Archive of Our Own

“... and then Greg here decides that it’s a really great idea for us all to get matching tattoos,” Steven McFadden was saying jovially into the microphone. John grinned into his pint, taking a sip. He thought he could guess where this was going. He looked over a few tables to see Greg with his head in his hands, Molly barely holding in her laughter next to him and patting him on the back. 

“So me and Jeff and Felipe, right, we all get ours done. ‘Class of 1998’, right on the left cheek, here!” Steve slapped his own behind, almost toppling off the small stage, a chorus of catcalls echoing from the guests in the room. John risked a glance at Sherlock, who was regarding the stage with mild horror. This, more than anything else, caused John to snort into his glass, and he put it down rapidly before he could make a spectacle of himself. 

“Then it’s tough-guy-Greg’s turn, yeah? Your Detective Inspector?” Steve said, pointing at a few of the off-duty officers in the room. Sally Donovan’s shoulders were shaking and she had her hands over her mouth. “Well, he gets up, right, and he goes to sit on the chair, and then… guess what he did?”

“What?” A few people called out. John saw Sherlock look at the time on his phone, and kicked him lightly under the table. 

“He fainted!”

The room exploded into warm laughter and applause. The little that John could see of Greg’s face was a deep red, and John joined in by banging on the table a couple of times and whooping. He laughed even more at the look on Sherlock’s face - like he was regretting they ever met - and with a burst of affection, he swatted him on the arm. Sherlock blinked at him rapidly as the noise died down, and Steven got to the end of his speech. 

“The tattoo gun wasn’t even turned on, you know! Hah! Anyway… that’s our Greg - or that’s what he was when we all got out of the police academy. Looking at him now, you’d never know what a right little shit he used to be,” Steve said seriously, and there was a good-humored round of applause. “Happy fiftieth, you old bastard!” he finished with, raising a half-empty pint in Greg’s directions. 

“Happy fiftieth!” The noise levels rose again as people shouted out their own versions, there was more applause, and then the DJ got back on the mic and started making noise as only DJs know how to do. The lights lowered, and the general hubbub got back down to a level where John could hear himself think, noticing various people heading over to Greg’s table to shake his hand. 

“Want to go say happy birthday?” John asked Sherlock, who was looking around himself like an anthropologist in a primitive settlement. One elegant raise of an eyebrow, and John chuckled again and left him to it. 

He ambled through the crowd, catching Molly’s eye, who got up to give him a hug. 

“Hi, Molls,” he said happily. “Great party!”

“Thanks,” she said, giving him a quick kiss on the cheek. “I’m really glad the two of you made it.”

“Yeah, sorry we were a bit late,” he said, nodding his head back at Sherlock meaningfully. The other three people who had been sitting at their table had disappeared, and Sherlock was scrolling on his phone. Some brave souls were already dancing in the empty space in front of the stage.

“That’s alright!” Molly said, grinning. “I know what he’s like. I’m amazed you got him to come at all to be honest.”

“He promised me three hours,” John admitted, but didn’t explain that this was in exchange for John not complaining about Sherlock’s experiment on human skin samples at the kitchen table for a whole three days. Some things should stay just between flatmates. 

“Good on you!” she said, glancing back at Greg who smiled at them both and waved, still surrounded by well-wishers. 

“Who are all these people?” John asked, looking around the packed room. 

“Oh, a lot of police-friends of Greg’s, some of his diving mates as well. Some are my friends, then friends of friends… it just kind of ran away from me, in the end.”

“It’s great, Molly, really,” John said, meaning it. “You’re really good for him, you know?” She blushed at that and looked away, obviously pleased. She caught someone else’s eye, and waved. John looked and saw a pretty brunette looking at them, and smiled at her as well. 

“That’s my friend Anoud,” Molly said, giving him a bit of an appraising glance then. John had thought he was looking alright - Sherlock had begrudgingly approved of the dark blue smart jeans and black shirt anyway - but at the sudden opportunity of getting his flirt on, he wondered if he really did look OK. 

“Oh right,” he said, going for casual. “How do you know her?” 

“I met her at the vet’s office,” Molly said, looking at him just a couple of seconds longer, and then beckoning Anoud over. The woman started making her way towards them. “She’s really funny, loves Star Trek, and her pet chinchilla, Max. Maybe you could ask her to dance?” 

“Now, steady on…” John said, losing confidence about as quickly as Anoud was approaching. Molly laughed, and John suddenly realized how much more confident she had become since she started going out with Greg. It was a good look on her. 

“Have fun,” she said, patting him on the arm, and headed back to her table just as Anoud arrived. 

“Molls?” the woman called after her, a little confused. From what John could hear over the music, she had a pleasant voice. 

“Oh, er… I think she left something at her table. I’m John, by the way.”

“Oh, hi! I’m Anoud. You’re John with the blog?” 

“Hah! Well, yes. Guilty,” John said. It used to bother him a little, to have people know more about him than he did about them, but over time he had gotten used to it. “And before you ask, yes, that is him, over there.” He gestured back towards Sherlock, who was now leaning back in his chair, arms folded. He was slowly looking over the room, no doubt deducing everyone he saw, but when his gaze got to John and Anoud he suddenly dropped his eyes, and stood up. John frowned, wondering if he was going to ditch out already, but breathed easier as he saw Sherlock move towards the bar. 

“Very tall, isn’t he?” Anoud said, looking between them. 

“Hmm? Oh, yes. Tall and very clever, that’s our Sherlock.” And incredibly handsome, he thought, though of course letting Anoud in on that opinion was hardly going to play in his favor. Sherlock was in one of his favored slim-cut charcoal suits, with the aubergine shirt that John had suggested. He looked like sex on legs, and more than one pair of interested eyes was following his progress through the darkened room. “Anyway,” John said, dragging his own eyes back to her, lest he really give himself away. “Can I interest you in a dance?”

“Sure!” she said, looping her arm through his. John saw Molly and Greg giving him the thumbs up from their table, and then he led the already shimmying and laughing Anoud onto the dance floor.

********************

Some time later, John dropped back into his chair, letting out a big sigh. He was not a twenty-something at the club anymore, that was for sure. The party was in full swing, and he had danced with Molly’s friend Anoud, Greg’s new officer Kristy, and friend of someone’s-friend Martine - who was already completely sloshed and whom John had escorted into a taxi after she almost threw up on his feet. 

“It’s eleven forty-five,” Sherlock said loudly, appearing from somewhere behind John and sitting down. There was a slight flush to his pale cheeks, and John wondered if he too might be a bit sloshed. Sherlock was many things, but a heavyweight drinker was not one of them. 

“So, you’ve still got forty-five minutes to go,” said John smiling. 

“Twenty.”

“How’d you work that out?”

“The time started when we left the flat,” said Sherlock, frowning at the dancing throng. 

“Er, no, sorry. The deal was three hours, at the party. Are you really having such a terrible time?”

“John, I’m in a crowded room with a population whose IQs are dropping the more they drink and the later it gets. The alcohol is cheap, and tastes like it. My reputation has obviously preceded me, and so the only people talking to me are Greg and Molly, while I get to watch you cavorting with various partners to such modern musical wonders as ‘tonight's going to be a good night.’ You tell me.”

