Archive of Our Own ^beta

             “I’m not even a jazz music fan,” Sherlock argued.

            Irene flashed him her trademark seductive smile. “You’ll be one after you see him perform. He’s simply marvellous. Plus he used to be a doctor.” She paused and looked sideways at Sherlock. “And a solider.”

            “I don’t see why that would make me like his singing more,” Sherlock said impetuously.

            Irene threw back her head and cackled loudly. “Oh, honey, you’re not the only one who observes. You have a thing for military men.”

            Sherlock decided he didn’t want to know how she found out, so he remained silent as they crossed the busy streets towards the jazz club. He turned up his coat collar, and shrugged off Irene’s hand that had tried to cling to his bicep.

“You could at least say thank-you. It was really difficult to get these tickets. They sold out fast.”

Sherlock wasn’t listening to her. He was busy picturing the various case files Lestrade had left at his flat. Cold cases weren’t nearly as appealing as a fresh murder, but they were loads better than the various social functions Irene coerced him into. He figured he’d be able to slip out after a few songs, as Irene would probably be too busy scouting out a girl for her next conquest.

The pair slipped into the front door and gave their tickets to a heavily tattooed blonde woman working at the ticket booth. “They’re under the name “Adler.””

“Ah, yes, the birthday party. Just the two of you, then?” the woman asked.

“Yes. He’s my best friend. Just in case you were wondering,” Irene replied.

Sherlock didn’t have to turn around to know that Irene would be biting her rouged lips. His mouth twitched into a brief smile. That was fast.

            “Duly noted,” the woman grinned at Irene as she gestured for them to follow her into the performance room and towards a small, round table near the very front of the stage. There were already a lot of people in the booth seats at the back of the room and at the larger tables in the middle. Sherlock supposed Irene had pulled some strings to get them the best seats.

“So, are you two Watson fans?” the ticket lady asked curiously.

            “Oh, he is. I think he has a bit of a crush on him if you ask me,” Irene said, sitting down primly.

            She glanced at Sherlock, beaming. “Is that so? Well, I’ll have to let him know.”

            Sherlock frowned as he shrugged out of his coat, and draped it over his chair. Irene was really trying to make it clear that they weren’t together. He’d let her have her way if it meant he could leave the place early. Studiously ignoring the two women, he gazed out on stage at the set up for the band and one empty chair in the middle.

            Irene ordered a bottle of wine for them. Sherlock told her it tasted like piss, but he drank his glass anyway.

            “So… tattoos?” Sherlock asked.

            Irene shrugged and took a sip of her wine. “I wonder if she’ll actually tell John about your crush.”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes. “I don’t have a crush. I never even knew of his existence until you dragged me here.”

            “Oh, stop sulking and drink your wine,” Irene said, while filling his glass again.

            Since Sherlock hadn’t eaten in a long time, the wine made him feel slightly tipsy. He had to admit though, it was tasting better the more he drank of it. Maybe the same could be said for the show.

            The lights pointed on the stage began brightening, and a line of people walked on stage and took seats in front of their instruments. Sherlock was surprised at how many people were in the band. John Watson had to be at least a decent singer to not be drowned out by so many musicians. He settled into his chair and schooled his most arrogant expression just so Irene wouldn’t accuse him of enjoying himself.

            When John Watson walked on stage the audience clapped and whistled. He smiled and greeted everyone humbly with a London accent perhaps from the suburbs, Sherlock deduced. He was fairly short for a man, but with a sturdy build, and blonde hair with some silver running through it. He wore a crisp black suit with a white shirt and skinny black tie. Bright red and purple striped socks peeked out from under his pant legs. Cheeky.

Sherlock figured that the spot lights were too bright for John to see the audience properly, but since he and Irene were sitting so close to the stage, he had a feeling John could see them perfectly. His suspicions were proved correct when John slowly lowered his eyes to Sherlock’s. John’s eyes, deep blue, like the element cobalt when mixed with chlorine, fixed on Sherlock. John schooled an unidentifiable expression that was close to amusement or satisfaction. Great, he knows about the “crush.” Sherlock scowled up at John, and John ran his tongue along his teeth and continued to stare down at him. Sherlock sensed something untamed, akin to mischief prowling behind those baby blues. He felt his scowl morph into a genuine grin before he remembered he was supposed to be sulking. When John winked at him, Sherlock’s breath hitched a little. Although Sherlock attributed that to surprise and not because he already thought that John was stunning.

The band began playing and John stepped closer to the microphone to begin his first song. As he sang, Sherlock listened. And listened. And really listened. John was well into his ninth or tenth song, when Irene leaned over the table to address Sherlock. “He’s brilliant. Isn’t he?”

