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John’s fingers traced his copy of the keys to 221B, having practically run out the door after Mary reassured him that she’s fine, she’d have a quiet night in while and to be safe if it was a case. The text didn’t offer much by way of explanation, but John would always be there, explanation present or not.
Come at once. Alone. - SH
Now, he stood outside, his back to the world, having a quiet moment before he entered whatever mayhem Sherlock may or may not have caused. If he was honest with himself, he rather hoped Sherlock would need him to stay the night to deal with whatever he summoned him for.
They haven’t been alone, John thought, for a while. Mary was always with John, and whenever he and Sherlock met up these days it was mostly for wedding preparations. To be honest, John was surprised with the force Sherlock took to the planning. Mostly, John was happy to sit and observe him, leaving the decisions for the detective.
“John?” Sherlock peaked from behind a computer screen.
“Sorry?” his mind had wandered once again.
“I asked, Lilac or Sunglow?” Sherlock repeated, his eyebrows knitted in thought.
“Either is fine, you pick,” John replied, a light smile on his face as he averted his gaze from the detective’s stare.
It was not lost on all of them – Mary was very much present in the kitchen – that John wasn’t as enthusiastic about all the possible choices one needs to make to plan a wedding as Mary, instead, he always deferred to Sherlock’s opinion, which he deemed expert in anything.
Pushing those thoughts, he pressed the key inside and promptly closed the door behind him. He could faintly hear Mrs. Hudson clattering about in her kitchen, an aroma of fresh baking wafted in the air. He smiled warmly at fond memories when the three of them sat to indulge in tea and scones.
He shook his head and made his way towards the stairs, and it was then that he heard the sounds of music. Specifically, the violin.
Seventeen steps later, he pushed open the door of his previous residence. There, by the table, Sherlock stood with his back to John, he was hunched over his laptop, the violin in his other hand. The music paused, and a rich baritone filled the flat.
“John, stop hovering outside and come in. Discard your jacket and make us some tea.”
“Evening to you too,” John responded and complied. He averted his gaze from the detective’s back and took in the living room. The main floor was clear of everything, even the chairs by the table were removed to the kitchen, and the arm chairs lay against the fireplace. Besides that, everything looked fine. Why…?
“Sherlock, why did you text? What’s the reason of….” John gestured around, “this?”
At that, the detective spun around and regarded John from top to bottom. “Mm, yes, they’ll do,” he spoke to John’s shoes, and curtly returned to his laptop.
“Right,” John made his way to the kitchen and prepared two cups of tea, he knows he’ll get some sort of an answer afterwards.
A few strokes of the violin sounded from Sherlock, and more tinkering with the laptop. Composing, then. The smile returned, it has long been a pleasure to hear Sherlock’s musical musings out loud. John could make out Sherlock’s moods depending on what he played, and how he played it.
The snippets he was hearing were sweet, gentle, calming, and slow. If he thought deeply about it, he’d feel a bit of sweetened melancholy in it.
He closed his eyes, and let the music sway with him as he waited for the kettle. This very violin had helped him through difficult nights. At the start, when sometimes they’d be unsure how to approach certain topics, music was the way they communicated. John would move the violin to somewhere more obvious, and Sherlock would notice, pick it up, and play something based on what he could deduce about John.
At night, when his nightmares woke him, he could hear music coming from downstairs, soothing him, and he’d usually fall asleep to it once more. On the more brutal nightmares that have him grabbing his gun and aiming at mid air, on those nights, he’d sit at the top most step, to better hear the music. The step would groan as it took his weight, and John had long since figured that Sherlock knows he’s there. Neither made the effort to invite the other upstairs or downstairs.
“John, the kettle.”
John startled, abandoned his thoughts and poured them tea.
He went to place the cups by the table when he noticed Sherlock had put away his instrument, and was waiting for him. Silence ensured.
John coughed. “Made tea.” He mentally cursed himself.
Sherlock sprung into action then and there, and spoke rapidly as he accepted his cup. “I know you are a man of many skills, John, and they’ve been of tremendous help throughout our friendship. However, you lack one that is most unacceptable in the face of your marriage, and thereby, ultimately, you’ll have to confront it.”
“I’m going to take the compliments in there, ta,” John cocked his head in confusion, “but I don’t understand.” Truly, he was confused.
“Don’t be dull, John.” He took a sip and looked anywhere but at John.
John was even more dumbfounded. “I’m not being dull, you’re the one who isn’t clear. What do I lack that’s so important for my marriage?” Honestly, if anyone knows skills and qualities that are suitable for socially living with someone, it’d be John, not the proclaimed sociopath
“Dance.” Sherlock declared, and met his eyes.
Stunned into silence, John took a sip to buy himself time. The state of the living room, the music, and laptop and what looked like music software on it, the pieces were falling into place.
