A/N: Someone asked me what Sherlock and John becoming a couple would actually change. Certainly we have evolved as a society in the last 14 years from the series' introduction (or 129 years, as it's always 1895)?

This is the result of exploring that question. Please skip this one if this premise somehow offends you.

PS. I intend to return to Molly's story very soon. -csf

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'You want me to wear that?' John gasps, pointing at the outfit laid out for him on the sofa.

There were chains and gaps in places where clothes should cover what is private. It was gaudy and superlative, stretchy and shinny. An inappropriate exaggeration of what a gay man should look like, from some 80's blockbuster.

Sherlock's beautiful baritone voice keeps infuriatingly low and slow paced.

'Why not? You're more adventurous than the average bisexual male and have a soft spot for my shenanigans, John.'

Despite himself, John chuckles at that. 'I wouldn't say adventurous when it comes to intimacy, actually. What makes you think that?'

'John, you developed a relationship with me, of all people, and your only strict request was that no crime scene gore made it to our bed.'

John opens his mouth, thinks better, and shuts up.

He doesn't even remember such request. Maybe Sherlock had assigned it to him, he does that sometimes when he has conversations with his inner Johns. They seem to be a lot stricter than the real John anyway. Not that John wants gore, of course not, he just never set boundaries with Sherlock that he can remember.

Ever.

'I thought adventurous people like us would be going to clubs and whatnot,' the doctor redirected his thoughts.

'Do you want to?' Sherlock's intense gaze zeroes on his partner. John is too often a giver with an unhealthy martyrdom complex and rarely allows himself to communicate his needs. It is a god thing that he has paired up with Sherlock Holmes, who can read these things off specs of near imaginary dust in clothes or a twitch of the mouth while John read the morning papers.

John hesitates, mulling the thought over. Clubbing. Is he not too old? Certainly Sherlock would fit right in, with his slick magnetic attraction. And how would that make John feel, if more people joined in to ogle his man? 'You know what? I don't know.'

'Then we shall investigate.'

'I'm still not wearing that,' the doctor points viciously at the garments on the sofa.

'Just drop it, John. I never expected you to; I was merely testing your limits', Sherlock assures, twirling away in a furl of dressing gown.

'You berk!'

'You'd look a treat, though, John.'

'I can do the chains, but not the other things.'

'That's the John Watson I know and love.' Sherlock hums appreciatively, as he walks away. John stops breathing at the casually thrown word – love.

Sherlock is surprisingly better at communicating his feelings for John, now that he has accepted them. The change happened seemingly overnight, with the same tempestuous way the detective latches on to a new obsession. It's John who is still getting used to it.

Sherlock adds, from the bedroom: 'I'll make the reservation in one of the most exclusive clubs in London. Be ready in an hour, John. Chains, cuffs and all the trimmings!'

'Berk!'

Suddenly John's got his voice back, as he eye rolls his significant other's back he can see through the open bedroom door. The detective opens his wardrobe door just at the right time to reflect his godless smirk back.

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John barely has the time to shower, with Sherlock taking up the bathroom forever and refusing to come out until, supposedly, properly prepped and attired.

And so a perfectly dishevelled looking, unabashed cover model type, sex demigod Sherlock is soon waiting impatiently in the living room. Long lean legs and plush backside snuggly encased in black leather. A prim black shirt offset the shininess of the trousers, making him look sophisticated and mysterious. His shirt straining at the buttons, open in a deep V at the front.

Sherlock turns swiftly when John starts descending stairs, and grey eyes bulge at the sight of John in nice fitting jeans and black tight t-shirt, his metal army tags dangling from his neck tucked inside the cotton, their form promised rather than flaunted. His movements are powerful but economic, limber yet contained, as a man who is well aware of his own power. So simple and yet so deadly, it's John all over.

'We must hurry. I'll call a cab.' Sherlock rushes to say, shaking his daze off.

John smirks. 'Is the carriage turning back into a pumpkin at midnight?'

Sherlock smiles along, but ominously corrects: 'No, John. But Lestrade will conduct a bust in the club at midnight. We expect a serial killer to be there.'

'Hey, why didn't I know of this case?'

'It was a three at best. It's solved. I thought we could be there for the apprehension of the serial killer and have congratulatory sex in the toilets afterwards.'

'With the Yarders around?'

'A reasonable proportion already suspect us dating and the others will believe we're pretending while undercover.'

John shakes his head, dismissing it.

Sherlock's eyes narrow. 'John. We are famous in London. It's bound to come out one day. Are you ready to let the world know yet?'

