permissions.

[docwithablog]

Title: Permissions
Canon Point: Post-ASIB, pre-HOB. PSL canon.
___________

Belgravia's an anonymous-looking place when you approach it as an outsider. There's nothing striking or special about the building housing the club, it's not industrial enough to forebode anything particularly rough or kinky -- and not Victorian enough to pass for in-your-face innocent either. It's just there.

He called Gabriel Cox beforehand, to ensure he wouldn't arrive at a closed establishment, so the door's open, no bouncer yet, seeing as it's one in the afternoon and they aren't officially in business, and inside -- which looks nothing like you might have imagined a kinky sex club to look like, John is met by Gabriel himself, Gabe to his friends, he's heard, dressed casually in a pair of black trousers and a white shirt, setting off the darkness of his skin nicely. He's very tall, possibly John could fit inside him twice, and very broad and when he opens his mouth and talks, suddenly John understands why Sherlock didn't just take the back door in. Wow.

A rumble for a voice, that's what he's got. Even darker than Sherlock's when Sherlock's trying.

They shake hands, very firm handshake, too, and Gabriel leads him to one of the far-wall booths, sitting him down at a small tea arrangement, although John's just had his fair share of coffee, he'll skip the tea. Besides, a cuppa and some biscuits are really not what he's here for.

Gabriel, however, thinks differently.

"Have a cup of tea," he says, ordering more than asking as he lifts the teapot and plans to play mother.

John puts a hand over his cup, shaking his head once. "No, thank you."

"Oh, do be polite," Gabriel comments, the pitch of his voice changing, deepening, sharpening. John frowns, removes his hand, but the other man doesn't pour him a cup in response. Like he's waiting for the say-so. John's frown deepens and they're looking at each other over the table, eyes boring into each other. There's something almost quivering in the air between them. A part of John just wants to lie down and spread his bloody legs. Another wants to chin the man.

"Have a cup of tea," Gabriel repeats.

"I'm not thirsty," John replies.

"You will be," the other man says and smiles, pouring himself a steaming cup of Earl Grey, John can smell it all the way over here. He shifts in his seat, licks his lips.

"I don't doubt it," he says.

When he leaves the club an hour later, he's loaded with brochures, a well-written beginner's guide to sexual domination and D/s partnerships and a leaflet of basic safety instructions, along with a cock ring and nipple clamps he isn't quite sure what to do with yet. You'll do fine, Gabriel had told him before sending him off and although the man's a complete stranger and John shouldn't care, he does. It settles something within him.

Like he's been allowed. Yeah, he always did like that, green lights.