“What do you mean no one's talking to you?” John said, ignoring the rest of the Sherlockian-diatribe. He had yet to be at a social event of any kind that would meet Sherlock’s standards, so wasn’t surprised. “I’ve seen loads of people eyeing you up.” 

And he had. He had tried to stop, but even while dancing with some really quite lovely-looking women, he had still found himself looking around the room for his flatmate and best friend, wondering if anyone had made a move - and wondering how Sherlock would react if they did. A couple times he had seen him, chatting blank-faced to Greg, or leaning against the wall, glass in hand, and each time there were interested parties pretty much standing in a circle around him - like vultures. Was it possible none had been brave enough to make a move?

God, he hoped so… and then immediately felt guilty. He had no claim on Sherlock, and never would. Sherlock had never indicated that he wanted anything like that with John - in fact had shot it down the very first day they met, and John had recently been thinking that if he didn’t start dating again, he was going to make Sherlock seriously uncomfortable in his own home. Because Sherlock had to know, didn’t he? There was no way he couldn’t know. He had to know how much John wanted to be with him, because John couldn’t hide it if he tried. And he had. 

He had tried. 

“Eyeing me up?” Sherlock echoed, in the tone of voice one would use to say, ‘swimming through rubbish.’ “No, no one has been eyeing me up. Or if they have, they have kept it to themselves.”

Was that a dig at John?

“Oh… well, you’re allowed to ask someone to dance too, you know,” John said, feeling ill at the very idea but pushing through it. “Isn’t there anyone who caught your eye?”

“The redhead,” Sherlock said immediately, indicating a woman waiting at the bar. John’s stomach sank. 

“Oh right. Yeah, pretty.” It was a feeble attempt at best, and Sherlock looked at him like he’d grown a second head. 

“You’d have to be the judge of that,” Sherlock said slowly. “I mean, I think she’s embezzling money from the tech start-up that she’s working for.”

“Oh… ok, gotcha,” said John, hoping he didn’t sound as relieved as he felt. 

“Now it’s ten minutes,” said Sherlock, and John couldn’t help but laugh and shake his head. 

“No, it isn’t. It’s thirty-five. And if you’re going to drag me out of here, at least get me another drink first.” Sherlock pouted, but he did stand up again and start heading in the direction of the bar. 

His empty seat was immediately filled by a man John had never seen before. He looked to be around Greg’s age, with gunmetal grey hair and close-cropped beard. 

“Hi, John, isn’t it?” the stranger asked, reaching out a hand. John nodded and shook it. The man had a very strong grip. “I’m Marcus, good to meet you.” 

“Oh right,” John said, nodding. “Nice to meet you as well. How do you know Greg?”

“I don’t actually,” said Marcus with a quick smile. “My mate went to the academy with him, brought me along for the ride.” 

“Nice,” John said, preparing to look back at the crowd. People came and went at parties, and Marcus probably just saw the spare seat and wanted a break. 

“Um, I wanted to ask you something,” Marcus said, tapping the table a couple of times. John turned back to him, but mentally he was preparing to fend off some question about the blog, one of their adventures, was it true they worked for the Queen once…

“Is your mate Sherlock single?”

John stared. The man, Marcus, fidgeted a little under his gaze but didn’t turn away.

“Uh…” John tried to decide what to say. Say yes, and it was highly likely this guy was going to make a move on his best friend and object of his affection. Say no, and more questions might follow… some of those from Sherlock himself. For example, ‘Why are you stopping people from chatting me up?’ , and what was John going to say to that?

“I… yes. Yes, he’s single,” John said, wishing he had a drink in his hand. 

“OK, great!” Marcus said, grinning and looking a little more comfortable. “And… is he… well, does he go out with blokes?”

Now it was John who was fidgeting. 

“I… well… I don’t actually know,” he admitted, and Marcus looked confused. To his credit, he didn’t point out that everyone knew Sherlock and John had been close friends for years, and therefore it was a little odd that he didn’t know… 

“Why don’t you ask him to dance?” John heard himself saying, like an out-of-body experience. “He loves dancing.”

“Does he?” Marcus said dubiously, looking over at the bar. Sherlock was just getting served, but he was looking back over at their table curiously. “He hasn’t danced at all tonight.”

“I don’t think anyone asked him,” John explained, and felt an unexpected pang of guilt at that. What a crap best friend he was - too concerned with appearances to ask Sherlock to dance at a party. “You should give it a try,” he nudged, suddenly wanting Sherlock to have this, to have a little flirtation with somebody, anybody. 

“Alright, I will,” said Marcus with a confident dip of his head that John envied. Sherlock was on his way back to the table, and Marcus stood up once he got there. Sherlock held the two drinks he was carrying to his chest like a barrier, and John felt such a strong fondness for him at that moment he was half-inclined to tell this Marcus guy to get lost. 

“Hi, I’m Marcus,” the man said, extending his hand towards Sherlock - who looked from it to John and back again. John stood up too, pulling the drinks out of Sherlock’s firm grip and nodding towards Marcus. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” the detective said, quickly shaking the hand and letting go of it. John knew that he was only just resisting the temptation to wipe his palm on his trousers, and held back a smile. 

“Nice to meet you,” said Marcus, all easygoing friendliness. Standing, he was as tall as Sherlock, wearing slim-cut smart trousers and a silvery-grey shirt - and John suddenly felt quite inadequate standing next to him. Sherlock didn’t reply, but Marcus didn’t seem put off, in fact he took a few steps to clear the table out of his way and get closer to Sherlock. “Fancy a dance?” he asked, gesturing at the dance floor. The music had changed into slower, more couple-friendly numbers. In the past this would have been when John would have singled-out a companion for the evening, but tonight… Tonight he just wanted to agree with Sherlock’s demands that they go home. 

“I don’t dance,” said Sherlock flatly. 

“What, never? A gorgeous man like you, come off it.” 

John felt his eyebrows raise, surprised by the blunt bravado. He found himself curious as to how Sherlock was going to respond, so decided to push it a little bit. 

“You do, you dance at home,” he said, and Sherlock flicked him a confused frown. 

“Oh, you two live together too?” Marcus said with a frown of his own. Sherlock opened his mouth, no doubt to say something scathing, but John beat him to it. 

“Yeah, but we’re just flatmates. Flatmates and friends,” he amended, as Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut. “And don’t listen to him - he loves dancing, he’s always shuffling around the flat when he thinks no-one’s looking.”

“I do not shuffle!” said Sherlock, sounding affronted, and more than a bit tipsy. 

“Oh yeah?” said Marcus, smiling again. “Come with me and prove it!” He extended his hand again, and again Sherlock looked from it to John, as if he had no idea what was going on. 

“Go on,” John said, and he reached out and gave Sherlock a little push. Sherlock stumbled forward, looking back at John again, expression hard to read. Marcus took his confusion as an opportunity, darting forward and grabbing his hand, pulling him towards the dance floor. 

“Come on, gorgeous,” Marcus said, beaming now, and Sherlock seemed to follow him out of sheer bewilderment. 