Sherlock blinked and tried to think of an appropriate response. It was as if he forgot how to talk. How long had he been here? His Mind Palace was beautifully redecorated with the soothing sounds and images of John Watson. He wished he had other senses with which to categorize the man. Taste, touch, smell... those were missing from the John Watson room in his Mind Palace.

John wasn’t a perfect singer, but he was captivating. His voice was clearly a delicious tenor. He was able to hit high notes Sherlock wouldn’t even dream of, but he was also decent at lower notes as well. Sherlock couldn’t help but wonder what he would sound like accompanied by violin, his violin.

There was also something undeniably sexy about John Watson. The music seemed to vibrate and pulsate through his body. He kept canting his hips subconsciously forward as if the music was trapped inside him and moving him of its own accord. And then there were the times during band solos when John’s body would still. He’d close his eyes and tilt his head to the ceiling. His expression became wonderfully blank; the tendons in his throat relaxed as if John could feel the physical presence of the music ghosting through him. John’s pink lips were set into a satisfied smile, and his eyelids quivered as if he was imagining something that gave him great pleasure. Those moments made Sherlock’s body still as well while he watched the pulse on John’s tanned throat flutter faster.

Sherlock made other observations about John that he found similarly fascinating. The man was clearly right-handed, but grasped the microphone in his left, while the fingers on his right hand periodically curled and straightened. Irene said he used to be a doctor and a solider, so injured surgeon with nerve damage. He was probably shot in his upper arm or shoulder. And when he walked on stage, he limped, but as the performance drew out, the limp disappeared. Oh, Dr. Watson, you’re just full of surprises, aren’t you?

He danced along the stage and improvised some moves during the more upbeat songs that Sherlock would have found dorky and intolerable from anyone else, but when John did them, they were so cute. Since when did Sherlock go for cute? Since when did Sherlock go for anyone? He spared those thoughts less than a few seconds. Obviously he was waiting for John Watson to waltz into his Mind Palace and capture his attention.

He felt Irene watching him. The smugness radiated off her in waves. “He’s good,” Sherlock allowed. John was taking a short break for some water, and a quick chat with his pianist, a good-looking, red-haired man who had curiously slipped his hand into the small of John’s back while they regarded the sheet music in front of them. Why does he get to touch him? Sherlock’s nostrils flared as he exhaled audibly. The piano player was clearly a wanker.

“He looks at you a lot,” Irene said.

“No he doesn’t,” Sherlock retorted a little too quickly, still glaring daggers at the piano player. He hadn’t dared to hope that perhaps John was paying more attention to him. “He can’t even see the audience. The spot light is blinding.”

“Or maybe it’s your cheekbones.”

Sherlock gave Irene a black look, but he didn’t have time to respond because the music started up again. It was a sad song mostly accompanied by piano. And there it was again: John stared right into his eyes as he sang the chorus.

 “Life can show no mercy.

It can tear your soul apart.

It can make you feel like you've gone crazy

But you're not.”

Sherlock swallowed the lump rising in his throat. John Watson, what are you? As an experienced musician, Sherlock could tell when John occasionally substituted notes or bended the phrases to fit his voice in that moment. John really was skilled, but it was such a casual type of skill. Definitely not calculated, or copied from other performers for the sake of showmanship. No, John was separate from the cacophony of singers who all sounded vaguely similar. It was as if John gathered his own emotions and experiences and poured them out into this intense vocal passion.

Just from his voice Sherlock knew that this man was a lover, a brawler, a care taker, and so, so much more. He loves passionately, and loses those loves with utter devastation. He’s a fighter, and yet there’s traces of fear, sadness, and loneliness in his voice too. Why are you so lonely, John Watson? Sherlock also caught glimpses of that untamed quality he witnesses earlier. This man is dangerous. I bet he’s a beauty when he’s angry. Red hot, wildfire anger.

Sherlock’s whole face felt hot. He imagined that his Mind Palace was lit on fire. The filing cabinets caught fire first, and then it licked its way up the curtains and across the floor boards and winding staircases. Room after room filled with the murders he solved and the experiments he’d completed were melted and scorched to crusts of black carbon. Soon it spread to the rest of his body. He wouldn’t be surprised if ash started flaking from his skin. A burning man from the inside out; that was the only explanation, which must be why his belly felt so hot and his trousers became a little too snug.

“’Cause you are not alone,

And I am there with you,

And we’ll get lost together,

‘Til the light comes pouring through.”

Sherlock forced his right hand, which had been gripping the edge of the table too tightly, to grasp his wine glass and take a drink. He needed to calm down. John’s bright blue eyes, which seemed lighter because of their frosty lashes, lingered on Sherlock’s face. Sherlock audibly gulped his wine, and almost spilled it when he set the glass back down. John had removed the microphone from its stand, and started walking closer to the edge of the stage where there were stairs leading to the audience.

