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When John pulled the old Toyota into school Friday morning, he could already spot Molly Hooper sprinting across the student parking lot and over to where John was gingerly aligning his car between the two, parallel lines. He watched as she waited, bouncing on the balls of her feet, hands grasping the straps of her spotty pink backpack so hard her knuckles were beginning to turn white. Unable to help himself, John smiled, already aware of why she was standing so close to his car window, of why she was grinning from ear to ear, of why her cheeks were faintly red with exertion from jogging like a maniac passed crowds of loud people. She was in full fangirl-overload. And John certainly didn't blame her. Theballetbee's newest video was iconic. Not even iconic, it was historical, it was revolutionary, it was like a brand new version, a brand new sound, of composition, of violin, of music and it had enraptured John liked pollen to a honeybee. It was instrumental with a beat, with an undertone of techno, a pinch of dubstep, a poke of melodic vocals, and a whole lot of genius. John couldn't begin to explain how very in love he was with whatever sound snuck out of the strings beneath the fingers of that stranger, that violinist with the blurred face.

But, as bewilderingly new as it was, it was also oddly coincidental. He couldn't shake the small clue, the small suspicion, that had wormed its way into the back of his mind, that somehow, in some way, the anonymous dancer had been there, on that very day John had leaned over and played his music for his friends.

Boring, Sholto had called it. Antique.

Deep down John was holding on to the idea that maybe, just maybe, the Bee went to Baker, and maybe, just maybe, he was in John's maths class. It was a silly thing really, and he had no real evidence or substantial reasoning behind it other than a short five minute exchange between his friends but why else would the musical genius suddenly change his style so drastically? Why would he alter who he was unless he was eager to prove wrong those who dissed him? Perhaps he was being far too hopeful - or far too selfish.

The world doesn't revolve around you, John, his mind shouted back at him.

A hand slamming onto the dirty window of the tattered Toyota jolted him back to life, and he looked up, coming face to face with an amused, yet utterly enthused, Molly Hooper, of whom was mouthing and yelling muffled, impatient words at him through the glass. He chuckled to himself and shut off the car's engine, grabbing for his backpack and opening the door, slipping out and locking the vehicle behind him. Almost instantly, arms were wrapping around his waist and a squeal was emanating, shrill and piercing, from the small girl tucked against his chest, clad in the same yellow dress she'd bought just a day ago, white sneakers and white socks to match.

John scoffed and wrapped his arms around her in response, smiling and chuckling as his best friend practically shook on her feet.

"You've seen it, I assume," Molly asked as she pulled away, grinning up at John and tucking the loose strands of chestnut brown hair back behind her ears.

John laughed loudly and readjusted his backpack before beginning the small walk to Baker's main hall, Molly trailing along beside him as he bobbed his head in confirmation, "Of course, I have."

The small girl giggled and spun in place, strolling backwards beside him for a minute before turning back around and squeaking to herself, squeezing her phone tightly where it rested in one of her hands, "Wasn't it incredible?"

John smiled down at his brown Oxford's and nodded, biting his lip and silently cursing the blush that tinted his cheeks, "Bloody unreal."

Molly swooped her arm around his, letting it hook at his elbow as they walked, sauntering softly to the school building, his timid friend no longer timid in such a moment, her eyes wide with excitement, brows lifted, cheeks crinkling in joy and utmost admiration.

"It was so different, it was so unique," She gasped, gesturing rapidly with her hands as she spoke, "I mean, Lindsey Sterling who? This plonker practically knocked the music industry onto their arses!"

John smirked at her words, "It was definitely something."

"It was more than that," She awed, "it was practically angelic!"

Beaming brightly, John couldn't help but agree with her words, no matter how overwhelmed she currently was or how dramatic she was being - it was, and there was no denying it, a performance to be reckoned with. John chewed on the inside of his cheek as he pondered the entirety of the situation, the ingenious new composition, his suspicions, his growing adoration for a masked man behind a screen.

"I think he goes here," John couldn't help himself from admitting, and he watched carefully as Molly stopped in her tracks, turning to face him with an arched brow.

