Hey everyone! I'm so sorry that this has taken me so freaking long to update, but it ended up being trickier to write than I planned and then life intervened. Anyway, thank you to anyone who's managed to stick around for a story that hasn't been updated in nearly seven months, and welcome to any new comers.

Thanks as always to my lovely beta, Painless_papercuts over on Ao3, who helped make this so much better.

Drop me a line, either here or over at Tumblr, where I'm theravensdesk.

Happy reading!

Sherlock hesitated outside of Jo's room, wondering if he should knock or just burst in as usual; after a few moments he decided that the light shining under the crack of her door was enough of an invitation. Jo was sitting up in bed, reading, and she didn't even look up when he came in. He hesitated again, feeling an unfamiliar pang of embarrassment. He pushed it aside, deciding that it was ridiculous to start paying attention to social niceties and norms now. And besides, Jo had never seemed to mind his disregard for social taboos in the past.

"Are you a dom or a sub?" He asked, irrationally proud when he sounded as self-assured as ever.

This time Jo did look up, blinking in a mixture of shock and confusion. "Pardon?"

"Are you a dom or a sub?" He repeated enunciating his words carefully.

She blinked again, her expression infuriatingly blank. "Shouldn't you be able to deduce that?"

"It's not that simple," he replied, gritting his teeth. "I would be able to tell, but I've never seen you in a sexual situation. I thought that you'd be pleased that I haven't followed you on enough of your dates to know that."

She hummed, still looking unimpressed. "Why exactly do you need to know this information now?"

"It's for a case." He bit back a sigh, knowing that Jo's ease of cooperation decreased exponentially if she felt like he was being too dictatorial or condescending.

She rolled her eyes. "How could knowing my sexual proclivities possibly help you solve a case?"

This time he did sigh, wondering not for the first time why Jo never took "it's for a case" as a sufficient reason to do much of anything. "There's a killer who has been targeting queer couples involved in power exchange relationships. He's been picking them up from a BDSM club on weeknights. We need to pose as bait, and, since I am a better actor, it will be easier if you play the part that you're more comfortable with; there's no discernible pattern as to whether it's the human or Lycan partner who is dominant or submissive, so that shouldn't matter. Now, are you a dom or a sub?"

"Which club?" She asked, looking vaguely amused.

Sherlock wanted to yell in frustration at how difficult it apparently was to get an answer to what for all intents and purposes should have been a simple question. "The Tempest."

"Dom," she answered after thinking for a moment. "It's a bit late for us to go tonight, though. Tomorrow then?"

He nodded, relieved that he had finally got an answer. "Do you need help finding something to wear or do you think you can manage on your own?"

"I think I can manage," she replied, smirking. "Now, if there's nothing else you need tonight, I'm going to get back to reading my book."

Sherlock fidgeted a bit, briefly wishing that he had a reason to stay longer, before he pulled himself together and giving her an only slightly awkward nod and turning to leave.

Jo chuckled, obviously amused by his awkwardness. "Goodnight."

"Night," he returned, forcing himself not to turn around for fear that he wouldn't actually leave if he did.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

Jo was nervous, which was something that really didn't happen very often. She normally kept a very even keel, going along with whatever plan Sherlock had with only a minimal amount of grumbling—which was mostly good natured anyway—and her deviation from that norm now didn't help alleviate Sherlock's own nerves. He almost said something about it several times on the cab ride over, but he never quite figured out how to broach the subject; in the end he stayed silent, deciding to hope that, whatever the problem was, it wouldn't affect the case.

His concerns proved unfounded, however, because as soon as they got out of the cab she seemed to put whatever was bothering her aside, her posture immediately shifting into something more distinctly military. They paid the cover charge and checked their coats; Sherlock also checked his shirt, having decided that him being only partially dressed while Jo remained fully clothed would solidify their roles as well as put his id tags on display. They walked into the club proper, Sherlock trailing a few steps behind Jo. She was dressed simply, her jeans were a little tighter than usual, but they still looked comfortable, and a ribbed vest that showed more skin than she typically did in public. She moved with a type of blatant confidence that she usually kept hidden; he had to remind himself more than once that he was meant to be watching the crowd and not his partner.

