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When the lights switch off, John's nerves twang with a fresh surge of anticipation and increased focus. He sits stiffly in his seat, hands on the disconcertingly sticky material of the armrests, and takes a breath to steady himself. The theatre hall air is moistly warm, full of the organic smell of bodies and people's rainy clothes drying. Around him, the conversations of other people in the audience drop down to whispers and eventually peter out. The stage lights come on gradually, gently outlining the bodies of the actors already on the stage, standing silent as statues. The final pockets of conversation in the audience die out as the simulated sunrise on stage increases in strength. In the hush, John breathes out carefully, eyes automatically drawn to the figure in the far-right corner of the stage, whose back is facing the audience. The defined lines of his back and the pleasing slant of his shoulders grow in contrast as the light intensifies.
John crosses his legs, uncrosses them again. Swallows. Clenches his hands around the tacky armrests, feels his mouth twitch into a nervous smile. Somewhere in the audience near him, someone lets out a soft, excited giggle.
On stage, the statues are starting to move. John forces himself to glance away from the stage for a moment and make sure that their suspects are still in the second row – they are. Satisfied with the confirmation of that first part of Sherlock's prediction for this night's performance, John allows his gaze to be drawn back to the stage, and he shakes his head a little to himself when his eyes land again on the pale, well-formed and completely bare arse of Sherlock Holmes.
-
It doesn't take long for one of the suspects to slip away in the darkness – during the first act, just like Sherlock had said. John relaxes slightly with this first part of his assignment safely fulfilled; now he can watch the play unfold for a while. He looks on as he feels the people around him get used to the fact that all of the actors are stark naked, and he focuses for a while on spotting the pleasing but maddening dips in Sherlock's back just above his arse every time Sherlock is standing with his back towards the audience.
John clears his throat and squirms a little in his seat.
Seeing Sherlock play like this is still a bit strange – John has seen him slip into so many disguises it shouldn't come as a surprise that Sherlock is a revelation on stage, but he keeps expecting Sherlock to slip out of character and snarl an insult at one of his co-performers. He remembers with a tickle of mirth how Sherlock had shuddered in disgust when the director of the play, teary-eyed after the first performance in which Sherlock had participated, had offered him a permanent spot with the company. It's very Sherlock Holmes, to be so incredibly gifted at something and yet be so completely full of disdain for it.
Sherlock moves across the stage with a sensuality that John at first thought was only perceived by himself – because of his intimacy with that body, his knowledge of it – but now that it's the third time he sees Sherlock perform, he thinks he's definitely not the only one in the audience who's in awe of Sherlock's physical presence. It adds a strange competitive edge to his reaction to Sherlock's body displayed on stage. He swallows as Sherlock's character is drawn into a conversation – his voice is pitched low and slow, and his body, at attention, looks strong and confident. John shakes his head in vague disbelief at how natural Sherlock looks up there, how deeply he is someone else.
When Sherlock finishes his last dialogue of the act and leaves the stage, John waits a few more minutes, then makes his way with whispered excuses past knees and feet and silently radiated annoyance to the door that leads back to the entrance hall and to the backstage.
-
“Oh,” Sherlock says mildly when he catches sight of John in his mirror. “I was starting to think you might make it this time.”
“This is torture,” John says simply, and closes the door behind him.
Sherlock, mercifully clothed in a flimsy stage dressing gown, gets to his feet and turns around to look at John directly. “Do you even manage to keep an eye on the audience?” he asks, frowning. “You're supposed to be collecting data, John.”
“I'm fine,” John says, stepping forward and tugging on the knot that's holding together the flaps of Sherlock's dressing gown. “They left during the first act this time, like you said.”
“Good,” Sherlock says, looking down at John's hands with vague interest. “That means the transfer will be happening tonight. Finally. At least, if they come back before the third act. That means you have to – John – John.” John looks up at Sherlock's face, eyebrows raised. “You have to be back in the audience in eight minutes. Eight minutes. Can you manage that?” Sherlock is half-smiling, the curve of his mouth more noticeable than usual because of the stage make-up.
John finally gets the knot undone. “What do you think?”
“Better make it fast, then,” Sherlock says, and his lazy tone of voice is belied by the intensity of his eyes. “Don't smudge my make-up this time.”
