Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/2557121.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      Multi
  Fandom:
      Sherlock_(TV)
  Relationship:
      Sherlock_Holmes/John_Watson, Irene/Others, Harry/Clara
  Character:
      Irene_Adler, Mycroft_Holmes, Greg_Lestrade, Harry_Watson, Jim_Moriarty,
      Clara_(Sherlock), Sally_Donovan, Molly_Hooper
  Additional Tags:
      Alternate_Universe_-_Dirty_Dancing_Fusion, Dancing, Period-Typical
      Homophobia, Period-Typical_Sexism, Fluff, Angst, mini-case, John_carries
      a_watermelon
  Stats:
      Published: 2014-11-03 Updated: 2017-07-16 Chapters: 7/? Words: 21768
****** You're The One ******
by Mazarin221b
Summary
     John Watson is seventeen years old and has his life planned out:
     medical school, a commission, and an opportunity to change the world.
     He just has to get through three weeks at The Copper Beeches - a
     resort owned by one of his father's patients - with his annoying
     sister and his perfect parents before he's off to Cambridge. But John
     has a secret he's trying desperately to keep, and, it seems, so is
     just about everyone around him, including the incredibly gorgeous and
     amazing dance teacher, Sherlock Holmes, and his partner Irene Adler.
     Too bad Jim Moriarty seems to know precisely what everyone is hiding.
Notes
     Thanks for a quick readthrough to Mydwynter, Corpsereviver2, and
     LifeonMars. They didn't give it a hard beta, though, nor a britpick,
     so don't blame them for my screwups. I just wanted something fun to
     do, and as I've been talking about this for quite a while, I thought
     I'd actually give it a go.
***** Be My Baby *****
Chapter_soundtrack:_Be_My_Baby,_The_Ronettes
.........................................................................................
That was the summer of 1961, when everybody called me Johnny, and it didn't
occur to me to mind.
That was before President Kennedy was shot.
Before the Beatles stormed America.
When I couldn’t wait to go to medical school and join the Army.
That was the summer we went to the Copper Beeches.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
John sighs and closes his copy of Grey’s Anatomy and lets his eyes drift shut.
The salt-tinged air near the coast is beginning to wash through the open
windows of his father’s car, the sun warm on his skin. Only another half an
hour or so until they are there – The Copper Beeches, a resort owned by one of
his father’s more grateful patients.
John honestly wasn’t looking forward to an entire month stuck on the Southern
coast with his parents and sister, not when all of his friends were enjoying
one last summer of freedom before they all parted ways for whatever life held
for them. Well, except for Harry. He was stuck with her regardless.
Harry. John watches her fiddling with her hair, touching up her fringe and
straightening the wide white band holding the rest back. She catches him
watching and sticks her tongue out at him. He flicks her arm and she squeals.
“Mother! Johnny’s poking me!”
“Johnny,” comes his mother’s ever-patient voice. “Stop teasing your sister.”
John rolls his eyes. “Grow up, Harry,” he says, and ignores her when she flips
him the bowfinger.
…………………………………………………………………………
 “And over on the south lawn we have cricket, and in the gazebo there are
complimentary dance lessons,” the loudspeaker announces, as John and his family
gaze across a large lawn, bordered by a flower garden full of late summer roses
and lilac. The sound of a small fountain can barely be heard over the distant,
droning roar of the sea and the breeze. John thinks it’s actually quite lovely.
Maybe even peaceful. There were certainly enough places to duck out and hide
from—
“Mother!” Harry screeches, watching a porter carrying a large rack of dresses
and another pushing a large cart of matching luggage up the winding path to the
main house. “I knew I should have brought those coral shoes! They would have
looked sublime with that cobalt dress!”
“You’ve got plenty of shoes,” their mother says, placating. “Your silver ones
will look lovely, I promise.”
“Not having a specific pair of shoes isn’t a tragedy,” John’s father says,
lifting a bag and dropping it onto the attendant’s waiting cart. “A tragedy is
miners killed in an explosion, or a massive earthquake.”
“Monks setting themselves in fire in protest,” John can’t help adding. Christ,
what a complete flake.
Harry just rolls her eyes at him. “Shut up, Johnny.”
John and his father just smirk at each other. Harry may be his sister, but
you’d never know they were related with how absolutely empty her head can be at
times. Parties and fashion, friends and schemes. That’s all she has time for.
Not John. He has his plans – medical school and the army. He wants to make a
difference. Be in the world and of the world. To be great surgeon, like his
father.
“Robert,” a voice calls, and John turns to see a tall, dark-haired man in a
light suit striding down the path from the main house. John’s father grins and
reaches out to shake the man’s hand.
“Mycroft! It’s been years. So pleased to see you,” John’s father beams.
“Valerie, you remember Mycroft Holmes.”
“Of course,” John’s mother says, smiling. “Lovely to see you again. And thank
you so much for the invitation. It’s been ages since Robbie had a holiday.”
“Of course, of course. I’m delighted you’re here at last. And these must be
your children, John and Harriet.” Mycroft holds out his hand.
“Pleased to meet you,” John says, shaking Mycroft’s hand. It’s warm and soft,
his fingers so long they enclose John’s hand entirely. He really is quite tall,
especially next to John’s father.
Mycroft releases his hand, and studies him for a long moment. “Yes, so
obviously Robert Watson’s son,” he murmurs. “Medical school and then the
military for you, then, is it?”
John’s startled. “Um, yes, sir. I start at Cambridge in the fall term.”
Mycroft nods, and John feels as if he’s passed some sort of test. “Excellent.
And you, Harriet? What shall you grace the world with?”
Harry giggles. “Myself, of course,” she says, and Mycroft looks surprised for a
moment before he chuckles.
“Ah, yes. And quite capable of it, I’m sure.” John wants to shrivel inside.
Harry’s more egotistical moments have never been more ill-timed than now,
meeting someone his father obviously respects, and who respects him in turn.
Mycroft doesn’t elaborate, though, and turns back to lead John’s parents across
the lawn. “I’ve saved the best bungalow for you. If you like, there are
merengue lessons in the gazebo in thirty minutes. The teacher is an American, a
former Rockette. Or perhaps a drink at the bar before dinner…” Harry wanders
off after them, and John tries to hide the embarrassed flush on his face by
retreating to the rear of the car, where he reaches into the boot for a bag
just as another hand closes around the handle.
“Oh, I beg your pardon,” John starts, and is face to face with a young man,
perhaps only a few years older than John, wearing a tight white tee shirt and a
pair of jeans rolled up at the cuff. His dark hair is combed back in a
pompadour, and his grin is big and bright.
“Sorry about that,” he says. “Mr. Holmes is having me help with the bags today.
Dodging the guests isn’t my normal routine.” The man watches John lift another
bag from the car. “Though looks like you could have a job here, if you want,”
he adds, and when he looks up, the man is giving John’s shoulders an
appreciative once-over.
John feels his butterflies in his stomach for a moment before he ruthlessly
tamps them down. Unacceptable, if he wants to make it through university.
“I’m Johnny,” he says, keeping his voice friendly and light, and closes the
boot as the man starts to wheel the cart up the path.
“Lestrade. Greg Lestrade, actually, but everyone just calls me Lestrade. Well,
let’s get you all settled in.” Just then a piercing shriek of laughter from the
badminton court reveals Harry’s location, already courting a group of new
friends. John drops his chin to his chest with a groan.
Lestrade gives him a sympathetic look. “Don’t worry,” he says. “Three weeks
here? It’ll feel like a year.”
John just groans again.
………………………………………………………………………
“One, two, three, four, stomp those grapes and stomp some more! One, two,
three, four…” Irene, the dance teacher, is leading a group of guests in a
staggering, ungainly version of the merengue in the gazebo, and John has never
felt more awkward in his life. He can’t believe his mother talked him into
this. He couldn’t even learn the basic steps of a waltz when he went to those
ridiculous lessons he had to take when he was twelve or so, and now he’s here
in group of people whose average age has to be about sixty, shuffling around
while a bright, beautiful, graceful woman scrutinizes his every move.
“Sorry,” John mutters as he turns the wrong way and all but bounces off of an
elderly woman, so tiny she barely clears John’s shoulder.
“Oh, that’s all right, dear,” She says, and pats John’s shoulder before she
wobbles away. John wonders for a moment if she’s quite all there.
“Listen to the music!” Irene chirps, her red dress swirling around her as she
twirls, gently correcting missteps, encouraging, and dropping knockout,
flirtatious smiles with bright red lips. “Come on, ladies, God wouldn’t have
given you maracas if he didn’t want you to shake ‘em!” Irene shimmies, and
John’s father laughs. Valerie shoots him a dirty look, but there’s no heat in
it, just good-natured ribbing. John tries to keep the beat of the song but he
missteps again, and ends up trodding on Harry’s foot.
“Ow!” she snaps. “Watch those huge boats of yours, Watson,” she says, and
effortlessly swirls around into the conga line Irene starts. John tries to
follow behind, but gives up after once around the gazebo. Dancing really is not
his forte.
…………………………………………………………………………..
“Mum, Dad, I’m going up to the main house to look around,” John says, and makes
his escape before anyone can get a word in. He’s restless, twitchy with the
long car ride and enforced interaction with his sister. He needs a few moments
respite before he’s forced to sit through dinner.
The sun is still high in the sky at five o’clock, the long, drawn out summer
evening settling warm across his shoulders. The large verandah across the front
of the house draws his eye, older people sitting in the shade with drinks,
playing bridge or chess, and least likely to bother him on his quiet walk. The
little old woman he bumped into at his dance lesson is sitting across a table
from an equally tiny old man with a white goatee. She’s nodding as he speaks,
and plays her cards quickly and decisively. John reevaluates her mental state,
and as she catches his eye she waves absently at him and goes back to her
cards.
He slips around the chairs as he follows the porch as it wraps around the side
of the house. No one is down this way, and as John has decided to sit down in a
single, solitary chair perched in the corner and overlooking the sea, his ear
catches Mycroft Holmes’ voice coming from one of the French doors that lead out
of the house onto the verandah.
He shouldn’t eavesdrop, but he almost can’t help himself. Holmes is one of the
odder men he’s met, and something about him makes John just a little bit
curious. So John quietly ducks back against the wall of the house and peers
through the barely-opened door, eyeing the sliver of what proves to be the
dining room, beautifully laid for dinner. Holmes is standing with a group of
young men, waiters from their brilliant white short coats and black trousers,
and he’s speaking very earnestly.
“…remember, there are two types of employees here. You’re all university
students, chosen because you are expected to have manners and taste and, above
all, discretion. Provided you prove you can exercise it, I will introduce you
to some of the most distinguished personages in England – and their lovely sons
and daughters. This is your opportunity. I expect you to make the most of it
and not to bring, in any way, scandal or disrepute to this establishment. Is
that clear?”
“Imminently clear, your royal highness,” a voice—a deep, rumbling
baritone—drawls, but John can’t see the speaker until he suddenly crosses in
front of John’s little sliver of a view, carrying a large guitar case and being
followed by a few other men. He’s tall, so much taller than John, and slim,
with well muscled arms showing in his tight black tee shirt. His tousled mess
of inky black curls falls over one eye, and the arrogant smirk on his face
makes John’s heart skip a beat.
“Well, if it isn’t the entertainment staff,” Mycroft sneers. “Remember, little
brother, I expect the very same behavior from everyone in my employ. Including
you. Your job is to teach the guests the mambo, the cha-cha, whatever they pay
for. But that’s where it ends. No funny business, no conversations, and keep
your hands to yourself!”
Lestrade snorts a laugh. “Remember, Sherlock,” he says, mimicking Mycroft.
“Feel free to get a little ass in the studio, but no conversations!”
“You’re walking a fine line, Lestrade, so you had better watch your attitude.”
Mycroft says. “Now, dinner is about to start, so I suggest you all get to
work.”
John quietly takes a step back, ready to retreat, until he hears a voice call
Sherlock’s name. Despite his better judgment, John stills, his heart beating in
his ears.
“Think you can actually follow instructions this year, Sherlock?” The man’s
voice is a bit higher, with a slight Irish accent, but John can’t see who is
speaking. Sherlock drops his chin to look down over the tops of his sunglasses.
His eyes are like nothing John’s ever seen – a brilliant grey-blue fringed by
dark eyelashes, and so cutting in their assessment of the speaker John has to
look away.
“You’ve got quite enough on your agenda without bothering the staff. You just
put a pickle on everyone’s plate, Jim, and leave the hard stuff to me.”
Sherlock smirks as he turns and casually and flips over the intricately-folded
napkin, the salt shaker, and a glass of water on the table on the way out.
John slaps his hand over his mouth before his laughter gives him away.
……………………………………………………………………………….
***** Do You Love Me? *****
Chapter Summary
     “I carried a watermelon,” John says, and flushes. I carried a
     watermelon? What is wrong with me?
Chapter Notes
     Thanks for a quick read and some excellent pointers to Mydwynter and
     LifeonMars/Marsdaydream. I still keep picking out screwups, though,
     so don't blame them as they didn't really comb through it. See a
     problem? Drop me a PM on Tumblr. My asbox anon is usually open.
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Soundtrack_for_Chapter_2_-_Do_You_Love_Me?,_The_Contours
 
Dinner is at the main house, and John puts on his second-best trousers, a
checked shirt, and a soft button-up jumper. The nights are still cool, not a
spot of cloud cover to mar the view of the stars as they walk from the cabin,
across the lawn, and into the dining room.
“Ah, there you are,” Mycroft Holmes says, and ushers them to a beautifully laid
table. “Now, James, this is Doctor Watson, Mrs. Watson, John and Harriet. They
are my very special guests, and I expect you to provide them the best of
service.”
“Good evening,” James, their waiter, says, and John has to smother a smile. He
recognizes the voice as the person who Mycroft’s brother took down a peg
earlier in the evening. John tries to bury his smile in his water glass and
instead accidentally chokes when some goes down the wrong way. His mother gives
him a strange look and Harry kicks him under the table.
James ignores John, but smiles at each of them in turn. “Very pleased to meet
you,” he says, and the calculated look he gives Harry makes John shiver.
“James is at Cambridge,” Mycroft adds. “He’s studying international politics,
isn’t that right?”
James nods. “Indeed. I’m interested in the relationship between not only
nations, but businesses within those nations. So much in the world is done
behind the scenes, you know.”
“Excellent!” John’s father says. “Johnny here is going to Cambridge in the
fall. Medicine and an officer’s commission. He’s going to save the world. Isn’t
that right, Johnny?”
John blushes and looks down at his plate with a small smile. He’s going to do
his damndest, and his father’s faith in him is touching.
