Ballerino! A Sherlock Fic
Jan. 15th, 2012 08:13 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
executePrompted by powdered_opium, I recently wrote a one shot based on the concept that Sherlock "used to be a ballerina" (although in the commentfic thread it was prompted, they and romanaorfred proceeded to do something far funnier and better with the concept than I).
Follow the fake cut to read it here
~~~
"You used to be a ballerina, Sherlock? Bloody hell, it explains a lot."
"Ballerino, John. And I wouldn't know what you mean, save the fact that you obviously expect all dancers to suffer from anorexia nervosa and you've decided I fit in perfectly with this, despite my lack of suffering from any eating disorders."
"Sherlock, you don't eat at all. When we're on a case, anyway."
"Which is perfectly fine, seen as criminals seem to be coming down with Chronic Mediocrity lately."
"We're missing the point. You went to a ballet school, Sherlock?" John tries not to snigger, and only barely succeeds in turning it into some sort of mutant coughing gesture. "Did you wear a tutu?"
Sherlock doesn't even bother to respond to that one.
"Mind you," John says, putting the faded photograph of a miniaturised Sherlock standing beside a serious-looking man on what looks like a large stage in the cardboard box he'd pulled down from Sherlock's bookshelf, "I wasn't just talking about that. It explains why you're so graceful, for a start. And why you can dance. That time at your brother's frightfully upper class function when you made me do that stupid waltz in our penguin suits - which I still haven't forgiven you for, by the way - you really did dance brilliantly."
John stands up to put the box back where he found it, and only has to raise onto the balls of his feet ever so slightly. Once the box is nestled snugly between a treatise on the spread of common mould strains and an encyclopaedia of medieval poisons, he sits himself back down on Sherlock's bed and scoots toward the high headboard until he meets Sherlock's bony back with his own, leaning on him like the backrest of a obscurely designed, insanely expensive and extremely uncomfortable armchair.
When Sherlock shows no sign of looking up from the mess of newspaper clippings he's currently studying or even having noticed John's warm weight against his spine, John sighs and tries again.
"And I suppose it explains you not knowing the most basic primary school lore. You were probably doing more important things, like turning yourself into a human pretzel."
There's no answer, so John decides to close his eyes and have a bit of literal shut eye until Sherlock registers that John's trying to have a conversation with him, seen as he hasn't slept since the weekend and since he has a soft duvet underneath him and something to lean on he may as well make use of it.
The silence between them is just shifting from thoughtful and comfortable to sharply awkward when Sherlock huffs and drops the clippings off the side of the bed, his back muscles bunching as he shifts himself against John who leans forward to give him space to get himself comfortable, reluctantly opening his eyes as he does so. His low, velvety voice melts through the air.
"You're right, of course. Well done. My education was patchy at best, Mycroft informs me. And I was largely self-taught, so in a way I am directly thankful to my idiot peers for my job as a Consulting Detective. They never were keen to study with me."
Now Sherlock's finished moving John leans back and settles, finally letting himself relax completely against Sherlock. Evening light streams through Sherlock's window and John watches the dust motes dance as he imagines a younger Sherlock flying through the air, repeating endless drills and studying late at night or in disused parts of his dance school from heavy tomes whilst the other dancers laughed and huddled together.
"Is there any footage of you dancing? You were obviously very good - I saw certificates in that box."
"Yes, there is. Would you like to see it?" John can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "I'll have to ask Mycroft, of course. I destroyed the originals, but he has backups. That brother of mine is paranoid far beyond the edge of reason, though I suppose it has its uses."
John lets the light fall on his legs and limn them with gold as he stretches them out on the bed, snuggling down - there's really no other word for it - even further.
"I'd like that, yeah."
Follow the fake cut to read it here
~~~
"You used to be a ballerina, Sherlock? Bloody hell, it explains a lot."
"Ballerino, John. And I wouldn't know what you mean, save the fact that you obviously expect all dancers to suffer from anorexia nervosa and you've decided I fit in perfectly with this, despite my lack of suffering from any eating disorders."
"Sherlock, you don't eat at all. When we're on a case, anyway."
"Which is perfectly fine, seen as criminals seem to be coming down with Chronic Mediocrity lately."
"We're missing the point. You went to a ballet school, Sherlock?" John tries not to snigger, and only barely succeeds in turning it into some sort of mutant coughing gesture. "Did you wear a tutu?"
Sherlock doesn't even bother to respond to that one.
"Mind you," John says, putting the faded photograph of a miniaturised Sherlock standing beside a serious-looking man on what looks like a large stage in the cardboard box he'd pulled down from Sherlock's bookshelf, "I wasn't just talking about that. It explains why you're so graceful, for a start. And why you can dance. That time at your brother's frightfully upper class function when you made me do that stupid waltz in our penguin suits - which I still haven't forgiven you for, by the way - you really did dance brilliantly."
John stands up to put the box back where he found it, and only has to raise onto the balls of his feet ever so slightly. Once the box is nestled snugly between a treatise on the spread of common mould strains and an encyclopaedia of medieval poisons, he sits himself back down on Sherlock's bed and scoots toward the high headboard until he meets Sherlock's bony back with his own, leaning on him like the backrest of a obscurely designed, insanely expensive and extremely uncomfortable armchair.
When Sherlock shows no sign of looking up from the mess of newspaper clippings he's currently studying or even having noticed John's warm weight against his spine, John sighs and tries again.
"And I suppose it explains you not knowing the most basic primary school lore. You were probably doing more important things, like turning yourself into a human pretzel."
There's no answer, so John decides to close his eyes and have a bit of literal shut eye until Sherlock registers that John's trying to have a conversation with him, seen as he hasn't slept since the weekend and since he has a soft duvet underneath him and something to lean on he may as well make use of it.
The silence between them is just shifting from thoughtful and comfortable to sharply awkward when Sherlock huffs and drops the clippings off the side of the bed, his back muscles bunching as he shifts himself against John who leans forward to give him space to get himself comfortable, reluctantly opening his eyes as he does so. His low, velvety voice melts through the air.
"You're right, of course. Well done. My education was patchy at best, Mycroft informs me. And I was largely self-taught, so in a way I am directly thankful to my idiot peers for my job as a Consulting Detective. They never were keen to study with me."
Now Sherlock's finished moving John leans back and settles, finally letting himself relax completely against Sherlock. Evening light streams through Sherlock's window and John watches the dust motes dance as he imagines a younger Sherlock flying through the air, repeating endless drills and studying late at night or in disused parts of his dance school from heavy tomes whilst the other dancers laughed and huddled together.
"Is there any footage of you dancing? You were obviously very good - I saw certificates in that box."
"Yes, there is. Would you like to see it?" John can hear the smile in Sherlock's voice. "I'll have to ask Mycroft, of course. I destroyed the originals, but he has backups. That brother of mine is paranoid far beyond the edge of reason, though I suppose it has its uses."
John lets the light fall on his legs and limn them with gold as he stretches them out on the bed, snuggling down - there's really no other word for it - even further.
"I'd like that, yeah."
