Sherlock took a long drag on the cigarette and glanced toward the street again. Groups of people passed the entrance to the alley every few seconds, occasionally sparing a glance down towards the neon sign above a nearby doorway. Someone paused, pointed, and then was pulled onwards by his friends. Sherlock blew a steady stream of smoke into the air above his head and tried to ignore the shuffling of John's feet beside him.
"They've been in there an awfully long time."
Sherlock nodded. They had indeed been inside longer than he'd anticipated. He flicked the cigarette with his fingers to dislodge the ash and watched it fall to the ground by his feet. Type number thirty-seven, shade grown blended with--
The door of the club opened: music and chatter rolled out into the alley along with two young men. They glanced curiously at John and Sherlock as they passed.
"Give me that." John plucked the cigarette from Sherlock's fingers and raised it to his lips. Sherlock watched him inhale, grimace, and exhale smoke before handing the cigarette back. "Oh, God -- just as disgusting as I remember."
Sherlock took it with a small smile. "I didn't know you ever smoked."
"I was a teenager once." He struggled not to cough for a moment and finally gave in. "Ugh, now my throat is going to feel like this all night. How do you stand it?"
"I'm an addict, remember?" Sherlock took another drag.
A group of people turned into the alley and headed toward them. Sherlock turned his back to them, turning toward John so that they appeared to be in the midst of conversation. The group didn't seem to notice them standing there, though; they opened the door of the club and went inside. John's eyes met Sherlock's and he shook his head.
The cigarette was almost finished now. It was the third he'd smoked in the last twenty minutes, and the thought of another made him feel slightly queasy. It was a fair cover, but they'd have to find another soon.
John shoved his hands in the pockets of his jacket. "Maybe we should go inside. We'd look far less dodgy than we do just standing in the alley waiting."
"Too risky. One of them might recognize me. Besides, they won't be much longer."
John sighed and leaned back against the alley wall. "How can you possibly know that?"
"They weren't dressed for clubbing. Their clothes have been worn all day, from the look of them. Most people would change before coming to a place like this, and into something far more stylish." Sherlock dropped the cigarette end to the asphalt and ground it out with his toe.
"Well, that explains why we aren't going in, at least." John turned to look at Sherlock. "Hang on, that's also how you know he'll be wearing the same shoes, isn't it?"
Sherlock frowned at him. "You're only just now working this out?"
John's fingers began to form what was undoubtedly a rude gesture, but a scraping sound on the other side of the door caught their attention. They both turned to look as it started to open.
Time for Plan B. Sherlock moved to stand directly in front of John, very close to him. By the time the door of the club was fully open, Sherlock had put his hands on the wall on either side of John's head and leaned into him, tucking his face against John's neck.
"What are you doing?" John whispered. He sounded alarmed, but he didn't move.
"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock whispered in reply. "Is it them?" He pressed the tip of his nose just under John's ear and John squirmed.
"Ah, no. I don't think so. Is this really necessary?"
"I can't smoke anymore; I'll be sick. We need a reason to be standing out here, something that won't attract attention."
"You think two blokes getting off in an alley aren't going to attract attention?"
"We're standing outside a gay bar, John."
"Well, yes, but--" John shifted and Sherlock's lips brushed against his neck. The contact was accidental, but Sherlock went with it and kissed the skin beneath his lips. John inhaled sharply and pulled away a centimeter, enough to dislodge him.
"This would be significantly more convincing if you acted like you were enjoying it."
"Who said I wasn't enjoying it?" John put a hand on Sherlock's chest and pushed him backwards a bit as he glanced down the alley to where the group was just disappearing around a corner. "It wasn't them, anyway."
"Right."
John exhaled and ran a hand through his hair. "Sorry I wasn't… I mean, I didn't expect that, I suppose."
"If you have a better idea, feel free to suggest it."
"No, it's… It's fine." John looked the opposite direction, down the alley. Sherlock considered lighting another cigarette just to hold. He didn't actually have to smoke it, he supposed. Though the alternative was -- he glanced at John, silhouetted in the streetlight -- rather more pleasant, now that he thought of it. And less likely to kill him. Probably.
They stood in awkward silence for nearly a minute, until at last there was the distinct metallic sound of the door's locking mechanism being disengaged.
Sherlock moved closer to John. "Fair warning. Nod your head if it's them."
"Right." John swallowed, apparently steeling himself for whatever Sherlock might do.
Sherlock didn't bother pretending this time -- John was a terrible actor. He brushed his lips against John's neck and John stiffened instantly, nearly pulling away from him again.
"Will you please relax?"
John's eyes were closed, his jaw nearly clenched. "Easy for you to say."
"Just lean back and… think of England, will you?"
"Very funny."
The door opened and Sherlock heard several sets of footsteps behind him, heading past them into the alley. John's eyes were open now, following them, and he nodded his head slowly. Finally: now they simply had to wait. Sherlock listened as he planted kisses just under John's ear. The skin there was soft and warm, and it was rather a nice sensation. It had been ages since he'd done this -- well, strictly speaking he hadn't kissed anyone under these specific conditions, but still: nice.
