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Balletlock

Chapter Text

Sherlock point of view

"The Baker Street Academy Of Dance." Sherlock Holmes, fourteen years of age, read on the sign of the grand building. It's barely visible in the dim, August night air.
The boy's been moved more than once between dancing schools, because, regarding to himself, he's simply "too good" for them. Or, as his ex teachers would address him: "a brilliant ballet dancer, BUT the cockiest, most arrogant and annoying pain-in-the-ass student they've ever had." Sighing, the young student trudged up the stairs to his, supposedly, new dancing school. Surely, this school would be no different from the others. New, boring teachers, new, boring classmates, new, boring classes. Boring, boring, boring.

An eldery woman is seated at the registration desk, when Sherlock enters the mansion. "Hello, dear. You must be Mr Holmes, am I right?"
"Yes, Mrs...?"
"Oh, you can call me Mrs Hudson, dear."
"Alright, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock allows a small smile grace his features. She seems tolerable. Nice, even. That's unusual for Sherlock, finding ordinary people nice.

"Nice to meet you, Mr Holmes. Now, that you're registered at our school, I'll show you to your dormitory. It's quite late. You must be tired."
As they're walking, Mrs Hudson chatter about this and that, asking a few questions to wich Sherlock replies halfheartedly.
At a simple, black wooden door, with "221b" in golden letters, they make a halt.
"Here is your room, dear. And your key."
"Thanks Mrs Hudson" taking the key in his hand, Sherlock smiles again.
Mrs Hudson smiles back at him, saying "Well, that's it then. Oh, I almost forgot." Digging around in her handbag, Mrs Hudson brings an envelope. "Here's your schedule and the rules we have at the school. And, no, the rules don't exist to be broken, young man."
Sherlock just gaped at her. How in the world did she...?
Mrs Hudson smirked. "Now, Mr Holmes, I hope you will enjoy your stay. You can always go to me if you need anything. Goodnight, Mr Holmes."
"Goodnight, Mrs Hudson."

The next day, Sherlock woke early. That is, early, even for him.
Making his way to the dininghall, Sherlock realizes he is the first to have breakfast.
Seating himself in a corner, he looked at his plate. As usual, the rules include that ALL pupils eat three meals a day plus a snack before and after lunch. Dull. Grimacing, he lifts a sandwich to his mouth, taking a tiny nibble.
"Loving your breakfast, heh?"
Wide eyed, Sherlock looked up from his sandwich, putting it down again. "I wasn't hungry anyway." The eyes that meet his actually managed to take his breath away. Huh, that's new. He can't decide if they're dark blue or brown. Or gray. However, he is sure that they're sparkling. With gold. And those lips. Dark blonde hair, looks so soft. Woah, he did not just think that. Nope. Not at all. Delete, delete, delete.
Snapping out of it, Sherlock asks "Sorry, you were saying?"
Shaking his head with a smile, the stranger asks "well, I was asking: do you mind if I sit here?"
"I guess not..." taking a closer look at the man, Sherlock scans him up and down. Thirty-four years of age. Psychosomatic limp as the result of a dance career ended badly. Now pianist. A father that has retired from working in the army, most likely as a doctor, so, obviously, army doctor it is then. Afghanistan or Iraq?
"That was ... amazing."
Blinking furiously, Sherlock tries to comprehend what the stranger just said. Amazing? Really? Wait, did he say all of that out loud?
Sherlock's eyes widen. "Do you think so?"
"Well, of course it was. It was extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."
"That's not what people usually say."
"What do they usually say?"
A wide grin is spreading over his face. "Piss off!" They can't help it. They both burst in a fit of giggles.

