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"You’re doing time too, huh?"
Sherlock glanced beside him. The space that had been empty moments before now held one Dr. Watson, the biology teacher who had once been in the army. The kids sometimes called him "Captain Watson" behind his back. Sherlock knew this was because Dr. Watson ran a no-nonsense classroom, much like Sherlock himself. Most or all of the students in detention each week were from their classes.
The man was shorter than Sherlock was by a good five inches. What Dr. Watson lacked in height, he made up for in muscle. It seemed that he hadn’t lost much of his army physique. His hair was sandy blonde, going gray in some places but still attractive. His eyes were blue, his lips were thin, and he was standing very close to Sherlock. The proximity didn’t help calm his racing heartbeat.
Sherlock, who had never even had a conversation with the doctor outside of school, was hopelessly besotted with the man.
"Dr. Watson," Sherlock greeted, ignoring the question. The answer should’ve been obvious. "I thought you’d be here."
"Well, I seem to scare the shite out of half these kids, and I’ve earned a grudging respect from the rest of them," he replied. "Headmaster Lestrade thought I’d keep them in line."
Unable to hold his tongue, Sherlock blurted, "Is it particularly hard to strike terror into the hearts of children in those jumpers of yours?"
"Actually, I think it might have more to do with my brown-bag lunches and motivational kitten posters."
"You do not have motivational kitten posters," Sherlock said, biting back a laugh.
"And what if I did, Mr. Holmes?"
Sherlock let himself chuckle this time. "Call me Sherlock."
The shorter man nodded, a smile playing at his lips. "John."
Sherlock swallowed. "Right. John."
The doctor smirked. "I remember my old school dances, you know. They were nothing like this."
Sherlock hummed in agreement. "You undoubtedly had a lot more self-respect than these… hooligans. Look at what Sally Donovan is doing with that Anderson boy." He pointed to the two students grinding against each other and frowned. "Is that the sort of thing we’re not supposed to be allowing?"
John followed his finger and frowned. "No, that’s definitely the sort of thing we’re not supposed to be allowing. Go over there and break it up."
"What? No. Both of them hate me."
Sherlock knew what the kids called him behind his back, too: the Freak.
"Since when do you care what the students think of you?"
Sherlock couldn’t help but roll his eyes. "I don’t."
"Then go break it up."
"How am I meant to do that?" asked Sherlock, throwing one of his hands in the air. "Am I to tell Donovan that Anderson’s got a girlfriend who goes to a school across London? That’ll break them up for good."
"No, you- wait, how do you know that?"
"It’s agonizingly simple, John. Ander-"
John held up a hand. Sherlock’s heart dropped. Of course John wouldn’t care. He’d probably only come over because he had to waste time at this insipid dance somehow. Sherlock was just a distraction.
"Hold that thought, all right?" John requested, smiling faintly. "I really have to take care of that. It’s getting obscene. Plus, if Anderson has a girlfriend…"
Sherlock nodded. "He does."
John nodded back to him, squared his shoulders, and walked straight up to Donovan and Anderson. Sherlock watched in rapt attention as John tapped them both on the shoulders. Their faces flushed an alarming shade of red, and Sherlock bit his lip to hold back a laugh. John stood lecturing the two students for a few more moments before deciding to turn around.
When the biology teacher made it back to Sherlock’s side, he smiled and shook his head.
"Aren’t those two in your chemistry class?"
"They are indeed. Not the most pleasant of students, but there have been worse," Sherlock replied. "Do you remember Jim Moriarty?"
"Oh, I couldn’t stand the boy," John confided quietly. "He was always trying to correct me, had to be right about everything. It would’ve been fine if he’d actually been right."
"He stayed after school hours all the time," Sherlock complained. "The boy seemed to like my experiments. Thank God he’s graduated. We won’t be hearing from him again."
"Cheers to that," laughed John. "I heard that your latest experiment blew up the chem lab. That true?"
Sherlock frowned. "Yes, my experiment exploded. No, it did not ‘blow up the chem lab,’" he answered. "The room is perfectly fine. I received most of the damage it caused. Why do you think I’m here?"
"What, you didn’t volunteer?" John asked, smirking. "I really should’ve known."
