Disclaimer: All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners, Arthur Conan Doyle and in their BBC version Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, and Stephen Thompson. The original characters and plot are mine. For this fic I have also had recourse to John's blog (the official BBC site) written by Joseph Lidster – I wanted to keep John in character as much as possible, so I even took up some recurring words or expressions he uses (especially when concerning Sherlock). All the cases mentioned here also appear on the blog – I take no credit whatsoever. I am in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

A/N: Here is the sequel to my story 'I like to watch you dance'. Hope you enjoy!
Edit: This story has been very kindly beta-ed by TheRimmerConnection. I take full responsabilty for any mistake or oddity that is left, it just means I was wrong not to listen to her ;)

Warnings: this is a hurt/comfort fic with adult contents and some angst from the characters' study. Rated M for a reason, so please read with caution.

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oOo

Let Me Dance for You

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John had never been so desperate to find Sherlock since he had first met the consulting detective. To be fair, just this morning they had been kidnapped by Moriarty's henchmen and brought to a basement room where the madman had asked Sherlock to strip dance, or else John would be shot.

Seriously. What a wacko. And then he had just left,gloating and all self-satisfied,and John had never wanted to kill someone so much – that is, until Sherlock had left him there, tied to a chair, and basically given him his farewell before walking out of the door like he was about to drown himself in the Thames. Which he probably was, in fact.

Hence John's panic, overriding his fury and his shock – and yes, he had been shocked to see his friend shatter to pieces under the touch, gaze and above all, words of a psycho. Shocked to see the depths of self-disgust and despair and emptiness in those clever eyes. He felt sick because his partner had been forced into something degrading and he had been used against him... It had been worse than the Pool.

John was no genius, but forcing someone to act like your personal slut while pointing a gun at their best friend's head, especially when said someone was a virgin and only considered their body as transport, was pretty devious even for Moriarty. He had seen right through them, the doctor thought bitterly. And he had been ashamed of his own reaction because God Sherlock was gorgeous, and it was already hard enough keeping his manhood in check when Sherlock was running around the flat half-naked under his dressing gown, but watching him dance like that,morethan just half-naked,really had been too much. And he hated himself for it. But now really wasn't the time to wallow in guilt and self-hatred. John had seen the look on the detective's face when he had left the room. He was terrified of what Sherlock intended to do.

Sherlock didn't understand why anyoneshould worry about what other people thought. He never bothered with the rules of society, not out of rebellion, but because he didn't see the point: not caring enhanced his lucidity and thought processes. His arrogance was so forthright that it was close to candour: hence his addictiveness. He managed to be at once insufferable and endearing, brilliant and clumsy. Enthralling, and bloody clueless, John added mentally. Sherlock was a genius, but he was such a child as well. He kept his distance because everything was so foreign to him – irrational. It confused him. Maybe even scared him, since there was nothing logical to hold on to. Or perhaps he feared what he'd discover, were he to follow his deduction about his own reactions to its end.

He'd been confused against Irene Adler. Terrified in Baskerville. How could he cope with this? That hyperactive child. That impossible man.

John had to find him.

He couldn't care less about the injury on his left shoulder – yes, the renewed one because said wacko had found it amusing to play around with a fucking knife as well. And who was that guy anyway? Sebastian. John shrugged it off and kept running around London looking for course,he had put Mycroft onto it as well, but he didn't really trust Holmes the elder to keep him up to date if his little brother didn't want him to. Well, at least he would keep Sherlock safe. Or would he? In fact, being found by Mycroft of all people could be the last straw, considering the state Sherlock had been in when John last saw him. He had called the paramedics, of course, but still –leaving him there after having made it clear he intended to never come back... And that idiot had purposefully left his phone behind to boot!

'God, if I find him and he's still alive, I might just kill the git.'

John felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. Of course he was alive. He must be. He swallowed. What could he do? What in the world could he, little, ordinary John Watson, do so Sherlock Holmes didn't throw his life away justbecause he had been broken and humiliated in the worst possible way, all because of him?

'Oh. So that's it.'

John considered the thought for a moment, then dialled Mycroft's number.

ooOoo

Maybe this wasn't such a good idea after all. Making Sherlock believe John was basically dying in hospital and calling him to his side was indeed insane, but John hadno doubts that Mycroft knew where his brother was, even if he didn't dare approach him – and in that respect, he had to agree. The best way was to make the detective come to him. His only friend. His flatmate. His partner, for God's sake! Although that word didn't hold the meaning John now realized he wishedit would.

Moriarty had given them quite the lesson indeed. Not that John Watson would ever admit it. But the madman had been right: he had been aroused by Sherlock's dance, and no he wasn't gay, but as dear Miss Adler had so kindly put it, that obviously didn't seem to matter in regards to Sherlock bloody Holmes. Indeed. Well, he was past denial. Or so he thought. In fact, he understood that giving in to the "I'm married to my work" crap and "I don't do feelings", believing in some kind of asexual Sherlock had only been a more elaborate kind of denial. He could never be sure about his sexual inclination, but John knew his friend wasn't a sociopath, knew he did have feelings, albeit twisted ones (but then again, normal was boring). Knew he cared about him. Knew hewas the closest to a relationship Sherlock had ever had. And also knew that hewas supposed to be the experienced one here. But precisely because this was all so confusing, he just hadn't been sure about any of the signals and hadn't wanted to risk what they had for, what? The same, with sex? Not worth it. Not worth risking losing Sherlock as a friend, flatmate and colleague.

But where had that led them to? Here he was, pretending to be dying so the man he loved but never confessed to (because he was too stubborn and too self-conscious and too fucking insecure) wouldn't kill himself because of him. And because of Moriarty – John wasn't going to take all the blame for this, even if he did feel guilty; the one who had done all the damage was still the criminal mastermind, although he had been using him.

Sherlock could always see right through everyone, no matter how you tried to hide. He certainly wasn't used to being the one read like an open book. He'd had such a twisted relationship with Moriarty. John could still remember how excited the detective had been upon first hearing the name (from the quivering lips of a dying man – it surely had added effect), and also his thrill at being targeted by a criminal mastermind – a real, clever one. A true alter ego, worthy of being his arch-enemy. Even more so than Mycroft, and that was no small task. The perfect nemesis for the most thrilling game of all, the ideal cure for boredom – a threat always looming and yet to be caught. Someone who could understand him absolutely. Sherlock had never hated Moriarty. They just happened to be on different sides (and that was for the best – how dull would it have been otherwise!). It was a game, not a feud. Then there had been the pool incident, and Sherlock's attitude had changed slightly. A little graver, maybe. It had been like a kid's first slap – when they learn a hand can hurt.

All of a sudden the door was slammed open frantically. A trembling and extremely pale Sherlock, very much like the one who had left him tied to the chair in the basement entered the hospital room, and stopped abruptly as he came face to face with John.

"John.. You.. you're not... oh God, God, God..."

Now he was hyperventilating and his knees couldn't support him any more. As he fell once again he hoped this would be the last time, hoped he could just disappear from the world. But instead he felt a pair of strong, warm arms catch him and hold him tight, as their owner kept muttering something under his breath – death threats, it seemed.

"Sherlock I swear to God if you ever do this to me again I will kill you do you understand? I have a gun but I can use my hands as well,so you really shouldn't underestimate me, there are so many ways I could..."

Sherlock was only hearing the words from afar, as if they weren't exactly directed to him.

"You lied..."

"Had to. You wouldn't have come back."

At this, he jumped and thrashed against John, trying to leave once more.

"You made this up. I was so worried..."

"AND SO AM I!"

John's roar echoed through the corridor and Sherlock froze. He was clearly enraged, now.

