A/N: A bit of a departure for me, but I hope you enjoy my small addition to the Sherlock fandom. This story has a bit of an odd format. The first chapter is what I would consider canon compliant and the following chapter will basically be an alternate ending (the fangirl version).
Warnings: Confusion, angst and UST...
Disclaimer: I own nothing but the plot.
Beta'd by: A thousand thanks to madnina for being an amazing beta. She helped me to take this story to places I could only imagine. This being my first foray into the Sherlock fandom, her support allowed me to move past my insecurities and explore these characters and their motivations.
221B felt naked, with the rug rolled up and the floorboards exposed. The chairs were pushed back into the corners of the room, the coffee table slid tightly against the couch. It wasn't much space, but it would do.
Sherlock turned to the mirror above the fireplace and fussed with the collar of his shirt, opening the fabric and revealing the hollow of his throat. His gaze flickered assessingly over his reflection, his thoughts vacillating between self-assurance and anxious doubt. He wasn't sure about this shirt; he considered changing it one more time as he brushed his hand down the front. It was a deep sapphire—a richer, more vibrant color than he typically wore, and the fine silk fit him like a second skin. Maybe the aubergine shirt would have been better—more casual, less auspicious.
Get ahold of yourself, Holmes, Sherlock thought with an irritated huff. He closed his eyes, shutting himself away from distant din of early evening traffic and the gentle patter of rain against the windows. He'd just managed two calming breaths before he heard the front door open and close, followed by a familiar tread climbing the steps. As John crossed the threshold to the sitting room, Sherlock fell into a graceful crouch and began rummaging through a low shelf on the bookcase just right of the hearth.
"Sorry I'm late," John said, shaking out his jacket. "Mary had—what's all this?"
John pulled off his coat and hung it without a thought, muscle memory taking him through the motions. He surveyed the odd configuration of furniture and peered into the kitchen to see if there were any signs of experimentation that could provide a clue. The precarious arrangement of glassware hinted at nothing, save for the ever-present risk of cross contamination between unidentifiable biohazards and tea. He turned around as Sherlock rose to his feet.
"Sherlock?"
"You mentioned last week that you were nervous about the reception," Sherlock said as he turned. He made a quick assessment of John, cataloging his recent hair cut, rough day at the surgery, and new razor blade. There was the finest impression of a crease in his plaid shirt and a crispness to his burgundy cardigan that suggested he hadn't been wearing it all day. He'd changed before coming over. The ghost of a smile tilted Sherlock's lips.
"I'm sorry?" John asked, shifting his weight ever so subtly to the right.
"You said you don't know how to dance," Sherlock said, by way of explanation. "Well, I do."
John finally noticed the faded record album in Sherlock's hands. "I didn't—no. Thanks, but I'll be alright."
"Problem?"
"No, no problem," John answered, ambivalence obvious in the unconscious clench of his hand. "I just thought... Haven't you got a case on?"
"Nope. No case," Sherlock answered and slipped the the record from its sleeve. He ignored the mildly befuddled look still pinching John's features as he turned to the hi-fi and lifted the cover to the record player.
"If you're serious, I think I'm going to need a drink," John rejoined.
"Help yourself," Sherlock answered without a backward glance.
Sherlock listened to the sounds of John rummaging through the cabinets, searching for a clean glass. Next came the gentle clink of bottles as John sifted through Sherlock's meagre alcohol collection. He wouldn't open the pinot, not just for himself, and the Everclear was meant more as a substitute for rubbing alcohol than human consumption. That left the half-empty bottle of scotch, the one that hadn't been touched since John had last poured from it. Sherlock carefully laid the record on the turntable and flipped the switch. The speakers came to life with a soft crackle and the record began to spin. Sherlock waited until he heard John put down his glass—the scotch, he'd correctly deduced—before he took the arm out of its cradle. He hesitated for another moment before gently placing the stylus on the edge of the spinning vinyl. A few seconds of thick silence preceded gentle, coaxing notes of a solo piano. It was a haunting, indolent melody; unique among Chopin's repertoire.
