#nightatthegbar

[saralaurensmagalona]

Magalona  NIGHT AT THE G-BAR

Chapter 2

Summary:

Okay, re-done with more spaces between the dialogues !

Welcome in hell.

What was simply a way to get Sherlock off his boredom as well as trying to catch a dangerous (and quite impossible to profile) serial killer ended as a total abysmally hellish chaos for John. Problem : Sherlock was vexed. Hence his wild pacing through the stairs, his yelling at John, Greg, and the unfortunate Mrs. Hudson (not necessarily in that order and not in a regular crescendo). Anyone who dared disturb his Sleuthing Majesty had to endure his regal wrath like a good obedient worm. John had to keep his need to beat some sense into him under control. HUGE control. And thank god, Mycroft had had the intelligence to remain silent and away (although, that was weird actually... Not to hear from him that long...).

Sherlock had been drugged without himself or John having the slightest hint. When John came back from the gents, a totally stoned on rohypnol Sherlock was almost making out with two perfectly unknown clubbers. John couldn't help but think that Sherlock's past as an addict made him easy prey for that kind of trick and getting back to reality must have woken up his fix craving. And guess who would have to cope with all this ? Your humble servant Johnny-boy. Marvellous...

“GODAMN IT ALL TO HELL !!” The scream was followed by a loud thump. And there goes the fifth laptop... sighed internally John. Problem was that Sherlock had been trying since early morning to recoup and check the various bartenders working at the bar where they last tried to investigate (and where Sherlock had his little “incident”). Other problem was none of them seemed to fit. Different blokes every night, rarely regular ones. And those had mostly alibis on the nights of the other murders. Sherlock had started the hypothesis of several murderers, like the sex-rape-murder ring of several high-class disgusting individuals they managed to dismantle. A rather simple case, actually, and, even to John, it seemed a little too convenient.

“As insufferable it is for me to admit it, I don't have much ideas left...” Sherlock mumbled gloomily. “The killer must know we're after him because no bodies have shown up till now. He must keep a low profile but... I don't know, seems to me it HAS to be a bartender but none of them fits !” Sherlock slapped the table in frustration making John and Mrs. Hudson jump (“Oo, the neighbours !”). John knew better than try to soothe the brilliant bastard down. In this state of his, it would only make things worse. And furthermore, there was the risk of Sherlock starting to search the premises like a crazy sniffing dog for remaining cigarettes. He was showing clear signs of pre-withdrawal symptoms. And John was not in the mood for another harpoon scene to top it all.

“Sherlock, will you relax ? We'll find a way... Well, YOU will... You always do... Nagging and despairing and then you see the light.” John said, eyes still on his morning newspaper.

“Maybe not this time,” growled Sherlock, “it doesn't actually make any sense.” Sherlock picked up the neglected laptop back on the desk and started typing and rolling, “As you know, the only link between the victims are that they are between eighteen and twenty-five, that they were all closeted female and male homosexuals, new on the game and first comers in every club they were noticed. No one in their surrounding knew they were out and, thus, no one realised their disappearance early enough to call the police...” Sherlock turned the screen towards John showing a ghastly exposition of pale, freshly cut limbs, arms and legs cleanly severed, untouched torsos, looking like a grim shop mannequin. But no head was found for the now seven victims... Not a surprising sight for John, used to Sherlock's lifestyle by now, but what was horrendous was the display of the limbs, indifferently thrown helter-skelter like the jumbled pieces of a sinister puzzle tossed out of its box. John shuddered.

“ Yes, thank you very much Sherlock. I saw all the photos yesterday and had nightmares about it.” John tried to push gently the laptop aside but Sherlock kept throwing it and its ghoulish depiction onto John's face.

“But can't you SEE ? Can't you OBSERVE ?” Sherlock almost shook the laptop into john's nose.

“ That close, I can only see pixels, Sherlock...”

“Ah. Ah. Very funny. I mean the CLEANLINESS of it all, John ! You're a doctor, you know that it is impossible to kill, drain the blood, (although that can be explained by the removal of the head and maybe the body tied upside down to a post or something like pig-slaughtering...) cut the body into neat regular parts and then CLEAN everything, including oneself, so much that it leaves no traces in... what ? Five, six, seven-ish hours ?!”

