Initially written for a lovely redhead who robbed me of each breath.
Disclaimer: All rights to the characters and the shows are split between Arthur Conan Doyle and BBC.
A lot could be read from the way someone walked. Like a book, there were so many finer details behind the simpler action that only a few would take the time to enjoy rather than just skimming the major bulk. There was first the pace, how quick they went about, that suggested either a nature to them or an emotion. How hard they stepped and how they did it factored in a lot as well—stomping suggested a certain gruffness or urgency, just the toes could be a dancer or someone with an injury to their heel, heel-to-toe but on the insides could suggest a weight problem or a past injury that wore them into the habit and toe-to-heel suggested something suspicious that shouldn't be mentioned to anyone outside of the secret's range. The time between each footfall and its noise displayed height and weight with the proper mental calculations, made a bit harder with some shoes but a summer breeze with others.
The particular set ascending the stairs in 221B Baker Street took only six and a half steps to place. There had been four hollow and quick steps, each a half breath apart, and then a pause—obviously derived from habit. The stairs squeaked at the pause, suggesting the person to be over 58 kilograms which automatically ruled out Miss Hudson. From the calm nature to the final two, John was the only option. Anyone else would've rushed out of the annoyance to have to visit the consulting detective in the first place. The pause had initially given it away though, suggesting John must've gone to adjust his cane only to remember he no longer needed it.
Sherlock smirked to himself, taking a final note on how the lungs reacted to pure caffeine and jotting it on the pad he had beside him, before he turned the microscope off. Brilliant. He couldn't wait to show his blogger the new case he had picked out for them, rushing to his feet with the excitement of a child entering a toy shot. A triple homicide; rounded puncture wounds like a bullet but not a shell or residue left in the slightest. He could see the title already. 'The vanishing bullet'! No, that was too easy. John was smarter than that. He'd have the title after he heard the deductions and called him brilliant.
The brunet's tongue ran out over his bottom lip and he made a glance to the mirror, evening his collar. A small jingle of keys halted, discovering the door was unlocked obviously, giving the detective time to rush over and open the door, greeting the blond with an excited grin.
"Triple homicide, John!" he blurted out just as the concerned man in the doorway asked, "What's this?"
They both jumped, eyes wide with raised eyebrows and John lowered the parchment in his hands.
"I'm sorry," they both murmured in unison, exchanging another strange look before Sherlock realized something, "No, I'm not. What am I saying…? Get in, we have a case."
He stepped back and allowed his blogger inside, closing the door quickly after. The newspaper was in his hands in a moment, his excitement beaming over the top, but John shot it down by lowering the paper with a sweep of his hand, earning a childish glare.
"In a second, Sherlock. What's this?" he raised the other paper in his hand, earning the detective' scrutinizing gaze, finding his hands empty in a moment.
He sighed exhaustedly, watching Sherlock's eyes look over the card sharply.
"Expensive paper, clean, factoring out your prints, golden typography…" he flipped it open, reading the contents before his nose scrunched up and he tossed it over his shoulder. "Boring. Back to the case. Three-…"
John shook his head incredulously, walking over and picking the small card up and open again, reading aloud its content and drowning out the detective in the process.
"'You are formally invited to the Royal Ba… Royal Ball?! Please RSVP… with… Mycroft Holmes…. at…" the blond choked a little, eyebrows rising quickly.
Sherlock wasn't interested in the slightest, going over and crouching in his chair, a little upset that John hadn't been interested in the case. He might've been pouting, but he had good reason. Triple homicide was being ignored for a dance of all things.
"Dull. Big crowd of people all wanting a shag. I'm not interested," he ran his thumb over the fingers on his right hand.
His patience was growing incredibly thin. The blond shot him a tender glare, walking over and collapsing in his own chair beside the brunet, folding his arms firm over his chest.
"You're always complaining that you're bored. This could be fun."
Sherlock shook his head, pressing his palms together and resting his fingers on the cleft above his lips.
"Murder is fun, John. Triple homicide with absent bullets is fun. Not dancing," he huffed, the newspaper now strewn out over his lap.
John sighed heavily, resting his elbows on his knees and pressing his face into his hands for a good long breath. It might've been his imagination, but for a second, there was remorse riddled into the worn features.
"Right," he raised his head from his fingers and brought them to the back of his neck to tenderly rub the sore muscles, green eyes training on the floor below in a nostalgic sense.
He failed to see Sherlock's shoulders and eyebrows raise in unison, a light bulb erupting over the high cheekbones and the widening of those big blue eyes. Hopping from his own chair, Sherlock drew close with a still face.
"Go with me, then."
John choked again on the air he took in, beginning to think it was thicker with the way he couldn't seem to keep it down, "What?"
