FIC: You're Good Undercover, But I'm Better Under The Covers (1/2)
Title: You're Good Undercover, But I'm Better Under The Covers (1/2)
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, liberal abuse of a dance = sex metaphor
Summary: Sherlock may be the better dancer of the two of them, but John's not too shabby at one particular dance...
Author's Notes: Written for Sherlockmas 2012 as a gift for fiona_fawkes
On AO3
The first clue John gets that Sherlock likes playing dress-up is when, in their fifth week as flatmates, he comes home (for it is home already) to Sherlock wearing surgical scrubs and contemplating a small potted cactus with a disturbing sort of intensity.
“Case?” he asks.
“Case,” Sherlock affirms without looking away from the cactus. If anything, he squints harder at it.
John goes to make tea with a shrug (and a sigh at the mess he finds in the sink. And on the draining board. And on the chopping board).
As the kettle boils, he cultivates a nice, simmering, low-level annoyance in Sherlock’s general direction and doesn’t spend an undue amount of time thinking about how Sherlock looks in his borrowed disguise and the oddly pleasing view of neck and chest that the loose top invites his eyes to linger on.
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He’s not gay, you see.
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The thing is, it’s not just clothes that make the man. Sherlock slips into a new persona as effortlessly as he does a security guard’s uniform. He’s a master of the superficially charming smile, the crocodile tears. It would worry John if he wasn’t able to see through it so easily most of the time. Proximity and time have made him quite confident that - in as much as any person can - he knows Sherlock.
He’s still aware that he can be taken in like so many others have been. He’s been fooled more than a few times in their stint as flatmates.
Sherlock certainly isn’t above tricking and experimenting on him, far from it. He seems to be Sherlock’s favourite target, most days, particularly for practice when it comes to these things.
Sherlock once disappeared on a ‘case’ for two days, disguised himself as a homeless vagrant and positioned himself on John’s route to the surgery he was working for at the time, close to the café he knew John frequented. John actually gave the bedraggled-looking man a fiver on the second day (something about the man’s eyes reminded him of Sherlock, funnily enough) and ushered him into the café to get a hot drink and something to eat.
Sherlock repaid his kindness later that evening by declaring the trial a success and making John help with the disinfection process. He had been kidding about doing that after any dealings with his homeless network before, but decided it was necessary on this occasion after being among them. The bastard.
Whilst aiding in the exhaustive cleansing of “I had to be thoroughly committed to the role” Sherlock, John ended up walking in on the man in the bath (really, two and a half hours was an exorbitant amount of time to spend in the bathroom) where he did not take a single moment to admire the way water droplets ran down Sherlock’s chest, nor the way Sherlock in a hot bath (lower half mercifully covered by bubbles) is apparently a content, relaxed variety of Sherlock who sighs and tilts his head back over the rim of the tub, exposing an incredibly appealing stretch of pale throat with a single mole on it that may or may not be there simply to make John’s life difficult.
No, John did not take a single moment for that.
Because he took several.
And if, later on when he was alone, he took several more moments for musings on and… around those particular areas, well, it wasn’t as though anyone had to know.
He’s not gay, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely straight now, does it?
Disguises are one thing. To some degree, he can even see through fake beards and layers of grime to Sherlock underneath. The acting is something else altogether. Baskerville sticks in his mind as an example of a time when Sherlock manipulated him without any need for a costume or makeup. All he needed was the knowledge that John was unhappy enough about their argument that he was willing to accept Sherlock’s apology and along with it whatever drugged beverage he happened to provide.
That scares him. The idea that Sherlock can use his feelings to control him, that Sherlock could dupe him that way. He still trusts Sherlock implicitly, more than he does anyone else in his life, but he’s aware that when it comes to the nuances of Sherlock’s more emotional behaviour, he can’t be certain of the motive behind it.
It’s probably wise to be cautious, he thinks.
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When Sherlock announces that they have to go undercover for a case together, John just blinks at him.
“Dancing,” he says eventually.
“Yes,” Sherlock says with a nod. “We’ll be a couple going to Ceroc on a gay friendly night that our friend Mr Matthews happens to enjoy.”
John takes a while to wrap his head around that.
Sherlock goes to pick out suitable attire for them both.
“We’ll be going in as beginners, of course,” comes the shout from Sherlock’s bedroom.
John isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Of course.”
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John’s not really sure what the worst bit about this is. One minute he thinks it’s the shoes (Sherlock insisted they get the correct, smooth-soled shoes to look as if they were serious about this), the next he thinks it’s the fact that they’ve been complimented twice on what a lovely pair they make, the next he thinks it’s Sherlock’s hands - either both holding his to push and pull him about or one clasping his to lead, the other placed low on John’s waist and pushing, no, shoving him this way and that.
Thinking about it, it’s definitely that last one, that is the very worst thing.
He’s gripping onto Sherlock for dear life at every turn, completely at sea in the middle of a room full of dancers who don’t seem to be as much of a novice as he is. Sherlock himself has evidently been schooled in the art of dance and moves, as in all things, with enviable elegance.
There’s nothing elegant though about his clenched teeth each time John steps on his foot. Nor the words that come out of his mouth the fourth time John does it.
“We’re meant to be beginners!” John hisses back at him.
They both fake a smile in apology as another wrong step brings them perilously close to the couple next to them. The two women are laughing and obviously enjoying themselves. John hates them on principle.
“It’s not that hard,” Sherlock says quietly, giving John’s hand a forceful squeeze when John attempts to go the wrong way again. “It’s hardly a quickstep or tango, John.”
“Says the public school boy who probably went to actual balls.”
