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Sherlock Dances	By : FairyBean Category: S through Z > Sherlock (BBC) > Sherlock (BBC) Views: 1037 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, I do not Profit from this writing and do not know or own Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Watson or any of the other characters used in this work. I also do not own Sherlock (BBC) franchise or anything related to it.

Chapter List
- 1-Sherlock Dances
- 1
Word Count: 2892
Written for a prompt on Tumblr,

Prompt: John finds out Sherlock is a great dancer. One day he just comes to Sherlock’s bedroom and Sherlock dances with him. Sherlock’s hands all over John’s body. Their bodies close to each other. bonded in a new, different, stronger way. they dance and john feels it. I want it subtle, romantic even. I want this dance scene to be like an evening in a dim-lighted restaurant somewhere in the suburbs in paris.
I'm not sure I did it justice, specially with the touching lol. But here is my little contribution.
Oneshot: Sherlock’s a dancer?!
It had been a long day, patients out of the door and barely five minutes to grab a coffee and a bite of the sandwich that Sarah had managed to get him sometime in her own busy day. John was glad to see the front door of 221B Baker street as he stepped out of the cab and thrust a note at the man. A very Sherlock thing to do, his mind provided dryly as he didn’t even look at the denomination of note he handed over, but the other part of his mind tells him to shut up, that he just wants to get inside.
As soon as he opened the door however he is stilled, the noise coming from upstairs is one he hasn’t heard for months now. Not since Sherlock was stuck on a rather tricky murder case that turned out not to be a murder at all. The beautiful tones of the strings floated down the stairs and John stood and listened, his hand on the door handle, the other hand holding a paper bag full of groceries. The music seemed sad somehow, as if the person wielding the bow was lost, something he knew Sherlock almost never was.
He shook himself out of the near stupor he was in enough to close the door silently. He didn’t want to disturb the detective and he knew he would if he made even the slightest sound. Letting the music wash over him he made for the stairs, putting his finger to his lips when Mrs. Hudson came out of her flat to tell him something and she just smiled and handed him some post. He nodded with a smile back and made his way slowly up the stairs. He knew where they creaked by now, knew where to stand to let Sherlock know he was coming, and where to place his feet- just so- so that no sound would be heard in the flat above.
The door at the top of the stairs was ajar, and John thought Sherlock had indeed heard him coming, and was about to sigh and push it open, while demanding some help with the shopping but he was brought to a standstill again, his fingertips millimetres from the soft wood of the door.
Sherlock was dancing.
There was no other word for it, the graceful sway of that lithe body as those long fingers pulled the bow across the strings. A turn, perfect precision in the placement of the feet so he didn’t trip. It was as Sherlock as it could be. Nothing out of place, his hair falling back to rest around his face when the turn was complete. His eyes closed, lost in the music he was playing and a barely there smile upon his otherwise expressionless face. And the thing John couldn’t keep his eyes off? The curve of his neck, leant slightly against the violin, straight on the other side where light shone so brightly it would blind him if he didn’t look away.
John blinked, licked his lips as he realised how dry they were. In fact his whole mouth was dry. Seeing Sherlock like that, the light covering him as he turned, catching the high cheekbones and little wisps of hair, made his entire body scream out to move but he watched as the shadows played with the light from the window over the black suit, jacket still on as if Sherlock had just returned himself but John knew that to be untrue.
It was breath-taking. He didn’t know how long he stood there, watching the form of his flatmate as the man moved throughout the living room, avoiding the chair, the ottoman, a cup that had been placed on the floor, half full of coffee still. John almost chuckled at that, and then the door banged downstairs and swift footsteps came towards him. The music had ceased immediately and so John moved to push open the door as Lestrade swept into the room. He was talking already but John had met Sherlock’s eyes and there was nothing he could do but stand and look. He couldn’t hear Lestrade until Sherlock looked away and said “What?”
He moved into the kitchen then, putting the kettle on for tea but knowing Sherlock would be unlikely to stay for it, and putting away the groceries. Moments later he was summoned and they were out of the flat and into a cab headed god knows where.
*
Three days later and John was still thinking about it. They had a case, multiple victims, seemingly unconnected, which meant Sherlock was happy. But John couldn’t shake the intensity of that music, the sadness that seemed to hit him only when he thought of it again in his head, without the enchanting vision of Sherlock moving about the room. Something had been wrong but there was no way to bring it up, no way to even mention it without embarrassing himself. And Sherlock hadn’t said a thing.
“John,” the exasperated voice came through his foggy mind and he looked up to see Sarah standing in front of him with her hands on her hips.
“Sorry,” he muttered and she sighed.