John gives him a quirked smile, and takes Sherlock's hand, guiding it down until it's set over the bulge of his cock in his trousers. “If I remember correctly, you smudged your own make-up last time.”
Sherlock squeezes him in response, and John shivers.
-
“God,” John breathes, fisting a hand into Sherlock's hair and tipping back his head against the thick rack of stage costumes behind him. “This whole thing is only – only fuelling your exhibition kink, isn't it?”
Sherlock's mouth pops off John's cock and looks up at him, his raised eyebrows exaggerated by the make-up. “I hardly think I'm the one with the kink here, John,” he says, and then slowly, torturously, licks a line with the flat of his tongue from the root of John's cock up to the tip. “I can't help it if this particular play is performed in the nude. I'm just trying to solve a heinous crime,” he says then, addressing John's crotch, and his voice is slow and husky.
“Yeah,” John says, “doing a – doing a stellar job there,” and then he groans, deep and guttural, when Sherlock takes him back into his mouth and sucks him without further preamble. Sherlock's large hands are a steady, supportive presence on the back of his thighs, and John leans some of his weight on them, knowing that Sherlock can take it. He glances down to watch Sherlock, and it gives him a thrill to see the deeply erotic contrast of Sherlock's completely naked body crouching at his feet, while he himself is still completely clothed, his trousers and pants simply pulled down his thighs enough to give Sherlock access to his cock.
“Fuck, yes,” he breathes at the sight of it, grabbing at the costumes behind him for some extra support as his knees go weak. Sherlock makes a deep sound around John's cock, and it makes pleasure fizzle up his spine. For a long moment there are no sounds but the wet sucking of Sherlock's mouth, and the dim, unintelligible murmur of the dialogue on-stage penetrating to Sherlock's dressing room.
Sherlock takes him in deeper. “Oh – just like – that, yeah,” John says, breath hitching, and his eyes flutter closed when Sherlock pushes forward even more and swallows around the head of his cock. “Fuck,” John manages, and then comes into Sherlock's mouth, hips jerking, nerves firing and fizzing in pleasure. Sherlock takes it and swallows, his hands on John's thighs keeping him steady.
Sherlock pulls off slowly, the final press of his tongue sparking almost painful aftershocks in John's groin. John makes a quiet, breathy sound as he recovers, legs shaky, leaning back against the clothes rack and the steady support of Sherlock's hands. Sherlock presses a sticky kiss to his hip and waits another moment. Then he gets to his feet and nudges his erection against John's belly.
“Quickly,” he says, voice rough.
“Go ahead,” John says vaguely, and lets Sherlock tuck his cock against him and rut and wank himself to orgasm, fast and efficient, making bitten-off noises into John's hair and working his jumper upwards with the friction from his body.
John, slightly recovered, angles his face upwards to kiss Sherlock.
“No, John, don't –” Sherlock gasps, but then he's coming, in hot spurts against the line of exposed skin between John's trousers and his jumper, and he's making soft, desperate little noises as John licks at his open mouth. His breath shudders and finally evens out as he comes down from his high, leaning heavily against John.
“When we get home –” John breathes, sliding his hand up Sherlock's nape into his curls, and tugging on them none too gently, the way he knows Sherlock likes it in his post-orgasm sensitivity.
“Ngh – yes, yes,” Sherlock pants, and easily lets his head be bent back, exposing the long pale stretch of his neck for John to press his mouth against.
They stand together for a long moment, sweaty and hot against each other, and then Sherlock draws back. “You've got one more minute to get back,” he says, and sounds nearly normal, though his hair is standing up at odd angles and the flush on his cheeks is visible even through the layer of foundation on his skin. He looks a bit wrecked.
“Yeah, I know, I'm going,” John says, limbs still loose and floaty, and fastens his trousers, wincing a little at the tacky feeling of come drying on his skin. Just before leaving, he reaches up and touches a thumb to Sherlock's mouth corner. “Think you might have to pass by the make-up person again,” he says, and grins lazily when Sherlock glares at him. “Don't look at me like that. If you think the reason your lipstick is smudged is that I kissed you and not that you sucked my cock, you're an idiot.”
In retaliation, Sherlock leans in and rubs his sticky, powdered cheek against John's.