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John should’ve known something was up when he came home one evening to Sherlock pacing before the windows only to pivot on one heel and pin him with a stare.
“How good are your acting skills?” Sherlock’s hands shoved into his trouser pockets, and the ramrod-straightness of his spine was all the clue John needed: Sherlock was preparing to wheedle him into something.
John thought about saying, “They’re pretty damn good. You haven’t caught on yet to just how much I want you, so I must be doing something right.” But he didn’t. Instead, he raised one eyebrow, his expression deadpan. “I’ve been told I do just fine.”
That didn’t mean, however, that he was prepared to show off his thespian chops by pretending to be Sherlock’s boyfriend in the middle of a gay bar for the sake of a case. Oh, but he would.
# # # # #
After sidling up to the bar for a quick drink and a last-minute debriefing, Sherlock floundered. He cast about, eyes wide, fingers drumming erratically on the bartop.
John could guess that he was likely formulating ways in which they could appear completely casual and occupied, but that would still leave him free to watch the crowd. He wondered, though, at a Sherlock who was less than cool and collected and at the helm of his own scheme.
John looked around, noting all the club-goers jostling for position at the bar, winding through one another in the walkways, writhing on the dance floor. The music overhead thumped a driving beat, each subwoofer blast sending shockwaves that tried to replace his own heartbeat. And then it hit him. No wonder Sherlock looked somewhat like a deer in headlights: this kind of environment was likely an orgy of stimuli, too much for someone who kicked people out of rooms merely for thinking too loudly.
Well, John thought as he drained his pint glass, this may be my one chance to cross this one off my bucket list. So he bit back his grin as he arranged the glass exactly onto its sweat-ring on the paper coaster, pushing it away from the edge of the bar. He nudged Sherlock gently with his elbow.
“What is it?” Sherlock snapped. Then, remembering their ruse, he softened his features, affected a dopey sort of concerned expression. “You know how much I love people-watching.”
John’s heart was in his throat, suddenly. Could he possibly make his way through it without Sherlock realising just how much truth was about to be behind every word and gesture?
More importantly, would John be able to turn it back off, once they left?
We’ll burn that bridge when we get to it, John thought. Aloud, all he said was, “C’mon.”
He hooked Sherlock’s fingertips in his own, tugging him gently toward the dance floor. Sherlock resisted momentarily until he discerned John’s plan, then his body went pliant, trailing behind him as acquiescent as John had ever seen him.
He found an opening in the crowd nearby, and wound their way through labyrinthine bodies swaying, undulating to the thudding bass as the song changed, melody and lyric stripped away, this song’s pace twice that of the previous. John turned instinctually to face Sherlock, realised just how... intimate it would be, to dance so close to him face to face. He curled his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck, pulled him close. Resisting the temptation breathe in his scent or let his lips brush Sherlock’s ear was an act of God. “Just take your time. I know you’ll find whoever it is you’re looking for.”
Then he dropped his hands to Sherlock’s waist, spinning him around to face the crowd he so desperately needed to study. And thanks to their height difference, this was a blessing on many levels: John Watson, truth be told, loved dancing. In his days before the army, he’d gone to clubs, reveling the thrill of finding someone whose rhythm matched his own; the way hips worked in tandem, hands roamed, bodies pressed together. But with Sherlock being as tall as he was, it meant his arse was out of harm’s way of the erection John would surely get, should an errant dancer jostle them closer together. Sherlock need never know just what this dance was doing to John. It also meant the most appropriate place for John to wind his hands, in order to make everything look convincing, was Sherlock’s waist, his stomach.
He ran his hands up Sherlock’s sides, fighting the urge to close his eyes and imagine doing the same in the quiet of 221b, with decidedly less clothing. Sherlock faltered for a moment, but found his rhythm, and John was only too pleased to mirror it.
You idiot, you’ll have to be careful not to overdo it, John thought as they rocked together in time to the beat. He kept his hand still, right at Sherlock’s navel, holding him just close enough to feel the swell of Sherlock’s arse against his lower abdomen as they moved. He tried to pretend it was the music, the rush he always felt when he danced this way with someone--but the fact that it was Sherlock, of all people, had his heart hammering in his chest.
After tonight, you have to pretend like none of this happened, John thought. You have to go back to what you were before. This is only pretend for him.
Halfway through the song Sherlock started to shift his weight, to pivot in place as if to turn and follow whomever he’d zeroed in on; then he dropped low and dragged that arse directly up along John’s flies. Instinctively John’s hand clutched at Sherlock’s stomach, the desire thrumming so hard in his system it nearly drowned out the music.
They both froze.
He’s just getting into the act, John forced himself to think, praying not to die of embarrassment. And he’s genius enough to know that stimulation is stimulation, surely. He’ll understand that excuse.
And then Sherlock dropped low again, and this time he took his bloody time grinding back against John.
For his part, John barely refrained from thrusting back, instead heaving a deep breath and focusing entirely on how his fingers clutched at Sherlock’s hips. He realised he’d squeezed his eyes shut. When he forced them open he caught a glimpse of the side of Sherlock’s face; Sherlock’s eyes were closed, his lips slightly parted.
