Sherlock wasn't there when John got to the flat, lugging several boxes of heavy things that had been left on the doorstep. He gritted his teeth, and hoisted them onto the kitchen table, wishing the other man was there so John could yell at him for not helping and generally being a nuisance.

He was making tea and looking forward to a nice nap when he heard his flatmate shout his name from the bathroom upstairs.

John poked his head out to the landing, and shouted that he was in the kitchen- which of course the genius knew, but John wanted to annoy him, which wasn't very mature but he was dealing with a child, for God's sake.

He returned to the sink, washing out the kettle carefully- he did it every time to check if Sherlock had added fur, or snails- and filled it up with water. He heard his flatmate's voice again, closer, and his steps on the stairs.

"John!"

The doctor sighed, setting the kettle on the stove and turning it up to boil. He turned, and almost fell over backwards.

Sherlock was wearing pants- tight pants, tight leather pants- and a snug lavender t-shirt. His hair was shiny (was that oil?) and was slicked up to the side, flopping jauntily.

He looked, John thought with shock, like an almost-drag queen. Or a mad, eighties-obsessed lunatic with a passion for purple.

The pants were very tight, John decided, throat suddenly constricted. He kept his eyes resolutely on the other man's face, willing the blood to leave his face and flee back to his other extremities. The shirt was a v-neck, and was cut low to show off a pair of sharp collarbones.

Sherlock didn't seem to notice John's flailing. "We're going out tonight," he announced, shifting a bit, either from discomfort- hell, those damn trousers were probably cutting off his circulation, but John did not look- or from annoyance.

The army doctor cleared his throat. "Where are we going?" He asked lightly, commending himself on not asking "What the hell are you wearing?" Maybe this was just another one of Sherlock's strange quirks, his 'I'm Bored So Naturally I Will Dress up Like a Male Prostitute' mood, and John could be sensitive.

The detective was studying John's outfit, and frowning. "For a case," he muttered absently.

John shook his head, giving up. He could never just hope for a straight answer with Sherlock.

"But you can't wear that," the other man said suddenly. He looked as if he was considering something. "Put on that suit you wore, during the Moriarty case- you know, the brown tweed one."

John thought about asking why, and decided it wasn't important. He sighed, and looked regretfully (and pointedly) at the kettle before brushing past Sherlock- not looking- and headed up the stairs.

"This had better be important," he grumbled over his shoulder. Sherlock didn't answer.

When he came back down, he was wearing a cream collared shirt and a pair of good trousers, along with the apparently essential tweed coat. He had even run a comb through his hair, wondering absentmindedly what it would look like swept up and greased.

John paused in the doorway to the flat, and when Sherlock looked up, he could have sworn he saw a bit of surprise in the man's eyes. But he shook his head because he was definitely seeing things, one of those things being the tight pull of Sherlock's pants against his crotch.

The doctor blushed. Sherlock stood up, and stalked over to John, eyes drinking him in the whole while. He swallowed nervously, feeling like a mouse under the sinister, gleaming eyes of a cat.

Sherlock was close to him, and he could feel the distant heat from his body. John stared at the wall, trying to control his bloody breathing, but the other man just reached his hands out and nimbly undid the top two buttons of John's shirt, and stepped away.

John looked down at his chest in confusion. Now a bit of skin could be seen, still tanned and smooth from Afghanistan. He raised his eyes and found Sherlock scrutinizing him again.

He barely had time to ask what the bloody hell was going on, before Sherlock reached over again and carefully mussed John's hair, smoothing it and pulling it, then withdrawing again to study the outcome.

Apparently it was deemed a success, because the other man cleared his throat and checked his watch, looking almost nervous for a change. But when he looked up again, his eyes were cool and he simply said, "Come on, John," a bit more brusquely than normal.

The air of London was cold, like always, and faintly smoky, like always, and had a distinct undercurrent of fear and electricity which John presumed emanated from the man standing a few feet in front of him.

It was close to ten already, and very shadowy. John found himself wishing to God Sherlock told him his plans once in a while, because really, would it be too much to ask to know where he was going after dark with a camp consulting detective?

Sherlock held up his hand imperiously, looking incongruous against the serious sky, and John felt like the moon was frowning down at him, asking him why he was making such bad life choices.

But he was in too deep, and slid into the taxi without a second's hesitation. He heard Sherlock mutter the address to the cabbie before climbing in beside him, but couldn't make out the words.

The ride was a short one, but John recognized the neighborhood from one of his trips to London in his twenties, before enlisting. It was a poor section of the city, and he could hear shouts and gleeful screams from the dirty road, as well as deep, throbbing music.

They soon found the source. The cab stopped at the end of the street, in front of an incredibly bright building with a neon sign flashing 'The Red Fox.'

The beat of the song was loud and John stepped out of the taxi in wonder. Sherlock was grinning at the sign like it was an old friend.

