Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Sorry, it’s incredibly flattering, but—“ John shook his head, raised his hand and touched the opposite pointer-finger to his hammered-platinum ring. “I’m a married man.” The slinky brunette shifted herself on her bar stool, the hem of her cocktail dress riding a bit higher on her coffee-with-cream thighs.

“Your wife doesn’t have to know,” she purred, and her tiny, dark-polished fingertips flittered along the back of his hand, brushed the wrong way across the hair on his forearm.

“Haven’t got a wife,” John said, through a slight smile.

“Married. . .but you haven’t got a wife?” She was skeptical, her eyebrows lowering toward the bridge of her nose before they shot upward and her mouth came open in a small “o”. John clicked his tongue and made a “you got it!” gesture with his hand, took another sip from the rocks glass of whisky. The woman grinned, rocked back in her seat, away from him. “Apologies, then, on two fronts.” She shook her head. “I’m usually better at twigging you lot.”

John didn’t bother correcting her; no need to get her hopes up. She was exactly his type of woman, though, and he waved to the bartender to bring him another, give him something to focus on other than her barely-tamed curlique hair, the liquid way the fabric of her halter-top caressed the tight buds of her nipples.

“How long?” she asked, tone of voice utterly different, posture relaxing. Just making conversation, new friends in a hotel bar. “Have you been married, I mean?”

“A bit over two years, but we’ve been together since we were teenagers. It’ll be twenty years, this winter.”

Her eyes glimmered; she looked impressed. “You must be planning a party, then.”

John shook his head.

“Bit of a rough patch.” He downed the last of his whisky, pushed the glass toward the well of the bar. “He thinks I drink too much, for one thing.” He raised the second whisky at her in a vague toast, then set it down without taking a sip. He surprised even himself as he said aloud for the first time, “I think he wants to leave me.”

*

“Could you possibly give me some assistance with this lift?” Sherlock demanded, silver-green eyes narrowed and forehead nearing maximum crease. “It’s like hefting a bundle of plumbing pipe every time.”

“As if you’ve ever lifted anything remotely related to a trade,” Molly scoffed, tilting her torso downward to adjust the instep of her pointe shoe, her rehearsal tutu tipping upward right along with her, like the plastic lid of a cup stabbed through with a drinking straw. She spoke to her ankle, demanding, “Have you ever even picked up a hammer?”

“I ought to,” Sherlock said tartly, one eyebrow arching. As Molly straightened up, though, she caught the playful glimmer in Sherlock’s eye. “Are you sure you haven’t gained a bit—“

Her hand snapped upward, stopping him before he even finished. Sherlock rolled his eyes so extravagantly that his head followed along, then huffed mightily through his nose, but he shut his mouth.

“From the slyph’s entrance, s’il vous plait,” the choreographer, Georges, sing-songed in his French-accented lilt of a voice. “Do please try to make it graceful, Sherlock, when you lift her. And your face should exude adoration! She’s a lovely, ethereal spirit embodying the air, remember—not a bag of dog doo-doo on fire.”

Sherlock hummed, dragged his long fingers outward across his collarbones, his back straight as a rod. “Embodiment of fish and chips, more like.”

Molly shot Sherlock a look to kill.

“Let’s have a break, everyone!” Georges called out with a clap of his hands, and dancers scattered before he’d even added, “Fifteen minutes only, mes enfants. There is much work to be done!”

Sherlock retreated to a wooden folding chair, lifted a bag of ice onto his left knee. He fished a plastic water bottle from his bag and squeezed a torrent into his mouth, gulped hard. The toe-boxes of Molly’s shoes clack-clacked across the floor as she did the standard ballerina’s duck-walk toward her own pile of rehearsal gear and settled on the floor, slim legs splayed forward beyond the flat, frilled disc of the tutu. She began to rearrange her plaited hair, winding and tightening it high on the back of her head. She used the edge of her teeth to open the pins and easily slid them home; after years of classes and performances, she could fix her hair perfectly with just two pins and no mirror.

“You don’t seem like yourself these past few weeks,” she ventured mildly.

Sherlock gave her a sidelong look but said nothing. Molly redirected.

“How’s the knee?”

“A bastard.”

“So the usual, then,” Molly said, semi-brightly. There was a pause. “And how’s your John?”

“A bastard.”

Molly’s mouth twisted, and she leaned back on the palms of her hands.

“Tea after?”

Sherlock drew in what was probably meant to be a huffy sigh of annoyance, but which emerged as only a slight sigh of resignation.

“Thank you.”

*

The lovely woman—Lisa, outside rep for a company that manufactured educational software, in town for one of those big meeting/rallies meant to whip salespeople into a frenzy—clicked long, dark-painted fingernails along the rim of her wine glass as she listened.

“We spent all these years barely getting by. . .Now we’ve finally got some room to breathe, money-wise, but everything else is just. . .” John couldn’t find the word to finish.

“Seems to me it must be a big leap from playing to coaching,” Lisa observed. “Keeps you away from home a lot?”

John nodded. “Mm. When I was first injured, I had this foolish idea I’d play again—but three surgeries in seven months disabused me of the notion.”

“What was the injury?”

John touched his left shoulder with his right hand. “Compound fracture of my clavicle. The bone took a mad route into my shoulder, tore up tendons, did some nerve damage.”

She gritted her teeth, sucked in a breath across them. John smirked.

“Indeed.” He rattled the ice in the bottom of his glass. The bartender gestured, offering another, but John waved him off. One more drink and he knew he’d use the excuse of his semi-drunkenness to let his resolve slip, and this woman would finish the evening in his bed. And Sherlock—with his positively uncanny ability to see straight through John—would know. Even three days from now when John finally returned home, somehow, Sherlock would suss it—maybe cry, definitely shout—and then Sherlock could use the excuse of his anger. To leave.

“Luckily,” John went on, “I got offered this assistant coaching job, and I enjoy it, but it’s all-consuming. I haven’t found the balance yet; don’t know if there is one, if I’m honest.”

“Transitions like that can be so difficult,” Lisa offered. “I imagine your husband travels, too?”

“A bit. He’s in repertory in the autumn, through Christmas. Then sometimes gets loaned out to other companies in the spring as a featured guest. Some choreography for hire now and again. Ballet and rugby have about the same season, so there’s a lot of ships-in-the-night, home for half an hour, who’ll pick up the dry cleaning,  see you when I see you, sorts of days.” John was scratching a bit of sludge off the bartop with his thumbnail. “Sometimes I’ll suddenly realise I can’t remember the last time I looked him in the face. Or I’ll hope he doesn’t go missing because I have no idea what he was wearing when he left the flat. Or he’s sitting there breaking in shoes, I’m  working on my laptop, every now and then someone says something—which bills are due, I’ll make the tea in a minute, can you believe that situation in Hong Kong they’re always on about in the paper—and the other one hums. Then one of us has to be at work, or has a dinner meeting, or it’s nearly midnight so we go to bed.”

“I suppose it goes with the territory—two demanding careers, living with the same person so long. You probably have a shorthand way of interacting now.”

John hummed vague agreement. “Familiarity breeds contempt—isn’t that it? But it’s not contempt. It’s just. We live like flatmates. Bad flatmates, at that. He kisses me goodnight on the cheek like I’m his grand-dad.”

She laughed a bit, but her face had settled into a downturned, you-poor-budgie expression that gave John to know he’d said far too much. What was it about a stranger in a hotel bar that made you want to unburden yourself?

“And now that I’ve bored you to tears with my tale of woe,” he began.

“Not a bit,” she insisted, but with forced politeness.

“I must bid you a good night, kind Lisa of the educational software outside-sales department.” John tossed notes enough on the bar to pay for both their drinks and then some, stood and stretched his back, reclaimed his jacket from the back of the stool and draped it over his arm.

Lisa turned toward him, re-crossed her legs. There went the hemline, sliding up the thigh again.

“I’m not a. . .” she started, tilted her chin down and looked back up at John from beneath thick, dark eyelashes. “But we’re both far from home.” She glanced around the bar, indicating the lack of witnesses.

Something in John’s gut twitched, then roiled. But Sherlock would know. He would know.

“Sorry. You really are lovely. It’s very tempting.” He shuffled foot to foot. “Very tempting.”

“But.”

John shrugged. “But.”

She nodded, disappointment obvious in her expression.

John rested one hand lightly on her upper arm—skin soft as butter, good god—and pecked her chastely on the cheek. “It was nice to meet you. Thanks for listening to me prattle.”

“Take care of yourself,” she replied, and before John had removed his hand, before he had time to reconsider, she’d turned her back to him and gestured to the bartender to bring her another glass of wine. John went to his room, cleaned his teeth, turned the telly to the all-sport network (but with the sound too low to really hear), and wanked himself to sleep.

*

“So what makes John a bastard, exactly?”

Sherlock swirled the tea in his paper cup, created a whirlpool and then watched it slow and settle.

“You’ve met someone.”

Molly looked heavenward. “Don’t change the subject,” she sighed. She pulled her cardigan tighter around her.

“There’s a vent right above you; slide your chair eighteen inches to your left,” Sherlock said. Then, rapidly: “That’s not your cardigan, and you used the dressing room showers when you usually wait to shower at home. Either you’re not going home, or someone’s waiting for you there who you want not to smell the frankly alarming odor of your armpits.”

Molly moved her chair to the side without comment. Sherlock smirked. Lying on the table, Molly’s phone buzzed to life and skittered a bit. She turned it over, glanced at the screen with a slight frown, silenced it and set it aside. She turned her attention fully back on Sherlock, his fine, jutting angles elegantly—awkwardly—folded onto a plastic-and-metal coffee shop chair.

“Trouble at home?” she asked, in a quiet voice, full of concern, ignoring his guesses about her hypothetical paramour. She cut her scone in two with a plastic knife and crumpled one half in a paper napkin, then began to pick at the remaining half, one tiny crumb at a time.

“It’s not John,” Sherlock sighed out. “Well, it’s probably not him. It’s. . .You know we’re together twenty years soon.”

“I didn’t know that. I knew it was a long time, but. . .That’s remarkable.” Molly smiled, lips pursed. “Babies you must’ve been when you met!”

“I was fifteen. John turned eighteen just after.” He gave her a pre-emptive, accusing look. “Don’t say it was cute.”

“So cute!” Molly mock-squealed, but her face turned serious again almost instantly. “So what’s going on, then?”

“He doesn’t. . .” Sherlock paused, stared at the wall behind and above Molly’s head. She waited. “Look at my hands,” Sherlock demanded, at last, and shoved one long-fingered hand, palm-down, across the table toward her. “Spots. Age spots! My knees are getting arthritic,” he went on, and looked imploringly at her, “And I have always been so very good on my knees, I assure you.”

“Thank you, more than I needed to know.”

“These lines by my eyes, and dear god, my forehead—I’d have botox but. . . needles.” An exaggerated shiver of his shoulders. “And what gravity has done to my bollocks, I don’t even want to tell you.”

“Yes, well, that makes two of us,” Molly said quickly, with a little laugh. “First of all, you’re mad. Look at you; you’re gorgeous.”

“Old,” Sherlock moaned, correcting her poor choice of adjective.

Molly ignored him. “I’m sure you’re worrying about nothing. You’re practically still newlyweds. I don’t know John as well as I know you, but I know he loves you. He’s a good man. Nice. What’s the word? Steadfast.”

Sherlock started to protest, let it die behind his closed lips. He sipped the tea: stale old tea bag, generic brand bought in mega-bulk by hospitals, hotels, and—apparently—too cool for their own good coffee shops charging three times what other places did; salty-soft tap water; they hadn’t bothered to wash the skin of the lemon from which the wedge was cut.

“We have almost nothing in common anymore: different  interests, different friends. We used to laugh together a lot.” Sherlock shrugged ever-so-slightly and the bridge of his nose wrinkled. “I can’t remember the last time we laughed about anything that wasn’t also being laughed at by a pre-programmed television audience.”

Molly tilted her head. “I know you both had a rough go after he got hurt. We’ve seen things like that, too, all the time—dancers break an ankle and they’re finished long before they planned to be.”

“He got terribly depressed,” Sherlock complained, but instantly forgave it. “Of course he did. He was finally making decent money, they’d got those contracts at last. Top of his game even at his age. And then—“ Sherlock snapped his fingers and it echoed like a firecracker. “—it was over. He took it very hard—for a long time he actually thought he’d play again. Then the drinking started.”

“Drinking?” There was a new level of concern in Molly’s voice.

“Another thing that’s probably not really him. He’s not an alcoholic. But. He can get sloppy. And for months he was getting sloppy four nights a week. Less now that he’s got the coaching job. But it bothered me. Bothers me still. John doesn’t seem to care that it bothers me.”

“I’m sure he cares.”

Sherlock only fluttered his eyelids and looked at the pale auburn spot on the back of his left hand.

“And then look at me, with my knee, at my age, and with my contract about to expire. Another midlife crisis unfolds at 221B Baker Street.” Sherlock shifted in his chair, shoulders sloping down elegantly from his impossibly long neck. “Though as it turns out,” he added with barely-feigned nonchalance, “Royal New Zealand Ballet wants me.” He looked up straight into Molly’s eyes, then, and allowed himself a little grin. “Artistic Director.”

Molly’s face cracked wide open in a smile. “What?! That’s amazing! When—?”

“We’ve been back and forth for a few months. The offer letter came last week.”

“Sherlock! That is absolutely wonderful!” Molly leapt to her feet, jogged around the little square table to his side and wrapped her arms around his shoulders, kissed his cheek. “John must be so happy for you—it’s fantastic news.” She settled back into her chair.

“I—ah—haven’t actually told him about it.” Sherlock’s cup was empty; he began picking it apart from the top, tearing a long, curly ribbon of ragged, cream-coloured paper.

Molly drew her head back in surprise. “Why not?”

Sherlock’s jaw was set hard; Molly could see the tiny muscles flexing as he gritted his teeth. “I’ll tell him after I make up my mind whether to take it. It’s not for him to decide.”

“Not decide, no. But. . .you’re partners; seems the kind of thing partners would talk through. And New Zealand’s the other side of the world, for heaven’s sake.”

“Exactly,” Sherlock murmured to the unspooling paper cup. “Of course John wouldn’t want to move to New Zealand. His team is here, the league. He likes his job. . .If I decide to go, I’m sure I’ll be going alone.”

Sherlock could see Molly picking her words with care. “So it’s not just the job you’re weighing up, then.” Sherlock shook his head, just a bit. “But. Really, Sherlock. . .you should no more make a decision on his behalf than he should on yours. After twenty years, you owe it to John—your husband—not to. . .just yank the rug out from under him.”

“I just want John to be happy. He’s been unhappy for too long.”

“He will be happy, when you tell him—“

“I haven’t been entirely faithful to him.”

Molly’s mouth dropped open, snapped shut.

“Nothing serious. No love affairs,” Sherlock clarified, picking more furiously at the paper cup, staring holes in it. “I felt absolutely nothing about it; but I know John would feel hurt if he knew, so I haven’t pursued any more. But isn’t that a sign that we’re. . .” his tone grew quieter, and the last word came out on a brittle catch, “. . .broken?”

Molly reached for his hand, wrapped her fingers around to press against his palm. “It’s not a good sign,” she admitted. “But. . .You love him enough to stop doing things you thought would hurt him. What you have with him—twenty years—it’s worth keeping. At least it’s worth a try.”

“He would never agree to a move like that. He’d tell me not to take it; he’d insist we stay here, that I renew my contract one more year and look for something local—start a little company. . .or, ugh, teaching.” He shrugged resignedly. “London is his home.”

“You’re his home,” Molly insisted. “Sherlock, you need to talk to him. Not just about Royal New Zealand. All of this.”

Sherlock frowned. “I’ve left it so long. To talk about it aloud now would only provide pure and final proof that it’s too late to save it.”

Sherlock had finished tearing the cup, and so began rolling the ribbon of paper into a tight coil. He drew in a deep breath, exhaled hard, forever. His eyes were hot, tingling; pins and needles burned his neck and cheeks.

“It’s quite sad, isn’t it?” he asked, tone more detached than disbelieving. “It’s sad this is how it ends.”

*

John was rinsing the last of the dishes from their supper: half of each plate heaped with quick-sauteed greens (Sherlock required olive oil by the half-teaspoon at regular intervals), precisely-weighed protein (braised chicken thighs, double serving for Sherlock, John ate the crispy skin with gusto), buttered bread for John, a weird purple juice concoction for Sherlock.

“So, this coming Tuesday night. Anything on?”

Sherlock looked up from his tablet, pulled out an earbud. “Sorry?”

“Tuesday night,” John repeated, wiping his hands dry and hanging the towel back on its hook. “I’d like to take you to dinner.”

Sherlock looked vaguely suspicious. “Why?”

John shrugged, smiling. “No reason. I’d like to take you out on a date. It’s been a while since we did that.”

“Oh.” Sherlock’s face glowed blue-green in the reflected light from the screen. It took a few long seconds for his face to arrange itself, settle into the slightest of smiles. “A date, is it.” His eyes were back on the screen.

“You can pick the place,” John offered, and didn’t need to clarify that he was offering to accommodate Sherlock’s diet as the opening of the season approached. A month of Manon to start, then some special week-long do for the Ballet’s anniversary gala—a retrospective collection of excerpts or something, John would have to look up the details on the website—then. . .was it Don Quixote? There was a contemporary thing to finish out the holidays, John was certain. He dreaded those even more than the classical stuff.

Sherlock, eyes still on his screen, hummed. “Yes, you may take me on a date,” he said, in a tone of mild teasing.

John rocked toe-to-heel a few times. “Good. Good. I’ll look forward to it.”

“Hm.”

John crossed the room, settled at the end of the sofa and drew Sherlock’s feet into his lap, began to massage one, careful not to disturb calluses, avoiding places he knew were usually tender.  John pressed his thumb into Sherlock’s arch and his toes curled and he purred.

“Good?”

“M-hm.” Sherlock had not replaced the loose earbud, but his gaze was intent on his screen.

“Good. What are we watching?”

“Carreño’s Ave Maria.”

“Ah.” John had no idea. “Maybe some telly when you’re done? Or. . .” he looked at his watch. “If you’re too tired.”

“Give me a minute.”

John nodded and switched to Sherlock’s other foot, gently pinched his finger and thumb along the Achilles tendon, which made Sherlock groan in a way that was a 50/50 mix of deep gratitude and pure relief, but which John’s lizard-brain interpreted as a sound of orgasmic ecstasy. His cock responded immediately, surging and straining inside his clothes. He turned his gaze to Sherlock’s eerily-lit face, all harsh angles and flat planes.

“Sherlock?”

“Mm.” His eyebrows went up, but not his eyes.

“Look at me for a minute?”

He raised his head. “Yes? What is it?” He sounded mildly annoyed but John carried on. He swept one hand up Sherlock’s calf, around to his shin, stroked a bit with fingertips over the fine hairs there.

“I just. . .” John said, and almost stopped because he felt stupid, but forced himself to finish. “I just want to look at you a bit.”

Sherlock’s finger moved to his screen—must have paused his video—and he set the tablet aside on the coffee table, tugged the remaining earbud free and let the wires fall. He looked puzzled.

“Hi,” John said. His mouth curled up at the corners but he didn’t bare his teeth.

Sherlock laughed, rolled his eyes a bit. “Hi yourself. So serious.”

John shifted closer, drew Sherlock’s long, muscular legs across his lap, guided Sherlock by the hands so he was more upright, nearer. John’s bright blue eyes roamed across the visage of Sherlock’s face: his hairline was higher on the sides now than it had once been, and there were just a few white hairs here and there at his temples (John suspected Sherlock plucked them out; they came and went). It had been more than a day since Sherlock last shaved; there was stubble on his chin and over his lip, but his cheeks were still smooth. The pale, narrow scar below his lip; the slightly-unruly eyebrows (John more than suspected Sherlock tamed them at regular intervals); his sky-green eyes, flecked with silver and black, icy blue near the pupil. Jesus, he was stunning—this man John had met as a boy, grown up with, married. He was remarkably, undeniably beautiful. And John could go days at a time without ever even looking at him, instead thinking harshly about his wet bath towels on the bedroom floor, his whiskers in the sink, the kitchen cupboards always hanging open, the sugar bowl left on the counter.

What gall I have to ever take you for granted, John thought then, and a lump of shame thickened in his throat. Look at you. Look who you are. And look who I am. Clearly, the highest class of idiot.

“You’re so handsome,” John said simply, and stroked his palm across Sherlock’s pyjama-clad thigh.

Sherlock threw up his hands, waving away the compliment, rolled his eyes then looked down and away. He squirmed under John’s scrutiny, his sincerity. Who could say that about me? Age spots and laugh lines and this extra bit I can pinch at my waist that just won’t go away no matter what I do.

“You are. You know you are.”

“Stop. I already said you can take me on a date. Stop. I’m a wreck; you’re required to say nice things because you’re my husband.”

“I’m required to say it because it’s true.”

“Honestly, John,” Sherlock huffed, and he was beginning to sound genuinely annoyed. He changed the subject. “What’s on telly, then?”

But by then John’s hands were on the move, gliding upward along Sherlock’s thighs, skimming quickly and lightly past his taut abdomen (not because John wasn’t dying to feel the thin, smooth skin there, not that he didn’t want to hear Sherlock gasp and giggle as John caressed and tickled—but only because he knew Sherlock was self-conscious about some imaginary flaw there). John’s hands tunneled under Sherlock’s thin t-shirt until his fingertips grazed Sherlock’s nipples—feather-light at first, until they budded tightly beneath his touch, then pinching a bit—and Sherlock’s neck relaxed and he adjusted his head on the arm of the sofa and closed his sea-icicle eyes. He sighed. He melted. Sherlock’s hand rested on John’s arm just above his elbow, but he didn’t move to do more because after so long together, they knew their roles: John the aggressor, worshipful, and Sherlock done unto, adored.

John stretched, hovered, aligned his body with Sherlock’s. Breath in Sherlock’s ear, tongue and lips along Sherlock’s neck, rucking up his t-shirt to expose his belly and chest, John’s fingers working his nipples, then John’s mouth, wet, warm, velvety tongue, cool breath blown across, a shock of suddenly-reversed sensation. Sherlock gasped despite himself and tried to quiet his mind: that difficult lift that wasn’t actually Molly’s fault, his throbbing knee, the jete sequence in the second act, his expiring contract, Royal New Zealand, John’s hand inside the waistband of his pyjamas, tugging loose the drawstring, warm palm against Sherlock’s hip, sliding down and around to roughly handle his buttocks, the way Sherlock liked it, the way John knew Sherlock liked it. Sherlock at last closed-eyed and unwinding; John knew exactly where to click to make his body respond. Everything easy and automatic now, it was classic choreography their bodies had long since memorized. They’d had twenty years of practice.

John’s mouth was against Sherlock’s neck again, just below his ear, and his hand was sliding, gliding, fingernails dragging along the crease between belly and thigh, onward and downward through Sherlock’s neatly trimmed pubic hair, not hesitating when he found Sherlock’s cock flaccid against his thigh. John skimmed his fingers along its length, drew it into his palm, wrapped fingers around it, gently squeezed, and the response was immediate—John knew how to make this happen—and so he pressed kisses into the hollow beneath Sherlock’s ear, breath moist and warm, a voice so low and needy and so near a whine it grated across Sherlock’s brain:

“Tell me what you want.”

I want you to want me so hard you don’t bother to ask what I want. I want you to grab me and shake me and pull my hair and bite me. I want it to feel like it did when it was new. I want to do it out of order. I want you to accidentally pin my wrist beneath your knee so I shout out in pain and you apologize and we both end up laughing and have to take a minute to recover. I want this to be overwith. I want you to go away so I can finish what you started, in under a minute, because I’m tired and I don’t want the mess. I want to wonder what will happen next. I want you to be dying to get me off, not just using me to get yourself off. I want to get back to my computer. I want to go to sleep. I want us to be watching telly instead. I want you to forget I even have a body because it’s falling apart and it used to be beautiful but now when you look at it I feel ashamed. I want to take my body back from you. I want you not to need me so much.

Sherlock said nothing.

His hands found their way onto John’s shoulders, pressed down, and John obliged unquestioningly, easing down the pyjama bottoms (Sherlock lifted his hips to accommodate the motion), rolling his tongue across Sherlock’s half-hard prick, wrapping his hand around to help things along, free hand moving from Sherlock’s nipple, across his chest, down his side, caressing his balls (Sherlock cringed: gravity. Surely John was just being kind; Sherlock was no longer that pretty boy he’d been), and. . .one-two-three, one-two-three. . soon enough Sherlock was moaning, panting, rocking up to meet John’s mouth, and John hummed encouragement. With expertly-applied muscle memory—hands here and here, pressure, friction, heat, moisture, all the right noises—he brought Sherlock to the edge, and over—the anticipated response, he’d done all the usual things. John swallowed with only a mild grimace, grinned (pleased with himself), wiped his lips on his sleeve.

Kneeling up between Sherlock’s thighs, John freed himself from his trousers—oozing, over-eager cock heavy and dark in his hand—edged closer to Sherlock, who gave a heavy-lidded, sex-drunk look of admiration (ooh!), closed his eyes as if overcome with ecstasy, hands here and here, all the right noises, and John came in hot spurts across Sherlock’s belly and Sherlock murmured that it was so hot, so fucking sexy, and John caught his breath, and Sherlock waited with his mind ramping back up while John’s sticky spunk cooled on his skin. Once John’s knees stopped shaking, he would fetch a towel and mop up Sherlock’s torso and kiss him and tell him he loved him and then Sherlock could go to bed and turn his back and pretend to sleep until he actually fell asleep.

I want to not have to tell you: That what I want is all of this, and that I want every bit of it to be different.

 

*

The pas de deux Sherlock and Molly are rehearsing here is not described in this chapter, but here is what I used as inspiration, and it may figure in later chapters. It is quite long, at over 8 minutes, but it is danced by two absolute masters, Rudolf Nureyev and Margot Fonteyn, in 1963 (Nureyev choreographed the piece). Around the four minute mark, Nureyev is featured with some remarkable leaps and turns--grace and athleticism, airborne--and then at 7:40ish. One reviewer at the time called Nureyev "splendidly barbaric, erotic, and feline." Perfect inspiration for our ballet!Sherlock, don't you think?

Chapter Text

“Whoever has this phone which won’t shut up, please turn it off or I will lose my brain!” Georges shouted.

Molly, who was being held aloft, backwards, and nearly upside-down, tapped Sherlock’s calf with one dainty hand. “It’s me. I’m sorry.” He set her back on her feet.

“She’s met someone!” Sherlock near-shouted, directing the pronouncement around the room. “Molly has met someone willing to ignore the stink of her rehearsal-sweat, everyone! Clearly he does not have a job of any substance, as he has time on his hands to be relentlessly sexting her during work hours.”

Molly gave him the two-finger salute as she dug in her duffel for her phone.

“Take five minutes, mes enfants, but no more,” Georges allowed, and reached for his own phone, thumbs flying across the screen.

Sherlock loomed behind Molly, trying to read over her shoulder. She waved him off vaguely but made no real protest. “If there are. . .” Sherlock rolled his eyes, “. . .Dick pix, I’ll need to evaluate them.”

“Stop that,” Molly demanded. “It’s not—“ She scrolled the screen for a bit. “Do you know anyone at Singapore Ballet Theatre?”

“Is there such a thing?” Sherlock retorted. He held an ice pack to his knee, secured it with a wide, stretchy band cut from an old pair of tights.

“That’s what I wondered. I keep getting messages from this bloke who says he’s a recruiter. He’s seen my videos, he wants to see more, there’s a frankly ludicrous amount of money, I’d be a lead principal. . .It just sounds a bit fishy.”

“That you’d be a lead principal?” Sherlock asked archly. “Mm. That does sound quite fishy.”

Molly ignored the dig. “The girls in the corps are getting messages, too, and I think some of them are getting their hopes up.” She held her phone so Sherlock could see it. “Look at this: seven emails just in the past half-hour; this last one he’s asking how I like my shoes broken in.”

Sherlock let out a slight, scoffing bark of a laugh; he’d been around enough ballerinas to know that only the girl who would wear the shoes could possibly break them in correctly—by use of hammers, razor blades, tape, pliers, wool padding, and good old-fashioned pounding on the floor. During dress-rehearsal weeks he heard three dozen pairs of satin-wrapped toe boxes endlessly striking parquet in discordant rhythms, even in his sleep.

Molly’s fingers flew over the tiny keyboard on her phone’s screen. “I’m going to tell him thanks but no thanks. I’ll email the company mailing list later to warn people off it. It just doesn’t sit right with me.”

Georges clapped his hands. “Mes belles enfants, we are back to work at once. Mam’selle Molly, my handsome monsieur, back to places please, and remember we are feeling tragic, tragic, très tragique. . .Sad faces now but don’t cry or you will surely be blinded with these tears and fall down on your asses. And five, and six, and if you please.  . .”

A swell of sad, dramatic music then, and Sherlock and Molly rolled over and under each other, embracing on the floor, she in the last moments of life, he desperate to save the woman he has crossed and ocean and killed a man to save. Molly drifted limply in his arms as they got to their feet, limbs loose and weak as Sherlock turned her this way and that, urged her upward, forward, held the back of her lolling head in his hand. Molly was dying in his arms; she rolled helplessly toward the floor, but Sherlock caught her, gathered her up. She ran; he followed and embraced. Her body collapsed against him, sank again dangerously, knuckles and toe-tips brushing the floor; Sherlock caught her in one strong arm, raised her up again, urging her to awaken.

Molly doubled over and in the nick of time, Sherlock gathered her up in both his long arms, her back against his inward-curling chest as she wilted. There were scattered gasps throughout the room, and Georges sang out, “Oui!” (He was from Montreal: “ou-wheey. . .”) “This is beautyfool! Perfect!”

Molly was fading, a fragile shadow stumbling, turning, lost. Sherlock nuzzled his face against hers, gripped her hips and tossed her skyward and she reached. Back to the floor and he ran, and she struggled to follow, and Sherlock turned back to take her hand, pull her forward, embrace her. Sherlock lifted Molly onto his shoulder and her back unfurled against his, her frail arm reaching, reaching, and she drifted, head and torso tilting dangerously toward the floor.

Sherlock dropped her.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” he thundered, and Molly rolled herself onto her bottom, sat massaging her wrist, the only other evidence of pain a slight reddening of the rims of her eyes, which blinked faster than usual. Sherlock loudly demanded, “What did you do there? You were all over the damned place!”

“I’m fine, thanks for asking,” Molly shot back.

Sherlock turned his back to her, took three long strides, grabbed a folding chair and hurled it.

“This is enough!” Georges shouted. Dancers at the periphery either rolled their eyes in exasperation or covered their mouths in shock, dependant on how long they’d been with the Ballet—those who’d spent even one season in the company of Sherlock Holmes were by now well-used to his strops to rival any prima ballerina’s diva-tantrum.

Sherlock rubbed his jaw hard between his thumb and the flat of his fingers. “Are you all right,” he muttered, not really a question, perfunctory.

Molly was by now standing, palms planted in the creases of her hips.

“I’m OK,” she replied. “It’s nothing.”

Georges approached her, handed her a towel and reached for her wrist. She was hesitant to let him touch it. “You will go see the nurse and come back with a note for me it says this is nothing.”

Molly opened her mouth to protest but he was already guiding her by the elbow toward the door of the rehearsal room. “And I know how is her handwriting, so do not try to fool with me. Go on.”

Sherlock was pacing, long feet toe-heel, toe-heel up and down the center of the room. He grasped the fabric of his second-skin-tight t-shirt just below the neck, drew it out and up, ducked his head to wipe sweat from beneath his fringe.

“And you, mon ami, will take time to compose yourself while we rehearse the ensemble,” Georges ordered, in a voice that invited no response from Sherlock. “It is only that you lost concentration, that you drop her this way.”

“I didn’t lose fucking concentration,” Sherlock seethed through clenched teeth, chest high, fists balled beside his thighs. “She was being lazy and her balance was off.”

Georges, sixtyish and having seen it all, only stood planted to the spot, shoulders elegantly—solidly—squared to Sherlock, and said in an even, quiet voice. “It isn’t gentlemanly, Sherlock, blaming the girl for this mistake. She must trust you or this will happen again and again until she says, No, I will not partner with this man because he cannot keep me safe.”

Sherlock’s nostrils flared.

“Take a walk; come back, thirty minutes.”

Sherlock grabbed his bag off the floor and stomped from the room, the other dancers sliding aside to let him pass.

*

TEXT from unknown number: Hi John it’s Molly from UKB. We want to go in on a gift for Sherlock’s anniversary/gala wk. Any idea what he’d like???

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: What anniversary, now???

TEXT from Molly H: Did he not tell you??? Special retrospective program. He’s featured. Fifteen years!!!

John, in the tiny office he shared with another coach, picked out the UK Ballet’s website URL on his laptop and sure enough, right there on the front page was a photo of Sherlock like a rocket in flight, three feet off the stage, coloured in tones of silvery blue.

 “Annual Gala! Virtuoso: Sherlock Holmes. Join us for an evening with a true master of classical and contemporary ballet, celebrating his fifteenth year as Lead Principal Dancer with UK Ballet. Mr Holmes will perform highlights from throughout his career, including selections from Le Corsaire, Airs, Don Quixote, and more of his best-loved work. Gold Circle and higher level members of the UKB are invited to meet Mr Holmes and other UKB dancers at a cocktail reception following the performance.”

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Let me get back to you RE: a gift. Maybe just a donation in his name.

TEXT from Molly H: Can you let me know by the 10^th?

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Will do.

So John had indeed heard Sherlock mention Don Quixote in some regard. . .Could Sherlock have told him about this and he completely missed it? He couldn’t possibly be that thick. More likely Sherlock had made a casual comment about working on a piece from Don Quixote and John conflated it with the seasonal schedule. He quickly pulled up a recent email from the team’s travel coordinator and compared the dates. Naturally, inevitably, there was a disastrous conflict. Not just playing Away the same afternoon as Sherlock’s evening performance. Playing Away in fucking Inverness. Even if John splashed out for a plane ticket (ouch), he’d never make it back in time.

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Still meeting at 7:15 at the restaurant, yes?

Why in hell had Sherlock not invited him to come? He hadn’t even bloody mentioned it. Surely he’d known about it for a while and could have given John plenty of time to sort his schedule. Sherlock was always so fucking flighty about dates and events; how many times had they been invited to something and Sherlock couldn’t remember the date, or the time, or whether it was an engagement party or birthday drinks, and then it was always left to John to go chasing down details through friends-of-friends.  It wouldn’t reflect too well on the new bloke to be asking to miss a match with only a few weeks’ notice. Fuck’s sake, they’d given him the opportunity to block off two match-days months ago! But he’d taken a pass on it entirely, not anticipating any conflicts.

TEXT from SH: Will try to be on time.

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Yes well there’s a reason I say 7:15 when the reservation’s at 8.

TEXT from SH: I don’t like the implication!

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Nevermind it. You’re always worth the wait.

John’s fingers hovered above his phone’s screen. Would he bring up the Gala performance in a text? Too risky; he’d ask about it during dinner. He would definitely not mention that Molly had asked about a gift for Sherlock; surely that was meant to be a surprise. And now that John thought of it—he’d have to get Sherlock a gift, as well. Normally he’d have asked Molly what she thought he’d like, but if she was asking him. . .clearly he was on his own this time.

John composed an email to the head coach; cc’d the other assistants and the travel coordinator.

“Hello Den,

Hate to be that bloke, but I’ve just discovered I’ve got a schedule conflict on a match day, and I wonder if it’s too late to request the day off? It’s still nearly eight weeks out—the third-Saturday match at Inverness. Obviously I’ll run the backs through their paces to be sure they’ll get by without me; Inverness looking a bit rubbish this year anyway—an easy win, I figure.”

John was mulling over taking out the last bit—save it for the follow-up? Or to say to Dennis in person when next he saw him? He chewed the skin next to his thumbnail.

TEXT from SH: Is your shoulder as bad as my knee today? Why won’t it just RAIN already.

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: It is a bit not good, yeh.

John took out the last sentence of the email about Inverness being rubbish. It was too early to tell; they could get better in the intervening weeks and he didn’t want it pushed back in his face that he’d predicted an easy win in order to get out of being at the match. But. Maybe instead of asking for the day off, he should just call out sick that day? Jesus, he’d never had to ask for a day off before. When his parents died, back when he was still playing, they’d offered him the week, each time, without him having to ask. When he was a kid, he’d played hungover and vomiting between tries—never took a sick day, not even from a practice. Now he was worried he’d seem unserious about the new job, asking for a day off to go to what amounted to a party for Sherlock. Well, no. It was more than just a party. They’d understand. The whole married-to-another-bloke thing was a bit of a spanner in the works at times; no one had been outright negative, but certainly some of the older fellas’ eyebrows went up when they heard. But still. A spouse is a spouse, and when your spouse is being feted, of course you attend the do.

He reworked the end of the email:

“Obviously I’ll run the backs through their paces to be sure they’ll get by without me, no worries there—and of course they’ve got Iain there, either way. My husband’s got a work event that evening I need to attend, and I couldn’t make it back to London in time after the match. Sorry for the late notice. 

Much obliged, John Watson.”

He sent it, looked at his phone. No more texts from Sherlock—he was probably back to rehearsal.

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Looking forward to eating you later.

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Eating WITH you later!

TEXT from FlyhalfJW: Then we’ll just see where the evening takes us. ;-)

*

Sherlock had claimed a time-worn sofa in a rarely-used lounge with a mini-kitchen. He cringed a bit at John’s sexy texts; it seemed so childish and they were so far from being children. It was like a pair of old shoes trying to flirt with each other. He left it hanging there; John would assume he’d gone back to rehearsals. He would send a “You cheeky beast, ha ha!” in an hour or two.

“Oi, mate, I’m turned around, which way to the—“

Sherlock looked up to find a young stranger in a t-shirt that read “Melville Electric and Heating” across the front. He wore well-beaten steel-toed boots with the laces all loosened and left hanging, and his hair looked slept-on but clean. He smiled. Dimple in one cheek. Dark brown eyes.

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

The kid went on smiling, leaned sideways against the door frame. “You a ballerina?” he asked, teasing unapologetically as if he had a right to tease. Familiar. Flirting?

“Dancer, yes,” Sherlock replied tautly. “Is there ice in that freezer there?” He gestured, and the kid looked skeptical but crossed to open the freezer door.

