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He's got two left feet and he bites my moves.
I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance
The second I do, I know we're gonna be through.
I'm not gonna teach him how to dance with you.
He don't suspect a thing. I wish he'd get a clue.
I'm not gonna teach him how to dance, dance, dance, dance
--Black Kids
John fits his key into the lock at 221b Baker Street. The door opens to the airy sound of Sherlock’s violin. The tune is lilting and lovely, but stilted—Sherlock has stopped in the middle of something, gone back and changed it just a little. He’s composing, which makes John smile. He does miss this.
The entry smells as it always does—like old wood and paper, and of something sweet baking—Mrs Hudson’s apple crumble. He climbs the stairs in time with the music, doing his best not to upset the plastic bags of takeaway he’d brought along with him. His heart feels lighter, his bones more settled with each step, and he wonders if his own flat with Mary will ever feel so much like home as this place does (even still, even after all this time). He loves Mary, loves the home they’ve made together. But it still doesn’t smell quite right, floral perfume and proofing yeast, and it is nearly always a bit too tidy.
He’s humming along to Sherlock’s tune by the time he knocks on the flat door. The music stops, and John listens to the rhythm of Sherlock’s footsteps as he makes his way to the door.
“John,” he says, eyes going wide for a moment. He’s in his black suit trousers and grey button-down, but his feet are bare, shirtsleeves rolled to the elbows. It takes a second, but he eventually manages a clipped, “Come in.” It’s hard for Sherlock, John knows—this business of entertaining visitors. That had been John’s duty when he’d lived here. It is always a bit awkward at the start of their visits because neither John nor Sherlock seem to know exactly what John is to 221b anymore—surely, not a guest. But he doesn’t live here, either.
John holds up his bag of takeaway. “Brought dinner,” he says.
“Apparently,” Sherlock says, raising one sardonic eyebrow. John waits for a snide comment about stating the obvious, but it never comes. “Roasted lamb kebab from my favourite shop. Not en route from the surgery; you had to go out of your way to get it.” Sherlock tilts his head to the side. “Do you need a favour? I already told you that the suit tailoring was my treat.”
John chuckles, shaking his head once. “No,” he says. “No. Just—haven’t seen you in a while. Not since the, er—stag do. Mary’s off with friends tonight, and so I thought I’d do the same.” He smiles, catching Sherlock’s eyes, and Sherlock—looks back at him like he’s suddenly grown an extra nose. Sighing, he walks past Sherlock into the kitchen where he shifts a few things off the worktop so he can begin unpacking the food. “Get some plates down, yeah?” he calls to Sherlock who is still lingering in the lounge.
Sherlock does it, reaching into the cupboards.
John thinks and adds, “Ones that are clean and have not been exposed to either biohazardous waste or toxic chemicals, please.”
Sherlock pauses, sniffs the first plate he pulls and bungs it directly into the sink. He lifts the next two in the stack and lays them out near the food. John piles on a generous portion for each of them while Sherlock opens a bottle of wine and pours two glasses.
They take their dinner into the lounge where they sit in their chairs. John grunts in satisfaction the moment his bum hits the seat cushion—his chair at home has nothing on this old, ratty thing. He catches the twitch that pulls the right corner of Sherlock’s mouth upwards, and that is all it takes before they’re eating and talking—John about the surgery and the wedding and Mary, and Sherlock—also about the wedding, and his current project which involves gathering brick dust from every London neighbourhood for differentiation analysis.
After their food is done, they sit in companionable silence for a few minutes, sipping from their wine glasses. Eventually, John gathers the plates and takes them to the kitchen. When he comes back in, he sees the violin resting on the desk. He points to it, asking, “What were you working on when I came in? Your own, I’m guessing. It was nice.”
Sherlock clears his throat, standing, swinging bodily toward the desk before turning back. “That er—well. It was meant to be a surprise, actually. It’s your wedding waltz. For your first dance with Mary. She’d chosen this absolutely horrid pop song, which I know for a fact that you don’t even like—so I decided…” His words trail off as he turns again to the instrument on the desk, as if it would finish his sentence for him.
The sheer sentimentality of the gesture nearly knocks John off his feet. He blinks a couple of times and stares at Sherlock.
Sherlock turns back to him. “Of course—if you would rather. I mean to say—if you don’t like it…”
“No,” John says immediately. “God, no. Sherlock. That is just—I never expected. It’s so thoughtful, is all.”
“I can be thoughtful.”
John feels his face pull, eyebrows raised, lips drawn in—yeah, right. What he actually says, though is, “Don’t think I’ve ever had anyone write a song for me before. I might swoon.”
Sherlock’s lips turn up into a smile, even as his eyes turn down. The expression has a rawness to it, like unexpected nakedness, and John finds that for some reason, he can’t face it. He turns away, clearing his throat. He busies himself by shutting the curtains; the late evening sunlight had just begun streaming in at an angle that was hitting him directly in the eyes, making it hard to see. “It’s too bad I’m just going to bungle it on the dance floor. Two left feet.” He keeps moving, switching on the lamps in the now-dark room.
