A/N: Hello! Here's another chapter.
I can't help but imagine John with another type of grace quite different from the delicacy of his surgical career, so it would seem apt to see him shifting his attention from one precision activity to another! I am convinced that, even though theirs is only a brilliantly crafted 'bro'mance (*shudder*), John probably has an entire wing of the Mind Palace dedicated solely to him-what else would Sherlock think to do with all those layers and contradictions within the doctor-soldier-marksman-arbiter of humaneness except catalogue them?
Also, congratulations to Guest for answering the two brainteasers correctly: the 'black coffee, two sugars' reference is from ASiP, when poor Molly becomes the victim of Sherlock's total obliviousness yet again. The yellow bandana is indeed from Martin Freeman's stint as a teenaged gangsta rapper in Staines (that is, Ricky C in Ali G Indahouse, which I have only seen clips of and have no wish to see the rest of...it reminds me too much of what we all wore when we were that age). I couldn't resist, but must go and divest my brain of early Noughties culture now...
Rootling through John's box of photographs (hidden under the bed-obvious!) for the photo of the both of them at that infernal Christmas market that his flatmate had dragged him to in Prague, Sherlock stopped. His hands hovered, fingers poised in a grabbing motion, above the sturdy cream-coloured storage box as he spotted something veryinteresting. A Polaroid photograph, mid-nineties, judging by the streaky highlights worn by the girl in the picture and the Yamaha keyboard in the rehearsal space. She was dressed in a sea-green leotard, dance tights and pointe shoes, and in a perfect pas-de-bras position. And yet, it was not her who caught his attention, but her partner. His eyes widened in shock as he drank in the image of his friend before he'd met him. It was a rare gift indeed.
John was suspended in the air, frozen in mid-leap. His lean form was stretched into an elegant curve, legs fanned out into a breathtaking grand jeté as his arms curved gracefully up and away over his shoulders, fingers extending up towards the spotlight that beheld him. The floppy haircut that brought his dark blonde hair to rest just over the tops of his ears, and the look of fierce concentration on John's face, brought into focus just how young John must have been; 18, 19 years old? The black t-shirt and dance tights set a contrast with his outstretched arms and bare feet, and Sherlock was fascinated as an unbidden image formed of John as an undergraduate, gliding effortlessly over the polished floor of the gallery in the east wing of his Mind Palace to Debussy's Passepieds.
Rummaging through the rest of the small stack of Polaroids, Sherlock came across another, just John this time, dressed in light grey vest top and slim jersey joggers with silver lustre over his temples and gelled hair, and an exquisitely feathered pair of silver wings curving down his back with another, smaller pair on his ankles. His lips and cheekbones were painted in the same way, and he was flung effortlessly into a perfect arc, hands dipping under his shoulders and parallel with his feet as his back formed a flawless inverted curve, like the peak of a sine wave or a parabola. His face was turned towards the camera, completely relaxed in the same manner as his hands. He looked blissfully free and happy, glorying in the music. Sherlock understood now why losing so much agility and mobility had left John so bereft. Those perpetually aching limbs weren't just a livelihood. They were a huge part of something that he had truly enjoyed and, judging by the writing on the back of the photograph, had an exceptional talent for. Turning it over once again, Sherlock smiled as he took in the words, carefully pencilled in John's neatest hand.
Dancing Hermes in Shostakovich's Apollo; UCL-Royal Academy Joint Showcase, 13th June 1996.
Hearing John coming through the front door, along with the promising rustle of shopping bags, Sherlock hurriedly stowed the box exactly where he'd found it in order not to displace the surrounding dust pattern.
On the way out of John's room, he ran into a surprisingly solid shape on the landing. Damn. Evidently John had decided to hang his smart jacket up in his wardrobe in an effort not to crease it. Looking up at Sherlock, John's voice said 'I am a very nice man who is perfectly calm', but his eyes and bearing said 'Explain'.
"Oh, hello. What were you doing in my room?", John enquired pleasantly.
"Looking for that photo of us in Praha. Mummy wants a copy." He cleared his throat evasively and made to step past John onto the stairs, but the captain simply stepped in front of him, folding his arms and indicating the top step with a single look. Knowing that he was really being ordered, not simply nagged, the taller man complied, with John standing above him. His gaze was unflinching; it was clear that John wanted answers. Now.
"That is the real reason, John."
"What else did you see?"
This was such a typically Sherlock question-blunt, to the point-that he was momentarily flummoxed by the mode of interrogation. There was faint amusement behind the demand, as well as a familiar sense of exasperation, and Sherlock felt compelled to answer truthfully. Recovering himself, he forced his voice to remain even rather than making obvious his admiration for his best friend.
"I found some old pictures of you at university. Polaroids. You danced."
It was a statement rather than a question, and John simply nodded, motioning for Sherlock to give him more data.
"You looked as though you were exhilarated by it when you were playing in Apollo. Your dancing looked so fluid, like it was no effort at all!" (The excitement was coming through in his voice now.)"Clearly you were very good at it."
John blushed very slightly, smiling and settling himself on the top stair beside his friend. Although Sherlock had never been one for giving compliments unless they were inadvertently backhanded, he could recognise admiration for a gift when he saw it. John being a stellar empathiser he had always been good at reading between the lines, and Sherlock could sense him doing it now.
"I was never graceful-I was always lanky and uncoordinated; I used to trip over myself before I stopped growing." "I wish I could have moved like that."
"My balance was atrocious." "Clearly yours wasn't. You had so much poise."
"I had no sense of rhythm, no talent for charming an audience and no ability to take physical cues from other people." "But you could move in tandem with others to create something immersive, intricate and beautiful for them to watch."
"In short, I am an appalling dancer." "But you are incredibly talented, and I wish I could have seen you dance old friend."
"You should be very proud of being able enough to do that." "I am."
John grinned. "Nice try, Sherlock, but I doubt I'll be able to channel the dearly departed spirit of Nuryev or take on Carlos Acosta any time soon. There's too much work on for that. Besides, that phase of things is long gone; I stopped dancing in my third year because I couldn't put enough research into my degree work if I was rehearsing all the time. Apollo was my last show, actually. Thanks for saying all that, though. Very good of you to give me so much data to work with."
With that, John stood up in one graceful, feline stretch, jumping down the last flight of stairs, kicking his heels up behind him and landing en pointe. Turning round as he stepped into the living room, he grinned impishly before rounding the corner, disappearing from view and leaving Sherlock dumbfounded in his wake.
A/N: The streaky highlights are a reference to Ginger Spice (Geri Halliwell, whom US readers might know from a certain Simon Cowell production whose name I dare not speak). For those of you not privy to this particular brand of manufactured pop, the Spice Girls were a mid-90s girl band made up of five different 'types' of girl (Sporty, Posh, Ginger, Scary and Baby). They majored on massive platform trainers, tight ponytails, puffa jackets, popper tracksuit bottoms, and lucrative pop songs.