“'Cause when you feel like you’re done,

And the darkness has won,

Babe, you’re not lost!”

Sherlock licked the wine from his lips. Is he walking towards me? No he couldn’t be. But John’s smooth voice was behind him now, caressing him and lulling him. He realized his nervousness before was simply excitement. What’s to stop him from seducing John the way John seduces his audience? Sherlock turned around swiftly in his seat, and rested his chin against the back of his chair to gaze at John.

The man didn’t seem surprised by Sherlock’s sudden movements. He sang the chorus with a small smile tilting his lips. Sherlock couldn’t lie to himself anymore: John was clearly interested, and his mischievous smile was turning Sherlock on in indecently quickly. Still, Sherlock felt compelled to hold John’s gaze not because he was singing right in front of him, but because Sherlock saw in John’s face something especially kind and tender. No one had ever looked at him like that.

As the song grew quieter, Sherlock realized John was stepping a lot closer to his chair than he anticipated. “I said, baby, you’re not lost…” the last line trailed off. John dipped his head so close to Sherlock he could smell his cologne. “Happy Birthday, love.” John’s voice was dripping honey, and Sherlock wanted to drown in it.

He tilted his head up, and leaned just close enough to enclose more of John into his senses. The cologne masked John’s real scent, but if he could just get closer… wait a second. Sherlock stopped trying to sniff John. That probably looked a bit odd. Instead Sherlock took a deep breath and grinned sheepishly up at him. “Thank you,” he said. For existing.

John was still so very close to him. Vaguely, Sherlock registered people were clapping for John, so they probably wouldn’t notice their exchange. “Would you be opposed to letting me sing a song to you on stage?”

“Pardon?” Sherlock said. The clapping was rather loud, so it wasn’t unreasonable to assume that he couldn’t hear the man.

John leaned in closer. Perfect. So close Sherlock felt a trace of John’s stubble rub against his smooth cheek. “Can I sing for you? On stage?” John asked again.

“You’ve been doing that all night,” Sherlock replied. And just because he was feeling daring, he leaned into John’s cheek and nuzzled him slightly. How much wine did I drink? he wondered.

John’s eyes widened only slightly. “Excellent.” He straightened up swiftly, and Sherlock’s face felt cold without the radiating warmth of John’s body heat near him. John’s nose and upper lip twitched adorably before he began speaking into the microphone. “Last song of the night dedicated to—what’s your name, love?” John asked.

            “Sherlock Holmes,” Irene called out before he could answer.

            “Last song dedicated to Sherlock who has agreed to come on stage for this one.” John held out his hand so as to help Sherlock out of his chair. Sherlock graciously accepted it, noting the calluses, scars, and no rings anywhere on the man’s hands. The only sense he needed for his Museum of John Watson in his Mind Palace was taste. And that thought quickly derailed when John pressed his lips to Sherlock’s hand. “Happy Birthday, Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the microphone as the audience clapped. John savoured Sherlock’s name like fine Champagne. His lips and hand and voice were so warm. John is the fire. John is torching his Mind Palace, and it was so beautifully bright and hot.

            They got a few catcalls (mostly from Irene) as John pulled Sherlock up and onto the stage. “Sit right there.” John led him to the chair in center stage. Sherlock collapsed into it as John stepped towards his band to tell them the last song he wanted to sing.

Sherlock straightened his purple button-down as he knew it was gaping open, and he suddenly felt self-conscious. What am I doing up here? The lights made him blink owlishly as his heart-rate quickened.

            And then John was in his line of sight again. Warm hands covered his that were tightened around the material of his shirt. “Don’t fuss, love. You’re gorgeous.” Sherlock relaxed just like that. Right, he was here for John. John asked him to be here. John. John who kept calling him “love.” Oh, if only.

“I have to ask, this song gets a tad theatrical.” John paused and huffed a laugh. “Are you fine with me touching you… a bit?”

            Sherlock sensed a bit of tension in John’s face as he surveyed Sherlock. But what he saw in Sherlock’s expression must have satisfied him, because he relaxed noticeably. Ah, he was worried that I’m in the closet. All Sherlock could do was nod dumbly and bite back all of his rather suggestive replies. “It’s all fine, John,” he finally choked out.

            “Good.” John nodded and removed his hands from Sherlock’s so that he could stand up properly. “Good,” he said again and winked as he began backing a few steps away from Sherlock’s chair, but still standing very much in front of him.

            The song started up. John began tapping his foot and swaying his body to the introduction music. God, he even made foot tapping seductive. Sherlock registered that the song involved the whole band: two types of guitars, percussion, clarinet, trombone, trumpet, and piano. Everything else fell away; the lights, the people, and the possessive (and idiotic) piano player were dulled down in Sherlock’s mind in favour of wrapping himself completely in the experience that was John Watson.