Sherlock turned on his heel and regarded John with a precisely calculated aloofness. Emotional distance was paramount, as physical proximity would be compromised by necessity. Two long strides brought him to the center of the room, it took John five to meet him.
"What are you going to teach me?" John asked, low and uncertain.
"The waltz," Sherlock answered, succinctly. He lifted his chin, as if addressing the entire room rather than the man in front of him. "I thought I'd lead first, show you the steps, then we'd switch."
"Ah," John answered, loquacious as ever. He licked his lips. "Right, then."
Sherlock stepped into John's personal space, invading John in a way that he hadn't had the pleasure of experiencing in far too long. "The man will extend his left hand and place his right between the woman's shoulder blade and waist, depending on familiarity," he said and positioned his hands thusly.
The palm of his right hand pressed firmly just under John's shoulder blade, the angle of his thumb and index finger nesting comfortably along the edge of his scapula. Immediately, Sherlock noticed the heat of John's body—insulated in the layers of his shirts. He could feel the lines of strong, compact muscles as they stretched across his back. His next thought was that of a singular obsession—John's scar—tantalizingly close. He'd never touched it before, though he had had the good fortune of seeing it on a handful of occasions. What would happen if I just… and Sherlock's fingers twitched in anticipation of that thought. But no. He was sure that would be crossing some sort of line. So he pressed his fingers firmly into the slightly tensed trapezius and shut the door on that idea.
"The woman will put her right hand in his left, and place her left on his shoulder."
"Right," John whispered and placed his hands as instructed. His touch felt solid and warm and far, far too human.
Sherlock steadied his own grip and tightened his body in a firm and confident frame. "Now, you will mirror my movement. At its most basic, the waltz is a three-step dance. I'll step forward with my left, you step back with your right."
Sherlock moved, his rigid arms guiding John backward. John stared down at his feet as he stepped back and Sherlock looked straight ahead, admiring the texture of John's dishwater blond hair and the sporadic strands of grey that added depth and character. "Next," Sherlock said, "I will bring my right foot forward and slightly beyond shoulder width. You will step back and slightly to the left."
Again Sherlock moved, maintaining a careful balance of grace and control; John was stiff and robotic as he followed. "Lastly you will bring your feet back together," Sherlock instructed as he took John through the final step. "Good," he said with a smile. "Again."
They repeated the steps to the simple 1-2-3, 1-2-3 of the music, until they reached the edge of the room. There were, of course, missteps along the way, followed by hushed apologies as John focused all his attention on the pattern of his feet. When they ran out of space, Sherlock turned them around and they began again.
With repetition came confidence. Eventually, John relaxed, his movement becoming progressively more fluid. The grip on Sherlock's shoulder soften into something that felt curiously similar to a caress as John's hand slid down to cup the curve of his deltoid. Then came the feathery brush of fingers as John's right hand curled ever so slightly around his left.
"This music is a little sad, Sherlock," John said as he brought his feet together. They had once again crossed the room.
Sherlock turned them with an absent hum. "It's in a minor key, yes," he answered and stepped forward.
When he next bought his feet together, Sherlock stopped. The melancholy music played on, but their movement had ceased. John looked up—cheeks tinged pink and a faint smile pulling at the corner of his mouth—and Sherlock had to fight to suppress a reaction. But he wasn't quite quick enough to hide the twitch of his fingers or the stutter of his inhale.
Looking over John's shoulder, he managed a steady, "Alright. Now we're going to add a reverse. This will create a box step."
"Okay," John said with a nod and looked back down at his feet.
"Right," Sherlock said and he lifted his eyes to the ceiling, as if imploring some deity for strength. "Just as before. One, two, three," he said and brought John through the motions. "Now, bring your left foot forward. Yes. Right forward and wide. Now together. Good. One, two, three, four, five, six. One, two, three, four, five, six."
The sound of his own voice, guiding them to the steady meter, lulled Sherlock. He wasn't even aware of his relaxed stance, let alone the way his body drifted closer, and his hand slid down John's back until it rested just below his twelfth rib.
