Work Text:
Need favour, please help!
John eyes his phone suspiciously, wondering what Mike could possibly want from him this time. It’s been busier at the surgery than usual, and his days are crammed full of sneezing and coughing elderly people; he’s not too sure what sort of favour he would have time to grant.
He heaves a loud, put-upon sigh, then types in his answer.
I’ll bite. What do you need?
The answer comes back within seconds.
I’ve just come down with ‘flu, I won’t be able to make it into work tonight. I desperately need someone to replace me!
John looks down at his jam-packed planner, then at his phone. He’s still got six more patients to see today, and he’s exhausted. He wants to say no, but this is Mike, and Mike had gotten him out of many a hard spot in uni.
All right. What do I need to do?
Ta very much, mate! Did I mention you get free tickets to the ballet?
***
Mike’s job, as it turns out, is leader of the medical team of the lead dancer of The Royal Ballet. John watches, slightly awed at his good fortune, as the dancers flit about around him, pulling on costumes and applying makeup. There’s an undercurrent of tension, however, and John slowly becomes aware of its source as he realizes his charge is nowhere to be found. Starting to get desperate, he looks around until he spots a young dancer slipping on her shoes in a corner, away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the company.
“Hi! Sorry, I’m Dr. Watson, I’m just here replacing Dr. Stamford tonight. Would you happen to know where Sherlock Holmes is? I’m kind of supposed to be taking care of him,” he tells her, letting his eyes smile. She looks up, looking startled at the attention.
“Oh! Hello! Molly Hooper!” she blurts out. John waits a moment while she collects herself, then seems to remember he had asked a question. “Right! Sherlock! He doesn’t normally make us wait quite this long, but he’s always late. Just… wait for him, I guess? Dr. Stamford hardly does anything for him, really, he mainly keeps to himself!”
“Does he, now? All right, then, I guess I’ll just… wait? How will I know when I see him?”
Molly Hooper gives him a snarky sort of smile. She ties off her shoe and stands. “Trust me, Dr. Watson. You’ll know.”
She walks away into the crowd of dancers all huddling around the curtains. John keeps looking around, puzzled, unsure of how exactly he’s going to recognize his patient, but he doesn’t have to wait very long.
“Dr. Watson, I presume,” says a deep, silky voice directly beside his left ear. John jumps and whirls around.
“Sherlock Holmes, then?” he asks, sticking out his hand. Sherlock Holmes shakes it, looking him up and down.
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
John gapes. “What?”
“Afghanistan or Iraq?”
“I— Afghanistan… How did you—.”
The next few seconds pass by in a whirlwind as his entire military past is laid bare by a complete stranger. John can’t seem to pick his jaw up off the floor as Sherlock describes his habits, accolades, and most interestingly, his shoulder wound.
There are several moments of silence after Sherlock stops talking. John manages to get his mouth working again.
“That— That was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary.”
Sherlock’s eyes immediately focus on his, his entire body freezing.
“D’you really think so?”
John nods slowly. They look at each other, and John feels a jolt when their eyes meet again. Sherlock’s eyes are a gorgeous shade of light blue with several flecks of green, gold and grey thrown in; he feels like he’s drowning in the sky.
Sherlock, on his end, looks just as surprised as John; they keep staring at each other until a makeup artist angrily shouts, “Sherlock, get your arse over here!” and the spell is broken. Sherlock rushes away.
Later, standing in the wings during the show, John can’t help but think that Sherlock dancing is the most beautiful thing he’s ever had the privilege to witness.
***
It isn’t long before Mike texts John again, but this time, John is more than willing to see the mysterious dancer again. He fires off a quick affirmative reply, then heads straight over to the Royal Opera House after work.
Today, Sherlock is there early; he’s standing with Molly Hooper, and they seem to be having a heated argument. When John comes into view, Molly quickly stands up to leave, and when Sherlock makes to follow her, John realizes he’s got a slight limp in his left leg.