“I don’t want you to be sorry. We are done for the day, and I was asking if you wanted to go get a coffee?” her smile was nice, pretty. Her hair was let out of its updo now and hung around her shoulders. John smiled but the voice in his head told him it wasn’t a patch on Sherlock’s dark locks.
He didn’t know what to say, he didn’t want to go, but Sarah was nice. She didn’t yell or get angry when he missed shifts because of Sherlock, or if he was tired, and Sherlock had told him that she had a thing for him. He opened his mouth to make some excuse when his phone went off, loudly. He laughed nervously and looked at it, then his mouth went dry for a different reason and forgetting all about Sarah he answered it.
“Mycroft, what is it? What happened how is-“
“John calm down. Nothing happened, Sherlock is at home, and fine, well to you he will be. He is sulking with me. Tonight we are going out. Awards dinner for the boys in blue. I had to go in an official capacity, so you two are coming with us.”
John nodded, realised Mycroft couldn’t see that and stuttered a yes. “On my way,” he said softly and hung up. “Sorry Sarah,” he said, more confident now that he didn’t have to lie to her. “I have to go. Maybe another night?”
She nodded with a small smile and he grabbed his things and left.
*
There was no shouting like he had thought he would come home to when he entered 221B this time, only Mrs. Hudson with a package from Mycroft.
“He said to wear this dear, oh you boys will look so handsome. Hurry now, it’s already late.”
Thanking Mrs. Hudson he made his way up the stairs and into the living area. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen so he flicked the kettle on, putting two cups on the side with teabags, one sugar one without, before he went in search of the detective.
John checked the bathroom first, neutral territory because all of a sudden now he felt nervous. He wondered why Mycroft wasn’t there, and where he was if not here, and how will they know where they are going? But it is shoved aside as he pushes the door to Sherlock’s room open.
The man is there, half dressed, or undressed given that his hair is not wet, his shirt hanging unbuttoned, his belt unbuckled and he is hopping as he pulls of a sock. It must have done something to offend him because he throws it across the room with a small disgruntled noise before he notes John’s presence and gives him a smile. John starts to walk towards the light switch as it is gloomy inside the room but is stopped when Sherlock stops him with his voice.
“Have you see what my delightful brother wants me to wear?” he asked and gestured to the bed where a perfectly crisp tux is laid. John starts to shake his head to say he doesn’t see what is wrong with it when he realises that’s the problem. There isn’t anything out of the ordinary about it at all. Its not overly sharp, just straight dress trousers, shirt and jacket. There may be a vest but John isn’t sure. He laughs despite himself and goes to the wall.
“Well at least turn on the light Sherlock, its dark enough in here to not be able to see it properly anyway.”
“Have you got one too?” he asks, walking forwards, one sock on and one sock off. For some reason John feels bothered by that. Being able to see that pale skinned foot with its perfect toes. He shakes his head but then nods.
“Yes, I assume. But I haven’t opened it yet.”
Sherlock grabs the package from John and rips into it, revealing a black suit. Sherlock lets out a whine that has John holding his breath before he lets it go in a small whoosh.
“I don’t want to wear this, not when you get a suit.” He crossed his arms and made to leave.
“Don’t wear it then, you don’t have to.”
Sherlock stilled this time, looking at John with a strange expression, put into stark contrast by the light outside the window, orange like a street lamp. Though too, the shadows seem to be accented by moonlight. John blinked, what kind of thing is that to be thinking, but the room is silent now and a hand is reaching towards him. It alights on his chest, barely there, like a feather blown on the breeze and eyes, deep and searching look at him with something akin to concern.
“Are you alright?” Sherlock whispered it because to speak would be breaking whatever spell had fallen over them when that mixed colour of light had struck the alabaster of Sherlock’s skin. John nodded and opened his mouth to reassure the curly haired head that floated in front of him but whatever he was supposed to say got lost from his brain to his mouth and instead he muttered
“Dancing.”
His face turned crimson, the heat rising in his cheeks as Sherlock turned his detective gaze upon him to figure him out. The flushed skin, heightened rate of breathing and heartbeats. Any second Sherlock would be convinced something was wrong with him and try to get him to leave.
He didn’t want to leave, and so stepped forwards which caused Sherlock to laugh. “Make sense man,” he said, but it was still barely audible in the room. A car goes past outside, lighting up the scene for a moment with its headlights but then it is gone and silence, and the orange glow are all that remain. Sherlock is in front of him again, his long fingers gliding up over his chest and to his shoulders, to slowly push the jacket he is wearing from them and to the floor. John starts to stoop to pick it up but is stopped as the hands have not moved from his shoulders.
