Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/1934937.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV), Sherlock_Holmes_&_Related_Fandoms
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Molly_Hooper/Greg_Lestrade
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Molly_Hooper, Greg_Lestrade, Harry_Watson,
      Mycroft_Holmes, Philip_Anderson, Mike_Stamford
  Additional Tags:
      Teen_Sherlock, Teen_John, Ballet, ballet!lock, rugby!john, Teenlock,
      Fluff, Fluff_and_Angst, Angst, Flirting, Virgin_Sherlock, Virgin_John,
      First_Kiss, First_Time, Awkward_Flirting, teen!lock, Bullying, AU,
      balletlock, rugbyjohn, First_Time_Blow_Jobs, Blow_Jobs, Party, Bathroom
      Sex, Anal_Sex, Anal_Fingering, First_Time_Bottoming, First_Time_Topping,
      Teenagers, Hand_Jobs, Making_Love, Love, First_Love, Declarations_Of
      Love, Physical_Abuse, Past_Child_Abuse, Alcohol_Abuse/Alcoholism, Rimming
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-07-11 Completed: 2014-09-25 Chapters: 15/15 Words: 22163
****** Pas de Deux ******
by shevrlock
Summary
     Sherlock Holmes is a gifted ballet dancer in industrial, unforgiving
     1980s Newcastle, bullied and teased for doing what he loves.
     One day, as he and Molly leave the dance studio, her boyfriend Greg
     is waiting outside accompanied by his new rugby captain: one John
     Watson.
     Surrounded by hate and homophobia they find themselves drawn to each
     other, using love to escape the harsh reality of life growing up with
     prejudice.
     Ballet!lock/Rugby!john inspired by Billy Elliot.
Notes
     Russian translation available here (by Liza):
     http://ficbook.net/readfic/2619991
***** Plié *****
Chapter Notes
     Gorgeous cover art by Tumblr user rvgbyjohn.
[Cover Art by Tumblr User rvgbyjohn (since deleted?)]
                                        
                                        
                            Monday, 9th July, 1984
“Mr Bennett, that plié was abysmal. I expect perfection next week or you will
suffer the consequences,” Miss Wilkinson’s voice sounded like a whip-crack
across the mirrored hall. “Once again, everyone, from the top. Miss Hooper,
point your toes, you have the grace of a lame kangaroo.”
At the far side of the room, Sherlock Holmes leaned sulkily against the wall,
stretching his calves. His right ankle had been playing up all afternoon and he
had been forced to watch from the side-lines as Alex Bennett danced in his
place. The prick. He glared resentfully over his shoulder, praying Bennett
would fall flat on his smug face.   
“Mr Bennett, I will not tell you again. Your pliés are far too shallow. Bend
your knees, boy!”
Sherlock snorted quietly, carefully rotating his ankle.
“I’ve seen quite enough. That’s it for today, folks. Miss Doyle, I need your
permission slip by Friday or you will not be joining us in London,” Miss
Wilkinson called. “Oh, and Mr Holmes, a word, please.” She beckoned Sherlock
with one long, bony index finger.
Sherlock slung his satchel over his shoulder as the class filed out into the
cloakroom. “Yes, Miss?”
“I hope to God you’ll be fighting fit next week, Sherlock. I don’t think I can
watch another second of that disastrous floundering.” She smiled warmly at him,
giving his shoulder a shake. “How’s the foot?”
“I’ll live,” he murmured.  
“Glad to hear it,” she said smartly. “Can’t have my Danseur Noble on the bench
now, can I?”
Sherlock smiled reticently, shaking his head.
“Okay, off you go,” she said, shooing him out the door. “And remember to rest!”
 
 
As was custom, Molly was waiting for him in the cloakroom.
“If I have to dance with Alex next week, I’m never speaking to you again,” she
jested, pulling a cardigan on over her leotard. “Ready to go? Greg’s waiting
for me outside, his practice finished late.”
“Yeah, just a minute,” said Sherlock, pulling off his ballet shoes, tying them
together and slinging them around his long neck. He groaned internally at the
thought of walking two miles with Molly, Greg and their excessive public
displays of affection. Maybe he would stay behind and practice instead. “You
know, I might stay for a bit… work on my technique…”
Molly gave him a knowing look. “Your technique is the best in the class,
Sherlock, don’t be silly. And Greg and I will keep our PDA to a minimum, I
promise. No third wheeling,” she laughed. “Besides, I think one of his rugby
mates is with him, so he won’t want to be all soppy.”
Sherlock grimaced. The rugby team as a whole were disreputable halfwits who
made fun of his tights, stole his ballet shoes and pushed him around in the
school corridors. Molly made sure that Greg behaved himself but that was a
small consolation. He winced at the thought of spending time in close proximity
to any of the others.
“He’s not that bad, honest. He’s the new captain of their team, I’ve met him a
couple times and he’s pretty laid-back,” said Molly, reading the look on
Sherlock’s face. “But if he says anything, I’ll kick him square in the balls,
okay?”
 
 
“Hey Molls, how was practice?” beamed Greg, waving at them as they crossed the
empty car park. Beside him stood a sandy-haired boy that Sherlock had never
seen before. He was carrying a rugby ball, with a gym bag over his shoulder,
and was spattered head-to-toe in mud. Sherlock swallowed hard; he was also very
good-looking.
“It was dreadful,” Molly griped, allowing Greg to sling an arm around her
shoulder and nuzzle her ear. “Sherlock hurt his foot and I had to dance with
that oaf, Alex Bennett, who doesn’t know his left from his right.”
“He’s an idiot,” agreed Greg. “He tried out for the team last year and broke
three fingers and a toe. No wonder he’s doing ballet, he obviously can’t do
anything else, eh John?” He wiggled his eyebrows at the sandy-haired boy,
grabbing the ball out of his hands.
“I’d like to see you try it, Greg,” murmured John, his dark blue eyes alight
with humour. “These guys could probably run circles around us.”
“Okay, okay,” Greg conceded, leaning in and giving Molly a swift peck on the
lips.
Sherlock looked away, inadvertently catching John’s eye. He smiled awkwardly,
shuffling his feet.
“Oh, sorry, I forgot you two don’t know each other!” said Greg. “John, this is
Sherlock Holmes, he does ballet with Molly. Sherlock, this John Watson, he’s
our new team captain. He moved up here from Durham at the start of the summer
and kicked all our arses into gear - he runs a tight ship, the bastard!”
“Alright,” said John, nodding his head towards Sherlock with a jerk.
“Alright,” mumbled Sherlock, fidgeting with the laces of his ballet shoes
around his neck.
 
 
John hung back with Sherlock, as Greg and Molly strolled ahead, hand in hand.
He walked quietly, unassumingly, with his hands in his pockets, kicking stones
from the pavement onto the road. “So… ballet, huh?” he said, deftly aiming a
stone at Greg’s heels. “How did that come about?”
“Umm… well, my mum used to be a ballerina before she retired due to a knee
injury. She’s a lawyer now but she sent me to lessons when I was five and I’ve
been doing it ever since…” stammered Sherlock, his face flushing. He wasn’t
adept at conversations with strangers.
“Do you enjoy it?” asked John, looking up at Sherlock through a fringe of black
lashes, a small smile playing on his lips. He was over a head shorter than
Sherlock but was far bulkier.
“I adore it,” said Sherlock, in spite of himself. “It lets me disappear… I feel
a change in my whole body… like electricity… It’s freedom. When I’m dancing,
I’m free. Nothing can hurt me…” Sherlock’s voiced trailed away, conscious of
the fact that he had said too much. He usually listened, rather than spoke;
preferring to be out of the spotlight. But with dancing it was different; when
he was dancing, he was nothing and everything at the same time. He was in his
element.  
“Wow. If only the lads on my team had half that dedication,” said John, raising
his eyebrows in awe.  “Maybe I’ll send them to ballet class and you can teach
them a thing or two.” He grinned roguishly, nudging Sherlock playfully in the
ribs, his hands still in his pockets.
Sherlock smiled timidly but his stomach lurched at the contact. He peered down
at John out of the corner of his eyes. John met his gaze and winked impishly.
“When did you become interested in rugby?” asked Sherlock, cringing at his
attempt to make conversation.
“Well my mum died when I was little and my dad raised me and my sister, Harry.
He worked a lot – really long hours – and didn’t want to leave us alone in the
house when we were so young, so we joined an after school rugby team. Harry’s
far better than I am, to be honest. She got a scholarship to play in New
Zealand,” said John, matter-of-factly. “He lost his job a few months ago
though, so we moved up here so he could work down in the mines. It’s pretty
rubbish pay but it’s steady work, I guess… And there’s a good school up here
too. I’m starting in September.” John frowned, scuffing his trainers along the
pavement.  
Sherlock felt a surge of pity. His mother and father owned a law firm in town
and he and his brother had lived comfortably their entire lives. “I’m sorry
about your mum,” he said.
“No, it’s okay. It was a long time ago. I don’t really remember her,” John
admitted. “Anyway, this is me…” He gestured to a street just off of the main
road. The houses were small and packed tightly together.
“Oi, Watson! Catch!” shouted Greg suddenly from in front of them, throwing the
rugby ball high into the air.
John dropped his bag and darted forward, his arms outstretched. He jumped,
lithely catching the ball in mid-air and cupping it under his arm. “You’ll have
to do better than that, Lestrade!” he laughed.
He jogged back to where Sherlock stood with his bag, slinging it back over his
shoulder.
“So umm… see you around?” John said, spinning the ball in his hands.
“Yeah, see you,” murmured Sherlock, raising a hand in farewell.
“Oh, and don’t be alarmed if the entire rugby team shows up to your next dance
class,” he grinned, waving goodbye to Molly and Greg and disappearing round the
corner.
Sherlock couldn’t help the smile that spilled over his mouth.
“What are you so happy about?” asked Molly, squinting suspiciously as Sherlock
caught up with them.
“What? Nothing,” said Sherlock quickly. "Nothing at all."
 
                                       *
***** Grande Jeté *****
Chapter Notes
     TW: homophobic slurs and bullying
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                            Monday, 9th July, 1984
Sherlock ran, his long limbs flying graciously across the stark grey concrete,
a stitch searing uncomfortably in his side. He rounded a corner into a narrow
lane and hid, panting, behind a wall. Pain shot up his calf and his injured
ankle throbbed.
The sound of Anderson’s menacing, heavy footfall grew steadily louder. Sherlock
held his breath, waiting.
The footsteps stopped abruptly. “You can’t hide from me you little poof,”
Anderson’s deep, harsh voice rang out from somewhere nearby. “Come and take it
like a man! Let’s see those tights!”
Sherlock’s heart pounded a staccato rhythm against his ribcage, sheer terror
saturating his thoughts. Anderson - a tall, heavy-set rugby player – was the
usual perpetrator. He had chased Sherlock all the way from the top of Westgate
Road. It was a near-daily occurrence.
Anderson suddenly came into view; his red-and-yellow-striped rugby shirt was
stretched over a bulbous, protruding stomach. “Caught you, fag,” he leered, a
wicked grin spreading over his round face. “You gonna fight me, little dancer?”
Sherlock stood paralysed with fear, like a deer caught in the headlights.
Anderson edged closer, his tattered trainers crunching across the gravel.
“Please don’t,” pleaded Sherlock, his chest heaving and blood hammering in his
ears.
Anderson laughed mockingly. “What you gonna do? You gonna try have sex with
me?”
Sherlock picked up a stone from the ground, holding it threateningly in front
of him. “Please, don’t. Please.”
Anderson laughed louder. “You wouldn’t dare. Why not just let me beat some
sense into you, batty boy?”
Sherlock’s mouth curled with revulsion. Without thinking, he hurled the rock
directly towards Anderson’s conceited face and ran, sprinting down the lane,
not daring to look back.
 
 
“Sherlock, sweetheart, is that you?” His mother called from the kitchen, as he
stepped through the front door. “You’re just in time for dinner.”
Sherlock leaned breathlessly against the closed door, his chest still heaving.
He felt sick to his stomach. “I’m not hungry,” he called back.
He slowly climbed the stairs and turned into the bathroom, slamming the door
and locking it behind him. Turning on the shower, he perched on the edge on the
bathtub and carefully slipped off his socks and shoes. His right foot was badly
swollen and marbled with purple and blue bruises. Running flat out on hard
cement had not done it any favours.
“Fuck,” Sherlock winced, flexing his toes.
Stripping off the rest of his clothes, he climbed into the shower, allowing the
warmth of the running water to ease his aching muscles. Tears pricked at the
corners of his eyes, threatening to spill over. Sherlock leaned his forehead
against the wall, his foot throbbing uncomfortably and Anderson’s words humming
like angry bees in his mind. A pale evening light trickled through the frosted
bathroom window, throwing soft shadows across the white, ceramic tiles. He
watched beads of condensation race one another down the slick porcelain, before
fusing inevitably into one.
 
 
Sherlock collapsed face-down onto his bed, sheathed in a towel, his dark curls
damp and unruly. A clock ticked loudly on the wall. He closed his eyes,
allowing its rhythmic pulse to sooth his racing thoughts, and let a restless
sleep drag him under.
 
 
“Sherlock!” His mother’s shrill voice floated up from the bottom of the stairs,
jerking him awake with a start. “Your dinner is getting cold!”
Sherlock ignored her.
Yawning groggily, he swung his long, svelte legs off the side of the bed and
rubbed the remnants of sleep from his bleary, grey eyes. Pulling on a pair of
pin-striped pyjama bottoms and a white vest, he stretched his slender limbs,
arching his back until it cracked with sharp pop.
He padded over to his record player, choosing Tchaikovsky’s Dance of the
Swansfrom amongst his record collection and slipping it onto the turntable,
carefully positioning the needle over the disc. It was a piece from his
favourite ballet: Swan Lake.
Sherlock lay back down on his bed, staring at the ceiling, letting the poignant
melody wash over him. He closed his eyes, picturing himself on stage in front
of thousands of people, dancing the part of the Black Swan. The audience would
applaud as he made his entrance, emerging from the wings in an elegant grande
jeté. Usually, in his fantasy, there were just homogenised, vague faces in the
audience but this time, one stood out in particular: a tanned, boyish face with
mud-caked blonde hair and deep blue eyes, gazing up at him from under long,
dark lashes…
Sherlock rolled over, grinning stupidly into his pillow.
“William Sherlock Scott Holmes! Come down for dinner this instant, or so help
me!”
 
                                       *
Chapter End Notes
     This is the piece from Swan Lake if anyone is interested:
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=sd4VsbM4fOo
***** Brisé *****
Chapter Notes
     There may be a few errors/typos because I'm writing the rest of this
     on my Kindle at Heathrow airport! The next chapter won't be up until
     I come back on the 25th; hope you enjoy! x
                          Wednesday, 11th July, 1984
Wednesday dawned grey and dull. Large clouds loomed overhead, darkening the
summer sky and threatening rain.
A lone, befuddled bluebottle tapped vacuously against the wide sash window as
Sherlock sat slumped at the scrubbed kitchen table, his arms folded stubbornly
across his chest and his lips puckered in a juvenile scowl.
His mother sat opposite, flicking absently through the morning’s Financial
Times, a cup of tea clasped in her long, willowy fingers. “I’m not having this
argument again, Sherlock,” she asserted. “Your health takes priority over
ballet. Until your foot heals, I don’t want you putting any unnecessary strain
on it. Both Miss Wilkinson and I agree that you should take a few-day’s rest.”
Sherlock glared mutinously at her from under a furrowed brow. “But my audition
is next month! Are you deliberately trying to ruin my entire ballet career? I
thought parents were supposed to live vicariously through their children.”
“Don’t take that tone with me, Sherlock,” she warned, glancing up from the
Macro Sweep on page 6. “I’m only acting in your best interest. You know fine
well you can’t dance injured.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his mouth curling in distaste.
“You can go to the studio to watch and only to watch, understand?”
“Fine,” muttered Sherlock furiously. He lurched to his feet, his chair
screeching dramatically across the polished linoleum, and flounced from the
kitchen.
“Don’t forget a coat, dear,” called his mother over his shoulder. “It looks
like rain.”
Sherlock paid her no attention, picking up his satchel and storming stubbornly
out the front door, his black curls bouncing in indignation.
 