"How dare you. How dare you! What do you think you're doing fleeing like a criminal? You did nothing wrong Sherlock, that maniac played you, so please don't let him get to you even more."

Sherlock's gaze was cold and emotionless as he stared back at his friend.

"Don't worry. He can't. He's already got everything."

John shook his head, and noticed the nurses coming towards them.

"Right. Listen, Sherlock, can we take this conversation to Baker street? I think we're not very welcome here. Ready for a run?"

Sherlock looked startled for a second, and John was almost sure he had seen a flash of fear traverse that icy gaze; but then he just nodded curtly. The doctor felt a chill at the change in attitude. This remoteness was much worse than panic, he thought. Such frostiness couldn't bode well. This was Moriarty's work after all, so he shouldn't have expected anything less. He had stripped Sherlock of everything he thought he owned – his music, his mind, his heart... or so the detective thought anyway.

But here you're wrong, Sherlock. He hasn't. He really hasn't.

He made sure not to let go of his hand as they ran out of the hospital and took a cab to go home.

OoOoO

"We need to talk."

"Yes, John, I somehow grasped that from the word conversation."

The doctor put the two cups of tea he'd just made on the table and stared at Sherlock who was still standing, stiff and sharp.

"Right. Maybe you're not too far gone if you can still manage sarcasm. Won't you sit down?"

"No. I'm not staying."

John arched an eyebrow.

"I thought you just agreed..."

"I didn' you had paid attention,you would have noticed that I merely pointed out one of your redundancies – again."

The smaller man blinked.

"Good. Good, you're doing better. Acting like a twat again."

"Exactly. Now if you don't mind..."

He started walking to the door, and the good doctor was suddenly fed up with it.

"Stop it. Stop it right now, Sherlock. You're being so childish!"

This time something seemed to snap in the detective's eyes and John recognized the irritation and virulence and sheer terror he had witnessed once on Dartmoor.

"Yes, back to normal, see? Everything is perfectly fine, nothing is wrong with me. I can tell just from a look at you that you were supposed to have a date tonight, had planned to phone Clara because it's her birthday but haven't had the leisure to do so, are feeling frustrated and tired and angry, but also guilty and you've been worrying all day long so that now you've turned into a convoluted mix of soldier gone berserk and mother hen – a very interesting mix, might I add. Also you forgot to call the clinic about that red-haired patient of yours you've been concerned about and whom you were expecting to see this afternoon – maybe a beginning of anorexia but she doesn't seem to be willing to talk about it to anyone but you. You've been looking all morning – well, before we were kidnapped anyway – for the shopping list you made yesterday and which included the ingredients you'll need to cook whatever funny scone recipe Mrs Hudson gave you on Tuesday – the list's under the fridge, by the way."

He said it all so quickly John could have sworn it had been in one breath.

"See? Nothing wrong with me at all. Well, nothing except that I managed in the span of a few hours to be outsmarted by my worst enemy, strip dance and ejaculate in front of my flatmate, before said flatmate thought it smart to fake dying so we could talk about it. Perfectly fine, as you see. Don't you get it? There's nothing to talk about!"

"You're conveying that with quite a lot of words."

Sherlock glared at him, but John glared back.

"Just take a seat. Please. We don't have to talk if you don't want to."

John noticed that his pale hands were shaking slightly as he looked intently at the kitchen chair. Then it sank in. Right. The chair. Not good.

"Stop it."

John looked back at Sherlock, surprised.

"Don't even try to start analysing me."

He shrugged.

"Listen, I know you're shaken, but..."

"No you don't! You don't know anything! You have no idea... You were there and you were made to watch but you don't observe and you don't deduce, you're just stupid and ordinary and this is unbearable!"

John took the blow and let the pain it triggered wash over him. Sherlock seemed to have reached his limit.

"Just let go... let me go..."

John took a step towards him.

"Sherlock, please..."