            “If you want a lover

I'll do anything you ask me to.

And if you want another kind of love

I'll wear a mask for you.”

John crooned softly with that mischief-laden grin. He had to know how he was affecting Sherlock. John’s right hand grasped his own muscled thigh through his suit, and he ran his fingers up his leg as it kept tapping to his music. Oh, that only made Sherlock think of John’s fingers grasping at his naked back. It looked like a trademark move, and some of the women in the audience tittered delightedly. A lot his dance moves seemed jerky and unpredictable, brought on by the music and the vibes of the room, but it all suited John. It’s all fine. Sherlock knew he was grinning in a rather predatory way by now. It’s all over my face. Irene will never shut up about this.

“If you want a partner

Take my hand.

Or if you want to strike me down in anger

Here I stand.

I'm your man.”

            It was good the audience couldn’t see Sherlock head on, because there was no way his tight trousers were going to conceal his obvious arousal. Oh well. He might as well get into the performance a little more. He sat up a little straighter and tilted his head up, exposing his long neck as his upper body began swaying to John’s music. Sherlock saw John’s tongue run along his bottom lip as he sang. Sherlock was so bloody aware that John was stepping closer with every note. This was the longest moment of Sherlock’s life, yet it was going by too fast.

            “If you want a boxer

I will step into the ring for you.”

John did a couple theatrical punches into the air for laughs. And then he took one long stride and he was right there in front of Sherlock. It took a lot of willpower for Sherlock not to just grab him and pull him onto his lap.

“And if you want a doctor

I’ll examine every inch of you.”

Oh, yes, please, Dr. Watson, Sherlock thought, as John checked him out appraisingly. Sherlock beckoned him closer, and John stepped so near that their knees brushed together.

“If you want a driver

Climb inside.

Or if you want to take me for a ride,

You know you can.

I'm your man.”

            Oh the implications. Sherlock swore John could see his pupils dilate. Instead of belting out the last line, John chose a softer approach. He was clearly saving his voice for the intensity of the chorus.

John stepped away briefly, so that he could circle Sherlock’s chair. He felt John’s hand skim over his shoulder blades before squeezing rather hard above his left shoulder. Sherlock looked up and saw that John had closed his eyes as he sang the next lines with a sexy growl. Sherlock noticed the wrinkles in his forehead as he raised his eyebrows. There were bags under his eyes too. Long nights, John? Sherlock wanted to collect everything about this intriguing man.

“Ah, the moon’s too bright

The chain’s too tight

The beast won’t go to sleep!”

I've been running through these promises to you

That I made and could not keep.”

Sherlock realized John stopped squeezing his shoulder. And then all coherent thought turned to ash in his Mind Palace. Because John Watson had just lowered himself seductively to the floor. Right. Between. Sherlock’s legs. John’s hand gripped Sherlock’s thigh, and he saw something akin to desperation in John’s eyes.

“Ah but a man never got his lover back

Not by begging on his knees.

Or I’d crawl to you, baby

And I’d fall at your feet

And I’d howl at your beauty

Like a dog in heat.”

            Sherlock’s heartrate was increasing by the second. It felt as though his belly was fully of innumerable numbers of bees trying to escape. He barely heard John finish the chorus, before the man was standing. No, don’t leave.

            “And if you want to work the street alone

I'll disappear for you.”

Sherlock was having none of that. He grabbed John’s hand and tugged him back. John didn’t even falter in his song. He shrugged dramatically for the audience while raising his eyebrows up and down, before he lowered himself onto Sherlock’s lap. John was warm (of course) and his compact body fitted perfectly against Sherlock’s angular frame. Sherlock’s arms encircled John’s waist. And an image, unbidden, surfaced in his flaming Mind Palace of Sherlock holding John in his arms like this at his flat in Baker Street; his long limbs encasing John, protecting him, keeping him. Holy shit, get a hold of yourself, Sherlock Holmes.

“If you want a father for your child

Or only want to walk with me a while

Across the sand

I'm your man.”

John leaned into Sherlock and drew out the last line slowly as the music started trailing off. John had his lips and his warm cheek beside Sherlock’s ear. Sherlock let out a ragged breath he had been holding, and tightened his grip on John’s suit jacket. The song was over. Did that mean John would leave him? Melt away into the crowd of dull, monochromatic people; into a life without Sherlock? No, he couldn’t let that happen. Impossible. But he didn’t have to worry, because John didn’t seem inclined to get off of his perch on Sherlock’s lap. In fact, John switched the microphone off and let it drop to the floor under the chair in favour of wrapping his arms fully around Sherlock’s shoulders. He felt John twine his fingers into Sherlock’s curls at the base of his skull.