“Now, I’m a much more graceful dancer than you are and I know you’ve barely had any formal training, unlike me. My mother insisted, you see, in Eton. We’ll start with the simplest of dances, basic moves and shuffle so you can survive the dance floor,” Sherlock took John’s cup and deposited their cups somewhere safe, “now, I’ve composed something that I intend to be in the first dance, it’s a draft, I have to add a few more elements for the background, but fear not, it’ll be ready on the designated day. Meanwhile, we’ll practice with the main melody. Ready?”
John gaped. “I…you’re going to teach me how to dance?” John echoed back.
“Obviously, John, do keep up.” Sherlock clicked the play button and took his spot in the middle of the room, gesturing for John to follow. A sweet melody filled the air.
John followed silently.
“The waltz is traditionally a smooth dance, meaning that it travels around the room in a counterclockwise direction.” Sherlock raised his hands and demonstrated, elegantly circling the room. John admired the man’s lithe form, his eyes tracing him around the room, moving to the notes of the music, which was well written.
“The steps of a simple waltz,” Sherlock began as he came to stand in front of John, “are just that, simple.”
“I love your compositions,” John voiced out loud and hastily added, “I mean, I love what you wrote, yes, yes…” Why the hell was he stumbling?
“I – thank you, John,” Sherlock looked away shyly and John noted a bit of colour rise on him.
“You’re right, I never learned how to dance properly.” John affirmed and licked his lips in nervousness.
“As is evident, John. I’ll assume the role of the woman,” Sherlock stepped forward draped his left around on top of John’s right shoulder, “your right hand on my shoulder blade, and your left palm to palm with mine.”
John abashedly rested his right head under Sherlock’s arm, just by his shoulder blade, so the man’s arms and hands rested above him. He grasped Sherlock’s cool hand with his other, shuffled his feet and with courage, looked up at Sherlock.
“John, you’re not in parade.” Sherlock cocked his eyebrow and continued, “don’t be tense. Dance is supposed to be fluid, graceful, moving on light toes and not a soldier's march.”
John attempted to let go, but dammit, the tension didn’t fully melt away. He felt himself go red in the face, he tried ignoring the voice in the back of his mind. Not appropriate, John, he shook his head slightly and licked his bottom lip again, focusing on the beautiful drags of the biolin.
“Good, now, with your left leg, take a step forward, yes, just like that, good, no no wait, with your right food, you lift it and move forward but step to the side,” Sherlock guided him, pressing firm pressure on his shoulder, pulling his palm in the right direction as they moved through the steps.
For John’s part, he kept looking downward, tracking their feet, and even then he bumped into Sherlock a few times, “sorry sorry,” and stumbled here and there, “I’m way out of practice, eh?” He felt inadequate, and grew tenser by the second, trying to memorize and move with half as much grace as Sherlock but he still couldn’t. Thoughts were gnawing at the back of his mind, he shook his head to clear them but they persisted.
“Bring your left to your right, and shift your weight, then the right goes backwards, followed by the left but like the previous step, it moves to the side. One, two, three, and one, two, three,” Sherlock continued to guide him, his rich baritone reverberated through him.
He’s always loved the deep voice, he imagined how it’d sound right when he woke up, groggy with sleep and – no, focus.
One, two, thre – one, tw – no – one, two, three – one – one – one, two, th –
John let out deep sigh of frustration, he kept stepping on Sherlock's feet or moving in the wrong direction, muttering apologies and profanities. Why can’t he move properly, god dam –
“John.”
His head snapped back up at the mention of his name, then back down as they stumbled once again. “God, sorry, I’m awful,” he said, and his face heated up.
“John. Look at me.”
They paused and John tensed. He didn’t want to look up into those bright grey-blue eyes. He didn’t trust himself.
“John?”
“Mm, yes, what?” He dumbly asked, and finally gazed up at Sherlock. God, please don’t deduce what I’m only now slowly deducing about myself. “Maybe we should stop, I’m just no dancing material.”
He tried pulling away but Sherlock drew him in again, "don't be ridiculous, John, you’re not a lost cause,” he loosened his grip once again, preparing for another round of steps, and added, “not yet.”
“Thanks,” John answered sarcastically, taking note of their closer proximity.
“Don’t think about it, John, look at me and trust yourself,” a smile played at the edges of Sherl
John did just that, he gazed at those eyes, and when the music reset, he took the step forward. To the side. Backward. To the side again. The tension in his shoulders seemed to melt and his grip loosened. One, two, three, and one, two, three.
It was warm, being this close to the detective. He felt the pressure relieved from Sherlock’s hands until it was John who was fully leading, with the music, round the room, eyes locked on Sherlock.