“Don’t be absurd. Dancing is easy,” Sherlock says lightly. And John can practically see the dismissive hand wave even with his back turned. And then—the words settle, along with the absurd mental image of Sherlock happily turning a partner round the dance floor.
John turns to stare at him. “What?” He can hear the disbelief in his own tone.
“I dance,” Sherlock says, and it sounds like a confession. He shrugs his shoulders. “Or I used to. Harrow. Lessons,” he explains further. John thinks of the way Sherlock fights—all grace and nimble feet, hands that always go exactly where they should. More than judo training going on there, then. Makes sense, he reckons.
“I could—tutor you. If you’re nervous,” Sherlock says.
“Can you even imagine that: me dancing—with you?” But even as John says it, he can. He turns his head to the side, feels his lips pucker as his jaw stiffens. He lets out a deep breath and faces Sherlock again. “All right, then,” he says, feeling strangely as though he’s answering some sort of a challenge. He widens his stance and holds out his hands, one in front of him and one off to the side, cradling a very large, invisible dance partner.
Sherlock smirks. “Your posture is all wrong,” and he steps into John’s space. He lays a hand, warm and sure on John’s shoulder, pushing it back and down. “Like that,” he says. Then, he nudges John’s elbow up with the tips of his fingers. “Much better.”
John clears his throat, nods.
“Of course, I’m significantly taller than Mary, but I’ll take on her role.” He then places John’s hand at his waist and puts his own hand on the back of John’s arm, just below his shoulder. He takes John’s other hand, fingers brushing John’s palm a bit before spreading out to take it fully. John feels his hand begin to get clammy and wills himself to calm down—it’s only Sherlock; no need for all these nerves. He takes a breath and nods.
“When you move this foot, step forward. I will move my foot back at the same time. On three.” Sherlock counts, but John moves a bit too early, stepping on Sherlock’s bare foot with the toe of his boot. Sherlock winces, sucking breath through is teeth.
John feels himself blush. “Sorry.” Then he steps away, back toward his chair and toes off his shoes. “Probably ought to level the playing field a bit,” he says. “Though, I did warn you.”
“You did indeed. Two left feet,” he says, eyes crinkling in a smile that is near to mocking, though the sting never comes. John watches as Sherlock’s eyes turn down again before he turns, shifting the coffee table closer to the sofa to create a bit more space. When Sherlock goes back to the centre of the room, John retakes his position as well, eyes on his own feet as he lays his hand back on Sherlock’s waist, taking his hand once more.
“Let’s try again?” he says, lifting his face to Sherlock’s. He steels his jaw, swallows down the nerves and embarrassment that have lumped up in the back of his throat.
Sherlock counts off, and this time, John steps forward just as Sherlock steps back, and they glide together. But, after that one step is done, he doesn’t know what to do, so he steps forward with his other foot, once again, right on top of Sherlock’s toes. “Damn,” he mutters, growing frustrated.
“No,” Sherlock says with an unexpected gentleness. “You’re doing fine. After the first forward step, the next is to the side. Then back. Then side. Then forward again. You’ll want to lead your partner in a circular pattern about the floor.” He catches John’s eyes with his. “Got it?”
John nods. “I think so.” He mentally resets and says, “Okay.”
Sherlock counts off again, and they go. John watches their feet as they move. It’s stilted and jerky, and he has to let Sherlock lead him through it, but he does manage to make one full round without further bruising Sherlock’s toes. John stops and looks at Sherlock, smiling.
“Again,” Sherlock says, and then he counts off, and they manage another go without injury. After a few tries, he’s got the footwork more or less down, and they are making their way around the room easily.
Then, Sherlock stops them. He removes his hand from John’s shoulder to place his first two fingers under John’s chin. “You know this now,” he says. “Can’t have you looking at your feet when you should be focused on your partner,” he says.
John lets out a breath and nods, watching Sherlock’s eyes, his mouth as he forms the numbers one, two, three. And then they’re going again. It’s harder now—trying to remember his steps while keeping focused on Sherlock’s face. They stop twice when John’s foot finds Sherlock’s toes. Sherlock is uncharacteristically patient with him, though. It takes about a quarter of an hour before he can do the steps easily without looking down or crushing Sherlock’s feet, but he manages it in the end.
“Good, John,” Sherlock praises as they come to a stop. He turns away to take a sip of wine, and John does the same.
“You’re really pretty good at it, you know. Dancing. Is there anything you can’t do?” John teases, though there is so much truth in it anyway.
Sherlock’s chest heaves once with a nearly silent chuckle. “Angry Birds. I’m absolute rubbish at it.” His eyebrow raises as he takes another sip of wine.
“It’s all geometry,” John chides, knowing full well that the math involved is kiddie stuff for the likes of Sherlock Holmes.
“Flaw in the programming,” Sherlock says flatly. “Must be.”
