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Sherlock swept into the gathering at the back of the pub, scanning the party of partially-clad people quickly. He zeroed in on a man in a leather jacket huddled in his chair, clutching a glass of tonic water as if it were a life raft. Ah, perfect. Sherlock approached the man from the side, making sure he wasn’t seen until a calculated moment when he burst into his line of vision.
“Pardon me,” Sherlock purred. “It looks as if you dropped something.”
“Oh really?” The stranger startled, then predictably looked down to search the ground.
“Yes, my jaw.”
“Excuse me?” The man squinted up at Sherlock.
“Oh, there’s no excuse for you.” Sherlock hooked his hand into a nearby chair and tugged it closer, seating himself with a precise move. “You’re too perfect for words.” Sherlock leaned in, letting a smug smile tip its way across his face. “I really feel that I must tell you what people are saying behind your back though.”
“I . . . what?” The skin of the man’s forehead crumpled up in question in a really rather charming manner.
“You have a great arse. If I told you the rest of you was equally gorgeous, would you hold it against me?”
The man burst into laughter. Sherlock couldn’t help smiling along with him. When the frankly adorable-looking man finally caught his breath he managed to speak.
“Does that generally work for you? The worst pick up lines in existence?”
“Well, it did get your attention. Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock extended a hand.
The man took it with a smile. “John Watson.”
“So, here I am. What are your other two wishes?” Sherlock waggled his eyebrows in mock suggestiveness.
“Really, you have to stop that.” John chuckled.
“No, shan’t. It put a smile on your face. I’ll hazard a guess that it wasn’t your idea to come to the local Gay Pride Meet & Greet.”
“Is it that obvious?” John winced. “Well, you’re right. My sister, Harry, made me come.”
Sherlock sat back to better regard the man, eyes picking up information in bursts as he scanned over him. He was on the back side of thirty, ex-army, worked as a GP doctor, compactly fit with a pair of stunningly lovely, dark blue eyes, and had only recently come to an open acknowledgement of his bisexuality.
“You aren’t used to chatting up men, are you?”
John blushed. “Harry, thought it would be good for me. I haven’t had much luck with women lately.”
“Well, they were obviously idiots. You’re nothing less than dolphin bait.”
“What?” John frowned again.
“A good catch.”
John snorted. “Did you memorize a whole book of cheesy pick up lines?”
It was Sherlock’s turn to wince. “I might have. I was bored one afternoon. I need to keep my mind occupied. I pick up information all the time. Take you for instance.”
“Me?”
“You. Ex-army doctor. Invalided home. Working as a GP now, but you miss the excitement of field surgery. . .”
John flinched. Sherlock wanted to stop, but as always once the flow of information started, he was powerless to stop it. Despite the warning lights flashing internally, he pressed on.
“Being released from the army was a blow to your pride, and your thirst for adventure. You got into a spot of bother both with drinking and gambling as a substitute, and had to move in with your sister. You’ve been attending AA meetings with said sister, though you don’t really need them. What you need is a sense of belonging, and a job worth your talents.”
John stared at him with his mouth half open. “How on EARTH could you possibly know all that?”
“I observe.” Sherlock shrugged feigning nonchalance while the warning klaxons sounded in his brain.
“That was . . . “
Sherlock braced himself for the inevitable tongue lashing.
“ . . . amazing. Really incredible.”
“You think so?”
“Yes, of course. Quite extraordinary.” John smiled “So, what do you do when you aren’t harassing men in pubs?” John took a sip from his drink, and set the glass down on a nearby table.
“I’m a consulting detective.”
“Is that like a private eye?”
“I take on some cases on my own, yes, but I also consult with the police when they are out of their depth, which is sadly, most of the time.”
“Fascinating.” John leaned in. “Tell me one of your cases. Something weird.”
“I am working on something rather interesting at the moment.”
“Go on, then.” John licked his lips.
Sherlock found the movement more distracting than he might want to admit. He took a breath and set off, telling John about the man who was currently running an illegal smuggling operation under the cover of a singing telegram business.
“What are they smuggling?”
“Netsuke, primarily but other small objects d’art as well.”
“Netsuke?”
“Minature sculptures that were invented in seventeenth-century Japan. They were used to attach small containers hung from a kimono sash. Collectors have something of a fetish for them. I have it under authority that someone here will be receiving a special delivery from this company sometime soon.”
“Oh, you’re working. Here? Today?” John raised his eyebrows, looking quickly around.
“Yes.” Sherlock flushed a bit. “I’m sorry. I have enjoyed our conversation, but I needed to be seen talking to someone to blend in.”
“I see.” John looked as if he were thinking. “Do you know who it is here?”
Sherlock flicked his eyes across the crowd of party-goers laughing and drinking around them. They were a varied lot dressed in anything from casual wear to a few skimpy things that could only charitably be called clothing. Sherlock had his eye on a few of the more well-dressed ones as possible targets, but sussing out the actual buyer of illegal art wasn’t possible yet.
“I don’t, but it will be easy enough to spot when the singing telegram arrives.”