The audience was curiously silent, or maybe Sherlock’s quickened pulse was drowning out all sensations that had nothing to do with the man in front of him.

“I heard you have a crush on me,” John said.

Sherlock nodded slowly, highly aware of everywhere their bodies were touching. John’s arse was seated almost directly over Sherlock’s erection now. Jeez, when did that happen? And then Sherlock felt John’s nose trailing along his jaw. “I hope you had a good birthday,” he said almost inaudibly.

“Almost perfect,” Sherlock said, surprised he still remembered how to talk.

“Almost?” John inquired innocently.

Sherlock smiled. When John licked his lips, Sherlock hissed impatiently and lifted his chin, and John leaned closer… and there, finally! John’s lips on Sherlock’s. Victory, victory, victory. The flames danced excitedly in his Mind Palace.

Fire and lightning and sparks, and the rush of blood pounding in his ears and finally, finally, they were really kissing. The moment their lips touched, they forgot any notion of gentleness. Lips and tongues and teeth danced dangerously as they sat in the middle of the stage in front of at least a hundred people. Sherlock trembled with his pure want as John’s hands buried into his hair and tugged. Sherlock’s hands skimmed John’s hips before running up his spine, landing on the wings of his shoulder blades, and pulling him closer. He felt John’s skin radiating heat through his suit.

Their bodies pressed perfectly against each other; chest to chest and hip to hip. John pushed himself harder onto Sherlock’s lap, and laughed breathily against his lips as Sherlock groaned. Sherlock’s hand crept along John’s hip and squeezed his leg before creeping higher. He felt John’s arousal against his stomach. When their lips detached, John was breathing hard and his blue eyes were so, so dark. Sherlock kissed his way up to John’s jaw, and he gasped as Sherlock’s tongue pressed onto his pulse point. He felt John’s fingers in his hair tremble momentarily before they resumed pulling on the strands to urge Sherlock further. He kept kissing along John’s jaw and neck, and was just about to mark his throat with teeth when he heard someone clearing their throat disgustingly loud. And then there was a man’s hand on John’s shoulder. And it wasn’t Sherlock’s. Sherlock practically growled at the man. Of course it was that wanker of a piano player.

“John, ah, sorry to interrupt. But you have to bow… and say goodnight,” the man said, his jaw was set into a clench, tendons taut. He was addressing John, but positively glaring at Sherlock. Ha.

John blinked blearily, and Sherlock grinned because he knew he had totally upset John’s collected composure, and he was sure that that wasn’t an easy thing to do.

“Right,” John said. “I forgot.” John huffed out a laugh. “Thanks… Paul.” He didn’t sound too thankful. Paul nodded impatiently. What a dreadful name. Paul. Preposterous, Sherlock thought.

John swung his supposedly “bad” leg easily off Sherlock’s lap and used his hand (now clamped on Sherlock’s bicep) to push himself up. Sherlock went to stand and step away from John, but John’s hand trailed down his forearm and then grabbed Sherlock’s larger hand decisively.

Someone handed John his microphone back, and Sherlock saw his face slip into the mask of a sheepish showman as he pulled Sherlock to upstage center. People were standing now and working their way towards the bar. Sherlock saw Irene standing near the stairs to the stage. Instead of looking smug, he saw veiled concerned etched into her face. Why?

“Got a bit carried away on that last song,” John said. He laughed and so did the audience. Some people shouted something about wishing it was their birthday. John wetted his lips for the millionth time that night and continued. “Thanks for coming out folks. I’ll be back next Friday if you’re interested.” He lowed himself into a half-bow, and then turned to Sherlock. Their hands were still clasped together. “And thank you so much to my lovely volunteer, Sherlock.” His voice lowered an octave when he said Sherlock’s name. They looked at each other with rather guilty grins. And then the lights to the stage went out, and the room darkened. Paul’s voice crept into Sherlock’s ears like an insidious wall of smoke. “Come on, John. Let’s get you a drink. Good show tonight, yeah?”

Sherlock’s hand began to sweat unattractively as Paul pulled John away from him. He saw John’s profile lit against the stupid fake candles on the tables, and then John was gone. “John?” he said, confused. Why was he surrounded by so many people? And none of them were John.

Then he saw Irene’s face swim before his eyes. “Sherlock, are you okay?”

“I need a cigarette.” He turned and began walking away. Away from John. Away from everything. He pushed everyone out of his way to get to the door. Escape. Blessedly cold air hit his hot face. His coat was still in the building with his cigarettes. But thankfully Irene was beside him holding out a smoke and a lighter. He pressed his back to the damp building and took the objects from her. His hands shook.

