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Sherlock opened the door and walked inside, looking around to make sure he was alone before darting down the hallway to his room. He stashed his bag in the wardrobe, hiding it under a pile of yesterday’s dirties. He’d already showered after practice, so he didn’t have to worry about looking disheveled and sweaty in case his flatmate was around. But he wanted to make sure his various paraphernalia stayed out of sight, away from any curious prying eyes. It wouldn’t do to have his secret exposed. Not now, not when he and the boy he shared the small flat with were beginning to become something like friends. Something that Sherlock would love to see turn into more. Sherlock couldn’t let him know that they came from such different worlds. He couldn’t allow that friendship to turn to teasing, to hatred, like so many had before, and it would, if his secret was known. Because John Watson, his flatmate, his friend , was the rugby captain.
And rugby players didn’t like ballet dancers.
Sherlock wasn’t even sure how they had become so close to be honest. Sherlock had taken one look at John and knew he was in trouble. Blond hair, blue eyes, strong compact built body, and a flirtatious smile that make Sherlock’s knees shake. He had vowed then and there to keep his distance, to be as cantankerous as possible, because this situation had “bad news” written all over it. His resolve held out for an impressive 72 hours before crumbling to dust, powerless to resist John’s many charms. Now, almost two years later, the two were frequently in the other’s company, studying, watching movies, eating takeaway together, almost everything, really. Except for this one thing.
Sometimes Sherlock wished it was different. He wished he could just tell him the truth. He’d been to more rugby practices and matches than he could count, always there to cheer John on, no matter what. Even though he knew absolutely nothing about the sport, he knew he enjoyed watching John play. Watching John in action, in those damned shorts, was enough to inspire a healthy interest in an otherwise tedious pastime. He wondered sometimes if John would extend the same courtesy to him, support him as a friend, no matter what his personal opinion on the art may be. But those old fears, old demons, were hard to stifle.
He’d tried once to bring it up in a roundabout way. Last Christmas, the dance department was presenting their annual production of The Nutcracker, and Sherlock had landed a part in the ensemble. Sherlock had wanted badly to invite John to the performance, to have someone there for him in the audience, as his brother was “far too busy to be watching amateur dance” and his parents were away. He would have thrilled to see John watching him, to see him in his element, Sherlock as proficient on stage as John was on a field.
To test the waters, Sherlock had suggested a movie night, to which John readily agreed. Sherlock had queued the ballet on the telly and plopped down next to John on the sofa.
“What are we watching?” John asked, lifting up a corner of the blanket and offering it to Sherlock.
Sherlock settled in next to him, their bodies close enough to be nearly snuggling. “Just a Christmas show. I watch it every year.” Not exactly a lie, Sherlock supposed.
“Ok.”
The program started and Sherlock held his breath, waiting to see how John would react.
John raised his eyebrows, watching the screen. “Ballet?”
“Problem?” Sherlock felt like his stomach was going to plummet through the floor.
“No, it’s fine. I’ve never seen this before. Just never took you for a bloke that was into ballet,” John laughed, elbowing Sherlock lightly.
Sherlock gave a tight laugh. In his opinion, that pretty much answered his question. But then John, lovely John, had surprised him.
“So tell me about it. What happens in the story?” He nestled closer on the sofa until his shoulders and thighs were brushing against Sherlock’s. Sherlock struggled to breathe for an entirely different reason.
Clearing his throat, he focused on the screen, telling John all about Clara and the clockmaker, and the gift of the Nutcracker. He told him about the Mouse King and the Land of Sweets and the beautiful Sugar Plum Fairy. He realized belatedly that he’d been talking for a while, and John hadn’t responded, and when he looked over, he discovered why. John was fast asleep, his head resting on the back of the couch and snoring lightly. Sherlock wanted to be angry, but he couldn’t help but think that a sleeping John was one of the most adorable things he’d ever seen. He’d shut the TV off, tucked the blanket more firmly around John, and slipped off to his own room.
Although that had gone better than it could have, one thing was for certain. He was never telling John that he was a dancer.
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Sherlock was sitting down at the kitchen table working on his chemistry experiment when John bustled in, holding up two bags.
