{Notes: Originally based on a prompt from ughbenedict on tumblr. English isn't my native tongue; this fic is neither beta'd nor Brit-picked, so please don't kill me for eventual errors. Nevertheless kudos, comments, constructive criticism and whatever else tickles your fancy are required! *smile*}

'Attention, John.'

John startled as he heard Sherlock's voice chuckling right behind him. His eyes, previously stuck on a beautiful blonde in a provocative tailored dress, wandered to his flatmate, who presented him an amused quirk of lips.

He must've looked slightly bemused, because Sherlock's smile widened and his eyes began to gleam.

'Though we have to search for the necklace in this particular area that you apparently relish, you shouldn't get overly distracted by risqué necklines.'

John snorted but his ears flushed anyway, vaguely embarrassed.

But Sherlock was right. They were on a case, the Mycroft kind of case; which means utter discretion and secrecy but also having the opportunity to attend high society events like this one. When Mycroft came to their flat half a week ago with a file in his hands, Sherlock was already up on his feet to personally kick his brother out of 221B.

But Mycroft, always having something up his sleeve, reminded Sherlock that he owes him a favour for helping him to remediate the outcome of a really nasty and failed experiment without stampeding the environment department.

After complaining about how "tedious" and "imbecile" the case was, Sherlock finally took it and he and John were about to solve it tonight. It was some kind of socially charged homicide and apparently also a stolen necklace of the victim was involved, because Sherlock has deduced that the suspect will attend this evening, wearing the object in question.

While Sherlock was scanning the room with calm precession, John shifts where he stood, a bit uncomfortable, and watched some couples on the floor. Said evening, to which Sherlock has dragged him along, was in fact a dance night. And seemingly it was ladies' choice, so all he could do was to wait until he was prompted.

He and Sherlock have only been there for ten minutes but John noticed since they entered the venue that a lot of the women attending the event where eyeing Sherlock in awe and with uncovered interest. And John would be a terrible liar if he would deny that Sherlock looked astonishingly gorgeous this evening. He nearly dropped his cup back in their flat when Sherlock had left the bathroom. It wasn't unusual that Sherlock wore a suit and a tight button-down shirt and appear to be really good-looking. But seeing his flatmate in a bespoke dinner jacket, a fine dress shirt and matching trousers was a whole new experience to John. He had to acknowledge to himself that Sherlock was looking extremely handsome the moment Sherlock came to the kitchen looking forward to his own cup of tea. He had even tamed his unruly curls and had arranged his usual fringe artfully out of his face. John's ears had flushed slightly back then and he had murmured some excuse to leave the kitchen before he starts to doubt his own alleged straightness entirely and shoved Sherlock's cup ungracefully in his best friend's direction.

'Excuse me?'

John startled the second time this evening, but this time it was slightly nervous, clearly feminine voice. He looked down until his eyes meet a rather pretty face with wide brown eyes and thin but, thanks to her lipstick, still attractive lips. He gave her a warm and reassuring smile.

'Shall we dance?'

She returned the smile a bit shy until John nodded eagerly and both of them disappeared in the crowd of dancing couples on the floor.

John has lost track about how much time passed over flirtatious conversations, amiable smiles and some drinks at the bar which was near the dance floor. And most of all he lost track of Sherlock. When he came back from his first dance this evening Sherlock was gone where he stood before. John tried to be not overly concerned, so he decided to enjoy the night a bit on his own, but eyes still open for the searched necklace and the suspect.

Now John had walked back to the bar and ordered a drink to relax a bit. His eyes wandered over the crowd until he spotted a mop of dark, wavy hair on a slender body in a perfectly fitting dark suit. He wasn't irritated to see Sherlock dancing, at last the key evidence was around one of the ladies' necks so to dance or rather be asked to dance was best choice to come near enough to check. What surprised John was that Sherlock seemed to really enjoy it. Neither the same kind of delight he shows when he sometimes was watching telly with John and correcting everyone and everything on telly nor the kind when John asks him to deduce someone's life out of the blue just to say him afterwards how brilliant and amazing he was. This was the kind of joy he showed when he swished over some nasty crime scene, solving one mystery after another, finished a difficult experiment.

He looked content in every way possible as he slid across the floor, the woman in his arms smiling like she is long lost in some romantic fantasy, while Sherlock perfectly leaded their pace along the music. The dim light played with his curls and illuminated his face and body in a warm golden light. But this wasn't what sent a soft jolt trough John's chest. It was his eyes. Sherlock's eyes were so open and expressive and blithe, they even softened his features and shone so beautiful in the light of the dance floor.

'Bad that's ladies' night, eh?'

John startled again, clearly he shouldn't get overly distracted and particularly not by his dancing flatmate, not at all. This time it was the bartender who pushed a drink towards John.

