next evening, the flat was buzzing with that muted excitement that seemed to resonate before a party. John had plugged in his iPod speaker, and was quietly thrilling at the idea of a night out. Well...it was just a bar, but Lestrade had hinted to him that they had pole dancers on certain nights, and that he absolutely, under no circumstances must inform Sherlock of this, because some of the other guys in the team had gotten it into their heads that they were finally going to 'pop Sherlock's cherry.' John didn't take him seriously, but was more than happy to hear the former part of the announcement.
He'd just taken a sip of his pre-party beer, the taste lingering on his tongue as he turned to the mirror. His hands started to fumble with a strand of hair still sticking up when he heard a slightly scuffing in the flat, reminding him that the other was still getting dressed.
"Sherlock, are you ready yet?" he called, raising his voice against the cheery guitar riff emanating from his speakers.
"You're plotting something John. I can sense it. I don't know what it is, but I don't like it." Sherlock's voice preceded him as he sulkily dragged himself into the living room, a definite pout crumpling his chin. John did a double-take when he saw a crisp, white shirt with embroidered cuffs, and light blue jeans.
"Sherlock you're... You're wearing jeans."
He couldn't say the casual look didn't suit the man. Just like everything, Sherlock looked as though he belonged effortlessly in anything wrapped around him, but it was still hard to swallow, even if it did make him seem a little more... normal.
"Of course. What kind of freak would wear a suit to a party," Sherlock mumbled, apparently determined to be a grump, regardless of how dashing he looked. His rust-coloured bruise and the dark nick on his lip gave him a rakish air that John couldn't help but think suited him.
"Don't be so snappy," he replied with a small smile, turning back to the mirror to flatten out the wild hair. He sighed though as it refused to sit, instead picking up his beer again and taking another hearty swig.
Sherlock eyed him, and then skulked off to the kitchen to pour a drink. He sauntered back and waggled his tumbler of expensive whiskey condescendingly in front of John's beer.
"If you're going to give yourself liver disease, at least do it in style."
John cocked an eyebrow before setting his beer aside with a soft thump. He took the tumbler from Sherlock's hand and the man slipped away as if he were standing on the edge of his feet. John studied the man as he took a small sip, reminded very quickly of their drinks a few nights before.
"Not having one?"
"Alcohol makes me horny. And I won't have an outlet for a while."
John spluttered against the edge of the glass, pulling it away to wipe his chin. He took a moment to regain his composure, keeping his mouth firmly shut so he didn't mention the multiple mutual gratification stints.
"Oh... okay. So... are you ready?"
Sherlock spoke in a typical non-sequitur, seeming not to hear him. "All our friends will be there, John. People we know...various...acquaintances...it'll be hateful."
John felt a small smile tug at his lips, moving to his speakers to change the song.
"That's what a party is, Sherlock. People we know."
Sherlock's head fell back as he groaned dramatically, giving John an obscene view of his long, slender neck...marked with...oh, shit.
His own bitemarks.
John had to turn his back to the man so that he could choke out his gasp like a cough.
Dear fucking Lord.
Everyone would assume it was him. The bruise on the face, the cut on the lip - those would be brushed off as some kind of case or put down to Sherlock's love of the dangerous but... Love bites, well, they would ask assume it was John.
The worst thing was that this time, they actually were.
Why did Sherlock choose today to be casually dressed? At least his usual get-up came with a scarf and upturned collar.
After a lazy stretch, Sherlock eyed John's glass, and abruptly spoke. "You know, I've changed my mind. It won't be fun for you if I'm stroppy all night." He poured himself a large tumbler of whiskey, and impressively downed the lot in one go, hissing at the fiery liquor and licking his plump lips afterward, chuckling. "See? Stylish."
"Can't savour the taste if you..." John's words dwindled as he watched a stray droplet run over Sherlock's chin. As he snapped his eyes back up, he could have winced as he met those eyes watching him carefully.
"...drink it so quick."
Sherlock smouldered for a few gut-wrenching seconds, and then broke the spell by hiccuping loudly, and then giggling. He knuckled away the rogue droplet, and proceeded to suck it assiduously from the back of his hand.
Everything about the man was becoming obscene, either that or John was paying far too much attention to him.
"Right, time to go," he said a little too quickly, turning off his music and reaching for his comfortable leather jacket.
