This was ridiculous, what was he doing here? He was definitely out of place. He should go. Yeah, he should just go home and see what’s on telly, maybe update his pointless blog. He was leaving, he was definitely leaving, he just had to find…
“Johnny! What’re you doing hiding over here?” Came Bill Murray’s booming voice, as he slid next to John.
“Figuring out an exit strategy”
“Oh come on! You gotta relax. You look like you’re facing a firing squad.” Laughed Bill, clasping John on his shoulder. At least it was his good shoulder, thank God for small mercies.
“I’d prefer the firing squad!” John called over the music. “This really isn’t my idea of a night out anymore, Bill.”
“I know, and that’s why we’re here, to change that!”
Bill was a good man and saved his life, so John bit his tongue to keep from insulting the man and his idea of fun.
“Seriously Johnny, I go back in one week, and I can’t, in good conscience, leave knowing you’re still in your funk, that you’re not out there.” Bill huffed, gesturing out towards all the club patrons, to society in general. “You’ve been home for six months, and it’s been over a year since –”
“Don’t,” John cut him off. “I really don’t want to talk about… her.”
“Good, because she’s not worth it. But it is time for you to get out there again. I saved your life once, and it’s time for me to save it again!”
John just shook his head. “I’m starting to wish you hadn’t. How long are you going to hold that over me?”
“Until the end of time.” Bill grinned. “At least get out of this corner, and go to the bar. Mix, meet people!”
“Fine.” John said with a resigned sigh. Bill was a stubborn son of a bitch, it was better to just go along with him.
“That’s the spirit! Now what about her?” Bill asked, pointing to a short, pretty blonde with a pixie cut, laughing with her friends, “She’s your type.”
“I don’t know, I think my type is changing.” She was rather pretty, and perhaps a few years ago he’d go for it, but now…
“Ok, alright, what about him?” Bill nodded toward a tall, lithe man dancing in the middle of the floor, his dark curls bouncing as he moved.
“He’s…” John mumbled, transfixed as the strobing lights illuminate the man, casting shadows, highlighting his sharp, otherworldly features. “He’s way out of my league.”
“That never stopped you before, just saying." Bill shrugged. "Now, if you’ll excuse me, there is a lovely little redhead over there, who I very much need to meet.” And like that, Bill disappeared into the sea of club goers letting loose after a long week.
‘Alright, mix and mingle, interact with other human beings, you can still do that. The bullet didn’t take that away from you,’ John thought as he started for the bar. This may not have been how he wanted to spend his evening, but he could get a drink at the very least. And standing at the bar was a right side better than hanging out in a dark corner like some old pervert.
Getting a drink proved easier said than done, as John didn’t feel like pushing his way through the people crowding the bar, and fighting to get the bartender’s attention away from the pretty young things batting their eyes and flashing some skin. God, what the hell was he still doing here? And why did being thirty-five make him feel so old?
As John hung back, waiting for a break to put in his order, his eyes scanned the club once more. Bill had successful met the ‘lovely little redhead’ and the two seemed to be getting quite cozy in one of the booths bordering the dance floor. ‘Good on you, mate’ John chuckled. The pretty blonde and her one friend were no longer laughing together, so chances were John would probably not have been her type anyway.
As if of their own accord, John’s eyes eventually found the dark haired man again, still in the middle of the dance floor, still mesmerizing. While he’s in the middle of a sea of other dancers, completely surrounded, John noted that the man was alone; people approached him, and he ignored them. Lost to the music, his eyes closed, head thrown back, exposing a long, pale throat, his body moving in perfect sync with the beat, the man was completely wrapped in his own world.
Everything about the man was captivating, and everything about him was untouchable. John didn’t have a snowball’s chance in hell with a man like that, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t look, couldn’t admire something so gorgeous if only for a little while.
God he loved it here, losing himself in the beat, the music loud enough to drown out his thoughts, the constant ebb and flow of people around him, none of them really caring who or what he was. Nobody needed answers; nobody was depending on him to be right, to be fast, he could just be. And after the last few days, the demands, the nonstop running around, Sherlock need to just be, he needed the sound, the movement, the distraction.