"NO! You weren't the one being despoiled of everything in front of... of..."

"Shh..."

John had closed the distance and was hugging his rigid partner, who stiffened at the touch, then seemed to break to pieces and pushed him back frantically.

"Stop it! Just stop this, will you? I don't want your compassion, I could feel the pain and the disgust in your eyes and I even apologized that you had to witness such a despicable and repulsive thing, and I'm sorry they still hit you and damaged your shoulder even more but I... I..."

Without warning his face went blank and he fell quiet. His gaze became hollow and he just stood there like a deficient doll. The silence stretched and filled the room, exacerbating the distance between the two men. John grew cold and felt a shiver run down his spine. He took a tentative step.

"Sherlock..?"

His friend didn't react. John swallowed. He was shutting himself off from the world – right now the world being John.

"Please don't do this. Stay with me. Sherlock?"

He sighed. Too late. Talking may not have been such a great idea after all. But seriously, they had been arguing just a few minutes prior to this unendurable silence, so what could have triggered this? Oh.

"Sherlock?"

He put a hand on the limp shoulder and pressed softly.

"Listen, I'm not... I didn't get a concussion and that was lucky. Also, the shoulder isn't that bad – I mean, it has seen worse, believe me."

Still no reaction. Sherlock kept staring at the emptiness surrounding him. He had obviously retreated somewhere – his mind palace maybe? John shook his head. No, from what he had witnessed, Moriarty had made sure to blow that up too. Not that Sherlock couldn't rebuild it – discover other paths, new corridors and bridges that had never been found. Of that he was convinced – but he needed to get the message across to the sleuth.

"Sherlock. Let's sit down. Come here," he said firmly, bringing him to the couch. He didn't dare be too gentle, seeing how he had reacted just before turning mute.

"Okay, this is going to be awkward, but... You need to hear this. You're right, I was disgusted. With Moriarty, for one thing, and with myself too. Because it pained me to see you go through this just so the maniac wouldn't shoot me, and I was so frustrated to be that... powerless. There was nothing I could do but look at you."

At this Sherlock tensed slightly. John took a deep breath.

"Sherlock, you were beautiful."

The detective didn't move, but John was sure something had flickered behind those dead pupils. So he swallowed and went on, gathering his courage.

"You were beautiful, and I never wanted you so much. There, I said it."

He looked up and saw his flatmate staring at him in shock. Their eyes locked, and Sherlock's widened a little more. Then he averted his gaze.

"The only despicable and repulsive thing in that room was Moriarty. Well, and maybe that Sebastian guy, whoever he is."

Sherlock glanced back at him in surprise. John sighed.

"Yes, Sherlock, I feel guilty, because you were being tortured no matter how we look at it and it still turned me on. But don't you see? That's what the maniac wants! He's playing with our minds. I didn't want you because you were being humiliated and shred to pieces. I wanted you because you were gorgeous and I've always wanted you, from day one – don't tell me you had no clue, I wouldn't believe you. It's not like I was very subtle about it when we met either. Even if it took a madman messing with you to make me admit it out loud..."

Sherlock was staring blankly at the carpet. This wasn't working. John took his head in his hands and rubbed his temples. Of course it wasn't. This was Sherlock. How could he have thought for one second that doing this the normal way would help? Sherlock had been right – as always. Talking was not the thing to do. Moriarty's scheme had been much more total: it didn't involve only words, but movements and touches too, as well as shocking images and lasting impressions. Brilliant, indeed – but nothing less than that could have brought Sherlock to his knees. Nothing less than that could get him up again.

Obviously. John smirked upon imagining his friend's comment. Of course. If Moriarty could get under the detective's skin using John, then John himself could definitely do as much. The psychopath had needed him to ruin Sherlock, but John certainly didn't need Jim in order to reach his partner and remind him of how amazing he was. You don't observe and you don't deduce, you're just stupid and ordinary and this is unbearable! Oh, but on that point, Sherlock was wrong – Sherlock, Sherlock, always the exception.

