Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fouetté, fouetté, plié, Temps levé sauté, Tours en l'air.

"Keep your toes pointed! Beautiful fouetté!"

Grande jeté, land in fifth, plié.

"Take your place, Mr. Holmes, get close to her! Trust him, Miss. Hooper, get ready for the arabesque!"

Sauté, sauté, pull up into forth, now, arabesque penché.

"Beautiful, beautiful! Well done, lovelies!"

The dance continued on, and Sherlock Holmes allowed himself to glide across the floor with his hands pressed carefully to Molly Hooper's hips as he lifted her into the air. He was sweating horrendously, his curly brown locks were sticking to his forehead, but he felt absolutely exhilarated. The classical music was blaring out of the speakers and he felt it pulsing through his veins, which was a feeling he welcomed.

Finally, as the music came to and end, he slid down on his knee, supporting Molly by her elbows. She too, dressed in her leotard and tights, was panting and smiling at him as they came to the final pose. Mrs. Hudson was already shouting out compliments and corrections to the dancers and telling them to keep everything pointed and their turns sharp and whatever else. Although class was over, Sherlock and Molly packed up quickly and took their things down to Studio 4 to practice by themselves.

The two had been dancing together as partners for five years. As a twelve year old, Sherlock, being the only boy in the class when he first started in the advanced company classes, was paired him up with the studio's best female dancer in their age group; Molly. They became somewhat of friends, meaning of course, that she wasn't offended when he revealed his special gift of deduction to her. Most of the other dancers and people he associated with hated it, but she didn't mind. People thought she was crazy for openly pairing up with the cocky teenage genius, but she ignored the comments and continued anyway, which made her slightly less insufferable than most seventeen year olds. Sherlock actually liked the girl a lot. Some people actually thought them to be siblings, because of how well they worked together, and the fact that they were similar in stature.

"Sherlock, did you see Sally's horrible arabesque back there?" Molly asked him when they entered the room and had the door shut.

The dark haired boy scoffed. "Of course, it was atrocious. Did you see the way Mrs. Hudson looked at her?"

"If looks could kill." She agreed, letting her bag down on the floor and plugging her iPod into the stereo. "Hey, before we start, we're planning on practicing until ten tonight, right?" She asked, not looking up from her playlist as she searched for their duet song.

Sherlock gazed up at her from the floor as he stretched. "I thought so. If you need to leave early, that's fine." He leaned over one knee, attempting to touch his nose to it. The stretch felt wonderful on his burning limbs.

Molly rolled her eyes. "Sherlock, ballet is all I do. You think I actually have something else to do with my time than spend hours in a dance studio?"

"You do have a boyfriend." He reminded her.

Molly had been dating Greg Lestrade for three years. He was a rugby player, which seemed to fit with a ballerina like Molly for some reason, a bit annoying, but nice. At least he treated Molly well. He was the only other person that knew about Sherlock's dancing and had promised to keep it a secret at Molly's request. He was one of the jocks that didn't actually mind him. Most of them picked on him for being in ballet, but Greg couldn't have cared less. He was going into criminal justice, which was something that interested Sherlock quite a bit. When they talked, which was rare because he didn't speak to anyone in school, they'd discuss murders and crimes in the city. He too seemed a bit marveled by Sherlock's brilliant deductions, often praising him for it.

"Greg's got rugby tonight." She quickly slid down onto the floor in front of him to stretch while classical music filled the room. "I only ask because I figured I should order us food if we're going to be here late. Are you hungry?"

He shrugged. He was actually a bit hungry, but he didn't say it out loud.

Molly, still sitting in a center split on the ground, reached up to grab her phone from the counter. "I'll just get Greg to drop something by. What are you hungry for?" She asked, typing out a quick text to her boyfriend.

"Angelo's. Anything on the menu will do."

"You have good taste." She typed out the rest of the message and sent it before getting to her feet and switching the song. "Alright, time to dance."

________________

The boy's locker room was bustling with the rugby team's loud chatter and laughter. Practice had gotten over earlier than expected, since they won their game last night. They were practically ecstatic, but the real challenge would come in two weeks when they played their rivals from the East side. But, they had a great advantage; their captain, John Watson.

The sandy haired rugby player from Hampshire was their saving grace. He wasn't incredibly tall, but he was easily the most muscular player on the team. He was every girl's (and the occasional boy's) dream boy. He was sweet, charming, polite, as strapping as ever, he was easily the modern day version of a Prince Charming. He also happened to be the best rugby player that they had ever had.

"Oi, Watson!" Greg Lestrade called just as the rugby player was getting dressed.

John looked up to smile at his best mate. "Yeah, what's up, Greg?" He asked, pulling a shirt down over his muscular torso.

"You have your car today?" The center asked. "I need to run some food over to the dance studio, and I was wondering if I could get a ride. My car's in the shop."

John nodded. "Yeah, mate, no problem." He pulled his rugby bag over his head and grabbed his jacket. Of course John had no issue with it. Ever since he had transferred to this school at the beginning of the year, he had become friends almost instantly with Molly and Greg. He adored Molly, even considered her a little sister to him. "What does Molly want?"

Greg held up a finger for him to wait while he read the text. "She and her dance partner want Angelo's. We can just get a bunch and take it over there, I'm starving." The growling from his stomach was an easy confirmation.

"Sounds good. Let's go."

Chapter Text

Sherlock's heart was beating horrendously from the intensity of the routine as the music played on. There was sweat dripping down from his dark brown curls caused by the brightly lit room, which almost hurt his eyes every time he looked up. Molly was barely hanging on with the amount of rehearsing they had been doing, but she pressed on through the dance once again, her feet aching and her lungs burning.

Once Sherlock finally set her down on the floor, the two collapsed onto the wooden floor, panting heavily. "I think... I think it's time to stop." Molly said.

Sherlock nodded. "I agree. How's your arm, by the way, you landed sort of heavy after that roll."

His partner waved him off. "I'm fine."

"I think your beloved has arrived." He teased, earning him a smack in the chest. "I'm going to go wash my hands before we eat." The boy got to his feet and slipped into the bathroom. The water felt nice against his fingers that were tingling with the impact of his final leap on the floor. From outside, he heard Molly and Greg exchange a brief hello that was surgery sweet and almost gross enough to make him gag, then the rustling of paper bags which contained the food from Angelo's. Among the recognized voices of Greg and Molly, there was a third voice he didn't recognize. It was obviously male, although not as low as Sherlock's. The voice sounded happy to see Molly, so obviously, he had been with Greg all day.

The dancer swallowed hard as realization struck him.

Greg had brought one of his rugby mates.

The rugby team were always terrible to him. Well, not all of them, but there were a select few of them that were. Sherlock didn't actually remember their names, he never actually bothered to learn the names of the seven boys that were always so cruel to him, but whether they were picking on him for being gay-which the dancer had never straight out said, they had just assumed-or they were beating him up for making some deduction about a cheating father, an alcoholic mother or whatever else, they made it a point to make his life hell. He never fought back, he wasn't strong enough for that, so he'd end up with a few bruises, which Molly would always fuss over when she saw. She talked to Greg about it once, and he immediately made it known that Sherlock was off limits, although it had only lasted a week. They didn't know he danced, that would only make everything worse.

And now, one of the rugby players was in the dance studio.

His stomach flipped in a terrible way, and for a second, he thought he was going to vomit. He just hoped that the mystery rugby player was leaving.

There was a soft knock at the door. "Hey, Sherlock, hurry up, food's here." Molly's voice was gentle, just as it normally was.

"Be out in a second." He tried not to sound nervous. He listened for a few more seconds, just waiting to see if the unwanted guest was leaving, but it didn't sound like it. With trembling hands, he opened the door and peaked out to see who he was dealing with, only to freeze in his tracks when he took in the sight of the rugby player in the room.

John Watson, the team's new captain, was standing broadly in his tight rugby jacket in the center of the room beside Greg. He was smiling and laughing with the other two, which of course, made sense, considering how close they were. The three of them were all close friends, as they had been since John moved into the school. The eighteen year old was the most charismatic student in the school, and although he personally had never beat on Sherlock, his presence was enough to make him shiver in his ballet shoes.

Molly gazed over at her partner and immediately saw the discomfort on his face. Her gaze softened into sympathy, and she tried to reassure him with a smile. "Sherlock, come say hello." She said. He won't hurt you, Sherlock. Her eyes told him.

Both boys turned to the dark haired dancer. Greg Lestrade, who still had his arm wrapped around Molly's waist, grinned. "Hey, Sherlock."

"Lestrade."

"Sherlock, this is John Watson, a friend of ours." Greg clapped the captain on the shoulder.

John held out his hand. "I know you, we have like... Three classes together."

"Four." Sherlock replied, ignoring the hand. "I choose not to show up to Biology because Mr. Davis is incompetent and lowers the IQ of the entire class. He spends more time snogging Ms. Kensington in the break room and stealing from his wife than he does teaching."

John blinked, his jaw dropping ever so slightly.

Greg laughed. "Sherlock, you nutter, I don't want to know how you figured that out."

"It's obvious."

"You must see a lot." John commented.

Sherlock shrugged.

The four sat down and began to pull out the plastic cases of food and forks, passing the orders around to each other. John and Greg dug into their meals right away, while Molly and Sherlock were more just picking at theirs. Molly, sweet as she was, was sitting close enough to Sherlock so that their knees were just barely touching. Anyone else would have seen it as just them sitting too close, but Sherlock knew that it was Molly's way of comforting him without making a show. Although he would never say he was uncomfortable, she could just sense the waves of self-consciousness and anxiety rolling off of the lithe boy in waves, and the knee thing was her way of saying 'it's okay'.

Sherlock remained silent for the most part, that was until Greg dropped noodles onto the floor and Molly cried out. "Hey, watch yourself, dammit, if Mrs. Hudson found out that we were eating here, Sherlock and I would be in so much trouble." She scolded him as he popped the noodles in his mouth. "Also, that's disgusting."

"Oh, come on, I've done plenty worse."

John chuckled. "You should stand next to him after practice. He smells worse than the whole locker room combined." He said, earning a punch in the shoulder from Greg. "Besides, wouldn't you dancers be used to sweat?"

"Yeah, but we sweat gracefully."

"How the fuck-"

Sherlock snickered at the comment, making everyone turn to face him. He realized he had laughed, and quickly looked down, flipping over a piece of chicken in his bowl with his fork.

Molly grinned. "See, Sherlock understands."

The dancer rolled his eyes. "No, I laughed because it was funny, not because it made sense. Frankly, your statement was stupid, it just happened to sound funny."

John laughed, making Sherlock's heart flutter. He scowled at it, but it quickly disappeared when the captain spoke. "Oh, God I love that. You should talk more, man, you're hilarious."

That confused Sherlock. He had never been considered 'hilarious' before, in fact, no one actually considered him funny. The usual cracks were 'freak' or 'queer' which he was used to, but they were never positive comments. If you could call funny a compliment.

"Sherlock, you should show off for John." Molly said.

He glanced up in confusion.

The brunette grinned. "Impress him with your deduction thing. Like you did with Greg and I when we first met."

John eyed the boy carefully. "Like what he did with Davis and Kensington?"

Greg nodded. "It's pretty brilliant, John."

Sherlock bit at the inside of his mouth. Of course he could do it, but so far, the rugby captain didn't seem the type to hurt him for his deductions, and he didn't want to risk the possibility of pissing John Watson off. But, the way the boy was watching him with his eyes wide and excited, his really pretty light brown eyes... Stop. Don't do that, you idiot. His mind screamed at him. "I don't think..."

"No, no, please." John interrupted, flashing that oh so charming smile. "I insist."

Well, if he insists... The dancer cleared his throat. "I know you're from Hampshire where you played rugby and football, seeing the patches on your jacket. Your haircut and posture says potential military, but considering your classes, I'd say doctor as well, so aspiring army doctor it is. You have your own car, it's sitting outside, obviously, but you're not very wealthy, and considering the make and age, it was given to you. Anybody else's first guess would be parent, but once again, you're not wealthy, so I'd say it was an inheritance from a grandparent that passed away. You got hit pretty badly today in rugby practice, seeing the huge bruise that's forming on your arm. You have a general distaste for onions, as the dish you're eating which contains onions in lacking them. You don't have any pets, although you're a dog person, so one day you can see yourself owning a dog. You live with your mother, your brother is at uni, and your father is out of the picture. I can see the engraving on your phone." Everyone looked at the engraving on the back of the phone, To Harry Watson, all the best at uni! Love, dad. "It's relatively new, that model is only six months old, so it was given to you. But why give away a brand new, expensive phone like that, especially one that was a gift? Your brother doesn't like your father, which is why he gave it to you, and you don't particularly like him either, but you broke or lost your phone, so you use it. You're also the good son, so you try to be nice and use it, although you've already tried to scratch off the name of who bought it. Should I go on?"

John just stared at him, saying nothing, mouth agape, and his eyes the size of saucers. He was speechless. The dancer swallowed hard and fought the urge to shrink back into the wall, thinking he was about to be hit, but then, when John finally blinked and seemed to come out of his little trance and Sherlock saw it all. The rugby captain was impressed. He wasn't upset or angry, he was positively enchanted by what he had just heard, and he didn't even seem to care that he was praising Sherlock in the roaring silence of the glossy room. "That," John started to say. "Was amazing."

The dancer's heart jumped. "It was?"

"It was brilliant. Absolutely brilliant. Except for one thing, but it was an honest mistake, a lot of people make it."

Sherlock cocked his head.

"Harry isn't my brother, she's my sister." John replied, smirking a little. Sherlock kicked himself mentally. He should have seen that. "Her real name is Harriet, although she absolutely hates it. Other than that, that was probably the most brilliant thing I've ever heard."

The dancer blushed, but said nothing, only looked down at his half empty food container.

"Told you he was smart, didn't I, Johnny?" Molly said, nudging him with her foot.

"You weren't lying."

Sherlock tried not to look up, but he could feel the rugby player's appraising smile on him, although his head was still hung. It was almost unsettling, being praised like that. He was so used to people being cruel that the praise was almost foreign. Especially the praise from John Watson. He was used to getting it from Molly, she normally had something nice to say about him, whether it was his dancing or his deductions. He normally scowled at her and tried to make her stop, but he secretly loved it. He loved it even more hearing it from John Watson.

When the rugby player was otherwise preoccupied with talking to Greg about sports, Sherlock would glance up and watch him. John had such a nice smile, it was light and affable and sunny. His eyes were that sweet shade of golden brown that Sherlock felt he could melt under just by looking at them. When John laughed, it was enough to make even Sherlock Holmes smile. He was so lost in his thoughts about the horribly attractive, kindhearted rugby captain that he didn't even realize Molly was talking to him until he felt a Alfredo covered noodle hit his cheekbone.

"Sherlock!" She shouted again.

The dancer blinked and wiped the Alfredo sauce from his cheek as he turned to glare at her. "Why are you throwing food at me?"

Molly, from her place in Greg's lap, giggled. "Because you were doing that thing where you zone out and leave the solar system for a bit." She said. "I asked you if you were done so that we could dance."

Sherlock nodded and threw away the near empty container. "I'm ready when you are." He said.

"Can we watch?" John asked, his eyes briefly flickering to Sherlock, who flinched internally.

"Absolutely fucking not." Molly said, shooing them away with her hand. "Get out, the both of you. Go throw things in the parking lot or something, but you are not watching."

Greg put on a fake pout. "Aww, come on, Molls, just once."

She shook her head. "No, now get out and let us work."

He quickly kissed his girlfriend, then pulled John out of the room, leaving the two dancers alone.

Once John had left, Sherlock let out a heavy breath of air that he had been saving in his lungs for much too long. He felt lightheaded, as if John Watson had taken all of the oxygen out of the room when he left with Greg. He leaned back again the barre, staring helplessly at the floor. Molly seemed to sense the destress and she turned back around, eyeing him carefully. "You alright, mate?" She asked him out of concern. "You're pale as a sheet."

Sherlock nodded. The brunette gave him another one of her sympathetic smiles. "I'm sorry if that was really uncomfortable for you, I didn't mean for it to be. I didn't realize Greg was bringing him inside. But, John's a really nice guy, Sherlock, like... He's scary nice. Plus, he definitely liked you, he won't hurt you." She tried to reassure him.

Sherlock laughed darkly. "By scary, you of course mean overly and hatefully so."

"Of course, what else could I mean?"

That time, they both giggled.

Molly turned on the song and took her place in front of him. "Ready?" She asked, just as the classical piece filled the air.

Sherlock tightened his hands around her thin waist. "After you."