 
Sherlock kicked his way through the leaf-strewn driveway, past the silver
Austin Metro that his father still polished every Sunday, and out onto the
rolling expanse of pavement that snaked all the way to the end of Clifton Road.
He marched as indomitably as he could manage, although the effect was slightly
cheapened as he limped with every second step.
Yellow dandelions wormed their way out of the cracks in the kerb, their lurid
colour striking against the grey cement. Sherlock beheaded them with a swift
kick, leaving a trail of corpses littered behind him.
He had just passed the postbox on the corner when a lone drop of rain landed
heavily on the back of his neck.
Then another.
And another.
And another.
The heavens suddenly opened, water hammering down and collecting in muddy, tea-
coloured puddles on the dusty ground.
“Are you fucking kidding me?” muttered Sherlock, using his satchel as a shield
against the deluge.
 
 
 
The rain persisted relentlessly throughout the afternoon, battering heavily
against the long, arched windows of the ballet studio. The aging windowpanes
shook restlessly, rattling over the sound of Mr Grierson’s piano.
The class sat huddled in a silent circle around their instructor.
“For the select few who have their auditions for the Royal Ballet School in
London this August, I want to see you here practising at least four times a
week. There is absolutely no excuse for idleness,” Miss Wilkinson addressed,
pacing up and down in front of them, her soft, black ballet shoes padding
soundlessly across the glossy wooden floor.
“Greg’s meeting me after class,” said Molly in a hushed whisper. “His practise
is finishing late again.”
“Mhmm,” murmured Sherlock vaguely, his eyes glued to Miss Wilkinson, hanging on
her every word.
“Oh, and John will be there too,” said Molly coolly, a smug smile lifting her
cheek.
“Wait, what?” said Sherlock loudly, his head whipping round to face her.
“Mr Holmes, is there something you wish to share with the rest of the class?”
Miss Wilkinson called sternly, arching one heavily-pencilled eyebrow.
Sherlock flushed, shaking his head and dropping his gaze to the floor.
Molly bit her lip, unable to stifle the hysterical giggle that bubbled to her
lips.
 
 
The weather was calm as they descended the front steps of the studio after
class. The rain drizzled listlessly, like a shrieking child that had eventually
tired itself out, falling in a faint, lazy haze that dampened their clothes and
settled in their hair. Midges buzzed excitedly around their ears and the smell
of petrichor wafted through the moist air.
Greg and John were waiting for them, perched together on the bottom step, their
outlines smudged by the mist. John had his back to them, wearing a stonewashed
denim jacket, with the collar popped, over his red and yellow rugby kit.
“Hey there, you two,” called Molly, skipping spryly down the remaining steps.
“Alright,” said John, grinning as he spun round to face them. His fair hair was
dark with moisture and beads of rain clung to his long eyelashes.
“Alright,” said Sherlock, smiling tentatively.
“Good practise?” asked Greg, giving Molly a chaste kiss.
“It was hard work; our Royal Ballet School auditions are next month and we’re
being worked to the bone. Why don’t I tell you all about it,” said Molly,
giving Greg a meaningful look, taking his hand and dragging him ahead.
John’s eyes raked over Sherlock’s sodden white t-shirt. “Don’t you have a
jacket?” he asked, the soft skin between his eyebrows creasing in disapproval.
“Umm… no…” mumbled Sherlock, as they fell into step behind Molly and Greg.
“Well here, take mine,” said John, shrugging out of his jacket and draping it
over Sherlock’s lean shoulders. “You’ll catch a chill.”
Sherlock blushed, sliding his long arms into the sleeves. It was a tad too
small and the wide cuffs flapped around his small wrists but he revelled at the
feeling of it against his damp skin: the loose fabric at the elbows where
friction had made the denim soft… the substantial gaping at the shoulders made
by John’s broad chest. A mismatched button hung from the lowest button hole,
yellow-gold in a row of silver.
“Suits you,” John winked, giving a lopsided grin.
“Thanks,” said Sherlock, smirking. “I forget how motherly sixteen-year-old boys
can be.”
John laughed loudly, his eyes crinkling and his head thrown back. “You can be
awful cheeky when you want to be, can’t you!”
 
 
They hurried passed the ever-present picket line on St James’ Boulevard, the
hardy miners out in their hundreds, clutching signs and placards displaying
varying battle cries and slogans.
Rounding the corner onto Westgate Road, Sherlock’s heart stuttered in his
chest. Philip Anderson, in habitual fashion, stood surly and slouching against
the lamppost on the corner, eyes alert like a predator on the prowl.
“Let’s cross over,” said Sherlock urgently, his eyes on the pavement.
“What? Why?” frowned John, reading the evident distress on Sherlock’s face.
“I don’t like that guy,” Sherlock whispered, nodding subtly in Anderson’s
direction, determinedly avoiding John’s gaze.
“You mean Anderson?” said John, his eyebrows shooting up to meet his hairline.
“He’s on my team! Don’t worry, he’s a good lad.”
Sherlock smothered a whimper, anxiety bubbling up like froth inside him. His
palms slickened and his breath hitched in his throat.
John threw him a worried glance. “What’s the matter? Is he bothering you?”
“He… he- he bullies me… he makes fun of my tights… calls me names,” whispered
Sherlock, mortified, his head bowed.
John’s gazed flickered between Sherlock and Anderson and his look darkened. A
muscle rippled under his jaw and his hands balled into tight fists at his
sides. “Just you leave Anderson to me,” he muttered through clenched teeth.
 
 
It didn’t occur to Sherlock until they were at the top of Clifton Road, that
John was walking him home.
Stale rainwater collected in stagnant puddles in the gutter and the large red-
brick houses leered like sentinels from behind tidy, well-kempt gardens. 
"So, umm... would you like to come in?" mumbled Sherlock, as they reached his
front door.
"Actually, I have to get going," said John, running his hands awkwardly through
his damp hair. "My dad will be home from work soon and he doesn't like it when
I dawdle..." 
"Oh, okay... See you around then?" said Sherlock, slipping off John's jacket
and handing it to him. 
John paused with his hand on the front gate, his back to Sherlock.
Abruptly, he turned, marching the length of the garden path and stopping with
his face just inches from Sherlock's. He leaned in, putting his lips to
Sherlock's ear. 
"FYI," he whispered, his warm breath tickling Sherlock's neck. "I personally
love the tights." He grinned, pulling away and stealing a swift peck on
Sherlock's cheek before sloping back down the path, his hands thrust into his
pockets. 
Sherlock stood stunned, his feet cemented to the ground. 
"See you around!" John called over his shoulder, a boyish grin lifting his
lightly-freckled face. 
 
                                       *
***** Pas de Bourée *****
                           Thursday, 12th July, 1984
Sherlock’s bedroom, while not a model of neatness, reflected his volatile
character. It was small and square, with a narrow single bed and a suite of
aging, dark pine furniture. An assortment of dance apparel – tights, dance
belts, leotards, and slippers – and general debris lay in piles on the beige
carpet like pimples on an adolescent face, and an eclectic array of books were
stacked haphazardly in a teetering tower in the corner.
Only a small space in the centre of the room remained uncluttered, and this is
where Sherlock lay, spread-eagled on the floor, one long, powerful leg thrust
in the air like a radio antenna, as the glaring summer sun seeped in through
the large window. With the customary, dulcet tones of Tchaikovsky’s Dance of
the Swansresonating in the background, he pointed his toes, stretching his calf
and feeling the delicious tightening of his now pain-free muscles.
A smile, that had nothing to do with his exercise routine, spread like warm
butter over his face, his sharp, grey eyes crinkling at the corners. His mind
had been replaying yesterday’s earth-shattering moment on a loop, like nothing
else in the world was as important, as if the sheer sizzling heat of the memory
had melted everything else in his brain out through his ears.
John Watson kissed him on the cheek.
John Watson’s lips had touched Sherlock’s face.
There was no more order in the world.
His face ached from smiling.
He had never been kissed before - well, discounting the time that Sally Donovan
had ambushed him at her sixth birthday party; the only party he had ever been
invited to and it had ended with him urgently phoning his dad to come pick him
up with tales of assault and vile misconduct.
A timid knock at the door sounded over the swelling music, startling him out of
his daydream. 
Sherlock lurched exasperatedly to his feet, preparing to give his mother an
earful for interrupting his evening routine. However, wrenching the door open,
he found himself face-to-freckled-face with none other than John Watson
himself, standing awkwardly on the other side, looking suitably embarrassed. He
had abandoned his usual rugby attire in favour of a pair of faded blue jeans,
the cuffs turned up over a pair of white Converse trainers, and a black
Harrington over a tight white t-shirt.
Sherlock had to remind himself to breathe.
“Umm, hi,” said John, grinning apologetically. “I came to the door and your mum
insisted that I come up… I – uh – was just wondering if you wanted to go for a
walk… I mean, it’s fine if you’re busy or whatever…”
“Oh, no, I’m not busy” said Sherlock quickly, his bony cheeks reddening. “Umm -
I’d love to… Let me just find a jumper.”
Sherlock ushered John into the confines of his bedroom, closing the door
swiftly behind them.
“Sorry about the mess,” muttered Sherlock, hastily kicking his dirty underwear
out of sight and attempting to straighten the mess of tangled covers on his
bed.
“Don’t worry about it,” laughed John, perching politely on the end of
Sherlock’s bed. “It’s a right sight tidier than mine, I assure you.”
Sherlock rummaged through the untidy mass of clothes that had been stuffed
sloppily into his bulging wardrobe, hyperaware of John’s eyes boring a hole in
his back.
“What is this?” asked John, nodding his head towards the record player in the
corner. “It’s nice.”
“A piece from my favourite ballet: Swan Lake. It’s a dream of mine to perform
it on stage with the Royal Ballet Company… ever since I was little, that’s all
I ever thought about… I mean, it’ll probably never happen but it’s nice to
think about…”
“Well, I think you can do anything you set your mind to…” John mumbled. “Like
Coach always says, ‘you are what you think about’.”
Sherlock smiled down at him, absently pulling on an over-sized grey jumper,
over his t-shirt and tights. In his dreaminess, he somehow managed to get his
head stuck in one of the sleeve holes. He flailed awkwardly, his skin flushing
a chagrined crimson.
“Here, let me help you,” said John, his lips quirked in a smile that didn’t do
much to hide his laugh. He manoeuvred a warm calloused hand under the soft
cotton, twisting the sheer fabric until Sherlock’s tousled head popped free.
“Thanks,” mumbled Sherlock, smoothing down his dishevelled mass of hair.
“Don’t mention it,” breathed John, his hand still resting on Sherlock’s
shoulder. The prolonged contact seemed to shift the air around them; tension
crackled like electricity as piercing blue eyes found smoky grey.
John swallowed hard, gazing up at Sherlock with a sudden hunger in his eyes
that made Sherlock’s stomach tie itself in knots.  
Sherlock’s heart sped into double-time, thumping against his chest like a
jungle drum. John’s face was now so close that Sherlock could make out the
distinctive shape of each and every tiny freckle. Their breaths fell in heavy
waves against one another as John leaned closer, pausing, his lips within
tasting distance, savouring the tension. The silence strained between them like
the quivering note of a violin, blind anticipation forcing the hairs on the
back of their necks to prickle and stand to attention.
Sherlock closed his eyes, inclining his head and -
“- Sherlock, honey, is your friend staying for dinner?” Mrs Holmes charged
abruptly through Sherlock’s bedroom door, a laundry basket balanced on her hip.
The pair leapt apart, standing awkwardly next to each other, staring at the
ground and shuffling their feet.
Sherlock gave his mother a pointed glare.
“Oh… umm… sorry, boys… why don’t I fix you both some tea, eh?” said Mrs Holmes,
her pale blue eyes wide with shock.
“No need, we were just going out,” grumbled Sherlock, grabbing John by the arm
and hauling him out the door.
“Um, thanks anyway Mrs Holmes!” John called over his shoulder.
 
 
 
The unaccustomed residents of Newcastle hid themselves from the heat behind
brick walls and lace curtains, fanning themselves with Maggie-Thatcher-smeared
newspapers, leaving the streets deserted. The warm evening air seemed to
envelop the pair in their own private bubble as they kicked their way through
the baked, quiet streets. A comfortable silence hung over them, keeping them in
wordless harmony.
John let his arms swing by his side – instead of in his pockets - like
pendulums, oscillating back-and-forth. Sherlock counted each swing, watching
the way the evening light danced on John’s ochre, weather-beaten skin.
On the sixty-fifth swing, without warning, John grabbed Sherlock’s hand,
interlocking their clammy fingers. His thumb rubbed gentle circles on
Sherlock’s skin, bringing their joined hands to lips.
“Have you ever seen the rugby field at night?” John murmured suddenly, coming
to an abrupt halt, his blue eyes sparkling with untold thoughts of mischief. “I
have the spare key…”
 
 
 
They hopped the white metal barrier, skirting stealthily round corners like
sleuths straight out of a nineteenth century detective novel.
John slinked into the entrance of the clubhouse, pulling a key from an inside
pocket of his jacket. “Bingo,” he grinned, unlocking the door and creeping into
the cool, musty building.
“Won’t we get in trouble?” whispered Sherlock, his nerves practically fraying
at the edges.
“Don’t be silly, I’m the captain. Technically I’m allowed to be here after
hours, it’s just a lot more fun this way,” John laughed, flicking on the stark
halogen lights and kicking open a cupboard door, rummaging in its dark depths.
A sour smell filled the confined space, like iron bus rails mixed with the
sweat of people’s hands from holding them. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.
“The smell takes some getting used to, I know. Rugby players aren’t mad about
sanitation,” said John, emerging from the cupboard with a handful of regulation
rugby balls. “Wanna see me in action?” He grinned mischievously up at Sherlock,
wiggling his eyebrows provocatively.
 
The wide, grassy field was faded and parched, the sun-battered ground cracking
underfoot.
John positioned a ball on a tee, a few yards away from the goal posts. “Prepare
to be amazed!” he jested, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it to the side
where Sherlock sat, cross-legged on the grass.
“Tenner says you miss it,” teased Sherlock.
“I’ll take those odds,” smirked John, taking three slow, deliberate steps away
from the ball.
He shuffled his feet, finding friction against the firm soil and aligning his
body with a few careful steps to the left. His back was hunched, his head bowed
with absolute concentration. He bent down, picking up a blade of grass and
throwing it into the air, checking the direction of the light wind.
Then he ran, sprinting forward, his foot making contact with the ball with a
satisfying thump. It hurtled through the air, soaring directly between the two
goalposts.
“Goooaaaal!” shouted John, pulling the front of his t-shirt up over his head.
Sherlock ogled at the exposed flesh, his eyes raking greedily over John’s firm,
muscular stomach. For the second time that evening, he had to remind himself to
breathe.
John ran a lap of the pitch, his arms in the air, whooping in mock celebration,
as Sherlock howled with gleeful laughter on the side-lines.
He jogged a wide arc towards Sherlock, collapsing down beside him with a smug,
jubilant grin lighting his face. “Well?”
“…Adequate,” ribbed Sherlock, giving a non-committal shrug, his mouth
twitching.
“You cock!” laughed John, giving Sherlock a teasing push.
Sherlock made to shove him back but John was too quick; his strong hands
grabbed Sherlock’s forearms in a vice-like grip, pushing Sherlock backwards
until his head hit the grass. John hovered over him, pinning Sherlock’s wrists
in a lock above his head.
His gaze slid slowly downwards, lingering on the soft curve of Sherlock’s
mouth.
Sherlock gulped, unable to breathe through the sudden lump in his throat.
“No one to interrupt us here,” breathed John. He dipped his head, gently
brushing their noses together.  Closing his eyes, he gradually lowered his
mouth, his lips sweeping hesitantly over Sherlock’s, as if waiting for explicit
permission.
A soft sigh dripped involuntary from Sherlock’s mouth, lingering in the air
around them.
John leaned in, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s lips, his tongue slipping slowly,
timidly inside. Sherlock’s tongue tentatively joined in, caressing the soft,
warm intrusion.   
John released Sherlock’s wrists, placing a strong, steady hand on the ground
either side of Sherlock’s face and pressing himself flush against him, kissing
him with an urgency that made Sherlock breathless. Sherlock’s hands frantically
grasped the back of John’s t-shirt, clinging on as if afraid he may dissolve,
his mouth matching John’s with a hunger he didn’t know he was capable of.
It was wet and sloppy, but entirely their own, their lips whispering against
one another, finding a common pulse.
 