"I observe you," John said in a whisper.

He had to get under Sherlock's skin, huh? Then he would do just that.

OoOoO

"No, Mycroft, I do not need your help on this! And do not even think of putting new cameras in the flat, because I will find them and get rid of them like the previous ones – and if I don't, believe me, you will not like what you see!"

John hung up ragingly. Really, could Big Brother be any more annoying? He knew perfectly well that John was right – or if he didn't, he could only trust him with this anyway. He was just interfering for the sake of it.

Sherlock had retreated quietly to his room a while ago and John had let him – he was worried about him, but he had checked the room for any unwanted substances or blades or whatever crazy things the detective could hide, and had made sure he couldn't open the window without John hearing him. He didn't trust him right now, but he also didn't want to make him feel like a child in need of a baby-sitter, and he wanted to show him he still had the right to have some privacy. And since Sherlock didn't even bother closing the door of his room, the doctor thought this would be fine. Besides, he didn't intend to leave him alone for long – in fact, he was just looking up on the internet the information he needed to make this right again, when he heard someone climbing loudly up the steps and entering their flat unannounced.

"John!"

He looked up and sent a little strained smile to Lestrade.

"Hey, Greg."

The D.I. walked up to him and stood by the table.

"I've heard you were kidnapped this morning – why in the world didn't you contact the police? Why didn't you contact me?"

He sounded genuinely hurt, and John felt slightly bad about it, but he still hated the paramedics for getting in touch with the police when he had specifically told them to just drop it. Sherlock wasn't ready for that. But Lestrade cared for him, and he deserved an explanation.

"Listen, I'm sorry, but something happened and..."

"Of course something bloody happened! You were kidnapped John!"

"I've been quite aware, thank you!"

The two men stood there glaring at each other. Finally John sighed and gave up the staring contest, glancing at the corridor leading to Sherlock's door.

"Look, there's no point in shouting. Can we just talk outside?"

Now Lestrade truly started to worry.

"What happened to him? Is he hurt?"

"Worse than that. But I'm working on it."

The D.I.'s gaze landed on the screen of John's laptop. He stared at it dumbly.

"By looking up lap dancing tutorials?"

John sighed.

"Yes."

"Do I want to know?"

"No."

"Right. But... are you sure about this?"

"Quite."

"Well, you're the doctor, but if Sherlock went through anything traumatic, maybe it'd be better if he talked to someone... You know, a therapist or something..."

They looked at each other for a second, then burst out laughing.

"See?"

"Yeah, yeah, that sounded absurd, I mean, it's Sherlock... Besides, if he needs anyone, that'll be you. Just... take care, you know? Of yourself, too. I think you're good to Sherlock, but..."

"He's good for me too."

If Lestrade noticed the change of prepositions, he didn't point it out.

"Good. That's good. Well, you know where to find me."

"Thanks, Greg. Really. I appreciate it."

Lestrade shrugged and left. John breathed deeply and only then felt a deep blush creeping onto his cheeks. This plan was mad.

Just then Mrs. Hudson decided to pay them a little evening visit. John held back a sigh – oh, she was going to fuss.

"Hello, dear! I've just met Detective Inspector Lestrade downstairs and he said you were kidnapped this morning! I hope you weren't badly hurt – I mean this is common business with Sherlock, but..."

"We'll be fine, Mrs Hudson, thank you."

She seemed rather sceptical, but then her face broke into a trusting smile.

"Right, of course you will. Oh and I found a new jam recipe, if you have some time you should come down tomorrow for a cuppa to try it out. Have a lovely evening!"

"Yes, you too Mrs Hudson. Thank you."

She shut the door and trotted down the stairs. John shook his head, smiling. Then he turned and realized he hadn't checked on Sherlock for a while – more than a half hour at least.