She narrowed her eyes and laughed shortly, "What makes you think that?"

"I don't know, Molls," He swallowed and continued their walk to the main hall, pulling Molly along with him and smiling rather shyly, shrugging a single shoulder, "I had this conversation with my mates in maths."

Molly blinked, "And?"

"And they said he was boring; that his violin was antique and that classical music was music to go to sleep to."
"Gits," Molly Hooper muttered, and John let out a laugh, nodding his head in agreement.

"You're telling me," He huffed and then shook his head, rerouting the conversation and continuing, "Anyway, now he comes with this? Something completely different, something utterly and completely opposite of the ordinary classical he always does?"

The small girl hummed to herself and bobbed her head to the side thoughtfully, loosening her grip a little on the poor mobile in her pale hand, "I suppose it is rather coincidental."

Sighing, John grabbed hold of the school's main doors, yanking one of them open by its handle and waiting for Molly to enter first before quickly following behind, head turning with his upside down thoughts, spinning and churning within his gut, desperate for answers. Why was he so determined to know? Why couldn't he just leave it alone?

"I mean, I've always considered it," Molly began as they both headed towards their lockers, "but I don't know, it seemed too surreal, you know?"

"Definitely," John grunted, turning to her over his shoulder and laughing softly, meandering over to the blue cabinet door and expertly entering his passcode, springing the lock into life as it opened, bearing his abhorrent number of books and excess, unnecessary items. Once he'd transferred over whatever he needed and didn't need, he slammed the door shut and lifted his backpack onto his back once more, approaching Molly of whom was still busy fumbling with her textbooks and notepads.

"Look," he began, smile apologetic, "its just a hunch, yeah? No going and getting our hopes up."

Molly turned and chuckled, grinning up at him gingerly, expression soft as usual and features curved upward in pure delight, "Of course, John. Doesn't mean I'm not going to investigate, though."

And with that, she winked and scurried away, a skip in her step and a wide grin on John's face as she departed.


The continuous slamming of a fist against his wooden door was what woke Sherlock up earlier than he would have liked on his Friday morning - considering he'd been up all night deciding whether or not he should hit the upload button on his new creation. Half delirious from lack of sleep, he stumbled out of his mundane, white bed sheets, groaning to himself and running a hand through his hair as he reached for the door handle, yanking the slab open to reveal Uncle Siger, looking irritated and wholly sleep deprived. Hm, Sherlock thought, so they have something in common. The curly-haired genius braced himself and slowly arched a brow up at the man, of whom simply scoffed and gave the skinny boy a once over.

"You look like a bloody twig," He snapped, bearing his teeth in a wickedly, dreadful smirk, "what, you forget to eat or something?"

Sherlock swallowed and inwardly laughed at the question; he wasn't far off honestly.

"Anyway," his uncle started up again, uncaring as to what Sherlock had to say in response, lifting a hand and running it through his greasy mess of hair, its unkemptness matching the rest of his figure - clothes unwashed for what looked like several days, button down shirt smelling strongly of cigarettes and booze, "don't come home after school, yeah? Go to the park, or have a fake homework session with your fake mates again."

Shit. Another one of these days then.

"Why?" Sherlock asked, tone hoarse from lack of use, and he cleared his throat quickly, glancing down at the floor and away from his uncle as he awaited the answer to his question, only to instantly regret the decision as a hand slapped him upside the head, causing his ears to ring and his figure to turn uncomfortably.

"Why do you think, smart arse," His uncle spat, his hand still midway in the air, his eyes widened in irritation as he watched what he probably saw as his poor excuse of a nephew.

He whirled away from Sherlock, heading back towards the kitchen and leaving the dancer standing in his doorway, ear throbbing and fingers tremble in both rage and trepidation.

"I have some friends coming over," He heard Siger's voice call out from the other room, the clink of a glass signaling the telltale sign of a drink about to be poured, "and I don't need you embarrassing me."

Sherlock scoffed bitterly to himself, glaring at the floor and shaking his head. He supposed it made sense. Hell, if Sherlock were in his position, he'd want his uncle to leave too.