“I’ve never seen you so shaken up, babe… and you impersonated an assassin in Egypt to save my life.”

Sherlock didn’t respond. He exhaled the smoke slowly, watching his breath melt the wet snowflakes in front of him. The cigarette was calming his nerves, but it didn’t seem to quench that fire inside him. His body was buzzing with anticipation now, excitement, his senses were intact and his mind was wonderfully clear for once. “Better than cocaine,” Sherlock said suddenly, his cigarette finished.

Irene stopped talking, aware that he wasn’t listening. “It’s just tobacco,” she said, quizzically.

“Not that. Him. He’s better than cocaine.”

Irene smiled knowingly. Sherlock leaned his head against the cold building. He should be freezing without his coat, but he still felt the heat John Watson had ignited in him. He was all loose ends and sparking wires now. Oversensitized. Unpredictable.

“There’s something wrong with me. I could barely form an intelligent thought around him,” Sherlock groaned.

“Oh, honey.” Irene cackled. “You’re fucking horny.”

Sherlock sighed. “I need to go back to him.”

Irene laughed yet again. “I had hoped you’d enjoy yourself, but I didn’t think you’d enjoy yourself that much,” she said.

“Why did you look worried when John was bowing at the end?” Sherlock inquired.

“You looked like you were about to attack the piano player. I was going to jump in if necessary. It’s probably not a great way to start an acquaintance with someone; attacking their piano player” she replied.

An image of Paul’s freckled hand on John’s shoulder came to mind. Revolting. John deserves better. Sherlock pushed off the wall and strode towards the entrance of the club again. “You’re not going to attack him, are you?” Irene called, trailing behind him.

Sherlock pretended he didn’t hear her question. He walked into the performance room and retrieved his coat from their table before walking up the stairs of the stage, and then towards a group of people who were mulling around and clearing away instruments. His eyes zeroed in on the blonde, tattooed woman who showed them their seats. Same hair, similar nose. Sister. “John Watson’s sister,” he called. She turned and then smiled when she saw Irene behind Sherlock. “Where is John?” She pointed towards a crowded hallway and Sherlock didn’t even pause in his walk. His walk back to John. Irene didn’t follow him.

He slipped past various band members and employees. No one seemed to register his presence. And then Sherlock saw a black door with John’s name in the middle of a tacky golden star. He knocked politely instead of throwing it open like he wanted to. “I told you, Paul, I just need to calm down for a bit. Sod off!” John opened the door with a disgruntled and vaguely upset look on his face. His suit jacket and tie were abandoned on top of a small pile of precisely folded clothes on his armchair. Military-precise cleaning habits, except for tonight’s jacket. What’s bothering you, John Watson?

“Bad time?” Sherlock inquired.

“It’s you…” John’s face brightened immediately. He looked down the hallway before pulling Sherlock into his room by the front of his coat.

“I thought it was Paul. He keeps bothering me. I thought he scared you off. I turned and then I couldn’t see you on the stage anymore.” John let go of Sherlock’s coat and pushed the door closed.

“Paul’s a wanker,” was all Sherlock said. He stood awkwardly in front of the door and tried to supress his urge to grab John and kiss him senseless again.

John laughed loudly. “He’s a good piano player.”

“I know loads of piano players,” Sherlock said. “He’s all right.” Sherlock thought of introducing John to the least attractive piano player he knew.

“I knew you were a musician.” John said. His eyes were lighter blue now and seemed to glisten happily.

“From my musician’s hands?” He held them up lamely. Everyone complimented those.

John licked his lips and shook his head. “No. It was… your everything….” He didn’t have words for what he wanted to demonstrate. John took a step forward. There was a question in his eyes, like before. Can I touch you, Sherlock Holmes? they said.

It’s all fine, John.

Sherlock knew he was in so deep way too fast. They didn’t even need words to communicate now. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s waist. And Sherlock practically melted into John. Did he feel the fire too? Sherlock had to know. His fingers carded through John’s short blonde hair, and he felt John’s voice vibrate through his body as the man spoke. He really knows how to fan the flames.

“I knew you were a musician, because of your body. The notes flowed through you and around you, and you just fit in with them perfectly.” John’s fingers pressed into the flesh of his back through his shirt. “I couldn’t take my eyes off you. And then you were gone, and I kept thinking that I’d give anything for just one dance with you. I bet you’re bloody fantastic dancer.”

“Violin. I play the violin. And I’d love to dance with you, preferably more than one dance.”

“Violin, of course. Composer as well?” John asked. He pulled away slightly so he could look into Sherlock’s eyes. His hands still gripped Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock nodded.

“Brilliant,” John said.

