fic: High Voltage (John/Sherlock, Sherlock BBC)
Title: High Voltage
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2000
Summary: John. Sherlock. A gay club.
Notes: Written for the kink meme forever ago. At least it's more cheerful than the last Sherlock fic I posted?
It's been a while since John was last in a club like this, but it's like he never left. Then again, nothing ever does change in gay clubs, and they're all the same anyway. John learned that the fun way. He doesn't regret how he spent his free time during uni, but it was a part of his life he never thought he'd ever revisit. He feels a little self-conscious because he donated all his clubbing gear once he started medical school, and all he's wearing is a dark button-down and a pair of jeans. Sherlock, that twat, has on black leather trousers and a white t-shirt that's so tight John is fairly certain he can see Sherlock's ribs through it. It's almost as if Sherlock's been a part of the scene his entire life, and John's the tourist just passing through, when really it's the other way around.
They've split up, John taking the upper catwalks as Sherlock scouts on the dance floor below. The man they're looking for is someone John knew back in the day on reputation alone, and from the looks of things, his usual crowd isn't out tonight. He's not likely to be here either.
John does a circuit on the catwalks, gently turning down the few offers he gets. The air still smells the same as he remembers, like sweat and sex and drugs. It still feels the same too, that same bass throbbing in his chest, that same beautiful feel of being crowded in too tightly by too many other bodies. He scans the room dutifully, but his eyes are always drawn back to Sherlock. He's hardly the most flamboyant or attention-grabbing person in the club at the moment, not even close. But John does like to watch him as he cuts through the crowd, so graceful and self-assured and untouchable. Yeah, that just about sums it up, doesn't it? John's sure almost everyone else is picking up on it, too, because Sherlock's getting a lot of stares, but not a lot of people approaching him. John tries not to feel too relieved by that. There's no use in dwelling on it.
He doesn't find anything that they're looking for, not even after he circles the club twice, no sign of the man or his very distinctive platform shoes, and John figures the night for (mostly) a wash. He could stick around for a bit, though, get a chance to re-live his youth a bit longer. There's an older blond fellow over by the far corner who's been giving him the eye, and John's considering taking him up on it. After he tells Sherlock to go home without him, of course. If John doesn't clear him out beforehand, he's bound to show up at the least convenient time possible, like he always does.
Sherlock's phone doesn't fit anywhere in his outfit, so John has to do this in-person, weaving his way through the mass of bodies until he can find the tiny bit of floor Sherlock has managed to claim for himself. As John gets closer, Sherlock fixes him with a steady look, the kind that used to unsettle John at the beginning. John's used to it now, and he waits for whatever great insight Sherlock has come up with at the moment.
"You've also discovered that he's not here tonight," Sherlock says, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.
"Yeah, he's probably long gone by now," John says. Someone elbows him in the back as they walk past him, shoving him even further into Sherlock's personal space. Usually, it would be a bit awkward, but it's not, mostly because Sherlock doesn't quite understand how personal space works. Up close, John can see that Sherlock now has small patches of glitter on his collar and neck and in his hair. They shine when one of the overhead lights passes over them, catching and reflecting the light. Sherlock's normally deathly pale face is now flushed pink from the heat of dancing bodies, his skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
This is usually the point at which they leave, but John makes no move to head towards the door and Sherlock doesn't either. "For a straight man," Sherlock says eventually, "you're surprisingly comfortable in a gay club. Did you visit a club like this with your sister before? Or was it a friend who insisted that you accompany him once?"
"When did I ever say that I was straight?" John asks. Sherlock's stare gets more intense as he blinks once, twice, reevaluating this new information. And then he looks hungry in a way that only ever seems to apply to cases, not to mundane bodily things like food or sleep or sex.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock says. "That does make things a lot clearer now."
John was about to ask what that was supposed to mean, but by then Sherlock had a firm grip on John's left wrist. Sherlock drags them onto the dance floor, presses his hips right up against John's. John is never going to be as brilliant as Sherlock, but the message here is fairly unmistakable, and he's wiling to go along with it. The leather of Sherlock's trousers is smooth underneath John's hands, and John imagines peeling it off Sherlock's skin, still faintly sticky with sweat and still smelling of the club and still tasting like Sherlock. John's never been much of a dancer, but he doesn't need to be, not when he can wrap an arm around Sherlock's neck, not when he can feel the hard press of Sherlock's cock against his thigh.
"I'm not getting this wrong, am I?" John asks, and it feels faintly wrong to be shouting this so that he can be hear over the music. But Sherlock doesn't always seem to be aware of the consequences of his actions, and John just wants everything out on the table so that he doesn't completely humiliate himself.
