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Jul. 3rd, 2011 | 05:04 am
Fanart or Fanfic: Fanfic
Characters: Sherlock & John (in an implied relationship/pre-slash. I've been told it could be seen as either)
Word Count: 1, 593
Summary: AU set in uni :D Sherlock is nervous. John is amused and really, probably, just wants an excuse to dance.
Author's Notes: Written for sherlock100. Cross posted~
Disclaimer: Sherlock is ACD's & Sherlock BBC is the lovechild of Godtiss & The Moff.
Link to el table
John watched Sherlock tapping his foot, while counting the beat in his mind, while humming some song, while reading one of his required medical journals from last year. Well, trying to would be a better phrase. Sherlock was more concentrated with his foot tapping and beat counting. John was biting the inside of his lower lip. Really, this was too amusing.
He threw his textbook on the bed (Sherlock's. It was lumpy and uncomfortable, meaning he had a smaller chance of falling asleep there). The human anatomy can surely stand one night without him attempting to memorize every muscle in the limbs, in time for Friday's test. There were more pressing matters at hand.
"You'll be fine Sherlock," he assured, leaning forward, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, as he studied the boy across him. Sherlock preferred studying on John's bed (where it was still sturdy and the sheets never smelled like burnt chemicals. John had given up telling Sherlock to stop conducting experiments on his bed). Right now, he was sprawled all over it, with the exception of his right leg, which was dangling off and was long enough for his foot to reach the floor.
One two three— one two three— one two three spin—
"Shut up; your thinking is annoying," John said jokingly, quoting Sherlock. Instead of matching his cheeky grin, Sherlock looked up, frowning at him. Genuine hurt and anxiety clouded eyes, normally sharp with clarity.
Yeah, all right. He felt bad now. Damn it. John closed his eyes and took a deep breathe. Personally, he couldn't understand why this was a big deal for Sherlock, but, apparently, it was. Something about family and not disappointing mummy. Okay.
When he opened his eyes, Sherlock had gone back to ignoring him. This time he was curled on his side, Sherlock’s back facing him. His leg had been brought up, his foot tapping the bed rest instead. John sighed and stood up, poking Sherlock right between his shoulder blades. Sherlock hummed louder.
"No, c'mon. Seriously." John stopped poking him in the back, to poke his neck. A tickle spot and it always got Sherlock giggling, even when he was in a huff. Sherlock twitched, crushing John's finger as he bent his head back to glare at John. Well, as close to glaring as Sherlock can get while trying to stop himself from giggling. John wiggled his finger.
"S- stop it, John," Sherlock snapped (sort of). John complied and pulled back his finger, grinning big enough for the both of them. "How can I take this seriously when you droop to such tactics?"
John raised an eyebrow at that. Perhaps if Sherlock sulked less often, he would. Anyway, not the point right now. He held out his hand. "Dance with me," he offered instead.
Sherlock frowned at the hand stretched out to him. John motioned with his fingers for Sherlock to get up. When Sherlock didn't react, John contemplated withdrawing his hand, thinking he got it wrong. Before he could, Sherlock finally reached out and curled his fingers around John's. John hauled him up and they stumbled in the middle of the room, sandwiched in between their beds. John huffed as he nearly tripped but Sherlock was smiling, so that was all right.
Given how small their room was, and how the combination of the furniture and their things, made it smaller, John and Sherlock were pressed against each other, chest to chest. John breathed out and Sherlock breathed in.
"Bit cramped for a dance floor," Sherlock commented quietly. His smile, small as it was, was still lighting up his entire face. "Not that I mind--"
"'s all right. I get what you mean." He shook his hand, signaling Sherlock to let go. "Put on your shoes. I know where we can go."
John led the way, his fingers around Sherlock's, as they headed outside the dormitory. Curfew had started an hour ago but there was a door at the back that their head thought remained locked. (To be fair, before Sherlock, it had been— not that the other boys needed to know.) Right outside was a small patch of land, originally intended to be a study area. It was empty now, their only source of light coming from a lamp post situated across the building.
They settled themselves in position, facing each other, hands held already. The light from the lamp post fell mostly on Sherlock, casting light from the mop of his hair until the tips of his shoulders. John was unsure whether to settle his other hand on Sherlock's shoulder or on his waist, but Sherlock settled that for him by placing his own hand on John's waist.