“Making cocktails, I hope.”

“Not during work hours, I’m afraid.”

“Maybe later, then.”

 Definitely flirting. Sherlock sat up a bit straighter, displaying pectoral muscles to their best advantage beneath his clinging shirt. The kid rooted around a bit, pulled out a rectangular plastic thing filled with frozen gel.

“Only this,” he said. “Not going to fit in a highball glass.”

“That’s exactly what I need, actually.” Outdated, over-sophisticated jargon irrelevant to the topic at hand. “You’re a bartender,” Sherlock said.

“At night, yeah.” The kid approached, passed the ice pack to Sherlock, who raised his foot onto a nearby chair and balanced the ice atop not-quite-the-right-spot on his knee. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess,” Sherlock said with a shrug and a glance from beneath his lashes.

“Bad knees,” the kid said, and Sherlock let the obviousness of the statement go by, in the spirit of the flirtation.

“Depends how I’m using them.”

The kid smiled at that, flashing teeth far straighter and whiter than a young man destined to be a tradesman should have. Parents had money, fixed his teeth when he was young (or, rather, even younger), but that was back before they shoved him out of the nest without his inheritance from grand-uncle Duke of Earl. Before they found out about his deviant sexual proclivities.

“Where are you meant to be? I’m sure they’ll be missing you,” Sherlock offered.

The kid shrugged, shook his head. “It’s fine. Lunch break.”

Sherlock licked his lips, let his thighs fall slightly apart, gave an order.

“Shut the door.”

*

“Watson,

No trouble about the day off; you know you have a few personal and sick days anyhow, yeah? Speaking as you were of your man there, didn’t I see his picture the side of a bus shelter the other day, on the poster for the ballet? Bigger than life! Got yourself a celebrity there, have you. My missus wondered if since I was telling her about seeing that poster, there might be a way for me to take her one night to see the ballet? Don’t trouble yourself.

Den”

John laughed out loud, reading the head coach’s email. The pains he took not to have to say your husband to a bloke. Ah, well. He was trying, at least.

“Den,

No bother at all about the tickets to the ballet; tell your wife she can pick any performance she likes, send me the date and I’ll arrange it. Thanks again for understanding.

Best, John.”

Sherlock had five pairs of tickets to every performance as part of his compensation. John asked every time he was negotiating a new contract if he couldn’t just get the cash in his pay checks but either the Ballet wouldn’t come across, or—more likely—Sherlock never bothered to ask (Sherlock had grown up with never a single worry for money, so he didn’t bother about it, even when they were struggling, a penchant which drove John to the edge—particularly at those times when they were down to eating beans on toast and Sherlock breezed in with a black Waterstones bag stuffed with books he would never finish reading). They offered up free seats to friends, and John sold whatever went unclaimed. He sometimes thought the best thing about the internet was that it saved him having to tack notices about Ballet Tickets For Sale to the corner shop’s notice board.

“Watson,

That’s sporting of you. Just looked up the website and see what you mention about the “work event.” Good for him. I’ll steer the wife away from that night, though; all that cocktail party business is putting the fear of the Monkey Suit in me. It’ll be bad enough wearing a necktie without going the full monty in a tux. I’ll check in with my Marie and get back to you. Thanks again. Back to business: the stats are updated for Llewellyn City; have a look and let me know what adjustments you recommend for the match at the weekend.

Den”

John hadn’t thought about the tuxedo. Maybe he could get by in his wedding suit; it was black, pretty spiffing. New necktie and pocket square, maybe. He wondered, though, if it would still fit. He was a bit softer around the. .. everywhere. . .since his injury, and god knew he was hardly minding his diet lately. He glanced down, tugged up his t-shirt’s hem. Definitely more tum there than once was. He patted it, made a slight smacking sound. New suit, then, most likely. Shopping was hideous; maybe he’d ask Sherlock’s mum to help him out—that was just her sort of thing. Could score him points with her.

TEXT from SH: Cheeky beast! Hahaha!

*

Sherlock came gliding into the restaurant, eyes narrowed and scanning, twenty-three minutes late. He spotted John at the bar: the brown wingtips Sherlock made him buy; cocoa-brown trousers (Sherlock had consulted with the tailor about the break in the cuff while John stood huffing annoyance); oatmeal-coloured button down; necktie in his team’s colours, gold diamonds on a field of dark maroon, it could have been worse; and a sage-green jacket he’d left open, most likely because if he buttoned it over the extra stone he was carrying, he’d surely look overstuffed. Sherlock took stock of his newly-trimmed hair, nearly as much silver as gold in it now—John had started graying before he’d turned thirty. The square jut of his jaw in profile still took Sherlock’s breath—when he could be bothered to notice it—and that nose of his. Sherlock’s face relaxed into a half-smile. His husband was perhaps no Steve McQueen, but he was John Watson, and John Watson, nearing forty, perpetual sleep-bags beneath his eyes, lines deepening between his frequently-knitted eyebrows. . .well. He was actually quite cute, wasn’t he? Sherlock could still see the boy he’d been when they’d met, there in the grown man’s face. He had the same bright grin, same mischief in his dark blue eyes.

John must have felt eyes on him because he turned then, caught sight of Sherlock and waved. He rose from the barstool, left his half-finished whisky on the bar. Sherlock strode over, heads turning to follow him, though he was careful to keep his gaze, his smile, on John, who had sweetly asked to take him out, let him choose the place, accommodated his perfectionism-related lateness. He’d worn the suit he knew John liked best: pale grey shot through with pale blue threads, with a powder blue shirt open at the neck. The cologne John liked, applied over his heart so it didn’t overpower. Only John, leaning in close to Sherlock, would get to smell it.

“You look amazing.”

“Just fulfilling my duty as your trophy. And you.”

“I clean up all right.”

John quickly kissed Sherlock on just the corner of his mouth, lips closed because he’d had the whisky and he knew Sherlock bristled at the taste of it—the smell—in John’s mouth.

Once they were shown their table and were perusing the menus, John asked, “How’s your day, then?”

“We’re nearly there,” Sherlock offered without detail. John knew by now the rhythms of the rehearsal weeks leading up to the opening of the season. “Molly fell.”

“Oh?” John’s eyebrows rose with concern.

“Hurt her wrist a bit. Nothing serious.”

“How did she fall?”

“From an inverted swallow pose. But she’s fine, just a bruise. No sprain.”

“She fell when you were lifting her.” John half-smiled.

“Supporting her. Across my shoulders.” Sherlock, aware he was being teased, repressed a smile of his own.

“And she fell.”

“A bit.”

“You dropped her.”

“A bit.”

They were laughing as the waiter approached and introduced himself in a faintly Welsh accent as Owen-I’ll-be-taking-care-of-you-tonight.

“Well, that’s very kind but seeing as we’ve only just met,” John replied with a sly look. “How about a drink first and then we’ll see how it goes?”

The waiter was sporting—was he angling for a more generous tip? But no, he actually shifted his posture toward John, made a little aren’t-you-a-naughty-thing moue with his mouth—and pulled a wildly expensive pen from the breast pocket of his tailored shirt. He was accustomed to being kept by generous older men.

“Wine for you gentlemen?”

John looked questioningly at Sherlock, who shrugged in assent.

“Bottle of the white Bordeaux,” John pointed it out on the wine list and Owen the waiter took the opportunity to lean down close as if he couldn’t see perfectly well from his full height what John was indicating. He even pointed himself, as if verifying, his hand brushing John’s momentarily.

They ordered their meals and Owen commended John on his, “Excellent choices; I know you’ll be very happy.” Did he wink?

As the young waiter flittered away, John looked at Sherlock with raised eyebrows and mischievous smile. “Well, he was charming as can be.”

“To you,” Sherlock jokily pouted. “I know you’ll be very happy. . .” he mimicked, wide-eyed, batting his lashes.

“What can I say? Still got it,” John said mildly.

“That boy has textbook daddy issues,” Sherlock sniffed.

“You could tell that?”

Sherlock just stared at John for a moment.

John twigged. “Oh, stop that now. You’re right there with me.”

“I am no such thing.”

“Oh, right, I forget. Forever twenty-five.”

“Twenty-four! It says so in my official biography.” Sherlock straightened the flatware with elegant strokes of his long fingers.

John laughed. “Miraculous, that, seeing as you were named the UK Ballet’s youngest-ever Lead Principal Dancer at age 20. . .fifteen years ago.”

“It truly is,” Sherlock agreed, “It is indeed a miracle.” He nodded, tight-lipped smile giving him away.

“I’m a lucky old geezer, in that case,” John offered.

“Don’t forget it,” Sherlock scolded. John reached across the table for Sherlock’s hand and covered it with his own, stroked Sherlock’s wrist with his thumb.

Owen came back with the wine, opened it and poured a splash for John to taste. He turned briefly to Sherlock and flashed a patently artificial smile. Sherlock lowered his brows, narrowed his eyes, and gave a slow, small shake of his head, left, to right, to left. His lips clearly shaped the word, mine. Owen the waiter looked skeptical, turned back to John and asked brightly. “Amazing, right? One of my favourites. You can really taste the floral notes up front. . .”

“Mm,” John agreed, giving the glass a little swirl. “Jasmine, maybe?”

“Exactly what I was thinking. And I get a lot of citrus fruit—“

“I was thinking mango,” John replied. Owen laid his hand on John’s shoulder.

“You know. You’re right! I’m going to remember that next time someone orders it.”

“You should also tell them it’s scandalously overpriced and bottled in Luton,” Sherlock interjected, and he lifted the glass from John’s hand, downed the last swallow. “It’ll do. Thank you.” He all but shooed the waiter away, and his hand went possessively back to John’s, tangling their fingers together. John looked amused, if slightly surprised.

“I’ll be back with your entrees as soon as they’re ready.”

Sherlock growled quietly as the young man retreated. John gave him a pleading look.

“Daddy issues,” Sherlock repeated, in a voice like a warning.

“Don’t worry your pretty head,” John soothed through a smile. “You’re the only boy for me.”

“Keep talking like that and I’m going to develop daddy issues.”

John started to pour the wine in Sherlock’s glass; Sherlock held up his hand when he’d only filled the glass a third of the way.

“Anyway, aside from being jumped upon by a teenager who thinks he’s headed for the West End, how was your day?” Sherlock remembered to ask.

“The head coach told me today he saw you on a poster,” John offered. “At a bus stop, I think he said.”

Sherlock dismissed this with a demure look down at the table.

“He asked for tickets, to bring his wife.”

“Easily done.”

“So I told him,” John agreed. He sipped his wine, set the glass down and stared into it. “So.” He tried to keep the weight out of his voice, but it sneaked in. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

Sherlock’s face pinched. “Tell you what?”

“Your anniversary. They’re featuring you.” John at last glanced up. His face was soft, wide open and awash with the why. A shiver of guilt cascaded down Sherlock’s back, not because he hadn’t told John about the anniversary and the gala retrospective—in fact, he was sure he had told him—but because John looked so vulnerable right then, trying not to look more injured than bewildered, but failing, and Sherlock had just that afternoon ordered a disinherited, aspiring bartender from Melville Electric and Heating to shut the door.

“I think I did tell you,” Sherlock said quietly, no anger in it, not defensive. Matter of fact.

“No, I’d remember something like this,” John defended. “Something this big, I’d have arranged the time off.  .”

Sherlock shrugged a bit, could feel that his face was fighting against any attempt on his part to look nonchalant. “I really think I told you, back in the spring when Sylvie and Georges first brought it up. But since you hadn’t said anything about it since then. . .” Sherlock smoothed the flats of his fingertips across the tablecloth. “I assumed you just didn’t care.”

John was obviously caught up short by this, and his night-sky eyes went wide. Instantly, Sherlock knew by the pure shock in John’s expression, that he had, in fact, neglected to tell John about the anniversary, the gala performance, all of it.

“Of course I care, darling,” John said, using the tender endearment he saved for those times when Sherlock was at his most fragile, most in need of special handling. There was bafflement in John’s voice; he was wounded. “Fifteenth year,” he said quietly. “Big do in your honour. Of course I care.”

Sherlock tried to box it, seal it, set it aside. “It’s only fundraising.”

“No, it’s not. Anyway, I’ve arranged it so I can come.”

“You didn’t have to; it’s fine.”

The flirty server returned and presented their entrees.

“Just let me know if you need anything at all,” he grinned at John. Sherlock hissed. John shut his eyes, exasperated, blushing slightly, and the waiter scurried away.

Sherlock immediately cut away a third of his fish and edged it toward the side of his plate.

“All right?” John asked, motioning toward Sherlock’s dinner with his fork.

“Not very hungry,” Sherlock replied automatically, though it was a lie. Sherlock had been hungry for the better part of thirty years.

“Anyway, I just. . .” John started. He looked skyward, searching for words. “Honestly, I’m a bit hurt you think I care so little for you that I’d let something like this go by.”

“I’m not even upset, John,” Sherlock insisted. He supposed that he’d probably thought to tell John about the gala night, but then hadn’t gotten around to the actual telling of it. “You know I don’t expect you to come to my performances anymore—just like you let me out of going to your matches.” They had, at some point, stopped expecting each other’s attendance at what had long since become just work-a-day occasions. When friends expressed surprise at this, Sherlock and John turned it around by jokily asking when the last time was the friend had gone to work with his or her spouse, and that usually ended the discussion. John’s rugby matches were, to Sherlock, cold- and boredom-endurance tests, while John fought to stay awake during ballets anytime Sherlock was not the one dancing. They hadn’t even talked about it, they’d just silently let each other off the hook. Before John’s injury, Sherlock had only been to a handful of finals; John had not seen Sherlock dance at all in nearly five years.

 “Well but this is significant,” John insisted.  “Anyway, I didn’t mean to start an argument.”

“It’s not an argument. Just a misunderstanding.”

John’s voice was soft, slightly pained, and he looked at Sherlock, again with wide eyes. “Well, I’m sorry you felt I didn’t care about your anniversary with the Ballet. It’s a real achievement. And you deserve all they’re giving you, and more.”

“Thanks for saying so.”

John tapped his finger on the foot of his wine glass, a tic of annoyance that didn’t match his placid, lightly smiling face. Sherlock had nearly finished his two-thirds-of-a-meal already, hadn’t touched the wine John had poured. But what he had done, that afternoon, was fumbled open the fly of the disinherited bartender’s jeans, pressed his tongue into the eager, straight-toothed mouth. It hadn’t felt like much of anything, didn’t even make him forget the pain in his knee. And, anyway, he’d probably have stopped it even if it hadn’t all gone wrong.

“You realise this whole mess is down to you always forgetting to tell me things like these.”

“I don’t always—“

“Glen and Christopher’s party after their adoption?” John was ready with an answer to Sherlock’s protest. His eyebrows rose, challenging Sherlock to argue against his flighty irresponsibility. “Mrs Hudson’s 70^th birthday? That Human Rights Coalition dinner?”

“Now you’re starting an argument.”

“I had to give a speech!” John shook his head, raised his glass and finished his wine in two swallows. He poured more.

Sherlock and the disinherited bartender were a clash of teeth, hands in all the wrong places, strange dissonant cooing and moaning—and the cause of it dawned over Sherlock like a horror movie’s slow-reveal of the bloody mess in a shadowy corner: The kid thought of himself as the prize. . .but so did Sherlock. And they couldn’t both be the prize. Sherlock, neck hot, gut twisted, had pushed the kid away from him with a, “Sorry. This isn’t working for me. Anyway, I have to get back to work.” The kid was gone in under ten seconds, couldn’t get away fast enough for either of their liking. Sherlock stomped back to the rehearsal studio—

TEXT to MyJohn: Cheeky beast! Hahaha!

--and lost himself in the work. By the time he was showered and dressing to meet John, he’d tucked the unfortunate episode with the kid into a box in a far corner of his mind. Another stupid mistake. No more men under thirty. And this one? Best forgotten immediately. He mentally kicked the box under a heavy wardrobe full of—what else?—skeletons, never to be thought of again.

Sherlock did not want to argue; they were on a date. But he could not resist reminding John, “I told you I need an assistant.”

John snorted. “Pay one out of your mad money.”

Sherlock only pursed his lips.

“Nevermind,” John muttered. He closed his eyes in a way Sherlock recognized: John was filing it away to argue about some other time—Sherlock never telling him about upcoming events, Sherlock always wanting to live above their means, Sherlock having been put on a budget because he spent money foolishly. There was a seemingly endless list of things for John to tap his fingers in annoyance about, and Sherlock was positively exhausted from hearing them recited.

Given his transgression not six hours earlier, clearly Sherlock was in no position to be irritated that John was picking at him over trivia, but knowing this didn’t stop him from being irritated, all the same. It seemed every positive interaction they’d had for the past several months always ended with one of them assuming the other’s worst intentions, accusations flying, petty annoyances ending in hours-long silences.

“I heard a good joke today,” Sherlock offered.

*

John had laughed at the joke, kept on the mutual flirtation with the waiter, finished most of the bottle of wine. They’d decided to walk home and when their hands slipped together as naturally as if it had ever been thus, Sherlock remarked, “Remember how hard it was to get up the guts to hold hands like this, back when we were first together?”

“God, yes,” John agreed, sounding wistful. “We were in our twenties, I think, before we held hands anywhere outside of a nightclub.”

“Or your bedroom at your parents’ house,” Sherlock added, and squeezed John’s fingers, slotted between his own.

“Some things change for the better, then.”

“Indeed.” Sherlock drifted for several long moments, and they walked on together without speaking. “I always felt safe with you, though. You were very brave.”

John scoffed a bit, sighed. “I was bloody terrified! But it was worth being afraid, just to show off to the world who I pulled.”

Sherlock laughed at that, and felt heat rising in his cheeks.

“Did I mention how incredibly hot you look, by the way,” John checked in.

“That’s the drink talking.”

“It’s not. It’s all I can do not to shove you into one of these alleyways and snog you senseless.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes slightly, fairly sure John would not see. “You say the most romantic things,” he chided gently.

“I mean it as a compliment,” John protested. Sherlock smelled the over-sweet aftermath of the wine wafting on his breath, and his gut reacted by tightening. Too many times in the past year he had found himself joking with friends to divert attention from John’s loud rambling, his idea that everything he said was hilarious rather than merely embarrassing.

“I know,” Sherlock said, and hated himself for appeasing John rather than confronting him. He knew most of this was in his own head, but that didn’t make it bother him any less. And he really didn’t want to argue.

“I can’t wait to get you home and have my way with you,” John grinned.

“Shh,” Sherlock hushed. “Keep your voice down.”

“It’s all right, we’re married!”

“It’s not all right, you’re embarrassing me.” He’d almost said you’re embarrassing yourself, which was also true, but caught it before it slipped out.

“Sorry, sorry. . .” John said sincerely. “I just. . .Sherlock.” And even though it was an overdramatic, semi-drunken declaration, Sherlock felt a pleasant shiver. John wanted him, and if there was one thing Sherlock got off on, it was being wanted.

“Save it just another half a block and we’re there.”

Up the stairs and into the flat, shutting doors behind them in case things got noisy, John’s jacket shed and left on the landing, the two of them stumbling over each other to get to the bedroom—teenagers again, trying not to be heard and desperate for skin, open mouths, that way you moaned last time, everything, everything. . .

John’s kisses crowding, too wet, his hands going straight for Sherlock’s fly without preamble, muttering dirty talk before Sherlock had even shifted gears. The residue of unpleasant, borderline-arguing still lingering on all of Sherlock’s thoughts, and he felt overwhelmed, space invaded.

“Slow down, slow down. . .” a quiet laugh, a softer kiss, resetting. “Don’t get ahead of me.”

“Want you so bad. . .”

“Just kiss me a minute.”

Settling into a gentler pace, but the taste in John’s mouth is putting him off and now it’s surely too late to suggest he brush his teeth. Sherlock kisses John’s neck, tongues his earlobe, strokes his arm up under John’s shirt to roughly circle a nipple with the pads of two fingers. John is insistent on undressing him, untucking his shirt, tugging at the hook and button at the front of his trousers, guiding Sherlock’s hand roughly to his own crotch. It’s all so ungainly. But not like teenagers. Like grown men when one is drunk and the other has retreated so far he is already nearly out the door.

A few minutes later and they are both naked, kissing everywhere but on the mouth, huffing breaths and slightly stagey moans and Sherlock is barely in his body anymore, has given up trying to connect because John is on auto-pilot, drunk, wants him, knows all the steps, will get them there. Sherlock’s eyes are closed and he won’t open them until they’ve finished. John’s fingers, slicked up now, in a loose hoop around both their cocks, and at last Sherlock gives in to it, melts, because it’s good, god it’s good, so good. . .John’s other hand on the move, fingers sliding, parting, pressing.

“Mm-mn.” They have an agreement about this, because John will not leave it at a fingertip, or two, and where this inevitably goes leaves Sherlock too sore afterward, and he is in the final weeks of rehearsals. He has to dance for eight hours tomorrow.

“Please, Sherlock, I want to make you feel good.”

“You are. . .you are,” and Sherlock rocks his hips, sliding his cock along the slippery length of John’s, both of them enclosed in the ring of John’s fingers and thumb. “So good.”

“Just a bit,” John mutters against his ear, and he has not moved his fingers away, is pressing more insistently.

“John.” Firm. Displeased.

John’s wide-open, too-wet mouth against Sherlock’s, tongue pressing in aggressively. The sweet stink of the alcohol in Sherlock’s mouth. He pulls back, turns his head.

“John, no.”

John withdraws his fingers, unwinds his other hand, and he rolls away, onto his back. Throws his arm across his eyes. “Fuck, Sherlock. . .” hurt by the rejection but it comes out as frustrated, barely-controlled anger. “I just want to—“

Sherlock scrambles to save John’s pride—why?—aligns the front of his body with John’s side, kisses his temple, takes him in hand.

“I know,” he soothes. “I know. . .Shh.” Stroking John now, as his own cock softens beside John’s hip. John’s arm stays across his eyes, but in no time he is thrusting up into Sherlock’s hand, panting, gasping, coming with a half-shout. Sherlock waits him out, kisses his cheek, the corner of his mouth when John turns his face toward him.

“But you’re. . .”

Sherlock pats John’s hip gently. “I’m fine.”

“Sure?”

“Yes.”

Sherlock wipes his hand on the edge of the bed sheet, fishes pyjama bottoms from under his pillow and slides his long legs into them. John half-heartedly cleans cum off his thigh with the sheet, sighs contentedly, exuding afterglow. Sherlock lies down on his side, flips his pillow.

“I love you,” John says to his back.

“Mmm,” Sherlock replies, as if he is too sleepy to say, “I love you, too.”

*

 

Here is the pas de deux Sherlock and Molly are rehearsing in the chapter (I took some liberties), the final pas de deux from Manon, danced by Jonathan Cope and the inimitable goddess (I like her, can you tell?) Sylvie Guillem.

Chapter Text

TEXT from Molly: Sherlock’s forgot his phone and wonders if you can bring it?

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: I’m already on my way, two minutes walk or so.

TEXT from Molly: Keys to the rehearsal rooms, too? Dare I hope? –SH

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: It’s a good thing you’re cute.

Sherlock and Molly were waiting for John in the lobby of the building housing UK Ballet’s rehearsal studios, classrooms, and offices. With only two weeks until Sherlock’s retrospective and the gala—and a full performance schedule of Manon—the two were meeting in the early mornings or after-hours to rehearse two pieces for Virtuoso. It was just after eight on a Sunday; John had caught sight of Sherlock’s keys and phone forgotten on the kitchen table near a half-drunk cup of tea and a scribbled note (“UKB w/ Molly 8 - ? Need sugar, plasters. xxx, S”) and knew it was only a matter of time before he’d be summoned to deliver them. Sherlock was the only dancer with keys to the rehearsal rooms; the UKB said this was for security but Sherlock had told John it was to discourage those who were disposed to over-training from indulging their exercise-bulimia on company property.

Sherlock pecked John’s cheek as he accepted the phone and keys. “What would I do?” he asked.

“Lost,” John replied with a shrug and smile.

Molly grinned. “Is this how people talk when they’ve been together twenty years?” John smiled; Sherlock looked at the floor. “You know you left out at least half the words. Anyway,” Molly slipped her arm through John’s and began to pull him. “I need a word with your better half,” she told Sherlock. “I’ll be right up.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow, faux suspicious, but said nothing, only hefted his bag onto his shoulder and started up the stairs toward the rehearsal rooms.

“The flowers are arranged,” Molly confided, once she was sure he was out of earshot. “And Sylvie’s having plaques made up—one will hang here and she’ll give him the other.”

“Ah, very nice,” John replied with a small smile.

“You’re certain about the scholarship? We could still get him a lovely watch? Something like that.”

“No. I think setting up the scholarship is just the thing,” John told her. He knew Sherlock worried about his legacy and imagined having a scholarship fund set up through the UKB School, which would bear his name long after his retirement, would please him.

Just then, Sherlock came thundering down the stairs. His face was pale and John noticed his lips were quivering. He laid a heavy hand on each of their shoulders.

“There’s been—“  he started, in a tight, all-business tone at odds with his frantic appearance, “An accident. John, stay here with Molly.” All at once there was a sound of sirens, coming from many directions at once, all of them getting louder by the second.

“What is it? What’s happened?” Molly demanded.

Sherlock ignored her. “Don’t let her come upstairs. I’ve called the police.” Molly looked past him toward the stairs, though from where they stood there was nothing to see.

The sirens were clearly right on top of them now, and John glanced through the front door to see more than a few police cars and an ambulance skidding to stops at crazy angles just outside.

“Sherlock,” John said, and he gripped Molly’s hand, still folded around his elbow.

“Please just don’t let her come upstairs,” Sherlock said. Two cops strode in, followed by medics with their kits in hand. Sherlock motioned for them to follow him, and started up the stairs two at a time.

“What’s wrong?” Molly called after him desperately.

“Stay where you are!” Sherlock shouted over his shoulder as he rounded the corner out of sight, followed by a stream of police and medical personnel.

John settled the two of them on a bench near the reception desk. The colour was draining from Molly’s face and she knotted her hands in her lap. “Someone must be hurt,” she ventured, looking worriedly up the stairwell. More uniformed police entered; two went up the stairs and two—a petite woman with dark hair in a bun, and a man with a pronounced scar above his lip--approached John and Molly.

“You work here?” the male officer asked Molly, and she sprang to her feet out of sheer nervousness. Her rehearsal outfit of leotard, close-fitting wraparound cardigan, and nylon shorts over tights gave her away easily.

“We came to rehearse,” she offered, not really answering what had been asked. John stood then, protectively close to her side, took her hand and brushed his thumb against it, soothing. “What’s happened?” Molly demanded, her thin lips squeezed into a tight line.

“Someone found bleeding and unconscious,” the female officer replied, and drew a small notebook from the pocket of her coat. “Did you see anything unusual?”

Molly gasped, covered her mouth. “No. No. Only Sherlock’s been upstairs. John and I were talking. . .” her voice trailed off; they all four turned toward the door as more medics entered, carrying a stretcher. They were clearly not in a hurry, however, and John twigged immediately to what their lack of urgency probably meant: whoever was upstairs was already beyond their help.

The male cop eyed John from head to foot. “Step over here a minute, sir? Answer a few questions?”

John nodded and gave Molly’s hand a brief, reassuring squeeze as they paired off with the cops. John had watched enough police dramas on TV to know the cops were separating them purposefully, so they could compare notes later. Now the lobby was filling up with people: uniformed officers as well as everyday-looking joes and janes with badges at their belts or hanging from shot-bead chains around their necks, some carrying plastic tackle boxes, a couple breaking out pale blue paper suits from cellophane bags marked “STERILE.” The medics with the stretcher reached the top of the stairs, rounded the corner, disappeared from John’s view.

“Your name, please?”

“John Watson.”

“You work here?” the cop glanced toward the reception desk, trying to fit John into the early-weekend-morning scene. A cop others were deferring to—the big man on the scene, clearly—with silver hair and a weary look on his face stood nearby with arms crossed in front of his chest, listening.

“No,” John said, and couldn’t help but grin, “No. I’m just the husband.”

“Dropping off the missus?” the uniformed officer asked, pen poised above his notepad.

John smiled again, cleared his throat with a loud harrumph. “Oh. No. Not her husband. I meant him.” John pointed up the stairs. “The man who called the police; he’s a dancer. She’s his dance partner. I’m his husband.” Good on them both, neither the senior cop nor the uniformed one looked remotely thrown. “He forgot his phone and keys at home; I came to drop them by.”

“So neither you nor she went upstairs at all?” the silver-haired one asked.

John shook his head. “We were talking about a surprise gift for Sherlock—my husband—he’s got an anniversary, big do in a couple of weeks. He was only up there half a minute or so? Came flying down the stairs looking like he’d seen a ghost.” He looked over at Molly; she was sitting with the lady cop, wringing her hands, but the pink was back in her cheeks. “Speaking of,” John said, looking at the plain-clothes cop. “Whatever he’s seen up there. . .Can I go to him? Unless you need anything else.”

The uniformed officer shook his head.

“Come with me,” the silver-haired one said, and John followed him. “Greg Lestrade,” he said over his shoulder as they made their way up the stairs. “Detective Inspector. You know, you look familiar.”

“No,” John said, semi-automatically.

“Did you say your name’s Watson? Didn’t you play for TRC?”

John almost laughed, kept it mild given the circumstances. “I did indeed. You must be quite a fan if you recognize this ugly mug.”

“Diehard,” the DI replied. They followed the bustle down a corridor John had walked many times, none of them recent, bringing Sherlock a salad and tea at lunchtime, or—even farther back—having made a way-out-of-his-way trip from a practice just to say hello, steal a kiss, inhale Sherlock’s hard-work-scent before racing back in time not to be punished for lateness with laps around the pitch. Now the place echoed with crackling radios, conversation both casual and business-related, dark jokes told in hushed tones. A doorway had been cordoned off at waist-height with yellow crime scene tape—jesus, it was like being in a movie—and John could see Sherlock’s keys still hanging from the knob. The DI, Lestrade, lifted the tape and ducked under it, held it up for John to do the same. “Don’t touch anything,” he warned.

“Yeah, no, of course,” John muttered. Sherlock was standing close inside the door, one arm across the front of his waist, the other elbow resting on his forearm as he chewed his thumb nail. “Sherlock,” John breathed, and Sherlock turned, and rushed into John’s arms. “You’re all right?” Sherlock’s weight shifted downward against him, releasing tension into John’s embrace.

Sherlock nodded. His face was still paler than usual but he seemed calm.

John hadn’t seen her, at first, but now, over Sherlock’s shoulder as they parted. . .

Middle of the room, face turned away, with long, bright-blonde hair streaming out around her neck and shoulders. And something else, there by her neck—a winter scarf, it looked like, but too much to be that, maybe a sweater, bunched around her shoulders. Short, silky dress—no, not a dress, it was more like a nightgown—and bare legs. All four limbs at impossibly wrong angles, that was what gave it away, that she was well and truly beyond help. One arm was bent underneath her back; no one would lie that way on purpose. God, she was tiny—they all were, of course, like Molly was—just wires strung together, really, with muscled calves and long, slim necks.

“Red shoes. . .” John breathed, barely aware he’d said it aloud. Sherlock’s hand was still in his, and it pulsated.

“No,” Sherlock said under his breath, and drew closer to John’s side. “They’re not. They weren’t.”

John squinted. There was the flash of a photograph being taken, and in that millisecond John understood what he was seeing. Not red satin ballet shoes, at all. That shine was not satin; it was damp. And that red was--

John yanked his hand from Sherlock’s, ducked into the corridor and found a trash bin barely in time to violently sick up into it. After a minute, a hand on his shoulder, another offering a handkerchief. Not Sherlock, though.

“S’awright, mate; I did the same at my first crime scene.” Lestrade. John gratefully accepted the handkerchief, scrubbed his lips. He started to hand it back but the DI motioned for him to keep it. John balled it up and thrust it into his pocket. “My sergeant shoved airsick bags in my face at every one after, for six months. Apologies. I shouldn’t have brought you up here.”

John shook his head. “No. It’s all right.”

“While you steady yourself, can I ask about where he was last night? Your husband?”

“They had a performance last night.”

“And where’s that?”

“Queen’s Hall,” John said. “In Bow Street.”

“You were there?”

John shook his head. “Team practice until five, then I had a pint with a couple of the other coaches and was back at our flat around half-seven. The performances run from eight to about ten.”

“So he was home late.”

“He showers at the theater, they all linger a bit, chatting and that; sometimes there are people waiting outside for autographs. Then he gets a cab; takes fifteen or twenty minutes. Last night he came in just before midnight.”

“You’re sure of the time?”

John cleared his throat, felt his face redden a bit. “He woke me when he came in.”

Warm pressure against his back, over his hip, Sherlock’s hand edging up under his t-shirt, the familiar body-weight behind him on the mattress, lips against the back of his neck, a damp whisper: Are you awake? A lazy hum, head and neck turning to search for Sherlock’s kiss, John’s body maneuvered definitively, Sherlock’s hard thighs settling at both sides of his torso, streetlight through the edges of the window shade silhouetting still-damp curls of just-washed hair, every muscle thrumming with recent exertion, Sherlock’s open mouth unfurling a torrent of whispered desires, wishes, promises, and John’s hands gliding over Sherlock’s taut chest, down and around, grasping, handling him roughly as Sherlock strokes himself and unspools his murmured narration of what he’s thought about all day, all evening, so distracted, missing you, wanting you, wanting your hands on me, just like this, just like this, perfect, so good, yes, yes John, oh yes. . .

John looked meaningfully at the cop, who nodded once in Say No More fashion.

“And then you came this morning to bring his keys.”

“And his phone, yeh,” John said. “I was up at seven-fifteen and he’d already gone.” John fished his own phone from his jacket pocket. “Molly texted me, here.” He offered the phone and Lestrade scrolled through the texts from Molly and Sherlock. “He’s not—“ John started. It was hard to think of, let alone to say. “You don’t think he’s involved in this?”

The cop was noncommittal. “We have to look at everyone.”

John shivered. There was an awkward, silent pause. John said. “Can I--?” and motioned toward the room.

“If you’re up to it. Don’t touch anything.”

“Right.” John affirmed, and braced himself to go back into the rehearsal room. He was surprised at how many people there were, stomping around, chatting, wandering, standing about. On telly, they were always going on about not contaminating crime scenes; to John’s eyes, it looked like the police and medics were more concerned with posturing and passing time than they were with evidence preservation. Of course, looks could be deceiving, and John was no expert—just having vomited his toast and tea at the sight of a dead girl’s blood-soaked dance shoes—but it wasn’t like the movies, that much was sure.

For instance, here was Sherlock, still standing in more or less the same spot, still gnawing his thumb thoughtfully, taking it all in as investigators and uniformed officers and paramedics and photographers swarmed around him, taking little to no notice of him. John touched his elbow, studiously kept his eyes away from the girl on the floor.

“You’re all right?” John asked.

“I should ask you the same. Got sick, did you?”

“It’s fucking awful,” John said, jerking his head but not turning it toward the body.

“Vitalina Berezina. Not her real name; she’s from some backwoods Belarusian village that still thinks great ballerinas must have Russian surnames. Sylvie plucked her out of a second-rate school in Minsk two years ago and put her in the UKB School, moved her up to the corps de ballet this season. She was promising, probably would never make principal but might have been a soloist in a smaller company eventually. Seventeen years old. Excellent French; passable English.”

John’s mouth was half-open. “God. Her poor parents. . .”

There was a technician in sterile suit and latex gloves nearby, lifting a pair of surgical scissors from a safety-orange, plastic tackle box. Sherlock’s eyes followed his movements. John glanced over long enough to see the technician kneeling down near the girl’s bloodied feet, heard the snip as he cut through the ribbons around her ankles, looked away again. Sherlock strained his neck forward, watching.

“Well you won’t be rehearsing today,” John offered, “You should go home for a bit. Walk Molly home first maybe. Jesus, Molly. Has anyone told her?”

Sherlock hummed distractedly and moved closer to the girl’s body. John swallowed hard, and looked. With a couple of officers and that DI Lestrade looming over, the technician was gingerly slipping his fingers into the edges of the girl’s shoe. The camera flashed every other second or so. Sherlock took a long step forward, then, and John moved to stay beside him. He tugged on Sherlock’s arm.

“Sherlock. . . You don’t have to watch all this.”

Sherlock brushed John’s hand away.

“Fuck’s sake,” Lestrade huffed, as the girl’s shoe was lifted fully away from her ruined foot. Sherlock moved closer still, nearly over the shoulder of a woman in casual weekend clothes as if she’d been suddenly summoned here from lingering with the Sunday Times at her dining room table, but wearing a badge around her neck.

John steeled himself, couldn’t help but look. The technician was holding the shoe for the photographer, working gloved fingers along its interior curves to show different angles. Sewn all along the instep and inner sole of the shoe were short, straight razor blades, glinting bloody silver.

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed studiously. John raised his face to the ceiling, conjured a quick image of that poor young girl dancing in those torturous shoes, then immediately willed it away from himself. It was all too surreal. He wanted to leave. He wanted to take Sherlock out of here, walk Molly to her flat, bolt her doors and windows, then go home and wrap himself in a duvet with Sherlock on their own sofa, safe at Baker Street. This was all too awful; he’d had enough. And, fuck, his team had a match today.

“Sergeant Donovan?” Lestrade said, and from her body language it was clear he was addressing the woman cop beside Sherlock. “What do you reckon?”

The woman, Donovan, side-stepped away from Sherlock (John noticed she eyed him up and down suspiciously) and said, “She was in the show last night?” She glanced toward Sherlock, still mistrustful, and Sherlock nodded. “Made it home after, was there long enough to get ready for bed—she’s in her nightgown—might have even been asleep? Someone surprised her, obviously forced her here or she’d have put on clothes. . .at least her coat. . .”

The DI nodded. “We’ll check her place for signs of a break-in,” he said, and a uniformed officer near him wrote notes on a pad.

“No signs this room was broken into, nor the front door, so she—or whoever she was with—had the keys. He forces her into those shoes, somehow forces her to dance in them. Maybe threatens her with a knife or a gun.” She pointed at the floor around the body, sweeping her thin wrist around to follow patterns there. “There are bloody smears all around here. It’s quite a bit of blood, but probably not enough to kill her. At some point she can’t continue—collapses, or refuses—he uses her sweater to strangle her, leaves her where she falls, walks right out the door.” She wheeled on Sherlock again. “The door was definitely locked when you came in?”

