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“Do you see the tennis court?” Sherlock whispers, leaning towards John as he does so, his breath hot on John’s ear.
John only nods, too accustomed to Sherlock’s bold invasion of personal space to react more than a shiver.
Sherlock tsks, taking John’s hand in his and looking to the center of the room, where many couples are swaying, hand in hand, to whatever waltz music the pianist is playing. It was Greg who suggested that John and Sherlock attend the event together, insistent that Sherlock be on the property of the lead suspect. John had been forced along to keep Sherlock in check, though that’s not how Greg had phrased it.
Following Sherlock’s insistent gaze, John allows himself to be pulled over to the dance floor, barely resisting the urge to walk back to the bar when Sherlock rests his hands behind John’s back. “The tennis court is covered,” Sherlock whispers in John’s ear, “Put your hands on my waist.”
John scoffs lightly but obeys, leaning his head against Sherlock’s shoulder to whisper back his response. “Does the tennis court matter?” John asks, “Don’t you know we look like lovers?”
Sherlock nods, disguising it by swaying in time to the music, forcing John to do the same for fear of looking unnatural.
“Is that a yes to both?” John asks, louder this time, but not by much. Sherlock only nods in response, and John rolls his eyes, asking yet another question. “Is this one of those little tricks you do to irritate me? Are you really that irked that I had to come with you?” John’s voice is growing louder, attracting attention, causing Sherlock to dignify him a response.
“I’m only irked that you won’t properly dance with me, John,” Sherlock replies, his voice softer and sweeter than usual, drawing John closer into his arms.
John scoffs again, louder, drawing back. “I’m not putting up with-”
John is quickly cut off by the insistent pressure of Sherlock’s lips on his, a movement that John desperately tries not to jump away from in surprise, curious about the real action that has haunted his dreams for the past months. It’s surprisingly soft, not cutting or blunt like the rest of Sherlock, instead a warm, almost caring impression, one that doesn’t frustrate John at all, one that John quite likes.
Sherlock slowly parts his lips from John, leaning his head into John’s collarbone, inhaling slowly before whispering softly, his breath moving the hairs on John’s neck.
“They already assumed we were lovers. Our argument will be overlooked as a lover’s quarrel. A reminder that we’re not to draw attention, yes?”
Sherlock’s words still John, his swaying stuttering as he wraps his head around the cruelty of it all. Sherlock was not soft like their kiss, he was sharp like the reminder that this was not real. Even sharper was the implication that they would be lovers for the rest of the event, and then go back to John and Sherlock soon after, bound to their friendship and nothing more.
John nods, pasting a smile on his face that Sherlock won’t believe for one second. “Well, you’ve certainly got some tricks up your sleeve, haven’t you, love?” John’s tone is sharp, contrary to his features, and he hopes Sherlock cuts himself on the sharpness of ‘love’ in particular, as it was his fault they were in this predicament.
Sherlock stills for a moment, at John’s words or something else, and then someone’s danced into him, sending him tumbling towards John. Sherlock grunts as he uses John to push himself back to his feet, and for a moment John wonders if Sherlock is drunk based on the poor balance the man displays, but then Sherlock is laughing with the couple who has just bumped into them and John understands.
“Oh, no need to apologize,” Sherlock insists, waving his hand in dismissal before wrapping an arm around John. “My husband and I were just stopping for a moment after I got awfully dizzy. Really, our fault to stop moving in the middle of a dance floor!”
John’s eyebrows furrow before he catches Sherlock’s meaning, the intention behind all of this friendly conversation: for whatever reason, Sherlock needed something from these people, and wasn’t it John’s job to help Sherlock, however insane?
“Right, love, we should continue this chat off the dance floor to keep from another fall,” John says, Sherlock’s eyes snapping to meet his in some sort of signal that John couldn’t even get close to understanding.
“Oh, yes, a good idea,” the woman Sherlock had bumped into agrees, “My husband’s got nasty fainting spells and, ouch, I’d hate for yours to have one in the middle of this floor!”
