Synopsis: John & Sherlock go undercover at a gay bar
Written for Kyna
Fluff again, smut in pt 4
The next morning, John awoke elated to find he couldn’t remember a single thing about his post-shower dreams. The coppery bird’s nest still lay placidly on the pillow next to him, and he inexplicably reached out to touch it. Just before his fingers made contact with the soft curls though, Sherlock began to stir. Shit! Does he know what I was about to do?
The detective turned over and blinked sleepily at John. “Coffee?” he muttered.
“Sherlock,” John sighed. “I’ve not even left the bed yet.”
Sherlock’s hand pawed lazily at John’s face, almost as if he was trying to push him from the bed. “Two sugars.” His eyes fell closed again.
John could think of nothing beyond biting that offending hand. Offending? Not quite. Biting? Even less accurate. What he really wanted to do was suck one of those long, thin fingers into his mouth and… Nope… Nope… Nope. Not going to think about that. Alas, the only thing John wanted to do less than get out of bed was giving in to his overwhelming urge to… Nope. Still just nope. Instead, he scurried off to fetch them each a coffee so that he might temporarily quell what would surely become incessant whinging were he to ignore the request.
When John returned with two steaming cups of coffee in hand, Sherlock had already transformed himself into Andy once again. A smoky grey tee with large, loopy scribbles on it cloaked his torso, a different charcoal scarf around his neck. Dark denim clung to his thighs, and he was pulling the laces tight on the very same black Converse trainers from the night before. His hair looked somehow darker, more saturated than it had when John left. “Your coffee.” He held a cup toward his flat mate. “Do you… Do you have product in your hair?”
“Pity.” Sherlock snorted. “I was rather in the mood for tea this morning.”
“But you sent me for coffee… two sugars.”
“You’re mistaken.” Sherlock snatched the coffee from John’s hand. “It’ll suffice, though. Get dressed.”
John glanced down at his own attire, fully believing he already was dressed. “I-I didn’t bring—”
“Of course you didn’t. There’s a bag on the bed.” He shooed John along with a wave of his hand. “Quickly. We’re going antiquing.”
John picked up the bag, peeking warily inside. “Did you say antiquing?”
“A lead, John.”
The Army doctor didn’t question it further. He, instead, dumped the bags contents onto the bed and shook his head. He cannot seriously believe I’m wearing this.
“Now, if you don’t mind.” Sherlock huffed, almost as if he could read John’s thoughts.
John glared but did as he was told. The strategically faded denim jeans fit him well, which shouldn’t have been impressive since the most observant man on the planet had chosen them. Even the white button-up Nehru-collared shirt seemed reasonable. It was the dark navy waistcoat with thin white pinstripes and cornflower blue silk scarf with a silhouetted vine pattern that gave him pause. Once he’d pulled on the waistcoat, Sherlock was already in front of him properly positioning the scarf before he could even balk about it. John opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock’s almost lustful gaze convinced him to close it without a sound.
John tugged on his loafers to complete the ensemble and glanced in the mirror, reasonably pleased with the image which greeted him. “So, what’s the pretense for today? Am I bait again?” He was mildly disgusted by the eagerness in his own voice.
“Not yet. We must keep up appearances from last night. We’ll be a couple today.”
“O-Oh.” If John hadn’t sounded disturbingly eager before, he certainly did now. “By all means.”
“Good. Come along.” Sherlock studiously ushered John from the hotel and into a cab, where he proceeded to interlace his fingers with John’s.
John glanced down at their hands and then at Sherlock’s face, but the detective’s expression made it clear he knew what he was doing. “So, you wanted to go antiquing today, darling?”
The corners of Sherlock’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Yeah, a bit. The flat could use some sprucing up, don’t you agree?”
When the driver stopped in front of the address Sherlock had given him, the men paid and piled out, still holding hands. A bell rang atop the shop door as it opened, and the clerk looked up from the papers she was shuffling through on the counter. “Anything I can help you with?” she called, no trace of sincerity in her voice.
“Just looking, thanks,” Sherlock shot back curtly. His arm now draped across John’s shoulders again.
John wound one arm around Sherlock’s narrow waist and gripped him a bit tighter than was strictly necessary. He did say deep cover.
They wandered about the tables of trinkets, casually glancing at only the most eye-catching of items. When they were within earshot of the clerk, Sherlock began to pick up some of the pricier pieces and speak loudly about them. “Wouldn’t this be lovely on the mantle, John? You know, next to the skull.” He held out a Ming-style vase.
“Far too expensive for the shoddy quality, darling. Looks like a pretty poor replica to me.”