James ignores them both and looks at Harry, who has been rather obviously
sizing him up since he arrived at the table. “And what do you plan to do?”
James asks her.
“Oh, Harry’s going to decorate it,” John cuts in, before Harry can say
something to embarrass him again.
Harry gives John a dirty look, but before she can retaliate, James says, “I
think she already does,” and walks off to fetch their meals. Harry smirks at
John and John just sighs. Harry might be vain and a bit of a featherhead, but
she does manage to be exactly what everyone expects a nineteen year old girl to
be – pretty, well-groomed, stylish, flirtatious, fun. She doesn’t lack for
friends, no matter where she goes.
John, however, laments that he is never what anyone expects, once they meet
Harry: he’s quiet, studious, slightly awkward, hardworking, bright, and
opinionated. In short, Harry complains that John is bossy, too demanding of
good behavior of himself and others, and naively idealistic. His father says it
will make him a brilliant officer and an exacting surgeon. John certainly hopes
so.
Because as he surreptitiously watches a blonde waiter pour a glass of wine for
a guest at the next table, he just hopes he can make it through before people
start asking him too closely why he doesn’t have a girlfriend.
……………………………………………………………………………..
“So, you’re going to be a doctor, then?” Molly Hooper asks John as they
carefully box step their way around the main floor after dinner. Molly is the
head of the Social Committee, in charge of games and recreation for The Copper
Beeches. She looked barely older than John, perhaps twenty, with long, straight
brown hair and a sweet smile.
“Yes,” John answers, and tries not to watch his feet. “And then joining the
Army Medical Corps. You?”
Molly hesitates, biting her lip for a moment before blurting “Pathology,” and
looking down quickly. “I know it’s a bit odd, but really, I just want to help
people, and I’ve always wanted to be a doctor, but finding out how they died is
so interesting. Like a little mystery to solve.”
John smiles, trying to reassure her. “No, no, I completely understand. I take
it you don’t get a very good reaction when you tell people that.”
“Not usually, no. They sort of…run away, after.”
John laughs. He’d started out the evening trying simply to be polite, since
Mycroft had basically pushed her at John when the dancing started, which left
her almost as embarrassed as John himself was. John’s gotten fairly accustomed
to every daughter close to his age being subtly, or, sometimes, not-so-subtly,
steered in his direction, but the fact he never seems to connect with anyone is
starting to be noticed. Regardless, Molly seems very nice, and John finds that
the longer they talk, the more he likes her.
John and Molly continue to giggle their way through a terrible dance, and John
watches the other couples in the room. So beautifully prim, so perfectly
ordinary, so acceptable. The music isn’t too modern, the dance floor lit just
so, the decor not the height of fashion but elegant and understated. His mum
and dad glide around the floor as if they were born to do it. In some ways,
they had been.
Except it all fits John so ill, as if everything were corners and too-small
angles, penning him in with the weight of expectations. But he has his escape
route planned, straight through Uni and a career so brilliant he’ll need
nothing else, and noone else.
The song ends and John and Molly turn to the dais and clap politely for the
band, a small group of musicians who look like they’ve been there since the
Stone Age and have been playing the same music ever since. They begin to move
off to the side before a flourish of horns starts the next selection and John
sees his mum and dad smoothly transition into the mambo.
“Oh! The mambo! I love this dance. Would you John, please?” Molly pleads, and
John gives in without much protest, trying to keep up with the quicker steps,
the step-forward, rock-back of the dance he never manages to start on the right
beat to save his life. He and Molly accidentally step forward into each other
and they both laugh at how awkward it is.
“I told you earlier, I’m not—“ John starts before his attention is caught by a
low murmur from the middle of the dance floor and a wave of people moving to
the side to leave a clear space in the center.
Well, a clear space save two people: one tall, slim, and elegant, in a short-
jacketed tuxedo and shining black dance shoes, and one willowy and graceful in
a bright pink dress with a chiffon skirt that flares and swirls as she turns.
Sherlock and Irene.
To say that they dance the mambo is like comparing the flame of a candle to a
roaring fire; John’s never seen two people who could move together like they
do, their bodies so in tune they turn and wrap around each other without
hesitation. John watches as Sherlock lifts Irene over his head in a spectacular
throw, her body twisting in midair until Sherlock catches her under one arm and
one leg at the very last possible second, her fingertips brushing the floor.
She regains her feet and spins away with a lightning-flash smile, skirt
flaring. Sherlock darts after her, catches her hand and pulls her back into his
body with a quick tug.
Everyone on the dance floor has stopped moving entirely, enthralled. The room
seems to grow darker, the beat of the music hammering in John’s ears as he
watches their dance becoming more and more intimate as Sherlock and Irene sway
closer to each other. It’s obvious they’ve forgotten where they are, the fact
that there are almost a hundred other people in the room. They only have eyes
for each other, and the electricity from their connection makes the hair rise
on the back of John’s neck.
“Wow,” John says, rapt.
“Oh, they’re the dance teachers,” Molly says, frowning. “I do wish they’d not
show off for each other like that. Mr. Holmes hates it, and it doesn’t sell
lessons.” Molly glances to the side and then tries to subtly get Sherlock’s
attention. John wonders what she’s worried about, until he sees Mycroft Holmes
standing just inside the door. It’s obvious the moment he sees Sherlock and
Irene, because his lips twist and he starts across the floor.
“Drat,” Molly murmurs, making a slashing motion across her throat. “Sherlock
come on, just look at me, just once, come on…” John joins in as Mycroft makes
his way to the edge of the crowd, and just as Sherlock spins out of a turn he
catches John’s eye. John stops breathing, mesmerized. Sherlock looks quizzical
for a moment until John remembers himself and tilts his head Mycroft’s
direction. Sherlock understands quickly, and when he catches Irene around the
waist again he murmurs into her ear. She nods, and they part on the next beat,
spinning into the crowd and pulling in new partners to dance. The small bubble
of dance space seems to collapse around them, and Sherlock and Irene melt back
into the crowd once again. Molly sighs.
“He’ll get grief for that later, but at least Mycroft didn’t chastise him in
public,” she says.
“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t Mycroft want people to see how incredible
they are?”
Molly leads John off of the dance floor and toward the door. “Because he says
it intimidates people. They’re too good, you know? I wouldn’t want to try to
dance with Sherlock. He’d spend the entire time correcting me and he’s so
handsome I’d forget what I was doing.”
John laughs. “Yeah, same here. I mean, not that I would dance with him,
obviously, I mean—” John stops, a bit flustered. “You know what I mean.”
Molly gives him a sidelong glance. “Yeah, I think I do,” she says.
…………………………………………………………………………………………….
John leaves Molly not long after that and wanders down by the cliffs, watching
the moonlight glint and shimmer off of the undulating ocean.
He has no illusions about himself, about who he is. But it’s getting harder and
harder to hide, and he’s so tired of feeling alone. His friend Murray—he
understands, the both of them finding solace in each other and a shared secret.
Their mutual exploration had been definitely eye-opening, if for no other
reason than the confirmation that they both were better off as friends, and
still each other’s closest confidant. John wishes Murray were here now. He’d
have laughed at John for thinking Sherlock was so good-looking, and probably
figured out a way to introduce him at the same time.
John sighs and walks back toward the main house, but instead of cutting across
the lawn where a few late-night revelers are still having drinks and
conversation in the garden, John walks around the back of the main house,
skirting a little copse of trees that leads up a low ridge. There’s a path
here, a little lane lined with gravel and lit by tiny lamps mounted on small
white posts. As John reaches the far corner of the main house, he notices a
sign tacked to a tree next to the path that says “Staff Quarters—No Guests
Please.”
Well, that’s an open invitation if ever he saw one. It’s not like he’s going to
hurt anything. He just wants a look around.
The path climbs up and up as John walks, and just as he reaches a small bend in
the path he hears it: music. Not a band, more like someone playing a record as
loud as they possibly can, and the low murmur of a crowd. John edges around the
turning and there, across a small clearing, is a large cottage with lights
ablaze and windows wide open, spilling music and laughter into the night. It’s
oddly compelling, and John wants to get a closer look if he can.
As he crosses to the stairs to the cottage, John sees Greg Lestrade struggling
up the path carrying what looks like three large watermelons. Where on Earth
did he get those?
“Hi,” John says, because there’s nothing else for it, and startles Lestrade
into almost dropping one. “Here, let me help you.” John takes one of the
watermelons, cradling it like a baby.
“Oh God, what are you doing here?” Lestrade says, panicked. “Go back to the
main house. No guests allowed.”
“I was just out taking a walk. What’s going on up there?”
“Nothing. Just … just go back to dancing with Molly and making your Dad a happy
man, and just let it go.”
John scowls and shoves the watermelon back at Lestrade. “You don’t even - you
know what? Whatever, fine,” he says, and stalks back down the path.
“No, Johnny, wait, I’m sorry,” Lestrade calls after him. “Yeah, that was out of
line. Can you keep a secret? Wait, of course you can. Anyway. Your parents
would kill you. Mycroft would kill me.”
John, nervous but intrigued, takes one of the watermelons back and follows
Lestrade up the stairs and toward the music. Lestrade turns around as they
reach the double doors, gives John a grin, and bumps them open with his hip.
John’s jaw drops.
The room is packed full of people; couples, mostly, dancing in the dim, smoky
light of a few strategically placed lamps. They’re not just dancing though, not
the primness of a waltz or the restrained sultriness of a rumba, they’re
wrapped around each other, grinding, writhing, hips fitted together in ways
that are both obscene and thrilling. John’s never seen so much skin, everyone
gleaming with sweat in the late summer heat and the closeness of the room. It’s
a mesmerizing, sexy, alive scene, sensual in a way John’s rarely ever seen and
he blushes, wanting to join in and hide at the same time.
Because once his eyes adjust to the dim light, he realizes that the couples are
not just boys and girls. There are also boys dancing with boys, girls dancing
with girls, boys kissing boys in the corner of the room, and girls trailing
their fingers up the arms of girls as they dance close, their bodies pressed
together.
“Oh God,” John says.
“Hey, don’t freak out,” Lestrade says. “It’s okay, here. Mycroft knows, he does
this, hires people and lets them just…be themselves. You have to be open-minded
to work here or you’d never survive. We just can’t talk about it with the
guests. Okay?” Lestrade gives John a worried look.
John can see why. He’s never seen such an open display in his entire life, and
here, right out in public, no one seemed to mind at all. It’s unbelievable.
It’s perfect. John grins, and feels the weight of years slide off of his
shoulders.
Lestrade smiles back. “Excellent. I knew, the moment I saw you. Let’s go get a
drink.”
John follows him toward a bucket of bottled beer. “Where’d they learn to do
that?” he asks, nodding toward the dancers.
“Oh, everyone’s doing it in the basements back home. You wanna try it?”
Lestrade waggles his eyebrows suggestively.
John watches a boy wrap his arms around a girl’s waist as she slowly arches
backward, her body a sinuous curve until she rolls back up to wrap her arms
around the boy’s neck. Her eyes are heavy-lidded and dark as she presses kisses
to his jaw. John shakes his head no. There’s no way he could do anything like
that, not ever. He’s too clumsy, too shy, too afraid.
Lestrade grins and winks. “Can you imagine, dancing like this on the main
floor? Mycroft would probably send us off to parts unknown, call in some favors
with those swotty friends of his to put us all in the Tower or something.”
John nods, understanding. It may be fine behind closed doors with a lot of
like-minded people, but all of this – it’s illegal, and a single breath of any
of this getting out would ruin everyone, including Mycroft Holmes. John marvels
that it hasn’t, so far.
As it hasn’t, John resolves to relax and enjoy himself. But as he takes another
drink of his soda, a low cheer on the other side of the room heralds someone’s
arrival. A couple of someones, actually.
Sherlock and Irene, of course, still dressed to the nines from their turn
around the main floor earlier in the evening. They immediately slide into the
middle of the dance floor as if by right, the other dancers making way for them
as they wind together, Sherlock’s hand on the back of Irene’s thigh as she
hooks her leg around his hip. Jesus.
“That’s my friend, Sherlock Holmes,” Lestrade says. “He got me the job here.
Great bloke, brilliant, but can be such an arsehole when he wants to be.”
John nods and watches a moment. “They look great together,” he says.
“Oh, yeah, Irene. God, they really do. You’d think they were a couple, wouldn’t
you?”
“Aren’t they?”
“Nah, not since we were kids. But best mates, always.”
John watches Sherlock lift Irene onto his shoulders as she laughs and flips her
skirt around in a flirty display, giving everyone a quick glimpse of her
knickers. Lestrade laughs and slaps John on the back before turning back to the
drinks table to start carving up the watermelons.
John feels a bit awkward, standing by himself. He probably should leave, but he
can’t stop watching Sherlock, who by now has removed his black jacket and is
dancing in his black trousers and white shirt undone almost to the waist. His
dark curls are messy, the tips shining with sweat, and the notch of his throat
gleams in the lamplight.
The song ends with a lot of catcalls and clapping, and the next starts to
squeals of delight. Sherlock leaves Irene to dance with a few other girls, and
as he scans the floor he catches John’s eye. His face registers surprise and
then annoyance as he strides John’s direction. Oh, hell.
“Lestrade,” Sherlock calls. “What’s he doing here? Are you actively trying to
ruin this?”
Lestrade whips around, knife still in hand. “What? Oh, no, Sherlock, he’s with
me.” Lestrade beams, before he seems to realize he’s still holding a sharp
knife pointed at Sherlock’s chest and hastily puts it down. “It’s fine, trust
me. He’s cool.”
“I carried a watermelon,” John says, and flushes. I carried a watermelon? What
is wrong with me?
Sherlock eyes John speculatively, intently, leaving John feeling almost naked
under the scrutiny. He wants to squirm or look away, but he doesn’t dare, not
when he feels like he’s being judged on the strength of his heart, and he
refuses to be judged wanting.
He must pass, because as Sherlock turns back toward the dance floor, he says
“Coming?” back over his shoulder, and half-turns to hold out his hand.
John hesitates a moment, but takes Sherlock’s hand and follows him. He looks
back at Lestrade, who gives him a thumbs-up and a grin. Great. John’s stomach
is full of butterflies, his feet feel like lead, and he hasn’t the slightest
idea what to do next.
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, relax,” Sherlock says. “Bend your knees a bit before
you lock up and fall over.”
John flexes his knees a little bit; pleased he’s still actually standing.
“Good. Now, roll this way.” Sherlock gyrates his hips. John mimics him.