They lay side-by-side on the grass, the faint hum of night insects buzzing over
their heads, as the sky turned from periwinkle blue, to a warm, sultry pink.
“Well that was… woah…” mumbled Sherlock, his eyes wide with enlightenment.
“Was that your first kiss?” whispered John, turning his head to face Sherlock.
“Umm, yeah, it was… You?”
“Well, with a boy, yeah… I’ve kissed a few girls before but they all seem
pretty inadequate now to be honest… I mean, that was… yeah…”
“So it’s not like that all the time?”
“Well, not for me it’s not…I don’t know, maybe it’s just different with boys,
or just with you... I mean, I wasn't altogether sure I was attracted to boys
before now… before you...” said John, propping himself up on his elbow and
gazing down at Sherlock. "But, I guess, I like both..." John laughed lightly,
his cheeks reddening. 
“I think I’ve always liked boys… To be honest I think Sally Donovan put me off
girls for life before I even knew the difference!” Sherlock ribbed. 
John guffawed, toying absently with a stray rugby ball. He picked it up,
flipping it over in his hands. “It’s strange, you know, how much of my life is
taken up by rugby… It’s my dad’s dream for me to be a professional rugby
player.”
“And is that what you want?”
“I guess so… I don’t know… I’ve always fancied being a doctor; I think that
would be pretty cool, saving lives and whatnot.”
“‘Dr Watson’… It definitely has a certain ring to it, I’d say,” said Sherlock
grinning up him, his hands clasped behind his head.
“At least you don’t have this problem. You were made for dancing,” laughed
John, reaching out and tickling Sherlock’s stomach.
Sherlock squealed, batting John’s hand away. “Excuse me, I’ll have you know, I
was an aspiring pirate before ballet was even considered. I was ‘Captain
Moriarty, Lord of the Ocean’ – Moriarty means “sea worthy” - and I was hell-
bent on running away to the Caribbean before my brother reminded me that there
are sharks in the sea… wasn’t so keen after that!”
John gave a wry, crooked smile. “You’re cute when you’re being cheeky, you
know,” he grinned, sweeping down and pressing a warm kiss to Sherlock’s lips.
 
                                       *
***** Foul Ball *****
Chapter Summary
     John's chapter.
Chapter Notes
     TW: fighting, blood
                            Monday, 16th July, 1984
The mid-July air was thick and cloying, forcing beads of perspiration to erupt
angrily on John’s brow. Sweat trickled in meandering streams down his face and
the sun scorched hot and unforgiving on the back of his neck. His heart thudded
frantically in his chest, desperately pumping blood as he pushed his body to
the limit.
Anderson was on his right flank, tearing down the centre of the pitch,
clutching the ball to his chest. John kept pace, watching him out of the corner
of his eye, like a predator stalking its prey. Rage bubbled inside him,
clamping his jaw shut and creasing his brow.
Anderson swerved suddenly towards him and John seized his opportunity. He
lunged forward, his broad shoulders colliding with the small of Anderson’s back
with a dull, sickening thud. They crashed to the ground, landing heavily on the
tough, arid grass.
 “What the fuck are you doing?” shouted Anderson, scrambling to his feet, blood
trickling from a fresh wound on his eyebrow. “I’m on your fucking team, idiot!”
“Keep the fuck away from Sherlock, you wanker,” John snarled, malice glinting
like molten silver in his eyes as he pushed to his feet, spitting blood irately
from his mouth. “Next time, I’ll break your fucking nose.”
“Oooh, is he your boyfriend then?” taunted Anderson, slamming his palms
violently into John’s shoulders, a river of scarlet streaming freely down his
cheek.
The rest of the team watched in hushed silence, eyes glued to their captain.
“So what if he is?” spat John thrusting his forehead against Anderson’s, his
blood boiling and the scent of testosterone egging him on. “What you fucking
going to do about it, eh?”
 “Watson!” Coach Clark roared, storming onto the pitch like an incensed bull
and pulling the two boys apart by the scruff of their necks. “What the fuck was
that?”
“Sorry, coach. My mistake; won’t happen again,” John muttered darkly, his lip
curled in pure loathing.
“You could have fucking killed me, you dick!” hissed Anderson, aiming a swipe
at John.
“Don’t be overdramatic, for fuck’s sake Anderson,” said Coach Clark, struggling
to keep the thrashing boy under control. “Now get out of my fucking sight, all
of you! Practise is over!”
 
 
 
The car tops sizzled in the heat as John sloped towards the ballet studio at
Haymarket, the taste of blood still potent in his mouth, fury seething inside
him. He kicked at a loose stone on the pavement, scattering a nearby flock of
pigeons that turned to glare back at him with disdain.
He sat on the cool marble steps outside the large, Georgian-style building,
watching the deluge of people flooding from the building. The line of leotard-
clad students slowly dwindled with Sherlock nowhere to be seen.
“Excuse me?” he said, approaching a trio of girls who were lingering outside
the door, eyeing him speculatively. “You’ve not seen Sherlock Holmes, have
you?”
“He’s still inside, room 12b,” said the boldest of the three, rolling her dark
eyes at her giggling friends.
“Oh, umm…cheers…” muttered John, raising a hand in thanks and pushing through
the heavy oak front door.
 
The now familiar sound of Tchaikovsky assailed his ears as he navigated his way
through the large network of dimly-lit corridors. He blindly followed the sound
of the music, his feet carrying him of their own accord, and came to a halt
outside Room 12b. The door was ajar, sending a narrow sliver of pearly-white
light across the marble floor of the darkened hallway. John hovered, shrouded
half in shadow, peering through the crack.
Sherlock stood motionless, alone, in the centre of the large studio - a tall,
dark statue silhouetted against the blinding white light, his head bowed in
deep concentration. At some unknown cue in the music, he slowly lifted his
head, raising one long, slender arm over his body. His eyes were closed, their
lids delicately purple against the pale marble of his face. Dust motes floated
gently through the air, roused from their slumber, twinkling in the soft light
and casting a muted glow across Sherlock’s elegant form.
John stood rooted to the spot, utterly transfixed on the beauty that lay before
him. He felt his heart constrict in his chest, tightening against the wave of
emotion that shook through his body like electricity. How anyone could denounce
Sherlock’s dancing as anything but entirely magnificent was a mystery to him.
He was beautiful; beautiful and brilliant.
The hard muscles in Sherlock’s legs rippled under his tights as he leapt
gracefully into the air, long limbs soaring weightlessly across the polished
floor. The music swelled, its haunting melody rising to its climax. Sherlock
moved with it, flying and twirling across the floor with a step so nimble that
John stopped breathing entirely. Sherlock’s face was hard – determined – lost
inside another world that was exclusively his own.
He came to a graceful stop, as the music slowed, the final notes lingering in
the air like a whisper. Collapsing to the floor he relaxed, his chest heaving
and his shock of black hair fanned out like a halo around his head.
“That was… that was amazing…” stammered John, tiptoeing into the hall, his eyes
wide with complete, unadulterated veneration.
Sherlock spun round, hastily jumping to his feet and rubbing his neck in
embarrassment. “Oh, umm…I didn’t realise you were here, John…” he mumbled, a
pink tinge creeping across his sharp cheekbones.
“Well, I was, and Sherlock…fucking hell… that was just...”
Sherlock grinned sheepishly, shuffling on the balls of his feet. “Thanks. Umm,
sorry for keeping you waiting, I didn’t think you would come, seeing as Molly
is off sick and therefore Greg wouldn’t be walking her home.” Sherlock stared
at the floor, nervously biting his lip.
John’s eyes widened with incredulity, taken aback at Sherlock’s assumption.
“But don’t you know I come to see you, silly!” he laughed in disbelief. “I
practically begged Greg to stay late last week so that we’d be in time to come
and see you! For someone so bright, Sherlock, you can be awfully dim.”
A winsome smile spilled across Sherlock’s face, the corners of his mouth
disappearing into the hollows of his cheeks. “Really?” he asked, looking up at
John with an unalloyed innocence in his eyes that should be bloody illegal.
A haze clouded over John’s thoughts, desire pooling in every crevice of his
brain. “Yes, really, you daft bugger,” he growled, closing the space between
them with three purposeful strides and grabbing Sherlock’s face in his hands.
He pressed a heated kiss to Sherlock’s feverish lips, not pulling away until
Sherlock was panting under his fingertips.  “See?”
“Oh…” mumbled Sherlock, his eyes wide.
“Yes, ‘oh’,” laughed John, patting a playful slap on Sherlock’s pink cheek.
“Now, are you gonna teach me a few moves or what?” John winked roguishly,
bending down to untie his shoelaces and kicking off his muddy trainers.
“Think you can handle it?” said Sherlock, his eyebrows playfully mocking. He
padded over to the hi-fi in the corner, rewinding the tape in the dock. The
music started up again, the sweet tune filling every corner of the mirrored
room. “Okay, now follow my lead.”
Sherlock placed one slender foot beside the other, both feet parallel to the
mirrored wall opposite. John followed suit, his grubby, red rugby socks sliding
across the glossy wood. 
“Okay, this is called first position. Now hold out your arms and bend your
knees,” said Sherlock, his face a firm mask of concentration.
John stared furtively at him out of the corner of his eye, his gaze sliding
deliberately down the length of Sherlock’s body, coming to a rest on the perk,
round arse jutting out from beneath a sheath of black fabric. His concentration
faltered, his mouth slackening inattentively, his tongue in his cheek.
“Focus, John!” scolded Sherlock, his lips twitching in spite of himself.
“Pretty difficult with you in those tights,” muttered John, shaking his head
with a sigh. He held his arms aloft and made to bend his knees, however his
socks fumbled on the slippery floor, skidding blindly across the polished
surface. He fell, landing on his knees and smacking his elbow against the wood.
“Ouch! Fuck!”
Sherlock roared with laughter, bent double, holding his knees for support. “Not
as easy as it looks, is it?” he said, his lips tight with mirth.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, Fred Astaire,” grinned John, swiftly reaching out and
catching Sherlock’s ankles, sending him tumbling to the floor. “Oops.”
Sherlock landed in a giggling heap on top of him, his wild curls falling around
his alabaster face. “You twat,” he laughed, aiming a sharp elbow at John’s
side.
John chuckled, pulling Sherlock upright, so that his long legs straddled John’s
hips. Sherlock’s smile was crooked on his lips as John stared intensely up at
him, his eyes a stirring ocean of blue.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered, absently tracing the hard muscles of
Sherlock’s thighs. “I want you to be mine…mine and only mine…”
Sherlock’s brow puckered, his mouth screwing up in a grimace. “You’re just
saying that,” he mumbled, hiding his face in his hands.
John frowned. He clutched Sherlock’s forearms, pulling his hands from his pale
face. “Nah, I’m not. Do you have any idea of the effect you have on me,
Sherlock? You completely disarm me… when you’re around my brain goes fucking
mental, I can’t even describe it…” he faltered. “So…I was wondering…if you’d
umm… be my boyfriend…?”
Sherlock’s face froze, his eyes wide and cautious. “Me? You want me to – to be
you-your boyfriend?” he stuttered, frowning as if the idea was simply
ludicrous. “But won’t you worry what people will think?”
“Fuck what people think,” John muttered. “I want you, and if they don’t like
it... then that's their problem.”
“…Okay,” Sherlock whispered.
John pulled Sherlock down by the collar of his shirt, one hand gripping the
back of his neck. "Mine," he whispered, placing a tender kiss on Sherlock's
lips.
 
                                       *
***** Adagio *****
Chapter Notes
     I'm away on holiday (again) for a week, so will be a while until the
     next update.
     Also, I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoy writing it!
     Thank you for your lovely comments x
                          Thursday, 2nd August, 1984
It’s my last game of the season on Saturday…”
“Oh?” said Sherlock, fiddling nervously with the telephone cord. He wound the
white plastic spiral tightly around his knuckles, turning the tips of his
fingers red.
“And I would love it if you came… But I know it’s not really your cup of tea,
so no pressure…”
Sherlock swallowed hard. “John, I uh… Are you sure you want me there… Wouldn’t
I embarrass you? The rugby team and I-”
“Sherlock,”– Sherlock could almost hear John’s eyebrows knitting together -“do
you know why I want you to be there? I mean, yeah, sure I want to show off
myamazingskills and impress you,”– Sherlock rolled his eyes – “… but most of
all, I want to showyou off to everyone.”
Sherlock grinned stupidly, staring at his feet. “Okay… I’ll come.”
“You will? Great! I’ll see you Saturday then?”
“See you Saturday,” said Sherlock, smiling at John’s infectious enthusiasm.
“Okay, I’ve gotta go. Dad wants the phone. 1pm, Saturday – don’t forget!”
“Like I could forget!” Sherlock scoffed. “See you Saturday.”
“Oh, and Sherlock?”
“Yes…?”
“Wear the tights.”
The line clicked dead, fizzling static replacing John’s voice. Sherlock rolled
his eyes, a crooked smile pulling at the corner of his mouth.  The scowling wax
portrait of Grandma Holmes stared down at him in disapproval from her place on
the wall above the mantelpiece. He stuck his tongue out at her, flouncing back
into the kitchen where his father was seated at the table.
“Who was that?” Mr Holmes asked, the wide pages of The Daily Telegraph balanced
on a milk jug in front of him. “You got some fancy fella we don’t know about?”
Sherlock blushed, taking a seat in front of him. He had never had to outright
“come out” to his parents; his father, a no nonsense kind of man, had simply
asked him over lunch one Sunday and that was that, no more was said about it.
“Maybe,” he mumbled, picking up a slice of toast and nibbling on the corner. It
scraped along his lips in a way that reminded him of John brushing against his
mouth. He smiled contentedly to himself, swallowing the whole thing in one
mouthful and inadvertently choking on the dry crumbs.
“I hope he’s not interfering with your ballet practice,” his mother scolded,
patting him gently on the back and placing a cup of tea in front of his father.
“You need one hundred percent focus, Sherlock.”
“Stop fussing,” rasped Sherlock, eyes watering.
“In any case, I hope we’ll get to meet him,” said his father, winking at
Sherlock over the top of his newspaper and taking a sip of tea.
 
                           Saturday, 4th August, 1984
Sherlock sat trembling in the bleachers, three rows from the front, shivering
despite the warmth of the midday sun. The wide, square field below was a lurid,
intimidating green, speckled with white and brown. He glanced anxiously at the
crowd around him, as if waiting for someone to question why he was there.
“Don’t be so anxious,” Molly whispered beside him, grabbing his hand and
holding it tight. “You deserve to be here just as much as anyone else.”
Sherlock forced a tight-lipped smile, taking slow, measured breaths.
There was a sudden roar from the crowd as the two opposing teams jogged onto
the pitch. Sherlock spotted John immediately, striding confidently across the
grass, his blonde hair gleaming in the sun. He was craning his neck, his eyes
scanning the crowd.
Their eyes suddenly locked and John’s face broke into a wide grin. He waved
enthusiastically, jumping up and down on the balls of his feet. A few people
stared, whispering behind their hands, but Sherlock took no notice. The tension
melted from his shoulders like stepping into a warm bath. He relaxed, waving
back as John ran off, huddling with his teammates.
“See, told you,” said Molly smiling and nudging him with her shoulder.
Sherlock grinned, giving her hand a squeeze. “Thanks,” he murmured.
 
