Playing Dirty

Chapter 4

Their suspect this time around was a neurophysicist. Apparently a brilliant one, who Sherlock had heard of previously. (He'd probably read every book by the guy in alphabetical order, John thought drily.) The detective was rather amusing in his excitement over it. John had to admit that the name did ring a bell even to him, though neurology was not his field of study.

Sherlock insisted on sitting in while their suspect gave a lecture at the Royal College of Physicians of Edinburgh, which necessitated what was going to be at the very least an overnight hotel stay, depending on how things panned out the next day.

During said lecture Sherlock hung on every word with his eyes bright, which was about as much exuberance as the man ever outwardly displayed. John, affectionately amused by the outpouring of Sherlock's ever-so-intermittent joie de vivre, sat patiently even though it was like listening to a computer talk as far as he was concerned. He almost wished the suspect would run off the stage and stab him so they could get this over with. Instead they went on sitting, uneventfully, in an endless sea of outwardly stolid women and balding men whose idea of cutting loose was probably watching their knuckle hair grow.

John thought of all the times Sherlock had ever interrupted him in the midst of something important or interesting or fun, all because he couldn't stand John being absorbed with anything but him: waiting for the next impossible deduction, calling him amazing and brilliant.

Sherlock was oblivious while John savored a growing inclination toward getting up to mischief. It had been a full week since the Christmas party, and there had not been another incident. Sherlock wasn't sure if John had grown bored, or forgotten about the "experiment" altogether, or if he had overheard Sherlock after all and felt so uncomfortable with it that he decided to call the whole thing off. He considered all the possibilities subconsciously as he absorbed the lecture. Shame their scientist would shortly be analyzing jail cells rather than brain cells. He really did have a novel perception of computational neuroscience....

John was bored. It was palpable, and distracting. He shifted restlessly in his chair, as out of place in this setting as Sherlock was at the ludicrous social gatherings John regularly coerced him into attending. Eventually John leaned over and whispered, "Got any gum?"

Sherlock almost snorted. Since when did he chew gum? For that matter, when did either of them? He shot John a sidelong glance which clearly communicated these thoughts, and John settled back in his chair with a sigh, folding his arms across his chest. There was a restless energy rolling off him, as though he wanted to jiggle his leg or tap his fingers with impatience.

After about five minutes had elapsed, John tilted over toward him again and Sherlock, with the world's most herculean show of patience, humored John by likewise leaning in--as if he had any interest to spare at the moment.

"Has anyone ever bent you over and fucked you so hard that you couldn't even moan without your breath shaking from the impact?" John whispered conversationally.

Sherlock froze completely, and John pretended he wasn't observing him out of the corner of his eye. The man had gone completely pale. He looked either stricken dumb with surprise, or horrified. It was hard to say which. John hoped it was the former. He shifted in his chair again and folded his hands in his lap to twiddle his thumbs, a perfect picture of "nothing happening here." He pursed his lips and tried to appear intently focused on the lecture.

Slowly, very slowly, Sherlock casually crossed his legs and angled his hips away from John, pulling his coat tighter around himself.

John again observed him peripherally. The color had returned to his friend's face, and the flush on those high cheekbones was lovely.