"One, two, three, four, five, six. Good, John." His eyes weren't even open any more. He simply felt the music, let the fluttering arpeggios and sudden modulations wash through him. There were only a few bars left before the next movement and he allowed himself those last dozen seconds to savor the gentle brush of John's thumb across his shoulder, the warmth and tenderness of the touch amplified by the soft silk of his shirt.
The music faded and Sherlock's feet came together just as the final note slowly died. He pulled himself from John's grip and made an about-face, finding refuge in the task of returning the stylus to the beginning of the record.
Teaching John to dance was proving to be far more challenging than he had anticipated. And sadly, he was forced to conclude, it wasn't because of John's atrocious skills—he was actually doing quite well. It was Sherlock who was finding himself with two left feet, figuratively speaking. He was faltering. Somewhere between the coolness he projected and the stony wall of his heart, there was a fissure, and it was growing deeper and wider with every step they took. Things were seeping out from this crevice, long repressed and dangerous things. Emotions stronger than Sherlock knew how to handle, feelings more beguiling and unwieldy than they had any right to be.
His heart was beating a rapid tattoo against his ribs and he felt unnaturally hot. He looked up from the hi-fi, into the mirror, to find a light dusting of pink sitting high on his cheeks. His lips pursed in frustrated distaste. He looked behind his own, embarrassingly transparent visage, to see the reflection of John, slowly dancing with an invisible partner. He was making a valiant effort not to look at his feet. Sherlock's lips quirked with a smile as he watched John softly mouth the words 'one, two, three, four, five, six'. Sherlock caught sight of his own ridiculous grin and quickly schooled his expression.
John halted mid-step when Sherlock approached and his eyes narrowed fractionally. There must have been some sort of trick of lighting in the room, because it looked suspiciously like the great Sherlock Holmes was blushing. John managed to suppress a smug grin.
"This time, you will lead," Sherlock said, placing his left hand on John's shoulder and offering his right. "The steps are the same, just start with your left foot forward," he instructed as John placed his hand unhesitatingly at Sherlock's waist.
John waited until a one-count, then stepped forward with his left foot, then his right, and finally brought the two together. "Good, John," Sherlock praised. "Use your body to tell me what to do."
John stumbled, stepped right instead of left and planted his heel on Sherlock's toes. He crashed into Sherlock's chest and quickly pushed back, nearly breaking his frame. "Jesus, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock asked, brows knit in confusion.
John looked equally incredulous. "You can't say—" he stopped abruptly and looked down with a series of quick blinks. "Nevermind. Let's start again."
With a firm grip on Sherlock's waist and hand, John led them once again. He had a few more missteps, especially when transitioning between beats four and five. But he was slowly improving. John's internal clock kept the time well enough and, once he found the rhythm, John accepted that the act of dancing, in and of itself, wasn't so bad. Dancing with Sherlock, now that was an entirely different animal.
John had no preconceived notions about what it would be like to dance with this man. If anything, he'd have assumed dancing would be like any of Sherlock's other undertakings—either utter perfection or complete chaos; and when Sherlock had been leading it was precision at its finest. But with John in control, Sherlock was unquestionably pliant, allowing himself to be handled, moved, directed about the room without the slightest hint of protest. The ease with which he allowed himself to be led was unsettling.
John wasn't used to having any kind of command over Sherlock. The man was stubborn beyond compare and ingeniously manipulative, if John ever had any sense of power over him, it was simply because Sherlock created that illusion. But that was clearly not the case tonight. Right now, it was obvious that Sherlock was losing control not only to John, but to his body.
John could feel the conflict in the way Sherlock's fingers twitched restlessly against his shoulder, as if they wanted to relax and smooth over the fabric of his cardigan but were being sternly denied. He heard the struggle in Sherlock's breathing, as though he was consciously monitoring his own respiration. What could it mean if Sherlock Holmes couldn't trust his own body not to betray him?
John looked down to his feet to hide the slow crawl of a smile on his lips. He could cause Sherlock to lose control. He could get this unapologetic autocrat to willingly hand it over. How many people on Earth could say that?
