Chapter Text
♫ Mo Cash! – Vegas Audio Ninja
Stepping onto the stage, Sherlock closed his eyes. With slow but confident movements, he walked towards the end of the stage and let the collar shirt slip off his shoulders.
The increasing sounds of sighs and screams, surrounded him like the deepest fog behind which the club seemed to collapse. No limits, no rules behind the invisible bars of the endless universe. Nothing left but the colorful, contourless spots.
He united even the smallest movements with the rhythm of the music; his hip was slewing and as his knees hit the floor with a soft thud, arms reached out to grab him.
No names, no faces, just fingers and wrists (bones of the hands; phalanges, articulations – all the same, no difference). Skin on skin, which was ticklish particularly around his hip. As he laughed, the pulsing crowd writhed again. He let the music take control over him and stretched himself on the ground in the most sensual way.
Sighs, screams, laughs.
Hands on his waist. Hands on his inner thighs.
He grabbed one of them, led it down on his chest, his belly, even lower and lower, then he released it and gripped his own groin.
Sherlock slipped off the stage and cut his way across the tables.
There was a woman with brown hair, eyes sparkling with tipsiness. She waved some money with one hand. Sherlock grabbed it and laced their fingers together. Obediently, he swung a leg over hers, sliding onto her lap, and as she was waiting breathless for their lips to meet, Sherlock drew apart.
He closed his eyes again. He wished he was on the outside looking in with insensible, cold stoicism; to be able to get out of his head and rule the chaos. His body was about to burst with adrenalin. It tightened and was on fire, his blood hammering in his ears mixing with the sound of the music.
He had opened his fly earlier, so the miss of the underwear could be easily seen. As he stood up with his back to the audience he pulled down the jeans further, and women blustered all at once, rapturously.
With a light, graceful movement, he stepped back onto the stage. A soft smile lingering on his face, he shifted his glance from one woman to another. He looked at them questioningly and pointed at his jeans.
Hands lifted up in the air. Someone shouted, 'Take them off!'
In the very second when Sherlock tore off the last garment of himself, the lights went out, and no one could see the bank notes, which were once pinned under the waist of the jeans, flying up into the air around him.
"I hate this shit" Sherlock sniffed as he was crossing the aisle to reach the changing rooms.
He tried to get rid of the Vaseline* on his belly using his shirt, but couldn't obtain the desired result without dousing himself. He turned on the shower and, without waiting until it was at the right temperature, stepped inside.
He let the warm water flow and enjoyed the way the sound blocked out every other noise. The pounding rhythm didn't reach him here. There were no screams, no knocking of glasses. Just the deep silence and the water, which washed away the burning marks of touches left on his body.
With a towel tied around his waist, he stumbled out from the shower. Mirrors girdled him, enlightened with spot lamps. 'Ridiculous, just like in some theatre,' he thought. His pupils were wide, like black holes sitting in his eye sockets and they watched nothing else but him. He saw himself in every dim reflection.
He slid a finger onto his wrist: quick pulse, dry mouth. Familiar symptoms. Nothing abnormal but he had to check himself, just like he did every time he took pills.
The Tiger slapped his back as he rushed into the changing-room, the others following him.
"End of the shift!" someone shouted. "Look at this!"
The man, Anderson (aka Andy), wore underwear stuffed with money some of which spilled out when he threw himself down on the beige leathered couch.
Sherlock hated that couch. He always stuck to it. It was uncomfortable, and ugly. Now he watched Andy and trying to imagine how it felt as the sweaty skin pressed against the leatherette.
"Okay, boys" Jim was the last to arrive. He wore black trousers, and nothing else. He hadn't stripped. As a host, he barely had the chance for it, but when he did everyone went crazy for him. "You boys were awesome! Especially you," he pointed at the Tiger. "Be here at six tomorrow, got it? Otherwise the chief will chop your willies off, and you'll have nothing to sway on the stage."
The bar closed exactly at four o'clock am. The place became irrationally silent and empty. Sherlock liked that fragile calmness the best, when the sweltering desire didn't pollute the air.
"Tiring day, wasn't it?" Molly put down a tray onto the counter, and took off her black apron.
"Indeed."
"Well, we had quite a lot of guests. Uhm, if you'd like… I could take you home… By car. You know, it's snowing, and I thought you might not want to walk…"
Sherlock glanced questioning at the girl. She began to fold her apron shamefacedly.
"Thank you, but I'd rather walk."
