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It’s a ridiculous song, in a ridiculous club, full of ridiculous people. Everyone is dressed like a catwalk grab bag, the décor on the walls is garishly geometric, and some pop-princess wailing is drowning out all possibility for conversation.
In short, John Watson is not having a good time, certainly because of the atmosphere – people everywhere, smotheringly close, especially the hen-do that requested the wailing currently playing – but also just as certainly because of the one person not currently invading his space.
Where the hell is he? The whiskey John’s been sipping as he waits is a poor substitute for a certain lanky detective. In fact, what with the noise and the crush and the bizarre empty feeling beside him, John doesn’t think the whiskey’s helping at all.
This whole ridiculous night had been Sherlock’s idea (of course). As far as John could tell, this wasn’t even for a case – his flatmate and best friend had simply been bored and antsy enough for the past week to finally resort to desperate measures – in this case, desperate measures seemed to take the form of data gathering and/or experimenting.
Experimenting on what, though? John’s patience is as likely a candidate (and casualty) as any when it comes to Sherlock’s whimsies and curiosities. And yet, when a text had instructed him to change into a casual suit (laid out for him, typical) and go to a specific address, John had complied with a bare-minimum of reluctance.
Sherlock Holmes isn’t the only one who gets bored, after all.
Still, it’s one thing to lead John along with texts and vague plans, but to land him alone in a mass of strangers, in a setting he doesn’t care for is something else altogether. The more John thinks about it, the more he realizes there’s hardly a need to get dressed up and go out for studies on the nature of the Watsonian temper. Those sorts of tests can be (and have been) conducted at home with the aid of loud noises and unpleasant smells. If the club were any less crowded, John would think that Sherlock is ensconced somewhere, observing his thought processes, but the movement and press of people obliterates any clear lines of sight before they can even be established.
So what remains?
Maybe Sherlock had needed John out of the house for some objectional chemical mixing, maybe he wanted another chance at handling John’s gun – or maybe he’d fancied a quiet evening at home without John…
John’s aware that the latter possibility shouldn’t hurt as much as it does, but he’s not inclined to shut the feeling down currently, feeling lonely and a bit abandoned as he is.
The whiskey is warm in his mouth and throat.
I should go home, he thinks, irked, but in the next moment he decides against it – partly because if Sherlock did indeed send him out in order to be alone, there is no real sense on inflicting himself on Sherlock (or Sherlock’s experiments on himself), and partly because the music has changed rather abruptly, and for the better.
John almost laughs as the sounds of David Bowie spill into and over the club, calling people to dance with abandon.
“No reason not to,” a deep voice rumbles by his ear, and John jerks and then sighs.
“What?” he asks, and god his voice sounds strange, caught exactly halfway between irritated and relieved.
“Dance,” Sherlock clarifies – or is it commands? John’s whiskey glass is more than half empty in his hand, and Sherlock reaches out to take it. John watches as Sherlock throws back the last swallow of amber liquid before placing the glass neatly back on the bar. “Dance with me.”
Oh.
Well then.
“What’s this all about?” John asks, but he follows Sherlock through the throng that separates the bar and the dance floor. It takes him a long moment to realize that his hand is in Sherlock’s, and by then it’s too late to withdraw it – the crowd’s too dense, and John doesn’t fancy losing Sherlock in it, not now he’s finally shown up.
“Dancing – do keep up, John.”
Those words are shouted back at John over Bowie’s voice – Let’s dance, let’s sway, put on your red shoes and dance the blues – and then suddenly they’re on the dance floor, and Sherlock’s hands are shifting to make room for John while seeming to guide him closer –
“Is this an experiment?” John asks. His left hand can’t quite decide between clenching at his side and lifting to seek a hold. John tries to still it as he asks, “Or is this you taking a risk?”
Sherlock is just a shade too elegantly cool as he responds, “Is there a difference?” for John to buy it.