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John Watson is immediately intrigued by the new student (yes, he must be new, since he's never met him before). First of all, John is completely blown away by the boy's beauty: dark curls in dissary, falling across his forehead. Cupid bow lips that are just begging to be kissed (John never thought he'd be thinking that way about a teenager! And yet, here he is. Bad move John Watson, bad move), long, slender figure covered in black tights, white dancing top, black, soft ballet shoes and a purple button up shirt over the white top (the first few buttons are open). His pale skin makes a stark contrast to his dark curls. Those cheekbones though! John wonders briefly if he would he cut himself, should he run a finger across them. Gorgeous eyes which he can't decide what color they are. The first words the boy had said, came out of those gorgeous lips were unexpectedly deep for his age and made John shiver.
"You're sitting alone. Why?" John couldn't help a tone of concern lace his voice.
"People don't like me. I don't like people, so there you go."
At the first impressions, he sounded annoyed, but John thought he could catch a hint of sadness underneath. However, it was difficult to decide.
Suddenly, the boy stood up (oh my, what grace and poice he's got, John thought, a perfect dancer's body).
"Well, it was nice to meet you, sir." He said.
"Call me John. John Watson." The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them. Damn it.
"Well it was nice to meet you, John Watson" the boy said, looking straight into John's eyes, making him shiver again. Well, fuck.
"Sorry, got to dash - I don't want to be late for class."
Turning abruptly, the boy is starting to walk away. When he's just about to pass through the door, John snaps back out of it. "Wait! I don't even know your name!" Yep, he's totally fucked.
The boy turns in the doorway. "The name's Sherlock Holmes and the room's 221b. Afternoon." Before the boy, Sherlock, disappears, he gives John a dazzling smile and winks, fucking winks, at him.

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When Sherlock's on his way to ballet class, his head is swimming. All that's in his mind is John, John, John. Why was John Watson nice to him? Nobody is nice to him, for God's sake!
When Sherlock comes to the door of the dancing studio, he realizes that he's the first. Again. How surprising. Not.
With all this new energy he's got (John, John, John), he starts his own warm up routine. Dancing helps him think, relax.
In his own little bubble, Sherlock doesn't even notice when a man, dark blonde, glittering eyes, enters the studio.
A sharp intake of breath, however, makes Sherlock stop in the middle of a grand plié. Turning his head, he notices John Watson. Smirking, Sherlock stands up and picks up his water bottle.

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John watches quietly as Sherlock takes long, slow, gulps from his water bottle. Swallowing himself, John's eyes seem to wander on their own accord- slender throat, dark, fluttering eyelashes against pale skin. Wiping his mouth with one graceful hand, Sherlock makes his way towards John, the corner of his mouth quirking again.
"Hello John Watson." Oh, that deep voice does so many things to John. Remembering himself, John nods at him. "Sherlock." He feels himself squaring his shoulders, so he tries to relax. How could he possibly relax in front of this boy, though?
John opens his mouth as if to say something, but suddenly, the door bursts open with a cluster of students bustling into the studio.
When John shifts back, Sherlock has already placed himself at the barre. Seating himself at the piano, John lets out a breath he didn't even realize he had been holding in.
A few seconds after, the ballet teacher, Mary Morstan walks in. John smiles warmly at her and she smiles back.
"Good morning! I hope you slept well. I will begin my daily routine of checkiu the presence of my students. As we have a new pupil, I will introduce myself. My name is Mary Morstan. And the my new student is...Sherlock Holmes. Am I correct?"
A snigger and a low whisper is being heard. Without looking at the source of the sounds, Miss Morstan speaks again: "Anderson, Donovan, will you please close your mouths during class. Thank you. Now, Mr Holmes, welcome to my class. We've already started about six weeks ago, but, I've heard that you're a brilliant young dancer, so I think you will catch up quickly." Nodding at Sherlock, a friendly expression on her face, she refocused her attention back to all of them.
John stole a glance at Sherlock from his piano, noticing that familiar smirk, couldn't help a tiny smile of his own from emerging. He tried to cover it though.

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Sherlock can feel John's eyes on him nearly the whole lesson.
During a particulary difficult adagio, Miss Morstan had asked Sherlock to demonstrate parts of it. Miss Morstan stood, ready to correct him if she needed to.
However, Sherlock managed it brilliantly. What else would you expect? Once, John had even voiced it for the whole class to hear: "Brilliant!" Sherlock had flushed up with pleasure at the honest compliment. Not daring to look at John, Sherlock had looked at Miss Morstan instead. She'd nodded and smiled encouragingly at him.

After class, Sherlock starts stretching again when someone's calling: "Oi, freak!" Sherlock continues his stretching routine, bending this way and that. All of a sudden, a girl, dark skinned and brown curls in a bunch, is up Sherlock's face. "Freak. I'm talking to you!" She slaps his face. Twice. Not that hard, but it's humiliating all the same. He notices two boys behind her. All the others are gone now. No, wait! John is still there! Sherlock's heart makes a painful throb. And he's making his way over to Sherlock and the bullies. His bad leg slows him down, but John is doing his best to be as fast as he's able to.