“I can’t focus on Matthews if you keep distracting me with your lumbering steps.”
“And I can’t-”
“Okay!” calls the instructor from the stage. “Well done, I think… most of you have mastered the octopus!” John cringes when the teacher’s eyes land on him during the emphasis in that sentence.
Sherlock, unlike the majority of the other partners, doesn’t release his hands as they listen for the next instruction.
“Now, we’re going to swap partners,” the instructor calls out. John looks to Sherlock with wide eyes. He didn’t know he’d have to dance with other people! “And we’re going to try that again. Stop looking at me like that, I’ll get you back into hold with your original partners soon enough. Remember, you’re here to make friends too!”
Sherlock scoffs under his breath and abruptly leans in close to whisper in John’s ear. “Don’t panic.” His breath is hot but John still shivers against him as the words spill over his skin. “As I’m on the leading side, I’ll get to dance with Matthews. That will give us time for a quick chat and afterwards I’ll be able to get to him at the bar. Your job is to get to know the partner, find out-”
“’scuse me,” says a man to their left, who must be in his mid-seventies at the very least. “Mind if I take your lovely gentleman for a spin?”
Sherlock conceals their conversation by pressing his lips to John’s cheek in a brief kiss. “I’m sure John here wouldn’t mind, would you, John?”
John’s mouth is open in surprise, both at the kiss and the gall of this man who looks like a stiff breeze might blow him over and yet wants to take Sherlock for a spin, what the hell.
“By… by all means,” he says, stepping back from Sherlock and moving to go to the next waiting partner in the line: a young lady with a bright grin and asymmetrically-cut red hair. She doesn’t look too angry considering John bumped into her and her partner not five minutes ago.
“Oh no,” the man says to him. “We’re going anti-clockwise, I’m going to be leading you now.”
John recalls a time when he begged a deity he didn’t believe in to let him live. Now, he’s not sure why he did. He wouldn’t have had to face this indignity, at least.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Sherlock says, the amusement laced through his voice as he goes over to his new partner and leaves John to his fate.
Blood rushes into John’s face, leaving him suddenly warm all over. The spot Sherlock just kissed is the burning focus as he takes the new man’s hands with a poor attempt at a smile.
“I’m Larry,” his partner says. “Follow my lead, but you still need to resist me a bit to get the right sort of movement going.”
John can’t help but notice that Larry has what some might call ‘crazy eyes’ as he says that. He also can’t help but notice the man’s red shoes. John doesn’t need Sherlock’s deductive reasoning skills to know those shoes aren’t something anyone wears on the street - they’re dancing shoes.
Larry is a serious Ceroc-goer.
Shit.
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Fortunately for John, Larry does not snap in two as they dance. Each pull John makes against him seems like a close thing though, and Larry’s creaking and cracking joints are going to haunt his dreams for weeks. Despite that concern, Larry turns out to be something of a refined gentleman (he wears an embroidered waistcoat, for God’s sake) who just happens to make the occasional lewd joke. John is almost sad to see him leave, though he does so with a rather extravagant bow and a saucy wink when he straightens up, which makes John laugh.
Partners change and John dances with a variety of men and women, only stepping on a grand total of two feet (both belonging to the same man, who still maintained a cheery demeanour throughout their time together. He crushed John’s hands in a sweaty grasp in return and giggled nervously at random intervals. John ended up leading him).
Looking down the line, John doesn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock uncomfortably dancing with over-eager strangers, because Sherlock is the one throwing them about with ease. He smiles and laughs and acts like a regular human being with all of them. John feels strange and uncertain just seeing it, just like he always does when Sherlock is in-character and acting wholly unlike himself.
Only when he changes partners does Sherlock break character, and his normal, reassuring condescension comes back. His face shutters and he moves on to the next unwitting person without a word or backward glance at his former partner, leaving them somewhat dazed in his wake.
Eventually, as the leads all shuffle around the room in the circuit, John is faced with their target’s original partner, a man of average height and looks (aside from the regrettably prominent nose, that is).
Sherlock may not have finished his instruction to him earlier, but John already knows what he has to ask.
He opens his mouth and is rather unceremoniously cut off. “Michael,” the man says in a bored drawl.
“James,” John gives the false name easily. Sherlock shouldn’t make any more cracks about his acting abilities after all this, they’re passable. He knows that Sherlock wouldn’t ever have suggested they go undercover though if he didn’t really believe that John could at least act his way out of a paper bag.
“Exquisite,” Michael says, and John suppresses a shudder as he takes the hands that are outstretched to him. “Speaking of: the man you came with, just a friend?”
John tries hard not to tighten his grip enough to hurt. “Much more.”
Does he have the right to be possessive over Sherlock in this little charade? Probably. Does he have the right to feel inordinately possessive outside of it? Probably not.
He does though. God help him. That bit’s not an act.
Michael smiles, a crooked twist of his lips. “My mistake, don’t get upset.”
He tuts and nods his head towards their joined hands. John realises his hands are squeezing painfully despite his efforts not to and relaxes his grip.
“I’m here with someone myself, in fact.” Michael looks over to where Matthews is now dancing with John’s giggly man.
Harvey Matthews, John has already decided from what he knows of the case, is quite clearly the kind of man John Watson hates, guilty or not. The oily, arrogant type with more money than sense, like Sebastian Wilkes or the man from Janus cars. He’s married with at least two lovers on the side. John wonders if Michael knows about the other one.
That reminds him: he has a job to do. He swallows his inappropriate jealousy and anger over Sherlock and gets to work.
“Oh really? Tell me about him.”