Sherlock just gives John his most frustrated 'why must you be so stupid?' look. He presses a possessive hand against the small of John's back, underneath the soft fabric of John's shirt, so that he's sliding his fingers over John's skin. In that moment, John wants to kiss Sherlock, wants to press his lips against the smooth, unbroken skin of Sherlock's neck and mark him there. He wants everyone else to know that he was here first, and that Sherlock won't ever belong to any one of them ever even if he never belongs to John either.
When John used to visit places like this, he'd get a bit tipsy and dance for hours and hours upon end until he found someone he wanted to take home, and on those nights, even after he left the club, he always felt more alive than he'd ever felt before with the bass and the alcohol and the strobe lights still humming in his veins. He wants that again now, with his sodding flatmate of all people, and this must be what it's like to go barking mad. He pulls Sherlock's head down and kisses him before he can reason his way out of it, and Sherlock pulls John in tighter, his fingers so very warm and firm against John's spine, his tongue tracing John's lips. When Sherlock pulls back, his breathing is slightly heavy, the way it is when they've just run around London, when they're still high on the thrill of the chase.
There are so very many stupid things John could say right now, things like I love you, you tosser or God, you're the most amazing thing I've ever met or it's all right if you can't love me back or I'd really like to blow you right now. The words clog his throat, tight and almost painful. Sherlock, the brilliant bastard he is, seems to understand it without John having to say any of it. He leans in so that his lips are right next to John's left ear. "Later," he says, and it's a promise or at least as close as Sherlock Holmes is ever going to get to one.
John feels something inside him lift. He throws back his head and laughs with the thrill of it. Sherlock smiles, the way he does when John's just made a deduction that he's doesn't think is completely asinine, and John wants to kiss him again, wants to drag him into the toilets and suck him off just like this, with the glitter still in Sherlock's hair and the smile still on Sherlock's lips.
He doesn't.
Instead, he tightens his arm around Sherlock's neck and loses himself in the steady thump-thump-thump of the music, the shifting rhythms of the bodies all around them, and the feel of Sherlock's skin against his own.
The toilets can wait, after all.
---
The toilets are noisy, the way they always are this time of night, but John manages to find an empty stall. Sherlock is the one following for once, his lips pulled into a displeased frown. It's a tight fit, but John's always liked that about stalls, the way they feel closed in and not-quite-private. Like a secret. He slides to his knees and gets his hands on the fly of Sherlock's trousers, pulling the fly down and peeling the leather from Sherlock's skin. No pants, of course. They wouldn't fit underneath these anyway.
Sherlock's cock is half-hard already, and when John gets his mouth on it, Sherlock hisses. His skins tastes the way John imagined it would, sweat and leather and musk. John draws it into his mouth and presses his tongue underneath he head, his left hand reaching out to grasp Sherlock's balls. It's been a while, but John remembers this, the press of the floor against his knees, the bitter taste of pre-come on his tongue. He swallows down as much of Sherlock's cock as he can. Deep throating is a little like riding a bike, apparently. You don't lose it, even after an extended stint in the military.
Sherlock makes this noise that barely sounds human when John gets far enough down to press his nose against Sherlock's pubic hair, and John glances up at him. Sherlock's eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is hanging open and the flush on his cheeks has deepened. He looks completely wrecked, and John feels giddy with the knowledge that he can do this to Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, who routinely wanders around the criminal underworld without even batting an eyelid. Sherlock's hands tighten into fists at his side, his knuckles almost white with the effort.
"You can grab my hair if you want," John says, pulling back for a moment to catch his breath.
Sherlock does grab it, his fingers surprisingly clumsy in John's hair, but he doesn't bother trying to control John's pace. John loves sucking cock, the way his mouth feels stretched open, the press of something hard and thick against his throat, and he's so very glad to have it back after so long. And this is perfect, because it's Sherlock, someone John never thought he'd ever be able to have. Then John flicks the tip of his tongue against the glans of Sherlock's cock, and then Sherlock's fingers are tightening in John's hair, and then Sherlock is coming, hard, right down John's throat.
John stands up and brushes the dirt off his knees after he's done swallowing. He tucks away Sherlock's cock and does up Sherlock's fly. Sherlock's eyes are still closed, and his breath is still ragged and shallow. "This is when the partner usually reciprocates, yes?" Sherlock asks.
"Usually, yeah," John says. His own arousal is humming under his skin, but it's not all-consuming or demanding quite yet. "But I think I'd rather wait until we've gotten back to the flat. It'd be a lot more comfortable for you to fuck me there."
Sherlock makes a soft noise from the back of his throat. Clearly he likes the sound of that too. "Back to the flat, then?" he asks, and he sounds almost hoarse with arousal.
"Let's go," John says.
FIN.
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: NC-17
Word count: ~2000
Summary: John. Sherlock. A gay club.
