John Hamish Watson prided himself of only two things: his ability to withstand the dirty, envious and most times lecherous looks from the other male dancers and his natural talent that had set him on that very stage in life. Having famous ballet dancers for parents helped him attain almost every single lead in worldwide performances, of course, yet he was far from satisfied. Many a man had commended him for his finesse and grace onstage, but none of them told him he was the best, and he despised it. He wasn't a vain and narcissistic man, neither checking his arse and the remarkable swell of his endowments in the mirror while they practiced nor steering conversations back to one topic: himself. In fact, he never wanted to advertise his talents and good looks just because he had every right to. He was practically the crowned prince of Ballet Royalty. Still, John believed himself to be ambitious, and so he was, always pushing himself to the top. However, not even his charm, charisma and the overall cuddly aura that his Hobbitness exuded could match the seductive, enthralling, mind-numbing characteristics of his greatest rival. God, how he hated the man! Hated the way those high cheekbones caught in the light; those dusky gray eyes seeming to envelope your very existence into its midst; the taut, lean and sinewy muscles that flexed at all the right times; even the ripe curve of the man's luscious backside and his bulging front! (John was not gay!) He hated it all with a passion he had always showed for things that barricaded his way to glory. No matter how goddamned attractive the man was, his arse had shoved itself right in the way of John's rising path to being the very best, and hell would sooner freeze over before John would give up his ambitions to take a move on with his surprisingly empty love life. The stage was a bloody battlefield, their Pointe shoes and body fitting leotards the readily available weapons. Love had no place in that world.

"John, dear, time for tea!" a voice called out, jerking the man out of his thoughts.

He took a moment to gather his bearings before he joined his parents in the sitting room for their afternoon tea. He noted with satisfaction that they were alone. The past few days had been exhausting, to say the least, family friends and business partners dropping by to talk about his future. John had almost felt the need to snap and run away from home, book a hotel not far from this place. But he had not done any of the sort. Instead, he stayed and endured the many visits no matter how dull and irritating they were.

"None of the usual crowd, then?" he asked, taking a seat across his parents and picking up his teacup, making careful work of dropping two sugars and one spoon of cream in the brew.

Then, he picked up the cup and inhaled the scent, a languid smile easing its way onto his features. As if on cue, his words jinxed the afternoon and the annoying sound of the doorbell reached his ears and he cursed lightly, sighing and taking a huge gulp of his tea before his short-lived peace and quiet was shattered.

"Oh, you know this guy. He works in the ballet industry and is, as people tell me, your biggest rival," his mother said with a smile, rising up of the loveseat she shared with his father to greet their guest.

John groaned quietly and pressed his thumbs to his temple. He could feel a migraine coming, and he was in no place to quietly slam his head on the wall in exasperation and a craving for release.

"You'll thank me someday, son," his mother admonished, giving him a look that plainly said "Behave."

Stuck in the parlour with no chance to escape, he gave himself over to the mercy of his parents, willing the ground to open up and swallow him. The footsteps outside the room quickened, and the door swung open to reveal their guest: Sherlock Holmes. The man was clothed smartly, dressed in a suit that hugged him in all the right places. His shirt buttons looked ready to pop off, as if they were painted on his body, and his trousers hugged his long legs and showed off his arse. It looked so pert and lush that John just wanted to reach out and squeeze it, feeling the man's flesh under his hands. God, what was he thinking? He wasn't gay!

"Hello, Dr. and Mrs. Watson," Sherlock greeted in his low baritone, his voice sending a chill down John's spine. "John," he added, reaching out a hand to shake the man in address, clasping it firmly in his own and smiling as he took a seat.

John was left befuddled as the warmth of Sherlock's hand left his, and he stared at the offending organ for a moment before noticing that their guest had comfortably placed himself beside him.

"Tea?" he offered weakly, giving a light smile to the man beside him.

"Black, please," he was answered, an amused look playing on Sherlock's sharp angled face. Their fingers brushed again at the contact as John handed him the cup of tea, an electric current sending tingles along his arm at the brief touch.

"Thank you for having me, Mrs. Watson. Dr. Watson," Sherlock spoke, smiling at his hosts.

"Oh, call me Victoria," John's mother replied, flashing her guest a wide smile. "Ted," her husband added, an arm casually around his wife's middle. The conversation carried on, John missing parts and catching only little bits and pieces as his brain slowed down, still trying to wrap itself around the fact that his man was here, in his sitting room, mere inches away from him.

"So what brings you to Cambridge, Sherlock?" came Ted's question, cocking his head in curiosity as things got comfortable between them.

"I'm actually here for business," the man admitted, and John leaned in, paying close attention now. "Gregory Lestrade will be staging a one-of-a-kind performance, Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and I'm desperate for one of the lead roles," he flushed a little at the admission.

At this, John spoke up. "I'm gonna try out for this as well, then. It sounds promising, especially since Gregory Lestrade's the man behind it. I hope you don't mind a little competition, Sherlock."