They were soon lost to John’s eye, and he sat down at the table, glum. He drank deeply from the pint Sherlock had brought him, reached out and trailed his fingers across the glass of the cold white wine Sherlock had bought for himself, condensation dripping down it. 

How he wished he were Marcus - just telling Sherlock he was gorgeous, boom, there it was. Hello, gorgeous, let’s go dance. He made it look so easy, and John supposed that it was. It was, if you were brave enough. 

If you weren’t hopelessly in love, and terrified of that fact.  

He looked back at the crowd at exactly the wrong moment - a group moved out of the way, and there the two of them were. Marcus was chatting and laughing, Sherlock was looking at him intently, perhaps trying to make out what he was saying, but they were dancing, together. Marcus was a good dancer, staying close but not too close, arms motioning on either side of Sherlock but not touching, flirtatious but not making any moves too risque. And Sherlock… Sherlock’s moves weren’t as large or expressive, but the subtle dip and roll of his hips, the sinuous wave of his spine… it was all enough to let anyone watching know that he felt the music with his whole body.

John felt hot just looking at him, and he quickly looked away and took another gulp of his pint. 

The music changed, getting even slower, and some people left the dancefloor but more couples joined it. Anoud caught his eye from across the room, but he smiled and shook his head. He didn’t want to give anyone the wrong idea, and an old-school slow dance towards the end of a party was certainly one way to do that. Even as he thought it, his stomach flipped as he realized that was exactly what Sherlock was doing with Marcus…

He risked another look. Marcus was leading, his right hand resting on Sherlock’s hip, and guiding them with his left hand. Sherlock seemed to be moving even less than he had been before, though he was allowing Marcus to move them around in a circle. John couldn’t make out his face, but he could see that Marcus was still talking to him - probably trying to set up a date, John thought with a pang. 

He wondered if Sherlock would mind if John drank his wine as well. 

He picked it up and got out his phone, uncaring if he was the one looking antisocial now - he certainly felt like it. He scrolled through social media for a while, absently sipping on the wine, and was almost able to forget what Sherlock was doing when…

“You psycho!” 

John looked up at the shout, which had been loud enough to be heard over the music. It was Marcus, and he was seething, his face all red. Sherlock looked plenty angry as well, and was pulling away from him, saying something that John couldn’t hear - but Marcus was holding firmly on to his wrist. John immediately stood up, regretting the glass of wine as the room spun a little, but he was too slow - Sherlock had twisted in place so his back was to Marcus, then flipped him easily over his shoulder, breaking the grip the man had on his wrist. Marcus landed hard on the sticky floor and lay there in a winded sprawl.

There were shocked gasps and a little stunned applause from the bystanders, and as people rushed forwards to help Marcus get up off the floor, John saw Sherlock backing away, then turn and head for the exit, face pale. Knowing he wouldn’t be heard over the music and gathering noise from the crowd, John started that way himself, but was pushing against people heading in the opposite direction - to the dance floor, to see what all the commotion was. 

He got to the door and burst out, into a cloud of smoke and chattering party guests. Greg was there, looking away down the street. He started when he saw John, looking at the cigarette in his own hand a little guiltily. 

“Molly knows, she keeps th’pack for me,” he said, and John would have laughed at the worried look on his friend’s face if he hadn’t had other things on his mind. 

“Have you seen Sherlock?” he asked, and Greg looked relieved. 

“Oh, yeah. He just came out, got in a taxi. Funny how they’re always there when he needs them, never works for me…” Greg continued on, slurring a little, and John sighed. While it was in no way uncommon for Sherlock to disappear mid-social-event, he had hoped that this time they would at least be sharing a cab. Plus, he wanted to know what on earth had set him off like that, back on the dance floor. 

“Everything alright?” Greg asked. 

“Yeah… well… no. He had a fight with some guy in there.”

“A fight? Damn, missed it,” said Greg, looking back at the door as if it might still be going on. “Fight with who?”

“Some guy called Marcus. Might have been a bit too smooth for his own good.”

“Never heard of him,” said Greg, blinking slowly. “Too smooth? Oh. Tried to chat you up, did he?”

“What? No?” John said, confused and trying to follow the drunken reasoning. “Why would you think that?”

“Well, stands to reason, d’nnit,” Greg said sagely. “Sherlock’d be bound to get mad if some smoothy was coming on to you.”

John stared at him, mind buzzing. 

“He… he would?” 

Greg rolled his eyes, causing him to wobble a little. 

“Um… yeah,” he said, like it was John who was the drunker of the two and needed things explained to him slowly. “Yeah if a girl chats you up, he’s annoyed but it’s like… OK. If it was a guy? I think he’d prob’ly deck’im.” 

He hiccoughed then, and started patting his pockets. “Have you seen my cigs?”

“Molly has them,” John said absently, and Greg nodded as he remembered and started heading back inside. “Hey, happy birthday, mate,” John said, and Greg turned back, eyebrows raised. He stepped up close to John then, and gave him a big bear hug. John chuckled, patting his back a couple of times. “Alright, come on now,” he said gently, and Greg disentangled himself with a happy sigh. 

“Was a good party, right?” he asked, heading back inside again, and John started looking up and down the street for a taxi of his own. 

“Yeah, mate,” he called, spotting one and raising his hand to flag it down. 

It had been a great party - except that Sherlock was gone.

***********************

John woke up with the kind of banging headache you only get when you have had one pint too many, then for no good reason decided to top it up with a glass of wine at the end. He groaned into his pillow, but already the drive for some nice, cold water was pulling at him and trying to get him out of bed. 

He had got back the previous evening to a quiet flat. Sherlock’s keys were on the mantel so he knew he was there, but there was no noise or light from behind his bedroom door. He had been a bit drunk, John reasoned, so it was possible that he had just got into bed and passed out… maybe he should check on him, take him some water, make sure he was wearing the right clothes for sleeping, maybe help him get changed… John had literally shaken his head to stop the thoughts from progressing, because he knew where they led - and Sherlock was not interested. 

He had used the loo, drunk some water from the tap, staggered up the stairs, changed and passed out - but it hadn’t been anywhere near enough water, and his abused body was screaming at him now. With another heartfelt groan, he forced himself to sit up. The world did not tilt too badly, so he got himself to his feet, then into his dressing gown. Getting down the stairs without breaking his neck was a challenge, but he managed it. He went into the kitchen, grabbed a glass, and had drunk a glass and a half of tap water before his brain started to actually work again, and remind him that he still didn’t know what had happened to Sherlock. Glass in hand, he went out into the living room - just as Sherlock was emerging from the bathroom, clouds of steam following him. He had a large towel wrapped around his waist and legs, his hair was a sodden mess around his head and ears and his skin had the greeny-grey tinge of the truly hungover, but as far as John was concerned, he looked… well. Delicious. 

John quickly gulped down the rest of his water. 

“Morning,” Sherlock mumbled, obviously suffering as well, walking past John and into the kitchen. He got his own glass and followed John’s example, making a little sound of approval after the first few sips of water. “I feel like I’m going to die,” he said conversationally. 

“Ugh, me too,” said John, sitting gingerly on one of the kitchen chairs. Sherlock hummed, then opened the kitchen cupboard, pulling out a packet of biscuits and dropping it onto the table between them. He sat as well, propping his head up on the table on one hand while nudging the packet towards John. John opened it slowly, took a biscuit, then passed it back. As Sherlock also selected one, John noticed a purple tinge to one of his wrists. 

