Fic: Hearts Filthy Mess 1/7 | Sherlock (BBC) | NC-17 | Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Title: Hearts Filthy Mess
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut, this part PG-13
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
For those of you who've read the reason behind the rating and aren't keen on the smut part of it, don't worry, you'll be told where it is when we get there so you can choose not to read if you want.
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
~ Chapter 1 ~
*
It was late by the time John reached Baker Street. He'd stayed back at the surgery in a guilty attempt to catch up on some of the paperwork he'd generated for Sarah, then, to add insult to injury, there'd been a bloody track failure on the tube which had further delayed him getting home. He was thankful when he saw the light in the flat was still on, it meant that Sherlock was likely to be in and the place would at least be warm and welcoming. His legs felt sluggish as he climbed the stairs; there was nothing more tiring than being stuck in places you didn't really want to be, with no hint of a distraction to relieve the tedium.
He pulled his coat off as soon as he entered the flat, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door and not really paying attention to Sherlock who was in his dressing gown, muttering unintelligibly as he rummaged down the back of the sofa cushions. John decided he didn't want to know what Sherlock was looking for, he'd discovered on more than one occasion that ignorance really was bliss.
He was about to head into the kitchen to make a cup of tea when his tired brain finally registered what he had observed. He turned back toward Sherlock, who was still rummaging behind the cushions, and stared. Sherlock swanning around in his dressing gown wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, neither were bare feet in combination with said garment, but he usually wore at least his pyjamas, if not his shirt and trousers, underneath. From what John could see Sherlock's legs, at the very least, were bare which meant there was a fair amount of skin on show. Then there was his feet…John looked more carefully, certain his eyes were playing tricks, but further examination only confirmed his initial surprise; Sherlock was wearing nail varnish on his toes. He would probably have collapsed in his chair at that point but there was an unfamiliar leather jacket slung across its seat, so he took a step closer in order to better scrutinize those… unexpected… toes and made do with leaning against the back of the chair instead.
The colour was a deep, midnight blue - not black as he'd first thought - and tiny, iridescent flecks in the varnish caught the light so that it glittered. The dark colour looked surprisingly good against Sherlock's fair skin. John took a deep breath. Another. The nail varnish didn't disappear.
"Sherlock, you're wearing nail varnish. On your toes!"
"It matches my fingers," said Sherlock carelessly, waving a hand similarly clad with blue, sparkly nails in John's direction before he returned to searching down the back of the sofa for whatever item he was missing.
"Right," mumbled John to himself. It wasn't that he had anything against Sherlock - or guys in general for that matter - wearing nail varnish, anything but, if truth be known, and especially if it was coupled with a bit of eyeliner. It was just that it wasn't something he'd expected to find in evidence at home. His musing was interrupted by a shout from the direction of Sherlock's room.
"Sherlock, will you hurry up? I need to do your hair." It was a voice John recognised only too well and he couldn't help but gape in surprise, he'd never thought of Greg Lestrade as being the sort of person who would be offering to mess with anyone's hair, least of all Sherlock's.
"One minute!" Sherlock yelled in reply from where he now knelt on the sofa, one hand invisible beneath the cushions.
"Why does he want to do your hair?" John asked. He knew he sounded somewhat bewildered but he decided that was absolutely fine; he was bewildered.
"Because I can't manage it on my own due to not being familiar with the technique. Obvious. Why else would I need his help?"
"Oh, right, of course." John nodded sagely, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.
Another shout came from Sherlock's room. "Sherlock. Hair!"
Sherlock's arm disappeared a little further down the back of the sofa, then his face lit with triumph and he pocketed the whatever-it-was he'd been looking for and dashed toward his room.
John headed for the kitchen in Sherlock's wake; the need for a strong cup of tea had passed from the realms of being an indulgence to being essential. He debated the need for a tot of something alcoholic in his tea - entirely for medicinal purposes - but dismissed the thought. The situation might be odd, but that could be said for much of his life since he’d moved into Baker Street with Sherlock, and this didn’t really seem all that much stranger than normal. John resolutely ignored the insidious voice inside his head that whispered "yet".