"Uhm, okay. Of course! See you tomorrow, then?"
Sherlock didn't get to enjoy the refound solitude that Molly's departure brought for long because shortly after she left, Greg Lestrade showed up.
"Chief!" Sherlock stifled a yawn. "How's today income?"
"Bad as always. Though, maybe it's a bit better than last Friday."
Lestrade threw his small booklet onto the counter and leaned next to the younger man. Sherlock knew he had to ask – no, in fact he didn't have to, because he could deduce everything from the tangled hair and the circles around the eyes, but they expected him to ask. Lestrade expected him to ask.
"Carol?"
"She confessed she's had an affair." Lestrade turned his back to the counter. "She wants a divorce."
"It'd be better that way."
"Maybe."
"It would. If you hadn't listened to your unnecessary sentimentality last time, you'd have her off your hands by now."
"Okay, you know what?" Lestrade rounded the counter and stepped behind it. He filled two glasses with whisky and gave one to Sherlock. "I won't let her to destroy my club." He sealed the confident statement by draining his drink. "It's not sentimentality, it's business. If we divorce she gets the half the club, and she wants to sell it. There's already a purchaser, Irene… someone."
"Adler." Sherlock twirled the glass with his fingers and watched how the lights broke on the tessellation markings. "She has two stripper bars, and she came here last week."
"I haven't met her."
"She just wanted to sum up the situation, and I spotted her. She was too excited, yet spent too long sitting right here. Too conspicuous. Even if she proved herself to be generous."
"How much did you get?"
Sherlock eyed his drink for another second or two, then he decided to follow his boss's example and he drank it in one go.
"Two hundred."
"Bitch."
***
"So, how is it going?"
"I went through every advertisement and I found nothing. I could get a job as a kitchen helper at some restaurant I suppose, but the pay is ridiculous. And my pen ran out."
John threw the traitorous pen onto the table and shoved aside a newspaper on which there were lined through advertisements. He could barely hear his own thoughts over the noise of his universities buffet, but right then he was happy for it. He feared that if he'd be alone with them, they'd destroy him.
"I should ask for a loan from Harry" he mumbled.
"I might've found something for you." Mike Stamford grabbed his shoulder. "I've heard they need a helper at the Cashmere Club."
"Cashmere… I don't know that place."
"That's fine. My friend works there, maybe he can get you in."
"I would be very much obliged."
"I'm supposed to meet him now actually. Come with me."
John grabbed his stuff and recited a small prayer in his head. He followed Mike across the park to another building at their university. By the time they reached it, John's cheeks had been crisped red by the wind. He tried to cover his face with his scarf, but it was a useless attempt. In the end, he gave up and only focused on the task: make the best impression on Mike's friend in order to get the job.
The lack of money raged over his head like huge stormy waves, and by this point he was willing to accept almost anything.
Bills, the costs of the uni, maintaining Harry's car that John borrowed, bills, bills, and to top it all off, John even had to take care of the other little nothings like food.
He needed a job, desperately.
"How was yesterday's dinner with that biologist?" Mike asked when the front door closed and the snow didn't assault them anymore. "What was her name? Eva?"
"Sandra."
"Right. So? Did you…?"
"What?" John frowned. "God, no! I'm not gonna shag her right on our first date! I'm not meeting her again, anyway."
"Why?"
"I don't know. We are just not a good match."
Mike rolled his eyes with a smile. After another five-minute walk, they finally found the wanted person.
"There he is!"
John followed Mike's finger and tried to figure out who 'he', in the crowded corridor, might be.
They stopped next to a man standing alone.
"Sherlock, this is John Watson."
Sherlock gave the shivering John an analyzing look as they shook hands. He even let himself show a soft smile.
"Sherlock Holmes." His fingers slid up on John's wrist, turning it side to side. "You have no experience, but you'll get the hang of it soon. You don't smoke, that's an asset but… you're not good with late nights. You've got stamina that comes in handy, and you haven't got the luxury to be queasy about jobs right now. Are you patient towards people? Don't answer that. You are, obviously. You're a medical student."
John glanced from Sherlock to Mike, frowning. With some force, he managed to release his hand from Sherlock's grasp.
"When did you two talk about me?" he asked dubiously.
"Never." Mike shook his head. "Sherlock's always like that. You can't keep a secret from him."
"Ah-ha. And uhm, what kind of job would it be?"
"Tomorrow night at 7:15, come to the Cashmere Club. Get some shoes that are more comfortable."