The match was not as terrible as Sherlock had anticipated.
He kept his eyes fixed on John, not even registering the other thirty players
on the field. He watched the way the muscles in John’s legs rolled powerfully
under his red, cotton socks; the way his face shone with sweat and exertion in
the heat; the way he barked orders at his teammates with such conviction that
they didn’t dare contest; the way he argued heatedly with the referee, arms
flailing animatedly, when one of his players was fouled and - most of all - the
way he would glance up every now and then, just to check that Sherlock was
still there, watching…
Rugby was a fascinating game, in Sherlock’s opinion. In fact, he very much
needed to lie down.
 
The crowd exploded as the final whistle blew, John’s team winning by nine
points. The noise was deafening as timber benches were thrust back, trampling
feet echoing raucously across the wooden bleachers. People flooded en-mass onto
the pitch like spilled milk, patting the players on the back and offering
congratulations.
John was in the centre of it all, being pulled from hug to hug; his hair was
ruffled, his hands were wrung, his back was slapped. Greg jumped onto his
shoulders, holding the large, silver trophy over his head.
John playfully shrugged him off, slipping off to the side-lines unnoticed,
allowing the others to take the spotlight. He stood smiling, with his hands in
his pockets, the heavy, gold medal slung around his neck glinting in the sun,
throwing a rainbow of colours onto his skin.
“You coming?” Molly asked Sherlock, getting to her feet.
“Nah, I’ll wait here… I’ll let John have his moment,” mumbled Sherlock. “You go
ahead.”
“Suit yourself,” she sighed, pecking a kiss on the top of his head and
descending down onto the pitch.
John hugged her as she approached, whispering something in her ear, his brow
furrowed. She replied with a discreet gesture to the stands behind her. John’s
head snapped up, his gaze locking with Sherlock’s. Sherlock gulped.
John started towards him, vaulting the barrier and hurtling up the bleacher
steps. The medal swung around his neck, slapping against his chest with every
deliberate stride. Sherlock could hear the noise: hard metal thudding against
solid bone and muscle. John clambered over the benches, kicking them out of his
way, and stopped abruptly in front of Sherlock, his blue eyes blazing. He
reached out and roughly grabbed a handful Sherlock’s t-shirt, pulling him
towards him in a heated, passionate kiss. Sherlock sank forward, melting under
John’s touch and running his hands through John’s damp hair, feeling the slick,
cool wetness of sweat on his skin. Voices whooped and jeered from down below
but Sherlock barely noticed; John’s mouth was demanding and salty and warm.
“You are mine,” John mumbled between kisses, his teeth grazing across
Sherlock’s lower lip. “For all the world to see.”
 
They walked home hand-in-hand, John’s jacket draped like a shawl over
Sherlock’s shoulders. A weak, muffled light filtered through the grey afternoon
cloud, throwing pools of yellow light across the bleak concrete as their grubby
trainers scuffed in unison across the dirt.
“Wait a minute,” said John suddenly, coming to a halt. He let go of Sherlock’s
hand and bent down to the side of the road, where a lone huddle of buttercups
sprouted up from between the cracks in the kerb. He plucked one from its roots,
holding it up in glorious triumph.
“Congratulations, you’re a gardener,” said Sherlock dryly.
John gave him a sardonic look, a slow smirk emerging on his face. He thrust the
buttercup under Sherlock’s chin, where the yellow flower reflected the
sunlight, casting a saffron glow on Sherlock’s pale skin. “Oh, so you do like
butter then,” said John, a cheeky grin alight on his face.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, quirking an eyebrow.
“I like flowers,” John murmured, shrugging. He gently trailed the flower over
Sherlock’s jaw, the soft petals tickling Sherlock’s neck like an electric
current rippling under his skin. Very carefully, he pushed back the mop of
curls surrounding Sherlock’s face and popped the flower behind Sherlock’s ear.
“Yellow suits you,” John winked. “Just watch out for the bees though.”
Sherlock laughed, intertwining their fingers once more.
 
 
Kingsley Terrace was a narrow street, not far from the main road. The houses
were small and uniform and tightly packed together, each front door painted a
different colour of the rainbow. The pocket-sized, overgrown gardens had the
look of something beautiful gone to seed, like performing circus animals that
had long since retired. Some houses had smashed windows boarded up like eye-
patches, and roofs slung like hats over redbrick facades.
They strolled down the road, kicking at rubbish that was strewn haphazardly
across the pavement. Young children hung over gates like damp clothes on a
washing-line, waving merrily at John as he passed.
“Umm… my dad’s out… wanna come in for tea?” asked John, as they wandered up his
garden path. “I make a mean cuppa.”
“Okay, sure,” said Sherlock, nervously rubbing his neck. John’s bedroom was
uncharted territory as of yet.
 
 
“It’s extremely messy, I’m sorry,” said John, as they ascended the think
carpeted stairs, mugs of tea clutched firmly in their hands. He opened a door
to the left of the landing and steered Sherlock inside.
The room was small and cramped, with posters of rock bands and rugby players
plastering every inch of the four walls. There was a single bed with a
nightstand pushed up against the far wall and various records scattered on the
wooden floor around a battered, second-hand record player.  A small television
was perched atop a wooden dresser beside a Nintendo Entertainment System.
“It’s very… you,” said Sherlock smiling, gazing round the room. He folded
himself to the floor, cross-legged, sipping his tea.  
“What, small and perfectly formed?” John quipped, grinning. He selected a
record and placed it onto the turntable. “Please tell me you’ve heard of T.
Rex?”
“Umm…”
“Well prepare to be enlightened,” said John, as the music started up, a smooth
guitar riff forming the bass of the intro. “Get It On is a classic.” He began
dramatically strumming an imaginary guitar in time to the beat, his face
screwed up comical pout.
“Been playing for long?” said Sherlock dryly, smirking from behind his teacup.
“Jimi Hendrix, eat your heart out,” John said, launching into a flamboyant
silent solo. “I could have been world-famous.”
Sherlock laughed, shaking his head. “You’re an idiot.”
John snorted, flopping down onto the floor beside Sherlock. “Christ, my feet
are killing me,” he complained, stretching out his legs like a disgruntled cat.
“I’ll be happy if I never play another match again.”
“Give them here,” sighed Sherlock, putting down his cup and seizing John’s
foot, clasping it securely in his warm able hands. “Mycroft used to pay me to
massage his feet when I was little. I learned a thing or two.”
John groaned with pleasure, his shoulders loosening. He propped his feet in
Sherlock’s lap, laying back against the floor, watching the boy’s nimble
fingers work his sore muscles. “Fuck, Sherlock. You’re good with your hands,
aren’t you!”
“Is that a euphemism?” Sherlock laughed, rubbing soothing circles on the pads
of John feet.
He worked his hands up John’s calves, gently kneading the tight ligaments,
feeling the hard powerful muscles under soft, warm skin. John looked on,
sighing in contentment, his mouth slack, his eyes glazed over.
“Feeling better?” said Sherlock, finishing with one graceful flourish.
“Much better,” yawned John, stretching serenely. “Okay, now it’s my turn.” He
grabbed Sherlock’s foot, sliding Sherlock’s arse across the wooden floor until
he was almost perched on John’s knee.
John’s hands were rough and calloused but surprisingly soft. He gently stroked
Sherlock’s foot, moulding his way slowly up Sherlock’s leg. His strong fingers
slid over Sherlock’s knee and hesitantly towards Sherlock’s thighs.
Sherlock’s breath hitched in his throat, his muscles tensing under John’s
capable hands.
John stopped, sliding his hands back down again.
“Don’t stop,” whispered Sherlock, his grey eyes hooded, biting his bottom lip.
John grazed his thumb up Sherlock’s inner thigh, his eyes on Sherlock’s lips.
Sherlock jerked suddenly forward, grabbing the back of John’s neck and pressing
a frantic kiss to his lips.
John fell back to the floor with a groan, pulling Sherlock on top of him. A
liquid ache spread under Sherlock’s skin as John’s mouth moved urgently,
possessively against his. John was kissing him with a need that seemed almost
painful, his hands gripping Sherlock’s thighs so tight that Sherlock was sure
they would leave bruises.
John rolled over abruptly, pinning Sherlock to the floor, his knees clamped
tightly around Sherlock’s thighs. John’s midnight eyes were wild, blazing white
hot into Sherlock’s with a fervour that knocked the wind out of him. Their
breaths were ragged, strangled, as their lips fought for control over the
other.
Sherlock shuddered, finding the strength to push John away just long enough to
peel his shirt off. John moaned a low guttural sound in his throat, swiftly
tearing his shirt off over his head. Sherlock’s eyes raked over John’s broad
chest, drinking in every bit of him.
John’s hands were in Sherlock’s hair, gripping, pulling and tugging. His lips
shifted from Sherlock’s mouth, nibbling a trail down his neck. Sherlock dug his
nails into John’s back, whimpering at the sensation, every nerve ending alive
with a painful current. John’s teeth trailed along his shoulder, sucking an
angry red mark on his collarbone. It blazed against his skin like a scarlet
poppy in the snow.
Sherlock groaned, pulling John’s mouth back to his, his tongue messy and wet
against John’s lips.
“Wait – Sherlock – Stop…” John panted, pulling his mouth away. “Sherlock we
need to stop now or I won’t be able to control myself…” His eyes were closed,
his jaw clenched tight and throbbing.
Sherlock lay tousled and panting on the floor, staring up at the shirtless boy
above him. “So don’t…” he breathed, making to pull John back down again.
“But… I don’t – I don’t know how…” John whispered, his blue eyes pleading.
Sherlock reached out, pressing a finger to the little dent between John’s
eyebrows, smoothing out the crease. “Don’t worry,” Sherlock murmured. “When the
time comes, I trust you…”
John sighed, rolling over and pulling Sherlock on top of him, holding him to
his chest. Sherlock buried his head in John’s neck, feeling the rapid pulse
pounding against his cheek. John stroked Sherlock’s hair, pressing a soft kiss
to the top of his head, the bare feverish skin of their chests pressed flush
against one another.
The sky darkened outside the window as they lay in an embrace, their eyelids
growing heavy, their muffled breaths breaking the dim quiet – the record having
long since played out. Sherlock’s teacup lay discarded on its side; cold tea
pooled in the saucer and dripped to the floor, leaving sticky trails along the
polished wood.
 
                                       *
***** Balançoire *****
Chapter Notes
     Sherlock and John are both of age of consent in the UK (as of today).
     TW: underage drinking
     (Ps, I'm writing this on my Kindle again, so apologies for any
     errors. Thank you for your wonderful feedback! x)
                           Friday 10th, August, 1984
“Idiot!” John shouted at the television, his tea sloshing precariously in his
fist. “Pass the ball! He was wide open!”
Sherlock lay spread-eagled on his living-room couch with his feet in John’s
lap, his gaze wandering idly from the screen - John’s facial expressions were
proving far more entertaining than England struggling to win the World Cup.
“Oh, come on, ref! The bastard dived! Are you blind?” John bounced indignantly
from the cushion, his arms flapping in outrage. “Christ!”
Sherlock smiled contentedly to himself, watching John’s furious expression
settle once more. The large willow tree outside the window tapped a muffled
tattoo against the double-glazing as the cloudy, evening sky curdled into
speckled red, white and blue. The setting sun shone long, auburn rays through
the heavy, fabric curtains and lit crimson streaks in John’s fair hair.
Sherlock ogled at him, unable to hide the adulation in his eyes. John himself
was like the sun: he radiated warmth – comfort – light; he gave everything and
asked for nothing in return… he was quietly, humbly magnificent.
“Is the game really that boring?” asked John, quirking an eyebrow and peering
down at Sherlock out of the corner of his eye.
“I’d just rather look at you to be perfectly honest,” said Sherlock grinning,
prodding John’s stomach with his toe.
“Well, I am gorgeous,” teased John, batting his long eyelashes and pouting his
lips.
Sherlock rolled over, snorting into the cushions.
“What’s so funny!” asked John, his mouth dropping open in mock indignation. He
snatched Sherlock’s foot from his lap, tickling his long, slender toes.
Sherlock giggled, squealing and flailing his arms in protest. “Nothing,
nothing, you’re gorgeous!” he laughed, squirming under John’s fingers.
“That’s what I thought,” said John, kissing the sole of Sherlock’s foot and
dropping it into his lap.
Sherlock smirked, rolling his eyes and nestling back into the cushions.
“So… Mike Stamford is having a victory party at his house tonight and we’re
both invited… if you want to go?” said John, absently stroking Sherlock’s leg,
his eyes on the screen.
“Wait, I’m invited?” said Sherlock, a mask of incredulity on his face.
“Of course you are, silly,” said John, shrugging. “My mates think you’re
wicked.”
“Oh, okay…” said Sherlock, a quiet, pleased smile alight on his lips. “Sounds
like fun.”
“Well then, in that case, I’d better go home and change,” said John, standing
up and pressing a quick kiss to Sherlock’s forehead. “I’ll be round for 8
o’clock.”
 
 
A horn honked from outside, three shrill beeps piercing the quiet.
John peered through Sherlock’s bedroom window down onto the amber-lit street
below, where a small, faded red Golf GTI was loitering in the middle of the
road. “That’s Steve,” he said, pulling on his denim jacket. He was clad in a
red-and-white plaid shirt, buttoned up to the neck, stone-washed jeans and
shiny, black Doc Martins. Sherlock had to remind himself, on more than one
occasion, that staring open-mouthed was considered rude. “You ready?”
“Yup,” said Sherlock, tearing his eyes away from the helpless shirt buttons
straining to contain John’s broad chest. “Let’s go.” He shrugged John’s black
Harrington on over his smart, white dress shirt and black, skin-tight jeans. He
leaned into the collar, sniffing the lingering scent John had left behind.
John’s eyes raked over Sherlock’s tall, willowy frame, his tongue flicking out
to slowly lick his lips. “Damn,” he groaned, his eyes tracing the curves of
Sherlock’s behind. “You look fucking fantastic.” He pulled Sherlock down by the
collar of his shirt, placing a heated kiss to his lips.
“Likewise,” said Sherlock, slightly breathless, as John pulled away.
 
“Alright, lads,” said John to the two boys occupying the front seats, as he and
Sherlock clambered into the tiny, cramped car. “Steve, Adam, this is Sherlock,
my boyfriend.”
“Alright, Sherlock?” said Steve, winking merrily at Sherlock in his wing mirror
before pulling out onto the main road. “John’s told us sooo much about you.” He
grinned sideways at Adam, wiggling his eyebrows.
John sat deadpan, his eyes rolling in his head. “You’re hilarious, Steve.
Really hilarious,” he groaned.
“Hi,” Sherlock mumbled shyly, shrinking slightly into John’s side. John gripped
his hand reassuringly, planting a swift kiss on Sherlock’s cheek.
“Ooooohhh,” Adam hollered, turning round to face them, making loud kissing
noises.
“Shut up,” John muttered furiously, frowning and kicking the back of Adam’s
seat.
“You’re such a loser, John,” Steve grinned teasingly. “What on earth do you see
in him, Sherlock mate?”
Sherlock laughed, feeling ease spread over him. John’s mates weren’t so bad,
really.
 
