Traveling by Tube at the end of a day, even in the best of weather, is tedious, smelly, and uncomfortable. Travelling by Tube at the end of a day during a brutal heat wave is utterly miserable. John's feeling every bit of that utterly miserable, verging on completely despondent. By the time he gets out of the station, he's ready to drop. His shoulder aches, his legs ache, and his head aches from a long day at the clinic, and so help him, if Sherlock has done anything whatsoever to the Italian ice he stashed in the freezer the other day, he might actually try to kill him. All the night before, John tossed and turned, stripping down to his boxer shorts, trying his damndest to cool off. Even so, he still woke up with his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat.
So it's understandable that his mood is a bit shaky as he walks the short way from the station back to the flat. He simply focuses on walking, imagining getting home, stripping out of his damp button up, having a cool shower, and dropping on the chair in front of the telly, eating Italian ice and generally thinking cooling thoughts. John hopes Mrs. Hudson found the fans she claimed were in the basement, as the air movement through the flat isn't particularly good.
The late sun is slanting over the tops of the houses opposite, bathing the font of the row of houses along Baker Street with an unrelenting, pounding heat. Everyone along the road has their windows thrown open, as the houses are so old that most of them don't have central cooling. John can hear a cacophony of sounds from other flats as he walks down the pavement: a baby crying, a television, the over-large bloke 3 doors down with the firecracker girlfriend arguing over his latest foray into pornography for the fourth time this week. But as he nears 221 Baker Street, something sounds a little off.
The Rolling Stones.
At least, he thinks it's the Stones, it's a bit muffled, but he'd swear that Tumbling Dice is emanating from the open windows of the sitting room. He stops, stares in open curiosity for a minute, before he hears the song shift downward into something new, something slicker, with a heavy, throbbing bass line. He ducks into the door as quietly as possible and skulks up the stairs, avoiding the squeaky sixth tread. He highly doubts that anyone has broken into the flat, but he honestly can't imagine it's Sherlock playing this music. In all the time he's lived there, he's heard Sherlock play and listen anything from Vivaldi to Strauss. Nothing else. Nothing even remotely as modern as this, driving guitar and a beat that belongs in a dance club, a man's sultry voice slipping over the bass.
Oh, kiss me
Flick your cigarette and then kiss me
Kiss me where your eye won't meet me
Meet me where your mind won't kiss me
Flick your eyes and mine and then hit me
Hit me with your eyes so sweetly
Oh, you know you know you know that
Yes I love I mean I'd
Love to get to know you
The music is head-poundingly loud, and John wonders if the neighbors have started complaining yet. He cracks the sitting room door enough to see in with one eye, and immediately claps a hand over his mouth to stifle a laugh.
Sherlock is there, stripped to his pants, barefoot, and his scarf, of all the bloody things, draped around his neck. He's actually, for once, organizing his files. But the best part is that as he's standing over the desk with his back to the door, he's dancing. Actually, literally, dancing. Sorting, too; dropping papers in a pile with a flick of his wrist and a hip bump, moving files to a box on the couch with a dip and slide and shake of his arse.
Do you never wonder?
No, no no
No you girls never know
Oh no, you girls'll never know
No you girls never know
How you make a boy feel
John's never, never seen Sherlock dance. Not once. Not even that time they were staking out a club, and John figured the best way to spot their quarry was to find him from the dance floor, and despite trying to convince Sherlock to fit in and dance, he resolutely climbed to the balcony and kept an eye out like a hawk watching for prey.
Sometimes I say stupid things, I think
Well, I mean I
Sometimes, I think the stupidest things
Because I never wonder
How the girl feels
Oh how the girl feels
John's pretty much done in with the heat and work, and as he watches Sherlock so utterly free of worry, or care, or hell, dignity, John just thinks: Fuck it all. Why shouldn't he?
And opens the door.
"Is this a one-man party?"
Sherlock is startled and almost drops his file as he dives for the iPod docked in the little stereo on the bookshelf to stop the music. A blush stains his high cheekbones and he stands somewhat defiantly, one hand on his hip, the other gesticulating wildly.
"John! I, I, I…well, the case, and…" he looks around avidly, desperate for inspiration for the lie he's about to tell, but John puts up a hand to stop him and steps into the room and closes the door.
He drops his bag, takes of his shoes and socks, shucks his trousers and unbuttons his shirt. Sherlock stares for a minute, then grins rather sheepishly (for him), eyes downcast . John crosses the room and picks up a file, looks to Sherlock for confirmation, and presses play.
Do you never wonder?
No, no no
No you girls never know
Oh no, you girls'll never know
No you girls never know
How you make a boy feel
How you make a boy feel