“I brought takeaway. Thai,” he said, eyes sparkling. He was flushed from the cold air, cheeks red and hair windblown, and Sherlock’s pulse immediately took notice to his arrival.
John plopped the bags down on the table, and started opening the containers.
“I got the green curry you like,” he said, setting it down in front of Sherlock. “And I expect you to eat it, this time, no excuses.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, grabbing his fork and taking a bite. He’d never admit it out loud, but secretly, he loved it, John nagging over him. It made him feel cherished in a way that he hadn’t experienced in a very long time. It was another thing he loved about John, his caretaking nature.
John sat across from him and dug into his own dinner, and the two shared an easy silence, broken here and there with talk of the day, upcoming rugby meets, exams, but for the most part they just existed, calm in a relaxed ease that felt warm and comforting.
“So where were you earlier?” John asked as they finished up.
“Hmm?”
“Earlier. I waited around for you, usually you’re home around noon on Tuesdays.” John was busying himself with cleaning up the mess, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. Sherlock was confused, but at the same time, a little frisson of delight traveled through his frame at the thought that John was missing him.
He racked his brain to come up with a clever lie. He couldn’t tell him where he’d really been, in the dance studio rehearsing for the upcoming production of the Nutcracker. He’d landed the lead spot this year, and rehearsals were demanding. With one week to go, Sherlock knew his time would only be more forfeit, and while he was thrilled to have the role, he was loathe to miss out on any time spent with John.
“I had to meet with my advisor. Why?”
“Oh.” John turned to look at Sherlock, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m just used to having you around, I guess. There was no one to scream at the telly.”
“Yes, well. Even you should be able to see how ridiculous those programmes are, John, you hardly need me.”
John giggled, his deep-blue eyes locking onto Sherlock’s. “Maybe it just sounds better when you do it.”
Sherlock felt his face flush as John held his stare. He cleared his throat and looked away, breaking the spell, and attempted to get his heart under control.
“Perhaps I’ll record some insults for you, and you can play them back when needed.”
“Now there’s an idea. And how about one that says ‘You’re right John, I was wrong.’”
Sherlock laughed, the full-bodied booming laugh that was reserved only for one person. “I said insults, John, not fantasies.”
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The next few days passed relatively the same, Sherlock returning later than usual in the evening, John questioning, and Sherlock deflecting each about his sudden lack of presence in the flat they shared. John seemed to be getting more agitated about his absences, and Sherlock had to stop himself several times from just blurting it out. Anything to take that look off John’s face, make him smile again.
At the same time, the two were getting closer than ever. Nights were frequently passed in each other’s company, John wrangling Sherlock into watching some insipid Christmas movie with him. Last night, Sherlock had been so tired, he’d tried to beg off, actually get some sleep, but John had trained those midnight blue eyes on his, blinking at him from under those ridiculously long lashes, and said “please” and that was all it took for Sherlock to find himself curled on one end of the sofa, John on the other. Of course, he doesn’t remember much of the movie, but he does remember waking up, blanket tucked in to his chin, and a pillow resting under his head.
Tonight Sherlock was exhausted. He was laying on the couch, half asleep and half ensconced in his mind palace, mentally going over his routine. Opening night was in two days, and tomorrow was dress rehearsals, the last day to get everything perfect.
He was so absorbed, he didn’t hear John enter, didn’t even register his presence, until he felt his feet being lifted, and a warmth enveloping itself around his ankle. John. John’s hand. He opened his eyes to find John looking down at him, amused half smile playing on his lips.
“Hi,” John said, eyes twinkling with merriment.
“Hi,” Sherlock whispered back.
“What’s got you so distracted?”
“Mmm? Oh. Just a current project I am working on.”
“Oh. We had our last practice today, I was surprised I didn’t see you.”
Sherlock’s brain faltered at the trace of disappointment he heard in John’s voice. Did his appearance at his practices really mean that much? And like that, guilt at the continued lies started to creep in around the edges. Sherlock willed himself to relax. “I’m sorry, John. I got busy.”