 
Mike’s large, detached house glowed like a jack-o-lantern in the dark night.
People oozed from the open front door and trickled out into the large garden.
The music thumped deep in Sherlock’s stomach like a heartbeat, as they crossed
the threshold into the ruckus of the party. Groups of teenagers huddled like
arctic penguins dotted along the hallway, clutching cups of garish-coloured
liquids and laughing raucously.
“John! Sherlock! You made it!” Mike called, stumbling towards them clutching a
can of beer. “Help yourselves to anything. We owe it all to you John, mate! The
team’s never been this good! ” Mike toppled towards him, giving him a sloppy
one armed hug. “Champions!”
There was an answering chorus of “Champions!” from the surrounding party-goers
as Mike disappeared back into the boisterous crowd.
“Umm… something to drink?” John murmured in Sherlock’s ear, grabbing his hand
and pulling him towards the kitchen.
“Just a Coke for me,” said Sherlock, as John dived into the fridge. “My
audition is on Monday and I need a level head.”
“That’s my boy,” John winked, a proud smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He threw a can of Coke towards Sherlock, opening a can of cider for himself.
“Let’s go celebrate my amazing-ness, shall we?”
Sherlock rolled his eyes, shaking his head. He slung his arm through John’s,
following him out into the living room.
 
 
“What song is this?” Sherlock called over the sound of the music as they stood
chest to chest in the middle of the make-shift dance floor.
“Town Called Malice by The Jam!” John replied, sliding his arms around
Sherlock’s waist and pressing the length of his body flush against him. “It
used to be my favourite song!”
“Used to be?”
“Yeah,” John breathed, his lips at Sherlock’s ear, grinning wickedly. His hands
slid down to cup the round curve of Sherlock’s arse before slipping into the
back pockets of Sherlock’s jeans. “For obvious reasons, Get It On has recently
surpassed it.”
A crimson heat crept slowly across Sherlock cheeks. “Oh…” he mumbled, the
memory searing red-hot in his mind.
John began swaying in time to the beat, grinding his hips against Sherlock’s,
his lips at Sherlock’s throat. Sherlock slung his arms around John’s neck,
matching his movements.
John reached up, his lips finding Sherlock’s, his tongue slipping slowly,
possessively into Sherlock’s mouth. Sherlock moaned, his mouth frantic against
John’s, their hips rhythmically rocking against the other.
“John," Sherlock breathed urgently, through the whisper of their lips, pulling
John closer, as the music blared around them, trapping them in their own
private moment.
“Come with me,” said John suddenly, grabbing Sherlock’s hand as the song ended,
pulling him out into the hall. They stumbled up the stairs, tripping over
bodies strewn across the carpet, and slipped into the bathroom.
John locked the door behind them, his scorching blue eyes blazing into
Sherlock’s.
He pushed Sherlock roughly up against the cold, white tiles, one hand cupping
Sherlock’s jaw, the other slowly sliding down Sherlock’s stomach.
John’s hands skimmed under the waistband of Sherlock’s jeans, grazing the light
smattering of hair below Sherlock’s navel. Sherlock’s cock twitched from
beneath his jeans as John’s breath ghosted across his neck.
Sherlock groaned, leaning in, his mouth searching for John’s. John’s lips
fought for leverage against Sherlock’s, as his hand palmed the growing bulge in
Sherlock’s jeans. Sherlock could feel John’s roguish grin spilling against his
mouth.
The breath caught in his throat and his heart faltered in his chest as John’s
fingers fumbled with Sherlock’s zip, slowly unfastening it and sliding his
jeans down.
John pulled away from the kiss, his wide, searching blue eyes deep enough to
drown in.
Sherlock’s pants were stained dark with precome over the bulge of his cock.
John glanced down, his lips red and swollen, his eyes glazed.
Slowly, he hooked one finger in the waistband of Sherlock’s pants yanking them
down over Sherlock’s thighs, his warm fingers grazing lightly over sensitive
flesh. His eyes burned, not breaking Sherlock’s gaze, as one hand slowly
clasped around Sherlock’s now-hard cock, sliding over the tip.
The breath whistled from between Sherlock’s teeth. “Fuck,” he breathed, his
head falling back, connecting with the wall behind him.
John sank to his knees, his midnight eyes hooded with arousal, staring up at
Sherlock. Slowly, he sheathed his teeth with his lips, bringing his mouth over
the head of Sherlock’s cock.
Sherlock whimpered, running his fingers through John’s hair.
John began to slide up and down, his tongue lightly circling, his hands pumping
the base of Sherlock’s shaft.
Sherlock’s hands convulsed in John’s hair, his knuckles clenched white. He
scrunched his eyes tight, his breath falling heavily from his lungs. “John,” he
moaned, bucking his hips into John’s mouth. “John… fuck…”
John groaned, the vibrations sending waves of pleasure across Sherlock’s body.
John’s pace was frantic as Sherlock came undone under his hands. He came with a
whimper, gripping John’s hair for support as his knees buckled beneath him.
 
 
The music was low and muted as they sat slumped on the couch, their lids heavy,
their limbs entwined into one. People lay like slugs on the carpet, passed out,
empty beer bottles clutched to their chests like teddy bears. Mike Stamford sat
in the corner talking animatedly to no one in particular.
Sherlock lay half-asleep with his head in John’s lap.
John pressed a kiss to his soft curls, lightly stroking his face. “So, did you
have a nice time?” he asked, a soft smirk on his face.
Sherlock laughed sleepily, sighing in contentment, fighting to keep his eyes
open.
“Go to sleep,” John whispered, gently pushing back the mop of curls from
Sherlock’s face. “I’ll still be here when you wake up.”
 
                                       *
***** Penalty Kick *****
Chapter Summary
     TW: homophobic slurs, physical child abuse, alcoholism
     and porn...
Chapter Notes
     Once again, I am writing this on my Kindle (my track record with
     keeping laptops alive is... not good apparently...) so apologies for
     any typos/errors etc, hope you enjoy! Only a few chapters to go! x
See the end of the chapter for more notes
                           Sunday, 12th August, 1984
John travelled upwards through a dream in which a tall, slender angel, with a
dark halo of curls, held onto his arm, guiding him through the darkness. The
boy held the other arm out in front of him, ready to protect  against the
monsters that hid in the shadows that flickered around them on the cold floor.
Shadows that only he could see. 
Distant sounds rumbled somewhere remote, clawing at John's consciousness. 
He stirred, rising up from under the skin of his dream.
"Get down here you little shit!" The front door slammed shut and heavy
footsteps echoed ominously down the narrow hallway.
John jerked awake, his head in a daze. 
Wiping the drool from his lips, he stumbled down the stairs, two at a time, and
skidded into the dingy kitchen, where his father was seated at the table, a can
of lager clenched in his fist. His shaven head was bowed and John could see
purplish veins erupting furiously on his scalp like angry, blue worms. 
"There's been a lot of talk, Johnny... a lot of talk..." his father murmured
from between clenched teeth, not raising his head. His clothes were thick with
grime and soot, jet black dust settling in the creases and folds like bats
under a cliff face. "People have been saying stuff... a lot of stuff..."
"Oh yeah?" said John nervously, stuffing his hands into his pyjama pockets and
hastily wiping his slick palms. Chinks of evening light stole into the room
through the worn curtains and fell on John's old rugby boots, discarded and
tattered by the back door. He stared at them, memorising them again, just for
something to look at that wasn't his father. 
"Bob Anderson has been telling everyone at the Union that my
son... my son..." He lurched to his feet, his chair crashing to the floor
behind him, his hands balled into fists at his sides. "MY son... is a
fucking poofter!"
Mr Watson's eyes were wild, darting blindly across John's face. He was swaying
bunglingly on his feet, teetering like a tent-pole in a stiff autumn breeze as
a sour mist of alcohol vaporised from his skin. 
"Well... it's... well... I was gonna..." John stammered tripping over his
tongue, his heart making a furious attempt to escape from his chest. 
"I fucking knew it!" his father roared, his chest swelling. "How could you do
this to me! What have I ever done in my life to deserve this?" He reached for
his drink, taking a long, deep swig, his face turning a blotchy red colour. The
can crinkled noisily in his large, loutish hands. 
"It wasn't a choice, dad..." John whispered, staring at his feet, his toes
clenched white with fear. Tears began to trickle down his cheeks, dripping
audibly onto the collarbones of his bare chest. "I like boys and I like
girls... I can't help it who I like..." 
"You're a disgrace to this family! You're a disgrace!" slurred his father, his
eyes unfocussed. He tossed his can to the floor, where it ricocheted against
the table leg, spilling its bitter contents over John's feet, and staggered
around the table. "That's right! Go ahead and cry!"
"I'm sorry, dad," John sniffed, tears falling freely down his face, his palms
held up in surrender. 
"You make me fucking sick!" his father shouted, lunging forward in a drunken
rage, one palm colliding sharply with the side of John's face. "Get out of my
fucking sight you little poof! Go on, get!"
John didn't need telling twice. Clutching his flaming cheek, he ran from the
room, flying up the stairs and locking himself in the bathroom. He leaned
against the cold tiles, feeling the sweat turn icy on his chest. The cold beads
studded his skin like diamonds, before breaking and sliding down his skin like
tears. It had been months since his father had lost his temper like that... he
had forgotten how much it hurt. 
He collapsed, slumped hopelessly like a beggar against the wall, hugging his
knees, as the front door slammed shut below him, the glass plates wobbling
fragilely in their panes.
His eyelids shivered closed and his breathing slowed, his head falling against
his knees as his long lashes re-summoned sleep. 
The angel returned, gripping his arm, shepherding him through the darkness. He
was pale, giving off a ghostly, translucent glow that seemed to light the way.
John didn't know his name, but John knew he loved him. It soothed him to know
that he was there, holding him in the dark, keeping him safe. 
 
A solitary bumblebee hummed a low drone against the kitchen window as John
stood tending to his potted cactus, a bag of frozen peas thrust against his
cheek. He watched the poor insect's furious attempts at escape - its bulbous,
black head thudding again and again against the glass - before leaning over the
sink, opening the window and letting it fly away. 
"At least one of us should be free," he muttered, watching its descent over
next-door's hyacinths.
 He had just added a few drops of water to his cactus when the doorbell rang,
its shrill chime startling John out of his brooding silence. 
 
Sherlock stood on the doorstep, satchel-over-shoulder, shuffling his feet.
"Hi," he murmured. "I would have called but-"
"Don't be silly, c'mere," said John, grabbing Sherlock by the collar and
pulling him in for a kiss. With Sherlock in his arms everything else seemed
irrelevant. He was home. "I was just about to call you myself, I wanted to see
you before your audition tomorrow."
"Oh," said Sherlock smiling, allowing himself to be ushered inside. "Nice
jammies, by the way."
John snorted, following him upstairs. His eyes slid down to the practically-
sprayed-on tights covering Sherlock's legs, his gaze falling over the perfect,
round mounds of Sherlock's arse. He rolled his eyes exasperatedly, adjusting
himself in his boxers. "I'm gonna start putting you under house arrest,
Sherlock. For health reasons."
"I'm all your's," laughed Sherlock, turning into John's bedroom. "Where do you
want me?" He turned, batting his long eyelashes.
John groaned, raising his eyes to heaven. "Go and sit on the bed before I
spontaneously combust. I'll put some music on - we're continuing with your
music education."
Sherlock laughed, settling himself on John's bed and kicking off his shoes. 
John thumbed through his record collection, choosing a record of
Elvis' Greatest Hits. He blew off the thin layer of dust, placing it carefully
on the turntable. "You've gotta have heard of Elvis?" he said, flopping down on
the bed beside Sherlock and placing an arm behind his head. 
"Yeah, him I've heard of," said Sherlock, nestling into John's arm, his wild
curls brushing against the sensitive skin under John's armpit. 
"What time is your audition tomorrow? I'll come up to London with you."
"Oh, you don't have to do that..." Sherlock mumbled into John's side. 
"But I want to be there," said John, tipping Sherlock's chin up with the tip of
his finger and pressing a kiss to Sherlock's lips. They felt fragile; still
cold from the night-time air. John wrapped his own lips around them, sheltering
them from the chill, as Sherlock hummed in appreciation, burrowing himself
closer. 
 
The moonlight filtering through the thin, slanting window blinds bleached
broken lines across Sherlock's face, like static on a television screen. John
stared at him, feeling suddenly breathless. 
"Oh, I know this one!" said Sherlock suddenly, leaping from the bed, as the
record scratched into the beginnings of a new song. "I Can't Help Falling in
Love With You! I love this song!" He reached down, grabbing John's hand and
pulling him close to his chest. "You lead, I'll follow."
John swallowed hard, feeling Sherlock's heartbeat thrum against his chest, his
breath whispering across John's cheek. John slid his arms around Sherlock's
waist drawing him closer and began to sway in time to the waltz. Sherlock's
hands draped across John's shoulders, his grey eyes wide and winsome. John's
eyes were hard, like blue marbles, boring into Sherlock's with an ardour that
fizzled in the air between them. 
Being with Sherlock made John feel as though his soul had burst from its banks,
spilling like a river into the confines of Sherlock's, melting together and
becoming something new. It was as if the whole world belonged to them - as if
it lay before them, stretched out and waiting, their's to be discovered. 
"Wise men say, only fools rush in..."
Sherlock's fingers lightly ghosted the back of John's neck, just below his
hairline, sending shivers down John's spine. 
"Shall I stay? Would it be a sin?"
John's hands skimmed over the thin fabric of Sherlock's tights, lightly grazing
the soft dip between his arsecheeks. 
"Like a river flows surely to the sea..."
 Sherlock shuddered, pressing the length of his body against John's, his
fingers grasping at the nape of John's neck. 
"Darling so it goes, some things are meant to be..."
John brought their mouths together, carefully, hesitantly, watching the way
Sherlock's eyelids fluttered closed, delicately purple. 
"Take my hand, take my whole life too..."
Sherlock's hands moved to John's jaw as he deepened the kiss, one hand either
side of his face, cupping his cheeks; a soothing presence where not so long ago
there had been pain. 
"For I can't help falling in love with you..."
John pulled away, letting Sherlock's hands fall. He brushed a finger along
Sherlock's temple, sweeping away an errant curl. "I love you, Sherlock." The
words came out as a croak, choking him. 
Sherlock's chest fell as his lungs emptied of air. He looked taken aback, like
John's words truly stunned him. "Are you sure?" he whispered, his eyes wide and
searching. His mouth crumpled, his perfect cupid's bow scrunching like a
serrated blade. 
"Of course I'm bloody sure!" groaned John, crushing Sherlock's lips to his, his
fingers tangling frantically in Sherlock's hair.
"But-but- I love you too," Sherlock breathed into John's lips, the sound
evaporating in the heat of John's mouth. 
John brought his hands to Sherlock's hips, lifting him up and hooking his hands
behind Sherlock's knees, allowing Sherlock to wrap his legs around him. He
could feel Sherlock's growing erection digging into his stomach, hard and
insistent. He moaned into Sherlock's mouth, his warm, calloused hands bruising
Sherlock's thighs.
Sherlock's tongue was fierce against John's, his arms tight around John's neck.
John carried him across the room, stopping when he felt the edge of the bed at
his shins, and lowered Sherlock onto the mattress. 
Sherlock pulled him down on top of him, his breath falling heavily from his
lugs, his pale face flushed and warm. John straddled him, biting soft kisses
over Sherlock's long neck, his fingertips slowly gliding back and forth over a
nipple just visible through the band of Sherlock's tank-top. Sherlock moaned,
suddenly pushing John away and hastily yanking his top over his head.
John nudged him back against the pillows, hovering over him, his deep blue eyes
hooded. Clouded eyes held clouded eyes, as his fingers trailed down the pale,
marble contours of Sherlock's stomach, hard like silk-covered stone. He watched
the ridges above Sherlock's navel grow taut and rise under his skin like the
divisions on a slab of chocolate. Patterned trails of goosebumps erupted across
the pale expanse of flesh like ants, as John slowly circled his belly-
button. It was so perfect; so flawless. Sherlock was nothing but high
cheekbones and hunted eyes beneath him, his hair fanned out against the pillow
like an oil spill.
"You're so beautiful," John murmured. Shifting his knees down the mattress, he
peeled Sherlock's tights down his thighs, watching as midnight black became
creamy white as Sherlock trembled beneath him. He threw them over his shoulder,
hearing the whisper as they made contact with the ground. His fingers moved
beneath Sherlock's boxers, wrapping around the now familiar hot, velvety skin
of his hardened cock. John's eyes flashed up to Sherlock's face as he slowly
began to stroke him, his hands working the length of Sherlock's
shaft. Sherlock's long, thin fingers scraped along the bare flesh of John's
back, his head thrown back against the pillow, his teeth biting hard against
his swollen lower-lip. 
In one sharp movement, John ripped off Sherlock's pants, sliding them down his
legs and over his feet. Sherlock's cock lay hard and red, dripping against his
pale stomach. John grazed his hands up the inside of Sherlock's thighs,
watching his cock twitch and leak. 
"Fuck, John," Sherlock breathed, grabbing John by the back of the neck and
kissing him hard against his bruised, swollen lips. Their teeth clashed, their
tongues messy. 
John's arm hairs stood on end, prickling across his ochre skin. He shivered,
gasping into Sherlock's mouth, nipping at his bottom lip. He blindly reached
towards his night-stand, groping around for the lone condom that lay in the
drawer. 
"Hold on," he whispered, moving from the bed and padding over to his dresser.
He opened his sock drawer, fumbling in the darkness for the little bottle he
had bought at the chemist the previous week. His hand found the cool, hard
plastic nestled among the soft cotton. It was heavy in his hands; ominous. 
Sherlock lay tousled and breathless, propped up on one forearm, his chest
painted red where John's hands had been. John shimmied out of his trousers and
pants, allowing his erection to spring free as he climbed onto the bed. 
Sherlock's hands wrapped tentatively around John's cock for the very first
time, stroking down the length agonisingly slowly. John groaned, his hips
bucking into Sherlock's hand. He handed Sherlock the condom, watching him
fumble with the small, silver-blue packet before ripping it open with his
teeth. 
"I don't know what to do," Sherlock whispered, looking suddenly anxious. 
"Like this, I think," John murmured, guiding Sherlock's trembling hand to the
head of John's cock, pinching the tip and rolling it slowly down over the
length. He leaned down, kissing Sherlock slow and hard. "You must tell me if I
hurt you... if it's too much..."
Sherlock nodded, his chest heaving. "I trust you," he breathed. 
 