John had to acknowledge the impossibility. The human body is not something you can dispose of easily. It is blood, lots of blood... Hard meat being fat or muscle and bones and god knows what... The heart's texture in itself is almost like wood, so to speak. Sherlock was right. It was impossible in so little time.

“And, for the love of god, why keeping the heads if he, or she, leaves the hands intact so they can be identified. Oh, it is so frustrating...” Sherlock started massaging his temples, eyes painfully shut and wrinkled, which was never a good sign. John didn't know what to say. Sherlock, when totally lost, could be insufferable for months... This looked like one of the very few unsolved cases he had. Constant pain in the brain for Sherlock who couldn't help himself but scratching the itch of those unresolved issues now and then, to John's dismay...

“So, what do we do ?” Sherlock sighed.

“No many options left. There is always the possibility of waiting for another victim to show up with hopes that more clues will be dropped. But I know what you think of this. “ John winced.

“I'd rather do something instead of waiting like an idiot for another innocent to die, if you please...”

“ No one's innocent actually (John grimaced and Sherlock sighed). Very well then, we have to go back there.” John jumped out his chair.

“EXCUSE ME ?!” Sherlock rolled his eyes and threw his hands to the ceiling as if taking the roof as witness of John's lack of common sense.

“Oh, puh-leeeze, John ! What did you expect ? It's the only way and, furthermore, we had a lead there !”

“Yeah, and you passed out ! So much for running around chasing the killer ! What if I came back too late and our guy got you ? What if I couldn't find you ?!” Sherlock smirked. “ Not mentioning your deduction skills...”, “Not funny at all, Sherlock.” Sherlock shrugged and head towards his bedroom. “Not many options left, John”, he yelled from the door “Make up your mind. Waiting or acting !” John heard the all-too familiar noise of Sherlock rummaging in his wardrobe for appropriate disguise. John was resigned. But the main problem was not entirely about safety. John never forgot how far Sherlock was gone that night. How natural and at ease he looked between those men's arms. What he softly mumbled once the mess was sorted out... Besides, was he remembering it or not ? How much did the rohypnol pushed away ? For how long ? And most of all, what was John supposed to do with his newly found confusion ?

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

John couldn't believe he was still up and kicking. His feet were hurting like hell, his head was buzzing from the over-loud Muzak, swimming with the fumes, the lights, the constant noise of the crowd. And to top it all, although he would not tell a living soul, the thong Sherlock forced him to wear was chafing like hell, making him walk like a penguin... Sometimes John wished he could jump on the crazy selfish bastard, smack his ungrateful face, grab his throat to make him moan, teach him a lesson if he tried to fight back, bring him down, tear his clothes and...

Uh, oh.

No. Not this road. Not now.

John hoped his face wasn't flushed and his lower parts remained in control, quietly invisible against the tight leather. The thong was hurting enough to add more pressure due to inappropriate fantasies about his Lordship “I-consider-myself-married-to-my-work”... But John would have to find a way out of this one somehow... Not until their minds were taken with this case. Sherlock would be unable to talk about anything else. IF he was willing to talk about THAT, AT ALL.

Sherlock looked calm, leaning on the bar, apparently scanning the crowd with snobby indifference. John knew better. In fact, Sherlock's mind was working full force. He had already deduced at least twenty bartenders, thirty-five waiters and waitresses, a few dozen security staff (although they were unlikely to be able to excuse themselves a few minutes to make a giant human puzzle, Sherlock still kept the possibility that the perp could have had an accomplice knowing all the club's secret places, enters and exits to help him. Or her.) and, of course, almost a hundred suspicious customers for good measure.

Dear god.

John was aware that he was exaggerating again but he had excuses. Sherlock was deducing the whole room for the fifth time when he froze instantly. John saw that he was eyeing one of the bartender, a skinny dark-haired guy with a crooked nose, making a complicated cocktail to a couple of laughing girls. John knew that Sherlock was onto something, that he had detected something interesting.

“Bartender at eleven o'clock with the loud groupies on the left, do you see him ?” John nodded “Well, I don't know him. He is not in the register and he is not one of the bar's regulars. I'm pretty sure I saw him somewhere.” “Want me to check on him ?” “Nope, keep an eye on the girls. Watch their behaviour if they drink. They're new to this place, it's definitely obvious. They're showing off to hide their nervousness. They fit the victim's profile but they need to be separated for the killer to grab a prey.”