'What…oh, right. I didn't…he's my…not…'

John stammered and tried to make ridiculous gestures which ended in elbowing his drink down the bar. The man behind the counter laughed at John's flushed ears and poured another one for him. John took it gratefully and leaned down over his drink before sighing loudly.

'Look, I don't want to be to forward, but I thought that you and him…'

'Are a couple?'

'Kind of. I'm sorry if I insulted you but you two seemed to be at least very close, I think that was also a reason why the eager ladies didn't prompt him until you disappeared with your own dancing partner.'

'It's fine, but look…he's my flatmate and I consider him my best friend, he just wanted to have a nice evening and dragged me along.'

'Didn't clearly exclude the fact that the two of you could possibly be with one another, you seem to adore him, as much as he gazes at you every now and then. Good luck, mate.'

John looked lightly bemused, but the barkeeper just winked at him with an apologetic half-smile and disappeared in direction of another customer.

The moment John was left utterly befuddled, Sherlock appeared at the seat next to him, cheeks flushed and hair slightly dishevelled but his eyes still gleamed. He pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen before scribbling some words and handing the note over to John.

'Enjoy yourself?'

John's voice was slightly hoarse, but Sherlock seemed not to notice. He just smiled at John, which sent another warm sensation through John's veins.

'Yes. Yes, I am, really.'

The next woman appeared to ask Sherlock for a dance and he left John another time, feeling even more confused by the quirks of his body. After Sherlock was out of sight, he slowly looked down on the paper, snorted amused and ordered another drink before texting Mycroft.

{/~~~\}

The evening was a success in more ways than anticipated. Like Sherlock has assumed, the suspect attended this particular event and Sherlock had identified her after only the fifth dance but hadn't had the chance to inform John earlier because of the eager lot of women who desperately wanted to dance with him. Mycroft immediately had sent his henchmen to discreetly arrest her when she left the event.

Sherlock was in a light mood when he and John decided to leave the dance night as well at two in the morning. They hailed a cab and whilst Sherlock quickly entered the car John felt clearly how the alcohol he has consumed slowed down his reactions and his ability to walk entirely straight.

Even without dreadful traffic the ride back to Baker Street would take mostly half an hour, so John took the opportunity before the many drinks took control over his straight thinking in more than one way.

'Where…where did you learn how to dance like this?'

Sherlock looked amused as if he anticipated the question. Clearly he had, but John wasn't able to concentrate on more than one of his surroundings.

'When I was eight years old, my mother insisted on teaching me how to dance, to be able to attend events like this without embarrass myself and my family. Her efforts didn't last long, but after a nearly disastrous garden party I agreed. It was…strangely pleasant and I actually enjoyed it a great deal. After a while my mother's own dancing capabilities were depleted and I attended some courses. First it was a bit tedious because I already managed most of the steps but as time goes by I really enjoyed it. But after a particular amount of time I noticed that I couldn't continue attending the advanced courses because I hadn't had a suitable partner to dance with me, so I left. I'm still above average, but I didn't get the opportunity to dance properly that often, so I think I got a bit carried away this evening.'

John gaped at his flatmate and thought of something to say but not a single coherent notion crossed his mind. Sherlock's expression had became a bit sad after he'd ended his speech but John hadn't the chance to acknowledge it, because the cab apparently has arrived his destination and Sherlock's coat has already swished out and he was about to pay the cabbie before leaving for 221B. John slowly followed him inside and tried to ignore the warmth spreading trough his chest.

The shower was still going as John stood in the kitchen and put the kettle on. He hadn't seen Sherlock since he had left the cab and disappeared up the stairs to their flat. The evening was both as physically as mentally exhausting for John. He shouldn't find his very male flatmate that attractive, even if he was ridiculously good-looking, not just this particular evening. He was all lanky with long limbs, unruly curls and these ridiculous high cheekbones, he was a lazy git with an insufferable intellect which he shows off almost every time possible and he has a clear attraction to potentially dangerous persons, things and places. And still John couldn't deny he liked Sherlock for all his quirks and madness. He enjoyed it to be the person who has the opportunity to see Sherlock sometimes out of his normally cold and superior behaviour towards the rest of the world. But even if he was attracted to his flatmate, he couldn't see the chance of Sherlock to reciprocate his feelings, so he shoved the thoughts away.

The kettle made noises to catch John's full attention back, so he rubbed his face before pouring himself a cuppa. John noticed that he had made more water than needed, probably out of habit for Sherlock. He hesitated a moment before grabbing another cup from the cupboard for his flatmate.

Why not…? A cuppa before bed shouldn't harm anyone…

'Sherlock?'

