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Sherlock had never seen James so distracted. He’d watched his best friend flirt brazenly with countless women, reducing them to stuttering fools with a mere sentence, but it had always been careful. Calculated. He used charm as distraction, flirtation as interrogation, and it had come in handy more than once, like when he’d returned to Appleton stinking of perfume with the knowledge of Jaggers’ interest in the Property Act. Sherlock respected it, even if he couldn’t understand the nuances of how James could possibly know what to say and exactly how to say it to reduce a perfectly respectable dame to a pliable mess, let alone how said respectable dame could allow herself to be so vulnerable. Anyway, he was getting distracted. Usually he didn’t mind James’s flirtatious nature so long as it was conducive to their purposes. Now, the man seemed completely taken with women he’d never met, who were certainly of no use to this investigation, simply because they were showing a little thigh.
“James,” Sherlock hissed for what had to have been the fourth time in as many minutes. James paid him no mind, barreling through the sweaty crush of people to get closer to the stage. Sherlock grabbed roughly at his shoulder in an attempt to stop him, but James only turned to flash him a grin. Sherlock’s grip faltered and he was lost in the crowd once again.
It wasn’t as though James was essential to this operation, but Sherlock would have appreciated it if his best friend at least attempted to look for Silas instead of ogling every scantily-dressed woman he could find — which is to say every female attendee in this establishment. Sherlock tried to drown out the dreadful music and the cacophony of drunken voices around him as he searched for the familiar — his father’s brown suit, his hat, the telltale lilt to his voice. It wasn’t helped by the fact that the sea of bodies meant he could only see about thirty guests at any given time. He needed assistance, and he was hardly going to bring his mother into the commotion when James was right there.
Sherlock shouldered his way through the crowd, ignoring the annoyed grunts and sensual coos of those he pressed against, until he could see James before him. He was disgustingly close to some woman — a prostitute, judging by the overbearing perfume and cheap lipstick — and swaying with her. She was pressed against his back in a crude display of childish lust. Sherlock came to a stop a foot away and brought himself up to his full height, aiming for disappointed but coming off more petulant as James took no notice and continued dancing with the woman.
“Ah, the things you could teach me,” He hummed, grin as wide as ever, eyes trained on the woman’s poorly applied lipstick. The woman only chuckled in response, surely having heard the same line ten times over.
“Whatever you want, for a fee,” She crooned, hand travelling lower, down James’s chest until it rested at his waistband. Sherlock gave up on waiting to be acknowledged.
“A fee he can’t afford,” He responded, once again reaching for James’s shoulder. James took no notice. “Now, if you wouldn’t mind, I’d quite like to find Silas,”
James spared him a glance only to roll his eyes.
“Christ, Sherlock, can’t a man have some downtime? If he’s here, he won’t be leaving any time soon,”
“That’s hardly the point, James. We’re here to do a job,”
James didn’t see fit to dignify him with a response this time, instead leaning in to whisper something into the woman’s ear which had her erupting in giggles. It was a shrill, unfavourable sound, and Sherlock thought he may just combust if he were forced to listen to it a moment longer. He grabbed James by the arm and wrenched him from the woman, who let out an over-exaggerated gasp before almost immediately moving on to the next half-drunk target when she realised James wouldn’t be returning.
“Agh, what the— Sherlock!” James hissed, pawing uselessly at his vice-like grip as Sherlock made a beeline for the small door he’d noticed on the way in. Taking a quick look to ensure they weren’t being observed, he swung the door open and shoved James through, following and closing the door with a click behind them.
They were in a small, dimly lit service corridor. The club roared behind the inconspicuous door but it was far more tolerable muffled, and Sherlock appreciated the lack of glaring lights and bodies pressed in all around him. A hand on his shoulder made him start, momentarily fearing they weren’t alone, but it was only James. A very angry James who flung him against the wall and jabbed an accusatory finger against his chest.
“It’s all well and good that you aren’t interested in life’s finer pleasures, but don’t go spoiling another man’s fun.” He growled. Sherlock swallowed, swatted the hand away and stood upright, adjusting his suit jacket with a practiced raise of his eyebrows.
“You can peruse life’s ‘finer pleasures’ all you want in your own time, but right now, we’re working,”
James scoffed. Sherlock hated how small it made him feel.
“Oh, we’re working, are we? I don’t remember signing a contract. I thought I was here willingly,”
Sherlock looked down, a slight guilt settling in his stomach before he remembered the way that woman had whispered to him, how she’d touched him, where she’d touched him.
“You know what I mean,” He said. James looked at him for a moment, studying his face as though he were able to read something Sherlock hadn’t meant to display, before his face split into that signature grin once again.
“You want to know what I think?”
Oh, God.
“Do I have a choice?” Sherlock huffed.
“I think you can’t stand to watch me enjoy something you don’t,”
“I’m sorry?”
James took a step closer and Sherlock found he had to look up at him, despite their almost insignificant height difference. He didn’t like it.
“Really Sherlock, you needn’t act like such an automaton. There’s nothing wrong with letting yourself go every once in a while.”
“James, as riveting as this conversation is, we still need to find Silas, so if you’ve quite collected yourself—”
James pressed a hand flat to Sherlock’s chest and pushed. Sherlock fell back against the wall. There was an uproar from behind the door as the act finished.