Mug in hand, John settled onto the sofa. He could have moved the leather jacket and sat in his own chair but it didn't face the kitchen - and therefore Sherlock's room - and John wanted to see just what the hell was going to emerge from there, without it sneaking up on him unawares.
As it turned out, Greg, at least, wouldn't have been at risk of sneaking up on John; he could be heard well before he became visible. Greg positively jingled as he walked and John couldn't help but do a double take as he appeared.
Instead of the Greg Lestrade he knew, he was confronted with a vision in black that looked nothing like the DI's crumpled norm. The jingling came from both the spiked straps around Greg's sturdy, well worn boots and the belt that sat snugly around his hips over the top of well fitted, but not excessively tight, leather trousers. The subtle reinforcing around the knees and signs of wear indicated that the trousers, like the boots, weren't just an affectation but were - or had been - actually used for the purpose for which they'd been designed. The t-shirt that finished the ensemble was tight enough to demonstrate that, despite the years of abuse by his job and bad habits, Greg's body was not something he needed to hide. He'd not done anything particularly dramatic with his hair but it was in an artful state of disarray that suited him.
John recognised the name of the band on the t-shirt - the lead singer was the first woman over whom he and Harry had fallen out, both of them having had a serious crush on Siouxsie Sioux at the time - but he couldn't quite make out the pattern. He squinted a bit as he leaned forward in an effort to get a better look at the design that was adorning Greg’s chest. When the realisation of exactly what he was looking at hit him, he blinked, just to make sure his eyes were working correctly; they were. The slow and lazy smile that spread over Greg's face was challenging, and John met the dark eyes defiantly; there was no way he was going to allow himself to be embarrassed just because Greg had pictures of sperm on his t-shirt. He was a doctor for God's sake, he dealt with potentially more embarrassing things on a daily basis without turning a hair; he'd just never thought that Greg would be the one to wear such a thing. He sighed; so much for not making assumptions and aspiring to be non-judgemental, he obviously needed to put a bit more work into that.
John's eyes flicked over to the black leather jacket on his chair before fixing back on Greg; it was now obvious who owned it. He felt a bit peeved when Greg laughed at him.
"God, you should see your face! Good to know I can still surprise the unflappable doctor Watson."
John tried to settle his features back into an expression that approached his usual one; he wasn't entirely convinced it was successful.
"It's just… Well, um. You look a bit different than normal."
Greg gave him a cheeky grin that made the years fall away from his face, giving John a glimpse of the person Greg might have been when he’d first worn similar clothes, rather than the harassed DI he'd become and with whom John was more familiar.
"It's all my gear though," he said, confirming what John had thought.
"Do you still have a bike?" John asked; he could just imagine the looks on Donovan and Anderson's faces if Greg turned up to a crime scene on a motorbike, dressed in a similar fashion. John had no problem admitting - to himself - that he'd quite like to see that.
"Not at the moment; I wasn't getting the chance to go for any decent rides. I keep promising myself I'll do something about that, but…"
"You should; it's a good look on you." John gave Greg a quick smile, then settled back into a more comfortable position on the sofa. "So, what's the reason for all this?" he said, waving his hand in Greg’s general direction.
"A case. There's been a spate of attacks on guys who fit a certain profile. So far there have been three attacks, two of them murders and the other attempted. All the victims were members of what I suppose you could call the alternative community, had been to the same club prior to being attacked, though they weren't regulars, and they all wore one of these." Greg removed a band from his wrist and held it out. John took it and looked more closely. It was black, no surprise there, and embossed with the letters S. O. P. H. I. E. in white. He returned it and Greg slipped it back onto his wrist.
"Sophie?" John asked.
"Stamp Out Prejudice, Hatred and Intolerance Everywhere. It's a charity started in the name of a girl - Sophie Lancaster - who was beaten to death just for looking different. They aim to spread tolerance of subcultures through education."