"Oh, that's wonderful news!" Victoria gushed, clasping her hands together, her eyes glinting with excitement. "God knows we haven't had enough performances that are worth the tickets, these days." Ted clucked his tongue in agreement, earning a look from his wife that he ignored.

"Indeed. We keep getting reruns or restages of Swan Lake, Nutcracker, The Twelve Dancing Princesses!" he waved a hand to convey his example, photos of the aforementioned lined up on the walls. "They are putting more emphasis on the performances that bode well with women; dainty and charming. It's good to finally have a change. Men are just as proficient at ballet, as well as women are," he added.

Sherlock nodded in agreement, placing his empty teacup on the table. "Yes, yes. Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde will be quite the performance. I expect hordes of people will be flocking to the theatre to see it once the casting and the rehearsals are over," he turned to John and finished with a smirk. "Oh, not at all. Besides, it will be worth every effort if we get to work with each other. I've heard so many things about you, John Watson."

Cheeks heating up at the look Sherlock sent his way, he cleared his throat and chuckled quietly. "I look forward to the possibility of this arrangement!"

The conversation took a new turn, and once again, John allowed himself to be deaf to whatever was going on around him, sneaking only a few casual glances at the man beside him. His muscles rippled through his shirt every time he would move, and it looked right about ready to rip open when he would lean forward, making John catch his breath in his throat. Oddly, he found himself drawn to the man's hands. Every teasing stroke over his trousers, from his knee to the juncture of his thigh where muscle met arse, sent a shiver of pleasure down John's spine. The move itself, though subconsciously done, looked like sex. Oh, if he were a glove upon that hand! He sat there, transfixed and mystified, hoping to some higher power that his mouth wasn't hanging open.

"I really must be going. It's getting quite late, and I have a meeting to catch," Sherlock said wryly, standing up and smoothing his palms over his trousers, seeming ignorant to the eyes that tracked his hands.

"A pity, my dear," Victoria lamented, looking put-upon at the idea of their guest leaving. "You must join us for dinner!"

These words jolted John back to his senses, and he cast a look of such bewilderment upon his parents. They had never issued an invitation to dinner, before, and were usually glad to be rid of their afternoon tea guests. "I'm afraid I must decline, Victoria. My friends will serve my head on a silver platter if I miss our little gathering," the man answered, a fond smile on his face.

"Perhaps some other time, if the invitation still stands?" he added, shaking her hand as well as Ted's.

"Don't be silly, Sherlock. You're always welcome in our home."

John stood up as well and escorted the man to the door before shaking his hand in farewell. "It was a pleasure to meet you at last, Sherlock," he said, hand on the doorknob as he opened it for their guest.

"It was more mine than yours," came the answer, and with a parting smile, the man departed, hailing a cab and speeding off in the moment it took John to close the door and shake his head in shock and amazement.

The next few days came and went without much hassle, few guests had come by for tea, and John had managed to escape most of them in an excuse to practice his dancing. His parents, as ballet dancers themselves, were very supportive and encouraged him to spend his hours in the studio to prepare for the auditions in the coming fortnight. This was John's chance to finally prove to the world how much better he was than ruddy Sherlock Holmes. He was born with the talent, for crying out loud! The man was merely... someone he didn't know at all. Stumped with this realization, John devoted his time to researching what he could about Sherlock. He made himself believe that the only reason he was running a search on the man was because he couldn't very well take on him without knowing his dirty little secrets, yet the small nagging voice behind his head wouldn't shut up and kept telling him he was stalking Sherlock for all the wrong reasons. Stalking, really. The gall!

"Next. John Watson." The man in address looked up to find a woman barely his age beckon to him with one finger, a sign that his turn had come. Before he followed, he looked around the hall, eyes tracking down a dark mop of curly hair, yet he saw nothing of the sort and went in the room, a small twinge of disappointment growing in his heart. "I'll be performing a solo from Swan Lake," John said, eyeing the judges with a sharp eye as he put his bag down and gave the sheet music to the on-call pianist. He moved with the gracefulness of a cat, his moves precise and sharp. The notes of the piece flowed through his body like he had practiced, and when the rhythm rose higher and higher, he danced with more feeling, portraying the throbbing tension of the song in the movement of his arms and feet, doing pirouettes and gliding across the floor. When the last chord struck, John landed with a loud "thud" in time with it, pleased that his audiences' surprise was etched clearly on their faces.

"It says here that you're auditioning for both roles," one of the judges – a woman with blonde hair pulled back into a ponytail – spoke first.

"Yes, ma'am," he replied, a flush staining his cheeks as he kept his breathing under check.

"We will contact you when the auditions are over," he was told, before he gave a bow, took his bag and left. The amount of dancers lining the hallway looked at him in recognition, and a few others even requested a photo. Surprisingly or maybe unsurprisingly, he was the only one who went without a costume. Most sported the Dr. Jekyll attire of black leotards with a strike of white; others went as Mr. Hyde, complete with make-up in their dark green attire. And yet, try as he might, his eyes never fell upon Sherlock Holmes.