Chapter Text

They danced for hours. It was trying, and by the time they finished, they were both sweating and panting and about ready to collapse. By the time ten rolled around, the two were ready to call it quits. The music ended, and with soreness shooting down the dancer's arms, Sherlock lowered Molly Hooper onto the ground. They sat in silence for a moment, just stretching out their legs while they caught their breath.

"You alright?" Molly asked while she stretched out her back.

The dancer nodded. "Yeah. Good job."

The studio door opened, startling Sherlock, and the two rugby players-who had been practicing outside-stepped inside, shoving each other and smiling as they took in the sight of the two on the floor. Greg chuckled and lifted Molly up in his arms bridal style. "Sleepy?"

The girl groaned and rested her head on his shoulder. "Take me home. You're driving. Don't crash my car. Bye, Sherlock! I'll see you tomorrow!" She called.

"Bye." The dancer mumbled. Sherlock, who was gathering his things, saw a text from Mycroft on his phone. I'm out with Mummy, I can't pick you up. -MH The younger Holmes sighed and threw the phone in his bag and stood up to face the others. He was going to ask Molly for a ride, but he found himself alone in the studio room. The dancer quickly tried to catch up to the others, turning off the lights and locking the door before he left.

Outside, he saw Lestrade putting a very, very sleepy Molly Hooper in the passenger side of her car, and he cursed silently to himself. He didn't really want to walk home, but if he had to-

"Hey, Sherlock!"

John Watson's voice sent a chill down his spine, and he turned around to see the rugby player walking toward him with his keys in hand. He gave the dancer a kind smile. "Need a ride home?"

No. His head snapped. Say no. Bad idea. "Actually, yes."

The rugby captain inclined his head toward his car that was parked not too far away. "Get in, I've got you." He said, stepping around to the driver's side.

With immense hesitation, Sherlock debated whether or not to get in. He didn't know John Watson, he was actually still intimidated by him, although he seemed to be an okay person. His mind was racing. It's okay, Sherlock, it's just a ride home. Part of him said. Don't trust him, you idiot, just walk, it's not that far.

But, actually, it was.

With a sigh, Sherlock opened the door and slid tensely into the seat. John turned the key and the car was filled with some sort of rock music that Sherlock didn't recognize. John turned it down a bit, then gave the dancer an apologetic smile. "Do you mind?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Um... Where am I going?" John asked.

The dancer quickly gave him the address and the directions, then resumed looking out the window.

The drive was quiet at first, quiet and awkward. That is, until John broke the silence by clearing his throat. Sherlock acknowledged it with a look, but he averted his gaze just as the rugby player met his eyes. After a few more seconds of silence, he cleared his throat again.

"Just spit it out." Sherlock said cooly.

A look of surprise passed over the rugby player's face. "What?"

"You've cleared your throat three times in the past few minutes, you keep moving like you're uncomfortable, It's obvious that you have something to say, so instead of dancing around it, just say it." The words came out harsh, but Sherlock didn't really care. He braced himself for any sort of comment that John was going to make about him. He was always prepared.

John set him a brief look. "It's nothing, really, it's just... You don't strike me as the person to dance."

Sherlock's stomach flipped. He didn't really want to have this conversation. "I've been doing it since I was twelve." He answered simply. When John smiled, his stomach lurched again. "Is that a problem?"

"No." The rugby captain replied, sounding quite appalled that Sherlock would suggest such a thing. "No, there's nothing wrong with that. It's your life, you should be able to do what you want."

The dancer huffed.

John sent him a brief glance. "Why so... Pouty?"

"I am not pouty."

He laughed. "Alright, alright, I'm sorry."

Sherlock looked him over, quite unsure what to say. He had been waiting for the laughter, the comments, the hurtful name calling, but yet, John Watson just sat there with his stupid cute smile and his stupid comfortable silence not saying anything. Not that Sherlock wasn't grateful for the idea of John not minding that he danced, it was confusing. Why didn't he care?

John sensed the eyes on him and glanced over. "What? Why are you staring at me?"

"You honestly don't care?"

"Care about what?"

"That I do ballet?"

He raised an eyebrow. "No." It sounded more like a question than a response. "Am I supposed to?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Most people do."

A certain expression crossed the rugby captain's face that was most intriguing. His knuckles briefly tightened up on the wheel, his jaw clinched ever so slightly, and for a moment, he looked angry. "By 'most people' do you mean those dicks on my team that I keep hearing about?" He asked, his voice still calm, but just a touch of strain bled through.

"Only a few of them. They don't know I dance, besides Lestrade of course, but..." A shudder ripped down his spine at the memories of the last altercation with a few members of the rugby team. "They always find something to say, or a reason to punch me. Usually, it's because I make some observation that they don't like."

There was a pause as the rugby captain took in what he said and let it simmer. He was visibly upset by it, but instead of blowing up, he just exhaled very slowly and kept his eyes forward. "Well, they just can't take that you're smarter than they are." John replied gently.

The comment tore a hole in the dancer's chest, and left warm traces behind as it pulsed its' way through every tendon and muscle and vein, momentarily leaving him incapacitated and at a loss on how to breathe. John Watson thinks I'm smart. "You... Mean that?" He stammered.

John chuckled. "Wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it." He replied.

With that, a happy smile etched its' way across the dancer's face as he turned to glow out the window. That was the third time John Watson had given him a compliment.

As they pulled up to the Holmes' gate, John gaped at the size of the house before him. "Jesus Christ, you live in a palace." He commented.

Sherlock laughed quietly, making the other boy smile. As he climbed out of the car and slipped his ballet bag over his shoulder, he felt the blush return to his cheeks once again. He peered into the car again, attempting to smile. "Listen, um... Thank you for the ride home."

John gave him that heartwarming grin. "Hey, it's no problem. And, just one thing; if those guys ever come near you again, you tell me. I'll take care of it. Alright?" He offered.

The dancer felt weak at the knees and he had to keep a grip on the car to stop himself from falling. "O-okay." He stuttered, internally cringing at how pathetic his voice sounded. "I will. Thank you."

"Not a problem. I've got your back." The rugby player gave him one more stunning smile, then put the car in gear. "It was nice to meet you, Sherlock Holmes!"

He smiled. "And you." With a wave, Sherlock watched him drive away, almost sad to see him go.

Once his car was out of sight, the dancer collected himself and stepped into his house. His father was on the phone with someone, so he just slunk up the stairs to his bedroom, unnoticed. Once inside, he dropped his ballet bag by the door and collapsed onto his bed, burying his face in the pillow.

They just can't take that you're smarter than they are. I've got your back. He definitely liked you. Although the words weren't meant to be taken in that way, he still felt the unruly pang of nervous excitement in his belly that often came with things like this. Don't you dare. His heart told him. Don't you dare go and get yourself a crush on John Watson. You know what will happen if you do. And oh, God, did he ever.

Sherlock Holmes, as aloof and reserved as he was, was no stranger to the idea of being in love. He had been in love before, but it had ended badly, and afterwards, he decided he'd never let himself do it again. Molly was the only one who knew. Of course, she had been the one to help pick up the pieces afterwards, although they didn't really talk about it.

Sherlock fell in love for the first time and only time when he was sixteen, but not to the person everyone thought he was in love with. Of course, no one knew that Sherlock was gay. Molly, who had been dating Greg for over a year and a half at that point, had caught wind of the rumor that Sherlock was secretly in love with her and that's why he continued to dance with her, because he was hoping to hook up with her at some point. Although she didn't exactly believe it, she thought it best to confront him about it. When asked, Sherlock panicked, afraid that he was going to lose his only friends to stupid rumors, instead of just dismissing them, accidentally shouted out 'I'm not actually straight!'. Molly had only smiled and said 'well, we'll find you a nice boy, then we can double date!' That was the end of the conversation.

Sherlock did find a boy.

Nice was a bit of an overstatement.

Sebastian Wilkes was the rudest, most manipulative, inconsiderate excuse for a human being on the face of the planet, and poor Sherlock fell hard. At first, it was passionate, fiery, and full of lust. Seb would come through his window in the middle of the night, kiss him until he was weak and his bones were practically liquid, then he would leave without a goodbye. It went on like that for nearly six months, but by then, Sherlock was in so deep that he could barely breathe without Sebastian. Meanwhile, Molly and Greg were worried sick. They had only met Seb a few times-he didn't like being seen with Sherlock, claiming it was for his protection-but they didn't like him. They tried to explain it to the dancer, but Sherlock didn't want to hear it. That night, when Sebastian came through his window, after their passionate exchange, Sherlock told him he loved him. Seb got quiet, then without a second thought, slapped the young dancer across the face and told him to never, ever say it again and that 'this' wasn't happening ever again. Heartbroken, humiliated and slightly bruised, Sherlock locked himself in his bedroom for nearly a week until Molly came by and realized immediately what had happened when she saw the bruise on his cheek. She took the dancer back to her place after a quick phone call with Greg, and after that, there were no more late night meetings with Sebastian. The last time Sherlock saw the boy he thought he loved, he was barely recognizable under the amount of bruises on his swollen face. He never actually thanked Greg for what he had done, but it went without saying.

Sherlock swore off all romantic attachment to anybody after Sebastian. It would have been pointless, and he didn't want a damn thing to do with it. After tear filled nights and many late night conversations with Molly, he decided he'd never do it again.

Until John Watson.

He had always found the rugby captain attractive, but most people did. He was undoubtably a really handsome guy, all of the girls at their school adored him and swooned over him and could never understand why he never had a girlfriend. He was always so sweet and treated every girl he met like a queen and was so humble and loyal toward his friends, it was almost disgusting. Sherlock would have to be blind to say that he didn't have a crush on John, and had actually made an attempt to talk to him in Chemistry once when the blonde was having problems with a mixture that Sherlock knew very well, but then some pretty girl, Sarah, went over and helped him instead. He figured he'd never have a chance, and even if he did, John would look at him once, laugh and leave.

But then he didn't. He sat on the studio floor just inches from Sherlock, laughed at his dry sense of humor, waited for him after dance, and drove him home. Not to mention that he said he'd get the bullies off of his back. Anyone else might have taken that as a romantic gesture, but John Watson was just a good person in general, so it probably wasn't. Or... Was it? The idea made Sherlock's heart skip. No, you idiot. The other half of him said.

But, he knew it would be a lost cause, John would probably ignore him, so he decided to delete the entire incident and push John Watson, sweet, adorable, wonderful John Watson out of his head as he buried his face in the pillow. It's not like they'd ever speak again. No point in continuing to think about him.

But he couldn't stop.

Not only that, but suddenly, John Watson was everywhere.

Every single day, without fail, he would show up at the dance studio with Greg, bring them food, take Sherlock home, day after day, he even came in on weekends when he was done with practice. He was always, always there, and although he wasn't allowed to come into the studio while he and Molly were rehearsing, Sherlock would occasionally catch him trying to sneak a peak. John was always nice to him, praising him for any deductions he made, which always made the dancer blush. And the touching, dear god. It was never sexual or even sensual, it was just the occasional grab for his arm, or how they would brush up against each other while walking to the car, but it was wonderful.

And every day, it hurt a little bit more.

From afar, Sherlock watched the rugby player in all of his tenderness and compassion, and found himself slowly falling in love, little by little, every single day. When John would show up at the studio, they would sit just inches from each other and eat whatever they brought to eat, and every so often, Sherlock would glance up just in time to see John's eyes flick away to Molly or Greg. He just wished that maybe once he could catch him looking, and see feelings and emotions that were just for him, but what kind of feelings could John Watson have for him? He just puts up with you because he's friends with Lestrade and Molly. He's not your friend. He doesn't like you. That's what he told himself every single day, just to remind himself that he was incapable and undeserving of love.

Then came the night of the most important rugby game of the year.

Chapter Text

"Molly, why are we here?" Sherlock complained again, glaring over at his partner. 

She rolled her eyes. "I've told you a hundred times, Sherlock, this is an important game for them, so I told Greg and John we'd be here to support them." She replied.

Sherlock scoffed.

His response earned him an elbow to the rib cage, then a sympathetic smile. "Listen, rugby isn't exactly my cup of tea either, honey, but... Just try to enjoy it, okay?"

He made no movement, just sighed rather exasperatedly. Molly, since Greg was playing and ballet rehearsal had been canceled than night, dragged Sherlock along. The dancer felt so out of place as he stood in the freezing night air with his partner, gazing around at the mass of people he didn't like, secretly wishing he had cancelled.

It wasn't until he had taken his seat in the stand beside her that Sherlock realized how cold it was. He was only wearing black jeans and a long sleeved shirt, neither of which were doing any justice against the crisp night wind. He pulled his arms around himself in an attempt to save himself from shivering, but as the wind blew again, he shuddered, silently cursing himself that he hadn't brought his jacket.

Molly seemed to be thinking the same thing, because at that moment, she did the same. "Jesus, it's fucking cold." She hissed, her voice catching with the wind.

"Did you bring a jacket?" He asked, his teeth chattering a bit.

"Yeah, I have Greg's." She replied, pulling the fabric over her shoulders. "Did you bring one?"

He shook his head. "I didn't think it would be this cold out."

Molly gave him a look. "Sherlock, you git." She sighed and got to her feet. "Come on."

"Where are we going?" He asked in confusion.

"We're getting you a jacket before the game starts, come on." She grabbed his arm and pulled them down the bleachers to the benches where the team was sitting. Sherlock tried to avoid being seen as Molly took pride in leaning almost seductively over the fence to catch her boyfriend's eye. "My dear Romeo!" She called to the center.

Greg, who was talking to one of the other players, looked up with a grin as the rest of the team cheered. "Hey there, love, what's up?" He asked, joining her by the fence.

"You wouldn't have happened to bring an extra jacket, would you? Sherlock's freezing."

"I am not."

"Shut up, Sherlock."

Greg chuckled, but quickly shook his head. "No, you have my only one."

"What's going on?" John came up in that minute and Sherlock had to refrain from staring. He couldn't believe how good looking a boy could be while covered in mud and wearing rugby shorts. He sent the dancer a kind smile, which made him blush.

"You wouldn't happen to have an extra jacket you could lend Sherlock, would you?" Greg asked his teammate.

John nodded. "Yeah, I have my team one, hold on."

Sherlock's heart jumped. His rugby jacket? Oh dear god, people would definitely talk now. He wanted to protest, tell John he wasn't that cold, but by the time he found his voice again, the captain was already holding the black and blue coat out to him with a warm, sincere smile that stole every amount of breath from his lungs. His stomach filled with butterflies that were all fluttering around and screaming at him to run, but in the end, he just took it with shaking hands. "Thank you." He stuttered.

The smile got bigger. "Not a problem."

Suddenly, the coach was calling the two boys over, and with a swift kiss to his girlfriend's jaw, Greg Lestrade was pulling John back toward the benches, leaving Sherlock frozen where he stood. He gripped the jacket in his hand, unable to feel the fabric, unable to feel his feet on the ground, only able to feel the pesky butterflies in his belly.

Molly reached out and shook his shoulder, making him flinch as he came out of his trance. "What?"

His partner was staring at him strangely. "Are you alright?"

"I'm-" His voice sounded so scratchy that he blushed, and had to reboot his brain. "I'm fine." He answered.

She didn't look convinced, but she said nothing. "Alright, let's get back to our seats then."

Sherlock waited until he was already back in his seat to put the jacket on, and almost went lightheaded with relief at how wonderful it smelled. It was so warm from John wearing it, and it was like John was standing behind him with his arms wrapped so nicely around his own, shielding him from the cold. The idea made him so drunk with bliss that he couldn't stop smiling. Even Molly seemed to notice, and she too had a smile on her face.

The game, however, was boring. Sherlock honestly didn't understand what was going on, it wasn't something he ever took the time to understand, but he would have been lying if he said he didn't enjoy watching John run around in rugby shorts, covered in mud and barking plays at the others in his captain's voice. It was highly entertaining. So far, they were winning. Anytime anything happened, the crowd would erupt into cheers and excited applause, leaving Sherlock stunned, but any time he saw John do it, he'd smile and clap with Molly.

About halfway through, he felt a slight tap on his arm. He turned to see Molly smiling at him. "Having fun?" She asked him.

He shrugged. "I don't understand a thing that's happening, but-"

From all around him, the crowd erupted again, but not out of joy this time. Everyone was standing up and staring down at the field and yelling, and Sherlock couldn't see a damn thing. Molly craned her neck to see, but quickly jumped to her feet with a gasp. "Oh god, John!" She sounded horrified.

The tone sent an unwanted sense of dread through the dancer's body and he got to his feet just in time to see the coach, Lestrade and a few other players gathered around a barely conscious John Watson. Sherlock felt weak at the knees as Greg, who was too fucking calm held the captain up while Philip Anderson came running with a bag of ice. John looked pale and barely coherent, and soon enough, a medical team came running over. Soon, Sherlock couldn't see John at all.