“Hey… what happened there?” he said, pointing at it. Sherlock looked confused, then looked where he was pointing. 

“Oh. It’s fine. It was just that man, Marcus,” he said, taking a bite of his biscuit as if it were of no concern at all. 

“He did that?” John asked, then his memory flickered to life - Sherlock, trying to get away from Marcus, while Marcus held on to him, refusing to let go. It hadn’t looked that serious from where John was sitting, but Sherlock’s forearm was definitely bruised. A surge of anger chased away the nausea for a moment. “That bastard!”

Sherlock raised a tired eyebrow. He chewed and swallowed for a moment, staring at John. 

“It’s not a big deal,” he said at last. “I bruise easily, you know that.”

“Yeah but people don’t usually come back from a dance with bruises, Sherlock,” John huffed, anger building. He was already planning on asking Greg about who exactly this Marcus guy was, so they could have… a conversation … when another memory came back to life, and he remembered that Greg hadn’t known who Marcus was either. Damn. “What exactly happened?”

“I don’t dance,” Sherlock said, as if that answered the question. 

“You… wait. What did he do? You were trying to get away.”

Sherlock sighed, stared at his biscuit. He was obviously weighing up whether it was worth having this conversation. 

“You can tell me,” John said, with as much sincerity as his tired body could muster up. It must have been enough, because after a long look at him, Sherlock spoke. 

“I don’t dance… because people don’t just want to dance. They never do. There’s always an expectation attached to it, and Mr. Marcus was no different. At first it seemed… fun is too strong a word, but acceptable, and he wasn’t a bad dancer… but I should have known.”

“Should have known, what?” asked John. Sherlock was keeping his voice level and matter-of-fact, but John could see the unhappiness in his expression, the little tells that he made that perhaps only John could read. Sherlock was not just sad about whatever had happened, but was blaming himself for it, too. 

That conversation he planned on having with Marcus was going to be… intense.

“Should have known what he really wanted. When the slow dance came on, he got closer and closer, his hands wandered a little…”

The biscuit John was holding broke into little pieces. 

“Whoops,” he said, loudly, trying to cover the dark feelings that listening to Sherlock was bringing up. He brushed off his hands, crumbs all over the table. “Sorry,” he said, but Sherlock had a small smile on his face. 

“It’s alright,” he said, then the smile disappeared again. “I told him I wasn’t interested, he got angry, said I’d led him on, that everyone there was talking about how… frigid, I must be, and I would be lucky to go home with him at all, etc. etc. They’re all the same, I’m afraid. They think a dance makes them entitled to… well. My body, I think.” Sherlock blushed, looking back at his half-eaten biscuit. 

“I’m sorry,” John said faintly, feeling… a little horrified. That’s what had happened, every time Sherlock had agreed to dance with someone? That’s how people had treated this beautiful, gentle person? Yes, Sherlock could be ruthless and cold when it was necessary to catch a criminal - but the human being underneath, the one who loved dogs, kissed Mrs. Hudson on the cheek, who got excited about chemistry journals and sad about the breakups of strangers - he didn’t deserve that. No one did, but especially not Sherlock. 

“It’s alright,” Sherlock repeated, setting the remains of the biscuit down on the table. “Anyway, he didn’t want to take no for an answer, so I removed myself from the situation. I’m sorry if it spoiled Lestrade’s birthday,” he added, eyeing John carefully as if he might be angry about that. 

“It’s not alright, what he did,” John said, but when Sherlock looked down and away he knew not to push that part. “And of course, you didn’t spoil it. If anything, people were entertained. You know us Brits, we love a bit of drama.”                

“Hmm, true,” Sherlock said, but then he pressed one hand delicately over his mouth, looking a bit more green. After a few deep breaths through his nose, he announced, “I think I need to go back to bed.”

“Good plan,” John said. Sherlock stood up, slowly, holding his towel in place. John handed him the rest of the packet of biscuits. “Take these with you, I’ll see you a bit later.” Sherlock nodded slowly, then disappeared back off to his bedroom. 

Once the door was closed, John stood up, and started pacing. The anger still coursing through him at the thought of someone manhandling Sherlock was almost overwhelming, as was the guilt that it was John who had pushed Sherlock into dancing in the first place. If he had known that this was how Sherlock felt about it, he would never have encouraged him… but then again, not everyone was as awful as Marcus, no matter how much Sherlock seemed to think so. There was nowhere to divert his anger though - he didn’t know Marcus’ full name, didn’t even know which friend of Greg’s he had come to the party with. John didn’t have the resources to track him down…

...but he knew someone else, who did. 

***************************

They didn’t have any big cases on, so that meant that around his shifts at the surgery, John was getting to relax a bit more at home. Sherlock seemed content to work on his experiments, update his website, and comment with some derision on the easier cases that he got through his email - even solving some of them, shooting off the answer in a brief response then bemoaning the general ill-state of the human race at large. 

He seemed… fine, but not happy. Not that ‘happy’ was necessarily an adjective that anyone ever associated with Sherlock (and wasn’t that a sobering thought…) but he seemed… down. Flat. John saw him staring into space a couple times when he was supposedly reading something, expression hard to read. The other hobby that Sherlock usually indulged in when in his downtime was also noticeably absent - John hadn’t seen him touch his violin, and it, and the sheet music, remained in place day after day. 

John hadn’t been joking when he’d told Marcus that Sherlock loved dancing. They had never discussed it - like they never discussed John’s propensity to belt out Queen’s greatest hits when taking a shower - but the patter of Sherlock’s feet over their floorboards often had a rhythm to it. If he was really excited, he would twirl in place, arms joining in, looking about as carefree as he ever did. Sometimes when he realized John was watching he would stop and blush; other times, grin and carry on. It was endearing… and it had stopped. No more little taps as he turned a corner, no stepping side to side while waiting for the kettle to boil. Not even any rhythmic tapping of his hands or feet when he was sitting down - he was still, now. 

Still, and unhappy. 

John didn’t know what to do. He had a plan in motion in regards to the slimeball who had set this off, but as for raising Sherlock’s spirits, he was at a bit of a loss. He wished a really good case would come along to lift his friend’s spirits, but the days continued to pass with only level twos and threes. The violin case got a little dusty, and Sherlock’s preoccupied staring into nothing became a little more frequent. 

The answer came completely by accident. 

Tired from a stressful day at work, John had been heading into the kitchen to get something to eat. Sherlock must have anticipated his return, as he was exiting the kitchen, holding two full steaming cups of tea. John stepped to the left in order to pass by him, but Sherlock had stepped that way as well. John stepped to the right, just as Sherlock did the same. And then… and then Sherlock laughed. 

It wasn’t a big guffaw, not the kind of laugh where he showed his hidden chins and that rumbled up from his chest - but a laugh, all the same. Sherlock looked a bit confused to have even made the sound, but John was elated, and laughed in return. Sherlock blushed lightly, gesturing to one side, and they finally got past each other. Sherlock went and set their tea on the coffee table and John went into the kitchen, but suddenly all John could think about was that laugh, and how much he wanted to keep hearing it. He realized that as well as being still, Sherlock had been quiet as well. He had been talking in his usual scathing manner about this and that, but the random little unconscious noises - the laughs, the giggles, the dramatic-sighs and amused hums… they had all been gone as well. 