Sherlock flushed. Despite the absence of the audience, lights, and the band, Sherlock didn’t feel the intensity of his attraction to John wane in the least. He wasn’t acting for the audience’s sake on that stage. It was all Sherlock. “Do you feel it then?” he asked.

“Feel what?”

“The fire.”

John smiled yet again and tilted his head to the side confusedly. “You’re a bit drunk, aren’t you?”

Sherlock frowned. “No, no. I’m just burning up.” Sherlock pressed his palms to his cheeks to indicate what he meant. He was beginning to feel like a complete tosser.

John suddenly looked concerned. “Are you sick?” Care taker John mode was already in full swing. He lifted his hands to Sherlock’s cheeks and forehead, and Sherlock couldn’t help but lean into it. “You are hot.”

“No. Um.” Breathe Sherlock. Tell him about the fire.  “I like you,” is what he said instead. He imagined his ribs curling up like burning paper, and his body collapsing in on itself. He was beyond mortified.

Sherlock forced himself to make eye contact with John. Instead of finding the beginning of a gentle let down, John wore that tender expression again. Oh Dear Lord. John Watson was making him religious tonight. He felt John’s thumb rubbing his cheek. “So it’s that kind of fire.” Sherlock nodded, and swallowed audibly. “I like you too.” John’s grin became devilishly wider. Sherlock knew it was because he was blushing even redder.

“You’re doing it on purpose!”

“Perhaps. But I do like you too… a lot.” John gazed at him through his eyelashes. “I sense that you’re dangerous, Sherlock Holmes.”

“And you like danger?”

Sherlock already knew the answer to his question, but he didn’t expect John to lean up and breathe ragged and hot into his ear. “I’m in love with it.” And then they were kissing. It wasn’t the violent clash of lips and teeth like on stage. It was slower and gentler with a promise of more. They had time. It wasn’t just a one song deal.

And then there was knocking on John’s door, and they pulled apart. “John, we’re heading to the club across the street. Join us!”

Paul. Sherlock grabbed the door handle and wrenched it open. John was still leaning heavily against him. “John will go when he bloody well pleases! Now take your male pattern baldness and your latent Oedipus complex and piss off!” Sherlock shut the door in Paul’s face without waiting for a reply.

“Latent Oedipus complex?” John looked amused.

“Simple deduction.” His mind was already erasing the encounter with Peter? Or Patrick? Irrelevant. He had much more important things to do. He bent down and began kissing along John’s jaw and down his throat. They started backing up so John’s knees met with the armchair and he slumped into it as Sherlock sat on his lap this time.

“I don’t care if you leave a mark.”

“Wasn’t going to ask for permission,” Sherlock mumbled against the skin on John’s neck.

John exhaled with a moan. “That so?” he sounded almost stern, and his hands tightened their grip on Sherlock’s shoulders. “I’d like to mark your pretty neck in return then.”

He was positive that John could make him come just with his voice. Sherlock was already hard again. He had to be careful. He didn’t want to embarrass himself.

Once they were satisfied with the love bites that decorated each other’s skin, they sat in the armchair trying to calm down. John was nuzzling his nose against Sherlock’s cheek. “I want to take you out, Sherlock, on a date. I don’t want this to be a one off in my crap dressing room.” Sherlock pressed his lips to the grove in John’s chin, and then to his Adam’s apple. “You deserve so much,” John said.

“I was thinking the same thing… about you.”

            John grinned. “Good. Shall we go to the club? You promised me a dance.”

            Sherlock reluctantly acquiesced. He was so very comfortable on John’s lap who was also sitting on a mound of hideous jumpers in varying colours of what could only be described as oatmeal.

            John retrieved his suit jacket and decided not to put on his tie. His neck did look rather tender from Sherlock’s love bites. “Do you actually wear this?” Sherlock held up one jumper that was not only the colour of oatmeal but the texture as well.

            John nodded. “I hope that’s not a deal breaker.”

            Sherlock thought about it. He concluded John needed something to dull that wildfire in him, or else everyone would be pouncing on him. Idiots. A jumper couldn’t put out John Watson. Tonight’s performance was enough evidence to support that theory. He tossed the jumper away, grabbed John’s hand, and placed a kiss on his scarred knuckles.

“I’ll take that as a no,” John said.

***

            When they finally made it to the club, Sherlock went to the bar to order drinks, while John chatted with a group of people about his performance. He sat on a barstool and watched John talking and laughing easily with everyone. Sherlock sipped his scotch indulgently and watched. He’d never get tired of simply observing John. Everyone was predictable, but John was something else entirely.