"Yes, you should’ve." Sherlock wanted to take back the words as soon as he’d said them. "I- I mean, I never would’ve come if… Lestrade said it was this or serving detention for three months, and I can’t deal with the tediousness of it all."
Sherlock’s racing heart calmed when he realized that John was smiling, his eyes crinkled.
"That actually explains a lot. I didn’t take you for the dancing type."
"Oh, no," Sherlock replied automatically. "I used to take ballet."
John laughed, and Sherlock grew defensive. He’d gotten enough bullying when he was in secondary school. He didn’t need to be mocked now.
"What?"
"No, no. I’m just imagining you in tights and a tutu."
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I didn’t actually wear the skirt, you know."
"I suppose you wouldn’t. So, you did go to dances, then?"
"Dancing and going to dances are two different things, John."
"No, I know. But, did you?"
With a sigh, Sherlock replied, "No. I’ve only gone to one. This is my second, although I don’t really suppose this counts."
John was silent next to him. Sherlock glanced at the man, who was staring at something on the far wall. He should probably stop talking, Sherlock reasoned. His mouth, however, didn’t seem to listen to his brain.
"It was the last dance before graduation. My mother wanted me to go. I didn’t. It isn’t a particularly fond memory of mine."
Dark blue eyes locked onto his own, and Sherlock felt his breath hitch. "What happened?" asked John.
"The rugby team brought me up on stage and presented me with a tutu and a tiara. They duct taped wings to my back."
"Jesus, why?"
Sherlock shrugged. "See, they used to call me the fairy. Turns out being gay doesn’t exactly help you when you’re already the outcast."
"I- I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to bring up unpleasant memories. That- that sounds horrific, honestly."
"Oh, yes, it was quite traumatizing at the time. But that was over ten years ago. There’s no use dwelling on it now."
"Well, I suppose you’re right."
"I am." Sherlock swallowed. "I’m also correct in assuming your dances were much different, yes?"
"Of course, yeah. Yeah. I actually went to mine," John replied. "Danced with all the girls, too. This was before I realized I was into blokes."
Ah, so John Watson was… bisexual. Sherlock felt his heart drift into his throat. He swallowed it back down and forced out a response.
"During the army, then?"
The blonde man nodded. "That would be it, yeah."
Sherlock hummed in response, desperate to find something else to say. He had to keep John’s attention, or the doctor would lose interest and leave. There would be no reason to speak to Sherlock any more if he proved himself boring.
"Was the music always this mind-numbingly inane?" asked Sherlock, frowning at the heavy bass and pounding volume of the song playing.
John giggled, and Sherlock decided he could get used to John’s laugh. In fact, he would do anything to hear it again.
"No," replied the biology teacher, "the music was much better back then. This… this is crap."
"Don’t be surprised if my ears start bleeding before this wretched thing is over," Sherlock complained. "I’m not sure I made the right choice of punishment."
Sherlock didn’t mean that. He would choose this over and over again, if only it meant he could talk to John one more time. That thought led to another, more distressing issue. What if John was just using Sherlock as a way to pass the time? What if he didn’t want to be around Sherlock after the dance was over?
Sherlock found himself wishing the dance would never end.
"All right, hold on. I’ll be right back."
"Oh? You’re going to leave me here to suffer by myself?" teased Sherlock. He immediately regretted the words. It wouldn’t do to make himself look needy.
"You won’t have to suffer for long, Sherlock, I promise," John giggled. "I’ll be right back. Don’t move from there, okay?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and nodded. "Did you expect me to socialize?"
"Well, what’ve we been doing, then?" John laughed.
A smile pulled at Sherlock’s lips as he watched John walk up to the DJ. After exchanging a few words, the doctor smiled in thanks and jogged back to Sherlock, the grin still plastered on his face.
"You requested a song. Why?"
"To show you what real music sounds like."
"I play the violin, you know. I have a concept of good music."
John furrowed his eyebrows. "I didn’t know that you played an instrument."
"I do."
"Well, then I’m afraid my song might not be as classical as you would expect."
Sherlock shook his head. "No, I’m sure whatever you’ve picked out is wonderful."
John positively grinned. "I hope it is. It’d be quite embarrassing to ask you to dance to a song you hated."
