Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/10887639.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      F/M, M/M
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Molly_Hooper/Greg_Lestrade, Clara/Harry
      Watson
  Character:
      Sherlock_Holmes, John_Watson, Mrs._Hudson_(Sherlock_Holmes), Molly
      Hooper, Greg_Lestrade, John_Watson's_Father, Mycroft_Holmes, Harry
      Watson, Clara_(Sherlock)
  Additional Tags:
      Ballet_Dancer_Sherlock, John_Plays_Rugby, Alternate_Universe_-_Teenagers,
      Underage_Drinking, Consensual_Underage_Sex, Implied/Referenced_Drug_Use,
      underage_in_US_but_not_in_UK, Sherlock_Holmes_&_Molly_Hooper_Friendship,
      Greg_Lestrade_&_John_Watson_Friendship
  Stats:
      Published: 2017-05-12 Updated: 2017-09-28 Chapters: 3/? Words: 5079
****** Two Pointe Conversion ******
by justacookieofacumberbatch_(buffyholic)
Summary
     When John meets Sherlock Holmes after a required ballet for athletes
     class, they immediately hate each other, but that's not the end of
     the story.
Notes
See the end of the work for notes
***** Chapter 1 *****
“How does anyone get that flexible?” John craned his neck toward the mirror at
the front of the room, the instructor’s reflected heel propped on the single
rung of the portable--what did they call it?--bar, toes pointing and flexing,
palms wrapped around the sole. It was meant to demonstrate proper technique for
stretching their calves and hamstrings, but John was having some trouble
putting it into practice. He could barely lift his foot high enough to stick on
the lower (loser) rung, let alone reach his foot.
Greg shrugged, foot laid nonchalantly across the top rung. “I’m not having any
trouble.”
“That’s because you have five bloody inches on me, you wanker.”
Greg nodded to the instructor. “And you have five inches on her, so what’s your
excuse?”
John gritted his teeth, pushing through the pain in his thigh until he could
touch his ankle with his fingertips. “Shut up.”
Two sharp claps sounded behind them. Greg lifted his leg off the bar like it
was nothing--tosser--while John had to hop backwards until his foot would slip
free of the wood, leaving the flimsy ballet shoe behind.
As John stooped to fetch his shoe, the instructor cooed, “Well done, boys. Now,
I want you to practice your pas de bourrées and rond de jambes for next week.
And I’d better see dance shoes on those feet next week. You can’t dance in your
socks forever. Have a lovely evening.”
As one of the few members of the team to actually have purchased the proper
footwear, John rifled through his gym bag as the rest of the rugby team
shuffled their way out the door. Once he found his street shoes, he thumped his
way to the floor, slipping on socks as he watched the group behind the door
slowly grow smaller. Mrs. Hudson, a tiny woman of at least sixty, picked up the
portable bar like it was nothing and set it up against the wall next to a mess
of stereo equipment, smiling to John in the mirror.
“Oh, honey.” She spun to face him. “Be a dear, and put on your street shoes in
the hall. They aren’t allowed in here.”
“Yes, ma’am.” John stood again, slinging the bag over his shoulder as he shoved
at the contents, attempting to zip it as he walked.
Just as he reached the door, he hit something solid, forcing an “oof” from his
lungs. For a moment he thought he had run into the door frame and was prepared
for a good jabbing from his teammates. He was not prepared to look up to find a
person staring down at him, buds in ears and Discman in hand. It was a boy
about his age, objectively just a bit taller than Greg, but it felt like this
boy towered over him. His hair was a riot of curls, his features as sharp as
his gaze.
“Oh,” John said, finally managing to shut his bag. “Pardon--”
“Move,” the boy bit out, tugging the buds from his ears.
“Pardon me?”
“Yes, I gathered.” The boy rolled his eyes. “But all the pardons in the world
do no good if you won’t get out of my way.”
John winced, stepping aside without another word. He was just too shocked to
reply, blinking dumbly at the opposite wall of the hallway as the boy stepped
into the room and John stepped out of it.
Until he heard a scoff behind and then a word spoken like a curse. “Athletes.”
