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It was around four in the morning, but Sherlock couldn’t sleep, so he was standing by the window in his pants, playing his violin softly. Nothing special, really, just practicing some Vivaldi because he had to keep his fingers sharp — playing bass was not enough. He should have been spent, and he was, but the adrenaline was still running through his system from all the brilliant, earth-shattering intercourse. And though most nights he’d gladly curl up around John and sleep soundly for at least six hours, tonight was different, he just wanted to play.
About twenty minutes into his practicing, Sherlock heard John padding through the corridor and into the lounge. His voice sounded groggy and sleep-filled when he asked Sherlock if he knew what time it was.
Sherlock turned to face his boyfriend, who had a bad (-ly endearing) case of bed head, red eyes and was clad in tartan boxers. He put the violin down and approached John.
‘Couldn’t sleep,’ he said. John grunted.
‘Well, I could. And I was really happy doing so until your music woke me up,’ he whined. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s waist and pouted in that way that he knew John could never get annoyed at. After a few seconds of pouting (from Sherlock) and glaring (from John), the latter conceded with a long-suffering sigh, and put his arms around Sherlock’s neck. ‘Why do I put up with you?’ he asked with a smirk.
Sherlock hummed. ‘Because of my brilliant mind and even more brilliant fingers?’ he raised his eyebrow suggestively, and John giggled.
‘Oh, yeah, that’s why… Well, now that’s been cleared up, can I go back to sleep?’ it was John’s turn to pout, but his was even more powerful than Sherlock’s, because John’s puppy-blue eyes were large and pleading, and his cheeks were ever-so-slightly flushed, while his fingers played with that curl on the nape of Sherlock’s neck.
‘Yes, I’m sorry for waking you up,’ Sherlock said. John smiled.
‘It’s fine.’ John leaned up and pressed a kiss on the tip of Sherlock’s nose, then winked. ‘You can make up for it later.’
With a curt nod from Sherlock, John walked away to the bedroom. ‘Oh, wait, John.’
‘What?’
‘Before I forget, Victor’s playing tomorrow at the Voodoo Rooms, and we’re going.’
John cocked his head. ‘Isn’t he the keyboardist in your band? Why aren’t you playing as well?’
‘Yes, but he’s deejaying there tomorrow night. He moonlights as a deejay sometimes,’
‘Oh, all right, then.’ With that, John left again for the bedroom, closing the door carefully after walking inside. Sherlock sighed happily and looked around the flat. Their flat. That night at the Foundation Bar seemed like years ago, when it had just been eight months. After taking John’s painting and John home, then spending a wonderful night-turned-morning-turned-afternoon in bed with John, they had been inseparable. And just six months into the relationship, Sherlock had asked John to move in with him, mostly because the lease on John’s old, horrible flat as up, but also because Sherlock wanted John to be there all the time. And now he was. And it was perfect.
The painting was hanging above the leather sofa. It was a bit Pop Art meets Expressionism, and it just said so much about John — not the subject matter, but the brush strokes, techniques used, paint on canvas — that Sherlock often found himself just staring at it for hours. John would leave for work, return, and Sherlock would still be lying on the sofa, staring at the painting.
And with his thoughts of art and John, Sherlock drifted off.
*
‘Where is this place again?’ asked John from the bathroom. Sherlock finished tying his show and leaned back to wait for him.
‘Soho. Do keep up, John, I’ve told you twice already.’ Sherlock rolled his eyes.
‘Well, I’m sorry if I actually have things to worry about like, you know, a job,’ John said in amusement. Well, now John was simply being ridiculous. He had been quite chuffed since he started working in a research lab — Sherlock actually preferred that John chose a scientific career rather than the artistic one he had been pursuing, because now he had access to an incredible amount of things to experiment on — and kept asking Sherlock if he’d ever actually do something with the Chemistry degree from Oxford he had, or if that was all for show. But Sherlock could never work in a lab for long periods of time, unless he was performing and interesting experiment. He’d much rather work on his own research from home, play music with his band — they were starting to get quite popular now — and do the occasional hacking for Mycroft which paid quite well. All in all, it wasn’t too bad.
‘Boring!’ Sherlock declared. ‘Will you be mu—‘ he was about to asked when he was interrupted by John appearing at the lounge. He looked perfect, as always, in navy woven check skinny chinos, a burgundy and grey check shirt underneath a navy Ecru Birdseye knit jumper, and a pair of dark brown suede desert boots which Sherlock had got him for his birthday. Gorgeous. And Sherlock just wanted to rip all that off and carry John to bed that instant. Sadly, he had already promised Victor they’d be there, so it would have to wait. And how magical would that wait be, having John all tired and pliant under him after hours of dancing, smiling and giggling together, taking each other’s clothes off in a frenzy of arms and legs and breaths.
No thinking about that now. Leave it for later. Much later. Sherlock shuddered.
‘You look really good,’ John complimented, staring at Sherlock probably with the same amount of hunger with which Sherlock was staring at him. But Sherlock did look good, he always tried to look his best when going out with John — though he had a faint inkling that John much preferred when he wasn’t wearing anything at all. On that night, though, Sherlock chose an extremely flattering pair of black and white printed skinny trousers, an oversized plum Oxford short sleeve shirt, a navy Bogart slim suit jacket, which John loved, and a good old pair of navy suede wing brogues, because he needed comfortable shoes for the possible dancing. His hair was the same as always, slicked back in the way he knew John loved.
‘Let’s go,’ Sherlock said with a smirk. Put on your jacket. John nodded and threw on his favourite olive wax parka, then they left, taking a cab to Soho. John always complained when they took cabs because “the tube takes twenty minutes, Sherlock, and it’s so much cheaper”, but Sherlock brushed him off, putting a hand around his shoulders and whispering sweet nothings in his ear.
