A/N: Just a short Johnlock oneshot. Couldn't help myself.
Disclaimer: Characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle, and a bit to the BBC at the mo.
John stood at the barre in his shared flat, focusing on his breathing. Mozart played softly from the record player and a sweet summer breeze wafted in through the open window.
His feet were turned out in first position. Muscle memory, John thought approvingly. This was good. He rose up on to his toes gingerly, arms maintaining first position.
The shoulder injury would never heal properly. A torn rotator cuff meant a lifetime of trouble. It meant his days as a professional dancer were over but John had learned to appreciate a simpler life of teaching and helping his crazy flatmate with his various projects.
John held the pose for a few more seconds before relaxing again. He moved his arm carefully through the positions. First, Second, Third, he lifted his left arm slowly into forth. So far so good; the muscle seemed happy. Now to try to problem side. He lifted his other arm up carefully, taking his time and breathing.
He grinned. A month ago he couldn't do this. Working with a physiotherapist had been helping, as did his own meticulous practicing.
Suddenly, the downstairs door banged open. John flinched and his should spasmed. He gritted his teeth and dropped his arm, gripping his shoulder.
His flatmate bounded up the stairs with a cry of "John! I've got tickets to the Opera. I suspect their stage manager may be looking for a change and I was thinking we could – what's wrong?" Sherlock frowned at the sight of John, face mildly contorted, arm held protectively against his side.
"It's fine" John snapped.
"It's not" Sherlock retorted. "You're obviously in pain. Why, what did you do?"
"I was just..." John exhaled sharply, frustrated. "I was just doing simple exercises and you startled me is all." He attempted to roll his shoulder and hissed at the shooting pain.
Sherlock winced slightly. "Ahh." He fidgeted. "Do you..." Sherlock gestured, looking a bit lost. He was never the best at apologizing. "Sorry." He finally said hesitantly. "Do you want an Icepack? Is it swelling?"
John hadn't moved, but he nodded. Sherlock steered him towards his favourite armchair and sat him down.
"Let me have a look first" John shook his head. Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Come on, John, move your hands." Reluctantly, the smaller man complied. Sherlock knelt next to him and prodded at the muscle with his long fingers. John's t-shirt was tight over his muscled shoulder and bicep, and Sherlock traced it lightly, a thoughtful look on his face. John leaned into the contact at first but then jumped when he realized what he was doing.
"Er, yes. Just ice, thanks," John muttered, covering the muscle with his hand once again and feeling suddenly very bare in his exercising clothes.
Sherlock just looked at him thoughtfully before standing and disappearing behind John into the kitchen.
John gritted his teeth. He had never given much thought to his sexuality. He certainly appreciated the male figure, it was impossible not to as a dancer, but he had always gravitated towards female companionship. No man had ever given him butterflies or strong enough feelings of desire to peruse a romantic encounter.
He had gotten to know Sherlock quite well and found himself infatuated with the man. His mind was brilliant. He could be charming when he wanted to be but he usually was far too distracted to pay attention to normal social interaction. When he failed, John was quite good at stepping in and smoothing things over. They had begun to rely on each other. Sherlock provided adventure for John and kept him from retreating too far into himself. John made sure Sherlock ate regularly and didn't get himself killed by raging ballerinas. They made quite a good team.
John had dated a few women since moving in with Sherlock. Most notably, perhaps, Sarah, who ran the dance studio he taught at. The two had split earlier that year. He had a few other dates with various women but found that he was constantly interrupted by his meddlesome roommate. He could never stop himself from rushing to help Sherlock with whatever he needed. Finally he had given up. He found it depressing that he couldn't even be bothered to find casual sex, but Sherlock's companionship had been all he needed.
Perhaps I should go looking for something casual, John thought gloomily. He had found himself focusing a bit too long on his friend's lips lately. And oh, when Sherlock danced...
John wasn't sure there was a more graceful person out there. His body seemed to be made for dancing. Movements flowed effortlessly with the music, whatever music was on. John had seen Sherlock step in for Jazz and tap dancers alike but ballet brought out a certain reverence in the man. Sherlock was a perfectionist when it came to ballet. Every movement was deliberate and precise and, most importantly, filled with passion.
Recently it had become impossible ignore the fact that he might like to be a bit more than Sherlock's friend. He continued to deny it politely to those who inquired but he had stopped fooling himself. For the best, John thought. He wasn't sure Sherlock was even capable of thinking about him in that way.
Sherlock never partnered anyone. The stance had earned him more than one enemy. In particular, a prima ballerina by the name of Sally Donovan still held a grudge from years previous. She had assumed, as she and Sherlock were the best dancers in their company at the time, that he would be willing to perform a pas de deux with her in a recital. Sherlock had turned her down and she had taken in rather personally.
John's musings were interrupted. Sherlock had fetched the icepack and was holding it out to John while studying him carefully. John shook himself and grunted his thanks, resting the pack lightly onto his shoulder and groaning with relief. Sherlock folded himself into the chair opposite John and continued to study him intently.