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“That,” John says as they go through the front door to 221B, “was a nightmare.”
“Agreed.”
Sherlock floats up the stairs in front of him, taking off his scarf as he goes.
“What?” John follows him up. “You were doing fine! I was the one with two left feet who looked like a complete tit!”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, sweeping through the door to their flat without bothering to turn on the lights. He deposits his coat and scarf before sinking into the sofa with a sigh. “But it was still torture for me. Having to dance the same ridiculous steps over and over with an endless line of brainless people. Is that supposed to be enjoyable?”
“I think so. I can’t see why.”
John shucks his own jacket and lights the fire, rubbing his hands together. Dance classes in January, what a lovely way to start the New Year. He thinks about making tea and then thinks better of it. He needs something stronger after an evening like this. He takes a couple of glasses from the cupboard, quickly spot checks them for cleanliness and then pours himself and Sherlock a generous helping of red wine. It’s expensive, the kind Sherlock favours when he deigns to drink for his own pleasure at all.
John goes back into the living area and finds Sherlock has kicked off his shoes and is lying down on the sofa now, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin in his favourite thinking pose.
“Here,” John says, thrusting the wine glass at him. “Can I tempt you?”
Sherlock opens one eye and smiles. “Always.”
John feels an odd quiver in his stomach at that. He resolutely ignores it. If it happens again, it must be hunger, because he hasn’t eaten for hours.
They move to the armchairs and sit silently, companionable with only the sound of the fire crackling between them.
Three quarters of the way into his glass and feeling much warmer, John deems the silence to have gone on long enough. “So, what did you find out from Matthews while I was being accosted by every dancer going?”
Sherlock snorts. “You were quite a hit in the freestyle section, weren’t you? I think I put more people off than I endeared myself to…” Sherlock laughs softly and shakes his head. “Matthews, yes. He revealed very little, in the end. Nothing of use. I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back next week, John. I hope you kept your shoes.”
He smirks, and John’s not sure if it’s the wine and his empty stomach, but he takes a moment to study Sherlock. Being sat by a fireside really does wonderful things for Sherlock’s face. His angular features always look their best in dim light, half cast into shadow, half illuminated by the flickering, dancing flames. His eyes gleam, bright and filled with mirth as they share a joke.
People think Sherlock much colder than he truly is. He smiles and laughs far more than anyone would think he does, but they aren’t privy to that side of him the way John is.
“What is it?” Sherlock asks when John stares that little bit too long, reaching down and setting his glass at his feet now he’s finished with it.
“Nothing, I…” John flounders. “I was just wondering who taught you to dance.”
“Oh.” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed and seems to lean back in his chair slightly. Perhaps it’s John’s imagination. “I had a private tutor in Mycroft and, as you rightly said earlier, I’m a public school boy. Dancing was encouraged.”
John can’t quite stifle his laugh at the idea of Mycroft teaching a younger Sherlock to dance. Sherlock’s eyes narrow the way they usually do when he feels like he’s being mocked and he turns his face to one side, acting like it doesn’t bother him.
“Sorry,” John says between giggles (it’s definitely the wine). “Sorry, just… you and Mycroft?”
Sherlock turns his head back to look at John, lips twitching as he holds back a smile better than John did his laugh. “He was an extremely patient teacher.”
They both laugh helplessly then, Sherlock at his memories and John at his mental images. Sherlock and Mycroft dancing together, bickering all the while… Yes, he’s saving that one for a rainy day.
“I could teach you,” Sherlock says off-handedly when they calm down again. “If you wanted, that is. Not Ceroc, I can’t stand that style of dance. Something proper.”
John feels his heart rate pick up. Dancing with Sherlock for an act outside the flat is one thing, private lessons inside the flat is quite another. It’s not something men do with their male friends. But then, the former isn’t usual practice either. Sherlock really is quite unlike any friend he’s ever had. And far better than any friend he’s ever had.
“Like what?” he finds himself asking, despite his reservations. Jesus, just how strong is that wine of Sherlock’s anyway?
“For a previous case when I was following a suspect, some time before we met, I learnt to dance the tango. That was interesting. Not so insipid like most dances.”
John’s knowledge of dance comes pretty much solely from catching bits of Strictly Come Dancing on the odd Saturday night when he and Sherlock aren’t haring after suspects and serial killers. Not having much interest in that particular area, he’s not an avid watcher, but he does know that the tango is the dance that’s meant to be very passionate and dramatic.
Fitting, then, that Sherlock would show a preference for it.
If memory serves, it’s also the dance that involves very close contact with one’s partner. And one that’s often used as a euphemism for sex. The horizontal tango. John’s mouth goes dry at the thought and he ducks his head down, hastily drinking the last of his wine.
“John?”
Sherlock is standing in front of him now, one hand reaching down to take his wine glass. He sets it aside carelessly and then extends both hands to John to pull him out of his seat.
“Come on,” Sherlock says. “You never know when you might need it for a case.”
“Pretty sure the answer’s never,” John mumbles back, embarrassed. He’s not sure he wants to do this.
“Nonsense.”
Sherlock offers no anecdote to support his argument, he just guides them both into the centre of the room where there is most space, feet shoving boxes and papers that are in the way to one side.
When Sherlock is satisfied with the space around them, he steps in close to John, and takes both of his hands again.
“In tango,” he says, voice pitched low and somehow suitable for the darkened, quiet flat, “the hold is called an embrace.”
John wasn’t sure this could get worse, but hearing Sherlock say that has proved him wrong. He says nothing. He’s going to listen to Sherlock and get this over with so that he can go to bed and not think about this. He’s not going to think about this.