*
The Voodoo Rooms was a tall, Victorian building surrounded by purple and orange lighting. It had a mystical feel to it, its large windows coloured black in favour of the club inside. The tall, bald bouncer let them in instantly, because Sherlock was on the list, and, after checking in their coats, they strolled towards the main dancing area, passing by the bar where John got them drinks (a gin and tonic for Sherlock, and a Corona for himself). Victor was only on a ten, and it was still nine thirty, so Sherlock took John’s hand and walked them towards the area behind the stage where he knew Victor would be. Might as well let him know they were there, since he skipped on early sex with John for it.
‘Good evening,’ greeted Sherlock, approaching Victor, who was going through his record case. He looked up and smiled. Victor had short auburn hair with strong sideburns that turned into a stylish beard. Sherlock had known him ever since uni, and still cursed the day Victor decided to keep that monstrosity on his face.
‘You guys came!’ Victor said, stating the obvious like he always did.
‘Obviously,’ Sherlock muttered with an eye-roll. John chuckled and leaned forward to shake Victor’s hand.
‘This is awesome, Victor. You must be excited,’ John said, looking around with his bright wide eyes. Victor chuckled.
‘Yeah, it’s the largest place I’ve ever worked in, so we’ll see how it goes. Seems like a good turn out, right?’
‘Definitely,’ nodded John.
A member of the club’s staff appeared and ushered Victor away for some Important Business, so Sherlock and John returned to the main area of the club to finish their drinks and wait for Victor to go in.
By the time ten had arrived, they had finished their drinks and were watching people dance to some weird techno bullshit the previous DJ decided to play. Sherlock thanked the heavens inwardly as soon as he stepped out of the stage, and Victor went in and started to set up.
‘Can’t believe I didn’t know he was a DJ,’ said John. ‘Is he good?’
Sherlock shrugged. ‘I’ve never seen him, but since he’s one of the few people whose musical taste I respect, I wouldn’t worry about it too much.’ John nodded and looked at the dance floor, where the crowd was only growing.
‘He seems popular,’ admitted John. ‘Well, is is Victor, he could charm his way out of everything.’
With a chuckle, Sherlock nodded, then dragged John along towards the dance floor, right at the middle where the sound was perfect. Victor greeted the audience and started spinning his records and tapping on his laptop. The music was already brilliant. A sort of old school electronic disco with a hint of nostalgia and a lot of bounce. It wasn’t those hard, thumping sounds of techno or house, it was much lighter and simpler, yet more graceful and… Sherlock would have to admit, fun. John moved to rhythm of the music, his hips swaying beautifully yet a bit uncoordinated because John was always a bit awkward when dancing. Sherlock himself was still acclimatising with the song, then he moved to the beat, moving his head ever-so-slightly, closing his eyes and feeling the music wash over him. It was crowded and hot, and he could feel himself be covered in sweat. While they had been waiting, John had ran to the entrance to leave his jumper along with his coat, so he was now only sporting that gorgeously thin shirt, which clung to him more and more as the minutes passed and the crowds grew more excited.
John reached for Sherlock’s hips with both hands and brought him closer. Sherlock thought he moaned, but he couldn’t be sure, because it was hard to hear even his own thoughts through the sounds coming from the speakers. Victor started playing his remixes, song from the 80s mixed with 90s and naughties. That only made John happier as he swayed along with the beats and occasionally brushed up against Sherlock, making him shiver despite the warmth.
Sherlock then threw his arms around John’s neck. They were close now, sharing breaths, dripping with sweat, clothing clinging to their bodies like second skin, and all Sherlock could think of was how beautiful John looked all flushed like that, and how much he wanted to lick that delicious bead of sweat that was streaming down his neck. All around them there were couples dancing closely and even snogging, so he went for it, leaning down and running his clever tongue through the soft skin of John’s neck. He could feel John’s pulse quicken even more, and began suckling gently on the spot there.
Sherlock then mouthed his way towards John’s ear, where he kissed the lobe gently, then whispered, ‘the things I’m going to do to you…’
*
They barely made it into the flat with their clothes still on. Sherlock was fairly certain that Mrs Hudson was going to find a few of their scattered clothing items around the foyer in the morning. But with John’s mouth on his neck and his hand on his crotch, Sherlock found it really hard to care.
Their kisses were sloppy — they were tired and already spent from the dancing, but the adrenaline was still high enough. John’s right hand held onto Sherlock’s curls securely, while his left one fumbled with the zipper on his trousers. Sherlock himself was busy with the buttons of John’s shirt and the delicious softness of skin and hardness of muscles underneath it. He brushed his fingers against John’s chest hair and pressed one of his nipples, causing John to whimper to Sherlock’s delight.
They were both more than hard at this point, and they were probably not going to last much longer. All Sherlock wanted was to get John out of these sweaty clothes and get him into bed.
Both of them kicked their shoes away in random directions and kissed while they shed their clothes on the way to the bedroom. Sherlock kicked the door closed and finally removed his underwear, and watched riveted as John took of his. At last naked, Sherlock and John fell onto the bed in a mass of limbs. Sherlock thrust against John, their erections rubbing against each other deliciously. They were moaning loudly at this point, sweating even more profusely.
When they finally came, it was Sherlock followed closely by John, and they grunted, groaned and cried each other’s names in a haze of blissful surrender to the climax. Sherlock dropped on top of John, both men panting and clinging to each other. They couldn’t be bothered getting up to get cleaned though because it just felt too good. So Sherlock nuzzled John’s neck and pressed a soft kiss there. John smiled and grabbed a flannel from the bedside table, doing a rough job to clean them up — enough to get them through the night so they could take a proper shower in the morning. Then he settled next to Sherlock.
Curled up next to each other, legs twined and fingers laced, the boys slept.