"Can't fault that."
"No you can't. As you can imagine it's a cause close to many people's hearts. There've been people from every kind of community you can imagine working together on this - from goths, geeks and gamers to Wiccans and even the occasional Zoroastrian; it's touched everyone." He sighed. "Even so, it sometimes seems to be too little, too late."
"You do what you can," John said gently; he completely understood feelings of 'too little, too late' - he dealt with them himself far too frequently, after all.
"Yeah, I do, and I'm glad I'm in a position to be able to make at least some difference."
"You and me both." John took a couple of deep breaths and decided to move the conversation along. "So, you're going to the club to check things out. How did you manage to end up with this one, luck of the draw?"
"I know one of the DJs from my moshing days. I used to be a huge Damned fan, followed them all around the country. I still like them but I steer clear of the mosh pits now, I'm getting too old to cope with a load of bouncy, lunatic kids who are smashed out of their brains. Plus, at my age, I don't think 'I broke my leg in a mosh pit' would be a good thing to have to tell my bosses, and if you don't come out of a Damned mosh pit at least slightly battered and bruised, it's been a quiet gig."
John could tell by the way Greg shifted without quite meeting his eyes that there was something else, some essential piece of information Greg had chosen not to share. He debated giving him the look, however, he realised it would more than likely be a futile waste of effort; Greg had known Sherlock long before John had come on the scene and would probably be immune to any sort of scowl that could be executed by a human - or even Sherlock's - face. He decided it would be far easier just to ask.
"There's something you aren't telling me," John said. "Something about the victims and why you've got the case."
John didn't glare, but he also didn't take his eyes off Greg and maintained the sort of level gaze that he knew said 'and no bullshitting me, mate' loud and clear. Greg sighed.
"The victims were all gay - or perceived to be gay, one of them was bisexual - around six feet tall and kind of androgynous looking."
"And while you don't exactly fit the androgynous-looking profile, not usually, and especially not dressed like that…"
"Sherlock does. Exactly."
"That explains the nail varnish."
"Just wait until you see the rest of him."
"Really? I might not survive." John intentionally kept his voice light but he was more than half serious. He'd always had a thing about androgynous guys in make up, specifically eyeliner - or guyliner as his mates had called it - which he'd put down to a life-long obsession with David Bowie, too many drunken nights spent watching the Rocky Horror show and discovering Placebo in his twenties. He wasn't sure how he felt about being confronted with Sherlock dressed in a way that would have fuelled a fantasy or two when he was younger (and still might, if he ever allowed himself to indulge). He clamped down on the half-formed thought brutally: he was not even going to contemplate taking that path, for that way lay madness, the encroaching poison of bitterness and probably a lot of furtive wanking. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear at the outset that he wasn’t interested in relationships and John was not going to torture himself with the close-but-unobtainable like that.
His maudlin train of thought was broken by the startlingly cheerful sounding jingle that signalled Greg moving, this time towards John's chair and the jacket that had been flung across it.
John's gaze was drawn back to Greg's belt; with his seated position on the sofa they were on the same level and there was no way he could avoid looking at it. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to work out the pattern on the metal discs. They looked like ancient shield roundels, even though the design was nothing he was familiar with, which struck a chord with his military side and also seemed entirely appropriate for Greg, who was as much a modern equivalent of a knight-protector as someone could be. Loose metal bars were arranged between the discs which, he guessed, were what provided the merry jingling noise that accompanied Greg as he moved. There were also a couple of d-rings attached at various places and, he noticed with a smirk, there was a set of handcuffs attached to one of them, eminently practical and just a tiny bit hot.
John almost shook his head in disbelief.
"Those aren't…" He paused, and took a closer look at the handcuffs. "Never mind. Those obviously are your work cuffs."
"Of course they're my work cuffs; I'm bloody working! I'm not dressed like this for fun, sunshine."
John folded his arms and shot Greg an appraising glance and a quick grin that said 'like I really believe that'. Greg grinned back at him.
