Thanks to an anonymous guest for this prompt!
Outsiders sometimes saw Sherlock as graceful. Not in speech or manners, of course, but in his movements. It made sense, to those whose only glimpses of the man consisted of a wisp of a coat and the calculated circulation over a corpse.
John knew better. He'd seen the man climb over furniture with ease, yes, but he'd also seen the misplaced steps and tumbled bookshelves (Billy the skull was cracked in one of these instances; Sherlock won't speak of it but was downtrodden for days). He saw Sherlock sleepwalk (or, more accurately, sleepwalkinto) walls, chairs and equipment; he saw trips over thin air when mind palaces were deemed more important than walking.
But, yesterday? All doubts were confirmed.
Sherlock was searching for a gun to redecorate the wall as John listed off distraction options.
"This weather," Sherlock said, treating the climate as a curse word.
"Most people like the snow," John muttered. He flipped through more magazines and papers, trying to find anything. Anything. "We could catch a film?"
"Even the morgue's closed, John!" He paced around the flat as though John hadn't spoken. "The criminal class is acting as though the holiday season is reason enough to behave. Despicable."
"That art museum you like might be open still."
"You hate going to films with me, John. I always guess the ending."
The doctor smiled. It was more common than people thought for Sherlock to be a step behind in the conversation. Especially when dying of boredom.
"I went just last week." He was quick to catch up.
John grabbed his coat. "Come on."
"But we haven't decided."
"No, but you're stir crazy, and I'll shoot something other than that wall if you don't shut up. We'll find something while we're out."
"It's freezing."
Something clicked. "Yes. Good idea. Come along."
Sherlock followed, not knowing where they were headed.
He didn't like not knowing.
But he really didn't like knowing, either, once he saw John's brilliant idea.
"No."
"Sherlock—"
"I'm not doing it. It's juvenile. There's no circumstance in which this could be useful in our work."
John pushed him down on the bench, taking off his shoes as the detective rambled on.
"If you think—"
"We're out of options, here." John tied the ice skates to the detective's feet, double knotting. "Everything doesn't have to have a purpose. We're enjoying a day off. That's all. Relax. Up."
Sherlock readjusted his scarf and eyed the doctor, seeing the determination of a soldier. Fiiiiine. He stood, his ankles wobbling, and grabbed onto John's shoulder after one step.
They were on the ice in twice as long as it should have taken them. John was off, gliding on the surface backwards, a smug grin on his face. No one else was on the rink; the sun was just going down, and the only lights were white Christmas strands draped across nearby trees. The lone kid working the stand was half asleep himself.
Sherlock kept to a spot on the wall.
"That's not skating," John called.
"I didn't say it was."
"Give it a go. Come on."
"This is infantile."
"Can't do it, then?"
Sherlock huffed and awkwardly removed his coat, throwing the bulky thing off to the side. John tried not to laugh. A tight purple shirt, fitting black slacks, and flimsy ice skates. It was perfect. Lestrade certainly would have recorded the incident on his phone.
"Kids do it every day," John said, half as an encouragement. But he couldn't suppress his grin.
"Yes." Sherlock shuffled his feet forward, one after the other, slowly, until he was about a foot from the wall. He looked up at John like he was a buoy in the ocean. "I'd rather be at home."
"No you wouldn't. Come here."
Sherlock surveyed the difference. Maybe a few yards.
"No."
"Sherlock. Come on, you can do it."
"Are you familiar with the term demeaning?" he said, but he was flat on his back before the last syllable escaped.
John laughed. "Yes, but I don't think it fits here."