“Excellent. Now, the other way.” John tries to go the other way, but it feels a
bit odd. “Not terrible. Let’s dance.” Sherlock steps up and wraps his arms
around John – one around John’s waist and one large hand splayed in the middle
of his back. John sucks in a startled breath and has no idea where to put his
hands so he wraps them up under Sherlock’s arms and around his shoulders.
Sherlock gives a pleased rumble. “You’ve got good instincts. Trust them,” he
says, and steps into John’s body enough that he can guide them with a push of
his hips or a pull of his hands, and begins to sway. John starts to panic for a
moment but then remembers where he is, and the people he’s with, and lets
Sherlock’s body lead him.
The entire room begins to slide away with the pulse of the music, the heat of
Sherlock’s hands on his body. John’s hyper-aware of his hips, of Sherlock’s
groin pressed right at his belt, of the fact that one of Sherlock’s hands has
slipped a bit on his waist and is dangerously close to his arse. Sherlock’s
eyes are on his, a magnetic green-blue that John could get lost in if he let
himself. The music feels like a wave, like the tide coming in to wash him away,
and just as John thinks he might be a bit bold and slip his arm around
Sherlock’s waist, the song ends and Sherlock spins away, leaving John swaying
alone in the middle of the floor and blinking in the sudden light.
John looks over at Lestrade accusingly, his face warm and probably red.
Lestrade just shrugs. “I told you he was a bit of an arsehole,” he says. John
flips him off, and Lestrade just laughs.
 
Chapter End Notes
     A quick note: Homosexuality wasn't decriminalized in the UK until
     1967, four years after this story takes place, and even then only
     between adults of 21 years or older, and in "private." Hotels or
     other similar accommodations were not considered private. A
     relationship between John and Sherlock - here 17 and 21, respectively
     - would remain illegal in the UK until 2001, when the age of consent
     for homosexual acts was lowered from 18 to 16.
***** Please Say You Will *****
Chapter Summary
     “But I can’t even do the merengue,” John pleads, heart beating
     wildly. Oh my god how could Lestrade even think he’d be capable, and
     then, to go to, to, that type of place —
     "See, Lestrade, he can’t even do the merengue!" Sherlock snaps, and
     drags his fingers through his hair in frustration. "It would be
     absolutely humiliating."
     John feels indignation fill his heart. “Hey, now,” he says. He may
     not be a fantastic dancer, but he does have his pride.
Chapter Notes
     Thanks again to Mydwynter, LifeonMars/MarsDayDream, and
     Corpsereviver2, for making this chapter better than they found it.
Chapter_Soundtrack:_Stay,_Maurice_Williams_and_The_Zodiacs
 
The next morning John is sitting on the floor of the gazebo, legs stretched in
front of him, trying to touch his toes along with around twenty other people
that were all roped into the early morning calisthenics programme Molly had
arranged. John’s mum claimed it was good for digestion, so she’d managed to
wheedle John and Harry into going with her. His father begged off and escaped
to the golf course. Luckily for him.
John breathes out and shifts to tuck one leg back in and stretches as far as he
can toward the toes of his right foot. Irene is in front of them in a leotard,
tights and dance shoes, and neatly lays her forehead against her knee as she
stretches the same way. Ugh.
“Gently, now,” she chides, “No sense in doing this if you’re just going to hurt
yourself. Feel the burn of your muscles as you slowly lower your chest toward
your knee and hold…”
John grunts and tries to hold it but there’s no use. He glances at Harry, who
is not even attempting to truly touch her toes; instead she shares a giggle
with her new friend Clara. Clara pokes Harry in the thigh and shushes her, and
dramatically stretches until she wraps her hand around the arch of her foot.
Harry sticks her tongue out at Clara but tries harder, anyway.  John sighs. Mr.
and Mrs. Schumacher are even more flexible than he is, and they have to be in
their 70s.  A bead of sweat slides down John’s nose and onto the floor.
“Well, aren’t you all looking fit and healthy,” a deep voice drawls from behind
them, and John nearly throws his back out as he sits up out of his ridiculous
pose.  Sherlock walks around the back of the class to stand next to Irene and
reaches down to give her a hand up.  “Just wanted to remind you about the dance
here tonight,” Sherlock says to her. “Mycroft is counting on us.”
Irene nods. “Wouldn’t miss it,” she says, and John smiles at the false
enthusiasm she puts on. “Now, everyone, on your feet, and reach high above your
head.” Irene stretches and John carefully stretches along with her, trying to
avoid looking at Sherlock as much as possible. He’s looking unfairly cool and
unruffled in the summer heat, and the line of his body as he leans against the
railing is just unfairly perfect.  John risks one more glance, though, only to
find Sherlock watching him. Sherlock sees him looking and drops a saucy wink,
and John goes hot at the memory of Sherlock’s hips pressed against his. John
drops his arms from over his head and sits down with the class, resolutely
looking at the floor.
“Johnny,” Harry whispers, and pokes him in the leg. “Hey, can you cover for me
tonight?”
John refocuses on the here and now. “What? Why? Where are you going?”
“God, enough with the twenty questions. I’m just going out for some fun with
Clara and a few people. We’re not leaving the hotel, just…mum and dad don’t
need to know everything, okay?”
John sighs. “Fine, whatever. Just come back at some point, okay?”
 “Okay, now its time to stretch those stomachs!” Irene calls cheerfully. “On
your tummies, ladies and gents, and press up with your hands!”
John groans and drops his head into his hands.
……………………………………………………………
Afterward, John pauses next to Irene where she’s fiddling with packing all of
the exercise mats into a large case. He’s not sure why he feels drawn to speak
with her, but something about her eyes, the faraway look she gets when she
thinks people aren’t watching her, makes her seem very alone.
“I just…I just wanted to say that I think you’re an amazing dancer,” he says.
“And thanks for the lesson today.”
Irene just looks at him. “Yeah, well, it’s all part of the service.”
Oh. “Yes, well, I just … did you really used to be a Rockette?”
“Yeah, once my mom kicked me out of the house, I didn’t know anything else but
dancing.”
John can’t imagine it, the freedom that would come with being away from his
family. “I envy you,” he says without thinking.
Irene slams the case shut and begins to lug it off the gazebo. “Envy me? You
can see just how far I’ve come, can’t you?” She doesn’t look back at John, and
John feels the dismissal right in the pit of his stomach.
…………………………………………………………….
Later that evening the fairy lights twinkle in the rafters of the gazebo.  It’s
completely transformed from the place where John was sweating less than ten
hours ago, mostly by carefully arranged pots of ferns and flowers, a white
cloth covered table with drinks, and a record player. Harry is nowhere in
sight, and John told his parents the blandest, vaguest lie he could come up
with regarding her whereabouts; he’ll have to find her later and let her know
he’d told them she had gone to the bowling lanes in the basement of the main
house.
John sips a tonic and lemon and tries not to be too obvious as he watches
Sherlock Holmes charm a tall, dark skinned woman with warm brown eyes on the
dance floor. She smiles and lets him lead her in a slow waltz.
“Sally Donovan,” Molly says, appearing at his side. “MI-5, from what I hear.
She’s rather brilliant. The top brass send her here to have Sherlock help with
her dancing, for her cover assignments. At least, that’s what Mycroft says.  ”
John nods. “Does he have a lot of, er, students, then?”
“Oh, a few. A few of the wives that stay here through the week, whose husbands
only come up on the week-end, that sort of thing.”
John stares at her, dumbfounded. “You mean, he, um…”
“What? Oh, you mean—no, of course not! Well, I mean, he probably gets a nice
tip, and they do love dancing with him, but nothing more than that, I’m sure.”
Sherlock spins Sally in a gentle circle as the song ends, and a more modern
song starts up. Sherlock takes his leave of Sally and walks over to where
Lestrade is operating the record player.
“Have you seen Irene?” John hears him say. “She’s supposed to be here, and
people are starting to ask for her.”
Lestrade shakes his head. “No, I thought she was with Kate, but when I stopped
by to ask her what music she wanted tonight, Kate said she hadn’t seen her.”
Sherlock frowns, but tries to shake it off. He asks Mrs. Schumacher to dance,
leading her around the floor in an elegant foxtrot, his obvious concern still
wrinkling his brow.
……………………………………………………………………………………….
John lasts perhaps another agonizing fifteen minutes of being in the same space
as Sherlock before he and Molly make their escape to the main house, sneaking
in through the kitchen to find something a bit more appetizing to eat than the
broiled halibut he’d been served earlier that night, and which John
particularly loathes.
“Don’t you have any cheese in here?” John says.
Molly pokes him in the arm. “Shhh! You don’t want to get us caught. Chef would
have our heads.”
“Then hurry up and find, I don’t know, biscuits or something. Anything but that
bloody fish.”
“It was pretty terrible,” Molly giggles. “I’ve told Mycroft—“ Molly stops and
John stills when they hear a sound, a soft voice on the other side of the
kitchen.  Molly quickly closes the refrigerator and pulls John down to crouch
in the shadow of a prep table. They breathe at each other, John’s heart beating
wildly, until they hear it again, a quiet sob and a sniff of a runny nose.
John looks at Molly and raises his eyebrows in a silent question. She nods and
they quietly creep around the table until they find the source of the sound:
Irene, crumpled on the floor in the corner, her bright blue dress wrapped and
tucked in between her knees, feet bare.
“Oh God,” Molly says. “Are you okay?”
“Sherlock’s going to kill me,” is all she says, then drops her forehead onto
her folded arms. A square of paper dangles from her fingertips. John takes it.
“Five hundred quid next Thursday, seven pm, or M will know exactly where you’ve
been spending your extra cash. Ciao, J.” John reads. “What the hell?”
“Oh, Irene,” Molly groans. “Please say you haven’t.”
“I can’t, you goody two shoes, why do you think he wants the money?”
Molly presses her mouth into a thin line. “Go get Sherlock,” she tells John.
“Molly, no, don’t—“
“Irene, you know he has to know. You need to tell him. I’ll stay with you in
case anyone comes in. John, please go now.”
John figures any questions he has can wait until he gets back, so he darts
through the halls and across the lawn to the gazebo, where he finds Lestrade
still at the record player. John quietly explains the situation to him, and
Lestrade nods and immediately crosses the dance floor to tap Sherlock on the
shoulder and whisper into his ear. In a flash, Sherlock makes his excuses and
runs right past John and up toward the house, and John, after a moment of
indecisiveness, runs after him.
………………………………………………………………………..
“Irene,” Sherlock says, handing her a tartan blanket to wrap around her
shivering frame, “You really can’t pay him.”
“Are you kidding?” she says. “I have to. And he says he won’t take the payment
from anyone else but me. He’ll run off and tell Mycroft, and we’ll both be
out.”
John presses himself as far as possible into the back corner of Irene’s
bungalow, and tries to remain as inconspicuous as possible. Molly bustles about
making tea, and Lestrade and Sherlock pace, and hover, and generally look
worried.
“Here, John,” Molly says, handing him a cup.  “Thank you for your help.”
The steam is comforting, and John takes a sip. “What ‘s going on?” he asks as
he watches Sherlock draw out Irene’s arm, examine it, and frown at her.
“Only two. That’s at least something,” Sherlock says. Irene looks down at her
lap, blinking away tears.
“Heroin,” Molly whispers to John. “Both of them, for a long time. Sherlock’s
clean, but Irene’s been struggling. Mycroft won’t have it, if he finds out.
It’s a condition of them staying here.”
“—and you know we’ve got a gig at the Sheldrake that night; how are we supposed
to find our way out of here if we can’t be seen by the right people?” Sherlock
says, and runs his hand through his hair.
“Don’t you think I  know  that? Christ, Sherlock, I’m not stupid.”
“No,” Sherlock says, and his tone is softer. “I know that. You’re one of the
few who aren’t. Let’s just think our way out of this. A solution has to be
possible.”
“I’m not taking any money from you,” Irene says.
Sherlock rolls his eyes at her. “As if I had it anyway. Mycroft keeps a very
tight leash on my funds.”
“Fuck, it really is hopeless, then. We’re both screwed.”
“Don’t say that,” John says, without thinking. “Surely there’s got to be a
way.” And there should be, two such amazing people shouldn’t ever sound this
despairing, this afraid. If they can’t manage even as protected a life as this,
what hope does John have in the wider world?
Irene lifts her head, eyes blazing. “What’s your name again? Johnny?” John
nods. “Listen, Johnny, you don’t know shit about my problems.”
“Ah, I sort of filled him in,” Molly says.
“Dammit, Molls, now he’ll run off and tell Daddy and we’ll all get fired!”
“That’s not true!” John protests. “Why would I do that?”
Sherlock gives him a speculative look. “You’re right. You have as much to lose,
given where you were last night. But you’d best leave, before anything else
happens that could compromise your integrity.”
“Wait,” John says, flustered. “What do you mean by that?”
“Get lost, Johnny,” Sherlock says, and pushes John out the door and into the
night.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………….
John wanders back toward his family’s bungalow in the still, quiet evening, his
mind trying to fully process what he’s seen. He’d wondered how Irene ended up
here, a definite step down from being a Rockette in New York City, and now he
might just have the answer. John’s never really known anyone with a drug
problem before, but he’s heard enough from his father;  constant lectures about
the depravity associated with drugs and his disdain for those he feels are too
weak-minded to resist them.
John isn’t entirely convinced. Addiction is a powerful thing, and from
everything he’s read, almost impossible to overcome alone.  It’s no wonder
Sherlock wants to keep Irene close, if they’re going through it all together.
He feels nothing but sympathy for Irene, and vows to help if he can.
Just as John reaches the bottom of the stone stairs along the hillside, he
hears voices coming from around a bend in the path.
“—don’t know what you think you saw, but you didn’t,” Harry says.
“Oh, come now,” Jim drawls.”You act like it was just the once. Besides, I’m
sure Clara—“
“John!” Harry says, catching sight of him, and John scowls in Jim’s direction.
Jim simply smiles, and his pleasant expression has a slightly vicious edge to
it. “I was just heading back to the bungalow, and Jim was nice enough to walk
me. Isn’t that right?”
“Absolutely,” Jim says, and places a hand on Harry’s shoulder. She can’t hide
the twist of disgust on her lips. “Since your brother is here, I’ll just let
you two make your way alone. Can’t have you kids out too late, after all. Who
knows what trouble you’d find.” Jim wags his finger and then walks off,
whistling.
“Ugh, that guy creeps me out,” Harry says, and hooks her hand around John’s
arm. “Come on, Johnny, let’s go home.”
John watches Jim disappear into the night, and can’t shake the crawling feeling
up his spine.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
When John wakes in the morning, he’s absolutely positive that what he’s about
to do is the right thing. He washes and gets dressed quickly, and finds his
father finishing his coffee on the front porch of their bungalow.
