Fic: I love this club
Title: I love this club.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Boy kissing.
Word count: 1900
Summary: John stumbles into something he didn’t expect
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Spoilers: none
Authors Note: Okay this is my first furore into this fandom so concrit would be wonderful (:
I blinked; the vision presented to me seemed implausible. A mirage. Sherlock stared back at me, his pale eyes wide with shock, sentence left hanging in the air before him.
I had only come in here on my way home from work, two kids had been racing down the pavement on their bikes, one arm swung out and hit me in the face causing what can only be described as a colossal nosebleed. Some sort of bouncer had noticed me stunned and stumbling and had ferreted me inside to this private club, the garish bathrooms wallpapered with something out of a gaudy wild west whore house, thick red carpets underfoot.
A breeding ground for germs.
Rolls of toilet roll stuffed in my hands and I was left to my own devices to stem the flow a kind offer for me just to call if I needed anything. I had wandered out after the blood seemed to stop, balled up tissues dotted with bright crimson streaks crumpled in my hands.
I blinked again, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Sherlock seemed to be holding court in front of a group of strange men, their eyes flashing teeth glinting in the suspiciously dimmed lights and I looked at his face, his mouth hanging open as he spoke.
“John?”
I looked down to the hand that lay on his thigh and then up the arm to the confused man it belonged too. His mouth shut with a snap and something in my gaze must’ve spooked him because he withdrew his hand slowly and packed it inside his jacket pocket.
A voice piped up from the left “John? Is this the infamous doctor John Watson? Oh it is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
A hand stuck out and I just stared at it, at Sherlock and then around the room. I was so confused, as my gaze flittered around I realised that this club seemed to have a very limited customer base, in fact it seemed to be purely male patrons here. Then it hit me, I was in a gay club, a very exclusive very secretive gay club.
A gay club where Sherlock was surrounded by admirers that touched his leg.
I turned and basically ran stumbling out of the front door with a stuttered thank you to the bouncer as I exploded into the now drizzling cold air of the bustling streets. I stamped onwards wrapping my arms around myself and damning my leg over and over as pain shot up to my thigh.
I couldn’t understand why I felt so...so angry. He had done nothing wrong expect exact his own will, I had no say in who or what he does. My anger was now joined by bitterness and I shook my head, he had told me he was married to his work. That was why I was mad, he had lied to me.
But there was more and I sighed. Is it that he is gay? But it can’t be that, not it, I don’t care if he likes men but then...maybe it because he does like men, other men.
I felt sick my stomach lurching, how long had I felt like this? How long had I felt like I owned Sherlock, like I belonged to him? It was strange idea to realise you’ve actually had feelings for someone that exceeds friendship for so long without even a whisper of realisation about it.
“John!”
He was running, I could hear the hurried footsteps as he splashed his way through the rain soaked street towards me, skidding on the ground.
“John?”
“I thought you were married to your work?” he did a strange half chuckle half gasp.
“I said I didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“So you do.”
“No.”
“But you are gay.”
“Does that matter?”
“It does if you lied to me.”
“Some people have a problem with that, I liked you. I didn’t want you running off before I got a full measure of what you were like.”
“So you lied to keep me as an experiment. From a fully scientific point of view.”
Sherlock looked away, hands tucked in his coat, footsteps falling easily into beat with mine. “What were you doing there?”
Sherlock looked down at me and I snorted “You're the detective, you tell me.”
“You face was flushed, faint trials of pink under your nose and on your chin and the balled up tissue in your hand dotted with what seemed to be either red pen or blood. I suspect blood. Shaun had left the bathroom just minutes before you did so I can safely assume he brought you inside; it’s the only way to get in. Therefore you must’ve have a nosebleed so bad that Shaun had noticed, a sensitive man who takes in stray animals, a man like that would want to help you in your time of need. He brought you in from the street and took you to the bathroom, probably telling you to call him if you needed any help.”
“Amazing.”
Sherlock half smiled at me again and I looked at him properly; he was... everything to me. It seemed that my life before these days of danger and puzzles was that of someone else, an imagined story that would be left unwanted on the shelf.
Boring, bland, respectable.
He was now looking away his smile faded, tongue poking out to sweep over his lips. “Look John, if it bothers you I...”
I stopped him right there. “No no, it doesn’t bother me at all.”