John spun on his heel, tongue ready with a barb, but the boy was already out of
sight. Well, John wasn’t going to storm in there just to deliver what would
probably be a mediocre comeback. So, he walked away, shoes in hand.
Most of the team had left already, leaving a handful milling in the hallway
putting on shoes or gathering their stuff. John spotted Greg leaning against
the wall, and it was only when he approached that he saw the tiny girl standing
next to him, fiddling with the ends of the string tying her cardigan around her
waist. It was a pink, fuzzy thing, open knit so the black leotard underneath
was clearly visible. A little, gauzy skirt was wrapped around her waist, and
she wore black Doc Martens over long, thick wool socks, which seemed an odd mix
to John, not to mention the line of flat silver clips running from ear to ear
like a tiara.
John couldn’t quite stifle a chuckle. Leave it to Greg to find the one pretty
girl in the building, if you didn’t count Mrs. Hudson, and flirt with her. Of
course, it meant that John would have to wait a few more minutes to go home,
but that was all right with him.
He tossed his bag on the wooden bench running the length of the hall across
from Greg and his flirting partner, and sat next to it. They kept talking, not
really paying John any mind, but that was fine. John wasn’t exactly in the mood
to converse, nor did he even listen to what they were saying. He much preferred
to dwell on that arsehole in the studio. He barely contained a scoff as he
knotted his laces with more force than necessary. Who cuts off an apology to
tell someone to move? I wasn’t aware your time and energy was so much more
important than mine.
God, he was just… an arsehole, that’s what, with his haughty stare and his
cheekbones and his stupid posh face. The nerve of him.
“Molly,” a voice boomed, making all three of them flinch and stare at the
source of the boom, the posh arsehole, peeking out from the doorway.
When had it become only the three of them in the hall?
Despite being one of the flinchers, Molly seemed unfazed. “Yes, Sherlock?”
“Why are you not in here? We were supposed to start five minutes ago.”
Molly moved to tuck a stray hair behind her ear even though every last one was
firmly contained in the clips or the bun behind them. “I’ll be right in.”
Sherlock scoffed, rolled his eyes, and disappeared back into the studio.
“I’d better go.” Molly touched Greg’s elbow. “It was nice to meet you, Greg.”
“Oh yes, you mustn’t leave the prima ballerina waiting,” John cut in.
She giggled, hiding it behind her hand, but she quickly stifled it. “He’s not
so bad, once you get to know him.”
“Yeah. That’s going to happen.” John glanced at Greg, expecting to see
amusement or empathy, but what he got instead was a face that clearly said shut
the fuck up. John cleared his throat. “Yeah. Sorry. I’m sure he’s fine.”
“Molly,” Greg said. “This is John.”
John held out his hand. “Nice to meet you.”
Molly shook it tenderly. “Are you on the rugby team, too?”
John nodded. “Greg told you about the team?”
“Oh, no. Marth-- Mrs. Hudson does these ballet for athletes classes all the
time. I think it’s great, but Sherlock hates them.” She put her hand on her
forehead like she was about to faint, her voice going low and sullen. “The
noise. The people.”
They all chuckled until Sherlock’s voice boomed even louder. “Molly!”
Molly jumped, skittering away. “Better go. See you next week.”
“Count on it,” Greg called after her.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
By the time the clock crept towards the hour mark, John shoulders had entered
the region by his ears. Even Mrs. Hudson noticed, correcting his posture
several times towards the end of class.
“Shoulders back and down, dear, even when the arms are overhead.”
Greg elbowed John in the ribs.
“What?” John whispered, rubbing his side.
“She’s here.”
Sure enough, Molly was standing in the doorway. She smiled and gave Greg a
little wave, holding her hand at waist level. And a few feet behind her,
Sherlock leaned against the opposite wall, watching the class with nothing that
resembled interest. God, John could feel the contempt from across the room,
like Sherlock couldn't believe these disgusting athletes were sharing the same
space with him.
What a tosser.
“Boys, if you are quite done staring at Miss Hooper, perhaps you’d like to join
us in a cool down?”