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"What's going on here?!" Squaring his shoulders and clenching his hands into fists once again, John is towering menacingly above the four students.
"The freak's trying to show off..." "Don't. Call. Him. That." John spits the words out, eyes shooting daggers at the girl and her companions. Oh, if only looks could kill.
"Donovan, Anderson, Moriarty. Get. Out. Now."
"But the freak..."
"I said GET OUT!!!"
Both John and Sherlock catches the girl, Donovan muttering, as if to herself: "teacher's pet" with disgust.
Searching Sherlock's eyes for a few minutes, John asks tentatively: "Hey, are you okay?"
"I don't need your pity!"
John startles a bit at the harsh words.
"I'm sorry, John. Not used to people caring about me." Sherlock looks like a lost puppy and it takes everything for John not to reach out and embrace the boy.
"It's okay, Sherlock!"
"No, it's not okay! I don't deserve your kindness! I don't even have a heart!"
Sherlock sinks with his back against the wall and seats himself on the floor, putting his head in his hands. John sits down before him. "Sherlock. Look at me!" He's trying to make his voice as soft as possible. When Sherlock doesn't move, John puts two fingers under the boy's chin, tenderly getting his attention. They gaze at each other. John slowly, carefully puts his hand on Sherlock's chest, where his heart should be, making the boy gasp. He doesn't pull away, though, must be a good sign. "I can feel it, Sherlock."
"What?" Sherlock asks stupidly.
"Your heart! It's beating so rapidly. I do care about you, Sherlock. Never listen to people who are mean to you. I don't care what they think. I want to get to know you because I like you for who you are."
Sherlock stares at John who removes his hand from Sherlock's chest and he would be lying if he said that he wasn't reluctant to do so.
"I have to go." See you tomorrow, Sherlock." He turns his head one last time before he walks out the door. Sherlock is still sitting on the floor, his own hand touching the place where John's had been mere seconds before.

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The other classes that day included (except for Miss Morstan's advanced ballet lesson): Mr Stamford's character class as well as Irene Adler's toe class (for girls) and an extra technique ballet class (for boys).

At the end of the day, Sherlock was completely exhausted- he'd never worked this hard before. Sure, he'd he'd worked hard, no doubt. However, the teachers at The Baker Street Academy Of Dance seemed to believe in him. Really believe. And, moreover, he'd never had someone like John Watson in his life before. Even though they'd only just met, Sherlock had felt an instant connection with the man. That had never happened Sherlock Holmes before. Sure, he'd tried making friends when he was a kid, although he'd quickly realized that people either despised him or feared him because he was "different".

When Sherlock lay in bed that night, he found it difficult to sleep. More so than usual. The case? John Watson.

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When John Watson woke up the next morning, he found himself in a bad state. Very, very bad. In his head, fresh images from his dream were playing vividly: he'd invited Sherlock Holmes to his own room (what the fuck?!) where they'd made out, possibly more. What the actual fuck?! Sherlock Holmes is fourteen years old for Christ's sake! Fourteen. Fucking. Years. Old. And John is thirty-four Jesus fucking Christ. Groaning, he heads towards the bathroom for a cold shower.

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It became sort of a custom with Sherlock and John eating breakfast together every morning. Sherlock looked forward to to these meetings and the classes where John accompanied which only were the ones directly after breakfast. The other hours, John was occupied with teaching piano students at his own place. So, therefore, a young woman, Miss Hooper, accompanied the other classes. Much like John (even though he couldn't dance anymore during due to his bad leg) Miss Hooper was a dancer too, even though she was only twenty years old, she had lots to teach Sherlock. She actually asked him to stay after they'd finished Miss Adler's class one day, because she had a new choreography planned, just for him. Sherlock didn't have to be asked twice.
Finally, Sherlock was alowed to go to bed.
Three mornings after (a Tuesday) Sherlock, together with John Watson, is making his way to ballet class as usual, talking all the way. Sherlock notices that something's...off about John. Yes. That must be the word. He's not as focused on Sherlock as he usually is. Raising one eyebrow, Sherlock places himself in front of John putting a hand on his chest, effectively stopping him from going any further.
"John. What's wrong?" Sherlock can't help but letting just an ounce of concern lace his voice.
A deep breath. "Sherlock...I just...I don't think...Oh, hi, Mary!"
So, Mary it is, now? Sherlock's throat and chest tightens.
"Mr Holmes." The dance teacher greats Sherlock. Sherlock doesn't even bother pretending to be nice, he ignores her.
"John!" She gives John Watson a brief, but firm kiss on John's mouth. Sherlock wants nothing more than to shout: "back off! He's mine!!!" And punch her in the face. That would be weird, though. John doesn't even know about Sherlock's true feelings! Pathetic.
John's face turns a bright shade of pink, not even looking at Sherlock when he says: "Sherlock, Mary and I...we're dating."
Feeling sick, Sherlock shoves past the other two (he refuses to use the word "couple"), heading for the corridor to his room. Suddenly, a high pitched noice starts ringing in his ears. He wants to scream "shut up!", but it's as if he can't get any words out. The last thing he hears is someone shouting "Sherlock!" although it sounds faint. Vision fading, the world slowly turns black.