So they remained on the watch. Suspicious bartender on one side, the laughing crew on the other. They were not disappointed. Soon enough, some of the girls started on the dance floor, while others remained seated and one of them, a petite and nervous-looking blonde, was feeling weird apparently and headed to the ladies.

“Gotcha.” said Sherlock “Let's not lose her.”

Easier said than done. A girl separated from her BFFS and two suspicious guys following her to the ladies' room ? Anyway, she was staggering to the door. John was afraid she might hit herself falling. It wouldn't be long before she lost consciousness. Rohypnol once again, yessir. Alcohol in a single cocktail does not have that much effect.

“You are insane, Sherlock ! She'll see us and the perp will too !”

“Shut up and follow.” said Sherlock pushing his way through the crowd.

And of course, they lost her among the herd. But only a few seconds, enough to see her go out of the ladies to the second exit. John saw her having a bad reaction to the drug. She was going to be sick. She needed out to vomit, presumably, seeing the way she was wobbling. She was inches away from the door when they saw him. A skinny figure in a bartender costume was on her feet. They didn't see him leaving the bar, how come ? He was turning his back on them so, no way to see his face. John and Sherlock accelerated. The girl and the suspect were out on the back alley. Sherlock and John rushed out to see the passed out girl held by skinny guy. She wasn't conscious and the guy was close to her like he was going to bite her, vampire-like. Sherlock screamed at him to stop. The guy turned around and John saw his face. He was even skinnier and shallow-faced than John thought. But his EYES. His eyes were weird, burning like beacons. Literally. That guy had like flames in his eyes, REAL flames. The three of them froze in shock. The perp, because he was spotted. John and Sherlock because of those eyes, those abnormal, non-human eyes... The perp woke up first and started to run. John had just time to grab the girl and pull her out of the way in safety but Sherlock was already on the perp's tracks. John forced himself to check her first with a knot in his belly, knowing that Sherlock could disappear any minute and god only knew what would happen to him, damnit ! Luckily, some of the girl's crew showed up and could handle her. John trusted the victim to her friends and ran to the direction Sherlock and the perp went.

Only to stop brutally. Literally. Stricken by lightning.

Seeing Sherlock facing the two studs from last time.

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“Well, well, well, what have we here ?”

Stud number one, the one with suspenders and military coat (John had forgotten about the suspenders detail), chestnut hair, stunning blue eyes and sparkling Hollywoodian smile was slowly eyeing Sherlock (the latter had his back on John so impossible to know what his expression was but he was definitely stiff). And Cutie-Pie-in-a-smart-suit, A.K.A. Stud number two (John felt a terrible rise of green bile, remembering the insolent hands under Sherlock's shirt) just behind, looking a little surprised and holding a... Wait, WAS THAT A GUN ?!?

“SHERLOCK, DOWN !”

John had screamed on the top of his lungs, grabbed his own gun and was aiming at Cutie Pie, who, in immediate response, aimed at John with what looked like a very weird gun made with... plastic and glass ?! The hell was wrong with those guys ?! Sherlock had turned around with a startled look and Chestnut Hair was holding his hands out as a gesture of peace.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa, hold your horses, blondie ! I think we started on a wrong basis.”

“ It's Captain John Watson to YOU, smart ass !” John gnarled, still aiming.

“Oops, sorry, Captain, but hold that tone of voice or you'll make me wet !” Cooed the stupid bastard with an even more stupid grin.

“Jack, not the time for flirting.” That was Cutie Pie, looking slightly disapproving. John noticed traces of Welsh accent in his voice.

“Okay, okay. Where are my manners ?” Stupid-Stud-with-Suspenders turned around to his sidekick. “Ianto, shut the neutraliser down. I think Captain Watson is under the delusion that we are the enemy here. So here's the deal, Captain, everyone put the weapons down and keep the claws sheathed so we can have a friendly chat. How about that ?”