“You’ll be following my lead on this occasion, John.”
Well, that’s not so different from most days, John thinks.
“I’ll refer to our parts as leader and follower rather than man and woman; I expect you’ll prefer that.”
It makes no difference to John. He’s pretending this isn’t happening, thank you very much.
“The leader is supposed to make the follower feel safe. He should give off an air of trust and reassurance. Do you trust me, John?”
John swallows. Of all the loaded questions. “With my life,” he answers quietly, because it’s the truth.
Sherlock’s genuine smile makes itself known in the corners of his lips as they curve upwards. “This is the close embrace of the Argentine tango,” he says.
All of a sudden, Sherlock’s right hand takes hold of his left, Sherlock’s left hand moves across his back to hold him and he pulls John so close that their chests are flush. Their hips align but stay separated by mere inches, and John’s right hand automatically goes to Sherlock’s back to steady himself.
Sherlock holds him tightly, his body at once taut and flexible against John’s, ready to move.
It’s not going to happen tonight - John’s not that quick of a learner - but he pictures them dancing together. They would be sharp and precise, John following but anticipating as Sherlock gave him well-recognised cues. Their partnership wouldn’t allow for anything less than perfect symbiosis.
Most days, John feels like an extension of Sherlock. Sherlock certainly treats him like an extra pair of hands, but he knows now that it’s not just laziness on Sherlock’s part. There’s a level of absent-minded fondness to his trivial requests - his phone in the pocket of a jacket he’s wearing, a pen that’s right by his hand as he works at the microscope. Sherlock doesn’t see it like other people do. John reaching into his jacket for his phone isn’t a gross breach of personal space, it’s just that extra pair of hands performing a task his own hands are too busy for. But he wouldn’t ask it of Molly, or Lestrade, or even Mrs Hudson. He only ever asks these things of John, and it’s very telling of the way Sherlock must view him.
Even Sherlock doesn’t know where he ends and John begins.
They stand together for a long moment, adjusting to their new proximity, far closer than good friends should ever get. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through both their layers of clothing. He wonders if Sherlock can feel his racing heart as it tries to escape the confines of his ribs. Even as he thinks it, he realises that he can feel Sherlock’s quickened breathing against his chest and on his face.
Their heads are close enough that only a tiny movement would mean kissing Sherlock.
For one insane moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to kiss him, but he bypasses John’s mouth to fit his own near to John’s ear, telling him softly: “The follower should submit to the leader. This is an embrace, so embrace me. Give yourself to me, no questions asked, no hesitations. Relax, John. You said you trusted me.”
John does, he very much does and he wants to say it, to reiterate it to Sherlock as many times as he needs to for Sherlock to believe him. He moves his head, opens his mouth to tell him and his cheek brushes Sherlock’s jaw, the fleeting touch like a spark on his skin, travelling through his body.
Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, drawing him even nearer.
John pulls back against his grip, pulls his head back enough to be able to look at Sherlock without their faces touching and meets Sherlock’s intense gaze. With only the fire providing any light in the flat, Sherlock’s wide pupils could be attributed to the darkness of the room. His own are probably the same.
What he can’t explain is the way he’s getting turned on from this clasp of theirs. He could say it’s the closeness, but it’s not. He’s not a young man anymore, he doesn’t get hard at the drop of a hat.
If Sherlock presses any closer, he’s going to know about it.
What will he do then?
Sherlock chooses that moment to gently drop his forehead onto John’s and shuts his eyes with a sigh. His right hand abruptly lets go of John’s and slides down to encircle his wrist, fingers pressing down. Taking his pulse.
He can’t explain that one away either, can he?
“Sherlock…”
He wants to beg to be released, to flee to the safety and simplicity of his room. He just can’t get the words out.
Sherlock’s eyes open at the use of his name, still dark, the quicksilver of his irises nearly invisible. For a moment, those eyes search his and then Sherlock nods, as if he’s found something there that he wanted to see.
Both of his palms come up to John’s neck, thumbs lightly caressing his jaw on either side.
He really is going to kiss me, John thinks, heart rate climbing further still. Sherlock must be able to feel that.
Sherlock can’t kiss him. They’re not like this, they don’t do this.
It’s just Sherlock pushing boundaries again. Acting, manipulating. Sherlock doesn’t want this, he said so. Transport, not his area, married to his work.
It’s just another trick of his, another role.
“Is this still part of the dance?” John asks.
Sherlock’s hands drop away. Suddenly there’s a foot of space between them and John feels cold from head to toe without Sherlock’s warm body pressed along the length of his.
How could he have been so stupid? He’s been taken in again. Why on earth should Sherlock want to teach him to dance except to tease a long-held, closely-guarded secret from his lips? And not through speaking either, it seems.
“I think that’s enough of a lesson for today,” Sherlock says flatly, head down and avoiding John’s eyes.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” John replies through clenched teeth. His fists are clenched too, but he’s not going to hit Sherlock. He just needs to get away from him for a long time.
Without another word, he darts past Sherlock, grabs his coat and storms out of the flat.
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He gets to Baker Street tube station.
He realises he has no money, no Oyster card, no phone.
He realises he has nowhere to go.
He realises that he’s jumped to a pretty big conclusion without any evidence.
Sherlock would be appalled.
When Sherlock is his first clear thought since his (not so) tactical retreat, he realises he’s probably more than a little bit in love.
He lets out a hysterical laugh and the people using the ticket barriers give him a wide berth.
Part 2
Characters/Pairing: Sherlock/John
Category: Slash
Rating: NC-17
Warnings: Explicit sex, liberal abuse of a dance = sex metaphor
Summary: Sherlock may be the better dancer of the two of them, but John's not too shabby at one particular dance...