"You should wear that more often. Very appealing," Sherlock said airily, pulling on his coat. To John's dismay, he decide to forgo popping the collar up, and just stood, hands in pockets, waiting for his doctor.
"Right," John mumbled, checking his pockets to make sure he had everything. Before he actually asked the man to lift the collar, he turned and together they exited the flat.
Wintry night was just starting to settle over London, casting dull orange light over the pavement. The doctor raised an arm, thankful that the first taxi pulled up, and together they slid inside.
"So are you going to behave tonight?" asked John playfully, giving the man next to him a small smile.
"That depends. There is a small possibility that I will be engaging in carnal activities later. For you, the possibility is much higher."
John turned, his eyes wondering over Sherlock's face to try and decide if he was being playful or sarcastic.
"How so?"
Sherlock's pale face was open, guileless. "You're attractive, funny, witty in a non-offensive way, considerate, pleasant. The opposite of me, really. Perhaps that's why, against the odds, we get on."
"You mean like complementing each other?" John knew he was falling into some kind of trap, considering Sherlock didn't give compliments freely even if they were disguised as facts. He was also being deliberately cryptic, which could also mean there was more to the words. Alternatively, he could be looking too much into things again. That seemed more likely.
"Of course. Yin and yang. Though there are some shared elements. Like a reckless and irresponsible love of life-threatening situations," he grinned, his cheekbones crinkling, tarnishing the rusty bruise that decorated translucent skin.
John couldn't help a smile back, shaking his head.
"Knew there must be a reason I'm still here," he teased, feeling his shoulders relax. Sherlock had apparently decided to drop his sulking act, and John was looking forward to what he hoped would be an enjoyable evening.
"There's another reason you're more likely to pull, John," Sherlock was educating him as they vacated the taxi and stepped toward the classy-looking bar. "There are far more heterosexual people around." The attractive young things passing them on the pavement gave the oblivious detective a few odd looks, and then tittered as they kept walking.
John gave the passing couple a small nod as he stepped closer to Sherlock, intent on making the man talk quieter. Not to mention the fact that Sherlock had pretty much admitted he was gay. It was an obvious conclusion considering Mr Mystery was, well, a man. If Sherlock had liked dominant women then he would have done more with Ire-
"Well I'm not actually on the pull if I'm honest, but I'm sure someone will catch your eye."
Sherlock cast a deeply-suspicious eye on his doctor as they slipped into the building, John nodding politely at the doorman whilst Sherlock completely ignored him. "Why aren't you on the pull? You're always on the pull. Even at funerals you're on the pull."
"Jesus, Sherlock, I'm not some sex-deprived maniac," he muttered, moving to the small booth to the side and handing over his coat. The bored-looking woman behind the desk hung it up lazily before pulling a ticket from a small pad. She handed it over to him and John stepped aside, watching the detective as he shrugged off his coat.
"I didn't say you were a maniac," Sherlock retorted reasonably. John stared at the blossoming bite-marks that seemed to refuse to be muted, even in the soft lighting of the bar. Sherlock's skin was so impeccably white that any blemish, no matter how small, couldn't fail to garner attention.
With an internal groan, John started up the glossy black staircase and into the main bar. The lighting was set to blue, but it was bright enough to illuminate the steadily increasing amount of people. The biggest crowd was at the bar, and as John scanned the faces he let out a long breath when he recognised Greg, a pint to his lips before he laughed at the man he was speaking to.
"Play nice," murmured John to Sherlock before he started forward, garnering a wave from the DI as he noticed them.
Lestrade stood to greet them, looking deeply impressed. "John, you did it. Good man. We've already picked a few out, but we thought it was only right that you get the final say. It's a break at the minute, starts again in fifteen." He gestured at the empty stage.
John gave the man a small nod, trying not to shift as the detective positively loomed over him.
"Enough time to get a drink then," he said quickly, turning to the bartender and ordering a pint.
"Want anything Sherlock?"
"A Screaming Orgasm."
John heard Lestrade make some kind of noise before John ordered the drinks, passing the ridiculously flamboyant drink over to Sherlock before picking up his own and taking a sip.
"...I haven't had one of these in ages," Sherlock hummed thoughtfully as he took a mouthful.
John's attention was split between the words coming out of Lestrade's mouth and the way Sherlock's lips dipped over the rim of his glass.