No way in hell, thought John. He turned his eyes briefly to Sherlock, waiting for input. But Sherlock looked a little lost. John knew him enough to tell that, although he was motionless and his eyes were straight, he was rapidly deducing the two guys at speed light. And apparently what he was discovering was disturbing because John was familiar enough with Sherlock's facial expressions (well, rather absence of facial expressions) to guess he was at lost. But he raised an appeasing hand towards his friend. “It's all right, John, I don't think they're a threat. “

“ 'John' ? Suspenders-called-Jack said, surprised then wry, “Oooh, so you're his John ! Hello, John, nice to meet ya. Sorry for the groping the other night. But your sweetheart was on his own and a little gone. Furthermore, we didn't know you guys were exclusives.”

The other stud called Ianto rolled his eyes and sighed in annoyance. John could have gladly rip said Jack's eyes off his pretty dumb face. The nerve of that jerking jerk ! But what about Sherlock ? Turning to his partner, John had the disagreeable surprise to notice a hint of blush in Sherlock's sculptural cheekbones.

He knew what said jerk was talking about. God knew how, he remembered all along.

John felt like a fool. Again.

He was torn between hitting and shooting everyone right and left (yes, even Sherlock), screaming like a banshee that FOR GOD'S SAKE HE WASN'T GAY (and yet he was attracted to his flatmate said a tiny inner voice), or laugh like a madman. Maybe a bit of the three. “ John,” Sherlock started hesitantly, I...”, “Shut. Up. Just, shut up.” replied curtly John.

“Having a little domestic ?”

This unfortunate rhetorical question made John ram the barrel of his gun right up Jack-the-Jerk's left nostril. One of the most violent moves Sherlock ever saw him do. He had to grab his doctor to prevent a disaster and to stop the Stud-named-Ianto from shooting John. They separated quietly and Sherlock managed to make John put the gun away while Ianto was holding his Jack trying to hide a murderous look. “ So, John,” coughed a released jack, “ seems like you and Sexy-as-Hell, here (gestured towards Sherlock), are looking for the same thing we do.

“I don't think so.” John coldly retorted.

“Actually, they do.” interfered Sherlock. John threw him an angry look. Sherlock sighed, trying to settle down his mind.

“ Both of them are well-trained private agents, due to the state of their clothes and particularly their sleeves. Not to mention the hair. No official institution would allow such fancy hairstyles and clothing. They're not yard, they're not MI5 or 6. They're not government so, private agencies hiring undercover agents, easier to hide, blend and disappear. They are on heavy duty. The burn on the taller one's wrist indicates that, just before I came, he was confronted with the suspect, probably carrying a taser. (which is totally incoherent Sherlock thought to himself, because in that case he should be down on the ground, vomiting or trembling and paralysed, not up and perky...) The younger one had a go with his weird engine but missed, barely bruising the suspect. That strange gun made a cut on his palm during the shooting. I saw the small blood traces on the ground but I have no idea yet about how the suspect ran away. So, they're on our case (“ 'Your' case ?” interrupted Jack-the-Jerk before being shut down by Ianto-the-Cutie ), they're on our case but I don't think they intend to catch the suspect alive considering the fact that your “gun” (he pointed at the weird glass thing) is highly lethal and you are definitely not in control of it.” All of this said in one breath, making it hard to follow as usual. Sherlock had great lung control. But the last sentence was clear enough to make John shiver.

“ It's still a prototype”, said Jack the Jerk looking somewhat embarrassed while Ianto the Cutie looked amazed by Sherlock's usual show of deduction. “Okay,” said Jack, visibly trying to regain control of the situation, “ You have a rather close idea of who we are but I'd like you to reciprocate. So let's make the presentations, shall we ? I'm Captain (smiled sarcastically to John) Jack Harkness and this is my partner, on job and private life, (Cutie Pie winced) Ianto Jones. As for who we are working for, I can't say exactly but it is still for humankind, believe me.”

John sneered. Yes, of course, and he was the queen of England. John would have preferred some informations remaining secret but Sherlock chose to do otherwise. “ I am Sherlock Holmes and this is my colleague, Doctor John Watson.”

Harkness jumped at the word “Doctor” and gave John a brief, confused glance he quickly controlled. Yup, definitely a weirdo, this one. But Jones started fidgeting hearing Sherlock's name.

“ Holmes ? Sherlock HOLMES ?” he said, sounding a little tense.

