A/N: This is my very first fic in the Sherlock fandom! It was inspired by a Tumblr post about Sherlock teaching John to dance.
As more inspiration, I listened to the songs 'I Found' by Amber Run, and 'All I Want' by Kodaline. They're both VERY appropriate for JohnLock.
Seventeen Steps
Seventeen heavy footed steps tripped quickly up the stairs before John Watson stood panting in the doorway of 221B. Sherlock barely glanced up from his laptop at his former flat mate, knowing John would explain his panicked presence on his own.
"Sherlock, you've got to help me."
"I'm not sure that's a true statement, John. I could choose to help you, depending on what you're getting cold feet about."
John huffed in annoyance as he crossed the flat and sunk down into his chair across from Sherlock. Yes, Sherlock still thought of it as his chair, damn it. Maybe it was time to move the chair out, just like John had.
"I'm not getting cold feet. Mary just kindly informed me a week before the wedding that our first dance is to be a traditional waltz because, and I quote, 'it'll be easier for you, I think.' I have no bloody clue how to waltz!"
Sherlock finally closed his laptop and fixed John with a searching look as he pressed his hands together under his chin. "And you think that I do?"
John snorted. "Of course you do. You're a public school toff; you must know a classic waltz."
Sherlock scowled, even though John was right. Yes, he had learned to dance in school, but that's not why he knew how to waltz nearly twenty years later. "So you would like me to teach you to waltz a week before your wedding. Why me?"
"Who the hell else would I ask? If you're suggesting Mycroft, you're off your bloody – "
Sherlock made an annoyed sound and flapped his hand impatiently. "No, not Mycroft. I should think you would ask the person you're marrying to teach you, since she'll be the one you're dancing with at the wedding."
Giving Sherlock an incredulous look, John stood to make tea. John always made tea in a crisis. Along with his truly ghastly jumpers, it was his most endearing quality, Sherlock thought.
"Mary can't know that I don't know how to waltz! She already thinks I'm a bumbling idiot, no need to prove it to her. You can teach me, and when she sees at the wedding that I know what I'm doing, she'll be properly impressed."
"If she thinks a classic waltz will be easier for you, John, I hate to say that she already knows you're a bumbling idiot."
Setting a perfectly made cup of tea at Sherlock's elbow, John gave him that look that the consulting detective could never say no to. Damn it.
"Will you help me? Please?"
Sherlock sipped half of his tea before giving a put upon sigh and handing the mug back to John, who grinned beatifically at him.
"Help me move the furniture."
After shoving the desk back against the window, pushing the coffee table against the sofa, and moving their (his, not John's!) chairs to sit just in front of the (thankfully unlit) fireplace, they had a fairly decent makeshift dance floor.
Sherlock fiddled with his iPod and speaker and a gentle, solo violin piece began to play. John's head tilted to the side as he listened, and a small smile spread across his face.
"This is nice. I'm not sure what song we'll be dancing to at the wedding, but it's the beat that matters, right?"
Sherlock smirked as he brushed invisible lint from his shirt and stepped closer to his best friend. "I know which song you'll be dancing to. Remember, I was in charge of that part." This was, of course, the song they would be dancing to at the wedding. The song Sherlock had written for John. Just John.
John chuckled, fidgeting uncomfortably in front of the taller man. "Sherlock, I feel like you planned the whole damn wedding, so I trust you. Now, what's first?"
An hour later, Sherlock was wishing he had steel toed boots and John had said 'sorry' approximately eighty three times. If Mary thought a waltz was going to be easy for John, she was sorely mistaken. How had this man even been in the military? He couldn't follow instructions for anything!
"No, your left, left! You're leading, you need to start with your left foot or you're going to break Mary's foot. And mine!"
With a huff of frustration, John pulled away from their awkward embrace and stomped over to pause the music. "I keep trying to follow your steps, but they're opposite of mine!"
