Fic: Spin Into Darkness

[she_burns1]

Title: Spin Into Darkness
Author: she_burns1
Pairing: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Rating: NC-17
Summary: And there, in the center of it, was Sherlock Holmes. Dancing.
Warnings: Mentions of drug use, sex, etc.
Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and was then used in a new way by Mark Gatiss, Steven Moffat, and the BBC. So, you know, nothing is mine.
Author’s Note: Prompt on Sherlock BBC Kink Meme. Prompt was: I had the sudden urge to see clubber!Sherlock. Let's say there's a massive wave of boredom washing over Baker Street - no cases, no mysteries, not even experiments can cheer Sherlock up. So he disappears, and John goes searching after him and finds him one night in one of the sleaziest dance clubs in London, higher than a kite, owning the whole dance floor and looking abso-fucking-lutely ravishable.



Moriarty had him for three days.

It had been so sudden, so abrupt, Sherlock's disappearance and return, that John could hardly digest it. It felt almost as if it had never happened at all.

One morning, Sherlock was gone and John hadn't really thought anything of it. Not until Lestrade came by later, came by with a phone that had been sent in for him this time, a phone with a waiting message, a terrible, sing-song voice mocking him:

Guess who's got a new toy, Johnny Boy?

And then Sherlock's voice. Quiet. Strange.

John.

Then nothing.

Everything after that was a frantic blur. A blur that didn't clear until Sherlock was left for them - left for them - naked and alone inside a skip. There had been one more message left on the phone - they had been so busy searching, no one had thought to check the phone again until the third day - the message was short, brief, an address and a happy little:

A present! I keep my toys in excellent condition.

When Sherlock regained consciousness he didn't give them much, insisting there wasn't much to give. They had checked him over: again and again and again. Mentally, physically, trial after trial, test after test.

He passed every single one.

On the surface it appeared that Sherlock was fine.

There wasn't a mark on him and he seemed the same as ever.

On the surface.

But John knew something was wrong, something was...off. He felt it. Felt it all the way down to the very marrow of his bones. But as time passed and no real proof was presented to him, he could do nothing past hold his tongue and wait, wait for his suspicions to be made genuine.

§

Boredom.

Even John felt it.

It had been so bloody boring the past couple of weeks. No cases, no mysteries, not even anything good on the telly. Just staggering monotony. Sherlock didn't even have any experiments going on and this was when John's suspicions finally took some merit.

Sherlock said everything was fine.

"Fine?" John asked quizzically.

Sherlock shrugged, "There's more to life than murders and science."

"...who are you and what have you done with Sherlock Holmes?" this was said half in jest and half in serious concern. John reached out, palm ready to check his forehead, "Best check your temperature."

Sherlock had brushed off any advances to touch him, instead getting up from his spot on the couch, shrugging on his jacket, "Think I'll step out for a bit. Need anything?"

John just looked at him, shook his head, still struggling with the way the man was acting. Since returning from his abduction, Sherlock had, ostensibly, been constant. Same biting remarks, same quick wit, same everything.

This, at last, was a break in that facade.

It was like a crack in plaster and John examined it, studied it, wondered what it meant. He was just about to voice his concerns when he noticed Sherlock was all ready gone. He licked his lips and scratched at his neck. Then, without another thought, he grabbed his own coat and got to his feet, determined to follow.

But Sherlock was all ready gone. Swallowed by the night. John had no idea where he had gone or when he would be back. He had two options: he could give up now, go back up to the flat and wait or...

He started walking the streets of London, no clear direction in mind, no clear plan, but somehow hoping for a clue, a glimpse, something that would lead him to Sherlock. He wandered for over an hour, up and down streets, coat collar turned up against the wind when a car pulled up alongside him.

The woman who called herself Anthea poked her head out of the window, a folded slip of paper in one hand, "For you."

John took it and, before he could reply, the car drove off. John unfolded it and found an neatly written address. He hailed a cab and soon enough found himself in front of a club, of all places. He eyed the stylized neon lighting with some trepidation, wondering what on earth he was doing here.

Oh, of course, he had an idea, but...

He got out of the car, paid the driver, and walked up to the club. A large queue of people were wrapped around the building and a group of large men guarded the main entrance. John cleared his throat as he walked up to them, "Excuse me-"

"Name?"

"John Watson."

One of the men turned away, speaking into a headset. The people in line glared at him and he started to explain, "Oh, no, I don't - I don't need to - I just, I was wondering-"

"Let him in," One of the men said firmly, John blinked, startled, "I'm...sorry? What?"