“Good morning,” John says, and sits down, his hands on his knees. His father
eyes him with some surprise.
“You look a bit serious for this time in the morning,” he says. “What’s
troubling you, John?”
“Nothing,” John says. “Well, okay, something. You know how you always said I
should try to help people who find themselves in trouble, or need a bit of a
leg up?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Well … may  I please borrow five hundred pounds?”
“Five hundred? My God, Johnny, that’s quite a sum. What do you need it for?”
“I can’t really say,” John says, hedging.
“You always said you could tell me anything.”
“It’s sort of personal for them, but they could really use it and I’ll pay you
back from my savings as soon as we get home.”
John’s father looks undecided. “Its not for something illegal, is it?”
“No, dad,” John says, and tries to look as wide-eyed and innocent as it’s
possible to look.
John’s father chuckles. “Well, of course not. I don’t know why I’d even ask
that of you. Of course you can. I’ll have it to you this evening.”
“Thanks, Dad,” John says, slaps his hand on his father’s shoulder, and swallows
down all the guilt that tries to claw its way out of his stomach by locking it
behind a wide smile.
…………………………………………………………………..
John wraps his fingers around the envelope of cash in his pocket and climbs the
stone-stepped path up to the staff bungalows later that evening.  The evening
has turned cool and a bit windy, and John wraps his jumper around him and
shivers as he makes his way up the path.
The party in the staff room is quieter than it was the other evening, the music
low and lights dim, with only a few couples on the dance floor swaying to a
slow, languorous song. John finds Sherlock and Irene dancing, wrapped around
each other like two survivors of a shipwreck, as if the only thing keeping them
upright is each other. John taps Irene on the shoulder and motions for her to
follow him. She does, curiosity wrinkling her brow. Sherlock follows them,
still holding Irene’s hand.
John turns around as soon as they reach a quiet corner. “I got the money,” he
says, and holds the envelope out to Irene.
“You what?”
“You said you needed it,” John says, and is surprised at the look on Sherlock’s
face—a stony anger. All of John’s warm satisfaction vanishes, leaving him cold
inside.
“Are you serious?” Irene asks, and carefully takes the envelope between shaking
fingers.
“Oh, I’m sure it took all his supreme courage to ask his dear daddy,” Sherlock
sneers.
Irene’s face falls. “I’m sorry, Johnny, but I can’t take it.”
“What?” Sherlock says. “Of course you can.”
“No, I can’t. Besides, I still have to be there to meet with him on Thursday.”
Lestrade edges into the conversation. “I tried talking to him earlier. He knows
the act at the Sheldrake is Thursday. He’s just being a complete prick, and
won’t change his mind.”
“Can’t someone fill in for her?” John asks.  There has to be some way they can
do this, if John’s going to go out on a limb to get them this money, at least
Sherlock could make an effort instead of being a defeatist prick about it.
Sherlock whirls on him. “No, someone can’t fill in for her, you naive little
swot,” and the tone of his voice makes John flinch. “Kate can’t learn the
routine because she’s on duty all week, and Anthea has to fill in for Irene for
the night of the dance. Everyone works here.”
Lestrade eyes John speculatively. “Well, maybe Johnny could do it,” he says.
John and Sherlock both stare at him, dumbfounded.  “That’s the most asinine
idea I’ve ever heard,” Sherlock says.
“It really is. I mean, I’m a bloke, for starters—”
“Irrelevant,” Sherlock says, waving a hand. “The Sheldrake is a … club of a
certain type, in Bristol. That’s not the problem.”
“But I can’t even do the merengue,” John pleads, heart beating wildly. Oh my
god how could Lestrade even think he’d be capable, and then, to go to, to,
that  type of place —
"See, Lestrade, he can’t even do the merengue!" Sherlo ck snaps, and drags his
fingers through his hair in frustration. "It would be absolutely humiliating."
John feels indignation fill his heart. “Hey, now,” he says. He may not be a
fantastic dancer, but he does have his pride.
“You’re an incredibly strong partner, Sherlock, you know you could teach him,”
Irene says, and her eyes are alight with excitement.
Sherlock crosses his arms and tosses his head. “No. He can’t. He absolutely
cannot do it. I’d rather give up now.”
“Why?” John finds himself asking. Because the incredulity in Sherlock’s voice,
the assumption, the belief he’s not up to the challenge —it honestly pisses
John off and he can feel his courage rising.
“I can see in your face that you think you can,” Sherlock says. “You think you
can tear yourself away from endless rounds of golf with your father to learn
this, in secret, and then sneak off in the middle of the night to perform a
dance with me, in an illegal gay club, and have noone find out? You don’t live
this life, Johnny. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”
John lifts his chin and looks Sherlock right in the eyes. “Try me,” he says.
Which is how bright and early the next morning, John finds himself in jeans and
a white tee shirt, facing Sherlock Holmes across the empty floor of the dance
studio, the beat of a mambo floating from the speakers.



***** Hungry Eyes *****
Chapter Summary
     “Relax,” Sherlock says, and takes both of John’s hands. His voice is
     surprisingly gentle. “You need to feel the music. It’s not the cold,
     ruthless logic of numbers, but a rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Feel.”
     Sherlock places his hand over his chest and taps lightly, in time
     with his own heartbeat. John does the same, closes his eyes and takes
     a deep breath, the thrum of his own heart under his hand and the
     liquid pulse of the mambo in his ears. It’s clearer, the room falling
     away as he concentrates, the music and Sherlock’s proximity filling
     his senses. John’s eyes flash open when Sherlock takes John’s hand
     and places it on his own chest, and the heat of Sherlock’s body, the
     beat of his heart, is searing against John’s fingertips.
Chapter Notes
     My God, without Mydwynter and LifeOnMars, this thing would have never
     made it. Bless all the betas in the world, but especially mine. <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Butterflies bloom in John’s stomach as Sherlock clasps John’s right hand in
his.  John timidly places his other hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and tries not
to be acutely aware of Sherlock’s large hand curling around his back, fingers
splayed under John’s shoulder blade.
He tries. He’s not succeeding.
“Not on the one,” Sherlock snaps, bringing John back to reality just as he
barely stops himself from stepping on Sherlock’s foot.
“Sorry,” John says.
Sherlock turns toward the record player and resets the needle. ”You’ve got to
find the two. Start on the two. Understand?”
John nods and holds his arms out again, trying to set his frame—a term Sherlock
had taught him the first minute he’d walked in. He fights to hold his arms
still, but Sherlock still pokes and prods at John until he holds the position
he wants.
“I told you I’ve never done any of these dances before,” John says.
“That much is obvious. I cannot believe no one ever taught you to dance
properly, given your position in life. Now, again. One, two, three, four, one,
two, three, four.”
John closes his eyes and waits for the music, listening intently for the second
beat.
“Relax,” Sherlock says wryly. The music shifts and John feels himself start to
lift his foot and—“No.”
John puts his foot down.
“Now,” Sherlock says, and guides him into a simple mambo. Front ball change,
feet together, back ball change, feet together, and just as John’s starting to
get the hang of the steps Sherlock stops them.
“Okay. Now, again.”
John promptly steps on his foot.
It’s going to be a long day.        
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………
Two hours later, John is dripping with sweat and Sherlock has stopped dancing
with him in order to criticize John’s posture.
“One, two, three, four,” Sherlock chants, and presses a hand to John’s lower
back as he does the steps for what has to be the hundredth time. “Straighten
up, three, four, don’t look down,” John rolls his eyes as Sherlock places a
hand under his chin. Honestly, that you’ve had absolutely no instruction—“
“Would you knock it off,” John says, and pushes his hands away. This truly was
a stupid idea. Sherlock really is such an arrogant git, and John ought to just
march out of here and leave him to dance the entire thing on his own.
Sherlock crosses his arms, studying John’s face, and scowls. “Not until you get
it. Now. Again.”
John sighs and straightens his back, sets his frame, and begins again.
………………………………………………………..
The next morning John is so sore he begs off breakfast with his family to lie
in bed for an extra hour. Harry eyes him but says nothing, and simply puts on
her wide-brimmed hat and sunglasses. “I’ll be at the pool,” she chirps, and
leaves him blessedly alone until he drags himself out of bed and into a hot
bath, letting the heat relax his muscles and draw some of the pain away.  He
drowses a bit in the water and tries to let yesterday unspool in his mind, to
remember the feel of Sherlock’s hands as they guided him, the rhythm of his
steps and the sway of his hips as they danced.
It wasn’t nearly as humiliating as he thought it would be, though Sherlock is
definitely just as much of an arsehole as Lestrade warned him about. His
instruction is precise and sharp, demanding and uncompromising, but oh, the
exhilaration of Sherlock’s sliver of a smile when John manages to get something
right.
He still feels a bit nervous as heads up toward the main house.  He turns the
corner and finds himself in a secluded little spot just under the upper
verandah, before he reaches the winding stone stairs to the staff quarters.
Here, he’s still hidden from the dance studio.
It wouldn’t be a bad idea to practice what he learned yesterday, just a little.
Sherlock had been exacting, terse, and required perfection before he’d let John
leave. John had bolted from the studio and across the lawn, just barely making
it home in time to wash, change, and reach the dining room with his parents for
dinner.
John tries to hear the beat of the mambo in his head, Sherlock counting off the
steps, and he does a quick pantomime before realizing he stillstarted on the
one.
“No,” he growls, echoing Sherlock’s voice in his head. He tries a few more
times, cocking it all up each time, before giving up in frustration and
stomping off to the dance studio.
“You took your time,” Sherlock says, and turns around to put the record on the
turntable.  The studio is already sweltering, sunlight pouring through the bank
of windows and glinting off the polished wood floor. John hesitates, but then
strips his tee shirt off and tosses it to the side. God, he’s already starting
to sweat.
Sherlock drops the needle, turns around and does a double take. John wills
himself not to feel self-conscious, and instead holds his frame rigidly, ready
for Sherlock to step into his space and take his hand.
Sherlock pauses, though, and gives John a hard, critical once-over. Oh God,
what did he do now?
“Relax,” Sherlock says, and takes both of John’s hands. His voice is
surprisingly gentle. “You need to feel the music. It’s not the cold, ruthless
logic of numbers, but a rhythm. Like a heartbeat. Feel.” Sherlock places his
hand over his chest and taps lightly, in time with his own heartbeat. John does
the same, closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, the thrum of his own heart
under his hand and the liquid pulse of the mambo in his ears. It’s clearer, the
room falling away as he concentrates, the music and Sherlock’s proximity
filling his senses. John’s eyes flash open when Sherlock takes John’s hand and
places it on his own chest, and the heat of Sherlock’s body, the beat of his
heart, is searing against John’s fingertips.
They stand almost flush together, eyes locked on each other for a long moment
until Sherlock places his other hand on John’s waist and guides them into a
beautifully effortless mambo without John’s conscious participation.
John can’t believe it. He can’t help but smile, and Sherlock’s answering grin,
bright and beautiful and a bit manic, leaves John breathless for the rest of
the day.
……………………………………………………………………………
Of course, the beautiful moment John replays in his mind at every opportunity
is completely destroyed after two more days of Sherlock pushing, pulling,
dragging, and basically bullying John around the dance floor. Irene had popped
in for one session, standing behind John as he and Sherlock danced, with one of
her hands on John’s back to keep his posture in line and another on his hip to
help guide him. He’d tried to watch Sherlock and Irene dance together, noted
the sensuous sway of Irene’s hips and the way her body would glide from
movement to movement, but John knows he’ll never look that good. He’ll be lucky
if he just remembers the entire routine.
And speaking of, John thinks, sweating and annoyed and stripped down once again
to jeans and no shirt, Sherlock still hasn’t taught him the entire routine.
Just parts of it.
“Again,” Sherlock snaps, and John holds his arms up. They start to dance, John
feeling a little more crowded than usual, and Sherlock’s face twists. “No, no!
Spaghetti arms! You’ve got to hold the frame.”
“I’m trying!”
“No, you’re not. Here.” Sherlock steps back and sets John’s aching arms again.
“This is your dance space,” he says, and gestures in front of John, “and this
is my dance space. I don’t go into yours, and you don’t go into mine. Clear?”
John nods, and they go through the dance again, Sherlock gliding over the turns
and some sort of lift without explaining how those will actually be done. It
leaves John nervous and uncertain, but then slowly, slowly, John can feel his
steps becoming more sure, more instinctive. Irene joins them sometimes, jumping
in to correct John’s posture, the tilt of his head, even prodding and teasing
him into adding a bit of extra swing to his hips.
“You’re just so … proper, Johnny,” she says, and swats him on the backside.
“Oi!” John barks. “What was that for?”
“Make you loosen up a little. You move like you’ve got a stick up your arse.
Let your hips roll. Let them entice. Haven’t you ever … you know. Done it?”
John goes scarlet at the “it” with a capitol I. Sherlock has his back to the
pair of them, changing the record, so John shrugs. “Just … you know. Snogging.
A few times,” he mutters.
Irene squints at him, then shakes her head. “No wonder. Dancing is…it’s
visceral. The beat of your heart just below your belt. Desire.” Irene executes
a beautiful pirouette and then dips low, rolling her hips seductively as she
moves. Sherlock wraps an arm around her waist and spins her out and back in so
instinctively they barely break stride as they walk back toward John. Sherlock
waits expectantly, and John finds he is oddly reluctant to touch him.
“Now,” Irene says, and somehow she must know how John is feeling, because she
places John’s hand in Sherlock’s. “You dance. I’m off to give Mrs. Shumacher
another rumba lesson. She’s about to wear me out, I swear.” She waves and
almost skips out the door, leaving the two of them in a silent studio. John
swallows and realises Sherlock is still holding his hand.
“I’ve changed the beginning of the routine just a bit,” Sherlock says. “We’ll
start like this.” Sherlock stands directly behind John, his chest pressed
against John’s back. John startles slightly, until one hand settles on John’s
waist and the other gracefully lifts John’s left wrist in a delicate sweep
until it wraps behind Sherlock’s neck.
John stops breathing, feeling Sherlock’s own breath on his neck, his chest
strong and firm against John’s back and his fingers trailing down John’s arm
and his side…
John bursts into laughter.
“Oh for God’s sake!” Sherlock says.
“I can’t help it! It tickles!”
“Can you at least attempt to control yourself?”
John takes a breath and nods, allows Sherlock to lift his arm once again to
wrap around his neck, and it’s all very warm and sensual and John can feel his
eyes starting to fall shut with the feel of Sherlock’s breath ghosting across
his cheek, catching the edge of a glance that seems almost hungry, wanting, and
then—
“Dammit, Johnny, come on!”
