Chapter Text
“I don’t know how to dance.” The declaration comes abruptly, about a month before the wedding. 221b Bakerstreet looks the same as always, the two of them slouched in their respective chairs.
Sherlock raises his head. “Hm?”
John snorts. “I don’t know how to bloody dance.”
“Ah.” A pregnant pause. “And why is that a problem?”
“The married couple has to have a first dance, don’t they?”
“Oh,” Sherlock says, finally comprehending. “Stupid wedding traditions.”
“I suppose you deleted that, too.”
“Perhaps I never learned it. Never needed to.”
John runs his hand over his face. “I bet Mary knows how to dance. She knows how to do most everything. What am I going to do- ”
“Couples dancing classes?” Sherlock hates himself, sometimes.
“Mary doesn’t have time. She has to have her dress fitted and all that.”
He’s definitely not relieved. “What about just a dancing class?”
“I’m a soon to be married man. Shouldn’t go around dancing with all the ladies.” He kicks back his legs. “Fuck,” John whispers emphatically. Sherlock can tell he’s starting to panic, the doubt that comes with weddings pushed to the forefront of his mind.
“I’ll teach you.”
That snaps John out of it. His eyes shoot to Sherlock’s. “What?”
Curse his brilliance. “I’ll teach you,” he repeats slowly. “That way you won’t have to worry about conflicting interest.” Because who would ever guess that Sherlock Holmes was interested in John Watson? An engaged man, no less. Only a bloody idiot.
John’s eyes crinkle as he smiles. “Amazing. You’re a genius and a bloody good dancer.” That particular fact had been found out on a case where Sherlock was posing undercover at a party. When he turned around to see him casually twirling his partner, John almost dropped their drinks, staring openmouthed at the bar. He had seemed the epitome of grace, at the time.
“I thought we agreed to never bring that up.”
“You did it yourself.” Sherlock sighs.
“Fair.” He stands with a grunt, reaching out a hand to John. “Well, we’ve got no time to waste.”
John looks at his hand, then to his face, then at his hand again. He seems amazed, nerves showing. “Now?”
“Yes, now. I’m a very busy man.”
That draws a laugh out of him. “Of course.” He places his hand in Sherlock’s, trying not to think about the warmth. Sherlock uses lotion, the bottles always had been scattered in the downstairs bathroom, but it hadn’t registered until now. Because Sherlock’s hands are soft.
Music plays from John’s battered laptop, tinny through the speakers.
One-two-three, one-two-three. Sherlock hits the beats perfectly, dragging John along with him. Then, taking pity, they practice the step slowly. He must get bored, though, because after a minute of the slow tempo he speaks up.
Sherlock puts a bit of distance between them. “This amount of space is for children forced to go to cotillion by their parents. They still hate the opposite gender.” He takes a step forward. “This is for strangers at a dance class.” Another step. “Desperate strangers.” An inch closer. “Friends.” Then he pulls John into him completely, their faces barely an inch apart. All the wind goes out of him.
“Lovers,” he whispers, words ghosting over John’s skin. They stare at each other, Sherlock’s eyes searching. Several seconds drag by in sweet agony.
Sherlock clears his throat. They’d stilled without noticing, and he starts stepping again. “Anyways, it’s most logical to practice in the last position, as you and Mary will be newlyweds.”
John swallows hard. “Of course,” he says, slightly hoarse. He shakes himself. “Of course.”
They waltz around the living room for a bit longer, until Sherlock tries to twirl him on a whim, and the back of his knee crashes into his chair. He wobbles dangerously, then gravity makes him sit, hard. Sherlock laughs. John joins, and they both just sit there, Sherlock collapsed on the floor, giggling like schoolchildren.
Sherlock wipes moisture from his eyes. “Okay. Okay. We need to focus.”
“If only you had that level of dedication on the cases Mycroft gives you,” John groans. “Besides, I’ve got it.”
A smirk stretches across Sherlock’s face. “You need to know how to dip someone.”
But he’s not exuding his usual confidence when he actually dips John, arms surprisingly gentle around him. He brings their faces closer until their breaths mingle. “This is where you kiss her,” he says softly, voice low.
John sees something in Sherlock’s eyes that looks like regret before they separate once more. “Now you try,” Sherlock adds brusquely.
He wets his lips. “Course,” John mutters. “Course.” Taking a deep breath, he leads Sherlock in dance. The music swells, and he thinks his heart is going to beat out of his chest.
The piece fades to a close. This is it.
John snakes an arm around Sherlock’s back and lowers him. He leans in, enough to see Sherlock’s eyes widen, before diverting and kissing him delicately on the forehead. He laughs at Sherlock’s frozen expression. “You should’ve seen your face,” John murmurs, grinning. Sweet revenge.
Sherlock opens his mouth. The opening of the door interrupts him.
“John? Sherlock?” Walking in completely, Mrs. Hudson is greeted to the full sight of them still in a very compromising position. Her eyebrows rise to her hairline, but she’s still smiling in an “I knew it” way that Sherlock doesn’t like one bit.
“How charming,” is all she says. “But now is not the best time, is it? With you and Mary’s wedding so close,” she directs at John.
John, still in shock, wrinkles his brow. “What?-”
“I always knew the two of you were sweet on each other, but the timing is quite terrible.”
John goes red, finally unfreezing and untangling himself from Sherlock. “Sherlock was teaching me how to waltz. We’re just practicing for the wedding,” he stammers, mortified.
She gives them another knowing look. “Of course, dear.”
“Mrs. Hudson!”
John only stays another half hour of embarrassed small talk, before bidding his leave quite hastily.
Sherlock is left cross-legged in his chair, definitely not pouting a bit. “A shame,” he tells Mrs. Hudson, seated at the kitchen table. “You seem to have driven him off.”
“And he visits so rarely these days,” she agrees sadly.
They sit in silence for a few moments.
“I meant it, you know.” Mrs. Hudson turns to look at him, features understanding. “It really is not the best time.”
Sherlock wrinkles his nose. “How-”
“Oh Sherlock, I’ve seen the way you look at him. The whole of Scotland Yard, too,” she says pityingly. Setting down her teacup with a clatter, she sighs. “I know you love him, Sherlock, but he’s happy .”
He must look stricken. Is he that obvious? Staring hard at the skull, he doesn't respond. Eventually, she gives up and exits, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
Only then does he allow himself one longing glance at John’s chair. Closing his eyes, he says in an undertone, “I know, Mrs. Hudson.” Unconsciously, his hand rubs his forehead, John’s touch still lingering.
“I know.”