hudders-and-hiddles:

Thanks to 57circlesofhell‘s wonderful, lengthy screaming about the stag night gay bar scene yesterday, I felt the need to write a ficlet about it. It was originally supposed to be for Smutty Saturday, but it kind of took its own turn and isn’t quite right for that anymore. Either way, here it is, my take on the missing gay bar scene, complete with Spice Girls…

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“Sherlock, what in the hell is this shiny pom-pom… thingy sticking out of the top of my drink?” John asks with a giggle as he flicks his fingers repeatedly through the tinsely decoration adorning the top of his graduated cylinder of beer. He squints over at his friend who is doing something with his mobile held up to eye-level. Taking a picture? John’s not sure.

“I don’t know. It’s on all the drinks,” Sherlock says as he gestures vaguely with his phone at the other patrons around them.

“And why is there a seashell in it sitting on top of a lime wedge?” John raises his drink to eye-level to peer at the object suspiciously.

Sherlock does the same with his own beer. After a moment, he shrugs his shoulders loosely. “I don’t know, John. Just drink it.” Sherlock lifts the rim of the glass to his lips, the pom-pom pressing awkwardly into his left cheekbone as he takes a sip of his beer.

John laughs at the sight and decides that he doesn’t need that kind of distraction from his own drink, so he plucks both decorations from his cylinder and drops them messily on the table before taking a long swallow of his now tchotchke-free beer.

Next to him, Sherlock follows suit and pulls the tinsel and the plastic seashell from his own drink. He holds the shell up in front of him and eyes it curiously. “You know, John, seashells are…”

Sherlock slurs off into silence. John was sure his friend was about to attempt to dazzle him with his depth of seashell knowledge—and frankly John is glad he won’t have to tell Sherlock to shut up about it now—but it’s rare for Sherlock not to take advantage of an opportunity to try to show off what he knows about some obscure subject. John looks up at him, hazily concerned.

Still holding the shell out at arm’s length, Sherlock’s eyes are focused somewhere beyond it. John follows his gaze to the edge of the dance floor where several men are dancing without shirts, the blue and red lights of the club gleaming off the light layer of sweat on their chests and backs. Sherlock seems mesmerized, and John can’t help but grin. He plucks the seashell from Sherlock’s still outstretched hand, and his friend finally seems to come back to himself.

“Enjoying ourselves, are we?” John asks him with a knowing laugh. Sherlock’s cheeks flush, and he lifts his drink again instead of saying anything. John looks all around and realization hits him like a slap. Everywhere he looks, there are men. No women. Just men. “Sherlock, did you bring us to a gay bar?”

Sherlock’s cheeks grow impossibly redder, but after a moment he says in what John is sure is feigned nonchalance, “It was the only bar on this street.”

John is fairly certain that isn’t true, but he won’t be the one to call Sherlock on the lie, not when Sherlock is so obviously embarrassed. “It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine,” John reassures him with a smile. “I know it’s my stag night and all, but you’re supposed to have fun, too. Besides, I have no problem with gay bars.” He glances back toward the dance floor and adds, “If you want to go ask one of them to dance, I don’t mind. A few of them are quite attractive.” Sherlock stares at him as if he’s grown a second head, but John doesn’t seem to notice. “Just don’t invite any of them back to the flat. I’m the one who gets to take you home tonight,” John jokes, giving Sherlock a cheeky wink.

Sherlock blinks several times before stammering, “I… I don’t… No. Just no.”

“Oh, come on, Sherlock. I know you. You love dancing.” Sherlock’s eyebrows creep upward in mild surprise. “Don’t look at me like that, Sherlock Holmes. How long have we known each other? I think I’ve picked up a thing or two about observing along the way. Now go on,” John says, giving his shoulder a playful shove.

“I don’t… want… to dance,” Sherlock says, growing quieter with every word. John can barely hear him over the pulse of the music when he adds, “With them.”

Understanding washes over John’s face. “Oh. Right,” he says with a pleased grin, and before Sherlock has a chance to figure out what’s happening, John places his small, steady hand is Sherlock’s and pulls him toward the dance floor. He leads Sherlock through the edge of the crowd and off to one side where there is a little more room to breathe than there is in the middle of the floor. John drops Sherlock’s hand and swings his hips in time with the heavy beat of some pop song he doesn’t recognize. As Sherlock joins in, they keep a respectable distance between the two of them, staying just close enough to make it clear they’re dancing together and prevent anyone from trying to cut in.

John smiles lazily up at Sherlock who is clearly enjoying himself. “See? I knew you wanted to dance,” he tells his friend.

“I’ve always said you’re less of an idiot than most, John,” Sherlock says with a laugh.

They grin at each other, and John feels that old, familiar spark of possibility shimmer in the air between them. They’ve never before allowed it to ignite into something more. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but tonight it feels like maybe they actually could.

As they dance, they drift gradually closer, allowing their liquor-loosened bodies to take the lead. The song changes to some 90s pop tune John vaguely recognizes from when he used to frequent clubs on a more regular basis. I’m giving you everything, all that joy can bring, this I swear… He allows his mind to drift back to so many nights spent with his hands all over someone else, their hands all over him, as they swayed together to the beat, half-drunk and full of life. Before he can change his mind, John lets his hands wander toward Sherlock, resting them gently on either of his bony hips. Sherlock’s eyes widen briefly in surprise, but he quickly curls his mouth into one of those genuine smiles reserved only for John.

John pulls Sherlock closer, until their bodies are touching as they continue to sway to the music. And all that I want from you is a promise you will be there… Rocking their bodies together like this is making both of them hard, Sherlock’s thigh occasionally grazing John’s growing erection and John’s hip bumping against Sherlock’s. Maybe we should be embarrassed by this, John thinks for a moment, but all the alcohol is lowering both of their inhibitions and so John finds he really doesn’t care so long as Sherlock’s body stays crowded against his. He’s wanted this for so long, to feel that long, lean frame up against his own, to feel Sherlock’s hips flex and writhe beneath his fingers. Even if it’s only a dance, John will take what he can get. He rolls his hips forward, pressing more insistently against Sherlock for a heartbeat before rolling them back again in time with the electronic rhythm.

He’s wanted Sherlock from the moment he saw him in that lab at Bart’s. He’s loved him just as long. And now he’s getting married, and time is running out to say something, do something, anything. I have to tell him, John thinks. This is my last chance. His breathing grows quicker and more labored, and Sherlock must see the panic rising up inside him. Sherlock spins him around, presses his front against John’s sturdy back, and wraps his long arms around John in a comforting embrace, continuing to sway them both gently to the beat. Sherlock bends his head down, his lips near John’s ear. John is shocked to find that Sherlock actually knows the words to this song, as he quietly sings the next couple lines, his breath ghosting across John’s ear and making him shiver. “There is no need to say you love me. It would be better left unsaid…”

John turns his head sharply to look up into Sherlock’s eyes and sees a sad kind of understanding there.  This is it for them. There was so much they could have been once, but now it’s too late. John’s getting married, and they’ve missed their chance. This is all they have left. This night.

Better make it count.