Seconds turned into minutes, and with each step, John relaxed further, surrendering to Sherlock’s melody, to his body, forward, step, slide, backwards, step, slide.
As they danced around the room, John felt safe. Safer than he ever did. His eyes roamed across face, noticing the lines and faint scars that weren’t there nearly three years ago. His eyes traveled down to that cupid bow, and that mouth, Christ, that mouth… opened in an oh, and Sherlock’s eyes widened and zoned in.
An electric pulse vibrated through John, his mind half in panic at the dawning realization, a look of horror crossed his face just as it crashed on top of him, right then and there, that he was marrying the wrong person. And that Sherlock has quite possibly deduced it the same moment John did.
“How lovely! Are you practicing for the wedding?” Mrs Hudson’s voice came from the door, and both of them broke immediately, John’s hands landed on his hips, while Sherlock turned to the window. Shit, what just happened?
“Yes, yes, just teaching me how to dance, since I’m crap at it, and I don’t want to embarrass Mary, yup, yes,” he smiled sheepishly, and Mrs Hudson gave him that look, all the while a parallel train of thought ran through his mind. One title ‘ I Love Sherlock Holmes But I Need This Friendship The Way I Need Oxygen.’
“Well, I won’t interrupt much longer boys, just came to drop these scones. I’m heading to bed, see you in the morning, Sherlock.” With that, the landlady departed, the door closed shut.
Christ, he hasn’t even heard her climb the stairs. Christ, Sherlock, hadn’t heard her either. He turned to the detective, who was directing his sharp piercing gaze onto John. He took a sharp breath, felt lead drop in his stomach, and held said breath.
The next seconds stretched in hours, and John did not dare move. Sherlock seemed to gather what he needed to gather, he gave a curt nod and extended his hand to John. “Shall we resume? Mrs Hudson caught us in more compromising positions.”
John pushed past the play on words, faintly remembering the organs and bloody knives that might look like they were partners in crime to anyone but their loved ones. He cleared his throat, and was prepared to say no, thanks, bid his farewell and make his way back to the person he will be marrying in few short weeks. Put this whole thing behind because it’s too late and no no no he’ll not be dancing anymore today thank you very much.
“Yes.”
He kicked himself mentally.
They resumed their earlier positions, a fair amount of distance between them this time, they waited till the music reset, holding each other, looking at each other.
One, two, three, and one two three. This is a dangerous dance. One, two, three, and one two three. Dangerous indeed.
“John, there’s….” Sherlock trailed, his eyes focused behind John, and John was mentally preparing how to save himself. “There has been something in your expression that I haven’t been able to understand for a while?” Sherlock finally spoke, and watched John’s face for a reaction.
“Leave it to you to figure out something about me before I do.” One, two, three, and one, two, three. “Don’t push your luck.” He said with a tone of finality and warning.
At that, a flash of something he couldn’t name flickered across Sherlock’s face. “It’s me, then.” He said with a neutral voice.
John stilled. This was it. This was how he came to ruin their relationship. And consequently his marriage because Sherlock would tell Mary. And –
Sherlock pulled from John and went to face the window, dropping John’s hand, trailing his fingertips against him until they no longer touched. He stood tall, brooding, commanding a presence. John shut his eyes, expecting abuse. The kind his father has spit. ‘Ain’t no son of mine a faggot like that sister of yours.’
“I, at least, have a right to know what I did wrong.”
John’s eyes snapped open. “What?”
“Just the straight hard facts, John.”
“I have no idea what the hell you’re talking about.”
“Oh please, ” Sherlock turned, venom in his voice. “Since the wedding planning, really, that’s when it all started. You avoided being alone with me, Mary was always there, by your side. I went head first into planning your wedding, John, no matter how it tore at me. I wanted this to be perfect for you, and when I tried going on cases, you are never there, John! No matter what I do, no matter how much I do. And the one time Mary told you to jump on a case with me, she ended up being involved, and we barely talked , John. I accepted it, really. You were moving on, and I respect that. I do. I just wanted to spend one more night with you, John. Alone.
“So I texted. I’d teach you to waltz, because your dancing skills are near none, and it’d be our last time together, not with Mary hovering in the peripheral. And then that look crossed your face, the same one that passes at least twice when you look at me every time you and Mary come over. I don’t know what it is , John, but I know it’s about me. And I know you can’t stand being in the same room. You can’t stand engaging in a conversation with me, even one with a happy topic such as your wedding. Lilac or sunglow, John? You pick. ” Sherlock didn’t even seem to breathe throughout the entire speech. His chest heaved now, heavily, eyes fire, boldened and daring John.
This was wrong. So wrong on many levels.
“You don’t understand,” John said quietly, anger and shame simmered beneath his surface, but he was interrupted by Sherlock.