                                       *
Chapter End Notes
     Elvis' "I Can't Help Falling In Love With You":
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqv5b0UjR4g
***** Coupé *****
                           Sunday, 12th August, 1984
Sherlock's chin jutted painfully against his clavicle as he strained to follow
John's movements with his eyes. John appeared so confident and unafraid, it was
overwhelming to watch.
A strong, assertive knee came between Sherlock's thighs, parting them
slightly. 
"Bring your knees to your chest," John murmured.
Sherlock hitched a hand behind his knees, bending his legs to his stomach. He
was more exposed than he had ever been in his life; the thought was as arousing
as it was terrifying. 
John leaned down, a hand on either of Sherlock's arsecheeks and settled himself
between Sherlock's legs. His head came between Sherlock's thighs, his nose
nuzzling the sensitive flesh between cock and arsehole. Sherlock quivered
beneath him, goosebumps rupturing across his pale, delicate skin. 
"God, Sherlock," John moaned. "You smell like... fuck... you smell like sex..."
Very slowly, John's warm, pink tongue flicked out, running along the length of
Sherlock's perineum, his rough hands gripping the hard muscle of Sherlock's
thighs. Sherlock's back arched off the bed, his entire body clenched tight, a
whimper dropping from his lips.
John's dark blue eyes flickered up, just visible to Sherlock over the horizon
of his snowy-white arsecheeks. John grinned, his mouth wandering carelessly to
Sherlock's small, expectant pink hole. It felt strange, foreign, and very wet.
John's mouth sucked, licked and explored as Sherlock slowly loosened up beneath
the thrusts of John's tongue. Sherlock shuddered, his breath shallow. It was
like his body only existed when John touched him.
John reached for the little bottle of lube, flicking it open and squeezing a
copious amount onto Sherlock's hole. The velvety liquid slid over his alabaster
cheeks like warm butter, spilling onto the sheets below them. John lathered his
fingers, warming the solution in his hands, before bringing his pinky to
Sherlock's hole. He circled the rim, before dipping the tip of his finger
inside. Sherlock gasped at the intrusion, his knees spasming under his hands,
as John slowly began to circle, pushing his finger to the knuckle and then to
the hilt. John's face was a heady mix of concentration and arousal, mouth open
in a soft O, his dusty-pink lips puffy and bruised. He gradually added another
finger, leaning down and pressing tender kisses to the inside of Sherlock's
thighs. John slid in and out, his fingers rhythmically fucking, stretching the
puckered hole until they slipped with ease. 
All of a sudden, he stilled, his eyes finding Sherlock's, his tanned, roguish
face suddenly as disarmingly innocent as Sherlock had ever seen him. John
arched over him, placing a hand either side of Sherlock's head, his mouth
hovering within tasting distance, the heat of his skin feverish against
Sherlock's chest. "Are you sure about this?" he whispered, his voice low and
hoarse, his eyes beseeching.
Sherlock raised his head, his eyes open, fixed on John's black, lust-blown
pupils, and pressed their mouths together, tasting a saltiness on John's lips.
He stared at the wide-eyed, teenage face and felt a lump form in his throat. "I
love you," he breathed into John's lips. "You are what I want, John."
John groaned, bringing a hand to Sherlock's jaw, deepening the kiss, his tongue
languidly massaging the roof of Sherlock's mouth. 
Very slowly, John guided the tip of his cock to Sherlock's swollen hole.
Sherlock's head fell back against the mattress, the breath emptying from his
lungs in a sharp hiss, as John slowly pushed the head inside. It hurt. A lot.
More than he expected. Sherlock's protruding knuckles gripped snowy-white
against the bed sheets as John slid further inside, his strong hands sinking
into Sherlock's thighs, the breath whistling sharply from between his teeth.
Tears stung Sherlock's eyes, his breath catching in his throat. He scrunched
his eyes tight, clenching his jaw, as John carefully, gradually buried himself
inside. 
John stopped, motionless, his cobalt eyes boring into Sherlock's as he
guardedly, deliberately slid out, thrusting back in, in one slow delicious
stroke, his belly providing friction against Sherlock's tender cock.
It was equal parts pain and pleasure. For each quivering tremor of ecstasy, it
was met with a sharp betrayal of pain. It raised the stakes; this was for John;
to show John how much he loved him. 
It was just the two of them, skin to skin, chest to chest, forehead to
forehead, their bodies slick with sweat, eyes never leaving the other. In that
moment Sherlock knew John loved him. He believed it. He could feel it in every
touch, in every kiss. In every moan and oath. In the way he breathed Sherlock's
name against his neck.
John Watson loved Sherlock Holmes.
And Sherlock loved him - had fallen head-over-heels, heart-stoppingly,
irrevocably, painfully in love with him, the way only teenagers could. 
"Sherlock," John moaned, his face screwed tight, his eyes urgent, his thrusts
becoming faster, shallower. 
Precome pooled in the hollows of Sherlock's stomach, his cock hot and red
against his skin. He was too consumed with sensation to move, his arms heavy
and numb, like sandbags against the mattress. 
John's pace quickened, his breath frantic, his eyes creased shut. "Sherlock...
Sherlock... Sherlock..." he whined, his voice high and keening. His grip was
tight and painful around Sherlock's waist, his fingers unforgiving against
Sherlock's pale flesh. 
Sherlock was smoke beneath him, climbing higher and higher, lost in sensation.
"Joh... Jo-I'm...gon..." and then, with a sobbing, shuddering cry of John's
name, he came, his body turning to ash under John's fingers, tears trickling
hot and wet down his face.
He felt John spasm inside him, John's fingers convulsing as he collapsed
boneless on top of him, his chest heaving.
And then there was silence.
The room betrayed their secret. It screamed their undoing in the disarray of
stained, rumpled sheets and the sloppiness of kicked-off shoes and the soft
snake of black tights that slept in a mound on the floor. 
The moon sat on its elbows and watched, blanching the two boys of colour as
they lay, unmoving, unspeaking, lost in their own private insanity. 
 
                                       *
***** Écarté *****
Chapter Notes
     Oops, this is so late, I'm sorry! These two chapters have been hell
     to write, oh my word!
     TW: so much angst, oh lord
     (note: this chapter is paired with the next one, if you're a wee bit
     confused!)
                           Monday, 13th August, 1984
Crisp white shirt.
Grey tie. 
Shiny black shoes. 
Deep breath. 
Sherlock stared at himself in the mirror, smoothing non-existent creases in his
shirt, and tried to calm his nerves. His hands were restless, jittery, as he
fumbled with the knot in his tie. He pulled at the stiff, white collar,
covering the trail of faint red marks on his neck; mementos from the night
before.
His lips were still puffy and swollen; he traced over them with his index
finger, squirming at their sensitivity. 
His eyes were wild, frenzied behind glassy, anxious lenses. He felt like he
should look different, should have a red stamp on his forehead proclaiming his
malfeasance. But, no. He was still Sherlock; just Sherlock. 
Putting his fingers to his temples, he scrunched his eyes tight, trying to
clear his mind and focus on remembering his audition routine.
Coupé de pied, right foot devant on count four, small grand jeté onto right
ouvert... his head was spinning... 
He took another deep breath, holding it in his lungs, and counted to three. 
Sherlock glanced nervously at his watch, letting out a long gust of air; Eight-
thirty-seven am. John was seven minutes late. It wasn't like him to be late. 
Hitching his satchel over one shoulder, he afforded one last glimpse in the
mirror, and headed downstairs. 
 
The early sun filtered through the white, bowler-hat clouds in spokes of light,
decorating the kitchen with a speckled lustre. A light breeze fluttered through
the open window, lifting the front of Sherlock's hair as he leaned against the
counter-top, nibbling at a sliver of cold toast.
A small, curious honey bee soared in on the wind towards a vase of hydrangeas
on the windowsill, settling itself on the delicious bloom. Sherlock watched it
as it wriggled and squirmed, collecting pollen and drinking succulent nectar. 
He wasn't sure how long he had been staring, lost in thought, but when he
looked up, he wasn't alone. 
"John?" Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief, gripping the counter for support.
But his relief turned turned to ash in his mouth, the colour draining from his
face like pulling the plug from a bath.  
John's face was black - no blue - no black and green and purple - swollen -
marbled with bruises. He was staring silently at the floor, hands limp at his
sides, shoulders hunched inwards on himself. He seemed dazed, unnerved,
standing stock-still in the middle of Sherlock's large kitchen, smaller than
Sherlock had ever seen him. 
"John? John? What the hell? What happened to your face? Are you okay?" Sherlock
lurched forwards, reaching for him, his arms outstretched. 
But his fingers fumbled at the fabric of John's jumper as John stepped back,
his still head bowed. "Don't," John whispered, closing his eyes, his forehead
creased. He was radiating tension. His usually playful, boyish features were
uneasy and distant. A sharp vertical cut sliced the corner of his pale lips and
dark, heavy bags hung under his eyes like dead-weights. 
Sherlock stilled. Something was wrong. Something was dreadfully, dreadfully
wrong. 
"John? Please, what on earth has happened to you!" said Sherlock, his voice
high with panic. He stepped forward, closing the space between them again, and
placed a hand on either of John's shoulders, shaking them slightly. "John?
John?"
"I said don't!" shouted John, shrugging off Sherlock's hands and taking another
step back. He was still staring at the floor, but his hands balled into fists
at his sides, as they were prone to doing whenever he was upset. 
Sherlock stood back, unable to process what was going on, shock and distress
hitting him like a tidal-wave. He could feel his heartbeat in his stomach. His
lips were trembling. "John... please..." he whispered, tears pricking at the
corners of his eyes. "Are you all right? Are you hurt? Please tell me you're
okay..."
John took a deep stuttering breath, slowly lifting his head. He stared blankly
into Sherlock's eyes, devoid of any warmth or affection. It was unsettling to
watch. 
Sherlock felt vaguely sick. Bile rose in his throat and sweat rose slick and
moist on the back of his neck. A single tear trickled down one bony cheek,
dripping onto his freshly-laundered, white shirt. 
"Sherlock..." John breathed, closing his eyes and clenching his jaw. He took a
deep breath. "Sherlock. I can't see you anymore."
"Wha-?" Sherlock faltered. The air seemed to disappear from his lungs in one
disbelieving breath. He felt suddenly dizzy, light-headed. "But.. bu-what...
why? I don't underst-what?"
"I can't see you anymore," John repeated, his face deadpan. His eyes were
hollow, expressionless, staring at nothing. "We need to break up... I'm
breaking up with you..."
The world stopped spinning... for a second Sherlock thought he was going to
fall off...
He couldn't breath. His chest was too tight, painfully tight, choking him. 
"Bu-but you love me..." Sherlock protested, tears welling up in his eyes. 
"No." A single tear cascaded down John's face, dripping pathetically onto his
neck. "I don't."
Sherlock wanted to punch him, he honestly did; he wanted to reach out and add
another bruise to the black and blue finger-painting that marred John's face. 
No... he didn't...
He wanted to close the distance between them and hold John in his arms and wipe
away the tear that was quivering on the end of his eyelash... to drop to his
knees and wrap his arms around John's ankles and hold on kicking and screaming
and never let go...
He wanted to find out who hurt him, so that Sherlock could hurt them back a
thousand times worse. 
But... John had lied to him... John didn't love him after all.
The pain was just too much for Sherlock to bear. 
"Then get out," Sherlock whispered, anguish twisting his pale face, a sob
ripping through his chest. Tears fell slowly, silently down his face, trembling
along his jaw like raindrops on the edge of a roof. His eyes ached. His chest
ached. His heart ached. He felt used, like rubbish; worthless and discarded and
left out in the gutter. 
"I'm sorry," John whispered, tears glistening like diamonds on his long
eyelashes. His body was half-turned, already making its escape. 
"I said get out!" Sherlock sobbed, his shoulders shaking violently, his chest
heaving. "And don't you dare say you're sorry!"
 
By a vase of hydrangeas, Sherlock sat down and  wept.
A desolate honey bee died in its flower coffin. 
                                       *
***** Fight or Flight *****
Chapter Summary
     So this is kind of the prequel to the last chapter...
     TW: umm... yeah... just don't read if you're of a nervous
     disposition.
                           Monday, 13th August 1984
Sweat clung to the nape of John's neck, glueing his fair hair to his damp skin,
as drool dribbled in a sticky trail from his open mouth, pooling in a puddle on
his pillow. His entire body felt like it had been reduced to cinders, like a
fire burnt to ashes; yet there was glow, a spark, inside him, a warmth that
spread all the way to the bottom of his toes, reminding him that he was still
whole. The rising sun poked holes through the window, painting the inside of
his eyelids red and burning the tip of his nose. He smiled sleepily, throwing a
pillow over his head and shuffling deeper under the covers.  He stilled,
finding sleep once more. 
 
