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Written for this tumblr prompt by valeria2067:

Soundtrack to that trope: I dare you to listen to [The World In My Eyes by Depeche Mode] and NOT see Sherlock giving John a lap-dance and/or dancing sexily with him as they go undercover at a gay nightclub “for a case.”
*cough! - John in the tight black T-shirt, Sherlock in unbuttoned silk shirt and leather trousers -cough!*

(Unbeta’ed, UnBritpicked. Sherlock and John not mine, damn it, yadda, yadda.)

Translation available in Chinese by JHWgs: (site requires registration). Thank you, JHWgs!




The World In His Eyes

by Sherlock'sScarf


“Are you sure this looks appropriate, Sherlock? It’s a bit…tight,” John complains, as he tugs fruitlessly at the black t-shirt, trying to ease the tension in the knit fabric clinging to every line of his torso.

“Don’t be ridiculous, John.” Sherlock’s eyes roam appreciatively over his flatmate’s body, clad in the aforementioned shirt, a pair of snug jeans, and his old combat boots.

“This is practically the uniform for Barcode,” he says, then adds with a smirk, “In fact, I’m not sure it’s quite tight enough, really.”

“Well, if it gets any tighter, I’ll look like an angry Bruce Banner,” John mutters.

Sherlock’s eyebrow arches quizzically. “Whom?”

“Never mind,” sighs John. He should know better by now than to make pop culture references to his friend.

He looks over at Sherlock, sighing internally as they walk toward Vauxhall Arches. It’s hard to keep from feeling self-conscious about your appearance, he thinks to himself, when you’re out with the most spectacular-looking bloke in London.

Sherlock, as always, looks gorgeous, in a deep red silk shirt, mostly unbuttoned, and a pair of supple leather trousers. John nearly had a stroke when Sherlock first appeared in them. It’s excruciatingly unfair, thinks John, to be head-over-heels for the world’s most perceptive man, when his one blind spot seems to be his awareness of that fact.

Then again, perhaps he is aware, and is giving John his answer in a subtle way.

“So, who are we looking for here?” John asks, desperate for a distraction from the flex and fold of black leather.

“Godfrey Staunton. Tall, fit, blonde, with a tidy goatee, unless he has shaved it,” replies Sherlock. John stops abruptly.

“Tall, fit, blonde, with or without facial hair – well he should certainly stand out in a gay club in Lambeth, Sherlock,” he says. “How the hell are we supposed to find him based on that description?”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “I’ve seen a photo of him, John. Give me some credit.”

“…And did you think to bring a photo along?”

“Where would I put it in this getup, John? Honestly, you do ask the silliest questions.”

John glares at him, but resumes walking.

“If you couldn’t be arsed to show me the photograph before we left, I’m not exactly sure why you needed me to come along.”

“I needed a date, John. Do keep up.” As John gapes at him, Sherlock continues, “If I go on my own, then I’ll spend the entire evening fending off advances. If I’m on the arm of a fit army bloke, I can focus my attention where it needs to be.” He reaches for John’s neck, draws out the dog tags he’d insisted on John wearing, and settles them on John’s chest, shining against the tight black shirt.

John is astounded. A date? Sherlock has made it abundantly clear from that first disastrous conversation at Angelo’s that he’s uninterested in dating.  A “fit army bloke”? Even wrapped in a conceited (albeit truthful) assessment of his potential to attract crowds of admirers, Sherlock has never been so complimentary.

There’s an extra strut to John’s step as they approach the door to Barcode. Sherlock hides his smirk.


They work their way through the crowd in the front room, using Sherlock’s near-magical ability to attract the instant attention of bartenders, cabbies and the like to obtain drinks from the packed bar along the left wall. As Sherlock predicted, John’s dog tags and military bearing keep most of the admirers at bay, although one or two try to chat Sherlock up, and one chap young enough to be his son seems quite taken with John. Each time, John places a possessive arm around Sherlock’s waist, and they retreat in defeat.

After they buy refills of their extremely potent cocktails, they move into the back room, where the dance bar is located. Sherlock steers them toward a raised seating area lit by cool blue neon. All of the seats are taken, but Sherlock lounges against the wall, gazing over John’s shoulder at the crowd, searching for Godfrey Staunton.

John plays his part by standing close to Sherlock, talking to him and trying to look as into him as possible. This is no hardship – he couldn’t be any more fascinated by Sherlock Holmes if he tried.

“Nowhere in this area,” says Sherlock, cutting across John’s increasingly X-rated daydreams. “Let’s check out the other side of the dance floor.”

Just as they approach the dance floor, John is startled by a vibration in his pocket. Oh, good, that’s what I needed…more stimulation in that area, he thinks, as he fishes his mobile from his pocket. He glances at the display and frowns.