“Yes,” Sherlock said, and didn’t elaborate. He looked expectantly at her, waiting for her to go on theorizing.

The woman continued, “Someone close to her, I’d think, having got his hands on her shoes to do that to them.” She motioned at the shoe, now lying on the floor a few feet from the body. “A flatmate, or a boyfriend. Or someone here at the ballet, access to the rehearsal rooms, dressing rooms at the opera house, maybe could go in her bag while she’s on stage or something, steal her shoes.”

“They’re not her shoes.”

“Pardon?”

Sherlock repeated with assurance in his resonant voice, “They’re not her shoes.” The whole lot of them—at least a dozen people—fell silent, waiting. John looked from the DI (puzzled) to the woman cop (skeptical) to Sherlock (resolute, bordering on smug). It seemed like the whole room was waiting for him to elaborate.

“The sales rep from Freed comes in with pointe shoes on Mondays. The dancers spend most of Monday and all of Tuesday breaking them in—makes an awful racket, you wouldn’t believe it—and by the weekend they’ve broken them in, worn them to classes and rehearsals, and performed in them to the point that they are very nearly falling apart. The toes of those shoes,” he motioned toward the body on the floor, “Are nearly pristine; the satin’s completely intact. She can’t have danced in them more than a few minutes. And this girl, in particular, had a habit of bending the soles at the instep, completely in half, so the toe box touched the heel.” He described the shape with his hands. “It broke the soles, and there was a visible horizontal crack in the sole of every pair of shoes she wore. These shoes don’t have that.”

John gawped. The DI looked awed. The woman, Donovan, looked even more suspicious of Sherlock.

“Whoever did this to her brought the shoes with him. They’re the right size, they’re even Freeds, but they’re not her shoes.”

There was a pregnant pause. At last the DI snapped, “Did anyone write this down?” and no fewer than three officers reached for pens and pads. The woman cop scanned Sherlock from head to foot, though he seemed not to notice. It made John nervous; was Sherlock making himself into a suspect, showing off his weird ability to notice everything, revealing he knew more than he should given that all he’d done was unlock a door?

“You seem to know a lot about her,” Donovan ventured in a challenging tone. “You must have been very close.”

John grunted a humourless half-laugh at her insinuation.

Sherlock said evenly, “No, I’ve only spoken to her a handful of times; interacting with the corps is not really my area.”

“Barely knew her, yet you notice the cracks in the bottom of her shoes? And earlier I heard you telling this one—“ she motioned toward John. “Who are they, by the way?” she asked rhetorically. “Why are they standing about a crime scene?” She looked around but no one answered. Back to her point: “Quite a bit about her—her background and age, that she’s using a stage name. Doesn’t sound like you barely knew her.”

Sherlock looked irritated; John shifted his posture slightly, putting more of himself between Sherlock and the aggressive sergeant.

“Are we free to leave? You know where to find us if we can answer any other questions,” John said then, trying to sound more self-assured than he felt in this utterly alien situation.

DI Lestrade made a move, and Donovan stepped away. “That was very helpful,” Lestrade said to Sherlock. “Obviously there are things here we wouldn’t know, the bit about the shoes. . .Do you notice anything else we might miss?” He seemed sincere, and John let his guard down a bit, kept one eye on the skeptical DS, talking in a hush to a uniformed officer scribbling furious notes as she spoke.

Sherlock glanced once more at the body on the floor, let out a little hum. “It’s likely not her cardigan, either. I never saw her wear one in rehearsals—only her leotard and sometimes a gaudy shawl she must have brought from the old country, wound around her shoulders. It’s the type of sweater many of the girls wear, nothing special, sort of standard-issue dancewear, but I never saw her wear one.”

The DI grinned slightly. “Thanks very much.”

John stared at Sherlock. As much as Sherlock appeared to be working himself into a starring role as Prime Suspect, John was hardly blind to the fact that he did have a quirky gift for details. Sherlock always remembered things, noticed things, that other people seemed to miss. He’d been reeling off lists of seemingly trivial details about places and people as long as John had known him. In this context, though, it was far from trivial. It was actually rather remarkable.

“All right, John?”

“I. . .” John shook his head as if to wake himself. “I’m just. . .”

One side of Sherlock’s mouth ticked up. There was something affectionate in his eyes John hadn’t seen for much too long. John’s stammered nothings and Sherlock’s half-smile filled three seconds’ time and appeared empty of meaning, but both of them understood what the brief exchange held.

That thing you do, that you’ve always done, that’s always annoyed people and made them think you were odd, and hell, even annoyed me and made me think you were odd. . .Look what you just did with that. Sherlock, I’m amazed.

So I see. And I must admit. . .so am I.

“I, uh—“ John started again, but then all at once it was as if he was snapping out of a spell. “I’ve got a match. The buses leave at half-nine.” He glanced at his watch. “Sherlock, I have to go.” He searched Sherlock’s face.

“I’m fine.”

“I can just get Molly home and settled, if I leave right now,” John offered. “Sure you’re all right?”

Sherlock nodded, started to walk John out of the room. The corridor was quieter, only one uniformed cop by the door and another pair of them farther off, near the stairs. “You should go home, give yourself some time to shake this off,” John offered, eyebrows dipping down toward the bridge of his nose. “Don’t let them keep you here; they can come back another day and talk to you if they need to.”

“It’s fine,” Sherlock assured him. “I’m fine.”

John stepped closer, lowered his voice. “That woman, the sergeant, she thinks maybe you did that to that poor girl.”

Sherlock’s eyebrows went up and his smile was mischievous. “I know.”

“This is not a joke, Sherlock. Don’t say anything else. Stay close by the bloke, the DI. He seems all right.”

“You think so, do you?” Sherlock’s tone was teasing. “Wouldn’t have guessed you’d go for him. She’s more your type, with that hair you like. Bit skinny, though.”

“Jesus, Sherlock, there’s a girl dead in there. I’m not trying to pull,” John scolded, though he couldn’t help but smile. This was the least unpleasant conversation they’d had (outside of heated murmurings in the dark, in bed) in John’s recent memory. “I’m serious; stop talking before you implicate yourself. If I didn’t have to go, I’d take you home myself.”

“Go, go,” Sherlock urged, with a wave of his hand. “I’ll text you if they take me to jail.”

John leaned up and kissed him briefly on the mouth, reluctant to leave him both because he was likely to further incriminate himself with his showing off, and because he was enjoying this feeling that they actually liked each other.

“Don’t let them take you to jail,” he implored. As he passed the pair of cops by the stairs, he said, “Please don’t take him to jail.”

The DI cornered Sherlock in the corridor once John had gone, and asked him to recount his whereabouts the previous night. Sherlock told him he’d finished the performance just after ten, showered and changed, didn’t stop to chat with anyone, went out the stage door as usual and found a friend of his waiting in a chauffeured car.

“Friend?”

“Not really a friend, no,” Sherlock admitted, with an expression that clearly implied the meaning. “We talk a bit, have a drink.” Sherlock shrugged. ”He likes my feet.”

The DI let this sit for a moment. Sherlock remained stalwart, unembarrassed. “All right. So you just rode around with this friend of yours for a while?”

“We took a somewhat scenic route, but ultimately his driver took me home.”

“And you got in at what time?”

“Bit before midnight.”

“Your husband was at home? Saw you come in?”

Sherlock’s smile was sly. “You already talked to him. I’m sure he told you I woke him so we could have sex.”

Wired, needing the wash of endorphins to help him toward sleep, a furtive wank in the loo lacking in appeal, Sherlock strips off his clothes, leaves them on the floor (the hamper’s right there, Sherlock, not three feet away!), sinks down behind John, drifts his hand over John’s back, the jut of his hip, lips against the back of John’s neck, his end-of-the-day smell bristly, slightly dank, Are you awake?, and Sherlock straddles John’s chest and shuts his eyes and strokes himself and tells John he wants him, to feel his hands, just like this, just like this, perfect. . .bites back the things he really wants to say: that he wishes for John begging him, wants John pinned, open-mouthed, desperate, wants to come on John’s face, wants it to feel dirty and dangerous, yes even with John, his John, who once he’d been able to say anything to, ask anything of, but with whom he’d long ago reached a détente: this is us, this is what works, it’s all fine. In the end, Sherlock comes, and John comes, and they both settle.

The DI folded his arms across his chest.

“And what’s your friend’s name? In case I need to follow up with him.”

“I’m sure neither his solicitor nor his wife would like me to say.”

The DI nodded, his expression hovering between amused and confounded. From the lobby, Sherlock could hear the distressed trill and caw of Sylvie Auvray’s French-accented voice. Clearly, she’d been summoned and now was being told what Sherlock had found.

“Some of the girls were getting emails and texts from a recruiter—at least claimed he was a recruiter—at a ballet in Singapore,” Sherlock volunteered to Lestrade. “He was quite persistent, and making a lot of promises; Molly thought it was suspicious from the beginning, but a more naïve girl might have been taken in by it. You’ll want to check Vita’s email accounts, her phone.”

“Singapore, is it?” Lestrade mused, and scratched at the stubble on his jaw. “Thanks for that. And for. . .” he wound his hand in a vague circle. “All of it.”

Downstairs, Sylvie let out a scream, then sobbed.

Sherlock pressed on. “How long before they take the body? That DS considers me a suspect. Did you notice the patterns of blood on the floor—quite a compact area; likely she was turning in place. He could have been. . .partnering with her.” Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, and for the first time all morning, he looked dismayed. “No wonder she considers me a suspect.”

The DI smirked. “I’ve heard of a lot of strange things, but never a killer who hung around the crime scene pointing out clues. I don’t consider you a suspect.”

“No?”

“No, I reckon you’re just a bit weird.” The DI motioned over Sherlock’s shoulder to one of the uniformed cops, waving him over. “Tell him what you just told me, about the blood on the floor.”

*

TEXT from SH: Did you know rigor mortis wears off after a few hours?

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: You’re not still hanging about there!

TEXT from SH: And body bags are disposable, not those heavy zip-up things on telly.

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: That actually makes sense, more sanitary. We’re winning, btw.

TEXT from SH: I was so sure you would be, I didn’t bother asking.

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: I’m home by seven. Dinner?

TEXT from SH: Maybe. Or more of last night. . .

TEXT from FlyHalfJohn: Oh yes please!

Chapter Text

Pacing the narrow lane between the coffee table and the television set would have to do; John was too edgy to sit. He’d put the backs through some grueling drills and given them extra scrimmages earlier in the week, getting them ready to face Inverness without him there on the sidelines. Of course the head coach and three other assistants were there, and Inverness was continuing its streak of shit matches so would probably not present much of a problem. But John hadn’t missed a match since his mum died years ago, and even with the valid excuse of Sherlock’s anniversary ‘do at the Ballet he couldn’t help but feel guilt at bunking off. So far TRC was ahead and Inverness had two players out with injuries; nonetheless John found himself shouting at the screen, and the strange, itchy heat in his fingers since he’d hurt his shoulder was kicking up, making him stretch and roll them in search of relief.

Sherlock emerged from the shower, one towel wound around his hips, one draped over his shoulders, one turbaned around his head. “How’s the match going?” he asked, moving to fill the kettle.

“We’re ahead.”

“Good then.”

“How about you? Nerves?”

Sherlock shrugged slightly. “No.” He switched the kettle on. “Well, a bit.”

John looked away from the screen—his team was between tries anyway—and focused his attention on Sherlock. He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

“Not for my own performance,” Sherlock said. “For the quartet I choreographed; I feel like we could have used another few days’ rehearsal.”

“I’m sure it’s brilliant.”

Sherlock smiled. “Well of course it’s brilliant.” He went into the cupboard for a mug. “Tea?” John shook his head. “It’s the dancers I’m worried about. None of them is brilliant.”

“Assuring your place at the top,” John smiled.

“As long as my knee holds out,” Sherlock said grimly.

“How’s it feeling today?”

“Not bad. Taking yesterday off from rehearsal was wise, I think. And if I wasn’t ready two days ago, yesterday wouldn’t have made the difference.”

John’s eyes darted back to the screen, where Inverness had just scored. “Damn!” he muttered.

“It’s the same with them,” Sherlock said as he swirled a spoon in his mug. "They’d be no better off with you there today than they were yesterday.”

John frowned. “You’re probably right. Just feels a bit weird.”

Sherlock smiled lightly. “Your work ethic is extraordinary,” he commented, and John felt his shoulders relax a bit in response to the compliment. “And thank you.” Sherlock gestured vaguely, catching up the two of them, the flat, the afternoon. “For being here,” he clarified. “For me.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it,” John said genuinely.

*

Sherlock went ahead in a taxi, spent the three hours before the evening’s performance engaged in elaborate rituals he’d made into a habit over his fifteen years with the UK Ballet. Some barre work in one of the empty studios, protein and hydration, thirty minutes of closed-eyed silence stretched out on the little sofa in his dressing room, then carefully making up his face and torturing his wavy hair into submission. As they arrived, colleagues would come knocking on his partly-open door: the costume mistress and stage manager, Georges and Sylvie, Molly.

“Sherlock, I’d like you to meet someone; can I bring him in?” Molly asked sweetly. Sherlock drew the top edge of his dressing gown up from where it was draped over his elbows, to cover his shoulders and chest, nodded his assent though they both knew he was not enthusiastic about visitors before a performance, and tonight of all nights. Molly pulled the door wide and beckoned out into the corridor. “This is Sherlock Holmes; I’ve told you about him.”

“Endlessly,” the bloke—tall, ginger-haired, he’d once been fit but now was merely slender—said quietly, baring his teeth in a way that made Sherlock know he was trying to seem unthreatening. Sherlock felt in no way threatened.

“This is Rhys,” Molly went on. He offered his hand and Sherlock shook it. “You were right when you said I’d met someone.” She was all smiles, staring up at the man as if he had hung the moon.

“Of course I was,” Sherlock intoned. With a stage-smile he said, “Pleasure to meet you.” He pumped hand sanitizer from a nearby dispenser and slathered his hands.

“We won’t keep you; I need to get myself set up,” Molly offered; she was still in her street clothes, carrying her own duffel over her shoulder while Rhys stood by burdened by nothing more than his own hat in his hand. “I’ve got Rhys sat by your John. And your parents, I think? They can keep him company.”

Sherlock hummed, picked up a make-up sponge and stroked it across a pan of contour cream, making a bit of a show of being bored and annoyed. Molly ignored him. “It’s going to be lovely; I’m so excited.” She leaned in and laid her hand on Sherlock’s shoulder on her way to kissing his hair. “You brilliant man. Congratulations.”

Sherlock couldn’t repress his smile, patted her little hand with his own. “Do try to be on time,” he told her.

“She always runs a bit late, you’re right about that!” Rhys said jokily, too loud, trying too hard.

“Yes, well,” Sherlock replied, changing tack, “Perfection takes time.”

Molly looked positively shocked for a second at Sherlock’s defense of a habit she knew drove him half-mad, but recovered. A phone gave an urgent chirp and Rhys went into his pocket.

“Ah, there he is again,” he frowned. He tipped the screen toward Molly; she shook her head.

“Delete it, would you?”

“Yeah, of course.”

“That bloke from Singapore Ballet,” Molly half-explained. “I tried being polite, then I ignored him, then I was firm. . .” She hesitated. Sherlock cocked an eyebrow questioningly. “He’s gotten a bit, I don’t know. Vulgar.”

“You should call the police,” Sherlock suggested. “If you’re being harassed.”

Rhys piped up, “They can’t do anything. He hasn’t threatened her. And they don’t have jurisdiction, anyway.” He shrugged and pocketed her phone. “It’s pointless.”

Molly clapped her hands together, rubbed her palms vigourously as if warming them. “All right then; I’m giving Rhys the nickel tour so we’ll get on with it. I’ll see you in a bit, Sherlock.”

Sherlock forced a half-smile and turned his back even before they were all the way out the door.

An hour or so later, Sherlock had already fallen into the serene reverie he cultivated before each performance, deeply relaxed—nearly trancelike—and inward-focused. He sat with ice on his knee, closed-eyed, running his contemporary solo in his head, when John came knocking.

“Sherlock? Darling? Is it a good time?”

Sherlock hummed, opened his eyes and watched in the mirror as John let himself in. He looked smart in a new suit of ash grey, nubby silk (Sherlock suspected his own mother had helped John choose it; it was clearly to her taste), lavender shirt, and watered-silk navy blue tie with its matching pocket square folded so elaborately John must have bought it that way and carefully transferred it from the box to his jacket. He was scrubbed, shaved, smelled pleasantly of his cinnamon-and-tobacco-heavy after shave.

“You look nice,” Sherlock smiled.

“Thanks. You look like a Far Eastern streetwalker.” John moved to kiss him, found it difficult to locate a spot not already made-up or sprayed into place. He settled for a peck on the back of Sherlock’s neck. “Ready?” he asked, standing behind Sherlock’s right shoulder and meeting Sherlock’s gaze in the mirror.

“As I’ll ever be,” Sherlock said sleepily.

“I won’t keep you,” John said. “I just wanted to say hello. And break a leg and all that; I know you’ll be perfect, because you just are perfect.”

Sherlock smiled and he flushed with delicious warmth.

“Your dad’s already wiping his eyes,” John reported. “Oh, and Molly’s introduced me to her, what?, boyfriend? He’s a bit—“

“He did strike me as a bit,” Sherlock agreed. “You’re right.”

“Ah, well, as long as she’s happy.” John’s hand on Sherlock’s shoulder was absently massaging the rope of muscle there, working gently up toward his neck. “I’ll go.” He edged Sherlock’s dressing gown aside to reveal his bare shoulder, free of stage make-up, and pressed his lips there. “Love you.”

“Mm,” Sherlock replied, shifting the ice pack on his knee and letting his eyes close. “You too.”

John pulled the door fully shut on his way out, and Sherlock went back to rehearsing his solo, behind his closed eyes.

*

John had been so grateful to no longer be obligated to attend Sherlock’s ballets that he had forgotten how much he actually enjoyed the buzzy, anticipatory atmosphere of the theatre as patrons dressed in everything from denims to designer tuxedos sipped overpriced plastic glasses of wine in the lobby, offered arms to escort their companions to their seats, greeted other season-ticket-holders with air-kisses up in the luxury boxes. The orchestra made its trill and honk as the black-clad musicians drifted to their waiting chairs and began to tune up, now and then letting a few bars of something lilting and vaguely familiar ripple off the tip of a violin bow or from under callused pianist’s fingers. There were huge video screens high to each side of the stage, where close-ups of dainty yet powerful feet, or rapt faces as expressive as any actor’s would be projected throughout the performance. The velvet curtains were the colour of ancient rust, nearly brown, shimmering bronze and copper where they pooled heavily on the stage and caught the ambient light. John always got a little thrill as they rose impossibly fast, flying skyward to reveal the set—ornate as a palace or plain as a shadowbox. He even liked the sound of the ballerinas’ shoes as they clacked down on the stage, a reminder that in every graceful motion was hidden a solid, supportive strength.

His seat was in the center of the orchestra section, the rows raking up away from the stage so that his view was slightly higher than eye level with dancers, close enough to see their faces, far enough away to maintain every illusion created by the bodies in motion, the lights and sets and costumes. Best seats, as it were, in the house. To his right was Mrs Hudson, in a stylish dress and sturdy low-heeled shoes, a bit too much lipstick for a lady of a certain age, and a rather complicated little hat with a plume. Beyond her, Sherlock’s parents—his mum always quick with an embrace for John, for she adored him, and his father looking to burst the buttons off his blazer, his chest so puffed out with pride in his son’s accomplishments. Seated to John’s left, Molly’s new beau, Rhys Baines, who had greeted John cordially but then sat poring over the playbill and did not engage in small talk.

“Oh, it’s so sad,” Mrs Hudson mused, pointing at the inside cover of the playbill, which featured photos of the murdered ballerina, Vitalina Berezina. “And they still haven’t found out who did it?”

John shook his head. “Not yet. It is, very sad, it’s a tragedy.”

Mrs Hudson shook her head. “And these other young girls, some of them so far from home. . .they must be frightened out of their minds.”

“Well, they’ll get him. They always do, sooner or later.” John tried to be reassuring, though he knew from Sherlock’s having shared all the rumours flying around the Ballet, and from the cop who was keeping in touch, that DI Lestrade, that the police had reached an impasse and were simultaneously reassuring the dancers that they were safe and warning them to be vigilant. The whole company was spooked and on edge.

The houselights flashed three times, signaling that the start of the program was near. A spotlight fell on the far left of the stage, and after a few minutes appeared the familiar, wispy figure of Sylvie Auvray, Artistic Director of UK Ballet since before Sherlock had even joined it. A former ballerina with hair dyed an alarming shade of red, she was at once tiny and imposing. The house lights were doused and she waved lightly to acknowledge polite applause.

“My dear friends,” she began, standing behind a little podium, “I am Sylvie Auvray, and it is my great pleasure to welcome you to this very special, special occasion, a celebration of the career—thus far!—“ she stabbed the air with one finger as if to cut off any suggestion that a retrospective of his work meant Sherlock’s career was ending. “Of a true genius of dance, Virtuoso: Sherlock Holmes.”

A photo of Sherlock mid-flight, shirtless, every limb extended infinitely, appeared on the video screens. The place erupted in applause; John’s heart jumped into his throat. He clapped his hands so hard they stung.

“All of us at UK Ballet are so deeply and truly blessed to have witnessed his evolution from a promising, young” she made a rather hilarious emphatic gesture with one hand as she finished, “Firework!—honestly, if you were here in his early years you know how we all—“ She gasped and clutched at her heart. “—we couldn’t believe! So much talent, such strength, grace. . .and, ooh!, sexie!” She used a French pronunciation as if that made the word more elegant, less risqué, and the place bubbled with laughter.

“And as the years have gone on, and I have remarkably gotten only younger and younger,” More laughter. “Sherlock Holmes has moved with the times, gone from an exhilarating upstart to a true master of his art, shared his enormous talent through his choreographed works, and classes he has—I must say reluctantly, oh how he will fight me!—taught for the students of the UKB school. And now Sherlock is, I am glad to say, the backbone of this company. We so proudly honour his fifteenth year as Lead Principal Dancer, and I, personally, am proud and honoured to call him my friend.” Sylvie’s voice was tender around the last phrase, and broke a bit, eliciting a soft sigh from the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen. Friends. Fans,” she finished, “Our very own, most beloved, most respected. . .absolutely treasured virtuoso. . .Sherlock Holmes.”

The lights went down, the curtain flew up, the applause thundered. Mrs Hudson squeezed John’s wrist.

The program opened with a selection from Airs, with music by Handel—strings and winds and shimmering high brass—which was the first ballet Sherlock had performed in as a twenty-year-old newcomer. It was an ensemble piece for seven dancers, but the excerpt included a pas de deux that showed off Sherlock’s strength and balance, arranged him in some pretty shapes where the light hit every curve and angle of his muscular frame. John’s gaze followed Sherlock’s graceful, long-fingered hands, and there was a ripple of appreciative applause for each remarkable set of leaps, each sturdy balancing of a ballerina against his thigh, each effortless-looking lift and carry.

Next, a solo variation of the famous Russian trepak from The Nutcracker, and Sherlock delivered exactly what audiences wanted from a male dancer—several long strings of jumps that made it seem he could defy gravity and fly; an endless pirouette with one muscular leg flinging out from his hip like a helicopter blade, propelling him around and around; and a remarkable number of the famous, low-slung, Cossack kicks. The orchestra boomed exuberantly, and Sherlock now and again smiled, clearly taking satisfaction in his own power over both the dance and the audience. He flew as high now as he ever had, with elegance and control, grace in every muscle and tendon from the lift of his chin to the solid set of his shoulders to the tips of his long feet pointing his way through the air.

John was mesmerized, and caught a particular sparkle in Sherlock’s eyes as his face appeared in close-up on the video screens. Sherlock was fully himself in that moment, relaxed, masterful, performing—of course—but also inhabiting the movements of his body in a way that showed he was more at home six feet above the stage than he ever was walking on the earth. His hair was slicked up and away from his face in a sort of pompadour, but his vigorous leaps and turns had shaken a curl loose across his forehead; even in stage make-up, he was sturdily handsome. John realised he had been holding his breath only when it gusted out of him as Sherlock struck his final, triumphant pose and the audience burst into loud applause. Even as he joined in with hearty clapping, John worried in the back of his mind for what the rigors of the trepak might have done to Sherlock’s knee.

The next twenty or so minutes of the program was excerpted from the UKB’s original production of Don Quixote, which Sherlock had choreographed two seasons previous. Nearly the entire company was featured in the tale of Kitri’s wedding. Molly danced the lead role with a jaunty swing of her hip and flick of her lacy fan, dark curls pasted to her cheeks and forehead in hyper-stylized Spanish dancer fashion. There was a lot of flirting and comedy, and it ended with Sherlock as Kitri’s suitor Basilio joining the ensemble to dance a romantic pas de deux with his sweetheart.

The curtain fell for the intermission and the audience applauded, then buzzed with conversation as the houselights came up. John could feel himself beaming, his face aching from holding his wide smile. His husband was deeply, multiply talented, strong, powerful. Gorgeous. And Sylvie was right: Sherlock in his element was undeniably, achingly sexie. It was all John could do not to start tapping people on the shoulder just to tell them that Sherlock was his.

*

Sherlock managed not to favour his bad knee until he was shut up in his dressing room for the intermission. He was limping as he fetched his ice pack from the mini-fridge (long-gone-flat champagne; roasted almonds; tiny buckets of cream that always showed up when he ordered tea from the shop across the street despite the fact he ordered it black) and sat in front of his make-up table with his leg extended. The room was already filling up with flowers—bouquets on his table held cards from his brother, his chiropractor, the director of a small company in Belgium he’d done a guest stint with the previous season, and his parents. Nothing from John.

He downed a sports drink, patted his face with a towel, switched on a tabletop fan and touched up a smudged eyebrow. A knock came on his mostly-closed door.

“Come,” he ordered, raising his eyes to the mirror. It was one of the stage crew, cradling two long boxes, each of which Sherlock knew must hold bouquets of long-stemmed roses. “Cards, please, but you can just set those. . .” Sherlock gestured vaguely. “. . .anywhere.” The crew member did as he was told, tearing the little envelopes off the boxes. Sherlock lifted his hand to his shoulder to receive them but didn’t turn around. “Shut the door, please, on your way out.”

He slit the first envelope with the pointed end of a make-up brush. “With best wishes, your friends at Freed.” They ought to wish him well, given how many thousands of pounds he’d spent on shoes over the years. The second envelope was mostly open already, having been torn from its box. The little card inside said, “Grace glides on blistered feet. . .How blessed I am to have found you, darling boy. Ever yours.” Sherlock tore it up and tossed it into the small can beneath his table. That indiscretion guaranteed his friend in the chauffeured Jaguar would never lay eyes on Sherlock’s gliding grace—nor his blistered feet—again. Sherlock tsked. At his age—with that wife—he should really know better.

Sherlock fixed his hair back into place, cemented it with spray. The label blared superlatives and Sherlock suspected the main ingredient must be glue. As he finished, a soft knock and, “Five minutes to curtain, Mr Holmes.” He changed into his next costume—peacock blue trousers, the traditional balletic interpretation of Turkish, with gold embroidery and a loose, blouson-sleeved white shirt, and short waistcoat with a wide tasseled belt. One last check of his appearance in the mirror, a haughty pose to get himself in character, and he made his way to the stage.

*

Molly’s new boyfriend had his playbill folded back to a page of photos.

“That one was a bit controversial,” John mentioned, pointing to the photo that took up the top half of the page, of a quartet of male dancers dressed only in skin-tight shorts and black pointe shoes laced all the way up to their knees. Sherlock had choreographed the piece several seasons before—his first major original work. “He put it in a competition and they laughed it out. Reviews here were mostly good, though.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” Rhys replied, and the lights flashed, signaling patrons to return to their seats. “Molly thinks Sherlock is quite a genius; she talks quite well of him.”

John grinned. “He is that,” he said, not without pride. “He is a genius.”

The lights dimmed, the orchestra struck up, and after a few moments, the curtains rose on a set made to resemble a tapestry-draped palace by the sea. Dancers loitered around the edges of the stage, pantomiming a festive atmosphere. Sherlock was partnered with another principal dancer—not Molly this time, though if Molly had the stamina to keep up with Sherlock, it was well known he’d choose her as his partner for everything—for the grand pas de deux from Le Corsaire.

Sherlock appeared, made a sweeping run across the front of the stage, and then was joined by his partner for a dance clearly made to feature the lady’s fragile beauty and gracefulness, a series of carefully composed tableaux with Sherlock offering support at her waist, or back, or lifting her high and carrying her smoothly across the stage. It was only after the leading lady had curtsied and glided away that Sherlock was able to put his explosive power on display, with a long series of heroic, turning leaps and elegant poses, winking, smirking, pouting his already considerably pouty lip, a Casanova on the prowl. John heard Mrs Hudson make a little amused sound, and couldn’t help but smile.

The audience applauded, the stage lights went black, and a blood-red, satiny curtain fell to cover the backdrop of the palace scene, as it was time for Sherlock’s controversial quartet. Men en pointe, nothing new, some now even considered it gimmicky. Music by Ravel (Pavane for a Dead Princess), also nothing new, certainly. It was the dance itself that had made people either leap from their seats in excitement of seeing something brand new and challenging, or shake their heads and brush it aside as wasted time. The music was mournful and meandering, and the dancers amplified the tragic affect by making only the tiniest of movements in extreme slow motion. A close-up shot on the video screen of one dancer’s hand revealed him curling his fingers, one by one, with infinite delicacy, over a span of nearly half a minute. The men began in an elaborately tangled tableau, in positions with raised legs and tilted torsos that seemed impossible to maintain for so long, yet each balanced upon the others—gently, perfectly, almost mathematically—all of them en pointe, and never once did a heel touch the stage in the entire six minutes of the piece. By the end, they were arranged into a different pose, and the creeping pace of the journey had brought the rapt audience along with them, to a disquieting sense of unresolved grief.

John thought the music was particularly lovely and was glad to hear it again after all the intervening time, but he had decided when the piece debuted that it was beyond him, required context from a knowledge of the history of ballet he couldn’t hope to possess, even as the spouse of an accomplished ballet dancer. Molly’s boyfriend, though, was clearly devastated, covering his mouth to hold in his sobs. John offered him a handkerchief from the inside pocket of his jacket.

The audience applauded as the quartet flittered off the stage like delicate ballerinas. The next piece was a new solo Sherlock had been working on, which he hadn’t talked about in much detail—and John now felt somewhat ashamed at how little he had actually asked, how uninterested he must seem. John cleared his throat several times in rapid succession, sat up straighter in his seat, even tried to open his eyes wider so he could take it in, make the memory of it stick. He resolved to catch some detail he could use to compliment Sherlock later.

Sherlock emerged from the wings to a ripple of applause, elegant toe-heel walk to the very center of the stage; wearing soft, pyjama-like shorts nearly to his knees. His long, callused feet were bare and there was a black, elastic brace around his arthritic knee. A close shot of his face on the video screen as he settled into his starting pose showed the fine lines by his eyes, the permanent creases in his forehead. John held his breath; the theatre went silent with expectation. Sherlock drew a breath that visibly expanded his chest, and the raspy, soul-filled tenor voice of Otis Redding sang out to fill the massive space.

I’ve been loving you too long. . .to stop now. . .

Sherlock’s arms rippled and rolled, a shimmer from shoulder to elbow to wrist to fingertip, and his torso swung sideways, his body flowing like water as he eased into the dance. His movements were deliberate, expansive, controlled, delicate. . .no skyward leaps, nothing athletic, only a beautiful story told with exquisite grace. John’s throat was thick with emotion.

Pointed toes described wide half-circles on the stage, and Sherlock’s body dropped to roll along the floor, powerfully muscled legs drawing an arch in the air, then he huddled, then expanded, rolled and rose again to the ball of one foot in a single, impossible motion, leg extended out and up, arms in a V above him—tension and fragility held at once in the pose and in his limbs—always a taut, dynamic interplay between intensity and lightness.

Sherlock inhabited the stage, travelling across it with sweeping, low-speed runs, gentle turns, arms always stretching toward something just out of reach or drawing inward as if embracing, cradling, soothing. John’s trembling fingers pressed against his lips and he blinked to clear a glint of tears from his eyes. Everyone in the great cave of the theatre disappeared, and John slipped into an in-between world where there was only Sherlock: speaking silent volumes with the vast vocabulary of his skin and bones, muscles, tendons, half-closed eyes, wistfully smiling mouth, and John: watching with wide, wet eyes; a desperately tender, trembling voice in his ears; sensing Sherlock’s every declaration, desire, memory immediately and wholly with his too-big, aching heart.

The music began to crescendo, Redding’s needy moans and pleas matched by Sherlock’s quicker, more urgent movements.

I’m down on my knees. . .please don’t make me stop now. . .

Sherlock made an effortless, low slung series of turns and the way the light caught the muscles of his upper back made it seem to John that he could see the places where Sherlock’s wings had been cut off. He sucked air and shuddered; Sherlock—in motion, right where he belonged—was stunning, devastating, at once vulnerable and masterful. He was beautiful.

“How is he mine. . .?” John breathed, barely aware he had said it aloud.

Mrs Hudson must have heard him because she passed him a tissue she pulled from inside the cuff of her sleeve.

Just the last few seconds of the piece saw Sherlock taking a few leaps so controlled and elongated they seemed to unfurl in slow motion. A stylized collapse under the weight of a heart full of longing, the music faded away, and the applause was enthusiastic and immediate. Sherlock bowed deeply, the elastic brace around his knee a reminder of his fragility as he sank low with gratitude for his audience’s appreciation.

John dabbed tearful eyes, laughed a bit under his breath. He didn’t think of himself as the kind of bloke who was moved to tears by things like art or music. But the weight of their shared history, the occasion of Sherlock being honoured, that damned knee that wouldn’t leave Sherlock alone. . .whatever else there was feeding into it, John felt he had just been handed Sherlock’s beating heart, and he was utterly overwhelmed.

By the time John felt like himself again, the next piece was well underway—an ensemble Sherlock had choreographed the previous season titled Crash. It was set to spooky, complex music by Liszt, and had been inspired by a pair of 1970s performance-artists who ran straight at each other, smashing together and bouncing away, leaving them both bruised and exhausted. John vividly remembered watching the distressing, fascinating videos with Sherlock, while John convalesced. Sherlock’s piece didn’t have the same level of real violence as the performance art, but it was visceral and challenging and at times even disturbing. In short, it had Sherlock Holmes’ fingerprints all over it.

To finish out the evening, an audience-pleasing grand pas classique: a piece showcasing pure classical ballet technique. The twelve-minute suite included Sherlock partnered with Molly for some of the programme’s most stunning lifts and most graceful poses; a bit of solo work from Molly; another short pas de deux during which one might think, based on their enraptured countenances and their exchange of gently-smiling gazes, that the two were in love—and in a way, of course, they were. Finally another explosive series of leaps and turns from Sherlock, taking ownership of the stage and of the audience, which seemed to hold its breath through each magnificent string of jetés and rocket-like, upward thrust of a tour en l’air that made it seem he could launch himself straight to the stars. Several times in the course of two minutes the applause rumbled, each occasion louder than the last, for the music grew in intensity and it seemed as if Sherlock could fly off the stage and over their heads. He soared, grace and power intertwined; elegantly turned wrists and muscles like coiled metal cables; placid expression and fierce exertion. He landed on the stage like a nail driving into a plank, the music ending with a final, triumphant blast as he tossed back his head and threw up his arm. So there!

John leapt to his feet, would have battered his hands bloody clapping them together and neither noticed nor cared. Eyes wet, heart pounding, he had never felt so full of pride, so thoroughly in awe. The building vibrated with the applause, as Sherlock made deep bows that embodied humility and bravado all at once, lowering his head, touching his hand to his heart.

Single roses and small bouquets of flowers began to land on the stage, thrown from the boxes and the balcony and across the orchestra pit. Sherlock kissed his fingertips, offered it to the entire theatre with one sweep of his arm.

John couldn’t help himself; he stuck his fingers in his mouth and whistled. Mrs Hudson burst out in delighted laughter beside him.

Molly emerged from the wings burdened with an impossibly huge bouquet of roses, which she presented to Sherlock with a deep curtsy; he offered his hand to raise her back to her feet, kissed her cheek, gestured for the audience to applaud her and took a step back and to the side so she could take her bows. The rest of the evening’s dancers were brought onstage to receive their accolades, and then rushed off again, leaving Sherlock to soak up one last round of his own enthusiastic applause, dip deeply into his knee, sliding his other foot behind him, bowing his head. The spotlight went out, and Sherlock’s lanky, elegant silhouette strode off the stage.

*

The dancers and some of the stage crew wanted to give him kisses and congratulations, but Sylvie acted like a human shield for Sherlock, shooing them all away with scolds about the golden-ticket meet-and-greet they were all expected to be at in an hour, so they’d better run to shower and dress, no stage make-up! You will talk to him at the party! Or tomorrow! Send him a text!

She walked him to his dressing room with her hand resting on the back of his shoulder, air-kissed his cheeks as she waved him inside.

“You, too, must be presentable for this reception, and on time,” she admonished him. “Must I stand guard here against visitors?” she asked meaningfully.

“I think it’s well known I’m not to be disturbed, and will emerge fresh-scrubbed and smelling of sandalwood, forty minutes hence,” he told her, smiling. “Nothing to worry about; why would I be late to a party in my honour?”

“Because you like to make an entrance, as anyone who saw you in Coppelia already knows.” She rested her hand on the door knob. “Je suis fier de vous. Very proud,” she said then, with a genuine smile, her eyes filling up so that she blinked.

“Hush now, Sylvie; you’ll ruin us both.” He grinned, leaned down to kiss her cheek.

His dressing room was now so full of flowers he had to shift some aside to set down the bouquet Molly had presented to him onstage. He felt pleasantly warm all over, vibrating at a low frequency, a wash of adrenaline and endorphins making him tingle and melt. He checked a few cards; still nothing from John.

Sherlock was in the shower when John came knocking.

“It’s just me, Sherlock,” he said. “Couldn’t wait to see you. You were brilliant.”

“I’m nearly done.”