Oh well, Sherlock swallowed, shutting his eyes for a moment, he'd just stay longer at the dance studio.


If literature were a person, John would stab them in their sleep.

It wasn't that he didn't find it interesting, or even important, it was simply that he found it entirely grating. Give him a math problem or a physics test any day, but literature?

He groaned to himself, staring begrudgingly at the copy of Romeo and Juliet in his hands, his eyes practically drooping as he glared at the words - thou, thy, thee - whilst his teacher pointed at different students of whom offered to each play a role, reading stanza by stanza, taking turns as characters in the story. Molly, of course, was eager to read as Juliet, and she'd urged him from the desk beside his to "pretty pretty please be Romeo" so that she wouldn't have to awkwardly flounce and swoon over some other random boy in the room - of course, he'd openly refused and she'd gotten stuck with Philip Anderson. Everyone in the class was seemingly eager to take part in the play and it had begun to worry John that he would be the only one not enthused about reading the tale of two idiotic lovers, but when he glanced over at Sherlock Holmes and took note of the hunched shoulders, the bored-to-death expression and how he'd hidden his phone behind his open book, John knew he wasn't alone.

And that's how he'd found himself doing the same, sneaking his phone out and behind his copy of the play just as Greg Lestrade was enthusiastically reading his lines as Tybalt.

Not a literature fan either?

He sneakily risked looking over at Sherlock, watching and smiling to himself the minute he saw the curly-haired boy check his phone, admiring the small smirk that lifted at the corner of his pale, pink lips.

Literature, sure. Romeo and Juliet? Absolutely not. -SH

John stifled a laugh and swallowed the amusement threatening to blow his cover. He carefully lifted his head from his mobile, his eyes searching for his teacher of whom merely sat at the front of the room, bobbing her head as the other students around him happily read their lines. He went back to tapping at his phone's on-screen keyboard.

Why not? Not a fan of dying for the one you love?

John waited, feigning a studious look as he pretended to read along until his phone vibrated.

But that's the thing, isn't it? They didn't die for each other. They killed themselves out of pure selfishness and used the excuse that they simply couldn't live without one another. -SH

John blinked down at the words on his screen before glancing up and over at Sherlock, of whom was blankly staring at the book in front of him, phone lying still against his desk. The rugby captain felt a small smirk tug at the side of his mouth, and he held back a chuckle at Sherlock's sudden in-depth diagnosis. When he turned back to his mobile, he caught Molly gazing at him with bright-eyed curiosity, a soft grin lining her features as she looked between John and Sherlock almost knowingly.

John felt his cheeks redden and he quickly went back to his text messages.

Some might say that's romantic.

Death by rat poison? Or death by dagger? -SH

John forced back a snort.

Neither. I meant the whole "can't live without one another" thing.

Romantic? They're dead, why would it be even remotely romantic to them. -SH

John swallowed and slowly, casually, looked around at the other students, taking note of the page they were on and quickly flipping his own copy to its rightful place, before going back to their stimulating conversation.

Good point. Ever seen the movie?

Movie? -SH

Yeah. Film, motion picture, feature, flick, cinematic?

Hilarious. -SH

John smiled.

No, I haven't. I wasn't aware there was one. -SH

What, seriously? There's several.

I'm sure Shakespeare is very pleased with that turn of events. -SH

John narrowed his eyes, smiling in confusion before gently typing a response.

You know he's dead, right?

Of course I know he's dead. It was a joke. I was joking. -SH

Right. Anyway, they make my sister cry like a baby.

Please specify whether or not she currently IS an infant. -SH

John bit the insides of his cheeks to contain his desperately confined giggles.

You're gonna get me in trouble.

What? How? -SH

I'll end up laughing and interrupting Anderson's praise-worthy Romeo.

Please do, he's positively awful. -SH

This time John couldn't keep the small puff of air from leaving his cheeks and he froze, feeling a number of eyes gazing his way, and looking up to find his literature teacher glaring scornfully at him.

"Something you'd like to share with us, Mr. Watson?" Ms. Montgomery asked, all proper and posh, the wrinkles in her neck shaking like jello as she spoke.