Author's Notes: Written for Sherlockmas 2012 as a gift for fiona_fawkes
On AO3
The first clue John gets that Sherlock likes playing dress-up is when, in their fifth week as flatmates, he comes home (for it is home already) to Sherlock wearing surgical scrubs and contemplating a small potted cactus with a disturbing sort of intensity.
“Case?” he asks.
“Case,” Sherlock affirms without looking away from the cactus. If anything, he squints harder at it.
John goes to make tea with a shrug (and a sigh at the mess he finds in the sink. And on the draining board. And on the chopping board).
As the kettle boils, he cultivates a nice, simmering, low-level annoyance in Sherlock’s general direction and doesn’t spend an undue amount of time thinking about how Sherlock looks in his borrowed disguise and the oddly pleasing view of neck and chest that the loose top invites his eyes to linger on.
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He’s not gay, you see.
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The thing is, it’s not just clothes that make the man. Sherlock slips into a new persona as effortlessly as he does a security guard’s uniform. He’s a master of the superficially charming smile, the crocodile tears. It would worry John if he wasn’t able to see through it so easily most of the time. Proximity and time have made him quite confident that - in as much as any person can - he knows Sherlock.
He’s still aware that he can be taken in like so many others have been. He’s been fooled more than a few times in their stint as flatmates.
Sherlock certainly isn’t above tricking and experimenting on him, far from it. He seems to be Sherlock’s favourite target, most days, particularly for practice when it comes to these things.
Sherlock once disappeared on a ‘case’ for two days, disguised himself as a homeless vagrant and positioned himself on John’s route to the surgery he was working for at the time, close to the café he knew John frequented. John actually gave the bedraggled-looking man a fiver on the second day (something about the man’s eyes reminded him of Sherlock, funnily enough) and ushered him into the café to get a hot drink and something to eat.
Sherlock repaid his kindness later that evening by declaring the trial a success and making John help with the disinfection process. He had been kidding about doing that after any dealings with his homeless network before, but decided it was necessary on this occasion after being among them. The bastard.
Whilst aiding in the exhaustive cleansing of “I had to be thoroughly committed to the role” Sherlock, John ended up walking in on the man in the bath (really, two and a half hours was an exorbitant amount of time to spend in the bathroom) where he did not take a single moment to admire the way water droplets ran down Sherlock’s chest, nor the way Sherlock in a hot bath (lower half mercifully covered by bubbles) is apparently a content, relaxed variety of Sherlock who sighs and tilts his head back over the rim of the tub, exposing an incredibly appealing stretch of pale throat with a single mole on it that may or may not be there simply to make John’s life difficult.
No, John did not take a single moment for that.
Because he took several.
And if, later on when he was alone, he took several more moments for musings on and… around those particular areas, well, it wasn’t as though anyone had to know.
He’s not gay, but that doesn’t mean he’s entirely straight now, does it?
Disguises are one thing. To some degree, he can even see through fake beards and layers of grime to Sherlock underneath. The acting is something else altogether. Baskerville sticks in his mind as an example of a time when Sherlock manipulated him without any need for a costume or makeup. All he needed was the knowledge that John was unhappy enough about their argument that he was willing to accept Sherlock’s apology and along with it whatever drugged beverage he happened to provide.
That scares him. The idea that Sherlock can use his feelings to control him, that Sherlock could dupe him that way. He still trusts Sherlock implicitly, more than he does anyone else in his life, but he’s aware that when it comes to the nuances of Sherlock’s more emotional behaviour, he can’t be certain of the motive behind it.
It’s probably wise to be cautious, he thinks.
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When Sherlock announces that they have to go undercover for a case together, John just blinks at him.
“Dancing,” he says eventually.
“Yes,” Sherlock says with a nod. “We’ll be a couple going to Ceroc on a gay friendly night that our friend Mr Matthews happens to enjoy.”
John takes a while to wrap his head around that.
Sherlock goes to pick out suitable attire for them both.
“We’ll be going in as beginners, of course,” comes the shout from Sherlock’s bedroom.
John isn’t sure whether to laugh or cry. “Of course.”
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John’s not really sure what the worst bit about this is. One minute he thinks it’s the shoes (Sherlock insisted they get the correct, smooth-soled shoes to look as if they were serious about this), the next he thinks it’s the fact that they’ve been complimented twice on what a lovely pair they make, the next he thinks it’s Sherlock’s hands - either both holding his to push and pull him about or one clasping his to lead, the other placed low on John’s waist and pushing, no, shoving him this way and that.
Thinking about it, it’s definitely that last one, that is the very worst thing.
He’s gripping onto Sherlock for dear life at every turn, completely at sea in the middle of a room full of dancers who don’t seem to be as much of a novice as he is. Sherlock himself has evidently been schooled in the art of dance and moves, as in all things, with enviable elegance.
There’s nothing elegant though about his clenched teeth each time John steps on his foot. Nor the words that come out of his mouth the fourth time John does it.
“We’re meant to be beginners!” John hisses back at him.
They both fake a smile in apology as another wrong step brings them perilously close to the couple next to them. The two women are laughing and obviously enjoying themselves. John hates them on principle.
“It’s not that hard,” Sherlock says quietly, giving John’s hand a forceful squeeze when John attempts to go the wrong way again. “It’s hardly a quickstep or tango, John.”
“Says the public school boy who probably went to actual balls.”
“I can’t focus on Matthews if you keep distracting me with your lumbering steps.”