Molly was busy talking to one of her classmates beside her as she tried to get the story of what happened, but Sherlock couldn't hear her. He was trying his best not to worry or panic, but John still wasn't moving and he couldn't see him, and he was still wearing the jacket and-

"He got tackled." Molly said in his ear, gripping his arm tightly. "He hit his head on the ground."

Concussion. He couldn't stop the word from going through his head. That was enough to make him panic, because he knew head injuries could seriously damage someone, and suddenly, he wanted to cry. Don't you dare, don't you dare, don't you dare, caring is not an advantage, you idiot. He screamed at himself.

Finally, after what seemed like an hour, he saw John move his leg as he went to stand up, and his heart fluttered and banged rapidly against his rib cage. Molly wrapped her arm around Sherlock's waist. "Alright, he's okay, he's okay." She told him as they watched Greg carry a shaken John Watson off of the field to the benches where he disappeared. Sherlock leaned very slightly into Molly Hooper's relief stricken embrace. "John's alright, he'll walk it off."

"You don't walk off a concussion." He mumbled, lowering his head.

Molly blinked and sent a worried glance down to the field before slipping out her phone. "You think he has a concussion?"

He shrugged. "I don't know, but..."

"You've never been wrong before."

"I was also panicking."

Molly gave him a strange look, and he very quickly regretted the words he had just spoken aloud. But, Molly said nothing-much to his relief-only replying to a text from Lestrade. "Greg says John's okay. No concussion, just a bit of a bruise and a headache. They're checking him out now, and if they clear him, we're taking him home."

He tried to hide his sigh of relief. John was okay. "Should he go to A&E?" He asked quietly.

The girl laughed. "Johnny's not like that. If he think's he's fine, he's fine."

He decided to believe her.

The next half hour of the game was even more boring than the beginning of it, simply because John wasn't part of it. Sherlock tried to focus on Lestrade or random people in the stands, deducing all sorts of secrets; cheating, drugs, money problems, anything to keep himself entertained for a while. His mind palace was of no use for once either, as every door he opened was like a window to John, and he couldn't think about anything of importance.

Then, finally, as the game came to an end, he felt Molly pulling at the sleeve of John's jacket, signaling him to get up. The dancer pulled himself to his feet and walked with his dance partner through the bleachers and mass amounts of people coming from all directions at once. The sudden hoard of people was almost overwhelming, since he didn't take crowds very well, but it all disappeared when he saw two familiar rugby players leaning up against a silver car in the parking lot, laughing and talking about the game.

"What are you two dears gossiping about?" Molly teased tightly as she wrapped her arms around Greg's torso.

Lestrade laughed and held her close. "All of your dirty little secrets."

She gasped in mock horror. "You wouldn't dare."

"Nah, you're too cute." He gave her a quick kiss.

While they were busy being sickeningly adorable with one another, Sherlock was busy watching John from his place a few feet away. He looked okay, more than okay actually, besides a nasty bruise that was forming just to the right of his temple.

Molly turned to John with a concerned half-smile. "How's your head, Watson?"

He shrugged. "It could be worse. No reason to go to A&E though, I'm honestly just hungry. Anyone up for Angelo's?" He seemed to direct his question specifically at Sherlock, who was still standing by, watching the captain with a concerned look. John recognized the anxious expression and returned it with a comforting smile that reassured him that he was okay.

Greg seemed oblivious to the silent conversation between the two men, but Molly smiled to herself and nodded. "I'm always up for Angelo's. John, you okay to drive?"

"Course." He said. "Sherlock, you riding with me?"

Sherlock didn't need to be asked twice. He pulled open the door of the car and threw his stuff in the back, just like he had every day for the last few weeks, and waited for John to get inside. The rugby player turned on the car and the night was filled with the sounds of loud rock music and John's slightly off-key singing while they followed the other two out of the parking lot to the restaurant.

The food was great. For once, Sherlock actually felt hungry and he even contributed to conversation while he sat at the table in the back with John. Greg and Molly sat across from them by the window, Greg half asleep on her, but they still laughed and enjoyed their meals. At one point during the night, John hooked his arms around the back of the booth, one of which ghosting just centimeters away from Sherlock's shoulders. The dancer tried so hard not to think about it, but his mind was racing and reeling and all he wanted to do was lean back into the embrace. Instead, he leaned against the table, occasionally swirling his fork in his pasta while he talked and made deductions about everyone in the restaurant, much to their enjoyment (John's especially).

Once the night ended, the four separated. John took Sherlock home, just like he always did, but this time, there was no loud rock music blasting through the speakers that Sherlock tried to enjoy, simply because it was John. The drive was quiet and calm as they drove along the quiet back streets toward Sherlock's home, and he just sat back with a smile on his face that matched the dancer's beside him. When they pulled up to the gates, they lingered in the car for a few moments before Sherlock grabbed his things and stepped out of the car. John uttered a soft goodnight which was returned with a smile, and for a moment, Sherlock almost thought about kissing him. As he watched the rugby captain drive off and disappear into the darkness of the streets, he stumbled up to his room, utterly love drunk.

Chapter Text

The cafeteria was loud and crazy and obnoxious and the sight of so many people alone was enough to make even Sherlock Holmes feel sick to his core.

Due to some trouble with the labs (although the acid wasn't supposed to explode), he had been banned from being there during lunch. Pissed off as he was, he weighed his options. He could go to the library, but it was getting close to finals week and he knew that some of the people he really didn't want to see for his physical being's sake, he decided that was a no. There really no other place where students could sit and eat (although he didn't) during lunch. But, he remembered that Molly, Greg, Irene Adler, her sort-of secret girlfriend, Mary Morstan, and John Watson all had a table down in the cafeteria. The idea of actually sitting and socializing with people during lunch was making him nauseous, but... John was there.

The thought of sitting with John at lunch make his heart flutter.

Of course, who knew if they would actually let him sit there with them. Despite how close they were during dance rehearsal, Sherlock never spoke to any of them outside of the studio. Although he was their same age, he was actually in all of the classes above them with a bunch of uni kids who hated him because he was too smart. Would they reject him in front of everyone? It wouldn't be the first time, of course, but it would be the first time it hurt so much.

Carrying nothing but a chemistry book and an apple (which frankly looked gross), Sherlock made his way across the cafeteria, avoiding the stares and snickers from some of the students and he approached the table. He had to smile a bit when he saw Molly. She wasn't one to blend in. She was bright and colorful, and almost obnoxiously so, but it suited her. Her shorts were faded, and her trainers were white, and she had on a baggy, bright purple jumper that she had gotten last year. Her hair was waved and swept over one shoulder, just like she knew Greg liked. She was sitting alone at the table, no sign of John or Lestrade, which, oddly enough, made him feel a bit better.

He came up behind her timidly, and waited a moment to calm his heart before clearing his throat. "Hello, Molly."

His dancer partner looked up from her English assignment and her eyes swept over him happily. "Sherlock! Hi!" She said, smiling. Her pencil dropped and she angled her body so that she was facing him. "What's up?"

Sherlock bit at his lip. "Um... I kind of blew up some things in the science wing, so I can't be up there during lunch anymore." He explained quickly.

"You want to sit with us? It's just Greg, John and me since Mary and Irene are..." A smirk pulled at her lips. "Well, you figured that one out. But, either way, it's just us three, so we have plenty of room."

The dancer nodded briskly and sat down just beside her. He picked up the apple and turned it over and over in his hands while he looked around nervously. He wasn't used to sitting somewhere new like he was, and it was challenging. The tough outer shell he tried so hard to maintain cracked and melted away whenever John Watson was near him, and he hated feeling like an exposed nerve, but he couldn't stop the stupid erratic butterflies that decided to sit like a weight in his stomach. Having Molly was a bit of a comfort, but not much of one.

"Sherlock?" Came the sweet, liquid honey voice that sent a shiver down his spine. He turned to see John and Lestrade, both standing there with smiles and and trays overfilled with food.

Molly grinned. "Sherlock's sitting with us today, is that cool?"

"Not a problem." John answered, sitting down right beside him, which sent a much-welcomed chill down his spine and a pause in his racing heart. The captain turned and beamed at him, surely noticing that Sherlock had grown three shades of red darker since he sat down, then turned back to Molly. "Greg and I were just talking about formal. He says you won't tell him what your dress looks like."

The ballerina grinned and bit at her lip. "Nope. Not at all."

Greg grumbled about it not being fair, but quickly stuffed his face with food once he saw his girlfriend's playful glare. "Mary and Irene are going, Sally and Anderson, Mike and Sarah, even Janine and Dimmock are going together. That'll be interesting to see." He joked, making the others laugh.

"What about you, Sherlock?" John asked him.

The dancer looked up from his apple, appalled. "What?" He squeaked.

John shrugged. "Who are you going to formal with?"

"I'm not going." He answered defiantly.

Molly frowned. "Oh, come on, Sherlock, you should go." She urged.

Sherlock sent her a glare. "I'd rather slam my tongue in a cab door." He snapped.

John laughed at that, which made the rough exterior melt again, and cause Sherlock to scowl down at his feet. "See, Molly, I'm not the only one who doesn't want to go."

Sherlock froze where he sat, and slowly listen his head to look up at John with a confused (but secretly thrilled) expression. John wasn't going to formal? John Watson, captain of the rugby team and the school's Prince Charming wasn't going to formal? "Why aren't you going?"

"Not a fan of dances. Mainly because I can't dance."

"You're both idiots." Molly scolded them. "Why don't you just stag?"

Both John and Sherlock looked up at her, John out of amusement and Sherlock out of pure horror. Sherlock was still frozen where he sat, the very idea of going to a dance with John Watson, even if it were just as friends, sending heat flooding to his face. He expected there to be some sort of reaction from John, one of disgust at least, but instead, the rugby captain shrugged and looked back down at his food. "I'll go if Sherlock goes."

Sherlock paled the moment the moment the words escaped the other boy's mouth. All three were looking at him now, waiting for an answer. The dancer looked to Molly, who smiled encouragingly at him. He swallowed hard, completely unable to look at John. "I-I'll think about it." He finally said before dropping his head and going back to turning the sickly looking apple over and over in his hands.

He could almost feel Molly's bubbling excitement from the other side of the table. "Perfect!" She exclaimed. "That means that you two can come with Greg and I after school to shop. Sherlock, you get to help me pick out my dress."

Greg raised an eyebrow. "Wait, I thought you already had a dress."

"Yes, but I'm having buyers remorse and I'm picking another one."

Greg could only stare.

John snorted. "At least my date isn't picky." He commented, sending a smirk toward Sherlock, who had gone utterly rigid. He furrowed his eyebrows out of concern. "Sherlock, you okay?"

The dancer quickly nodded, and was saved by the ringing of the bell, telling everyone that lunch had ended. He got up without a word and quickly shuffled out of the cafeteria to the safety of the back stairwell where no one would find him.

Years back, before his brother was even in school, there was a whole other wing full of class rooms and computer labs, but now the wing was only used for meetings and such, so the back stairwell leading up to it was always empty. Sherlock went there to think during the day when he couldn't be in the chemistry labs or he needed to clear his head, and holy shit did he ever need a break.

At least my date isn't picky. John's voice echoed through his skull, making him melt ever so slightly. John had called him his date. He couldn't have meant it literally, no, God no, he wasn't like that, he could only have meant it as a joke.

Oh, did Sherlock ever want it to be true though.

He wanted nothing more.

Damn it.

The dancer hunched over in his seat on the steps and fisted his hands in the curly mop of his hair. He had to stop this. He had to. He had been so careful up until now, he had been so careful with his heart, keeping it locked up tight between his ribs in a cage, trying so desperately to keep anything from happening to it again, especially after Sebastian, and then John Watson comes along and breaks him down, piece by piece by piece, and all he can do is sit there and watch as the pieces float away like ashes in the wind. He had been so careful.

Now, John Watson had him.

John Watson caught him like a hunter and it's prey, and now he couldn't even go a few minutes without the beautiful, blonde rugby captain crossing his mind. It was like a disease.

No. John Watson wasn't a disease.

John Watson was like everything good in the world, mixed into one five foot eight figure of a man, just for the world to gaze upon. He was untouchable. At least, he was for Sherlock.

Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock.

His brother always told him that, never out of comfort or sympathy, but out of the pure recognition that if one wants to lose nothing, then one has to feel nothing. His brother would undoubtably say the same thing now, as a warning. Fuck you, Mycroft. He snarled back in his head. Then stop acting like a child. The dancer sighed, his voice shaking a little. You're an idiot. Why would John Watson like you of all people. You're an arrogant sociopath who does ballet, hates people, and makes most people angry with a single conversation. He doesn't even like boys.

The truth of it hurt, but it was all he had.

Suddenly feeling like he had the icy emotions that he normally held, Sherlock Holmes got to his feet, and made his way out of the stairwell to his class, John Watson out of his thoughts.

Mostly.

Chapter Text

There was nothing more boring than dress shopping. Sherlock Holmes learned that very quickly. Molly, who was running around the small boutique, pulling dress after dress after dress and throwing them into Sherlock's arms while she went to change, was enjoying herself immensely, but Sherlock on the other hand, was dying of boredom. He would have been much better off with John and Greg, who were out doing God knows what, but Molly needed a critic. Every few minutes, she would come out on a different gown of some sorts, and Sherlock would have to rate it. She told him not to hold back if he didn't like it, which of course, he had no problem doing.

"What about this one, Sherlock?" Molly asked as she came parading out of the dressing room for the thirteenth time in a bold, red, strapless dress. She twirled in front of him, the chiffon rippling around her as she did.

Sherlock sighed. "Red's too bold for you, Molly. That's a dress for Irene, not you."

His partner looked down at the dress, shrugged, then went back inside to take it off.

The dancer leaned back on the bench and leaned his head against the wall. He was going to be here a while.

Suddenly, he felt his phone vibrating from his pocket, and he took it out, only to find it was a text from a number he didn't recognize. He opened it cautiously, but when he read it, he felt his cheeks burn.

Hey, it's John, I got your number from Greg. How's the shopping going? -JW

Sherlock grinned, and typed out a reply. I'm fairly certain that whatever you two are doing is monumentally more interesting than what I'm doing. -SH

Sounds like you're having a blast. Greg and I already got our suits, and we're getting chips. -JW

I hate you. -SH

The door to the dressing room opened again, and this time, Molly came out in an ice blue gown than was in no way flattering at all. She took one look at his face and snickered. "I can tell by the way you're looking at me that you hate it."

Sherlock wrinkled his nose at the ugly satin dress. "You look like a fifty year old doll in an even older shop."

Molly threw her head back and laughed. "Alright, alright, I'm changing." She disappeared back into the tiny dressing room, leaving Sherlock to continue his conversation with John.

Oh, I bet you do. -JW

The dancer smirked, but just as he was typing out a reply, another text came in.

Hey, I want to apologize for lunch today. -JW

What do you mean? -SH

When I called you my date, you looked like you wanted to jump out of your own skin, and I want to apologize for making you uncomfortable. -JW

Sherlock froze. His heart dropped to his stomach, and he had to bite his lip to keep from shouting. He couldn't believe it. John thinks he made me uncomfortable. He wanted to tell him that it was the complete opposite of how he felt about the whole thing, but he knew that wouldn't end well. I wasn't uncomfortable, I'm just not used to people joking with me so freely. -SH Once the message was sent, Sherlock let out the breath he was holding. That was safe.

There was a long pause, then he felt the phone vibrate again. I probably should have said something about it being a joke. -JW

No harm done. -SH

The text felt wrong. Even through his text message, John didn't sound sincere. What if he wasn't joking? Sherlock's heart fluttered and he felt warmth spread all throughout his chest at the thought.

"Alright, Sherlock, what do you think of this one?" Came Molly's voice, breaking his happy thoughts. He looked up to see the door open, and his partner step out of the dressing room in a bright yellow gown that hugged her thin frame, then flowed to the floor in waves of chiffon. She actually looked quite beautiful, even in Sherlock's eyes. The gown was definitely Molly.

Sherlock gave her a smile. "Yellow is your color."

His partner's grin tripled in size. "I'll take that as Sherlock Holmes for 'you look lovely Molly, you should get it', to which I reply, why thank you, Sherlock, I'm going to get it!" She exclaimed happily, running back into the room to change out of it.

Sherlock looked back down at his phone once she had gone back inside and sent a text to John. Molly found a dress. Don't tell Lestrade, but it's bright yellow. -SH

The reply came back instantaneously. Of course it is. That's Molly to a T. Are you two coming to meet us, or is she dragging you shoe shopping too? -JW

I'd rather die. -SH

Don't you dare. We have a date. -JW

The butterflies returned to his belly, and he felt the heat rush to his face. But, before he could respond, Molly came out with the yellow dress in hand, then quickly went up to the counter to pay for it before dragging Sherlock out of the store. His partner was practically beaming.