“Sherlock! What happened to your leg?”
Sherlock whirls to face him, but the pain is evident in his face. “I landed wrong during a jump last performance. I know I can go on, but I need something to— Agh! What are you doing!?”
John continues his slow palpation of Sherlock’s knee through his dark silver tights. “Feeling around for your ligaments. Could you sit down, please? We haven’t got much time.”
Sherlock opens his mouth, looking indignant, but John gives him his best Captain Watson look, and he sits right down. John continues feeling around his knee until he comes across the offending ligament. “Looks like you stretched this. It’s not a big deal, nothing’s torn, but you’re going to need a brace. Have you got a supply room?”
They quickly find the brace, get it into position, and soon, Sherlock is ready to perform. John helps him up and lets his fingers linger much longer than is strictly necessary once they’re both standing. Sherlock eyes their joined fingers and blushes adorably.
“I should— You know. Go…” he manages. John grins up at him.
“Don’t break a leg!” he laughs, and Sherlock gives a surprised sort of giggle.
“I’ll try not to,” he mumbles, then heads off towards the makeup team.
That night, as John watches him whirl about the stage in The Winter’s Tale, landing pirouette after pirouette, he finds himself wondering just how long it’ll be before Mike needs another favour.
Sherlock flies effortlessly into the air, his dark curly hair wild around his face as John watches, hypnotized.
He hopes it isn’t long at all.
***
Over the next six months, John replaces Mike eight more times. Sherlock doesn’t often need tending to, but he does need to track down the brace twice more during his visits; it seems that that particular knee has gotten weaker over the years. To his surprise, Sherlock doesn’t protest at all when he examines him anymore, and he even submits willingly to the brace, no questions asked.
John learns that Sherlock grew up in Cornwall, in a very posh family with a penchant for science. While Sherlock was incredibly gifted at chemistry, it wasn’t what he wanted to do; the stage beckoned, and Sherlock was only too eager to answer its call. The result was that he hardly ever spoke to his family, but he hoped to go back towards the science field once his dance career ended, and this pesky ligament was starting to make him wonder if his time wasn’t coming to an end.
Sherlock tells him he wants to become a Consulting Detective.
John tells Sherlock about his time in the army, but mostly, he allows Sherlock to deduce him and figure it out for himself. Sherlock seems delighted at having an audience that is enthusiastic rather than hostile, and John finds himself asking him to do it more and more often, if only to glimpse the blush that spreads across his cheeks when John asks. Sherlock deduces his tumultuous family life, his PTSD, his occasional psychosomatic limp (which, oddly enough, is never around on days when he has to replace Mike), but mistakes John’s sister Harry for a brother. John giggles at his bemused expression.
This also means that eight more times, John gets the privilege of watching Sherlock dance.
While he may be quiet, sarcastic, and occasionally abrasive backstage, on stage is a completely different story. Each movement whispers, speaks, screams his emotions and intentions, and each time, John is just as entranced as the last.
By the eighth time, John comes to the conclusion that it isn’t just Sherlock’s dancing that keeps him entranced and coming back for more; it’s the man himself.
And John has absolutely no idea what to do about it.
***
John gets the call at half six, just as he’s about to get on the tube and go home to his tiny bedsit. Frankly, he’s quite grateful not to have to do that.
“John Watson speaking.”
“John! It’s Mike! I’m so sorry it’s late, but something’s come up and I can’t go into work tonight! One of the kids has caught gastroenteritis at school, I can’t leave the house—.”
John feels his heart speed up at the thought of seeing Sherlock again.
“Mike! Mike, it’s fine! I can still get there in time, I’ll do it. You all right with the kids?”
There’s a relieved sigh down the line, then the sound of a child screaming and retching.
“You’re a saint, John, thank you!” he cries, then abruptly hangs up. John shakes his head, then heads back up the steps to get on the tube in the other direction. He checks his watch, but he’s fairly sure he’ll make it to Covent Garden on time.