"... Sorry what?"
John turned back to Greg, meeting his puzzled look with a clueless one of his own.
"...Um, John...you didn't actually have to beat him up to get him to come out tonight," Lestrade muttered playfully, whilst the detective wandered off, scrutinising the decor.
"What? Oh, no, that wasn't me." John whipped his head around from Sherlock's figure towards the end wall and tried to focus entirely on the DI.
As he frowned at the inspector's lascivious grin, his phone buzzed loudly, and he reached for it, planning to switch it to silent, knowing it would annoy the fuck out of everyone otherwise.
He peered down at the bright screen.
Do you want to know a secret? SH
John frowned before his eyes were flickering upwards. He couldn't see Sherlock through the thickening crowd, but with the detective texting him, it seemed Sherlock could see him.
Go on, then. - JW
You provided me with the best Screaming Orgasm I ever had. – SH
John let out a strangled sound, coming as close to a squeak than he ever thought possible. He saw Greg give him a confused glance just as heat was creeping up his neck. He licked his lower lip, putting the phone on the bar.
"Everything all right?" asked Lestrade slowly, looking from the phone to John's face.
"It's...just...you-know-who," John blustered, hoping that this night wasn't going to be an endless mind-fuck of cryptically sexual texts.
Lestrade let his eyes linger on John's face before he brought the pint back to his lips. They stood in an awkward silence for a few minutes, until another buzz from his phone drew both their eyes. John snatched it up mere seconds before Lestrade did.
It may interest you to know that my friend is in the vicinity - SH
John felt his hand tighten on his phone, ignoring whatever Lestrade was saying to him as he quickly tapped out a reply.
Who?- JW
He'd started typing 'who the hell is he, where the fuck is he, and why don't you introduce me' but that seemed far too... insane.
Don't be dense, John. The friend who is close to becoming redundant. He's here. I may go and say hello. –S H
"John, what the hell is going on? You look like you're going to kill someone."
John flashed a look at the inspector before taking a long breath and twisting his features into a smile. "I'm fine. Just... Sherlock being Sherlock."
"He doesn't normally make you crack a glass." John was baffled, before he released his frighteningly-strong grip on his glass, and stepped back, shocked.
"Show's about to start, come on, we've got to find Sherlock. No way am I going to miss this," Lestrade yelled over the increasing music. He suddenly waved, and before long Anderson, Sally, and a few other familiar faces appeared in the rapidly-lowering lights, all looking dolled-up and merry. A thumping, sultry song began to vibrate through the air, and a chaos of cheers went up as near-darkness fell.
John heard a few rowdy laughs around him, noticing that everyone's attention was on the spotlight coming up centre stage. He couldn't see Sherlock in the darkness, and he resigned himself to becoming a shadow at what was no doubt going to be a display and a half.
Lestrade bundled him roughly through the crowd, yelling and laughing raucously, clapping as a remarkably fit young woman with long blonde hair sauntered out to the reverberating beat of the song.
John couldn't help but look her over. Her skin was glistening with body glitter, her body scarcely clad in what resembled a bikini but with a lot more rhinestones. Her curves were plentiful, her eyes smouldering under dark make-up. Everything about her was stunning, sexy to a painful point - and yet, John still had a niggling itch to look for Sherlock. The fuck was happening to him?
Christ, what if Mr. Man had taken him outside to slap him about a bit. Teach him a lesson for coming to a place like this.
John was near to panic when a tipsy Lestrade thumped him hard in the arm, and pointed to the stage, where the woman was striding around the circumference of the platform, pulling elaborately thoughtful poses and expressions, and pretending to scan the crowd.
The doctor took a small step back before he realised that he wasn't close enough to the stage to be illuminated. His eyes turned to Lestrade, the smug grin on his face, and everything came together with a click.
They hadn't just made him bring Sherlock to embarrass him around a few strippers. They'd made John bring him because John was the only one who could, and that was to-
The crowd suddenly went nuts as the woman stretched out a long arm, wrapping her fingers into a shirt and yanking the owner onto the stage.
"Oh, Christ."
John's jaw dropped as Sherlock played along, grinning with what only he knew recognised as genuine, deep bashfulness. The detective, a few inches taller than her, even in her elegant high heels, pretended to reach out for her body, and she teasingly slapped him away.
