Beta-reading was done by the great DiTab1 :)

This is a Sherlock crime story, focusing on a missing will. This chapter is kinda like a prologue or something, I'm giving the base of John's and Sherlock's realationship. The next one will be about the mystery, and it will come as my beta finishes with it. Hopefully soon ;)

The story WILL be M rated in the near future (means about the fifth chapter) and it's definitely a John/Sherlock slash story with little crime in it. I never wrote crime story before, so it might be a bit boring...

Oh there are names and places and things mostly in the next chapters that might sound familiar to the Benedict Cumberbatch fans. It's just for fun, okey, it's not a crossover or anything

PS: This story is also available in Chinese. For the link please visit my profile!

The Case of the Missing Will

Chapter One – Everyone Can Dance

It was a cold, rainy Monday. Everyone hates Mondays and this one really deserved it. The weather changed its mind from hour to hour. When it was not raining, freezing wind was sweeping over the dirty streets, forcing people to stay at home. As an umbrella was impossible to use, when someone was brave enough to venture coming out from their warm house, they had two options. Either they could wear a cap taking the chance that the first hard gust of wind would snatch it from their head or leave it at home and go out with bare head, risking frostbitten ears. I chose the second option.

Walking home from the grocery store I felt, actually felt my ears and fingers chill to the bone. I was stupid, I should have picked up at least gloves but I thought the weather was a bit better since I was in London, not in the Arctic. Clearly, I was wrong. While pacing on the empty streets I could only think of the warm fireplace, which was waiting for me at home, and the tea Sherlock should make me. Although I was quite convinced he would forget about it, I was hoping he didn't.

I rushed through the front door and ran up to the room where Sherlock was waiting for his coffee. When I entered, he was lying on the sofa, eyes closed, not even moving a bit. He wasn't sleeping, I was sure.

"I'm back."

"You've stated the obvious. Again." He mumbled. He was still in a bad mood. Great.

Sherlock hadn't had a case for a week. For a whole week. Seven days. You cannot imagine what those seven days were like for me. He was either shouting at me or pouting for some unknown reason when I came back from Sarah's, or just staring at me, without saying a damn word for hours. HOURS! I tried to help him, I did my best, I was understanding, nice and tolerant but this man drove me crazy sometimes. He played his violin at three in the morning, it sounded like someone was torturing a cat but I didn't say a word. Not even one tiny word.

But this morning he woke me up, telling me that I had to get out of bed and that it was something important and I had to hurry. When I came down he was sitting in the chair. I looked at him, questioningly, asking what the problem was. "Coffee." He said. "Say it again." I was still nice, patient. "We don't have coffee. I need coffee. Now," was his reply. Then I got a bit mad. I shouted at him. Said some awful things to him, too. When I stopped yelling, I turned around and stormed out of the room. I wanted to run away. Somewhere, anywhere. As I hit the bottom of the stairs, I heard his voice. He was standing at the door, looking down at me. "Bring me coffee...please." I swear it sounded like an apology. The way he said it, his tone... Like a bloody apology. I took a deep breath saying, "Then make me tea," then stepped out to the freezing wind.

"Where is my coffee?" He asked, opening his eyes.

"Where is my tea?"

His eyes narrowed for a second, he looked at me observing. A civilian would break under that stare; fortunately, I wasn't one of them. I stared back.

"On the cupboard. Still hot. Coffee?"

I tossed him his caffeine supply, although I didn't think he needed to be more active. Stepping to the cupboard I was surprised to see that he really had made tea for me. I sat down in my favorite chair and tasted it. It was hot and sweet and delicious. It warmed me from the bottom to the top.

Grabbing my mug I leaned back and closed my eyes. I was listening to Sherlock as he prepared his coffee, to the little noises he made. A few minutes later the fresh smell of hot coffee spread through the room. Walking behind me Sherlock moaned lightly as he took the first gulp.

He sat on the couch, wrapping a blanket around himself, and looked at me. I was aware that he was staring but I tried to feign disinterest. I tried to think of something else.

On the telly the newsman was talking about a ball, which would be held by national dancers.

I thought of Sarah and about the Saturday night we would spend together at that ball. It was a charity event, Sarah had asked me to go, and as I wanted to be with her, I said yes. Thinking about it now I realized it was a bad idea. At a ball like that there was one thing your girlfriend always wanted you to do: dance. And I could not dance. At all.

I didn't know what to do. Tell Sarah that I couldn't dance or lie, creating an excuse which would save me?

"What's wrong?" Sherlock asked from the other side of the room. Maybe the concern was showing on my face.

"Nothing..." I smiled. No way I'm telling this to him. "The tea is really great. Thank you for..."