“And I can’t-”
“Okay!” calls the instructor from the stage. “Well done, I think… most of you have mastered the octopus!” John cringes when the teacher’s eyes land on him during the emphasis in that sentence.
Sherlock, unlike the majority of the other partners, doesn’t release his hands as they listen for the next instruction.
“Now, we’re going to swap partners,” the instructor calls out. John looks to Sherlock with wide eyes. He didn’t know he’d have to dance with other people! “And we’re going to try that again. Stop looking at me like that, I’ll get you back into hold with your original partners soon enough. Remember, you’re here to make friends too!”
Sherlock scoffs under his breath and abruptly leans in close to whisper in John’s ear. “Don’t panic.” His breath is hot but John still shivers against him as the words spill over his skin. “As I’m on the leading side, I’ll get to dance with Matthews. That will give us time for a quick chat and afterwards I’ll be able to get to him at the bar. Your job is to get to know the partner, find out-”
“’scuse me,” says a man to their left, who must be in his mid-seventies at the very least. “Mind if I take your lovely gentleman for a spin?”
Sherlock conceals their conversation by pressing his lips to John’s cheek in a brief kiss. “I’m sure John here wouldn’t mind, would you, John?”
John’s mouth is open in surprise, both at the kiss and the gall of this man who looks like a stiff breeze might blow him over and yet wants to take Sherlock for a spin, what the hell.
“By… by all means,” he says, stepping back from Sherlock and moving to go to the next waiting partner in the line: a young lady with a bright grin and asymmetrically-cut red hair. She doesn’t look too angry considering John bumped into her and her partner not five minutes ago.
“Oh no,” the man says to him. “We’re going anti-clockwise, I’m going to be leading you now.”
John recalls a time when he begged a deity he didn’t believe in to let him live. Now, he’s not sure why he did. He wouldn’t have had to face this indignity, at least.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Sherlock says, the amusement laced through his voice as he goes over to his new partner and leaves John to his fate.
Blood rushes into John’s face, leaving him suddenly warm all over. The spot Sherlock just kissed is the burning focus as he takes the new man’s hands with a poor attempt at a smile.
“I’m Larry,” his partner says. “Follow my lead, but you still need to resist me a bit to get the right sort of movement going.”
John can’t help but notice that Larry has what some might call ‘crazy eyes’ as he says that. He also can’t help but notice the man’s red shoes. John doesn’t need Sherlock’s deductive reasoning skills to know those shoes aren’t something anyone wears on the street - they’re dancing shoes.
Larry is a serious Ceroc-goer.
Shit.
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Fortunately for John, Larry does not snap in two as they dance. Each pull John makes against him seems like a close thing though, and Larry’s creaking and cracking joints are going to haunt his dreams for weeks. Despite that concern, Larry turns out to be something of a refined gentleman (he wears an embroidered waistcoat, for God’s sake) who just happens to make the occasional lewd joke. John is almost sad to see him leave, though he does so with a rather extravagant bow and a saucy wink when he straightens up, which makes John laugh.
Partners change and John dances with a variety of men and women, only stepping on a grand total of two feet (both belonging to the same man, who still maintained a cheery demeanour throughout their time together. He crushed John’s hands in a sweaty grasp in return and giggled nervously at random intervals. John ended up leading him).
Looking down the line, John doesn’t even get the satisfaction of seeing Sherlock uncomfortably dancing with over-eager strangers, because Sherlock is the one throwing them about with ease. He smiles and laughs and acts like a regular human being with all of them. John feels strange and uncertain just seeing it, just like he always does when Sherlock is in-character and acting wholly unlike himself.
Only when he changes partners does Sherlock break character, and his normal, reassuring condescension comes back. His face shutters and he moves on to the next unwitting person without a word or backward glance at his former partner, leaving them somewhat dazed in his wake.
Eventually, as the leads all shuffle around the room in the circuit, John is faced with their target’s original partner, a man of average height and looks (aside from the regrettably prominent nose, that is).
Sherlock may not have finished his instruction to him earlier, but John already knows what he has to ask.
He opens his mouth and is rather unceremoniously cut off. “Michael,” the man says in a bored drawl.
“James,” John gives the false name easily. Sherlock shouldn’t make any more cracks about his acting abilities after all this, they’re passable. He knows that Sherlock wouldn’t ever have suggested they go undercover though if he didn’t really believe that John could at least act his way out of a paper bag.
“Exquisite,” Michael says, and John suppresses a shudder as he takes the hands that are outstretched to him. “Speaking of: the man you came with, just a friend?”
John tries hard not to tighten his grip enough to hurt. “Much more.”
Does he have the right to be possessive over Sherlock in this little charade? Probably. Does he have the right to feel inordinately possessive outside of it? Probably not.
He does though. God help him. That bit’s not an act.
Michael smiles, a crooked twist of his lips. “My mistake, don’t get upset.”
He tuts and nods his head towards their joined hands. John realises his hands are squeezing painfully despite his efforts not to and relaxes his grip.
“I’m here with someone myself, in fact.” Michael looks over to where Matthews is now dancing with John’s giggly man.
Harvey Matthews, John has already decided from what he knows of the case, is quite clearly the kind of man John Watson hates, guilty or not. The oily, arrogant type with more money than sense, like Sebastian Wilkes or the man from Janus cars. He’s married with at least two lovers on the side. John wonders if Michael knows about the other one.
That reminds him: he has a job to do. He swallows his inappropriate jealousy and anger over Sherlock and gets to work.
“Oh really? Tell me about him.”
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“That,” John says as they go through the front door to 221B, “was a nightmare.”
“Agreed.”