Lestrade made a wolfish whistle and John shot him a look. It was useless in the dark, and as Sherlock looked down at the woman, giving her that smirk, John felt another flush roll up his neck. But this wasn't the soft tingle of embarrassment, this was hot and uncomfortable and was Sherlock grabbing her arse?
Sherlock just grabbed her arse.
She appeared to condone the action, actually looking quite flushed and enamoured herself, and playfully led him by the hand to a lonely-looking black seat in the middle of the stage.
John took an involuntary step forward, casting his face a little more into the light subconsciously. His eyes tried to take in everything that was happening around the deafening cries and jeering laughter as Sherlock sat heavily on the chair. The woman actually giggled before she bent low, her arse rising over the ridge of Sherlock's knees.
Sherlock appeared to be quite honestly fascinated, and John had no idea if the detective was mesmerised by her near-naked body, or ascertaining the level of Vitamin D in her diet according to mild skin imperfections.
There was a chorus of 'ooohs' and 'yeeeahs' as the woman stood in front of Sherlock, raising her hands to his shoulders and sinking down onto his lap. John felt his eyes narrow as the man's hands came to her hips, and he stepped back, accidentally knocking into a young lad and sloshing the drink in his hands.
"Sorry," he muttered, his eyes already back onto the stage.
The detective looked a bit bemused, more confused as to what was going on than embarrassed. Lestrade's loud cackle of laughter nearly deafened John, when the woman leaned to whisper in Sherlock's ear, and the grey-green eyes widened sharply.
The detective was intrigued when she rolled her hips a little, grinding down into him, before running her hands through his curls and cheekily messing them up.
John felt his body stiffen, watching her fingers glide effortlessly through the mass of curls. Lestrade whooped, but John felt anger sitting heavy in the pit of his stomach. He had always liked Sherlock's curls, and this woman could do it so easily. As if she was allowed. Of course she was - she was a woman who wouldn't be hounded left, right and centre by friends and strangers and she wasn't a man so why couldn't she?
She mimicked shock, placing a long-nailed hand against her mouth, and pointing at the rather obvious bitemark on Sherlock's neck. Lestrade cackled drunkenly.
"Oh, fuck, we thought he was a virgin!"
"Who's been nibbling on the freak?" hissed Sally to Anderson just on his left, and John swallowed thickly. Oh God, if the ground could open up and swallow him whole any time soon, he would appreciate it.
Lestrade looked comically pensive for a second, and then his jaw dropped. He gave John another matey slap, chuckling heartily. "John, you fucking dark horse!"
"Don't know what the fuck you're talking about, Greg," John retorted as casually as he could, glaring as Sally and Anderson turned to look at him with wide eyes.
Even as the crowd got louder, everything seemed still as they scrutinized him. "It wasn't me," he said desperately, letting out a huff.
He marvelled at the blank, astonished stares he received from all three.
"...It's not you?" Anderson asked, as if the notion of anyone other than John sexually servicing the detective was totally beyond comprehension.
John ground his teeth, raising an unimpressed eyebrow as the scrawny wisp of a man. He was starting to understand why Sherlock hated him so much. He was a fucking idiot.
"No, Anderson, it wasn't me."
Everybody slowly turned back to the stage, including John. The floor was basically shuddering with the ludicrous volume and heavy bassline of the music. Grudgingly, feeling distinctly sick, John looked back up at his flatmate, and was startled to see calm, grey-green eyes staring back at him.
It shouldn't have been as shocking as it was, but John was sure lightning had struck him from head to toe. He jolted, but didn't break the contact, instead raising an eyebrow as if to say, 'Why are you looking at me? Don't you have something more preoccupying grinding on your lap?'
He was gobsmacked when Sherlock shook his head slightly, as if answering his unspoken question. The detective lifted the woman on his lap a little, and she stood straddling him, leaning down and fondling her breasts in front of him. Sherlock spread his legs a little, and in an underwhelming vacuum of shock, John and the team gasped at the impressive tent in his tight jeans.
Sherlock refused to look away from him, and John bitterly took up the challenge, staring him out. If he could fucking read minds, he had a couple of choice words for the bastard.