“Sorry, Sherlock, sorry. I promise I’ll not laugh this time. I swear.”
This time John does manage not to laugh, because the desire he’s felt simmering
all day builds, the shocking fire of need in Sherlock’s gaze that overwhelms
him and he almost misses his cue to spin out and start the dance. Fortunately
he recovers quickly, and other than a concerned glance from Sherlock, he keeps
it together enough to make it through the rest of the routine.  But he can feel
Sherlock’s gaze on him the rest of the day, and the weight of it carries him
through a restless night, staring at the ceiling and listening to the rain
fall.
…………………………………………………………………………….
The rain is still falling in heavy, misty sheets as John sits at breakfast the
next morning and loads his plate with so much food a grilled tomato actually
topples off onto the table top. Harry gives him a disgusted look.
“What?” John says around a mouthful of eggs. “I’m starving.”
“And what, exactly, have you been doing to work up such an appetite?” she says,
and her voice is saccharine sweet. John tries not to choke on his food.
“Erm,” he says, and swallows. “I’m taking dance lessons with Irene.” There.
That’s truthful. Sort of. Harry shoots him an incredulous look and his mother
glances up in surprise. He hopes the casual demeanor he puts on, and the fact
he just keeps eating without pause, holds them both off from questioning him
too closely.
“Dance lessons,” Harry repeats carefully. “WithIrene.”
Oh, hell. “Yes. You know, to … improve before I go to university. All those …
er. Obligations, and such. You know.” Please, please don’t say anything, Harry,
for the love of God.
“Well, it can only help,” John’s mother says, and takes another sip of coffee.
“You’re very talented in many ways, Johnny, but, well. Grace isn’t your strong
suit.”
John nods and takes a last bite of toast. “Yes, so, actually, I should go. She
lets me help with some of her other lessons sometimes. To, er. Help learn
dancing different partners.” Harry rolls her eyes and rubs her forehead.
John pushes his chair back and is startled as his elbow catches Jim as he
approaches their table with a trayful of glasses of juice. John winces as his
elbow smacks the hard bone of Jim’s hip, causing him to startle and the juice
to slosh over the sides of the glasses and onto the tray. Drops spatter the
front of his white jacket with a rainbow of purple, orange, and red splotches.
The look of shocked horror on Jim’s face leaves John trying not to laugh and
Harry snickering behind her hand.
“Oh my gosh, I’m so terribly sorry,” John says, and grabs a napkin to blot at
Jim’s jacket. “I didn’t even see you there!”
Jim smiles, a slow, vicious, simpering grin. “Oh, it’s absolutely not a
problem, Johnny, not a problem at all. I’ll take care of it. Now, you’d best be
on your way to … where is it you’re going?”
John grits his teeth. “Dance lessons,” he mutters.
“Ah, yes. Irene is such a talent. Well, enjoy yourself,” Jim adds, and deposits
the wet tray on a nearby empty table, and begins to clear up their empty
dishes. “And you, Harry. Might I suggest a trip to the boathouse after lunch,
and a little row on the lake? I’m sure you and Clara will find it delightful.”
Harry rolls her eyes at Jim. The odd emphasis Jim put on Clara’s name has John
a little confused. Why should he care?
“Yes, fine, we probably will,” she says peevishly, and John is incredulous.
Since when does Harry do anything anyone else would want her to, and especially
Jim Moriarty? John looks at his parents— his father reading the paper and
mother smiling and nodding encouragingly— who are apparently completely unaware
of any underlying tension. “Weren’t you just leaving?” Harry snaps at John.
“Harry!” their mother admonishes.
“No, it’s fine, I was just leaving. See you later,” John says, and leaves. He
but can’t help a worried glance back and sees Jim Moriarty leaning over Harry
to clear her plate, his presence just a bit too close for John’s liking.
…………………………………………………………………………….
For once, stepping into the dance studio is comfortable and relaxing, and John
can finally breathe again.
At least until Sherlock arrives, strips off his jacket, and starts the music.
There’s something off. Sherlock is filled with a restless and manic energy, and
the tension has John ready to climb the walls. It leaves him off balance and
awkward, turning the wrong way when he’d had it down perfectly the day before,
or stepping with the wrong foot, and feeling every single touch of Sherlock’s
hands on his body as if they were live wires attached to his skin. It’s
maddening, and frustrating, and the more they dance the more annoyed John
becomes.
“And turn, two, three, and this is the lift, you’ll learn that later, watch
your spotting, spin, spin, spin…”
John tries to keep up despite Sherlock’s constant chatter and ignores the
increasing pressure of Sherlock’s hand on his hip that feels almost like
Sherlock is shoving him around the floor instead of guiding. John can feel the
tension ramping up as they reach the end of the routine, a dramatic finish on
one knee, head thrown back, back arched, and arm extended. John drops to his
knee and throws his arm back as dramatically as he can manage, and
unfortunately the other arm he has wrapped around Sherlock’s waist goes along
with it, pulling Sherlock awkwardly backward and onto the floor.
“Fuck!” Sherlock yells, and staggers to his feet, rubbing his back. “Are you
actively trying to kill me, or are you honestly that inept?”
John can feel the imprint of every single one of Sherlock’s fingers on his
waist, his hand; the bruise forming along the back of his heel, the aching
muscles and the sweat trickling down his temple. He can feel the pressure of
hiding, of ducking behind locked studio doors and feeling Jim’s watching eyes
heavy on his shoulders, and even the miniscule amount of joy he’s found in
Sherlock’s arms evaporates like mist.
“Oh, yes, absolutely, I’m sure that despite your amazing tutelage I’m just that
stupid. Christ, Sherlock.” John grits his teeth and feels his temper stretch
dangerously thin. “We’re supposed to do the show in two days! I’m unsure of
turns and you won’t show me lifts; I’m doing all of this to save your bloody
arse, and all I really want to do is drop you on it!”
Sherlock looks at him, startled, and they hold each other’s gaze for a long,
long moment, the rain pounding loud on the metal roof and the tick of the
needle on the center of the record echoing from the corner. It feels like a
standoff, an entrenchment, and John is about to throw it in and march out the
door with his head held high and leave Sherlock Holmes to save his own stupid
self when Sherlock takes a deep breath and looks toward the door.
“Then let’s get out of here,” he says, and pulls John out into the rain.
 
 
 
Chapter End Notes
     Here's a clip of this part of Dirty Dancing, if you're interested in
     exactly what I'm portraying. I highly encourage you to watch the
     movie if you haven't already!
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=AskeXw74alk
***** Some Kind of Wonderful *****
Chapter Summary
     The Sheldrake Club is proud to present: Sherlock Holmes and partner
     in Mambo Magic!”
Chapter Notes
     I'm so pleased I finally got this out - and I'm so, so sorry it took
     so long.
     Big thanks for Marsdaydream/LifeonMars for the beta. <3
Chapter Soundtrack:
 
Some_Kind_of_Wonderful,_The_Drifters
Hey_Baby,_Bruce_Channel
 
The rain is sheeting down by the time they make it to Sherlock’s car, a beat-up
old Morris with rust ticking up along the chrome. Sherlock reaches past John to
open the door, jerks on the handle, and curses.
“Door’s locked,” he shouts, the rain thunderously loud as it crashes through
the trees. “And the keys are inside. Just be patient a moment.” Sherlock draws
a long, thin wire out from the inner pocket of his jacket. John watches,
astonished, as Sherlock slides it into the lock, performs a few deft twists,
and pops the door open.
“Where’d you learn to do that?”
Sherlock grins. “Useful little skill taught to me by a former guest. You’d be
surprised how often it’s come in handy.” He laughs at John’s wry look. “Well,
perhaps not too surprised.”
“You’ve definitely got more interesting skills than most people,” John says,
getting in and slamming the door. “Where are we going?”
“Just a place I know,” Sherlock says as he slides in and starts the car, the
windscreen wipers set as high as they can go. John shivers a bit in the damp,
and admires the way the rain has left Sherlock’s curls shining, water dripping
off of the ends and down into the collar of his black leather jacket. He looks
cool and a bit dangerous, and as they pull away from the Copper Beeches and
head off to who knows exactly where, John has to bite his lip to keep the
stupid grin off of his face.
…………………………………………………………………….
“The most important part of learning lifts is balance,” Sherlock says, as he
stands on a massive tree that has fallen cross-wise over a small gulley. He’s
graceful, poised, bare feet on the rough wood, arms outstretched. He gives John
a wink before he leaps straight up and then lands again, arms waving as he
tries to keep his balance.
“Woah,” John says, and takes a step forward on the log, trying to reach
Sherlock before he falls. But his balance isn’t that great, so he takes a
single step and quickly sits down, legs on either side. The rain has let up,
but the gulley is running full, and the wood is wet and a bit slippery.
Sherlock squats down, eyes wide with panic, and has to lean forward on his
hands a bit before he’s able to regain his balance.  He stays crouched low and
takes a few deep breaths, and his expression is so sheepish John has to laugh.
“Where’d you learn to be a dancer?” John asks.
Sherlock stands up again, and lifts his arms to balance as he steps forward and
back along the log. John isn’t sure he’s going to answer before he finally
stops walking and sits down directly in front of John. Sherlock suddenly looks
much younger, and his eyes are serious.
“I was in a drugs rehabilitation centre,” he says. “With Irene. I was 18,
hadn’t managed any of my entrance exams for university, and was probably
dropping almost 500 quid a week on cocaine.”
“My God,” John says. “I’m surprised you aren’t dead, to be honest.”
“Well,” Sherlock says, and swings his feet a bit. “It was a near thing. Mycroft
found me after a particularly bad night three years ago, and forced me into the
centre by dint of hauling me up bodily and taking me there. I was a bit…er.
Well. Very indisposed. But I found Irene there. She was in the women’s wing, of
course, but that didn’t matter much during recreation, when we mixed. Or at
meals. Or at any time Irene determined was convenient to her.”
John snorts. “Yes, I’m sure she did exactly as she chose.”
“Indeed. And one day we were sitting together in the recreation hall, bored out
of our minds, when an older woman, Annie, started playing a record. A samba, of
all things. She’d wanted to dance, and no one there knew enough to dance with
her. So she taught us. She was an absolutely glorious dancer, graceful and
elegant. Dignified.” Sherlock looks down and picks at the bark, forehead
furrowed.
“What happened?” John prompts, gently.
“She died. Overdose. Heroin. She was fifty-seven.”
“Jesus. I’m so sorry.”
“Irene and I left after that. I came here on the condition Irene could come
with me, and Mycroft kept us on the condition we didn’t relapse. So, you see,
keeping Irene’s slip up completely quiet is important.”
John nods, then shakily gets to his feet. His toes dig into the rough surface
and try to find purchase, and when they do, John lifts his arms out to the
sides and stands perfectly still for a moment before shifting his balance and
holding a hand out to Sherlock. His heart is pounding in his ears, blood
thrumming through his veins, and he feels the first shimmering thread of a
connection stretching out between them, solidifying when Sherlock smiles and
takes his hand.
………………………………………………………………………………………………..
“Hold your head up, hold it up! Hold it up!” Sherlock’s voice climbs in urgency
as he holds John over his head in the middle of the lake, John’s body perched
precariously above Sherlock’s head and cool lake water dripping into his eyes
and off of his chin.
Sherlock had moved them to the lake, reasoning the buoyancy would help John
with the jump and provide a safer place when he falls—John accepted right off
the mark that he is going to fall, no if about it.  He’s not managed to hold
himself in the proper position for longer than two seconds before tipping over
head first into the water.
“Sorry!” John gasps as he breaks the surface yet again. He’s never going to get
this part, he’s sure. Sherlock is incredibly strong, his arms lean and sinewy,
and he can lift John with relative ease, but John is still jittery every time
Sherlock plants his hands against John’s hips and lifts him into the air.
“Again,” Sherlock demands, and John digs his feet into the muddy bottom of the
lake, launches up and over, Sherlock’s hands on his hips beginning to feel like
a safe cradle instead of a tiny platform. Just as John reaches the point of
balance at the very crest of the lift, he feels just a bit awkward so he shifts
his hips ever so slightly in Sherlock’s hands.
“No!” Sherlock snaps. “Steady, Johnny, steady—“
But it’s too late. John over-balances and yelps a warning, Sherlock‘s arms
crumple as John flails, and Sherlock falls over backward.
John gets a face full of cold lake water. 
They both surface at the same time, laughing. Sherlock reaches out and peels a
leaf off of John’s shoulder, his fingers lingering on the curve of John’s
deltoid. John just stares at Sherlock’s hand, dumbstruck and heart hammering.
Sherlock draws his hand back slowly to push his wet hair out of his eyes. “I
think a break is in order,” he says, and wades his way out of the water and up
onto the small pebbly shoreline. He collapses on his back, an arm over his
eyes.
John unabashedly looks his fill, then, at Sherlock’s bare chest, the concave
dip of his slim stomach where the water gleams on his pale skin. John feels
drawn to him, his ears ringing with the hush of the clearing, the trees
muffling any sounds from the outside world. He quietly walks out of the water
and perches on the rocks next to Sherlock, content to sit for a moment, but
even as he flicks a pebble into the water he can’t help himself.
“What do you plan to do in London, when you get there?”
“Hm? Oh,” Sherlock drops his arm away from his eyes and blinks up at John. “My
brother wants me to go into government service, but I have no interest in being
one of his bloody drones.”
“So, what, then?” John prods.
“I don’t know. Dancing, of course, but not just that. I’ve considered forensic
pathology, too. I love solving riddles, puzzles. But while pathology is
fascinating, I don’t know that I could do it every day.”
“Unlike Molly,” John laughs. “She seems fairly set on it.”
Sherlock smiles. “She’s quite brilliant, actually. She’ll be excellent.
Lestrade is hoping for a place at Scotland Yard. Me? Well, all I ask for is
that I not be bored.”
John cocks his head and looks him over, contemplative. “I think you could be
anything you want to be.”
“Hmph,” Sherlock says, waving his hand dismissively. “You have an easy time
saying that. Wealthy parents, easy time at school, easy time making friends.
You’ve successfully joined the rugby team, the football team, and play the
clarinet. Even your homosexuality has been carefully and quietly suppressed.
Only one person in your entire life knew about it before now.”
John can feel his mouth drop open, and the clatter of the pebbles that were in
his hand as they rain against the beach seems excessively loud. “How can you
possibly know—“ he starts, but Sherlock talks over him, rushed and a bit sharp.
“You’ve got your entire life planned out, organized, down to the last detail.
So forgive me if I find your faith in my future less than reassuring.”
Sherlock abruptly stands, pulls his tee shirt from the boulder he was leaning
against, and stalks off toward the car. John, lost, can do nothing but follow
him there.