“There better be, this time.”
Sherlock drops his eyes just a little, his teeth hinting at wanting to worry at his lower lip. “John –” Sherlock’s shoulders rise and fall with a deep breath. “It’s not an experiment.” Behind his words and his worry, Bowie keeps at it: If you say run, I’ll run with you, if you say hide, I’ll hide with you –
John huffs, can’t help the little grin, so he looks down, away, but when he looks up again he knows Sherlock saw, because he’s mirroring one right back at John, hopeful and cheeky all at once.
“So –”
“Yeah.”
“Oh. Good. Erm –”
“Dance with me, idiot.”
“Oh, right, yes –”
They start moving together, and they move closer, and it’s a bit awkward, in the way that all first dances are a bit awkward. Then it stops being awkward, because that’s what first dances are for.
Sherlock’s hands are warm when and where they land on John, guiding and holding, and Sherlock’s waist is firm and inviting when John’s hands find their way there. It doesn’t take too long for them to wend their way lower, to the jut and sway of Sherlock’s hipbones, the swell of his arse beneath fine wool trousers.
Their dancing devolves somewhat, after that – Sherlock has his hands on the small of John’s back and the nape of his neck, and John has himself two lovely handfuls, and they’re quite a bit closer than the tempo of the song would allow, if they were paying attention to such things.
John has the distinct impression that he should be more worried – or at least shocked – by the night’s proceedings, but currently all he’s wondering is who’s seducing who, here – because whoever it is needs to take the next step –
He looks up then – to ask, maybe, to see Sherlock’s face – and finds that Sherlock is looking down at him, lips parted just a little. It gives him look of wonder, as if he’s found the shock John misplaced.
The kiss is soft and ruins their dancing, grinds everything right to a halt.
Sherlock’s hands cradle John’s face at the cheek and the jaw, and John’s hands are pulling Sherlock close, gripping tight to the lapels of his suit jacket.
Then the kiss stops being soft, and everything grinds back into motion, hips and thighs getting in each other’s way.
They break apart, panting, and John says, “Bloody hell,” and Sherlock says, “Fuck,” and John is glad he’s got something to hold onto just then, even if it is the very thing giving him weak knees at that moment.
“Christ,” John agrees, and Sherlock nods, which is a blessing, because John doesn’t think he could survive another expletive dropping from that posh mouth. “We – we should –”
“Keep dancing?” Sherlock suggests, as Let’s Dance fades towards its final bars.
John can’t help the giggle that escapes, and shakes his head. “They’ll start playing Top Forty again in a minute. Had enough of that before you got here.”
“I think not,” Sherlock says, and his eyes positively twinkle.
“Let me guess,” John grins up at Sherlock, “got the DJ off a murder charge?”
“We-e-lll…” Sherlock tilts his head and shrugs one shoulder. “He definitely owes me a favour.” Sherlock’s hands are both on John’s shoulders now, although his right thumb is stroking lightly up and down John’s neck. “We should be set for as long as we like.”
“Oh?” John feels a shiver race up his spine even as heat saunters down into his belly. Just then Golden Years starts up, and John laughs and moves closer in to Sherlock again. “Alright then, you ridiculous man – one more song. And then –”
“Mrs. Hudson is out, so if – if we want –” Sherlock blurts, and John pulls him down, has to kiss him for that, for the break in his words, the drop in his voice, the way his hands tightened on ‘we.’
“I want, if you want,” John says into Sherlock’s ear, curls shifting against his forehead as they move together. Sherlock nods, and John continues, “So let’s dance, and then we can go home and –”
“Yes?”
“Yes.”
They stay for three more songs (all David Bowie – John will have to ask about that, but later), dancing and swaying in each other’s arms. When they do walk home, their hands keep straying and touching as if they’re still on the dance floor. They can't seem to stop, although neither of them seems to be trying very hard.
It’s ridiculous.
John wouldn’t have it any other way.