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« Stop fussing Lestrade, » Sherlock muttered, too breathless to use his usual clipped tone and too tired to even roll his eyes at his manager’s mothering. “I am fine.”
“Yes, yes, you are fine.” The slightest bit of scorn appeared on Lestrade’s face. “So… you won’t object to the presence of a doctor on site.”
“WHAT!” The dancer jumped from the bench in the practice room, offended. “It’s only that I worked too much recently, I just need a few good nights and –“
“You can’t go-ahead for a season as a special guest to the Bolshoi if you continue like that.” The older man interrupted him firmly, “you are going to get a personal doctor -”
“Or else?” The ballet dancer challenged.
“I am getting a doctor or I am cancelling your sojourn at St. Petersburg, your choice.”
Startled by Lestrade’s rare inflexibility, the taller man articulated anyway, “I. Don’t. Need. A. Doctor.”
“Yes, you do.” The worried man combed his hair furiously and pointed at the floor, “you just collapsed, fuck Sherlock, be realistic! You need to take care of yourself and to do that, you need a doctor to babysit you as you are listening to NOBODY!” After a second where he let his words sink in, he continued, “or I am cancelling tomorrow shoot as well and you can say sayonara to beautifully filming your friend’s choreography.”
Unable to find a good retort, Sherlock simply dropped before he left the studio, “your Japanese accent is atrocious!”
Laughing at the puerility, Lestrade sighed and frowned at the mirrored room. Now I need to find a doctor for tomorrow.
Even if he knew that the director and the small filming crew were top-notch, Greg was running around the set to check every last detail. You never know what’s going to trigger Sherlock, so better safe than sorry. He stopped a moment to admire his surroundings. The set was wonderful, a vast open space with nothing to obscure his protégé’s exceptional talent. This is perfect. He was on his way to talk with the catering team when a blond man called for him. “Yes?”
“Greg Lestrade? I am Doctor John Watson, I received a message that –“
“Oh yes! Great, great.” The manager looked over the shorter man in front of him. He looked like a straightforward man, someone that won’t be bothered with Sherlock’s nonsense. Maybe that’s going to be okay. “Thank you, doctor,” he extended his hand for a quick handshake, “you’ve got all the details of your contract from the agency?”
“Hum, no, not really.” John shifted his weight on his good leg without thinking, a good grip on his cane, feeling a bit silly about the whole thing. He looked at the other man curiously, “I am not coming from an agency… Someone just, let’s say, picked me up?” Shaking his head at the thought, he really hoped that it wasn’t something illegal. Being strongly suggested to get into a car by a Bond Girl to meet with a villain in an abandoned warehouse. Who is the client, Prince Charles’ illegitimate child?
Understanding at once, Greg chuckled. “Oh, I see.” Mycroft, I knew that I should have asked him instead of contacting an agency specialised in medical personnel . “A tall man, brown-reddish hair, thin, superb suit, a fondness for dramatic effects?”
Relieved, the doctor breathed correctly for the first time since he’s been coerced into the black sedan! “Yes, do you know him?”
“Yes, he’s the brother of the person you are going to take care. Nothing criminal, don’t worry, just has a strange way of expressing affection.”
“Great, great. Do I need to know something special, why does he or she need a doctor readily available? What are the ailments?”
“Except being bloody opinionated?” Sherlock’s manager muttered under his breath. “Nothing really, just that he’s really bad at taking care of himself and a lot is riding on him staying in good health. He’s stubborn, so I thought that having a doctor actually living with him for a –“
“Living? That bloke never said anything about me staying –“ He stopped as his phone vibrated with an upcoming text.
Your things have been moved to my brother’s flat. MH
In a separate room of his, of course. MH
I will let you both set up the details. MH
“Just go with the flow, mate, you won’t be able to argue with them anyway. God knows I tried!”
John was about to protest when the most beautiful man he had ever seen entered the room. He was tall, slender but well built, each muscle perfectly defined. His picture-perfect ethereal skin sparkling in the spotlight. Gobsmacked, John let Greg push him to the side of the room where he was going to be able to watch without being a nuisance.
“Got to go, stay here. I will introduce you when the dress rehearsal is over.”
Without another word, he quickly walked to the other side of the room to stand near the director without talking to the dancer who was kneeling on the floor, knowing that at that moment he was probably already lost in his Mind Opera. The young man once said to Greg, in an uncustomary good mood after a few glasses of wine, that a section of his mind was shaped in the form of the Opéra Garnier in Paris. Each floor dedicated to one subject, each box, each corners full of memories… But nothing on the stage so he can rehearse in the privacy of his mind whenever it’s needed. He looked good , Lestrade thought, but he’s got make-up under his eyes and the marks of too many nicotine patches . Thank God I don’t have to deal with him on my own anymore.
After a quick nod to the director the music started.
John was still transfixed by the man when the music started. Surprised that it wasn’t some generic classical tune, his attention was even more raptured. At first, for his untrained eyes, it wasn’t dancing. It was sculptured, moving marble. Each movement was powerful but perfectly controlled.
Breathtaking.