As they moved across the room, John found himself concentrating less and less on his movement. He opened his senses to the serenade of lonely notes filling the room and lingering in the air, and the heat of Sherlock's body under his hand. The fabric of Sherlock's shirt was soft and supple, and John was finding it difficult to resist rubbing his thumb in small circles.
It was risky, he knew; this kind of physical intimacy. If Sherlock didn't outright condemn him for the action, there was always a chance John wouldn't be able to stop himself. Though that was more a gamble of fantasy than reality; and even then, that wasn't a fantasy he'd had much of late. Too busy with wedding planning and writing prescriptions to give much thought to his old, buried desires. Still, as his body leaned closer and his hand inched lower, John couldn't deny the sudden impulse to give in.
John looked up from his feet, faltering once but quickly regaining his steps. A glance to Sherlock's face showed him to be equally lost in the moment. His eyes were closed, his lips parted just enough to allow slow, steady breaths to pass. Struck by how soft Sherlock looked, how vulnerable and human he appeared, John was broadsided by a very dangerous idea.
For years, John had labored under the impression that he was alone in the battle to understand the confusing emotions that seemed to be part and parcel of any kind of relationship with Sherlock. But, what if I'm not alone? The thought asserted itself in John's mind just as his fingertips slipped into the shallow valley of Sherlock's spine. He chanced a longer look at Sherlock's face, at the fan of dark lashes laying against his impossible cheekbones and the faint blush that had yet to recede. 'He doesn't feel things that way', the mantra John had told himself for so long, suddenly seemed glaringly wrong.
John sorted through his memories, pulling out those long looks and hanging silences and examined them with a fresh perspective, one in which Sherlock was also struggling to understand what it all meant. Had he just been blind or was he actually the idiot that Sherlock constantly accused him of being? Because looking back it seemed so obvious.
"You're doing well, John," Sherlock said, the gentle rumble of his words shocking John out of his ruminations. He felt the vibration of Sherlock's voice in his chest and sensed the electric tension of their bodies. The combination was reminiscent of summer storms. And the unrelenting power of nature seemed to apply just as well in 221B as it did over the expanse of London.
John focused his gaze on Sherlock's throat. He stared determinedly at the freckles splashed along the cords of muscle and saw the slight jump of Sherlock's carotid artery just under the skin, evidence of an elevated heart rate.
Before either of them realized it, the music dwindled and ceased. John brought his feet together one last time, but he didn't pull away.
"John," Sherlock said and John watched, utterly enthralled, as his adam's apple bobbed. Reluctantly he pulled his gaze up.
Their eyes met, and Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath at the intensity he found in John's expression. It was the kind of frenzy he only saw after a chase, once the threat of imminent death had dwindled but the flood of adrenaline still remained. "Yes," John said, as if it were the answer to a question that hadn't been asked.
"I need to reset the music."
"Right," John said and pulled his hands away. Sherlock could feel his hesitation—how his hands lingered and his eyes narrowed they way they always did when he was unsure.
Slowly, Sherlock turned away, sliding John a questioning glance. As he tugged the arm up and back to the edge of the record, it occurred to Sherlock that he had grossly miscalculated. He'd assumed that years of grieving, the acquisition of a fiancée, and the hard-won reinstatement of their friendship were all signs that John had moved on. That the attraction Sherlock had known about and denied since the day they met, no longer existed. But he'd been wrong. Appallingly wrong. Catastrophically wrong. However, this epiphany did not offer any suggestions for resolution. Sherlock would have to figure out how to proceed on his own.
It wouldn't do for both of them to act like idiots, this much he knew. One of them was going to have to get control of this situation. Now, whether 'control' meant acting on the frisson that passed freely between them, or walking away before the opportunity presented itself again, remained to be seen. All Sherlock could say with any confidence, was that he was not especially known for his self-control.
"I should probably get going," John said suddenly. Ever the voice of reason. "Sounds like the rain's picked up. Wouldn't want to worry Mary that I'm trotting around some back alley in this kind of weather."