“Right. So we’re just passing the time until that happens.”
“Essentially.”
“So, you see my friend over there.” John tipped his head toward the crowd.
“You have a friend here?” Sherlock peered at the crowd more closely. He had been certain John was at the party alone.
“Yeah, the fat bloke. He wants to know if you think I’m cute.” John had a twinkle in his eye as he reached for his glass.
“Ah, I see.” Sherlock felt a warmth wash over him. “Well, just tell him we need to call heaven . . . because they’re missing an angel.”
John laughed before taking a swallow. Really more like a snigger. It was a delightful sound. “I’m new in town.” John was tamping down his smile now, but it tugged against his lips anyway. “I wonder if you could give me directions to your place?”
“Capital idea.” Sherlock nodded. “I’ll make dinner if you cook breakfast.”
John pretended to nearly fall out of his seat. “Woah, was that an earthquake in here, or did you just rock my world?”
Sherlock leaned forward to peer at the tag on the back of John’s collar. Close-up he smelled of a light, woodsy cologne, and a deeper muskier scent of the man himself. Sherlock momentarily lost his train of thought.
“What are you on about now?” John asked softly.
“Just as I suspected . . .” Sherlock trailed off. “ . . . boyfriend material.”
This close, Sherlock could see that John’s eyelashes were unusually long and framed dark eyes that weren’t just a solid colour as he had originally imagined, but a collection of hues from a twilight blue to a sprinkling of lighter hazel specks. John’s mouth parted and stayed open as he swayed just a fraction closer.
“I . . .” Sherlock swallowed, completely forgetting what he had meant to say.
The bright sound of tinny music coming from a nearby portable speaker jolted both of their heads upright. Across the room, someone in a gorilla costume holding a batch of balloons had entered the pub. They watched as the creature approached a man in a smart pink button-up shirt, and close-fitting jeans. Ah, the investment banker, of course.
“Erm, John, it occurs to me that I could use some help with this. If you wouldn’t mind taking the gorilla, I’ll take the pink shirt.
“Right.” John was out of his seat without a second thought.
There was an embarrassing scuffle when Mr. Pink Shirt turned out to have a black belt in karate. Sherlock had to chase him down on the pavement before subduing him, holding the man down with an arm twisted behind his back while he whipped out his phone to call D. I. Lestrade.
John was inside sat on top of the man in the gorilla suit minus the mask, holding him in a headlock. He grinned wildly when the police arrived to handcuff the alleged smuggler despite the large mark that was beginning to darken the side of his face.
Sherlock felt a prime burst of adrenaline pour over him at the grand reveal. With a flourish he ripped open the small metallic bag of sand being used as weight for the balloon bouquet to unearth the netsuke nestled inside. It looked like a small, curled otter.
“That was fantastic.” John’s eyes shone huge as saucers.
“Really?” Sherlock felt himself puffing up like some dimwitted peacock.
“You absolutely nailed it.” John licked his lips, and just like that, Sherlock went hard.
Lestrade made both John and Sherlock come down to the station to give their statements, and it was quite late by the time they were finally released on their own reconnaissance.
“I’m sorry,” Sherlock said as they pushed out the door from New Scotland Yard into the night.
“Whatever for?” John looked up as he kept pace beside him.
“I ruined whatever chances you had to pull at that party tonight.”
John chuckled. “I disagree. This was the best night I’ve had in months.”
“Indeed?” Sherlock felt a heat stealing over him.
“In fact, I’d have to say, I think I pulled the best-looking bloke in the whole pub. Granted it wasn’t your typical first date, but I have to say, I enjoyed it very much.”
“John, I know it’s late,” Sherlock swallowed, glancing down at his feet. He suddenly felt about as suave as a sixth-former. “but if you’d like to come back to my place for a drink . . . I don’t live far from here.”
“Thank you, I’d like that very much.” John’s smile was luminous. It fairly glowed under the streetlamps.
It was a mild night, and since they didn’t have that far to go, they decided to simply walk it. Sherlock enjoyed showing John all the shortcuts he knew, giving him an insider’s tour of the neighborhood. He was so aware of John next to him it felt as if his skin were charged, and John was a great magnet drawing him in. Soon enough, they were walking hand in hand, fingers twined together as if they couldn’t bear to not be touching any longer. Sherlock could remember scoffing at other couples walking that way in the past. What a fool he’d been. Touching John Watson was like taking a good hit of cocaine. His veins felt on fire.
“You can always tell a good Chinese restaurant by examining the bottom third of the door handle.” Sherlock nodded to the back of one of his favorite hole-in-the-wall eateries as they passed behind it.
“God, I love when you explain things.” John’s voice had gone wonderfully breathless.
“Is that so?” Sherlock couldn’t keep from smiling.
“God help me, yes.” John crowded him up against the brick wall, moving in, nudging a leg to slot between his own.
