|I Wanna Take You to a Gay Bar
Author: Mariposa en Arrullo PM
Probably done before- Sherlock and John go to a gay bar- for a case! Sexy dancing, UST, and a happy ending, of course : R and R greatly appreciated!Rated: Fiction M - English - Romance/Humor - John W. & Sherlock H. - Chapters: 5 - Words: 9,078 - Reviews: 63 - Favs: 127 - Follows: 90 - Updated: 10-09-11 - Published: 09-16-11 - Status: Complete - id: 7387405
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
Don't hate on the case, please. It's hard!
Sherlock was already impeccably dressed when John exited the loo, pulling his oatmeal jumper over a gray collared shirt.
He made toast while Sherlock glowered down at the newspaper, wondering how long his sulk would last.
As John spread jam on two slices of bread, the other man decided to rise and stride over to the refrigerator, opening it with an effortless tug and staring inside. John watched him warily. "What are you doing?"
"I would have thought it was obvious, John," Sherlock replied calmly.
"No, not especially."
A small container of something fell onto the floor, seemingly of its own accord. "Ah," Sherlock lamented, and then leaned down to pick it up, presenting his rear to John. It was quite the backside, very firm and round and muscled, and John had to stop himself from reaching down and giving it a squeeze.
Bloody fuck, he thought, gripping the counter. "You're doing that on purpose," he accused. This was a hellish sort of payback. He should have expected it.
Sherlock straightened up, unable to hide a smug grin. He stalked slowly over to John, licking his lips slowly, and pausing with his mouth a mere inch from John's. "Perhaps," he breathed, and John fought the urge to close his eyes in anticipation of the kiss. "Perhaps not." Smirking, Sherlock began to turn away.
With a growl of frustration John grabbed his hips, yanked him around and shoved him against the fridge. Sherlock's eyes flared in what looked like a mix of shock, annoyance, and a tiny prick of arousal.
John cupped the back of his neck and brought their mouths together, kissing the other man with a feverish intensity. How he could ever get tired of this, he would never know.
Finally he drew back. Sherlock let out a disappointed sound, almost a whine. "That'll teach you," John whispered, smiling.
Sherlock snorted, winding his arms tightly around John's waist. "I am a very fast learner."
John had supposed things would be different after they'd had sex. Granted, he and Sherlock weren't holding hands or snogging intermittently, but surely someone could tell that they had shagged only hours ago.
Lestrade greeted them with a brusque nod. He opened his mouth to explain the situation, but Sherlock, as always the epitome of politeness, cut him off.
The man grimaced, holding up the yellow tape so that they could enter the crime scene. "Found him this morning, one of our own called in."
The photographers were packing their equipment away when Sherlock reached the body, curled on its side. He squatted, and John couldn't help staring at his arse for a few moments before jerking his head up. He looked around to see if anyone had noticed. They hadn't, thank god.
The dead man had sustained horrific injuries to his face, making it unrecognizable. From his body John supposed he was in his early twenties, dressed in a muddy shirt and stylishly cuffed jeans, with close-cropped brown hair. Sherlock had his magnifying glass out, studying the end of his trousers. He got to his feet, gesturing for John to examine the body.
John bent down. "Dead - maybe 24 hours." He looked for signs of strangulation. "I'd say head trauma. Night out with the lads, too much to drink - probably got mugged."
Sherlock was looking pleased with himself. "Interesting," he murmured. John raised his eyebrow.
"Oh, nothing. Just the fact that this is the son of our very own Prime Minister." Sherlock snapped off his latex gloves and handed them to Lestrade, who was gaping.
"He's the what?"
Sherlock had managed to attract the attention of almost every person within hearing distance, and how he loved a rapt audience. "Did you see his trousers?"
John sighed. "No, what about them?" he asked dully, wondering if he could speed up the process. He enjoyed hearing Sherlock's analyses, but when they were sprinkled with taunts and pointless posturing the experience was less pleasant.
Sherlock scowled at him. "Those kinds of jeans are cheap. They're pre-made to be cuffed like that - if you look closely you'll see that they are sown that way, but poorly. Should have come undone within days of purchase. This particular style was released months ago, but they were recalled after a fight with the manufacturer. So this man could only have bought these weeks ago, but the hemline is perfect. Inference: someone has sowed it back up for him."
"What if it was he was just handy with a needle and thread?" John asked. "Could have sowed it up himself."
Sherlock looked at him, scornful. "No one ever does that."