There was a slight smirk tugging at the corner of Sherlock's mouth, and John only flushed harder as he fought to rein in his temper. It was almost like a battle of wills. John's eyes widened slightly as the woman on his lap, arching her back to shove her chest in his face, turned her own head, following the detective's line of sight. She didn't seem to miss a beat, instead laughing as she put her cheek to Sherlock's, murmuring something in Sherlock's ear. The detective gave a slight nod before the woman turned her head, rolling her tongue over Sherlock's earlobe.
He closed his eyes in apparent pleasure, and then placed a gentle hand in her hair, tilted her face towards him. He started to speak to her, his expression not betraying the words.
John narrowed his eyes, feeling the confusion spreading through the crowd as the woman laughed and shifted off Sherlock's lap. Was it over? Had Sherlock had enough being on parade? John felt his shoulders tense, craning his neck to see if Sherlock was getting off the chair and ending this obscene show.
He sat quite still, and the crowd started baying and clapping, wanting more. There were giggles and whoops when a muscular, lean man strode onto the stage, and straight for Sherlock, with a knowing, playful grin.
John went rigid again, his jaw hanging open as the crowd took a more definite interest in the show. Lestrade looked dumbstruck, along with Sally - but Anderson was wearing a smug grin as if he'd been right about everything all along. He had to remind himself to breathe as Sherlock's eyes positively burned as the man approached him, big hands sliding over Sherlock's clothed chest, up over his neck, pressing into the small collection of bruises. Sherlock squirmed under the attention, biting his lower lip as the man circled him.
Coming up behind Sherlock, the smooth-skinned man leaned forward, pushing his strong hands down the detective's body, neatly avoiding his eager crotch, and kneading his thighs.
John raised his chin, feeling heat licking in his stomach even if it was laced with burning anger. This was ridiculous, he thought, as Sherlock turned his head to smile at the man. Something about it just... Sherlock rarely smiled like that. It was a lazy, knowing smile, and John could have keeled as he realised why this was so disconcerting.
The detective's eyes were keenly fixed on the other man's. He murmured something, and then placed an eager hand in the dancer's short hair, before trying his luck, angling in for a kiss.
John heard the whole room take a collective breath, his own burning in his lungs, but the male stripper smirked knowingly, reaching out and placing three fingers over Sherlock's lips.
Then the hand moved over Sherlock's cheeks, taking his chin and angling his head in an almost submissive way. The stripper smiled dangerously, turning Sherlock's head to expose the other side of his neck, before dipping down to brush his nose over the detectives pulse points - over the love bites.
John felt near to passing out at the dizzying lack of oxygen he was managing to utilise. The stripper teased the darkened, sore skin, breathing and gently blowing on it, but never touching with his lips.
Sherlock groaned, familiar and loud, just about audible through the pounding music, and John felt like he was a hairs-breadth from homicide.
Lestrade was enjoying himself far too much, and John had never wanted to lash out so much in his life. Would it be weird if he punched a stripper? Or dragged Sherlock away? That would be weird. Questionable. But he was close to it.
Sally and Anderson were laughing in disbelief, stunned that they had not only put the Virgin Freak in this position, but that he was apparently enjoying it. The stripper was now on his lap, grinding rather more obscenely and obviously than the woman had done, grinning down and nodding in appreciation at the straining bulge in Sherlock's light blue jeans.
"This is fucking..." John muttered to himself, gaining an amused glance from Lestrade, which was far too shrewd for John's liking. He was so tense that the muscles in his neck were straining, and for a moment he tried to roll his neck from side to side. As he pushed past another hooting patron, there was another groan from the stage and John looked up before he could stop himself. Sherlock's eyes bored into his own and John shuddered before he could stop himself.
The detective's plump, pink mouth fell open, his eyes flickered as the dancer swivelled teasingly on his lap, bumping his groin and undulating provocatively. Still, he stared at John, fighting and failing to hold back another harsh groan, biting down on his wounded bottom lip. He nodded almost imperceptibly at his doctor, his focus laser-like and brooking no argument.
John stood straight and rigid, nodding back at Sherlock before slinking through the crowd. He stood at the back exit, where people went to smoke if the signs were anything to go by. Resting his hand on the handle, John turned and caught Sherlock's eye again. He gestured sharply to the door, before shoving it open and taking a sharp breath as the cold air hit his burning skin.