“ So I said clearly.”

Jones tried to grab Harkness at the sleeve, apparently trying to get some reaction out of him but the Jerk in a military coat seemed lost in his thoughts. Jones gave up with an exasperated sigh. “SO, what are we going to do ? We have a serial killer on the loose, thanks to you, we were about to catch him when you intervene. So, what now ? ”

John was seriously pissed off and Jack Harkness came back to his senses and looked at him and Sherlock intently, then he gave a glance to Ianto Jones, that sort of “I am in charge here, don't interfere” look. Ianto seemed to back off reluctantly. “ Here's the deal, mates. That guy you saw ? He is not a serial killer.” “Of course he is !” Interrupted Sherlock “ Evidences are clear that...” “ He isn't.” Cut Jack, “ I mean, he is but what I mean is that he is not a HUMAN serial killer...”

Sherlock and John remained silent, a little distraught.

“But, he looked human enough to me !” Yelled John, “ Who is he ? A dog ? A cat ? Canned soup ?” John was seriously angry this time. Jack Harkness sighed then opened his mouth like he was going to dive.

“An alien.”

It was strangely silent in the back alley. Only the mewling of the stray cats near the bins and the distant sound of motors from the next street for a few minutes while Sherlock and John took some time to figure out if Super Douche in a Military Coat thought they were retards or something.

“Right.” Stated sternly John, grabbing Sherlock's arms “Sherlock, that's enough. We're going.”

“ Wait !” yelled Ianto Jones “ I know it sounds crazy but that's the entire truth. We cannot let you lead this case because you have no idea what that creature is doing.” he grabbed Sherlock's other arms to make them stop. Sherlock looked a little ridiculous, stuck between the two of them like the woman in the middle of David's Intervention of the Sabine Women.

“I'll need a little empathy here” pursued Jack “ There is no correct way to say this. If we were in Cardiff, I would have shown you our base as proof. But, we're stuck in London. So, long story short, this guy is an extraterrestrial entity landed through a time rift and who apparently took a civilian identity to kill. We were about to make an arrest when Sexy here arrived to scare him away. So whatever he's doing, he has to be put down. Now, so will you help ?”

Oookay, thought John, nut cases, both of them.

“Sherlock ? We are done, here. Now. I mean it.” John was about to grab Sherlock again when his friend made him stop. “John, wait.” The tone was definite and Sherlock was closely examining Jack Harkness “It is not logical but they may have a point.” John scoffed and raised his hands to the skies in despair.

“ Oh, so it is not LOGICAL ! Mercy me ! Murdering aliens and crazy E.T. chasers are not LOGICAL ! Thank god ! And they do have a point ?” John took a ridiculously inquiring voice, his fingers touching his chin in mocked perplexity, “My, my, my, great consulting detective Sherlock Holmes, I wonder what that point may be.”

Hearing that, Jack Harkness seemed to have an epiphany. “ Wait, did you said Sexy's name is Sherlock HOLMES ?” Ianto Jones sighed in exasperation.

“So we've said and said, and said, now if you please...” started John seriously pissed off. But Sherlock shut him with a gesture of his arm. “ Why is that that hearing my family name makes you panic ?”

“Well, responded Jack with a tense and falsely flirting smile, It depends.”

“On what ?”

“Whether it's good or bad news.” Jack became serious and Ianto Jones looked on the ground, looking nervous. “ Meaning ?” Sherlock was also fidgeting with all that drama.

“Do you happen to know a Mycroft Holmes ?”

John emitted a disgusted grunt.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

The taxi fare back was speechless and very tensed.

John was in a murderous mood, the two idiots... well, looked like idiots and Sherlock was totally expressionless. Which in a way might mean that he was angry, or nervous, or scared... or a bit of the three... Hearing that Dumb and Dumber knew about Mycroft, he had given his brother an immediate call. Which a busy Mycroft answered quite irritably. An irritation that disappeared as soon as Sherlock demanded references for one Captain Jack Harkness and one Ianto Jones.

There was a deathly silence at the end of the line, then a cold and definite : “Bring them to Baker Street. At once.”

“ I expect my brother is waiting for us at Baker Street. But he hasn't said a word about you two.” Ianto gave an exasperated sigh.

