Fic: Behind Closed Curtains, pre-Sherlock/John, PG
Title: Behind Closed Curtains
Pairing: pre-Sherlock/John
Rating: PG
Additional tags: dancing, pre-Reichenbach, little bit of angst.
A/N: Written for a friend, who wanted to see Sherlock and John doing something cute. Also, set loosely during season two, when Sherlock and John are still, ahem, dancing around each other.
Summary: Sherlock teaches John how to dance. (Based on a certain scene from S3E02).
- - -
“You can dance?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I just - can’t really picture it.”
“Mm, yes. Well, given your lack of -”
“Save the insults. I’m still digesting the idea of you on a dance floor.”
“Oh, there haven’t been many of those. Mostly just in my own bedroom.”
And Sherlock - still doesn’t look up from his newspaper. Doesn’t seem to realize - of course he bloody doesn’t - that he’s just grabbed hold of John’s heartstrings and twisted. John takes a moment to bite through the ache - tries not to imagine Sherlock dancing alone his bedroom, because the idea’s just a bit too painful - and then takes another desperate sip of his scalding tea.
- - -
It starts with four simple words.
“I could teach you.”
Sherlock doesn’t even look up from his newspaper as he says it - continues reading, casual as anything, as though he hasn’t just suggested that they go for a turn about the living room - and John swallows, hard. Breathes through the slight burn on his cheeks, and then takes a careful sip of his too-hot tea, before setting it back down on the table beside him. They’re sitting across from each other on their two sofa chairs, their feet a bit tangled up in between them, John having just come back from a night at the pub with one of the few other friends he still has; and John should have really kept his mouth shut. Shouldn’t have blabbed to Sherlock about being invited to a wedding and not knowing how to dance - but how could he have possibly known that this is something that Sherlock can do, let alone something he hasn’t dismissed as frivolous and deleted from his hard drive?
“You can dance?”
“You sound surprised.”
“I just - can’t really picture it.”
“Mm, yes. Well, given your lack of -”
“Save the insults. I’m still digesting the idea of you on a dance floor.”
“Oh, there haven’t been many of those. Mostly just in my own bedroom.”
And Sherlock - still doesn’t look up. Doesn’t seem to realize - of course he bloody doesn’t - that he’s just grabbed hold of John’s heartstrings and twisted. John takes a moment to bite through the ache - tries not to imagine Sherlock dancing alone his bedroom, because the idea’s just a bit too painful - and then takes another desperate sip of his scalding tea. Only gives up when his tongue starts to burn; and then he lowers the cup and reminds himself that this is a horrible idea. Bad enough that he’s in love with the best friend he’s ever had - the friend who happens to be married to his work, and who’s clearly communicated his disdain for human emotion. The last thing they need is to be put into a position of close proximity, with nobody else around. John might be good at keeping his feelings to himself, but even he’ll have a breaking point, somewhere.
“Well - thanks, but. I think I’ll manage.”
Sherlock’s only response is a shrug that somehow comes across as completely and utterly disinterested, his eyes still on his paper, and John sucks in a steadying breath as he goes back to his tea, trying to ignore the feeling of Sherlock’s foot pressed up against John’s in between them.
- - -
After that, John starts searching out other options.
He can’t ask Mrs. Hudson - explaining why she couldn’t say anything to Sherlock would just confirm the suspicions she’s had for far too long - and he doesn’t exactly have many other people in his life. It would be the same situation with Molly, or even with Greg - though the idea of asking Greg to teach him how to dance is somewhat amusing, at least - and he finally ends up sitting at a computer at the local library, looking up information on nearby dance studios. What with how fond Sherlock still seems to be of cracking his laptop password, John’s pretty sure that googling from home wouldn’t be the best plan, even if he still doesn’t exactly have high hopes for pulling this off without Sherlock figuring it out.
- - -
In the end, he gets discovered after only one class.
Sherlock’s wrapped in his blue housecoat and stretched out on the couch, staring up at the ceiling with his hands on his chest and his hair an absolute mess, when John walks into the room. Closes the door behind him, and then turns to find Sherlock sitting up, his eyes sweeping down the entire length of John’s body - god, John is not going to blush - before he pulls an expression that looks more confused than smug.
“But - I said I would teach you.”
“I - how did you know -”
“Irrelevant. What is important, however -”
“Sherlock -”
“- is why you’ve rejected my offer, and elected to pay strangers to teach you, instead.”
And John - just stares at Sherlock for a desperate moment. Can’t come up with anything that won’t be a giveaway. Knows, distantly, that standing and gaping like a beached fish is probably just as transparent as anything he might have come up with; and when Sherlock slides to his feet and stares at him, John still can’t say anything. Swallows, hard, as Sherlock’s eyebrows narrow.
“You allow me into your personal space on a regular basis.”
“I -”
“Is something different, now? Do you wish for me to - do that less? Did I do something wrong?”
And oh, lord. Now Sherlock’s blaming himself - jumping to the completely wrong conclusion, for once, and thinking that this whole situation is his own fault, somehow - and John’s stomach hurts as he forces himself to shake his head. Knows that he needs to get it together, and quickly. Lord only knows how long it’s been since Sherlock had someone in his life who’s made him comfortable with something as pedestrian as human contact. John might well be that only person, actually.