"You're on the list. Boss gave you the green light."

"Boss?"

The man nodded as he and his compatriots made room for John to pass, "Mr. Pike said he welcomes any friend of Sherlock Holmes."

John slowly started to enter the club, wincing as the full effect of pulsing music, smoke (fog machine?) and whirling lights in the dark hit him, he turned to the man and raised the volume of his voice, the music close to deafening, "Have you seen Sherlock?"

The man grinned, "Hard to miss a bloke who looks like a praying mantis. Especially when he's dancing."

"Dancing?" John repeated incredulously, crossed between amused and stunned. He moved further into the club. Though this was a difficult feat, the place packed tight with people - a majority of whom were scantily clad.

John averted his eyes in some places, because he saw things that he was quite sure he had never wanted to see (and were also highly illegal) and he was trying his best to pick Sherlock out of the crowd.

The whole club was nothing but sensory overload - sounds, sights, smells. Despite what the man had said, he started to highly doubt he would be able to find Sherlock in all this mess, until, suddenly, the swarm of people before him gave way to a large dance floor that was blindly bright, the floor itself illuminated.

And there, in the center of it, was Sherlock Holmes.

Dancing.

But more than that, he was, well, he looked...

Astounding.

John watched, eyes wide, because the man before him, the man he lived with, spent an exorbitant amount of time with, now looked like a complete stranger. Like a man possessed. He moved so fluidly with the music, lost in it, absorbed by it. He was a being transformed.

And he was beautiful.

His coat and scarf were gone, his suit clinging to him, the top buttons of his shirt undone just enough to expose his pale, slender throat, curls of his hair tighter from sweat, skin coated in a light sheen of perspiration

The people around watched with rapt fascination, admiration on their faces, some calling out to him, rooting him on as he owned the floor, dominated it, and John knew then that the group had backed away specifically to watch him, to give him room to be this...fantastic.

His body's movements were perfectly timed, coinciding within the beat, and it was as if he had been made for this, just this, as if he had no other function, no other purpose in life, past dancing. It was breath-taking.

And then, as if taken by instinct, Sherlock looked up and his eyes met John's.

John swallowed and rigidly ignored the fact that his heart skipped a beat.

Sherlock smiled then, a wide, open, sincere smile and John's heart not only missed a beat, it started scattering all over the place, dropping into his stomach only to shoot back up to his throat, strangling him.

More so, when Sherlock charged over to him and drew him close, hugging him tightly, clutching him and slowly, John returned to his senses, returned to the fact that something was very, very, very wrong here.

Because this was not the Sherlock he knew.

This was not the way Sherlock acted.

The club's patrons started to fill in the empty space behind them, flooding back onto the dance floor now that the show was over. This drew them closer together, tightly encapsulating them, and John could hardly breathe.

Sherlock was wrapped around him, long limbs almost tangling over one another, and really, for some reason it made John think of an overenthusiastic greyhound. He started to try and extricate himself, speaking quietly, even though he knew it would be lost to the din, "Sherlock..."

Sherlock drew back, hands on either side of John's head as he looked in his eyes, still smiling as he shouted, "John! It's good to see you!"

Up close, John examined Sherlock's face, and he frowned. There was something there, something he recognized...

Before he could say anything about it though the music changed, a newer, (if possible, even louder) song pounding the air and Sherlock was dancing again, but this time he moved John with him, hands on his hips, grinding obscenely against him.

John's internal temperature immediately sky rocketed, heat lancing through his veins, blushing from his head to his toe as he tried to put the brakes on this, hands on Sherlock's shoulders, pushing, struggling, his voice broken up, only certain words audible, "Sherlock - can't - stop! - don't - dance."

"What?"

John tried again, "Can't - dance!"

"Sure, you can! Just move!" Sherlock punctuated this with a particularly pointed thrust of his body against John's and John cursed, eyes rolling back because, okay, he was getting aroused.

He couldn't help it.

It had nothing to do with Sherlock, because, Christ, he wasn't gay, but what with the heat and the pressure and the friction (the blessed, blessed friction) his body didn't know any better. It just saw everything as an ignition to fireworks, the drumming of the music in his blood, beating in time with his heart.

John swallowed, tried to get a handle on things, tried to ignore the fact that he was growing rapidly harder with each passing second and then he knew Sherlock had to feel his erection, because the man leaned forward, closer so much closer, mouth near his ear, voice dark and deep and husky, "Want to fuck me, John?"

John groaned, loud and low, and it was hidden in the sounds, in the smells, in the dark of the club.