He noticed a subdued animation that enlivened John’s face, and seemed to flutter between his piercing eyes and the scarcely perceptible smile that curved his lips. Sherlock had seen the animation countless times that night. John couldn’t truly hide it. The people surrounding him didn’t dim his flame; they only made Sherlock realize how much brighter John burned. It was as if he possessed an excess of vitality that filled his whole being so full that it betrayed him now in his smile and now in his eyes. Sherlock saw that John deliberately tried to extinguish the light in his eyes when he was around others, but when he met Sherlock’s gaze all Sherlock could see was fire.

            John excused himself from his friends. Sherlock placed his glass onto the table, and rose from his barstool. John began quickly sidestepping the dancing couples to approach him. There was an eagerness to his step that Sherlock hadn’t seen before. He felt the eagerness too like a warm beehive teeming with life in his stomach. He was prepared to push the dancers out of the way to get to John.

Finally, John stepped up to Sherlock, and crowded him against the bar. “How about that dance, love?” he asked, brushing his thumb gently down Sherlock’s cheek.

            Sherlock nodded and let John lead him to the dance floor. Slow, lazy jazz songs played from the stereos. John took the lead, stepping closer to Sherlock and guiding their hips to sway in the same motion to the sultry music. Sherlock wasn’t paying any attention to the people around them. It was if he and John were the only two people in the room. He felt John’s hands on him. First they’d trail down his stomach and rest on his hips and arse, and then he’d work his way up, lightly brushing Sherlock’s pectorals before he rested his forearms on Sherlock’s shoulders. Sherlock locked his arms around John’s hips, and they moved intuitively together.

            On the more instrumental songs Sherlock and John would chat quietly together, John laying his head on Sherlock’s chest and Sherlock resting his chin on John’s head. “Consulting detective? I knew you were brilliant.”

Sherlock’s laugh rumbled between them. “You keep calling me that.”

John lifted his head to stare at Sherlock. “I know you like it. And it’s true, love.”

Sherlock’s blush spoke for him. He held John closer, and decided not to reply. He could tell John was getting sleepy. His dancing had diminished into a slow sway, and he let Sherlock conduct the conversation into whatever alley he wished. Sherlock felt his belly clench into an anxious knot. He didn’t want any of this to end. He wanted to observe John in all his natural states. He imagined John sleeping with his blonde hair all ruffled, his cheeks imprinted with pillow creases, his nose snuffling while he woke up… beside Sherlock. Oh, if only.

“You’re dead on your feet, Watson,” Sherlock said, reluctantly.

“Mmm, one more song,” John said.

Sherlock smiled. “I want to choose it. I’ll be right back.”

He found the person playing the music behind a high table and gave them his request. When he returned John was leaning against the wall and looking completely exhausted yet relaxed. “This one is for you, John Watson,” Sherlock said. He rarely danced voluntarily, but that didn’t mean Sherlock didn’t know how.

Sherlock began tapping his foot on the ground and snapping his fingers as the music began. John’s eyes brightened and his smile widened. He wished he could make John smile like that all the time.

When you put your arms around me,

I get a fever that’s so hard to bear.

You give me fever, when you kiss me,

Fever when you hold me tight.

John stepped away from the wall and met Sherlock in the middle of their own little section of the dance floor. John did a couple of jazz square steps which involved a bit of complicated footwork as he did it impressively fast. A few couples on the dance floor stopped to watch him. Always stealing the show, aren’t you, Johnny boy?

Sherlock’s mouth twisted into a half-smile as he backed up for his next move. Sherlock could see John watching him while ran his tongue along that lip. Sherlock stepped his left leg forward and bent it. His arms swooped down and then back and then up to his ear at the same time that he swung his leg up, and his back and neck bent as far to the floor as he could manage. It’s a fast move. Sherlock was already standing straight, and gliding towards John on the dance floor. John was biting that lip now. His breathing quickened and eyes darkened. Sherlock’s dance skills didn't surprise John. They aroused him. I’m just giving you a taste of your own medicine, doctor, Sherlock thought.

“You’re quite flexible,” John noted.

“I used to do ballet. It can be similar to jazz dancing.”

John stared up at him with a slightly amused curl to his lips. “Brilliant.” He crooned the word as if it had so many sinful possibilities and insinuations behind it. Sherlock swallowed audibly. “God, I love this song,” John said as he drew Sherlock towards him. Their chests pressed together and their hips swayed. Sherlock put his arm on top of John’s shoulder and one on his waist while their legs criss-crossed together. They felt the music pulse through their bodies.

“John, baby, you’re my flame,” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear an improvisation of the lyrics. John practically giggled and his eyes slipped to the floor. Was that a blush that Sherlock detected on his tanned cheeks? Sherlock leaned down and brushed his lips against John’s forehead, nose, and then his lips. John sighed beautifully, relaxing into Sherlock’s languid yet rather torrid kiss.

What a lovely way to burn

And what a lovely way to burn

You give me fever….