Sherlock’s eyes slid closed as he registered the feeling of John’s solid erection pressing against his hip. He squeaked something undignified from the back of his throat as John reached up to tug his head down, feeling as if his body had gone liquid, sliding down the wall to get closer, pouring himself out to meet John’s lips.
His brain tried to catalog each and every sensation as John kissed him. John’s mouth was a warm, welcoming heat, waiting to catch Sherlock, to take his lips in a lovely, sliding dance. He pulled back, sucking gently at Sherlock’s lower lip until Sherlock whined at the loss of pressure. John tilted his head slightly then, planning his attack, and returned in full force, his questing tongue licking into Sherlock’s mouth with gorgeous abandon. Sherlock gripped at the back of John’s jacket, hanging on for dear life. He gave up on taking note of anything as John kissed him again, and again, crowding in, stripping him of all thoughts save the man in his arms. John rocked against Sherlock, his thigh a delicious friction against his rock-hard cock, and Sherlock groaned from the depths of his soul.
“Oh, God, oh God . . . my God.” Nonsense chants to some half-forgotten deity now unearthed in a moment of need tumbled from Sherlock’s lips as John worked his flies open and plunged a hand into his pants. When his warm fist connected over his cock and stroked, Sherlock thought he might die, die happily immolated on the altar of John Watson. John’s hand retreated briefly and Sherlock panicked for just a moment.
“Shhh, shhh, baby, it’s alright.” John spat into his palm and returned with a wonderful, wet pressure, sliding over his throbbing erection with just the right tug and twist. “Mmmm, you beautiful thing. Want to see you come apart, want to feel you come just for me . . .” John growled filthy and low by his ear and Sherlock did just that, tumbled into oblivion just for John.
Bliss shook through him for several long minutes before he finally returned to himself, to his body in a dark alleyway in London, with a guardian angel propping him up so he didn’t tumble headfirst to the dirty floor. John wiped his hand on the side of his jeans, reaching out to hold him steady.
“John.” Sherlock could barely make out his features in the gloom of the alley, but he could see well enough to rain grateful kisses over John’s forehead, cheeks and chin before finding his way back to his mouth again.
“MMmm, you are delicious,” John crooned, taking his lips in a sweet, deep kiss that did nothing with helping him find his balance again.
“Hey gorgeous, come here often?” Sherlock mumbled against John’s mouth.
“No, but I’d like to.” John smiled his reply.
Sherlock switched places, moving John to his spot against the wall, tugging his trousers and pants back up before dropping unceremoniously to his knees.
“Hey you don’t have to . . .” John said, a hand coming up to run through Sherlock’s hair, cupping the back of his head so gently.
“No, I want to.” Sherlock reached up to unfasten John’s belt, glorying in the feel of unzipping his jeans, and pushing his pants aside to feel his gorgeous hot cock spill out into his hand.
“Oh hello.” Sherlock pressed his face into John’s groin to smell his wonderful musky scent at its most concentrated. He let his cheek brush against the heat of John’s erection, turning his head to mouth along the length of him, letting just the tip of his tongue trace under the curve of the glans.
“JESUS,” John choked out, shivering under his touch.
“No, just me,” Sherlock drawled before taking the lovely cock into his mouth and sinking down.
This wasn’t anything new. Sherlock had certainly done this before, gone down on his knees for hard, hungry men, probably even in this same alleyway. Somehow though, it had never been quite like this before. Every sound that John made, every twitch of his fingers in Sherlock’s hair was like fuel tossed on the fire burning through his core. He wanted John to take his pleasure from him, to feel every swirl of his tongue, every ounce of his emotions as he hollowed his cheeks and pulled along his length. Take me, use me, burn away the touch of anyone who has ever come before.
Again, and again Sherlock dipped his head, worshipping the length of John’s cock with his lips, and tongue, and fingers holding him steady. When John came, shuddering as he emptied himself down Sherlock’s throat, it was like a blessing, and Sherlock swallowed the bitter fluid like the gift it was.
John’s breathing shook as he fought to gain control of himself. “Come here, please come here,” he ground out.
Sherlock dropped a kiss to John’s softening penis, tucking it safely away before rising to stand before him.
“Oh, God, you . . .” John pulled Sherlock into his arms, kissing him again, mindless of the taste that must be in his mouth. “You, beautiful man.”
“Mmm, beautiful,” Sherlock echoed.
Eventually they parted, giggling as they refastened their trousers.
“God, I can’t believe we just did that here,” John snickered, sounding about twelve.
“Oh don’t act like you’ve never had sex with a man in dark corner before.” Sherlock meant it to be funny, but it came out sharp, cutting. A cold wash of water ran through him. He wanted to take it back instantly. “John, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
“No.” John reached out to grasp his arm. “No, you’re right. I’m done with hiding in the shadows.”
“John, come home with me,” Sherlock whispered.
“Yes, please. I want to lie down with you. I’m about to fall on my arse as it is. I don’t know why I’m still standing.”
“I’ve got you.” Sherlock took John’s hand in his own, and pulled him onward, leading him back to his flat, up the seventeen steps to his wide, soft bed that was easily big enough for two.
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