Prompting Part XXV

[sherlockbbc_fic]

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Re: L/S FIll: Coincidences (1/6)

[what_the_blazes]

here's the first! i'll post the others as I complete them.

warning: unsanitary but non graphic club sex

1 - 1996

The first time John Watson almost found out about Sherlock Holmes and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade was a decidedly awkward occasion - awkward for Dr. Watson and Lestrade, that is. There weren’t too many situations that Sherlock Holmes considered awkward, as he was a man who regularly whipped corpses with a riding crop in the company of various morticians.

John stared across the club at Harry, his lips set in a tight line. John’s heart was pounding in time with the overload of music. She’d promised him - but he’d known better than to believe her. She stood at the bar, looking sidelong at the bartender (male), her hands curled reverently around a glass of something that looked a hell of a lot like straight whiskey.

“Excuse me.” It wasn’t a question. John glanced over at the girl beside him, noting her scowl. Bollocks. She’d seen him staring at Harry then. She looked at him, and spat in his face. Double bollocks. The girl - honestly, John couldn’t remember her name, so he supposed her exit was warranted after all - swept away in a swirl of perfume and heavy bass.

John looked back at the bar, but Harry had gone. He couldn’t be arsed to deal with her tonight, not with his exams around the corner. The girl he’d come with had dragged him away from his books, and John could feel the headache nipping behind his eyes. He heard, obviously, the music blasting out of the speakers, but he couldn’t be bothered to dance. He snorted at himself, standing stock still in the middle of a dance floor.

John shook his head to clear it (didn’t work, the headache worried at the back of eyes harder) and pushed through the crowd towards the men’s loo, apologizing as he went.

“Sorry, sorry, ‘scuse me, ah - sorry, oh - god, that is not - ah, god -” God, clubs were insanitary. Why’d he bothered to come tonight? He could be home, studying, and instead he was watching his sister slide down into alcoholism again and being accosted from all sides by - ah. The loo. Excellent.

John pushed open the door and walked to the mirror. He turned the tap on and splashed his face, revelling in the feel of the cold water against his eyes. He grimaced at his reflection and then stiffened and groaned. Loudly.

Reflected behind him in the dirty mirror, he could see two pairs of men’s shoes with trouser legs puddled about the ankles, moving rhythmically.

“Ah - Greg - good, excellent - are you aware that - a student, medical - just noticed our - oh, god, yes, Greg -” The movements paused suddenly. John heard a distinctly masculine sigh - Greg, he supposed - and rolled his eyes. Not that he had any problem with, with - it - it was fine, it was all fine, he had a lesbian sister for Christ’s sake - but in a club loo? That was utterly disgusting. And horridly awkward.

“Right, sorry, I’m leaving, I’m going, right, have - have a good time then -” John stuttered, backing hurriedly out of the bathroom. He heard a low chuckle. That was it, he was going home to his books.

Rushing out of the club, John didn’t pause to think it odd that the talking man had known he was a medical student.

And back in the loo, Sherlock Holmes sat on a grungy toilet seat with a lapful of Officer Greg Lestrade, utterly satisfied, his mind - for once - quiet. Lestrade, on the other hand, has his face buried in Sherlock’s collarbone, absolutely mortified at the thought of someone - a medical student, going to be a bloody doctor, for Christ’s sake - walking in on him and Sherlock going at it in a grimy club loo.