We walked in silence even when we entered the flat, Sherlock kept glancing at me as if he was trying to figure something out and I purposely didn’t look at him, I knew he would know then if I looked he would know that I love him and then it would all be over.
I would be just another character in that boring story.
So I wandered into the flat and over to the kettle going through the motions like clockwork. Two mugs of steaming tea placed on the coffee table and I settled in my chair, eyes now fixed on the detective as he stared at the murder mystery on the TV. He was muttering to himself about how it was obviously the sister and I glanced up, it was barely two minutes into the episode.
Unexpectedly he looked back at me and titled is head smiling. “Something’s wrong. “
I licked my lips opening my mouth and he raised an eyebrow “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do John. You have questions, come on let me hear them.”
“W-w-wha? No I don’t. What you do is your business.”
“But it isn’t, is it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What man walks into what is quite clearly a gay club and finds is roommate surrounded by men hanging on his every word and doesn’t have questions?”
“Me. I don’t want to know anything.”
“Liar.”
“Look, why are you pushing this!?”
I was angry, frustrated and I got to my feet grabbing my tea and stalking upstairs to my room. I stayed there all night, thinking. I was being silly, stupid. Who is their right mind falls for their roommate much less their very male roommate who also happens to be a sociopath.
The next morning I stumbled downstairs wincing at the pile of unwashed plates and pots and cups that scattered the kitchen, I would do them later. Once I’d had my cup of tea.
I stopped in my tracks when I rounded my chair and found Sherlock curled up in it. His bony knees scrunched up to his chest, one arm propping up his chin the other tucked between his calves and thighs.
My mouth twitched a lurch in my chest and I took a few steps back perching on the edge of his seat. Why was he there? He normally fell asleep on the sofa or leaning against the modern green leather of his own chair, not sunken into the soft plump fabric of my wingback.
I considered moving him but the tug of my heart told me that I couldn’t do that, he very rarely slept at all and he looked so small and fragile, human. It was almost an hour before he blinked those enormous eyes open and stared back at me something breaking in his eyes an almost shy smile gracing his handsome face.
“John...were you jealous?”
I stopped; my heart seemed to stutter as he spoke. Was I? Clearly I was.
“Who was that guy?”
Sherlock laughed and dipped his head back exposing his long pale swan-like neck. “His name is George. He unfortunately gets very handsy with people. He does pay for drinks at the drop of a hat though.”
“Oh. What exactly did I walk in on? What have you told them about me?”
“They like to hear about my latest cases. Naturally you get brought up in relation to those.”
“Right. So that’s it.”
Sherlock’s head snapped back up and he narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Okay, good that’s good then.” I turned away from him taking a sip of my tea.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question.”
“Were. You. Jealous?”
I choked my tea sticking in my throat and I gasped for air placing the mug safely back on the table. I looked up, it was a mistake. He was leaning forwards now elbows on his knees hands framing his serious intent face.
I gasped and he grinned, a strangle glint behind his eyes. I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him of course I’m not jealous why would I care? I’m not interested in you. But my mouth wouldn’t work, my tongue seemed too big and almost of its own volition my head bounced up and down in an affirmative yes.
His pupils grew a little and he licked his lips torturously slow, his smile only growing as my eyes followed his tongue path. After a minute he leant forwards across the gap between the two chairs his impossibly long body stretching over and I leant forwards too, I was removed from the situation my body leaning to meet him without any conscious decision at all.
I was brought back almost instantly his lips quirking to the left, his face so close now I could smell him, a light musky scent that made my brain fizz and then he kissed me.
He kissed me.
His tongue reached out and swiped across my top lip and then I was kissing him back and he was on his knees in front of me hands on my legs. So tall that on his knees our heads were almost exactly a the same height and I moaned, my hands finally living their dreams and running over his back, fingers digging up into his hair and tugging slightly, changing the angle and this time he moaned and it was so unlike him, so human that I pulled him closer, one of his long slender hands reaching up to cup my face.
We pulled apart after I ran out of breath, foreheads leant together breath mingling.
“George will be so disappointed.”
I laughed at that because screw George, there would be no more touching of this beautiful brilliant man anymore. Well, not for George anyway.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sherlock/John
Warnings: Boy kissing.
Word count: 1900
Summary: John stumbles into something he didn’t expect
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to the BBC and Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.