Sherlock furrows his eyebrows but says nothing, allowing John to escort him off to the sidebar. They take a seat and it’s as if a switch has flipped inside Sherlock: his mouth curves into a soft smile as he leans into John as if to give him a lover’s thank you, stopping just short of John’s neck. “This party’s quite strange, don’t you think? Well off couples, based on the attire of the woman we just bumped into, yet none of them are aristocratically raised. Lack of formal apology, sloppy footwork, informal language in conversation, as if she were talking to a child,” Sherlock whispers, and John can practically feel the words on his skin.
John nods slowly, his brain still trying to process the physical words leaving Sherlock’s mouth, their meanings lost on his oxytocin-addled brain. He slowly slides a hand up Sherlock’s leg, resting it on the inside of his thigh before responding, his method of proving that two can play this game. “We’re here to mingle, aren’t we? Why don’t you and I have some proper conversation rather than this, which we already do quite often at home,” John remarks, loud enough for others to hear, hopefully embarrassing Sherlock.
Sherlock presses a hot kiss to John’s neck, heat flaring up in John’s cheeks, and John fears he may have only embarrassed himself.
— — — — — —
Sherlock, for once in his life, listens to John’s suggestion and mingles, no doubt deducing countless things about each person they talk to, but somehow remaining civil throughout all of it. He charms them, tilts his head, leans into John with affection, and sells the idea that he’s normal, that he’s trustworthy, and every one of them falls for it.
John worries for a moment that he’s fallen for it, all of Sherlock’s tricks, the little touches, the press of his lips during a façade for a case, but he knows he hasn’t, and maybe that’s worse. Maybe it’s worse that John’s fallen for the real Sherlock, the annoying, brilliant, cruel, daring detective, the one that John never gets to touch, condemned to hold fake Sherlock’s hand for the rest of the night and pretend to be lovers.
Maybe that’s why, all of a sudden, John wants to leave.
“Sherlock,” John asks, having pulled him away from the crowd, “Did you get it yet? I’ve got to get home.”
Sherlock only clicks his tongue, eyes darting from person to person, mentally tying them all together. After a moment, his eyes widen and a smile grows across his face, telling John he’s got it, he’s figured it all out.
John isn’t surprised when Sherlock reaches for his hand, pulling him away somewhere to share all his deductions; John is surprised when that place is the men’s restroom, Sherlock pacing as if it doesn’t bother him that the entire room smells worse than their experiment-riddled fridge.
“It’s a fake tennis court, that’s why it’s always covered! That, or it is in mass disarray, as they are not using the court cleaning chemicals on the court,” Sherlock rambles, “They’re using them on the husbands, John!”
John blinks rapidly, drawing himself back into Sherlock’s explanation, squinting. “What do you mean? They’re poisoning the husbands? Why?”
Sherlock rolls his eyes at John like it’s obvious, and maybe for him it is, with the way he goes on talking about all of it. “The manners of the woman are that of a normal social class, not one with the luxury and riches that the men of the party have. However, many of them have been remarried, some multiple times, and with each time, they grow richer and it becomes easier for them to entice rich men into marriage. It’s all a money play, perhaps to secure their children a future, though only one of the women here has children of her own.” Sherlock states it all as if he heard them confess it all to him, as if every detail was completely true, which it likely was.
“So the women use the chemicals that they look normal buying for a tennis court, slowly poison their husbands, inherit the money, and then do it all again?” John questions, “How have none of them been caught?”
“Don’t you see?” Sherlock practically shouts, rubbing his temples, “The women all work together. They haven’t been caught because they’re all in on it, and because they hadn’t met me yet.”
John laughs, staring at Sherlock for only a minute before Sherlock lets out a laugh too, reaching for his mobile. He dials Lestrade, blue and red lights flashing outside the venue only a few minutes later.
— — — — — —
The post case adrenaline has caught up with Sherlock, practically shoving John into the passenger’s side of the rental car they took to the venue, both laughing so hard they could barely breathe, John at least having the decency to pretend he wasn’t. The thud of the car door closing, creating an isolated space for just John and Sherlock, makes them both quiet, aware of the air they share.