John grabbed his arm before he could flounce in. "Wait, Sherlock!" He hissed, feeling a bit wobbly. He hadn't come to a club in ages, not since- well, his twenties. "Can you please tell me what the hell we're doing?"

Sherlock looked at him, excitement sparking in his eyes like they always did right before a chase. "This is where our man is," he declared, before shaking off John's arm and pulling open the door.

The music pounded a bit louder from within, and John could see flickering lights ahead. He gaped for a moment, mouth open, and then became aware of the staring groups of smokers hanging around the front, mostly men- many with piercings, he noticed- and followed his friend inside.

It was a very clubby club, with the drinks and the crappy music and the crowded dance floor of writhing bodies. John noticed, with growing distress, that a lot of them were men- though there were a few women- and a lot of the men were dancing with other men. A few were making out, tongues dipping in and out as the tune pulsed obnoxiously.

He spotted Sherlock, standing off to one side, watching the orgy with evident disdain, apparently ignorant of the eyes he attracted by just standing there with his hip cocked. John ignored the stupid flash of jealousy he felt, and made his way over to the other man. He grabbed his flatmate's arm and pulled him so they were facing each other.

"Sherlock-" John began, seething. "Did you take me to a gay bar?"

Sherlock scowled. "Don't be dull, John. Stenson is right there." He pointed to the suspect, who was nursing a glass of scotch and sitting alone at the bar, apparently too depressed to join the party- perhaps because he had just murdered his own brother.

Sherlock had the look of a lion that had just spotted his prey. He brushed John off again and strode purposefully over to the bar, throwing himself loudly on the stool next to Stenson, who raised his head in wonder to look at the creature next to him.

Sherlock ignored him, crying out flamboyantly for a glass of vodka. When he received it, he downed all the liquid in one go, setting the glass back down with an exaggerated sigh. John watched in fascination.

Stenson was still staring a Sherlock, with his own slightly predatory gaze, and John felt the same sharp prick of anger as before. He shushed his feelings and reminded his brain that Sherlock knew how to handle himself quite well, thanks.

But that didn't stop him from clenching his fists when Stenson smiled at the detective, or when Sherlock smiled back, and when after a few minutes the bloody murder suspect put a hand on Sherlock's thigh.

John was glaring so hard he almost didn't hear the young man ask him a question. He turned in surprise. The bloke was probably in his early to mid-thirties, handsome, with prominent laugh lines and clear green eyes. John drew the corner of his mouth up nervously, and gestured to the music and then to his ear apologetically.

"Sorry?" He shouted over the din. The man simply grinned wider, and bellowed, "Do you want to dance?"

John's mouth hanged open a sliver. He reddened a little, and tried to think of what to say.

"I'm here with someone!" He replied, feeling very awkward and uncomfortable. "Sorry!"

The man didn't look hurt, just a bit disappointed. But he smiled again, and before the doctor could make a move slithered up close and pressed a wet kiss on John's cheek. His breath smelled something awful, of stale beer and sweat, and he whispered, "Well, if you change your mind, just find me," and vanished into the darkness.

John shook his head in disbelief, and checked on Sherlock. He could have sworn the man had been looking at him, but he was listening to Stenson talk loudly, though John thought he saw a faint frown lingering on his face.

Then Stenson leaned in, putting his mouth next to Sherlock's ear and murmuring something. The detective smiled, nodded, and slid off his stool, holding Stenson's eyes for a moment before winking and prancing into the mass of people on the dance floor. Stenson stared after him for a second, then downed his drink in one gulp and followed. John couldn't help but watch, clutching his untouched ginger ale.

Before this night, if anyone had asked John how Sherlock danced, he would have imagined an awkward, gangly side-stepping, maybe a Victorian ball.

But this Sherlock was all grace and smooth seduction, sliding his hands around Stenson's waist and pulling him close. John had to stop a snarl when his saw the man's hands reach down and cup Sherlock's arse, round and firm in his close-fitting trousers.

He swallowed instead, and tried to control himself. When he looked back, Stenson had Sherlock's back against his chest, and his fingers grasped his waist as the detective was grinding back, their two bodies flush against each other.

Stenson was clearly enjoying being the dominant one, and was holding Sherlock like he owned him. Sherlock, finally facing away from the man, had stopped his act and had a blank expression, and that was the last straw for John. He wanted to stride up to them and yank the fucking oaf off his friend, and punch him right in the bloody nose.

Except that would be unimaginably stupid, and besides, he was a doctor. And Sherlock- well, Sherlock could take care of himself for a few moments. John pushed his way carelessly through the crowd, making his way towards the sign that said restroom. He was going to calm down, and act normal. This was all for the case, he reminded himself. Sherlock had no interest in Stenson, Sherlock definitely did not enjoy being with Stenson, and Sherlock undeniably would not want to know that John was equal parts spitting mad and insanely aroused from watching him move like that.