The footsteps stilled a few yards away from them and the men began to talk in low voices, the words not quite audible. They weren't leaving.
"Shit," John whispered. "What now?"
Sherlock had no idea why Mycroft kept going on about how John should do undercover work; he was terrible at anything involving subterfuge. "Are they looking at us?"
"No."
"Then be patient," he whispered against John's ear, and John's eyes closed.
There was nothing for it, really: there were stuck here in a rather compromising position until the men standing behind them -- one of whom was a murder suspect in a very high-profile case -- decided to move on. John was fidgeting uncomfortably against the wall now. Sherlock clenched his jaw -- John was giving them away.
On impulse, Sherlock pressed his mouth against John's. John inhaled sharply through his nose, but he didn't push Sherlock away. His hands, which had been dangling awkwardly by his sides, snaked their way inside Sherlock's coat and clenched his shirt. He wasn't exactly relaxing, but it was better.
Sherlock pressed him against the wall, one hand tracing the line of John's jaw while the other settled on his shoulder. He wasn't terribly good at this sort of thing -- not enough practice in the last decade -- but the more his lips moved against John's, the more he felt John relax against him, and the more confident he became. He opened his mouth and swiped his tongue against John's lips and John responded almost instantly, his tongue sliding against Sherlock's, his hands smoothing across Sherlock's back under the coat, pulling their chests together.
They hadn't discussed the kiss in Lestrade's office; it was as if it hadn't happened. Sherlock had spent more time than he cared to admit thinking about it, wondering if John would do it again if he concocted a worthy excuse. And now, here they were, snogging against this filthy wall in an alley, waiting for the suspect to leave behind the one piece of evidence that would connect him to a murder of three people.
He really should have thought of this two cigarettes ago.
John did something with his tongue then that sent a distinct jolt of interest to his groin, and Sherlock broke the kiss for fear of embarrassing himself. "Still talking?" he whispered, and couldn't resist pulling John's earlobe into his mouth.
"Yeah," John replied, his voice unusually rough. "Oh God, stop that. Too distracting."
"Sorry," Sherlock replied and moved back to his mouth. Their lips slid together again: mouths closed, gentle pressure on soft skin, light suction, his lower lip drawn between John's, the tip of a tongue brushing across oh God--
"They're leaving," John said against Sherlock's lips. Sherlock pulled out of the kiss with a fair bit of reluctance and stepped back to put some space between them. He looked down the alley: the men had nearly disappeared around the corner out of sight.
John sighed and rubbed his jaw with one hand, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Uncomfortable -- no: unsettled, uncertain, nervous.
Focus.
He turned away and scanned the ground, pacing along the edge of the area they'd scattered with soil half an hour ago. It was dark now and the streetlight was not enough. He fumbled in his pocket for the torch he'd brought and shined it on the ground.
"Here," he said at last and crouched down next to a fairly distinct footprint.
"It's a good job they stopped to chat, wasn't it?" John had squatted next to him and was examining the footprint as well. "It wouldn't be nearly as good a print otherwise."
"Hold this." Sherlock handed him the torch and pulled his phone from his pocket. John kept the footprint lit while Sherlock took a dozen photos from every conceivable angle.
"And it's definitely the same?"
"It is indeed, down to the personalized stitching on the sole. We have him." He stood and began emailing the photos to Lestrade.
"I don't understand," John said as he stood. "Why would he keep wearing the shoes that would connect him to the crime scene?"
"Overconfidence, probably. But more likely it's that they're New & Lingwood --a thousand quid a pair. Those are shoes that make a statement."
"What, that he's a pretentious arsehole as well as a murderer?"
Sherlock grinned. "Something like that." His phone pinged. "That'll be Lestrade, sending his love. Hungry?"
"Famished." John's answering smile was brilliant and Sherlock found himself staring at him, oddly captivated. John's expression shifted and he looked away again. One hand came up to rub at the back of his neck, usually a sign that he was uncomfortable.
Should they discuss this? Sherlock wasn't sure what the etiquette ought to be in this situation. John rarely hesitated to tell him when he'd fucked up, but this avoidance behavior was highly unusual.
John exhaled and stuffed his hands in his pockets, looking down the alley toward the street -- anywhere but at Sherlock. "Well, I'm probably not going to blog about this one in great detail."
"I suppose that's for the best." So were they going to talk about it? He waited, but John said nothing more. Sherlock looked down at the screen of his phone, desperate for a distraction. You were right, as always. I owe you one. He switched it off and pocketed it, and let the silence stretch out between them for another five seconds. "How about Indian tonight? There's an amazing spot just a few streets down, actually."
"Have they got Cobra?"
"Of course."
"Great."
"Good."
Their eyes met again. John smiled tightly and looked away. Sherlock wound his scarf around his neck while John examined his own shoes. He could still feel the warmth of John's lips against his.
He returned a smile that John, if he were looking, would immediately doubt the sincerity of. "Then let's go."
*****
Emma Grant's Fiction
Fiction, Fandom, and Naughty Stuff
