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Maybe this hadn’t been such a great idea after all.
John did blend in. A little too well. They had split up in order to canvas more of the club, but he kept attracting inconvenient attention from predatory nitwits who thought he was up for some ‘military discipline.’ Every time their paths crossed, Sherlock found himself forced to make a point of John’s ‘taken’ status, looming possessively over him or pointedly toying with the chain around his neck, which John tolerated with the same resigned grace as when Sherlock loomed over him at crime scenes or pointedly lifted his cell phone.
The idiots had no idea they owed Sherlock their lives. He’d have liked to watch John deal with them, frankly, only it would’ve got them booted out of the club. And god help them all—especially Sherlock—if some fool thought John was fair game for taking a whip to.
He stalked over, yet again, to grab John by his chain and drag him away from the suicidal monkeys. John caught his wrist. “Could you stop doing that? It’s beginning to chafe.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned in. One of them had to look like he was trying. Only John could lark about half-naked, getting gawped at and sexually handled, and react the same way he did to forgetting the sugar in his coffee.
Obligingly seizing John by the hair, Sherlock marched him to a different room. Several people looked up at them with interest as they crossed the threshold, because John was flushed and breathing hard in clear signs of arousal.
Sherlock pushed him to the side, up against the wall, and blocked the room’s view of him. “What are you doing?”
John ran his hands over his face, trying to regain some control. “Sorry!” he hissed, sounding more annoyed than repentant. “How was I supposed to know? You’ve never dragged me anywhere by the hair before.”
No, but it certainly wasn’t going to be the last time. Sherlock glowered at the room’s occupants via the little decorative mirror to his right. “Fine. Come on, then, before one of this bunch suggests a threesome.” This time he snared John’s waistband…and then stopped. John’s eyes flickered up at him sheepishly. “You’re not wearing underwear.”
John shrugged. “You’re the one who always goes on about versimillitude in costuming.”
Sherlock licked his lips. They did not have time for this. “I hope it rubs,” he growled into John’s ear, and then hauled him away from the wall and into the next room.
Lovely. Now Sherlock was going to have to spend the rest of the night trying to sustain brain function in the face of that. No, this had not been a good idea at all.