“No, I - god, no, Sherlock. I don’t - mind at all. I just - you’ve seemed busy, and I didn’t want to bother -”
“I don’t even have a case.”
“I - well, then. I just thought -”
“Are you avoiding me?”
“No.”
“You are.”
“Sherlock -”
“Fine. I have better things to do, anyway.”
It’s icy, even by Sherlock’s standards, and John can’t think of a single thing to say as Sherlock wraps his housecoat a bit tighter around him and crosses the room, slamming his bedroom door behind him - and John can’t even accuse him of being a drama queen, this time, because he’s pretty sure that, if the situation was reversed, he’d be just as confused and pissed off. Spends a second staring at the closed door before he breathes through a wave of guilt and goes to put the kettle on, silently cursing himself for being an idiot and an absolute coward where Sherlock is concerned.
- - -
After that, John lasts just two more days.
He finally cancels his second dance class when Sherlock manages to stay in his room for nearly forty-eight hours, coming out just long enough to shower and acquire the tea that John’s made for him. It’s painful to watch, and painful to be on the receiving end of; and by the time the sun’s gone down on day two, and Sherlock’s sad-sounding violin is the only indicator of his continued existence, John finally takes a steadying breath and goes to have a shower of his own. Breathes through the absolutely fucking stupid butterflies in his stomach as he washes himself down and finds something comfortable to wear, before going into the living room and looking around a bit helplessly. Hesitates for a moment, and then closes the damn curtains, feeling like a right fool as he does it, but unable to stop himself. Hesitates even longer before he finds the guts to knock on Sherlock’s door, trying to calm his telltale racing heartbeat. They’re going to be far too close for that, and the last thing John needs is for Sherlock to deduce exactly what’s going on in John’s head.
“Go away.”
“Can I come in?”
“Composing.”
“Sherlock -”
“Busy.”
“What if I said you could teach me how to dance?”
For a second, there’s absolute silence. Then, the sound of soft footsteps, and John takes a step back as Sherlock opens the door - looking far too pleased with himself, the prat. It’s enough to make John roll his eyes, though he can’t stop the little grin, too, at the sight of Sherlock so content.
“Yes, alright. You win. You going to help me, or not?”
“I’d be delighted.”
It’s not what John had expected - he’d been expecting to have to do a bit of apologizing, really - and then Sherlock moves past John and steps into the middle of the living room, housecoat waving as he goes, and - yeah, this was a horrible idea. Because Sherlock is holding out a hand, and John - can’t breathe. Something inside him is shutting down. How did he ever think he could do this.
“It’s only dancing, John. And you’ve taken care of the blinds. No one to see you but me.”
By some miracle, John bites down the, That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, that wants to get out, and manages to make himself breathe long enough to step forward and take Sherlock’s hand. Can’t quite keep his own hands steady as he does so - and then silently swears up and down as Sherlock draws him in closer and puts his hand on John’s hip. Takes John’s other hand in his own and raises it, their fingers laced tightly together in the air beside them; and John is so busy trying to stay upright that he almost misses the surprisingly fond way that Sherlock is looking at him.
“Ready?”
“N-no.”
“Well, it’s hardly a complicated endeavour, even for you. Just follow my lead.”
“R-right.”
He’s stuttering - actually fucking full-on stuttering - and when there’s a flicker of confusion across Sherlock’s face, John sucks in a deep breath and makes himself put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. Tries to ignore how good that feels, and manages to keep his eyes open when Sherlock tightens his grip on John’s hip and slowly begins to move, drawing him across the silent room. For the first few seconds, John is pretty sure he’s going to trip and knock them both out; and then Sherlock pulls him in closer, squeezes his hand and tightens his grip on John’s hip, and John just fucking gives up on coming out of this with any kind of dignity. Gives up on breathing and on keeping his heart rate normal, and keeps his eyes firmly fixed over Sherlock’s shoulder as he lets Sherlock lead him around the room, trying to ignore the way heat is spreading out from the hand on his hip. Other than the occasional direction from Sherlock, the flat is silent, and far too closed-in and dark with the blinds pulled shut, and with Sherlock pressed so close - and John feels his skin pulling tighter and tight until Sherlock finally draws them to a stop and lets him go.
“Alright. You’re performing adequately so far.”
“I -”
“I’m going to put on some music, and then it’s time for you to lead.”
“I - right.”
But Sherlock’s already gone, sweeping across the room to their sound system and pile of CDs, and John uses the moment of reprieve to take a deep breath. Takes stock of his own body - racing heart, flushed skin, and the low ache that’s spreading through him - and wonders how Sherlock could possibly be missing all of this. Wonders if he’s got such a fucking blind spot where love and affection are concerned that he can’t actually pick up on what’s going through John head; and, honestly, John should probably be grateful for that, but it’s really just sad. Enough so that, when the beautiful notes of an orchestra fill the room and Sherlock moves back in front of him, frowning down at him and looking ever so slightly unsure, suddenly, John somehow finds it in himself to put on a smile. Swallows through the tightness in his stomach as he takes a little mock bow, and holds out his hand; because if Sherlock’s spent a lifetime dancing alone, then the least John can do is to make damn sure that he enjoys this. Not only might it get John through this without horribly giving himself away, but Sherlock deserves something good, too.