"Thanks for coming with me, Sherlock." She said cheerfully.

The dancer rolled his eyes. "I was a hostage, it was hardly voluntary." He replied.

Molly smacked him in the chest with the back of her hand. "Alright, you posh git, you better watch it, or else I'll drag you shopping every weekend."

"You wouldn't."

"I would."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

Molly began to prattle on about make up, or something, but Sherlock could no longer hear her. In an attempt to escape conversation, the dancer averted his gaze to the side of the street, where he froze directly in his tracks, his entire body going numb with fear.

Sitting at a small café only a few feet from him was Sebastian Wilkes, dressed in his pricy suit, and drinking his tea like he was meeting with the Queen. He was by himself, reading a book, but he was there. Sherlock hadn't seen his ex... Whatever Sebastian was, since the boy hit him across the face and left him alone in his bed, stunned and heartbroken.

Seeming to know that he was being stared at, and much to Sherlock's horror, Sebastian looked up at him over his book, and locked eyes with the dancer. Almost immediately, his face hardened, his eyes flashed, and an almost wicked smile pulled at his lips. Sherlock swallowed hard and took a step back, no longer able to focus on anything but the boy at the table. Sebastian closed his book loud enough to be heard from where Sherlock was standing, making the dancer flinch, then he walked back through the door to the front of the café, disappearing into the crowd.

Panic overtook the dancer, and he suddenly turned around to Molly, who was still talking about the dance. "Molly." He hissed urgently. "Molly, we need to go."

Molly glanced up at him, taking in the fear on his face, and immediately went into defense mode. "Sherlock, what is it?" She demanded, gripping his arm.

"Sebastian is here. He saw me, I think he's coming to find me."

His partner's eyes widened, and she quickly pulled out her phone. "Alright, come on, we're going to go find John and Greg. It'll be alright, Sherlock, just walk fast and stay by me." She ordered him, pulling him along back down the street, all while Sherlock was following blindly, his head spinning, and his knees weak. Find John, find John, find John. His mind was screaming at him. He didn't want to ask for help, but he was more terrified of Sebastian Wilkes than he was disgusted by asking for help.

Just as they were picking up their speed, a large crowd of people cut between Molly and Sherlock, causing the dancer to suddenly lose track of his partner as he was knocked to the ground. "Molly!" He shouted out as he struggled to get to his feet. "Molly, wait!" But, once he got his footing back, he could no longer see her.

The dancer kicked himself mentally for being so distracted and losing her in the crowd. He searched around, making sure that Sebastian wasn't close by, then he stood back against the wall to think. Sherlock Holmes had an entire mental map of London stored away in his Mind Palace. He remembered that John said that he and Greg were getting chips, so he calculated all of the places nearby that sold chips. Lucky for him, there was only one place within a ten minute walk from the dress boutique. The dancer ducked into an alleyway to escape, and began to jog. He knew where he was going, and he knew he was getting away.

Until he was shoved violently to the ground by someone behind him.

Sherlock landed hard on his knees and hissed in pain at the impact, but when he saw the shoes of his attacker, he knew immediately who it was, and he was frozen once again in fear. "Seb?" He gasped, afraid to look up.

"You thought avoiding me would work?" The boy sneered at him. Sherlock felt Sebastian's hand twist in his coat, then he was ripped to his feet. "Get up here. We need to talk."

With a sick twist in his gut, Sherlock complied, knowing all too well what could happen, should he resist what Seb wanted him to do. He felt so defeated and angry at himself in that moment, he suddenly felt he deserved it.

His body was shoved roughly against the brick wall, then turned around to face his assailant. Sebastian was glaring murderously, but his eyes were light, like he were smirking. He had that look of empowerment on his face again, like he always had during those nights he went to visit Sherlock. He took a fistful of the dancer's curls and slammed his head against the brick, making him wince. "You know what your little rugby friend did to me? I told you to never speak of us to anyone. Do you remember that?"

Sherlock nodded painfully against Sebastian's grip.

"Then why did he know about us? Why?" He thundered.

The dancer swallowed away tears. "They were worried about me! They saw my bruise and they were worried! I didn't ask them to!" He cried out, silently begging for someone to see what was happening and stop it.

Sebastian drew back his fist to punch him, and the dancer quickly covered his face with both of his hands to reduce the impact...

"You either get your hands off of him now, or I'll do worse to you." Came an almost heavenly sounding voice from a few feet away. Sherlock looked up, and for a moment, he was glad that Sebastian was holding him, because he would have fallen to his knees.

John.

John had found him.

Sebastian turned to look at the rugby captain, who was standing a few feet away with his arms crossed defiantly over his chest in a soldier's stance. He had his eyes locked furiously on Seb, and very, very quickly, the boy let go of Sherlock, and took a few steps back before turning to glare down at the dancer. "Found yourself a new toy, did you?" He sneered. "You know, he'll do anything if you ask, it's pretty-"

With one loud crack, Sebastian Wilkes was knocked to the concrete. Blood was already pooling on the ground from his nose, and John was standing by, shaking the impact out of his left hand. He glared down at Sebastian intensely, which is nothing that Sherlock had seen before. "If I see you near him again, I'll hit you a hell of a lot harder. Now fuck off." John told him sternly.

Sherlock watched in amazement as Sebastian crawled shakily to his feet, and went skittering away from the rest of them without a single look back.

Once he was out of sight, John's gaze softened, and he walked cautiously over to where Sherlock was sitting on the ground in a terrified ball. He dropped into a crouch and offered his hand, which the dancer graciously took, and allowed himself to be pulled up to his feet. John was smiling at him, and Sherlock couldn't help but realize that he was also checking him for injuries. "You alright?" He asked softly.

Sherlock nodded. He didn't trust his voice.

"Come on, let's get you out of here."

Chapter Text

They walked in silence, the only noise around them being the scrape of their shoes on the concrete and the bustling of patrons coming in and out of shops and restaurants on either side of them. It was a tense walk, to say the least, Sherlock didn't know what to say to John. Even a simple 'thank you' was locked tight in the entanglement of his vocal chords. John didn't say anything either, but he was walking a step behind the dancer, like he wanted to keep an eye on him, but not make a big deal out of it. If Sherlock were to look back, he would probably see the rugby captain's eyes sweeping around, looking for Sebastian still, although they were quite sure he was gone.

"How did you know where I was?" Sherlock finally asked, breaking the silence.

John glanced over at him, then shrugged. "Molly found us and tried to explain what was happening. I came running the moment she said his name. I heard him shouting." He replied rather coolly. "I'm glad I made it when I did."

Sherlock looked down at his feet to hide his flushed face. "Thank you, John."

He smirked. "You don't need to thank me, Sherlock. Besides, I had to do it enough for my sister."

"Your sister?"

John nodded. "Abusive ex-girlfriends, or people that gave her shit for being a lesbian. Or people she pissed off because she has the temper of a bomb. I ended up punching a lot of people. I can handle abusive exs'."

Sherlock's head snapped up. "Wait... You know that Seb was my..." He couldn't even finish the sentence. He was suddenly afraid, unsure of what to do. Most people reacted so badly to him being gay, but yet John just punched his ex-boyfriend in the face.

"Molly told me when I asked her what was going on." He said. When he saw the fearful look on the dancer's face, he stopped him in his tracks with a hand on his arm. "Hey, Sherlock, it's all fine, I promise. You can like whoever the hell you want to like, it makes no difference to me. I know other people give you shit for it, but I don't care. Just don't date pricks like Sebastian Wilkes." John's face pulled up into that charming smile again, melting away the fear that had placed itself in the dancer's chest.

John didn't care.

John didn't care he was gay.

Sherlock bit at his lip, but nodded, and allowed John to pull him weightlessly toward Greg and Molly, who were sitting on a bench.

When they came up on the couple, Molly immediately began fussing over Sherlock. She noted the scrapes on his palms from falling down and the small cut on his forehead, but was very much surprised and relieved that there was no further damage. She thanked John at least a dozen times, hugged him at least four, while Greg just asked Sherlock about the incident. Sherlock only gave a few answers, as did John, but the rugby captain seemed more inclined to talk for Sherlock, which the dancer appreciated.

They decided to part ways after that. Greg and Molly went back towards their car, while almost instinctively, Sherlock followed John. The rugby captain opened the passenger side door, making Sherlock blush, and as he walked around to the driver's side, he could still hear John laughing to himself. The drive itself was filled with whatever music that John was playing, as they had listened to it on one of their many drives home before. John was singing along to the words, and even Sherlock found himself humming with him.

"Hey, you're okay, right?" John asked when they pulled up on Sherlock's house. He was watching the dancer with concerned eyes, looking him up and down. It would have normally been unnerving, but Sherlock didn't actually mind.

Sherlock nodded. "I'm fine." They eyes were locked, having a silent conversation that they couldn't have out loud, and the dancer suddenly felt himself smiling.

John bit at the inside of his mouth before breaking eye contact. "Alright, well, I doubt that Wilkes will do anything after today, but will you text me if you need... Anything?" The captain paused at the end of the sentence, but even from where he was standing in a barely-coherent state, Sherlock could see the light pink blush that was settling up in his cheeks, and suddenly, Sherlock felt that almost shattering warmth spread across his chest.

"Of course, I will." He replied with a smile.

John returned the smile with the signature grin that made everyone melt to the floor. "Oh, by the way, that performance your dance company is doing next weekend, you know Greg and I are coming, right?"

Sherlock hesitated, but oddly enough, he didn't flinch away from the idea of John Watson seeing him dance. He probably already had, as Sherlock often caught him peeking through the doors or the blinds on the windows, and although Molly often gave him hell for it, Sherlock didn't mind having an audience. Especially if it was John Watson. "You shouldn't have told me." He finally said in response. "Now I'm going to mess everything up."

The blonde laughed. "Nah, you'll be terrific."

"You'll probably be bored."

John shook his head. "I'll just watch you." He said, his voice low.

Sherlock blushed and looked down at his feet, which earned a chuckled from the rugby captain. "Goodnight, John."

"Goodnight, Sherlock. I'll see you tomorrow after rugby practice."

And with that, John went driving away, leaving Sherlock floating across the stones that led up to his house, then up the stairs, and up to his bedroom, where he collapsed on his bed, completely and utterly glowing. That night, Sherlock dreamt about John Watson, as he had many times before, but this time, he allowed himself that little bit of happiness, instead of pushing it away.

_________________

The week went by fast, and before Sherlock could even get himself together, it was performance night. The performance was small, it was a charity event, all of the profits were going to cancer research, but it was packed. Sherlock had already seen the flow of the crowd when he went to refill his water bottle, and it was easily a full house. He hadn't seen John yet, but he knew he was coming. The dancer made his way to the dressing rooms and sat in the chair in front of the mirror to try to apply the required stage make up while the other boys talked and made noise around him. He didn't try to focus on what they were saying, but they were loud enough.

At one point, the door to the dressing room opened, and he heard one of the dancers say 'what are you doing here', then when he turned around, he saw John Watson walking toward him with a happy smile etched on his face. The rugby captain was dressed in a dark blue button down shirt that was rolled up to his elbows, a back suit coat, and a pair of black jeans, but he looked incredibly nice. The sight of him made Sherlock's heart flutter.

John grinned down at the man in his costume, which was a ridiculous costume to say the least. "You know, I will never get used to seeing you in tights." He commented.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to the mirror. "You're not supposed to be back here, you know." He said, although his tone was light. He was secretly thrilled that John was there.

"I really don't give a shit."

The dancer laughed, and continued to attempt to put the eye makeup on, but his hands were shaking, so he kept messing it up. After the third time getting the black make up smeared, he swore under his breath. "I hate stage makeup." He grumbled.

John laughed quietly and took the pencil out of his hand. "Let me." He said.

"I highly doubt you know how to-"

"Shut up and face me."

With a reluctant sigh, Sherlock turned around in his chair and stared up at John, who was now looming over him, the lights around the mirrors giving an almost heavenly glow to the blonde. It was enough to make his face turn red, and he was glad the stage make up on his face was covering up the blush.

Gently, John tilted his head back and used on hand to cradle the back of his head while the other hand, his left, slowly traced the outlines and completed the makeup. It was strangely intimate, having John so close with one hand tangled in the curls, but it was nice. Sherlock wanted the moment to last forever. He could feel the soft hush of breath on his cheek as John completed the lines and highlights that contoured his face, and it sent a brief, but sweet chill down his cheeks. He loved it. Every last second of it. When John pulled away, he felt a pang of disappointment in his heart. "I'm done."

Sherlock opened his eyes and looked toward the mirror, surprised to see that it was perfect. He glanced up at John, one eyebrow raised. "You've dated a ballet dancer before." He noted.

John nodded. "First girlfriend. I was ten. I learned how to do her stage makeup to impress her."

"Did it work?"

"Oh, yes."

"Lucky for you." Sherlock answered with a smirk.

He laughed. "I suppose so. I guess I never forgot how to do it."

The dancer bit at his lip. "Well... Thank you."

"You're welcome." John looked up at the clock. "I should probably get to my seat before Greg kills me. I'll see you soon. Good luck, Sherlock!" He called before running out of the door.

The dancer smiled after him, then got to his feet, and walked out behind the stage where he met Molly. "Did John find you?" She asked.

Sherlock nodded slowly, his mind still on John Watson. He was smiling and practically ecstatic backstage, and though he knew Molly had noticed, she said nothing about it, and just let him fly.

_________________

The performance went incredibly well. Sherlock was proud and confident, he held his head high as he danced around the stage with Molly on his arm. Because of the glare of the lights, he couldn't see John Watson, but he went through each dance like he were performing only for him.

At the end of the performance, Molly told him that John and Greg wanted to go to Angelo's for dinner, so the dancer quickly cleaned the stage makeup off of his face, slipped a black t-shirt over his head, pulled a pair of black jeans on, and met Molly out in front. When he saw John Watson standing in front of his car, holding a rose, he nearly fell over. Molly 'aww'd' and pushed him toward the rugby captain,much to his embarrassment, but he smiled and took the rose anyway. John made a cheesy comment about his dancing, and Sherlock laughed as he got in the car. He could feel Molly's eyes on him as they crawled in John's car together, but, he could have have cared less at this point.

They had their usual table at the restaurant, and it was rather quiet, which was nice. They talked and gossiped, Sherlock made deductions, and tried not to laugh too loud the more he talked. Some of the things he said were funny enough to make them all cry, but they tried not to be a disturbance.

At some point during the night, Sherlock and John's fingers became loosely intertwined under the table on the booth between them, and while Sherlock was blushing furiously, John didn't say a word. He only smiled and occasionally, he would run his thumb over the back of the dancer's hand, much to his joy. Nothing went further than that, but even when they got up to leave, John never let go of his hand.

Chapter Text

"Why are you home so late?"

Sherlock froze where he stood on the seventh step at the sound of his brother's voice from the den. He turned to look toward the man, and saw his brother leaning in the doorway, gazing up at him with an intense expression, and in return, he glared. "Not really your business." Sherlock snapped.

Mycroft shrugged. "Obviously, you've been out to dinner with Molly Hooper, and Gregory Lestrade, plus another boy that you're obviously infatuated with." He held a proud smile when Sherlock began to blush. "Who is it this time? Is it another darling boy like Sebastian Wilkes?"

"Shut up, Mycroft!" Sherlock thundered, anger already coursing through his veins. "You don't know what you're talking about, so just shut up!" His voice was already raising significantly, and he knew he was at risk for waking their parents up, but he was too angry to care.

The elder Holmes scoffed. "Oh, don't be so dramatic, brother." He answered in a bored tone. "Are you going to tell me who it is, or am I going to have to find it out another way?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "His name is John Watson, and I'm not infatuated. He's my friend."

"Oh, really?"

"Yes, really."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "You're a terrible liar, Sherlock."

"I'm not lying, Mycroft, he's my friend!"

"Do you hold hands with all of your friends?" The elder Holmes demanded.

Sherlock paused, clinching the hand that John had cradled so delicately into a tight fist at his side. He could still feel the warmth. "Are you trying to embarrass me, Mycroft? Because being related to you is embarrassing enough." He snarled back, gripping the railing with his other hand so tightly that his knuckles were turning white and screaming and in protest.