God, John wanted. Wanted to believe Sherlock wasn’t just sorting through his mind palace; wanted to believe he was fighting the exact same struggle John faced. Wanted Sherlock.
Then Sherlock shifted, side-stepping to switch places. Sherlock’s chest pressed against his shoulders, stomach flat against his back as those long, slender fingers snaked across chest and hip to pin John in place. John was immediately thankful for the erratic, flashing club lights, for the fact that he’d thought to “dress” upward and wear a pair of forgiving trousers--it would do no good, he was sure, for Sherlock to see just how aroused John was. All around them the music thudded and pulsed, and the heat from Sherlock’s body was enough to make his head swim. As they rocked together to the beat, John felt the way Sherlock’s body brushed against the small of his back and the upmost curve of his arse and sweet Christ--
Sherlock was in much the same state.
Lips brushed his ear, and John bit back a whimper. “I’m sorry, John. I lied,” Sherlock rumbled. “There is no case.”
And forgiving trousers be damned, the remainder of John’s blood supply rocketed south until he was so thoroughly aroused his knees could’ve given out. He lifted a hand, pressed his fingers around the back of Sherlock’s neck and pivoted his hips backwards in a long drag before releasing Sherlock from his grasp. He turned, facing Sherlock, and drew his ear down again.
“You could’ve just asked.”
The faint groan Sherlock emitted was almost lost within the beat of the music. His fingers tightened against John’s hips and it was all John could do not to think of that exact same sensation, a similar rhythm, and much less clothing.
John slid his hand until his thumb pressed gently against Sherlock’s jaw, until they were face to face. Hooded, hungry eyes met his, and John let Sherlock see everything he’d previously tamped down. It was terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure, as so many things were with Sherlock.
“Case closed then?”
Sherlock nodded.
“Then why don’t we get out of here, hm?”
# # # # #
The cab ride was an absolute torture, one John wasn’t sure he’d survive. The vast expanse of space between the cab and the front door of 221 was worse. The seventeen steps up to their flat couldn’t be mounted quick enough. But they made it.
Once inside, Sherlock pounced.
He crowded John against the door, and John’s efforts to calm himself the whole way home were utterly moot. Desire burned in his veins. John found himself in that same glorious headspace that steadied his hand as it clutched a gun, that stilled his mind in crisis.
“So you went through all that trouble. Were you hoping this’d be the outcome?”
Sherlock blinked, not expecting questions when clearly the objective involved decidedly less conversation. “I--there wasn’t--”
The corners of John’s mouth curled in a smile.
“I just wanted--” his words broke off, his lips pursed around an admission.
“Hm?” John leaned forward to ghost his lips across Sherlock’s.
“Even if it was pretend. I needed to pretend.” The way Sherlock’s lip quivered, the way he blinked rapidly, his eyes darting, taking in John’s reaction.
John ran his tongue along his teeth, his breath steady as he closed the distance between them. When he spoke, his words puffed against Sherlock’s lips.
“Are you pretending now? Because I’m not.”
The broken groan he received told him exactly what he needed to know.
He clutched at Sherlock’s hips, drawing him minutely closer. “So what do you think of my acting skills now, hm?” He thrust, just barely, against Sherlock. Pulled that full, pink bottom lip between his teeth. Loosed a small growl from the back of his throat. “Been perfecting the act, all this time.”
He sidestepped Sherlock, then, hooking two fingers behind Sherlock’s belt buckle to pull him to the downstairs bedroom. Not once did he break eye contact. Once inside, he slid the suit jacket from Sherlock’s shoulders, let it fall to the floor. Sherlock shivered, but the glint in his eyes told John it had nothing to do with the loss of the jacket.
“So you’ve been keeping a secret?” Sherlock’s voice trembled as he said it. John took it as a personal triumph that Sherlock of all people was essentially repeating something that had already been said, and it wasn’t on purpose.
“I’ve wanted you. This whole time.” John tangled his fingers in Sherlock’s curls, and gave up his confession in a language comprised entirely of lips and teeth and tongue, hands and body heat and need.
He’d wanted to snog Sherlock senseless since their first night together, but this? This waiting, the build-up that had come with putting it off for so long? John took his time, and was more than thrilled to find that Sherlock gave as good as he got, that clever tongue working working its way into John’s mouth before retreating, inviting John into his mouth to suck and nip until John couldn’t stand it any longer.
“Please,” John huffed, drawing back at last. Sherlock hummed in agreement.
With fumbling fingers, John worked Sherlock’s shirt open, each button a valiant opponent in the battle for Sherlock’s nudity. Impatient, Sherlock stepped back and finished the job himself, a smirk on his face as he tossed it over his shoulder with a flourish before divesting John in a similar fashion. With John newly bared, Sherlock shifted behind him and wrapped one arm across John’s chest, the other across his waist. He plied kisses along the planes of his strong, compact shoulders, along the side of his neck until he found the sweet spot that made John’s knees weak. Good Lord, ever since the day Sherlock had accidentally huffed a breath of laughter against that spot while stooping over John’s shoulder to mock the blog, John had wanted his mouth there.