One song transitioned seamlessly into the next, and Sherlock’s body moved with it. People tried to crowd him, tried to wrap their arms around his waist, pull him against them, and Sherlock simply slipped from their grasp, never losing step. It was not that he was adverse to a dance partner, but he didn’t need one, he just needed… this.
He didn’t know how long he had been on the dance floor – long enough to have worked up a healthy, exhilarating sweat – when he felt it, someone was watching him. Opening his eyes after what felt like hours, Sherlock swept the room, and spotted him. Standing off to the side by the bar was a man, perhaps a couple years older than himself, well built – if a bit short – and by what Sherlock could see, handsome in an easy, reassuring way. He was slightly awkward, a bit out of place, looking as if he wanted to be anywhere but here. He was watching the dance floor, but mostly he was watching Sherlock. He didn’t look threatening, as if targeting Sherlock – Sherlock was all too familiar with that type of watching – no, he was looking at Sherlock with a look of appraisal, of interest.
Receiving amorous looks was not a new concept for Sherlock, but there was something different about this man. Usually when someone at a club looked at him with interest – and this man was clearly interested – they almost always tried to approach him, but this man didn’t. He seemed content to just stand by himself, and take in the scene, take in Sherlock, but not engage. He was interested, but wasn’t making a move, why?
Well, there was only one way to figure that out.
Shit, shit, shit! Not only had the man seen him, but now he had stopped dancing and was making his way towards the bar, towards John.
“Carl, give me a Black Russian,” The man said in a deep baritone, leaning over the bar, before glancing back at John, “and a scotch neat.”
Almost instantaneously, the bartender appeared, and the drinks were poured.
“Here, since you’ve been having trouble ordering.” The man said, handing John the scotch.
“Umm… right. Thank you.” John stumbled, accidentally brushing the man’s fingers as he accepted the glass. What the hell was going on?
“Sherlock Holmes.” The man smiled. God, up close he was even more striking, all high cheekbones, and sharp angles. And his eyes, a piercing mix of grey, green, and blue. Not to mention that voice.
John had to shake himself from his semi-trance “I’m sorry, what?”
“My name. Sherlock Holmes.”
“Well that’s unique.” ‘Oh real smooth, Watson.’ “I’m John, John Watson.”
“Hello John.” Sherlock said, cocking his head to the side.
Christ, John didn’t think his own name had ever sounded so attractive in his life. He actually felt his heart jump. He had to actively remind himself to breath for a second. It had been so long since he’d actually felt that pull towards another human being, he’d almost forgotten what it felt like.
“You’ve been watching me.” Sherlock continued.
“Oh, sorry about that.” John blushed. “You’re… uh… you’re a good dancer.”
“No, it’s fine. I was going to say, you’ve been watching me, but you haven’t approach me. Why?”
“And does everyone who looks at you approach you.” John said, gaining a bit of confidence, he obviously hadn’t creeped Sherlock out too much.
Sherlock smirked. “In a club? Yes.”
“Oh, aren’t you the humble one.” John laughed.
“I may not understand why, but I do know that people generally find me attractive.”
“Don’t understand why…” John mumbled under his breath, shaking his head.
“Yes, and you haven’t answered my question.” Sherlock said, stepping just a bit closer to John. “Tell me, why didn’t you approach me?”
“Well, I was way up here, and you looked like you were having a good enough time by yourself, way down there on the dance floor.”
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “Well I’m up here now.”
“So you are.”
“Then would you care to dance?” Sherlock asked, his deep voice triggering something deep in John. “And I should point out; it’s very rare that I am the one asking for a dance.”
“I guess I should feel honored.”
“You should. So…”
Shameless flirting was one thing, but there was no way in hell John could keep up down on the dance floor. “I’d love to, really. But I’m not much of a dancer, and I’m actually only here to keep an eye out on my friend over there.” John said, nodding towards Bill and the redhead, who were doing what John supposed was meant to be dancing.
Sherlock seemed taken aback but this, apparently unused to people not falling over themselves to be near him, John thought. Well, John Watson wasn’t ‘people’
“He seems to be doing fine on his own.” Sherlock commented.
“True, but I have been keeping an eye on him this entire time.” Countered John
“Other than when you were watching me, you mean.” Sherlock retorted.