He finished, patted his hair a bit, wrapped the towel around his hips. John was working his way through the bouquets on the make-up table, the little sofa, the floor, and the extra folding chair, reading the cards. As soon as Sherlock emerged from the bath, John had arms around him, kissing him. “Amazing,” he breathed, and shook his head just a bit. “You are just incredible.”

Sherlock smiled. “I’m glad you came.”

“Of course,” John replied, and his hands stroked down Sherlock’s back, coming to rest on his hips. “I wouldn’t have missed it. You’re stunning, you know that?”

“So you keep saying,” Sherlock joked, and let John caress him, kiss his neck in a way that was increasingly far from chaste.

In Sherlock’s ear: “That’s one of my favourite songs—the one you used in your solo.”

“I know.”

“Did you –“ A slight hesitation; he was worried he might be flattering himself. “—make it for me?”

Sherlock passed his long hands over John’s shoulders, down his arms. He made a little teasing hum. . .mmmaybe. . . “Might have done,” he allowed, tipping his head side to side and quirking up the side of his mouth.

“It was. . .” John shook his head, lost for words. “Beautiful.” He kissed Sherlock in the hollow between neck and shoulder. “I cried. It was gorgeous.”

Sherlock stretched his neck, baring the soft place beneath his chin. John left a trail of kisses and tongue-tip flicks upward until he reached Sherlock’s jaw, then took Sherlock’s face in his hands, tilted him down, kissed his mouth urgently, coaxing Sherlock’s lips open beneath his own.

Sherlock protested between kisses, “I have to get ready.”

“They’ll wait for you,” John insisted, and began to swipe his thumb rhythmically across Sherlock’s nipple, making him gasp into John’s mouth.

“Is the door locked?”

“Don’t care.”Almost roughly, John hustled Sherlock backward until the edge of his make-up table met his towel-wrapped bottom, long legs extended out in front of him, supporting himself on his hands at either side of his hip. John kissed him hard, fingers in the damp hair at the back of his neck, and Sherlock felt his adrenaline spiking up again, skin tingling at being manhandled, John’s desperate arousal because of him, because of what he did, in radiant waves Sherlock could smell, could practically see.

John kissed down his neck, stopped to suck hard, trying to raise a bruise, and Sherlock let him, stroked the back of his head and neck, hummed encouragement. A last sweep of John’s tongue over the spot and a gruff sound of satisfaction, and John was back on the move, nipping at Sherlock’s collarbone. He dragged the pad of his thumb down along his own tongue and went after Sherlock’s nipple again, kissing and biting and licking his way down Sherlock’s chest, and then he pinned Sherlock’s wrists down with his hands and bent to mouth the thin, soft skin of his belly—teeth pressing here, lips pulling there, nuzzling his nose just underSherlock’s last rib.

Sherlock tensed, sucked in and back, trying to get away. Fat. Old. Not the boy you once knew.

John looked up at him then, and rather than apologize or comfort Sherlock—sorry, darling, I forgot—he looked wolfish, eyes dark, lips shining and kiss-swollen. “You gorgeous man,” he growled, and Sherlock felt a cool rivulet of pleasure roll down his spine. John leaned again to kiss Sherlock’s abdomen, and this time Sherlock straightened his back so that his torso rocked up to meet John’s warm, open mouth. John went after his skin hungrily, raising his head to tease Sherlock’s nipple with his tongue, then sliding back down to nibble on his belly-skin, dragged his nose up Sherlock’s side, breathing him in.

He stopped just long enough to rearrange the nearby chair, bridging it over Sherlock’s outstretched legs. John sat, feet planted to either side of Sherlock’s legs, then reached for the tucked-in corner of Sherlock’s bath towel and slipped his fingers beneath it, grasped with his thumb. He gave Sherlock a sly smile as he began to tug. Sherlock rested his palm against John’s cheek, twitched his thumb against John’s lips, and John caught it, drew it in, sucked. Sherlock let his eyes fall closed.

A flurry of light knocks on the door.

“Not now!” Sherlock said loudly, breathless.

A muffled “hmph” from the other side of the door. John smiled, unwrapped his prize, wetting his lips with his tongue before bracing himself with one hand on Sherlock’s muscular thigh and taking Sherlock’s cock in the other. As his lips closed around the crown, already oozing evidence of Sherlock’s arousal, Sherlock pulled in a loud, shuddering breath. John hummed encouragement, worked his lips and tongue over and around the head of Sherlock’s reddened prick, licked up and down Sherlock’s length, used the tight circle of his fingers to make up the difference.

Sherlock shoved his hand down inside the back of John’s suit jacket, balled up the fabric of John’s shirt in his fist, his back arching as he curled toward the center of pleasure. John mm-hmm’d and sighed around him, clumsily reached down to open his own trousers and eventually managed it without having to break contact with Sherlock’s thrumming cock.

Sherlock let out a huff as John paused to lick his fingers and palm. John quickly reached down to stroke himself as he drew Sherlock deeply into his mouth, now sucking with his lips tight around the crown, drawing a sob of pleasure from Sherlock that made John moan around him. Sherlock’s pelvis was rocking gently, the edge of the make-up table digging a crease across his buttocks. He clutched at John’s shoulder, watched the way John’s shoulder and forearm moved as he pulled at his own cock. It took John almost no time to bring himself off, clearly he hadn’t been lying about how moved he was by Sherlock’s performance. A sudden stiffening of his body, and he growled around Sherlock’s prick, and his cum painted Sherlock’s bare legs, spurting out of him in hot pulses.

“John!” Sherlock gasped, urgent, warning.

John shifted his angle a bit, stroked Sherlock with an eager hand.

“Mmm. . .mm-hmm. . .” John encouraged.

Sherlock’s hand squeezed the back of John’s neck as he came into John’s mouth, trying to hold back his moans behind closed lips. John hummed, nodded a bit, gave Sherlock’s increasingly oversensitive cock a few more warm, gentle swipes with his tongue before he broke contact. He lifted the corner of Sherlock’s towel and spit into it, wiped his lips, then sat back in the little chair, legs fallen wide apart, sated cock still semi-stiff where it hung out of his open trousers.

“I am the luckiest man alive,” John breathed.

Sherlock smiled, then leaned forward and caught John behind the neck, drew him into a deep, lazy kiss. He tasted himself in John’s mouth.

“I have to get dressed,” Sherlock said, drawing back. “Fix yourself up, Lucky.” He tipped his chin toward John’s open fly. He stood, used the bath towel to wipe John’s cum off his thighs, then dropped it to the floor. He crossed to his costume rack, where his suit and shirt were hanging in plastic bags from the cleaners’. John straightened himself up while Sherlock stood nude, breaking open dry cleaner bags.

“God, look at you,” John said, then.

“Don’t overdo it,” Sherlock teased.

John went into his pocket, pulled out his phone. “Say cheese,” he demanded cheekily.

“John. . .” Sherlock scolded, but the post-performance—and now post-orgasmic—haze had him relaxed and happy, so he drew himself up tall into fifth position, legs crossed tightly at the knees, heels to toes, arms long but softly rounded above his head. He threw a come-hither glance toward John and the camera’s shutter-sound went.

“Gorgeous,” John reported. He closed the distance between them with just a few steps and wrapped his arms around Sherlock, tilting up his face to catch Sherlock’s lips between his own. “Did I mention?” he murmured between kisses, “You’re stunning?”

Sherlock hummed as if trying to recall.

“Amazing.”

“That one, you did say.”

“Remarkable.” John bit gently at Sherlock’s lower lip.

Another knock at the door came then, more insistent than the earlier one.

“Mr Holmes, they’re waiting.”

Sherlock broke the kiss only long enough to say, “Ten minutes.” John grabbed Sherlock’s chin to draw him back into another kiss, slid one hand along the dip and curve of Sherlock’s lower back and onto his backside, squeezed.

Sherlock shouted, “Twenty minutes!” and John laughed a bit as they sank back into their embrace, their lips and tongues warm in each other’s mouths. A quick and dirty, anyone-could-see assignation after his triumphant performance; his husband praising him to the sky; a party full of people waiting to tell him how wonderful he was—Sherlock figured this night for one of the best of his life. Naked in John’s safe, familiar embrace, with the lingering taste of sex in their mouths, Sherlock thought he might never have a better moment.

“I don’t know where I’d be without you,” he whispered against John’s lips. “Not here.”

John kissed him sweetly, stepped back and reached for the suit hanging on the rack. “Your public awaits,” he said.

“Sherlock!” Sylvie’s voice outside the door. “Rapide, rapide!” she scolded.

“I’m coming, you harridan!” Sherlock called back at her as he slid his trousers from the hanger and bent to step into them.

“Need to get that on my tongue, as well,” John said, and Sherlock wiggled his arse a bit, grinned slyly over his shoulder.

“Sherlock, I am coming in zis door!” Sylvie again.

“I’m having exotic sex with my husband at the moment, Madame, but do as you like.”

“You cannot shock me; I am French!” She rattled the door knob. “I am going to fetch my stick. When I return in three minutes, you will ready for zis reception or I will smack your legs.”

Sherlock shrugged into his shirt and John went at the buttons as Sherlock fastened his cuffs. “She isn’t joking; when she was teaching, she always had that stick in her hand. More than once I earned bruises for being lazy at the barre.”

John held out Sherlock’s jacket and he slid into it, fastened the single button just above his waist.

“I suppose I have to wear shoes?” Sherlock ventured.

“Sorry, yeah,” John grinned at him.

There was a loud, rapping thwack against the door and John jumped a bit.

“Jesus! She really did get a stick!”

Sherlock yanked the door open, and Sylvie’s face was stern, her hand resting on the carved top of the bamboo cane she’d used in class to beat time against the floor, and—yes, sometimes—to discipline lazy dancers.

“I’m ready,” Sherlock assured her.

“No shoes,” was her terse reply.

Sherlock fetched shoes with the socks rolled up inside one of them, perched on the edge of the chair John had recently occupied.

Sylvie gave John a wink. “How was it, the exotic sex?”

John’s shoulders shook with a gruff laugh of embarrassment. “Uh, yeah—good.” He cleared his throat, glanced at Sherlock who was clearly enjoying John’s squirm. “Very nice.”

“Have you ever had a really huge cock in your arse, Sylvie?” Sherlock challenged, eyes sparkling. “Not just bigger than average, but truly enormous?”

“Sherlock, I have had far more interesting things in my arse than that. Someday I’ll write a book. For now, you have wealthy patrons waiting to pose with you in photos they will later look at while they dream of having your cock in their arse.”

John guffawed. “Never heard a Frenchwoman talk quite like that,” he commented.

“I am French, but also I’m working with this incorrigible man for half my life.”

“Half!” Sherlock scoffed.

“It is eat or be eaten with him, John,” she intoned. “Come! Rapide!”

*

The reception was in the theatre’s big rehearsal studio and—rather hilariously, John thought—the UKB had rented a dance floor to cover the actual dance floor to protect it from food, spilled drinks, or street shoes. There were curtains hung across the wall of mirrors to spare people having to look at themselves head to toe all evening. It made John shudder to think of the dancers having to do so day after day, year after year—it couldn’t be healthy to look at oneself that much. Here and there were tall tables with long white cloths and candles flickering in the centers. A bartender in one corner, and servers circulating with trays of appetizers and champagne. As it was restricted to big-money donors, there were only about a hundred people. Nonetheless, the room buzzed with conversation and soft jazz, and when he escorted Sherlock into the room on his arm, John’s throat thickened with emotion at the eruption of warm applause that greeted Sherlock’s arrival. He stepped back to let Sherlock accept his accolades. To his mild surprise, once Sherlock had waved a bit—smiling, eyes narrowed—he reached for John’s hand and pulled him to his side.

It was all as expected—cheek kisses and handshakes, laughing at inoffensive jokes that weren’t particularly funny, Sherlock posing for photos with ancient dowagers wearing the family’s fortune around their necks and wrists. Sherlock introduced John to everyone, talked him up, rested his hand in the small of John’s back. For his part, John stuck to the champagne and skipped the whisky, minimized talk about himself in favour of lauding Sherlock’s accomplishments. He found himself nodding a lot, smiling, saying, “He is—he’s remarkable. Staggeringly talented. I’m very lucky.” He did feel lucky, and grateful, and in genuine awe of Sherlock’s enormous talent. Knowing how hard he worked, how determined and focused he was—and had been for even longer than the twenty years John had known him—how deep his passion was, just made the beauty, strength, and ease with which he performed that much more impressive.

Sylvie clinked her glass, standing in one corner of the room, and despite her diminutive size was easily able to command attention. She made another brief speech thanking the donors for their support and suggesting they consider making a special donation in honour of Sherlock’s anniversary. She then presented Sherlock with a plaque commemorating his fifteen years with the ballet, explaining a matching plaque would hang in the UKB’s lobby. She summoned Molly to announce the creation of the Sherlock Holmes Prize, an annual scholarship for a promising ballet student with financial need, and it was obvious to John from the softness of Sherlock’s face that he had been right to suggest it.

Sherlock tried to demur speaking, but Sylvie insisted, dragging him by the hand to stand beside her.

“When I was a student, maybe twelve years old, I watched a video of Rudolf Nureyev in Romeo and Juliet, and—well, of course, I fell in love—“ he grinned cheekily and the crowd let go a ripple of laughter “But I also saw everything a ballet dancer could and should strive to embody: grace, elegance, commitment, strength. Never did I dream I would one day have an evening like this. In fact, I’m sure I’m dreaming right this second, and that I will soon wake up, late for rehearsal.”

Another warm laugh from the assembled. John caught a glimpse of Sherlock’s mum handing his father yet another hankie to dab his eyes.

“I cannot say enough thanks to Sylvie Auvray, to Georges Dolbec, to my fellow dancers, who are an endlessly dedicated and talented group of people and who I am privileged to work with. I especially wish to thank my friend Molly Hooper.” He motioned for Molly and she stepped up beside him, wrapped her little hand around his arm and for a moment rested her head on his shoulder. “She is the perfect partner: generous, creative, and enormously talented. I am lucky to be the one to throw her in the air, season after season. Most times I catch her.”

Molly caught the side of his face with her hand, pulled him down to kiss his cheek. She stepped away again.

“And, finally, speaking of perfect partners, and of how lucky I am. . .” He smiled and gestured toward John. “Have you met my husband?” The crowd made a collective sigh and there was light applause, which made John blush and look at the floor, clear his throat again and again. He stepped beside Sherlock and turned his gaze to Sherlock’s handsome face. “John and I have been together for twenty years—since I was four and he was seven,” Sherlock continued with a grin. “He has always been supportive and understanding of my long hours, picky eating, smelly rehearsal gear on the bedroom floor.” Sherlock took John’s hand and his silver-green eyes stared steadily into John’s eyes. “I am far from perfect, as he well knows, and I am absolutely certain that I would not be where I am right now without him. John keeps me right, he always has, so if I have achieved anything of worth, it is only because he loved me.”

A burst of applause and vocalized “awws”, and John wiped tears from his eyes, shared a long embrace with Sherlock, who kissed his neck and whispered, “Thank you.” John sniffed, held him closer.

The party picked up around them, soon followed by another round of air-kisses and back-pats as patrons and colleagues bid Sherlock goodbye and wished him well. At last John felt they’d put in enough time that he lay his hand on Sherlock’s arm and said, “Shall we?” Sherlock nodded gratefully.

In the taxi on the way home, Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket and toed off his shoes, held a thick handful of cards collected from his dressing room bouquets (the flowers themselves he had sent to the geriatric ward of a nearby hospital). John rested his hand on Sherlock’s thigh.

“You must be exhausted,” John offered.

“A bit,” Sherlock allowed, sliding the cards behind each other as he read them. They fell back into silence and John sensed Sherlock drawing into himself.

“All right? You seem a bit let down.”

Sherlock made a noncommittal noise. John’s hand began to move absently, petting him.

“My god, look at this—flowers from Portia!” Portia was a woman they’d known when they were in their early twenties. A brief and disastrously misguided attempt to open their relationship had folded in Portia and her then-boyfriend Sam with Sherlock and John; within a month, Sam came out as gay, proposed he and Sherlock become exclusive, John punched him, Portia blamed them, and she hadn’t spoken to them since.

“Maybe she’s forgiven you for turning her boyfriend into a poof,” John smiled.

“Time heals all wounds,” Sherlock murmured, but didn’t really engage.

When they got to the flat, Sherlock went in ahead of him, disappeared into the bathroom for a bit. John hung up his suit jacket, loosened his necktie and unbuttoned his cuffs. He considered pouring himself a Macallan, but left it. He settled into his favourite chair in the lounge, pulled out his phone to check for emails from the head coach or the players. His team had won handily, which greatly eased his guilt at having missed the match. He was checking scores for other league matches when Sherlock emerged. He paced back and forth a bit, agitated.

John didn’t look up from his phone. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his attention divided. He couldn’t imagine what Sherlock would be getting into a sulk about, an hour after leaving his big event, but it seemed clear that’s where he was headed.

“I know it shouldn’t bother me, but—“ Sherlock stopped. “No, nevermind. Let’s get ready for bed.”

“If something’s bothering you, just say so,” John said, annoyance rising; Sherlock was being passive-aggressive and it drove John crazy.

“You could’ve sent flowers,” Sherlock blurted, and stopped pacing. He crossed his arms in front of his chest.

John huffed disbelief, shook his head. “Sherlock, you don’t even keep your flowers. You barely even look at them.”

“It’s symbolic.”

“Of what? Wasting money?”

“It’s traditional,” Sherlock asserted. “Just this once, I thought you’d—“

“You’re not honestly getting into a strop about this.” Leave it to Sherlock to find one minor irritant in an otherwise wonderful night and pick at it until it oozed.

“I’m not getting into a strop!” Sherlock thundered.

“Keep your voice down; it’s late.”

“Don’t condescend to me, John, for god’s sake. I’m not getting into a strop.” His emphasis on the word clearly indicated he was offended by it. “I’m just. . .”

“Sherlock, if you’d told me you wanted me to send you flowers, I would have. How would I know to do that?”

“You used to bring me flowers after every performance,” Sherlock said, his tone accusing and bordering on petulant.

“Fifteen years ago!” John was exasperated.

“How does that make it any better?”

“I only mean I didn’t know you were expecting me to get you flowers tonight. I had no idea it would be this big an issue.”

“It’s not the flowers that are an issue, John, it’s that you didn’t even think of it.”

John rolled his eyes. “I can’t read your mind, Sherlock. Even after all this time, that’s not a skill I’ve developed. And who do you think told them to put together that scholarship? It’s not like I did nothing at all. I rearranged my schedule at the last minute—“

“Weeks ago!”

“I spent a month sneaking around with Molly, making sure you got a gift you’d like, back and forth with Sylvie about the reception I frankly didn’t care about other than to show up and have a few drinks, because I knew it was an important night for you.”

“I told you, you didn’t even have to come,” Sherlock defended, hands chopping the air. “I told you it was just fundraising.”

John shook his head, waved his hand dismissively. “Don’t act like you would have been OK with me not being there. You’re just arguing for the sake of arguing. Look, I’m sorry your feelings are hurt because I didn’t know you wanted flowers.”

“My feelings are hurt because you didn’t think to send flowers.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Sherlock!” John shouted. He launched himself out of his chair and stormed past Sherlock to the kitchen, where he pulled a large, rectangular package wrapped in brown paper from between the lower cabinets and the wall. He hefted it back to the lounge, propped it up on the arms of his chair. “You want a gift?” he muttered, and tore the paper from the top to the bottom, pulled it apart with both hands. “I got you a gift.”

Beneath the paper was a shadow box in which were arranged side-by-side photos of Sherlock and his idol, Rudolf Nureyev, in similar poses, caught mid-flight in cross-shaped leaps. Beneath each photo, a pair of shoes: one slightly worn pair—Sherlock’s—and one badly battered, many-times-mended pair—Nureyev’s. John had spent the equivalent of a week’s work and a week’s pay on it. He’d been looking forward for weeks to giving it to Sherlock, to seeing his face when he laid eyes on it. Now he didn’t even care to notice if Sherlock was even seeing it.

John huffed a frustrated sigh out his nostrils. “I wish for just once you would not turn a perfectly nice night into a big drama scene, all about how fucking abused and neglected you are.” He punched one finger into the air. “Just once!”

Sherlock’s posture was still edgy and puffed up, but he kept his mouth shut.

“I’m going to bed.”

John brushed by Sherlock as he stormed out, angling his shoulder so as not to touch him.

 

*

---

Inspirations:

Airs, by American Ballet Theatre (I did not have a particular excerpt in mind)

Trepak from The Nutcracker, by San Francisco Ballet (this one gives a good sense of the choreographic style I envisioned)

Mikhail Baryshnikov and Cynthia Harvey in Don Quixote  -or- Kitri’s Wedding. (I didn’t have a particular excerpt in mind, but the opening scene here is illustrative)

Le Corsaire grand pas de deux, by Bolshoi Ballet (I ripped this off almost wholesale—set, costumes, the whole deal!)

Pavane for a Dead Princess, by Ravel (the all-male quartet I created from imagination; this is the music I had in mind)

Sherlock’s solo: I’ve Been Loving You Too Long, by Otis Redding (this song in the context of this story will make you cry, I promise). Ave Maria, by Jose Manuel Carreno (the less athletic, more lyrical style of this piece inspired my vision of Sherlock’s solo, as did the lighting/shadows, and Carreno’s costume, such as it is. Sherlock also mentioned that he was watching this on his tablet, back in chapter one, when John asked to take him on a date)

Totentantz, by Liszt. (the music for another piece from my imagination—based on the performance art of Marina Abramovic and Ulay—Sherlock’s Crash. Liszt is always mad, but I found this particular piece in a web article called “Ten Spookiest Pieces of Classical Music” most of which were booming and big; this one is just weird. Totetantz means “dance of the dead,” for instance.)

Grand Pas Classique, by Kirov Miirinsky Ballet.

Chapter Text

“John, don’t open that email from Molly!”

Sherlock, calling from the bedroom, where he must have been checking his phone upon waking. Too late, though—John had clicked through as soon as he got the notification, and without a second thought opened a message from Molly Hooper, innocuous subject line Hi Friends & Family! heading it up.

“Jeezus!” John jerked his head backward on his neck, looked away. “What the fuck--?”

“She’s been hacked.” Sherlock reached around John to click it away, tapping uselessly on the trackpad as the mouse pointer refused to move. “Obviously this photo has been tampered with.”

“It’s repellant.” John allowed himself to be pushed away, wheels of the wooden chair catching vaguely on the rug. Sherlock clicked and banged and typed, then growled.

“There’s  a trap on the mouse; and I think there’s a virus attached that’s sending this thing to everyone in your address book,” Sherlock frowned hard and stretched his bony fingers across CTRL-ALT-DEL, finally slapped the screen down onto the keyboard.

The email contained a photo of a woman in elaborate bondage with what appeared to be razor-wire, bleeding from a hundred cuts, legs widespread for a view between them, and the face atop the lot of it was Molly’s.

Sherlock was furious; John was baffled. Sherlock’s phone, tucked into the pocket of his dressing gown, was chirping needily with new emails, texts, and calls. He ignored it, turned to lean against the edge of the desk, shoulders hunched. He tugged on his lower lip with thumb and forefinger.

“Who would do that? It’s. . .” John shook his head, lost for words.

Sherlock hummed as if distracted, then said. “That recruiter from Singapore—or whoever it really is—the one who’s been bothering her.”

“Still?” John asked. He could remember Sherlock mentioning it as far back as late summer, and now it was nearly December.

“I told her to go to the police,” Sherlock replied. “More than once. He never stops texting her, sends her these lunatic emails—long screeds full of sex and violence and threats.”

“That’s awful.” John shook his head again. “Well, surely the police can do something—she’s being stalked. Harassed, at least.”

Sherlock withdrew his phone and glanced at it, scrolled the screen with his thumb quickly, then tucked it away again. It went on buzzing and ringing and calling attention to itself. Now John’s phone on the kitchen table started to do the same, but with less frequency.

“Oh, Christ. . .Could it really be going to everyone in my address book? Work?” John scrubbed his hand over his face. “Mrs Hudson!”

“They’re adults, John, they’ll understand.” Sherlock sounded thoroughly annoyed.

“You’re right. Poor Molly, though. What a. . .ugh.”

“Ugh, indeed,” Sherlock agreed. “That boyfriend of hers has been acting as if he has this all in hand—carrying her phone, intercepting her texts and email—but clearly he’s useless.”

“Just remember it’s not your fight, Sherlock,” John cautioned. “I know Molly’s your friend, but she’s an adult, too, and she can sort it out.”

Sherlock gave him a withering look. “I’ll decide which are my fights, thank you.”

“I only meant—“

“Nevermind. This is Molly.” Sherlock cut him off and raised his phone to his ear. “Hello? Now, don’t cry. It won’t do any good and it makes you sound like a Chihuahua.” He vanished into the bedroom and shut the door.

*

Sherlock had been teaching a class—essentially against his will, under threat of severe harm from Sylvie—when he got the call about John’s injury.

John’s phone, but not his voice.  “Is that Sherlock Holmes?”

 “Yes. Who’s calling?”

“It’s Jamie O’Dell; I’m the TRC team doctor. Look, Watson’s taken a bad hit here. They’ve stopped the match.” As if Sherlock cared one iota whether the match would go on or not. “His clavicle—collar bone, you know?”

“Yes, of course.” Sherlock felt shaky all over, hot and cold, and leaned one palm on the mirror, tipped his forehead down onto his bicep. Somewhere in the distance, someone was asking him if he was all right.

“Clavicle’s snapped, broke through the skin. He passed out from the pain but they’ve got him awake now, we’re in the ambulance.”

“Where’s. . .” Sherlock was being folded down into a chair. Hands on his shoulder, the back of his neck. “They’re taking him where?”

“Royal London Hospital. He’ll need surgery right off.”

In the background of the call, Sherlock could hear two voices: one female—serious and steady—and then John’s voice, moaning horribly without words.

“Sherlock? Put your head between your knees.” The accompanist—an elderly lady with a sour, non-maternal bearing—taking charge of him. Sherlock did not put his head between his knees.

“You’re with him?” Sherlock asked. “Can I—can he speak?”

“I’ll hold the phone up. Here. Watson! Your man, here. Listen.”

“John? You’re all right.” Sherlock’s voice was high and broken, doubtless completely unconvincing. “I’ll come to the hospital quick as I can.” He sprang up from the chair and every ounce of blood in him sank to his feet; his head threatened to float off his neck. “I’m coming. I’m leaving right now.”

John growled angrily, not at Sherlock. Then, “Uh. . .” He sucked air, huffed it out in a series of breaths through his teeth. His voice hitched as he said, “Shih—lock. I’m OK. . .OK.”

“The medic’s giving him morphine, mate.” The team doctor again.

“Don’t let them take him in before I get there.”

“It can’t wait, I’m afraid. How quickly can you make it?”

Sherlock started walking. He had to get out. Had to get to John. John needed him. “I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m getting a taxi. Please.”

“He’s in good hands.”

Sherlock was out on the street, without his bag—keys, money, his gear but that could wait—and without his coat, in rehearsal clothes and half-soled shoes never meant for the pavements. He looked up and down, started toward the busier thoroughfare to the south, in search of a taxi.

“You have to make them wait. I have to see him.” No pretense of keeping the desperation from his voice. “I have to see him before they—TAXI!—take him in.”

“I’ll do my best, but I can’t promise. Maybe if you hurry.”

Sherlock collapsed into the cab, shouted at the driver to take him to Royal London Hospital, fast. “Please don’t let them take him,” Sherlock begged. “Just. I have to be there.”

The trainer’s voice was different, softer. “Here, mate, tell him you love him. Here.”

“John? Can you hear me?”

“I’m fffvine. . .darrrling.” John slurred through the painkiller cloud. It was better than what he’d sounded like before. “I’m aw’right.”

“They’ll take good care of you. I’m trying to get there to see you before you go to surgery.”

“S’awright. . .Shh—Sherlock.”

“I love you.” Sherlock’s voice shattered completely; he could feel his face contorting.

“Shh…Shh, darrrling. Don’t cry. Don’t cry now. S’awright.”

“John. I love you. I’m coming. I love you.”

“Love you. . .too.”

“He’s drifting off, mate.” The trainer. “He’s smiling, though.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock rang off, held the phone in front of him and stared stupidly at it for a moment before sitting forward in the seat and banging his palm on the Perspex between him and the driver. “Hospital!” he shouted. “Emergency!”

*

“I can’t possibly face—“ Molly hiccupped a sob. “I can’t go to work!”

Sherlock’s mind was racing, his heart pounding, with a desperate need to fix this. “People will understand. This kind of thing. . .It’s awful, but it happens. You’re hardly the first.”

“Of course I’m not, but it’s vile. It’s humiliating. That picture went to my dad, Sherlock!”

He tried a different tack. “It’s something to take to the police.”

“They can’t help. Rhys took my phone in to the local precinct.” She sniffled. “There are all these issues about jurisdiction, and we don’t even know who this person is, if he’s really in Singapore. He could be anyone, anywhere.” A loud inhale. “I changed my number, my email address, all my passwords. . .He still keeps at it. He’s texted me twice just since I dialed you.”

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose. “There must be a way to stop it. At the very least, there must be some similar way to send an explanatory email after it, to all the same recipients. Some. . .email. . .chain letter.” Sherlock was grasping, and even he could hear it.

“It’s nice of you to try to help,” Molly said, sounding resigned, “There’s probably really nothing to be done. I just called to vent; you’re kind to listen.”

“Of course.”

“And you’re right, of course, that people will understand. . .but that won’t make it easier to walk into rehearsal.” She sniffed, more lightly this time.

“I’ll come by yours and fetch you; we’ll walk in together.” It was all he could think to do.

“You will? Sherlock. Thank you.”

John rushed into the bedroom then, holding his own phone. He turned the screen so Sherlock could see it. “Look at this.”

Another photo, this one of a pair of thoroughly blood-soaked pointe shoes, ribbons tied around slim, bare ankles, obviously prone on a parquet floor.

Sherlock took John’s phone. “Molly, check those texts,” he demanded.

“I don’t want to,” she protested.

“Just please do. John’s just got something. . .” Sherlock checked his texts, had the same photo.

“It came as an email, too,” John said.

Molly: “Oh no no.”

“Molly, where are you?” Sherlock demanded. He put 999 into John’s phone and passed it back to him, motioning him out of the bedroom. John put the call through on his way back to the lounge.

“Home—I’m at home.”

“Check the locks. Windows, too. Is Rhys there with you?”

“No, he stayed at his last night. He’s probably on his way to work by now.”

“John’s on the phone to the police. I’ll be there in half an hour, quicker if I can.”

Molly’s voice quavered. “Stay on the phone with me?”

“Of course. Of course.”

*

“Go home, Sherlock. You need to sleep in your own bed, without nurses in and out, and beeping machines all night long.”

It was John’s fourth night in hospital after his surgery. He was determined not to overdo the pain meds (and as a result was in more pain than he should be), and was in a hurry to be released home to get back to his life, frustrated by the fact that his life was still at least six weeks away and that his season was certainly over; all of these combined to make him short-tempered and sharp-tongued. But as he gazed across the remains of his supper on its plastic tray, little compartments and foil-topped mini-containers of bland, overcooked, never-enough food, and urged Sherlock to take care of himself, his voice was tender. Sherlock was in a vinyl half-reclining chair he’d dragged as close to the bed as he could, holding John’s hand through the side rails, stroking John’s wrist with his thumb.

“And if I’m honest,” John added, “You look like hell.”

“Yes, and you’re breaking all the hearts up and down the hallway, shuffling about every hour. You’re sure you won’t let me shave you? Doesn’t it itch?” Sherlock dragged the pads of his fingers along John’s stubbly cheek.

“I’m thinking I’ll let it go, actually. See what we get.”

Sherlock frowned, then couldn’t resist a grin as he teased, “Quite a bit of white in there. . .”

“Piss off.” John squeezed his hand. “Honestly, I’m fine on my own. I’ll take whatever they give me, sleep the night through, and see you tomorrow. You should go home and rest a bit.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock assured him. And he didn’t. He hadn’t slept more than a few hours at a stretch, and the chair was like a torture rack, never meant to be slept on. He was more tired than he’d ever been, and more bored than he’d ever been (in between heroic attempts at going without painkillers, John was passed out on account of taking them, which left Sherlock newspaper crosswords, six channels of telly, and his phone, which he used to send redundant status updates to his mum, Mrs Hudson, John’s coach and trainer, and a few friends). But John was his, and Sherlock wasn’t going to leave him.

“Well, I would understand if you wanted to get a good night in your own bed,” John told him, and his smile was soft. “But I am glad you’re here.”

Sherlock only smiled, half-stood up from the chair, and kissed him beneath his eye.

“Don’t they need you at the ballet, though?”

“It’s been the weekend, remember? Do you know what day it is?” Sherlock’s eyebrow went up.

“Ah, Monday?” John ventured, glancing at the telly on the wall for a clue.

“It’s Tuesday. You were hurt on Saturday. So I’ve only missed two days.” Sherlock leaned back in the chair, stretched his legs and pointed his toes—no mean feat in street shoes.  “They’re talking about putting in the understudy.”

“You don’t have to miss out on account of me, Sherlock, really—“

“Ask me, John, how disappointed I will not be to get out of yet another Nutcracker. There were three of us in rotation, anyway, no top billing for anyone.”

“Who’ll go in for you?”

“Well, the other two were Ivor and Brian; they’ll stay in, and they’ll bring in Joao.”

“The Brazilian one? He’s gorgeous.”

Sherlock shot John a playfully scandalized look.

“I meant he’s monstrous and I’ve never even noticed what he looks like anyway. Is he the Ukrainian one with just the one eyebrow? It’s the painkillers talking.” John grinned a bit, then yawned.

“I’ll send him your regards,” Sherlock teased. John’s head faded back onto his pillow and he started to shift downwards on the bed, winced at the pain. Sherlock leapt up to help him, lowered the bed’s head, rearranged his pillows, settled his arm in its sling across his chest. He stroked long fingers slowly through John’s hair, from his temple all the way back until they hit the pillow, long and slow and gentle, again and again, and John’s eyes closed.

“Do you want another blanket?” Sherlock clicked off the light by the head of the bed, rolled a busily blinking monitor away so the lit-up screen faced the wall. “Do you need more medication?”

John hummed in the negative. “A blowjob would be nice.” His eyes stayed closed, but he smirked.

“I agree. Maybe they’ll let you out of here tomorrow. Once you’re home I’ll take excellent care of you, day and night.” He pressed his lips to John’s forehead. “I promise.”

“Love you, darling.”

“Love you, too. Sleep now.”

Sherlock clicked off the telly on his way back to the horrid half-reclining chair, took up a hospital blanket draped over its back and wrapped it around himself before settling down for another piss-poor sleep beside the only person on earth he’d willingly suffer it for.

*

It was early afternoon by the time the police found the body.

Sherlock had fetched Molly from her flat, and they’d walked together from there to the UKB. It was a rehearsal day, the whole ensemble, in the largest studio. Her little hand was trembling—wrapped almost completely in his much larger one—as they entered the studio. Dancers were warming up at the barre, stretching on the floor, chatting and laughing and unpacking shoes and leg warmers and bottles of water from battered gear-bags. As ever, the whole place smelled vaguely like rosin, underarms, and feet.

Though he could feel Molly hesitating, even pulling back, Sherlock strode in with his head high, dragging her straight across the middle of the huge room until they reached the far wall, where he dropped his bag with a loud thud. Molly stared at the floor. Conversation had quieted to almost nothing.

“I know you probably received some rather disturbing emails this morning,” Sherlock said, not loudly, but firmly, his eyes scanning slowly around the room. “And most of you know that someone has been harassing Molly for months now—some of you have been similarly bothered by the same person.” Several dancers nodded or murmured agreement. “It’s unfortunate, and frightening, and the police have been notified. What’s most crucial is that we are supportive of Molly, who is understandably embarrassed, and that we keep our minds on our work as much as we are able.” Molly squeezed his hand gratefully, then let it go.

“And please be careful,” she put in. “Keep an eye out. Everyone accounted for?” She looked around the room, appeared to take silent inventory of the dancers present.

The room broke out in conversation again, and several dancers approached Molly, offering embraces and sympathy, and raising worried eyebrows as they discussed the photo they’d all seen of the bloody shoes, and which ballerinas had not yet been heard from that day.

Georges clapped his hands and rehearsal got underway, everything as usual as it could be—and if Molly’s misfortune of the morning wasn’t entirely forgotten, it was at least set aside. Shortly after they broke for lunch, though, Sherlock’s phone began buzzing urgently and endlessly until he fished it from his bag.

TXT from MyJohn: That DI Lestrade is looking for you? Did he text you?

TXT from MyJohn: Don’t talk to the police until I get there.

TXT from MyJohn: Only because last time you acted a bit giddy; I don’t want them getting weird ideas about you.

TXT from UNKNOWN: It’s Detective Inspector Lestrade…We met at the crime scene that day…with the ballerina. Can you come to Queen’s Hall? Got some questions.

TXT from UNKNOWN: Keep it to yourself if you would. Not urgent but can you get here within the hour? Call me at this number if you need to.

TXT from MyJohn: Seems like they found another girl murdered, at the theater. I’m coming your way so let me know where to meet you.

TXT from MyJohn: Sherlock???

TXT from MyJohn: Text me back whether I should come to the UKB or the theater.

*

Sherlock moved the volume slider farther up the scale; John was making those awful noises again—equal measures physical pain and furious frustration—while the physical therapist worked his shoulder and arm. They were in the bedroom, but hadn’t shut the door all the way. Sherlock was as far away as he could get, at the big desk by the windows, but he could still hear John huffing, grunting, sometimes whimpering, and it was too much for him to bear, so earbuds and a movie with lots of explosions served to drown out all but the worst of it.

Another few rounds of loud, agonized groans over the next fifteen or so minutes, and the PT emerged from the bedroom to reclaim his coat from the hall tree. As he slipped into it, Sherlock crossed to meet him.

“It’s coming along. The nerve pain is a real problem, but his range of motion’s good. He can tolerate a lot more than I would think possible, this early on. Is he taking anything for the pain?”

Sherlock shook his head tightly. “Usually not. Sometimes at night, to help him sleep.”

“It’s really all right for him to take what he needs. There’s no reason for him to bear so much.”