“Tonight: was it me, or the dancing that did it?” Sherlock’s voice rumbled quietly against John’s skin, down his spine and straight to his cock.
“Both,” John admitted, rocking his hips back against Sherlock.
Sherlock let out a low hum of pleasure before lowering his mouth to the knot of muscle where shoulder met neck. He sucked and nibbled until John was sure there would be a mark there, and John rewarded him with a breathy groan, clutching at the back of his head.
When Sherlock unlatched from John’s shoulder, he squeezed him once before pulling back. “Hold that thought.”
John turned to watch Sherlock cross the room in a few long-legged strides, wondering what he could possibly need from his suit jacket, which he retrieved from the floor. He pulled out his phone, and a few taps later, a low beat issued forth from the stereo system tucked away on a bookshelf.
John flashed him an impressed grin. “There’s an app for that, too?”
Sherlock shrugged in false modesty. “Bluetooth isn’t an app.” But he grinned as he drew near, wrapping a loose arm about John’s waist, loosening his body to move with the beat.
John didn’t bother with a response, drawn in to the music, the electric heat building between his body and Sherlock’s. It was its own form of foreplay, even now when the conclusion was foregone: the glancing brush of palm on skin, the pressure of hips meeting before gliding back, shared breath, the thrill of relinquishing the self to the moment. And when Sherlock dipped his head to steal a kiss, John was dizzy with want.
At that point, John couldn’t make himself care about the music anymore--he needed Sherlock now.
Fingers fumbled with belts, interrupted by the pressing need to kiss and nibble; Sherlock crowded John as they worked, until the backs of John’s knees hit the edge of the bed. John flopped backward, Sherlock looming over him, propped on one arm as he used his free hand to palm the bulge of John’s erection, freed from those forgiving trousers, constrained still by tight navy boxer-briefs. The heat, the weight of Sherlock’s palm against him, the twitch of those clever fingers around him had John groaning and arching up against it. Sherlock kissed a trail down his chest, his stomach, along the line of golden hair that started below John’s navel.
When he pushed down John’s pants and finally, finally wrapped his lips around John’s cock, he had John singing in no time.
Over on the bookshelf, the stereo played a new song, its beat heavier, drawn taut by smooth vocals. John and Sherlock, back over on the bed, began a new dance, one independent of the rhythm set by the song, an interplay of tongue and skin and hands and hips, the erratic music of John’s voice, broken as Sherlock undid him, like a jazz improvisation over the trance-beat of the stereo.
“Come for me, John,” Sherlock murmured, pausing to lick a stripe along the underside of John’s cock before swallowing him whole again.
“Fuck. Fuck, Sherlock,” John chanted in a broken whisper as his balls tightened, as the pleasure swelled and broke. When Sherlock began swallowing, John’s hand found its way to his hair, tightening in disheveled curls as he came.
When he could feel his toes again, John propped himself on his elbows. “Come here--I need to see you.”
Sherlock flashed him a grin before rising to slip off his own pants and climbed onto the bed, straddling John until he sat lightly on his stomach. John’s vision was filled with Sherlock, with pale skin and toned muscle and a slender, uncircumcised cock rising proudly from a halo of dark curls. Sherlock leaned forward, splaying his palm for John to lick it; once done he wrapped those long fingers around himself and began to stroke.
The way his thighs quivered, his rhythm haltingly slow like he was forcing himself to steady his pace, John could tell Sherlock was already close to finishing. It shouldn’t have been nearly as hot as it was.
“I can’t tell you how many times I’ve thought of taking you in my mouth,” Sherlock confessed. “Of kissing you, of fucking you, of having you--”
His breath caught, his hand tightened reflexively as he gave up stroking to thrust into his fist: these admissions were fuelling Sherlock further, and John couldn’t help but oblige.
“Tell me. Tell me what you want to do to me.”
Sherlock opened his mouth to reply, but before he could form words, his eyes widened, his mouth a perfect O as thrust into his fist one final time; muscles in biceps and abdomen taut. “Too clo-oh!”
His strangled cry escaped as John felt the hot splash of semen on his stomach and chest.
John whispered soothing nonsense, stroking Sherlock’s thighs, his arse, gentling him as he rode through the aftershocks. A long moment later, he crumpled into a boneless heap atop John, lips pressed in slack kisses wherever they met skin.
The fact that Sherlock had faked a case just to seduce him, the fact that they did what they’d just done and Sherlock fucking Holmes was reduced to a sticky mess on top of him--John almost didn’t believe it was real. A tired grin stretched his mouth; he was somewhat glad Sherlock couldn’t see his face.
“We’ll have to go out dancing more often,” John mused.
Forgotten in the corner, the radio switched to a new song--I Don’t Feel Like Dancin’ began to play. It may not have seemed like the most appropriate time for a fit of giggles to conquer them both, but there they were, limbs tangled and laughing helplessly for most of the song.