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.
... Look, tell me I'm not the only one going crazy with that mental image? *groan*
Fill: Spin Into Darkness (1/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:06:01 UTC
...this became a bit more plotty and dark than I had envisioned - hopefully its' still an enjoyable read...
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:
Re: Fill: Spin Into Darkness (3/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:11:10 UTC
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
( ... )
Fill: Spin Into Darkness (4/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:12:53 UTC
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
( ... )
Fill: Spin Into Darkness (5/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:14:24 UTC
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
( ... )
Fill: Spin Into Darkness (6/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:16:36 UTC
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
( ... )
Fill: Spin Into Darkness (7/?)she_burns1February 19 2011, 02:17:54 UTC
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
( ... )
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.
... Look, tell me I'm not the only one going crazy with that mental image? *groan*
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NHGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGG
GUHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH
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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 ( ... )
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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 ( ... )
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