"No, it's not because you're shorter," Sherlock answered John's unasked joke, his smile stretching into a smirk. He had his voice lowered; they had to be quiet, if they wanted to avoid attention. John laughed, softly. He rested his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, squeezing him once.
"Ready," he mouthed. Sherlock tightened his grip on John's waist and started humming, low and soothing.
One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two three spin. One, two, three. One, two, three. One, two, three spin, spin. One, two, three— It wasn't hard to catch up. John couldn't understand what Sherlock was nervous about.
"It's my cousin’s prom," Sherlock supplied the answer. His scrunched up nose told John exactly what he thought about the event. "Mummy wants me to be good to her, give her a corset, a proper dance. I told her and Auntie that my presence would have no effect on her; she'd still end up sleeping with someone there, but that didn't sit well with Auntie. Only made her more adamant that I be her date."
"Why didn't they ask Mycroft to be her date, then?" John had only met Mycroft a handful of times (handful, meaning once). From those meetings alone, John's managed to figure out that the elder Holmes brother was not a man to cross.
"He has the excuse of being employed and fat," Sherlock replied and they both snickered, and then laughed, bodies shaking as they suppressed their volume. John in particular had to cover Sherlock's mouth with his hand, just to muffle his laughter. When Sherlock finished, John returned his hand on Sherlock's shoulder.
"I remember my first prom," John replied. "God— looking back, it should have been terribly awkward. I asked Clara and she agreed on the condition that I introduce her to Harry. Should have realized something was up when I tried to kiss her good night and she asked me for Harry’s number."
"Did you also end up being led when you danced?" Sherlock asked, and it's teasing, so John shouldn't take offense. He doesn't, not much, but he was a good leading man. He wasn't going to let Sherlock think otherwise.
The next time John had to spin, spin, he tugged Sherlock's arm to spin him, pressed Sherlock closer and began leading. Sherlock tripped over the first few steps in confusion.
Sherlock hummed the song again and John matched their stride to his tempo. John had moved his hand from Sherlock's shoulder to his waist, tapping his fingers in time with the beat. Sherlock squirmed; ah, yeah, another tickle spot. John stopped and moved his hand to Sherlock's lower back.
"You know," he whispered. "Counting tonight, this'd be my third prom." Sherlock stopped humming, and stills. Sherlock breathed out, John breathed in.
"This-- this would be my first," Sherlock admitted, closing his eyes. It's said so quietly, John could have shrugged it off as the wind tickling his cheeks.
Oh, John thought. The implication caught up with him and remembered snippets of stories of Sherlock before he entered uni, before they were friends. Oh. John wanted to open Sherlock's head, push into the tangle of memories and delete every single thing that had been done horribly to Sherlock. He breathed out, Sherlock breathed in. He leaned up and placed a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead, and another on his lips. When he pulled back, Sherlock doesn’t say anything. He was, however, biting his lower lip and they both knew that that was him stopping himself from smiling.
"Well, then. I'm quite flattered to be your date," John said and wrapped both arms around Sherlock's neck, pressing them together. Sherlock hesitated before placing his own hands on John's hips. John rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder. He shifted to get a better look at Sherlock, who was looking back at him with a silent thank you.
They've stopped dancing and have slowed down to a steady sway, to a tuneless song. When they heard a branch cracking, they jumped and broke apart.
"Let's get you home. I promised your mum I'd get you home before midnight," John joked. Sherlock didn’t bother stifling his laughter.
Their walk back upstairs was quiet. That was, until they reached their rooms. As Sherlock reached for the doorknob, John circled his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. Sherlock paused and turned to look at John, his eyebrow raised in inquiry.
“You know,” John started. “I usually kiss my dates good night.” He leaned forward, so that Sherlock was trapped between him and the door. John trailed his other hand along Sherlock’s hair, playing his curls, before lowering them to his cheek, along his jaw and, finally, cupping his chin. Sherlock licked his lips.
"Better make it a good one. You wouldn't want my prom to end in disappointment," he answered. John laughed captured Sherlock’s lips with his own.