Warnings: Progressive Sherlock/John
The hotel was far fancier than any John had ever been to before, all polished wood floors and thick cream wallpaper. There was even a fountain in the lobby, although what need a lobby had for a fountain he would never understand. Sherlock, of course, flounced around as if he owned the place; he was the same wherever he went. Put him in anything from a shady bar to Buckingham Palace and he'd act as if he'd been born there. John was less adaptable, feeling out of place.
"This is ridiculous," he murmured as they passed through a corridor with gold chandeliers practically bursting from every available bit of ceiling. "It'll cost a fortune…"
Sherlock only adjusted his collar and smirked. "Mycroft's paying; it's hardly our concern. Chasing criminals can be an expensive business."
"It is if your criminal likes to stay here," John said, glancing around again as they made for the lift. "Look, they've even got a bloody ballroom!" He pointed to a room where people were standing around, drinking and dancing.
Sherlock let his eyes pass over it briefly as they stepped inside the elevator and pressed the button for the tenth floor.
"I used to dance, you know," John continued with a smile. "At school. We had a compulsory dancing competition in sports every year. Sometimes I came second or third." Sherlock only made a vague humming sound, and John took it to be a version of 'bored of this' and changed the topic. "You get the room we want?"
"Ten B, yes. Right next to Ten C."
"Where our embezzler can be kept well within our sights," John finished dramatically, waving a hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes.
The lift reached floor ten and Sherlock took a key from his pocket and made his way to the door marked 'B'. John could tell just from the spacing of the doors that the rooms were huge. He felt too short as he stepped inside it and was met with large amounts of blue, expensive looking material and polished wood. "Wow," he murmured. "Nice."
"Mm," Sherlock said again, handing John the key and heading back out the door after a cursory look around. "Bye."
"Hang on!" John said. "Where are you going?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes a second time. "To keep tabs on Mr Field, as I believe he's currently calling himself. Don't expect me back for a bit."
John sighed as the door banged behind Sherlock and he was left standing in the immense room, wondering what to do. He could go wandering around the hotel, but he didn't think an oatmeal jumper and old, comfortable trousers were the correct dress code, and the rest of his clothes hadn't arrived yet.
For the next half-hour or so he took childlike pleasure in exploring the room. There were two sections to it, one being the actual bedroom part, which looked more like a whole house all assembled in one space; there was a double bed, a large sofa, several chairs, a fridge, a table with a silk blue cloth and a bowl of fruit on it, wardrobes, drawers and cabinets. He wasn't worried about sleeping arrangements, seeing as Sherlock hardly ever slept on a case, and if he did he'd be hardly bothered about where.
The second area was a bathroom, larger than the lounge back at the flat, all blue and white tiles. The bath was sunk into the ground and surrounded by complimentary shampoos and soaps, there were two sinks – why the hell they needed two he didn't know – and the towels were so fluffy he felt he could get lost in them. One whole wall was just a mirror. Mad.
He wandered back through to the main area and helped himself to an apple from the bowl on the table before looking in the fridge and deciding he probably couldn't afford to eat or drink anything in there. As he closed it there was a knock on the door, and he opened it to find a porter, all dressed in red, standing outside with their suitcases.
"Shall I take them inside sir?"
John blinked stupidly – he didn't think he'd been called 'sir' in years – and the porter looked at him oddly until he managed to stutter out a "yes please." The bags were left at the foot of the bed and John managed to remember to give the porter a tip, although he got the impression it was far less than he was used to from the dirty look he was given.
He spent a little while unpacking his two suitcases and placing the items in the wardrobe. Usually he would have brought far less than he had, but Sherlock had insisted he bring both formal and informal clothing, and now John realised why; a full suit may have seemed superfluous when he was packing, but now, as he slipped it on the hanger, he was glad it was there. Sherlock had three bags, which John left in front of the sofa before digging out one of his newly-unpacked shirts and sitting on the bed. He wouldn't be wearing his jumper for a few days, and he reluctantly pulled it off, throwing it down on the floor before tugging his t-shirt after it.
He'd only just got it off, and was about to put the shirt on when the door flew open and Sherlock strode in, threw off his coat and announced:
"John, I want you to take me!"
It took John a full second actually register what Sherlock had said, and he choked, spitting out the piece of apple he'd still been chewing.
"Sherlock, wh-"
Sherlock cut across him, reaching up and beginning to unbutton his purple shirt. "Of course, I haven't done it before – mummy didn't approve – but I'm fairly sure you can teach me. You've got the experience."
John gaped, thoughts whirring so fast he didn't have time to register the fact that Sherlock had apparently lost his mind. He sat, frozen, as Sherlock pulled his shirt over his head and approached the bed, not even managing to gather himself enough to move away.
"This is very…um…sudden," he croaked eventually – why he wasn't leaping to his feet and immediately screaming at Sherlock to get away he didn't know.
Sherlock stopped and put his hands on his hips. "Hardly. Now get the rest of those clothes off."
John's cheeks immediately went bright red. Oh god. He cleared his throat. "No, I don't think so…"
A frown crossed Sherlock's face. "Really John, not like you to be shy…"
"Shy?" He gave a laugh that was too high pitched. "This isn't about being shy!"
"Well, what is it about then?"
He was lost for words for a couple of seconds, trying to put what he was feeling into words. "It's about…timing. And…society. You can't just come in here and demand I do…that. It's creepy." He folded his arms over his bare chest. "And I don't appreciate it."
The frown on Sherlock's face grew deeper. "Have I missed some kind of social convention?"
"I'll say you have!" John got to his feet. "There are all sorts before you get to this part! You've got to like each other and-"
"We like each other. We're friends."
