A/N: Hello! A bit of Balletlock here. I've revised it and fixed some things.
Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. The characters belong to Arthur Conan Doyle and some of the dialogue belongs to Moffat, taken from the episode "A Study in Pink".
John was backstage again.
He recognized Seb, the stage carpenter, at the fly lines in standby, muscles taught, ready to jump up and grab the rope in order to get the curtain out in a timely matter. The director had the technician rehearse the motion for twenty minutes during dress rehearsal until it was happening at a speed which could and might break necks. Other dancers, faceless for the most part, milled about stretching or bouncing up and down on their toes.
There. There was the cue in the music. Seb wasn't listening for that, he was on headset. He got the cue from the Stage Manager "Fly 1, go" and the curtain shot up from the deck.
This was it. This was John's moment. He inhaled sharply and moved his neck side to side, preparing. He shifted his weight to the balls of his feet, right foot extended and waited... waited... there. He took off like a canon at the chord and he was flying across the stage. One, two, three.
His target was a chain link fence. Not a real one of course, a prop. A set piece, really. Big, and built to support the weight of a dancer. John never liked dancing with big props. Too much could go wrong.
A foot away John leaps and the music has paused now, a chord hanging wrong and unfinished. John realizes midflight that – wait – no, something isn't right. He hits the fence in a practice motion and keeps going. He is too light he is too light why isn't he stopping? Then a sound, what is that? Crashing, and the feeling of wrong keeps going. John is lying on the stage floor. Why is he lying on the stage floor? He must get up he must get up where is the music? He can't figure out where he should be in the choreography without music. Where is the music where is the –
John woke, finally. He was breathing heavily, trying to calm the pace of his heart.
A dream. Just the dream, again. John released a small sob and collapsed back into his pillows, gripping them in his fists.
A nightmare
No, not a nightmare. Not exactly because for a few moments he is happier than he has been in months.
He was dancing again.
Sleep returned, as it always does. John was thankful that falling asleep came naturally to him. Staying asleep could be a bit tricky, but falling asleep, that he could do anywhere. Years of training had taught him that. In the dance community – which he is no longer a part of, John reminded himself - he was known for falling asleep everywhere. Under the tables in dressing rooms, sitting on the rails between fly lines backstage, or once, memorably, stretched out between a barre and the covered mirrors while waiting for his turn during an exam.
Later, John forced himself awake. He had homework. From his therapist. John snorted at the thought. Him. A therapist. He wouldn't go but Harry was insisting. He could hardly afford this bedsit in London on his dancer's pension and stubbornness prevented him from accepting help from his family. The only reason he accepted the therapy sessions was that maybe... just maybe, they could help. And one day he could be back on his feet. John knew he would never dance again, never wanted to dance again, but hobbling around on a cane was too much after a lifetime of barely touching the ground. So Harry covered the part of the therapy sessions not covered by NHS and John quietly accepted, telling himself it was for the best. It made up for the time he had rescued his sibling from various drunken escapades and bad decisions.
John sat at the edge of his bed and eyed the cane hatefully. He didn't need it to make it the metre from his bed to the desk where it rested. His leg twinged uncomfortably, a steady reminder that he will never relive last night's dream. John took a deep breath and stood. So different, so so different John wasn't sure he would ever get used to the difference. He couldn't dance so he couldn't walk. As a boy he often chirped "why walk when you can dance?" Now he found himself thinking "why walk if you can't dance?" The two were mutually inclusive in his mind.
After preparing a mug full of tea and grabbing an apple from his meager grocery supply – he really must find a job – John sat down in front of his laptop. He stared at the blog.
There were a few half hearted attempts at entries. He was passed the point of attempting to maintain some sort of cheerful demeanor for those reading the therapy mandated blog. His therapist, Ella, told him he needed to work through his problems and communicate with his loved ones and she seemed convinced a blog would help John say things he couldn't out loud. "Just start with keeping an account of your activities, random thoughts, it doesn't matter. You just have to start. The rest will come. It will help you adjust to life away from the Company."
John scrolled through the comments on yesterday's post. Bill Murray, not the film star, but the dancer who took over his spot in the ballet after his injury, had commented again. John was happy for him. Taking over his role had landed him a spot in a London contemporary company which was just starting to take off. Hearing about it over beers had been too much and John had awkwardly given his congratulations before frantically changing the subject. John was sure that would be touched upon during his therapy session later.
Deciding not to comment further on his status as a Casanova – a fair statement, John privately thought, although it came from being in an industry deprived of men who were interested in woman rather than any personality trait he possessed – John closed his laptop with a snap.
Nothing ever happens to me.
John went to his appointment with his therapist. Well, of course he did. What else is there for an unemployed aging ex-dancer to do mid-week? They go through the motions; John flexed his jaw and refused to talk about anything and Ella stared at him with just the right mix of neutrality and caring before making a note on her pad: "Trust issues".
Well, of course he has trust issues. Trust is one of the most important things dancers rely on. His was violated brutally in one career ending mistake.
"Fucking props" John muttered to himself as he stalked down a path in Russell Square Park. He tried to stay active despite his leg and the walks in the park make him feel a bit like he might still be a participant in this world. He is so wrapped up in self pity that he didn't notice his name is being called.
"John? John!"
He did a double take. A balding man approached, beaming.
"Mike. Mike Stamford! We went to the Royal Academy of Ballet together."
The name finally rung a bell after John stared for half a beat too long.
"Yes of course, Mike. Hello. Hi." John attempted a smile that came out more as a grimace.
Mike smiled ruefully "Yeah, I know. I got fat."
John did his best to hide the fact that he was trying to connect the man in front of him with the fit dancer he had known as a student. "No..."
"I heard you were in Russia working on that turn out, what happened?" Mike was still grinning.
John sighed. "I got turned out. Injury. Aging. You know the drill."
"Ahh" Mike glanced down at the cane gripped in John's fist. "Fancy a coffee?"
They got coffees at a nearby cart and sat at a bench lining the old path. John cleared his throat.
"Are you still dancing, then?"
Mike barked out a laugh "Gods, no. Teaching. At the Royal Academy. Bright young things, like we used to be. God I hate them." He laughed and John managed a chuckle. "What about you, then? Just staying in town until you get sorted?"
John shook his head "I can't afford London on a dancer's pension."
"Couldn't Harry help?"
John grimaced. "Like that's going to happen. Harry's doing enough already." John looked away and sipped his coffee. The tremor was coming back. He clenched his fist to ward it off.
"Ah. I dunno, why not get a flatshare?"
"Who would want me for a flat mate?" John scoffed, and raised an eyebrow when Mike chuckled. "What?"
"You're the second person to say that to me today."
"Who was the first?"