A/N: Hey, well you look at that, it's only been two weeks. Yay! Um...well, sort of? There is a wee bit of angst in this one and tiny cliffhanger.
But yay! New chapter. And I think because of the raise in level of angst it has made me a bit anxious. But here you go!
Molly looked around and said, "So how are we getting there? Greg drove all of us."
John looked around, too. "Well, we all drove our own cars, but there's no need for that many cars. Let's see," he counted off people in his head, "there are nine of us. Five of you and four of us...and since we've all been there," he pointed to his friends, "we can put at least one of us in each car to give directions."
"So who wants to drive with the lovebirds?" Greg asked with a grin, looking suggestively at John and Sherlock. The latter of whom blushed.
"Ooh! Ooh! Me!" Victor said, hopping up and down, his hand raised high in the air. Everyone turned to Victor, looking at him as if he was this strange creature.
"What?" Victor asked. "I am perfectly willing to third-wheel it. I have a boyfriend, I can text him if they get too gooey."
John looked torn. "But I promised James that he could drive with me."
Sherlock looked over at the rugby captain and then back to John. He felt like a bucket of cold water had been dumped over his head. The expression on James's face was one of undisguised yearning. Here was someone who loved John. And John had promised him that they could ride together? Sherlock didn't know what to do.
Everyone seemed oblivious to Sherlock's inner turmoil, everyone but James it seemed. He stepped forward.
"It's fine, John," he said with a smile that didn't seem to reach his eyes. "I wanted to ride with Bill and discuss that play in the second half. And since Sherlock and Victor want to ride with you, I could ride with him and one of the others."
"Are you sure, James?"
The rugby captain nodded and this time he did smile sincerely.
"Hey, I'll go with ya!" Greg said. "I'd love to pick your brains on the inner workings of your sport."
"Looks like that leaves the ladies with Mike," John said, relieved.
"Which is a good thing," Mike said with a wink. "You can trust me to be a gentleman, unlike these fatheads."
John looked at Bill and James and then all three men jumped Mike. They began to tickle the doctor.
"Oi!" Mike called out. "Watch the glasses!"
Bill took them off and handed them out to the nearest person. Molly squeaked and took the glasses from him.
She walked back to Greg, "Do you think we should help him?
Greg barked out a laugh. "Nah! It looks like they're winding down."
And sure enough, all four men laid in a heap on the floor, still laughing.
The plump doctor huffed, "That's it! Next time you lot can deal with your own sore muscles."
The rugby players helped him to his feet, murmuring apologies and offering to buy him drinks as recompense.
Mike grudgingly agreed. "All right, who has my glasses?"
Molly shyly walked up to Mike and handed them to him.
Janine raised an eyebrow as she watched her friend awkwardly flirt with Mike, tucking her hair behind her ear and smiling at him.
Janine sidled up to Victor, whose head was bent over his phone. "Looks like you aren't the only one who will be stuck with a pair of lovebirds."
Victor looked up from his message to catch Molly dust off a flake of imaginary lint from Mike's jacket.
"Well, that is interesting!" he agreed. "You planning your own hookup, Janine?" He looked pointedly at where James and Bill were chatting with Greg.
"Oh hell, no," Janine said, putting her hands on her hips. "One's gay and the other's Scottish."
Victor laughed. "Aww, the wee Irish lass following her nationality's natural prejudice against the Scots, tsk, tsk, tsk," he said in the worst Irish accent imaginable.
"Careful, Victor or I'll show you why they call Ireland the land of Eire," she threatened.
Victor just laughed again.
The ride over to the restaurant started tense for Sherlock, but soon the knowledge that Victor had his back regardless of what happened tonight with John had him almost fully relaxed by the time they got there. John, of course, helped Sherlock feel at ease, too. He kept the conversation light and since Sherlock was driving, never took his eyes off the dancer.
By the end of the night Sherlock was sure that there was nothing currently between John and his captain, James Sholto, but that didn't soothe him like he thought it would. No, his mind filled with the possibilities of what might happen in those steamy locker rooms.
John nudged Sherlock and even whispered in his ear, "He is just a friend, Sherlock. I only have eyes for you."
Sherlock blushed and bumped John back. But you can't kill a thought once it has made a home in your head.
John sat in one of the best boxes at the Royal Opera House, his left fist clenching and unclenching.
"For fuck's sake, John, calm down," Mike hissed for what felt let the hundredth time since they sat down.
John had invited Mike to make use of Sherlock's offered tickets, figuring that the good doctor would want to see Molly dance and that he would be the one person Sherlock wouldn't freak out over, thinking he was John's date.
"What if I hate it? Or fall asleep? Oh god! What if I start snoring?" John asked, panic rising.
"You won't fall asleep. If nothing else, Sherlock in tights will keep you awake," Mike said with a chuckle.
"Okay, fine, but what if I hate it," John persisted.
"So what if you do?" Mike asked with a shrug.
"But this is his life. His existence. I'd be hating a major part of him."
Mike thumped the back of John's head.