Notes: Written for the kink meme forever ago. At least it's more cheerful than the last Sherlock fic I posted?
It's been a while since John was last in a club like this, but it's like he never left. Then again, nothing ever does change in gay clubs, and they're all the same anyway. John learned that the fun way. He doesn't regret how he spent his free time during uni, but it was a part of his life he never thought he'd ever revisit. He feels a little self-conscious because he donated all his clubbing gear once he started medical school, and all he's wearing is a dark button-down and a pair of jeans. Sherlock, that twat, has on black leather trousers and a white t-shirt that's so tight John is fairly certain he can see Sherlock's ribs through it. It's almost as if Sherlock's been a part of the scene his entire life, and John's the tourist just passing through, when really it's the other way around.
They've split up, John taking the upper catwalks as Sherlock scouts on the dance floor below. The man they're looking for is someone John knew back in the day on reputation alone, and from the looks of things, his usual crowd isn't out tonight. He's not likely to be here either.
John does a circuit on the catwalks, gently turning down the few offers he gets. The air still smells the same as he remembers, like sweat and sex and drugs. It still feels the same too, that same bass throbbing in his chest, that same beautiful feel of being crowded in too tightly by too many other bodies. He scans the room dutifully, but his eyes are always drawn back to Sherlock. He's hardly the most flamboyant or attention-grabbing person in the club at the moment, not even close. But John does like to watch him as he cuts through the crowd, so graceful and self-assured and untouchable. Yeah, that just about sums it up, doesn't it? John's sure almost everyone else is picking up on it, too, because Sherlock's getting a lot of stares, but not a lot of people approaching him. John tries not to feel too relieved by that. There's no use in dwelling on it.
He doesn't find anything that they're looking for, not even after he circles the club twice, no sign of the man or his very distinctive platform shoes, and John figures the night for (mostly) a wash. He could stick around for a bit, though, get a chance to re-live his youth a bit longer. There's an older blond fellow over by the far corner who's been giving him the eye, and John's considering taking him up on it. After he tells Sherlock to go home without him, of course. If John doesn't clear him out beforehand, he's bound to show up at the least convenient time possible, like he always does.
Sherlock's phone doesn't fit anywhere in his outfit, so John has to do this in-person, weaving his way through the mass of bodies until he can find the tiny bit of floor Sherlock has managed to claim for himself. As John gets closer, Sherlock fixes him with a steady look, the kind that used to unsettle John at the beginning. John's used to it now, and he waits for whatever great insight Sherlock has come up with at the moment.
"You've also discovered that he's not here tonight," Sherlock says, not even bothering to phrase it as a question.
"Yeah, he's probably long gone by now," John says. Someone elbows him in the back as they walk past him, shoving him even further into Sherlock's personal space. Usually, it would be a bit awkward, but it's not, mostly because Sherlock doesn't quite understand how personal space works. Up close, John can see that Sherlock now has small patches of glitter on his collar and neck and in his hair. They shine when one of the overhead lights passes over them, catching and reflecting the light. Sherlock's normally deathly pale face is now flushed pink from the heat of dancing bodies, his skin is covered in a fine sheen of sweat.
This is usually the point at which they leave, but John makes no move to head towards the door and Sherlock doesn't either. "For a straight man," Sherlock says eventually, "you're surprisingly comfortable in a gay club. Did you visit a club like this with your sister before? Or was it a friend who insisted that you accompany him once?"
"When did I ever say that I was straight?" John asks. Sherlock's stare gets more intense as he blinks once, twice, reevaluating this new information. And then he looks hungry in a way that only ever seems to apply to cases, not to mundane bodily things like food or sleep or sex.
"Ah, yes," Sherlock says. "That does make things a lot clearer now."
John was about to ask what that was supposed to mean, but by then Sherlock had a firm grip on John's left wrist. Sherlock drags them onto the dance floor, presses his hips right up against John's. John is never going to be as brilliant as Sherlock, but the message here is fairly unmistakable, and he's wiling to go along with it. The leather of Sherlock's trousers is smooth underneath John's hands, and John imagines peeling it off Sherlock's skin, still faintly sticky with sweat and still smelling of the club and still tasting like Sherlock. John's never been much of a dancer, but he doesn't need to be, not when he can wrap an arm around Sherlock's neck, not when he can feel the hard press of Sherlock's cock against his thigh.
"I'm not getting this wrong, am I?" John asks, and it feels faintly wrong to be shouting this so that he can be hear over the music. But Sherlock doesn't always seem to be aware of the consequences of his actions, and John just wants everything out on the table so that he doesn't completely humiliate himself.