John looked down, watching his hand splayed on Sherlock’s ankle where it rested in his lap. Sherlock followed his gaze, admiring the dichotomy of John’s tanned flesh at contrast against his pale skin. They had never been so close before, so intimate. John began to move his fingers, butterfly kisses of touch, tracing in circles around his ankle bone, leaving flashes of electricity in their wake. He didn’t know if John was aware of his movements, but he didn’t dare mention it, in case he decided to stop.
John looked up and caught Sherlock watching him, and Sherlock flushed, embarrassed to be caught out. John smiled and inched his fingers a bit higher, pressing harder, almost in an approximation of a massage. Sherlock had to bite his lower lip to keep from making an embarrassing sound at just how good it felt to have John’s hands on him. His legs and feet really were quite sore, and John’s touch was magic.
“Listen,” John began, “I know we always do movies here, but, well, I noticed that the show, the dance show - you know, the one you showed me last year? Well I noticed that they were doing a production on campus. And I thought, well - you seemed to like it, and I thought maybe you'd like to go.”
Sherlock froze, his breathing momentarily ceasing at what he had just heard. He quickly turned his head, hiding his eyes from John, as he attempted to clamp down on the rising panic flooding through his system.
On one hand, Sherlock was thrilled beyond compare that John had thought of him. Saw the flyers announcing the production, and thought of Sherlock. Wanted to take Sherlock. Go with Sherlock. As a date, he wondered? He narrowed his eyes and glanced back up, trying to read John’s face. John looked so earnest and open, and Sherlock’s heart clenched at what he was about to do.
Because, he couldn’t, could he? He couldn’t take John up on the offer he had made, go see the show, sit in the audience like everyone else. Because he was in the show. He was the male lead, for god’s sake. Sherlock teetered on the edge. Should he tell him? Tell him why he couldn’t go with him? Maybe invite him to come watch instead, come see Sherlock perform? Or would John be put off? John only suggested it because Sherlock liked it. John himself didn’t like dance. What made him think he’d like dancers any better?
“I can’t. I’m busy that night.” He said, looking away.
“Oh,” John breathed. “Oh! That explains-,” John shook his head. “I’m - right. Well.” Sherlock felt the warmth leach away as John removed his hand. “Sorry, I didn’t realize.”
John lifted Sherlock’s feet out of his lap, got up from the couch and went to the desk, fumbling through the pile of books there, throwing a few into his backpack. “I think I’d better go get some studying done,” John said softly.
“John -” Sherlock began, sitting up on the sofa, but John cut him off, holding out his hand.
“It’s fine, Sherlock. It’s all fine.” He smiled then, but it held none of it’s usual joy in it. It was sad, and a bit wistful, and something in Sherlock’s chest cracked right down the middle.
John turned and strode to the door, before turning back around to glance at Sherlock, “I’ll see you later, yeah?”
Sherlock could only nod, as he didn’t trust his voice to speak. He watched as John turned back around, slamming the door behind him.
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“Molly,” Sherlock called, “I’m not entirely comfortable with the last part of the pas de deux, can we go over it again?”
“Sherlock!” Molly laughed “We’ve done it three times now. It’s perfect. If it gets any more perfect, we’ll frame it.” She giggled at her own lame joke.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, but couldn’t help but smile. He liked Molly Hooper, his dance partner, currently dancing the Sugar Plum Fairy. Besides John, she was the closest thing he had to a true friend, which was good because he supposed anyone else would have killed him by now for his perfectionist ways.
“Sherlock, seriously. It’s perfect. You’re perfect, so stop worrying.” She brushed her mousy brown hair out of her eyes and re-tightened her ponytail, before bending down to unlace her pointe shoes. “Plus, Greg is coming to pick me up,” She said, mischievous sparkle in her brown eyes.
“Greg, is it?” Sherlock asked, removing his own shoes and pulling his leg behind him into a stretch. “Tsk, tsk, Molly.”
“Just because some of us have a love life. Speaking of which, how is yours coming along? How is John? Have you told him yet?”
“Molly, how many times-” he began, dropping his leg and pulling his other up for the same treatment. “It’s not like that. I don’t think, anyway. And no, I haven’t.”
“Sherlock. I think you’re being silly. Just tell him. I’m sure it will be fine, John likes you, I know it.”