"Of course, John," Sherlock said, finding himself only marginally successful in his attempt to mask the hurt in his voice. He reset the stylus. "Just one last thing." He returned to John and took up the leading pose. "The dip," he finished.
John hesitated, looking uncertainly at Sherlock's proffered hand. His gaze tracked up the length of Sherlock's arm, to his long neck, and finally stopped at his eyes. John waged a quick internal battle and in the end his better judgement was left a bloody pulp on the landscape of his mind, defeated by his desire to touch Sherlock once more. With a resolute sigh, he stepped into position, placing his left hand on Sherlock's shoulder and right into his open palm. Sherlock led them gracefully around the room, guiding John through turns and changes effortlessly. They drifted through the doleful waltz, equally caught in the story of love and loss and ever present hope that resonated through the piece.
John was paying closer attention this time, refusing himself the opportunity to become lost in the feel of Sherlock's body or the lascivious thoughts it produced in the darker recesses of his mind. So, as the end of the movement approached, in it's slowed tempo and gentle diminuendo, he was ready.
Sherlock's right hand splayed across John's back while his left moved to cradle the base of John's skull, supporting his weight as he began to tilt. Sherlock kept his back straight, hinging at his hips and pulling John in close to his body. The angle wasn't severe and John felt completely secure in Sherlock's arms for the few, long seconds that he was held there, aloft; existing somewhere between reality and the promise of Sherlock's embrace.
Slowly, Sherlock straightened, though he kept his arm wrapped tightly around John—holding them chest to chest. His fingers scratched through the short, flaxen hair at the nape of John's neck and John tilted into the touch. Their eyes met, too close to hide the torrent of unmentionable emotions simmering just below the surface. John blinked slowly, lowering his gaze from Sherlock's quicksilver eyes to his luscious pink mouth. A great conflict creased John's brow and he licked his lips in nervous anticipation.
"John," Sherlock breathed, a gentle susurration.
John's eyes drooped, air passed his parted lips in ragged breaths. "Yes," he whispered.
It was tacit permission, but it was enough. Sherlock brought his hand from the back of John's head to cup his jaw, his thumb idly traced John's cheek. He dipped his head down, slanting to the right and stopping just shy of contact. His breath washed, warm and tea-tinted, across John's face. Compelled by that unnameable emotion—the chimera of passion and affection and unmatched devotion—John closed the distance.
The brush of lips was soft and tentative, barely even a kiss when—
"Hoo hoo," Mrs. Hudson chirped with a gentle rap on the door. "Sherlock, did you need—oh, John. Oh..." she quickly fell silent as she appraised the scene. John pushed himself bodily off of Sherlock, turning his back to both of them. "Am I... er, interrupting?"
"No," John stated brusquely, brooking no argument. His body was trembling, his hands quaking as he reached for his coat. He felt sick, his stomach flipping violently as he fought to get his arms in his sleeves. "I was just leaving," he announced, his voice hard edged and strained. "Missus H," he said with a nod, then paused. "Sherlock," he stated coldly, without a backward glance.
In a blink he was gone, sweeping out the door and rushing down the stairs in a clamor. Mrs. Hudson looked back at Sherlock, equally shocked and scandalized. "Sherlock... what—"
Terror gripped him, freezing him in place for a few seconds, before the sound of the front door slamming shut broke him from his stupor. He tore past Mrs. Hudson and raced down the stairs, taking them two at a time. Wrenching the door open he hollered into the darkened street, "John!"
But the heavy downpour drowned out his voice. He stepped out and looked left then right, momentarily blinded by the sheets of rain. John's silhouette was small and hunched, but unmistakable as he marched away from 221B. Sherlock took off in a sprint, frantic to catch him before he hailed a cab.
"John!" he yelled again and this time he knew John must have heard him, as he'd picked up his pace. "John, please!"
Sherlock's long legs served him well; he caught John a few paces later and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. John wheeled about, fury scribed across his face and burning in his eyes. "What, Sherlock? For Christ's sake, what?"
Sherlock wiped the rain-soaked hair from his eyes and asked, "Why did you run out?"