They both cast their eyes to the floor, giving a short nod. “Yes, Mrs. Hudson.”
“Now, face the barre, feet in second position…”
Mrs. Hudson took them through a series of stretches, each more awkward than the
last. John felt like an idiot twisting and turning his body into pretzels.
Unfortunately, the only pretzel shape his body would conform to was the stick.
And all this with Sherlock watching, gathering ammo for his already-skewed
perception of John.
“Wonderful job, boys. I want to see some work on those pliés this week.
Remember to turn out from the hip.” She pointed a playful accusatory finger at
them. “I can tell who’s been doing their homework, and I’m not afraid to
embarrass you in front of your teammates.”
A half-hearted laugh murmured through the group.
Mrs. Hudson motioned to shoo them away. “All right. Dismissed.”
Most of the team made for the door, except Greg (for obvious reasons) and John.
Really, John had to remember to leave his gym bag in the hall next time. At
least it would give him a fighting chance not to run into His Nibs again.
Though, good luck with that with Sherlock standing right outside the door,
leaning against the wall, feet jutting like there weren’t twenty people trying
to get out of the room. And he had the nerve to look at them like they were the
ones at fault.
Meanwhile, Molly waited just inside the door, politely out of the way,
pretending not to watch Greg approach. John tossed his bag over his shoulder
with a chuckle. Those two. Greg was completely gone on her, and if the way she
looked at him were any indication, she wasn’t far behind. Who could blame her?
Greg was tall and handsome and charming. All things John was not. Well, except
for the charming part.
As John made for the door, Molly waved. “Hi, John.”
John stepped aside from the stragglers filtering through the door. “Hey.”
Her eyes flitted back and forth between John and Greg. “Good class?”
Greg stood tall and proud. “You tell me.”
Molly giggled.
“Speak for yourself,” John groaned, stretching through his chest. “Why am I
more sore after these classes than regular practice?”
Sherlock, emerging like Venus from the last couple of team members filtering
out, said as he strode by, “Because you’re a sledgehammer, not a surgical
scalpel.”
Was that a jab at John’s… No, couldn’t be.
John spun on his heel, marching towards the center of the room where Sherlock
had dropped his own bag. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Sherlock slid his feet apart on the slick floor before lunging to one side,
propping an elbow on his knee. “I had no idea the educational policies among
athletes were so lax. I had assumed you’d be familiar with the concept of the
metaphor.”
“Yeah.” John gripped the strap of his bag. “Ta. I know what a metaphor is.”
Sherlock shifted his body weight to the center, bending both knees, pushing
them back with his forearms. He shrugged. “Then I fail to see why any
explanation is necessary.”
And Sherlock, the God-damned berk, smirked at him. He fucking smirked.
John was sure that he contracted a fatal case of tetanus at that very moment.
Great. So, either John’s an idiot or Sherlock doesn’t have to own up to his
insult. “Fine. That’s just”--John pried his hand from the strap of his bag to
give a dismissive wave--“fine.”
John was ready to walk away. He’d already shifted his weight to his back heel
to turn around, but then Sherlock wrapped his hands around his ankles and
spoke.
“I was merely stating that you are a blunt instrument rather than a precision
tool.” He shifted his forearms to his thighs once again, lunging to the other
side.
Really, how did anyone become that flexible? And did he really have to stretch
while they were talking? And facing a mirror, no less. He probably loved
looking at himself, no surprise there.
“And I suppose you’re the precision tool in this situation.”
Sherlock shrugged. “That’s your judgment, not mine.”
John scoffed. “You’ve got the tool part right, anyway.”
Sherlock leapt to his feet, calves slapping together before his feet landed
perfectly aligned in a vee. Show off. “And you have the blunt part. Or no. Not
blunt. Dull.”
John surged forward, leaving scant inches between him and Sherlock, staring up
with danger in his eyes. “Do you want to see how blunt I can be?”
