A/N Basically just an excuse for Johnlock smut because it was taking so long for John and Sherlock to get together in one of my other stories. :)

So, originally I wasn't intending on beginning to post this until it was complete, since I'm already dragging behind on The Lazarus Machine. However, I think that beginning to post it will inspire me to work harder on it as well.

The time and place is still Regency England, much like The Lazarus Machine. However, in this iteration, the laws in place regarding homosexuality are more historically accurate. I don't go beyond mentioning this as I didn't intend for this to be a serious piece. I also thought it was interesting that I came across a tidbit about some of the period gay hangouts were called Molly houses, (which just now makes me wonder, Moffatiss, if you knew that and it's one more damn joke) and that the whole gay-slang-"Mary" thing is at least that old.

I also must dedicate the plot of this story to the nutjob who bitched about the Sherlock Holmes movie "The Master Blackmailer" on Netflix. Thank you. :) It made me watch it and without that, I would not have gotten as far in this story without a plot to follow, and the flick takes some interesting liberties with the original story of Charles Augustus Milverton.

First Sight

The first time Sherlock Holmes saw Dr. John Watson was at Gentleman Jackson's Boxing Saloon on Bond Street. He was bared to the waist, displaying a reddened starburst scar on his left shoulder, muscled back slick with sweat. Sherlock could anticipate each punch by the way the muscles of his back would tense beneath the skin, and he was inordinately appreciative of the way his torso would twist and stretch upon delivery. The reciprocal blows were received with a guttural grunt that entered through Sherlock's ears but seemed to sink directly into his gut and clench his insides. Riveting. Sherlock's attention was more than captured.

Despite what had to be a painful assault on his shoulder, his sparring opponent displayed more signs of exhaustion and injury than Watson did. Skill, stamina, willpower… War, Sherlock decided, not a career in pugilism. Lucky to have survived the wound on his shoulder. The spread of scarring indicated infection, fever. Building his strength at Gentleman Jackson's, not his first time here. At least three visits in the last two weeks alone, given the bruising patterns and fading.

Shirtless, showing off his scar. Opponents thought it a weakness, focused on it. However, likely nerve damage, Sherlock decided, made it a decoy. A forceful fist hit but Watson rolled his shoulder with it and followed with a right so suddenly that his opponent was surprised right to the floor. Victory.

The fighter, John Watson, walked past Sherlock, favoring him with a smile, perhaps because Sherlock schooled his face to look most dour much of the time, or he was just a friendly sort, or even that he was simply exhilarated from his triumph. Or was he interested? Sherlock couldn't help but turn to watch him walk away. Now that he wasn't navigating the fighting ring, his step showed a bit of stiffness. A leg injury as well, perhaps? Sherlock's curiosity was diverted by the most attractive buckle cinching the back of his breeches, drawing attention to the line of the man's torso flaring to a firm arse and thighs.

Gentleman Jackson's was not a place Sherlock hunted for conquests. Too public, too full of men he may run into again, too dangerous. Still, the man's name wasn't difficult to ascertain through overheard conversation and Sherlock locked away the knowledge in a new room that was swiftly filling up with tiny details: Watson's hair was fading from dark blond to gray though he was only in his thirties; the business of soldiering had tanned lines around his eyes and roughened his skin; and the business of being wounded and subsequently ill had made his frame more lean than it had been.

Sherlock turned away, next in the exhibition ring, more than ready to have the lust beaten out of his traitorous body.

The next time Sherlock saw Dr. John Watson, he was properly buttoned and laced into tight, fashionable clothes, every inch the starched, upright gentleman. If the colors were a bit plain and not the vivid jewel tones Sherlock preferred for himself, well, that was simply an example of his respectability. Sherlock found that somehow even more enticing, the idea of seducing an exemplary member of society. But he would also have to be much more circumspect in his approach.

Watson took a seat at a hazard table in the Diogenes Club, a luxurious gambling hell owned and operated by one Mycroft Holmes. Sherlock, Mycroft's brother, was employed to keep the tables honest, relatively, and took his cut of the house rather than the amounts he won at the tables. He preferred games of skill rather than chance, though his keen mind could calculate the odds in the latter with startling accuracy. Fortune did not interest him, however. The challenge of the game was enough.

The room was comfortably full; the doorman made sure that the tables were kept exclusive enough to attract discriminating players, but never let the place get that desperate, deserted feeling even in the small hours. And when Sherlock had mentioned a certain name, just in passing, the gentleman in question had been welcomed into the club, much to his surprise.

Sherlock prowled around, observing the players and seating himself at any table but John Watson's. The man had not noticed Sherlock watching him, paying avid attention to the other players and each roll of the dice. He was a serious player, then. And he won, Sherlock was interested to note. Watson was a cautious player, generally, but when he truly made a leap of faith, he was rewarded. He played as if he could not afford to lose.

John Watson continued to display the combination of skill and luck as he habitually attended the hell over the next week. Despite his steadily taking money from the other players, the gentlemen welcomed the young man to their tables. Perhaps he regaled them with war stories or other amusements, or was simply pleasant company. Sherlock overheard mere snippets when he was positioned at a nearby table and the raucous din of men at their entertainment momentarily lulled.

Sherlock continued to discreetly observe the man, careful that Watson remained oblivious. He wasn't a man Sherlock could proposition with a flick of his eyes towards an unoccupied room. Still, at one point Sherlock was distracted from his card game long enough for one of the others at the table to draw his attention with a casual clearing of a throat. Sherlock returned to his game until his first opportunity to excuse himself and then adjourned to his brother's office.