“It doesn’t help the nerve pain, I don’t think,” Sherlock replied. He’d become accustomed to a certain expression on John’s face, a frowning pinch, that indicated the nerves from his shoulder down his arm and even into his hand and fingers were troubling him; John said it felt like knives on fire. When he caught the expression Sherlock offered to fetch the pain meds; about one in three times John accepted them.

“I’ll put it in the notes; mention it to his GP. Or—is he seeing the surgeon again soon?” The physical therapist used a stylus to poke at a rather outdated tablet computer where he kept records of his visits.

“Next week. Thursday.”

“Definitely talk about it; there’s all sorts of reasons, and some can be dealt with.”

“Thank you.”

“Not sure who they’re sending next time, but I’m back on Friday next. See you then.”

Sherlock pushed the door to the landing closed behind him, and turned the lock. John emerged from the bedroom, arm in the sling, eyes red and wet and not meeting Sherlock’s.

Only because it was the thing to do, Sherlock asked, “How was it?”

John looked murderous and went to the corner of the kitchen worktop for a half-empty bottle of whisky that had appeared shortly after he’d come out of hospital. He fetched down a glass from the cupboard, spun the bottle cap (left loose because John was still doing most things one-handed) and poured himself a generous glug, splashing a bit onto the worktop.

“I fucking hate it.”

Sherlock only looked at him helplessly, biting back his impulse to spew nonsense about how much it was helping. Sherlock had worked through injuries, and there was always, endlessly, the pain in his knee. He well knew that often the cure could be worse than the ailment. John was not a complainer; he had played through pain his entire career. And he was proud, hated to show weakness, so it was doubly hard for him to be reduced to moaning his agony in front of some stranger. Sherlock knew all of this, and it made his heart ache. He didn’t drown out John’s sounds because it was painful to hear them (though, certainly, it was) but to preserve John’s dignity.

John took a slug of the whisky, rolled it around in his mouth before swallowing.

“Did you take your pill? Remember they said you could take it before the therapist comes—“

“Fuck the fucking pills!” John roared, and slammed the glass down on the table. He ran his hand the wrong way through his hair, scrubbed at his eyes with the pads of his fingers. “They don’t help. I’m in agony all the fucking time.”

Quietly: “I know.”

“You fucking don’t. You have no idea. I spend two days getting over these PT appointments, then later in the third day I start dreading the next one. I can’t sleep. I can’t cut the food on my plate. It’s god damn humiliating.”

“I’m sorry.”

“And next week they’re going to tell me I need more surgery.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I bloody well do know it, and so do you. Meantime, I’m on half-salary and all the team will say is, We’ll see.” He didn’t say out loud what they were both only beginning to let themselves think, but never discussed: that John’s playing career might be over.

“It’s only been a few weeks, John,” Sherlock soothed, and moved closer. He reached to stroke John’s shoulder—his good shoulder—and John shrugged him off. “It was a major injury,” he went on, regardless. “Give it time.”

“Time,” John spat. “All this fucking time and nothing to do to fill it.” He shook his head, jaw tight, teeth gritted. Sherlock tried again to touch him and this time John let him. “I’m just. . .” his voice was gentler, all edge gone out of it. “I’m tired of it. And it just—“

Sherlock slid his arm around the back of John’s waist, pressed dry lips to his forehead. John didn’t soften to him, but nor did he push him away.

“It hurts so much,” John breathed. “I can’t. . .there aren’t even words.”

“I know.” Sherlock gently turned John toward him, pressed John’s head down against his own shoulder, wrapped arms around him as best he could without bothering his shoulder or arm or bumping the sling. He kissed John’s hair, stroked his back. “I’m sorry. I know it’s difficult. And unfair.” He reached for John’s chin, tilted it up. John’s mouth was soft and gently opened for him, allowing himself to be kissed.

“You’re taking good care of me,” John said then, and smiled, sounding genuinely appreciative.

“Yes, well.” He glanced down between their bodies, leaned his hips forward to bump against John’s waist suggestively. Sherlock couldn’t keep himself from joking, to ease them back down from the precipice.  “I’d like to. Let me take you to bed.” John looked skeptical. Sherlock added, with a quiet plea in it. “I miss you.”

John’s good arm went around him, pulled him close, and John kissed him hard.

*

Sherlock was already standing beside DI Lestrade, behind more yellow plastic crime-scene tape, in a small basement-level rehearsal studio at the theater when John finally caught up with him. Another dead girl, the stink of blood, and John congratulated himself for having had sense enough to buy strong breath mints from the shop across the street before he came in; the scent and flavour of it in his mouth was almost enough to cancel out the smell.

“Anything?” the detective inspector was asking, and Sherlock’s eyes were narrowed down, the bridge of his nose creased, as he scanned the floor, the body, her shoes.

“Sherlock.” John insinuated himself between them, and Sherlock hummed vague acknowledgement of John’s presence. “Is Molly all right?”

“She’s fine; back at the UKB. I imagine they’ve heard the news by now.”

“You didn’t tell them?” the cop asked, incredulously.

“I’m on a lunch break,” Sherlock replied, not really answering. He half-clarified. “We took a break, I got your texts, I came here. I didn’t see the point in alarming everyone.”

The DI motioned to a uniformed officer nearby. “Call the ballet’s director—here—“ He handed over his phone. “Number’s in there.”

“This is Miranda Lucas. She’s twenty-three, in the corps de ballet for four seasons. Trained at the UKB school since she was a little girl. Recently broke up with a girlfriend of about. . .nine months?. . .they didn’t live together.”

The girl was dressed in a spangly minidress, and her make-up was heavy enough for the stage, but streaked down her face by tears. John had to look away, angled his body to look at Sherlock and put her in his peripheral vision.

“Dressed for a nightclub; you’ll probably find that she was meeting friends when you check her phone.”

“How d’you reckon?” Lestrade asked.

“Only that she’s that age where women don’t usually go out alone, and the recent break-up meant she wasn’t dating. Maybe out looking for someone new, though.”

There was a long, silky scarf in varying shades of pink wound around her neck—definitely at odds with her outfit.

“Where is her coat?” Sherlock asked no one in particular, and looked around the edges of the small rehearsal studio. “It was cold last night; she would have had her coat unless whoever killed her caused her to leave it behind.”

“Like happened to the other one,” John said, thoroughly carried along by Sherlock’s current. “Vitalina. Remember, she was in her nightgown, like she’d been at home—maybe even asleep—and someone made her leave suddenly.”

A uniformed cop and the female sergeant who’d seemed so suspicious of Sherlock last time were both standing nearby, making notes in little books.

“Her coat?” Sherlock repeated, sounding annoyed. John put his hand on Sherlock’s elbow to steady him.

“No coat,” said DS Donovan, and shook her head. She gave Lestrade a meaningful glance and he frowned at Sherlock.

“We’ll take care of the larger picture, thanks. We just wondered if you’d notice anything, y’know. . . ballet-related.” He crossed his arms in front of his chest. “Since you pointed some things out last time.”

Sherlock walked slowly around the girl’s body. John gave the detective inspector what he hoped was a friendly grin; he still worried Sherlock was inviting himself to the party dressed as Suspect Number One, all because he was so weirdly observant, remembered absolutely everything, and could be brusque. Lestrade grinned back, and John thought if his own expression had been as tight and false, he’d clearly failed at the friendliness gambit.

“The shoes aren’t hers,” Sherlock said. “They’re new. Like the ones on Vitalina were.”

“You’re sure?” Lestrade put in.

“Miranda wore Capezio shoes; she had some agreement with them, a sponsorship or something. These shoes are from Freed, same as the pair Vitalina was wearing.”

The shoes were sodden to the point of dripping, glossy and dark with blood. John felt his stomach jump, willed away the mental image of this lovely, probably-perfectly-nice young woman dancing in shoes lined with razor blades, crying her mascara down her face, likely begging for her life.

“Her family?” John asked, before he realized he’d asked it.

“South London,” Sherlock said. “Single mother. Younger brothers—I think two.”

 “Call them,” Lestrade barked, and the uniformed cop who’d been taking notes hustled out of the room.

Sherlock suddenly crouched down, very near the girl’s shoulder.

“Don’t touch anything!” Lestrade barked.

Sherlock’s tilted head and narrow eyes made him look like an inquisitive bird. “There’s a mark on the tag, here—on the scarf.”

“What’s this?” Lestrade moved next to him, leaned over. “What, like when kids write their names in their gear?”

Sherlock hummed. Lestrade used a pen he’d pulled from his breast pocket to nudge the scarf a bit, making the little white tag more visible. A cop with a camera swooped in and the flash went a few times.

“It’s just a heart with a star inside,” Lestrade said.

“Sometimes if your name is common, you might use a symbol instead,” DS Donovan offered.

Lestrade and Sherlock both rose to their feet and the DI asked, “Any other Mirandas at the Ballet?”

Sherlock shook his head. “None.”

“When we find her coat,” Lestrade intoned, slightly louder, but to no one in particular, “Check the tag for a mark like this. Ask the mum if she drew hearts and stars in her clothes as a matter of routine. If we find anything in her flat with a mark like that on a tag, I want to know.”

The technicians were by the girl’s feet, with surgical scissors, getting ready to cut the ribbons of her shoes. John motioned to Sherlock that he should follow John out into the corridor.

Sherlock said, “I don’t see anything else here that stands out.”

“Thanks,” Lestrade nodded, offered his hand and Sherlock shook it. “I appreciate your help. I’m sorry you had to see another of these.”

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock said casually, and shrugged. John sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward. Thankfully, the detective inspector gusted out a laugh.

“You’re an odd one,” he said. “Listen, one last thing. You said—with the other girl—that from the bloodstains on the floor you thought the killer might have been dancing with her?”

Sherlock strode slowly around the body once more, eyes glued to the floor. When he was near her feet, instead of continuing his circle, he veered off to the left, brushing the suspicious sergeant’s shoulder as he went.

“Oi! Excuse you.”

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. John wanted to laugh, but bit down on it.

“They started here.” Sherlock pointed to a spot on the floor some dozen feet away. “Then he carried her. Here.” He pointed again, much nearer to the body.

“So he’s strong enough to lift her,” Donovan offered. “Not saying much; she can’t weigh but ninety pounds.”

“Turns here, small and controlled,” Sherlock went on, ignoring the sergeant’s interjection. “He was probably holding her hand or wrist, above her head—“ Sherlock demonstrated, and his pantomime was so accurate John could perfectly visualize the partner it implied. “—and pushing her hip to propel her, each time she came around.” He mimed the motion, a soft swatting of his hand against an invisible waist. Sherlock looked up then, and met the DI’s gaze; he looked triumphant. “Her turning leg, her left. . .that shoe would have much more blood. The other, she would have been holding up by her knee or across her shin.” He did a quick pirouette, showing the pose. He smiled, and nodded once, with finality.

“Sherlock,” John said then, his persistent fear that Sherlock was implicating himself creeping up the back of his neck. But then.

“Amazing,” the DI said. “I’m impressed.” He gestured toward the shoes, which were set side by side on a clean, white plastic sheet to be photographed (to John’s relief, the ballerina’s ruined feet were hidden from view by the same sort of sheet). It was plain to see that Sherlock was right.

John glanced at Sherlock, standing straight-shouldered, chin-up, and felt a strange shock through him he would have mistaken for lust if not for the distressing and repellant situation in which it occurred. Sherlock was finally within his reach so John reached, caught him by the elbow and drew him close, intending to lead him out of the room.

“You could be a detective,” Lestrade said. The suspicious DS frowned behind his right shoulder, then rolled her eyes. “Well, that is, if you can see these kinds of details when they’re not related to ballet.”

Sherlock looked utterly pleased with himself.

“All right if we go?” John asked, already starting to steer Sherlock toward the door.

“Yeah, of course. I may be in touch.”

John hustled them out, down the corridor a short ways to the lift, pressed the button.

“You’re. . .”John started.

Sherlock looked irritated, gave him a dangerous look. “I’m what?”

The lift opened and they stepped into it. As the doors slid shut, John said, “You’re brilliant.” He was in utter awe of Sherlock’s skillful contribution of valuable information to the investigation. John had been amazed the first time, as well, but it was mostly crowded out by a competing worry that Sherlock might be talking his way into suspicion—certainly the curly-haired Detective Sergeant suspected Sherlock knew too much to be completely innocent—and he hadn’t fully appreciated how Sherlock’s eerie combination of memory, close attention to detail, and—face it—bravado had shown even seasoned cops things they might otherwise have missed entirely. It came easily to Sherlock; he seemed as comfortable reeling off his crime-scene observations as he ever had on the stage. John was stunned.

Sherlock’s smile broke wide and genuine. He laughed out loud.

“So now what?” Sherlock challenged as the lift doors slid open not at the lobby, but on the second floor, where the dressing rooms were. John grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and tugged him toward his dressing room.

“I. . .rraharrr. . .” John actually growled, mouth watering as his brain reeled out a slideshow of images, of Sherlock above or beneath him, his long back, his powerful thighs, the long swath of his neck, his closed-eyes and open mouth, contorting with pleasure. “I want you.”

Sherlock’s smile turned dirty as he shut the door behind them, didn’t bother to lock it. John pressed him by the shoulders, crowded him back onto his little lumpy sofa, sank to his knees between Sherlock’s open thighs and pulled him by the back of the neck to suck hungrily at his lips, lick his tongue, breathe hard into this mouth.

Sherlock’s hands pushed at him, he hummed and petted John’s shoulders, his neck.  John reached for the rolled-down waistband of Sherlock’s soft, clinging trousers (god, his arse in these things. . .), hooked his fingers under the edge of the dance belt beneath, and yanked. Sherlock’s hands shoved John’s aside and he shimmied the lot down and off, let it settle around one ankle, shifted his pelvis forward, already half-aroused. Sherlock leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

John hummed. “God, you’re amazing.” Sherlock’s mouth softened upward at the compliment. For his part, John ducked his head and opened his mouth, coaxing Sherlock fully to life with eager lips and tongue, vibration and friction and that thing he did with his tongue-tip that always made Sherlock suck his breath.

Once he’d achieved his aim, John leaned away and quickly got to his feet, Sherlock watching with quarter-open eyes as he started to undress. John fumbled in his trousers pocket, in his billfold, didn’t bother to check the date on the little packet of slick because it was hopelessly old but probably fine, then shucked his jeans and boxers. He settled atop Sherlock with his knees to each side of those impossibly hard thighs, their pricks brushing against each other. John caught them both in his hand, stroked a bit, coating them with his left-behind saliva and oozing pre-cum, and Sherlock groaned against his neck.

John pressed the packet into Sherlock’s hand, hummed against his temple. Sherlock held it up to see.

“John. . .” The disapproving tone, ready to refuse.

John drew back, met Sherlock’s gaze. “No,” he said quickly, “You.” He smiled, half-starved, dizzy, slightly bashful now he was saying it aloud. “I want you.” He cleared his throat, as gently as he was able, and leaned in close to Sherlock’s ear, easier to say the words when they weren’t looking at each other’s eyes. Because this was nothing new, exactly, but it was rare enough—so far back in their shared past, a silent agreement it was just not the way we do things—so as to feel exotic, even taboo. “I want you inside me.” A kiss there, the curl of hair beside his ear, the smell of him raw and low after a morning of rehearsals, the adrenaline dump of the crime scene, his brain working in that weird and incredible way it did. John moaned, desperate, “Sherlock. . .”

*

Sherlock’s mum had invited herself and his dad for Sunday lunch (she brought everything already cooked and warmed it up—the first time their stove had been turned on in at least six months; it gave off a smell). It was just over a week since John’s second surgery; he was back in the sling, dreading the physiotherapist, taking too few pain pills, drinking too much whisky. Sherlock tried to accommodate him but he was choreographing a ballet sequence for a show aimed at the West End on top of teaching classes three days a week in an effort to both appease Sylvie and bring in some extra money, and rehearsing A Midsummer Night’s Dream to finish the season. John was grouchy and in pain; Sherlock was stressed and exhausted.

“I’m not really up for visitors, Sherlock.”

“It’s only my parents; you don’t even have to get dressed.”

“Not to mention it’s your only day off this week. You shouldn’t have to host them.”

“It’s nothing. They’ll bring food. You and my father can watch—is it a match day?”

“You know it’s not.”

“Well, there’s football. Or something. We’ll eat, you two can watch sport, I’ll listen to my mum gossip about old ladies I don’t know while she cleans our kitchen. I don’t understand why you’re being so—“

“I’m not being so anything. I just came out of hospital, everything hurts, I’m tired. . .”

“It’ll be good for you to talk to people who aren’t me.”

It went on, until John exploded with a shout about the flat being a mess, and Sherlock threw up his hands, rolling his eyes with exasperation behind John’s back as he retreated to the shower. They didn’t speak for over an hour, until the arrival of Sherlock’s parents required them to make small talk until the food was ready.

“Now, then, you’ve been fed.” Sherlock’s mum, taking away John’s empty plate and Sherlock’s half-empty one. “John dear, you’re back to the sofa. I’ll bring your pills in a minute. Sherlock, you go out.”

Sherlock and John exchanged a puzzled look, and for a second or two, they were on the same side again.

“You’re working and taking care of him ‘round the clock; you need some time to yourself. Take care of the caretaker,” she intoned, shaking one finger in the air. “Put on your own oxygen mask first. Go on; take a walk, go see a film. You’re forbidden to come back here before seven o’clock. Daddy will keep John company while I go after this cesspit you call a kitchen.”

Another meaningful glance passed between them; Sherlock had predicted everything except the order to vacate.

“Your mum’s right,” John said. “You need a break.”

“I’m fine,” Sherlock protested, though if he was honest, what he really wanted was to sink into his bed and sleep until he couldn’t sleep anymore, and not have John tossing and turning and groaning his discomfort beside him all night while he did it. “Where would I go?”

“Just go,” his mum interrupted, talking over their heads. “Out. Now. Out you go, shoo!”

And so he went.

Sherlock did walk a bit, breathing sharp, cold, early December air, tried to quiet his racing brain. They had bills due and he dreaded even asking John which, let alone how much was owed, as any talk about money sent John spiraling about how they’d manage if he couldn’t play anymore. Christmas was coming, too; they’d have a lean one this year, and no mini-break to Morocco, that was certain. Class tomorrow at ten; he could get in two hours of rehearsal on his own if he woke up early and got John settled, check in on him at lunchtime for an hour or so. Showing the choreography to the producers of the play Wednesday evening; he’d have to miss the first dress rehearsal for Midsummer, Sylvie would squawk. . .

Sherlock hadn’t noticed the car slowing to pull up beside him. “Is that the famous Sherlock Holmes?” Sherlock turned, retreated back the few steps to the rolled-down passenger window. The driver leaned across to peer out at him; it was the sales rep from Freed, Sherlock’s main contact when he placed his orders for shoes, or needed them repaired. His name was Michael, fit, fiftyish, with a dimple in his chin and a certain flirtatious awe in his demeanour whenever he and Sherlock spoke. Sherlock smiled, waved a bit, stepped close enough to rest his gloved hand on the door ledge.

“Wandering,” Sherlock said. “I’ve been banished from my flat.”

“Well, you are always doing that thing you do that wants banishment,” Michael smiled. “Can I give you a ride, or is it strictly on foot, the wandering?”

Sherlock’s lately-perpetual stomach knot tightened, then loosened, then rearranged itself slightly.

“I just want to be sure, before I answer—?“

“I’m offering you sex,” Michael said, with the same wide-open smile. “I’d like to take you to mine and have sex with you.”

The thrill of it forced Sherlock to his full height with a sharp inhalation of cold air. Suddenly, his whirling brain seemed to have shut down completely, replaced by a warm, rushing thrum beneath his skin, heating him down to his fingertips. Before he could start thinking again, he opened the door and slid inside.

*

“OK?” Sherlock was mostly-breathless, perspiration beading in his hairline, John’s lips warm against his neck. Sherlock’s hands gripped hard and high at the back of John’s thighs, and he fought against a primal urge to move.

“Just—” John huffed, and sighed hard, then gasped a bit. “Wait. Wait.”

Sherlock nodded against the side of John’s face, kissed him. John shifted ever-so-slightly and even that tiny movement sent a jolt of pleasure through Sherlock and he bit down on his own whimpering groan at having to remain still.

“God, you’re incredible,” John breathed behind his ear. “So fucking good.” Sherlock’s fingertips pressed harder. “Let me—Ah.” John raised up just a bit, giving Sherlock room to move. “Oh, fuck. . .” The air between them was jagged, crackly, and Sherlock pressed a wide mouth against John’s throat, raked his teeth along it. At last, John let out the low mutter Sherlock had been waiting for. “Fuck me, Sherlock, god please fuck me.”

Sherlock felt his eyes roll back, and his lips brushed John’s ear as he whispered, “I like that, Please fuck me. Say it again.”

“Mmm. . .” John’s lips moving in Sherlock’s hair. “Fuck me. I want you to—oh—fuck me.” Sherlock’s hips rolled, and they both lost their breath. In no time John was moving against him, reeling out a steady stream of praise, compliments, desperate pleas for harder, more,  jesus yes, yes. . .

Sherlock’s eyes were open, his mouth was open, and John’s fingertips scrabbled across his chest to stroke and pinch, and John’s head dropped forward, bottom lip caught between his teeth.

“You’re amazing,” John breathed, and sucked his teeth. “Fucking brilliant. . .fffuck me.”

John’s tongue thrust out to lick his palm and he started to reach down between them, but Sherlock succumbed to his own sudden, surprising instinct and slapped John’s wrist, pushed it away.

“Not yet. Not until I say.”

John growled again, low in his throat, but rested his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders and did as he was told. Sherlock felt John’s acquiescence from the crown of his head down through his spine, where it changed course and shimmered through his pelvis, and he rocked up harder, hesitated before sliding back.

“You feel so good inside,” Sherlock murmured. “You want me.”

“Oh fuck yes.” John blew it out on gusting breath.

Sherlock felt the shiver again, down his back, driving him on; he wanted it never to end but knew it wouldn’t be long.

“So good,” John huffed. “I’m. . .” He moaned.

“You want to come?” Sherlock ventured. Dirty talk: not really his area. Well, generally not, but the current situation was essentially unique—so many years had passed since they’d even tried it, Sherlock couldn’t remember how long it had been. And the novelty of it inspired Sherlock in remarkable ways. John nodded hard, eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping hard at Sherlock’s shoulders for leverage as they moved against each other. Sherlock ventured in a low, throaty whisper, “You want me to make you come while I fuck you?”

“Yeah. . .god yeah. Please.”

Sherlock’s hand was slick with sweat, palming John’s arse, but he offered it nonetheless, and John’s greedy tongue swiped wide and wet against the length of it. He took John in hand and the shuddering groan it elicited was nearly enough to finish him on its own. John’s cock was heavy and hot, running at the tip. Sherlock let the circle of his fingers slide and squeeze, smoothing his palm around the crown before stroking down again, and John’s entire body rippled with a shock of pleasure.

“Keep saying please,” Sherlock whispered raggedly, and shifted the fingers of his other hand so that he could feel himself moving in and out of John’s body, feel John open to him.

“Sherlock,” John mumbled into his hair. “Fuck. Please make me come. Please. . .”

For a while, when they were much younger, Sherlock had cultivated a cocaine habit (not one he could sustain, as he liked neither the post-nasal drip nor the people one tended to meet). While ultimately he found it unfulfilling, what he had enjoyed was the instant rush of feeling all-powerful, as if he owned everything and everyone, could have anything or anyone, easily and repeatedly. It electrified him and made him invulnerable to doubt or pain.

This, though. John desperate and slack-mouthed in his lap, rocking up and down the length of his prick, licking the sweat off the back of his neck—John wanting him, but not just wanting him, wanting him in this way. . .Well. This was far, far better than that itchy, sweaty faux-power trip had ever come close to being.

 “Mmm. . .please. Please Sherlock. Fuck me. Fuck me. Please.”

Sherlock thrust up hard, and held, and came in thick, rolling waves that erupted from him in a long, broken moan, his body going still except for the pulsing of his cock deep inside of John, who shivered against him, digging fingers into Sherlock’s skin, muttering, “Yes, yes, god yes. . .”

Sherlock collapsed back, breath heaving, then leaned up to catch John’s lips with his own, and licked in to taste him. Into John’s open mouth he muttered, “You like me fucking you.”

“Yeah.”

“You liked feeling me come inside you.” Sherlock’s hand resumed an urgent push-pull at John’s silky-hot cock.

“Fuck yeah.” John’s forehead pressed against Sherlock’s, and he turned his face, gasping for breath, and Sherlock’s softening cock began to slip out of him, and he dropped his face into Sherlock’s shoulder to muffle a shout—and then another—as Sherlock stroked him through to the end, hot stripes painting Sherlock’s belly and chest as John quivered in his lap.

They rearranged themselves, wiped the worst of it with whatever was at hand—a towel, a t-shirt, a torn scrap of something that might have been a leg warmer—and reclined side-by-side, shoulders touching.

“Well that was. . .” Sherlock offered at last, “That was. . .something. Unexpected.”

John let go a little laugh. “A pleasant surprise, as far as I’m concerned. Surprised myself a bit. Though I really hope no one heard, through the door. . .” He cut a glance.

Sherlock threw a hand dismissively through the air. “What would it matter?”

“Two minutes after walking away from the scene of a bloody murder, we’re having noisy sex in your dressing room? That might start some rumours.” John laughed, started to sit upright to reach for his clothes. “Oh. Ow.”

Sherlock stroked one hand lazily down John’s back. “They’d understand, I’m sure. You couldn’t help yourself. Because I’m so brilliant.”

John smiled—didn’t protest—then leaned across and kissed him.

*

The doctor was talking; Sherlock was making notes on the back of a red-edged envelope he’d picked up off the kitchen table and stuffed in his pocket on the way out the door. John sat so straight his back didn’t touch the chair. Sherlock could hear him breathing.

 “So, one more surgery to clear this scar tissue off the nerve, then another few weeks’ recovery,” John said, and cleared his throat. “I’m back on the pitch during training. . .July?”

Sherlock stopped writing, glanced sideways at John, who looked dour and ominous, then at the doctor, who sat back in his chair and tapped his pen against his chin.

“This nerve damage is really troubling. The pain you’ve had. Scar tissue, trauma. . .everything from your midline—“ He touched his fingers to the spot between his own collarbones. “All through the shoulder, upper chest, almost to your bicep. . .everything in the path of that bone when it snapped off and started moving around in there, all of that was affected. This was not a minor injury.”

“Who are you telling.” John’s face was stony. The tension radiated off him; Sherlock felt his own teeth grinding.

“And the fact you’ve still got significant nerve pain, and the tingling in your hand and fingers,” the doctor went on, “All of that indicates that the nerves are compromised. Another good knock, and I’m concerned—if I’m totally honest—that the whole arm could be paralyzed.”

“I’m—“ John started, and huffed a quick sigh out his nose. “They’re holding my position.”

“I’m sorry,” the doctor said, and Sherlock had a strong, sudden urge to jump up and throttle him. “I have to—in the most strenuous possible terms—recommend against you returning to rugby. It’s an enormous risk; if you were my son, I’d say it’s time to find a new profession for the sake of your—“

“No.”

“Will you—“ Sherlock put his hand on John’s elbow. “Could you excuse us for a minute?”

The doctor quickly agreed, and left them in his office behind his mostly-closed door.

John was rapidly unraveling. His lips were pale and he rolled and unrolled the fingers of his left hand against the shimmering itch of the nerves.

“John.”

“He’s.” Another quick, heavy blast of breath out his nose, like a bull ready to charge. “They’re over-cautious. Worst case scenario.”

Sherlock crouched down beside his chair, to catch his eye. “Surely you knew this was coming.” He tried to sound gentle, wasn’t sure it mattered whether he succeeded; John was shorting out utterly.

“What else do they expect me to do? Hunh?”

“John.”

“I have been fighting through all this—“ He caught hold of the raised, tremulous voice, lowered it to a rough whisper. His eyes were filling. “All this pain. Sherlock. All this bullshit physiotherapy, and two surgeries—and now another—and half-salary, and sitting around getting fat because I’m a bloody invalid. . .”

“Let’s go home. We’ll talk to him again in a few days. Get a clearer picture.”

“I see the fucking picture, Sherlock, clear as fucking day. I’m finished. It’s over.”

“We’ll sort it. We’ll get another opinion. And even if—“

“Don’t you say it, too,” John said, so mournful Sherlock’s heart cracked at the sound of his voice.

“We’ll be fine. We’ll sort it out.”

John swiped the side of his fist angrily against his eyes, wiping away tears before they could fall. The corners of his mouth pulled down hard, deforming his chin.

“How?”

Sherlock didn’t have an answer.

 

Six weeks later. John drinking his fourth in front of the telly. Sherlock with his laptop at the desk.

“You have to at least go meet with them,” he said. “You might like it. You’d probably be good at it.”

“You know I fucking wouldn’t.”

“It’s something.”

“I’m tired of thinking about it. Shut up and let me—“ he gestured with his glass toward the television set.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t hear?” Sherlock felt a hot flush up his neck.

“I didn’t mean it. Just.” The same hand, holding the glass, and he tried to put his finger to his lips. “Shh.” Whisky sloshed out of the glass and onto the front of his vest.

“That’s charming,” Sherlock chided, and slapped the laptop closed. “Do you not get dressed now, by the way? You haven’t put on a shirt in two days. When did you leave the flat last?”

“Now I mean it: Shut up.”

Sherlock pulled his phone from the breast pocket of his shirt, lifted his jacket off the back of his chair as he stood.

“Is that a bloody new suit, by the way?”

“Nevermind,” Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth. “I bought it with my mad money.” He stalked across the lounge.

“Where are you going? Eleven at night.”

“Out.”

Sherlock glanced at his phone, fetched his money clip and keys from the bowl on the table on the landing.

New CRUZR msg from TJ1970: Fuckin look at you, pretty boy. You free?

“Fucking go out then.”

“Away from you.”

“Please yourself.”

Sherlock thumped down the stairs and out the front door. Paused on the pavement with phone in hand.

New CRUZR msg from D@nc3r: I am now. Where can we meet?

 

Late summer, John called the coach to tell him he’d report to training, but they’d been put on to him; the surgeon had sent all his records to the team doctor, with a letter attached warning in dire language that John Watson should not under any circumstances be put in a situation which might risk further injury to his clavicle or shoulder.

John cut the conversation short, didn’t outright hang up on the coach, but near as.

Sherlock’s feet on the stairs just then, coming home from a day at the studio. His eyebrows were so low they nearly met in the middle. He went straight for the sink, ran the tap.

“Hey,” John said, ready to unload about the doctors in cahoots with the coaches and his career once and for all being over, maybe since he hadn’t had a drink yet today Sherlock might hug him or even kiss him, though with the prickly way he was always acting lately anything beyond that was probably too much to hope for.

“This choreographer they’ve brought in from New York expects me to audition,” Sherlock spat at the kitchen wall.

John barely had room enough for his own thing, now Sherlock wanted him to take on his thing, as well? It was too much.

“That’s. . .” John started. “Been a long time since that happened.”

Sherlock set down his water glass hard on the worktop.

“It’s ludicrous!” he snapped, as if John were the one who had decreed it.

“I’m sorry,” John offered, and he knew it sounded hollow, because it was.

“I know you don’t care about the ballet generally, John, but if you could at least try to sound like you’re interested in me.”

“Actually, Sherlock, I know you won’t believe me but I am interested, I know it’s bullshit, and I’m bothered about it on your behalf, but I’ve just realized I’m out of a job—forever—and I’m sorry but I just can’t listen to this right now.”

He stood, crossed the room to fetch the whisky bottle down from the cupboard, didn’t bother with a glass, went into the bedroom and shut the door.

Sherlock stayed where he was for a long moment, then stalked to the closed door and shouted, “Do you realize what a selfish bastard you are?”

“Not now, Sherlock.”

“I’m so tired of you feeling sorry for yourself every second of the day. It’s boring, you know, all this self-pity. And I’m tired of taking care of everything.”

John yanked the door open and his face was red, spit flying as he shouted back, “Taking care of everything? Like I’ve been doing for our entire lives, you mean? It’s been hard for you, keeping us up and running for a few months?”

Sherlock crossed his arms. “Taking care of you,” he clarified. “I can’t take care of you anymore. You’re not an invalid, you’re just depressed. You’re a grown man, John; please get some help or else. . .I don’t know. . .get over it.”

“I swear to christ, Sherlock, move away from me and stop talking or—“

“Or what?” Sherlock challenged, and the petulant, teenage-rebellion expression on his face made John’s vision go completely red. His fist shot out and when he pulled it back there was a jagged hole made of torn green paper and crumbling horsehair plaster in the wall in front of Sherlock’s shoulder.

Sherlock had flinched from it, momentarily cowered, and John’s reaction to that was a blend of pleasure and horror, in a ratio he couldn’t determine and didn’t want to consider.

Instead of thinking any more about what it meant that he felt triumphant at having made Sherlock duck away from him, he intoned, “You have more to say?” Sherlock closed his eyes and John could tell it was to keep from rolling them.

“I’ll sleep upstairs,” Sherlock said, and turned his back. John slammed the door.

 

“So I met with the head coach and the general manager,” John said. They were standing around in the kitchen, John eating a sandwich over the sink, Sherlock shifting dirty things from his gear bag into the sack to go to the laundry. “There’s a spot for me, assistant coach, low man on the totem pole but the money’s the same as what I was making, and I think I can do it.”

“You’re taking it, then?” John could hear Sherlock feigning interest; they hadn’t been talking much the past few weeks, like strictly-business flatmates who barely knew each other. All for the best since anything beyond the most superficial discussion ended in an argument or a long silence or one of them (usually Sherlock) leaving.

“Yeah.”

“Well, congratulations.” Sherlock crossed to embrace him—lightly, for only a few seconds—and kiss his cheek. John let his own arms go around Sherlock’s back then, pulled him close and wouldn’t let him go even though John could feel he was barely present, couldn’t wait to get away.

“What’s this?” Sherlock asked, and sounded annoyed.

“I love you.”

Sherlock softened in John’s arms, just a bit, not all the way—far from it—but John would take what he could get.

 “I know.”

Chapter Text

Sherlock was concentrating deeply in an attempt to glean useful information from a thick stack of paper written in dense legalese (he had his tablet open on the tabletop nearby so he could make note of such things when he found them—so far: Start date, 1^st March; and something that seemed to indicate required attendance at twice-yearly financial meetings). The café was quiet, only him beside the window facing the pavement; a homeless gent whose interaction with the counter girl indicated he was a regular fixture; and a couple in late middle-age—probably empty nesters—each reading a section of the newspaper through reading glasses. Now and then, a patron or two came in for an order to go. Sherlock checked his watch, still on London time, and subtracted an hour; back home it was nearly eight in the evening, the previous night. John had probably finished eating his dinner, sitting on the sofa with his sock-clad feet on the coffee table, watching telly, and here was Sherlock with his morning pot of tea, black, a half-eaten container of yogurt and an empty foil packet of raw almonds. Not to mention that he was sitting on the other side of the world, on a morning that already promised the bright, clear heat of summer, and while John would almost certainly be trying to talk himself into staying awake to see it in, Sherlock was already in the new year.

He sat back and stretched, dragging his shoulder blades down his back, drawing a circle in the air with his chin to get his neck moving. The words of the contracts he’d been handed at his last round of meetings the previous day were beginning to swim in front of his eyes. He lifted his tea cup to his lips, found it only tepid, and motioned to the girl behind the counter to bring another pot.

“Sorry—“

A man of about twenty—certainly no more than twenty-five—dressed in baggy khaki shorts with far too many pockets riding low on slim hips, a sleeveless vest clinging to a chiseled chest and narrow torso, rectangular duffel bag hanging off one shoulder. His hair was thick and dark and hung over one side of his forehead to nearly cover one eye; he shook it away and it instantly fell nearly all the way back.

“You’re not.” He grinned, nervously, charmingly in that way young men have when they know they are handsome, but not quite how handsome. “Are you. . .” he started again. “Sherlock?. . .Holmes?. . .by any chance?” He sounded as if he thought the idea was too farfetched to be true.

Sherlock smiled a bit. “I am. You’re a dancer.”

The young man looked caught out, but let go a quick laugh of relief, his shoulders softening forward as he clapped his hands together. “God. Sherlock Holmes. Can I just—yeah, I am a dancer, yeah—can I just tell you that you are, like, my idol?”

Dear god, he was delicious—swarthy and gorgeous, and starstruck, too? It was almost too good to be true. Sherlock reminded himself to tread carefully, immediately disregarded the reminder, and sat back in his chair, raising one hand to his chin thoughtfully. “Is that so.”

“I heard you were maybe going to be our artistic director and some others were saying you were in town over the holiday for—whatever—meetings or an interview or something? I was hoping I’d get to see you, but I thought. Not, you know—here like this. Like, at the ballet.”

“Would you like to sit down? I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name.” Sherlock nudged out the chair opposite him with one foot, and the dancer slid into it, dropping his bag to the floor as he went.

“Brian Auger.”

“What’s your position at the ballet?” Sherlock asked, as if he only wanted to get to know one of the dancers with whom he might soon be working. Dangerous ground, tread lightly, he warned himself again.

“Soloist. We’ve a matinee today of—“

“Romeo and Juliet, I know,” Sherlock replied. The counter girl set down a fresh pot of tea between them, took away the old one. “Can I offer you anything?” Sherlock asked.

“No. Thanks, no. I’m on my way to work but I was walking by the window and saw you. . .” His initial breathless nerves seemed to have passed; his voice was calmer, slower. “I remember the first time I saw you dance. . .are you—is it for sure that you’ll be the new A.D.?”

“Not certain at the moment, no.” Sherlock’s eyes narrowed a bit.

“So,” Brian looked down at the table, then up at Sherlock, and Sherlock felt certain he could count the stars in his eyes. “In that case I think it’s probably OK for me to say that I had a crush on you for, like, ever? Like I seriously thought I was in love with you.”

“Did you?” Sherlock’s chest flushed hot beneath his shirt.

“Yeah.” He screwed up his mouth crookedly to one side. “I wouldn’t say it if you were for sure going to be, like, my boss.”

“I wouldn’t let you.”