Sherlock stared down at John, only the barest flash in his eyes betraying any
emotion, though John couldn't tell what that would be. John had been in this
position enough to know that he could out-intimidate anyone, no matter how much
taller than John they were. Hell, it had been two years since a confrontation
like this had come to blows.
But, what was unnerving was that Sherlock was making no attempt to intimidate
back. He was just staring, like a scientist would at a specimen, one
fascinating and disgusting. John could feel his will shrinking back even as he
forced his body to rigidity. He couldn't be kowtowed by a stare, especially
with Greg right there. Finally, after what seemed like forever, Sherlock
stepped back, swinging an arm across his body until he could catch the elbow in
his opposite hand, stretching through his back.
He shook out his arms before swinging them to the opposite position. “Like I
said. Dull.”
And then, John apparently no longer existed to him. He crossed to the barre,
running through some sort of warmup exercise. The only movement of the myriad
many that John could name was the plié.
“John,” Greg startled John with a nudge to the ribs, tone of voice projecting a
lack of awareness of their little drama. “Molly asked me to watch the first few
minutes of practice. You don't mind sticking around for a bit, do you?”
“Yeah. I’ll just…” He was about to suggest that he wait in the hall, but then
Sherlock won. “Fine.”
John dropped his bag by the door and stood in front of it, slouching against
the wall, arms and feet crossed in front of him. He made no attempt to hide his
scowl, well aware that he was acting like a petulant child but vibrating with
too much anger to care. Who was Sherlock to call him blunt? Dull? He didn’t
know John at all. John got good grades, thank you very much. He was going to
ace his A-levels at the end of the year. He was going to be a doctor, and
without the aid of Sherlock’s ridiculous family money. That’s right. John saw
the Jaguar parked outside when they left last week. It didn’t belong to any of
the rugby team, and it sure as hell wasn’t Molly’s or Mrs. Hudson’s.
“Cheer up, Watson.” Greg bumped John’s shoulder with his upper arm. “It’s only
ten minutes. You got somewhere else to be?”
“What?” John jumped, shocked out of his reverie like a glass shattering to the
floor, and it was only then that he realized that he’d been staring at
Sherlock, and too late, because Sherlock chose that moment to lift up to the
balls of his feet and pivot 180 degrees. John’s gaze snapped to Greg’s face.
“Oh. Right. Sorry.”
John scrubbed the back of his neck, hazarding a glance in Sherlock’s direction
only to find him rolling his eyes.
“Is everything all right, boys?” Mrs. Hudson popped into existence like Glinda
the Good Witch. “Did you forget something?”
“No, Mrs. Hudson,” Greg said. “Molly invited us to stay for a bit.”
“Oh, that’s lovely.” She squeezed both their arms. “I’m so glad you’ve taken an
interest.”
“Thanks,” Greg said, and John nodded and made a noise in the back of his
throat. He was paying attention. Really, he was, but he could feel Sherlock’s
eyes on him, making his skin crawl, and he couldn’t help but glance over to
verify what he felt.
“You know, if you’d like to continue after rugby season, we have a beginner’s
class just for teenagers.” She nudged John’s elbow, forcing his focus to un-
split. “Lots of pretty girls. We love a boy who can dance.”
John nodded politely.
The corners of her eyes crinkled. “Sherlock teaches it.”
John barked out a laugh, which was apparently loud enough to draw the attention
of everyone in the room.
He blanched. “Yeah. I’ll… think about it.”
“I hope you will.” She gave his elbow one last squeeze before spinning on her
toes. Her whole posture changed, making her seem two inches taller, and she
clapped several times. “Let’s get started, shall we?”
Definitely more than ten minutes later, John stuffed his bag into the footwell
of Greg’s passenger seat.
“Could you at least try to behave yourself?” Greg started the car.
John paused with the safety belt halfway across his torso. “What are you
talking about?”
“Look. I get it. Sherlock’s a bit of a prat--”
“A bit?”
“--but you need to ease up.”
John could only gape. “Ease up?”
“Yes. I really like Molly, and I don't want her thinking my best mate is a
jerk.”
John shoved the buckle into the latch. “I’m not the jerk here.”
