what to overlook.

In the three days that have passed since he was last there, Flourish hasn’t changed, it’s still the exact same grinding crowd, the same pumping beat, the same amount of eyes clinging to him from the moment he sets foot in the establishment. He pauses briefly in the doorway to turn off his phone, ignoring the last message that’s ticked in from Sherlock, not that he’s got anything to add as it is, before he makes his way to the bar to order a pint. New here, the bartender asks while pouring him a glass and John manages a thin smile.

“You could say that,” he says.

“Well, let’s hope you find what you’re looking for, then,” the bartender responds, sliding a very generous serving of beer in front of him.

John picks it up, the semi-darkness around him broken by a variety of flashing lights in all the colours of the rainbow which, he supposes, is fitting. “Let’s,” he says.


*


He’s not three mouthfuls into his beer, when the first man comes over and asks to sit down. He’s probably ten years older than John and dressed partly in leather, partly in nothing, so John declines politely and doesn’t have to wait long for the next chap to make an appearance and after him, the next. After ten minutes, seven drinks out of his pint and exactly 11 interested Flourish-regulars (along with one newbie, like himself), a guy halts next to him and repeats the at this point old inquiry. He’s difficult to place age-wise, could be John’s own age, could be younger, he’s lucked out with young features - not to mention that he’s clad in a pretty lowkey t-shirt with a pair of tight-fitting jeans, casual, but still sending an obvious message (ambiguously attractive, Sherlock had called it, not that John is thinking about that).

Call it a feeling, but he invites him to grab the stool next to his own and buys him a drink. The man asks for something fizzy. To be wise is just a matter of knowing what to overlook, he tells John with a slight grin as the bartender prepares him a Sex on the Beach.

“I have a friend who could benefit from taking that to heart,” John replies.


*


The man’s name is John, called Johnny by his friends and now by John, to avoid any confusion. They agree to be relieved that neither of them is called John Smith or the avarageness of the evening would have been a mood-killer (which, honestly, sounds like something Sherlock would say, but John doesn’t think about it) and they then proceed to chat about ordinary things like jobs (chef, Johnny tells him and responds with a no, at your age when John says, he’s a blogger) and living situations (rented basement in Colliers Wood, Johnny tells him and responds with a nod when John says, it’s complicated).

Johnny has nice hands, John notices the further into his pint he gets. They don’t particularly remind him of anything, not any old army buddies or Sherlock, but they’re -- well, nice. Not too compact, not too thin, strong fingers, well-kept fingernails. They go with the rest of him. He’s a bit taller than John, but not by much, he isn’t a bloody pole. He’s got green eyes (like Harry Potter, Johnny laughs when John comments on it after they’ve been talking for an hour).

John laughs, too.


*


An hour and a half into the conversation, Johnny’s nice-looking hand has landed squarely on John’s knee and John leaves it there while finishing his second beer of the evening. They’re sitting facing each other, John has been licking his lips nervously for the past ten minutes.

“Want to go somewhere,” Johnny asks then and it’s almost a physical relief, having to make up his mind about it, finally.

“As long as it isn’t the bathroom,” John answers.

Johnny knows a place next door where they rent out rooms by the hour and it’s obviously not very romantic, but it’s fine, John didn’t exactly expect romance out of Flourish.


*


Ending up with his back against the door, John doesn’t protest (wasn’t this what he came for, after all) when Johnny shoves a hand down the front of his jeans, cupping him and he’s already half-hard (much like he was in the kitchen a few days prior, but he doesn’t think --), because the man has nice hands and it feels good, it feels like relief.

They’re kissing, too, but it’s more of an afterthought, something secondary, mostly it’s Johnny’s hands working him into full hardness and John’s hands, tearing at his shirt, at his jeans, at his pants.

It doesn’t take forever. Five minutes and they’re breathing out shakily against each other’s faces, the sharp smell of semen hanging in the air. The remaining 45 minutes must be called a wasted opportunity.


*


Johnny slips him his phone number, just in case, as they exit the hotel. John pockets it, but doesn’t make any promises. Most of all, he feels tired, more tired than spent.


*


The two men are waiting for them (well, possibly not for them, but certainly for someone) outside Flourish, looking at each other with a pair of nasty grins as they eye first one John approaching, then the other. Although he himself ignores them, John senses a certain hesitation in Johnny who comes to a complete halt when one of the bullies muses out loud in a way that would undoubtedly be both boring and stupid to Sherlock, but to everyone else is an obvious sign of trouble:

“Look what we’ve got here, two faggots.”

Two minutes later, John thinks to himself: That escalated quickly.