There was a small dance floor at the far end of the room, but the music wasn't deafening so Sherlock was able to ignore it fairly easily. There were booths and alcoves lining the walls, but the lighting was dark enough that you couldn't really see into them. The bar was the only area that was well lit, and since it was also the best place to keep an eye on the rest of the room, Jo walked purposefully over and sat on one of the several free stools; there were cushions placed conveniently next to each stool, and Sherlock settled down on his knees, trying to look like he belonged there.

Jo drummed her fingers on the counter as she waited for the bartender to take her order; she scanned the room, managing to look as if she was just idly glancing around even though Sherlock was sure that she had already identified the most likely threats and the best escape routes. Her attention was drawn away from her assessment of the room by the bartender approaching their end of the bar.

"I'll have a gin and tonic and my partner will have a vodka cranberry," she said, her tone light and friendly in a way that seemed in direct contrast to the possessive way that she placed her hand on the back of his neck. He was pouring their drinks when one of the staff only doors opened and an older man walked out and took his place behind the counter. Sherlock scanned him, quickly identifying him as the club's owner and not the killer. The man froze when he saw them, a slow grin spreading across his face, and Sherlock tensed, hoping beyond hope that he wasn't about to blow their cover.

"Well if it isn't Jo Watson," he said, coming to lean against the bar in front of them. "I haven't seen you in ages. I was beginning to worry that you weren't coming back." His gaze lingered on her shoulder where the edge of her scarring was plainly visible.

"So where have you been?" He asked, waiving off her attempts at paying for their drinks.

She shrugged, shifting in a way that probably only Sherlock could tell was uncomfortable. "Oh, you know, here and there. It's taken me a bit to get back into the swing of things."

"Well, you seem to have managed pretty well for yourself," he said, eying Sherlock appreciatively.

Jo actually blushed even as she smirked. "Oh, I try. I'm just lucky I guess."

"I guess you are," he replied, obviously amused. "Welcome back; anything you want tonight is on the house. Can I get you two tickets to the showroom?"

She smiled, shaking her head and looking down at Sherlock indulgently. "Thanks, but not tonight. My friend is rather new at this, and he's still a bit shy. I think we'll just stay up here until he gets more comfortable and then take him back to one of your lovely private rooms."

"Let me check my roster and get you a room key," he said, smiling at them before disappearing through the door he came out of, apparently to go get a roster of some kind. Sherlock had the sinking feeling that he was in over his head; it wasn't a particular comfortable feeling, but it was made bearable by the fact that Jo, at least, seemed to know what was going on.

Nick came back a few moments later, smiling widely as he handed her a key. "Here you go. Fully stocked and all yours."

"Thanks, I'm sure we'll enjoy it," she answered, returning his smile before leaning in conspiratorially. "So, just so I know, have you had any trouble lately?"

He shrugged, giving her a half smile. "Only the usual sort, but that's nothing you can't handle; I wouldn't worry. Now, I'd love to spend more time catching up, but we've both got things to do." He leered at Sherlock again before winking at him.

Jo laughed, moving her fingers up to scritch at the hair at the back of his neck. "Good point. It was good to see you again, though. I'll definitely talk to you later."

"You better," he replied, winking again before walking away.

Sherlock looked up at her questioningly, raising one eyebrow.

Jo shrugged, looking a bit sheepish. "Nick and I are old friends."

"I can see that," he replied, wondering how many questions he could get away with asking just then.

She handed him his drink. "You can quiz me all you want when we're done here."

He nodded, willing to put off his curiosity in favour of The Work, and took a sip of his drink, peeking over the edge of his glass in order to scan the room.

The pair sat in silence. Sherlock had turned over the responsibility of keeping their covers to Jo since she obviously had a firm grasp of the situation, and he focused all of his attention on deducing who the murderer was, if he was even there. After about fifteen minutes, he had five suspects; he was sure that he'd be able to narrow it down further within a couple of hours, and then he and Jo could go out for a late night Chinese dinner.

He was brought out of his head by Jo's grip tightening on his neck, squeezing almost to the point of pain. He looked up at her, trying to ask her what was wrong, but she wasn't looking at him. He followed her gaze and found a scrawny looking man, his tags gleaming against his bare chest. He had frozen where he stood, staring unabashedly back at Jo. After a moment or two he started moving again, walking towards Jo with a definite bounce to his step. He reached them and opened his mouth to speak, but Jo cut him off before he had the chance.

"On your knees," she ordered, stretching her hand out to stop him.

He dropped to his knees with a thud, looking up at her with wide eyes. Sherlock suddenly felt very cold without Jo's hand on him.

