Hey. I'm alive. My new job just doesn't let me write while working. Also, I'm woefully behind on this project, and I've only just finished January.
Originally posted to tumblr 2016-01-07.
/ Day 7 (2016.01.07)
/ adjective
/ 1. pertaining to dancing.
/ 2. (initial capital letter) of or relating to Terpsichore.
/ noun
/ 3. a dancer.
Sherlock had danced for years. Ballet, specifically. He hadn't danced in years too. But he still knew how to move his body, how to arc this way or that, how to extend or balance, how to appear graceful even when he was falling (appearance was always so important to everyone else).
John didn't dance. Not in the typical sense. Sherlock had to teach the man how to dance for his own wedding (memories kept in the safe dark of his mind palace even after he's danced with John at their own wedding). But Sherlock knows where to look, he knows what to see.
His feet are solid on the ground, always, his arm steady, always, his movements when he fights experienced, always. Sherlock's watched him go into full doctor mode with victims and suspects before, so many times, and he would almost call his fluidity with his skill 'dancing'.
His husband constantly marveled at his everything, and likely believed that Sherlock didn't think nearly so well of him. But he did. Sherlock Holmes thought the world of John Watson, and because he couldn't say it in words, he tried to say it with his hands, with his lips and his tongue, with the curl of an arm around a waist, a hot cuppa on a bad day, a warm blanket on a cold one.
He liked to think that John understood, because John understood him much better than anyone did, much better than Mycroft, and possibly more than John thinks that he does. It's part of that contradiction, being so confident while still being so insecure, that Sherlock loves about him.
Even now, in the midst of a crisis, John has reverted back to Captain Watson. Shouting at bystanders, telling them where to go, striding through the rubble, checking those buried beneath with competent hands. Sherlock is almost breathless with affection, with fascination. He's frozen on the outskirts, not enough knowledge on what needs to be done to help. He almost wished John would shout-
"I need a nurse!" Ah, there it was.
Sherlock rushed over to his partner and dropped to his knees, pressing his hands at Doctor Watson's direction to a bleeding wound, a situation so similar to John's first wedding that for a moment, a red uniform under his hands is all Sherlock can see.
John checks the man's pulse and grimaces before pressing a kiss to Sherlock's forehead.
"Keep the pressure tight. Keep an eye on his heart rate because he might not make it. I have to go look for others."
Without a goodbye, he's off, and despite the man dying under his hands, Sherlock's eyes are riveted to his husband dancing away.
FIN
2016 10M WotD Master Post (themadkatter13fanfiction tumblr, /10M-WotD-2016).
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