John bit his lip and snuck a glance at Sherlock, of whom was watching him with a raised brow as if wondering the very same thing, pale expression positively glowing with victory at having made John outright giggle. Shrugging effortlessly, he turned back to the old woman at the front of the room and swallowed, "It's a funny play."

The other students around him snickered at his comment, Molly's eyes practically bulged from their sockets at his response, and Anderson's already sour face twisted into a look of bitter annoyance. Ms. Montgomery cleared her throat and frowned at him, uncaring towards his, what she believed to be, rebellious snark, "And what, pray tell John, do you find so funny about Shakespeare's famous tragedy?"

"Uh," John pursed his lips and looked to Molly for help, watching as she rolled her eyes and pointed at a stanza in the play, indicating their stopping point he'd ever so rudely interrupted, and he quickly dropped his eyes to the words in his own copy.

ROMEO [to Juliet]: If I profane with my unworthiest hand

This holy shrine, the gentle fine is this:

My lips, two blushing pilgrims, ready stand

To smooth that rough touch with a tender kiss.

John shrugged again, "He compared his lips to pilgrims."

The class busted into a fit of giggles and sniggers and a sense of pride swarmed within John's chest, and he too cracked a smile at his statement, watching as Molly glared playfully at him and shook her head fondly, whilst his teacher merely cleared her throat once more and clapped to get the other students under control. "Right," She announced, "back to your books, come on. Philip, continue."

John leaned back in his seat, exhaling swiftly and shutting his eyes from a moment before feeling the small, routine buzz of his phone and glancing down at the screen, using his copy of the play as a shield yet again.

Good one. -SH

He glanced up and over at the slender boy, sitting upright in his seat, attention fixated on the book in front of him, clad in yet another oversized, hooded sweatshirt and his usual adoration for black skinny jeans. Frankly, to John, he looked adorable, sitting there with his curls shaped as they usually were, with the exception of a loose ringlet resting against his forehead, contrasting effortlessly with the paleness of his flawless complexion. John swallowed the knot in his throat as his heart swelled with an overwhelming need to protect, to be gentle with the boy, to be nothing but honest and kind and sweet to the tall, thin figure he was so seemingly fond of, when he'd only known him for a mere short time.

He looked back down at his phone and began to type.

I'm no genius, but I did the best I could. :)

It was satisfactory. -SH

John smirked, remembering their last conversation in which Sherlock responded in such a way, and shook his head in amusement.

Am I just overall purely satisfactory?

Of course not. I'm sure you're bad at some things. -SH

I'm bad at scrapbooking.

He watched as Sherlock actually smiled at his reply, the brunette's plush lips rising at their edges before his nimble fingers went to work on a response.

Scrapbooking? -SH

Yep. Fingers are too big to glue any little things down. My sister used to make a lot of them and always dragged me into it, but halfway through, after she realized I was only making it harder on her, she kicked me out of helping.

John smiled at the memory, recollecting how Harry had always made scrapbooks for Dad to take with him whenever he left for service - it was tradition for her. But then, of course, she'd come out as gay and Dad hadn't taken it too well. Whenever he was given leave to come home for a few days, she'd stay at Clara's, more than eager to stay away from the man. On more than one occasion, John would hear Harry mumble to herself about how glad she was that their "old man" was in the military. Mum was fine with it, the whole sexuality thing - hell, she was the one who told the both of them, "love is love and there's no helping who your soulmate is," and John was more than grateful for that. But John, himself, couldn't afford to be gay - or anything else for that matter. He just couldn't - his dad would forever look down on him as the worst son in history and his friends would torment him until the day he graduated. He'd seen how bad it was for Harry; he wasn't sure if he could ever face the threat of it.

Shaking his head, confused by his odd turn of thoughts, he took a deep breath and looked down at his mobile, having zoned out and completely missed Sherlock's response.

Not an infant then. -SH

John grinned and shook his head.

No, not an infant.

You admire your sister. -SH

Narrowing his eyes, John typed a reply.

What makes you think that?

You've mentioned her twice already. -SH

With a small smile, John looked up, flipping a couple pages to get back on track again, and then turned back to their textual conversation, having, quite certainly, the best literature class he'd had all semester.