"Very good," she said quietly, her voice warm even though her expression didn't falter. "Now, listen very carefully. This is not the place you want to be tonight. Give me your pen."

The man scrambled for his back pocket, pulling out a felt tip marker and handing it to Jo with shaking hands. She took it and his arm, pulling the cap off with her teeth. She scrawled her mobile number across his forearm. She capped it and pressed it into his hand.

"There you go," she said. "Now, what you're going to do is go straight home. Then, you're going to call me at that number tomorrow afternoon. Do you understand?"

He nodded eagerly, clutching the pen in his hand like a lifeline.

"Repeat it back to me." She ordered.

He swallowed, looking briefly confused. "I'm going to go home, and then I'll call you tomorrow afternoon."

"Good boy," she praised, reaching out to touch his cheek. "Now go home."

He nodded jerkily and hurried to his feet. He looked at her for another long moment before seeming to tear himself away.

Jo suddenly reached out and grabbed him by his tags, stopping his exit. "Hey Danny, it's really good to see you again."

Danny beamed, his cheeks flushing. "It's good to see you too, Jo. I missed you."

She just smiled and let him go, watching as he walked away. After he was gone she turned back to the bar and took a slow drink; she clenched her now free hand into a fist against her thigh. Sherlock looked up at her, willing her to look at him again and answer all the questions he now had. Finally, she did look down at him, and she rolled her eyes when she saw the look on his face.

"Danny's just an old friend," she told him comfortingly—although Sherlock couldn't quite tell which one of them she was trying to reassure. "Don't worry about it."

He huffed out a breath through his nose, wanting to show his displeasure at not having all the answers he wanted even if the case did have to come first. He promised himself that he and Jo would have a very long conversation once all of this was over. After another few moments, Jo's hand returned to the back of his neck, and they both returned to what they had been doing before.

It wasn't too long before Jo shifted, leaning down so that she could whisper in his ear. "Do you see the blond man in the corner who's been watching us since we sat down?"

Sherlock nodded once, fixing his gaze on the ground in front of him to avoid looking at the man she was talking about.

"Well now he's starting to look suspicious," she continued, moving her hand so that it was resting at the base of his throat. "Is he a valid suspect?"

He nodded again. In fact, the man was quickly becoming his top suspect.

"Alright, so I think that what happened with Danny made him doubt that we're really a couple," she said, petting lightly where her fingers met his skin. "So look like I'm reassuring you, and when I'm done I'm going to kiss you here." She tapped her fingers at his pulse point. "And if he still doesn't look convinced, I'll kiss you here." She raised her hand and tapped lightly at his lips, making him swallow dryly. "Are you okay with that?"

He ducked his head once in agreement, making sure that his breathing to remained calm and even.

"Alright then," she said, forcing a bit of amusement into her voice. "At least try to pretend like you like it." She pulled away and there was a moment of stillness before she leaned back in, her head tilted just right for her to be able to press a long, lingering kiss to his neck.

Sherlock let his eyes fall closed, telling himself that it was to help sell their cover even as he focused all of his attention on cataloging the sensation in the likely even that this was the only chance he was ever going to get. All too soon, Jo was pulling away and he felt like he couldn't breathe. She must have looked and seen their suspect and thought that he didn't seem convinced because all of a sudden she was kissing him, actually kissing him. He found himself straining up, wanting to get as close to Jo as possible, but their bodies remained stubbornly separate. Their only points of contact were their mouths and the hand Jo still had on his throat.

It was the closest thing to perfection Sherlock had ever known. But that wasn't right because then Jo's tongue entered into the equation, and that, that was the closest to perfection he could ever come. He clutched at his own thighs in a bid to keep his hands to himself, unsure of whether or not he was allowed to touch and unwilling to risk ruining everything by trying to take more than Jo wanted to give. And so he stayed on his knees, gripping his own legs so tightly that he was sure to leave bruises. He had lost track of time, focused only on Jo's lips and tongue. When she finally pulled away he had to force back a truly mortifying sound that probably would have been a whimper had it escaped. He kept his eyes tightly closed in an attempt to avoid embarrassing himself. His face was hot and flushed, and he hoped that the room was too dark for her to notice.

"Well, our friend certainly seems convinced," she murmured, this time sounding genuinely amused. "So if you keep an eye on him, I'm going to go fix my lipstick."