"Wait!" John tried to hide the thin lace of surprise in his voice. "I don't even know what my duties will be! I haven't said with a word that I'm accepting it!"
"You will, if you need money. 7:15. Cashmere Club."
***
The neon title shone brightly in John's eyes as he stood on the street and stared up at the building.
Male stripper bar.
The shiny words seared themselves into the back of his skull. They continued to flicker innocently and the only thing stopping him from turning and fleeing back to the safety of his home right then and there was the mountain of bills that awaited him. As he finally worked up the nerves to push open the door, he swore he could feel pair of judgmental eyes on the street watching him.
Pleasurable warmth greeted him inside, along with a lovely sweet smelling something and quiet background music. John had never been in such a place before; he couldn't even imagine what was waiting for him here. He grabbed a flyer in the cloakroom that propagated today's show.
"Come on" he whispered, and let out a ragged laugh.
He really started to fear the offered job. Images popped into John's mind of himself in red underwear with a pair of boots and a cowboy hat.
"Hell no…"
Under the gaze of the cloakroom attendant, John shifted awkwardly. He wanted to leave before it was noticed that he'd ever been here, but he couldn't move. He needed the money. As he continued his way into the bar he could only plead with whatever diety that happened to be listening that he'd be allowed to keep his clothes on.
"John? John Watson?"
John twisted around and found a tall, curly haired woman stalking towards him.
"Yes, but how do you-…"
"Surprisingly enough, men don't often come here. Freak said you were comin'. You're late."
She tossed a black apron onto the counter and indicated with a hand for John to put it on. He hesitated before obeying
"I know, sorry, traffic jam. Freak?"
"Holmes. I thought you'd let him down and I would have to do all of the work again. Come on, what are you waiting for?"
The woman stepped out from behind the counter, but John just looked at her, uncomprehending.
"Actually I don't know what kind of…"
"Saloon bar. Now."
Shelves filled with drinks towered over John, and for the hundredth time that evening he found himself feeling unsure. Eventually, sweet relief spread through his chest when he realized that if he decided to take off his shirt, it would be of his own decision.
"You're new." A woman smiled at him. "My name's Molly. Molly Hooper."
"John Watson, and yes, I'm new." He smiled back. "Very new. I've never been to… this sort of place before."
She nodded. "It's a bit obvious. Don't worry. You just have to take care of the guests here, but during the show we serve the drinks. It's going to be a calm time for you."
Two young girls joined them in the next moment, but John could manage it perfectly.
The truth was, he didn't have any experience as a bartender and he needed Molly's help to identify what the rum was, but thanks to his sister; John could make the best Mojito in London.
"Not bad, newbie!" Molly laughed when the guests stepped away. "The recipes for the other cocktails are over there, see?"
"Thanks." John grabbed the little blue pocketbook to flip it through. As he did, the crinkly haired woman from earlier slipped behind the bar to grab a bottle of champagne and some glasses before rushing away again.
"Who is that?"
"Sally Donovan." Molly's soft smile turned into a grimace. "She isn't the most pleasant, sometimes. When we don't have a regular bartender she's in charge of the job, and lately…"
"Yeah?"
"Well, the salary was cut, so Carl quit, and Sally hates to stand behind the counter all night long."
"The salary was cut? Bloody great…" John only shrugged in response to Molly's questioning look.
"I'll go and inform the boss that you arrived."
"Wait. Is Sherlock here?"
"He always comes at 8 pm."
Except Sherlock didn't show up at 8 pm. John didn't care, he didn't even know what he would say to him. The job engaged his discursive thoughts. At around a quarter past 8, women began to arrive in large groups.
Right at 8:30, the soft background music stopped and the lights went out, only the stage remained lit. When the women had wandered away from the saloon bar, John allowed himself a small rest.
A man walked onto the stage in tight leather jeans and, in spite of the comfortable warmth of the room, he wore a fur neck coat which whirled around his legs with every step. Theatrical elegance surrounded him and his nude chest shone in the sharp light. Arms wide open, he relished the burst of applause. Then the man began to speak in a silky voice.
"Aren't you cold, my ladies? It's a bit chilly in here, isn't it?" He hunched as if he was cold. "Don't you think it's time we warmed things up?"
The crowd rumbled. They raised their glasses one by one. John felt as if he were a perfect stranger there.