"I got the role!" he crowed triumphantly, putting down the telephone and bursting into the library where his parents sat, clearly not disturbed with whatever cacophony John had planned to make.

"Congratulations, dear, but what makes this any different from all the other lead roles you got?" Victoria was the first to answer, lowering her book to look at her son as he practically thrummed with suppressed glee.

"Well, mother, if Sherlock Holmes didn't get the other lead, then it will secure me a place above him, and if he did, get the part, well, it will be a joy to work with the man," he said, rubbing his hands together.

"I'm quite certain he got the other lead, John," Ted replied with amusement. "He is a very fine lad with lots of talent. I now see the reason why you're always hell bent on pushing yourself harder."

His son snorted at this statement. "We're in for a circus ride, then, father."

Ted merely smirked. "Shall we go out for dinner, then? I think John would like a celebration for his latest conquest."

"Really, Ted. You're as bad your son," Victoria admonished, rolling her eyes fondly at her husband. "I can still remember when you took me and Frederick Holmes to the 'local pub' to celebrate your success at auditioning for The Invisible Man." The man in address blushed right to his ears, and hid behind his newspaper.

"Wait. Holmes?" John uttered in surprise. "Frederick was a Holmes?" he asked.

He had heard stories about his father's college friend and business partner, Frederick, a couple of times, his parents had even left him at the house while they went on his funeral, but this was something new.

"Why, yes, John. He is Sherlock's father," Victoria replied, frowning lightly. "He wasn't a dancer, but oh, was he fond of the arts. He never missed a show!"

This made John's eyes go wide. He knew that Sherlock's father was named Frederick, but it had never occurred to him to make the connection. This explained the comfort with which his parents had conducted around the man. They were closer than he thought they were, after all.

A loud creaking sound announced John's arrival to the rehearsal rooms, and everyone greeted him warmly, shaking his hand.

"John Watson? Follow me," a man in his late thirties said, guiding him to where Gregory Lestrade sat with some of the producers.

"Good day, sir," he greeted, clasping the man's hand in their introduction.

"John, eh? Good to see you. The panel passed on words of appreciation about you. I don't doubt they made the right choice at all." The compliment pleased John, and he flashed a smile at Lestrade.

"That's something to live up to, sir," he answered.

"Psh. Enough with that nonsense. Call me Greg. We'll be working together for many months, I believe. London will have the time of its life once we put you on that stage with your partner."

"Who is he, may I ask?" John said, raising his brows as he looked around for a sign of his co-lead.

"Here I am. I believe I'm to play your alter ego, John Watson. You are the better half, however, or so they say."

He whipped his head to the sound of the voice and saw the familiar mass of curly hair that adorned the high cheekbones and the face of a cherub. Greg's chuckle sounded distant beside him as he took in his partner's casual attire. The man was dressed to shag, in every sense of the word! He wore his usual trousers and coat, yet his shirt of choice left almost nothing to the imagination. It was a shameless white body hugger that emphasized the man's chest, his pert nipples shaped quite clearly. If John was gay, he would have jumped on that body and ravished it to the edge of its owner's life. But he wasn't gay, for the Queen Mother's sake!

"Ah. Lucky for me, then, hm," John responded as soon as his tongue unglued itself from the roof of his mouth. "Imagine, working with Sherlock Holmes and Gregory Lestrade! People would kill to be in my position right now." Both men chuckled at his statement.

"More so for me, I believe, gentlemen. To work with you both is every producer's dream. Too bad they didn't make one of you female, or you'd have dozens of us knocking down your doors to get you on our productions," Greg replied, clapping a hand on their backs.

"How you flatter us, Greg," Sherlock deadpanned, "Imagine, one of us feminine!" John had to disguise his laughter into a hesitant cough.

"That would be you, Sherlock. You surpass the qualities of a woman with your physique and your wit." The glare sent his way and the laughter of Greg was enough to plaster a smirk on his face.

"Do grow up," Sherlock had growled before stalking away, muttering about more coffee and immature co-workers.

"Don't let him get to you," Greg had said, before leaving him to his own devices. "Briefing is in 30 minutes. Try not to get too lost around here, John."

Then he had disappeared into one of the rooms, presumably to meet with some of the important members of the crew. It left John to hunt down his PA, who said that she would meet him there. A loud ring alerted him to a call, and he flipped the gadget open, pressing it to his ear.

"Hello, brother. Miss me yet?" He rolled his eyes as the voice of his sister, Harry (short for Harriet), came on the line.

"Not quite," he answered. "Where the hell are you?"

A soft chuckle answered his question, and he frowned automatically, not liking the sound of it one bit. "I'm picking up your jam, sweetheart. I'll be there in five." Somehow, he found himself looking forward to Harry's arrival.

"Hurry up, or I won't leave coffee for you. Sherlock's all over the machine already. Who knows how much longer till he drains the supply." He could almost hear his sister's smirk over the phone.

"Sherlock, huh." It was gone as quickly as he had thought it would. "Interesting. See you!" With a click, the line went dead, and John didn't bother holding back a roll of his eyes.