Dancing
Words: 847
Rating: K
Spoilers: N/A (but will be more entertaining if you've seen S3:E2)
"Sherlock, this is stupid."
"Yes."
"No, I mean really stupid. And ridiculously out of character, might I add."
"Obviously."
John stared at Sherlock pointedly. "Then what the hell are we doing here?" Sherlock didn't reply as he handed the cabbie more than a few extra pounds on the way out. "You don't even like drinking," John added—for probably the tenth time.
"Astute observation, John. You're on sparkling form tonight. Have you anything to deduce other than how inane this idea is or how impartial I am to alcohol?"
John stared at the club in abject horror. Sure, John fancied a drink now and then, but he hadn't done anything like this in years—his insane uni days were so long ago John hardly remembered them.
And yet Sherlock came out of his bedroom in an even tighter shirt than usual, a crimson one John had never seen, and the most impeccable, downright-indecent-amounts-of-sexy jeans—yes, jeans—and announced that John had better get dressed because they were on their way to a club.
John kept staring at Sherlock, utterly dumbfounded. "Sherlock," John said, "What the hell is going on? Is there some case here?"
"As I stated the other seventeen times you asked that question, no, we're not here for work. We're here to do what people do at clubs."
"What, dance? You don't like to dance!"
Sherlock looked down to John, his annoyance at John's constant prodding giving way to something else. This sparkle in his eye, this slight twerk upward of the corner of his mouth.
"Now that deduction was not so astute," Sherlock replied quietly, looking amused. "And you'd been doing so well."
John couldn't work through what Sherlock meant before he was being dragged inside. John was old enough not to get carded now and that in itself was a little embarrassing. What the hell were they doing here? Did Sherlock not understand what would truly go on in this establishment?
John was assaulted by bright lights and pounding bass, and if John were not so confused he might have felt a similar rush to what he had back in uni.
"Sher—"
Whatever John planned to say was forgotten as Sherlock pulled him through the masses of people, stopping in front of the bar and getting John three shots of something—John didn't hear what.
"You don't drink," John repeated dumbly.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but had a strange, tiny smile on his face that wouldn't be budged.
"No, I don't. But you obviously need this in order to dance with me."
"And you don't?"
Sherlock's smile widened almost unperceivably. "I need no incentive to dance with you, John."
John stared up at Sherlock and finally—late, admittedly—it clicked.
"Wait. You honestly… just want to dance with me."
"Obviously." But the term that usually held so much derision sounded fond. That smile still persisted.
And then that clicked too.
Sherlock was excited.
"So… you do like to dance?"
Sherlock shook his head and gave a chuckle as deep as the bass echoing through the room. "Come, John, drink up. I'm eager to begin."
Once John realised that they truly were here to dance, he got a little more enthusiastic. Well, enough to take his shots and allow Sherlock to tug him through the people to a hole in the dancers.
It had been so long. Did John know how to do this anymore? Did Sherlock ever know how to? This was silly. They weren't a couple of kids, they were—
Sherlock pulled him in as close as he could and started to move.
It was enrapturing.
Sherlock was one with the music. Seriously, every move he made was fluid and exactly in sync with the tune that was on at any moment—maybe he could guess the transitions before they happened, because he never missed a beat. He was so smooth, so sure, that John fell into rhythm too, and they were gyrating against each other like teenagers and snogging when they could and it was sweaty and childish and absolutely perfect.
And Sherlock kept grinning. It was astonishing.
"I didn't know you were so good at this," John called over the music.
"I didn't know you could be even sexier than usual," Sherlock purred back into his ear. The sentence sounded strange coming out of that mouth, but felt right going into John's ears. John bit his lip and grinned, nuzzling Sherlock's neck.
John figured they'd make out again… but then they locked eyes. Their bodies moved seemingly of their own accord, but they found themselves in a moment all their own suddenly, staring at one another.
How had he gotten so lucky? How had he found someone that always understood even when he didn't? Who always surprised but never disappointed?
In that moment, John decided it didn't matter what they were doing. It was just he and Sherlock, and that was all that would ever matter.
And John leaned in for a tender kiss, translating all that he was thinking through the contact.
And Sherlock knew.
Sherlock always knew.