"OK, OK. Not just for fun. It's not a crime to enjoy reliving your misspent youth occasionally."
John couldn't help but laugh. "It isn't if you can still get away with it; not everyone can."
Greg shrugged. "I suppose I'm just lucky, then. So, we aren't going to be treated to misspent youth a la Watson any time soon?"
"Dear God, no. It was frightening enough the first time around. Remember, I had the bad half of the 80s in my formative years." Greg didn't seem convinced and John couldn't ignore the expression of interested inquiry on his face. He sighed. "Two things; hair metal and acid wash jeans. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, but it was truly horrifying."
Greg chuckled. "You might actually have a point."
"Precisely. So, what about Sherlock?" John knew he was fishing for information but he was hesitant to use a more direct approach and push the point with Greg; he didn't want to sound like he was overly interested in what his flatmate was wearing in case it came across as too damn creepy. The thing was, whenever Sherlock was concerned he was a great believer in the old chestnut that forewarned was forearmed and he felt that this situation was no different.
"You'll see," Greg said with a wicked grin before he grabbed the leather jacket off John's chair and wriggled into it. John wasn't entirely sure he liked the sound of that - or the look on Greg's face - but he found himself distracted from thinking too much more about it by Greg's jacket. It was a simple black leather biker jacket and fitted the rest of his look, being essentially functional and obviously both used and loved, though as Greg settled it more comfortably onto his shoulders, something else caught John's eye.
"Stand still for a minute," he said. John scrambled off the sofa and closed the distance between them. Greg had not only obligingly stopped moving, he had also turned his back toward John, providing a clearer view of the flash of light and colour that had caught his attention.
The back of the jacket had been painted in loving detail with what John presumed was an album cover; it depicted a cloaked and hooded woman standing in a graveyard, the sky behind her heavy with clouds. Above the art, written in curling, gothic script, was the band name - The Damned, which wasn't a surprise - and below it was the word 'Phantasmagoria' in the same script.
John leaned closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at the finer details of the painting. It was an inspired piece of art and he barely resisted reaching out to brush his fingers across the painted leather; Greg smiled at him over his shoulder.
"That was their 1985 album, when they went a bit gothic," he said.
John spluttered. "You can't tell me you still fit into a jacket you had back in 1985! Besides, it isn't battered enough to be that old."
"Are you casting aspersions on my less than youthful physique, doctor Watson?"
"Um…" John was glad Greg seemed to find it funny and didn't appear to require an intelligible answer.
"Nah, you're right. This is my fourth Damned jacket - I get a new one every decade or so. I was listening to Phantasmagoria when the time came to get this one done, which is why it ended up on the back."
"It's a gorgeous piece of work."
"Yeah, it is. I'm lucky the artist is willing to do a favour for an old friend, she's moved onto much bigger things now."
John took a breath to reply, but found himself beaten to it by a mellifluous voice that disconcertingly came from right behind him.
"But not necessarily better."
*
A/N 2: If you would like a better idea of the sort of thing Greg is wearing, please toddle along to the Lestrade Visual Aids post. For more information on Sophie Lancaster, please go here. Sadly, Sophie's story is not one that's been made up for the fic.
Chapter 2
This entry was originally posted at http://a-lanart.dreamwidth.org/241187.html. Please comment there using OpenID.
Authors: aeron_lanart, fred_bear aka
Jennybel75, mandatorily
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Characters: John Watson, Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade
Pairings: Sherlock/Greg, Sherlock/John
Rating: NC-17 overall for language, concepts and smut, this part PG-13
Spoilers: Spoilers up to and including S2 ep1
Warnings: Beware of the Angst! Slight injury in the service of a case.
Summary: "You see but you do not observe." John discovers that impressions, like nail varnish, can hide much beneath an impenetrably opaque surface.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to ACD, though this incarnation is the responsibility of a certain Mr Moffat, Mr Gatiss and the BBC. No copyright infringement intended, no profit made; this is just for fun!
