Found this li'l thing I'd written around Christmas in my drafts.
Inspired by fan art, what else.
•~•
John stepped into the cozy apartment, exhaling with a puff of relief.
The violin music that had greeted him from the front door itself continued to play without the slightest pause.
"Oh hello, dear! Thought you'd be back a bit later," Mrs. Hudson greeted.
"Bloody cold," he remarked, shrugging off his coat and hanging it up neatly on its hook. "Wouldn't spend another minute out there."
"Well come on then, you must be hungry." She bustled upstairs.
"A cuppa would be nice," he agreed, following with a small smile.
"Just this once," she reminded. "Haven't had much to do anyway."
He raised his eyebrows. "Hasn't Sherlock been keeping you busy? No bloody knives, odd looking contraptions, specimens in the fridge...?"
"Oh no, he's been oddly quiet - well, aside from the violin. Thought it was best not to disturb him."
He hummed in agreement, though frowning a little. Sherlock had been especially restless when he'd called John in the morning.
"BORED."
"Yes, you've mentioned that already."
"Where's my gun?"
"You're the detective..."
"And you're a twat."
"Mm, why don't you just work on a case?"
"There aren't any. Well not any that will take more than five seconds to solve. Why can't people have the decency to commit a well thought out, precise murder?"
"Sherlock! It's holiday season."
"Exactly. Where's my Christmas?"
John sighed.
John had been understandably apprehensive about what he'd find once he got home.
The violin grew louder, but the study was empty.
"He must be in the bedroom." Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door.
"That's not like him," muttered John, but followed Mrs Hudson to the door nonetheless.
"Sherlock, guess who's here to see you," she called.
"You don't need to do that," John whispered to her. "I do live here."
"Tell John he can come in," they heard.
Mrs. Hudson huffed a bit, but gestured for him to go in.
John opened the door and stepped inside, expecting to find Sherlock facing the window, playing the violin, instead he was met with the severe countenance of a young ballerina, by the look of her outfit.
"Hello," he said uncertainly.
"Oh hello, John," Sherlock said. "This is Annette."
"Um... yes, what is she doing here? In your - what are you doing?" he broke off, staring at Sherlock.
Now that he'd sort of gotten over the initial shock of finding a woman in Sherlock's bedroom, he noticed that the sound of the violin was in fact coming from a set of speakers balanced on the dresser.
And Sherlock was ... doing pliés.
"I'm dancing."
John watched in disbelief as Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consultant detective, did a perfect
rond de jambe.
"Wh—?" John couldn't seem to formulate a response.
Sherlock smirked at him, almost proudly. "I've always wanted to take dance lessons."
John pinched the bridge of his nose. Of all the things he'd prepared himself for, Sherlock in tights had not been one of them.
"I'm going to go have some tea," he managed.
"I trust," he said before exiting completely, "that I shouldn't inform your brother about this when he attempts to check up on you?"
•~•
Apparently balletlock is a thing?