He walked down the corridor and entered the sombre room. Sherlock hadn't turned the light on yet – not that the light in his room was very bright to begin with, but this was downright gloomy. The sleuth was sitting on his bed, and at first John thought he was staring at the periodic table hanging on his wall. But he wasn't. He was only staring into the void. When John entered though, he turned and looked him blankly in the eye. As if on cue, he laid himself down onto the mattress, spreading his legs slightly, body limp. John's eyes widened at the implication – and the hollowness in his friend's irises only strengthened his nausea.

He understood that Sherlock had just been sitting there waiting for him to come and have his way. He must have deduced this from John's little confession earlier. This was the most absurd deduction he'd ever made, though – not to mention horrifying.

"Oh God, Sherlock."

He was at a loss for words, and struggled to find them.

"This is a misunderstanding."

He thought he saw an imperceptible flash of hurt in his partner's vacuous gaze, and quickly added:

"You're not a harlot or a broken puppet or whatever image that psycho ingrained into your mind. You're you. Just you."

John could read in his eyes every unsaid word. He sat on the bed without unlocking their gazes. Sherlock's body remained lifeless.

"I owe you a dance."

The pale eyes said You can't be serious.

"Oh but I am. Well, I probably won't look very serious, lap dancing in our living-room, but... Please let me dance for you, Sherlock."

At the mention of lap dancing Sherlock's gaze flickered with something like fear. John took his hand.

"You've got to overcome this. I'm not giving up on any tender gesture, nor on any part of your body, just because a maniac jumbled your mind. I'm not giving up on you – on this."

He pulled Sherlock up so he would be in a sitting position, and stood up himself.

"Just wait for me in the living-room, all right? I won't be long."

He put the kettle on in the kitchen and went to his own quarters. He certainly wouldn't dress outrageously (some tutorials had advised high heels, short skirts or pants, low cut tops.. or for men, mainly leather. Well, that wasn't going to happen). Sherlock had been dressed normally after all – well, normally for him, meaning he looked like his usual gorgeous self. But that was the point: he had to look like himself too, something Sherlock would be familiar with, but used in an unfamiliar way – wasn't that exactly what perversion was about? He wouldn't go for the uniform, either – too clichéd, and this wasn't so much about fantasies as about them. Just them. John wanted to show Sherlock that he owned his own body and mind, that they were his and his alone, and that he was free to do whatever he wanted with them – that it wasn't wrong or shameful to have a body that didn't boil down to mere transport, even when you were a genius. Especially if you were one, perhaps.

So he put on Sherlock's favourite jumper (that is, the only one he hadn't openly criticized), without any shirt under it, and just a regular pair of jeans, plus his old cane – could always be useful – then he went back to the living-room. Sherlock was sitting on the couch, as still as a statue.

John took one of the three wood and leather chairs around the table and put it next to the couch, laying his cane on the floor next to it. He went to the kitchen and came back with two cuppas which he placed on the small table by his friend's side. Having turned on one of the smaller lights and pulled the curtains, he finally looked at Sherlock and noticed the tension in his body as he was eyeing the chair pointedly.

"Yes, Sherlock, it has to be a chair, not just the couch. That's the whole point. Obviously you can't delete what happened this morning, so we have to find some other way. Will you trust me with this?"

Sherlock's eyes remained shut from the world and he didn't answer. After a few seconds, however, he stood up from the couch and went to sit on the chair. A shiver ran down his spine and his arms as his back and buttocks collided with the wood. He closed his eyes.

"Oh, Sherlock..."

John walked up to him, knelt down and took his hands in his, appalled by their coldness.

"You'll have to keep looking at me. Here."

He took the gun out of his back pocket and gave it to Sherlock, whose eyes widened at the trust this implied.

"You'll be the one holding the gun this time. Since you're not talking, if you want me to stop, just shoot the wall."

Then he smiled.

"I promise I'll be the one meeting Mrs Hudson at the door. All right?"