Sherlock doesn’t start the car, but rather looks at John, really looks, as if he’s only got once chance to take it all in. John wants to curl in on himself, he always does when Sherlock deduces him, naïve enough to believe that his thoughts are really his and that Sherlock should not be able to read them.
“Why did you lie about needing to leave?” It’s an innocent question, but the way Sherlock asks means he already knows the answer, he always knows the answer, is always seven steps ahead of John, yet is so completely unaware of the consequences of anything he does.
It’s sudden, like a spark, the rage that lights up inside of John, making him tighten his jaw before loosening it to speak, spilling it all out for Sherlock because he probably knew it all anyway, asking the question just to piss John off. “You don’t get it, do you? I’m not going to tell you, I’m not, because I can’t take this anymore. You shouldn’t be allowed to just read people’s minds like that, to know when they’re lying, because it’s none of your fucking business, now is it? Sherlock, this is your last warning, do not deduce me.”
Sherlock stares at John for a few moments, his brilliant mind processing all the anger and hurt in John’s voice before his own eyes soften, looking away from John. He seems to have curled in on himself without moving at all, and then John does something he never imagined he’d be able to do.
“You don’t want me to leave,” John deduces, “You don’t want to be alone.”
Sherlock nods softly, perhaps the only time he’s ever been gentle with an answer, no sharpness to his response in any way.
John's breath hitches in his throat and he has to fight the urge to pull Sherlock in for a hug. He knows Sherlock wouldn't accept it, but the thought lingers, tempting him. “You want me to stay with you?”
Sherlock nods, his lips twitching in a faint smile. “I’m afraid so. I’ve grown accustomed to having you around,” he admits, his voice barely above a whisper.
“So what makes right now different? Why do you want me to stay right now?”
John's words hang in the air, and for a moment, the two of them just stare at each other, both of them aware of the truth, but neither of them willing to say it. Sherlock finally breaks the silence, his voice a whisper. "I believe this is the first time I've struggled to find words," he stutters out after a moment, his eyebrows furrowing in like it’s all wrong, like he’s broken for being speechless, and maybe the doubt in Sherlock’s eyes is what draws John in.
His lips against Sherlock’s, brief but sweet, wordlessly telling Sherlock that it’s alright, that he’s not alone, and for a second, John thinks Sherlock understands; then Sherlock pulls away and John’s chest feels hollow again, the consequences of what he’s just done hitting him all at once.
The two of them sit in stunned silence, neither making eye contact with the other, weighted down with the pressure of changing such a deep friendship. It’s John who breaks the silence, shaking his head, muttering, “I shouldn’t have done that, I’m sorry, God, Sherlock.”
Sherlock’s eyes dart back and forth for a moment, his mouth moving but no sound emerging; eventually he stills, his mouth hanging open and his eyes fixed on John. It’s an expression John’s never seen before, and God if that doesn’t scare the shit out of him, but God he can’t wait to find out.
A hand grows warm on the back of John’s neck and the moment he spends wondering how it got there means Sherlock’s lips take him by surprise, drowning John in their depths. It’s softer than earlier, different, and John realizes that this is Sherlock, this is not a façade. It’s sweet and deep and John’s head spins with how long he’s wondered what Sherlock kisses like, and this is it, really it; John never wants to let go.
Sherlock pulls back suddenly, his hands fisting in his curls, his breathing shaking. “Fuck, John, I’ve ruined this, you said you shouldn’t have, you said you were sorry and I went and did it again, fuck,” Sherlock babbles, John shaking his head, reaching out to Sherlock.
John takes Sherlock's hand, squeezing it gently, his voice softer than their kiss. "Let's go home.”
Sherlock starts the car and they drive back to Baker Street in comfortable silence, John’s hand resting in Sherlock’s like a promise, speaking words neither had to say.
And if John moves his pillow down to Sherlock’s bed that night, it’s a welcome change.