"I- what? You want me to dance?"
A light pink blush spread itself across John’s cheeks; his ears, however, turned bright red. Sherlock thought he could get used to that look on the doctor.
"You don’t- You don’t have to. I just thought-"
"No, John- Yes, that sounds… good. That sounds very good."
The smile was back. Sherlock thought he would be blinded by the time the evening was over if John kept smiling like that. He never wanted him to stop.
"Good. Come on, I think it’s about to start."
Sherlock felt his face heat up as John grabbed his hand. They stayed near the back of the gymnasium, neither of them wanting to broadcast their activities to the students there.
The song started, and John placed his hand on Sherlock’s hip. He nearly jumped out of his skin at the contact, but quickly relaxed in John’s arms.
"You don’t mind if I lead, do you?" John questioned, smiling faintly up at Sherlock.
He shook his head. "That’s fine. Good, really."
John nodded happily and started moving along to the music, stepping in time with the rhythm of the song. He was beaming, looking up at Sherlock in wonder.
Sherlock himself didn’t know where to look, so he settled for letting his eyes roam over the face of the man in front of him. His gaze froze on thin lips; he caught himself, blushed, and looked instead into John’s deep blue eyes.
"Hey, Jude," Sherlock said quietly. "My brother spent a good deal of his teenage years listening to The Beatles. We both particularly enjoyed this song."
"That’s good," John replied. "I’d hate to have disappointed you."
"You couldn’t disappoint me," chuckled Sherlock. "Not with this."
John was surprisingly competent in this area, it seemed. His feet moved with Sherlock's, and no one's feet were stepped on. His hand was firm on Sherlock’s hip but comfortable where it rested. Their hands were clasped at their side. Sherlock could feel John's breath on his collarbone, and he could see where his own breath stirred John's hair.
"Good, good. I didn’t want to be awkward."
"No, this is… nice," Sherlock muttered.
The minute you let her under your skin, then you begin to make it better.
"It is," John replied. "So, how did you know about Anderson’s girlfriend?"
"He was wearing a necklace," Sherlock replied. "It's fairly new, and not something he would buy for himself. He plays with it all through class; drives me nearly up the wall, it does. It wasn't a birthday, or the kids would be congratulating him on remaining alive one more year. So: girlfriend."
"That’s amazing. How do you know she goes to a different school?"
"She’d hardly stand for that sort of behavior if she were here, would she?"
"You’re right," John laughed, his eyes crinkling handsomely.
"I’m always right."
"Always?"
"Always."
For well you know that it’s a fool who plays it cool by making his world a little colder.
"All right, Mr. Holmes. Do me."
Sherlock frowned. "What?"
"Whatever you just did to Anderson. Do it to me."
"You want me to deduce you?" Sherlock questioned. "People don’t normally ask for that."
Hey Jude, don’t let me down.
"Well, I’m asking."
"I’ll start with what I already know," Sherlock suggested.
"Sounds good."
"Invalided home from Afghanistan or Iraq - one of the two. Your posture and haircut practically scream ‘military.’ You used to have a limp and a cane - although I didn’t deduce that so much as see you hobble around campus. Anyway, physical therapy has made it bearable to walk without it. You used to be a doctor, but you can’t operate now because you’ve a slight tremor in your dominant hand. Pity, that. Now you have to work in this dull place."
"It was Afghanistan," John said. "Go on."
"I can tell you’ve danced before because you’re actually quite good at this. I know you have a drunkard for a brother. You checked your phone earlier tonight. On the back there’s an engraving. Could I see it now?"
So let it out, and let it in. Hey Jude, begin. You’re waiting for someone to perform with.
John nodded, let go of Sherlock’s hip, and dug into his own pocket. He pulled out his phone and handed it over. Sherlock kept John’s other hand in his own, using his left to turn the mobile over.
"Ah, yes. Harry Watson, from Clara. Not yours originally, it seems. It’s your brother’s phone. The three kisses - from a wife, not a girlfriend," Sherlock explained. "It’s not even a particularly old phone, barely six months old. They divorced, then, didn’t they? He left her. If she’d left him, he’d have kept it. People do. Sentiment. Now, the divorce… probably because of the drinking. You see, there are scratch marks by the charger. Every night, he goes to plug his phone in, but his hands are shaking."