"That's the whole point, John. You can't lead while following the same steps as your partner. The waltz is essentially a mirror image of each other. You start with your left, I start with my right. Why is that so hard to comprehend?"
"I need to see my steps done, not Mary's!"
"We can't both lead," Sherlock nearly shouted, his frustration finally getting the best of him. John was not as idiotic as most everyone else in the world, but he was completely hopeless at dancing.
John nearly growled as he stabbed the play button on the iPod once more and glared at the detective. "So just show me the steps side by side until I get them, and then I can put them to use and lead you. Please, Sherlock, just humour me."
"I'm endeavouring to," Sherlock snapped as he rewound the song back to the beginning. "Ok, stand next to me and just watch me, then. Watch my feet at first, but the rest of me as well. Dancing is not just about footwork. If you only move your feet, you're going to look like an automaton."
Sherlock went through the tediously boring steps of the waltz three or four times for John, watching the man out of the corner of his eye. The doctor was concentrating extremely hard on Sherlock's feet at first, but then his eyes travelled slowly up and watched the rest of Sherlock's body. He felt John's gaze on the movement of his hips, how he held his shoulders back, his spine straight, and his arms floating in the air with no partner to hold onto. He felt a tingle zip up his spine as John's gaze intensified when he was no longer looking at Sherlock's feet. He hoped he wasn't blushing.
"Ok, ok I think I've got it. Try again?" John asked as he rewound the song once more and stepped up to Sherlock. He held out one hand and without hesitation, wrapped the other around Sherlock's waist. The classic waltz didn't require one to be pressed up against their partner, as such, but the detective made no move to correct his former flat mate.
"All right. Remember, start with your left. And one, two, three…"
John started with his left, finally, but Sherlock noticed that his entire stance had changed. He was more relaxed without looking lazy, his movements more natural as he guided Sherlock around the makeshift dance floor, even executing the turn that had nearly sent them sprawling across the flat the first time John had tried it.
They moved around the sitting room fluidly, no toes stepped on, no stumbling over the steps, in perfect synchronicity for nearly the entirety of the song. Sherlock had explained that a dip at the end was usually added for flair, but was unnecessary. He did express that he thought it might impress Mary more, so he encouraged it, but John hadn't tried it yet.
Near the end of the song, John had begun to fidget a little nervously. Sherlock gave him a questioning look, and let out a surprised gasp as he was dipped back slowly, clutching tighter to John to make sure the imbecile didn't drop him unceremoniously.
Sherlock stared up at John for what felt like much too long with his spine curved back. John was staring right back, and only the end of the music seemed to draw them back to reality. John pulled Sherlock back up against his chest before quickly dropping his hand and waist and moving back.
"Er, was that ok? I wasn't sure when the dip should come in, so I just guessed," John asked as he rubbed at the back of his neck, a classic nervous gesture of his.
"It was all right, but you need it to flow with the beat of the music too. The dip should start on the beat, fall in between, and then bring her back up on the upbeat."
John looked utterly confused, and Sherlock sighed. "Ok, let me lead so I can show you. You're doing the same exact steps, just reversed. You'll step back with your right as I lead with my left."
Sherlock changed their grip on each other so that he could lead this time, and the music started over. There were a few stumbles as John got used to doing the steps he had just learned in reverse. Once he got the hang of it, he actually did very well. Maybe John wasn't such a bad dancer after all. He seemed to be much better when being led by Sherlock, and it felt right.
Sherlock thought maybe he should warn John that the dip was coming, but decided that John needed to feel the natural fluidity of how the dip should be included without any kind of pretence. So, with no warning, Sherlock eased John smoothly down into the dip, following him chest to chest. John let out a startled sound and held on tighter to Sherlock, just as the detective had done to him.
"And this is when you would kiss her," Sherlock murmured, his voice low and quiet between them.
"Who?" said John, who swallowed nervously.
The music stopped, and Sherlock realized he hadn't brought John up on the upbeat as instructed, too struck by shock to even remember what was happening. He carefully pulled John back up, his gaze cast downward as John still clutched tightly at him.