Until that thing in the kitchen doorway… that side-step, side-step…

A germ of an idea began to form. 

The next evening, Sherlock got up from his chair and headed to the kitchen, still staring at his phone and barely avoiding the furniture, and John seized the chance. He jumped up, and with a couple of large paces he had caught up with Sherlock. Swallowing his nerves, he gently touched Sherlock with both hands on his waist and pushed him forwards. He hummed the first couple bars of a song as he did so, and by the time Sherlock had opened his mouth to say something, John had let go and moved past him into the kitchen. He feigned looking for something and settled on some crackers from a cupboard, feeling Sherlock’s eyes on him. 

“What was that song?” Sherlock asked. He was still standing in the doorway where John had let go of him. 

“Hmm? Oh… I dunno,” said John, heading back into the living room. Sherlock turned, giving him a wide berth, and John’s heart sank a little. Sherlock continued to watch him as he got back to his chair and sat down. 

“It sounded like… The Conga?” Sherlock pushed. He didn’t sound angry, so John risked a look. There was the suggestion of a smile on Sherlock’s face, which raised his spirits back up. 

“Might have been,” he said, risking a smile - and there it was. A bubble of a laugh, slipping out of Sherlock’s mouth before he could pull it back. Just for a moment, his eyes were brighter, his face younger… Then that rapid blinking, the thing John knew he did when he was unsure about something… and the moment passed. Sherlock disappeared back into the kitchen, rummaging through the cupboard under the sink where he kept his lab equipment, and John knew he would be at it for a while. 

Clicking on the TV, John found that he couldn’t stop smiling. 

*****************

Later that same evening, John stared down at the text message on his phone, frowning. It was from Molly, and it read, 

Hi John! Remember my friend Anoud, the one with the chinchilla? She asked me to pass you her number, it’s 0770900122. Sounds like you really hit it off!

Had they? John hadn’t really been able to tell. She had seemed interested enough, but had also been dancing with other men… though to be fair, John had danced with a few other women, too. She was certainly an attractive woman, and she had seemed smart and funny as well… usually, John would be jumping at the chance, and sending off a flirty message already. 

There was a light clink of glassware from the kitchen, and he looked up to see Sherlock carefully pouring a measure of something into identical glass beakers. He stared in concentration at the reaction of each, then started making notes in his notebook. As John watched, he then stirred each one with a glass rod, causing a tiny tinkling sound as the rod hit the sides… and John realized, there was a rhythm to it. One, two three, one, two three, one, two, three… Sherlock was beating out a waltz with his lab equipment - very, very quietly. 

The love that welled up out of John’s chest just at that realization was enough to take his breath away. It was so strong, he could have burst into tears right there in the living room if he let himself. It was stronger than anything he’d ever felt before, and the idea of being at all interested in anyone else, ever again, seemed suddenly not just ludicrous, but offensive. 

He texted back:

Hi Molly. That’s nice of her, but I’m not on the market at the moment and don’t want to lead anyone on. Sorry about that. Take care.

John spent the rest of the evening idly listening to Sherlock conducting his little glassware orchestra, while staring, unseeing, at the pages of his book. 

****************************

Then, there was a case - discovered and solved within a day. It had been hectic, and convoluted, and frustrating, and marvellous. Sherlock had led John and the police around the city by their noses, jumping from clue to clue like a happy frog between lily pads, until they had raced against time to Euston train station and caught a thief right as the train had started moving. The thrill of the chase certainly had been pumping through John’s veins, and he knew from the elated glow of victory on Sherlock’s face that he felt exactly the same. 

When they got back to Baker Street they were still giddy with it. Sherlock had not stopped talking for the entire cab ride, and John’s face was literally hurting from smiling so much. This - this was how Sherlock was meant to be - animated and vital and happy, not still, and quiet, and sad. This was how John wanted to keep him, somehow. 

Sherlock was already opening the door when John got there after paying the cab, and Mrs. Hudson was in the hall, smiling at them as Sherlock continued to chatter. 

“Mrs. Hudson, you should have seen it. John jumped onto a moving train and collared our miscreant - literally grabbed his collar…” Sherlock pantomimed, and Mrs. Hudson laughed indulgently, “...dragging him off of the train and into the waiting arms of the constabulary.”

“A moving train?” she exclaimed, and John had a sudden rush of love for her too, as she allowed the happy moment to stretch, and build and continue. She knew their Sherlock very well. 

“It was barely moving, just starting to set off,” he demurred, and Sherlock tsked, bouncing on the balls of his feet a little. John hadn’t seen him do that for days.

“It was moving, John!” he said, shrugging off his Belstaff. “And those buffoons that Lestrade insists on employing wouldn’t have had a hope without you.”

“Oh, sounds very dashing,” Mrs. Hudson said, touching John’s arm - and he had a sudden idea. 

“Dashing?” he said, with a grin, and he stepped forward, took her hand in one of his and her waist in the other, and spun her around. He was careful as she was getting on in years, but she let out a peal of laughter that sounded like it came from a twenty-year-old. “Yes, I supposed I was rather dashing, now I come to think of it,” he said, also laughing, and before he lost his nerve he let her go and reached for Sherlock, as if they were all characters in a Regency ball. Sherlock’s side twitched under his hand at first contact, but as John spun him in a circle, he smiled widely and let out another jewel of a laugh for John’s growing collection. Not wanting to push it, John let him go as he had with Mrs. Hudson, and Sherlock pulled the elderly lady into his side as they watched John take a deep, theatrical bow. 

“Oh, you two!” Mrs. Hudson said, swatting at Sherlock, who hugged her close a moment longer then let her go. “What are we going to do with you?”

“Feed us biscuits?” Sherlock suggested, and she swatted at him again as he skipped out of her way and onto the stairs. 

“Never mind him, Mrs. H,” said John moving to follow his disappearing flatmate up the stairs, but he was stopped by her hand on his arm. 

“Nice to see him happy again,” she said, with a meaningful look where Sherlock had gone. “And it’s in large part down to you, John. Don’t think I don’t see it.”

John flushed. 

“And don’t think that he doesn’t see it too,” she said, smiling. “But just remember… he’s very observant, our Sherlock, but he doesn’t like to guess. He’ll keep collecting evidence until the cows come home, but unless he’s sure, he won’t let himself jump to conclusions. Just… something to keep in mind, dear.” She patted his arm a couple of times, thankfully ignoring John’s mute embarrassment, then nudged him towards the stairs before heading back to her own flat. 

***************

“What is this?” Sherlock said, and his voice was low, and dangerous. John frowned as he slapped a newspaper onto the table right under John’s nose. Their one-day case had been a few days ago, and all had been peaceful and calm in 221B, so John wasn’t sure what might have set him off - wasn’t sure, until his eyes started scanning the story in front of him…

Marcus Rainer was arrested today on charges of embezzlement and fraud. The charge states that he defrauded his employer out of at least three million pounds over the course of five years, aided by his accomplice, Valeria Pinkerton.  