Gulping when the dancer suddenly pushed himself from the ground before falling on his back, stretching his spine elegantly like a cat before lifting himself with only one arm. God, that’s sexy. It was manly but sensuous in a way the doctor couldn’t find a parallel for in anything that he had ever seen before. After what looked like a hesitation, but was probably choreographed to the dot, it began in earnest. The jumps, the pirouettes, the heavy but delicate bang each time his feet touch the ground. The whole routine was hypnotic. The man is flying, how is it possible to do that… It’s like he’s suspended in the air. He quickly checked around for any trick or something without finding anything of course. It wasn't a magic trick that way of running up to the edge of the room and jump as if it was the only thing that kept him alive. The only thing to avoid more pain. The only option to stay free.
He was now stretching his tall body on the floor, hugging himself to find comfort. As if it was inevitable for the fall to cause torment and collateral damages. The tormented look was so real that it was difficult for John to stay put! He wanted to run to the man, to engulf him in his arms, to protect him from the pain, to kill anyone who dared cause him distress! The pure animality of the man, the way his limbs moved, his black curls flying around his face, everything was calling John! He’s so damn beautiful! And those leggings… This should be illegal.
The singer was now repeating Amen a few times when the artist nearly stopped moving as if he was praying or thinking. Is it over? No, it wasn’t! To the doctor's amazement, he started even more forcibly, cumulating maddeningly precise pirouettes, jettés, entre-chats and other movements unknown to the former soldier. After what was only five minutes of pure beauty, the dancer finished on the floor as the song ended, his slim torso heaving in exertion.
Lestrade, who was worried despite the perfect rehearsal, rushed near Sherlock calling John to come with him. “Are you okay, Sherlock, you are so pale!”
“Sherlock,” John spoke softly, already ensnared by the sound of the name, “you don’t look right. I am doctor Watson, I have been… solicited… to assist -.” Taking out his penlight, he asked, “could you please look at me, I want to check your eyes.”
“I don’t need a doctor,” his voice was fragile.
“Sherlock…” Greg’s voice became a warning growl.
It’s their fault, I need a few minutes, why can’t I have a few minutes to myself? Opening his eyes with difficulty, Sherlock showed his pupils to the man who just stated that he was his doctor. The deep marine blue irises were beautiful, the light of an intelligent man.
“Thank you, now I am going to check your pulse, all right?” Letting the man press two fingers to his wrist, he silently challenged him to say a thing about the carefully hidden track marks. “Clean for the last six months I guess?”
Speaking quickly, after looking around if someone was around, Lestrade murmured, “seven.”
“Good, good.” Getting up, the doctor extended his hand to help Sherlock to his feet. “Could you please get a bottle of energy drink if you have some, water otherwise.”
“Yes, be right back.” Lestrade rushed from the room which had been deserted by the crew at the moment.
Realizing that he was still holding the smaller man’s hand, Sherlock dropped it. “Watson, you said?”
“Yes, Doctor John Watson. I have been asked to watch over you to help you get better.” Without knowing why he knew it was better not to mention the overbearing brother.
“I don’t need a doctor.”
“Yes, you keep saying that. Strangely, the violet circles under your eyes, the way your skin feels, the fact that you nearly passed out after a routine that – even if it was fucking fantastic – is something that a professional dancer should be able to absorb without fainting.”
“Vessel.”
“What?”
Sherlock motioned his hands in front of his body as if to demonstrate ‘all this’. “This is only a vessel, not important. The art it conveys is important.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, if you break the vessel you won’t be able to carry anything. No dance movements, no emotions, nothing.” John chuckled, shaking his head at the enormity, “only a ‘vessel’, that the most stupid thing I have ever heard. And I got the feeling that you are not stupid, so do better.”
Affronted, Sherlock stretched his tall frame indignantly, “I am not stupid!” Looking at the man in front of him, he quickly deduced, “I don’t have to justify any of my actions to an ex-army doctor with a psychological limp!”
“Who said that –“
“Which one, Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“What?”
“Stop saying that, you are clearly not stupid, respond to the question.”
“Afghanistan. How did you know… Did your brother...?”
“MY BROTHER! Of course,” Sherlock walked a bit moving his muscles to relax them after the strenuous activities. “If he gave you money to spy on me, I want to split it with you!”
“I refused any bribe, I am only getting paid as a doctor, that’s all.”
“Oh,” the dancer stopped, impressed. “You said no to Mycroft.”
“Mycroft? Is it the name of that pompous arse? Well suited.”
Sherlock was laughing at the idea of his brother's discussion with the good doctor when Greg returned with the drink and a robe.
His manager looked between the two, curiously, “what’s so funny?”
“Nothing,” taking the robe Greg brought, the dancer wrapped himself carefully. Checking on John for one last time he nodded, “yes, you’ll do.”
He was walking out to go back to his dressing room when John called, “what? Is that all?”
“Oh no of course,” Sherlock stopped and turned on his heel gracefully. “The address is 221b Baker Street, I suppose that your things are already there? And don’t forget your cane, it’s getting lonely in the back of the room.” He winked and shouted a playful ‘later’ before spinning from the room his robe twirling regally.
Gobsmacked, John waited for Greg to say something.
Smiling at the idea that he was instrumental in bringing these two together, Lestrade nodded, “yep, he’s always like that.”
FIN
The video that inspired this Take me to the church