"I thought you were always right," John said, taking his phone from Sherlock and slipping it back into his pocket.
Sherlock frowned. "What did I get wrong? There’s always something."
"Harry’s short for Harriet."
"Ah."
"All right, you know about my sister," said John. "What about me, right now?"
"You took a shower before you came," Sherlock replied. He sniffed the air, and his eyes slipped closed. "You smell like aftershave and cologne. Your pupils are dilated. It could be from the lack of light in the room, or- or our proximity. I can feel your pulse, right here." Sherlock tapped the doctor’s wrist. "It’s- it’s a bit fast. That could also be attributed to our proximity."
Remember to let her under your skin. Then you’ll begin to make it better, better, better...
John nodded and replied quietly, "It could be."
Sherlock swallowed. "And I can... test this theory by increasing stimuli."
"How does that work if you’re my stimulus?" John laughed.
Sherlock gathered all the courage he had and stepped closer to John. He could feel the man’s pulse quicken under his fingertips. His own heart beating erratically, Sherlock ducked down and rested his forehead on John’s. It was an uncomfortable angle, but Sherlock reveled in the little gasp it brought from John’s lips as both of pairs of eyes closed.
Na, na, na, na na na na, na na na na, hey Jude.
The doctor swallowed audibly. "Are you busy?"
"Hm?"
"Right now, are you busy?"
"Well, I’m not sure about later, but I’m quite occupied at the moment. I’m in the arms of a rather handsome biology teacher."
John giggled. "Right. No, I meant, do you want to get out of here?"
Na, na, na, na na na na, na na na na, hey Jude.
"Dr. Watson, are you asking me to abandon my duties as a responsible, respectable, reputable Baker Academy chemistry teacher?" Sherlock teased.
"Perhaps I am, Mr. Holmes. What do you say?"
"I say that’s a stupid question. Let’s go.”
John hummed in agreement. “Let’s stay until the music goes back to crap, yeah?”
Sherlock nodded against John’s head. He felt his stomach flip when John wrapped his arms around his waist. He clasped his hands behind John’s neck in response. Breathing in the clean scent of the doctor, Sherlock felt his whole body relax. John was warm and solid, and his oatmeal jumper was soft under Sherlock’s fingertips.
Sherlock Holmes was not usually one for cuddling. Hell, he was never one for socializing in the first place. But with John, Sherlock was willing to make an exception.
Na, na, na, na na na na, na na na na, hey Jude.
The song faded out slowly and into a rather loud rap, and Sherlock winced at the breaking of their little bubble of peace.
“This is definitely crap,” John said, and Sherlock chuckled. “You think we can sneak out undetected?”
“The kids don’t care about us.”
John smiled. He paused, took a deep breath, and nodded decidedly.
“One more thing,” he said.
“What is it?”
John cupped Sherlock’s face with one hand and pulled him even closer - Sherlock hadn’t thought that was possible. Their lips brushed together, and Sherlock inhaled sharply before melting into John’s arms.
Their lips moved together sweetly, lazy and undemanding. Sherlock traced patterns on the back of John’s neck, earning a small grin from the doctor. John nipped at his bottom lip, and Sherlock nearly purred in response. He opened his mouth, desperate for more of John. He wanted to taste him, to know the texture of John’s tongue against his own, to map his teeth and tongue and palate.
John pulled away slightly, and Sherlock let him. He focused his eyes on John’s and frowned.
“I think we’ve got an audience,” John explained, nodding to the mass of students at the front of the gym. “Don’t really want to give them a show.”
Sherlock looked behind him and frowned again. All the students were dancing, but nearly all of them were subtly watching the teachers. A few even exchanged money. The winners were grinning, giving them the thumbs-up, but the losers went away scowling.
Even knowing they were being watched, Sherlock planted another kiss on John’s lips.
“Dinner?” he asked.
John grinned. “Starving.”
The next morning, Sherlock added one more song to his mobile phone. He played it all through the day, dancing along to the memory of John Watson’s arms wrapped tenderly around his waist.
Na, na, na, na na na na, na na na na, hey Jude.