Sherlock just gives John his most frustrated 'why must you be so stupid?' look. He presses a possessive hand against the small of John's back, underneath the soft fabric of John's shirt, so that he's sliding his fingers over John's skin. In that moment, John wants to kiss Sherlock, wants to press his lips against the smooth, unbroken skin of Sherlock's neck and mark him there. He wants everyone else to know that he was here first, and that Sherlock won't ever belong to any one of them ever even if he never belongs to John either.
When John used to visit places like this, he'd get a bit tipsy and dance for hours and hours upon end until he found someone he wanted to take home, and on those nights, even after he left the club, he always felt more alive than he'd ever felt before with the bass and the alcohol and the strobe lights still humming in his veins. He wants that again now, with his sodding flatmate of all people, and this must be what it's like to go barking mad. He pulls Sherlock's head down and kisses him before he can reason his way out of it, and Sherlock pulls John in tighter, his fingers so very warm and firm against John's spine, his tongue tracing John's lips. When Sherlock pulls back, his breathing is slightly heavy, the way it is when they've just run around London, when they're still high on the thrill of the chase.
There are so very many stupid things John could say right now, things like I love you, you tosser or God, you're the most amazing thing I've ever met or it's all right if you can't love me back or I'd really like to blow you right now. The words clog his throat, tight and almost painful. Sherlock, the brilliant bastard he is, seems to understand it without John having to say any of it. He leans in so that his lips are right next to John's left ear. "Later," he says, and it's a promise or at least as close as Sherlock Holmes is ever going to get to one.
John feels something inside him lift. He throws back his head and laughs with the thrill of it. Sherlock smiles, the way he does when John's just made a deduction that he's doesn't think is completely asinine, and John wants to kiss him again, wants to drag him into the toilets and suck him off just like this, with the glitter still in Sherlock's hair and the smile still on Sherlock's lips.
He doesn't.
Instead, he tightens his arm around Sherlock's neck and loses himself in the steady thump-thump-thump of the music, the shifting rhythms of the bodies all around them, and the feel of Sherlock's skin against his own.
The toilets can wait, after all.
---
The toilets are noisy, the way they always are this time of night, but John manages to find an empty stall. Sherlock is the one following for once, his lips pulled into a displeased frown. It's a tight fit, but John's always liked that about stalls, the way they feel closed in and not-quite-private. Like a secret. He slides to his knees and gets his hands on the fly of Sherlock's trousers, pulling the fly down and peeling the leather from Sherlock's skin. No pants, of course. They wouldn't fit underneath these anyway.
Sherlock's cock is half-hard already, and when John gets his mouth on it, Sherlock hisses. His skins tastes the way John imagined it would, sweat and leather and musk. John draws it into his mouth and presses his tongue underneath he head, his left hand reaching out to grasp Sherlock's balls. It's been a while, but John remembers this, the press of the floor against his knees, the bitter taste of pre-come on his tongue. He swallows down as much of Sherlock's cock as he can. Deep throating is a little like riding a bike, apparently. You don't lose it, even after an extended stint in the military.
Sherlock makes this noise that barely sounds human when John gets far enough down to press his nose against Sherlock's pubic hair, and John glances up at him. Sherlock's eyes are squeezed shut and his mouth is hanging open and the flush on his cheeks has deepened. He looks completely wrecked, and John feels giddy with the knowledge that he can do this to Sherlock-fucking-Holmes, who routinely wanders around the criminal underworld without even batting an eyelid. Sherlock's hands tighten into fists at his side, his knuckles almost white with the effort.
"You can grab my hair if you want," John says, pulling back for a moment to catch his breath.
Sherlock does grab it, his fingers surprisingly clumsy in John's hair, but he doesn't bother trying to control John's pace. John loves sucking cock, the way his mouth feels stretched open, the press of something hard and thick against his throat, and he's so very glad to have it back after so long. And this is perfect, because it's Sherlock, someone John never thought he'd ever be able to have. Then John flicks the tip of his tongue against the glans of Sherlock's cock, and then Sherlock's fingers are tightening in John's hair, and then Sherlock is coming, hard, right down John's throat.
John stands up and brushes the dirt off his knees after he's done swallowing. He tucks away Sherlock's cock and does up Sherlock's fly. Sherlock's eyes are still closed, and his breath is still ragged and shallow. "This is when the partner usually reciprocates, yes?" Sherlock asks.
"Usually, yeah," John says. His own arousal is humming under his skin, but it's not all-consuming or demanding quite yet. "But I think I'd rather wait until we've gotten back to the flat. It'd be a lot more comfortable for you to fuck me there."
Sherlock makes a soft noise from the back of his throat. Clearly he likes the sound of that too. "Back to the flat, then?" he asks, and he sounds almost hoarse with arousal.
"Let's go," John says.
FIN.