John cautiously knocked at his flatmate's room. As he received no response he opened the door quietly in order to not disturb Sherlock if he should already have lain down to sleep.

But Sherlock wasn't in his bedroom. The dinner jacket and the other remains of Sherlock's clothing were spread over his bed but there wasn't any sound from the nearby bathroom either. He must've used the other door after John has passed it in direction of Sherlock's room. He sighed deeply and decided to just put the cup on the bedside table and go off to bed himself, but the man in the door stopped him.

'John?'

John turned around just to be presented with a half naked Sherlock, just wearing some pyjama pants, hair still damp from the shower. His mouth went dry almost immediately and he nearly forgot what he wanted to say.

'Eh…look, I was just…leaving a cuppa for you on the bedside table, alright? I…I should…Goodnight, Sherlock.'

John went towards the door Sherlock still blocked and tried to get past Sherlock but was caught by a slender hand on his chest.

'Don't. Stay.'

Sherlock's voice was merely a whisper but John's heart began to pound louder and he felt his ears flush at his flatmate's touch and voice; he even hesitated before looking up into Sherlock's face. John gaped at the look in Sherlock's eyes, both as vulnerable and afraid as hopeful and pleading.

'Dance with me, John.'

John felt his knees began to retreat and his clear mind abandoned him. Sherlock's hand, seemingly burning a hole in his chest pushed him backwards until his back bumped at the edge of a dresser. Sherlock leaned forward to push a button on his hi-fi system and one of his curls briefly brushed one of John's oversensitive ears in the progress. John shivered momentarily, Sherlock's apparently immobile hand still radiating heat from where it laid.

When he straightened himself up again the hand wandered to John's waist whilst the other searched for his hand. His addled mind registered a bit too late that he was supposed to do the opposite steps to the ones he was used to.

'Don't worry, I will lead you.'

Sherlock's voice went directly down John's spine as he started to bring them both up into a slow pace. The singer's pleasant voice soothed John's nerves slightly, despite he felt on fire were Sherlock touched him, still just dressed in his pyjamas.

'So throw me a line / Somebody out there help me...'

John's heart rate increased rapidly and his breath quivered as Sherlock's footing shifted until the space between them wasn't more than a hairbreadth.

'To win you again / With trembling hands...'

Sherlock's hands had both wandered around John's waist and pressed him flush against his pale chest. John instinctively leaned his head in the crook beside Sherlock's collarbone before wrapping his arms around his neck. He could smell Sherlock's shampoo and wanted to bury his nose in his unruly dark hair and never letting go.

'I'm a drop in your ocean...'

John looked up where his arms and face were clinging at Sherlock's neck and lets his gaze wander even more upwards until his eyes locked with Sherlock's. His iris shone greyish green in the dim light of the lamp on the bedside table and his eyes widened in anticipation as his gaze lowered to John's lips before returning to his deep ocean eyes.

'Hear me now / Make me whole...'

Suddenly everything felt right. John felt how Sherlock's hands moved up to his face but he was quicker with steeping his fingers in Sherlock still damp curls and pulling him down where he stood on tiptoes. There was still a small gap between their lips, just half a breath. John didn't want to lose the momentum but this was incredible. It felt like the moment before the tide slams against the cliff, the thunder following the lightning.

'John…'

Sherlock's deep and breathy voice sent jolts down John's veins and he closed the rift between them. It was electrifying, John's warm hands and lips pressed against the cold sensation of Sherlock's skin. John, all golden and earthy against Sherlock, all pale and crystal clear. He felt Sherlock's hands wander underneath his shirt and pressed himself even closer to Sherlock and tightened his grip in Sherlock's mop of hair.

There was a moment were both of them had to retreat from the other to take in a heavy breath. John leaned their foreheads together and opened his eyes to smile his sincerest and most loving smile at Sherlock and receiving a tender kiss, almost just a chaste brushing of lips in return. And back then everything felt right.

'Hear me now / Make me whole...'

{prompt: general plot - john finds out sherlock is a great dancer. one day he just comes to sherlock's bedroom and sherlock dances with him. sherlock's hands all over john's body. their bodies close to each other. bonded in a new, different, stronger way. they dance and john feels it. i want it subtle, romantic even. i want this dance scene to be like an evening in a dim-lighted restaurant somewhere in the suburbs in paris. i want them to be like the sun and the moon and then i want them to collide. i want something easthetic. and fragile. and poetic. like an early spring rain that leaves your heart empty and your hair just slightly damp. i want to feel the moment. (oh jesus if anyone understands this uhm poetical part i must really congratulate you but i hope you get the idea anyway) (i don't care for the timeline, it can be before reichenbach, post reichenbach, whatever)'}

{song/lyrics: The Temper Trap - Trembling Hands}