Chapter Text
Fourteen days ago John was here, in this same backstage area, listening to the same song he’d been tapping out on Sherlock’s bum just yesterday. Huh. Probably best not to think about that though, the shorts not having much give in them.
Fourteen days ago, Sherlock was leaning into his ear and spilling all of John’s secrets to him without having spoken a single word to him before. And in those fourteen days since, John had seen him do miracles again and again, lightning mind contained inside a body of power and grace, a body that John had had his hands and lips and skin on. Miracles.
But where was he now? John had (reluctantly) waved him off back to his own room to get ready for the closing ceremony with strict instructions to wear his medal and not to forget to charge his shoes. But the buses out to stadium had been manic and John hadn’t seen him and Sherlock wasn’t answering his phone. He chewed at his lip.
The gymnastics crew was all together, huddled backstage, just like fourteen days ago, but with some pretty impressive new hardware. Unconsciously, John smooths down the ribbons of his medals, pressing them flat against his chest. The team is dancing and bopping as they wait to go out, waving the little Team GB flags they’d all be given along with the special closing ceremony uniforms. John even has a proper full size flag tucked under one arm that he’d been given.
“He’s here, I’m sure,” said Sarah, appearing at his elbow. “Yes, you are that obvious.”
John smiled. “Plans when you get back to London?”
“Oh you know, the usual. Finish my degree. Hopefully make a few bucks going on Saturday Kitchen. As long as I can avoid going on I’m a Celebrity, Get Me out of Here, I’ll be winning, I think,” Sarah laughs.
“I thought it was all Strictly Come Dancing with you lot,” John accused.
“Well, it’s £100k if you win, you know that don’t you?” Sarah looks at John, spluttering in suprise. “I thought for sure you were gunning for it with your little parallel bars ‘look at me, I have abs’ dance,” she continues. “No? Well, stay by the phone, and if you don’t want it, tell them to ring me.”
“Woo- Earth to John!” Bill nudges him with a flashing shoe to the midsection. John blinks, but Bill has got Sarah up on his shoulders and is waving her feet at John. “Get a move on!”
They are moving out, the long line slowly snaking out through the one entrance into the stadium. For as long as the eye can see in front and behind is a swarm of white jackets and shoes flashing up in blue, white and red. He shakes the flag out from under his arm and starts walking out into the music and the lights.
Short stature might be alright for being a gymnast, he thinks sourly, but it’s bloody rubbish for trying to find someone in a crowd. It’s started to rain a little and John looks around him but it’s just a sea of uniforms and camera flashes.
Suddenly he gets another shoe to the side. “It’s lover boy!” Sarah hollers above the noise, pointing back into the crowd before clasping onto Bill’s head as she sways dangerously. “With the blue and yellow!”
The flip side of not being able to see anyone is that you can get a bit sneaky if you need to, and John slowly meanders backwards in the crowd of athletes, avoiding the ushers shooing athletes along the avenue of flags. With a bit of ducking and weaving and a dash of strategic side-standing and flag-waving, John soon sees Sherlock walking towards him.
He’s with a group of other Brits yet apart from them, aloof and self-contained. Hands buried in his jacket pockets, the bright lights of the stadium reflect different casts on his skin; red, green, yellow. There’s just the hint of a smile on his face as he draws closer to John.
“Hello,” John says quietly, barely audible. He falls naturally into step beside Sherlock, clearing his throat as he shakes the flag out in front of him.
“I’m glad you made it,” he tries again. “The shorts suit you.”
Sherlock gives John a quelling look before turning his attention back to the crowd.
“No, I’m serious. They show off your calves. Really.” John looks up at Sherlock, feeling the first cold tendrils. “Why didn’t you meet me at the bus? Did you, did you not want…” John trails off, throat thick.
Sherlock looks high, out at the lights. “TV moment, John, the world is watching.”
John sniffs. “What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” His voice drops. “Do you… not want to be seen with me?”
Sherlock looks down, finally. “You’ll be a public figure when you get back, John. This might be… complicated, post-games.”
John looks down at his shoes, flashing as he walks along. “I don’t – I want –.” John takes a deep breath.
With a sudden twist of the flag, he flips it behind himself and holds one corner out behind Sherlock’s head, “Go on, take it, you idiot.” Sherlock does so, mutely, and they walk along a little farther, flag billowing out behind their heads.
“Sherlock, did you know that the prize money on Strictly Come Dancing is one hundred thousand pounds?” John licks his lips. “Wouldn’t even have to win to get enough money to rent a nice little flat in London while we finish uni, my residency; not much, we wouldn’t need much space, I thought, and then if we both earnt some extra on the side, we’d be doing pretty well, I thought, wouldn’t have to survive on beans and toast and we could go to the sea, to the Calanques, just like you talked about. We could do that every year even, if we went on the cheap, if that’s what you wanted, Sherlock, because that’s what I want.” He licks his lips.
“I didn’t know, last time we were here, what I wanted then, what my life would look like, after this was all over. I still don’t, I suppose; dunno if winning a celebrity talent show really counts as a plan, but what I do want of my life is to have you in it, Sherlock. That’s what’s important. What….what do you want?”
John looks up at Sherlock; looking at the bright colours of the Union Jack flapping behind Sherlock’s head. He feels the pull of the flag in his hand as much as the pull of his eyes in his heart, these tremulous bonds between them. Sherlock is looking at him, face serious under the mop of unruly hair.
“John Watson,” Sherlock pauses, licking his lips, “John Watson, if anyone in this relationship is going to win Strictly Come Dancing, I’m quite certain that it’s me.”
It’s quite hard to kiss someone while walking along; it’s hard to coordinate the lips while noses and chins are in motion. It doesn’t actually work until John grips Sherlock’s chin in his hand, flag pulled across this chest as he leans and touches his lips to Sherlock’s.
The stadium absolutely explodes in sound, and John pulls back and looks around “What was that??!”
“I believe we were just shown on the big screen,” Sherlock replies, not taking his eyes from John.
“Oh,” says John, winding his free arm around Sherlock’s waist. “Well, let’s find a seat and see if we can get it on it again, shall we?”
