I want to give credit where credit it due. While I came up with this idea on my own, I do believe that others have done the same. I have not read their stories and have stolen nothing, except for borrowing from BBC, of course. I have written the whole of this story, but it may change depending on reviews and suggestions.

I want to say ahead of time, thank you, reader, for taking your time to read my story. I hope you enjoy it.

And without further ado, I present Do You Really Want to Ask That?

They were standing in a club that John didn't find particularly comfortable with. In all honesty, John didn't enjoy clubs to begin with. He much preferred sitting in a pub with a cold pint and one or two close friends. This club, however, had the doctor wanting to jump out of his skin.

The consulting detective and his doctor colleague had been tracking down a serial killer with an interest in gay men. He had found victims at different clubs around London and Sherlock was under the opinion that he would strike here next. Not only had the taller man convinced John to come along as an extra pair of eyes - "What about that caring business you keep going on about? Don't you want to stop this man from killing another?" - but he had also managed to get John into something a bit more fashionable.

Under the impression that his usual jumpers would stick out like a sore thumb, John now sat at a too small table in a thumpingly-loud, crowded room sipping orange juice, pretending it was a screwdriver, wearing a black and white striped shirt and jeans one size too small. It was about halfway through Sherlock telling him what to wear that it dawned on the doctor. Sherlock wanted to use his to lure their killer. John could see Sherlock scanning the room from across the top of swaying and gyrating bodies on the dance floor in the center of the getting-warmer-by-the-minute basement business.

The shorter man pulled at his pants, took a sip of his drink, and went back to scanning the room. Their killer seemed to have a preference for masculine gay men. Men that didn't particularly come across initially as gay and may have been reluctant to realize their sexuality. That being said, the former soldier now got to play the role of bait considering he fit the role almost perfectly. The only snag was the fact that he was attracted to women. The only part of this plan that John really didn't like was the fact that he couldn't carry his gun. Unfortunately, neither of them had it. The loud clubs of London's gay scene were notorious drug spots. The clubs had to increase their security and pat downs when Scotland Yard had increased their busts and patrols. And as every good club owns knows, more police is bad for business. Consequently, the weapon remained at home, locked in John's room.

They had been there for an hour with John feeling more and more conspicuous by the minute. His head was pounding from the obnoxious noises coming from the DJ. Despite his desire to see the murderer put away for good, he couldn't help wanting to go home, take a paracetamol, and sleep.

"You look lonely." A very petite man about John's height wearing a neon green shirt and black leather pants sidled up to John with an orange colored drink in one hand, presumably for John, and a pink one in the other. John had a sinking feeling that this wasn't their killer. The man didn't have an ounce of upper body strength on him and was thoroughly smashed.

"Uh... Hello." John couldn't help but be awkward; it was difficult enough for him to turn away drunk women at a pub, but now he had to turn away a man without revealing the fact that he wasn't gay. John played a number of scenarios in his head of different things he could say to refuse the man. None of them ended particularly well in his opinion. Just as he was about to be as frank as possible, someone interrupted him.

"Sorry you keep you waiting." A baritone voice sounded in his left ear, a hand felt its way across his lower back till it was gently holding onto his waist, and a soft set of lips pecked a little kiss on his temple. Swallowing the lump in his throat, John turned his head left and up to see Sherlock standing next to him.

"Hey, you." It was all John managed to force past the lump. He thought it could sound like an endearing sort of thing that one says to their significant other. At the same time, it also came out sounding as if he were being strangled. Though he was considered brave, he wasn't the actor like Sherlock was.

"Oh, well, bye." The petite man took his two drinks and slipped back into the crowd.

John released the breath that he hadn't realized he had been holding as a group of young women, clearly a hens party, roariusly cheered on the bride-to-be taking shots. "Thanks for that, but did you just blow the plan?"

"Not entirely. There's one particular man I'm watching. He's chatting up another ex-soldier, only this one is deeply in the closet. I noticed that fellow slip something into the drink on his way over here. I would assume to make you seem more comfortable and willing to sleep with him. You haven't been coming across as desirable, John. Probably why that man choose another target." Sherlock removed his hand from John's waist.

"Oh." John took a sip of his very virgin orange juice. Next time, Sherlock could play the role of bait, John thought to himself. The shorter man was just getting his nerves back under him when the hand was back to touching him. In the warm room, John was thoroughly surprised at how much heat radiated from that single touch.

"Kiss me." John looked up at the younger man; the lump was back. Sherlock was staring directly into his eyes. However, having lived with Sherlock for a while now, John could tell that those eyes were actually focused elsewhere.

"What?" He gulped.

Sherlock let out a sigh of frustration or exasperation, John couldn't quite tell which this time, and pulled John up by his shirt. The two set of lips slammed into each other. On instinct, John closed his eyes. He had never kissed anyone on his toes before. Though he had kissed a few women who were taller than him, they usually bent over a bit more allowing him to remain on stable ground. His second thought, though, was how soft the lips on his were. He should have figured that Sherlock wouldn't have cracked lips, but it still surprised him. Sherlock didn't typically take care of his body in the normal fashion. Indeed, John wouldn't have been surprised to find completely cracked lips on his.

When there was no movement from his partner's end, he peaked an eye open. Sherlock had one eye open only a fraction of an inch. He was still watching something or someone. After what felt like minutes, but could only have been seconds, the fist on his shirt began to push him back to his original position and the lips left his. He saw Sherlock take off out of the club. John quickly followed, grabbing their coats from the coat check and found his flatmate standing on the sidewalk just outside.

"Lose him?" John passed the long black coat over as he pulled on his own leather one.

"Apparently." Sherlock hailed a cab as John noticed that his heart was beating too fast for having bolted from the club and his lips were tingling.