Sherlock floats up the stairs in front of him, taking off his scarf as he goes.
“What?” John follows him up. “You were doing fine! I was the one with two left feet who looked like a complete tit!”
“Yes,” Sherlock says, sweeping through the door to their flat without bothering to turn on the lights. He deposits his coat and scarf before sinking into the sofa with a sigh. “But it was still torture for me. Having to dance the same ridiculous steps over and over with an endless line of brainless people. Is that supposed to be enjoyable?”
“I think so. I can’t see why.”
John shucks his own jacket and lights the fire, rubbing his hands together. Dance classes in January, what a lovely way to start the New Year. He thinks about making tea and then thinks better of it. He needs something stronger after an evening like this. He takes a couple of glasses from the cupboard, quickly spot checks them for cleanliness and then pours himself and Sherlock a generous helping of red wine. It’s expensive, the kind Sherlock favours when he deigns to drink for his own pleasure at all.
John goes back into the living area and finds Sherlock has kicked off his shoes and is lying down on the sofa now, hands clasped prayer-like beneath his chin in his favourite thinking pose.
“Here,” John says, thrusting the wine glass at him. “Can I tempt you?”
Sherlock opens one eye and smiles. “Always.”
John feels an odd quiver in his stomach at that. He resolutely ignores it. If it happens again, it must be hunger, because he hasn’t eaten for hours.
They move to the armchairs and sit silently, companionable with only the sound of the fire crackling between them.
Three quarters of the way into his glass and feeling much warmer, John deems the silence to have gone on long enough. “So, what did you find out from Matthews while I was being accosted by every dancer going?”
Sherlock snorts. “You were quite a hit in the freestyle section, weren’t you? I think I put more people off than I endeared myself to…” Sherlock laughs softly and shakes his head. “Matthews, yes. He revealed very little, in the end. Nothing of use. I’m afraid we’re going to have to go back next week, John. I hope you kept your shoes.”
He smirks, and John’s not sure if it’s the wine and his empty stomach, but he takes a moment to study Sherlock. Being sat by a fireside really does wonderful things for Sherlock’s face. His angular features always look their best in dim light, half cast into shadow, half illuminated by the flickering, dancing flames. His eyes gleam, bright and filled with mirth as they share a joke.
People think Sherlock much colder than he truly is. He smiles and laughs far more than anyone would think he does, but they aren’t privy to that side of him the way John is.
“What is it?” Sherlock asks when John stares that little bit too long, reaching down and setting his glass at his feet now he’s finished with it.
“Nothing, I…” John flounders. “I was just wondering who taught you to dance.”
“Oh.” Sherlock sounds almost disappointed and seems to lean back in his chair slightly. Perhaps it’s John’s imagination. “I had a private tutor in Mycroft and, as you rightly said earlier, I’m a public school boy. Dancing was encouraged.”
John can’t quite stifle his laugh at the idea of Mycroft teaching a younger Sherlock to dance. Sherlock’s eyes narrow the way they usually do when he feels like he’s being mocked and he turns his face to one side, acting like it doesn’t bother him.
“Sorry,” John says between giggles (it’s definitely the wine). “Sorry, just… you and Mycroft?”
Sherlock turns his head back to look at John, lips twitching as he holds back a smile better than John did his laugh. “He was an extremely patient teacher.”
They both laugh helplessly then, Sherlock at his memories and John at his mental images. Sherlock and Mycroft dancing together, bickering all the while… Yes, he’s saving that one for a rainy day.
“I could teach you,” Sherlock says off-handedly when they calm down again. “If you wanted, that is. Not Ceroc, I can’t stand that style of dance. Something proper.”
John feels his heart rate pick up. Dancing with Sherlock for an act outside the flat is one thing, private lessons inside the flat is quite another. It’s not something men do with their male friends. But then, the former isn’t usual practice either. Sherlock really is quite unlike any friend he’s ever had. And far better than any friend he’s ever had.
“Like what?” he finds himself asking, despite his reservations. Jesus, just how strong is that wine of Sherlock’s anyway?
“For a previous case when I was following a suspect, some time before we met, I learnt to dance the tango. That was interesting. Not so insipid like most dances.”
John’s knowledge of dance comes pretty much solely from catching bits of Strictly Come Dancing on the odd Saturday night when he and Sherlock aren’t haring after suspects and serial killers. Not having much interest in that particular area, he’s not an avid watcher, but he does know that the tango is the dance that’s meant to be very passionate and dramatic.
Fitting, then, that Sherlock would show a preference for it.
If memory serves, it’s also the dance that involves very close contact with one’s partner. And one that’s often used as a euphemism for sex. The horizontal tango. John’s mouth goes dry at the thought and he ducks his head down, hastily drinking the last of his wine.
“John?”
Sherlock is standing in front of him now, one hand reaching down to take his wine glass. He sets it aside carelessly and then extends both hands to John to pull him out of his seat.
“Come on,” Sherlock says. “You never know when you might need it for a case.”
“Pretty sure the answer’s never,” John mumbles back, embarrassed. He’s not sure he wants to do this.
“Nonsense.”
Sherlock offers no anecdote to support his argument, he just guides them both into the centre of the room where there is most space, feet shoving boxes and papers that are in the way to one side.
When Sherlock is satisfied with the space around them, he steps in close to John, and takes both of his hands again.
“In tango,” he says, voice pitched low and somehow suitable for the darkened, quiet flat, “the hold is called an embrace.”
John wasn’t sure this could get worse, but hearing Sherlock say that has proved him wrong. He says nothing. He’s going to listen to Sherlock and get this over with so that he can go to bed and not think about this. He’s not going to think about this.