“Doesn't matter. He’s her friend, so can you play nice? For me?”
John scoffed. “Really? You just met her.”
“And you just met him,” Greg threw back as he started the car.
“What’s your point?”
“Give him a chance so I can have a chance.”
John thought about it. “Is she really that important to you?”
Greg put the car in gear. “She can hold her leg above her head.”
John laughed. “Plus her brains and personality, right?”
“Of course.”
Chapter End Notes
     Yikes! I hadn't realized it's been over a month since I posted the
     first chapter. Thanks for your patience, or if you've forgotten about
     this fic like I apparently did, surprise!
     Many thanks as well to iamjohnlocked4life for the beta.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
See the end of the chapter for notes
John was proud to say that the next two weeks went swimmingly. He and Sherlock
didn’t say a single word to each other. True, he still got that annoying clench
in his stomach when he saw Sherlock and Molly waiting in the hall outside as
class was ending, but he’d so far managed not to be near the doorway the same
time as Sherlock. He’d so far managed to watch the first few minutes of
whatever Sherlock and Molly were working on that week without scowling at
Sherlock the whole time.
And if that wasn’t good enough for Greg, well, he’d just have to live with it.
And if Sherlock did throw a snide remark in John’s direction, what was he
supposed to do? Not defend himself?
Of course, it hadn’t come to that. There hadn’t been more than a few glances
between them, though sometimes John could swear he saw a snide comment just
behind those pupils, and he just itched for it. Go ahead, Sherlock. Come and
get me. See what happens.
After the rousing success of the previous weeks, John walked into the dance
studio on Wednesday, brimming with confidence (even if he was running late)
only to hear the proverbial record scratch. His team wasn’t in the room. All he
saw when he first entered were Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock had her hoisted
high in the air, like a swan in flight, but the second John’s trainers squeaked
against the dance floor, Sherlock unceremoniously set her down and spun on
John.
It seemed totally illogical that there was still music playing.
Sherlock thrust petulant fists against his own hips. “What is he doing here?”
John felt like a fish out of water, complete with the opening and closing
mouth, flailing for words, actions, a thought, anything. He glanced around,
like he expected his teammates to materialize from the walls. Why was no one
there? Was he that late?
Sherlock pointed to John’s shoes before pointing out the door. “Why are you
wearing trainers in here? Get out.”
Molly slapped his hand out of the air, murmuring something to him. John could
only furrow his brows and stare as Mrs. Hudson shut off the stereo, as Greg
sunk into the chair beside her, stocking feet sliding on the floor.
Hang on, why was Greg there?
Why had John not yet spoken or moved? He had all kinds of remarks and comebacks
at the ready just five minutes ago and yet? Nothing.
“I-- I thought we had practice.”
“I’m sorry, dear,” Mrs. Hudson said. “Molly and Sherlock are auditioning for
the arts university this weekend, so I cancelled class. I announced it at the
end of class last week.”
Sherlock scoffed. “I doubt anything can penetrate that thick head of his.”
Why the little… “Hey--”
“Hush now, Sherlock,” Mrs. Hudson cut in. “Be nice.”
“How did you even get here?” Greg’s voice just a few feet from him made John
jump.
“I had a dentist’s appointment. Harry drove me.”
“Well then, he can drive you home. Problem solved.” Sherlock shot John a glare
before leveling a slightly more pleasant look at Mrs. Hudson. “Can we get back
to practice please?”
The shell-shocked feeling was subsiding, and John’s cheeks burned with an
interesting assortment of rage and embarrassment. He didn’t know whether to
yell or apologize. And he didn’t know how he was getting home. And Sherlock was
still staring at him like he was trying to burn a hole into his skull.
“Harry’s a girl.” Oh yes, John. Brilliant comeback.
Sherlock just rolled his eyes, but Greg tapped John’s elbow with his knuckles.
“Hey. No worries. I’ll give you a ride.”
“Cheers.” John stepped backwards towards the door, jostling his gym bag and
backpack.
“After practice.”
