Sherlock/John: fever, dancing, and touchbrighteyed_jillMay 10 2011, 20:00:37 UTC
“I’m cold,” Sherlock said, which wasn’t right at all, because John felt hot like bare feet on desert sand. Besides, Sherlock didn’t notice mundane physical things like temperature unless they could be pressed into service as clues.
“What?” The question was a dry rasp in John’s throat.
“The mold. I should have noticed the connection before,” said Sherlock. “The very same kind was growing under the sink in the loo at that dance studio.”
“Yes.” John blinked against the sunlight streaming in through the window. He couldn’t remember the details of the case they were on, or even what sort of crime they were investigating, which was sure to make blogging the events a challenge. “Did we catch the killer?” Safe bet: Sherlock preferred murder.
“Don’t concern yourself.” Sherlock’s blessedly cool fingers pressed against John’s forehead. Why was Sherlock sitting next to his bed? “I can track down more criminals from this room than Dimmock could running around the streets of London with a bloodhound.”
“Blood.” John’s hand drifted up and came to rest rather painfully on a thick bandage covering his right side under his vest. The wretched heat boiling through John’s veins seemed to radiate from there.
John lifted his eyes to Sherlock, who looked a far sight more pale and haggard than usual. He’d stopped fiddling with his phone, and his attention had settled on John’s bandage. He watched it intently, as if examining the wound that must lay beneath.
“Are you hurt?” John asked.
“No.” Sherlock picked up John’s hand by the wrist--his fingers were a cool circle like a metal bracelet--lifted his hand off the bandage, and tucked it up against John’s chest. “I wasn’t there in time,” he muttered. “Though if it’s any consolation, we did both get a soaking in the Thames.”
John frowned. “I’ve told you and told you not to jump in the river.”
“I had a good reason.” Sherlock seemed to realize he still held John’s wrist; he snatched his hand back. “Sarah said the fever might not break for another twelve hours or more.”
“Fever. Right.” Knowing the why of it didn’t make the stifling confines of his skin any easier to bear. John thought he could feel the scratch of his wool suit against his back, the pinch of dress shoes. “Formal clothes are such a bother.”
Sherlock moved beside him, and then a cold, moist cloth settled over John’s eyes and forehead. Sherlock tugged at the hem of John’s vest. “Should I take this off?”
“I don’t think the others would appreciate that,” John said reluctantly. “And I’d catch hell from Harry.” Then he frowned. “You don’t have to lead all every time. I may be short, but I’m not exactly clumsy.”
“Do you want me to go?” Sherlock asked.
“Then I won’t have a partner. There are always more women than men at these classes. Opportunity, of course, but I’d rather dance with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Sherlock favored him with a slow smile. “When did you take dance classes?”
“For Harry’s wedding. Disaster, the whole undertaking. I’m glad you know the steps.”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s right, and his other hand tucked into the edge of John’s hip. “I’ll take care of you out there.”
“Mm.” John let his eyes drift closed. The heat seemed more bearable now, not like burning sand, but like a sun-touched wooden dance floor. “Next time,” he said. “Let’s wait for a song that plays less rough. A waltz, maybe. No one gets stabbed and dumped into the Thames during a waltz.”
“I’d have thought you’d prefer to tango.”
“Takes two,” John said sagely, then giggled.
“Waltz it is.” Sherlock let go of John reluctantly. He picked up his violin from the case at his feet and tucked it under his chin.
Sherlock played. John kept his eyes closed. He floated along, not like in the cold darkness of a river, but swept across the dance floor by a partner who could read every move in his body and his face: effortless and sublime.
The music swept to a graceful finish, and Sherlock’s fingers landed on John’s cheek again. “Sleep,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be here.”
“You’ll tell me when it’s time for the next dance?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t dance with anyone else while I’m sleeping?”
“No. No I won’t.”
“Well, then.” With a satisfied nod, John settled back into sleep, and dreamt of dancing.
Re: Sherlock/John: fever, dancing, and touchariadnes_stringMay 10 2011, 20:43:38 UTC
omg--thank you--that is fantastic!! What a brilliant combination of kinks! I put dancing up there on a whim, but John's feverish sensations of dancing are the best thing ever! And Sherlock playing the violin for him, and saying he'll take care of him on the dance floor *my heart* And the touching!
Re: Sherlock/John: fever, dancing, and touchbrighteyed_jillMay 15 2011, 03:05:08 UTC
Yay, I'm so glad you enjoyed it! It's always fun to play with what characters will say and do when delirious/when they think the other won't remember. Thanks for the great prompts!
