The club where the second party was held was different than the first. But it was still a far cry from what John had first expected. They waited on a line that stretched around the block before entering. John had been there once before, on a date. Then it had been a concert hall. This night, it was transformed.
There was what appeared to be a kiddy pool filled with glitter and lube. On the stage, instead of a band there was a contest taking place: the person to make the best show of wanking with a strap-on would win a dildo. There was a line of vendors selling everything from neon colored single tail whips to wands designed to deliver, according to the seller, electric shocks ranging from pleasant to excruciating. He demonstrated this on his partner in the booth by inserting the wand into her mouth, which was wrenched open with a gag. The muffled scream torn from her when he touched the wand to her hard palate roused a more than a strictly proper amount of curiosity in Sherlock.
“Get me a drink,” John said, half order, half question. He felt like he might need one.
Sherlock put their bag down near a white leather settee on the edge of the room, and did as he was asked. John sat, and did his best to make himself comfortable. Something more than being waited on made watching Sherlock walk over to the bar and return, cocktail in hand, viscerally satisfying. It might have been simple satisfaction at watching the uncompromising Sherlock follow his demands without question. It might have been something different. It didn’t matter. While they were on this case he would enjoy it as long as it lasted.
Sherlock didn’t ask to climb into his lap this time.
“I thought you might like a Manhattan,” he said, with the ease of a familiar lover. The way Sherlock slipped into characters sometimes was startling. To John, it looked like he had practiced his movements in a mirror, and that he was trying them on like a coat he was not entirely sure fit.
He did like Manhattans, sometimes. Between sips he noticed he was stroking Sherlock’s leg, again. He didn’t bother stopping himself. He was just keeping up the act. It was nice though: the familiar warmth contrasted with the foreign feeling of his sinewy musculature moving under his touch. Sherlock’s hand shot out and pinned down his fingers.
That might’ve felt nice too except Sherlock said, “Don’t.”
John’s pulse plummeted, quivering into the pit of his stomach. The empty space it left in his chest, unexpectedly, stung. He felt like he was years and years younger being rebuffed for fumbling sophomorically at the hemline of a schoolgirl’s dress. Don’t be ridiculous John scolded himself. Sherlock pressed John’s hand down into his thigh.
Sherlock didn’t look at him when he told him, “Light touch doesn’t feel right today. Squeeze harder.”
He did, and Sherlock leaned into him. It occurred to him then just how little the two of them touched one another, just how little he had touched anyone recently, with all his time taken up by Sherlock. So, they were both just touch starved. The warmth spreading through him, it was nothing.
“Same plan as last night?” he asked.
“Same plan,” Sherlock confirmed.
“The boots?”
“No. Something different. There may be some of the same crowd.”
“Then what?”
“I thought up last night’s. You think up tonight’s.”
Sherlock offered the bag. They probably should have talked about this earlier. Always the same story with Sherlock. John rifled through the bag. Generic kink parafernalia, none of it particularly called out to him. What could he do to Sherlock that was different? Was there anything he wanted to do? Perhaps, one thing had crossed his mind a few times. But, it didn’t require anything in that bag.
“Sherlock, go to loo and ask one of the attendants for a bar of soap. Nick a towel. Then ask the bartender for two cups of water, and an empty glass.”
Sherlock looked like he knew exactly what John was thinking. He probably did. In another time Sherlock would have been burned as a witch, John was convinced of it. But, again, he did as he was asked without question.
Fill: The Worst Man in London [6b/?]
There was what appeared to be a kiddy pool filled with glitter and lube. On the stage, instead of a band there was a contest taking place: the person to make the best show of wanking with a strap-on would win a dildo. There was a line of vendors selling everything from neon colored single tail whips to wands designed to deliver, according to the seller, electric shocks ranging from pleasant to excruciating. He demonstrated this on his partner in the booth by inserting the wand into her mouth, which was wrenched open with a gag. The muffled scream torn from her when he touched the wand to her hard palate roused a more than a strictly proper amount of curiosity in Sherlock.
“Get me a drink,” John said, half order, half question. He felt like he might need one.
Sherlock put their bag down near a white leather settee on the edge of the room, and did as he was asked. John sat, and did his best to make himself comfortable. Something more than being waited on made watching Sherlock walk over to the bar and return, cocktail in hand, viscerally satisfying. It might have been simple satisfaction at watching the uncompromising Sherlock follow his demands without question. It might have been something different. It didn’t matter. While they were on this case he would enjoy it as long as it lasted.
Sherlock didn’t ask to climb into his lap this time.
“I thought you might like a Manhattan,” he said, with the ease of a familiar lover. The way Sherlock slipped into characters sometimes was startling. To John, it looked like he had practiced his movements in a mirror, and that he was trying them on like a coat he was not entirely sure fit.
He did like Manhattans, sometimes. Between sips he noticed he was stroking Sherlock’s leg, again. He didn’t bother stopping himself. He was just keeping up the act. It was nice though: the familiar warmth contrasted with the foreign feeling of his sinewy musculature moving under his touch. Sherlock’s hand shot out and pinned down his fingers.
That might’ve felt nice too except Sherlock said, “Don’t.”
John’s pulse plummeted, quivering into the pit of his stomach. The empty space it left in his chest, unexpectedly, stung. He felt like he was years and years younger being rebuffed for fumbling sophomorically at the hemline of a schoolgirl’s dress. Don’t be ridiculous John scolded himself. Sherlock pressed John’s hand down into his thigh.
Sherlock didn’t look at him when he told him, “Light touch doesn’t feel right today. Squeeze harder.”
He did, and Sherlock leaned into him. It occurred to him then just how little the two of them touched one another, just how little he had touched anyone recently, with all his time taken up by Sherlock. So, they were both just touch starved. The warmth spreading through him, it was nothing.
“Same plan as last night?” he asked.
“Same plan,” Sherlock confirmed.
“The boots?”
“No. Something different. There may be some of the same crowd.”
“Then what?”
“I thought up last night’s. You think up tonight’s.”
Sherlock offered the bag. They probably should have talked about this earlier. Always the same story with Sherlock. John rifled through the bag. Generic kink parafernalia, none of it particularly called out to him. What could he do to Sherlock that was different? Was there anything he wanted to do? Perhaps, one thing had crossed his mind a few times. But, it didn’t require anything in that bag.
“Sherlock, go to loo and ask one of the attendants for a bar of soap. Nick a towel. Then ask the bartender for two cups of water, and an empty glass.”
Sherlock looked like he knew exactly what John was thinking. He probably did. In another time Sherlock would have been burned as a witch, John was convinced of it. But, again, he did as he was asked without question.