"Oi! What was that for?" John complained, rubbing the back of his head.
"You're being an idiot and you know it. You either suck it up and watch it, knowing that it bores you to tears but you love him enough to come see him anyway, or you walk away."
John thought about it for a moment and then nodded.
Mike looked at him, and when he was convinced that John wasn't going to say anything else stupid, he turned back to the stage.
"Thanks for inviting me, by the way, your angst notwithstanding," he said after a moment.
"You're welcome. I didn't want to do this alone and well..." John shook his head.
"He still thinks that you are going to run off with James?" Mike asked.
"We've had conversations via text and over the phone about it, but he can't let it go. Though, when we are together he doesn't bring it up."
"I think he's scared," Mike said wisely.
"Of what?" John squawked.
"That one day you'll wake up and decide that you two are too different."
John opened his mouth to speak, but that is when the house lights dimmed. The show was starting.
John sat back to watch.
The curtain went up and a spotlight came on, highlighting the lone figure on the stage. The dark head rose and Sherlock began to dance.
John would have liked to have said that he only had eyes for Sherlock, but the entire thing enchanted him. The way they were able to convey the whole story without uttering a single phrase or warble a tune. It was magnificent.
When the curtain fell for intermission, John found himself at the edge of his seat, mouth hanging open, and his hands gripping the arm rests. He sat back and unclenched his fingers trying to restore life back into them.
"So, I'm guessing you liked it then?" Mike asked with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.
"Christ, Mike. That was amazing," John said.
Mike chuckled. "Yes, just wait for the second half, it gets better."
John nodded. He waited, restless, for the curtain to rise so that he could reimmerse himself into the story. As the lights final dimmed, John spared one more thought.
Cathy was wrong. So dead wrong. The athleticism of rugby was not the same as the grace and power of ballet. Nowhere near. He couldn't do what Sherlock was doing, not for as long as he was up there. Rugby was short bursts of energy, not this long stamina that the dancers were displaying.
Sherlock was freaking out. Wiggins at Will Call had told him that John had shown up for one of his final performances. With another bloke. Wiggins couldn't describe him, he wasn't paying attention to the other man, only that John had come at last.
He was rubbing his hands and pacing back and forth, as he waited for his cue. He had stopped short of tugging at his hair because he wouldn't have had time to fix it before he went on stage.
Suddenly there was thump on the back of his head. "Ow!" he cried and turned to glare at the stage manager, Tobias Gregson. He was a tall, lean man, with a craggy face and grey curls. His blue eyes were piercing.
"What you fussing for?" Tobias growled. "Either he brought a date and only wants to be friends; in which case it's better you know now anyway. Or he brought a friend for support because he's in love with you and is feeling too nervous to go it alone."
Sherlock took a deep breath. "You always know what to say."
"That's because I'm older, I've been in your shoes. Now go out there and dance with all your heart. Show him that no matter who he's with and why, you are worth it."
Sherlock frowned. "Worth what?"
"Everything."
"I don't understand," Sherlock complained.
Tobias laughed. "You will."
Sherlock shook his head, but didn't have time to think about it, as that was his cue. He walked to the middle of the stage, got into position, and took a deep breath. He let the music from the orchestra wash away his fears. This is who he was. This is what he loved. People come and go, but he always had the music.
He let go.
Critics raved for weeks about how that performance was the best of Sherlock's career. That it was the best that anyone had ever danced in the role of Siegfried. That Sherlock Holmes was finally back in his element.
Sherlock? He was in his dressing room panicking further. Did John see how well he did? Did John see how much he put his heart into it?
That was where Victor found him twenty minutes later. Sherlock had only removed the bulkiest bits of costume, half his make up, and part of his hair was sticking up where he had run his fingers through just the one side.
Victor took him in and sat him down. "Clean off your makeup, get out of your costume before Sally pitches a fit that you haven't returned it yet, and for fuck's sake get your act together. You're a grown man, act like it."
Sherlock gulped, but did what he was told. Soon he wasn't Prince Siegfried, who sacrificed his life to be with his love forever, but Sherlock Holmes, a pretty dancer, who was in love with a rugby player named John Watson.
"What if he brought James, Victor?" Sherlock murmured. "I don't think I'd survive this time."
"You came out of your relationship with Richard just fine," Victor said. "You just put on the best show of your career and he's teaching teenagers in Nowheresville, America."
"But-" Sherlock protested.
"That's in the past. You made it. You came out on the other side a better person. And he's just a bitter old man. "
Sherlock let out a shuddering sigh. "Okay."
"Good, now get out there and go snag yourself a hot rugby player," Victor insisted, all but pushing his friend out the door.
Sherlock looked around the hall, knowing that Tobias would have let John and his guest backstage.
Just then a streak of pink went shooting by and he thought he could make out over the sonic boom, "Mike!"
He looked to see Molly jumping into the arms of Mike Stamford. Standing next to the very happy couple was an amused John Watson.
They locked eyes across the hall and Sherlock couldn't breathe as the rugby player moved through the crowd toward him.