"Let's turn on the heat!" The man shouted. "Come on, ladies, louder! That's it! Get your purses, and reward our cowboys , they took a long road here just to please you. My ladies, here are the Western Stallions!"
The dazzle lamps blew out to be replaced by a tender blue light. The fur coated man disappeared, and six others appeared
♫ Save a horse, ride a cowboy – Big & Rich
The happy rhythm resounded in the club. It even swallowed the screams from the crowd. Six cowboys trotted to the edge of the stage with their back to the public and John almost burst out laughing when they turned. Sherlock was on the right side, wearing a white cowboy hat, worn-out jeans and a leather waistcoat. A holster was attached to his belt.
But then he changed. John saw every movement of his lithe form. He moved lightly, too lightly when compared to a cowboy but was nothing like that man who John had met at the university. Here, he seemed to be playful. He was pulsating in rhythm with the music. On the stage he was free and alive, he was breathing.
When they first met, Sherlock looked rather bored and breathless.
He pulled a woman closer with a lasso, picked her up and made *a turnaround* himself. He set her down on the ground and squirmed between her legs.
He left his boots, his black underwear and his hat on, but nothing else.
John's initial nerves had begun to dissolve as the night wore on, but now they had returned in full force. They forked through his body and made their exit through his fingers.
By the middle of the show, he had completely forgotten about his duties.
When Sally poked his shoulder, sometime later, his face flashed red with embarrassment. He gave silent thanks for the dim light.
"Three Daiquiris, a Grasshopper and two Cosmos, in case you've stopped drooling."
***
After the show, Sherlock, with a pleasurably numb feeling, threw himself down on the hated couch to count his bounty. The air was heavy with the smell of alcohol and perfume. Despite it he breathed in deep breaths to help his flushed body relax. His chest was burning: it lifted and sank quickly. Though his last number being pretty slow-paced he still gasped as if he had been running for miles.
The ecstasy pills pushed him on. They gave him the adrenaline he longed for.
After a quick shower, he put on his trousers, his hat and rushed back into the club.
John was standing behind the counter. They couldn't see each other while the guests stampeded past the bar, but Sherlock had seen how John had been watching him while he had been dancing.
Lestrade flounced out from his office with a troubled look just as Sally closed the front door. It was barely past 4 o'clock.
"I'd like you not to screw up the orders next time!" he grunted on the phone. "Yes, I know what time it is, but tomorrow's supply is going to be late because of you."
As he passed by Sherlock, he beckoned to Jim and, without putting the phone down, he started. "There's a job for Friday, a hen party and you two are going. Jim, find someone to take your role for that night here. Please, arrange it in time."
He gave them a sheet of paper and walked up to the counter where he poured a glass of whisky for himself and argued into the phone.
John continued clean up. When he was finished, he waited. He waited because he didn't know what to do, or if he even wanted to do anything at that bar ever again.
He wanted to talk with Sherlock. Thank him for this opportunity, but it wasn't a job that suited him. On top of it all, he had made quite a lot mistakes (You weren't terrible, though you weren't really the best either. Oh, no, I mean...), and he had been discomfited all night long amongst the half, sometimes fully naked men.
"It doesn't suit me." He let out a deep sigh when Sherlock walked to the counter.
"What doesn't?"
"This job. This place. Look, I'm grateful, I really am, but…"
"You want to escape?" Lestrade turned to face him, laughing. He put his mobile into his pocket. "Just when I'm about to hire you?"
John sighed again.
"I'm an awful bartender."
"Practice makes perfect. I need people, I need you. And according to what I've heard," He shot a quick yet telling glance to Sherlock, "You need this job. I'm willing to negotiate about your payment, but just Fridays. We're closed Wednesday and Thursday. Right then, night lads!"
Molly and John were the last to leave the Cashmere. The wind felt even colder after the sweaty warmth of the club, John pulled his scarf up to his ears.
"I hope," Molly started, "that you'll stay."
"Honestly, I don't know yet. I don't fit in here."
"That's what I thought on my first day too. Still do sometimes… but you'll see what a great group it is, and you'll like it."
"Thank you for trying to convince me. Guess we'll see each other on Friday."
John was relieved as he finally got into his car. He was drove slowly because it was once again snowing and, moreover, there was a dull ache in his muscles. His arms were in protest against any work. The thoughts of his warm bed spurned John on. He wouldn't have had made his morning lecture, anyway.
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*Vaseline is used to make the skin shiny, and it makes the muscles of the body more visible as well.