…………………………………………………………………………………………..
“I look like an idiot,” John says the next day, as Irene dabs a bit of rouge on
his cheeks.
“Oh, stop, you need a bit of makeup under the stage lights or you’ll look
washed out and featureless. It’s not like I’m caking you up with mascara and
eyeshadow.”
John tugs on his black bowtie. “And a tuxedo? Seriously? How am I supposed to
hide this on the way to the car? Harry will see me and I’ll never manage to
leave, or at least get her to not tell Mum and Dad before I get back.”
Irene smoothes down his lapels. “Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a plan. Now.
Take a look.”
John looks in the full-length mirror in Irene’s bungalow. He’s dressed in
Lestrade’s tuxedo, a bit big in the shoulder and trousers hastily tacked up to
the correct length, but he doesn’t look too terribly rumpled. His hair is
slicked back, shiny and smooth, Irene’s makeup is subtle, and he looks like he
even has cheekbones, for heaven’s sake.
It’s … like he’s a different person, transformed in a short week from studious,
quiet, perfect John to…to what, exactly?
The realisation that he’s about an hour from going on stage and dancing —with
Sherlock, with a man— in front of hundreds of people suddenly hits him right in
the gut and he blanches.
“Christ, Irene. I’m terrified. What if I trip? What if I forget to spot and get
dizzy and fall on my face? What if someone recognizes me? What if I—“
“Stop, for God’s sake, Johnny, you’ll be fine.” Irene pats him and smiles at
him in the mirror. “Just let Sherlock lead. And keep your back straight.”
John nods. “And you’ve got the money stashed safe for tonight, yes?” he asks.
“Yes, right under my mattress. I’ll get it taken care of, no problem. And thank
you, Johnny. I…” Irene falters and looks down, cheeks pink. “I’m not used to
people wanting to help. If I’ve seemed ungrateful, please understand that I—“
“No, none of that,” John says, and turns to give her a hug.”It’s my pleasure.
We’ll all have a smashing time tonight when Sherlock and I get back, and you
can laugh as he runs down every single mistake I make. Agreed?”
“Agreed,” Irene says, then taps him on the nose. “And don’t forget to lock your
frame.”
John groans and lets Irene steer him out of her bungalow and down to where
Sherlock’s car is waiting, hidden behind a grove of trees and ready to drive
them into Bristol.
……………………………………………………………………………….
The car ride is silent, tense, not even the radio on to distract them. The sun
has set and the sky is fading to a deep rose gold, and as John sees the lights
of Bristol come into view, he takes a deep breath and grasps his courage tight.
“We’re here,” Sherlock says quietly, and pulls the car off into an alleyway
tucked behind a pub and a clock shop. There’s a door off of the alley with a
single light over it and a small, green sign with gold lettering marking the
address as “65 Pearl St,” and nothing more.
“That’s it?” John asks, peering into the dim pool of light. “I expected…I don’t
know. I have no idea what I expected.”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “It’s not like you can advertise, Johnny. People who
need to know find out, and those who don’t can’t find it. It’s better for
everyone that way. ” Sherlock turns to face John right outside the door.
“Just…Johnny. I appreciate what it’s taken for you to do this, and what it
means. Just know that no matter how this goes, I won’t forget it.”
John goes scarlet. “Um. I … it’s my pleasure, really, I mean I-I- I just wanted
to help,” he finishes lamely. “I don’t know if I will, though. I still think
I’m going to absolutely cock this up.”
 Sherlock smiles at him then, a big, bright, confident smile that makes John’s
knees go weak. “You’re incredibly courageous, John Watson. And how could you
possibly cock it up? You’re with me.”
John laughs, a bit relieved. Thing is, Sherlock’s not wrong.
…………………………………………………………
“The Sheldrake Club is proud to present: Sherlock Holmes and partner in Mambo
Magic!”
The lights are dim, only a backlit blue filtering over the stage, and John can
pick out every single candle on every single table in the audience, until the
spotlight snaps on and he’s momentarily blinded. His entire body goes tense and
sweat beads up on his temples. John grips Sherlock’s hand.
“Relax,” Sherlock whispers in his ear. The music swells, John lifts his arm to
wrap up and around Sherlock’s neck, and is so nervous he can barely feel
Sherlock’s fingers glide down his side, but he spins out right on cue.
And promptly stumbles as Sherlock pulls him back into position to start the
mambo.
Damn, I didn’t even make it through the first step!John reflexively puts both
hands up on Sherlock’s lapels and freezes in place, breath stuttering in his
chest and shame flooding his veins, until Sherlock puts his fingers under
John’s chin and forces his head up until he can look John in the eyes.
“Breathe,” Sherlock mouths, and then the subtle push on John’s hip kickstarts
his body, and before he takes another breath, he’s moving, muscle memory and
Sherlock’s strong arms directing John into their routine, as simple and smooth
as if it were yesterday in the dance studio. John follows the steps, the spins,
turns, and kicks of the last week cemented into his brain.
Chin up.
Back straight.
Lock your frame.
Look Sherlock in the eyes. Spot.
Turn tight.
On your toes.
John starts to relax, can feel himself sort of getting into it, into the smiles
and clapping from the audience, until he turns just a half step too far and
finds himself facing the opposite way he should be.
Oh buggering, sodding hell.
“This way,” Sherlock hisses, and grabs John by the arm. John pastes his smile
on his face despite the fact he wants to crawl into a hole and die from
embarrassment as he awkwardly tries to turn himself back around to face
Sherlock and continue. Sherlock tries to direct him with a kick to his foot and
a hand on his hip. John manages to find his way back to face Sherlock with
hopefully as little awkwardness as possible, just Sherlock spins himself out
across the stage, leaving John alone on the other side. John realizes with a
sinking stomach it’s time to do the lift.
“Ready?” Sherlock asks.
Oh God. He can’t. But he has to.
But he can’t.
But he tries, takes four running steps across the stage toward Sherlock’s
waiting and encouraging hands, and at the very last second stops dead, his feet
glued to the floor. Sherlock nods encouragement, but John backs off with a
small shake of his head. It’s just impossible, he knows he’ll fall and ruin the
entire show, maybe even break his leg or his arm and then where would they be?
Sherlock’s mouth twists in irritation, but he shakes it off quickly and leads
John into a deep, backward leaning dip that most certainly wasn’t in the
original routine, but brings them back to the right spot just in the nick of
time to hit their cue for another set of intricate spins that lead them to the
finish, and they both drop to one knee, one hand extended behind them, the
music ends and the lights go dark.
John can barely breathe, there in the dark, Sherlock’s arm a solid line along
his back and the stage hard and gritty under his knee, and oh God, what if he
cocked it up so spectacularly no one even claps?
But the lights come up, and applause swells, and while it isn’t a raucous
chorus demanding an encore, it’s a respectable, happy, contented crowd. A crowd
that apparently includes Mr. and Mrs. Schumacher, tucked away at a table
halfway from the stage.
What on Earth?
But Sherlock turns John to bow to one side of the room, and when John turns
back they’re nowhere to be found. John tries to shake it off. Perhaps he was
just seeing things, or it was a couple that looked sort of like them, two
elderly, white-haired people enjoying a night out. But here? John’s not sure.
The audience is filled with people old and young, the majority of tables full
of men who may be couples or not, just like a crowd at any other nightclub John
could imagine. John watches the smiling, admiring faces for a moment.
It all seems so…
And when Sherlock smiles that megawatt smile at him again and leads him off of
the stage to collect their fee, John realizes that it could be, if he wanted
it.
 Normal. Everyday. Common.
Suddenly John wants that more than he wants anything else in his entire life.
……………………………………………………………………………………..
The car ride back is so far removed from the drive there it’s night and day.
The atmosphere is crackling with energy, and John is high on adrenaline and the
strength of Sherlock’s touch. Sherlock tugs his tie off as he drives and tosses
it in the back seat where John is trying to discreetly strip out of his tuxedo
without looking like he’s putting on a show.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t do the lift,” John says, and his words are muffled as
he tries to shrug his shirt off of his shoulders. “I was ready, but then at the
last minute I just couldn’t make myself. I kept seeing visions of myself
pitching over and into the audience.”
“It’s fine. We picked up the next cue without a problem. If anyone noticed,
they’ve shrugged it off.”
John snorts a laugh as he slides his undershirt off over his head, and when he
drops his shirt onto the backseat, he looks up at catches the flash of
Sherlock’s eyes in the rear view mirror, watching him intently.
John swallows. It’s not like Sherlock’s never seen him without a shirt on
before, but this feels different, more intimate somehow, in the darkness of the
backseat of Sherlock’s car, speeding along the quiet roads at a quarter ‘till
midnight.
John swallows, his heart a heavy thud in his chest, and keeps his eyes locked
on Sherlock’s until the glare of lights from an oncoming car startles them
both.  John quickly looks away. He  pulls on his simple button-up and his
jeans, and after debating with himself a second, he climbs over into the front
seat.  He’s not ever been so bold before, but he’s fairly sure that if he slid
across the seat right now and put a hand on Sherlock’s leg, maybe pressed  a
kiss to Sherlock’s ear, that he’d end up naked in the back seat with Sherlock
between his thighs. 
John tries not to shiver, to keep his body uninterested in that train of
thought, and just as John takes a deep breath to ask Sherlock if he could
perhaps come to his bungalow for a quick drink, maybe talk further about the
night, they pull into the drive at The Copper Beeches. Sherlock turns off the
headlights and takes the shortcut around the back side of the main building
toward the staff area as quietly as the old Morris can manage, and parks in
front of his bungalow.
Sherlock kills the engine and turns to face John in the tiny, quiet space. John
swallows and his hands clench in his jeans. He can feel his body go hot all
over, the anticipation of whatever Sherlock is about to say flooding his veins
and buzzing in his ears.
“John, I wonder if—“ Sherlock starts, voice low and sultry and John’s ready to
say yes already, yes to whatever it is and they both jump as the silence is
broken when Lestrade starts to beat frantically on Sherlock’s window.
Sherlock curses and throws open his door. “What is it, what’s going on?”
“Oh, thank fuck you’re here, oh my god, it’s Irene, come on, you’ve got to
come.”
John climbs out as well, his stomach lurching with long-suppressed nerves.
“Wait, what? What happened? I thought she was just going to drop off her
payment and everything would be fine!”
“No, no, she did, but somehow she managed to score something, I don’t know
what, heroin or cocaine or something,” Lestrade is running ahead, trying to
shout over his shoulder as Sherlock and John run behind and up toward the staff
area. “But she’s out cold in her room, I just found her a minute ago. She’s
breathing, but barely, and her pulse is all crazy.”
John’s almost out of breath as they all burst into Irene’s bungalow. She’s
draped across her bed, arm bare and the red pinpricks of needle punctures
starkly visible in the crook of her elbow. Sherlock immediately tries to lift
her into his arms, and as he does so, her head rolls back, limbs slack and
loose.
“No, no no no, Irene, no, please!” Sherlock shouts, his fingers on her neck.
“Christ, she’s going to go into cardiac arrest. We need a doctor, something,
right now!”
His pleading eyes fall on John, and with a quick nod, John is out the door and
sprinting for his family’s bungalow, where his father, his doctor father with
his medical bag and his high ideals and his hopes and dreams for John, is
sleeping peacefully, unaware of what John is about to drop on his doorstep.
……………………………………………………………………………………
 
 
 
 
 
 
***** Cry To Me *****
Chapter Summary
     John goes into the bathroom, clicks on the light, and looks
     critically at himself in the mirror. Smears of makeup run down his
     face where the sweat beaded up, and his collar is an unsightly mess
     of smudges of powder and rouge. He should just wash up and go to bed,
     honestly. But he looks himself straight in the eye and knows he can’t
     leave things as he did with Sherlock, with his father’s unjust
     accusations hanging in the air and the heat of the night wrapped
     close around them.
     So he washes, changes his shirt, and quietly slips away into the
     dark.
Chapter Notes
     Once again, thanks to Mydwynter and Marsdaydream, and new addition
     BakerStMel, for excellent and thorough beta. I do, occasionally,
     ignore things they tell me, though, so if there are screwups, that's
     on me. <3
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Soundtrack:
These_Arms_Of_Mine,_Otis_Reading
Cry_To_Me,_Solomon_Burke
 ...................................................................
The stone steps are still slippery with the day’s rain as John runs and slides
his way down toward the main house and across the lawn. John’s navigating by
half-broken moonlight save a few lonely Chinese lanterns in the gazebo, and he
has to carefully skirt around every stray stone, croquet wicket, and lawn dart
left on the grass. He finally reaches his family’s bungalow and throws himself
through the screen door, remembering at the last second to catch it so it
doesn’t slam shut. The last thing Irene needs is a scene, or anyone else
knowing what’s going on, if he can help it.
The hall is illuminated by a tiny little lamp, and when John cracks the door to
his parents’ room, he can just barely see the outline of his father’s shoulder.
He creeps across the floor, carefully, so carefully, and gently lays a hand on
his father’s arm.
“Mmmph,” his father says, shrugging. “What, Johnny. Sleeping.”
“No, Dad.  You need to come. Someone’s sick.” John can feel every heartbeat in
his chest, so strong they thrum in his ears.
“Sick?” Robbie Watson is awake in an instant, and slides out of bed with the
practiced ease of 25 years of midnight bedside calls. John’s mother doesn’t
even flinch. “Let me get my trousers. Grab my bag, there’s a good lad.”
John clutches the bag in sweaty hands, and holds the door when his father, not
more than two minutes later, strides toward him with shoes in hand.
“We’ll just put these on outside,” he says. “Where are we going? Main house?”
“No, Dad. Staff. Around the back.”
Robbie pauses in the act of sliding his shoes on, but otherwise says nothing
else as John leads him back across the property and toward Irene’s bungalow.
Greg and Molly are on the veranda, and as soon as they spot John and his father
their relief is palpable.
“There, I take it,” his father says, and strides ahead, up the stairs, and
brushes past Molly and Greg without a word. John follows, and when he walks in
there’s Sherlock, rising from Irene’s bedside.
“—Doctor Watson, thank you, I believe Irene is suffering from an overdose of…of
heroin,” Sherlock is saying, sliding out of the way for John’s father to sit
next to Irene and take her pulse. “My estimate is a tenth of a gram, not more,
but she’s been clean for so long I believe—“
“Yes, I am fully aware of her situation, thank you,” Robbie says, and his voice
is cold, colder than John’s ever heard it before. “If you’ll leave, please, I
have a patient to attend to and you’ve done quite enough already. Don’t you
agree?”