Re: Sherlock/John: fever, dancing, and touchnorgbelulahMay 11 2011, 05:19:29 UTC
THIS, I LOVE. It starts out being really adorable and ends being ridiculously beautiful.
He floated along, not like in the cold darkness of a river, but swept across the dance floor by a partner who could read every move in his body and his face: effortless and sublime.
Re: Sherlock/John: fever, dancing, and touchbrighteyed_jillMay 15 2011, 03:08:49 UTC
Thank you! So glad you enjoyed. I noticed a lot of people had hurt/comfort, intoxication, and fever prompts for this pairing, so I couldn't resist trying one!
“What?” The question was a dry rasp in John’s throat.
“The mold. I should have noticed the connection before,” said Sherlock. “The very same kind was growing under the sink in the loo at that dance studio.”
“Yes.” John blinked against the sunlight streaming in through the window. He couldn’t remember the details of the case they were on, or even what sort of crime they were investigating, which was sure to make blogging the events a challenge. “Did we catch the killer?” Safe bet: Sherlock preferred murder.
“Don’t concern yourself.” Sherlock’s blessedly cool fingers pressed against John’s forehead. Why was Sherlock sitting next to his bed? “I can track down more criminals from this room than Dimmock could running around the streets of London with a bloodhound.”
“Blood.” John’s hand drifted up and came to rest rather painfully on a thick bandage covering his right side under his vest. The wretched heat boiling through John’s veins seemed to radiate from there.
John lifted his eyes to Sherlock, who looked a far sight more pale and haggard than usual. He’d stopped fiddling with his phone, and his attention had settled on John’s bandage. He watched it intently, as if examining the wound that must lay beneath.
“Are you hurt?” John asked.
“No.” Sherlock picked up John’s hand by the wrist--his fingers were a cool circle like a metal bracelet--lifted his hand off the bandage, and tucked it up against John’s chest. “I wasn’t there in time,” he muttered. “Though if it’s any consolation, we did both get a soaking in the Thames.”
John frowned. “I’ve told you and told you not to jump in the river.”
“I had a good reason.” Sherlock seemed to realize he still held John’s wrist; he snatched his hand back. “Sarah said the fever might not break for another twelve hours or more.”
“Fever. Right.” Knowing the why of it didn’t make the stifling confines of his skin any easier to bear. John thought he could feel the scratch of his wool suit against his back, the pinch of dress shoes. “Formal clothes are such a bother.”
Sherlock moved beside him, and then a cold, moist cloth settled over John’s eyes and forehead. Sherlock tugged at the hem of John’s vest. “Should I take this off?”
“I don’t think the others would appreciate that,” John said reluctantly. “And I’d catch hell from Harry.” Then he frowned. “You don’t have to lead all every time. I may be short, but I’m not exactly clumsy.”
“Do you want me to go?” Sherlock asked.
“Then I won’t have a partner. There are always more women than men at these classes. Opportunity, of course, but I’d rather dance with someone who knows what he’s doing.”
Sherlock favored him with a slow smile. “When did you take dance classes?”
“For Harry’s wedding. Disaster, the whole undertaking. I’m glad you know the steps.”
“Yes.” Sherlock’s hand gripped John’s right, and his other hand tucked into the edge of John’s hip. “I’ll take care of you out there.”
“Mm.” John let his eyes drift closed. The heat seemed more bearable now, not like burning sand, but like a sun-touched wooden dance floor. “Next time,” he said. “Let’s wait for a song that plays less rough. A waltz, maybe. No one gets stabbed and dumped into the Thames during a waltz.”
“I’d have thought you’d prefer to tango.”
“Takes two,” John said sagely, then giggled.
“Waltz it is.” Sherlock let go of John reluctantly. He picked up his violin from the case at his feet and tucked it under his chin.
Sherlock played. John kept his eyes closed. He floated along, not like in the cold darkness of a river, but swept across the dance floor by a partner who could read every move in his body and his face: effortless and sublime.
The music swept to a graceful finish, and Sherlock’s fingers landed on John’s cheek again. “Sleep,” Sherlock said. “I’ll be here.”
“You’ll tell me when it’s time for the next dance?”
“Yes.”
“You won’t dance with anyone else while I’m sleeping?”
“No. No I won’t.”
“Well, then.” With a satisfied nod, John settled back into sleep, and dreamt of dancing.
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*off to read again*
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He floated along, not like in the cold darkness of a river, but swept across the dance floor by a partner who could read every move in his body and his face: effortless and sublime.
JUST LOVELY. <3
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