Title: The spectre at the feast
Author: gothikmaus
Fandom: Sherlock (BBC)
Pairing: Sherlock/John, John/Mary
Rating: PG
Category: UST, ficlet
Summary: There should always be a spectre at the feast
Characters originally created by Arthur Conan Doyle and developed for TV by Moffat & Gatiss. I own nothing. No copyright infringement intended.
It would have been so easy, Sherlock thought as everyone started dancing around him.
He could have done it while they were lying on the stairs, far too drunk to walk up to their flat. (And how that could happen in just two hours was still a mystery to him, even if he strongly suspected John had something to do with it. They were supposed to be pleasantly tipsy, not sleepy and useless.)
He could have turned onto his right side, put a hand on John’s waist and applied just a tiny amount of pressure. John was very pliant when intoxicated, Sherlock had collected ample evidence of that during their time together at 221B, he would have let himself be pulled closer with no resistance. But Mrs Hudson had decided that would be the perfect time to take out the rubbish and the moment was lost.
He could have done it while they were playing that stupid game John had suggested. He could have grabbed John’s wrist when he had lost his balance and rested his hand on Sherlock’s knee for support. A gentle tug would have been enough, gravity would have done the rest. John had said it himself, after all: he didn't mind. But a client had arrived, and work always had the priority. Always.
So there he was, standing in the middle of the dance floor, not quite sure what to do with himself. Sherlock Holmes didn't like not being sure.
They didn't need him any more. Mary's concern was touching, but soon she would be too busy with dirty nappies, feeding bottles and sleepless nights to even remember she had actually been worried about him.
He caught a glimpse of Janine in the blur of people swaying more or less in time with the music. She looked up at him and smiled. He had just taken a step in her direction when she pointed at her dance partner. Incredibly useful indeed.
Mycroft's words were ringing in his ears. Just like the old times.
His brother could piss off. He would never end up like him. Mycroft might be smarter than him, but he was not better. He folded the sheet music and slipped it into the envelope. His work was done, no one would notice his absence. He would ask Mrs Hudson to take his violin home later.
He felt much more like himself as he slipped into his trusted coat, the dull throb of dance music fading away as he walked further into the night.
Time to go back to being Sherlock Holmes.
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January 2014