John is shocked. “Dad, no, see, Sherlock was—“
“Out,” Robbie says, and rises to shove them both out of the door and close it
behind them firmly.
…………………………………………………………………………………..
John, Sherlock, Molly, and Greg sit on the steps to the veranda for what seems
like an eternity, the silence of the night falling heavily around them. None of
them seem inclined to talk, and John can’t stop staring at the side of
Sherlock’s head, tilted against the bungalow a step below. He seems slumped,
tired in a way John’s not ever seen him.
John feels tired, too, the crash of adrenaline catching up with him and leaving
him spent. He’s not sure what’s going to happen now; his father will certainly
figure out that his being on the scene here was no accident, but he sort of
hopes that Molly’s presence perhaps alleviates any suspicions he might have, or
maybe the assumptions will simply remain assumptions, and he’ll get a manly
sort of back-slap for his supposed conquest.
The door creaks open, and all four heads snap up to watch Doctor Watson walk
through the door. He looks a bit haggard but content.
“She’ll be fine. A shot of adrenaline and some supportive fluids, and some
rest. Liquids only for tomorrow, until we’re sure she won’t vomit.” His eyes
catch John’s, widen for a moment in surprise, and then narrow in on Sherlock.
“You’re very lucky your brother confides in me, young man. I was prepared for
this sort of eventuality, though he seemed to think it wasn’t likely.”
“It wasn’t,” Sherlock says. “She’s been compromised, and—“
Robbie holds up a hand. “No, no excuses. I’ve heard them all. I have half a
mind to tell your brother all about this. However, I won’t. Just keep your nose
clean.” He looks at where John has leaned so close to Sherlock their sleeves
are touching. “And stay away from my son. And you, Johnny, you get back to the
house right this instant and wash that muck off your face before your mother
sees you.”
John’s confused until he looks at Sherlock and Sherlock’s eyes go round. Oh
God. The makeup. The stage makeup Irene put on him for the dance. “Dad, there’s
a perfectly reasonable explanation—
“Not now. It’s late. Come on, Johnny. This instant.”
John takes a deep breath, ready to argue, until Sherlock shakes his head. John
lets it out in a huff, defeated, and silently follows his father back to their
bungalow.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………..
“We’ll talk tomorrow,” Robbie says, before he disappears into his room and
closes the door.
John goes into the bathroom, clicks on the light, and looks critically at
himself in the mirror. Smears of makeup run down his face where the sweat
beaded up, and his collar is an unsightly mess of smudges of powder and rouge.
He should just wash up and go to bed, honestly. But he looks himself straight
in the eye and knows he can’t leave things as he did with Sherlock, with his
father’s unjust accusations hanging in the air and the heat of the night
wrapped close around them.
So he washes, changes his shirt, and quietly slips away into the dark.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………
His knock on Sherlock’s bungalow door is so quiet he’s unsure if Sherlock hears
it. There’s music wafting through the open windows, and a light glows low
behind gauzy curtains. He knocks again, a bit louder. John flinches at the
sound echoing through the trees, ready to run should anyone see him. This is
completely mental. He has no real reason to be here other than he just wants
Sherlock’s nearness, the comfort of his self-assurance and his smile. John’s
feeling upended, loose and unmoored, and Sherlock feels like the only tether
that’s real, that’s grounded in the world John wants.
“What?” Sherlock snarls as he opens his door. “Oh, Johnny. Um. Sorry.” Sherlock
looks a bit sheepish. “Do come in, please.”
“Um, I… well. Okay,” John says and rolls his eyes internally. What an idiot.
How is it that he can’t seem to say two words to Sherlock without being
completely tongue-tied?
Sherlock gestures John to a chair, then crosses the large, open room and
fiddles with the record player. He’s taken off his shirt and is barefoot, black
trousers from the dance hung low on his hips. His pale skin gleams golden in
the lamplight, the cut of his muscles defined by shadow. John rubs the back of
his neck and tries to gather his words.
“I just wanted to say sorry, about earlier. About my father. He’s very
protective.”
Sherlock drops the record on the spindle and turns around. “No, please. It’s
all right. It’s a common enough assumption, after all. And he did take
excellent care of Irene. He’s an exemplary doctor. So thank you for bringing
him.”
“No,” John says staunchly. “He shouldn’t have spoken to you that way. He had no
right.”
“Are you serious? Johnny, welcome to my life. That’s how most people see me, or
don’t you realize that? Mycroft Holmes’ junkie little brother, sponging off his
family because he’s incapable of anything else.”  Sherlock flips the empty
record sleeve into a pile with an annoyed flick of the wrist.
“That’s not true!” John says, his frustration at the injustice of it all
getting the better of him. “It’s not. You’re so brilliant, Sherlock.  You’re
like no one I’ve ever met. You could do anything you set your mind to. I mean
that.”
Sherlock huffs a derisive little laugh, then runs his hand through his hair.
“You know what, Johnny. You’ve always had it so simple. You’ve never known what
it’s like to be afraid, be really afraid, in your entire life.”
John can’t help but step close Sherlock.  He’s twisted John’s orderly little
life into something unrecognizable yet true, something more starkly honest and
exhilarating, like a freefall without any idea of when he might hit bottom.
“You have no idea about my life, Sherlock Holmes. I’m scared of who I am, of
what I did tonight. I’m scared of what happens next.” John pauses, meets
Sherlock’s eyes, big and wondering and oh, so beautifully sad. “And more than
anything I’m scared of not feeling again in my whole life the way I feel when
I’m with you.”
Sherlock closes his eyes then, and swallows heavily. John can barely breathe,
and as the record drops and a slow, sultry beat starts, John can think of only
one thing to say.
“Dance with me.”
“Now?” Sherlock says.
“Yes. Right here. Please.” John lightly places his hands on Sherlock’s chest,
his skin running hot under John’s fingertips. His instincts tell him to pull
away; that the heat is too much for his heart, his mind, but he simply
breathes, staring at the hollow of Sherlock’s throat until he feels Sherlock’s
arms wrap around his back to bring them closer together. They’re so close
they’re in the space of each other’s breath, the press of Sherlock’s body a
long, lean line against his front. John melts into his embrace, giving himself
over to this moment and to the heat building inside him, to the desire that’s
been simmering in his veins since he first saw Sherlock on the dance floor.
Sherlock shifts as he senses John’s surrender, pulling John closer still, and
guides John’s body as he sways, gently at first, a simple back and forth until
John loses himself in the music, in the feel of Sherlock’s hands on his body,
the smell of Sherlock’s shampoo and sweat. It feels natural to plant a foot
between Sherlock’s and arch back in a dip he’d never have trusted himself with
yesterday. But he trusts Sherlock, now, trusts the instincts of his own body,
and Sherlock’s, to lead him.
Sherlock guides him back up, and as John rights himself he leans forward in
Sherlock’s embrace to press a single kiss to Sherlock’ beautiful collarbone,
smiling as the muscles around it flex in surprise. Sherlock’s sharp intake of
breath spurs John on, and he drags his nose up Sherlock’s throat to press his
lips to the underside of his jaw, his ear, until Sherlock turns his head and
captures John’s lips in a searing, searching kiss.
Nothing in John’s previous fumbling snogs with Murray prepared him for this.
There’s strength and confidence in Sherlock’s kiss, and Sherlock’s lips flare
heat in his chest. They break apart and John is flushed, hard in his trousers
and breathing much too heavily. God, he wants that again, having his breath
stolen from his lungs and his heart held on a string and a chill of delight
racing down his spine. Sherlock smiles against his lips when John mumbles
“Again,” and kisses the corner of John’s mouth while he smoothes a maddening
hand over John’s hip.
“I told you that you have courage, John Watson,” Sherlock says. “I just didn’t
expect quite this manifestation of it.”
“I didn’t, either,” John says, and tries not to hyperventilate when Sherlock’s
fingers find their way under the edge of John’s shirt.  
“Tell me,” Sherlock whispers between maddening little kisses to John’s throat.
“Tell me you’re ready for this.”
John pulls away and knows that Sherlock doesn’t just mean physically, but more
that this is a final step, a line being crossed, and he’s giving John a chance
to turn back and hold onto the fiction he’s built around his own life.
John meets Sherlock’s eyes and pulls him toward the bed, knowing that his body
moving with Sherlock’s will tell him how he feels better than his fumbling
attempts at words ever will.
………………………………………………………………………………………..
The lamplight shines on Sherlock’s curls as he teases John’s navel with his
tongue, making John twitch and giggle even as he arches into the heat of
Sherlock’s touch.
“Stop, stop, tickles, oh God, no, don’t stop,” John says, and hooks his heel
around the back of Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock, the berk, just laughs and does
it again, finishing by nuzzling into the crease of John’s groin.
John’s glad they had become so comfortable with each other’s bodies the last
few weeks. That meant the least of his concerns was stripping his clothes off
in front of Sherlock. But when Sherlock had led him to bed, crawled between his
legs and pressed his lean, hard body to John’s, the butterflies had started up
in his stomach and still haven’t abated even as desire floods his body with
adrenaline.
He has no idea what he’s doing. It’s apparent, though, that Sherlock really,
really does.
“Noone’s ever done this for you?” Sherlock says, and pauses, John’s cock just
millimetres from his mouth. He licks his bottom lip and looks up at John from
under sooty lashes, and John has to close his eyes to keep from coming right
then and there.
“No?” John says, and hates how unsure he sounds.
Sherlock brushes his bottom lip against the head of John’s cock. “Then I’ll
enjoy being the first,” he says, and John reflexively clutches the sheets in
his fists when Sherlock slides John’s cock into his mouth, just the head at
first, and sucks lightly.
John’s fairly sure he can see stars. Maybe even the entire universe; he isn’t
sure right now. “Jesus, oh my God, I’m going to come too fast, Sherlock—“
Sherlock pulls off from his gentle sucking. “I don’t want you to hold back. I
want you to love it. All of it. Let go, Johnny. Trust me.”
And as Sherlock bends his head to take John fully into his mouth, John does
exactly that—lets Sherlock lead him as he always does. John sighs at Sherlock’s
touches, blissed out and eyes closed. The click of the record player loud in
his ears, Sherlock’s hair silky between his fingers, the rasp of Sherlock’s
five o’clock shadow rough on his thighs. Sherlock hums encouragement around
John’s cock as he licks and sucks and teases and John shudders and tries not to
buck up into his mouth.  When Sherlock finally takes John’s cock deep in his
throat and massages behind John’s balls, John can’t hold back his moan as his
orgasm builds and rolls through his body, tearing through him like a storm,
like an overwhelming tide that leaves him washed up on an unfamiliar shore,
Sherlock’s bright and pleased expression the only thing left to cling to.



Chapter End Notes
     If you're curious, here's a link to a clip of this scene from Dirty
     Dancing:
     "May_I_come_in?"
***** Love is Strange *****
Chapter Summary
     They’re back in the studio, John having snuck away after breakfast
     with a mumbled “There’s charades in the East Wing,” and to John it’s
     the most comfortable he’s been since he left Sherlock’s bed a few
     hours previous. They’re playing music, goofing around, flirting,
     dancing, and snogging desperately whenever they’re sure they have a
     few minutes alone.
     “How do you call your loverboy?” Sherlock sings, and prowls across
     the floor toward John.
     John crooks a finger and tries his best to put on some come-hither
     eyes. “C’mere, loverboy,” he growls, and then hooks his fingers into
     the beltloops of Sherlock’s jeans and hauls him in to nip at his
     bottom lip.
Chapter Notes
     Thanks and all the love to Marsdaydream and BakerStMel for jumping
     right back in there and doing beta on this after their wayward author
     went totally AWOL for 18 months. And thank you, anyone who is reading
     this after such a long hiatus. <3
     Tereza on Tumblr drew some amazingly gorgeous art for this fic and I
     love it: http://johnlocklives.tumblr.com/post/123921322853/dirty-
     dancing-johnlock-pencils-grey-colour-pencil
See the end of the chapter for more notes
Chapter Soundtrack: Love_is_Strange,_Mickey_and_Sylvia
 
John wakes just as dawn is staining the sky; pale, watery light filters in
through the curtains and leaves a sleeping Sherlock in soft, shadowy relief.
John stretches, feeling deliciously sore from dancing, spent from the
excitement of the night, and, as he traces a light touch down the dip of
Sherlock’s beautiful back and pushes the sheet over the curve of his arse,
incredibly horny.
“Didn’t anyone teach you not to grope sleeping people?” Sherlock mumbles into
his pillow.
“Mmmmhmmm,” John says, and traces his fingers back up Sherlock’s hip. He can
just see a hint of Sherlock’s cock, stirring slightly against the sheets. “I’ll
be happy to stop if you want me to.”
Sherlock chuckles and turns over onto his back, and oh yes, his cock is very
definitely interested. John’s mouth waters.  He brushes a curl from over
Sherlock’s ear and whispers, “I want to do what you did to me last night,” with
his lips so close he can feel the shell of Sherlock’s ear. “Show me how.”
“Oh God,” Sherlock moans, and pulls John to him in a deep kiss.  “I don’t know
if I’ll survive you watching me with those big grey eyes of yours.”
John smirks and settles himself between Sherlock’s thighs. He splays one hand
over Sherlock’s hipbone and leans his cheek on Sherlock’s thigh, and licks his
bottom lip while trying to look up at Sherlock through his lashes in as sultry
a manner he can manage.
“Correction – I’m definitely not going to survive it.”
John stares at Sherlock’s cock and tries to decide where to start. It’s a bit
intimidating, to be honest, thick and veined and flushed with arousal. He
settles for a kiss, a simple press of his lips to the tip after gently slipping
the foreskin down a bit more.
“Ohhh, yes, that’s perfect. Use your tongue a bit, that’s lovely.” Sherlock
sighs and drops his head back against the pillows so John decides to be a bit
more bold and wrap his lips around the head and suckle, a bead of precome
blooming salty against his tongue.  The skin is silky soft and the taste is
beyond anything John could possibly describe. Sherlock moaning with his thighs
on either side of John’s head as John inexpertly kisses and tries to suck his
cock confirms any lingering thoughts he’s ever had about his desires. John
feels powerful, and desirable, and incredibly, incredibly  horny , oh god.
He pulls off with a pop to rearrange his position so he can try his best to
jerk himself off as he sucks Sherlock, and as he’s trying to figure out the
geometry of it he realizes Sherlock is laughing at him.
“Oi! I’m doing my best here,” he says, and strokes Sherlock’s cock. Maybe that
will shut him up.
“Please, don’t let me stop you,” Sherlock drawls, eyes slitted in the dim
morning light. “But if you’d just slow down a touch, I think we could find
something mutually beneficial.”