John heard a ripple of disappointed yells and encouraging claps, ending thirty seconds later with a rather resigned chorus of cheers and applause, as Sherlock finally left the stage.
John started to pace in the small open area, lined with benches and ashtrays. As the door opened again, John turned on his heel.
"What the hell was that?" he hissed before Sherlock had even closed the door.
"Didn't you notice? I was dragged onto the stage for a lap dance. Rather a cruel jest for Lestrade and his lackeys to play." The detective adjusted his embroidered cuffs and shivered bravely, his eyes icy-pale in the freezing air, illuminated only by a grim orange light that was half-full of dead insects.
John felt his nostrils flare, his breath coming in sharp, cloudy bouts.
"Yeah, I saw that," he snapped. "That wasn't what I meant and you know it."
"What was I supposed to do? You would have done the same. And enjoyed it more, I daresay."
"No I wouldn't!" John had to close his eyes, trying his damned hardest to regain some control. "I wouldn't have fucking moaned and touched and try to kiss! Just because-" John cut himself off, looking at Sherlock with wide eyes. "…It was because that was him, wasn't it? I wondered why you were so familiar."
Sherlock stared, raising his eyebrow before laughing humourlessly. "John, I'm not accountable to you. I can act any way I choose, and it's certainly none of your concern whether I partake in congress with a sexual partner or not. You're jealous, simple as that."
John felt himself gape before he threw his hands up in the air.
"Oh, right, so it's fine for you, is it? Huh? You're free to stage-fuck some guy and I can't bring one woman home? 'Do as I say, not as I do' is it?"
"You can bring women home. You did bring her home. I exposed her as a fraud, and she left, and you didn't go after her. And then we were intimate. And that's that."
John's jaw dropped, his eyes wide.
"Are you fucking kidding me? Are you actually serious?" John didn't know if he was more livid or... hurt. "You didn't just expose her as fraud, you know damn well that's not what you were doing. You made it perfectly clear that I was owned, remember that?"
"You're the one who seems fixated on that, not me. I can't own you, you're not property. But I do consider that since you clearly belong with me, it's in my best interest to keep you here."
John let out a bark of humourless laughter.
"You... Just - you - you're fucking unbelievable," he ranted, turning and starting to pace. It was a habit that usually calmed him down. This time, though, his eyes kept moving to Sherlock's neck, and his jeans. "You're just so fucking..."
"...John, will it calm you down if I'm absolutely frank with you? You may not like what you hear. But I suspect you're misinterpreting my words."
John ground his teeth, finally stopping and facing the man. He crossed his arms and raised his chin.
"Go on then. This should be good."
Sherlock sighed, looking disgruntled that he'd been reduced to this. "First of all...do you agree that we belong together?"
John jerked his head back, stunned at the turn of phrase.
"I don't... What does that even mean?" His heart was hammering, because he had an inkling, but hearing it out loud would be an entirely different thing. His mind started to buzz with panic, and his eyes flickered up and down the detective.
"Answer the question. Would you be as lost without me as I would be without you?"
John opened and closed his mouth.
"Well, yeah, you're my best friend and... And we live together and work together. We..."
"We belong together," Sherlock said simply, as if relaying a universal and inarguable truth.
"And that's the reason you became a grinding stand, was it?" John pushed his anger forward, clinging on to it or else he would lose his nerve and pin Sherlock against the wall.
"Why aren't you blaming Lestrade? He's clearly the one disappointed that I didn't get my 'cherry popped.'"
"Well he doesn't know it's already popped and then some," John muttered, feeling particularly petulant at that moment.
"John...it really isn't, if you must know."
John cocked his head.
"What?"
"Well I haven't...actually had sex." Sherlock tried to look reprimandingly mature, but the effect was ruined by the stark petal-pink blush on his brutal cheekbones.
John felt his forehead crease, reaching up to pinch the bridge of his nose.
"That doesn't even make sense. Are you just deliberately fucking with me right now?"
"...I've only been penetrated with objects, not flesh. So technically...no."
John felt a flush rise up his cheeks, an image of Sherlock kneeling on his bed, legs spread, hair wet and back arched-
"O-oh."
"John...it's taken a long time for me to actually come out and say it, I know. I apologise for the lateness of this request. But I promise, I am not 'fucking with you,' I'm not lying, when I ask… whether you would be my first?"