"What the fuck is this?"
John jerked awake, bolting upright, his head cloudy, his hair messy and stuck
up at odd angles. "Whassat?" he mumbled groggily, shielding his eyes from the
glaring early morning light. 
His father loomed over him, holding something small and indistinct between his
thumb and forefinger, blind fury blistering under the surface of his calm
exterior. His heavy leather jacket was stained and reeking of liquor, and his
large, calloused hands were shaking with rage. He took a deep breath through
his nose. "I said, what the fuck, is this?" He held out his hand and John's
heart stopped. "Care to explain to me, Johnny, why...." He took another
stuttering breath. "- there's a used condom on the floor of your room?" 
John's face blanched. "Look, Dad- I can-I... I can explain!" John stammered,
his bleary eyes pleading. 
There was a beat of silence, like a deep breath before the inevitable storm.
John braced himself, hunching his shoulders, making himself as small as
possible. 
"What did I fucking tell you, you little bastard!" his father roared, grabbing
John by the back of the neck and throwing him onto the floor. He hovered over
him, his blotchy, stubbly face just inches from John's. "Your mother would be
ashamed!" Flecks of spittle flew into John's shaking, petrified face, landing
on his lips and settling in his hair. 
"But I love him dad..." John croaked, sheltering his face as briny tears wormed
their way down his cheeks. 
"Don't be so pathetic!" There was a sickening thud of wood on bone, as John's
head collided with the wall, his father's fist striking sharply across his left
cheekbone. "You"-smack-"fucking"-thump-"little"-crack-"pillow biter!"
"Please... Dad... stop... stop..." John's stomach felt like it was going to
claw its way out of his bellybutton, his eyes rolling into his head. 
"You're going to go to his house, Johnny..." -thwack- "and you're going to tell
him you can't see him anymore, do you understand me?"
John lay in a daze. The blow to his mouth had split his bottom lip and blood
trickled salty and warm into his mouth. 
"I said, do you fucking understand me?"
"...yes.."
 
 
John dragged his feet through the warm, busy streets, his shoelaces trailing
pitifully behind him, collecting dust. His face throbbed with every laboured
step, his temples thumping with every beat of his agitated pulse. 
Twice he had to stop to vomit, the bitter, acrid venom smarting his throat and
spilling over the sooty pavement. Sweat lay in a sickly sheen over his skin
like shattered glass and his jumper stuck tight and unforgiving to his back. 
His trainers scuffed a harsh cacophony across the grey cement as he trudged
towards his own downfall; a dead man walking. 
 
 
Sherlock had his back to him, his long, svelte frame silhouetted against the
wide kitchen window. John savoured the moment, drinking in every last bit of
him; every curve, every curl, every crease. He was so staggeringly perfect, in
every impeccable flaw.
Their love was more than love; it was passion, lust, addiction, madness. It
threw all forms of caution out the window and consumed them completely,
entirely. It lived in the penumbral shadow between reason and insanity; the
kind of love that existed only once in a lifetime. 
John's head flopped to his neck, the weight of what he was about to do
constricting his heart in his chest. He felt broken, mentally and physically
and exhausted; too much had happened to them in the past twenty-four hours. 
Sherlock, who loved him so implicitly, would think it was his own fault, would
blame himself. It would crush him, it would unquestionably tear him to pieces.
John wanted to run to him, to rip the clothes from Sherlock's back and kiss
away the terrible pain he was about to inflict. But he knew if he touched
him... just one touch and he would crumble... would break down into a million
tiny fragile pieces... 
His own grief suffocated him, but Sherlock's devastated him, caused him
unimaginable pain; he thought he might pass out with the intensity of it. John
kept his head down, he couldn't look at him, knowing what he was about to do. 
"John?"
                                       *
 
 
 
***** En Croix *****
Chapter Notes
     Only 3 chapters to go I think!
     There was going to be more to this chapter, but I decided to do the
     rest of this bit as John's perspective, so that should be up this
     week sometime! Hope you enjoy!
                           Monday, 13th August, 1984
The towering ceiling was painted powder-blue like a watery sky, reaching high
enough into the heavens that Sherlock had to squint to see the intricate floral
mouldings set into the stone. Sloping shafts of sunlight shone through the
magnificent arched windows and pooled in luminous puddles on the dark, mahogany
floor. 
It was stiflingly warm. 
An angry bead of sweat trickled down the nape of Sherlock's neck, disappearing
below the collar of his shirt. His eyes were red and sore, his throat hoarse.
He sat on his hands, his long legs swinging nervously, his wooden chair
creaking underneath him as he squirmed beneath the panel's scrutiny; three-
against-one. 
Madame Baudin steepled her long, red-tipped fingers under her chin and studied
him carefully with a soft dent between her severe, hawk-like eyebrows. Her face
was long, thin in the extreme and wrinkled, like she had been in the bath for
too long. Fragile, papery skin hung from her slender arms like delicate drapes
and wobbled like jelly when she moved. "So, Sherlock, before you show us what
you can do, we want to know what drives you, we want to know why you dance..." 
Sherlock had answered this question before, the first time he and John had ever
met, he remembered it so clearly in his mind... the way John looked up at him
through a fringe of black lashes, a small smile on his lips, nudging Sherlock
playfully in the ribs... it seemed a lifetime ago...
He cleared his throat, fighting the wave of fresh tears that threatened to
spill over. "Umm...well..." Sherlock faltered, fidgeting with his tie.  Mycroft
had met him at Charing Cross Station at three o'clock and it had taken all
Sherlock's strength not to simply turn round and return home to Newcastle.
 "Well, I... I...I dunno..." His face flushed scarlet, his palms moistening. 
"It's okay, take your time," said Madame Baudin, smiling reassuringly, her
knowing gaze flashing to Sherlock's pink, puffy eyes. The woman to her left
whispered something behind her hand, concern puckering her brow. Madame Baudin
nodded. "Would you like to take a short interim, Sherlock? You may return when
you are ready?"
Sherlock shook his head. "No, I'm fine, thank you," he said in a small voice. 
Madame Badin appraised him from her alter-like bench, shuffling her papers.
"Okay, as you wish. Well, here at The Royal Ballet School, we value passion,
equally as much as talent... tell us about your passion, Sherlock. I'm sure
someone with your credentials-" she gestured to the stack of papers sitting in
front of her "- has bucket loads of talent. But tell me what ballet means to
you."
Sherlock took a deep breath, staring at the eyelets of his laces. "Well... I'm
kind of shy... but when I dance... I forget about it... I'm free... I
dunno... I like, forget everything. And... sort of disappear. Like I feel a
change in my whole body. And I've got this fire in my body... and I'm just
there... in my own world... it's like I'm flying... like a bird..." Sherlock's
voice grew stronger as he settled in his chair, straightening his back.
"...like electricity. Yeah, like electricity. Like I'm invincible. When I
dance, nothing can hurt me. Nothing... not even..." Sherlock almost said his
name "...nothing."
Madame Baudin was practically beaming at him, her wide, painted smile glowing
down at him from above. "Well, that's quite a display of passion, I would say,
Sherlock." The panel nodded in agreement, smiling warmly at him. "Now, if you
would please go and change into your tights and join the warm up class, and
then you will have your individual audition."
 
 
The dark wood floor was warm beneath Sherlock's toes, thawed from sun, as he
padded into the centre of the vast room. 
He stood silently, staring at the ground, feeling three pairs of eyes watching
him intently, as he waited for the music to start. 
As the familiar melody began, something within Sherlock transformed; he felt it
take hold of him... spreading through his body to the very tips of his fingers
and beyond; dancing was just an extension of his very being, a way of
expressing what couldn't be put into words. He closed his eyes, feeling a fire
building within him, the grief and loss that filled his heart swelled in his
chest and choked his lungs. His long, powerful limbs arced across the polished
wood, as the music enveloped him in soft, comforting arms. 
 
 
                          Thursday, 16th August, 1984
"Sherlock, we have to get you outta the house. You have to see daylight at some
point," said Molly, smiling encouragingly. She was sitting cross-legged on the
end of Sherlock's bed, spooning a large dollop of strawberry ice-cream into her
mouth. 
Sherlock groaned, rolling over and pulling the duvet over his head. "I
don't have to do anything," he murmured into his pillow. He wanted to pass out
and sleep into oblivion; a nirvana where he could just pretend... just for a
little while longer, that things were still the same. It wasn't like they said
in movies... it wasn't instantaneous, his heart wasn't shattered... it was
slowly, painfully bleeding out, draining him until there was nothing left to
feel. 
"Have you spoken to him?"
Sherlock shook his head jerkily beneath his blanket shroud. 
Molly sighed dramatically, shaking her head. "Come on, something's gotta give,
Sherlock! You're both miserable! This is ridiculous!"
"Wait, you've spoken to him?!" Sherlock exclaimed, lurching upright from a
tangle of blankets. Sherlock still couldn't say John's name... oxygen turned
toxic in his lungs, choking him; his mouth couldn't form the familiar shape,
couldn't speak the simple epithet that had once dropped so freely, so
passionately from his lips. 
"Umm... well, I haven't..." Molly mumbled contritely. "But Greg was round at
his house yesterday and said he's wretched... Maybe... maybe... you should talk
to him?"
"I don't want to see him... I can't face him, Molly, I just can't..." Even
though he did  want to see him... he wanted to see him so much it caused him
physical pain. He felt like he was missing a piece of himself; an aching, gut-
wrenching yearning that sat in the pit of his stomach... an emptiness that he
couldn't fill, regardless of how many tubs of ice-cream he ate. It was like
looking up at the sky from the ground, everything felt dizzily, sickeningly out
of reach.  
"Well, I think it's a good idea to come to ballet class tomorrow, at least. Get
some fresh air and some normality. You're stronger than you think you are, you
know." 
Sherlock blinked owlishly at her from behind his pillow shield. "I'm not," he
whispered. 
"Of course you are, you silly lump," Molly laughed, swooping down and giving
him a bone-crushing hug. "You boys will be the death of me, I'm telling you!"
 
 
                           Friday, 17th August, 1984
"Sherlock, breathe, you'll be fine." Molly grasped his hand tight, interlocking
their fingers. "You can't live your life in fear that he'll be around every
corner, okay? You'll bump into each other eventually. And you'll get through
it." 
Sherlock nodded anxiously, taking a deep breath and stepping out into the weak
sunlight, welcoming the warmth against his wintry, pallid skin. The world was
the same as when he left it; time hadn't stopped, dust hadn't settled. Yet he
felt different, brittle, fragile, like one word could shatter him. The sun
shone with an indifferent wheeze, wilting as the height of summer came to an
end.
They walked hand-in-hand, Molly's fingers squeezing firmly, comfortingly with
every step. "You're doing great," she whispered, giving a reassuring smile. 
 
 
Sherlock half-hoped John would be there waiting for him, that he would descend
the stairs after class and see mud-caked blonde hair and tanned skin and the
earth would shift back into place...
But the steps were deserted. 
He and Molly walked home alone. 
Each footstep was like a downwards spiral... falling, falling, falling, without
ever hitting the bottom.  
 
                                       *
 
***** Offside *****
Chapter Notes
     Thank you, as usual, for all of the lovely feedback! Hope you enjoy!
     xx
                           Sunday, 19th August, 1984
Haymarket Cinema sat on the corner of Pilgrim Street, by a huddle of
government-planted trees, like a forgotten ode to the Sixties. Its faded
crimson paint job peeled like sunburn from its dusty walls and only a handful
of letters on the chintzy overhead sign still lit up, giving baffled visitors
the illusion that they were visiting the "Hma Cma".
"Not a Rom-Com," muttered John, wrenching open the red, greasy Formica door.
"Anything but a Rom-Com." He shuffled like a zombie behind the others, staring
at the sticky, threadbare carpet, trailing his feet. He had always thought
girls at school so petty, crying over breakups... but the reality was worse;
the pain was unbearable. He felt chilled to the bone, his blood icy in his
veins, like a perennial winter. He walked with yellowing bruises on his face
and duct-tape around his heart. 
"Whatever you want, buddy," said Greg, smiling sympathetically and giving him a
soft slap on the back. "Anything to get you outta the house, mate." He put his
arm around John's shoulders, dragging him to end of the queue to join Mike. 
"Why did I do it, Greg?" John mumbled, running an exhausted hand through his
hair. He had spent a week of sleepless nights, tossing and turning, asking
himself the same question.
"You did what you had to do, John; what you thought was best... to protect
yourself, to protect Sherlock... I mean, your dad beat you senseless, what else
were you supposed to do for fuck's sake?" said Greg seriously, shaking John's
shoulder. "You can't blame yourself, okay? This isn't your fault."
"But it is my fault! I mean, I broke his heart. He's the fucking love of my
life and I broke his heart. He's the only person who has ever loved me for...
for me and I fucked it up! He must hate me..." 
"Umm... well... I don't think he hates you..." said Greg sheepishly, rubbing
the back of his neck. 
"Wait, you've spoken to him?" exclaimed John, rounding on him, his demanding
posture making up for his relatively short stature . 
"Not exactly... Molls has been spending a lot of time with him... keeping him
out the house, helping him through it, you know... he's really hurt, John...
misses you a lot. But he doesn't hate you. I don't think he ever could."
"...I wish he hated me, I deserve it," muttered John, grabbing his ticket and
sloping off to the popcorn stand. 
 
 
The theatre was dark, its red, velvet carpet stained and thick with crumbs,
abstract voices murmuring like phantoms in the gloom. 
John had always enjoyed the cinema; he found the darkness soothing, in the same
way that young children hid under blankets during a storm; it was a solace. 
He settled himself between Greg and Mike, a large box of popcorn wedged between
his thighs. 
"This better not be shit," muttered Mike, taking a large handful of John's
popcorn. "I wanted to see Footloose."
John rolled his eyes, swatting Mike's hand away. 
"John... shit... don't turn round," Greg muttered suddenly, urgently nudging
John's arm, slouching low in his seat. 
"What, why?" John demanded, baffled, blindly spinning round in his seat. 
The air left his lungs in one stifled gasp. 
He sensed him before he saw him. He felt him, the hairs on the back of his neck
prickling with premonition. His blood turned to steam in his veins, his heart
rate spiking in his chest.
Those dark, unruly curls were unmistakable
"You have got to be kidding... is that... is that Sherlock?" whispered Mike, a
handful of popcorn halfway to his open mouth. "Greg, I thought you and Molly
were supposed to be coordinating this shit?!" 
"Yeah... so did I..." said Greg contritely, as Sherlock and Molly shuffled
unknowingly into the row diagonally opposite, their backs turned away from the
trio. "Sorry John, we can leave if you want..."
"No, it's okay," John mumbled, stooping low in his chair, as the lights dimmed,
the large screen flickering to life. 
 
John paid no attention to the film.
He kept his dinner-plate eyes fixed on the back of Sherlock's head, watching
his movements, the way he stretched, laughed, yawned; the motions so familiar
John could have been looking in a mirror. 
John's heart floundered like a fish in his chest, alive but broken, a twisted
kind of pleasure. It was strange to be so close to him - mere feet from him -
yet miss him so much. He longed for him; he craved him; it was a hunger. 
At one point, he thought their eyes had locked, but it had been too dark to
tell for sure. 
John wanted more than anything to dive across the room and drag Sherlock
outside by the scruff of his neck and plant remorseful, repentant kisses all
over his pale, heartbroken flesh. 
But he stopped himself. His knuckles were clenched white, gripping the
armrest. 
Being with Sherlock would put both of them in danger; like being tethered to a
sinking ship, they would both inevitably drown. 
 