Huh. Yeah, I guess I do.

Why? -SH

She's tough. Brave.

Hm. -SH

Maybe John would have to put her in one of his videos someday.

Any siblings?

One, unfortunately. -SH

Unfortunately?

He's a fat, pain in my arse, though luckily for my quality of life, I don't see him often. -SH

John bit the inside of his cheek in mirth.

Older brother then?

Mm. -SH

Why don't you see him often?

He practically lives and breathes his career. -SH

John chewed on his bottom lip, sympathy twisting in the back of his throat, even if Sherlock insisted he was nothing but a nuisance.

That sucks.

No, it really doesn't. -SH

Aw, come on. You must miss him sometimes.

No, I really mustn't. -SH

John licked his lips in thought, rather pleased to be learning so much about the closed-off and guarded Sherlock Holmes, praising his past self for sneakily obtaining Sherlock's phone number. Inhaling sharply, John slowly formulated a response, feeling obliged to offer a bit about himself in turn.

My dad's in the army.

I know. -SH

John's head shot up and he turned to gaze at Sherlock, his body unmoving aside from his fingers still stumbling over the letters on his keyboard.

You said so in one of your videos. -SH

John exhaled softly and smiled, nodding his head slowly and eagerly typing back to the boy.

You really pay attention.

If Sherlock blushed, John didn't notice.

Course I do. I told you I liked them. -SH

I'll have a new one up by tonight.

I look forward to it. -SH

John grinned.


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Sherlock strolled to the dance studio with a smile on his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd smiled so much, in a literature class of all places. But John had done that - John had been, well. John had been lovely. More than lovely, John had been kind, and sweet, and amusing, and interested. He had been interested in Sherlock. He'd asked questions and enjoyed Sherlock's light conversation and he'd smiled and smirked and come up with an excuse for laughing in the middle of Anderson's Romeo monologue. And even more unexplainable - Sherlock hadn't gotten bored. In fact, he hadn't wanted to stop texting the blonde boy - he'd have texted John until the end of the period if he could have, but Montgomery's monotone bark had knocked them both from their conversation and forced them to work on writing a summary of what they'd read so far - due at the end of class.

And so it left Sherlock in a state of indecision, pushing open the doors to the studio and glancing at himself in the many mirrors, the urge to write out a small, superfluous message to the rugby team's captain tickling the ends of his fingers. He slowly placed his hand over his pocket, feeling the rim of his mobile and pondering quietly to himself, chewing on his bottom lip with uncertainty. No, he shouldn't bother John. But perhaps John wanted to be bothered? Perhaps he was preparing to dress for rugby practice, bored out of his mind, waiting patiently for someone - anyone - to text him in a means of distraction. Sherlock blinked and rolled his eyes at his imagination, shaking his head with a scoff and kneeling down to dig through his ballet duffle, grabbing out his shoes, their attached pink ribbons trailing against the wooden dance floor. He paused in his movements, his tights half out of their pocket in his bag, and swallowed thickly.

But could he be?

Sat there on the bench in the boy's locker room, removing his flannel, warm and worn down from a long day of classes, revealing the expense of a pale stomach, lean and toned from year's of hard practice and rugby training…

Perhaps he was laughing, that bright, glowing reveal of white teeth, at a joke Mike yelled from across the room, or maybe he was keeping to himself, ignoring his friends cracking snide jokes at one another and insulting the lesser than them, whilst he dug further through his bag, pulling out his practice clothes and cleats…

And maybe he was grabbing the waistband of his jeans, reaching for the button and slowly popping them open, his hands beside his hips as he ever so slowly…

The vibration from his pocket sent him jolting upwards, flustered and blushing as he reached into his pocket and yanked out his mobile, swallowing the lump in his throat and inhaling sharply as he read the screen.

One new message from: John.

Ashamed of where his thoughts had been heading, he slowly clicked open the chat, stared down at the speech bubbles and bit his lip as he read.

Thanks for today in Lit, mate.