“Yeah, other than then. But what kind of friend would I be if I abandoned my post now? Besides, you’ve had no shortage of attention all night, and you’ve brushed them all off.”
“Moot point, they were all boring.” Sherlock said dismissively.
“And how do you know I’m not?” John asked.
“You’re not, I can tell.” Sherlock smiled, leaning a bit closer, his voice dropping lower.
“Really. I can,” Sherlock paused for a second, “…read people.”
“You can read people?”
“That’s what I just said.” Sherlock frowned.
“Alright then, read me.” John said, quirking one corner of his mouth. Sherlock may have had the tall, deep voice, sexy thing going for him, but John was going to give as good as he got. He didn’t get the nickname ‘Three Continents Watson’ for nothing after all.
Sherlock smirked. “I already have.”
“Well, tell me what you read.” John leaned in ever closer.
“Only if you dance with me.” Sherlock murmured into John’s ear before standing up straight and taking a step back.
John nearly toppled over as he instinctively tried to follow Sherlock. Dear lord, he had survived a war zone, He was not going to let some gorgeous posh thing get the better of him in a night club in London.
Fuck it. “Fine. You correctly tell me five things about me, and I’ll dance with you.” Two could play at this game.
“Deal.” Sherlock grinned, lifting one finger. “I knew your drink order, so that’s one.”
“Not earth shattering, but I'm feeling generous, so I’ll give you that one.” John said, folding his arms. “Four more.” He wasn’t actually sure whether or not he wanted Sherlock to name four more, or what he’d do if he did… or didn’t.
“You, John Watson, are a former army doctor.” Sherlock smirked, lifting a second finger. “I say former because you’ve recently been invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq, I’d say roughly half a year ago. You took a bullet to the left shoulder.” A third finger went up. “A particularly inconvenient injury since you are, in fact, left handed.” Fourth finger. “And lastly, you’ve ended a fairly serious, long-term relationship, possibly an engagement, in the not too distant past.”
John’s thoughts came to a scratching halt, Sherlock was mere inches from him, and those indescribable eyes were staring so deep into John’s, he wouldn’t have been surprised if Sherlock was reading his mind. Come to think of it, it was quite possible he had done just that.
John remained silent, his heart pounding in his chest – because of anger or something else, he didn’t quite know.
“So,” Sherlock prompted when John still didn’t speak, “How did I do?”
“Yeah, right on all counts.” John’s reply came out far more curt than he had intended, or perhaps not.
“Oh, excellent!” Sherlock beamed. John continued to stare, unable to think of what to say, how to feel. This strange, complete mystery of a man just rattled off some of the most personal, difficult details of John’s life as if he were reading a shopping list. He didn’t know if he wanted to punch him, or jump him, maybe both.
“Not good?” Sherlock asked when John still hadn’t spoken.
“Bit not good, yeah.” John breathed.
Sherlock flushed, and even in the odd lighting of the club, John could see his high cheekbones start to turn pink. His whole demeanor changed. “I… um… I’m sorry.” He said awkwardly, as if unused to the words. “I… uh… I do that some times, go a bit too far.”
“That’s one way to put it. Extraordinary, absolutely extraordinary, but a bit too far.” John huffed He then proceeded to take hold of Sherlock’s arm. “Well, come on then.”
“Come? Come where?” Sherlock frowned, a small crease forming between his eyebrows.
“I said I’d dance with you if you told me five correct things about me, and you told me five correct things about me.” John said, moving towards the dance floor.
Sherlock gaped at John, confused. “Really?” The disbelief evident in his voice. “After that, you still want to dance with me.”
“I said I’d do it, so I’m doing it. I’m a man of my word.”
If just being in the club made John feel out of place, it was nothing compared to being on the dance floor. It was crowded, enough so that there was only about a foot between John and Sherlock, and the number of people made everything that much warmer, that much more… humid. John hadn’t been lying when he said he wasn’t a dancer, even before the army he never felt at home on the dance floor, but now he felt stiff and awkward. Sherlock however, all confusion gone, looked completely in his element.
Eyes once again shut, Sherlock moved with the thudding beat as if the music was flowing through him, as if it controlled him, and he controlled it. John was transfixed, unable to tear his eyes away from the unquantifiable man in front him. He was a doctor, he knew the human body inside and out, and yet he couldn’t begin to fathom how a body could move like that, with such grace and strength. He wanted to know what else that body could do.
