Work Text:
Loud music greeted Sherlock Holmes as he walked up the stairs to his flat. Dance music. Music one would hear in a nightclub. It seemed out of place for the occupants of 221B, considering Sherlock's preference for classical music and Mrs Hudson's bad hip, which would not be ideal for dancing.
He opened the door and smiled fondly, leaning against the door frame. In front of him was John Watson, eyes closed, dancing in the most carefree manner. Sherlock's eyes traveled from his impressive footwork to his rather flexible hips. He moved perfectly in time to the music. There was a light sheen of sweat on his skin, indicating that he had been dancing for a while. Sherlock's favourite observation, however, was the expression of unrestrained joy on John's face. It was beautiful and innocent, making him look younger in a way.
John Watson, the army doctor, the crack shot who never hesitated in the face of danger, the man who carried wounds too painful to speak out loud, felt safe. Sherlock's heart filled with joy at this realisation.
"Are you going to join me or are you just going to stand there?" asked John, smiling at Sherlock and holding his hand out.
Sherlock did not realise John had noticed him watching. He straightened up and reached for him, returning his smile. "This isn't a waltz, is it?"
John chuckled and pulled him close. "No. Come on, husband."