Sherlock's voice, his action, weren't, his tongue teasing the lobe of John's ear, flickering against it lightning quick, whispering, "You do, don't you? Right here, right now, right in front of everyone, want to fuck me right into the dance floor..."

John couldn't answer because he was quite positive he had died and gone to hell. Or Heaven. Or some place that couldn't possibly be planet Earth or reality or...

Sherlock bit his ear then and John cried out, startled, and, being so, pushed him away. Sherlock, not expecting this, fell back, knocking into someone and then the insanity just turned up another notch as the man he bumped into turned and, for whatever reason, threw a punch.

The man's fist met smartly with Sherlock's face but Sherlock, not even fazed for a second, merely returned the blow. Soon enough a fight broke out between the two - it was vicious and short - both men getting good hits in on the other. John had to grab Sherlock around the middle, had to drag him away, as he screamed curses at his opponent.

Some of the men who had been guarding the front door earlier were now present, obviously tasked with breaking up the scuffle. One of them was the very same man who had referred to Sherlock as a preying mantis, and it was he who led them away from the floor, taking them to a private room.

The room was composed of two way mirrors, the occupants in the room could see out, but the people in the club could not see in. It was lavishly decorated with plush, dark furniture and blissfully quieter. John didn't know how they managed that, but he appreciated it as the man who led them in, spoke, eyes directly on John, "He okay?"

John settled Sherlock on a chaise lounge, voice tight, "Think so."

The man nodded, "I'll bring you guys something to drink and something to bandage him up with."

"Thank you, um-"

"Johnson."

"Yes, thank you, Johnson."

Johnson disappeared and John looked at Sherlock, not even sure how to properly address what had just happened. Sherlock was sitting up now, rubbing at his jaw. His bottom lip had been cut and there was a nice gash on his left cheekbone. The blood was bright against his skin and the sight of it just made John angrier.

Because John finally knew what it was that he recognized when he had examined Sherlock's face earlier.

Harry.

Sherlock was the same as Harry.

Not drunk, no, but his actions were the same as hers were when she gave into her addiction.

The same enthusiastic yet shifty front, the same glazed eyes, the same uncharacteristic behavior.

But Sherlock's addiction was not alcohol, which meant it could only be one thing..

When John asked the question he didn't want to ask, dreaded asking, his voice was sharp and cold, "Are you high?"

Sherlock blinked. His head reared back. He blinked again. He opened his mouth to answer but John didn't let him, his fury building to a fever pitch, "It's cocaine. Isn't it? Isn't it!"

The last isn't a question, because John knew the answer, knew it and hated it, and before he could really sink his teeth into the issue Johnson returned. He set down a tray with two glasses of water, some towels, bandages and a bucket of ice. John thanked him quietly.

Before leaving Johnson cleared his throat and went over to Sherlock, handing him a small drawstring bag, "Pike told me to give this to you. He said you can stay here as long as you like. You will not be disturbed."

Sherlock opened the bag, looked inside, then gave a curt nod. Johnson disappeared. John eyed the bag, arms crossed, "And what's in that?"

Sherlock cleared his throat, closing his hand tightly around it, "Nothing."

His words caused John to actually physically stagger a little, as if his leg was still weak, as if he still needed his cane, the weight of it, the idea of it, almost too much to bear. He closed his eyes, shaking his head as he leaned back against the door, "You're back on it again."

Sherlock didn't answer. Instead he took to wiping the blood off his face, once that was done, he got to his feet and looked out into the crowd. He stood next to John, hands in his pockets, "How did you find me?"

"Mycroft."

"Of course."

"Why did you even ask then?"

"Wanted you to dial back a bit," Sherlock said as he approached him. He raised his hands on either side of John's head, pressing them into the door, pining John, crowding his personal space as he said, "So we can return to more important things."

John scoffed dryly, feeling beyond hysterical, too many things culminating at once for him to even focus on the one that upset him the most, "Like what?"

Sherlock came closer, his breath caressing John's face, his eyes casting to one side, "We can see them. But they can't see us."

"Meaning?"

Sherlock's eyes took on a predatory gleam as his head darted to one side, his mouth capturing John's. John's hands rose up, pushed hard on Sherlock's chest, his response gruff, "Sherlock! What the hell are you-?"

"Kiss me back."

"No!"

"Why?"

"For one thing, I'm furious at you, for another, I'm not gay."

"Correct on both accounts. On the first, you are angry, which will make this all the more satisfying, on the second, you're bisexual."

"Wow. Wrong. So wrong. Obviously the drugs have all ready addled your all ready fragile mind."

