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Every time he cleaned the flat, John would listen to the same playlist.
It was all upbeat stuff - bits he’d picked up over the years, the music his mum would sing along with on the radio, whatever blasted through the club speakers when he was at Bart’s and the songs he heard floating up from 221A while Mariana was playing her music.
And all of it…was all just so damn infectious .
He couldn’t not sing along to Angels by Robbie Williams. It was like being with the Booze Brigade (god, the name never got better) when things had been rough and they’d sing like idiots and his cheeks would ache from smiling. There was more Taylor Swift on the playlist than he’d like to admit - that was all Mariana’s influence (he knew the hits, just… not by name). Mariana had cringed the first time he said he liked “The Romeo-and-Juliet-One” and had made him change each song to Taylor’s Version .
Secretly, he loved the playlist so, so much. It made him happy.
The first time Sherlock walked in on him washing dishes, mid-Freddie Mercury solo into his dish-scrubber microphone, he’d wanted to melt into a puddle and never be seen again.
But Sherlock had just...turned around and left, never saying a word.
…until.
They’d finished a case - one hard to stomach and even harder to solve. They needed a drink.
John could’ve sworn it was just meant to be one drink, then back to Baker Street for a long sleep.
And then Stammo had popped his head in. “Just to see if you were here!”, he’d insisted - after buying a round for them - that he and John relive the glory days and bought a truly obscene amount of shots.
And, well, no one complained.
When Stammo eventually left, the shots didn’t stop.
They’d stumbled back to Baker Street and Mariana had brought something upstairs and they were mixing it with ASDA orange squash and water and it tasted like an old fuzzy memory of John being in a field at two in the morning, absolutely wankered on a bottle of Glen’s and making out with someone.
“Put some music on!” Mariana told him, waving a hand and pouring too much liquor into a cup.
“Yeah, okay.” John plugged the speakers into his laptop clumsily, watched by a silent Sherlock. He’d gotten chattier earlier, back in the bar - but he’s quiet again, now. John thought he knew what was going on.
Perhaps Sherlock needed a tactical - no, christ, slow down .
His stomach flipped at the thought of it.
He’d think about that later. In the meantime, music. “What song, Mariana? Uhhh….” He scrolled through the front page, trying to hide the James Blunt he’d been listening to.
“That playlist.” Sherlock pointed vaguely, “The one you always listen to -with the...” He paused, deeply considering his following sentence. “The - the fast lady that Mrs. Hudson likes.”
“Do you mean Taylor Swift ?” Mariana choked, incredulous.
“And that one song that goes shut up, stop holding back, and all that. Watson, that song is on it. The shut up and dance with - that one. You know the one.”
John’s massive grin was matched in intensity only by the redness on his face. Any other day, he’d blame it on the alcohol.
“Oh, the kitchen playlist, yeah, yeah.” He fumbled for his laptop again, searching for the playlist. Ah yes, there it was. He clicked shuffle, and the opening notes of Firework played tinnily through the speakers. He liked Firework more after he’d answered Mariana’s “What’s your favourite Taylor Swift song?” question with it.
“Doctor.” Sherlock sighed, “You’re not shutting up and dancing!”
Ah, yes. Shut Up and Dance . Scrolling through the playlist, he found the song.
A verse in, and Sherlock was still sitting still.
“You’re not dancing?”
“I’m shutting up, Watson.”
“Right, I’ll do the dancing then.”
It was a blur.
Mariana was holding a hairbrush and John was holding his microphone - distantly he thought of the poor listeners - and they were singing. In the broadest sense of the word. It was more of a shout, really.
Time passed, the playlist continued.
Somewhere along the line, Sherlock had put his ear defenders on, but remained in the kitchen with them nevertheless.
“ You had your chance, you blew it! Out of sight, out of mind! ” Mariana and John sang, pointed at each other, turned around and danced, microphones at the ready - real and pretend in one hand and a drink in the other, the night slipping away with each sip.
“Oh, I love this song!” John exclaimed, reentering the kitchen from the bathroom.
It was around two in the morning.
Mariana was in full performance.
“ I had some dreams. They were clouds in my coffee, clouds in my coffee and- ” And oh it was so infectious.
And in a - frankly unexpected turn of events, John found himself walking over to Sherlock, and pulling him out of his chair by his hands, and passing one of his hands to Mariana. They serenaded him.
“ You’re so vain! I bet you think this song is about you! Don’t you! Don’t you! ” Each beat, John would tug at Sherlock’s arm alongside Mariana’s movement. It gave him the appearance of doing an awkward dance - and yet, they were utterly unaware of the smile Sherlock was battling to hide.
And then John had needed the bathroom again.
In the morning, through a pounding headache and feeling like death warmed over, John’s recollection was cloudy at best. Fortunately, though - while he’s not quite sure for who - he’d had the foresight to record large chunks of the night.