“May I have this dance?”
“You are ridiculous.”
“So are you, if you think I can lead us without running us into a wall.”
“Yes, well. It’s really not that difficult. Even your mental capabilities should be sufficient.”
“High praise.”
His smile’s a bit more genuine now, though, and even Sherlock’s lips twitch; and then he takes John’s hand, his fingers warm and gentle, and John ignores the way the pit drops out of his stomach as he laces their fingers together and raises their hands beside their bodies, trying to keep from shaking. This is for Sherlock as much as it’s for him, dammit, and John’s not going to screw that up.
“Other hand on my waist, John.”
Sherlock’s eyes are fixed down on him as he says it, his expression gone back to completely inscrutable, and John doesn’t trust himself to speak. Simply does as Sherlock says, and then closes his eyes and does his best to concentrate on the music, and on moving his feet in the ways Sherlock had shown him, trying to ignore the ease at which Sherlock lets himself be drawn where John leads him. Frankly, he’s distantly amazed that he manages to remember anything at all, given the circumstances; and it’s only when Sherlock actually chuckles that he realizes that they’re moving in ways that aren’t causing anyone damage, yet, and he manages to open his eyes again. Looks up at Sherlock, and the grin that pulls at his own lips is completely sincere, now, because Sherlock is looking both pleased and amused, and John isn’t absolute rubbish at this dancing thing, apparently; and John can’t help the wave of pride, even as he brings their feet to a standstill.
“What? You yourself said it’s not that difficult.”
“And you said you’d run us into a wall.”
“Well. Guess I have a good teacher.”
“That is definitely an important factor.”
And oh, god. Sherlock’s grinning now, too, and it’s absolutely gorgeous, and John just grins back up at him, even as he drops his hands and makes himself step backwards, trying to ignore how hard his heart is beating, and how shaky his knees are, and how hard it is to breathe. Enough is enough, at least for now. Any more of this and he’s going to do or say something incredibly stupid.
“Well, then. That was -”
“Fascinating, actually. I had always assumed that dancing with a partner would be annoying.”
“And -”
“Apparently I - miscalculated. Would it be - if you wanted to - can we do this again?”
It comes out as a bit of a rush, at the end, and John swallows, hard; because Sherlock’s not smiling, anymore, and John is pretty sure there’s a hint of carefully veiled desperation there. Something that Sherlock certainly doesn’t mean to be letting through; and John knows that it would be best to say no, and to walk away from this as a one-time experience. To recognize how lucky he is that they got through this without Sherlock figuring him out - but he just can’t do it. Works on keeping his voice steady, even as he mentally kicks himself for being a sentimental idiot where Sherlock is concerned.
“Of course. Any time.”
And that’s - it. That’s all he manages. Not even a quip about how John obviously still needs some practice - and it feels way too honest, somehow, as Sherlock just stands there and looks at him, his expression gone utterly inscrutable once again, leaving them staring at each other with those freaking violins in the background, and the slamming of John’s heart is so going to him away - and the sound of Greg’s ringtone has never been more welcome. Cuts through the moment and leaves John taking a shuddery breath as he pulls his phone out of his pocket, somehow dragging his gaze away from the intensity on Sherlock’s face.
“Triple murder, apparently. Interested? Greg says there’s, um, a weird looking kind of -”
“John. I - quite enjoyed this. Thank you.”
And John - knows he’s gaping like an idiot, as he looks up again, but he can’t quite stop himself. Can’t fix the way his lungs suddenly don’t seem to be working right. Stares back up at Sherlock until Sherlock’s lips twitch, something softening across his face - and, god, John could really get used to being on the end of that fond expression. Loves, suddenly, that he’s probably the only person in the world who ever gets looked at like that - and as agonizing as it might be to be so close to Sherlock without being able to touch the way he wants to, if it makes Sherlock this happy, then John is damn well going to do it.
“I - you’re welcome. And - thanks to you, too. Something more complicated next time, perhaps?”
“Indeed. I shall endeavor to teach you how to waltz.”
“Oh, god.”
It’s part sarcasm and part genuine concern, and when Sherlock’s only response is to smirk at him and twirl away like the drama queen he is, sliding out of his housecoat and swooping up his black coat from off the sofa chair, all John can do is breath through the ache in his chest as he reaches for his own coat. Slides into it with hands that still aren’t quite steady, before he turns off the music and turns to find Sherlock watching him from the doorway, scarf around his neck as he slides his gloves on.
“Ready?”
“Always.”
It’s probably a little more sentimental than necessary, and his voice probably isn’t steady enough; but Sherlock simply smiles at him and turns down the stairs, and John takes a deep breath before he follows, trying to forget the phantom feel of Sherlock’s fingers wrapped around his own. He’s not quite sure what he’s gotten himself into here - not sure how he’s ever going to survive an entire series of dancing lessons - but, if it makes Sherlock happy, then that’s really all John needs to know.