"My mind is exactly the opposite of fragile, I assure you."

"I don't give a-, right, you know what? We're going home."

"Are we?"

"I sure as hell am! Now get out of my way!" John shoved at Sherlock but was merely shoved back, pressed harder against the door, his lips captured a second time.

John let out an aggravated sound, still struggling against Sherlock who didn't budge an inch. No, instead he angled his head to one side, hands clutching first at John's sides, then his shoulders, before threading recklessly through his hair, curling and twisting the short strands of it, tugging hard.

John gasped, surprised by the pain, and, allowing his mouth to drop open for the sound also allowed Sherlock's tongue to slide into his mouth, to play against his own. The kiss was hungry, vicious, and, worse, John was finding himself becoming increasingly attracted to it.

It was mutating from annoying and repulsive to erotic and dirty. His breathe, his blood, his life was getting swept up into. It was consuming him like a fire, burning everything away to ash.

His hands had stopped pushing Sherlock away and now instead were gripping onto the lapels of his suit, tugging roughly, drawing him closer, the anger from earlier translating into this, whatever this was.

They pawed at one another like animals in heat as John started kissing him back. It was like they were fighting with their mouths, teeth and tongue weapons, clashing fiercely against one another. John tasted cooper and his eyes (which he was unaware he had even closed) snapped open.

He came back to himself a little, drew back, panting, and breathing felt almost erogenous because it had been so long since he had taken in any air. Sherlock's lip was bleeding fresh, and he swiped at it quickly, his hands clutching at John's jumper, long, spidery fingers sliding under the left side of his collar, tugging it to one side, "There are so many ways to hurt a man and not leave a mark on him. I want to mark you, John. I want to see it."

Sherlock's head darted forward then, biting down hard at the juncture where John's neck met his shoulder. John cried out at the unexpected sting of Sherlock's teeth and this time when he pushed him away, Sherlock went. There was more blood and John didn't know if it was from Sherlock or himself this time.

The air was filled with the sound of heavy breathing and John's hand grappled with the doorknob a moment before abandoning it, instead going to his neck, pressing against it, drawing it back so he could look at it. His hand was shaking, his fingers were shaking, he was shaking.

Sherlock came towards him again, different this time, smoother, more seductive, murmuring, "John, lie down. Lie down and I'll take care of you. I won't do that again. I promise."

"Wh-why did you do it?"

"I told you." Sherlock's mouth went to same spot, but gentle this time, so very gentle, blowing coolly against the skin, then kissing it delicately. John moaned, felt his whole body twitch at the action, and he suddenly noticed that there was an incredible heaviness to him.

God, it was want.

He had never wanted this bad in all his life.

His whole body throbbed with want, with need, blood pulsing through his veins thickly. It was like he was drowning, even more so, when Sherlock turned him, directed him, pushed him back onto the lounge, his whole body sinking downward.

Sherlock rose over him, eyes glinting with avarice, fingers making quick work of John's trousers, unbuttoning and unzipping, and there was a maddening urgency to it, his clothing almost being wrenched aside, torn apart and opened to free his erection and John wondered how he had ended up here - how he had gone from anger to passion to Sherlock looking at him as if his mouth was watering.

And maybe it was, because Sherlock licked his lips, hands taking a firm hold of John's dick, long, tapered fingers running up and down the length of it before his mouth closed over it, tip of his tongue circling the head before he took him deeper, deeper, into his mouth, practically swallowing and John struggled to make his lungs work, to draw in air because Sherlock was devouring him.

Not gagging, not even a little, and John got the distinct impression that Sherlock not only liked this, he loved it, craved it, and this was confirmed as he drew back, making John hiss, his lips planting quick, messy kisses on John's hips - mouth meeting clothing and skin alike as he spoke, voice like crushed glass, "You can fuck me now, John."

John's eyes sealed tightly shut as Sherlock's mouth resumed its' earlier activities, soaking up the heat and the taste and when Sherlock grabbed his hips roughly, when he urged them to move, to thrust, John knew immediately what it was that he wanted.

"Sherlock," the name was a strangled groan as John's hands carded through Sherlock's curls, digging in, cradling his head as he let his hips move, just a little, just enough, just in and in and in. And he tried not to think about the fact that he was unabashedly fucking Sherlock's mouth.

The same mouth that hurled both abuse and brilliance like bullets, the same mouth that had taunted him, the same mouth that had kissed him, the same mouth that was now working over him.

