The Dancing John
Sherlock was out. Sherlock was out, for an unspecified amount of time, and John had a day off. Now, John had had roommates before Sherlock, before his time in the army (and, he mused, his time as a soldier could also be considered as having a roommate) and he knew the general rules of the arrangement. clean up your own dishes, leave a sock on the door handle if engaged in certain activities, the basics everyone had to learn and abide by. Well, mostly abide by.
Naturally, Sherlock blew those out of the water. Sometimes it seemed as thought John dealt with more bodies in the apartment than he did at the clinic. His brilliant colleague was never bothered to buy the groceries, John seemed to be picking up around the apartment at nearly the same, or a little less, the rate that Sherlock was leaving things behind in a mess and it was more often than not John's duty to force-feed the obsessed consultant while on a case.
The worst habit of all, John thought, was the skulking around the apartment that Sherlock favoured when not on a case. If Lestrade wasn't stumped by any of his cases and if Molly had forcefully shooed Sherlock out of the morgue with enough vigor, Sherlock more often than not wound up haunting the flat in his house robe, ghosting from one end to the other in a restless, fitful circle. John had not enjoyed the delectable absence of his flatmate for weeks now, and as sociable a creature as John could be, even that was stretching his limits.
And finally, finally, the ghost of Bakerstreet had flown the coop for greater adventures. It was with the careless ease of a cat that John wandered down the stairs that morning, still in his night clothes. As he fixed himself a cup of tea, John tugged a deep breath into his lungs. He had, at the very least, the next couple of hours to himself. In his minds eye, he imagined whiling away those precious few hours with one of the books he had optimistically picked up from the library on his way home from work. Optimistically because he had not expected to have the opportunity to crack even one of the spines - the weather had been spectacularly bad that week, and if Sherlock had not dragged him off to one of his cases, then the clinic would probably be calling him in when their waiting room overflowed as it often did when the usually calm, if dreary, London skies opened.
Perhaps after, he pondered on the way to his chair, cup of tea in hand, he would take a leisurely shower and try out some of the new body wash he'd bought.
It was with that pleasurable thought that he sank into his chair, reaching to the table to grab his book. His eyes focused on the first paragraph, and it was then that John realised something was wrong.
He stared expectantly out of the window, book hanging limply in his fingers.
"Damn," he muttered, reaching for his laptop. If he couldn't read, he might as well finish up the draft for his next blog post. The latest case had been exciting enough, involving two murders and some interesting analysis of blood spatters. Well, Sherlock had thought it interesting.
He stared at the screen dully for a full five minutes before he conceded defeat, and tossed the computer away from him. Fortuitously, it landed in Sherlock's chair across from him.
He glowered at the chair, imagining it embodying the presence of the man he considered to be at fault for his inability to concentrate.
"Bugger," he said to the quiet room, foot twitching haphazardly. He got up and paced the room once, twice, adding the kitchen into his rounds as he came up on a third. It was too quiet, it was too still, he was on edge whenever Sherlock was around, and as much as he wanted to, relaxing was just unnatural at this point.
As he passed the mantlepiece for a seventh time, his left hand shot out to hit the power button on the stereo. A radio host's voice filled the room, the static grainy quality evidence to just how old the stereo actually was. Another "gift" from Harry.
John was still mentally glowering at Sherlock for his continuing to disturb John's peace even at a great distance when Ke$ha came through the speakers. He didn't notice as his hands began to twitch to the beat, and his steps changed pace to match. He dimly became aware of his shoulders flexing to tbe beat.
It was when his chin began bobbing along with the rest of his body that he released his mental rantings and realised what he was doing. He hesitated in a moment of self-consciousness, before projecting the mental equivalent of, "Oh, hang it all!" and gave in to the music. By this time, the radio had changed over a guitar song, and in a flash of inspiration, John grabbed his cane from where it hung over the back of his chair. Mouthing along to the lyrics, he strummed frenetically at his air guitar, veritably hopping to the beat.
He had his back to the door as it swung open to admit Sherlock and a politely amused Mycroft Holmes, just in time for John to belt out the lyrics, "High school never ends!" as he strummed furiously. It was as he slid backwards in a moon walk that John began to get the feeling that something wasn't right.
However, it took him until the dramatic finish involving a spin (pirouette, Sherlock would later inform him) that he finally realised just what that must be.
It was with a look of shock and an intelligent, "uh!" that John jumped away from his cane, dropping it as if it burned his hands. The clatter was muffled as the stereo continued to blast music, which he hastened to turn off. Once done, he sheephishly turned from the mantel, a flush suffusing his features.
It was the familiar patting of Mycroft's hand on John's shoulder as they moved past him in a knowing, drole greeting that finally sent him barreling up to his room, ears pinkening.