Dance into my heart

The evening

John is out for the day, only to come home in a terrible rage. Nothing worked because of his arms and the pain, people kept bumping into him on the tube and at the university, where he had a meeting with another doctor, about a possible part time job. On top of that, there was never anyone present to help him open heavy doors, and he wasn't able to hail a cab, forcing him to walk home, not wanting to get pushed around again.

When he's finally home, hungry and tired, Sherlock gets him to order pizza. It is delivered uncut, infuriating John further: "I told them to cut it, didn't I? I made sure and repeated it twice, but they give us this! How am I supposed to eat?" Sherlock, getting up, retorts: "You repeated it three times. Maybe they were annoyed by it." "Yeah, well, they have no right...", John starts, as Sherlock returns to the table, carrying an Arabic sword, and cuts the pizza into tiny pieces with swift moves, shredding the carton in the process. John shouts "Are you mad?", but ends up laughing. And finally, cuz his arms still ache, even getting fed by Sherlock. Then his friend offers him some new tea to calm his nerves. John is suspicious at first, but gives in, saying: "What the heck, the day ain't gettin any worse anyways, right?"

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Some time after this, John feels happier, lighter, and is almost pain free. He suddenly wants to go dancing, and even asks the detective to come along, though he makes sure: "This is not a date, mind you!" Sherlock, usually not interested in this kind of activity, is happy to oblige, helping the doctor into a more comfortable outfit, calling a cab, paying the driver, and even chipping in for John to get them into the club. Once they enter the dimly lit room, a man runs into John's bad shoulder and barks about it, but Sherlock just walks John away. When the man shouts "Faggot!" after them however, he doubles back, asking: "Excuse me, were you referring to me?" The clearly drunk bloke answers: "Damn right, I did!", and is surprised when Sherlock replies by saying "Ah, then it's fine, thank you.", confusing everyone.

They order drinks, John flirts with a blond girl at the bar, while his friend just scans the crowd. The man comes back at them to cause trouble, so Sherlock asks him if he would like to take this outside, winding him up as they walk to the door. At the door, he lets him walk out first, and Sherlock just goes back to John. "Oldest trick in the book," he explains, "Now the bouncer wont let him come back in to bother us."

The evening is light, John is happy, he orders a lot of rounds, and dances with every girl willing to: "take pity on the brave little soldier with his arm in a sling", as one brunette puts it. Some late time, the club is already getting empty, and somehow John finds himself dancing very close with Sherlock. He's very happy and very drunk and so he starts to give his friend compliments: "You know, you have nice hair, like really cute curls." Sherlock returns: "Thank you John. And you have nice eyes. They have the interesting manner of sparkling even when there is little light present."

John, slightly giggling and swaying a bit, responds: "Wow Sherlock, you know how to talk to a lady. I mean, if I was a lady. Which I'm not. But that was still romantic. I mean, for you... You're usually not so... good with words to be... good with people." Sherlock just shrugs and muses: "Might as well try some basic social skills on you, if you give me compliments." So John replies: "Well, you smell nice, too. I like your smell. It's always like coming home for me." Sherlock actually blushes, and hiding a smile responds: "Hmm. And you, you're a good dancer. Especially regarding, that you hardly use your arms. Have you ever considered to learn river dance?" John laughs.

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They keep up the this game of compliments, even during the cab ride, when Sherlock decides to head home. Once they are standing on the stairs leading to 221B Bakerstreet, Sherlock, trying a joke, asks John to come up for a cup of tea. To which his friend gives back: "Yeah, alright. Though I'm usually not that kind of guy.", making Sherlock furrow his brow in confusion. Later, trying to mirror the joke, John asks: "Do you want to come up with me to my bedroom?" When the detective returns: "I've seen your room.", he replies: "But I'm not gonna show you the room." Sherlock doesn't understand, but comes along, cuz he has to help him as his nurse anyways.

Sitting on John's bed, Sherlock unbuttons his shirt, when John continues the compliment game. "You have beautiful, luscious lips. And I would really like to kiss them. Really like to. And I've wanted to, since the day we met.", he purrs, swaying a little, admiring the gorgeous man's pale lips. Sherlock is taken a bit aback by this. But he smiles and thanks him: "John, that's very nice, but you're very drunk, and I doubt you would say it otherwise." This makes John think a little and he asks: "I'm drunk?" "Hmm", his friend hums. "And I'm drugged too?", the doctor adds. The detective confirms: "Hmm, a little. Some Polcitine, against your pain." John blinks: "Aha. So no Extacy?" "No. An anti-depressant that can cause lightheadedness and greatly reduces pain.", Sherlock explains, "Gave you a small dose. Funny it's holding up so long. Must be the booze."

John still looks at Sherlock who's now done opening the shirt. Swaying he purrs: "So, no excuse if I kiss you now?" "No.", his flatmate simply states. John keeps pressing: "Would I remember?" Sherlock shrugs: "Probably not." The army doctor tries looking him in the eyes, inquiring: "And you? You not drugged? Drunked?" The detective chuckles: "Been watching it, so I could watch out for you." John gives it some thought: "So you will remember?" "I always do.", his friend shoots back. "Will you tell me?, John demands, and Sherlock asks: "Bout what?"

Doctor Watson straightens up. The younger Holmes takes off the shirt and briefly caresses his shrapnel scar with his fingertips. "Fascinating.", he sighs. John longingly looks into his eyes, and with effort brings his good hand up to Sherlock's shoulder. He moves his face closer, until their mouths are only a fingertip away from each other. "Will you tell me, how it was?", he asks again, with vibrating desire in his voice. "How what was?", Sherlock hushes confused, their foreheads and noses already meeting, open mouths almost shut by each other, as John sighs: "Me, making love to you!"

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