“How can you possibly know that?”
“Well,” Molly smiled, “Greg just happens to be John’s teammate, and he says John has mentioned a certain someone he’s been trying to make a move on. A certain brilliant someone, with dark curly hair and piercing green eyes.”
“Oh god,” Sherlock groaned, dropping his leg and sitting down cross legged on the tiled floor. He cradled his head in his hands.
“Did I miss something?” Molly asked, confused. “I thought that would be a good thing.”
“He asked me to go to the Nutcracker with him. Because he knew I liked it.”
“Awww!” Molly squealed, bouncing up and down. “That’s so cute! What did he say when you told him you were in it?”
“I didn’t,” he mumbled.
“I’m sorry?”
“I didn’t tell him,” Sherlock moaned, dropping his hands and looking up at her. “I said I was busy that night.”
“Sherlock-”
“I know! I know, okay. It was a bit not good. He probably thinks- Oh god, do you think? He thinks I have another date.”
“You have been spending a lot of time out of the flat and not telling him much, and then he asks you out, finally might I add, and you say you’re ‘busy’? Yeah, I’m pretty sure he thinks that’s what you meant.”
“Oh, god.”
Molly stepped closer and grabbed Sherlock’s shoulder, giving him a pat. “Just tell him, Sherlock. Tell him that you’re absolutely gone on him, but that yes you’re busy because you’re in the darned show. Then invite him to come kiss you afterwards,” she smirked.
“Molly!”
“Hey. Just a suggestion.” She gave him another pat before moving away to pick up her bag. “I gotta run, but just think about it, okay? Tell him.”
Sherlock isn’t sure how long he sat there after Molly left. Thoughts of John and the night before kept playing in his mind. John’s fingers on his skin, John’s earnest face as he’d asked him to the show, the sad smile and pain-filled eyes as he left. He should tell him. He should. But then thoughts of other past friendships came to mind. Victor and Seb, taunting him, pushing him, setting fire to his ballet slippers, chants of “freak” echoing in his brain. Bloody noses and fingers, tears and heartbreak.
But John. John was different. Wasn’t he? Sherlock closed his eyes thinking of all the time he’d spent in his company over the two years they’d lived together. John getting on him to eat, making him watch those horrible action movies with him, nights spent huddled together in front of the telly. Dinners after rugby games, studying together, Sherlock helping John with his classes. John, with his jumpers and soft smiles and infectious giggles. Yes. John was different. And he was going to take the chance and tell him the truth. Tonight.
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Sherlock glanced at his phone for the tenth time in the past hour. 12:52 AM. No calls. No texts. No answer to the attempts he had made to reach out to John. And it didn’t appear as if he was coming back tonight. With a sigh, Sherlock pulled himself off the sofa and walked over to his bag pulling out the playbill for tomorrow’s show and the ticket. He laid both on the kitchen table, with a note, then retired to his room and climbed into bed.
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The show was a rousing success. Sherlock stood in the wings and listened as Molly took her bow, then joined the rest of the cast on the stage to take their final curtain call. His eyes scanned the crowd looking for blond hair and the face he’d come to know so well, though he knew it was pointless, he couldn’t see anything with the bright lights shining in his eyes. He bowed for the final time and moved off stage, heading to the dressing room.
Sherlock changed quickly, steadying himself with the mundane tasks trying to keep his mind off the bitter disappointment at the fact that John was not there to greet him. He tried to shut down the billowing emotions, considering what his next move should be. He didn’t really want to go back to the flat tonight, he wasn’t sure he could face John, face the fact that John didn’t want him after all. But neither did he want to be amongst others, go to the cast party that was sure to be a raging bore, pretend to be happy when he was really anything but.
Sighing, he washed off his stage makeup and packed up his bag, schooling his features to go and join the cast. A knock on the door broke him from his thoughts. He must’ve been in here longer than he’d thought.
“Just a minute,” he called, striding across the room and throwing open the door. He’d expected to find Molly on the threshold, so he was wholly unprepared for the sight that greeted him.
John Watson stood outside his door, looking fantastic in a freshly pressed pair of tan trousers and a blue button down. John smiled, bringing his hand from around his back, and revealing a single red rose.