“Of all the bloody guys in the bloody club, you had to pick out Mycroft Holmes' BABY BROTHER ! What were you thinking ? Bloody Holmes is going to be after our bloody blood !!”

“ Excuse-me, who noticed he was drooling at us in the first place ?”

“ ENOUGH !!” yelled John. “ For the next minutes, I'll murder the first one who speaks, am I clear ?” The whole crew stayed still at John's outburst.

“Yep, definitely making me wet.”

Ianto and Sherlock had to pry away John's hands from Jack's throat.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

Once the taxi stopped at 221B. A tall, tense, familiar and actually threatening figure, holding an umbrella like a baseball bat ready to hit (that was an unusual posture, according to John), was waiting for them.

Mycroft. John couldn't remember if he ever saw him THAT pissed, his mouth curled into a comical disgusted grimace, brows almost diabolically upward and his eyes flashing daggers at them. Bad news, definitely bad. But his anger was not directed to Sherlock, nor John. Not making a sound, he directly pointed his umbrella at Jack Harkness.

“What is that WHORE doing here !?”

[saralaurensmagalona]

Magalona NIGHT AT THE G-BAR

Here is one of my first Johnlock fic with a torchwood crossover ! Lemon but no smut ! Sorry ! Story in three parts. Thanks for reading !

Chapter 1

Blog Entry N°..... November....

Another day, another case, but not like any other (and I'll be damned if we are doing something like that EVER ! I MEAN IT ! ) ! Heard about the series of murder in LGTB friendly bars ? Bodies dismembered puzzle-like, showing up near Gay bars, victims last seen at various gay or lesbian parties, no signs of violence, clean parts, their belongings gone ? It took four victims to finally send Sherl

John stopped. Not good. Not even sure he will have the guts to write it all. Too much on this case. Too, too much.... Thing-y... Is it good to talk about it anyway ? Nothing in this story is right... He doesn't know what's worse. The fact that Sherlock never wanted to do it in the first place (said it was rather low on that incomprehensible scale of his and therefore « without any interest whatsoever »), that Greg and John practically begged him to go (making the whole disaster THEIR fault, by the way...) or that John had to face something he didn't even realized it existed. It's not only an elephant lying comfortably in their old sofa he can see now. Nope. There is the one on the sofa, plus the one trying all of Sherlock's dressing gowns, plus the one waltzing around the kitchen in a tutu, plus the hippopotamus in the tub with Sherlock's last disgusting experiment (you don't want to know...) and the two polar bears playing chess in the fridge. Honest. Okay, now John knows he is overreacting a bit, but nonetheless. It sucks. Because now he has to acknowledge facts about him and Sherlock. Facts he has constantly denied, facts he didn't even want to discuss but are put forward permanently, whether he liked it or not. Especially the G-thing. Yelling that he was not gay to almost everyone that could listen must have done something bad in the tangled web of Fate. Now he was writing like a schoolgirl. Screw kharma...

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That night started badly from the beginning. John was uncomfortable in this ridiculous leather outfit, sticking to his bum, making him feel naked to the waist. The belt and boots looked cool but he was far too old for this kind of fancy costume. Sherlock, on the other hand, dressed in a similar manner, with a white t-shirt on his (very) tight black leather trousers, his hair (for once) stylishly combed. Which made John wonder how could he do this on his own and, anyhow, it was likely not going to last long in the club's usual steamy atmosphere. Anyway, on their way they went and John hoped they wouldn't look out of place or attract attention or something. As Sherlock kept reminding him, they were walking in the dark. There were not many leads in this case and, though Sherlock had a few ideas, they were scarce and thin. The killer was intelligent and well-prepared. A high-ranked predator. Sherlock wasn't even sure he was male for some damages done to the victims looked like female retaliation while some other wounds seemed caused by a very tall individual, rather male... Not very logical.