John sighs and eyes Sherlock’s cock again. “Does it still involve me sucking
you? Because I really like that.”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, and sits up. He pulls John toward him and kisses him,
tasting like cigarettes and warmth. John’s content to keep on kissing him, too,
because it’s incredible to kiss him, to taste those full lips and know that
when he sucked a tiny bit on Sherlock’s lower lip it made his eyelashes
flutter. But Sherlock has other ideas, and he maneuvers John around on the bed
before pulling away and pushing him gently backward.
“It’s going to work like this,” he says, and moves to swing his leg over John’s
head, his cock brushing John’s chin and Sherlock’s elbows settling on either
side of John’s hips.  His lips press featherlight kisses to John’s hips and
John melts, sinks into the mattress until he gasps a breath when Sherlock’s
mouth closes over the head of his cock. With a jolt, he finally realizes what
he’s supposed to do. He grasps Sherlock’s cock and guides it to his own lips,
and Sherlock’s moan as he slides the flat of his tongue over the plump head
makes John dizzy with want.  
Jesus. The heat of him, the sensation of the soft, slick skin of his cock as it
slides between John’s lips sparks and crackles over John’s body like
electricity.  He can feel Sherlock sucking insistently, bobbing his head until
John’s cock feels like it bumps the back of his throat. It’s as if he and
Sherlock never end, a closed loop of pleasure that never ends as they moan and
shiver and John tries to anchor himself and his spinning thoughts with a
bruising grip on Sherlock’s hips.
Sherlock pulls off for a moment to gasp and say “Johnny, I’m coming, Johnny—“
and John knows what he’s trying to tell him but he wants it, wants Sherlock to
come hot and slick across his tongue, wants to hold something more of him, to
have him as completely as Sherlock claimed him. John tightens his grip and
tries to prepare himself as Sherlock moans and trembles above him, until it
feels like he expands even more against John’s tongue and comes in pulses that
fill John’s mouth.
It’s more than he expects, even, and he tries to swallow but chokes slightly
and come slips from the corner of his mouth to drip wetly on the sheets. Jesus.
Strange, yes, but the slick on his lips will be seared onto his memory until
the day he dies.
Sherlock looks at John from where he’s collapsed on the bed, his head pillowed
on John’s thigh.  John  smiles, smug and satisfied, even as he reaches down to
stroke his own neglected erection.
“Oh God. I can’t believe you did that. Wait, let me finish you, Johnny,
please,” Sherlock says, and leans over to take John into his mouth again. John
yelps with the sensation, his vision collapsing into a narrow point of
Sherlock’s curls bouncing over his cock.
If he never does anything else like this for the rest of his life, he knows at
least this one time he was completely and utterly happy.
…………………………………………………………………………………..
John drags himself back to the cabin in the pearl grey dawn after lingering
kisses at Sherlock’s door that never seemed to end, whispered endearments and
affection brimming warm and full in Sherlock’s gorgeous eyes. His hair was a
wild halo of frizzy curls, his lips puffy and red, and a red splotch bloomed
across his shoulder where John had kissed a little too enthusiastically. He
looked shagged out, in John’s opinion. John’s sure he looks the same, and as
they part, Sherlock reminds him to take care as he crosses the lawn back to the
cabins near the lake, as any fool could see what he’d been up to.
“I’ve got a promise to Mycroft to pretend to uphold, Johnny,” Sherlock had
said, with a kiss to John’s forehead. “And he’ll have my head if he catches you
here. He’s tolerant but he’s not going to risk his precious clientele finding
out his staff is shagging the guests. Even if they wouldn’t blame me, as
gorgeous as you are.”
John couldn’t stop grinning like an idiot the entire way home.
The screen door barely even creaks as John slips inside, drops his shoes, and
creeps down the hall to sink into his own bed for a few precious hours of sleep
before he has to face his father again. But as he settles into bed he can still
feels Sherlock’s hands on his body, his voice in his ear, and he can only stare
at the ceiling as the summer sun breaks over the eastern sky.
...........................................................................................
Breakfast at the main dining room is a tense, silent affair.
Robbie pokes at his eggs, John’s mother glances with furrowed brows between the
two of them, and Harry chatters happily about the end-of-the-summer dance in
the main ballroom on Saturday night.
“We’re leaving Friday,” Robbie says.
“What?” Harry shrieks, and John’s mother adds, “But we’re paid through Sunday,
Robbie. And the final gala is such a good time, you remember. And Johnny needs
to show off those dance lessons he’s been taking. I want to see if Irene has
managed to succeed where everyone else has failed.”
John glances up at his father from across the table. Robbie looks grave, and
disappointed. John wonders with a start just exactly how much Mycroft had told
Robbie Watson about his brother’s specific …situation. But before nerves can
really set in, Harry shoves herself back from the table.
“I promised Clara I’d be there, Daddy! You can’t make us leave now! And I’m
supposed to help Mrs. Glaser choose her new upholstery Saturday morning!” Harry
crosses her arms and pouts, a perfect imitation of her six year old self.
 Valerie sighs.
“Harriet Watson, if you ever grow up it will be a miracle. Your father, I’m
sure, is simply trying to beat the weekend traffic on our way around London,
isn’t that right, dear?”
Robbie is silent for a moment until he finally sighs. “It’s all right, Valerie.
We can stay. You’re right, I was just considering the drive, is all.” He smiles
wanly. “Now, Harriet darling, what dress were you planning to wear Saturday?”
John sighs and picks at his tomatoes as Harriet chatters happily about green
organza and white orchids, and John’s father ignores him, utterly and
completely.
………………………………………………………………..
 “Oh, Sylvia,” Sherlock croons with the song drifting from the record player.
“Yes, Mickey,” John responds, deliberately feminine and coquettish, and
Sherlock grins like a shark.
They’re back in the studio, John having snuck away after breakfast with a
mumbled “There’s charades in the East Wing,” and to John it’s the most
comfortable he’s been since he left Sherlock’s bed a few hours previous.
They’re playing music, goofing around, flirting, dancing, and snogging
desperately whenever they’re sure they have a few minutes alone.
“How do you call your loverboy?” Sherlock sings, and prowls across the floor
toward John.
John crooks a finger and tries his best to put on some come-hither eyes.
“C’mere, loverboy,” he growls, and then hooks his fingers into the beltloops of
Sherlock’s jeans and hauls him in to nip at his bottom lip.
“You’re so incredibly sexy,” John says, and he feels strong, confident, when
Sherlock blushes and bites his lip, disarmed. “I want you. Now.”
Sherlock growls and John cups his arse and grinds against him a bit, and just
as John’s about to be even more daring than he ever expected of himself and
strip Sherlock’s shirt off right there in the studio, they hear a step outside
the door. They jump apart, Sherlock to the record player and John mimes a few
steps of a cha-cha and hopes to God his semi-hard cock isn’t obvious under his
trousers.
It’s Jim.
“Ah, there you are Sherlock, I thought we should have a chat about …oh ho ho,
who do we have here?” Jim stops still and leers at John, and has a look back at
Sherlock with his eyebrows raised. “Well, I have to admit you’ve got decent
taste, Johnny. I mean, I’ve gone slumming too, so—“
Sherlock growls low in his throat and before John can make a move to stop him,
he hauls back and punches Jim in the jaw, rattling his teeth and sending him
sprawling. John claps a hand over his mouth, horrified at the bloom of red
across Jim’s mouth from a split lip.
Jim, however, just delicately touches the cut and looks at the blood on his
fingers before grinning up at Sherlock. “Oh, that’s how it’s going to be, is
it?” He slowly climbs to his feet. “You and I both know this will never last.
Johnny’s dear old doctor daddy will never permit it. What do you think you’ll
do, live together in a Cambridge suite while Johnny here goes to school and you
turn tricks for the grocery money? Give me a break, Sherlock.”
John can’t stand it, can’t stand one more disgusting, demeaning phrase. He
moves to stand in front of Sherlock and levels his gaze right at Jim, daring
him to speak again.
“Johnny, please,” Sherlock murmurs. “You don’t —“
“Awwww, how a dor able,” Jim sneers. “You’ve got a cute little guard dog there,
Sherl. Does he bite?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes. “Fuck off. Go wait tables, or do dishes, or whatever
it is my brother pays you to do.”
Jim shrugs, saunters toward the door and is almost through before he turns back
with a grin. “Just remember, Sherlock, darling. I know why you’re here, and why
you might not stay. And Irene too. And as for you, Johnny—“  John sucks in a
breath as Jim’s eyes turn on him, narrow and dark and full of malevolence. “I
know you’re not as innocent as you seem.”
John holds his breath until the door at the bottom of the stairs clicks closed,
then lets it all out in a whoosh. He looks to Sherlock, all ready to say
something smart and sarcastic, but the worried set of Sherlock’s eyebrows
leaves him silent, and John gathers him into a quiet embrace instead.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
“Harder, Johnny, harder, yes, oh fuck  yes .”
Sherlock pants into the sheets, back shining with sweat as John shakes above
him, pushed past the limits of his raw endurance and thrusting into him slowly
with a snap of his hips at the end that has Sherlock exhaling his name with
every breath.
He’s so incredibly new at this, but the heat of Sherlock’s body surrounding
him, lighting him up from the inside out with pleasure, leaves him love-drunk
and woozy and ready to do whatever it is Sherlock wants him to do. He pulls out
almost the entire way and drives in with another slow thrust, his cock slipping
between the sweet curves of Sherlock’s arsecheeks.
“I—I don’t think I can hold out much longer,” John pants, then drags a kiss
between Sherlock’s shoulder blades. “Too good.”
Sherlock shudders and rolls his hips up to meet his thrusts. “Okay, okay, just
a minute, Johnny, please, please—“ John pushes him down into the mattress,
hard, cutting off his begging and making him moan, long and much louder than he
probably should.
“Shut up,” John hisses into his ear. “I’m so close, ah—“ John’s words stick in
his throat as his body shudders, his orgasm almost taking him by surprise as
Sherlock clenches around him and then cries out his own release as he grasps
John’s wrist and holds on tight.
They lie together a moment, John’s full weight against Sherlock’s back, John’s
cheek pressed against the curls at the nape of Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock
eventually shifts under him, though, and grumbles until John withdraws with a
gasp and sits back on the bed. Sherlock looks incredibly debauched, semen
smeared across the back of his thigh and looking back over his shoulder at
Johnny with an eyebrow raised.
“It’s customary to offer a bit of cleanup for your partner, seeing as you’re
the one who got him into such a sorry state,” he says, and John flushes from
head to toe and scrambles from the bed to fetch a towel from the tiny bathroom.
He brings it back and almost trips into bed in his hurry to get back and
carefully try to wipe the mess from between Sherlock’s thighs.
Sherlock chuckles at him and takes the towel from his grasp, cleans himself and
John, and pitches it on the floor.  John just glares at him. Arsehole.
“Come on, Johnny, you’re a delight to tease and you know it. Come lie with me a
while before you have to get back.”
John rolls his eyes but climbs back under the blankets anyway and settles
against Sherlock’s chest. He’s shocked at how easily he’s found comfort here,
how quickly he’s adapted to being with Sherlock in this way. It’s an experience
he never thought he’d have, fully anticipating being near to celibate his
entire life, or perhaps only having the most fleeting of encounters. But
Sherlock—what could Sherlock be? What are they? What does Sherlock expect?
“Have you had many…er. Many men, like me?” John rolls his eyes at himself.
Smooth, John. Very low-key.
Sherlock turns and John can almost feel him looking at the top of John’s head.
“What brought that on?”
John sits up and traces a finger over Sherlock’s chest as he speaks. “Well, you
know. What Jim said.”
“What, about me turning tricks? No, Johnny. I’ve never resorted to that
particular way of earning money, though it was tempting a few times.”
John pushes his face into Sherlock’s side. “No, not that. It’s. Um. I leave in
a few days, and I really like being with you and I’d really like it if, if you
could, well.“ John stops before he says anything else stupid or revealing.
“Johnny, you know I’m stuck here. I can’t get away from Mycroft until I can
afford to get my own place in London. Irene isn’t ready to go.”
“I know, but you could come to Cambridge, you know? With me. You’ve not been to
uni yet, we could maybe go together? Until Irene is better, of course, I mean,
I know she’s important to you.” John’s heart pounds; this was not exactly what
he’d planned on saying, not at all, but the end of the week is looming large in
his mind and the more they do this, the more the possibility of never seeing
Sherlock again feels painful.
“Oh Johnny,” Sherlock begins, and dear god, it sounds much, much too gentle to
be anything good. “You can’t even tell your father what we were doing the other
night. You’re not going to tell him we’re together, nor would I want you to
destroy your future for me with that sort of confession. I don’t see how that
could happen.” Here John opens his mouth to protest, but Sherlock keeps
talking. “But that doesn’t mean I can’t ever visit you.” Sherlock climbs out of
bed, the sheets falling away from his nude body as he walks toward the window,
moonlight streaming in and highlighting the muscles of his shoulders, his
thighs, his chest. He’s beautiful and perfect, so much so it makes John ache.
Sherlock twitches the curtains closed and turns back to him.
“I’m going to London as soon as I can. I’ve decided to become a consulting
detective.”
John stares. “A what?”
“A consulting detective. When the police or private citizens are out of their
depth, they’ll call me for help. I’ve got the eye for it, the reasoning skills.
I’m fascinated by puzzles, by mysteries, and I think I could make my name
there.” He comes back over and sits down on the bed. “And besides, Molly’s
going to be a pathologist. I’d have the best contact for only the most
interesting cases.” Sherlock wiggles his eyebrows at him and John laughs,
slightly relieved.
“See, I told you. You could be anything you wanted.” He looks at the clock – 10
pm. Damn. “I should probably get back before I’m missed,” John says, and sighs.
Sherlock leans over and kisses John slowly, softly, his tongue teasing across
John’s bottom lip and making John’s quenched arousal shudder to life. “Yeah,
but  I’ll  miss you, Johnny. And isn’t that more important?”  John sighs
dramatically but allows Sherlock to push him back on the bed and kiss his way
down John’s chest. John slides his hands into Sherlock’s hair and smiles.
He’s not sure this is forever. He’s not sure it’s really for more than right
now, as heartbreaking as that seems. But it’s okay. They have another four
days, and John will be going off to University, and Sherlock will have the
winter to find himself a way out from under Mycroft’s thumb.
But it is possible, John thinks. It’s possible they might have a tiny chance at
a future beyond the summer, beyond the Lodge, and beyond John and Sherlock’s
own fears.






Chapter End Notes
     Here's the relevant scene from the movie, if you're interested:
     https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oxCDAs3kbAU
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