The black and white photo showed both Marcus and the red-headed women from the party being led from a police car into a building by armed police officers. 

Must not smile, John thought to himself, though on the inside his smile was as dark and satisfied as a vat full of molasses. 

“Oh, wow,” he said, knowing his surprise sounded completely fake but unable to care very much. “So, as well as being a complete tosser, he’s got himself arrested to boot. Good riddance, hey?”

“How did this happen?” Sherlock said, voice still steely.

“Well, he got caught, didn’t he?” John said, tone light and confused. “Couldn’t have been very smart.”

“No,” Sherlock argued. “He was smart. I deduced he was some kind of scam artist, but I assumed it was more on the level of conning people into bed with him. Nothing like this! So he was smart enough to evade me,” Sherlock snapped. 

“You were drunk,” John reminded him, “and preoccupied by him being an idiot,” ...but this seemed to only make Sherlock bristle more. 

“That’s not the point! The point is that if I didn’t see there was anything that far amiss with this man, then who else could have… oh.”

He deflated a little in place, like a popped balloon, then looked searchingly at John. 

“You talked to Mycroft,” he said, voice flat. 

Abandoning the ruse, John stood up. “Yeah. Yeah, I did. I didn’t know how to find the bastard - I would have, if I could. Would have probably left him with some broken fingers, to tell the truth. But I couldn’t find him, I didn’t know enough. So I asked Mycroft for help.” 

Sherlock was looking at him like he’d never seen him before. 

“Why?” he finally asked, sounding completely lost. 

“I just told you, I didn’t know…”

“No, I… I mean… why?”

Oh. 

John sighed, resting his hands on the table, staring down at the newspaper and feeling again that grim satisfaction of seeing a bad man brought low. But it wasn’t only that - it was also the weight coming off of his shoulders, that a threat had been removed. Marcus hadn’t been a master criminal, or even that dangerous - but he had hurt Sherlock, and so he had to go. It was really that simple. 

“Remember when there was that business with Irene Adler and the phone, and those guys made the mistake of hurting Mrs. Hudson?” he asked Sherlock. Sherlock hesitated, but nodded. “And you remember what you did to them?” Another nod. “Why did you do that?”

“Because they hurt her,” Sherlock said automatically, still looking confused. 

“And Marcus hurt you,” John said, a little incredulous that he had to lead Sherlock by the hand to this conclusion.... But Sherlock was shaking his head. 

“It’s not the same,” he said bluntly, beginning to back away. 

“Why isn’t it?” John asked, following. 

“Those men… they held her captive, hit her…”

“And Marcus wouldn’t let go of you, bruised you…”

“It’s not the same,” Sherlock repeated, radiating tension. 

“Why not?” John pushed.

“Because… it was nothing! Marcus was just a creep being a creep, it happens all the time! Why do you think I’m so uninterested in dating?” Sherlock snapped, voice climbing. It seemed like these were things he had wanted to say for a long time. “I’m not like normal people, I’m not quick to fall into bed with someone, and it makes people angry. I’m used to it - it’s nothing.”

“Maybe you’re not like normal people, Sherlock - but that’s not a bad thing. You’re not normal, because you’re extraordinary. And it’s not nothing.” 

Sherlock stared at him, but had evidently run out of steam and then looked away to the side, frowning. 

“You… you contacted Mycroft,” he eventually stated, not a question but John nodded again anyway. “And… and what did he say?”

“He was angry,” John said, keeping his voice calm. “Almost as angry as me, I think.”

“But there was no reason to be!” Sherlock said, and his eyes were a little too bright as they returned to John’s, now. 

“There was to him,” John said quietly. “And there was to me. I’m sorry I went behind your back, but I’m not sorry that Marcus got what was coming to him. He shouldn’t have kept pushing you to do something you didn’t want to do, and he shouldn’t have hurt you. He picked the wrong person to hurt.”

“What do you mean?” Sherlock had reached for the door frame, was partially leaning on it, looking wrung-out. 

“I mean, you’ve got people in your corner, who won’t tolerate people treating you like that,” John said, wishing he could just reach out, right now, and have Sherlock accept it. “You’ve got your annoying big brother, and you’ve got Greg, and Molly, and Mrs. Hudson. And you’ve got me, Sherlock. No one treats my… my friend, like that, and gets away with it.”

Sherlock stared at him a second longer, then back towards the newspaper. His face became slowly more blank, and John knew it would take him a while to process all of this. He turned, gathered up the newspaper and handed it back. Sherlock took it without a word, then went back to his bedroom, shutting the door. 

****************

The incident had rattled John a little. He had known that Sherlock wouldn’t be pleased that he’d gone to Mycroft for help, but he couldn’t regret it - something had to be done about Marcus, and he couldn’t have done it without Mycroft’s help. What John hadn’t expected though was that Sherlock would be so taken aback that they had done anything about Marcus, at all. 

He knew that Sherlock had a pretty low opinion of the human race, and he had never blamed him for that. They saw liars, thieves and murderers all the time in their line of work - hardly a glowing recommendation for humanity. Plus John had seen enough horror during his time in the army to know that evil wasn’t ever a theoretical, unseen thing; it was people, making choices - bad ones. 

But John hadn’t known that Sherlock had personal reasons to think so little of people. Yes, people called him names, unacceptable names - but Sherlock fired right back, barbed-tongue lashing, usually coming out on top. He brushed these people aside as irrelevant, and it didn’t seem to really get him down. This thing with Marcus though… it had definitely hit a nerve, and John had no desire to expose that nerve to hurt ever again. 

A day after their confrontation about the newspaper, Sherlock was back to high spirits, if giving John the occasional puzzled look. He was humming as he worked, and though the violin still remained untouched, John felt like they had cleared the hurdle and were on their way back to normality. But what Sherlock had said, it troubled him, and reminded him of what else he’d had to say about the entire incident: 

I don’t dance… just a creep being a creep… people don’t just want to dance… happens all the time… there’s always an expectation attached to it… they’re all the same…

And wasn’t he, John, becoming just as guilty of all of this as well? At first he had instigated the little dance moves just to make Sherlock smile, but now? Sherlock was fine, he was getting back to himself. He didn’t need John to help him along anymore…

But, oh, how he wished to. 

And it wasn’t like he had any expectations. He didn’t - Sherlock had always been very clear that they could be friends, but no more. But the last thing he wanted to do was make Sherlock uncomfortable, and sometimes he worried he was really skating on the edge of that line. So… no more dancing, at least, not for John. He hoped that Sherlock would do it more and more until he was back at the level he had been before - but it needed to come from him, now. John was not entitled to anything, and he wouldn’t act as if he were. 

So, John held back. If Sherlock hopped a little staccato pattern on his way down the stairs, John smiled but didn’t join in. If they were passing each other in the hall, he pressed to the wall to allow Sherlock to pass by. If he heard Sherlock clicking what sounded a lot like the beginning of ‘Stand By Me’ with his fingers, he resisted the urge to hum along. 