Sherlock smiled, looking down shyly and eagerly, much to his own embarrassment, wrote back a response, trying his best to remain calm and collected, cool and calculating.

Anything to drown out Anderson's infamous Romeo. -SH

He imagined John's warm grin, his lips curving up in mirth as he stared down at his phone. At least, he hoped he was smiling. John deserved to smile - everyday, every second, every waking moment. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, blinking repeatedly - where the bloody hell had that come from?

If only I could text you during rugby practice to drown out Wilkes' BO.

Sherlock stifled a chuckle and then looked up, recollecting that he was alone, incredibly alone, in an empty dance studio. He swallowed and bit his lip, his fingers moving against the keyboard swiftly.

Buy him some deodorant as a Christmas gift. -SH

I don't think I'll survive that long.

Sherlock allowed himself a single giggle, before he sighed and clicked the button atop his phone to lock its screen, turning to place it gently into his duffle bag, only to hear and feel it vibrate one final time.

And besides.

The arse doesn't deserve any gifts.

Sherlock smiled sadly to himself and shook his head, moving instead to shove his phone away and grab for his tights, wearily wondering to himself, as he walked towards the studio's small bathroom to change, if John truly meant that.


"You got a new girl or something, mate?" Wilkes blurted out as John was busy packing away his school clothes and hoisting his backpack into his locker.

The captain froze and arched a brow, glancing over his shoulder rather unenthusiastically as he called out to Seb, a deep swell of unease forming in his gut, "What the hell are you on about?"

Sholto chuckled as he came around the corner, half dressed in loose shorts and his cleats and socks, eyeing John as he reached into his own bag to pull out an oddly colored workout tank, "Oh, look at the lad, he's getting defensive."

John slammed his locker shut and turned around to face them, glancing at Greg and Mike still pulling on their gear, before glaring at both James and Sebastian, the two practically sneering at him, "No, seriously. What are you talking about?"

"You, mate," Wilkes scoffed, grabbing for his water bottle and leaning against a row of lockers, arrogance laced into every curve of his figure, "smiling down at your phone all doe-eyed."

John rolled his eyes, shaking his head and grabbing the final things he'd need for the field, eager to remove himself from the conversation, nearly every eye beginning to fall upon him and his confused, yet guarded, stance, arms hanging limply as he cleared his throat, "I'm surprised you even know what doe-eyed means, Seb."

"Oi," Wilkes sniffed, "Course, I do. Now stop evading."

"Another big word for you," John murmured to himself as he gathered his things and began sauntering towards the locker room exit, mind whirling with agitation, only to be stopped in place as Sebastian Wilkes grabbed for his shoulder, squeezing it tight and letting out a sharp laugh.

"Details after practice, yeah?" He smirked, arching a brow questioningly before wiggling them in perversion.

John clenched his fists and put on a fake, far too forced smile, glancing over his shoulder at the bulbous, dark-haired brute, hair nearly black, a bit of stubble lining his chin, teeth white and practically snarling with glee, before swallowing and laughing bitterly, "No. Get your hard-on somewhere else."

And with that, he shrugged off Seb's hand and flung himself out the door.


Sherlock connected his phone to the studio stereo and quickly found what he was looking for - Ballet of the Little Cafe. This particular routine was to be reminiscent of his earlier videos, when he'd merely dance to wordless instrumentals, no words, no lyrics, no voices, simply mechanisms that brought forth timeless rhythms with the touch of a key, the deliverance of a note, or the pluck of a string.

He quickly clicked record on his camcorder, tapped the play button on his phone, and moved to the middle of the studio.

Piano.

Sherlock extended a leg, let his arms flow with grace, brought out poise from places it was least expected, made way for innocence and purity and a world devoid of horror and cruelty to match the soft sounds of joy woven into the start of the melody.

The Accordion singing alongside it.

Bend, flutter, sway, lean, slide, caress.

Dance.

More piano, more melancholy.

Brows tilted with sorrow, mouth curved downward, cheeks hollow.

Grace, poise.

Loneliness. Seclusion. Emotions and insecurities all tucked away in the gentle voice of expertly embraced instruments, wailing and crying about what makes them hurt, in the softest way possible.