He nodded, eager for the chance to compose himself without having to hide it from his partner. He prayed to a god he really didn't believe in that Jo wouldn't look down at his lap and see what was so horribly obvious. He forced himself to open his eyes and watch, needing to know what she was seeing. But Jo wasn't even looking at him, and she had already started walking away.

Sherlock took a deep breath to calm himself down. He took a long drink, ignoring how badly his hands were shaking. He tried to focus all of his attention on deducing everything he could about the bartender in an attempt to distract himself from the most embarrassing erection he had had in years. The evening had definitely not gone to plan, and he really just wanted to be able to take some time to get himself back under control. But all too soon Jo was walking back towards him, and he felt like he was scrambling to hide his emotions from her.

Jo sat down with a sigh, her hand dropping to the back of his neck again like that was the most natural place in the world for it to be. "So, shall we move things along? See if blondie over there really is as interested as he looks."

"Alright, sounds good to me," he agreed, unsure of what she had planned but hoping that moving the case along would help him get his mind back on track (and out of the gutter).

She stood and offered him her hand, helping him stay on his feet when it turned out that his legs hadn't quite agreed with him being on his knees for such an extended period of time. She led the way to one of the alcoves against the wall. She sat down and, in a completely unanticipated move, pulled him down to sit on her lap. It was awkward — he was far too tall for it to really be comfortable — and he had to force himself not to laugh. After a bit of squirming and quite a lot of slouching, they managed to get situated, Jo's arm around his waist in order to help keep him balanced; her other hand was resting high enough on his thigh to be incredibly distracting. The side partitions were high enough that neither of them could see much to the left or the right, but Jo had picked the perfect place for them to be able to see as much of the room as possible, including their suspect.

"I can't really see much from back here," she said, her lips brushing the shell of his ear. "So you're going to have to let me know if anything important happens."

He nodded, trying not to fidget. "I'll keep that in mind. Although, this positioning was completely your idea."

"Yeah, well, if we get into trouble, you're going to need to be able to feel your legs," she answered, her typical wry amusement evident in her voice. "And this would work much better if you weren't some kind of bloody giant."

He rolled his eyes. "I'm not that tall; you're just ridiculously short."

"Oh shut up." She quipped, surprising him (again) by biting his ear in retaliation.

"Hey, hasn't anyone ever told you that biting is incredibly rude?" He asked, hoping that she wouldn't check his heart rate anytime soon. "I swear, you're as bad as Mycroft sometimes."

She snorted. "Well I certainly hope not. We're really going to have to have a very long chat if you've been letting Mycroft take you to sex clubs and chew on your appendages."

He shuddered, turning his head to glare at her as best he could as a low growl came out of his chest. "That is disgusting and not even slightly funny. I hate you."

"Oh come on," she said, laughing. "It was a little funny."

"No. I hate you." He insisted, narrowing his eyes. "If we weren't on a case I would leave you here. Because I hate you."

She sighed, sounding put out. "Fine, fine. I sincerely apologize, and I promise to never again imply any sort of incestuous relationship between you and Mycroft." She kissed his ear as another apology, and he had to turn his head to hide the goofy smile he knew was on his face.

"Yes, well, see that you don't," he said, unable to keep all of his amusement out of his voice, which was actually more common than he would like to admit when it came to her.

The next few minutes passed in silence. The room was dark enough that they couldn't be seen clearly, and their pose was suggestive enough that they didn't have to worry too much about keeping up the act. Sherlock watched their suspect carefully, becoming more and more convinced that he was the man they were looking for.

After a few more minutes he decided to move on to the next stage of their plan. "He's moved to the bar and has been staring at us uninterrupted for over five minutes."

"Great," she said dryly, her grip on him tightening unconsciously. "So do you want to head to the back, and I'll wait to see if he follows you?"

He nodded. "Sounds good."

"Okay, try to make yourself look scrawny and easily defeated," she said, giving him a more deliberate squeeze before letting him go.

Sherlock's heart was pounding as he made his way down the dark hallway; he was glad that the case was finally starting to move forward, but he couldn't quite bring himself to regret all of the stalling because of what it had led to. It hadn't been long at all (which was convenient considering that he would definitely have looked suspicious if he had loitered for too long) before he heard footsteps coming up quickly behind him, and he forced himself not to tense up, trying to look oblivious. The footsteps got closer and closer until, suddenly, he was slammed against the wall hard enough that it stunned him for a second even though he had been expecting it. He recovered quickly, though, and started fighting back. The man was surprisingly strong for his size, but he wasn't well trained and Sherlock was confident in his ability to come out on top of their altercation. They struggled for a few minutes, crashing from wall to wall. He was just about to really gain the upper hand when Jo joined them, effectively bringing the fight to an end.