Once in the place, the usual loud, full of weird laser lights, packed with stud-like dudes with even weirder outfits (his and Sherlock's were rather casual considering the others on display), Gay-friendly place, John felt a little uncomfortable. It was seriously crowded, they could barely walk. No surprise anyone could be abducted without notice. Furthermore, John didn't really appreciate all the groping and unwanted attentions... Although, it was not so bad for a middle-aged worn-out military doctor to impress some kids dressed like bdsm bad cops. Good for the ego, not good for the case because if John didn't look more eager for all the flirting and attention, they would seem suspect. « First things first, John, » said Sherlock « Blend. Have a drink and a few conversation. We need to have an overall vision. If I'm not feeling anything interesting, we'll move on to the next bar. » Roger that. Sherlock in charge, as ever. A bit later (and a few gropers later), Sherlock was being restless and John got used to the loud noise. He had brought non-alcoholic drinks (the place was getting awfully hot). It would be a waste since Sherlock was clearly showing signs that, whatever he was looking for, it wasn't there. « Two more minutes and we are out of here, » said Sherlock with mild annoyance « clearly, the murderer follows a distinct pattern and hunts for specific preys. Newcomers, lone, inexperienced young wolfs and she-wolfs, without a ''pack'' to watch over them. Unknown to the regulars and patrons, no one will report their disappearance fast enough for the police to found them. IF they are reported at all. » He gulped the drink too fast for John's liking « That's why there are no leads. There's nowhere to start with since no one knows exactly where and when they were spotted and taken. And how. » He releases the glass « But here are only the hard-and-boiled crew. They're all long-time known customers, too dangerous for our target. We need to move on. » Sherlock was starting to go when John stopped him. « Hold on. Need to go to the gents first. I'll be right back. » Sherlock barely held an annoyed sigh. Retrospectively, it took only a few minutes to John to do his business, get ready and come back but it was sufficient for Sherlock to disappear... Again. Damn it.

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Diabetes... One cat, two dogs... Single with sadist tendencies... Dyed hair and working out implies self confidence issues... Had unprotected sex and maybe caught herpes... Mother has cancer... Sherlock let the deduction screen roll. But still nothing conclusive. Where is John ? Need to go. No clues of significant importance. Where is John ? Starting to feel the horrible steely pressure of boredom. Plus, some oversized (Excess of steroids... Recently received the “Dear John” letter... Heart condition...) cliché-biker wearing the depressing usual “biker from hell” outfit was openly ogling him. That kind of fancy outfit could be fun on Lestrade though.... Booooored. Where is John ? Must be seriously tired to be so slow. Emergencies at Bart's today (or is it yesterday already ?), typical dark circles under his eyes mean extra load of interventions and a session to the pub with Stamford and Sarah for debriefing. Without me. Where is John ? What takes him so long ? Booooored. So much colours. So much noise. Colours mix with noises. Who is that ? Tall. Chestnut hair. Broad shoulders and …. suspenders ? Who on this day and age still wears suspenders ? Turn around so I can see you, deduce you... Nope, Suspenders-on-broad-shoulders is talking to a more chubby, smaller, posh guy with a purple waistcoat (Wait, what ? Waistcoat ? In a leather club ??). Almost juvenile though over thirty. Kinda cute. But also with a hint of dangerousness. Beware the meek ones, like some well-known sandy-haired cute doctor... Where is... Purple Waistcoat realizes that Sherlock is looking. Damn. Whispers to Suspenders who turns around. Holy Mary. Purple Waistcoat is quite handsome but Suspenders is charismatic. Suspenders smiles in a wolfish way, with lots of white teeth, murmurs something to Purple Waistcoat who nods rather shyly, a little submissively. Whoever they are, Suspenders is dominant in the relationship. Both of them come Sherlock's way. Uh-oh...

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John searched the dance floor for his stupid partner. Once he would lay his hands on him... John scanned the crowded area but no trace of tall git with lots of curly dark hair, trying to antagonize the whole audience with his witty remarks. Hang on. There was a tall curly dark head dancing (?) between... What the HELL ?! John stood open-mouthed, stupid and motionless because what he was seeing right now, almost in the middle of the dance floor for everyone to see (and man, did they see), couldn't be true. It just couldn't. Sherlock, eyes closed, moving languidly (quite good actually), sandwiched between two unknown hunks. Right there for everyone to see.