The brunet took a step back, easing a bit of space between them. Lengthy pale fingers anxiously combed the air as if it were a computer database full of possible appropriate responses, but none of the options pleased him from the way he turned and quickly ruffled his curls.
"Mycroft would be offended if I didn't attend and you need to get out of the house. Go with me, John," he pieced together stiffly, one hand remaining in his hair just in case he needed to shake down a better attempt.
John didn't look disgusted or disturbed—good sign so far. He just looked a little confused.
"Sherlock, why change your mind now? You never-!"
The detective was already slipping his lengthy black waistcoat on over his shoulders.
"You want to. Come on, we have to get appropriate formal wear," he looked in the mirror as he fastened his purple scarf around his neck, "So dull…"
John's face softened and he eased up out of his seat, echoing Sherlock in sliding on his coat, "It doesn't matter that much to me. I'm fine with a triple homicide, really."
He stopped, only one arm in his coat as he found himself barely a hand's length from his flatmate, stepping back with a start.
"Don't deduct me," he gave a little sigh.
Sherlock's smirk grew.
"You want to attend the dance. I don't need to deduct anything. Your coat is on. Let's go."
John had thought he hated the chip and PIN machine, but never before had he hated an inanimate object this much. It took all of his strength not to punch the mirror in, hating how the suit looked on him. He looked short, he felt short, his shoulders wouldn't sit right, the cuffs went down too far, the button wouldn't fasten and he was just flat out irritated.
"Sherlock!" he hollered over the wall of the dressing room, unlatching the door, "I look like an idiot!"
He waited a moment before he heard the handle turn, taking a few steps back. When the door opened, Sherlock stood in the open frame, sharply inhaling with widening eyes at the sight of his friend in formal wear. The blue eyes stared silently for what felt like forever until the detective had to turn for a moment. John caught his smile in the reflection.
"You look wonderful," Sherlock muttered, catching John's eyes admiring his own choice of a suit before he walked close to his blogger.
The green eyes shrunk with the furrow to mark the blond's brow especially as the detective's hands reached out and smoothed his lapels with the smallest of a smile. The younger of the two raised his eyes, stiffening under the stare he was receiving, quickly letting go and moving back to the door frame. He swallowed hard.
"Right… uh… red's more your color… we should… new tie…"
Before he could step out, John stepped forward and caught his arm, earning his gaze and returning his smile with a sort of beaming attribute to it.
"Purple looks good on you."
The brunet's eyes flit down to this tie and he found himself grinning softly.
It was just a tie. It was a solid flat color, a welcoming sort of scarlet secured around his collar, but it also held the exact tint of his cheeks as he walked into the ball by Sherlock's side. It didn't matter that no one was looking. They'd still talk. They always talked.
"Calm down, John. You'll attract attention," Sherlock sighed, hesitating before offering his arm to his plus one for the evening.
John was quick to deny it, letting out a huff that only grew as Mycroft strolled up to greet them with a smug sort of smirk.
"Happy announcement after all, Doctor Watson?" he teased, easily sending a fuming blogger to a table along the sidelines.
Sherlock stared with a loss for words.
"Go ask him to dance, brother," the shorter of the two Holmes encouraged, fully expecting a retort or a crack shot about his diet.
To his complete and utter surprise, Sherlock held his stare and seemed to honestly consider it.
"Do you think it would help?"
John looked up from the table cloth he had been trying to burn holes in with his mind alone when Sherlock approached him, an apology already starting on his lips.
"… Dance…" the detective murmured.
Any previous thought halted and John stared up at the brunet, the confusion hard in his eyes.
"W… what?"
He knew what he had heard, or at least what he thought he did, and he couldn't believe his ears. Sherlock Holmes wanting to do something normal, something regular, something… human… His bewilderment grew as Sherlock fluffed his hair swiftly, taking an unsteady breath.
"You said dancing would be fun. This is dull— dance with me," he held out a hand, fingers not exactly as steady as they should've been for a man as confident as he was.
John almost laughed as he set his hand in Sherlock's, standing to his feet and letting the detective lead him to the dance floor.
"Why?" he asked, as they settled into a large throng of people.
Thin arms wound themselves around the small of his back, leading him in turn to entwine his own around the brunet's neck, looking up into his eyes with a grin. As the music slowed, they swayed and they danced, laughing and ghosting closer until John rested the side of his face to his friend's chest and Sherlock had his lips resting in John's hair.
John never got an answer.
The Personal Blog of Dr. John H. Watson
18th April
Untitled
In the past, I've called Sherlock a lot of things that he's yelled at me for later. One thing I can say for certain though: that man can dance.
-F.J. III