“Must be,” John confirms.
Sherlock sets his glass down. “Shall we go again?”
John shrugs his shoulders, feeling more confident now, more comfortable. “Sure.” He sets down his own glass and steps up to Sherlock, meeting his eye. He gives a playful wink and does the count off himself. This time, it’s nearly fluid, and John can focus on the weight of Sherlock’s hand in his own, the pressure of the fingers wrapped around his bicep, the warmth of Sherlock’s waist under his hand. It’s nice.
John wonders if perhaps they shouldn’t put on some music because without the steps to concentrate on, the sound of their shuffling feet, their breath, the shifting fabric of their clothing, is very loud. Sherlock smiles at him, and John returns it, daring to turn them quickly to the left, truly leading. It makes Sherlock gasp and then smile—a rare one, full and wide, carefree and happy. Then, John steps on Sherlock’s foot.
“Shit,” John says.
Sherlock just shakes his head, holding firmly to John’s hand as he tries to pull away. “One. Two. Three.” And this time, Sherlock steps in closer than he’d been before. Their height difference means that John’s nose is somewhere near the crook where Sherlock’s neck and shoulder meet. When he breathes in, he can smell a hint of Sherlock’s aftershave, sandalwood and spice. Sherlock moves in just that much closer, and John is very aware now that he is craning his head upwards to meet Sherlock’s eyes, glowing nearly silver in the lamplight.
John’s feet are now moving without him having to tell them what to do at all, and he feels carried away at the rise and fall of their bodies as they glide across the lounge floor. Sherlock’s thumb runs lightly over his wrist, and John closes his eyes for a beat, breathes. His world is feather-light and breath-warm—Sherlock’s hand in his, Sherlock’s body beneath his touch. His heart pounds out the rhythm they need, and he moves, Sherlock right here with him.
It is all pretty damn close to perfect until he gets the wild hair to try something new. He turns Sherlock sharply and leans forward, meaning to go for a dip, but he overbalances, ends up arse over tit on the carpet. Well, that didn’t go quite the way he’d hoped. He drops his head between his drawn-up knees and just laughs—a giddy, high-pitched giggle. Sherlock flops down heavily next to him, low rumbling laugh joining his own.
“I’d say you’re progressing rather nicely,” Sherlock says once they’ve both got their breath back a bit. “Botched dip notwithstanding.”
John looks up to meet Sherlock’s eyes, and when he does, he sees Sherlock’s entire face, so open and soft it’s almost alien. He tries for something biting, a joke to break this—whatever it is. He ends up saying simply, “Thank you, Sherlock. For this.”
“Any time,” Sherlock replies. And at those words, John’s eyes close as his brain reaches out across some space, trying desperately to remember something that is probably important. It never fully lands, so John just lets it drop.
Sherlock stands abruptly and turns back to him, holding out a hand to help him up. John takes it, lets Sherlock guide him to standing as well. He doesn’t release Sherlock’s hand right away, and Sherlock takes the opportunity to push him out at arm’s length with a flourish. He holds his other hand out, lifting his chin and an eyebrow in silent invitation. It’s playful, and John accepts with a grin, spinning in to Sherlock’s body at the slightest guided tug.
John means to simply leave it at that, but before he can drop his hand, Sherlock spins him again, just a little, just enough to fit one long arm, strong and sure across the back of his shoulders as his other goes more firmly around his waist. John doesn’t have to think, knows exactly what this is, and he simply lets go. Sherlock leans him easily toward the ground, body nearly covering the length of John’s, the tips of his fingers just resting at the nape of his neck. John is surrounded, suspended, embraced, and he swears his heart is still pumping in three-quarter time.
John’s entire world slows, very nearly stops, and the moment simply lingers. He feels Sherlock’s cheek against his own, the heat of it nearly unbearable. Sherlock’s breath is a whisper in his ear. John leans his head back just a fraction, and Sherlock’s nose brushes his own. Sherlock’s eyes are on his with an intensity John has never seen before. John can’t tear his eyes away.
Sherlock swallows, Adam’s apple working in his throat. “This is when you kiss her,” Sherlock says, voice as low as thunder, face as intense as the storm to follow. John’s ears fill with a deafening white noise as a prickle of sweat starts at his hairline, making him shiver.
Then, Sherlock blinks, and it’s gone. He lifts John up smoothly, but John’s stomach rises a little higher than his body, crashing back into place a full beat after he’s found his feet. What the bloody hell was that?
Blinking, he realises he’s still holding Sherlock’s hand and lets it drop, uses it instead to pull his phone from his trouser pocket. Sherlock is watching him as he makes a show of checking the time.
“Thank you again, Sherlock. Really.” His hand reaches behind him to scrub at the back of his neck. “But, I—I really should be getting back ho—back to Mary.” He turns jerkily toward his chair and finds his shoes, puts them on quickly.
Sherlock presses his bottom lip into his upper one and nods, meeting John’s face with a fragile smile that does not reach his eyes. “Any time,” he says.