Mycroft gave him a bored look. "I'm not trying to embarrass you, brother mine, I'm simply trying to enlighten you." He said, shaking his head when the younger brother rolled his eyes. "Oh, Sherlock... You're doing it to yourself again. You did this once before, and what happened? That boyfriend of yours caused you to spend a week locked inside your room. You didn't eat, you didn't sleep, we had to break in to make sure you were still alive. I told you that caring wasn't an advantage, Sherlock. Are you really willing to go through that a second time? Must you always be such a martyr?"

"John isn't like that!" Sherlock finally screamed, his voice loud enough to cause the floor to shake. He took a step back, getting away from his brother's face. "You don't know him at all, Mycroft! John would never do that to me!"

"Are you so sure?"

Sherlock hesitated. He would defend John Watson's integrity until the day he was put to rest in the Earth, there was no doubt about that, but he still couldn't shake the feelings he had pushed to the back of his mind about all of this. He really, really wanted to trust John with his heart, but he still doubted himself. He doubted himself to be capable of giving John anything and everything he needed and wanted, knowing he was an obnoxious thorn in everyone's side. So, why would John love him? Even if he did, he would get sick of Sherlock after a week. They'd get in a fight about something Sherlock did, John would realize what a horrible person he actually was when he wasn't a bundle of nerves, and he would leave. Except, he would do everything kindly, in that so-very-John-Watson way, which would hurt ten times worse in the end.

But, he couldn't let Mycroft know his fears.

"John is... Good. He's not like Seb at all." He finally rasped, his voice low.

Mycroft sighed and shook his head. "You don't get it, Sherlock."

The dancer made a sound that closely resembled a growl. "What don't I get, Mycroft?"

"If you continue to let yourself become enamored with this John Watson, you will lose, Sherlock. Love is a paralytic."

"How the fuck would you know?" Sherlock roared. "You've never loved anybody in your entire life!"

For a brief moment, Mycroft's face hardened, and he took a step back. He crossed his arms over his chest defiantly, trying to make himself taller. Mycroft knew that as much as Sherlock hated to admit it, he was at his older brother's mercy now. The elder Holmes set his jaw, and fixed his eyes on his younger brother. "I'm trying to protect you, Sherlock. You're going to get hurt if you let this go too far. Contrary to what you believe, I do not want to see you hurt."

Sherlock shook his head. "John wouldn't hurt me." He whispered.

"He's a boy."

"He's the best I've ever met!"

"You're an idiot, Sherlock."

The dancer felt tears well up behind his eyes, and suddenly, Mycroft became a blur. Sherlock, unable to form words beyond the lump in his throat, launched himself up the stairs and slammed the door to his bedroom shut. He sat down on the edge of his bed and let the tears fall, but he kept himself quiet. He didn't want to make it worse. He slid John's rugby jacket out from underneath the covers and hugged it tight to his chest, but it gave little comfort.

You're an idiot, Sherlock.

You're an idiot.

______________

The next morning, shaky and exhausted from his sleepless night, Sherlock pulled himself out of the warm confines of his bed and began to get ready for ballet. He started with a shower, but not even the hot water and the smell of the expensive shampoo unknotted the muscles in his shoulders and back. He felt drained, which was something he never felt, and even pulling on his ballet uniform was hard, and took monumental effort. He had one of the drivers drop him off at the studio, as he didn't want to see Mycroft.

When he got to the studio, Molly was already there, chipper and cheerful and positively happy. It was painful to watch. Sherlock tried not to snap at her, but he did a few times, although his partner said nothing. She could tell there was something wrong, but Molly Hooper knew better than to push it when Sherlock Holmes was in a mood. During the ensemble rehearsal, he was a mess. Mrs. Hudson, sweet as she was, told him not to worry about it and that after his performance the night before, he was probably just exhausted. He snapped at her and made it clear that he could do it, although it was still a mess.

Once ensemble was done, Molly told Sherlock, who looked like he was on the verge of passing out, that it was alright if he just wanted to go home and sleep because he looked like death, but Sherlock wasn't having that. He told her to shut up and just let him dance and that everyone needed to leave him alone because he was fine. So, they practiced, and Molly didn't say another word. They rehearsed all the way through their routines, though it was weak performance of Sherlock's part, which only made it worse. Molly kept being encouraging and kind to him as she always was, telling him he was doing fine and 'everyone has bad days', to which the dancer only snorted and continued to dance. They went on like that for a while, just the two of them, neither of them saying very much toward the other unless they needed to.

When the boys turned up with lunch and John came in the say hello, Sherlock suddenly felt better. The blonde smiled at him and sat close to him on the floor, eating his pasta like he hadn't eaten in a week, and occasionally, when neither Greg nor Molly was looking, he'd reach out and touch Sherlock's hand lightly while he talked. It was almost... Loving.

You're an idiot, Sherlock.

The dancer shivered and tried to smile, but John seemed to notice, and eventually, he pulled away. "You alright?" He asked gently under his breath, concern flooding his features as he looked Sherlock over. "You seem... Off."

"I'm fine." Sherlock replied with a smile, although it was strained. He could tell that John didn't believe him, but he was thankful that he didn't press it.

After lunch, they decided to dance again, and although the shaking in his hands had returned already from his brother's voice echoing in his head, Sherlock agreed. This time, they allowed John and Greg to stay in the studio and watch, so the two rugby players sat down on the floor in the corner, and began to watch.

"Sherlock, you want to try the lift at the end?" Molly asked him as she got the music ready.

The dancer hesitated. "The one we just learned?" He asked.

She nodded.

He bit at his lip nervously. "Are you sure? We haven't really practiced it." 

"It went fine during rehearsal."

Sherlock was unsure about the lift, only because they had just learned it. It wasn't incredibly difficult, but it did require him to lift, throw, and then catch Molly, and in his state, he didn't trust himself. His hands were still shaking horribly, but when he looked over at John, the rugby captain was smiling in anticipation, and how could he resist. He straightened himself up, clinched his hands into fists to stop the shaking, and he nodded. "Alright."

"Great!"

They got into their position, then they were off with the music, gliding hand in hand across the floor. They moved like they were weightless, leaping, turning, feeling light as air and with immaculate grace, they swept one another off of the floor. Occasionally, Sherlock would look over at John, and would begin to glow with pride as he saw the rugby captain watching him with his jaw halfway to the floor and his eyes ablaze with awe. Very briefly, he caught his eye, and John's eyes sparkled as he watched Sherlock dance. You're amazing, you brilliant thing. The rugby captain's eyes told him, and for that brief moment, he smiled, and his heart exploded with all matter of happiness as he went in for the lifted and threw Molly into the air.

You're an idiot, Sherlock.

Everything moved too fast for Sherlock to see or comprehend what happened next. The happy moment was stripped away from him, he stumbled the catch Molly, who was already crying out, she slipped through his fingers, then they both went crashing to the ground. He heard a soft snap, and it made him sick.

"Molly!" Greg shouted. He was already on his feet and running to his girlfriend in the middle of the floor, who was holding her leg to her chest, already crying from the pain. John had run out of the studio the moment the snap of her bone echoed through the small room.

Out of pure horror, Sherlock scrambled over to Molly and fell to his knees beside her. "Molly, I'm so sorry, please forgive me, I'm so sorry, it was an accident!" He pleaded with her frantically while Greg was trying to pull her up without hurting her. "Molly, please, I'm so sorry!"

"Get away from me, Sherlock!" Molly spat back in his face.

"You've done enough damage." Greg snarled at him at him in the same moment, his eyes flashing with anger.

Sherlock felt their words pierce his heart, and he took a step back, his eyes wide, and the terrible shaking back in his hands all over again. He watched Greg, who occasionally looked up to glare murderously at the dancer, attempt to sloth Molly and straighten out her leg, but it only earned him a cry of pain. Sherlock watched this event unfold, feeling his chest aching with guilt and regret, and he couldn't stop the constant pounding in his head. Your fault, your fault, your fault.

John came running back into the room in that instant, but he looked too calm. "I brought the car around. We need to get her to A&E."

Greg nodded. "I need to pick you up, love, I'm so sorry." He whispered down to his sobbing girlfriend in his arms. She nodded, and allowed him to painfully lift her up enough to get her into the car. Slowly, he got her out, and they disappeared, leaving only John behind.

Sherlock gazed helplessly up at the blonde, and stepped forward. "John, please believe me, it was an accident. Let me come help."

John held up a hand. "It's better if you don't. Just... Stay here. Sorry, Sherlock." Then, he was gone too.

The dancer gazed after his friends as they pulled out of the parking lot, leaving him alone. You're an idiot, Sherlock. He heard it again. The guilt was already weighing down on his shoulders as he realized what he'd done. He dropped Molly. He's never dropped Molly. He dropped her and broke her leg, and everything was all his fault. His friends, the only ones he's ever had, had left him. He had hurt Molly, none of them would ever talk to him again. Not even John.

Your fault.

Everything is your fault.

You don't deserve them.

Sherlock wrapped his arms tight around his torso as he stood in the now dark ballet studio. Soft, but heavy sobs ripped through his body as he watched them go, leaving him completely, and utterly alone once again.

Just like he deserved.

Chapter Text

When Sherlock stopped coming to school, at first, no one noticed. They all simply went about their days, but, John, who had three classes (actually four, but he never showed anyway) with the dancer, thought it was odd. Knowing that Sherlock often fought with these teachers a lot and didn't come to class a lot anyway, so he didn't think much of it at first, but by the fourth day, started wondering about where he had gotten to. By the fifth day, he began thinking it was strange. By the sixth day, he began to worry.

By Friday, exactly a week after the incident at the studio that left Molly with a broken leg, Sherlock still hadn't been seen at school. The rugby captain made is way down to his regular table during lunch where Greg was helping Molly with her books and her food because she was on crutches. "Hey, have you guys seen Sherlock at all this week?" He asked the moment he got to the table.

Molly looked up in concern. "You mean he hasn't been in class at all?"

John shook his head. "No, I haven't seen him at all."

"I haven't seen him either." Greg agreed.

Molly's eyes widened. "Oh, God, I'm such an idiot." She groaned, burying her face in her hand on the table.

"Molly?"

She uncovered her face, and bit nervously at her lip. "He hasn't been at the studio either. I went the other day to pick up some things, and Mrs. Hudson said he hadn't been there since Friday."

John heart skipped. "So... You mean Sherlock hasn't been seen in a week?" He demanded.

"I'm so stupid, I can't believe I did that." Molly whispered, shaking her head. John had never seen a time where he saw the girl look more guilty.

The blonde sat down in the chair across from her and looked at her out of concern. "Molly, what do you mean?"

She sighed. "The way I yelled at him after I fell. What I said. Sherlock doesn't handle that kind of stuff well. I can't believe I said that, Jesus Christ, I'm an idiot." Her voice trailed off.

Greg put an arm around her shoulders. "No, you're not. I did the same thing. It happened fast, it was a mistake. I'm sure he's fine."

"He hasn't been here in a week, Greg, you know how he gets when things like this happen." She shot back in frustration.

John thought back to the incident, remembering how Sherlock reacted to the whole thing. He had been panicking, he had apologized a half a dozen times, it was definitely not like him to react so frantically... Unless it was. Sherlock always had a icy front with an even colder snap, but in a bad situation like Molly's fall, he panicked, and he lost it. People always said that Sherlock Holmes didn't care, but what if it was all just a cover up? The face he made when told to stay behind, the way he looked at John... Oh, Sherlock. "Have you tried contacting him at all?"

Molly nodded. "Yes, I called him twice, I've texted him at least fifteen times, but he hasn't answered at all." She answered anxiously. She made a sudden grab for John's hand across the table. "John, can you go see if he's okay?"

"Why me?"

"You're the only one that didn't yell at him." Greg agreed, looking just as guilty as Molly had.

John hesitated, but finally nodded. "Tell Mr. Clements that I won't be there next class. I'm going out there now." He replied before getting to his feet and walking in the opposite direction.

________________

When he pulled up outside the large house, he felt strange. He didn't like the way it felt, like something was wrong in the air. It felt heavy, like gravity was weighing down on John's shoulders as he walked up to the front door of the house. He knocked timidly, and held his breath while he listened for the sound of footsteps echoing behind the door. When they come, he backed away instinctively, and waited.

The door opened, and an older woman who looked very much like Sherlock gazed down at him with a curious expression. She had dark brown hair that was greying a bit, and the blue-green eyes that matched his, everything down to the way she held herself in the doorway was like Sherlock. "May I help you?" She asked with a sweet smile.

John cleared his throat. "Hi, Mrs. Holmes, um... My name is John Watson, I'm looking for Sherlock Holmes, is he here?"

"Yes, he's in his room. Are you a friend?"

"Yes, ma'am, he hasn't been at school in a few days, and I'm just coming to see if he's okay."

The woman smiled. "He hasn't been feeling well, but I'm sure he'd enjoy the company. Go on up. His bedroom is all the way down the hall and to the left." She replied, gesturing towards the staircase.

The rugby captain nodded. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes." He said, bounding up the stairs toward Sherlock's room.

John made his way down the hall to the dancer's room, and stopped outside. It was dark under the door, suggesting the lights were off, and it was also dead silent inside. John knocked on the wood quietly. "Sherlock?" He uttered. "It's John, are you okay?" When there was no answer, he knocked again. "Everyone's worried sick about you, mate, so you better be okay." No answer. "Sherlock, if you're conscious, can you knock on the wall or something?" The rugby captain waited for a six agonizingly slow seconds before he heard a soft, but audible double-knock from the inside of the room. He let out the breath he had been holding in his chest. "Sherlock, I'm coming in, okay?" Once again, no answer. John sighed and pushed the door open very slowly, and had to blink to adjust to the darkness of the room, but his eyes immediately locked on the dancer, and no longer felt relieved.

Sherlock was sitting on the floor in the corner of the room, his knees brought up to his chest, and his arms wound tightly around his legs. His hands were covered in little cuts and bruises, obviously fresh wounds, which was concerning enough. His head was against the the wall, his eyes were closed, but even in the dim light, John could see that his eyes had bags underneath them, like he hadn't slept in a week. Maybe he hadn't. He looked positively awful. Sleep deprived, somehow paler and if he didn't know better, he looked skinnier...

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" John hissed, rushing to the dancer and falling on his knees in front of him. The dancer opened his eyes, alarmed, but said nothing, although his usual blue-green irises looked drained of color. The rugby captain gripped his arms and tried to get the man to focus. "Are you alright?"

"John?" He rasped.

The rugby captain reached out and felt his forehead, relieved to find no fever. "You git, what have you done to yourself?" He demanded, searching his face for any sign of injury. "You look awful,Sherlock! When was the last time you slept? Or ate anything for that matter?"

Sherlock's eyes struggled to focus on the blonde in front of him. "What day is it?"

John froze, suddenly anxious about the state of his friend. "It's Friday, Sherlock."

"Since... Last Friday then..."

The rugby captain blanched. "You haven't eaten or slept since last Friday?" He hissed.

"Couldn't..." He slurred.

John gritted his teeth. "Alright, come on, you." He slid an arm around Sherlock's thin waist and pulled him lazily to his feet before leading him over to the bed. The dancer made a few hushed noises of protest, but John didn't let up his grip. "Come on, you git, let me take care of you." He muttered, helping him down on the bed.

The moment John was sure that he wasn't going protest anymore, the blonde ran into the bathroom where he was horrified to find that the mirror had been shattered, and a few of the glass shards were covered in blood from where Sherlock had punched it. He swore under his breath, but slid open the medicine cabinet and pulled out bandages and hydrogen peroxide, then grabbed a flannel from the towel rack. He quickly ran back and dropped to his knees in front of Sherlock. The dancer was a bit out of it, but his eyes were focused on the floor, like he was trying to stay awake. John lightly touched his arm, making him jump. "Sherlock, why did you break the mirror?" He asked gently.

Sherlock's eyes flickered to him briefly. "I got angry." He whispered hoarsely.

"Because of what happened to Molly?"

The dancer nodded.

John's heart melted, and he allowed his grip on the man's arm to tighten ever so slightly. "Sherlock... Molly's okay. She broke her leg on the fall, but she doesn't blame you. She said she shouldn't have made you do the lift when you had only just learned it. You weren't ready to do it in practice yet. She doesn't blame you, Sherlock, none of us do." He said, trying to reassure him. John felt awful. "Do you never check you phone? Molly and Greg have been trying to contact you for the last few days. They aren't mad at you, Sherlock, hell, they're worried sick!"

"But... I dropped Molly. I've never dropped Molly."

"Everyone fucks up. Just because you're a principle dancer, doesn't mean you're not going to fuck up. As a captain, I've fucked up multiple times. It happens, Sherlock."

