Work Text:
John had just settled in for a few rounds of Top Gear and a bowl of leftover curry, when Sherlock--who had, until this moment, been near-comatose on the sofa--erupted into motion.
“Get up, John, we’re going out.” Sherlock stood abruptly and tossed aside his dressing gown. “You’ll want to change into something nicer, I expect,” he added, eyeing John’s tweedy jumper with a wholly unwarranted distaste. (It was a classic style, John thought defensively. And the leather elbow patches were surprisingly practical.)
John didn’t follow so quickly. He’d just got comfortable, after all, and it had been a long day at the surgery. Three stomach bugs, god help him, and at least twice as many mysterious rashes as anyone should be forced to confront in the space of a single shift. “Is this a case? Only I didn’t hear your text alert go off.”
“Mmm,” Sherlock said. “In my pocket. Muffled.”
John raised his eyebrows. “And you didn’t need me to fetch it for you? Your brother’s wrong; I have been a good influence.”
“Yes, yes, I’m a self-sufficient adult. Now go get changed. Whatever you’d wear to go to the clubs should do.”
“Haven’t gone to the clubs in twenty-five years, Sherlock. So unless it’s Eighties Night, I’m going to need a little more guidance.”
Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh, but paused in the doorway to his bedroom. “Your black v-neck and those dark jeans should do. The tight ones. Whatever shoes you’d like, I suppose, none of yours really scream ‘clubwear,’ do they?”
That question was obviously rhetorical, since Sherlock punctuated it with the close of his bedroom door, leaving John standing in the hall and contemplating his own wardrobe--which Sherlock clearly didn’t know as well as he thought he did. John didn’t own any tight jeans. Well, perhaps an older pair or two that fit a bit more snugly than they had when he was thirty, but none that were deliberately--
“For god’s sake,” Sherlock said, muffled by the door between them but audible and clearly indignant. “You bought them last year. Dark wash, slim cut, the sales clerk said they’d make your arse look good.”
Ah. Those jeans. The clerk had said exactly that, but after the date John had bought them for cancelled (and changed her email, and possibly her phone number as well), John had forgotten about them in the back of his wardrobe.
“Right,” he muttered to Sherlock’s closed door. “Right, yeah.”
John never did figure out the name of the club Sherlock took them to, as the only “sign” in evidence involved a single punctuation mark. Was that the name of the place? Hashtag? Pound? Christ, he thought. Please, please don’t tell me I am at a gay club named “Pound” with Sherlock “Married to My Work” Holmes.
Obscure signage aside, the club was clearly very posh, very exclusive, and John was quietly glad Sherlock had pressed him to change clothes. Even so, he felt outclassed--Sherlock was right, his shoes really weren’t clubwear, and he’d never been so aware he bought his t-shirts at Primark. But the bouncer let them in with only a grin and a wink from Sherlock--whose shirt, in addition to being alarmingly form-fitting even by the standards of his normal tailoring, was actually shiny. Well, metallic, perhaps. Regardless, it drew the eye. John kept catching himself staring at the planes of Sherlock’s shoulder blades, outlined through the shirt, or the graceful sweep of his spine, highlighted by the iridescent material.
Well, everybody’s staring at Sherlock, John told himself. I’m just blending in. Blending in, that’s all.
“You needn’t worry about staring,” Sherlock whispered, suddenly so close his lips brushed John’s ear as he spoke, so close that his warm breath ghosted across John’s skin. “I deliberately dressed to draw attention. Besides, we’re masquerading as a couple.” He slipped his arm around John’s waist, closing the narrow distance between them and dropping a lingering sort of kiss on John’s temple. “You’re allowed to stare,” he added, his voice dropping to nearly subsonic levels.
John swallowed hard, and tried not to look shocked at this development. Presumably, this relationship was not shocking news to whatever character he was supposed to be playing tonight. Presumably, whatever character he was supposed to be playing tonight was already accustomed to the feeling of Sherlock’s lips on his skin, the warm pressure of Sherlock’s arm around his waist. Presumably, that was a casual, everyday sort of occurrence for him.