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Sherlock barely hears Suspenders when he starts talking in his ear, barely feels Purple Waistcoat guiding him through the scene. Hmm. Nice. Purple Waistcoat has soft hands. Sherlock barely registers that Suspenders (mint breath, nice musky scent, strangely faultless tanned skin, no traces of anything, there is something seriously weird about him... oh, who cares...) lets his hands caress Sherlock's sides with calm confidence. Certain that Sherlock wouldn't mind. That Purple Waistcoat (showing manners and breeding to hide low class birth, welsh descent, one sister married, one niece, parents dead, bisexual, engaged once, ended tragically with fiancée's death, mated to Suspenders in a free relationship, both of them looking for stress release, picked me out but... Huh, what was I saying ?) is behind Sherlock, dancing to the loud rhythm a little awkwardly, gently holding Sherlock by the waist. Obviously, he is unused to this, contrary to Suspenders who is breathing in Sherlock's neck, which makes him shiver a bit because it's hotter than anything he can remember. This is... unexpected but not disagreeable. Hot, very hot... Suspenders slides closely to Sherlock. Purple Waistcoat comes closer and lets his mouth rest on Sherlock's shoulder. Both of them feel warm, feel... wonderful. Far, far away in the deepest recess of the Mind Palace, Sherlock can hear a familiar (and beloved) voice screaming indignantly something at him. But the sound fades quickly because Suspender's hands is now caressing Sherlock's cheek. Because Purple Waistcoat makes an attempt to reach Sherlock's skin under the shirt. Because Sherlock can feel both their hips and groins pressing gently against his own hips and bottom and it becomes hotter and hotter and... Sherlock wants to feel him, to taste his mouth, to feel his hands on his chest, to pin him down or being pinned down, to feel him rut hard against him, hard and fast and... Suspenders grabs Sherlock's head with both his hands and starts for a kiss... Feel the short sandy-haired... “John...” Suspenders and Purple Waistcoat stop at once. “...''John'' ? No, I'm Jack, I...” starts Suspenders. “Hang on, Jack. There's something wrong with him !” yells a surprised Purple Waistcoat who manages to grab Sherlock before he hits the ground.

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The rest was a little confused for John to remember. Sherlock fainted badly and the two hunks tried to help him (good point for them) while the rest of the herd was stupidly gawking. Idiots. John was on Sherlock in two seconds. Apparent symptoms John knew all too well from rape reports. Rohypnol. The rape-drug. Someone had drugged the drinks (but why Sherlock's drink and not his ? Was it a lucky try ? Were they spotted before that ?). The Killer ? Maybe. It was ruined for tonight. They had to go. John noticed the discreet disappointment in the two hunks' faces. And there came the punchline because John, while handling a quasi-unconscious Sherlock to the cab, thought very distinctly, too clearly for himself to try and deny it: “Sorry, jerks, he's all mine.”

There. That was the starting point. Because, while Sherlock was fondled like a piece of meat by the hands of two super-hot studs, John could do nothing but watch... Could not do anything else besides picturing himself in the place of the stallion with chestnut hair and amazing blue eyes and the handsome cutie pie who he wanted to throttle because he dared touch Sherlock's skin in front of John Watson, like a goddamn dog in heat. Even John's anger was starting to frighten him, because it was jealousy... John looked at the pale face, the soft (finally shut...) mouth . Sherlock was stoned but still more or less conscious and drifted in and out of it dreamily. His head bobbed at the movements of the cab until it rested on John's shoulders. John felt himself blushing and was ashamed of it. Luckily, Sherlock will never see it. Sherlock whose locks of hair hid his eyes who softly breathed a barely audible “John... John... Yes...”

And today, everything is back to normal with an irritated Sherlock who took the case personally and is currently madly typing to Lestrade and Molly so he can check on the last bodies at the morgue. Whoever the killer is, Sherlock is on its tracks and will not leave it until he gets him (or her...). Whatever happened last night is faraway in the deepest cellar of the Mind Palace. John doesn't even know if he remembers it or not... Until the game is off, John cannot resolve this particular issue. And he tries very hard not to think about the warmth in his belly each time he sees or hears Sherlock...

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John is writing in his stupid blog again. Let him be. Follow the lead. Suspicion that the killer is actually one of the bartenders. Only one who could calculate the risk of the drug in the right drink. Check the profiles with Lestrade. John is still writing like Sherlock is not here. Once the case is closed... Once the case is closed, he'll tell John.