Oh. John didn't realize there had been more to that sentence. But, it was his
own fault that he was stuck in this situation. If he hadn't been so damned
preoccupied with Sherlock and his own promise to Greg to play nice, John
wouldn't have missed the announcement at the end of class. Plus, the look Greg
was giving him was about twenty shades of desperate.
“Yeah. Yeah, of course. That’s fine.”
“No.”
“Sherlock!” Molly reprimanded, but Sherlock didn't register it.
“This practice is supposed to be private. It’s bad enough that I’ve had to put
up with him tagging along for the past three weeks. I won't be doing it today.”
For Greg’s sake, John bit back what he really wanted to say. I’d rather walk
over coals than watch your poncy arse dance anyway. “Doesn't matter. I’ll wait
in the hall. I have homework to do.”
“Here, dear.” Mrs. Hudson handed him a springy bracelet with a key dangling
from it. “You can sit in my office if you’d like. More comfortable.”
“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson.”
***
Sometime later, after a mighty struggle with the derivatives of logarithms,
John jumped at the sound of a door opening.
“Oh, John. I'm glad you’re still here. I was afraid you’d left with my key.”
“No, Mrs. Hudson.” John picked up the key from the desk, handing it over. “It’s
right here.”
“Thank you, dear. You head home now.” She patted his shoulder as he packed up.
He flung on his backpack and threw the gym bag over his shoulder. “Thanks for
letting me use your office, Mrs. Hudson. I’ll see you next week?”
She chuckled, giving him another pat. “Yes. Same time next week. Don't forget
to practice.”
“I won't.”
“Good night, dear.”
“Good night.”
By this point in the evening, John should have known better than to go through
a door while feeling good, but he did it anyway. He walked down the empty hall
and out into the empty car park.
Empty except for a Jaguar.
“That certainly took long enough.”
John closed his eyes, letting out a long breath through his nose as he
struggled not to grind his teeth to the nub. It couldn't be. Greg wouldn't do
that to him.
Slowly, hoping against hope that he confused whose voice he heard, John pivoted
on his heels. Just outside the door to the building stood Sherlock, grinding a
cigarette butt into the gravel with the toe of his boot.
“Ready?” Sherlock asked.
John winced. “Ready for what?”
Sherlock sighed, rolling his eyes before jangling his keys like he was
entertaining a baby. “To go home.”
“No. No way. You are not driving me home.”
“Very well.” Sherlock shrugged, striding for his car. The headlights flashed,
making John jump, but it wasn’t until Sherlock opened the driver’s side door
that John was forced into action.
“Wait!” he called out, sprinting for the car, jostling bags making him teeter
back and forth like a bloody weeble-wobble.
He was really developing a knack for looking like an idiot in front of
Sherlock. He wished he would stop. His cheeks burned, the weight of Sherlock’s
stare bearing down, leaving him torn between collapsing under it or lashing
out. Until he could decide, he simply stared back.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, pushing a button on the inside of his door. The
latches moved. “Oh? Does he deign to get in my car now?”
“Fine. Can we go now?” John tugged on the door handle, but it wouldn’t budge.
“Wha--”
“Say it,” Sherlock purred. Oh, he was just loving this, wasn’t he?
“Say what?”
“Ask me nicely”--Sherlock folded his arms over the roof--“to give you a ride.”
John scoffed. “You must be joking.”
Sherlock smirked. “Am I?”
God damn it, Sherlock had him over a barrell. His home was a good twenty
minutes away; no way could he afford a taxi, and he didn’t even know where the
closest bus stop was. But maybe Mrs. Hudson could…
He glanced at the darkened door only to have Sherlock cut off his thought. “She
doesn’t own a car. She lives on the property.”
He could call Harry, but she was probably half in the bag by this time of
night. And there was no way he’d call his father.
“Well?” Sherlock asked.
John huffed, intoning, “Please will you give me a ride home.”
“Once more. With feeling.”
John was definitely going to kill Greg. “You’re just loving this, aren’t you?”
The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched. “A bit.”
John took a deep breath, making his words as genuine as possible, which wasn’t
very. “Please, Sherlock, will you give me a ride home?”
