Playing Dirty

Chapter 3

The second incident happened during the NSY Christmas party. Sherlock would later reflect, with dismay, that pulling stunts in front of the Yard seemed to be John's "control" for this experiment.

There was all the typical disgusting fanfare: mistletoe, Christmas lights, Evergreen in its various forms of wreath and garland. Sherlock had never understood the notion that decoration should equal sentiment. People, even those who were not religious, viewed this time of year as "special." John fell in neatly alongside everyone else: the veritable army of gung-ho gift-givers and wassailers. John was also the only reason Sherlock was present this evening. His friend knew quite well that, left to his own devices, Sherlock would rather stay in his mind palace for the full month of December. Possibly through the first week of January as well. Or just until whenever there weren't red and green trinkets adorning every shop window, and hungover people lurching around lying to themselves about never drinking so much again.

NSY had reserved a long table at a restaurant—not a particularly great restaurant, but homey, probably exactly the sort of place where ordinary people felt comfortable. Sherlock shifted on his hard chair while others mingled and laughed and pulled Christmas crackers and made general fools of themselves. He was surfing the web on his mobile, waiting for the inevitable moment when John would scold him for not joining in on "the fun."

One thing the place did have was top-shelf liquor. On the NSY's tab. Sherlock felt a bit warm from the whiskey.

When Sherlock did receive the inevitable nudge from John, it was not in the way he had anticipated.

Ding!

A text icon made its appearance at the top of Sherlock's screen.

He made the mistake of tapping it.

If I sat next to you and slid my hand up your thigh under the table, would you get hard for me?

Sherlock blinked at this, then looked up and searched for John in the crowd. He spotted him chatting away casually with Molly, gesturing with his drink, seeming not to have a care in the world. But his hand was in his pocket, Sherlock noted. The pocket where he always kept his mobile. He had only just put it away.

He might as well have a remote control to my cock in there, Sherlock thought, releasing a loud sigh.

John glanced over after a moment, as though he sensed Sherlock's gaze fixed on him in what the detective hoped was an unnerving fashion. Their eyes met, and both men silently acknowledged they were playing the game, but each had his best poker face on. Nevertheless the tension there was taut, as though Sherlock could draw his bow across the air between them. John did not give his thoughts away, but he seemed to be mentally taking a note. For a moment Sherlock experienced a sensation he was entirely unfamiliar with: he felt transparent. He believed that John knew that even if the restaurant were to go up in flames at this moment, he would not be able to stand without demonstrating that he was in the process of sliding off his high horse.

They both looked away at the same moment, Sherlock fervently wishing he had his Belstaff to hand. That was another problem with formality and tradition—they had a way of becoming part of the silliest things. Did anyone really become incapable of carrying their own coat the moment they stepped into a restaurant? But John had given him one of those "you're doing something wrong socially" looks when it seemed he was going to get difficult about handing his coat over to be checked at the door.

"Just don't blame me if you get pickpocketed," Sherlock had muttered under his breath, just loud enough for John alone to hear.

Anyway, he couldn't have done anything even if he did have it. It would be suspicious if he left the party immediately upon receiving that text.