John blushes sweetly. 'Not yet. Not that I'm not proud,' he rushes to say. 'Jeez, I'm the lucky one here, but— it's a bit new still, and to have others give us unsolicited opinions could get confusing, I feel... And for you, Sherl?'

'Sherlock,' he corrects, as if unaffected. Secretly, he fears more criminals choose to target him through his connection with John Watson, so he doesn't press his doctor's insecurities. 'People are idiots, why would I tell them about us? Let them figure it out whenever they start really using their brains.'

John nods. It's not the end of that conversation, only for now.

Postpone and redirect.

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One cab ride and they are standing on the pavement outside one of the busiest London scenes. It's loud, lights glaring, drunks abound, and John has a flash of yearning for an early night and a nice book by the fireplace.

Some motorcyclist bloke parks loudly nearby, showing off his ride. As he walks past, he gropes Sherlock who shoves him away. John goes right up to this guy's face, or 40cm below, to let the wanton idiot know that the posh dish is taken in no uncertain terms and in clear, strong Captain Watson's voice. The motorcyclist backs down apologetically when faced with the coiled ire of the smallish but compact army doctor. He murmurs apologies without looking Sherlock in the eye, afraid to set off John again.

The Baker Street duo weave together into the club, deep bass throbbing through their bones. John volunteers to get them drinks after settling Sherlock into a safe corner of the bar area. His protégé is scanning the crowd, looking for the killer, completely disregarding the commotion his gorgeousness is causing. Typical.

John returns with two drinks and three phone numbers he'll toss away without a glance before the night is over. He spots Sherlock with some relief as the detective on the lookout hasn't moved from his spot, hasn't gone get himself into trouble without John.

In a corner table by a badly lit stairwell to management offices upstairs, Sherlock holds his drink mechanically. John sips his own as he too scans the crowd. Finally he finishes his drink, puts it down, takes Sherlock's drink from the still hand, sips that one too and puts it down, and grabs Sherlock for a sudden, passionate kiss. No one notices around them, alone in a crowd as it were.

'John!' the detective surfaces with surprise. 'What are you doing?'

'Blending us in. Keep watch, and I'll snog you.'

'That's acceptable. Do proceed, John.'

The doctor chuckles, a natural melody above the synthetic music that grips the musical detective.

John turns for some privacy and, with his back to the crowd, he starts kissing and nibbling Sherlock's collarbone.

'Bad time for an interruption, John?' a known voice teases them. John jumps and parts himself from the amazing man who does not show a hint of reaction to the newcomer or John's change of focus.

Guess he hadn't been able to focus that giant brain of his while John nibbled his jawline. Imagine that!

And waiting on them? Lestrade. Undercover in some ridiculously overproduced outfit.

Detective Inspector Lestrade had found out only recently about Sherlock and John being together, and had been blessedly blasé about it, apart from the cashing in on the Yard's longest running pool.

'Kindly refrain from insulting my life partner,' Sherlock responds coolly. It's only John that is left staring into outer space at the use of the expression "life partner".

'Far from it. He's got my respect. You two are made for each other... and are going to kill me with worry one day.'

'Hardly, but if it's too much, I can arrange to work with another inspector.'

Greg back paddles faster than ever. 'No! No. I get it. You call me for backup and solve half my cases with mad chases through London and fantastic deductions. You have only become better when you and John become an item. You now sleep, eat and take care of yourself, and your noggin is sharper than ever.'

'You're babbling while our killer arrives at the scene. I'll follow him to the bar. You know what you need to do.'

Greg nods promptly. John looks uncomfortable as Sherlock slithers through the crowd, afraid to lose sight of him only too easily.

'Fine, I'll go be bait then.' The inspector sighs, squaring his shoulders.

John whiplashes his face from staring at Sherlock's back to looking at Greg's face.

'You are not putting yourself in danger, Greg,' he declares firmly. 'How does this guy kill the victims?'

'Knife after assaulting them.'

'I'll do it. I can hold him off long enough for you to apprehend him.'

'No can do! Sherlock explicitly said—'

'See you.'

Greg looks down on his wrist. It's chained to the stairs railing. Damnit! John was quite smooth about it, too. Must be all that practice cuffing Sherlock to bedposts. He grimaces, he actually rather not think about that one.

John takes a deep breath and approaches the killer with his best smile. He can see Sherlock fuming from nine meters away. But there's respect and trust too, so the detective keeps to the side-lines.

Nothing he can do about it now. John is not a frail wallflower, and Sherlock should know it better than anyone. John gladly takes the slight changes he's seen in Sherlock, now they are together; washing the dishes once on a weekend evening, not hogging the duvet all night, paying the cabbie once in a while. Being protected as if he was an imbecile and a victim is not part of John's love idealisations.