“Right, but if it’s not for sure. I—like, oh my god I literally cannot even believe I’m talking to Sherlock Holmes right now—professing my love like a fucking idiot. But I seriously couldn’t live with myself if I didn’t, like, just—go for it. I’ve always promised myself if I ever met you. . .”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

Brian took a deep breath, leaned very close, lowered his voice as he exhaled. “I would seriously do anything you want if you would just let me—you know—blow you.” Now that it was out in the air between them, Brian became all bravado and sat back into a much more relaxed posture, fully expecting Sherlock to gratefully accept this very particular brand of accolades from an adoring fan. Sherlock’s eyes slowly devoured him, from the loose wave of hair threatening to cover his expectant brown eyes, to the taut curves of well-defined muscle in his shoulders and upper arms, the barely-there t-shirt that left no room for doubt that his torso was beautifully defined, tight and tan.

“It’s a very tempting offer, Brian,” Sherlock told him, conscious of the extra slick of velvet in his voice. “But I have to decline.”

“Please don’t say no,” Brian said then, and shook his head a bit. “I. . .you don’t even know.”

“I think I do. I was in love with Rudolf Nureyev when I was a student.” Sherlock shrugged slightly. “Had I ever met him, I like to think I’d have made a similar offer. I admire your forthrightness.”

A low, dangerous whisper: “Please fuck me. Sherlock.”

God, not that, Sherlock thought. Don’t say that, lovely man secreted half a world away from Real Life. Anything but that. Christ, his resolve was being tested not eight hours into the new year’s infancy. Sherlock’s gut—not to mention his prick—reacted immediately and viscerally to the words, to this gorgeous young thing sitting three feet away offering to give him anything he wanted.

“I have to say no. Not only might I shortly be your boss, but even if not—I’m married, and it would hurt my husband.”

“I won’t tell him. Will you?”

Sherlock swept all the papers into a single stack, tapped its edge against the tabletop and tucked it into a vinyl folder. He laid his tablet on top, rested his folded hands on it.

“If I take this job, of course we’ll forget this happened.”

Brian sighed through his nose and looked away, out the window.

“You should work on your turnout, and be sure to always tape your left ankle when you rehearse; it’s weak.”

That drew a puzzled look from Brian as Sherlock rose and buttoned his suit jacket, gathered up his computer and the paperwork.

“It was lovely to meet you. Perhaps we’ll see each other again.”

Brian bit his thumbnail, clearly replaying what had just happened.

“Don’t feel badly. It’s only that it’s a matter of timing. A month ago, I’d have had you on your knees in the gents’ by now.” Sherlock winked; Brian looked tormented. “Best of luck in the new year.”

“Yeah. Same to you.”

*

It was Boxing Day; Sherlock was packing—in and out of the bedroom, the bath, the cupboard on the landing where his summer-weight suits were hung for the winter—and John was sending a thank-you email to Sherlock’s parents for the Christmas gifts and for having them to tea Christmas eve.

“How long’s the flight?” John inquired as Sherlock leaned over his shoulder to pluck a charging cable off the cluttered desktop.

“Twenty-four hours on the planes; two hours at the airport in Los Angeles,” Sherlock replied over his shoulder as he vanished back into the bedroom.

“God, that’s forever.”

“It’s first class; shouldn’t be awful.”

“Don’t forget to walk around every hour or so, get your legs moving,” John told him. “Your knee—plus blood clots.”

“Yes, John, I know.” He sounded mildly annoyed. There were rummaging sounds from the bathroom as he assembled his shaving kit, packed his toothbrush.

“Only saying,” John surrendered. “Nervous?”

“Not a bit. Why would I be?”

“I don’t know; it’s a short trip; how many performances? I just wondered if you’ll have much rehearsal time.” John moved to the kitchen, took a small orange from a bowl on the table and began to peel it.

From the bedroom again, Sherlock hummed vaguely. “I think I’ll be all right. Can I take this navy necktie—with the lavender. . .?”

“Yeah, of course.” John tossed a segment of the orange in his mouth, chewed thoughtfully. “What about New Year’s Eve?”

Sherlock emerged from the bedroom, dressed in heather-grey warm-up trousers and one of John’s old pullovers (it left a bare stripe of his belly visible when he raised his arms even slightly),  and a tatty tartan dressing gown left open. Barefoot even on the cold floors. “What about New Year’s Eve?” he responded, and helped himself to an orange segment from between John’s fingers, bit it in half.

“Are you performing? Do they do anything special? Or have they invited you to anything?”

Sherlock’s nose crumpled and he shook his head. “No. Nothing. Night off. I’m sure I’ll sleep through it; the time change is going to be the thing that kills me in the end. What will you do?”

“Nothing. We had that invitation—Jamie and the new one. . .Robert?”

“Richard, I thought.” Sherlock fetched a tea bag and plumped it up before dropping it in his usual mug and pouring the water over it.

“Anyway, since you were going to be away, I said no. I don’t want to be the bloke at the party with no one to kiss at midnight.” John rinsed his fingertips at the sink, shook them, then dried them on the sides of his trousers.

Sherlock gave him a knowing grin. “I’m sure they’d be lining up to kiss you.”

John felt his face soften into a smile of his own. “Don’t know about that.”

“Oh, I do,” Sherlock replied, still smiling, and fished out the tea bag with a spoon, squeezed it to get the best bit. “Decided on your resolution yet?”

“Already got started on one, as a matter of fact.”

“Really.” Sherlock closed his lips to blow across the top of his mug, leaning back against the worktop. “What is it?”

“I’ve been working out with the team, instead of just giving them orders and then watching while I drink tea. Lost half a stone already, thanks for noticing.” John was teasing; as was usual for the time of year, Sherlock had been doing six performances a week leading up to the holidays and the close of the UKB season; they’d barely seen each other most of the month, and then the previous few days had been the blur of holiday obligations and Sherlock preparing for his trip to New Zealand.

Sherlock looked appropriately chagrined, sipped his tea and shrugged.

“It’s all right, I’m joking. I just thought I should get moving a bit; sitting at the desk, around the conference table, there’s always pastries lying around and the woman in reception with the sweets drawer. . .”

“Well, that must have felt good—getting back out there.”

John laughed, “Oh, god no—it felt bloody awful. But yeah, it felt good.”

“Good, then.”

Sherlock set his mug on the worktop, crossed back to the bedroom, and John could hear drawers sliding open and shut, the door of the wardrobe pulling open with a click. “I’ll help Mrs Hudson with her Christmas tree, put all this away while you’re gone,” John volunteered, though he knew it wouldn’t have crossed Sherlock’s mind to even wonder who put up and took down the decorations. “Oh, and did I tell you that fella called me back, the one with the sporting-news website?”

“Called you again? You mentioned someone liked your blog posts on the league’s site,” Sherlock replied, and the echo-y quality of his voice made it obvious he was deep in the wardrobe.

“That’s the one. He’s offered me a couple of assignments. Like guest columns? One’s interviewing this young kid, F1 driver, from Slough. I guess he’s up and coming.” John scraped at some crud on the worktop with the corner of a dishtowel, just to have something to do.

“Interview?” Sherlock asked, and John heard him flipping his suitcase closed, probably testing to see if he’d overpacked it—which he almost certainly had—and then flipping it open again.

“I know. I’ve never interviewed anyone in my life! But this editor wants to see if I can write about things other than rugby.” He went into the bedroom, passed Sherlock his phone with the browser open to the EurosportReport website. “I guess the site’s making money—he’s going to pay me a few hundred quid to write it up.”

Sherlock took the phone, turned to sit on the bed beside his case, started tapping and scrolling with one long finger. “Hmph. Is it something you’d want to do? Writing about sports apart from rugby?”

“Worth a try,” John replied. He glanced at the unzipped garment bag laid out on the foot of the bed. “Four suits?”

“Meet-and-greets,” Sherlock said nonchalantly, still poking at the screen of John’s phone. “That sort of thing.”

“Speaking of parties,” John said, and hefted the open suitcase off the bed onto the floor nearby so he could sit. “Since you’re back on the fourth, I thought maybe we could invite a few people for drinks that next weekend, for your birthday.”

Sherlock moaned.

“Nothing big, just a few couples. See if we can’t get Glen and Christopher to hire a childminder for the evening; maybe Jamie and Robert.”

“I really think it’s Richard.”

“I’ll find out before I invite them. Molly and Rhys. . .But. Do you really not want to?”

“No, it sounds fine,” Sherlock acquiesced. “As long as it’s nothing big.” He turned the screen of the phone toward John. “I can’t believe you still have this photo saved.”

It was the photo John had snapped of Sherlock, standing naked in elegant fifth position, in his dressing room the night of his gala performance. Not only was it gorgeous, seeing it reminded John of the way they’d felt so easy together in that moment, warm with afterglow, trading flirty jokes and warm glances. . .it was only later that evening that things had gone back to business as usual, Sherlock tantrumming and John making the grievous mistake of unceremoniously dumping his carefully-constructed gift on Sherlock in a snit, just to make a point about how awful Sherlock was being. Now the shadowbox containing Sherlock’s and Nureyev’s shoes—which should have had pride of place in the flat or in Sherlock’s dressing room at the ballet—was propped against the wall in the spare third floor bedroom, not even hung up, because neither of them could bear to look at it, a reminder of what childish arseholes they could be.

“I’m deleting it,” Sherlock announced.

“Don’t you dare!” John scolded, and grabbed for the phone, which Sherlock held playfully well out of John’s reach with his long, sinewy arm, pressing against John’s chest with the opposite hand to keep him away. “That picture is my reward. I do my daily quota of stomach crunches, and I get to wank off to it.”

Sherlock shouted a laugh, “You what?!”

“You heard me. Give it here.”

Sherlock surrendered and John gave the photo a lascivious once-over before securing his phone and setting it aside on the nightstand.

Sherlock stood and shrugged out of his dressing gown, reached for the hem of his t-shirt. “Show me.”

John felt his eyes widen. “What?” Reflexively, he licked his lips.

“You heard me,” Sherlock replied, echoing John’s earlier, flippant remark. T-shirt tossed onto the floor, Sherlock tipped his chin, indicating John should move back onto the bed, over to his own side. “So this is how it is? I’m off working my heart out, dancing my feet to bloody stumps to earn us a living every night, and you’re—what—lying here on the bed.” Sherlock’s tone was playfully put-out, high drama.

John was game, settled himself, rearranging pillows, leaning against the headboard. “Usually, yeah. Sometimes in the shower. Couple times on the sofa.”

“You’re shameless,” Sherlock teased. He skimmed his hands down the front of his bare chest, fluttering fingers teasingly over his nipples to make them pull tight as he went, dropped his hands down in the graceful, arced pose that John had always thought must have been designed to draw attention to the shape of what filled the dance belt, though Sherlock insisted it was merely an aesthetically pleasing presentation of the arms.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” John replied, “C’mere.”

Sherlock did as requested, penning  John in with knees planted outside John’s legs, his long arms walking up the mattress until John was pleasantly confined in a cage of pale limbs, Sherlock’s nose and chin and lips nuzzling up against his cheek, down into the hollow of his throat.

“I’m going to miss you while you’re away; it’s a good thing I’ve got that picture.”

Sherlock hummed agreement, and their mouths met, teasing kisses with barely-parted lips as John ran his hands over the muscular shoulders and flexing biceps, trailed down the chest and then swerved to the side of Sherlock’s torso, around to his back, and up.

“So show me,” Sherlock prompted again, a ragged whisper against John’s open mouth. “I want to see.”

John grinned, leaned up to nip at Sherlock’s lower lip, then reached down to open his trousers. Sherlock fell away to land beside him, body angled toward John’s, leaning up on his elbow so he could look down the length of both their bodies. John lifted his hips to slide his clothes down, and once he’d settled again—warm, heavy prick resting in the crease of his thigh—a plastic bottle of slick appeared in front of his chest, cradled in a long-fingered grasp. John huffed a laugh. “Thanks.”

“M-hm. So when you’re thinking about me, lying here with that picture. . .” Sherlock prompted, and as John slicked up his palm, began unbuttoning John’s shirt just enough to slide one cool hand inside, fingers tangling in the hair around his nipples, scissoring closed around one and tugging to make it tighten under his touch.

“I want you, same as ever,” John murmured, and turned his head, looking for a kiss, as he reached down for that first glorious, slippery slide along his cock with a freshly-slicked palm. “I always want you. I’d have you three times a day if you’d let me.” It was true; even when they were busy, or distracted, or tired or barely speaking—or not speaking—John wanted Sherlock any time, any way he could have him. It was only Sherlock’s aura of not welcoming John’s advances, on top of a handful of stinging rejections over the past year or so, that kept John from pursuing the sort of nonstop sex-a-thon they’d engaged in during their younger years. John was needy and his mind was easily turned toward thoughts of sex—his libido perhaps even more high-key than the average male’s—but there were also the undeniable facts that Sherlock was beautiful and tasted good everywhere and made the loveliest sounds, and he lived right here in the flat with John, smelling like exertion and incense, with those big hands on constant display. . .even when he was annoyed with Sherlock, John would still happily drop everything and anything just to have him.

“You’ve always been a horny bugger.” John could hear Sherlock’s smile, though his eyes were now shut as he concentrated on the feel of his hand on his prick, Sherlock’s hand increasingly insistent beneath his shirtfront. He let his free hand slide sideways to rest on Sherlock’s thigh, sliding in and up a bit. Sherlock muttered a demand: “Tell me something you think about that you’ve never asked for.”

John thought immediately of exactly the sort of fantasy Sherlock was describing, and it sent a jolt through him that made his cock throb. He couldn’t possibly say it out loud; there was a reason he’d never asked, after all. He let go a desperate hum through closed lips, turned in search of Sherlock’s kiss instead. Sherlock obliged, leaning close and bossily shoving his tongue into John’s mouth, sweeping circles around John’s lazier one. John could smell his musky after shave, and the spicy shaving soap beneath it.

They broke apart and Sherlock raised his head, watching John’s hand as it moved.

“Look how hard that made you,” Sherlock muttered, and John’s tongue flicked out to moisten his own lips, drying from heavy breath. “Must be a good one.” Sherlock rested his head against John’s temple. “Tell me.”

John wouldn’t; it was only a fantasy—he didn’t really want it, wouldn’t really ask for it—and it was not the sort of scenario Sherlock would enjoy. He held the vision in his head, though, closed his eyes against it, increased the pace of his stroking, grip loose, pinching tighter near the head, skating over and around, teasing back his foreskin with each swipe. He turned his head, open-mouthed, seeking.

“Mmm. . .kiss me.”

Sherlock kissed him, messily and at a bad angle, and John was so breathless he couldn’t concentrate on it anyway. They broke apart, faces still close, though Sherlock stole glances at John’s hand as it worked. He was waiting for John to say something, so John decided to redirect. With something like amusement creeping in around the edge of his ragged voice, he said, “This reminds me of when we first got together, side by side on the bed like this.”

Sherlock hummed, and his own hand moved down to loosen the drawstring on his pyjamas, maneuvering them down and out of the way. “In my bedroom at my parents’ house,” Sherlock continued on John’s behalf, kindly letting him off the hook of sharing the taboo fantasy. His flattened fingers and wide palm were briefly raised to his mouth and his cunning tongue dipped out to slick them before his hand was thrust down again. “Always with the pretense of schoolbooks or television.”

“I don’t imagine your parents would have let us close the door if they’d known.” John bared his throat and Sherlock took the hint, raking his teeth against the skin, then brushing his lips over the bitten place. Sherlock’s hand now and then bumped John’s hip, and a downward gaze confirmed they were both stroking themselves, which was exactly how it had started between them, those years ago, each too shy—maybe too ashamed—to reach for the other.

“Well, no,” Sherlock huffed against John’s jaw. “They wouldn’t have wanted you corrupting me like you did.” Sherlock rocked his body forward a bit, his chest resting against John’s upper arm, and his wet exhalation stirred the hair by John’s ear, left a sheen of condensation on his skin that cooled as it evaporated away. Sherlock’s lips were briefly against his throat again, then he leaned away, back against the headboard beside John. Sherlock’s voice dropped half a step in volume and tone as he said, “Race you.”

John wanted to laugh except that he was already so close to coming he didn’t want to wreck his rhythm. He fixed his gaze on Sherlock’s hand as he stroked himself, a slower pace than John’s, a firmer grip, and Sherlock’s motion was always more forceful on the upstroke, his index finger curving over the crown of his prick before his hand slipped back down to the start. John had tried to mimic it when he touched Sherlock but always seemed to default back to what felt best to him; Sherlock’s hands on him were just the same. He filed this epiphany away for later because at the moment, he was edging ever closer to the point of no return, and now that there’d been a challenge issued—one which Sherlock seemed determined not to let John win—he had to focus.

“What do I win if I get there first?” John huffed.

Sherlock’s hand made a quick upward sweep and he let out a deep moan, then panted, “You won’t.”

John bit his bottom lip, and with his free hand reached down to fondle his bollocks, rolling them a bit, feathering his fingertips against the skin. He felt the pull start low in his belly, and made an undignified sound; he was right. . .there. . .

“Fuck!” Sherlock shouted and his chest and shoulders heaved up away from the headboard, his head tipping forward, then lolling sideways on his neck before it thudded lightly back. John watched cloudy streams of Sherlock’s cum spurt up onto his long fingers, and his thigh. The resonance of Sherlock’s voice was enough to tip him over, and combined with the vision of Sherlock making himself come, it was devastating; John groaned thickly and closed his eyes, still shifting his bollocks in his other hand as he came onto his abdomen in a few warm pulses. Sherlock kissed his closed eye.

“I win,” he muttered against John’s cheek, his breath still gusting.

“Don’t you always,” John said through a smirk.

“Anyway, a pleasant memory to amuse you while I’m away.”

John felt melted and warm everywhere, except for the streaks of cooling spunk on his belly-skin.

The telltale sound of his phone’s faux-shutter, and a quick, assaultive flash.

“Sherlock, what!”

The screen appeared before his spluttering face, showing a photo of the two of them at a weird, slanted angle as Sherlock had held the phone high above them, tilting it to get as much of their bodies in the frame as he could. They looked a proper mess: John half-dressed, Sherlock’s hair completely mad, their half-wilted erections still shiny with slick and saliva, but their faces were lightly smiling, flushed pink with heat. It was vulgar. It was childish (John wondered if they’d have made videos and taken photos and sent dirty texts, had the technology existed back when they were teenagers, and immediately decided they almost certainly would have). It was potentially embarrassing, if not dangerous. But John would keep that photo, too, and probably look at it again many times in the future, remembering the moment.

They looked happy.

*

“Ah, there you are. Looking spritely there on a summer morning, I see.”

“For god’s sake, John, you sound like my father.”

John cranked the laptop screen back a bit, made sure the top of his head wasn’t cut off. “Sorry, sonny,” he said, deadpan, “I’m afraid you have to speak up; these old ears of mine. . .” Sherlock shook his head and leaned back in his chair; behind him, John could see the white expanse of the unmade bed, and beyond it, French doors to the balcony. “Happy New Year, by the way. How’s things in the future?”

“John, honestly.” Sherlock rolled his eyes, flicked his fingers through his hair.

“Nevermind. How’s it going, then?”

“All fine. Nice suite, as you can likely see. View of the pool. My knee’s only starting to recover from having sat so long on the plane, though. Even in first class. . .I should have walked around a bit more, I imagine.” He drew a plastic water bottle from somewhere out of John’s view and swigged.

“Think I mentioned that before you left,” John teased.

“Yes, well.” Sherlock’s eyebrows went up, then settled.

“So you’ve been quite busy, I imagine. Haven’t heard much from you.” John tried not to sound as if he was complaining; he really wasn’t, just missed him. He’d texted Sherlock a couple of times a day, sent two slightly longer emails. Sherlock had only answered with a few words every other day or so. “What’s the program? No performance today, I imagine—you’re not dressed for it.” Sherlock was wearing one of his expensive dress shirts, open at the neck and with the sleeves turned back to expose his shapely forearms.

Sherlock looked down at himself as if to verify his state of dress. “No,” he replied. “No, not today.” He worried his teeth on the lip of the water bottle distractedly, tapped the fingers holding it against the outside a few times before he set it aside again. “How’s the writing going? For the website.”

“Good,” John said, and he felt a bit chuffed thinking about the feedback he’d gotten from the editor on a sample column he’d submitted a few days previous. “They like it. Asked for more.”

“Excellent,” Sherlock said. “Congratulations.” He folded his hands in front of him briefly, then reached for the plastic bottle cap and started fiddling with it. “Any news about the murders?”

“Not that I’ve heard. There hasn’t been another, anyway—that’s something. Although I can’t imagine how those women feel just leaving their flats, going to work every day, knowing there’s a killer of ballerinas on the loose.”

Sherlock hummed, and there was a long pause. “John. Listen,” he started, “There’s something I didn’t say about. . .”

John sat back in the desk chair, crossed his arms. He didn’t like the tone.

“God, I can see you getting annoyed with me and I haven’t even said anything,” Sherlock complained, and rubbed his eyes.

“I’m not annoyed,” John protested. “Just go on and say what you were saying.”

Sherlock drew in a deep breath, held it a few beats, and finally blurted, “I’m not in New Zealand to dance. It’s for interviews. For a job.”

A headache coalesced instantly in John’s forehead, just between his eyebrows. “Wait a minute,” he said, trying to get his bearings. “What—a job with the ballet there? What is it—Royal something?”

“Royal New Zealand Ballet, yes,” Sherlock said impatiently. “Artistic Director.”

“But. What—when did this come about? Why on earth would you not tell me?” John was gobsmacked, felt lost and oblivious, wondered for a moment if Sherlock had told him about it, but no, that was impossible. . .sure, he had his moments of not listening all that closely. But this was something he’d have heard, had it been said to him, and remembered. A job in New Zealand? On the other bloody side of the world? It was already next year there, for fuck’s sake.

“We’ve been in talks for a few months.”

“Months?!”

“Six months or so.”

“Why—why—just—” John was stammering, trying to get his head around it. “Why did you not tell me?”

Sherlock dropped his forehead against his fingertips. “I just wanted to think about it on my own for a bit. I probably won’t take it.”

“For a bit? Six months you’ve been thinking about a job in bloody New Zealand without breathing a word about it. That’s not—”

“I don’t want to move to New Zealand.”

“That’s a secret, Sherlock. That’s not thinking about it on your own. That’s keeping it a secret.”

“I wasn’t.”

“You bloody well were. I just. . .Really, Sherlock? What. . .I mean,” John sputtered. He longed for a drink, didn’t want to leave the laptop to fetch the bottle from the mantel, a glass from the kitchen, which both seemed miles away. He’d stopped drinking over a month earlier—when he started his workouts with the team—but it wasn’t the new year yet. “What is that about?”

“I don’t—no, I do know. I just wanted to make a decision on my own for a change.”

“So go ahead and make a decision to—I don’t know—buy a new sofa, for god’s sake. This affects me, too.”

“I didn’t want it to.” Sherlock looked miserable, at odds with John’s feelings, or rather, his singular feeling: fight.

“So you thought you’d take a job in bloody Auckland and just—what—I’d just pack up the flat and we’d move there. With no discussion. Surprise! We’re moving to New Zealand because I’m going to be the director at the ballet there. Does that seem even the least bit all right, now I’m saying it to you?”

“I didn’t. . .” Sherlock started, but it was plain there was no fight in him. “It doesn’t matter; I’m probably not taking it. I have to give them my decision this afternoon, in a few hours. There’s a meeting.”

John sucked in a sharp breath, held onto it, then blew it out his nostrils, trying to calm himself. As taken aback as he was by the weird way Sherlock had apparently compartmentalised this job offer, this trip—letting John assume he was doing a stint as a featured guest dancer when really he was plotting a move that would uproot them from their entire life, everything and everyone they knew—he could see that Sherlock was regretful and John should at least try not to beat him up over it.

“This is just really a very weird thing to hear,” John offered. “A weird way to hear it.”

“I know,” Sherlock replied flatly. He raised the water bottle and drained the last of it. John watched his hand as it moved.

“Sherlock, did you lose your wedding ring?” he asked, leaning closer to the screen, squinting.

Reflexively looking at the back of his hand, his splayed fingers, Sherlock said, “No. I left it there at home, so I wouldn’t lose it.”

“What?” John was skeptical. If he’d been dancing, sure, he may have taken it off for performances, left it in an unfamiliar dressing room or set it on the sink’s edge and had it pilfered by a hotel maid while he was at rehearsal. But he wasn’t dancing. He was having meetings. “How would you lose it?”

Sherlock threw up his hands, “I don’t know. My mother always used to leave her rings when they went on trips.”

“Your mother’s rings are worth thirty thousand pounds! She was afraid of being mugged by gypsies in Seville, for fuck’s sake.”

Sherlock sounded testy, exasperated. “I don’t know, John. I just left it there. I didn’t lose it. It’s there. It’s there on the dresser, in the box with those cuff links I never wear and the foreign coins. Go and see.”

John shook his head. “Nevermind,” he grumbled. Why did nearly every conversation turn sour?

Sherlock grasped the back of his neck with both hands, massaging roughly. “I should have told you, I suppose. But you never asked, you know.”

John felt his eyes widen.

“I said Royal New Zealand was flying me in at the holidays, and you said hardly anything in response, didn’t ask me anything—you just assumed it was to dance.”

John couldn’t believe what he was hearing.

“Oh, no,” he insisted. “You’re not doing this—“

Sherlock huffed impatiently. “What? What am I doing?”

“Getting angry at me for not reading your mind.”

“I’m not—“

“You are,” John insisted, and leaned forward, pointing one accusing finger. “Yes, you are. And it’s not fair. You always. . .” he caught himself, shut his mouth and shook his head.

“I always?” Sherlock prompted sarcastically.

“Nevermind. But what else was I going to think? You’ve danced with that ballet in the past, near the end of the season. . .That’s what you fucking do, Sherlock, you tour between Christmas and March. Why would I have assumed otherwise unless you told me, Oh by the way I’m going for a job interview? It’s not fair for you to be upset with me about that. It’s really not fair.”

Sherlock was silent in the face of this, tugging at his lower lip with forefinger and thumb, looking off to the side.

“No,” he said at last, quietly. “No, you’re right.”

“I asked you, when you were packing, about taking so many suits,” John added, in his defense. “You could have told me then.”

“I didn’t want to tell you,” Sherlock protested. “For once in my life I wanted to make a decision on my own, an adult decision, just. . .”

“A decision that affects us both!” John’s knuckles ached as he gripped the arms of the chair, sliding his hands tightly back and forth.

“I wasn’t thinking of it that way,” Sherlock said defensively. “I was just thinking that it was probably the most important thing I’ve dealt with—I know it’s time I think about what my career looks like when I can’t dance anymore—and I thought I should be able to handle it on my own.”

“I’m sorry,” John said quickly, knowing he didn’t sound at all sorry, it was just words to fill space, a way to grasp control of the conversation. “But, why should you have to handle it on your own?” He tried to sound compassionate, for that’s where it came from, but he was already hot from their earlier exchange and had trouble shaking the irritation from his voice.

Sherlock inhaled forever, glanced briefly into the camera and then off to the side again, and John could see him weighing up the words before he said them.

“You know, I didn’t really start to feel like a proper adult until you got hurt. My life at thirty was almost precisely the same life I had at fifteen. I danced and did whatever else I liked, and didn’t pay attention to things like paying the rent or the bills, or when to buy our parents birthday gifts, or anything practical, really. You took care of the boring bits, sometimes got angry at me about it but ultimately never really bothered me with it, and so I never had to think about it.”

There was a pause, and John thought he should indicate he was listening at least, so he said, “OK. . .”

“Then you were injured, and this man called me—me, your husband, of course he called me—and all of a sudden, I knew. . .I mean I knew. . .that it was all up to me. I was responsible for you, and for all the stuff of our life that you always took care of. Because I am all you have. That’s how our life has unfolded; we’re all we have.”

“Your parents,” John offered.

“A bit,” Sherlock allowed. “But do you see what I’m saying? Until that moment, I had never thought about the fact that you might need me. Really need me—in a crisis. And then you needed all of me, all at once, with no warning. I didn’t know your blood type, how much money we had in the bank, or the passwords for anything, or where your National Health card was. And it was my own fault for letting myself go through life ignoring those sorts of things because they’re stressful and boring, but it was a bit of a shock to realize what a child I was.” He shook his head as if in shock. “Grown man in his thirties with a weekly allowance and not even a vague idea of how to do the shopping, let alone whether there was enough money for it on any given day.”

John thought this over for a minute. “Well, you were never interested, and it was just easier for me to handle it.”

“I know. That’s not the point, really. I’m just saying. . .Once we knew you’d be all right, and the initial emergency passed, I started to think about all of it and I—“

Sherlock stopped. John knew whatever it was Sherlock was about to say, he probably wouldn’t like to hear it, but it had been too long since they’d talked like this, about things that were bigger than the day-to-day annoyances and nitpicking they too often fell back on to avoid expressing larger dissatisfactions.

“Go on, then,” he prompted, softly.

“I don’t know who I am without you.” Sherlock drummed his fingers quickly against the desk. “You know? I have never been alone, in my whole adult life; it’s always been the two of us. And I just wonder if I’d be different if we weren’t—“ He shook his head. “All I’ve ever been is us. I just imagine I might be someone different if I had ever been just me.”

“So this came along and you thought you’d give it a go,” John offered. He understood what Sherlock was saying, but now that he was thinking about it, he didn’t think he and Sherlock saw it the same way.

“A bit,” Sherlock allowed. “I suppose.” He shrugged and shook his head at himself. “I really don’t know what I was thinking.”

“I see what you’re saying, about us having been together our whole adult lives,” John offered. “I don’t know who I’d be without you, either. But I kind of like that. I like that we’ve always been a team. We grew up together, in a way. When we met we were kids. And here we are men, and it’s still the two of us.” John hugged himself. “It’s. . .reassuring.”

“My mother told me once, a long time ago—probably when you first started hanging about—that when two people are in a relationship, one of them always loves less. And the one who loves less has all the power.”

John thought about this briefly. “Possibly that’s true. Depressing, though.”

Sherlock’s nose crumpled at the bridge as he narrowed his eyes, thoughtful. “It occurs to me I may have taken that to heart a bit. Not consciously, or purposely, but I wonder if I have spent most of our relationship making sure I kept the upper hand. Maybe not by loving less, but by trying to need you less than you needed me.”

“That’s even more depressing.”

“Not on purpose. But I think part of my willingness to let you take care of everything was that if I didn’t think about any of it, I could fool myself I’d be fine on my own. But when you got hurt and I finally saw how much you were dealing with that I never had to. . .I realized that even though you needed me more than ever, just then. . .” He shrugged. “Joke’s on me because on balance you need me much less than I need you.”

“I need you, Sherlock,” John said then, quietly. “Of course I need you.”

“I don’t even know why I just thought of that. Anyway, I think I imagined this job, a big change, trying out someplace unfamiliar, would grow me up a bit.”

“Even so, what about me? Did you just think I’d go along?”

“I didn’t think about you much, really,” Sherlock said casually, and John felt it in his chest. He put his elbows on the desk, dropped his forehead into his hands.

“That didn’t come out the way I meant it.”

“Yes it fucking did. Jesus, Sherlock. . .” A realization jolted through John’s mind just then and he looked hard at the image of Sherlock on his laptop screen. “Oh, Christ—Sherlock. Are you coming back?”

Sherlock was visibly surprised by John’s question, his whole body pulling away from the camera, his eyebrows jagging down toward his nose in a frown. “What? Of course I’m coming back. Why would you—“

“You lied to me about why you were going, you didn’t think to include me in a major life decision, you left your fucking wedding ring. I have to ask.”

“I’m coming back. Of course I am.”

“I didn’t think it was this bad,” John said, half to himself.

“It’s not. I’m home in a few days.” Sherlock looked genuinely surprised, possibly even a little hurt. “I wouldn’t just sneak away from you, John, for god’s sake. Do you think so little of me, that I’m capable of that? I have more respect for you and our marriage than that.”

“Are you taking the job? When do you have to decide? Do I even have time to process it?” John demanded. “You know what, fuck you, too, for making us have this conversation like this, over the fucking internet.”

“It’s better this way,” Sherlock shrugged. “If we were together, I’d just let you have sex with me—“

“Excuse me? Did you say—“

“It came out wrong.”

“—you’d let me have sex with you? Fuck’s sake, Sherlock.”

“I just know how I am—that’s my fallback position when things get—“

“What?” John fumed.

“When I start to feel like one of us is going to say something we can’t go back from.”

“What, to placate me? Shut me up. Stop me picking on you?”

“Stop me saying that I want to leave.”

There was a lengthy silence; neither of them looked at the other.

At last, John pressed two fingers against the headache spot between his eyebrows and said, “You do want to leave. You’ve wanted to for a long time now; let’s not talk around it now it’s out there.”

Sherlock dragged long fingers the wrong way through his hair, hummed a groan. “It’s just been really fucking hard, and I thought it would get back to normal but so far it hasn’t. You’re as unhappy as I am.”

“I’m pretty content, Sherlock. You’re the one’s restless and prickly and always shutting down on me.”

“I know, I’m awful,” Sherlock said sarcastically. “I’m a complete bastard.”

“That’s not what I mean. But it’s true I’m pretty much content, and you’re—I don’t know—antsy. So maybe you’re right. You love me less than I love you, Sherlock, OK fine then I suppose it’s all in your hands. I know it’s not perfect but I’d rather keep on the way we have than not have you at all. Maybe you feel differently.”

“I don’t. . .”

John covered his mouth with one hand.

“Are you really satisfied to keep on like this?” Sherlock asked, not hotly. “Don’t you think you might be happier—“

“Without you? Fucking no, I wouldn’t be happier. You know how I’d be? I’d be dead. Because what is the point of me without you?”

“Don’t talk like that.”

“It’s not a threat, Sherlock, it’s just a fact.”

“You’re being dramatic.”

“Well you would know.”

“John.”

John huffed a sigh, dropped his head and dug his fingertips in at the back of his neck.

“This should be the best time of our lives,” Sherlock mused, staring up toward a distant corner. “You’re settled in with the team, I’m doing well at the ballet, we’ve got money to spare—but I find myself wondering what the hell we’re doing if we’re both miserable, we barely talk, everything’s just boring and tense and . . .I don’t know. Lonely. Don’t you feel lonely?”

John considered. He longed for sleep, to escape and recharge. “I suppose sometimes. Not really. I don’t know.”

“Well I do, and I fucking hate it. You know, we didn’t have to get married; we don’t own anything together, we’ve got no kids—and if you say taxes or some other boring thing I swear I will hang up—so I felt like we were making a conscious choice to be together when we decided to have a wedding, say the words, the whole bit. But if this is how we are together. . .” Sherlock shrugged, looked back into the camera for a moment, trying to connect. “Tell me the point of it.”

“If you don’t know, I can’t tell you.”

“Don’t dismiss what I’m saying, John. Now you’re the one shutting down.”

John sat back, slump-shouldered, feeling like Sherlock had just driven over him with a lorry. He wanted to surrender. He raised his hands, questioning, giving up. “Just tell me what you want, Sherlock,” he blurted desperately. “All I want is for you to be happy—truly, that is all I want—so tell me what I can do to make that happen and I’ll do it. I’ll do it in a minute.”

“I don’t know.”

“Give me a place to start.”

“I don’t know. A gesture would be nice,” Sherlock allowed.

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Expend some effort. Show me I’m important to you.”

“You’re so important to me I make sure we’ve got heat and lights and a place to sleep indoors.”

“That’s not exactly a grand gesture.”

John sighed out his nostrils. “Of course you’re important to me. But I didn’t know I was still expected to woo you.”

“It’s not wooing, it’s just. . .” Sherlock sighed heavily, chest and shoulders dipping forward, shook his head. “God, you act like it physically pains you to be kind to me. But it’s always fucking easy to remind me what a lazy, ungrateful, and irresponsible fuck-up I am.”

“Sherlock. . .”

“I want to feel like I’m not just part of the furniture, some cardboard cutout labeled husband that you acquired and ticked off on the list, so you can focus on other things, knowing your life is tidy and in order.”

“You have got to be kidding me.” John’s jaw ached from clenching it. “Of course you’re. . .” He stopped. “I thought things were finally starting to get better. Just now I feel like I must be incredibly stupid to have thought that.”

“Things are getting better, I think,” Sherlock said quickly. “I feel like we’re friends again, now and then. Christmas was nice. Boxing Day was particularly nice.” He half-smiled, breaking the tension as he reminded John of their playful race to the finish, in bed side by side on the day Sherlock left London, but immediately turned serious again. “But overall I think you’d agree it still leaves a lot to be desired.”

“And that’s my fault.” There wasn’t much fight in it; weariness was settling over John like a blanket, and it had nothing to do with the nearness of midnight, the approach of a new year.

“It probably doesn’t do any good to assign blame. And we’re both at fault for letting it get like this. Confronting problems has never been our strong suit.” Sherlock smiled hesitantly. “It’s probably just a rough patch we’ll look back on later as one of our worst, but it’s gone on so long I think we’re going to have to work to get out of it. It’s not going to pass on its own. Or if it is, I’m not willing to wait for it anymore. Something has to change.”

“Or what?” John asked, afraid of the answer.

“I don’t know.”

There was a long silence. Neither of them spoke. John felt overloaded, turning it over in his brain, trying to sort it all.

“You’re coming back,” he said at last.

“Of course I am.” Sherlock’s tone was soft in a manner John hadn’t heard in ages, maybe since he was first hurt. He decided to trust it.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I love you,” John offered, and his throat thickened around it.

“I know.” There was a pause long enough to make John’s stomach ache. “Love you, too.”

Had he really not known it was this bad? Probably he’d known and chosen to ignore it; that was like him. Any sense that things were getting unstable scared the piss out of him, always had. And he’d always been able to wait it out, in the past.

“It’s late here.”

“I know. I have a meeting in an hour. Lunch. They put out so much food the table groans, and no one eats a thing.”

Small talk, to settle them down.

“Can’t imagine that. Go to a team function and it’s a scrum for the buffet; show up ten minutes late and you’re lucky if you’re eating the garnish.” John worked at a smile. Sherlock’s eyes were wide and soft.

“Will you make it to see in the new year?” Sherlock wondered.

“Don’t know, I’m pretty tired. I wasn’t even planning to try. But it’s a lot to think about—all this—so we’ll see. I’ll let you go.”

Sherlock nodded. “See you soon.”

“Have a safe trip home.”