"Sorry I'm late," she said, pulling zip ties out of her pockets. "I didn't want to scare him away in case he was waiting to make his move."

Sherlock grinned over at her, his heart still pounding with adrenalin. "I guess he wasn't feeling particularly patient. But I had the situation well in hand."

"I'm sure you did," she replied happily. "But I can watch him now and call Lestrade if you want to go clean yourself up before the police get here."

He frowned his question at her.

"You have lipstick on your face," she answered, sounding like she was holding back a laugh. "I mean, it's rather fetching, but it might cause some obnoxious questions."

He rubbed at his lips, grimacing when they came away red. "Thanks for that. I'll be back." He headed to the bathroom and washed his face, griping to himself about how hard even second-hand lipstick was to get off. After, he decided to pick up his shirt from the coat-check, wanting to be fully dressed before having to deal with Scotland Yard. When he got back, Jo was calmly reassuring the owner, Nick, that everything was fine — a skill that Sherlock had never really mastered. She had propped the killer up against the wall, and he was sitting there sullenly, his shoulders slumped in defeat.

Jo smiled at him when she noticed his return. "His wallet says his name is James Fields. He had a knife in his pocket, but he wasn't using it."

"He was probably counting on my perceived submissiveness and your size." Sherlock replied, shrugging. Now that they had caught the murderer, his interest in the case was dwindling dramatically.

She rolled her eyes. "So basically he's been relying on stereotypes and has gotten lucky."

"Basically," he agreed, fidgeting impatiently as he wondered what was taking Lestrade so long.

The detective arrived soon enough, though — he had known what they were planning and had been waiting nearby just in case — and after a quick explanation and promises to come give their statements in the morning, the pair was free to go. They retrieved their coats and walked out into the cool night air. Unable to immediately find a cab, they walked for a bit in companionable silence.

"Chinese? I'll call in our order so that it's ready when we are," he said after a few minutes, fiddling with his mobile in his pocket.

Jo smiled, looking genuinely happy. "That sounds great. I'm starving, and I don't know when the last time you ate was."

He rolled his eyes, ignoring her dig at his eating habits — or lack there of — out of habit more than anything else. He pulled out his mobile and made the call, continuing to watch his partner out of the corner of his eye. Her cheeks were flushed and her eyes bright and dancing; she seemed alive in a way that she only really was at times like this. Their arms kept brushing as they walked, and Sherlock really couldn't care less if they never found a cab.

\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\\

The case had been interesting, and Sherlock had learned quite a lot about Jo, but it wasn't really enough to keep the boredom at bay for long. By Friday he had sunk back into ennui; Jo had worked extra hours for most of the week — which he never enjoyed — and now that she was finally done, she was leaving again on a date with Danny. Sherlock lay posed on the couch dramatically, his eyes closed against the urge to watch her move around the flat. In fact, he tried very hard to ignore the fact that she was there at all. That attempt proved practically futile when she grabbed his foot, giving it a shake.

"Alright, I'm off," she said brightly, smiling when he glared at her. "I don't know how late I'll be, so don't wait up." She waited a moment for a response, and when none came she sighed, giving his foot another squeeze before letting go and heading for the door. Sherlock watched her go with narrowed eyes.

He sat up when her hand was on the door handle. "What on earth are you doing with that thing?"

"It's a purse," she answered, sounding distinctly amused; she held up the large black bag she was inexplicably carrying.

He rolled his eyes. "Obviously. But why do you have it? I have never once seen you use a purse. I didn't even know you owned one; where have you been hiding it?"

"Wouldn't you like to know?" She teased, obviously not planning on giving any more information than that.

He sighed heavily. "Well, what the hell are you carrying around in that thing?"

"Oh, whips and chains and all sorts of fun things," she said, grinning mischievously. "Now, I really do have to go; I'll see you later." She left without waiting for a response, and Sherlock frowned, feeling very dissatisfied; Jo had definitely sounded like she was joking, but after the events of the past week, he wasn't so sure.