“You’ll be following my lead on this occasion, John.”
Well, that’s not so different from most days, John thinks.
“I’ll refer to our parts as leader and follower rather than man and woman; I expect you’ll prefer that.”
It makes no difference to John. He’s pretending this isn’t happening, thank you very much.
“The leader is supposed to make the follower feel safe. He should give off an air of trust and reassurance. Do you trust me, John?”
John swallows. Of all the loaded questions. “With my life,” he answers quietly, because it’s the truth.
Sherlock’s genuine smile makes itself known in the corners of his lips as they curve upwards. “This is the close embrace of the Argentine tango,” he says.
All of a sudden, Sherlock’s right hand takes hold of his left, Sherlock’s left hand moves across his back to hold him and he pulls John so close that their chests are flush. Their hips align but stay separated by mere inches, and John’s right hand automatically goes to Sherlock’s back to steady himself.
Sherlock holds him tightly, his body at once taut and flexible against John’s, ready to move.
It’s not going to happen tonight - John’s not that quick of a learner - but he pictures them dancing together. They would be sharp and precise, John following but anticipating as Sherlock gave him well-recognised cues. Their partnership wouldn’t allow for anything less than perfect symbiosis.
Most days, John feels like an extension of Sherlock. Sherlock certainly treats him like an extra pair of hands, but he knows now that it’s not just laziness on Sherlock’s part. There’s a level of absent-minded fondness to his trivial requests - his phone in the pocket of a jacket he’s wearing, a pen that’s right by his hand as he works at the microscope. Sherlock doesn’t see it like other people do. John reaching into his jacket for his phone isn’t a gross breach of personal space, it’s just that extra pair of hands performing a task his own hands are too busy for. But he wouldn’t ask it of Molly, or Lestrade, or even Mrs Hudson. He only ever asks these things of John, and it’s very telling of the way Sherlock must view him.
Even Sherlock doesn’t know where he ends and John begins.
They stand together for a long moment, adjusting to their new proximity, far closer than good friends should ever get. John can feel the heat of Sherlock’s body through both their layers of clothing. He wonders if Sherlock can feel his racing heart as it tries to escape the confines of his ribs. Even as he thinks it, he realises that he can feel Sherlock’s quickened breathing against his chest and on his face.
Their heads are close enough that only a tiny movement would mean kissing Sherlock.
For one insane moment, John thinks Sherlock is going to kiss him, but he bypasses John’s mouth to fit his own near to John’s ear, telling him softly: “The follower should submit to the leader. This is an embrace, so embrace me. Give yourself to me, no questions asked, no hesitations. Relax, John. You said you trusted me.”
John does, he very much does and he wants to say it, to reiterate it to Sherlock as many times as he needs to for Sherlock to believe him. He moves his head, opens his mouth to tell him and his cheek brushes Sherlock’s jaw, the fleeting touch like a spark on his skin, travelling through his body.
Sherlock’s arms tighten around him, drawing him even nearer.
John pulls back against his grip, pulls his head back enough to be able to look at Sherlock without their faces touching and meets Sherlock’s intense gaze. With only the fire providing any light in the flat, Sherlock’s wide pupils could be attributed to the darkness of the room. His own are probably the same.
What he can’t explain is the way he’s getting turned on from this clasp of theirs. He could say it’s the closeness, but it’s not. He’s not a young man anymore, he doesn’t get hard at the drop of a hat.
If Sherlock presses any closer, he’s going to know about it.
What will he do then?
Sherlock chooses that moment to gently drop his forehead onto John’s and shuts his eyes with a sigh. His right hand abruptly lets go of John’s and slides down to encircle his wrist, fingers pressing down. Taking his pulse.
He can’t explain that one away either, can he?
“Sherlock…”
He wants to beg to be released, to flee to the safety and simplicity of his room. He just can’t get the words out.
Sherlock’s eyes open at the use of his name, still dark, the quicksilver of his irises nearly invisible. For a moment, those eyes search his and then Sherlock nods, as if he’s found something there that he wanted to see.
Both of his palms come up to John’s neck, thumbs lightly caressing his jaw on either side.
He really is going to kiss me, John thinks, heart rate climbing further still. Sherlock must be able to feel that.
Sherlock can’t kiss him. They’re not like this, they don’t do this.
It’s just Sherlock pushing boundaries again. Acting, manipulating. Sherlock doesn’t want this, he said so. Transport, not his area, married to his work.
It’s just another trick of his, another role.
“Is this still part of the dance?” John asks.
Sherlock’s hands drop away. Suddenly there’s a foot of space between them and John feels cold from head to toe without Sherlock’s warm body pressed along the length of his.
How could he have been so stupid? He’s been taken in again. Why on earth should Sherlock want to teach him to dance except to tease a long-held, closely-guarded secret from his lips? And not through speaking either, it seems.
“I think that’s enough of a lesson for today,” Sherlock says flatly, head down and avoiding John’s eyes.
“Yes, I suppose it is,” John replies through clenched teeth. His fists are clenched too, but he’s not going to hit Sherlock. He just needs to get away from him for a long time.
Without another word, he darts past Sherlock, grabs his coat and storms out of the flat.
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He gets to Baker Street tube station.
He realises he has no money, no Oyster card, no phone.
He realises he has nowhere to go.
He realises that he’s jumped to a pretty big conclusion without any evidence.
Sherlock would be appalled.
When Sherlock is his first clear thought since his (not so) tactical retreat, he realises he’s probably more than a little bit in love.
He lets out a hysterical laugh and the people using the ticket barriers give him a wide berth.
Part 2