A/N 1: Written in collaboration for this prompt on the Sherlock kink meme friending post -
John has a bit of a kink for pretty boys in eyeliner (he refers to it as guyliner). He suspects it comes from listening to lots of Bowie as a kid and watching Rocky Horror once too often with Harry. One day John comes home to find Sherlock wearing guyliner, maybe for a case, maybe for an experiment. It makes John all hot, bothered and wibbly. Bonus points if Sherlock's wearing the type of clothes you'd go out goth clubbing in. Can also be read at AO3.
Please note that the fic is complete, so, if you're reading, you won't have to wait for months for an update!
For those of you who've read the reason behind the rating and aren't keen on the smut part of it, don't worry, you'll be told where it is when we get there so you can choose not to read if you want.
Hearts Filthy Mess
*
~ Chapter 1 ~
*
It was late by the time John reached Baker Street. He'd stayed back at the surgery in a guilty attempt to catch up on some of the paperwork he'd generated for Sarah, then, to add insult to injury, there'd been a bloody track failure on the tube which had further delayed him getting home. He was thankful when he saw the light in the flat was still on, it meant that Sherlock was likely to be in and the place would at least be warm and welcoming. His legs felt sluggish as he climbed the stairs; there was nothing more tiring than being stuck in places you didn't really want to be, with no hint of a distraction to relieve the tedium.
He pulled his coat off as soon as he entered the flat, hanging it on the hook on the back of the door and not really paying attention to Sherlock who was in his dressing gown, muttering unintelligibly as he rummaged down the back of the sofa cushions. John decided he didn't want to know what Sherlock was looking for, he'd discovered on more than one occasion that ignorance really was bliss.
He was about to head into the kitchen to make a cup of tea when his tired brain finally registered what he had observed. He turned back toward Sherlock, who was still rummaging behind the cushions, and stared. Sherlock swanning around in his dressing gown wasn't exactly a rare occurrence, neither were bare feet in combination with said garment, but he usually wore at least his pyjamas, if not his shirt and trousers, underneath. From what John could see Sherlock's legs, at the very least, were bare which meant there was a fair amount of skin on show. Then there was his feet…John looked more carefully, certain his eyes were playing tricks, but further examination only confirmed his initial surprise; Sherlock was wearing nail varnish on his toes. He would probably have collapsed in his chair at that point but there was an unfamiliar leather jacket slung across its seat, so he took a step closer in order to better scrutinize those… unexpected… toes and made do with leaning against the back of the chair instead.
The colour was a deep, midnight blue - not black as he'd first thought - and tiny, iridescent flecks in the varnish caught the light so that it glittered. The dark colour looked surprisingly good against Sherlock's fair skin. John took a deep breath. Another. The nail varnish didn't disappear.
"Sherlock, you're wearing nail varnish. On your toes!"
"It matches my fingers," said Sherlock carelessly, waving a hand similarly clad with blue, sparkly nails in John's direction before he returned to searching down the back of the sofa for whatever item he was missing.
"Right," mumbled John to himself. It wasn't that he had anything against Sherlock - or guys in general for that matter - wearing nail varnish, anything but, if truth be known, and especially if it was coupled with a bit of eyeliner. It was just that it wasn't something he'd expected to find in evidence at home. His musing was interrupted by a shout from the direction of Sherlock's room.
"Sherlock, will you hurry up? I need to do your hair." It was a voice John recognised only too well and he couldn't help but gape in surprise, he'd never thought of Greg Lestrade as being the sort of person who would be offering to mess with anyone's hair, least of all Sherlock's.
"One minute!" Sherlock yelled in reply from where he now knelt on the sofa, one hand invisible beneath the cushions.
"Why does he want to do your hair?" John asked. He knew he sounded somewhat bewildered but he decided that was absolutely fine; he was bewildered.
"Because I can't manage it on my own due to not being familiar with the technique. Obvious. Why else would I need his help?"