"You can't dance? Everyone can dance." He interrupted me, surprise in his voice.

"How...! Who the hell said anything to you about dancing?" He was reading in my mind. He had to.

"You."

"No, I did not."

"Yesterday you were speaking with Sarah on the phone. You said that you were sorry that the two of you couldn't meet until the ball butthat you were looking forward to the event. I assume you were talking about this ball," he pointed at the telly where the reporter was talking now about the same event held last year. "Because there are not too many balls organized nowadays in London. When the newsman was talking about the dancers, your eyebrows frowned and you started rubbing your forehead with three fingers. You obviously want to go to the ball, your voice was honest yesterday, you are too kind and too bad liar to fake that voice. But you are worried about something. Maybe you are concerned over your appearance. Afraid it won't live up to Sarah's expectations or those of the others at the party. But you are a strong, brave, neat ex-soldier, so your looks are nothing to worry about. Nor your actions. As a military man you know how to act properly either in a fight or at a party. So, something else. What do people doing during these events? They talk, eat, drink...and dance. Speaking with Sarah is not a problem for you, and you eat and drink in a cultural way, so dance it is. You can't be afraid that Sarah can't dance because if she couldn't dance she wouldn't ask you to go there, so you are worried because you can't dance. Which is stupid because everyone can dance."

I was speechless. As I listened to him, my mouth fell open, my eyes going wide. His words echoed in my mind and I just stared at him for minutes.

"First of all, not everyone can dance. Secondly... damn, Sherlock, you are amazing."

As always, my compliment astounded him, I knew he was flattered by it.

"It... was obvious."

"Yes...of course. Talking with Sarah on the phone about a ball and the fact that I touched my forehead with exactly three fingers clearly means that I can't dance. Yes Sherlock, it really is an obvious guess."

"It wasn't a guess, it was deduction. And it's true, right?"

"Yes." I replied reluctantly.

"As I said, stupid. Everyone can dance."

"Well, believe me, I can't." I swallowed one more gulp of the hot tee. This was a conversation I really didn't want to continue.

Sherlock examined me for a while then he looked at his watch.

"My watch is broken." With his fingernail, he hit the glass lightly a few times.

"What?"

"It's says it's Monday, but it's only Sunday..."

"Sherlock..." He kept hitting the glass. "Sherlock, it is Monday."

He gave me an annoyed look. "No, John it's Sunday. Yesterday was Saturday and Monday will only be tomorrow."

Smiling, I stood up from the chair. Picking up today's newspaper from the cupboard, I walked over to him. When I held up the paper, he looked up at me.

"What?" He asked.

"The news. Read the date."

He took it and looked at the front page of The Times.

"It says Monday..." He was astonished and a bit angry. Well, well, well, sometimes even the greatest can be wrong. "So yesterday was Sunday. Then when was Saturday?" His gaze wandered around the room, maybe searching for any sign of Saturday.

"You remember your experiment with the eggs, ham and some weird green stuff? That was Saturday."

"That wasn't an experiment, it was breakfast!" His voice was irritated and his eyes narrowed when he stared at me.

"Oh, well..." If he had eaten that thing, it would certainly explain why he didn't remember for the day.

"Friday?"

"You almost burned up the kitchen. When I came home everything was wet so I assume you played the firefighter as well, not just the fire-starter."

Laughing he nodded. "Yeah, that was fun... I remember Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday but what happened on Thursday?

"I don't know what you were doing..."

"You weren't home?"

"No, I was with Sarah the whole day. Came home about nine." Then sat down here until I was fed up with Sherlock's examining look and annoyed pouting.

"Oh...that's the day I was missing...Thursday...I always hated Thurs- wait a minute. It's Monday? Monday morning?" Looking at his watch he jumped up. "I've to hurry," he shouted. Five minutes later I was alone in our flat.

He came back later that afternoon. Dashing into the room, he threw his wet coat on the chair, then walked over to the DVD player and put in a disc. I was watching his movements from the kitchen. I had just finished cleaning up the dishes, the cloth, which I used to dry off the water, still in my hand.

"What are you doing?" I took a few steps.

"I'll prove it you..."

Soft music started playing while Sherlock moved all of the furniture away from the middle of the room. He walked around the now empty space and then went to the DVD player again. He turned on the music, it was some lovely piano melody, and turned around to face with me.

"John?" He said asking, reaching out his hand for me.

"You cannot be serious." I smiled.

"I am. Come John!" His left hand still hung in the air, waiting for my acceptance.

"Don't be mad, I am not dancing with you, Sherlock..." I resisted.

"Yes, you are. You said you can't dance and now I'm going to prove how stupid and false that statement is. Anyway, you have nothing to lose, so come..." He came two steps closer to me, his hand invitingly reached out towards me.