“Of course.” Sherlock swung himself into the driver’s seat, and John heard the
locks move again. This time, when he tugged the handle, the door opened, and he
tossed his bags into the footwell and flopped into the seat.
“Buckle up.” Sherlock started the car.
John almost didn’t. He wouldn’t have Sherlock telling him what to do, but then
the car lurched out of its parking spot and peeled out onto the road.
John scrambled to buckle his seat belt. “Don’t you need to know where I live?”
“Graham gave me the address.”
“Greg.”
Sherlock waved it away. “Whatever.”
John settled into his seat, propping his elbow on the center console. “Wait a
minute. Are you-- Do you have…”
“Do I have a what?” Sherlock bit. “Spit it out.”
“Do you fancy Molly?”
“No.” Sherlock drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Not my area.”
“Good.”
Sherlock eyed John from the corner of his eye, fingers stilling on the wheel.
“Don’t want to get stuck in the middle of a messy love triangle.”
“Right.” Sherlock dropped his own elbow on the center console, knocking John’s
off.
John huffed. The prat couldn’t even share the armrest. Typical. He pushed his
elbow against Sherlock’s, taking over the space, but then Sherlock elbowed his
forearm.
John grunted. Sherlock’s elbow was sharp, but John would not be deterred. He
held his ground, leaning into his arm as Sherlock tried to push him out of the
way. He might have a bruise or two on his forearm the next day, but it was
worth it just to see the growing frustration in Sherlock’s face, no matter how
much he tried to hide it. That was just what happened when a scalpel went up
against a sledgehammer.
“For God’s sake.” Sherlock yanked his arm away, and John’s elbow slid out from
underneath him, sending him off kilter and sending his elbow into Sherlock’s
rib.
As soon as John’s elbow made contact, knocking the air out of Sherlock,
Sherlock’s hand was in a vice around John’s wrist, pushing it across the
centerline of the car to John’s leg.
Sherlock shoved John’s wrist against John’s thigh. “Stop it. Do you want us to
crash?”
John jerked his hand out from underneath Sherlock’s, rubbing the jab marks on
his forearm. “It takes two to tango, smartarse.”
Sherlock pulled his hand from John’s leg to rub at his ribs. “Such a juvenile.”
“Pot. Kettle.”
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
They rode in tense silence the rest of the way, and even though Sherlock’s
insane driving got them to John’s flat in half the usual time, it felt like
forever. Like they went so fast that time warped around them. And it wasn’t
until they were pulling onto John’s street that John realized Sherlock, Jag-
driving posh Sherlock, was about to see where John lived. He was about to see
the tiny, dingy, dodgy one-bedroom garden flat that he shared with Harry and
his dad. He only hoped Sherlock wouldn't comment on it.
Sherlock pulled to the side of the road and threw the car in park. “Here we
are.”
“Yep.” John grabbed his bags and opened the door. One foot out the door and
bags poised over one shoulder, John paused. “Cheers.”
“Don’t mention it.”
John finished his ascent to the kerb and closed the car door, and with that,
Sherlock peeled off. John trotted down the few stairs to his door and unlocked
it. Harry was nowhere to be found, and John’s dad had already left for work,
though the evening news droned on the telly. He shut it off and dropped his
bags on his bed before going into the kitchen to fix himself some beans on
toast.
That night, he dreamed of fighting. He dreamed of fists punching, of elbows
jabbing, of hands grabbing. He dreamed of being pinned down and of screaming
for his adversary to get off him.
He dreamed of a deep voice purring in his ear, “Ask me nicely.”
Chapter End Notes
     Many thanks as always to my beta, Iamjohnlocked4life.
End Notes
     Many thanks to Iamjohnlocked4life for the beta. This is a true WiP,
     so I make no promises on posting schedule or when it will be
     finished, but I do have several chapters drafted already. So I've got
     that going for me. I hope you'll enjoy the ride with me.
     Also, I'm a little shit who doesn't like to explicitly state the year
     in which the story takes place, so let's see who figures it out
     first. (Bwahahahahah)
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