He tries to pretend that the hammering in his chest is because he’s nervous about treating Sherlock, and not just because he’s bursting with excitement to see him.
***
John bursts in the side door, quickly scanning the crowd for Sherlock. He nearly jumps a foot in the air when someone taps him on the shoulder.
“John? Where’s Dr. Stamford?”
John turns around and smiles; he just barely manages to stop it from spreading into something dopier.
“Sherlock! He couldn’t make it, one of his kids got sick. D’you mind?”
Sherlock sits down and sticks out his leg. A blush colours his face as he mumbles, “Of course I don’t mind.”
He looks away, and John thinks it’s absolutely adorable. He kneels down to feel around his knee.
“Everything seems fine, tonight. Are you in any pain?”
Sherlock shakes his head, staring at where John’s fingers are still firmly touching his knee. John quickly pulls away, not wanting to make him uncomfortable. His fingers immediately feel cold.
“John, I—.”
“Sherlock!” someone shouts in the background, and Sherlock is up in a flash.
“You should— You should probably go,” John says awkwardly, running his hand through his hair. Sherlock nods and dashes off.
***
John takes his usual place and watches as Sherlock leaps onto the stage, his wintery costume glittering against the dark backdrop. His partner emerges from the other side, and together they do a lap of the stage, perfectly in sync, before Sherlock effortlessly tosses her into the air with a flourish. The dance is elaborate and beautiful, and as usual, Sherlock is breathtaking.
Soon, his partner exits on the other side of the stage, and Sherlock is left alone, in a solo with a darker atmosphere. His hair flies back and forth as his movements turn more choppy, tortured, and increasingly desperate. He rushes from one side of the stage to the other, his movements sharp and his pirouettes faster than lightning, then stops as he prepares to take his final leap of the solo: a flying double pirouette, landed on one foot nearly all the way across the stage. John holds his breath in anticipation.
Sherlock leaps, whirls through the air, twists, but— John gasps— for the first time, his twist is slightly too far, and he lands in a crashing heap on the ground.
The audience comes to their feet, their panic evident in their tittering and whispers.
John comes flying out of the curtains, kit in hand, heart pounding in his ears as he prays that Sherlock didn’t seriously injure himself. When he reaches him, Sherlock looks slightly dazed, but otherwise fine.
“John?” he mumbles, looking pleased. “You came!”
John rolls him into a more comfortable position as he takes a look at his leg, his chest tight. “Of course I came. Where else would I be?”
He looks up and catches Sherlock’s eye, and the shock of what he sees there slams through him right down to his toes.
He lets himself smile softly. “Why do you think I keep coming back, you git?”
Sherlock’s eyes widen. “Really?”
Behind them, the curtains close. The audience, realizing the crisis has passed, stops muttering and quiets.
It’s like they’re alone in a winter wonderland. John takes Sherlock’s hand in his.
“Yes, really. You’re— You’re really beautiful, Sherlock. And smart, brilliant, really, and—.”
He stops, because it’s hard to speak when someone else’s lips are pressed against yours. John pulls back with a smile.
“I didn’t know you felt that way about me,” he manages. Sherlock blushes a bit, and John has to physically stop himself from snogging him senseless.
“Why do you think I kept telling Mike to take a night off? You must have noticed that he never used to call you this often for sick days!”
John throws his head back and laughs. “I didn’t even think about it. Honestly, I was just excited to see you.”
Sherlock squeezes his hand tighter. “Glad we cleared that up, then.”
John smiles. “Me, too.”
Sherlock pulls himself to his feet, his leg barely wobbling beneath him. John follows suit.
“Well. That was the last act, they’re definitely not going to make me try that again tonight,” Sherlock says, his fingers nervously twisting around each other. “Dinner?”
John takes both of Sherlock’s hands in his, holding them tightly. He looks up at Sherlock and grins. “Starving!”