The clerk’s head shot up and away from whatever she had been studying. “I assure you we don’t sell ‘poor replicas’ here.” She made her way around the counter to join the men at the table.
“Bad business practices to admit otherwise?” John goaded her, hoping Sherlock’s goal was to distract the woman.
Sherlock had already wandered away, leaving John to politely bicker with the shopkeeper, who insisted the vase was every bit as valuable as it was purported to be. She was likely telling the truth, but that seemed rather inconsequential. There was obviously something Sherlock needed from the shop, and John’s only purpose was to facilitate that need being met.
“Come on, John. Let’s go.” Sherlock had obviously found whatever it was he had come for.
Unable to resist, John feigned like he was going to drop the vase just to watch the clerk’s eyes go wide with horror. “Oops!” He smirked at the sound of Sherlock’s snickering, and they left arm in arm.
“That seemed unnecessarily cruel,” Sherlock said, a hint of surprise in his tone.
“But normal people are so boring,” John retorted mockingly. “We geniuses simply have to entertain ourselves somehow, don’t we?”
A grin crept to Sherlock’s lips. “Have you ever considered shooting at a wall?”
“Could do.” John chuckled. “So what did you find out?”
“Obviously.” Sherlock rolled his eyes at John’s lack of observational skills. “She’s an idiot, and even she’s catching on that it’s him.”
“It’s him? Oh! OH! Her brother’s the killer?”
In the blink of an eye, John found himself pressed up against a brick wall in a darkened alleyway. Sherlock’s elbow rested against the wall near John’s ear, his entire presence more oppressive than usual. Their foreheads were nearly touching, others of their body parts haphazardly grazing one another in the infinitesimally small space between them.
“You’d do well to keep your voice down.” Sherlock’s breath filled John’s nostrils, still laced with traces of his morning coffee and what could only be described as wanton lust. At least that’s how it smelled to John. Any other reality, once again, seemed inconsequential.
“Sorry, sorry. How do you know?” John asked breathlessly, barely able to contain himself under the circumstances.
“The papers on the counter were travel logs. There are discrepancies in unaccounted for mileage. It’s a family business. Her brother makes deliveries, and no one else has access to the van. He’s using it at night to transport his victims. Perfect cover. No one notices a delivery van, invisible.”
Brilliant! Why does he have to be so bloody gorgeous? What? Not gorgeous, brilliant. Brilliant!
“She checked her phone seven… no, eight… eight times while we were in there. She was chewing her nails, nervous. She’s tried to contact him today, but he’s not responding.”
Of course. Why don’t I see what he sees? Why can’t I stop staring at his lips? God, his fucking lips.
“The undelivered armoire in the back was marked to go out today. He didn’t show up for work. He’s devolving quickly. He’ll need to kill again soon.”
Shit! I don’t even know what he just said. I was just staring at his lips. There were L’s… Jesus, his tongue when he pronounces L’s.
“He must be… blahblahblah… blahblah… kiss me, John… blahblah… kiss me… blahblahblah… now, John…”
John yanked at Sherlock’s scarf, pulling him down and capturing the man’s mouth with his own. The detective’s lips parted, welcoming John’s tongue to slip between them, as he deepened the kiss which John had lost the will to restrain. At long last, John threaded his fingers into the copper curls he had been admiring since the moment he laid eyes on them. They felt like finely woven silk against his skin. John’s hips instinctively bucked forward until his groin pressed into Sherlock’s thigh, and he moaned quietly into Sherlock’s mouth. John writhed against him for a moment more before finally pulling away.
John knew his eyes must have been dripping with terror as he stared up at Sherlock. Jesus, John. Why the fuck did you do that? He waited for some sort of reaction, reply, or retribution, but nothing came. “I can explain,” he finally blurted out to break the detective’s silence.
“No need,” said Sherlock. “Are they gone?”
John searched Sherlock’s eyes for an answer to the obvious question: They?
“The people following us, John… Are they gone?”
Is he assuming I kissed him to evade possible pursuers? Is he just giving me a way out? Were there really people following us? “Y-yes, it appears so.”
“Good, good. I guess those years in the military ramped up your observation skills in some areas at least. Perhaps I don’t give you enough credit.” He grinned.
Praise? Was that praise? It seemed so unlikely. “Th-thanks, Sher—”
“Andy. We’ll have to work on your memory.”
“We need to get back to the hotel so I can change before the bar tonight.” He laced his fingers with John’s once again and smirked, falling easily back into character. “Shall we, love?”
(to be continued)