As if reading John’s mind – John still wasn’t convinced he couldn’t – Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, locking onto John’s. Then, without warning, John found himself being grabbed by the waist, and pulled almost flush against Sherlock.
“I said I wanted to dance with you, not at you” Sherlock all but growled into John’s ear.
“And I told you I’m not a dancer.” John’s words didn’t have quite the amount of bite he had hoped for.
“Then let me… guide you.” And at that, Sherlock’s hands slid down to John’s hips, John’s arms falling automatically over Sherlock’s shoulders.
Pressed together from thigh to chest, as Sherlock began to dance again, John’s body moved along with him, his movements mirroring Sherlock’s. Even with the height difference – or perhaps because of it – they seem to slot together perfectly. As Sherlock rolled his hips, John’s rolled with them, against them, the sudden friction on certain parts of the body driving John spare.
“That’s it, you just have to loosen up a bit.” Sherlock purred, suddenly thrusting one thigh between John’s, pressing himself impossibly closer.
And with that, John let the beat draw him in, and let himself go. His head was swimming, the air smelled of sweat, alcohol, and spices, it smelled decidedly masculine. He felt Sherlock’s hands sliding up his back, and fisting in his shirt. Tightening his arms, John pulled Sherlock’s face inexplicably closer, he could feel Sherlock’s breath hot against his cheek as Sherlock panted, evidently as affected by John’s proximity as John was by Sherlock’s.
The music and the other dancers soon faded into the background, and the world narrow to just John and Sherlock moving together as one. He couldn’t say who it was who actually initiated it, but suddenly John’s mouth was on Sherlock’s, his tongue sweeping that plush bottom lip before sucking it between his own, biting down just enough to illicit a deep, throaty moan from the man wrapped around him, the sound shooting straight through him. He released Sherlock’s bottom lip, only to lick along Sherlock’s defined Cupid’s bow before Sherlock took control and deepened the kiss, his tongue parting John’s lips to dip into his mouth.
They had stopped dancing at this point, all Sherlock’s not insignificant focus redirected to kissing and exploring every inch of John’s mouth. Jesus fuck, kissing never felt like this before, he was burning.
“Oh god Sherlock!” John gasped, pulling away from Sherlock’s lips, breathing hard. “We have – we have to get out of here. I need – Oh god, I need to get you somewhere private.”
“But what about your friend?” Sherlock asked, dipping down to nip and suck at John’s neck, he tasted of clean sweat, and something else, something unique. Sherlock wanted more. “I thought you were only here to keep an eye on him.”
“He’s an adult,” John groaned, almost whimpering, his voice doing nothing to quell Sherlock’s growing need, “he can look after himself.”
Truth be told, Sherlock didn’t actually remember much of the journey from the club to Baker Street. Other than the brief moment in which he pulled away to hail a cab, he remained thoroughly occupied by John. At one point the cab driver had to slam on his breaks to stop Sherlock from climbing onto John’s lap and having at it right there on the back seat. Before he knew it, they were falling through the front door of 221 Baker Street, stumbling up the steps to his flat, and Sherlock was pulling John into his bedroom; coats, gloves, and scarves being shed along the way.
Sherlock had just enough time to turn on the corner lamp, before John’s hands were back on him, making quick work of his shirt, and pushing him back onto the bed. He could only lay there transfixed, watching as John hurried to undress, all the while staring at Sherlock with unbridled lust. John had just slipped his thumbs into the waistband of his pants, when Sherlock’s senses finally returned to him, and began struggling to get out of his own jeans and pants. Christ, he hadn’t been this uncoordinated in years.
“Need a little help?” John chuckled; running his hands up Sherlock’s clothed thighs, his own pants tragically still in place.
“Appears so.” Sherlock panted, he could feel himself blushing slightly. “And hurry.”
John didn’t hurry; he took his time undoing Sherlock’s flies, and slowly inching Sherlock’s tight jeans down his long legs, kissing every new bit of exposed skin. God! Sherlock was on fire. Finally, after what felt like ages, John had freed him of all his clothes, leaving Sherlock harder than he’d ever been in his life, and sat back on his heels to admire his work.