I couldn't believe I was actually doing it. I moved towards him and accepted his hand.

"Let me be the man the first time." He smiled at me, pulling me closer.

Looking into my eyes, he put his right on my waist, while my left moved to his shoulder. For a minute, his look met mine then his gaze went over my face, hair, lips, everything, looking at me as if he'd never seen me before. I think I blushed slightly at his glance so I started staring at his neck. He was wearing a dark blue shirt which was a strong contrast with his pale skin. His Adam's apple moved as he swallowed. I heard him taking a deep breath through his nose, like he'd inhaled some delicate scent, although I couldn't smell anything special.

I felt he was watching me, trying to catch my gaze so I looked up. A warm, soft smile greeted me, which made my stomach clench. It was weird to stand... well dance with Sherlock while we were so close, his hand holding mine gently. It was just utterly weird but I have to admit not unpleasant. On the contrary, actually.

Then his right hand on my waist started moving. He...caressed me through my thin shirt. His fingers were stroking me almost hesitantly, so gently, like a lover's touch. In response my fingertips brushed over his shoulder, lightly moving over the dark silk shirt. I didn't know why I was doing it; it just felt like the right step to make. Then I remembered we were only acting. We played a dancing pair, a couple and it was playing, nothing more. His touches, his gaze were only part of his act; he was showing me how a man operates during a dance. This was a dance-lesson after all, wasn't it?

Sherlock was a great actor. Even with his eyes he was acting. The gray pair of eyes looked into my blue ones and I was lost in the kindness and caring they carried. I wasn't aware of the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the great Sherlock Holmes, was capable of looking at someone like that. It was a shame this was all just a play. For a moment, I envied the person who would earn that look someday for real. The person who would make Sherlock happy and who would, in turn, be made happy by Sherlock. My heart started pounding faster and envy filled my soul as I thought that someday someone else would stand in front of Sherlock, dancing with him like I did and I didn't understand the feeling. I didn't understand why I felt like this...

Looking into my eyes he placed my hand on his chest. Right over his heart. I could feel it rumble under my palm, his heartbeat was as fast as mine. But why? Why was he excited? Our slow movements, stepping from millimeter to millimeter wasn't exhausting at all. Slowly, I realized why I was anxious and fervent at the same time, why my heart wasso keen on jumping out of my chest, why my mouth had gone dry but I couldn't figure out what made my partner's heart almost pulsate under my touch. It just made no sense.

He didn't let go of my hand, it remained over mine, fingers folded together. His hand was still chilled from the coldness outside but I tried to warm it up by caressing his fingers with my thumb.

I couldn't tear my eyes from his, I couldn't look anywhere else just into his mesmerizing bluish-grayish eyes, which radiated so much heat it made my body burn wildly and uncontrollably as a forest-fire. I was afraid of how it affected me. His hand on my waist tensed and he pulled me closer, close enough that I felt his hot breath on my ear. My chest and waist pushed against his and for a moment I was lost in the pleasure our bodies pressed firmly together caused me. I was happy that here and now I was that person who held Sherlock and who was held by him. Then I reminded myself that this was just a play. Nothing more just acting.

I couldn't resist. I leaned my head against his and he didn't move away, he rubbed his face lightly against mine as he exhaled hot air, which tickled my ear. I took a deep breath then slipped one leg between his, moving our hips as close as possible.

I hissed when I felt his erection pressing to my thigh.

He knew I realized his excitement; maybe that was why he slid his hand a bit up trying to hold me still, not letting me go. Although I had absolutely no intension of going anywhere. Or maybe he just felt my erection. My hand on his shoulder clenched into his shirt, the soft fabric creased under my fingers.

I tried to calm myself down. I took a deep breath again but that just made it worse. With the air I inhaled Sherlock's unique scent and it made me dizzy. I didn't know if it was his cologne or just him but it was so fresh, exciting and something more, something indescribable which made me act reckless. Without thinking, I tilted my head a bit, my lips brushing lightly over Sherlock's neck...

And then, we heard the doorbell.

The sharp noise broke the magic between us and we flew apart like scared birds. For a long moment, he looked into my eyes, and I know he was trying to tell me something important.

"Told you, you can dance." He said, his voice husky. No, this wasn't the sentence I was looking for.

Silence surrounded us and I realized the music stopped long ago but we hadn't even noticed it. Looks like we were, or at least I was, too busy imagining things, which didn't exist.

*It's Yann Tiersen – Le Moulin, BTW

So anyone interested in the next chapter? Yeah I know, nothing was about the case, only dancing...

Anyway, hope you enjoyed,

Liz