“Why is Lestrade texting me?” he asks. Sherlock seizes the phone, reads the message, and begins tapping away before he answers.

“I left my mobile at home, John, as it didn’t comfortably fit into these pockets. I knew you would have yours. Lestrade assumed – rightly – that we would be here together.”

John lets pass the implication that the Detective Inspector should naturally assume that they would be together at a trendy gay nightclub. It’s certainly not a new assumption.

“Lestrade says they’ve found Godfrey Staunton,” says Sherlock, as he replies to yet another text. “Looks like he reconciled with his former partner, and is hiding out where they won’t be interrupted.”

“Oh,” says John, feeling oddly crestfallen. “So, we didn’t even have to dance. Good…that’s good.”

Sherlock studies him for a moment, those silver eyes focused on John in their laserlike regard.

“Well, actually, we paid the cover charge, as well as an exorbitant amount for the drinks. We should really dance as well, just to get full value.”

John’s head tilts slightly to the side, and he considers Sherlock’s comment for a moment. Then he notices the song that has just begun to play.

“Oh, brilliant, World In My Eyes – I haven’t heard Depeche Mode in ages!” Hesitation abandoned, he seizes Sherlock by the wrist and pulls him toward the crowded dance floor.

“This is a great dance remix,” he comments as they work their way to the dance floor. “Violator was practically all I listened to in sixth form, and this song in particular was such a turn-on. First time I made out with a bloke was to this song. God, it takes me back.”

Sherlock is absolutely still.


Shit. Maybe I shouldn’t have had that second cocktail, John thinks.

“Ummm…it takes me back?”

Sherlock’s entire posture has changed, and he’s suddenly prowling toward John, reminding him of nothing so much as a jungle cat.

“John,” he purrs, as he stares at John the way he stares at crime scenes. “You’re bisexual.”

“Well…yeah,” John replies, unsure where this is going. “Always have been. It was never a secret. Just haven't dated any blokes lately.”

“It’s always something,” growls Sherlock, as he seizes John by the hips and backs him toward the dance floor, swaying seductively with the beat. Reaching a clear spot, he doesn’t relinquish his hold on John’s hips, but simply insinuates his knee between John’s, moving both of them in a slow, gyrating grind to the music.

The ceiling is a sea of mirrorballs, reflecting a multitude of lasers. Flashing strobes increase the dizzying effect. John can hardly believe this is happening.

Now let your mind do the walking
And let my body do the talking
Let me show you the world in my eyes

Sherlock’s tautly muscled chest gleams in the deep vee of his unbuttoned shirt. His tousled curls flop artlessly over his forehead, and his darkly dilated eyes never leave John’s face. The ripple of his long thighs under the supple leather is hypnotic.

Now let my body do the moving
And let my hands do the soothing
Let me show you the world in my eyes

Their bodies are pressed close, hips moving and flexing together, and Sherlock’s hands are roaming over the muscles of John’s back, so nicely outlined by the tight t-shirt.

Let me put you on a ship
On a long, long trip
Your lips close to my lips

Sherlock’s face is only a couple of centimeters away from John’s now, and his nose brushes John’s softly; once, twice. Soft lips meet John’s own, barely a whisper of contact between them, and they breathe into each other’s mouths, never breaking eye contact.

All the islands in the ocean
All the heavens in the motion
Let me show you the world in my eyes

John’s hands slide down, unable to resist cupping Sherlock’s plush arse in those ridiculously tight leather trousers. Sherlock’s hands are in the small of John’s back, holding him firmly against him, and if John had any doubt about Sherlock’s interest, it’s vanquished by the hot, hard pressure that grazes against his own arousal.

That's all there is
Nothing more than you can touch now
That's all there is

Sherlock lightly nips John’s bottom lip.  John slides a hand up to bury itself in the soft curls at Sherlocks’ nape, as he draws Sherlock into a deep kiss, all sliding tongues and hot breath.  They pull apart, gasping, as the song comes to an end.

Let me show you the world in my eyes

“I think it’s high time we went home,” rumbles Sherlock into John’s ear, that rich baritone shooting straight from John’s ear to his groin. He’s quick to agree.


As they wait outside for a taxi, Sherlock leans down to nuzzle against John’s neck, and murmurs, “When we get home, I may require your assistance with something, John.”

John turns, allows his lips to trail across Sherlock’s jawline to his ear. He lightly traces the shell of Sherlock's ear with his tongue, relishing the shiver it sends through his friend (lover?).


“These leather trousers are difficult to put on, but they are the very devil to remove. Might you be willing to lend a hand, Doctor Watson?”

“Oh, God, yes.”

~FIN~ (aka, we all know they went home and got busy)



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