"I made my only friend break her leg. I could have cost her her career" Sherlock snapped, venom seeping into his words. "That doesn't just happen, John. And even if it did, it wouldn't matter. I've had one friend in my entire life, John, one, and I dropped her and made her break her leg. It doesn't matter if she forgives me, I still hurt her." By the time he finished talking, there were tears shining in his eyes. "I don't deserve it, John. I fucked up."

John hesitated. He remembered the warning that Molly had given him the day that they met at Angelo's after the rugby game about Sherlock; be careful with him, he's been through a lot. She didn't elaborate on what exactly he had been through, but obviously it was enough to make him think he didn't deserve someone to care about him. The rugby captain's heart melted in his chest, and he reached out to touch the dancer's hand. "You shouldn't treat yourself that, Sherlock."

The dancer looked up and glared. "Why not?"

"Because you're brilliant."

Sherlock's eyes widened. "John?"

John smiled, taking his hands. "Come on, let me clean out your hands before they get infected." He ordered gently, dabbing at the cuts with the flannel. The dancer hissed and cringed at the sting, but he didn't pull away. He didn't seem to mind John holding his hand, but he hadn't the week before, so the wanna-be Dr. John Watson didn't protest. He liked it.

All while he was tending to the dancer's hands, he was making a decision. John knew very much that he liked Sherlock Holmes perhaps a bit more than he should, and given the state that the boy was in, he had no mind to leave him. He decided he was going to text Greg and tell him to tell their coach that he was home sick so he could spend time making Sherlock better. Even if if wasn't formal yet, he couldn't let his date being alone when he was sad. What could of date would he be?

"Why are you being so nice to me?" Sherlock's voice came suddenly.

The blonde looked up in surprise at the way his voice sounded. He sounded defeated, almost sad, and it wasn't what John wanted to hear. "What do you mean?" He asked.

Sherlock looked down at him with tired eyes, and for a moment, it looked like there were tears in them already. "You're being so nice and taking care of me when I'm a horrible mess. I broke a mirror, I tore up my ballet shoes," John's heart dropped at that, he hadn't seen the ballet shoes in the middle of the floor that were ripped up and destroyed. "I'm like a disease to everyone I meet, John. I'm a wreck of a human being and I don't deserve to have someone like you around me. Why would you waste your breath on me?" His voice trailed off sadly, and when he lowered his head to hide his face, a tear fell from his cheek and onto the back of John's knuckle.

There was so much John wanted to say to him to convince him he was wrong, tell him he was a beautiful, brilliant human being and he deserved the sun and the moon and every star in the sky that John could reach and pull down for him, and his heart broke to think that Sherlock Holmes, the most amazing person he had ever met, thought so little of himself. It utterly broke his heart. It gave everything he had to not just kiss the boy right then and there. John cleared his throat, getting rid of the lump that rose in his throat. "I can't think of anywhere else I'd rather be."

"Why?" His voice cracked.

"Because... I like you, Sherlock." John smiled at up him, which softened his gaze, and he felt the quicken of the dancer's pulse against his thumb.

Sherlock swallowed hard, but said nothing.

So, John continued to patch up his hands.

Once Sherlock's hands were cleaned out and bandaged up nicely, John looked up at him with a smile. "Okay, now, here's what I'm going to do. I'm going to go ask your mother if she'll bring some soup and tea for you, and don't give me that look, because you haven't eaten in a week, so you're going to eat." He chided gently when he saw the boy's expression. "Then, while you're eating, I'm going to run home and grab all of the shitty DVD's I own, come back here, and keep you company until your mother kicks me out. Deal?" He offered, keeping his eyes and tone as light as he was feeling.

Sherlock blinked. "You... Want to stay with me?"

"Of course, you git. I mean, as long as you want me to. It's your choice."

"Yes!" He squeaked, perhaps a little too quickly. He cleared his throat. "Yes, I... I would like that."

John grinned. "Alright, so, I'll go get you something to eat, and I'll be back in like twenty minutes." He said.

Sherlock turned an adorable shade of pink and looked down. "Alright. Watch out for my brother." He said softly. "Mycroft is an insufferable prick."

He laughed. "I'll keep that in mind."

The rugby captain left the room and closed the door quietly behind him before jogging back down the hall. Luckily, he saw Sherlock's mother down the hall, and she smiled at him when he saw him. "Leaving already?"

He shook his head. "I'm just heading home to grab some things. I'm coming back."

"Oh, wonderful! How is Sherlock doing?"

"He's alright, I think he could use some soup and a cup of tea, but he seams alright."

Mummy Holmes threw her head back and laughed. "Oh, you're a magical one. He rarely accepts help." She complimented him. "I'll make sure he gets some immediately."

He smiled. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes. Also, um... Would you possibly be alright with me staying the night? I'm sure he could use some company."

The woman's face lit up completely. "Oh, of course, John, of course! Stay as long as you want, dear!"

"Thank you so much. I'll be back soon." He smiled, and turned to run down the stairs towards the door while he sent a single text.

I'll be back soon. Take care of yourself while I'm gone. -JW

________________

When he returned a few minutes later, he had a backpack full of Bond movies, and a pair of cloths to change into. He was practically shaking when he showed up at the door again. He went straight up to Sherlock's room and saw the boy sitting cross-legged on the bed with a bowl half empty bowl of soup in his lap. He still looked exhausted, but that would come later. Right now, he wanted to focus on making him feel better. So, he smiled brightly, and sat down at the edge of the bed. "Hello." He said simply.

Sherlock looked up with a shy smile. "Hello. I ate." He commented on the nearly empty bowl.

"I see. I'm glad you ate."

Sherlock blushed.

John set the backpack on the bed and took out one of the movies. "We're watching James Bond, and you get no say in the matter." The dancer scoffed, but didn't argue, so John smiled, took out his laptop, put in the DVD and got back on the bed with Sherlock, sitting only a few feet from him. "I know these might not be your cup of tea, but they're cheesy and mind numbing and Sean Connery has a voice to remember." He said as the opening sequence began.

"I might fall asleep." The dancer admitted.

"That's fine. This is to take you out of that head of yours. If you fall asleep, don't worry about it. I want you to sleep."

Sherlock frowned. "What time do you have to leave?" He asked.

John shook his head. "I'm staying the night."

There was no missing how much Sherlock's face lit up when he said that, but once again, he didn't speak, he only sat back against the headboard near John, watching the screen intently.

The two sat and watched the movies John had brought for hours. Of course, Sherlock made comments about things, all of which made John laugh and roll his eyes, but he loved it. Sherlock was acting like himself again, and after a while, he started to look better. When dinner time came around, Mummy Holmes brought the boys food, and she gave them a knowing, happy smile before leaving the room. They thought nothing of it.

By the time night rolled around, Sherlock was practically falling asleep where he sat, and the moment John noticed, he smiled to himself and stopped the movie. Sherlock was lying curled up on the bed with his eyes struggling to stay open, but he seemed reluctant to let John leave. So, the rugby captain pulled off his shirt and lay back down beside the dancer. Almost instinctively, John flipped over onto his side to wrap his arm around Sherlock's torso, but the moment he realized what he was doing, he pulled away.

"You can, John." Sherlock mumbled sleepily into the pillow.

Smiling, the rugby captain returned his arm to wrap around Sherlock's stomach and pulled him close. "You sure this is okay? I don't want to make you uncomfortable." He murmured, secretly thrilled that Sherlock was letting him do this. He felt the dancer nod, so he tightened his grip.

As he felt himself drifting closer and closer towards sleep, he felt Sherlock tense up slightly in his grip. "I won't tell anyone about this." He whispered in the darkness of the room.

"About what?" John asked nonchalantly, although the way Sherlock spoke was concerning. "The cuddling?"

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably where he lay. "I mean... I know your other friends would probably lose their minds over this, so I won't tell anyone. I know you're not... Gay." The way his voice trailed off had that same sad tone that it had before.

John hesitated. No wonder he's so nervous around me. "No, I'm not. Not completely anyway."

"You're not?"

He laughed quietly to himself. "If was, would I be doing this? Literally nothing about what we're doing here is straight. If I was that persistent about being straight, would I be doing this?"

Sherlock snickered. "No, I suppose not." He then relaxed and seemed to melt into the embrace. "I've never done this before." He said.

"Cuddling?"

"Sebastian never wanted to. He always pushed me away after..." He paused, and cleared his throat. "He didn't like me very much."

John sighed, but there was a hint of a growl in it. "Well, I'm not Sebastian."

Sherlock let out a soft, but happy sounding sigh, that was without a doubt the most beautiful noise John had ever heard. They didn't say another word after that, they let sleep take them, and as they drifted off, their fingers became intertwined on the blanket once again. But, before he drifted off, John could have sworn he heard him utter an 'I love you' through the soft tranquility of the darkened room.

Chapter Text

John only slept a few hours. It was still dark when he awoke, and when he looked over at the clock, he saw the angry green numbers telling him it was only a few minutes past three in the morning. He was suddenly awake, although he wasn't entirely sure why, but he knew it would have been impossible to go back to sleep. He glanced down at Sherlock, who was sleeping soundly beside him, curled up in the sheets, and smiled. He looked adorable when he slept, even with his unruly curls.

But, even with that, John was too awake.

He slowly unwound his arm from Sherlock's torso and carefully slid out of the bed. He pulled on his shirt and made his way to the bathroom to clean up the glass so that Sherlock didn't have to. He made certain not to cut his hands as he threw away the pieces, then went to clean up the rest of the mess in the room. He picked up the torn ballet shoes, and felt his heart break at the sight of them. Sherlock loved ballet more than anything in the world, and John could only imagine how he must have been feeling to tear his shoes to shreds like that. He didn't feel right throwing them away, so he just picked up the remains and put them to the side, knowing Sherlock would find something to do with them.

Once most everything was cleaned up, John pulled his water bottle from his backpack and quietly left the room, making sure not to wake Sherlock up. He made his way toward the kitchen, still blown away by how large and beautiful the house was. He crept quietly down the steps on the ball of his feet and turned toward the kitchen, already unscrewing the top to his water bottle.

"Your hand is bleeding."

The sudden voice from behind him nearly made the rugby captain jump out of his own skin. He turned around to face an older boy, red haired and with a face that appeared to be in a permanent sneer, that he assumed was the older brother he had been warned about. He was still shaking from the sudden appearance of the boy that he couldn't think of what to say. "S-sorry?" He asked.

The elder Holmes gestured toward his hands that were clutching the water bottle tightly. "Your hand is bleeding." 

John looked down and saw a small, but profusely bleeding cut on his thumb. "Oh, it's nothing, I was just..."

"Cleaning up the glass my brother broke. Which mirror was it?"

He hesitated. "The bathroom one. How did you-"

"I heard you cleaning up the glass. It wasn't a hard leap." Mycroft admitted, taking a step toward him. "Does my brother know that you're awake?"

John shook his head. "I just went to get some water." He replied, although he thought the question was odd.

Mycroft nodded, but looked down toward the ground. "How is he?"

"He's fine. Better. I mean, he seems better."

"My brother's obvious infatuation with you has its' perks, I suppose."

John felt the heat rise to his face, and his gaze dropped to his feet. "I don't mind, if that's what you're implying." He answered back.

The elder Holmes huffed. "I'm aware." There was a pause, then Mycroft cleared his throat. "I heard you broke Sebastian Wilkes' nose. Congratulations are in order."

That sent a a serge of pride through the rugby captain, and he knew Mycroft noticed that he had stood up a little straighter and was now smiling. "Thank you." John hesitated, as he had a rather sensitive question burning on his tongue. "Did Sebastian hurt him while they were together? Physically, I mean?"

Mycroft sighed. "Not that I ever saw, but... I had a feeling. I'm rarely home, but when I did see my brother, it was obvious that something was going on. I know the day their relationship ended, my brother had a fairly large bruise on the side of his face. But, the last I heard, Gregory Lestrade had taken care of that." He answered.

"I won't let him near Sherlock." John promised. "I'll gladly break his nose twice."

The elder Holmes locked eyes with the blonde rugby captain. "I underestimated you." He said. "I thought you were bad for my brother, but... It seems I was wrong. And for that, I apologize."

John's breath caught. "Um... Thank you. I... I try."

Mycroft nodded at him once. "Goodnight, John." The boy turned on his heal, and walked back into the den where he had been before, leaving John by himself.

The rugby captain turned and walked back upstairs towards the bedroom, completely forgetting about getting water. He opened the door to the bedroom, smiling when he found that Sherlock was still asleep, and slowly, he crawled back under the duvet, and wrapped his arm around him once again. He was asleep again within minutes.

______________

When Sherlock awoke, he felt better than he had in days. He felt warm, he felt rested, and to top it all off, John's arm was still tightly bound around his chest, and he could feel the warmth radiating off of the blonde. He didn't want to move. He had never felt anything like this before, and he didn't want to stop. It was euphoric. A soft, happy sigh escaped his lips. He heard a soft chuckle from behind him, and he blushed, as he hadn't realized John was awake. "What's so funny?" He mumbled.

"You're cute when you sound all happy." John replied.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm not cute."

"Oh, yes, you are."

The dancer pulled himself out of John's embrace and got up on his knees in front of him. The blonde rolled over onto his back, exposing his incredibly toned upper body, and his tanned skin that seemed almost golden compared to Sherlock's own porcelain color. Sherlock felt like he was looking at a statue of a god, and he suddenly felt he didn't deserve to be as close as he was, but then again, no one deserved to be that close to anyone like John Watson. He was just lucky. "I can't believe you stayed with me all night." He marveled.

John grinned. "I said I would."

"I know you did, but... Would you be offended if I said I doubted it?"

He shook his head. "I don't get offended easily, Sherlock. You needed me, and I was happy to be there for you. Besides, I always sleep better with another person next to me." He replied, his eyes glinting mischievously.

The dancer's heart skipped a beat, and he looked down. "I... Liked it too." He whispered.

He felt John's hand stroke his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. He didn't say a word, and neither did John, but nothing needed to be said. For a moment, Sherlock didn't push the feelings he had for John away, he just let them stay. He let himself have a crush on John Watson, knowing that even though John didn't say it aloud, it was all fine. He was happy. Very happy.

A knock at the door interrupted the moment, and John pulled away, much to Sherlock's disappointment. He sighed. "What do you want, Mycroft?" He called angrily. He recognized the unfriendly knock when it came, and silently cursed the elder Holmes brother.

"Breakfast." His brother grumbled before padding away from the door.

John immediately jumped off the bed. "Fantastic, I'm starving." He reached out to Sherlock, who was still kneeling on the bed. "Come on, you, breakfast time."

Sherlock shook his head. "Not hungry."

"I don't care, you're eating. Even if it's just toast."

The dancer grumbled to himself, but when John curled his fingers around Sherlock's own, he didn't say a word, he just let John pull him down the hallway.

Sherlock's parents greeted the two boys cheerfully when they walked into the room, neither of them saying a word about the fact that their hands were locked tight between them. Mycroft, who was sipping at his cup of tea and reading a book, looked up over the pages, and swiftly nodded at John, but looked away the moment he caught Sherlock's eye. The dancer knew his brother had spoken with John, but obviously it hadn't made any sort of impact on John's decision to stay, so he let the subject go, and sat down beside the rugby captain at the table.

Mummy Holmes smiled brightly at the two boys. "How are you feeling, Sherlock?" She asked, reaching out an brushing a curl from her son's forhead. 

"Much better." He replied, briefly glancing over at John, who was absolutely lost in his plate of homemade pancakes.

"Oh, good!" 

Mr. Holmes nodded in agreement. "Until you showed up, John, we were considering taking him to a doctor." 

The dancer wrinkled his nose. "I wouldn't have gone." He stated truthfully. 

"I suppose it's good that you have John to take care of you, then. When's the wedding?" Mycroft asked with a smirk.

Sherlock blushed and turned to glare murderously at his brother while John choked on his food and glanced up at Mummy Holmes in absolute horror. However, the smugness on Mycroft's face didn't last long, as his father reached over and smacked him behind his head. "Leave your brother alone." He ordered.

With a sigh of relief, the dancer looked down. "John made me sleep." Sherlock stuttered, although his response didn't help the situation, it only made him blush more.

Mummy Holmes laughed. "You got Sherlock to eat and sleep? My goodness, you must be magical." She teased, sitting down across from them.

"Mummy..." Sherlock groaned, hanging his head.

John grinned. "Thank you, Mrs. Holmes."

"Oh, please, John, call me Violet." She urged with a happy smile.

Mr. Holmes looked up from his paper and cleared his throat. "So, John, I hear you play rugby. Any good?"

The captain shrugged. "I'm just loud, people listen to you when you have a loud voice." He answered.

Sherlock scoffed at his modesty. "John's very good." He corrected, dodging the playful glare from the blonde, but secretly, he was smiling proudly to himself.