"Your wife, John."
The silence felt suffocating as Sherlock waited for John to quickly snatch away from him, uncomfortable and embarrassed. From the moment Mike Stamford had brought John into Bart's, every single interaction had been intense between them. There were so many words unspoken, so many things that Sherlock had never admitted and just shoved into a vault in his Mind Palace that was dedicated to John and Sentiment. They seemed to go hand in hand for him.
Sherlock should have known that teaching John how to dance with his future wife would be no less intense. He just hadn't expected for John to feel it as well.
"Sherlock…"
Sherlock's eyes finally met John's, and he knew it was a mistake. He should have pulled away immediately, separated them, and ignored the elephant in the room (the figurative one, this time). There was a distinct longing in the doctor's eyes, and Sherlock knew that no matter what happened, he would let him. He would let John do whatever he wanted to him, and he felt weak and emotional. He had never let sentiment get to him before John, but it was like there was a crack in his armour, and John had niggled his way in long ago and made a home there, right in Sherlock's chest, right inside his heart. He felt ill.
John moved his hand away from Sherlock's waist, and with a pang of regret, Sherlock began to move away. When he felt that same hand on the back of his neck pulling him down, Sherlock gave in. He could deny it no longer, not with John there in front of him, clearly wanting it too. Sod the consequences; this may be his only chance.
The first brush of warm, slightly chapped lips against his own felt like the sweetest, most innocent thing Sherlock had ever felt. It was gentle, chaste, just a simple meeting of lips. It was perfect.
Sherlock couldn't bring himself to open his eyes (when had they closed?) when John pulled away, and so was surprised when lips pressed against his once more, this time more firmly, more insistent. Sherlock sighed as he slowly parted his lips and allowed John to pull his bottom lip between his own, sucking gently. Sherlock wanted to sob with relief. John wanted this, he could feel it. Whether he wanted it for the next five minutes or five years, it didn't matter. He had to stay in the moment, lest he shatter the illusion.
John's tongue probing at his own made him groan involuntarily, and he was sure it would snap the soldier out of this haze and back to reality. To his surprise the groan seemed to encourage John more, and suddenly there was a hand in his hair, gently angling his jaw to deepen the kiss. He obliged, tilting his head, ducking further down to meet John's searching lips and tongue. He was rewarded with an answering groan, and Sherlock felt arousal rush through him like a wave of molten lava.
There was nothing chaste about the kiss now, nothing innocent, though it still felt sweet. At some point, Sherlock had wrapped both of his arms around John's waist and he used this advantage to pull John closer so that there was no space between them at all. Chest, hips, knees all pressed together as strong, sturdy hands continued to thread through Sherlock's curls.
After what felt like hours, John finally gentled the kiss, going back to chaste brushes of lips, like they were kissing in reverse. Sherlock could feel that this was it; this was the end of the fantasy. As John finally pulled his lips away, with their arms still wrapped around each other, his words shattered any hope Sherlock had left.
"I'm sorry."
Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, not wanting to see the obvious regret in John's eyes as they slowly pulled away from each other.
"I am too."
There was no goodbye, no explanations or excuses. John slipped his jacket on and stopped in the doorway, his back to Sherlock. There was a moment where Sherlock was almost convinced that the army doctor was going to turn around, say something to fix this horrible, gaping wound in his chest where John used to live.
There was a shuddering sigh, and then seventeen thundering footsteps down the stairs, and a gentle click of the door closing.
Sherlock took up his violin and instead of mimicking the horrible screeching noises that were screaming in his head, he played something gentle, sturdy, beautiful – something just like John.
He tried his best to ignore the tears splashing onto the polished surface of his beloved Strad, and played on.
A/N: Please let me know what you think! I plan to write more JohnLock in the future. Any constructive criticism or advice about characterization or anything else is much appreciated. Thanks for reading!