It was difficult though. After a quiet few days, Sherlock suddenly seemed to be everywhere. If John was walking through a doorway, Sherlock was there as well, trying to get by. If John were drinking tea at the kitchen table, Sherlock was tapping out a tune with a spoon on the pots and pans while he did the dishes. One day when he came home from the clinic, Sherlock was suddenly thundering down the stairs as he was climbing, and Sherlock stumbled and almost fell right into him. It was an uncharacteristic kind of clumsiness, and it had John a little on-edge even as he helped Sherlock right himself and sent him on his way.

He caught Sherlock sending him a few puzzled looks as well. He had eventually picked up his violin again, much to John’s pleased satisfaction - not yet playing it with the bow, but at least plucking at the strings. He would sit and pick out a simple tune, some that John knew, some he didn’t, and look out the window, or down at the instrument. At least, that’s what he appeared to be doing when he thought John was looking. John also saw those puzzled looks in the reflection in the mirror, and out the corner of his eye. Sherlock would look at him like… like he was waiting for something. 

And then, finally - there was music. 

About a week after John had decided to let Sherlock get back to his dancing ways alone, he came home to the lovely sound of the violin being played. It wafted through the open windows of the flat and down the street, seeming to call him home through the notes alone. John was beaming even before he knew it himself, and he almost ran up the stairs before pausing at the door, not wanting to break the mood, the spell, that 221B was suddenly under. 

The tune wasn’t one he had heard Sherlock play before - it was something modern, with an Irish lilt to it. John was sure he had heard the song, the title was on the tip of his tongue… but the longer he stood, there, the less it mattered. The violin sang out to everyone in earshot that the person playing it was… content. Happy. Maybe even…

He couldn’t help it - John eased the door open, just enough so he could see inside. Sherlock was facing the window, dressed in one of his immaculate suits, the violin an extension of his body. John was no expert, but the smoothness in which he was playing this song, his bowing arm moving without hesitation - he must have been practising this for a while. But practising when? When John was out? 

Why?

And Sherlock was moving - swaying from side to side, apparently caught up in the music as much as John was. John could just make out his reflection in the window; eyes closed, face calm, mouth turned up a little just at one side, as the song began to wind down. John continued to watch as Sherlock’s movements slowed - and as his eyes opened to regard him in the reflection of the window, he knew he had been caught. 

John went in and let the door close behind him. Sherlock didn’t turn, just continued to watch him thoughtfully through the glass. 

“That was… amazing doesn’t seem to cover it, really,” John said, unable to be anything other than completely honest at that moment. 

“I thought you might like it,” Sherlock said, and he smiled, then started putting the violin away. “Do you know the song?”

“I think so… I don’t remember the name though,” John admitted. Sherlock merely hummed in response, clicking the violin case shut with a click. 

“No matter,” he said. “I’ve been listening to some more modern songs, since Lestrade’s party. If I’m ever going to dance again, I should probably be a bit better prepared.”

If I’m ever going to dance again…

John didn’t want to get his hopes up, but from what he could see, Sherlock’s ears had gone red and he was keeping his face resolutely turned away - all little Sherlock-tells that he had just said something… sentimental…

“Yeah, might be a good idea,” John said, keeping his tone light and casual. Sherlock didn’t like it pointed out when he was venturing into new territory; he was something like a wary animal in that way. He took off his shoes, listening to Sherlock moving around behind him. 

“So…” he heard his friend say, sounding hesitant. “I might… I might play music, in the flat, a bit more.”

“Great,” John said, turning and giving a quick smile, not wanting to spook him. He went into the kitchen for something to do, trying to calm the butterflies in his stomach. 

“And… and dance. A bit more.”

“Looking forward to it,” John said, grinning at the kettle as he filled it with water. 

“You are?”

“Sure,” John said, plugging the machine in, and deciding to take a chance. “I love it when you dance.”

There was a long pause, and John knew his own ears were now bright red as well. 

“Oh. OK.”

“OK.”

As John thought he might, Sherlock retreated off to his bedroom then - but John couldn’t wipe the smile off his face for the rest of the evening. 

********************

True to his word, 221B was suddenly abrim with music. Sherlock selected playlists on YouTube, letting them play in the background from their TV as they worked on their own projects. He seemed to be looking for something, as he never seemed to choose the same genre twice - but he didn’t seem disappointed by anything he found. Instead, John caught him smiling - smiling! - more and more. 

And the dance steps - those were now back with a vengeance, as if all Sherlock had needed was John’s permission to let himself go. Maybe he had, and John felt saddened at the idea that Sherlock had ever held himself back due to worrying about what John would think. He also knew that this happier, freer version of Sherlock was not for show outside in the world: the world where dancing meant unwanted advances, unwanted attention, comments and the closeness of strangers. No, this Sherlock - he was for 221B only.

For John, only?

John didn’t dare to hope, but he was unable to stop himself from joining in the dancing, occasionally. They would be at the table, both reaching for items, and Sherlock would maneuver around him while humming a tune, leaving John little choice but to do a box-step to get out of his way - laughing all the while. The Conga made a reappearance, this time Sherlock nudging John up the stairs, actually singing the words this time and giggling when John sang them back. There were tapping rhythms on John’s shoulders as Sherlock passed him at the table, or he would be caught by the elbow and swung in an arc away from wherever Sherlock wanted to be, and the next time John sang Queen’s ‘Somebody to Love’ in the shower, he heard Sherlock singing along from the kitchen, joyful and loud. John wondered what the neighbors would think, then laughed to himself as he realized he couldn’t have cared less. 

When he was drying off and saw himself smiling in the mirror, skin flushed from the heat of the water and the sound of Sherlock’s happy voice from the kitchen (who had moved on to, ‘It’s a Kind of Magic’, endearing in his rumbling baritone that John could never hope to match), he thought… 

This. This is enough. If this is what we are, if this is all we ever are... then it is enough. 

***************

It was a Friday night, and John was walking along Baker Street on his way home, ears already straining for violin music. The day had been stressful, with a particularly impatient-patient working on his last nerve, and he was looking forward to reading his book by the fire, hopefully with Sherlock playing some music to brighten his mood. 

As he drew nearer, he was disappointed not to be able to hear anything… or could he? He stopped, listening hard. There was music, but it was something from the radio - probably coming from a neighbor’s open window. It was a lovely Spring night, and a lot more windows were open up and down the street these days than there had been. 

When he got to 221B, he was disappointed again - because from what he could see, the living room lights were off. Sherlock was probably out at Bart’s, and if so could remain away for hours. Not that John begrudged him that; but his little dream of a pleasant evening with his friend was rapidly disappearing. 

With a sigh, he opened up the door and went inside, taking off his coat and hanging it - then noticed, there was a light upstairs. Not from the living room or kitchen, but further up; from John’s own bedroom. Frowning, John stalked up the stairs, feeling on-edge. It was probably nothing - maybe Sherlock had gotten curious or borrowed something of his, leaving the light on - but in their line of work, you never knew. Plus, Sherlock had been very good at not invading John’s privacy, lately. 

The door to his bedroom was slightly open, and there was a cool breeze blowing into the hall. John nudged it further open, cautious, but there was no one there. What there was, was the sound of slow, melodic music, floating in through the wide open window. It drew John there, and he leaned out, looking down. Nothing, but his ears told him that the sound was coming from above and to the left. Even as he looked in that direction, he heard something else - someone was singing along. 