Spoilers: none
Authors Note: Okay this is my first furore into this fandom so concrit would be wonderful (:
I blinked; the vision presented to me seemed implausible. A mirage. Sherlock stared back at me, his pale eyes wide with shock, sentence left hanging in the air before him.
I had only come in here on my way home from work, two kids had been racing down the pavement on their bikes, one arm swung out and hit me in the face causing what can only be described as a colossal nosebleed. Some sort of bouncer had noticed me stunned and stumbling and had ferreted me inside to this private club, the garish bathrooms wallpapered with something out of a gaudy wild west whore house, thick red carpets underfoot.
A breeding ground for germs.
Rolls of toilet roll stuffed in my hands and I was left to my own devices to stem the flow a kind offer for me just to call if I needed anything. I had wandered out after the blood seemed to stop, balled up tissues dotted with bright crimson streaks crumpled in my hands.
I blinked again, trying to make sense of what I was seeing.
Sherlock seemed to be holding court in front of a group of strange men, their eyes flashing teeth glinting in the suspiciously dimmed lights and I looked at his face, his mouth hanging open as he spoke.
“John?”
I looked down to the hand that lay on his thigh and then up the arm to the confused man it belonged too. His mouth shut with a snap and something in my gaze must’ve spooked him because he withdrew his hand slowly and packed it inside his jacket pocket.
A voice piped up from the left “John? Is this the infamous doctor John Watson? Oh it is a pleasure to meet you at last.”
A hand stuck out and I just stared at it, at Sherlock and then around the room. I was so confused, as my gaze flittered around I realised that this club seemed to have a very limited customer base, in fact it seemed to be purely male patrons here. Then it hit me, I was in a gay club, a very exclusive very secretive gay club.
A gay club where Sherlock was surrounded by admirers that touched his leg.
I turned and basically ran stumbling out of the front door with a stuttered thank you to the bouncer as I exploded into the now drizzling cold air of the bustling streets. I stamped onwards wrapping my arms around myself and damning my leg over and over as pain shot up to my thigh.
I couldn’t understand why I felt so...so angry. He had done nothing wrong expect exact his own will, I had no say in who or what he does. My anger was now joined by bitterness and I shook my head, he had told me he was married to his work. That was why I was mad, he had lied to me.
But there was more and I sighed. Is it that he is gay? But it can’t be that, not it, I don’t care if he likes men but then...maybe it because he does like men, other men.
I felt sick my stomach lurching, how long had I felt like this? How long had I felt like I owned Sherlock, like I belonged to him? It was strange idea to realise you’ve actually had feelings for someone that exceeds friendship for so long without even a whisper of realisation about it.
“John!”
He was running, I could hear the hurried footsteps as he splashed his way through the rain soaked street towards me, skidding on the ground.
“John?”
“I thought you were married to your work?” he did a strange half chuckle half gasp.
“I said I didn’t have a boyfriend.”
“So you do.”
“No.”
“But you are gay.”
“Does that matter?”
“It does if you lied to me.”
“Some people have a problem with that, I liked you. I didn’t want you running off before I got a full measure of what you were like.”
“So you lied to keep me as an experiment. From a fully scientific point of view.”
Sherlock looked away, hands tucked in his coat, footsteps falling easily into beat with mine. “What were you doing there?”
Sherlock looked down at me and I snorted “You're the detective, you tell me.”
“You face was flushed, faint trials of pink under your nose and on your chin and the balled up tissue in your hand dotted with what seemed to be either red pen or blood. I suspect blood. Shaun had left the bathroom just minutes before you did so I can safely assume he brought you inside; it’s the only way to get in. Therefore you must’ve have a nosebleed so bad that Shaun had noticed, a sensitive man who takes in stray animals, a man like that would want to help you in your time of need. He brought you in from the street and took you to the bathroom, probably telling you to call him if you needed any help.”
“Amazing.”
Sherlock half smiled at me again and I looked at him properly; he was... everything to me. It seemed that my life before these days of danger and puzzles was that of someone else, an imagined story that would be left unwanted on the shelf.
Boring, bland, respectable.
He was now looking away his smile faded, tongue poking out to sweep over his lips. “Look John, if it bothers you I...”
I stopped him right there. “No no, it doesn’t bother me at all.”