“I, uh, heard the star was supposed to get flowers, but I didn’t find that out until it was too late. This was the best I could do on short notice.”
“You swiped that from Molly didn’t you?”
“I can neither confirm nor deny that. But it’s yours now.”
He extended his hand, and Sherlock took it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling its fragrance. He took a deep breath, attempting to keep his smile from growing too far out of control.
“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said, looking at John from beneath his lashes.
“Jesus, Sherlock. Why didn’t you just tell me?”
“I was afraid to. I’d had a bad time with... friends once they found out what I did. In my experience, rugby players don’t like ballet dancers.”
“Well, all I can say is, Sherlock, that they are bloody idiots, and had no clue what they were missing. You were incredible out there tonight. Amazing. Absolutely brilliant.”
Sherlock looked up sharply at John’s words, his face heating with the praise lavished in his direction. He his eyes scanned John’s face, searching for any trace of a lie.
“You really mean that, don’t you?” he asked, unable to keep the astonishment out of his voice.
“Of course I do,” John smiled. “But you’re also the biggest git on the planet.”
Sherlock’s brow furrowed, his smile faltering slightly.
“Yes, the two aren’t mutually exclusive. You hid this from me, for all this time. Did you ever think that I’d love to see this part of you, see what you liked, what you enjoyed? You came to my practices, cheered me on, did you not think I’d do the same for you?”
“Well, I - didn’t think you liked dance. Last Christmas I tried. Remember?”
“Sherlock,” John sighed, stepping in fully and closing the door, “I may not like dance, but in case you hadn’t noticed, I do like you.”
“You do?” Sherlock breathed, hope beginning to bloom in his chest.
John stepped closer, placing his hand on Sherlock’s waist, his fingers lightly brushing against the waistband of his trousers. “Mmm. I do. And maybe, you like me too?”
Sherlock closed the distance between them, his heart beating out a staccato rhythm he was sure John could hear. His fingers clutched at John’s bicep, the muscles jumping slightly under his touch. He bent down until they were only inches apart, their shared breath mingling in the close space.
“John, I have another confession,” he whispered.
“Go on, then,” John’s voice no more than a puff of air against his lips.
“I detest rugby. But I quite like watching the captain play.”
John giggled, the sound floating between them and filling Sherlock’s pores with a joy and contentment that he’d never quite felt before. He wanted to capture that sound, wanted to bottle it and keep it, pull it out on cold days and wrap up warm in it.
He settled for tasting it.
The first press was tentative, a tender slide of lips, and Sherlock thrilled to learn that John’s mouth was as soft as it looked. John reached up and threaded his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and deepened the kiss, touching his tongue to the seam of Sherlock’s lips. Sherlock opened to John, and John immediately took advantage, licking into Sherlock’s mouth and sucking his bottom lip between his teeth. Sherlock moaned, and wrapped both arms around John, grasping at his back, pulling him closer.
John broke away, resting his forehead against Sherlock’s and catching his breath. “Jesus. You’ve no idea how long I wanted to do that.”
“Oh I think I might.” And just because he could, because he was allowed, he bent his head and captured John’s mouth again, their tongues twisting, the kiss hot, but not hungry, a fire held in reserve for now.
“John,” Sherlock whispered when they parted again, “I have to make an appearance at the party. But I was hoping, well, would you accompany me, as my date, perhaps?”
John leaned up on his toes and pressed kisses to Sherlock’s cheekbones, first one then the other. “I’d be honoured to. But after, I’m going to take you back to the flat for a true celebration.”
Sherlock gulped, tamping down on the sudden wave of arousal at the implication in John’s words. “Oh, and what would that entail?” He asked, voice trembling only slightly.
John pulled away, heading towards the dressing room door. “Mmm, that’s to be determined. But, one thing, for me? Bring the tights, will you? I find I’m quite fond of them.” John opened the door and with a wink pushed through it, leaving Sherlock stunned in his wake.
Shaking himself out of his haze, he chuckled and grabbed his bag, following behind John. He gazed at the single rose he still clasped in his right hand, and a smile blossomed on his face. Not many people surprised him, but he was glad that John was so much more than he seemed.