The couch beneath them started making unreasonable creaking sounds that seemed to coincided with the pulsing beat of the current music playing outside the room, and John knew there were people out there, on the other side of the mirrored walls rocking shamelessly against one another, much like he was doing now but different, oh, so different.

Sherlock's fingers started stroking his thighs, his hips, and John felt his whole body undulating, everything rough and erratic and perfect.

Wonderful.

Wonderful as he came, shaking and moaning, babbling incoherently, and Sherlock just drank it all in, mouth not stopping until the last of John's shivers subsided, and then slowly, ever so slowly, he released him, wet and sticky into the cool air.

John panted, blinking rapidly, because he had never...

Okay, there was a lot he had never done in this instance, but right now, in particular, he was stuck on how he had never had an orgasm hit him so hard. It was as if he had been electrocuted, mind still buzzing as if panicked, and he ran a hand through his hair, gasping, sort of star struck.

He looked down at Sherlock who still hovered over him, rested between his legs, eyes tightly closed, lips shiny red, face flushed and John got the strangest impression that he was concentrating. Concentrating on what he couldn't fathom, but-

Oh.

John suddenly knew the answer, knew Sherlock was doing his best not to come from just that - just from sucking John off - and, stirred by that, he sat up, tucking himself away, hands going to Sherlock's shoulders and Sherlock's eyes popped open, the glazed look gone, replaced with something startling clear, his voice choked, "John-"

John kissed him into silence, moving them to the floor, the lounge not big enough for what he had in mind, the carpet plush and more than acceptable. His body covered Sherlock's as he broke their kiss, his face going down to burrow first into Sherlock's neck, then over, lips mouthing his collarbone before settling right on that spot, the one where his shirt gaped open.

Deft hands found his trousers, zip undone, slipping inside to find him, to grasp him and Sherlock released a throaty groan, a curse, then John's name as his hips bucked upward into the touch, hungry for it, his body overstimulated to begin with.

It was awkward and surreal and John had no earthly idea what he was doing, but he did his best, curious and oddly pleased to find the other man so hard, so full, just because of him. He stroked his length smartly, grip firm, thumb brushing the head and it didn't take long before a broken, desperate cry rent the air, wetness coating John's hand.

John drew away, found the tray, found the water and towels and wiped off his hands. Sherlock didn't move from his spot on the floor. John turned, looked at him, lying there, and it was as if someone had taken a beautiful vase and smashed it to pieces.

His clothes were rumpled, his hair sticking out at odd angles, his eyes closed as his hands moved gingerly, adjusting himself. It was strangely engrossing to watch, Sherlock reverting, turning back into the man John knew.

The man John knew.

That was a laugh.

John didn't know Sherlock anymore than he knew himself apparently.

He sighed, rubbed at his face, and knew there was a hell of a lot to think about, to come to terms with. After all, he had just had sex with a man. And, more importantly, sex with Sherlock.

Sex with a regular bloke was complicated enough, but Sherlock...

And a Sherlock that had been, more like than not, under the influence.

John started to feel the heavy weight of guilt at that realization and he sank back to the floor, lying next to Sherlock, eyes on the ceiling. When he spoke it was a whisper, "Sherlock, I didn't...I didn't mean to take advantage-"

"You didn't," Sherlock interrupted, his tone firm, "I wanted this. I've always wanted..."

He trailed off, something he almost never did, and John swallowed thickly as he continued, picking up on an entirely different note, "Mycroft sent you. He knew where I was and what I was up to, Pike being my previous, and now, current supplier. The bag I was given, as you had correctly surmised earlier, contains cocaine. Mycroft sent you, not only because you were the better option, but because he's busy. He's trying to hunt down Moriarty. He won't find him. No one will."

John let that sink in and when Sherlock spoke next, his voice was so quiet, so dead, that John wasn't all together sure Sherlock even knew he was talking aloud, "It helps...it makes me forget what he did, what he made me do."

John's head turned and he looked at him, "Sherlock..."

"I don't want to talk about it. Ever." This was said with adamant finality. John nodded succinctly, deciding that now wasn't the best time, but, eventually, he knew he would have to get to the truth, no matter what it cost them.

Sherlock pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes a moment, then let his arms rest on either side of him, clearing his throat before he continued, "I was clean, John."

"I know."

Sherlock breathed in deeply, "Now I'll have to start all over again."

John noticed Sherlock's hand was near his own and he covered it, squeezed it before letting his fingers interlacing with Sherlock's, "Not alone."

Sherlock looked down at their joined hands, then, timidly, he squeezed John's hand back, "No. I suppose not."