"Do you plan on playing at uni?"

John bit at his lip. "Not sure yet. I'm planning on going to medical school, so I might not have time. Although I might, just to keep the muscle build for when I go off to boot camp."

Sherlock froze where he sat. Boot camp?

Mr. Holmes seemed surprised. "You're joining the military as a doctor?"

"I've wanted to be an army doctor since I was twelve."

Sherlock's heart dropped to his stomach.

Violet clapped her hands together. "Oh, that's wonderful, John. You'll be wonderful at it, don't you think, Sherlock?" She asked.

No. The dancer thought, although he knew it was a lie. John would be a wonderful doctor, easily one of the best. He was sweet, he was caring, he was strong, great in emergencies, he would be amazing at it. But, no matter how wonderful he would be, Sherlock didn't want him to be an army doctor. He didn't want John to be in the military at all. There was nothing more terrifying than the idea of John Watson going off to a country he had no purpose in going to, for a war that didn't make sense, even if it was as a doctor.

But, he couldn't say that out loud.

So, he looked up, smiled weakly, and nodded. "Yes." He rasped. His voice sounded awful.

For once, John didn't seem to notice how uncomfortable the dancer was. No one else did either.

John left around noon for rugby practice, and before he left, he gave Sherlock a quick kiss on the cheek, making his heart skip. He wanted to indulge in it, but then the words boot camp flashed in his mind, and he suddenly felt his stomach flip. John noticed, and asked if he was okay, to which he reassured him he was, although he really wasn't. The rugby captain hugged him close for a few seconds too long, and promised him that he'd text him all day. 

Sherlock watched him drive away, suddenly feeling sad, but realizing that John had stayed the night with him was enough to make him smile all day. 

Chapter Text

You have really pretty eyes, you know that? -JW

Thank you? -SH

You're welcome. -JW

Any reason behind that text message? -SH

I'm drunk. -JW

Oh. -SH

Yeah, I went out with Greg and Mike and got a little more plastered than I thought I would. Sorry. -JW

Why are you apologizing? -SH

Seemed like the polite thing to do, since I'm drunk texting you at two thirty in the morning. -JW

I don't mind. -SH

Oh. That's good I suppose. -JW

We still need to get suits for formal, I just realized it's in a week. -JW

True. I had forgotten myself. -SH

Do you still want to go? -JW

With me, I mean. -JW

As long as you're sure that you want to be seen with me. -SH

Why wouldn't I want to be? -JW

Because I'm that weird dancer kid that spends more time in the chemistry labs than actually interacting with other people like a regular human being should. I'm not really that sought after, unless it's to be used as a human punching bag. -SH

Is that still happening? -JW

Well, no. It hasn't happened recently. -SH

Told you I'd take care of it. -JW

What, EXACTLY, did you do? -SH

Eh, I made them run suicides until I told them to stop. -JW

I'm sure they enjoyed that. -SH

I'm their captain, they can't do shit about it. -JW

There's a guy outside blaring music, and I want to go outside and smash his window in. He's so fucking loud. -JW 

Where are you? -SH

On my bed, staring at the ceiling, thinking about you. -JW

Why are you thinking about me? -SH

Because you're the most extraordinary human being that I've ever met. -JW

Does that pick-up line work on most people, John Watson? -SH

I don't know. I've never used it before. -JW

Oh. -SH

Am I reading too much into this? -JW

What? -SH

This. Us. Am I reading too much into this? -JW

I don't understand what you mean. -SH

I mean, am I reading too much into something that isn't there? I don't want to make you uncomfortable. -JW

You're not, I just... I don't know what to do. -SH

About what? -JW

This whole... Whatever we are. I don't know how to do this. It's all so new, and a bit overwhelming, but in a good way. -SH

What do you mean? -JW

I mean, you've already clearly stated your bisexuality, and you know that I'm gay, we've held hands, cuddled in bed all night, all of that, but to be honest, I haven't a clue as to what to do about it. I like it, a lot, I'd go as far as to say I love it, but I don't know what to do. -SH

Well... What do you want to do about it? -JW

I'd prefer not to say. -SH

Why? -JW

Because you might not like what you read, and I don't want to be on the other end of it if you don't. -SH

Try me. -JW

To be perfectly blunt, I want you. I'm terrible with sentiment, and if my brother were to read this, he'd either vomit or die of embarrassment, but I need to say this. You have made more of an impact on me in the last few months than anyone I have ever met has in my entire life. The way you smile at me when I say something smart, or the little touches here and there, they're all so sweet and overwhelming, I never know what to say. You bring things out in me, John, that I've never felt before, and I tried to push it away, but I could never do it. When you got hurt during that rugby game, I panicked because I was worried that you were concussed, and I never panic about anything, but I was so afraid you were seriously hurt. I honestly don't know what I would do if something happened to you. You've made me feel everything so differently, and it's become a gorgeous mixture of wonderful and terrifying, and I never want it to end, and I don't want you to ever go away. I want you, heart and soul, and I know I'm not much of a prize, but... I want to keep you for myself. -SH

John? -SH

John, I'm so sorry, please, just delete that. Please. -SH

This is exactly what I was afraid of, I'm so sorry, John, please, just forget everything I just said, it was a mistake. -SH

John, please, say something, I'm sorry. -SH

Okay, I'm sorry, I'll leave you alone. I'll delete your number, I won't tell anyone anything, just... Please forgive me, I'm sorry. -SH

Sherlock, relax, don't do that. I was getting dressed. I'll be at your house in fifteen minutes. -JW

What? No, John, you can't drive, you're drunk! -SH

I lied. I was only buzzed. Leave your window open. -JW

Chapter Text

Sherlock sat nervously on the edge of his bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands, attempting to keep himself from hyperventilating, but his lungs were betraying him. He was counting every second, and each tick seemed to take longer and longer, and he was afraid to look at the clock to see how much time had passed since John's last text message. He was certain the pounding of his own heart would wake his family, but it wouldn't stop.

Anxiously, the dancer picked up his phone that was still sitting on the nightstand, and looked at the screen. Fifteen minutes had already gone by. Not by much, only a few minutes, but it was enough to send Sherlock into a panic. What if John changed his mind? What if he's not actually coming? What if something happened? What if he wasn't okay to drive, and he got hurt? What if, what if, what if... So many things he found himself panicking about, he had no clue what to do.

Part of him didn't want John to come. He had perfectly fine just admiring and loving John Watson from afar, never saying a word about it, just letting his mind wander... He didn't want John to come and be disappointed at how terrible he was with relationships. Or course, who's to say that John wasn't just coming to reject him gently in that ever-so John Watson way in an attempt to make Sherlock understand he wasn't interested without breaking his heart? Oh, God, that's probably what he's doing. That has to be it. Sherlock considered texting John and telling him to just forget about it and just go straight back home, but for some reason, his fingers wouldn't work, and he was too frozen to move.

On the other hand, the other half of him yearned for John Watson to come. He tried to convince himself that he was okay with loving him in secret, but then reality would set in, and he would know that he wasn't okay with it. He loved the small touches and smiles and laughs that were all reserved for him. He loved every part of John Watson, and he didn't want to be by himself. He was good at being alone, he loved being alone, it protected him, but... He hated it. He didn't want to be undeserving of love, he wanted to feel everything that everyone else felt, he wanted to feel loved and cared about and protected. He wanted to wake up in someone's arms every morning, be cradled and cuddled and kissed softly on lazy mornings, or held tightly when everything became too much and even his own head was too dangerous to be in.

He wanted John Watson to be there.

He wanted to convince himself that what he wanted was a possibility, but the sheer context of it was alien. Remember what happened last time. Don't get your hopes up.

There was a sudden rustling against the side of the house, which made the startled dancer jump to his feet. He stared at the window in horror, and even when the familiar sand colored hair came into view, he felt no better. John Watson came through the window with a frustrated grunt as he stumbled through the opening and landed gracelessly on the floor. Sherlock's heart stopped. He came. He thought. He actually came.

When the rugby captain picked himself up, he took in the sight of Sherlock cowering not too far away, and bit at his lip nervously. He was still wearing the same cloths he had been than morning when he left, although Sherlock could smell the alcohol on him. But, John didn't appear to be drunk at all, he didn't even appear to be tipsy. He had said that he had lied about being drunk, but why do that?

John took a careful step toward him. "What are you standing all the way over there for?" He asked softly, coaxing him forward.

Resisting the urge to run and tackle him to the ground and never let go, Sherlock took a hesitant step forward and dropped his eyes to the ground. "You... You came." He commented, feeling stupid for saying it.

"I told you I was coming."

You shouldn't have.

He felt John get closer to him, and suddenly, there was a hand stroking at his cheek, and he looked up again to meet the blonde's gaze, his vision already blurry. It was things like that that made him want to drop to his knees and beg him to never leave. Seeing the tears immediately, John used his thumb to wipe a tear away while he watched him with concerned eyes. "Oh, Sherlock..." He breathed, the pure sound of it sweeter than the sound of wind through the trees. "Come here, sit down."

Sherlock let himself be pulled down to the bed. He noticed how John sat closer to the window than Sherlock had, which couldn't have been coincidence. He knew John was watching him, but he couldn't meet his gaze. "I'm sorry, John." It sounded pathetic, but it was all that he could think of to say.

"Don't apologize. Just look at me for a second, okay?"

Here it comes. The dancer felt his heart clinch. He couldn't decipher John's tone, but no one has ever said that to him in a good way. He swallowed hard against a lump that rose in his throat. Don't you dare start crying. Not in front of John Watson. Sherlock looked up at the rugby captain that sat beside him, already bracing himself for what was to come.

John reached out, like he wanted to touch Sherlock, but pulled away quickly. "Sherlock... I need to know something. What you said to me, did you mean it? Is that really what you want?" His voice was so soft, so gentle, it made it so much harder to answer. "Did you mean it, Sherlock?"

No point in lying.

"Yes."

"All of it?"

"All of it."

You should have lied.

"Sherlock?"

Here it comes.

"Sherlock, look at me."

The dancer obeyed, locking his eyes with John's, and he was surprised to see them full of excitement, when he had originally expected disgust. A smile broke out across his face, a kind smile, one that Sherlock had seen so very often, one that made him melt in an instant. "Sherlock, if you're telling the truth, and you meant everything you just said, I'd like to do something. I'm absolutely terrible with things like this, but... I want to try something."

He got closer to the dancer, making his eyes go wide. "J-John?" He stuttered breathlessly.

"If this makes you uncomfortable, just tell me. That's all you have to do, if you want me to stop."

Sherlock's breathing had long stopped by then as he realized what John was going to do. "I... I'm fine." He whispered.

With a reassuring smile that calmed the panic in him, John leaned forward, slowly, almost agonizingly slow, but allowing Sherlock to collect his thoughts and get a grip on what was going on. The dancer's heart was pounding loudly and almost painfully against his rib cage as John got closer and closer to him, but, just as he thought his body would involuntarily made him pull away, the rugby captain's hand came up and placed itself on Sherlock's cheek, and just like that, everything stopped.

Their lips touched, and although the touch was light, it sent sparks and fire through every fibre, ever atom of Sherlock's body. His head began spinning, and stars exploded being his eyelids. It was magical, every last second of it. It wasn't like kissing Sebastian had been, which was rough and loveless. This was so much different, this was soft and warm, but it was like, for a moment, he was the center of John's world.

John pulled away, and his eyes immediately began searching the dancer's face. "Was that okay?" He asked softly.

Sherlock nodded.

He smiled. "May I do it again?"

"P-please."

John complied, pressing his lips to Sherlock's once again, not as lightly as before, but with just as much feeling, making the dancer go lightheaded again. He was kissing John Watson. John Watson was kissing him. It was beautiful, it was enchanting, it was everything that Sherlock had ever dreamed it to be. He catalogued every detail of it; the taste of John's breath, the texture of his lips, the way he smelled, the sound of his heartbeat... All of it went into the special room in his mind palace he had saved specifically for John Watson. It was almost overwhelming, but he loved and savor end every moment of it.

Then, the kiss became a bit more than just a kiss, and soon, Sherlock was falling back onto the bed while John loomed over him, straddling his hips and tangling his fingers in the dancer's dark curls. The feeling of John's weight on top of his own was wonderful, although he wasn't a stranger to it. But, John, while obviously more dominant, wasn't trying to overpower him. The experience was making his head swim. The kiss had become more and more intense, and before long, he felt one of John's hands snake up the side of his shirt, caressing the bare skin of his torso. It was so sudden that it made him gasp, but he didn't try to stop. He wanted this.

Slowly, John pulled Sherlock's shirt over his head and discarded it onto the floor bellow. John's own t-shirt was already off, although Sherlock didn't remember him taking it off, but he found himself marveling down at the prominent muscles on his chest and torso. He was positively God-like. He gazed up at the blonde towering over him, and leaned up to kiss him, just as he began to slip his pajama bottoms off. His heart was pounding again, but with each bear, it became synced with John's own heartbeat, which was a beautiful sound. He could listen to it over and over.

Finally, the clothes were all off, and Sherlock realized he had long missed skin-on-skin contact, but he had never experienced it like this before. This was exhilarating.

Already beginning to sweat, John broke the kiss and pulled away, gazing down almost lovingly at the dancer as he stroked and caressed his face. "God, you're so beautiful." He whispered, his voice low and hoarse. "Are you nervous?"

"No." Sherlock answered immediately. And he wasn't. For once, he was happy, calm, and in a state of pure bliss. "I trust you."

John's eyes lit up, like he were praising him more, but when Sherlock tried to kiss him again, he pulled away. "Have you ever done this before?" He asked him softly.

Sherlock shook his head. Sebastian had never wanted to.

"It's going to hurt at first."

"I'm okay with pain."

John frowned at his comment, but pressed a soft kiss to his nose. "I'll go slow. Tell me if it gets to be too much." He said softly, but with his voice full of command. He leaned down and kissed Sherlock again with all of the intensity he had before as they slowly disappeared under the covered.

Everything about it was so painfully beautiful, Sherlock wanted to cry, but it also felt like nothing he had ever felt before. It had hurt at first, but John had held him and hushed him and wiped the falling tears from his eyes with gentle, cool brushed at his cheeks. But, once the pain subsided, it was the most amazing thing Sherlock had ever felt. Being so close to John, it was almost too much. There were times he had to bury his face in John's neck to keep from being too loud as he fell back into the expensive sheets, and not once did John let go of him. He felt electrified, like every nerve in his body had been set ablaze.

Sebastian Wilkes had been demanding and rough with Sherlock before, treating him as his own personal toy, then just as Sherlock began to feel love, he would jump out of bed, and run away. John was sweet and caring, obviously more experienced, but he was loving. He talked sweetly to him, whispering in the darkness of the room, calling him all sorts of beautiful things. It was new. It was beautiful. It was something Sherlock had longed for, night after night after night, and finally, here he was.

John even stayed with him that night, cradling him in his arms, just like he had before.

Chapter Text

"That's it?" 

"That's it." 

"That's literally all you're going to say?" 

"Yup." 

"You can't just say 'I slept with Sherlock' like you would say 'I went shopping yesterday', John!" 

Rugby practice was going well. It had been, ever since he got Greg off of his back for the reason he had missed the last two practices. The center had been practically blowing up John's phone, demanding to know what happened with Sherlock, if Sherlock was okay, why he stayed two nights in a row, and especially why the hell he looked so goddamn happy. He didn't think that Greg would ever believe him, so when he told the truth and Greg reacted so blankly, he couldn't help but laugh to himself. 

"John, I'm serious, did you actually sleep with him?" The center demanded again. 

The captain sighed. "Why would I lie?" 

Greg gave him a look. "So, you actually slept with him, then." 

"Would you like to see the marks?" 

"Um, absolutely not." 

"Then stop asking." 

Greg sighed and leaned back against the wall, taking a large drink from his water bottle. "Are you two... Together, then?" He asked, sounding less tense than before. 

John snorted. "I... Have absolutely no idea what we are. All I know, is that we've held hands under the table like a couple of kids, cuddled, kissed, and now we're having sex, so we're obviously something." John purposely left out the long, heartbreakingly sweet text message that Sherlock had sent him, as that was a private thing between him and Sherlock. "We have yet to actually talk about it." 

The other boy's postire changed after that, becoming tense again. "Just... Be careful with him." Greg warned. 

"Have a little faith, mate, I already know what I want, it's just a matter of getting it into words." He replied. 

Before anyone could come up with another response, the whistle was blown, and the two had to run again. John was thankful. 

_______________

John found Sherlock on the bleachers after practice with his nose buried in a book. The captain smiled happily when he saw him, and shook his head. "What are you reading?" He asked, sliding down beside him. 