Once they’d exchanged goodbyes, John shut the laptop with a deep sigh. He’d never sleep. In the bedroom, after he’d cleaned his teeth and splashed his face a bit, he looked in the box on top of the dresser and found Sherlock’s wedding ring there, just as he’d said, atop a pile of foreign coins. John slipped it onto the tip of his index finger, rolling it with his thumb. It was of a different design than his own, more ornate, with a central band of satin-finished platinum and highly-polished outer edges. John remembered shopping for the rings. Tasting cakes until they were both sick to their stomachs and headachey from the sugar. His vows to Sherlock handwritten on lined paper, one edge frilled from tearing it out of the notebook, and Sherlock’s to him typed on labels stuck to numbered index cards clipped together at the corner. John thought planning the wedding, hectic as it had sometimes been, was the last time they’d really had any fun together. Certainly it was the last time they’d both been working on the same project, the last time they’d teamed up for anything.

John placed Sherlock’s ring back in the box and undressed for bed. He lay awake in the dark for a long while—the new year came and went without him noticing, he looked at the bedside clock as he lay down at half-eleven, and the next time he checked it was nearly one in the morning. He got up, pulled on Sherlock’s dressing gown over his track pants and vest, and padded through to the desk in the lounge, woke his laptop and started to type.

 

To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: My Grand Gesture

Darling,

I want you to know that my first instinct, after you suggested you’d like a gesture to prove your importance to me, was to check flights to Auckland, bring your ring back to you, get down on my knee and propose to you all over again with promises that everything will change for the better. I love you, Sherlock—still, desperately, always. Even when I am a nitpicking grouch, even when I forget to listen, I love you as much now as I did when we first met. More. Much more.

I know that we’ve been growing distant, and I’m not even sure when it started, or why, because I was always afraid to look at it too closely in case the news was bad. You were right when you said you are all I have. With my parents gone, and my sister the way she is, and “our” friends only ones I’m sure you would get custody of if we ever split up because you’re interesting and glamourous while I’m just. . .not. . .yes, it’s true; my whole adult life we have been us, and you’re all I’ve got in the world. And instead of respecting and honouring you, and remembering how precious you are to me, I have taken you for granted. I promise, it’s only because you-with-me is as natural and intrinsic to my life as my heartbeat and my breath. The idea that it could ever be another way was always a foreign concept. I see now that assuming this was selfish and allowed me to be lazy. I have never claimed to be perfect. You have kindly not often pointed out how shockingly imperfect I actually am.

I know my bad behaviour after I got hurt—drinking too much and taking out my anger on you—chased you away from me. Obviously I know the pressure you were under to keep us afloat during that time, and instead of being grateful at how you rose to it, I just wallowed in my own disappointment and frustration. It was hard for me to let you take care of me, when I have always been the one to take care of you. I decided long ago that was my primary responsibility: to provide for you and to keep you free of worry, even when we were skint and there was plenty—believe me—to worry about. I thought I was protecting you by keeping mundane things like bills and calendars out of your way. But I realize now that it was also a way of keeping you reliant on me. In some ways, I’ve treated you like a child—coddled and kept you, scolded you and micro-managed you—and for that, I apologise. When I thought more about what you said, about wanting to decide about New Zealand on your own, like an adult, I realized that I’ve done you no good by taking charge of everything. I’m sorry. I really did just want to make a nice life for you—for us—but I see now that perhaps I haven’t always gone about it the right way.

I’ve suspected on and off, for a long time now, that you were thinking of leaving me. You’ve been distant and restless, and we’re both so angry all the time, and I don’t even remember why, really—what set it off. It’s just seemed we’ve been living these parallel lives, instead of living our life together, the way we used to. Or, at least, that’s how it’s felt to me. Like I said earlier when we talked, I always thought of us as a team, and I liked us that way. Lately it seems more like we are just, I don’t know, business partners, and our business is Sherlock-and-John, and the business is failing. The metaphor is awful and got away from me, but it’s late and I’ve a lot more to say, so I’m leaving it.

I have also suspected now and then in the past year or so that maybe you were seeing other people. If you were, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. Just so long as you’re not in love with someone else, anything short of that is yours to bear alone; I don’t want to hear about it. Like we talked about, I think things have been getting a little better between us (they can’t have gotten much worse), and part of that was that I’ve felt lately like you were a bit less closed off, like you’ve been coming back to me. If ever it happened, keep it to yourself, and know you’re forgiven, and stop it.

I was thinking about our wedding earlier this evening, or rather about the months before, when we were planning it. How excited we were when we knew we could finally be legal, and how the wedding was something we were looking forward to, together. And it was a pain in the arse, too, but overall it was nice—something we did just for us, our way, together. We haven’t had anything like that, since. Maybe we should think about what we could do that would give us something to look forward to. Could we plan a big trip, a once-in-a-lifetime sort of thing, like Alaska, or South America? Or is it time for us to buy a flat, or a house? I feel like if we both had our eyes on some pleasant thing in our future, it might help us pull together a bit to make it happen. These were just some ideas that sprang to mind, maybe you’ll think of something better.

So although I realize me flying to be there with you would have been the sort of grand gesture I think you had in mind, it’s not the sort I’m capable of. My grand gesture is just this: loving you, and honouring, keeping, fighting for us—our partnership—and the promises we have made to each other, not just when we married, but all the ones before, ever since we were kids. Because we are worth fighting for. I am with you, Sherlock, and I want you with me. I’m not giving up. I won’t. That’s probably not what you meant, maybe it’s not even what you want, but it’s what I can do, and I think it’s pretty damn good.

All my love forever,
your John

*

Sherlock shook hands all around as the meeting broke up.

“We appreciate you having considered it,” one of the board members said as they walked out of the conference room, in a tone that made it clear he thought Sherlock was making a mistake, and that this offer would not be forthcoming again.

“It was a very tempting offer,” Sherlock told him. “It’s just not the right time for me to make such a big move.”

“Well, they say timing is everything,” the man half-heartedly agreed.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said, absently, turning away. One long finger tapped at the screen of his phone, then he raised it to his ear. “Yes, hello, I’m hoping you can help me exchange my ticket. I want to get on an earlier flight.”

Chapter Text

JANUARY.

 

“It’s lovely.” Sherlock draped the burgundy cashmere scarf around his shoulders, flung one tail over his shoulder. “Thank you.”

“The colour suits you,” John put in from across the lounge, where he was adding frozen raspberries by the handful to a pitcher of oh-no-that’s-too-delicious pomegranate martinis he’d made.

“I won’t be offended if you want to exchange it,” Molly said knowingly.

“Ah! In that case.” Sherlock refolded the scarf showily and tucked it back into its box, eliciting laughter from the little party. “I’m joking,” he said, and rose half-way off the sofa to reach Molly, seated nearby in a chair brought in from the kitchen. He kissed both her cheeks.

“Happy birthday, Sherlock,” she said.

“Mm.” Sherlock was grim. “Let’s not say that anymore, shall we?”

John rejoined them, with fresh drinks for Molly and their friend Jamie’s new one (Sherlock had been right; his name was Richard, and he was quite tall, which meant he and John had been calling him Big Dick Richard for the few days since Sherlock’s return from New Zealand). “My child bride,” John joked, and settled on the arm of the sofa beside Sherlock.

Christopher and Glen had left their toddler in the care of Glen’s mother, and were relentlessly harassing the poor woman via text message; John could sense that after one pass of the appetizers and two-thirds of a drink each, they’d be squirming to leave and fetch their little princess back. John remembered when they used to be fun.

“Speaking of birthdays,” John piped up, gesturing with his glass. He cut a glance toward Sherlock. “Not that we were, of course. This is just a New Year’s thing. With gifts for you.”

“Naturally.”

“Remember—what was it? One of Christopher’s, when we did that nightclub thing? The retro night.”

Christopher groaned behind his hand, covering his eyes in probably feigned embarrassment.

“His twenty-fifth,” Glen put in, grinning, and giving Christopher a quick pat on the knee. He addressed the other couples, Molly and Rhys in particular, since at least Jamie had been in their gang back then and had likely long since grown tired of the tale. “We were out of uni—well, not Sherlock, our posh baby—bunch of shiftless, jobless ne’er-do-wells, we were. So I don’t know who we knew—“

“Sasha,” Sherlock intoned, rolling his eyes ceilingward. “Sasha was a shots-boy at the Empire. He gave us free drinks all night.”

Jamie suddenly gasped and threw both hands in front of his mouth.

“Jamie had him in the gents’.”

“Sherlock!”

“It was ages ago; don’t be a prude.” Sherlock stage-whispered to Big Dick Richard, “Jamie had them all in the gents’ at the Empire. He was an unrepentant slag.”

“I was in demand!”

“’Course you were, sweetheart,” John comforted him. “’Course you were.”

Jamie made a show. “I’m leaving. Happy thirty-fifth birthday, Sherlock.”

Sherlock grabbed his wrist as he rose and tugged him back toward the sofa. “Sit down, James; don’t be tedious.”

“Mind if he goes to the loo,” John said to Molly and Rhys, “that he goes alone; the poor girl Sherlock hired spends hours in there cleaning every week as it is.”

Jamie went on pretending to sulk, and Big Dick Richard petted his arm.

“Surely you didn’t bring this up to rehash my sexual history,” Jamie pouted.

“No, well, you were busy with Sasha the shots boy and missed all the best bits,” John told him. Before anything could be said to put him farther off track, John went on, “We went to a sort of. . .sad-in-black ‘80s night?”

“It was called Bone Rattle,” Sherlock put in. “Third Saturday of the month. All the most interesting people, tolerable music, everyone looking chic and dead in all their black lace and leather. . .”

“Dungeon play with Mistress Didi,” John picked up, and immediately added, “I swear, I only ever watched.” He crossed his heart with one finger.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and said nothing, and laughter rang throughout the room.

“Uh-mazing drugs,” Glen added.

“Right. So to the point of my story. Sherlock, if I remember, had shed his shirt somewhere along the way—funny that.”

“I was so slim then, god I miss it. Twenty-two was an excellent vintage for my bare torso.”

John leaned down just enough to plant a quick kiss on the top of Sherlock’s head, then continued. “And I was in my office—”

“End of the bar, beside the servers’ station,” Sherlock clarified. “He knew which bartender had a heavy-handed pour.”

“Yes, well, speaking of poor, we were that, so the less I had to spend in an evening, the better. So Sherlock comes reeling up, chest awash in glitter—”

“I never wore glitter.”

“Then I shudder to think how it got on you, because you were lousy with it; I think I picked some out of my ear just last week–and his pupils were the size of saucers, and he insisted his friend at the time, whose name was something like the Grand Duchess of Death. . .”

“Her name was Lady Raven,” Sherlock corrected in a serious tone. “She read tarot cards and collected skeletons of small animals.”

“Which she found in alleys, mind,” John went on. “She was no scientist.”

“She had an excellent method for bleaching the bones once she’d boiled off the flesh.”

“Bacon-wrapped scallop, anyone?” Molly piped up, lifting a tray of them from the coffee table.

“Whatever happened to her?” Glen wondered aloud.

“Dead. Too many of them are. Sasha, too. So sorry for your loss, James.”

“Sherlock comes at me all jittery and sparkling, insisting that Lady Raven can see my aura, and it’s. . .I don’t remember.”

“Nor me,” Sherlock shrugged. “I was as high as I’ve ever been, thank you Christopher for the handful of pills that got me that way.”

Glen smacked Christopher on the upper arm with the back of his hand.

“What’s that about?!”

Glen tsked. “Getting our posh baby high.”

“It was my birthday!”

“It’s fine, Glen,” Sherlock reassured. “I’m almost certain it’s out of my system.”

“Unlike the glitter,” John added. “Can I get to the story before poor Rhys falls asleep, please?”

“No, no. I’m fine. Sounds like it would’ve been quite fun hanging around with you lot back then.”

“We were the worst people in England,” John said seriously, and the rest of them nodded agreement.

After a moment, Sherlock said, “Except me; I was glorious.”

“So Christopher got Sherlock high, and then the spooky girl used his highly-suggestible state to implant wrong beliefs in his head, and he was resolute that we simply must leave right away—it must have been nearly closing time, anyway, as I was well in my cups by then.”

“Cheers, by the way,” Sherlock said, and raised his glass, and they all returned the gesture, then drank.

“And I don’t even recall where he thought we needed to go, in order to repair my aura, or wash it off, or whatever it was we were meant to be doing. . .”

“Helena’s flat.”

“Oh dear god Helena.”

Jamie’s shoulders shivered as if he’d got a sudden chill. “Helena was this terrifying Argentine stripper who was saving her money to open a shop where she would do psychic surgery and heal people with crystals.”

“You know such interesting people,” Molly joked.

“Knew. Helena’s dead, too,” was Sherlock’s plain reply.

“Oh, I remember! Poor John’s aura was a sort of mucky black rainbow,” Sherlock started to explain.

“So the esteemed Lady Raven said, at least.”

“Like an oil slick,” Sherlock continued, “Absolutely disastrous. And so of course I had to save him, and Helena would surely have just the thing.”

“She also always had cocaine.”

“True, but this time I was worried for your health.” Sherlock stroked John’s knee.

“My auric health.”

“Of course your auric health, John!” Sherlock said with mock seriousness. “Well, I know just the bit John’s getting to. . .”

“Wait, were you all together?” Molly asked, pointing around the room. “Were you all going to Helena’s to fix John’s aura?”

“I think I went home with the heavy-handed bartender,” Jamie mused, and Big Dick Richard looked mildly scandalized. Jamie shrugged.

“Ah, no, I finished my birthday crying into a payphone about how all my friends had deserted me.”

“Not all,” Glen said, sounding offended.

“True. Glen took me home and tucked me into my bed and didn’t even try to take advantage of me until the next morning.” They exchanged a loud smack of a kiss.

“Our first date,” Glen crooned.

“Sorry, you’re vile, and we have a story we’re trying to tell.” Sherlock added archly, “How’s the baby?”

Glen gave him a look, but within seconds his thumbs were flying over the keyboard of his phone, texting his mother again.

“Go on, John,” Sherlock said in a syrupy, obsequious tone, looking up at him as if he had hung the moon. It was put on, but John would take what he could get.

“So we’re stumbling down the pavement—or, I’m stumbling and Sherlock’s sort of dancing ahead, then doubling back to me, running a circle around me chattering like a squirrel, then dashing off again—”

“They were excellent drugs. Really top quality.”

“And we’re on Lambeth Road, not some little quiet side street, though it had to have been three in the morning, so there weren’t a lot of people around, not many cars. But not none, either, which bears emphasizing.”

“Oh, dear,” Molly exclaimed, as if she knew what might be coming, though John felt certain whatever she was imagining was nothing near the truth.

“I took a few private moments to discreetly sick up into what I hoped was a rubbish bin—”

“It was a plant pot.”

“How would you know?” John’s hand rested on Sherlock’s shoulder, stroked him across the back of his neck. “And when I gathered my wits and looked around—” John mimed stretching his neck, looking all around with eyebrows alternately raised questioningly and lowered in a worried frown. “No Sherlock.”

“No Sherlock!” Sherlock echoed, and stretched his arms out dramatically.

“So I call his name, and it’s very weird, but when he calls my name, he sounds as if he’s maybe on the ground, somewhere up ahead and to my left. . .but he couldn’t possibly be on the ground to my left unless he was in the road.”

“I was,” Sherlock admitted. “I was in the road.” The partygoers all looked suitably shocked and concerned, except Glen, who had drifted down the little corridor toward their bedroom, phone clamped against his ear, on his way to fetch his and Christopher’s coats off the bed. Sherlock defended his past self: “I had to get to Helena! To save John!”

“He was crawling! Across Lambeth Road. At three in the morning, shirtless and covered in glitter, off his head on Christopher’s nice drugs.”

“Oh my god!” Molly gasped, and her little hand fluttered in front of her chest.

“I’m alive,” Sherlock reminded her. “Don’t panic.”

“He wouldn’t be dissuaded from the crawling, but I did get him to move a bit faster,” John reported, digging his fingers into Sherlock’s hair and then gathering and pulling, to demonstrate. “I’m half-convinced he did it only because he knew it was a glamourous image for a story like this one.”

Sherlock shook him off and looked exaggeratedly offended. “I was saving your life!”

John patted his shoulder and Sherlock covered John’s hand with his own. “We never did make it to Helena’s. We lost interest and went home. Took turns passing out on the Tube.”

“So long story short, John’s aura is deadly, and our posh baby was a real handful in his younger days. Did I mention I ended the night crying? Happy birthday to me!” Christopher finished for them.

Glen returned with their coats off Sherlock’s and John’s bed, and there followed a flurry of insisting they had to get home because their precious angel simply would not go to sleep for her gran, air-kisses, and promises to do it again soon (John thought they’d be lucky to see them again in the spring at his own birthday ‘do, should he have one; getting them out for Sherlock had been difficult enough). John walked them downstairs and waited to be sure they’d got a taxi.

*

Sherlock had looked vaguely dazed with sleep deprivation and said very little after they embraced in the airport’s arrivals hall. John put his bags in the back of the taxi and couldn’t decide whether to rest his hand on Sherlock’s knee while they rode, so he rested it for half a minute (Sherlock turned his face toward John and half-smiled, then looked away again, out the window), then stroked Sherlock’s knee for another few seconds before withdrawing altogether. It was still early evening though it had already been wintery dark for a few hours by the time they neared home.

John had spent a restless night with little sleep after clicking “Send” on his email to Sherlock promising to do better, with its implicit plea for Sherlock to just stay, just keep trying. Eventually he must have slept, for he woke to early morning light and a pair of waiting texts.

Turned down job. Coming back early. We’ll talk more when I’m home. –SH
Thank you for the email, btw. A perfect gesture.—SH

Up the stairs and Sherlock moaned relief to be home at last, fell into his chair and reached for his shoes but gave up on untying them and leaned back.

“I’ve been in constant motion for twenty-eight hours. What day is this?”

“Monday,” John told him, and knelt on one knee, loosening the laces on Sherlock’s shoes, working each off and setting them under the edge of his chair. “Hungry? There’s a salad, and some salmon. Or. . .do you want tea?”

“Is it too early for bed?”

“A bit, yeah,” John had regained his feet, ventured to kiss the top of Sherlock’s head. “If you can make it another hour or two you’ll probably be better off.”

“I’ll have some of the salad, then.”

John fed him, and Sherlock stretched his legs all the way across so his sock-clad feet rested on the edge of John’s chair, and they mostly kept quiet. Sherlock’s empty plate with its downturned fork set at five o’clock was set on the side table, and he scrubbed his face with his hands.

“Obviously there’s lots to talk about,” John said at last, and Sherlock raised his eyebrows, but his eyes were closed. “But you’re exhausted from travelling, so I’ll just say I’m glad you’re home.”

There was a short pause but Sherlock said, “Me, too.”

“And can I give you something to sleep on? Just one thing.”

Sherlock opened his eyes and nodded. “M-hm.”

John lay his hand on Sherlock’s ankle, rubbed a bit, absently. “We didn’t get here in a day, and we won’t get out quickly either. So, think about it, but. . .Give it six months, Sherlock, at least. We can figure out what happens during that time—later—we’ll talk it out, we’ll start working on things—but just please promise you’ll give me six months.”

Sherlock inhaled as if to speak.

“Sleep on it,” John reminded. It wouldn’t do to have Sherlock give a promise tonight; and if after some time to think it through, he wasn’t willing to promise it. . .Well. John put aside what that would mean in favour of continuing to hope.

After another few quiet minutes while John went on stroking Sherlock’s ankle and shin, the top of his foot, Sherlock’s eyes were mostly closed and his shoulders softened by the minute.

“Let’s go to bed.”

“It’s early,” Sherlock protested, getting slowly to his feet and stretching upward as if he could reach through the ceiling. “You can stay up.”

“No, it’s fine. Didn’t sleep well last night, I’ll come in and read a bit or something.”

Sherlock stripped off his socks, suit, and shirt, dropped them on the bedroom floor and collapsed naked into their bed. He curled up small against the cool air in the room, tucking the quilts under his chin with a grateful sigh. John changed into pyjamas Sherlock teased him about and propped himself on pillows, took up his bedside novel. Sherlock’s arm snaked around his waist, and he snuggled closer, his forehead against the side of John’s belly. John rested his arm on Sherlock’s, curled it around to stroke his back as he fell asleep.

“I love you, darling,” John murmured.

Without hesitation, Sherlock sighed out, “Love you, too.”

*

“Oh, Sherlock!. . .I told Rhys about Nureyev’s shoes,” Molly said, putting her hand on Rhys’s knee.

“Did you.”

Sherlock had always assumed that Molly had probably been in on the discussion of the ill-fated gift before Sherlock’s fifteenth anniversary with the ballet, though he had not told her about the ensuing argument that had ruined the actual giving and receiving of the thing.

“I used to dance,” Rhys said then. “Couldn’t make the cut in the end, but I’m a passionate fan.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows and hummed. “I suspected you must have been athletic once,” Sherlock said. He could see by the looks on their faces both Rhys and Molly found this comment insulting in some way, and so he added, “I noticed you walk like a dancer.” It wasn’t true, but it repaired their expressions.

“Anyway, could you show him?” Molly asked.

In the way of couples, Molly and Rhys would surely compare notes on their way home; even as Sherlock acquiesced and indicated he would follow Rhys up the stairs to the guest room, he knew the fact such a significant gift was not prominently displayed—in fact, was not even hung properly, but rather sat on the floor leaning against a wall in a room they never visited—would give them something to talk about. Once they’d reached the landing, Sherlock ducked into the dark room and found the bedside lamp by feel and familiarity, and switched it on.

“Haven’t had a chance to hang it yet,” Sherlock lied, with a shrug and a small smile. He dragged the shadowbox frame up off the floor and laid it out on the spare bed. Rhys clasped his hands behind his back as if to keep himself from touching the glass, and leaned over to look closely.

“Such small feet!” he exclaimed.

“Obviously you mean his, and not mine,” Sherlock said slyly. “Seven, triple E. He was only five-eight. But, yes, quite small feet.”

“It’s one of the reasons I quit dancing,” Rhys offered, still sweeping his gaze across the display of the two pairs of battered shoes, the two photos of Sherlock and his idol in mirrored poses. “They told me I was getting too tall, my shoulders were too wide, my arms were too short.”

“It’s an awful business,” Sherlock said, and it might have been consolation except that he did not feel much like consoling Rhys. If he’d wanted it, he’d have kept going, no matter what “they” told him. Sherlock had been told he was too tall, that his feet were too long, that his bloody eyebrows were the wrong shape, for god’s sake. He had never quit.

“Anyway, I never wanted to dance those parts—the cavalier, the prince.” Rhys straightened up, and he looked hard at Sherlock, straight into his eyes, as if issuing a challenge.

“Oh?” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. “What else is there?”

“The sleeping beauty. The swan princess,” Rhys said, and shrugged and looked at the floor, but did not smile. “I wanted to be top of the bill; I wanted the spotlight and the standing ovations. I didn’t want to carry ballerinas about the place, hold their hands so they could get applause for spinning on their toes.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to this. Rhys was blasé in the telling of it; it didn’t feel like a secret confession that he was sexually confused or wanted to have his gender reassigned (Sherlock had heard both over the course of his career, and not a few times). Still, he felt that he owed it to Molly to seek some clarification. Then again, he didn’t particularly want to prod; it was his birthday and the last thing he wanted was to make a virtual stranger feel the undamming of a flood-tide would be welcome. John had been nursing just one drink all night, had been petting Sherlock, stroking him and kissing his hair—and Sherlock anticipated they’d be fucking within ten minutes of the guests leaving. He wasn’t going to muck about with the schedule just because Molly’s boring boyfriend wanted to moan about reverse-sexism or some similarly ignorant notion.

“They do have all the best parts, it’s true. There’s no ballet called Prince Charming, is there?” He said it lightly, as if the two of them were sharing a joke at their own expense. Oh that funny ol’ world of ballet, where men do the heavy lifting but women get the spotlight. There was a burst of laughter from downstairs, then the glassy ring of glasses clinking together.

Rhys didn’t react, seemed to keep to his own road. “I admired your quartet so much because you left out the girls, and put their pointe shoes on the male dancers. It was such a blatant fuck you to the whole dance establishment.”

“It really wasn’t,” Sherlock said, mildly, and lifted the shadowbox off the bed, returned it to its place on the floor tipping back against the wall. “It’s wonderful you were stirred by it, but that wasn’t my intent.” When he resumed his full height, Rhys was wringing his hands, and there was a strange look in his eye.

“I was; I really was terribly moved. It was beautiful. I wept.”

“I appreciate it. I’m glad you found it so affecting.” Sherlock extended his hand toward the door in an after-you motion.

Rhys did not seem to notice, didn’t move to leave. “Have you ever worn them?”

“What, pointe shoes?”

“Yeah, I should have said.” Rhys looked embarrassed, glanced toward the bed. “I always wondered about them.”

“I have,” Sherlock said. “They’re awful. The ballerinas should get combat pay for wearing them.”

Rhys made a small, noncommittal hum. “I imagine it was beautiful. You’re so. . .”

It almost sounded like clumsy flirting, except that Sherlock wasn’t getting that particular scent in the air. Just admiration, then; Rhys was a fan. But, not exactly that, either. Was he jealous? Sherlock wanted to throw him down the stairs, was desperate to get them out of the room, which was feeling smaller and dustier by the minute.

“You’re so much more than just those parts. Those male parts, just showing off the girls.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock said, and forced a grin. “We should get you back to Molly. Get back to the party.”

Rhys snapped out of whatever weird reverie he was in; his entire posture loosened. “Right!” he agreed.  “Happy birthday.”

“Thank you.” Sherlock leaned to click off the lamp and they found their way to the landing by the light of the lower hallway.

“I appreciate you showing me the shoes. Little bit of history.”

“Little, indeed,” Sherlock joked, bringing them back to the topic of Nureyev’s small dance shoes. They’d reached the lower landing and Sherlock didn’t bother to be gentlemanly and let Rhys go ahead of him, only swept into the room, striking a haughty pose with lifted chin and thrown-back shoulders. “Missed me?” he demanded.

“Terribly,” Molly replied. “Oh, but we should get on our way, it’s so late. I’ve got a matinee tomorrow.”

Jamie shoved Big Dick Richard’s face away from where it was burrowing against his neck and said, “Us, too. Not the matinee thing, but. We should go.” Big Dick Richard was grinning and practically jumped to his feet. John and Sherlock made the required protests, but in the end John fetched the coats, and everyone exchanged air-kisses and many happy returns and promised to call each other in a few days, let’s do it again, you’ll have to give me that martini recipe, this was really so much fun.

Once they’d all been swept out into the night, Sherlock locked the doors to the landing and John carried the empty appetizer trays and some of the glasses to the kitchen.

“Leave it; we’ll clean up tomorrow,” Sherlock said, and drained his own drink, just two swallows left, and it was too warm, but tart and sweet and burned his throat just enough on the way down.

“It was nice having people over. We should do it more,” John offered. He was wearing clothes Sherlock had bought for him that hadn’t fit him for ages—his workouts with the team were paying off—and his hair was a bit out of place. He moved glasses and plates from the worktop into the sink, ran the taps.

Sherlock, still standing near the sofa with the coffee table, the rest of the lounge, and the kitchen chairs and table between them, said, “I’ll give it the six months.”

John turned off the taps but didn’t look at Sherlock, kept his gaze focused into the sink.

“We owe it to ourselves. . .” Sherlock said. “I know we have to try. And then even if. . .”

John cleared his throat, otherwise was still, but Sherlock knew he was listening. Sherlock bent to stuff wadded-up paper napkins into empty glasses. He finished, “I have to know we did as much as we could.”

John turned to face him. “I feel the same. I’m glad. I’m relieved.”

Sherlock crossed the lounge, deposited two handfuls of napkin-stuffed glasses on the worktop, then took another long stride to step into John’s space.

“Let’s go to bed?” He raised his eyebrows, half-smiled.

“Yes. Please. Absolutely—let’s go to bed.”

*

 

FEBRUARY.

 

“Janitor found her, bit after nine this morning.”

John kept himself near the door, sucking a mint that didn’t serve to keep the coppery stink of blood out of his nose. Sherlock was walking around the body; the female detective sergeant who seemed not to trust him barely shifted out of his way to let him pass.

The ballerina on the floor of the large, mirror-ringed dressing room shared by the corps de ballet was spread out like a starfish, pointed toes in blood-soaked pointe shoes, outstretched hands, hair a spiky crown spread around her closed-eyed face. The too-big-for-her t-shirt she wore was shoved up so her small breasts were exposed, and a pair of cut-off track pants were crumpled beside her. Her underwear encircled one knee.

“Let’s do evidence photos quick as we can and get a sheet over her, please.” Detective Inspector Lestrade looked grim as he issued orders. “Bag her hands and feet; leave the shoes on—we know what’s inside. Let the medical examiner deal with them.”

“Not her shoes,” Sherlock intoned.

“So that fits the pattern,” Lestrade confirmed.

“Not quite,” Sherlock said, and the sergeant looked as if she might protest but Sherlock carried on without taking a breath. “The other girls had shoes that fit them; these shoes are much too big for her. Look, you can practically see the tips of her toes, and there’s a gap there, behind the ankle.”

“We’re making notes, yeah?” Lestrade prompted, and notebooks came out of pockets, uniformed cops started to scribble.

“So he didn’t know her size, or. . .got the shoes with someone else in mind?” the female sergeant put in.

“Took her out of her flat, though—she’s dressed for bed.”

“Maybe a flatmate?” she suggested.

“Do you know who she is?” Lestrade directed the question to Sherlock. Then, to nearby officers, “No purse nearby? No ID?”

“Francoise something. . .” Sherlock looked grumpy. “Bonheur? Bonnaire . . .Bonfils!” He pointed his finger hard. “Francoise Bonfils, French, another girl from the corps. She’s been with the company just this season, just out of school—eighteen?”

“Anything else?” Lestrade prompted, as the camera flash went, and then again, and again.

“Her parents have money; she had her own flat, all the best gear, expensive wristwatches, those diamonds in her ears.”

“The other girls—jealous of her?” the sergeant asked, making notes in her phone with a stylus.

“No need for it; she wasn’t even invited on tour, just an understudy most of the season. All dancers care about is roles, stage time, being seen. She could have been rolling in money and they wouldn’t have minded so long as she wasn’t being cast as a soloist.”

John kept his eyes on Sherlock’s face, did not glance down at the girl on the floor, out of respect for her vulnerable exposure and his own queasy stomach. Sherlock looked calm, serious, and thoughtful. He addressed his statements to the silver-haired senior cop, all but ignored the others except to point out to the disapproving sergeant that her assumptions were incorrect. Another couple of flashes, then a thin plastic sheet was unfolded and shaken out, floated up into John’s field of vision, then settled to cover the murdered dancer. As usual, John’s thoughts went to her family, the anguish her mother would feel when she heard what had happened to her child.

“What do we make of this—the skirt?” Lestrade asked no one in particular. There was a white tutu placed between her splayed legs.

“Obviously he arranged her body after he killed her, which took time. Not much, but he was comfortable enough in the idea no one would catch him in the act that he spent the extra minute or two,” Sherlock mused. “The tutu is a practice one, from the rack there—” he gestured to a metal rolling rack near where John was hovering inside the door that lead out to the corridor, where a dozen or more of the frilled, disc-shaped skirts hung, most clipped to hangers with clothespins. “Didn’t belong to her specifically.” Sherlock walked a tight circle, on the spot where he stood. “She barely moved. All the blood is in this one spot.” He pointed, then turned to look behind him. “Sat in this chair—” There was a wooden folding chair pulled out from under one of the make-up counters and turned around toward the center of the room. “To put the shoes on, then must have been stood right here on the spot. If she moved much, the shoes would have fallen right off her feet, so she was en pointe, just to keep them on.” He rose up on his toes, chest lifting into a proper ballet posture, and his ankles were tightly crossed, toes alternately tapping the floor as he turned himself in a small circle. “Generally bourees en couru like this are used to give the appearance of gliding across the stage.” Suddenly, Sherlock did in fact appear to be gliding—shoulders steady, body like a single upward-thrust reed as he crossed the floor with impossibly tiny steps, only the tips of his box-toe Prada oxfords touching the floor. “But she was perhaps turning, confined to that small space.”

“He could have been holding her—seems he was playing dance partner to the others,” Lestrade put in. “Looks painful, that.” He tilted his head toward Sherlock as he settled himself back to earth.

 “Imagine it with your shoes full of razor blades.”

John caught Sherlock’s gaze and shook his head tightly; Sherlock’s mouth was turning up and his eyes had gone a bit twinkly.

“Anything else?” Lestrade asked Sherlock then, not seeming to have been bothered by Sherlock’s momentary giddiness. John wondered if perhaps he was getting used to it.

“The ribbon used to strangle her is the correct width for pointe shoes, though much too long. Ribbon like that would lace a shoe all the way to the knee. UKB hasn’t required black shoes or black ribbons in any of the ballets this season.”

“Got that?” Lestrade demanded, and a uniformed officer standing beside him nodded firmly even as he scribbled into his notebook.

Sherlock started to cross the room, and John felt himself exhale. The DI had said before that he didn’t consider Sherlock a suspect, but the pretty, frowning sergeant always looked at him with the same suspicious glare, and John was as relieved to take Sherlock away from there as he was proud of the way Sherlock rattled off details that might help solve the murders. Before he reached John by the door, though, Sherlock squared himself to the DI and offered his hand for a shake, which Lestrade returned.

“Sorry about your recent separation,” Sherlock said, and John felt his eyes grow wide. “But you’ll be happy to know your son’s acting out at school is only a reaction to his mother’s leaving and not a sign of a future lifetime of criminal behaviour.”

Lestrade looked gobsmacked. “Who told you—?”

“Recently removed wedding band has left a pale indentation on your finger—stone and a half lighter back on when you got married? Weren’t we all—and that envelope tucked in your breast pocket has the seal of St Raphael’s Secondary School on it. It’s not the end of the term, which I take to mean a communication from the master about something that couldn’t wait for the quarterly report. Truancy?”

“Getting in some punch-ups,” Lestrade answered dully, automatically, still looking bewildered.

“Take him to a football match; stop working past six at night for a few weeks. That should straighten him out.” Sherlock gave a weird, mostly-false smile, and turned on his heel. John tried not to laugh out loud. “When you’re ready to date again, I might know someone,” Sherlock said over his shoulder as John steered him out with a hand in the small of his back.

“Family counseling, now, too?” John asked, when they were out of earshot and on their way through the lobby of the theatre.

Sherlock shrugged. “Seemed like the kind of thing people say when teenagers are pains in their parents’ arses. Can’t hurt either one of them, except to cut into the son’s wanking time.”

“Of which teenagers require quite a lot, I recall,” John smirked, as usual rather impressed with Sherlock’s ability to see so many details other people were oblivious to.

Sherlock hailed a taxi and John’s impulse was to scoff and remind him the Tube was cheaper and probably just as quick, but he bit down on it before it got away from him. Once they were settled and Sherlock gave orders to the driver, he leaned his arm against John’s, tilting his head closer and lowering his voice.

“I imagine you’ll require a bit of time, yourself, judging by the way you were eyeing up that lady sergeant.”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock threw up his hands, mugging a bit as if surrendering. “It’s fine, John. You know I’ve never been the jealous type. I will, though, remind you, that she thinks I’m a murderer.”

“Are you not?” John asked. “It occurs to me I’ve never asked.”

Sherlock made a silent Shhhh with his lips, tilted his head toward the driver.

John burst out laughing. And he didn’t deny having perhaps cast an extra glance or two at the pretty detective; she was exactly his type—of course he’d noticed her.

“So, shall I give you a few minutes alone, once we’re home?” Sherlock persisted, grinning wickedly.

“You’re one to be giving me cheek—that DI is right up your street. Tell me you’re not having impure thoughts about the handsome and newly-separated detective inspector. And his handcuffs.”

Sherlock went along. “Hadn’t considered the handcuffs, though you make an excellent point. He has very thick fingers, I noticed.”

“Right, you noticed,” John rolled his eyes a bit, nodding. “Just happened to notice that, did you?”

“Average sized prick, though.”

“I’m. . .relieved?” John laughed. “And when were you looking at his prick? There at the scene of a young woman’s murder. You absolute ghoul.”

“Anyway, straight.”

“You’re only looking.”

“Remember that generosity of spirit,” Sherlock teased, “when I’m gagging myself with your not-thick-enough-but-they’ll-have-to-do fingers later.”

The taxi stopped outside their flat and Sherlock shoved a folded note through the slot—probably too much, John was dying to ask the driver for change—and threw himself out of the car.

“Later?” John challenged. He was trying not to hyperfocus on the fact they were laughing together, joking—dirty joking, no less—didn’t want to spoil it, but it was such a relief.

Sherlock glanced at his phone as he shouldered open the door. “Fifteen minutes? Maybe less.”

John growled.

“Come on, then.”

*

“So, if something’s not on,” John summed up, “and it’s not impossible to change, we’ll just say it.”

“Kindly.”

“Yeah, of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock said, and there was a mocking tone in it, as if doubtful of John’s ability to express dissatisfaction kindly.

“Sherlock, you can’t—”

Sherlock glared, then caught himself and backed off. “Sorry. But move to strike any sentence that starts with you never, you always, you can’t, you shouldn’t. You you you.”

“Right,” John agreed. “I should have said, I wish you wouldn’t assume I can’t or won’t speak kindly to you.”

“And I shouldn’t have been sarcastic. But I. . .don’t want to feel. . .blamed.”

John had to make a conscious decision to lower his shoulders, which were tense and hovering near his ears as they hashed out new ground rules for talking through the things that bothered them. “I can understand that,” John affirmed. Sherlock was staring at the fire. “This is good. It’s good.”

“I agree.”

“So long as we’re on the same page,” John offered. There was an urgent, hollow feeling in his chest. “Moving forward in the same direction.” It sounded like a question. John hated how fragile they had become, just threads—not even threads, just spider’s silk—tying them to each other.

Sherlock rolled his head on his neck to look at John, and his pale eyes glimmered. He looked for a second as if he might say something, but then didn’t say anything.

John cleared muck out of his throat.

“I’ll make tea.”

*

They’d shed coats and shoes, mufflers, gloves, John’s pullover, and lay face to face on the bed, kissing deeply, still laughing as they teased each other about wandering eyes neither of them was actually worried about.

“She doesn’t fancy you, I’m afraid.”

“I’ll settle for present company, then.”