"Oh, right, of course." John nodded sagely, even though Sherlock wasn't looking at him.
Another shout came from Sherlock's room. "Sherlock. Hair!"
Sherlock's arm disappeared a little further down the back of the sofa, then his face lit with triumph and he pocketed the whatever-it-was he'd been looking for and dashed toward his room.
John headed for the kitchen in Sherlock's wake; the need for a strong cup of tea had passed from the realms of being an indulgence to being essential. He debated the need for a tot of something alcoholic in his tea - entirely for medicinal purposes - but dismissed the thought. The situation might be odd, but that could be said for much of his life since he’d moved into Baker Street with Sherlock, and this didn’t really seem all that much stranger than normal. John resolutely ignored the insidious voice inside his head that whispered "yet".
Mug in hand, John settled onto the sofa. He could have moved the leather jacket and sat in his own chair but it didn't face the kitchen - and therefore Sherlock's room - and John wanted to see just what the hell was going to emerge from there, without it sneaking up on him unawares.
As it turned out, Greg, at least, wouldn't have been at risk of sneaking up on John; he could be heard well before he became visible. Greg positively jingled as he walked and John couldn't help but do a double take as he appeared.
Instead of the Greg Lestrade he knew, he was confronted with a vision in black that looked nothing like the DI's crumpled norm. The jingling came from both the spiked straps around Greg's sturdy, well worn boots and the belt that sat snugly around his hips over the top of well fitted, but not excessively tight, leather trousers. The subtle reinforcing around the knees and signs of wear indicated that the trousers, like the boots, weren't just an affectation but were - or had been - actually used for the purpose for which they'd been designed. The t-shirt that finished the ensemble was tight enough to demonstrate that, despite the years of abuse by his job and bad habits, Greg's body was not something he needed to hide. He'd not done anything particularly dramatic with his hair but it was in an artful state of disarray that suited him.
John recognised the name of the band on the t-shirt - the lead singer was the first woman over whom he and Harry had fallen out, both of them having had a serious crush on Siouxsie Sioux at the time - but he couldn't quite make out the pattern. He squinted a bit as he leaned forward in an effort to get a better look at the design that was adorning Greg’s chest. When the realisation of exactly what he was looking at hit him, he blinked, just to make sure his eyes were working correctly; they were. The slow and lazy smile that spread over Greg's face was challenging, and John met the dark eyes defiantly; there was no way he was going to allow himself to be embarrassed just because Greg had pictures of sperm on his t-shirt. He was a doctor for God's sake, he dealt with potentially more embarrassing things on a daily basis without turning a hair; he'd just never thought that Greg would be the one to wear such a thing. He sighed; so much for not making assumptions and aspiring to be non-judgemental, he obviously needed to put a bit more work into that.
John's eyes flicked over to the black leather jacket on his chair before fixing back on Greg; it was now obvious who owned it. He felt a bit peeved when Greg laughed at him.
"God, you should see your face! Good to know I can still surprise the unflappable doctor Watson."
John tried to settle his features back into an expression that approached his usual one; he wasn't entirely convinced it was successful.
"It's just… Well, um. You look a bit different than normal."
Greg gave him a cheeky grin that made the years fall away from his face, giving John a glimpse of the person Greg might have been when he’d first worn similar clothes, rather than the harassed DI he'd become and with whom John was more familiar.
"It's all my gear though," he said, confirming what John had thought.
"Do you still have a bike?" John asked; he could just imagine the looks on Donovan and Anderson's faces if Greg turned up to a crime scene on a motorbike, dressed in a similar fashion. John had no problem admitting - to himself - that he'd quite like to see that.
"Not at the moment; I wasn't getting the chance to go for any decent rides. I keep promising myself I'll do something about that, but…"
"You should; it's a good look on you." John gave Greg a quick smile, then settled back into a more comfortable position on the sofa. "So, what's the reason for all this?" he said, waving his hand in Greg’s general direction.