"What?" John asked, unnerved. Sherlock was incredibly observant and it would not do for him to guess what was on John's mind at the moment.
"Thinking." Sherlock replied absently.
John shifted, trying to fight down the blush that was threatening to invade his face and give him away. He whistled along with the Mozart that was still playing and looked around the flat, avoiding Sherlock's gaze.
The problem was, he found it hard to avoid his friend's eyes. They were beautiful. They could be incredibly expressive. Part of what made Sherlock a good performer was his ability to possess his characters. He would snap in and out of it with precision most professional actors would envy. He wore each person like a mask, but often grew bored and discarded the parts. This meant he wasn't exactly sought out as a principal dancer. Sherlock's patience rarely extended the full run of a show.
So he consulted and amused himself by drabbling in all areas of the ballet. He was an accomplished costumer and had a keen understanding of choreographing as well as all of the technical aspects of production. John had once seen him, in a bout of kindness, restring a bow for a frantic violinist, as the man was also an accomplished musician. His long fingers let themselves well to the instrument, delicately handling the bow with the ease of practice and running his fingers along the neck of the instrument...
Stop it, John reminded himself. Mustn't think of him this way. We're friends. Sherlock needs a friend more than... anything else. John fought to put a label on what he wanted. Companionship he had, but John couldn't deny to himself that he was beginning to... notice... Sherlock's physical assets in a more than friendly way.
He was just so lean! And those cheekbones. John ran a hand down his face, trying to school his features into a more innocent look. He risked a glance at his flatmate. The man hadn't moved.
"Right. Dinner? Takeaway?" John wondered aloud.
"Mmm." Sherlock hummed in agreement.
"Chinese? Curry? What do you think?"
"John," Sherlock hesitated.
"Yeah?" John asked, trying not to be distracted by the younger man's perfect cupid's arrow upper lip. He was failing. Then he noticed that Sherlock was staring at him with a similar intensity, eyes drinking in his muscled chest, then shifting lower, and lingering...
John stood up abruptly. "Curry, I think. Shall I call? I'll call." He babbled senselessly, icepack lying forgotten on his chair as he began to search helplessly for his mobile.
"John," Sherlock breathed. He had moved in that silent way of him and was standing right behind John. He turned his head to the side and inhaled Sherlock's slightly spicy scent.
"Sh...Sherlock?" He managed, still trying to maintain some semblance of composure.
"Relax," Sherlock muttered into his hair. "I want to try something."
"Oh... Okay." John fought the impulse to lean back into the taller man. He focused instead on keeping his breathing normal.
Sherlock rested his hand gently on John's injured shoulder. He began to massage, lightly at first, then, when he was sure it wouldn't hurt John too badly, deeper into the muscle. John dropped his head forwards and couldn't help a small moan.
"Gods. Sherlock, that... Ahhhh" Sherlock worked the muscle. John braced himself on the desk in front of him to provide some leverage and Sherlock folded himself over, using his back strength to force his fingers deep into John's tight muscle.
A few minutes later, John's shoulder was like jelly. The pain had eased, swelling reduced by the ice and then muscle relaxed by Sherlock's talented fingers. Slowly, it dawned on John what a compromising position they were in, and he couldn't help but stiffen.
"Alright?" Sherlock asked lazily.
John huffed a laugh. "Yeah" he coughed "er... thanks." John couldn't move away, trapped between Sherlock and the desk.
"Problem? Sherlock muttered into John's ear.
"Nope" John squeaked. "Just... you know. If people could see us right now... gosh they would talk"
Sherlock stilled, and then took a step back. John took a deep breath and turned to face him. His heart sunk at the look on Sherlock's face. His mouth was tugged into an unhappy line and he had a deep frown on his face.
"Would that be such a bad thing?" Sherlock asked tentatively.
John stared, brain frozen. Sherlock waited for him to speak, apprehensively.
"Err... No. That's not such a bad thing." John swallowed, dropping his gaze form Sherlock's eyes to his mouth.
A brief look of relief passed over Sherlock's face, then he grinned.
"Good." He spun abruptly and flung himself down into his chair.
"Good?" John asked, still a bit dazed.
"Yes." Sherlock nodded. "Good. For now." He added, not meeting John's gaze.
"Right" John said, coming back to himself a bit. He glanced down at himself. Things had gotten a big exciting. "I think I'll take... I'm going to shower. Call for curry? We can go pick it up?"
Sherlock nodded, suddenly very interested in his phone.
"Excellent," John said bracingly. He shuffled awkwardly out of the room, into the washroom and shut the door firmly behind it and then collapsed against it.
Perhaps he might be wrong about Sherlock's distaste for partnering. Definitely something to consider. Sherlock had switched from Mozart to Bach in the other room, and John found himself whistling along happily as he started the shower.
Definitely.
A/N: Uggggg Johnlock. What are we going to do with these boys? Thanks for reading. I know I needed to get that out of my system.