 
                         Wednesday, 22nd August, 1984
Rain hammered down in thick sheets, collecting in muddy puddles along the
pavement. Drooping trees sagged like potato sacks under the weight of the
deluge, their heavy, swollen branches skirting the edge of the kerb. 
John's trainers squeaked and squelched across the sodden dirt, his wet hair
plastered against his face, water droplets sliding down the end of his nose.
Inky black water cascaded down the gutter, racing him to the end of the road. 
"John! John, wait up!" 
John spun round, squinting, shielding his face from the needle-like rain. 
"John! How are you?" Molly jogged up to him, a pink, puffy raincoat enshrouding
her like a marshmallow.
"Umm... yeah, fine, thanks. You?" said John, falling into step beside her. 
Molly gave him a knowing look. "Fine?"
"Well... fucking terrible, to be honest..." said John, shrugging, stuffing his
hands into his trouser pockets. 
She gave him a sympathetic smile. "Yeah, I thought you might be... umm... did
you hear Sherlock's news?" She whispered his name uncertainly, like a swear
word, treading carefully. 
"Umm...no, I didn't?" 
"He got in, John! To The Royal Ballet School, he got in! A full scholarship and
everything!"
John stopped in his tracks, raindrops ricocheting noisily off his skull. A lump
formed in his throat. He thought he might burst into tears. He knew what it
meant... how hard Sherlock had worked and how little he had expected of
himself. Not to mention how much John had put him through. John's chin wobbled
ominously. He cleared his throat. "Oh... well, that's umm... that's great...
yeah... really great..." A tear trickled slowly down his damp cheek, like a
lone salty raindrop. 
"Oh, John!" Molly cried, flinging her arms around his neck. "Greg wasn't lying.
You really do love him, don't you? I knew it, I knew it!"
John, a little perplexed, patted her gently on the back. "Umm..."
"Sorry," Molly mumbled, breaking apart and slinging her arm through John's. "I
just think it's crazy that the two of you aren't together, I mean... I've seen
the way you look at each other, the way you are around each other... it's like
fate or something..."
"Fate?" said John, raising a skeptical eyebrow. 
"Don't look at me like that. Yes, fate. You know, when two people are
just meant to find each other... When you find that one person - that one
person that makes you wonder what you did before you met them. You catch sight
of them and you just know. You love them so much it hurts... being around them
makes you feel... I don't know... alive, like they break your chest open and
smack you awake. Their happiness is your happiness, their pain is your pain.
You'd do anything for them... you'd sacrifice you own happiness for them...
Neither of you are perfect, but together it just works. You make it work,
because being apart isn't an option. And it isn't an option, John. It isn't. " 
John stared at her gobsmacked, his mouth open in a soft O. 
"Yes, I'm rather observant, aren't I?" she said, a smug smile on her face.
"Women are a rare breed of intellect, never forget that."
"But we can't, Molly... we can't be together..." John mumbled, running a hand
through his sodden hair. "It's impossible."
"Oh, John Watson, you of all people should know that nothing is impossible,"
Molly scolded. "You're one of the bravest, kindest, most loyal people I know,
John. I know you think you're doing what's best, but you're both stronger than
you think. There are other choices available. You don't have to suffer in
silence, and it's certainly not your fault, or your burden to bear. Your
sexuality is a gift and you should be embracing it, and I'll do my damnedest to
see that happen!" Molly's eyebrows were practically vertical, her mouth set
firm. 
"Molly..." John faltered, a wave of emotion constricting his throat. He wasn't
used to being looked after. "I-I can't... that was... I mean..."
"Yes, Molly is fabulous, Molly is great. I've just had the good fortune of some
great advice in my time, and my folks have always taught me to respect myself;
it's time you learned the same. Just give me a hug and be done with it, this is
my house anyway," she laughed, gesturing to a large Edwardian style house just
off the main road. 
John gripped her tight, planting a firm kiss on her forehead. "Thank you... I
mean it, Molls..." he murmured. "Thanks."
"Don't mention it. We all need a pep-talk now and then," she grinned, waving
goodbye and disappearing up the garden path. "Go get him."
 
                                       *
***** Pas de Deux *****
Chapter Notes
     For those who don't know, I am a ninny and accidentally deleted this
     chapter (and didn't have a back-up) so had to start from scratch!
     That is why it is late! *slaps own wrist*
     Anyway, I hope you enjoy. Thank you for reading! xx
                         Wednesday, 22nd August, 1984
Silver ropes of rain battered the roof of the ballet studio, as Sherlock lay on
the floor, staring at the ceiling, picturing the heavy raindrops crashing
against the slate tiles like kamikaze fighter pilots.
He shivered, an ache developing in the small of his back from lying on the cold
hard wood. Class had ended almost three hours ago. He stood up, stretching his
stiff limbs and ruffling his messy curls.
The large room was dim, empty, the heavy, rolling clouds obscuring the last of
the summer sun, throwing marbled shadows across the burnished floor.
Sherlock stared at his waxen reflection in the gargantuan mirror-wall; his skin
seem almost translucent in the dull light, the dark circles under his eyes like
black moons on a winter sky.
A noise near the door startled him; the squeak of wet rubber on wood.
He froze, holding his breath, his eyes flickering to the door.
John stood silhouetted in the doorway, panting, drenched from head-to-toe,
raindrops cascading from his hair and landing heavily onto the floor below. He
looked like a child in a man's shoes; small but empowered.
Their eyes met, speckled grey stardust finding scattered dark blue matter; the
universe coming together.
A silence fell between them that seemed to have substance; it was tangible,
palpable, electric. It hung in the air like a secret.
Sherlock could hear his heartbeat in his ears. The last of his oxygen supply
dissolved in his bloodstream, leaving him dizzy, light-headed.
A clock ticked on the wall, counting the agonising seconds over John's laboured
breaths.
Droplets fell from John's hair, from his nose, from his clothes.
Tick – tock.
Drip – drop.
Sherlock swallowed hard, fighting the instinct to speak.
John took a gulp of air, starting towards him, his trainers slipping and
sliding across the polished wood, a raw, blazing look in his eyes.
He stopped a few inches from Sherlock, his skin so slick from the rain that
Sherlock could almost make out his reflection in it. John's deep blue eyes were
wide, framed with long, wet eyelashes. A wriggly, blue vein by his mouth jumped
wildly under his dewy skin like it wanted to escape. He put a cold, steady hand
either side of Sherlock's face, his eyes cautious, pleading.
John pulled Sherlock's face down, his lips shivering within tasting distance,
lingering, asking for permission, for forgiveness.
And in that moment, the past week meant nothing; like time had given them a do-
over.
Sherlock brought John's mouth to his and kissed him.
Cautious at first, then urgently.
His hand snaked round to grab the back of John's neck, moving into his hair,
pulling hard.
John's fingers gripped Sherlock's face, his palms cupping Sherlock's jaw, as
his mouth moved insistently, painfully against his, his belt buckle digging
into Sherlock's thigh. He tasted of rain, of torment, of bad things turned
good.
It was a heated kiss; a stormy kiss; a kiss that demanded a kiss in return.
Sherlock's knees were weak. Tears trickled down his face mingling with second-
hand rain. He was sure he had never held onto anything so tightly. His knuckles
were chalk white, wound tightly in John's hair, afraid to let go.
“Sherlock... Sherlock, I'm so-I'm so sorry,” John breathed, pulling away and
resting his forehead against Sherlock's.
“But I thought...” Sherlock breathed, his eyelashes stuck together, his face
flushed. “You said...”
“I love you, Sherlock... Of course I love you, of course I do!” John murmured.
“Of-course-I-do.” He accentuated each word, kissing away Sherlock's tears,
before planting a kiss on each damp, purple eyelid. “You are mine, remember? If
you can forgive me... fuck... if I have to spend the rest of my fucking life
proving to you, that I mean it...”
“...There's nothing to forgive, John...” Sherlock mumbled, his tear stained
face serious. “I'm only sorry I didn't fight for you. I love you. You are mine
and I am yours, remember?”
“You have nothing to be sorry for, Sherlock,” John whispered, clenching his
teeth, a muscling jumping in his jaw. He closed his eyes, taking a stuttering
breath, before pushing forward and slamming Sherlock against the wall, putting
his lips to Sherlock's ear. “You are perfect. Perfect and beautiful and
amazing... and don't ever forget it...”
John placed a hand on the wall, either side of Sherlock's head, his lips moving
down to Sherlock's collarbone, nuzzling into the hollow at the base of
Sherlock's throat.
Sherlock whimpered, gripping the damp lapels of John's jacket, his knees
buckling. “John...”
“I know, I know...” John whispered, inhaling through his nose, holding Sherlock
close. “I know...”
 
 
The rain battered down, soaking them to the skin as they walked home, a carpet
of sodden leaves squelching underfoot, the afternoon sky dark and foreboding.
“I'll kill him,” Sherlock spat, his blood boiling under his skin. John had
spent the better part of their journey explaining himself. “Look what he did to
you, John... I'll fucking kill him.”
“Sherlock... Molly was right, there are better ways to handle this... least of
all homicide... as much as I'd love to see you try,” said John grinning his
playful smile, Sherlock's favourite smile, making Sherlock's heart flutter in
his chest. “I'm going to stay with my aunt for a bit, just until things settle
at least... He's a dick. What's done is done. I'm just glad to have you back...
Oh, and I nearly forgot, congratulations by the way, on The Royal Ballet
School!” He planted a tender kiss on Sherlock's cheek. “You're incredible.”
 
John held Sherlock's hand by his side, stroking the delicate webs of skin
between his fingers, interlocking their pinkies. He stopped every now and then
to wipe away the moisture from Sherlock's face and kiss away the raindrops from
his lips.
"You taste the same."
"So do you."
 
 
 
“You're freezing,” John scolded, dabbing at Sherlock's icy skin, his moist brow
furrowed. “Come on. Let's get you out of those wet clothes.”
They were in Sherlock's bathroom, white, fluffy towels draped round their
shoulders like superhero-capes. John turned the shower on. The steam emanating
from the running water created a sheer, delicate mist that hung in the air
between them, clinging to the fine hair around their temples and settling on
their damp clothes.
John squeaked his finger across the fogged-up mirror: JW + SH.
“Forever,” he whispered, as he peeled Sherlock's t-shirt over his head,
throwing it in a heap in the corner.
“Forever,” Sherlock affirmed, wrapping his arms around John's neck, staring
into his eyes. They were tumultuous; an ocean on fire.
A raindrop quivered on the end of John's earlobe, dancing in the light.
Sherlock leaned down, sucking it free.
John groaned, dragging Sherlock's lips to his. His hands wandered down to the
waistband of Sherlock's tights, slipping under the tight elastic and sliding
them down Sherlock's thighs. John's cold fingers left a trail of goosebumps
where they brushed against Sherlock's skin. Sherlock shimmied off the sodden
Lycra, kicking them into the corner with the rest of his discarded clothing.
John's lips were at Sherlock's throat, his hands gripping Sherlock's arse,
digging into the muscled flesh.
Sherlock pulled away suddenly, perching naked on the edge of the bathtub,
shivering slightly. Spray from the shower spattered lightly against his back,
his arse twitching against the cold, silky porcelain. “Go on then,” he
murmured, his smile goading, his blue-grey eyes hooded.
John's eyes widened in disbelief, his eyebrows disappearing into his hairline.
He chuckled, shaking his head.
Smiling darkly, he carefully unbuckled his belt, his able fingers deftly
unhooking the clasp. He kept eye contact as he slowly stepped out of his stiff,
sodden jeans, kicking them into the corner with the rejects. His strong,
muscular arms crossed over his body as he pulled his sticky, wet t-shirt over
his head. Sherlock watched his stomach suck inwards, his ribcage protrude as
the wet cotton peeled away from his skin, leaving red crinkles where the fabric
had hugged him too tight. He was breathtaking; his straight, angular
collarbones stretched taut and wide across his broad chest, from the base of
his throat to the ends of his shoulders, like wings. His stomach muscles were
hard, chiselled, but asymmetrical, not perfect. His face, legs, arms and a
little semi-circle at his clavicle were darker than the rest of him,
inoculation scars shining like silver pennies on his arm, white against his
tanned skin. He was flawed; beautiful. A beautiful boy, in a steamy bathroom,
with fiery-ocean eyes.
Sherlock's eyes were transfixed, mesmerised, as the water cascaded behind him.
Time had only strengthened his love for John Watson. His heart sang in his
chest.
John hooked his thumbs under the waistband of his pants, sliding them down his
thighs and letting them pool in a heap at his feet. His smile was devilishly
bashful.
He stepped forward, grabbing Sherlock's chin and crushing a cold kiss to his
lips. “Come on,” he murmured. “I'm freezing.” He held out his hand and Sherlock
took it, climbing into the bath and stepping under the running water.
It was glorious. The warm water soothed Sherlock's shivering muscles,
descending over the icy planes of his back. He turned, angling his face towards
the spray, letting the water fill his mouth.
John stepped in behind him, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's waist and
resting his cheek against Sherlock's back, pulling him close.
“God, I've missed you,” John murmured. He pressed a gentle kiss to the top of
Sherlock's spine, continuing down the length of Sherlock's back, licking water
droplets from each vertebra. He stopped abruptly, grabbing Sherlock's waist,
spinning him around and pinning him against the cold, slippery tiles, his
midnight eyes ablaze. “I love you, Sherlock... so, so much. No matter where we
are, what we're doing... it's always you and me... promise me... you and
me...” Water spilled over his head, collecting in his eyelashes and sliding
down his cheeks. His face was serious, his dusky pink lips softly parted. 
Sherlock leaned forward, brushing their noses together, as the water cascaded
over them, trapping them in its comforting warmth. “Just you and me. Against
the rest of the world.”
 
 
                                       *
 
***** Eleven Years Later *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
                         Thursday, 9th November, 1995
The evening train was empty. John sat alone, his breath hanging in the crisp
air, settling on the cracked, mottled glass.
He stared back at his reflection: camo-clad; tanned, weather-beaten skin; five-
o'clock shadow; tired eyes; hair black with dirt.
John rested his head against the window and closed his eyes, feeling the jet-
lag. He smiled to himself, thumbing the heavy, square ticket in his trouser
pocket.
 
 
Fifteen strides up the concrete steps.
Thirty-seven across the wide, oval vestibule.
John's leather boots squeaked on the polished, marble floor, echoing like
gunshots.
He hitched his rucksack over his shoulder. He was late.
A quick shuffle around an elderly couple.
Twelve more steps into the large, opulent theatre.
 
A disgruntled steward hurried over to him, brandishing a torch like a
switchblade. “Excuse me, si-”
John flashed him his ticket, sweeping past him and continuing down the aisle,
his dog tags slapping against his chest like a heartbeat.
Diamond-draped women stared at him in disapproval, clutching at their silk
shawls and whispering behind their hands. John ignored them, his eyes scanning
the crowd.
“John, love! John, over here!” Mrs Holmes called from her seat next to
Sherlock's father, waving enthusiastically. “Oh John, darling, you made it.”
She kissed him on the cheek as he approached, her eyes brimming with tears, her
chin wobbling.
“I wouldn't miss it for the world,” said John, grinning, sliding off his
rucksack and slipping into his seat.
The steward caught up, panting, clutching the back of John's chair. “Excuse me,
sir. I must check you-”
“Excuse me,” said Mrs Holmes, smiling sweetly, her eyes narrowing. “Will you
please let Sherlock Holmes know his family has just arrived.”
 
                                      ---
                                        
Spotlights buzzed overhead, a faint electrical hum sounding like television
static. The curtain was down, muffling the bustling audience to an incessant
drone. People scurried like ants, to-and-fro, carrying bits of props in their
arms, rolls of fabric over their shoulders.
Sherlock stood alone in the wings, his eyes closed, his bare chest rising and
falling with each measured breath. He rolled his broad shoulders, loosening his
long arms and shaking his hands.
“Sherlock.” A stage-hand tapped him on the back, handing him a towel. “John's
here.”
A slow smile spread across Sherlock's face, crinkling into the corners of his
eyes. “Thanks,” he murmured, draping the towel around his shoulders.
He padded over to the edge of the stage, peering behind the curtain. Shiny
white feathers covered his thighs, rustling with every movement.
He found him at once. Front and centre; deep blue eyes and blonde hair that
never seemed to be clean, even in adulthood.
Their eyes met and in that moment they were sixteen again, fulfilling
Sherlock's fantasy.
John grinned, winking at him and wiggling his eyebrows. "I love you," he
mouthed.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, his heart bursting in his chest. “I love you too."
 
 
                                        
                                      fin
                                       *
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     This would be Sherlock's costume:
     http://www.vam.ac.uk/__data/assets/image/0007/188998/
     fig4_swanlake_custom_base_custom_base_custom_base.jpg
     In Matthew Bourne's Swan Lake, as seen in Billy Elliot (which has an
     all male cast and opened on 9th Nov 1995) the dancer who plays the
     white swan (odette) also plays the black swan (odile).
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