He tried to imagine what that might be like, being touched and kissed by Sherlock every day, and then remembered he already spent far too much time imagining what that might be like. Anyway, they had work to do. Yes. Best to focus on the work, and leave the more sordid imaginings for later. When he was alone.
“The, ah. The--” He cleared his throat. “The case,” he said, more steadily. “What’s the case?”
“Oh,” Sherlock said. “Yes, the, um, the case.” Did he sound wrongfooted? No, that made no sense. “We’re still in the information-gathering stage. Keep an eye out for anything suspicious.”
“Right.” John nodded decisively. Comfortable territory, finally, even if Sherlock still had his arm wrapped around John’s waist. John was a goddamn adult, this was not the first time another human being had touched him, and he was going to pretend it wasn’t distracting as hell or die trying. “Should we split up, then?” Strategic retreat: also a viable option.
“Mmm, yes, a drink would be great, thanks.” Sherlock stopped his scan of the room long enough to catch John’s eye. “You know what I like.” He let his tongue slip out to wet his lips, and John spun on his heel and fled to the bar while he could still walk.
He didn’t, in fact, know what Sherlock liked, so he ordered whiskey for the both of them, and took several fortifying sips of his before winding his way back to Sherlock, now positioned near the center of the dance floor.
And not alone.
The line for the bar had been long and the bartender slow, which had apparently given Sherlock adequate time to find a dance partner.
That Sherlock was beautiful, John knew. No one with eyes could fail to observe that.
That he was also an excellent dancer wasn’t surprising. No one who had ever seen him whirl through a crime scene, all intense physicality and tightly-controlled athleticism, could be surprised by that.
That Sherlock could find someone else beautiful, though, that Sherlock could bend that intensity and grace into something that encompassed another person: that, John didn’t know. That, he found surprising.
He paused at the edge of the dance floor, watching the scene unspool before him. Sherlock moved slowly, sinuously, arms in the air and head tilted back to rest on the shoulder of his partner. The man he danced with was equally tall, but stockier, tan to Sherlock’s pale, and his large hands spread over Sherlock’s hips like they belonged there.
Something hot and angry burned in John’s stomach, and he tossed back the rest of his drink just so he could pretend it was the whiskey.
He didn’t want to watch, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away. It shouldn’t feel like a betrayal. They’d only been pretending to be in a relationship, and even that had only been for the past twenty minutes. Sherlock could dance with whomever he wanted. No doubt it was for the case anyway--Sherlock could probably deduce his partner’s entire life story from the press of his front against Sherlock’s back or the graze of his lips on Sherlock’s neck.
Just before John turned away--back to the bar for another drink, maybe two--Sherlock lifted his head and opened his eyes, meeting John’s eyes across the crowded floor. John couldn’t read his expression and didn’t feel inclined to try. He shook his head, slammed back the drink he’d gotten for Sherlock, and turned his back.
Sherlock found him later in the hallway outside the loo. John had bypassed the bar entirely and instead sought out a dark corner. He couldn’t leave, not if they had a case on, but he couldn’t stand there and watch, either. He’d just take a moment to collect himself and then get back out and get back to work.
“John,” Sherlock said, softly. “I know you’re not actually waiting to use the loo.”
“No,” John said, without turning his head. “Good thing, too, because from the sound of things, it’s otherwise occupied. Could be awhile.”
Sherlock hummed in agreement, then fell silent. “I didn’t mean to chase you away,” he said, after a moment. “That wasn’t how I planned it; you were meant to--to cut in, I suppose.”
John snorted. “Would’ve been nice of you to let me in on that plan.”
Sherlock darted a quick glance at John, and then went back to staring at his feet. “It was less of a plan and more of a hope.”
John’s stomach turned over. “Tell me honestly,” he said, slowly. “Are we really here on a case?”
“Yes, of course,” Sherlock said, but without any trace of his usual impatience for tedious, repetitive, and otherwise stupid questions. He didn’t have many tells, but this one John recognized immediately.
“Is there a client?” John continued.
Now Sherlock looked outright evasive. “In a manner of speaking.”