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"Sherlock!" Sprinting towards him, John manages to catch Sherlock just as he's about to hit the floor, John is completely forgetting that he's ever had a problem with his leg. He actually forgets about Mary, too. However, when he's on his way to his office, Mary catches up with him.
"John, sweetie, you know I have a class, do you think you will be able to take care of the boy by yourself?"
John didn't expect the breath of...relief that was out of his mouth before he could stop it.
"Yes, yes, of of course."
Smiling at John, Mary kisses his cheek. "Thanks, honey." She heads back to class where the remaining students have summoned. They're staring at her with curious faces. One of the boys, Moriarty, is daring enough to to speak up: "so, Sherlock Holmes, the boy who fainted, right?" All of the kids starts to giggle. Moriarty smirks at Mary.
Clapping her hands to quiet the students, Mary turns to glare at the boy called Moriarty. "Mr Moriarty, I would very much appreciate it if you didn't insult your own classmates." Speaking to everyone, she continues: "Now, children, since Mr Watson is unavailable, I will have to call Miss Hooper...oh, Miss Hooper! Welcome. That was fast!"
"Yes Miss Morstan, Mr Watson sent me."
"Thank God." Mary gestures to Miss Hooper and the lesson begins.

So, back to John and his "Golden Boy".
John's office is in the same corridor as the ballet studio, so he reaches it in no time at all.
Except for ballet and the piano, John even studies medicine in his spare time. Therefore, he's got a doctor's office at the school.
He's placed Sherlock in a bed. Taking the boy's pulse and the other things you should do when someone has fainted, John is alarmed to find that Sherlock's heart has stopped. Quickly doing CPR (John really can't help but notice that Sherlock's lips are so very, very soft), he suddenly feels a puff of air across his face. Two eyelids that were closed for far too long, are fluttering open.
"Thank God, you're awake! Jesus Christ, Sherlock you scared the shit out of me! How are you feeling?"
"John. What happened?" Groaning, Sherlock tries to sit up, but John is immediately putting his hands on the boy's chest, urging him gently, but firmly to lie down again. Sherlock has no choice but to obey.
"Tired."
"I'll get a wet cloth for your forehead. You fainted. Do you want anything, are you thirsty?"
"Yes, water, please."
While John is bustling about, getting a wet cloth and a glass of water, he can feel Sherlock's eyes on him.
"You saved me."
John freezes for a moment. Slowly, he turns back to Sherlock. "Erhm. Yes. I did."
"How?"
Oh, God, no! Don't panic, John. Wait, why is he even panicking? Oh, right. Sherlock will know that he, John, kissed him. Not good. It wasn't even a real kiss, but still. "Well, you see, as I told you before, you fainted. And...well...I...did CPR on you." There, he said it.

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"Do you love me, John? Sherlock searches John's gaze, holds it. One minute. Two minutes. He looses count.
"John?" Swallowing audibly, he notices that John's eyes flicker down to his throat, lingers a millisecond on his lips, before looking away.
"Please, John. I want you. I need you. I've never wanted or needed anyone for as long as I can remember. Please." Breathing heavily, Sherlock stretches one pale, slender hand towards the man at his bedside.
"I love you." Sherlock's voice cracks.
Suddenly, a pair of lips were pressed hotly against his own and Sherlock's heart nearly stopped a second time that day.
Just as Sherlock started to reciprocate (pressing his hands against John's chest, feeling his heartbeat, parting his lips just a little), he felt John pull away and heard him utter a quiet "fuck". That made some unbidden, really dirty images appear in his head. Flushing, Sherlock opened his eyes, looking down at his lap.
"Sherlock, I'm so sorry. I really shouldn't have done that! I'm really, really sorry!"
The boy could tell that his teacher was beginning to panick. Placing his index finger on John's bottom lip, Sherlock strokes the full flesh there. "I don't mind."
"You...you don't?"
"Of course not! On the contrary, I quite enjoyed it!"