John huffed as he stomped towards the rugby field, his mind ticking rapidly with thoughts on seemingly every little thing he had plaguing him in his life - his brain growled at Wilkes, hummed happily at the thought of talking to Sherlock again, groaned at the idea of playing rugby for two hours, and whirled with new evidence towards whom theballetbee might be. It was all a lot to handle and, truly, he just needed a day to sort himself, and everything else, out. He shook his head and swallowed, reaching the rugby field and slowly stalking over to the benches, seemingly the first one out of the locker room in his hurry to flee from Wilkes. He sighed and sat down, putting down his things and looking up to spot Greg swaying over to him, one hand holding tightly to his water bottle, and the other twisting through his short, silver hair, dyed purposely that way a while back, its brown roots seeping through just a bit.

John smiled a light smile, constrained in his still irritated state, and let out a long sigh, scoffing as Greg arched a brow, his expression curious but not invasive.

"Wilkes pissed?" John asked, swallowing thickly as Greg sat beside him, leaning his elbows on his knees and hunching over.

"Nah," Lestrade scoffed, shrugging a shoulder and beaming at John, the upward curve of his mouth both comforting and warm, even in its small state, "he just thinks you're in a pissy mood."

John let out a sharp, annoyed laugh and nodded, glaring straight ahead and swallowing thickly, staring blankly at the dance department building as though willing it and the entire concept of dance to poof his troubles away.

"Do you though?" Greg asked, drawing John attention once more.

"Do I what?" John swallowed, blinking at his friend curiously before going back to observing the same brick structure off in the distance, spotting the dance instructor slowly making her way to the staff parking lot, dainty and timid in her floral dress, a small purse tucked up to her side - John hated always being one of the last few people on campus. Even the teachers went home before he did.

"Have someone?" Greg finished, watching John intently.

Glancing back over at the dance studio, blinds drawn across the windows, a small wooden door marking the entrance to the room, John hummed and let out a soft chuckle.

"No, mate," He sighed and shook his head, "you'd be the first to know if I did, alright?"

That seemed to please Greg and he nodded, leaning down to fiddle with his rugby shoes as John continued to watch, to observe, a moment of suspicion dawning upon him as he narrowed his eyes.

"Hey Greg?" He uttered, voice tilted with eager curiosity.

"Yeah?" His friend replied.

"Why are the lights in the studio still on if Ms. Hudson just left?"

Greg lifted his head to stare with John and shrugged, "Dunno. Maybe she forgot? I mean, she is old."

In an instant, John sprung to his feet and took off, calling over his shoulder a quick, "I'll be right back," before jogging agilely towards the building.


Sherlock slowed and landed on his feet, chest heaving with exhaustion, mind at ease, fingers trembling just slightly as he caught his breath, moving to run a swift hand through his sweat soaked curls.

With a sigh of relief, glad to have another dance crossed off his infamous list, he crossed the studio floor, detached his camcorder, folded up his tripod, snatched up his phone, and grabbed for his duffle, reaching down to pull out his discarded shirt, wiping across his bare chest and face, before putting his things away. He lifted the entire bag onto one pale shoulder and turned towards the back door, an in-case-of-emergency exit that he really couldn't be bothered to use properly.

He was half way out, the cool air of the approaching winter tickling the skin under his thin black tights and chilling the line of his damp spine, when he heard the handle on the door to the studio's main entrance jiggle and click open, a figure rushing through as though in a frenzy, and within a second of realization, Sherlock was flying fully from the room, grasping at his duffle and sprinting into the halls, hearing footsteps thumping against the wooden dance floor behind him and into the corridor.

In a moment of pure panic, he ducked inside a janitor's closet, colliding with a dirty mop before spinning around and silently shutting the door behind him, holding his breath, body shaking with anxiousness. Slowly, bravely, he peeked through the small crease between the custodian closet's door and wall, watching and waiting only to gasp as a blonde rugby captain came into view, the boy's chest heaving with exertion, a look of pure excitement and determination brewing in the depths of his features.

Shit.


John grinned. He was right. Theballetbee goes to Baker.