“But I’ve watched you. They just don’t interest you, do they?” When Sherlock just stared, James continued, hand pressing firm. “Women,” He supplied.
“No, James, they don’t. I find I have much more pressing matters at present than trying to win a free night with some harlot, so if you’ll excuse me—”
James did not excuse him. Rather, he shoved his knee in between Sherlock’s legs, effectively caging him against the wall. Sherlock tensed. Was James going to fight him again? It seemed a terribly odd way to go about it, if he was. James raised an eyebrow at the silence.
“Hm. You pretend like you’re above it all, Shirley,” The nickname made Sherlock grimace, and James chuckled. He was drawn involuntarily to the sound. “But I don’t think so. I just think you’re better at hiding it.”
“I am not interested in bedding some woman—”
“Oh, I know you aren’t,”
He was close now, extremely close, his breath hot as it fanned over Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock resisted the urge to shrink back into himself.
“Then what exactly are you getting at?”
James smiled. A hand gripped Sherlock’s waist and he gasped at the suddenness of the gesture, lean fingers curling protectively around him. James chuckled.
“This,” He said. The noise of the club was drowned out by Sherlock’s heart beating in his ears and James’s careful breathing in front of him.
“I don’t— hah!” Sherlock gasped as James’s grip tightened and his knee pressed up between Sherlock’s thighs, pressing him against the wall with his whole body so their chests were flush. James’s eyes were lidded now as Sherlock stared back. He couldn’t even smell alcohol on his breath. Oh, God, was James doing this sober?
“Would you like me to show you, Sherlock?” James muttered, his gaze dropping down, “How it feels to be distracted?”
“James—”
Both hands on his waist now, grip tight.
“Yes or no,”
Sherlock swallowed. He considered the club, their mission, his manipulating father. James was right in that if he was here, he wasn’t leaving any time soon. No one would see them in here, it was dark and isolated and all the staff were on the floor. James was closer than he’d ever been and his scent was strangely intoxicating and his eyes were near black in the dim and Sherlock really should have considered more before he replied, “I suppose I am curious,”
James’s mouth was on his in an instant. Kissing his best friend was unlike anything Sherlock had done before, and it was at this point that he realised he actually hadn’t kissed anyone before. James’s lips were soft but firm, an insistent press that had his eyes closing on instinct as he leaned back against the wall for support. Sherlock noticed two things in those first few seconds. Firstly, James definitely hadn’t drank. Secondly, he was incredibly impatient. It wasn’t long before James was moving his lips against Sherlock’s, tilting his head slightly and bringing a hand to Sherlock’s jaw in an attempt to urge him to do the same. Sherlock did, mirroring the tilt of his best friend’s head, and James made a displeased noise, pulling back.
“Other direction,” He mumbled, voice rough, and it took Sherlock a long moment to remember where he was as his vision focused back on James. Then what he’d said seemed to finally register and his lips parted in understanding, his head tilting suddenly in the opposite direction. James’s eyes clouded over with an expression nothing short of hungry as he dove in again, the new angle providing far better friction.
James’s knee was a firm pressure beneath him and Sherlock found it harder and harder to resist the urge to grind down against it as the kiss deepened, the hand on Sherlock’s jaw falling to clutch at his collar and tug him closer as Sherlock attempted to mimic James’s movements. Suddenly James’s lips parted and Sherlock felt the other’s tongue glide along the seam of his own lips. He gasped, pulling away, and James seemed momentarily annoyed before realising Sherlock’s confusion. He grinned again and Sherlock felt himself giving in.
“C’mon now, this is the best bit,”
It was Sherlock who leaned in first this time, grinding against James’s knee in the process and hissing, allowing James ample access to his mouth. James took the opportunity to lick into his mouth, a sensation equally foreign and addictive as his tongue slid along Sherlock’s own, coaxing it to fight back. Sherlock tried as best he could, he truly did, but this was James’s territory and the battle was lost before it had even begun.
Sherlock let James trace the roof of his mouth, the backs of his teeth. He reached out and grasped him roughly by the shoulders, to which he felt James chuckle, and oh, God, he understood. Silas was shoved to the back of his mind, replaced by the pulsing of far-off music, the heat of James’s tongue against his, the addictive little sighs the other man couldn’t help but make. Unthinking, Sherlock rolled his hips forward, now half-hard and for the first time in his life he wasn’t displeased by the fact. Then everything came crashing to a halt.
James pulled away with a wet sound, severing the strand of spit connecting them as he extracted himself from Sherlock and moved to the other side of the corridor, brushing himself down as though nothing had happened, as though his lips weren’t slick with spit and his cheeks a flushed red. Sherlock gasped, chest heaving, almost falling on shaky legs as he caught his breath. He could only stare as James chuckled, glanced at the slight tent in Sherlock’s trousers, and shrugged.
“I said I’d distract you. Didn’t say I’d help you focus again. Now, I believe we were looking for your father?” He grinned, straightening his tie once before turning and opening the door, sending a shaft of golden light into the murky corridor as the music blared through. He disappeared, door shutting with a click and leaving Sherlock doubled over, panting, and well and truly distracted.