Sherlock ran a hand over John’s shoulder, down his upper arm. “God, you’re hard,” he breathed.

“Getting there,” John grinned against his mouth.

“I don’t doubt it,” Sherlock replied, and nudged his thigh between John’s. “I meant here.” He wrapped his fingers around John’s bicep, as much as he could, and squeezed. He hummed out a little moan—John really was a bit gorgeous—and John answered in kind, then reached for Sherlock’s shirt buttons. He fumbled one loose one-handed, then slid his hand down and tugged at the shirt just above Sherlock’s waist.

“Take this off?” John prompted.

Sherlock gave his arm a last going-over, could feel John flexing for his benefit, then rolled onto his back and reached to untuck his shirt. John started to undress, was always in such a hurry for them both to be naked, like a silent pronouncement that foreplay was over and the proper sex was happening. Sherlock reached for him again, caught him by the wrist.

“Wait.”

John, taken by surprise, went still beside him, both of them lying on their backs not having to look at each other, which made it slightly easier though not actually easy.

“I. . .” Sherlock started, and lowered his voice. “I’d really like it if we were slower about undressing.”

“Oh.” John cleared his throat. His wrist went soft in the circle of Sherlock’s fingers and it felt like he’d been defeated. Sherlock went on quickly, to rescue the moment and because if he didn’t spit it out he’d just let it go for another several years.

“There’s something I like about you undressing me, just baring a little at a time.” Sherlock struggled for the words. What he wanted to say was that it made him feel like there was still the thrill of discovery between them, and like there was uncertainty they had dispensed with ages before—that maybe Sherlock would stop him, or that John had to win him. The way it usually happened was that Sherlock reached for his own button or zip and by the time he went back to be kissed again—still half-dressed or even mostly-dressed—John had already stripped off and everything sped from there toward the inevitable finish. Finally, Sherlock said, “I like that it slows us down a little. And I like feeling like I’m a gift you’re unwrapping.”

John turned, rolled up onto his elbow and leaned in to kiss. “I thought my present was getting to see you naked, as soon as possible,” he grinned. “I just want to see you,” he kissed again, and his hand slid down and back along Sherlock’s hip. “Touch you all over. Right away.”

“Then sometimes rip my clothes off,” Sherlock allowed, smiling.

John started to protest. “I couldn’t—”

Before he got the words out about how he couldn’t possibly be rough with Sherlock, risk damaging Sherlock’s expensive shirts and trousers, Sherlock bunched up the front of John’s shirt in both fists and yanked it open. Most of the buttons found their way through the buttonholes; the few that didn’t went flying. Sherlock heard one hit the footboard of the bed.

John gasped, and Sherlock maneuvered them so John was once more flat on his back, Sherlock hovering, straddling his thighs, hands sliding outward across John’s chest, shoving the shirt open. “Yes, this is good,” Sherlock muttered. “Feel free. Anytime.” Sherlock leaned down, pried John’s mouth open with his tongue, licked the inside of his lips, touched the tip of his tongue, then drew back again. John’s fingers went to Sherlock’s shirt buttons, down by his waist, started working each one through its hole, slowly, carefully.

“C’mere and kiss me some more,” John demanded, his voice low and gruff, and Sherlock dropped to one elbow, this time met John’s entire mouth with his own. They kissed and nipped, sucked, pinched, whined, groaned, and it took them forever to undress each other—a hesitatingly slow baring of shoulders that wanted stroking, throats to be bitten and nuzzled, hard nipples, quivering stomachs, hips and calves and ankles and god this arse of yours I want to bite it. . .

“We forgot about lunch.”

“Are you hungry?”

“Not really.”

“I’ve nowhere to be today.”

“Nor me.”

“. . .mmmm. . .”

*

 

MARCH.

 

“I thought we weren’t going to say you you you anymore. It was your bloody demand.”

“There you go, there. You’re doing it again. If ever I make the mistake of being a little bit vulnerable—”

“Is that—  That’s what you call it, vulnerable? Selfish you mean.”

“You eventually find a way to throw it back in my face as more evidence of my failure as a person. Why would I ever—”

“I am not trying to make you feel like a failure, Sherlock, but you are far from bloody perfect.”

“—let my guard down when you’re going to just. . .”

“And how did this become about me being the bad guy, yet again?”

“. . .reach in and tear my guts out and fucking show them to me. Ha ha, Sherlock, what an idiot, you should know better than to give me an opening.”

“I don’t fucking do that, don’t be dramatic. If you feel that way, that’s your own insecurity at work. That’s completely unfair.”

“It’s how it feels!”

“Well I’m sick of every time I express anything I’m unhappy about, you immediately accuse me of attacking you when that is not my intention. I’m upset, I’m unhappy, and if I’m telling you about it it’s not the same as blaming you.”

“Fucking feels like it. You’re not expressing unhappiness, John, when you’re just pointing out my shortcomings.”

“Not everything is about you, Sherlock! It’s really fucking not about you.”

“I just feel like if you’re unhappy, it’s on you to change it. I can’t manage your feelings.”

“No, but when it’s our interactions that are making me unhappy, I have to tell you or how is anything going to change?”

“I don’t feel like this is about me changing. You just said it’s not about me.”

“I’m going out.”

“John.”

“If I stay here I’m going to say something I’ll regret. I’m going for a walk.”

“Fine.”

“I’ll be back in like half an hour. I love you.”

“Fuck you. I love you too.”

*

John was losing him, he could tell.

“So, once we know how much is in that pension thing, and we cancel that life insurance they’ve got you paying for through the ballet, we can think about moving some money into an account earmarked for a trip. I’ll make an appointment to do the wills as soon as possible; we should have done it ages ago.”

Sherlock sank into a backward-leaning sprawl, rolling the chair back from the desk where they were hovering over John’s laptop.

“This is the most boring thing I have ever done,” he moaned.

“I know,” John smiled and patted his knee. “You’ve done well. We’re nearly finished.”

“I want to be put back on an allowance. I don’t want to pay bills. Make them go away.”

“You were right about the savings accounts, no need to have so many separate ones; it’s been very helpful getting fresh eyes on this.”

“John, I will give you all the money in the pension thing if you never make me look at this again.” Sherlock clasped his hands prayerfully in front of his chest.

“No more allowance. You’re a grown man; you can hold the chequing account balance in your head as well as I can. And going through all this has actually been good for me. I’ve been acting like we’re still making the same wages we were right after university. We have more breathing room than I’d allowed for.”

Sherlock let his head fall back, closed his eyes. “I’ll give you the pension thing and a blowjob if we can stop talking about it—all the money we have, and you’ve been starving us and yelling at me for ten years. You can yell at me for ten more years if I just don’t have to think about it.”

“Keep the pension thing, I’m done yelling, but I’ll take the other you mentioned.”

Sherlock sprawled forward, if such a thing were possible, slithered his hands across John’s lap toward his belt. “Sit back. Stop talking.”

“There’s reciprocity, here, too, of course” John grinned, as Sherlock opened John’s trousers, licked his pretty lips.

“Retirement savings?” Sherlock wondered, and delicately unbuttoned the fly of John’s boxers, dipped in long fingers to draw him out through the opening. “Stock certificates?”

“I was thinking more of my ankles on your shoulders while you fuck me so hard I can’t breathe.”

Sherlock groaned, and lowered his face toward John’s lap, and there was no more talk about finances.

*

 

APRIL.

 

Dear John,

Happy birthday. I hope it truly is a happy one. I’ll do my best.

You have always been the one who was better with this sort of thing—I remember you’d send me those pages and pages of letters when we were young. Of course I know I’ve taken to electronic communication as if I were born for it, but I do miss the excitement of finding a letter in the pile on the table by the front door, the envelopes you’d scribble and draw on, the fat stacks of so many pages of your neat little printing. It was like a journal of your day: I’m writing this in Biology lecture, I’m at lunch now, I’m in my room and it’s the middle of the night. I feel guilty now that my replies were always so much less impressive, and so much shorter. We should take them all out sometime and have a look.

There’s a lot to say (always, always). Mostly I just wanted to tell you that I’m happier in the past few months than I’ve been in a long time, despite the fact we still sometimes slip into our old bad habits. I know I’m still shit at arguing. . .don’t fight fair, and don’t listen very well a lot of the time, but I think we’ve been pretty smart about making changes.

I never wanted to leave you, John. Even though I started to wonder about who I’d have been if things had been different, even when I started to doubt we were ever going to be all right again, all I really wanted was for it to be you and me, together. Even when I wished everything was different, I still wanted every different thing to be different for us. Wreck it all, bin everything and start over, I still belong to you, and you belong to me. How could it ever be another way? We couldn’t be rid of each other if we wanted to, I think. So of course I’m glad I gave us the six months you asked for (after that lovely email you sent when I was in New Zealand, I’d have given you anything). All I’ve ever wanted since I was fifteen years old is John Watson beside me.

Anyway, what is there for me to say in the end but that I’m glad you’re mine and I’m yours, and I never want it another way.

Have a wonderful day, husband mine. I have always loved to see you smile.

your,
Sherlock

*

“It is so kind of you to grace us, my dear monsieur Holmes.”

Sylvie had an eyebrow that nearly met her hairline when she arched it; Sherlock reckoned it was, among a sea of remarkable things about her, perhaps the most remarkable of all.

“Molly needs the practice,” he said, with a wave of his hand. Molly rolled her eyes extravagantly as she chugged water from a pink plastic bottle. He was dancing just one pas de deux with her in the current program; if it hadn’t been for the three hours of classes Sylvie had bullied him into teaching, it would have felt like he was on holiday.

“When you’re ready, then, Sherlock, I have the whole day.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, madame.”

“It suits me perfectly well and has done for many years,” Sylvie sniffed.

Sherlock ducked close to Molly to receive a light, let’s-not-share-more-perspiration-than-necessary hug and a matched pair of cheek kisses. She’d texted him early in the morning, asking if he could put her in touch with the detective leading the murder investigation; her Singaporean stalker was still a daily, sometimes hourly, nuisance and she was dissatisfied with the way the police officer she’d been dealing with was handling things.

“All right?” he asked quietly.

“Left a message for that detective, thanks. Had a row with Rhys about it.” She crinkled her mouth in an unconvincing oh well expression.

“Why a row?”

Molly wasted time repinning her hair; Sherlock changed from one clinging t-shirt into a different one from his gear bag.

“He thinks the officer I was assigned is going to be annoyed I went over his head or something.”

“Why should Rhys care about that?”

“I don’t know; it was stupid. We’ve been a little off lately, it was just another thing to argue over.”

They crossed slowly, toe-heel, toe-heel, to the center of the room and walked circles around each other, finding their places.

“I’m impressed with DI Lestrade,” Sherlock reassured her. “I’m sure he’ll be helpful.”

“Three more threats to rape and murder me this week,” she said grimly. “In between twice-hourly declarations of his passionate love.”

“Children, if you’re finished gossiping,” Sylvie prompted, and beat her stick on the floor.

Molly struck her pose, Sherlock took three long strides backward and to the side to find his mark. The accompanist started up a few bars before their cue.

“You’re coming to John’s birthday drinks,” Sherlock prompted.

“Wouldn’t miss it.”

“Five and six and seven. . .” Sylvie shout-sang at them, and Sherlock offered Molly his hand.

*

It was nearing eleven; they’d already lost Glen and Christopher to their frantic concern over their toddler in the inept hands of her grandmother. Jamie and Big Dick Richard had fallen out weeks before and Jamie had begged off altogether—he said he was having migraines but Sherlock was certain he’d had work done because Big Dick Richard had once told him he looked his age, and so was probably too swollen, bruised, and full of surgical drains to be seen in public. Sherlock was in the gents’ washing his hands. John had picked the restaurant, casual and too loud, with television sets over the bars, but with decent drinks and surprisingly elegant bar food.

The door opened behind him and Sherlock glanced into the mirror. It was Molly’s Rhys; they’d made up after their row, at least enough to come for John’s birthday—had even brought him a gift of a handsome leatherbound notebook and weighty, silver-plated pen. They exchanged nods and Rhys stepped beside him, ran the taps at the next sink.

“Can’t get the smell of curry off my fingers,” Rhys grinned. “Who’d think to put curry powder on chips?”

Sherlock smiled, humouring him, and reached for a towel from the nearby stack.

“Do me a favour, mate,” Rhys said then, and Sherlock’s neck bristled. No one who’d ever called him “mate” didn’t follow it up with threats of bodily injury, usually accompanied by homophobic slurs.

“What’s that,” Sherlock replied, balling up the towel between his hands as he dried them.

“I’ve got this stalker thing handled, with Molly. Talking to the police, minding her phone, intercepting most of the messages, got her passwords and all that. . .” he shrugged but it seemed disingenuous somehow. “Maybe I want to be the hero, whatever, but.” He shrugged again. “Just, could you not. . .get involved? Anymore?”

Sherlock knew better than to get in the middle of a couple’s entanglements, so despite his first instinct to defend his territory as Molly’s longtime colleague and, more importantly, friend, he immediately acquiesced.

“No, of course,” he said, and even raised his hands a bit to show he surrendered. “She only asked me for a phone number and I gave it. I’m not involved beyond that.” He chucked the towel in the bin. For good measure, he added, “It does seem you’re handling it; she’s been less worried lately.” If anything, she had seemed more worried than ever, once the Bonfils girl had been found arranged to a murderer’s liking in a dressing room Molly had used for years, but Sherlock wanted to reassure that he posed no threat to their couplehood. Certainly he was not going to try to be the top man in this particular situation.

“Thanks, then. You get it,” Rhys said, and smiled at him.

“Of course, of course. I’m going to get back to them.” Sherlock tipped his head, then ducked out before Rhys could engage him in any further pissing contests. As soon as he’d slid onto his vacant chair, he leaned close so only John could hear and told him, “Molly’s boyfriend thinks I’m trying to make a move on her.” John laughed, eyebrows jutting upward, and slid his hand onto Sherlock’s thigh under the table.

“He never seemed terribly bright,” John joked, “But. . .really?”

Molly, who couldn’t hear them but could see them with their faces held close, whispering, laughing, pressed one hand to the middle of her chest and sighed. “You two are—”

“Do not say cute.”

“So cute!” she finished. “Tell me more about the trip!” She sipped the tiniest bit of a fizzy yellow thing in a huge, sugar-rimmed glass, then sucked water through a straw from another glass.

“Six days in Moscow,” John began.

Molly clapped her hands excitedly. “The Bolshoi, of course!”

“Of course,” Sherlock said with a dismissive expression. “I’m going to dance on that stage even if the only audience is John and the stagehands.”

 “Then once Sherlock’s caused an international incident, we’re doing a package tour thing, on the Trans-Siberian Express. Two weeks, a few cities and some remote spots.”

“I’m hoping to meet a goat and get lost in the Ural mountains,” Sherlock put in.

“Then, if we survive it, the trip ends in Vladivostok and we fly home,” John finished.

“What an adventure, I’m so jealous!” Molly enthused, “That’s truly once in a lifetime.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock agreed, and found John’s hand, and squeezed it.

Rhys joined them then, carrying shots he must have bought at the bar. Clear, with gold flecks suspended, and cream lying on top.

“What’s the occasion?” Molly asked, then filled Rhys in. “John and Sherlock are taking a big trip to Russia in—when is it?”

“First of June,” John told them, and his warm, soft smile was doing things to Sherlock that a warm, soft smile likely shouldn’t. But John free of stress and worry was, he found, impossibly attractive. “No occasion,” he added. “We just haven’t had a proper holiday in a very long time, and we wanted to do something—like you say—once in a lifetime.”

“That’s lovely,” she said. “I’m sure it will be wonderful.”

“I’ll bring you back a goat,” Sherlock promised.

“All right then, who’s for a shot?” Rhys asked, all smiles, rubbing his palms together.

Molly protested. “Is it milk on top?”

“Double cream,” Rhys replied. “Just a bit. It’s John’s birthday, come on.”

“Yes, John’s birthday,” she said, and her smile grew tight. “Not mine.” She laughed, and it was a bit shrill, trying to play it off.

 “I’ll go,” John said gamely. “I’m a lightweight these days, though. You might have to help Sherlock carry me home.”

“Don’t drink so much you can’t. . .” Sherlock started, and stopped, wondering if he was scolding. He hadn’t meant to. John only looked at him to finish. Sherlock leaned close to his ear, and Molly scream-laughed and pointed.

“I know what you’re on about!” she exclaimed.

Sherlock said, “Don’t let it interfere with. . .” and he slid his hand between John’s thighs, quite high, just for a second. “It’s your birthday, after all.”

“Don’t worry, darling.” John tossed back the shot, slapped the glass down on the table. “Ugh. Horrible. So sweet; that’s for girls.” He guffawed. “Thanks, though, Rhys, for splashing out. Sorry these two swizzle sticks aren’t more fun.” He tilted his head to indicate Sherlock, who had raised a shot to sniff at it. Cinnamon, cream so thick it smelled like butter, alcohol sharp and vaguely petrol-like. He shrugged and poured it into his mouth, swallowed hard, then again, his eyes burning. He felt the heat of it wash down his esophagus and into his chest, and in another few moments, he felt his edges softening as it went to his head.

Rhys looked placated, and drained his and Molly’s both in rapid succession.

“Oh, it’s so late,” Molly said, and started to gather her things. Sherlock and John made the expected noises, Rhys and Sherlock argued over who would pay (in the end, Sherlock let Rhys pick up the tab; if he wanted to be top man, let him), then they exchanged hugs and handshakes, parting ways out on the pavement as Sherlock hailed a taxi and Molly and Rhys walked away toward the underground station.

“I liked your letter,” John told him.

“I know, you told me earlier.”

“You shouldn’t say you’re bad at them. I thought it was perfect. I always liked your letters, back then.”

“The dirty ones.”

“Well, yes, the dirty ones,” John allowed, gesturing as widely as the taxi’s interior space allowed. “But all the others, too. It was so furtive and surreal, getting together with you back then, and having to keep everything so secretive.”

“Everyone knew.”

“Not everyone. My teammates? Definitely didn’t know. My parents were oblivious. My mum only knew in that last year before she died; I don’t really know if she even told my dad before he died.” John reached for Sherlock’s hand. “It’s so much better now. But back then, having letters from you saying you liked me, wanted me, wanted us to be together. . .it made it more real.”

“You’re drunk and it’s making you sentimental,” Sherlock teased.

“Maybe so,” John allowed. “Maybe so.” He drew Sherlock’s hand up and planted a kiss on the back of it. “Sentimental. Not drunk.”

Sherlock turned his head away for a moment, couldn’t help but smile. The drinking had bothered him more than he’d said, and even more than he’d known. The past few months John had seemed more like himself, not as quick-tempered, more present. And Sherlock hadn’t even asked him to stop drinking so much; that was the best bit—he’d done it on his own, as part of his new fitness regimen. And—Sherlock knew but wouldn’t say—probably because he knew Sherlock would be pleased.

“Thanks for the birthday ‘do.”

“Of course.”

“What else do I get?”

Sherlock gave him a dirty smile, but all he said was, “Nearly home.” A trick he’d used in the past, Always leave them wanting more. Sherlock chastised himself inwardly for all his stupid running about, chasing that first high of that moment Michael the Freed sales rep had knocked the breath right out of him with a blatant proposition; even the sex they’d had immediately after wasn’t as good as that first, fiery instant when Sherlock suddenly realised he was wanted. He’d been so childish, and all the while felt so lost, despite his brazen bravado. He’d never forgive himself, but he was making it up to John. Trying, anyway.

John leaned and nuzzled into the side of Sherlock’s throat, opened his mouth against it, and Sherlock clutched tighter at John’s hand. This was better by far—his John, kissing him, holding his hand, nearly home.

*

 

MAY.

 

“I wish it would just rain. My knee is murdering me.”

“Same with my shoulder.”

Their Sunday morning lie-in was coming to an early end as neither of them could find a comfortable position on the bed. John groaned as he shoved himself up with his stronger arm, rolled both shoulders backward a bit, trying to stretch out the ache in the bad one. His most recent visit with the orthopaedic specialist gave him news as unsurprising as it had been unwelcome: his shoulder was officially arthritic.

Sherlock sat up, grumbled a curse as his knee bent to set his feet on the floor. “Listen to us, two feeble old men.” He snorted a little close-mouthed laugh. “This is pathetic.”

“Only when rain’s coming,” John defended. He started to turn around, aiming to lean across and kiss Sherlock’s shoulder or neck or cheek, but it proved an impossible task to twist his body in the proper direction with his shoulder playing up.

Sherlock rose, limped around the bed toward the loo; John admired the way his low-slung pyjama bottoms hung from his jutting hip, but knew nothing could come of it while they were both moaning out their first-of-the-morning pain.

“Get the paracetamol, will you?” John asked, as Sherlock disappeared behind the closed door.

“Can’t hear you, sonny boy,” Sherlock replied in a shaky voice. “I’ll bring the paracetamol, will I?”

“Lovely.”

“What’s that now?”

John shouted, “Lovely!”

Later that afternoon, the rain had finally started crashing down from the sky, and they’d each had a handful of pain pills (though not the good stuff), and John had made a list.

“You know you always—” he started to say, and caught himself, even though Sherlock didn’t seem defensive in the face of it. John smiled. “I’m concerned you might overpack and give yourself too much weight to carry.”

Sherlock laughed. “I do always overpack, John. That one, you can have.”

“You always overpack. So I’ve made a list.” He tapped the “send” button on his phone’s email app. “There.” Sherlock’s phone buzzed. “I’ve sent you a list of precisely what’s needed.”

“You’re always—” Sherlock cut himself off, and was already laughing by the time John caught his gaze. “I mean, I’m so lucky that you care enough to completely and thoroughly micromanage me.”

“I’d like to spend more time talking about feelings,” John intoned, mock-serious.

“Yes, me, too! Let’s always talk about nothing but feelings. And money.”

“And sex.”

“If we had children,” Sherlock agreed, “We’d likely spend huge amounts of time arg—I mean having productive dialogue—about them, too.”

“We’re not like other couples,” John said, with a shake of his head. “Our problems are unique.”

They both lost their breath laughing, and Sherlock said over his shoulder, “No, of course, we’re quite special and different. No wonder we’ve had nothing but sunshine and roses for twenty years. We’re perfect. Especially me.” He was going into the wardrobe on the landing where his autumn and winter suits were hanging, rummaging at the bottom in search of a particular pair of beautiful Harris wingtips, oxblood, that went well with a navy suit he wanted to bring.

John’s laughter had subsided and he’d gone into the bedroom; he was pulling drawers in and out, checking the phone in his hand for his own packing list. Their suitcases were open on the bed.

“John. . .?” Sherlock’s voice was sharp, a little jagged, and John felt a cold tingle go down his back. “John!”

 “What is it?” Something was very wrong. John ran around the bed, the few strides past the bathroom and out to the landing. “Sherlock, what is it?”

“Look here. Look at this,” Sherlock demanded, and thrust his hand toward John. He was holding a wad of peachy-pink woolen fabric. “This is Molly’s scarf, it must have fallen in the bottom of the wardrobe that night of my birthday drinks.”

“Yeah, so. . .” John was confused, but Sherlock’s face was pale and John worried he might pass out so he closed in on him, laid a steadying hand on his arm.

“This,” Sherlock urged, and pinched a white contents-and-care tag between a finger and thumb. “Look at this.”

John looked. On the tag, in black marker, a symbol was drawn: a heart with a star inside. He twigged immediately.

“That was on the scarf,” he said, “That ballerina, Miranda. She was strangled with a scarf that had that symbol on it, on the tag.”

“It was Molly’s scarf.” Sherlock’s eyes were wild.

“What, not. . .Molly,” John couldn’t put it together fast enough; Sherlock clearly thought he had.

“Not Molly, Rhys. The sweater that strangled Vitalina was like the ones Molly wears, too—it must have been hers. Call DI Lestrade, do you have his number in your phone?” Sherlock demanded.

“Yeah,” John said, and thumbed his phone to life. Sherlock stepped into the nearest pair of shoes, bent to tie them. “What are you—?”

“I’m going to get Molly.”

“Sherlock.”

“Her boyfriend is killing ballerinas. And it’s probably been him terrorizing her with the emails and texts all this time.”

“Sherlock, you’re not going anywhere. They’ll send the police. I’m calling right now.”

“I have to!”

“Yes, hello, is that DI Lestrade? It’s John Watson—my husband’s Sherlock Holmes? From the ballet. . .right. Sherlock, don’t go anywhere! He’s just found a scarf left in our flat by a dancer he works with, Molly Hooper. . .yeah, she called you, about her stalker. Right. This scarf has—Sherlock, for fuck’s sake!”

The door slammed at the bottom of the stairs. John started down after him, prayed he didn’t get a taxi before John caught him up.

“Christ, he’s just run off after her. This scarf of Molly’s has that symbol—the heart with the star—that was on the scarf that strangled one of those ballerinas. Sherlock, wait, I’m coming with you!”

A cab was rolling up, Sherlock had his phone to his ear and the other hand reached to open the door before the car had even stopped moving.

“Sherlock thinks it must be her boyfriend, Rhys, oh, what the fuck’s his last name. . .No, he doesn’t live with her. Can you send police to her flat? You have the address? We’re on our way there now. . .”

*

It was the dead of night by the time they were back home.

Molly had been safe in her flat, alone, ignoring incessant, sexually explicit and threatening texts from the recruiter at the ballet in Singapore. John and Sherlock sat with her, handed over her scarf to uniformed cops who also took her phone and ordered them to stay on the sofa and try not to touch anything while they called a forensics team, asked Molly if she had another place to stay while they processed her flat. DI Lestrade arrived shortly after, but he’d sent the overly-suspicious woman detective to help arrest Rhys, who was in his own flat sending Molly the threatening texts from a mobile phone he’d dedicated to the purpose of harassing her.

As the DI listened, squinting and tugging at his chin and jaw, Sherlock unwound tales of two strange discussions he’d had with Rhys—most recently at John’s birthday drinks, when he’d assured Sherlock he was handling the issue of the stalker (“No wonder he carried your phone all the time, Molly; he was probably getting information from it, or even telling you about new messages he was ‘deleting’ that never existed.”). The other conversation Sherlock related seemed to suggest a motive for the murders—that Rhys had once been a dancer himself, was consumed by jealousy, and so forced ballerinas to dance themselves to death. Terrorizing Molly had probably been leading to something even more sinister.

“He wouldn’t—“ Molly sobbed against John’s shoulder. “He wasn’t going to kill me!” John stroked her hand, tried to hush her as Sherlock conferred with the police. “How could I have been so stupid? All this time he. . .” She dissolved into sobs.

Sherlock’s final words to the DI were shocking and dramatic, no doubt he’d designed them that way, saving the best for last, the big reveal. “The shoes that were too big for the Bonfils girl,” he reminded, “When the others had shoes that fit them exactly. . .those shoes weren’t just slightly wrong, they were enormous—so big she could barely keep them on her feet. He acquired those shoes with a different victim in mind.”

“A ballerina with big feet?” Lestrade asked, and tried to keep the smile off his face, in light of Molly’s distress.

“A dancer with big feet,” Sherlock said, and John saw the familiar sparkle in his eyes that indicated he knew something no one else had yet sussed out. “But not a ballerina. Rhys complimented me extravagantly on my quartet, where the male dancers wore pointe shoes tied with long black ribbons like the one that strangled Francoise, and then asked if I’d ever worn them.”

He let this land, and Lestrade appeared to mull it over.

Molly had calmed, and was listening, though she still clutched tightly at John’s hand. John caught on and said, “You think those shoes were meant for you?”

Sherlock took a slight bow forward.

“I think you’ll find they were made to fit a man’s foot, size ten-and-a-half, E.”

“Jeezus, Sherlock,” John sighed out, and Molly started weeping again, dabbing at her eyes with a balled-up paper hanky. Sherlock looked absolutely delighted to have determined himself the intended next victim of a serial killer. The DI looked impressed.

“Said it before, but you should really consider detective work. You were right about my separation from my wife, by the way. And my pain in the arse son, too. I’m going to keep your number, if that’s all right.”

John let out a laugh, to relieve tension and because he couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Then his head filled with an unwelcome image of Sherlock lying on a parquet floor with his limbs at wrong angles, all the air choked out of him, and his feet danced into a bloody mess, and dropped his face into his hands, sucking air, feeling dizzy. No one seemed to notice, though, as the DI answered a call on his mobile reporting that Rhys had been arrested without incident and was at that moment gushing out a confession that was sure to convict him soundly.

So at nearly three in the morning, Molly was at last settled in their upstairs room, and John and Sherlock were side by side in the dark. Sherlock was thrumming like a live wire; John tried to shove aside thoughts of the love of his life having been the likely next target of a serial killer. He reached for Sherlock’s hand, rolled toward him onto his side so he could wrap an arm around Sherlock’s bare torso.

“You’re brilliant,” John told him, and kissed his shoulder. “You saved Molly’s life.”

Sherlock dismissed it. “It was pure chance, finding her scarf in our cupboard.”

“But you put it together right away; I’d forgotten about that symbol on the other scarf, the one that strangled that poor girl.” John could feel the post-adrenaline crash dragging at him, and he yawned. “Clever you.”

“I am, a bit,” Sherlock agreed, and John could hear the smile in his whisper of a voice. “I am quite clever.”

“How long will she stay, do you think?” John asked; he didn’t mind, only wondered.

“As long as she needs to.”

“Of course,” John agreed. “Of course.”

“Maybe she can flat-sit while we’re away,” Sherlock suggested.

“Tomorrow,” John yawned. “We’ll talk it through tomorrow. Meantime. . .” Another kiss on Sherlock’s shoulder. “I’m glad the serial murderer didn’t get to you, darling.”

Sherlock let go a cascade of laughter, slapped his hand over his mouth when he realised how loud he was. When he’d got ahold of himself, he shifted, welcoming John to rest his head on his chest, tucking John under his arm. “I wonder if they’ll put my name in the papers. Maybe I should write a book! Oh but writing a book would be so dull and take so long. You’ll ghostwrite it for me, won’t you?”

“Mm,” John agreed, and sleep was overtaking him.

“Good, we’ll start as soon as we get back from Russia.”

“Shh. Sleep, Sherlock.”

“I’ll sleep when I’m dead, John.”

It was only a joke, one of Sherlock’s favourite lines, but even so John held him tighter, adjusted his neck so he could feel Sherlock’s chest rise and fall with his breath, could hear the reassuring thud-thud-thud of his beating heart.

*

 

JUNE.

 

“You’ve got your ear-things from there? And those magazines you bought?” John was a nervous flyer, kept up an incessant stream of chatter and questions to distract and reassure himself. It had been three hours since they’d arrived at the airport, and now that they were stowing their carry-on bags in the plane’s overhead bins, Sherlock’s patience for it was wearing thin.

“Yes, John. I’ve got everything just where it needs to be.”

“I’ve got the blanket—always cold on planes.”

“All right, Grand-dad. You like the window?” Sherlock stood in the aisle, eyeing up the other passengers in the first class section, some already seated, a few still filtering in. John settled into the window seat, shut the little shade immediately. He had a paperback book, his laptop in a bag near his feet, and used a bottle of water to wash down a pill that would help him sleep. Sherlock was glad of it, then felt guilty for being so glad. He slid into his own seat, reached for John’s hand and held it in both his own. “Don’t worry,” he said in a low voice. “We’ll be fine, I promise.”

“Anyway, if not, at least we’ll go down together,” John replied. Sherlock kept hold of him, rested their stacked hands on his own knee.

“That’s the spirit!” Sherlock smiled at him, softly, feeling genuinely sorry for how nervous John was. He leaned in to kiss him, and even John’s lips were tense. “It’s fine, John.” He kissed him again. “In no time at all, that pill will work its magic and it’ll be just like the old days at the Empire. High as a kite, with the prettiest date, lucky you!”

“Lucky me.” John reclaimed his hand and settled back into his seat, closing his eyes and breathing deep to calm himself.

“First time?” A woman’s voice in the row ahead of them. Sherlock looked up to find an absolutely stunning older woman with long silver hair in a chic style, wearing a soft black turtleneck sweater and a red tartan pashmina shawl draped stylishly over one shoulder.

“Gets nervous on planes,” Sherlock told her. John opened his eyes long enough to smile in greeting.

“They say it’s safer than riding in a car,” she offered. “Of course, whoever said that obviously never rode in a London cab, which I find positively harrowing.” Her accent was American. “Even New York taxi drivers take fewer risks.” She extended her soft-skinned hand (no rings, but her wristwatch was Chopard), and Sherlock was pleasantly surprised by the strength of her handshake. “Adrienne Milton,” she said.

“Sherlock Holmes. My husband, John Watson.”

“It’s a pleasure. You’ll forgive my forthrightness, life’s short, I don’t waste it—you’re a handsome couple. How long married?” She asked, smiling with straight, bright-white teeth.

“Two years, but we’re together twenty.”

“What, since you were five?” she jibed. Sherlock liked her more and more as each minute passed.

“Something like that,” John said.

“God love you both,” she said enthusiastically. “Twenty years. I was married four times in twenty years!” She laughed, waving her hand as if to dismiss herself. “As soon as things get difficult or stop being fun, I’m at the courthouse filing for divorce. Worked my whole life—like a dog!—to make a nice living, have all the things I want. Didn’t want to work on marriages, too. I admire those of you who work at it. Twenty years. God love you.”

“Thank you,” John said, and his face was softening, his limbs looser; the pill was working to relax him.

“It’s kind of you to say,” Sherlock agreed. “What kind of work do you do?”

“Real estate. High end stuff. New York and Los Angeles, but L.A. is horrible, never go there—have you been?”

“I have, twice, for work,” Sherlock said. “I’m a dancer with UK Ballet, get to travel a bit. John never has.”

“Just awful,” she went on. “No history; the whole city feels like it was born yesterday. I’m a New Yorker at heart, I suppose. It was a bit more exciting years ago—of course crime was ridiculous and the streets were covered with garbage, but, oh! we had fun! Discos, people still touched each other when they danced together, back then. Studio 54. . .Bianca Jagger’s birthday party—she rode in on a white horse! Anyway, not that things like that still exist in New York—or maybe they do, I don’t get invited to those sorts of parties these days, they’re afraid my age is contagious—but certainly Los Angeles was never that cool. Just dime-a-dozen starlets and designer drugs and juice cleanses.” She shook her head.

Sherlock was utterly in love with her by then, was hoping John would soon be asleep so he could sit beside her and grill her about Studio 54—she might have known Baryshnikov, he was a fixture there.

“Anyway, it’s lovely to meet you. What’s taking you to Moscow?”

“Sort of an anniversary trip,” John told her. “But really we just needed some time away together, away from real life.” Sherlock squeezed his knee.

“That’s very smart; you need to do that if you can. The everyday stuff—that’s what kills it. God knows I couldn’t bear it!” she laughed again. “But the two of you. . .good looking, young—you look like you still like each other. I’m getting good vibes from you!”

Sherlock and John both laughed a bit at the idea of good vibes.

There was the familiar, electronic ping of the Fasten Seatbelts sign coming on, and Sherlock felt John’s entire body tense, so he stroked his knee reassuringly.

“It’ll be fine,” he said quietly.

Adrienne ducked down to fish in her handbag, passed Sherlock her business card. “If you’re ever in New York, I’ll take you to dinner. I mean it. Anyway, nice to meet you both.” She took her seat.

“I adore her,” Sherlock whispered, leaning close so that his arm was wrapped around John’s; they clasped hands and Sherlock leaned his face close to John’s, his forehead resting on John’s temple. “I want to be Adrienne Milton when I grow up.”

“I can envision that,” John agreed, eyes shut, smiling. There were more familiar airplane sounds as they rolled back from the gate and started taxiing to the runway. Sherlock stroked John’s hand with his thumb.

“A closet full of Louboutin pumps. Outrageously expensive but always tasteful jewels spilling out of a velvet box on her antique dressing table. Penthouse flat. Empty refrigerator because she always eats out.” John hummed. The engines whined, then roared. John squeezed Sherlock’s hand. “She probably throws out her clothes at the end of each season, except for the Chanel suits she got from her grandmother and her classic ermine coat. Subscription to the opera but she hates it. I wonder if she knew David Bowie? I imagine a torrid affair with a married Russian mobster; maybe that’s where she’s headed now—returning the ring he gave her and ending it once and for all.”

John let go a slight laugh. Sherlock kissed his cheek as the plane rocketed ahead, pushing them back in their seats as it sped along and eventually lifted its nose and started to rise. John clutched his hand so tight their knuckles were white.

“I’m really looking forward to this trip,” Sherlock told him, right in his ear. The noise from the plane buffered all sound around them; people nearby were chatting but could barely be heard. Sherlock swallowed and felt his ears pop. “An adventure, just the two of us. There’s no one else on earth I’d dare spend three weeks in a foreign country with, you know. I’ll throw my things all around the hotel suite and you’ll fold your shirts into the drawers. You make a home even when you’re away, everything in its proper place. Those kids we were when we met. . .they’d never believe we’d end up on our way to three weeks riding a train through the Russian countryside.”

John licked his lips, murmured, “It was still the Soviet Union then; we definitely wouldn’t have believed it.”

“Look how far we’ve come,” Sherlock mused, and rubbed his nose against John’s cheek, felt John’s face arrange itself into a smile. The pressure changed as the plane leveled out, smooth and quiet and strange, its own different little world hurtling them through the sky to an exotic destination.

John shifted, raised his head, opened his eyes, and Sherlock sat back a bit. They kept hold of each other’s hands.

“Well,” John grinned at him, and sighed out something like relief. “Here we go. . .”

Sherlock gazed at his John’s sweet, handsome face, and his heart ached, a beautiful ache, he’d forgotten this kind of ache, one he’d only ever felt for John, whose hand fit in his own as if it was specially made for Sherlock to hold.

“Indeed,” Sherlock said softly, smiling. “Here we go.”

 

 

-END-

 

 

***

I thank you for reading this not-always-easy tale of a midlife marriage. I know some of you were deeply invested in its outcome, and I hope you’ll find this ending hopeful and satisfying. It has been one of the most rewarding pieces of writing I have ever had the pleasure to create. I don’t mind saying, I’m quite proud of it, and in some ways, to this point I feel it’s my masterwork. I aimed to write a complex, realistic story that felt emotionally true, was evocative of a journey, and gazed unafraid at things that scare many of us (myself included).

I often said the ending might not be happy, but would be hopeful.

Here’s to hope.