We walked in silence even when we entered the flat, Sherlock kept glancing at me as if he was trying to figure something out and I purposely didn’t look at him, I knew he would know then if I looked he would know that I love him and then it would all be over.
I would be just another character in that boring story.
So I wandered into the flat and over to the kettle going through the motions like clockwork. Two mugs of steaming tea placed on the coffee table and I settled in my chair, eyes now fixed on the detective as he stared at the murder mystery on the TV. He was muttering to himself about how it was obviously the sister and I glanced up, it was barely two minutes into the episode.
Unexpectedly he looked back at me and titled is head smiling. “Something’s wrong. “
I licked my lips opening my mouth and he raised an eyebrow “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Of course you do John. You have questions, come on let me hear them.”
“W-w-wha? No I don’t. What you do is your business.”
“But it isn’t, is it.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“What man walks into what is quite clearly a gay club and finds is roommate surrounded by men hanging on his every word and doesn’t have questions?”
“Me. I don’t want to know anything.”
“Liar.”
“Look, why are you pushing this!?”
I was angry, frustrated and I got to my feet grabbing my tea and stalking upstairs to my room. I stayed there all night, thinking. I was being silly, stupid. Who is their right mind falls for their roommate much less their very male roommate who also happens to be a sociopath.
The next morning I stumbled downstairs wincing at the pile of unwashed plates and pots and cups that scattered the kitchen, I would do them later. Once I’d had my cup of tea.
I stopped in my tracks when I rounded my chair and found Sherlock curled up in it. His bony knees scrunched up to his chest, one arm propping up his chin the other tucked between his calves and thighs.
My mouth twitched a lurch in my chest and I took a few steps back perching on the edge of his seat. Why was he there? He normally fell asleep on the sofa or leaning against the modern green leather of his own chair, not sunken into the soft plump fabric of my wingback.
I considered moving him but the tug of my heart told me that I couldn’t do that, he very rarely slept at all and he looked so small and fragile, human. It was almost an hour before he blinked those enormous eyes open and stared back at me something breaking in his eyes an almost shy smile gracing his handsome face.
“John...were you jealous?”
I stopped; my heart seemed to stutter as he spoke. Was I? Clearly I was.
“Who was that guy?”
Sherlock laughed and dipped his head back exposing his long pale swan-like neck. “His name is George. He unfortunately gets very handsy with people. He does pay for drinks at the drop of a hat though.”
“Oh. What exactly did I walk in on? What have you told them about me?”
“They like to hear about my latest cases. Naturally you get brought up in relation to those.”
“Right. So that’s it.”
Sherlock’s head snapped back up and he narrowed his eyes at me. “Yes. That’s it.”
“Okay, good that’s good then.” I turned away from him taking a sip of my tea.
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“What question.”
“Were. You. Jealous?”
I choked my tea sticking in my throat and I gasped for air placing the mug safely back on the table. I looked up, it was a mistake. He was leaning forwards now elbows on his knees hands framing his serious intent face.
I gasped and he grinned, a strangle glint behind his eyes. I opened my mouth to lie, to tell him of course I’m not jealous why would I care? I’m not interested in you. But my mouth wouldn’t work, my tongue seemed too big and almost of its own volition my head bounced up and down in an affirmative yes.
His pupils grew a little and he licked his lips torturously slow, his smile only growing as my eyes followed his tongue path. After a minute he leant forwards across the gap between the two chairs his impossibly long body stretching over and I leant forwards too, I was removed from the situation my body leaning to meet him without any conscious decision at all.
I was brought back almost instantly his lips quirking to the left, his face so close now I could smell him, a light musky scent that made my brain fizz and then he kissed me.
He kissed me.
His tongue reached out and swiped across my top lip and then I was kissing him back and he was on his knees in front of me hands on my legs. So tall that on his knees our heads were almost exactly a the same height and I moaned, my hands finally living their dreams and running over his back, fingers digging up into his hair and tugging slightly, changing the angle and this time he moaned and it was so unlike him, so human that I pulled him closer, one of his long slender hands reaching up to cup my face.
We pulled apart after I ran out of breath, foreheads leant together breath mingling.
“George will be so disappointed.”
I laughed at that because screw George, there would be no more touching of this beautiful brilliant man anymore. Well, not for George anyway.