"A case. There's been a spate of attacks on guys who fit a certain profile. So far there have been three attacks, two of them murders and the other attempted. All the victims were members of what I suppose you could call the alternative community, had been to the same club prior to being attacked, though they weren't regulars, and they all wore one of these." Greg removed a band from his wrist and held it out. John took it and looked more closely. It was black, no surprise there, and embossed with the letters S. O. P. H. I. E. in white. He returned it and Greg slipped it back onto his wrist.
"Sophie?" John asked.
"Stamp Out Prejudice, Hatred and Intolerance Everywhere. It's a charity started in the name of a girl - Sophie Lancaster - who was beaten to death just for looking different. They aim to spread tolerance of subcultures through education."
"Can't fault that."
"No you can't. As you can imagine it's a cause close to many people's hearts. There've been people from every kind of community you can imagine working together on this - from goths, geeks and gamers to Wiccans and even the occasional Zoroastrian; it's touched everyone." He sighed. "Even so, it sometimes seems to be too little, too late."
"You do what you can," John said gently; he completely understood feelings of 'too little, too late' - he dealt with them himself far too frequently, after all.
"Yeah, I do, and I'm glad I'm in a position to be able to make at least some difference."
"You and me both." John took a couple of deep breaths and decided to move the conversation along. "So, you're going to the club to check things out. How did you manage to end up with this one, luck of the draw?"
"I know one of the DJs from my moshing days. I used to be a huge Damned fan, followed them all around the country. I still like them but I steer clear of the mosh pits now, I'm getting too old to cope with a load of bouncy, lunatic kids who are smashed out of their brains. Plus, at my age, I don't think 'I broke my leg in a mosh pit' would be a good thing to have to tell my bosses, and if you don't come out of a Damned mosh pit at least slightly battered and bruised, it's been a quiet gig."
John could tell by the way Greg shifted without quite meeting his eyes that there was something else, some essential piece of information Greg had chosen not to share. He debated giving him the look, however, he realised it would more than likely be a futile waste of effort; Greg had known Sherlock long before John had come on the scene and would probably be immune to any sort of scowl that could be executed by a human - or even Sherlock's - face. He decided it would be far easier just to ask.
"There's something you aren't telling me," John said. "Something about the victims and why you've got the case."
John didn't glare, but he also didn't take his eyes off Greg and maintained the sort of level gaze that he knew said 'and no bullshitting me, mate' loud and clear. Greg sighed.
"The victims were all gay - or perceived to be gay, one of them was bisexual - around six feet tall and kind of androgynous looking."
"And while you don't exactly fit the androgynous-looking profile, not usually, and especially not dressed like that…"
"Sherlock does. Exactly."
"That explains the nail varnish."
"Just wait until you see the rest of him."
"Really? I might not survive." John intentionally kept his voice light but he was more than half serious. He'd always had a thing about androgynous guys in make up, specifically eyeliner - or guyliner as his mates had called it - which he'd put down to a life-long obsession with David Bowie, too many drunken nights spent watching the Rocky Horror show and discovering Placebo in his twenties. He wasn't sure how he felt about being confronted with Sherlock dressed in a way that would have fuelled a fantasy or two when he was younger (and still might, if he ever allowed himself to indulge). He clamped down on the half-formed thought brutally: he was not even going to contemplate taking that path, for that way lay madness, the encroaching poison of bitterness and probably a lot of furtive wanking. Sherlock had made it abundantly clear at the outset that he wasn’t interested in relationships and John was not going to torture himself with the close-but-unobtainable like that.
His maudlin train of thought was broken by the startlingly cheerful sounding jingle that signalled Greg moving, this time towards John's chair and the jacket that had been flung across it.