"Shut up." He put his hands to his head and scrubbed them through his hair. He should out and say it – we're not dating, you're not interested, we don't, can't, like each other. "What's brought this on?" He almost hit himself – not exactly the question he'd been hoping to come out with. Some days he swore his brain worked for the enemy.
Sherlock blinked. "The need to capture our suspect, of course."
John's whirring thoughts screeched to an immediate halt. "What?"
Now Sherlock merely looked concerned. "John, are you feeling alright? You look very red."
"Fine…" he muttered distractedly. "What were you talking about?"
"I want you to take me dancing," Sherlock replied, slowly, as if he were talking to a child. John's mouth snapped shut. Dancing. Of course, of course – the 'experience', the ballroom. Dancing. His shoulders relaxed and he sat down heavily on the bed with a sigh.
"Oh. Of course. Yes, I'll teach you to dance."
Sherlock continued to look at him as if he'd contracted a mildly worrying disease. "What did you think I was talking about?"
The look on his face made John smile, and then he giggled, and then he was laughing, gripping the sheets as his sides shook. "S-sorry," he gasped. "It's just…when you stroll into a bedroom and demand I remove my clothes…"
Sherlock's eyes widened. "Oh. No. No, not at all." John found the way he stumbled slightly over the words even more amusing. "Of course I meant you needed to change your clothes into something more formal in order to dance. And Mr Field currently happens to be in the ballroom, which is why we need to dance at all."
John waved a hand, still chuckling. "Yes, yes I know." He got up and went to the cupboard, got out his jacket and trousers, and his smartest pair of shoes. "I'll change in the bathroom and meet you here in five minutes."
"This is a waltz," John said ten minutes later – Sherlock had insisted on changing his shirt twice, and then moving the table to the side of the room so they had more space. John placed his right hand on Sherlock's shoulder blade. "Put your left hand on my shoulder."
Sherlock obeyed, the movement smooth and graceful – effortless really. John was jealous of him. He ignored the way the heat from Sherlock's hand was soaking through into his shoulder in a way he found almost comforting.
"Now, watch my feet."
They had no music to dance to, but he remembered the steps reasonably well, getting into a rhythm swiftly. Sherlock was a little hesitant at first, but soon picked up the correct motions; he could learn pretty much anything if he set his mind to it. They waltzed for a few minutes – Sherlock kept trying to lead, switching their hands over – until John thought they had the hang of it and pulled back.
Sherlock's cheeks were flushed, probably from the heat of the room, which was nearing sweltering, especially when you were wearing a suit. "This should be sufficient, John," he said eventually.
John nodded. "Alright. Are we going down to the ballroom now or later?"
"Now," Sherlock said, adjusting his collar and getting the key to the door off the table. "Mr Field doesn't stay in one place for long."
They left the room and went into the lift, where John re-did his shoelace – he felt less out of place, but more uncomfortable. Suits weren't really his thing, and he thought the last time he'd worn a full one had been at Harry's wedding.
"Do stop fretting," Sherlock said haughtily as he straightened up. "I assure you the suit looks perfectly acceptable on you."
John rolled his eyes. "You're the master of compliments aren't you?" he teased, leaning back against the side of the lift and smiling as it slowed and an elderly couple got on. The rest of the journey was spent in awkward silence – John could see Sherlock's deductions flickering across his face, but he didn't say anything out loud, and they were able to reach the ground floor without anyone getting offended or angry. John was pleased to find that no-one looked at him oddly in his suit. Perhaps Sherlock had been right after all.
The ballroom was full of dancers waltzing to the slow music, and Sherlock immediately grabbed John and pulled him amongst them, starting to dance.
"Where's Mr Field then?" John murmured, looking discreetly around the crowded hall as they turned and trying to pick out the face from the blurry picture he'd seen in the folder Mycroft had showed them.
"To the left," Sherlock replied, barely audible over the music. "By that plant, talking to the woman in the black dress."
John glanced over at him and nodded. "What do you want us to do if he moves?"
"Follow without being seen. If he stays in the hotel it doesn't matter, but if he leaves we need to track him and possibly bring him in. You've got your gun?"
"In the room," John muttered, cursing himself. "It wouldn't have fitted in my suit."
At that moment Mr Field turned towards them, still talking to the woman. Sherlock quickly leaned closer to John, hiding his face by resting his head on top of John's and turning them sideways. John flushed, but understood the necessity; Sherlock was fairly recognisable to those who might be looking out for him, and the last thing they wanted was for their target to get wise and scarper. Sherlock's hair tickled his cheek and caused him to chuckle softly.
"What?" Sherlock whispered, turning them again. John kept half an eye on Mr Field, who'd looked away from them, and wondered why Sherlock wasn't pulling apart now the danger had passed.
"Nothing. Just been a bit of a mad day."
Sherlock's shoe snagged on his own and they had to take a second to steady each other as the music changed to a slower tune, the lights dimming very slightly. John giggled again – it was all very silly, he knew, but he almost liked it, even if it meant they had to move closer to their target to actually see him.
"John?" Sherlock murmured, revolving slowly on the spot and lifting his head back – John knew he was checking for Mr Field at the same time as talking.
"Yes?" John replied, a little too quickly, managing to steer them around a woman in a bright red dress who was arguing with her dance partner in barely-hushed tones.
"When you thought I was suggesting…what I wasn't suggesting…" There was a guarded tone to Sherlock's voice that had John pricking up his ears. "What seems…unusual is that although you were surprised you didn't shout no straight away."
John blushed furiously and clenched his hands around Sherlock's, although he was still smirking. He didn't reply.
I figured it was time for something a little more light-hearted. Mostly.
Thanks for reading. Reviews welcome!
To be continued.