“What don’t I understand?” Sherlock strided to loom above John, who kept still and didn’t break under the penetrating gaze. He shut his eyes, and shook his head.
“I can’t,” John began, but he didn’t know how to finish it. I can’t because I love you. I can’t because my love might ruin this friendship. I can’t because admitting it will crush Mary. I can’t because this is new, and I’m afraid.
Deduce, Sherlock, dear God, deduce it.
“You can’t. You can’t even say it,” a hurt expression passed across Sherlock’s face, “I don’t understand, I tried doing everything right since I came back, John, for you.”
Sherlock’s eyes looked shiny, no longer in control of himself. John himself looked close to crumbling.
“I love you.” John’s whispered words took a minute to reach Sherlock, and another minute to process it over. The man stood like a statue.
John could have let the man believe he hated him for whatever reason and moved on with Mary, but that’s not true, so he settled on the truth. And to hell with what becomes.
Afterall, leave it to Sherlock Holmes to figure out something is up with John for the past few weeks before John reached such a conclusion himself. Except Sherlock didn’t know what was the reason. Now he did. Thus, John, emboldened, took the plunge into the deep end.
“I love you. Christ, Sherlock. I think I’ve always loved you. I just denied myself, again and again. And I just reached the conclusion right now, Sherlock. Mere minutes ago. So, I don’t know. I don’t know anything except one thing. What you deduced about me, is wrong . Hell, I couldn’t wait to arrive today. I knew it wasn’t urgent, your text, but I got the okay from Mary, and she was gonna have a quiet night in, and I’d spend the evening doing whatever it is you summoned me for. Just the two of us,” he huffed a breath and continued.
“Hell, I may not have known I loved you then but I sure as hell wasn’t running away from you, Sherlock. I wasn’t. I wasn’t aware of my actions, but on some level, I was denying myself. I didn’t mean to hurt you, in the process. I just….” He rubbed his face tiredly, looking anywhere but at Sherlock. “I’m sorry.”
Finally, John looked at the detective. The expression that met him was one of utter shock, as if whatever Sherlock was expecting John to say was far from what has been said. The man closed his gaping mouth. Swallowed. Took a deep breath in, and John in turn stood tall, like a soldier, awaiting rebuke.
None came. Instead, Sherlock whispered across from him, “I am sorry, too,” and then with gentleness John didn’t know the man possessed, he placed his arms around John, and they embraced.
Confused. John was confused. That was his default that night, apparently, and they’d recall it with amusement while they reminisce about their younger, foolish selves, from the armchairs of their retirement cottage.
John’s arms squeezed the detectives back, and Sherlock patted him gently before extracting himself. “Tea, I should think. And talk.” With that said, the detective went to start the kettle.
The following minutes were companionable. As long as Sherlock’s hurt and venomous tone was gone, John was okay. He was oddly calm, despite everything. The quiet anger that simmered had vanished as soon as he stopped denying his feelings. He now knows it was directed at himself. Self-loathing. He had his father to thank for that. Internalized homophobia indeed.
Sherlock’s footsteps sounded nearer. He gave John a cup and sat by his chair. He took a deep breath in and it was clear he was articulating his thoughts while preparing tea.
“I apologize for my tone, John. It was unwarranted and I have theorized without gathering enough data, only because I acted from a place of heart, instead of brain. I let my emotions get the better of me, and it was because I love you too, John.” His gaze landed expectantly on John.
For his part, John gaped like a fish yet again. What is it with his gaping and confusion today? He shook his head. “You love me?” He asked, dumbfounded by the revelation.
“Yes, John, you know I do loathe to repeat myself.”
“Well, yes, I was just making sure I wasn’t hallucinating.”
“Don’t be dull, John.”
“Mm, yes. We have a lot to unpack.”
“That, we do.”
They talked. With complete honesty. Sherlock went over John’s actions, and John commented on what actually happened. They went backwards with the timeline, and talked about things they never dared to talk about before.
It was hours later, by the crackling fire, that they repeated their earlier words to each other.
“I love you.”
“I love you too, John.” Sherlock smiled that shy smile of his that John was all too familiar with.
“You know,” John stood up and Sherlock followed. He didn’t have to finish his thought because Sherlock read it in his body language, and he met Sherlock halfway through, a gentle kiss at first, testing, tasting, lavishing, and then more, and deeper, and harder, until they broke for breath.
“We’ll deal with all of it.” Sherlock spoke, having seemingly read JOhn’s worries on him.
“Yeah, we will.’ Mary, the wedding, this new relationship, they’ll think about it later.
“For now, John, will you join me for a dance?” There goes that shy smile again, gone is the confident nonchalant of the earlier night.
“For another dangerous dance? I’m afraid of where we might end up,” John smirked, his eyes landed on the couch, then the bedroom.
“A dangerous dance indeed, John.”