Lestrade rubbed his chin. "So you're saying he got a maid or something to patch them back up? That doesn't mean he's the bloody prime minister's son. He's probably just a wealthy daddy's boy."
Sherlock shook his head impatiently. "His ring finger," he pointed. "There's a clear pale line. Obviously he has just broken off a marriage."
Michael Davis, youngest son of Prime Minister Andrew Davis, had just divorced his wife of five years, Elizabeth, in a highly public scandal gleefully covered by the British tabloids.
"And in addition," Sherlock continued. "If you had bothered to look, you might have noticed this." He peeled back the tag, which had a large black M on it. "Helps when you have to distinguish eight children. He moved back in with his powerful parents after she left him."
"Brilliant," John said in spite of himself. It really was quite amazing, though. Or maybe that was just the man behind the words.
Sherlock gave him an affectionately exasperated look. "Repetitive, John," he replied with a roll of his eyes.
Lestrade crossed his arms. "So I'm supposed to be calling up the Prime Minister and telling him that his sodding son is dead?"
Sherlock nodded. "Though personally I'd relegate the task to someone more suitable. Anderson, perhaps." He smiled wolfishly. "Have a good afternoon, Detective Inspector. Come along, John," he added offhandedly, starting to stride away.
John hurried to keep up. "Where are we going?"
Sherlock hailed a cab. "To St. Matthew's Hospital. Elizabeth Davis works there as a surgeon."
"Christ, Sherlock, would you stop bloody fussing -"
"John, I am perfectly alright, I don't understand why you -"
Sherlock pressed a hand against his belly. It came away bloody. "Well. That's not -" He fainted into John's arms.
As soon as he had gotten Sherlock settled into bed, bandaged up and gorged on painkillers, John made a soothing cup of tea and sank down into his armchair. The nerve of that man, getting himself clocked in the face and stabbed in the stomach before John could even get a leg out of the cab.
Elizabeth Davis had been 'very helpful', according to Sherlock. Sobbing, she had told them all about her late ex-husband's secret drug problems, even about a masked dealer with a missing left eye who had been threatening him.
"The Salamander," Sherlock had exclaimed, leaping up and running off. John had barely had enough time to reach the cab before it sped off.
The Salamander was a famous underground heroin dealer, Sherlock had explained excitedly. As soon as the taxi pulled to a stop he launched into a shabby alleyway, disappearing as John threw money at the cabbie and rushed after him.
He'd found the other man laying alone on the ground, comatose and bleeding from the stomach. Sherlock regained consciousness as John propped him on his shoulder, confused and disoriented but relatively fine.
Idiot, John thought, sipping his tea. They were going to have a very serious discussion about waiting for John as soon as Sherlock woke up.
A few hours later the detective stumbled in, looking for once in his life thoroughly bedraggled. John looked up with concern, going over to peel back the bandage on his smooth stomach. The bleeding had stopped. He applied a new covering as Sherlock leaned on him, letting his head bump John's shoulder.
"You are very stupid," John informed him, cradling his head in his hands and examining his skull.
Sherlock blinked. "Be nice to me, John," he mumbled into his neck. "I am in considerable pain."
"You're high on prescription drugs, that's what you are." John softened. "Alright. Into the bed."
Sherlock tightened his grip on John's neck. "Stay," he ordered.
"Okay, okay. I'm knackered anyway. You'll be the death of me, you know."
"Mm," Sherlock agreed, gazing up sleepily as John tucked the covers more tightly around him.
John climbed in beside him. Amazing to think that they had been in this position only a few hours ago. It felt like a lifetime.
Sherlock was fighting drowsiness, eyes locked onto John's. "Love you," he murmured quietly, and fell asleep with his hand resting on John's face.
John stared at him for a few moments, watching his chest rise and fall almost imperceptibly. "I love you, too," he choked out finally. The words felt strange and heavy on his tongue, unwieldy, like he was speaking German or Cantonese. He repeated the phrase over and over until it was simply gibberish and had no meaning whatsoever, and rolled onto his back with a sigh.
If you like it then put a ring on it, Harry's excited text had read after John had told her they'd finally done 'it.' He was sure there was a pop-culture reference in there somewhere, and Harry's advice was never something to put much faith in. John had only confided in her because he had been thoroughly gobsmacked by how events had turned out.
Married to Sherlock. Life wouldn't be much different. Except I'd be the only one who'd get to flirt with him, he mused, and kiss him, and patch him up every time he did some incredibly ridiculous thing and got in over his head.
It was something to think about, in any case.