For a moment John simply stared at him, and Sherlock tracked the change in his emotions through the shift of his eyebrows; first lifting to his hairline, then knitting together in deep furrows, and finally crashing back down. "Are you fucking serious?" he yelled and shook Sherlock's hand off his shoulder. "How can you...? I mean, you—oh, Jesus." John turned away, his hands fisted in his hair. The tremor was still there, Sherlock saw, rattling his hand against John's skull in a mocking vibrato. John completed his slow circle and brought his hands, now balled into white-knuckle fists, down to his sides. "How could you do that?"
"Me?" Sherlock asked, affronted. He stood there in utter confusion as the rain pelted down and soaked him through to the bone. He hadn't misread the queues, subtle as they were. Shallow breaths, blown pupils, body heat radiating like a beacon of want. John had closed the distance, he'd pressed his mouth to Sherlock's. And he was... what, blaming Sherlock? How was that fair? How was that even right?
"Yes, Sherlock. You. How could you invite me over, under the pretense of teaching me to dance. For. My. Wedding. And then... come on to me!" John lifted his hands and aggressively implored, "How could you do that?"
"Oh, for God's sake, John," Sherlock shouted back. "I didn't plan that. I'd never do that to you."
Sherlock dearly hoped the sincerity of his words came through, despite yelling over the downpour, because it was as close to a confession as he was capable of giving. He wanted John to understand, to finally observe the truth. He hadn't planned it, it had just happened. Because, deep down Sherlock had wanted John. All along, he'd wanted John. But, for all his bravado, he lacked the courage to ever tell him. The one person in the world that it mattered to the most.
John laughed, bitter and mirthless. "No. No of course you wouldn't. You'd never admit it."
"No," he said, calm and controlled as the rain slid down his face. "You're right, John. I'd never admit that."
John huffed another callous laugh but Sherlock continued, undaunted. Because these words needed to be spoken. They needed to be released before they destroyed the remaining fragments of their tenuous friendship.
"I'd never admit that, because I no longer have the right," Sherlock declared, eyes locked on John's, conveying the weight of his words.
John felt the anger slip from his expression, replaced by an entirely new flavor of frustration—an emotion Sherlock was endlessly adept at creating. This wasn't exasperation at Sherlock's selfishness or annoyance at his childish tendencies. This was a hollow, morose feeling.
"I may be oblivious to many aspects of human nature, John," Sherlock continued, "but I do understand that much. I lost that privilege, and I've been trying my damnedest to reconcile with that truth. But tonight, with the way you looked at me... I thought—"
"What?" John asked, his voice weaker than he expected. His eyes softened, still pinched with pain but clear with his intention. "You thought that I wouldn't mind? Well I do mind, Sherlock. I mind. I'm getting married. I... Mary..." he sighed heavily, unable to find the right words. "Look, none of this is fair," he gestured between them. "But this is the life I chose and I can't just… Just because you're back. You can't expect—"
"No," Sherlock interjected. "I know that. I do. I'm... Sorry."
John's brow furrowed in disbelief. He was completely unprepared for this apology. He knew he was right, but he'd never expect Sherlock to agree.
"Right. Good," he said slow and deliberate, adding a nod for emphasis. He looked up and felt the water pattering down on his face. With a deep breath he felt some of the tension ebb, some of the heat in his skin fizzle away—replaced by the chill of spring rain.
"God, I'm soaked," John said, looking back to Sherlock. He offered a tight smile. "I'm going, Sherlock. I'll see you next week. Stag night, yeah?"
Sherlock nodded. "Yes, John. Next week." His eyes flicked down and a wistful expression flashed across his face. "Give Mary my best," he said, tone soft and laced with sorrow.
He turned before John could respond and slowly made his way back. The door was still open, Mrs. Hudson huddled just inside the foyer with a shawl across her shoulders and a towel in her hands. She wrapped him in the thick terry cloth and rubbed his arms for both warmth and consolation. If she had any words of admonishment, she was politely saving them for later. Sherlock muttered a 'thanks' and made his way up the steps.
His shirt was ruined. He knew he should have changed it.