There is a question in those eyes that are looking at him now, but he doesn’t know how to answer it. And yet he knows that Sherlock will stand there like a statue until he does. Something is stirring within him and so he nods finally, and Sherlock eyes him for a moment before turning to move away. John grabs his wrist to stop him and finds them closer than he expected but doesn’t mind it even though a corner of his mind is screaming that this is a man, that he is straight, but its quietened by one thought
This is Sherlock 
The detective smiles again, starting to hum “I believe you wished to dance Dr Watson?” he says and places a light hand upon his hip before taking Johns hand and placing it upon his shoulder. From somewhere outside music starts up, and for a brief moment John wonders if Sherlock had this all planned, but then the thought is gone as Sherlock takes his hand and starts to move fluidly across the carpeted floor. John sees the full moon out of the window, wishes that the street lamp wasn’t so glaring before he looks into Sherlock’s eyes. Then he is lost again to that flowing music, and the sway of Sherlock’s movement.
John closes his eyes, finding that his body responds to Sherlock’s touch, to the music from outside and to the soft sound of their feet upon the thick carpet of the room. He stops for a moment, reality intruding as he realises that they are dancing. They are two men and dancing but Sherlock’s smile robs him of thought and they begin to turn again. John watches in awe as the curls slowly drift around Sherlock’s face and John sees a world of stars behind those eyes, starkly contrasting the darkness of the room.
Sherlock grabs the curtain as they go by, the sound rattling through the room and making a shiver go down John’s spine. The room is now bathed in the light from outside, no one is out there, the street dead for the time of night. John watches their shadows dance together, much closer than their real selves but he is no longer afraid of what people will say. Sherlock is here with him, and nothing else matters right now. John smiles, relaxing into the dance that Sherlock leads, and missteps, connecting their bodies at the chest, Sherlock’s naked chest. John can feel his skin beneath his fingers. They are still now and Sherlock’s arms are locked around him to stop him from falling.
Eyes meet and without thinking John frees his hand and reaches up to the taller man to brush a stray lock of hair from Sherlock’s face. He is breathing rather heavily but the laughter comes from his lips, bubbling up without seeming to stop. And soon Sherlock is joining in, almost bending in two with the force of the giggles. Then he grabs John’s hands and they are twirling, like small girls playing ring around the rosy, and Sherlock’s laughter fills the room with its sound, resonating from everywhere, reaching every corner and John knows he is laughing too but he doesn’t mind. He has never felt so free and lets the feeling wash over him as the light from the window grows stronger and the room darker. The music changes into something slower but the mood of the room seems to heighten. John feels like fireworks are exploding in his stomach, tingles going through every nerve as he watches Sherlock’s face. The smile that he realises he has missed, the smile that is only seen in his presence.
He has that power over the great Sherlock Holmes, worlds only Consulting Detective.
They come to a stop naturally, pressed together to stay upright while the room spins and John leans in, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s without thinking. He pulls back to see shock written all over Sherlock’s face but he looks adorable like that and John smiles and rubs his thumbs along those perfect cheekbones with a slight embarrassed chuckle. He is panting with the exertion, Sherlock breathing louder than usual too but still not moving, and then Sherlock’s hands are in his hair for the most perfect kiss John has ever received.
“Doctor Watson, I do believe you are the first to successfully distract me with any desirable result.”
John laughed and his tension melted away as they fell to the bed, both in varying states of dress. Sherlock curled up into his side with a smile before he snuggled into the doctors chest and started to fall asleep.

“Don’t sleep,” John muttered though he stifled a yawn with the back of his hand. “Mycroft will be here soon.”
There was no answer from the younger Holmes though and John looked down on that angelic in sleep face with a warm smile.
“Oh well. You can deal with his wrath.”
*
Lestrade flicked the switch and the monitor went dark. The beginnings of an annoyed grunt, preceding disagreement with the action were cut of as he turned and pressed his lips to those of the elder Holmes.
“Don’t you think you’ve seen enough now?” he said, straddling the man’s lap. Hands clasp his buttocks as if its reflex. Maybe it is after all this time, and Mycroft seems to pick up the idea much faster than his brother would have when Lestrade wiggles a little. He quirks an eye brow and smiles.
“Jealousy Greg?” he almost hums, flexing his fingers around the tight buttocks.
“Perhaps, but I’m not the one with a brother complex,” the words are playful and that is the only thing that saves Lestrade as he is sat now, half naked in Mycroft’s lap. “Besides we have an awards dinner to get to.”
“Oh shut up,” Mycroft mutters playfully and kisses the DI before he can say another word.
END
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Sherlock Dances