Say, handsome man, where you off to now?

Are you out in the garden or off to town?

Are there any new songs that you're listening to?

I'm gonna take you dancing, when I come to see you...

Sherlock. Sherlock was singing, somewhere out here, under the stars. John’s legs moved almost of their own volition, and he was through the window and standing on the brick ledge even as his ears followed along with the song…

Cause everybody smiles,

When my handsome man walks by,

He's got the wind in his hair and the stars all in his eyes

The more I try to tell you, oh, the more I get it wrong

So, handsome man, I'll tell you with a song...

There was a low wall dividing their roof from the next - John carefully climbed over it, making sure of his footing. The music was louder, the singing still soft, as he saw a gap between two old Victorian chimney spouts. He pushed through, and then he saw him. Sherlock was leaning, propped against some sloping roof tiles, slippered feet on a flat roof that must be part of the next house. He was in his pajamas and robe, his phone was next to him playing music, and he was looking out into the London night as he continued to sing:

Oh, handsome man, can I ask you this?

I know we've both been loved, and we've both been kissed

But when the hounds are sleeping and we're ninety-three

Will you tell me the story of you and me?

“Hounds?” John asked, and from Sherlock’s profile he knew he was smiling. 

“Seemed appropriate,” Sherlock said, letting the song continue on without him. He turned a little, not quite looking at John, but enough to give John the courage to move closer. He stood, not trusting the sloping roof to take both of their weights, and admired the view of the city. 

“I didn’t know this was up here,” he said, as a new song started playing. This one was more familiar, with that Irish flavour… “You played this one,” he said, turning to look back at Sherlock, who finally looked directly at him. He looked… serene. 

Like he’d stopped waiting. 

“Yes, I did,” Sherlock agreed, and he stood up, approached John. 

I found a love for me,

Oh darling, just dive right in and follow my lead…

When Sherlock extended his hand, there was no decision to be made. John stepped forward and took it, like they did this every evening - like they had always done it. Sherlock brought his other hand to John’s shoulder, so he took Sherlock’s waist, revelling in the feel of the strong torso under fine silk. 

Sherlock didn’t sing, and John stopped paying attention to the words, lost as he was in shining sea-green eyes and the slow dance his body naturally fell into. Part of him was surprised at how calm he felt, how calm Sherlock was - but then, what was there to be afraid of? 

He and Sherlock had been dancing around each other since the first moment they met.

John led Sherlock in the slow dance across the rooftop, and the longer they danced, the more Sherlock smiled. He smiled until it escaped his lips, lit up his eyes, and spilled from his mouth as laughter. John whooped at the sound, pulled him in close then spun him out to feel the stretch along their joined arms. Sherlock returned, still laughing, silk robe fluttering in the breeze until he was in John’s arms again, still dancing, dancing, dancing…

A little while later though, and the music stopped. Sherlock frowned at the phone, then looked at John apologetically. 

“I didn’t know… if you’d want to dance,” he admitted, and now without the music to shield them it was like they both came floating back down to ground-level. John was suddenly hyper aware of his hand holding Sherlock’s - the fine tremor developing there, and the heaving rib-cage under his other hand. “I only downloaded a few songs…”

“What were you singing, when I came up here?” John asked quietly. Sherlock blinked, confused, wary. 

“It’s called Handsome Man, by Matt Alber.”

“I didn’t hear the end,” John whispered. “Will you sing it to me?” Sherlock blinked again, but John took a small step, nudging his waist with his hand, causing Sherlock to step that way as well. John kept on leading, and soon they were slowly dancing again, the only sound the soft whisps of their breath and faint sounds of traffic from below. Sherlock appeared to fight with himself a little, but then…

When the world goes crazy,

You forget where you belong

Handsome man, I'll tell you,

When there's nothing left to sell you

Handsome man, I'll tell you with a song.

John smiled, heart just about ready to burst, and guided them back to a stop. Sherlock was blushing, looking down at their feet, and when he realized they were stopping John felt him tense, ready to pull away. 

“You never guess,” John said softly, and Sherlock stilled. A second later, and his flushed face raised, eyes roaming over John’s, curious, worried… hopeful. “I’ve been dancing with you for days now, Sherlock… what made you stop guessing?”

“I… when you said that I’m extraordinary. And that… that I didn’t deserve to be treated… badly,” he said carefully.

“It’s true, you don’t. But I’ve called you similar things before,” John said, tone lightly teasing, and Sherlock seemed to relax a little underneath his hands. 

“I know, but that was the first time I really thought that… that you believed it, too.”

“I do believe it,” John said, and he couldn’t help but start them swaying again, to nothing at all but the beat of his heart. “You are extraordinary. Brilliant, amazing…”

“John…”

“Handsome.”

“I… oh.”

John laughed again, and for a moment Sherlock seemed not to know what to do, until he smiled a little bashfully. 

“Yes, oh,” John said, turning them in a half circle. “This is where you tell me that I’m handsome too, you know.”

“I did tell you!” Sherlock protested, moving more easily through the steps now, cautious look disappearing to be replaced by something younger, and more giddy.

“When?”

“I sang it!”

“Oh, yes, so you did,” John said in an amused tone, and then he couldn’t stop himself anymore - he stretched up, ignored Sherlock’s startled blink, and brushed his mouth against his friend’s. “You might have to sing that a bit more often,” he said, pulling back, feeling mischievous and elated. Sherlock’s eyes were wide for a second, but then his usual risk-taking confidence flowed back, and he was pulling John back towards him, fitting their lips back together. Their feet stopped moving, John held him close, and all of London fell away. Sherlock kissed the way he danced - slowly at first, something hidden and reserved - but then with passion, and joy, and love. 

John eventually pulled away, but remained tangled in Sherlock’s arms, allowing his racing heart to slow. He felt Sherlock rest his forehead against John’s, and for a moment, they both just breathed. John felt at one and the same time the most excited, and the most content that he’d ever felt - it was a heady feeling. 

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“Does this mean… you’ll dance with me again, tomorrow?” The hesitancy and the need for reassurance were still there - might always be there, John considered. That was alright though. 

John could be sure enough for both of them.

He smiled, ran his hands up Sherlock’s neck to cradle his ridiculous man’s head in his hands. Sherlock’s eyes were closed and his curly hair was soft, tickling John’s hands in the breeze. Even Sherlock’s hair wanted to keep on dancing. John kissed him once more, soft and long. When he stopped, Sherlock’s eyes were open, questioning, always questioning…

“I’ll always dance with you, Sherlock,” he said, and by the look on his friend’s face, it seemed he might finally, finally be starting to believe it. 

A little while later, Mrs. Hudson opened her bedroom window to let some air into her stuffy room as she readied for bed. She paused as she heard music drifting in from a nearby house, and what sounded like two voices, singing along. Well, they were singing some of the time - the rest seemed to be taken up with laughing, and with lilting words in tones that only lovers really knew. The sound made her feel like a girl again, and she found herself stepping from side to side in a little dance as she got her bed arranged to her liking and pulled back the covers. 

Then she closed the window, got into bed, and left the starlit evening to the dancers.