“Sherlock,” John said, feeling suddenly as though he were standing on the edge of a cliff, looking out into the dizzying void and finding it strangely alluring. “Are you the client? Was that--were you trying to make me jealous?”
Sherlock looked away. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It does, though,” John said. “Because I was jealous, even though I don’t have the right to be.”
“Oh,” Sherlock murmured, almost to himself. “I-- oh.”
“What did you hope would happen, Sherlock?” John asked, pressing the subject as gently as he could, but desperate, desperate for an answer.
Sherlock braved another sidelong glance at John, still leaning back against the wall beside him, and whatever he saw in John’s face must have encouraged him. “I wanted to see how you’d react to being a couple. Even if it was a masquerade, even if it was just for an evening. But you startled when I touched you and I thought--I thought dancing with another man might clarify...everything.”
“For you or for me?”
“For both of us. I know how I feel, but I wanted to know how you felt.”
John chuckled ruefully. “You could have asked.”
Sherlock snorted. “Oh yes, that would go swimmingly. ‘Thanks for the tea, John, and by the way, I rather fancy you. Care for a snog?’”
“You’re right, that’d never happen,” John said, his tone mock-serious even as his heart soared. “For starters, you never thank me for tea.”
Sherlock laughed, the relief obvious in his face and voice. “Surely I’ve thanked you at least once.”
“Nope, never,” John said, a matching smile playing around the corners of his own mouth. “I’d’ve made a note of it. Alerted the press. Possibly hired one of those sky-writing planes, you know how it is.”
Sherlock ducked his head, a crooked smile on his lips and a blush staining his cheeks. “Nevertheless,” he said. “The question stands. I rather fancy you. Care for a snog?”
“You know, I rather think I do,” John said. “Come here, you gigantic git.” He pulled Sherlock around to face him, hands on his narrow hips, and couldn’t help but grin up at him for a moment. For one insane moment, he thought he could teeter on the edge of this cliff forever: dizzy with anticipation, every cell in his body focused on the man in front of him. Then Sherlock slipped one large hand up to rest on John’s shoulder as he pressed his lips to John’s.
Time expanded and contracted in odd ways, so close to Sherlock. It always had; the man had the gravitational pull of the sun, permanently altering John’s orbit. John wondered, sometimes, if that was safe, if it was healthy, to circle him like that.
He couldn’t spare a moment to wonder now, nor to care. Sherlock kissed him with a touching delicacy, a near-reverent regard. There was wonder in his kiss, so sweet John could taste it. And when they separated a moment later, John saw wonder in his eyes, too.
“God, Sherlock,” he said, and pulled him back in. No delicacy in Sherlock’s response, this time. His hand tightened on John’s shoulder, then moved up to cup the back of his head, fingers slipping on John’s short hair. As John’s lips parted against his, and John’s tongue darted out to trace the bow of Sherlock’s mouth, Sherlock’s fingers tightened reflexively in his hair. John made a pleased sound low in his throat and turned them until he had Sherlock pressed back against the wall, clutching at John’s coat, legs slipping further apart to keep them on the same level.
John dropped his head to Sherlock’s neck, dropping kisses down the length of his gorgeous pale throat, pausing to suck a mark just below his collar. Above him, Sherlock whimpered his enthusiasm.
The thump of the bathroom door--and the suppressed giggles of the two men who’d just exited it--snapped both of them out of their trance. For a moment, John had been so wrapped up in Sherlock--literally and figuratively--he’d forgotten they were even in public.
“It’s all yours,” one of the men said, his rumpled shirt and sheepish grin leaving absolutely no doubt as to what he’d been up to. “Sorry to keep you waiting.” He and his partner stumbled off, holding hands and still laughing, leaving John and Sherlock alone in the corridor, staring at the open loo door.
Sherlock raised one eyebrow in a clear question, and for a moment, John considered tugging him through the door and having it off right there. No more waiting to feel Sherlock’s mouth on his bare skin. No more wondering how far down Sherlock’s neck and chest that blush extended.
Or: Baker Street, with a bed and nothing but their own eagerness to hurry them on. Just the thought of Sherlock, spread out across his duvet, curls a mess across his pillow, settled the question for John.
“Let’s go home,” he said.