The Boy Who Watched Him Dance

Chapter Three

Sherlock was hardly ever out of the dance studio. He had been taking Mrs. Turner's dance class since he was three, and it was obvious. He was by far the best dancer in the studio; possibly even the city, Mrs. Turner had claimed once. It was his dream to audition for the Royal Ballet once he finished secondary school and he was an extremely ambitious young man, so; he hardly ever left the studio.
He was there right now. Working on a solo piece he needed to perfect for an upcoming recital. Chasé, coupé, grand jeté, arabesque, foutte, foutte, and land. He had been dancing for nearly four hours now. Sherlock walked over to the barre and slumped down against the mirror, exhausted. He let his mind wander back to earlier this afternoon, when he had bumped into John in the hallway. His arm hadn't stopped tingling since. Caring is not an advantage, brother mine. Sherlock's older brother, Mycroft's, words echoed in his mind. He knew of course that he was right. Becoming attached to John Watson would only end in agony for Sherlock. Nevertheless... Sherlock couldn't stop thinking about him. He got up and started dancing again to take his mind off of it.

John reluctantly turned the handle to the door of his family's little flat. He could hear Harry and his father fighting. Again. He wished he couldn't. He wished he could just float away and never have to hear them argue about her sexuality again. That would be lovely. That would be impossible. So instead of floating away, he quietly opened and closed the door and slunk away to his room upstairs. Unnoticed. But that was okay, he would rather go unnoticed than be dragged into their fighting. He shrugged his backpack off and plopped down onto his bed. The mattress conformed to his body and tempted him with sleep. No, I've got homework to do. And as worn-out and dirty as he was, having just came home from rugby practice, he got up from his bed and started his homework.
Somewhere along Pre-Calculus, John's mind began to drift to something much more captivating. The tights Sherlock had been dancing in two days ago were  illegally skin-tight, showcasing his perfectly sculpted calves and bum. John was getting a hard-on just thinking about it. Fuck. Focus, John. But he couldn't. The image of Sherlock's arse clenching and unclenching as he spun around the dance studio was too much. He abandoned his maths homework to deal with much more... pressing matters