The dancer's mouth twitched up into a smirk, but he didn't look. "A book." 

"No way." 

Sherlock giggled, and he closed the book before turning and angling his body toward John. "Just because you play rugby does not mean I find the sport interesting whatsoever." He admitted honestly. 

"You wound me." John snickered before leaning over and pressing a soft kiss to the dancer's lips. Unlike before, Sherlock was perfectly relaxed. He seemed more comfortable with John now, and it was a wonderful feeling. He could hear the tiny gasps and the rest of his team talking about what was happening, but John couldn't have cared less. 

When they pulled away, Sherlock's eyes flickered to something over John's shoulder. "Your team is staring." He commented. 

The blonde shrugged. "Let them. They know I'm a bit of a show off anyway." 

Sherlock backed away, giving John an uncertain look. "You're showing me off?" He asked, sounding so hopelessly confused and adorable that John's heart nearly melted at the sound of it. 

He wrapped both of his arms around the slender ballet dancer, holding him close. "I have a cute potential boyfriend, why wouldn't I want to show him off?" 

"Boyfriend?" Sherlock squeaked, pulling away quickly. 

John felt his face turn bright red. "I was going to ask you on the night of formal, but, I decided last night that I didn't want to wait any longer." He rubbed at the back of his neck apprehensively. "So... Yeah. Do you? What to be my boyfriend, I mean."

Sherlock's face was a mix between fear, confusion, excitement and uncertainty as he appeared to maul over John's question. He didn't move, or even appear to breathe for quite a few seconds, causing John's heart to begin to pound. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it again. Sherlock looked down, suddenly looking overwhelmed, and jumped to his feet before running off.

"Sherlock!" John called after him, getting to his feet as well. What did I do? He asked himself, deciding to follow him. He didn't run, although he already knew exactly where Sherlock was going. He just wanted to think. He walked along the street, kicking at rocks, clearing his thoughts... Trying to make sense of what had happened. Maybe he had been too overbearing. Maybe he had moved too quickly. He had known from the start that Sherlock didn't take these sorts of things well, as relationships weren't his strong suit. But, he had seemed perfectly okay before, and especially after the night they had just had together (and God, what a beautiful night it had been), but the moment John tried to make it more than that, he had freaked out.

The night before, after their breathing had gone down immensely, they were all cleaned up and they were just laying in bed, Sherlock told John everything that had happened with Sebastian Wilkes. It had startled John at first, he hadn't expected Sherlock to bring it up. He told the captain about every night that Sebastian had come barging through Sherlock's window, every lust filled night under the covers, every time Sebastian would hit him if he made too much noise... Everything terrible that had ever happened between them. By the time Sherlock was finished talking, he had been practically in tears, and John had hugged him, held him close and told him that he would never do anything like that to him. Sherlock had appeared to believe him.

John sighed, and stopped right outside the ballet studio doors, unsure whether or not to go in. He knew Sherlock was there, so he knew that he had to go in, but he prepared himself for whatever Sherlock was going to give, whether it be rejection or just insecurity, he prepared himself. This is about Sherlock. He reminded himself. Then, he took a deep breath, and opened the door.

He found Sherlock easily, he was in his favorite studio, the one where he and Molly practiced all of the time on their own. The dancer was sitting on the floor by the barre, picking absentmindedly at his black jeans, his expression hard, just like it always was when he concentrated too hard, or thought too much. The rugby captain sighed and approached him slowly, not wanting to scare him away. He sat down on the floor, keeping his distance, but sitting close enough to him so that he could reach out and touch him, should Sherlock let him.

"How did you know that I would come here?" Sherlock asked flatly.

John shrugged. "I know that this is a safe place for you. It was my first choice." He answered in the same tone.

Sherlock didn't answer.

"Look, if you want me to leave, I will. I just wanted to make sure you're okay."

The dancer didn't move. "You can stay, if you want." He whispered, not looking up.

John sighed, partially relieved, but still not one hundred percent sure how to proceed. "I'm sorry if I was... Too forward with what I asked you. I just... I think we've been doing this whole thing wrong," Sherlock visibly flinched at the word, and John kicked himself mentally. "I think we'be been doing this backwards." He corrected. "Not that that's a bad thing, but... I care about you a lot, and I don't want you to think that I'm going to be like Sebastian Wilkes. I should have probably asked you first, before we... Well, did what we did, but either way, I really like you, Sherlock." He admitted. The weight of the confession coming off his chest made him feel so much lighter, almost weightless. But, it all came crumbling down again, and he suddenly felt worse. "If that's not what you want, Sherlock, I won't hold it against you. I want you to-"

"I don't want you to leave." Sherlock said suddenly, his tone quiet and broken, and just as weak as it had been that first day when John found him in his room after the Molly incident.

His words took John by surprise. "Leave? I'm not going to leave, Sherlock." He slid closer to the dancer, taking his hand. "Why do you think that I'm going to leave?"

Sherlock looked up, but didn't look directly at John, rather past him, like he was ashamed to meet his eyes. "You're joining the military, John." He rasped, his voice breaking. "You're joining the army as a doctor, and you're going to have to out right to the front lines, and I..." The dancer swallowed hard, and when he looked up again, his eyes were glistening with tears. "You're going to be out there in Irag or Afghanistan or wherever they send you, and you're going to be in danger every single day. You'll be gone every single day, and I'll only get letters and phone calls, and every single day, I'll worry that I'll get a call saying you're missing or dead, or God knows what." His voice was becoming higher now, borderline hysterica, and it was not at all what John had expected.

"Sherlock..." He tried.

"You could die, John!" The dancer shouted, although his voice was weak. "You could get shot and killed, or something so much worse, and I'll be stuck here, alone, worrying about you every single day. I can't do that, John, you're the only person in my life that I-"

"Sherlock, stop." John ordered, his voice one level shy of his captain voice. He recognized the signs immediately; the stuttering, the increased breathing rate, the shaking of his hands, he knew that Sherlock was on the verge of having a panic attack, and he had to stop him. Quickly, he wrapped his arms around the dancer and pulled him closer until he was able to gather him in his lap. He held him tightly, rocking him slowly back and forth while Sherlock gripped the sleeve of his rugby uniform tightly. His body was trembling horribly, which made it worse. John kissed the top of his head, then buried his face in his hair. "You're hyperventilating, love, you need to stop, or else you'll pass out." He whispered to him, not even caring about what he had just said.

The dancer gripped at his arm life a lifeline. "I don't want you to leave, John." His voice shook.

John only held him tighter. "Sherlock, I need you to calm down. You're breathing too fast, and I can hear your heart beating from here. We're going to talk about this, but first, I need you to relax. Okay?" He said, continuing to rock back and forth, listening to the sound of the dancer's heart beginning to settle.

Once Sherlock had calmed down enough, he crawled out of John's lap, but sat crosslegged in front of him, gripping the captain's hands tightly within his own. He was silent for the first few minutes, but it didn't bother John. Finally, he took a deep, shaking breath. "I'm sorry about that."

"Don't apologize." John replied, giving him a smile. "Look, Sherlock, about the army... I'm not going right away. I'm going to complete medical school first. I'm going to train at Bart's, then... We'll go from there. The military is paying for it, but I still have to wait. It's not like I'm going to be shipped off somewhere right away. And who knows, maybe, I'll just work at the hospital. I might not even-"

"But, you could still get killed, John." He protested, then angrily wiped a year from his cheek.

"You don't know that, Sherlock."

"Neither do you!"

John pulled away, taking a deep breath. He hadn't planned on this. He didn't know what to do. "Sherlock... I know that you're scared, but this is one of those things I'm going to need you to trust me on, okay?" He reached out and caressed the dancer's face, simultaneously wiping another tear away. Sherlock's eyes were illuminated blue-green, and it took John a minute to remember how to breathe. He could never imagine leaving that boy behind. War or not, he'd still come home to Sherlock, without a doubt. He pulled him down for a kiss, and held him there for a moment, just marveling at him. Even when he pulled away, he just trailed his thumb over the dancer's prominant, and frankly beautiful cheekbone, unable to keep the smile off of his face. "That's why you ran away, isn't it?" He asked gently.

He nodded. "I was going to say yes, but then I remembered boot camp, and I knew you were going to leave, and I panicked because I can't stand the idea of you leaving and never coming back, and I didn't want to listen to my brother."

"What did your brother say?"

Sherlock sighed. "He always told me to never get attached."

John bit at his lip. "Why?"

"Caring is not an advantage. He always told me that all of it, love, sentiment, it's a disadvantage. If you feel nothing, you'll lose nothing. But, I don't want to lose you, and the idea of you going away..." His voice trailed off.

John's heart fell to his stomach. He cursed Mycroft Holmes, secretly wanting to punch him as hard as he had punched Sebastian, but that wouldn't have ended well, so, instead, he reached out tentatively and brushed his fingers over the dancer's cheek. "No matter where they sent me, I'd never be able to leave you for too long."

Sherlock sighed, fighting off the smile that was pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Even if you had a choice, you'd-"

"Stop." John silenced him with another kiss, then pushed him away, just to lock eyes with him. He needed Sherlock to hear him and know he was sincere. "We still have years before that even happens, so I need you to listen. Ignore the military thing, pretend it isn't happening. Would you still want to continue this?"

The dancer nodded quickly. "John, I've always wanted it. I didn't know what to say before, becuase I didn't know what you wanted, but yes."

John felt the warmth spread all over his chest. "So, if I asked you to be my boyfriend again, you'd say yes?"

"As many times as it took you you to believe me."

"I already believe you, Sherlock." He replied, pulling the dancer in for a tight hug. It was an awkward position, but neither seemed to care.

The two lie back on the cold floor of dance studio, Sherlock resting his head on John's chest, their hearts beating as one instead of separate, empty spaces. They didn't speak, and only the sounds of their own breathing made any sort of noise in the dimly lit room. John was tracing patterns into Sherlock's arm with his fingertips, occasionally making the dancer sigh, and every time he did, it was a beautiful sound. They were, in that moment, as happy as it was possible to be.

"You know, if we get caught in here, we'll get in trouble." John finally said, breaking the silence. 

Sherlock snickered. "I wouldn't." 

John rolled his eyes. "Yeah, yeah, I forgot, you're special." He teased. 

The dancer laughed, then buried himself deeper into his boyfriend's chest. "John?" His voice was barely above a whisper.

"Yeah?"

"Can we go to uni together?" 

John smiled. "I'd love to. We can go to uni together, we'll get a flat, you can go for ballet, I'll be a doctor, it'll be perfect. We can do all of it." He said cheerfully, gazing down at his boyfriend a loving smile. 

Sherlock's face turned red, and he looled away. "You won't get sick of me?" 

"Nah. You're too fun." 

Sherlock pulled away and propped himself up on his elbows in order to watch John intently. "I'm serious, though, John. Are you sure you won't get sick of this?" 

John shook his head, and pulled the dancer in his arms once again. "Unles you order me away, I'm not going anywhere." 

Chapter Text

~Eight Years Later~

The stage felt ice cold under Sherlock's legs as he stretched out his muscles, breathing evenly and keeping himself levelheaded. He could hear the rumble of the other dancers muttering softly to themselves, as well as the dull roar of the audience behind the curtain. For once, the hum of conversation eased the anxiety that bubbled in his belly, allowing him to breathe. He needed to relax.

"Still stretching?" Came Molly's hushed voice from above him.

He gave her a strange look. "Of course." He replied, as if it were obviously.

The brunette rolled her eyes. "I can't believe that people actually think you aren't a perfectionist." She teased him, sitting down in front of him with her legs crossed, although she held her elbows on the floor.

After Molly's broken leg healed and she returned to ballet, she and Sherlock went right back to where they had been before, practicing and dancing every day, working up Molly's strength, and preparing for the scouts from Royal Ballet Academy that were coming to the final performance of the year. After a spectacular performance, they became the only two from their studio to receive the scholarships, and they had jumped at the opportunity. They were arguably the best two dancers in the academy, especially with each other, and had been made principle dancers without hesitation. They were still great partners, and best friends. In fact, they only lived about a street from each other.

"You know, if I didn't know better, Mr. Holmes, I'd say you were nervous." The brunette teased him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Nonsense, I'm perfectly fine. But, thank you for your heartfelt concern, Mrs. Lestrade. Tell me, will your husband be gracing us with his presence tonight?"

Molly laughed. "He never misses a show."

He tried to laugh with her, but it was cut short, and he suddenly felt sad again as he bit at his lip anxiously.

His partner seemed to see how his face changed, and she reached out to squeeze his hand comfortingly. "Hey." She murmured, making him look up at her again. Molly locked eyes with him, and gave him a reassuring smile. "He'll be here, Sherlock. I promise."

Sherlock swallowed the lump that rose in his throat. He had been waiting for this night for almost ten months now. It was the night of his and John's anniversary, and John promised that he would be at the show. He had requested leave, but it wasn't always guaranteed. John had promised, but of course, he knew it was stupid to get his hopes up. Even for John.

"Hey, you better get out there, it's time." The stage manager, a young American woman with wavy ginger hair, whispered over to the dancer.

Sherlock got up and pulled Molly to her feet. "Thank you, Emily." He began to pull Molly out by the curtain, getting into position just as the music began.

_______________

The show was amazing. It was flawless in every way, just like they had practiced for months, and everything went perfectly. Molly was exquisite, as she always was, and for once, Sherlock had nothing bad to say about anything. Maybe it was still the all time high from the fact that John was out in the audience (hopefully), or maybe it was the adrenaline from the ballet, or maybe he was just happy in general, but for whatever the reason, he left the stage, smiling.

Molly had already left to find Greg, and he knew that most everyone was out in the the hallways, which would make it claustrophobic and difficult to find John, so he took his time getting cleaned up and re-dressed, wanting to look his best. Sherlock's hands were still shaking as he gathered his things, shoving them in his bag, although he kept his costumes in their bag. He was nervous, he was excited, he was the happiest he had been all night.

He took a step out of the dressing room and looked out at the mostly empty hallways, and began searching for John. He was tall, so he didn't think it could be that hard. But, even searching through the crowds for ten minutes, he couldn't find the army doctor anywhere. He told himself not to get discouraged, but, it was hard. He told himself before that it was stupid to get his hopes up. It's not John's fault.

Suddenly, his phone began to ring, and he pulled it out of his pocket, smiling as he saw John's number flash across his screen. He answered the call and pressed the phone to his ear. "Hello, Dr. Watson."

The voice on the other end chuckled. "Hi there, love. How'd the performance go?"

Sherlock bit at his lip. "It... Was actually great. It was really great." He murmured, trying not to sound too disappointed that John wasn't there to see. It wasn't his fault after all. "We were really good."

"Of course it was, you're a fantastic dancer, so it'll always be perfect with you in it." John replied, an obvious attempt at making his boyfriend feel better.

The dancer sighed. "Shut up."

John laughed. "I can practically hear the eye-roll."

Sherlock ignored the comment, fighting the urge to scoff. "Where are you?"

"Look to your left."

Sherlock's heart stopped in his chest, and he whipped around, only to find John Watson standing next to Greg and Molly by the auditorium doors, still dressed in his army fatigues, a bit dusty and tired looking, but smiling bright enough to light up a room. He just got back. Sherlock realized. It took him it took him all of three seconds to drop everything he was holding and launch himself across the hallway to throw himself into the waiting arms of John Watson. The soldier smelled of sand and sun, but it was still John. It was still John.

Despite being shorter, John easily lifted Sherlock off of the ground while they hugged, laughing quietly in his boyfriend's ear. "I told you I'd be here." He whispered.

"I love you." Sherlock shot back, already kissing the man passionately, not giving a damn who saw. "God, I love you."

John pressed a kiss to his temple. "I love you too, Sherlock. You big idiot." He wrapped his arms around his boyfriend once again, holding him close to his chest, not wiling to let go.

Sherlock's throat began to tighten. It was still hard, even after eight years, to describe how much John had impacted his life. For most of it, he was that weird dancer kid who talked too fast and too much, and was an easy target for bullying. After a few months into their official relationship, Sherlock tried to change himself to be more like a normal person, hoping it would make John want to stay with him longer, but the moment John had figured it out, he told him something that he repeated in his head every single day; 'You're that one person wearing yellow in a sea of people wearing grey, and my favorite color happens to be yellow.' It was a horrible analogy, as Sherlock actually despised yellow, but it was so utterly loving and so utterly John, that he stored it in a special place in his mind palace, and repeated every day while John was gone, just to remind himself that he was loved.

That was why the night was so special. After months without him, feeling John's arms around him, seeing him smile, hearing him laugh and say I love you, it was all like falling in love again, and Sherlock would have done it a thousand times if it were John Watson coming home to him every time.