Sherlock moaned and grasped desperately at John, mind unable to form proper words, something quite rare in and of itself. Grinning, John climbed on top of him, his knees on either side of Sherlock’s hips, his hands caging Sherlock’s head. Holding himself up, and away from Sherlock, John dipped his head down to capture him in a hard kiss, forcing Sherlock’s mouth open and diving in all teeth and tongue.
It wasn’t enough. More, he needed more. With a desperate groan, Sherlock thrust his hands down the back of John’s hateful pants, kneading John’s arse, and forced John’s hips down as he thrust up. He gasped, or perhaps that was John, as his naked, aching length met John’s, only a thin layer of cotton separating them.
Finally taking the hint, John started to roll his hips, grinding himself against Sherlock, sending sparks all throughout Sherlock’s body, shutting off every thought process that wasn’t ‘get more John Watson.’
Sherlock didn’t normally like having people – partners – on top of him, but it was different with John. He couldn’t get enough of John’s weight on top of him, the pressure of John’s body pinning, pressing him down. Coupled with John taking charge, evidently still very much a military man, it was intoxicating, a better high than Sherlock had felt in quite some time. Thrusting, rocking, gripping, panting, against John wasn’t enough, he wanted, he need –
“More!” Sherlock cried out, trying to push down John’s pants. “I need more!”
“What’s that?” John growled, sucking one of Sherlock’s earlobes into his mouth. “What do you want?”
The need flooded Sherlock’s system, short circuiting every sound thought in his head. “You – ngh – skin – feel more.”
“God yes!” John breathed, and suddenly John’s pants were gone, and Sherlock felt John’s calloused hand wrap around both them, pinning their leaking cocks together, and slowly stroking up and down.
“Ga – ugh aah – oh GOD! – YES – GOD YES! Mor – MORE!” Sherlock moaned as John started thrusting in earnest, running his thumb over their heads, applying just enough pressure to drive Sherlock mad.
Sherlock hadn’t felt like this since… Christ, he didn’t think he’d ever felt like this, the tense heat coiling in his abdomen so strong it was like nothing he’d felt before. It had never felt this… good, before. His hands were moving everywhere, they were cupping John’s jaw, keeping his mouth securely on his own; they slid down his chest and around his shoulders where he brushed over the uneven skin of a scar, earning a shiver and moan from the man on top of him.
Finally snaking one arm between their bodies, Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own, taking over. “My hand… bigger.” He panted.
“Ahh – Oh god! – No, no arguments.” John groaned, the hand that was formally pumping them, now clutched the headboard in an attempt to keep himself from collapsing onto Sherlock, Sherlock wasn’t too sure he would have minded if John had. John’s other hand snaked under Sherlock head to tangle in his curls. Pulling his head back, John kissed and nipped at Sherlock’s throat, before eventually recapturing his mouth in a wet, rough kiss.
It didn’t take long, with John’s mouth on his, his own hand wrapped around their cocks, stroking them together, before Sherlock movements became erotic, and the tension in his abdomen unraveled. His vision exploding into a sea of white, his climax crashed over him.
“Oh fuck, fuck. Oh fuck, Sherlock! Oh fuck, that was gorgeous, Oh god, you’re gorgeous. You’re perfect OH GOD!”
He could barely make out John’s voice through the haze as he blindly pumped him through his orgasm, only just registering the splash of John’s release against his stomach and chest. It took several long minutes of gentle rocking to ride out the aftershocks, and eventually come down from their mutual highs.
Dropping a limp arm over the side of the bed, Sherlock grabbed his discarded pants to wipe up the mess that painted his chest and stomach, before offering it to John. Whoever said he wasn’t a thoughtful host? Once both were sufficiently clean, Sherlock pulled John against him, reclaiming his lips with slow, sloppy kisses, and ran his hands in lazy circles against John’s back; John’s hands having found their way back into Sherlock’s sex mussed curls.
“Do you mind if just… closed my eyes… just for a second?” John murmured drowsily when the hands and kisses had stopped, and they were just breathing together.
“Mmmm” Sherlock hummed, only able to give a half-hearted grunt, sleep having already started to pull him under.