'Hi, do you know where the toilets are?' he asks the killer quite simply and holds the responding raking gaze. 'I thought we could go find them together.'

True Captain Watson opening. Never a great success with the ladies, but John's got nothing else to draw upon.

The killer finally smiles, coolly. 'Aren't you a bit old to be here?'

John looks around. He guesses.

'I've only just found I'm bisexual, so all this is a bit new for me. Am I too old?'

'You a virgin?'

John stares him down. 'No.'

'Many male partners?'

'One.'

'Oh, your first try of this side and you've come to test it?' he smiles wolfishly. John swears he can hear Sherlock's nails scratch the surface of the bar.

Apparently it really is a thing to "turn" someone, gives low life scums street cred.

'I bet you know your way with someone like me.' John acts coyly now. Much like he expected, he's selected easily. Murder victim status acquired.

Just a regular working day in John's life.

'I'll take care of you, don't you worry.'

John's eyes are big and round now. He looks positively boyish and naïve.

'Oh, I'm really not worried. I think the toilets are that way.'

The killer nods and leads on. John follows in his wake. He's got a lot of experience following the mad lone wolf sorts.

John secretly wonders if should have checked that this guy kills men after climaxing and not to cover sexual dysfunction. He really doesn't want to prolong this, but also he doesn't want to be killed before the Yard moves in on the toilets.

'Hey! What—?'

John is suddenly shoved into a cleaning cupboard, the motion slamming him into shelves with cleaning products and drinks cans. John wobbles just enough for the killer to jam the door handle with a broomstick and turn to his prey.

'Shit.'

He can see the killer's lewd interest and it's not flattering at all. John looks around very quickly, checking his options. Those hazard symbols in the cleaning fluids are stamped in for slow painful deaths. Nothing to help him more quickly without also damaging himself in the process, so no mustard gas making. No exposed electrical wires. No sharp objects, you can't really do much with a mop. Hm... John can't really think of how he's supposed to stave off the advances of a murderous predator. He can only hope Sherlock has spotted the forced detour.

Outside police whistles are going off, blasting around the place, interrupting the electronic music. The killer's eyes widen. The beast is ticked off, ta very much. Kindly stop poking it now, Lestrade.

On the dance floor, Sherlock is the one racing towards the cupboard, through the momentary disorganised chaos of the police lockdown response. He's struggling to get through the sea of patrons. He pushes and shoves strangers, someone gropes his butt (seriously, what's with the collective obsession?) and finally he kneels reverentially at the cupboard door, trying his files on the lock.

The lock rattles, and the killer still ignores it, backing John against the wall.

John gulps.

Sherlock growls, his best file breaking in half inside the lock. His lean hands are shaking. The detective gets up and takes two steps back then launches himself to tackle the door. It flies off the hinges and collides against some dead weight on the floor.

John is there at the back, a bit breathless, hair mussed, but unharmed. The killer's hands are tied up by several cleaning microfiber cloths, as he struggles with his restraints on the floor.

'John!' Sherlock launches himself into a bone crushing hug. Taller than John, he completely wraps himself around the smaller man. Finally he mutters, apologetically, in John's ear: 'I'm a berk.'

The doctor sighs and melts against that strong frame. He asks: 'Can we go home now? Got a great book on my armchair.'

'No dancing?'

'I'm both too inexperienced and too seasoned for this shit, Sherl.'

He feels Sherlock's nod, the bouncy curls tickling John's forehead. Still they clutch to each other, seizing that comforting contact.

'Right you are. Let's go home, John... Where's the inspector?'

'A bit tied up at the moment. I'm sure he'll meet us back at Baker Street.'

'No question about it. We got him a killer ready for dispatch, after all.'

They remain hugging just a while longer, adrenaline thrumming in their veins, breathing ragged, hearts slowly synching to one strong beat.

All in all, everything has changed and all is the same. They are forever two halves of the same whole.

The post-panic comforting is one of the best parts of the upgrade. A British stiff upper lip cannot compete with the immediate reassurance of close contact.

They step outside holding hands, not caring for one moment if the Yarders or Londoners spot them. There's even a glint of pride in John's jaw, that he snatched Sherlock Holmes, the most eligible bachelor of London. Sherlock hums in his way, almost a purr, as a response to John's first public acknowledgement of them together this way. His blogger might be slow at cracking the case, but he's always reliable as his conductor of light.

After all, Sherlock only diagnosed his own feelings towards John because he deduced that John was quite obviously in love with him.

Easily deduced.

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