John never missed a ballet that had him in it. That beautiful man who twisted and twirled and did that thing where they spun around too many times without stopping, but landing without a trace of dizziness. The man whose dark hair was shorter than most other men in the ballet, but still long enough to curl, and when he spun, it trailed behind him, yet only a bit.
When the London ballet put on the nutcracker, John was ecstatic. He couldn't wait to see the man play the role that the ballet was named after. To see his ballerina, who was not really his, leaping across the hard stage floors, gliding through the air and elegantly flitting each and every way. Oh, what a marvel it would be!
That, as it turned out was the last performance that John would see of the man for quite some time. The day after the dark haired man's spectacular portrayal of the nutcracker, John had to leave for Afghanistan. While packing his bags the night, after he had seen the ballet, he found the program in his pocket- he never looked at the man's name. He was never sure why- he just felt as though he shouldn't.
While John climbed through the piles of his fallen comrades to attend to the wounded after a particularly gruesome battle, the thought of the man leaping over the floor invaded his mind. Perhaps if he could just close his eyes, if for but a moment, he could feel the music of the ballet once more, he could be transported away from this horrific sight.
The second John closed his eyes, a bullet flew through his shoulder.
John returned to London not more than a month after, with no place to live and next to nothing to his name. Meeting an old friend from the army again was nice, especially when his old buddy led him to the man, 'Sherlock Holmes', whom John became flatmates with. He thought that his own psychosomatic limp matched Sherlock's slight stiffness in the man's own leg.
He didn't say anything about that, though.
After a few cases, and definitely more than a few close calls, John finally saw what was wrong with Sherlock's leg. They had been tired after a chase, and they both sat down in their respective chairs as soon as John opened the door. Sherlock hadn't brought his key, arguing that John always brought his own, so why bother?
John had sunken into his cushioned seat, falling asleep instantly. Sherlock hadn't fallen asleep- he wasn't exactly tired. He never was. So Sherlock picked up his violin, that special one Mycroft had gotten him for his birthday all those years ago, and began to play.
The music began slow, as do most pieces one plays by memory, but sped up quickly. The music flowed like a monstrous river, thrashing about, calming for just a moment, then fighting once more. The leaps and bounds it took reminded him of the movements a ballerina would make as they danced along to it.
"Sherlock?" John asked, woken up by the music. " What is that on your leg?"
"My prosthetic," Sherlock replied, not paying much attention to his words, and continuing to focus only on the music. 'How could an instrument normally so soft play so boldly?' John had wondered to himself as he stayed awake and continuing to listen to the music the Sherlock seemed so intent on getting perfect.
John sat up softly, his mind losing the mist of sleep that had previously been clouding it. He wasn't sure why he hadn't recognized it earlier. It was obviously a Tchaikovsky piece, that much was evident, but it took another few moments for John to truly recognize it.
"I didn't take you as a fan of ballet," John told him, and though he had only spoken the words softly, Sherlock's violin stopped playing abruptly, ending a glorious long note far too soon.
"You recognized it, obviously, since you like ballet as well." The taller man said, accusingly, his violin bow lowering from the body of the instrument.
"It would seem so. Did you happen to see the production of The Nutcracker in the city about three years back? It was quite beautiful."
"I did see it, in a way. And besides, only the first performance really happened."
"What do you mean?"
"The man who played the nutcracker, he was involved in a terrible accident, couldn't ever dance again. They had to use an understudy for the rest of the season."
"That's just terrible… I saw the first showing that year- it was the day before my deployment. Was that the one you saw, too?" At John's question, Sherlock left the room, abandoning the violin on his own seat.
John attempted to run after him, but Sherlock had locked the door to his room. John didn't care. But he did remember. The man on stage, with the slightly curled hair, and the gravity-defying leaps… that was Sherlock.
Sprinting back to his own room, he dug through the old bag of his belongings from before the army, praying that it would be there. Thankfully, the crumpled, ivory tinted paper had survived the years, with only a bit of ink fading to prove its age. Flipping it open though shaky hands, skipping over the summary, he looked at the cast list. And just like that, he saw Sherlock's full name (William Sherlock Scott Holmes) listed as the nutcracker.
Hearing a slight cough, he turned around to see a distraught looking Sherlock leaning against his own doorway. John sprang upwards, forgetting the aged program behind him, allowing to solemnly float towards the carpeted floor.
Grasping Sherlock in a tight embrace, the taller man stumbling a step backwards in shock, John held him tight.
"I loved seeing you perform. I would go to every show I could afford." John told him, feeling Sherlock's grip tighten to his back as John continued to talk. " I loved how you did those spinning things, and how you disregarded gravity. It was perfect." John said, pulling away to face Sherlock's face, which was now blushing a soft red.
"But I think," John said after a quiet moment. " I think that I prefer the Sherlock offstage to the one who I never got to meet."
Sherlock smiled softly, and hugged John tighter.
"You know that I don't usually do this whole, emotions, kind of thing, right?"
"I know."
A/N: For those of you who didn't get it, Sherlock was the ballerina John admired, but he lost his leg in an accident ( that's why he has a prosthetic). Then John finds out, and sort-of fluff ensues.