John's gaze was drawn back to Greg's belt; with his seated position on the sofa they were on the same level and there was no way he could avoid looking at it. He narrowed his eyes as he tried to work out the pattern on the metal discs. They looked like ancient shield roundels, even though the design was nothing he was familiar with, which struck a chord with his military side and also seemed entirely appropriate for Greg, who was as much a modern equivalent of a knight-protector as someone could be. Loose metal bars were arranged between the discs which, he guessed, were what provided the merry jingling noise that accompanied Greg as he moved. There were also a couple of d-rings attached at various places and, he noticed with a smirk, there was a set of handcuffs attached to one of them, eminently practical and just a tiny bit hot.
John almost shook his head in disbelief.
"Those aren't…" He paused, and took a closer look at the handcuffs. "Never mind. Those obviously are your work cuffs."
"Of course they're my work cuffs; I'm bloody working! I'm not dressed like this for fun, sunshine."
John folded his arms and shot Greg an appraising glance and a quick grin that said 'like I really believe that'. Greg grinned back at him.
"OK, OK. Not just for fun. It's not a crime to enjoy reliving your misspent youth occasionally."
John couldn't help but laugh. "It isn't if you can still get away with it; not everyone can."
Greg shrugged. "I suppose I'm just lucky, then. So, we aren't going to be treated to misspent youth a la Watson any time soon?"
"Dear God, no. It was frightening enough the first time around. Remember, I had the bad half of the 80s in my formative years." Greg didn't seem convinced and John couldn't ignore the expression of interested inquiry on his face. He sighed. "Two things; hair metal and acid wash jeans. I'll leave the rest to your imagination, but it was truly horrifying."
Greg chuckled. "You might actually have a point."
"Precisely. So, what about Sherlock?" John knew he was fishing for information but he was hesitant to use a more direct approach and push the point with Greg; he didn't want to sound like he was overly interested in what his flatmate was wearing in case it came across as too damn creepy. The thing was, whenever Sherlock was concerned he was a great believer in the old chestnut that forewarned was forearmed and he felt that this situation was no different.
"You'll see," Greg said with a wicked grin before he grabbed the leather jacket off John's chair and wriggled into it. John wasn't entirely sure he liked the sound of that - or the look on Greg's face - but he found himself distracted from thinking too much more about it by Greg's jacket. It was a simple black leather biker jacket and fitted the rest of his look, being essentially functional and obviously both used and loved, though as Greg settled it more comfortably onto his shoulders, something else caught John's eye.
"Stand still for a minute," he said. John scrambled off the sofa and closed the distance between them. Greg had not only obligingly stopped moving, he had also turned his back toward John, providing a clearer view of the flash of light and colour that had caught his attention.
The back of the jacket had been painted in loving detail with what John presumed was an album cover; it depicted a cloaked and hooded woman standing in a graveyard, the sky behind her heavy with clouds. Above the art, written in curling, gothic script, was the band name - The Damned, which wasn't a surprise - and below it was the word 'Phantasmagoria' in the same script.
John leaned closer, crouching slightly to get a better look at the finer details of the painting. It was an inspired piece of art and he barely resisted reaching out to brush his fingers across the painted leather; Greg smiled at him over his shoulder.
"That was their 1985 album, when they went a bit gothic," he said.
John spluttered. "You can't tell me you still fit into a jacket you had back in 1985! Besides, it isn't battered enough to be that old."
"Are you casting aspersions on my less than youthful physique, doctor Watson?"
"Um…" John was glad Greg seemed to find it funny and didn't appear to require an intelligible answer.
"Nah, you're right. This is my fourth Damned jacket - I get a new one every decade or so. I was listening to Phantasmagoria when the time came to get this one done, which is why it ended up on the back."
"It's a gorgeous piece of work."
"Yeah, it is. I'm lucky the artist is willing to do a favour for an old friend, she's moved onto much bigger things now."
John took a breath to reply, but found himself beaten to it by a mellifluous voice that disconcertingly came from right behind him.
"But not necessarily better."
*
A/N 2: If you would like a better idea of the sort of thing Greg is wearing, please toddle along to the Lestrade Visual Aids post. For more information on Sophie Lancaster, please go here. Sadly, Sophie's story is not one that's been made up for the fic.
Chapter 2
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