Sherlock didn't answer, but took the gun. John nodded, their eyes still locked. Then his face became grave.

"You can stop this any time you want."

He didn't need to develop the full meaning of that sentence. His eyes conveyed most of it, and he knew Sherlock knew. I'll give you everything I have. But if this isn't enough, if I am not enough, then you're holding the means to make it all stop. Still, he added in a determined tone:

"It is loaded. Two bullets."

Sherlock's face darkened and John thought he would just shoot the wall right away. But he didn't, so the doctor continued.

"You can touch me in any way you'd like, but you don't have to. Do you understand?"

The vulnerability John saw in the bare pupils answered his question clearly enough. Although his face and body were as expressionless as ever, the detective's eyes were slowly coming back to life – very, very slowly. At least John could tell he was looking – really looking – at him. He stood back up and moved a few steps away.

He realized now how hard it was to get started without music playing, but Sherlock hadn't had any either, and John thought it made the whole thing all the more tantalizing – irrationally so. However that was Sherlock. John didn't know how to keep an imaginary beat going in his mind while stripping in front of someone, especially when said someone was so distracting. Sherlock had had an incentive – the gun pointed to John's head – and similarly the doctor's incentive was to see his own handgun in his friend's tense grip. He'd better not mess this up.

Truth be told, he wasn't that comfortable with his body either. He was a soldier, not a dancer. He had seen and still saw every day many kinds of bodies, and his scrutiny had always been an anatomical, practical, professional one. Not with the women he dated, of course. He found them pretty and attractive. Nothing like Sherlock, though. It was funny how someone so awkward, with such long limbs and an unharmonious face, could have struck John as the very first body in which he saw true beauty.

One could presume that the one we love always looks the most beautiful person in the world to us – but John hadn't loved Sherlock the first time they had met. Sure, he had been quite dazzled, certainly stunned, and not just a little bit curious – he had felt drawn to the man from day one. But love was something else entirely. Something that had grown deeper and deeper inside him until it became a part of him. And he had found Sherlock beautiful long before he fell for him: since the moment he walked up to him to take his phone, in fact.

John couldn't tell what exactly he thought was beautiful about the man in front of him, and maybe that mystery was part of the beauty, too. The prominent cheekbones could surely be a turn-on, but combined with the pale skin, the black hair and the unnaturally clear eyes, they were more ghastly than anything. Under every fresh face hides the grin of a skull, goes the saying. Well, it certainly didn't bother to hide in Sherlock's visage.

And even so, the man was beautiful. Was it because of the untamed curls, the gleam of intelligence and the depth of his eyes? His eyes. John plunged into them once again in the dimly-lit room. Sherlock's eyes were like the surface of a lake. Often just showing a reflection, as if they were mere mirrors. Analysing and sending back in details – magical mirrors then, perhaps, that could show us things we didn't even know about ourselves or the world around us. They could also turn to ice – the reflection itself would freeze, the water transform into a cold wall devoid of any ripple, of any emotion whatsoever.

But John had also seen them undulate and quiver and pulsate with excitement and joy and humour and life. Sure, that could be a little disturbing with a dead body in the room or assassins on your heels. Not to John, though. He couldn't believe people would even think Sherlock was a psychopath – and even less so a sociopath! God, it was just so obvious in those pupils when the detective was in high spirits or irritated or vexed or mocking or touched or bored! Even when he was acting he couldn't hide the depth in his eyes – a lake isn't a mirror, you can cloud it, trouble it, drink it, drown in it...

At this very moment John was drowning, and he came back to reality with a start. Right. The dance. This wasn't about wriggling his hips and looking ridiculous and lecherous enough to turn his friend on. This was about giving. Sherlock had felt despoiled of everything when dancing in the palm of Moriarty's hand, willingly, to save John's life. That dance had been an over-subtle form of rape. And so he couldn't just give his sexiest lap dance – not that he thought he could actually manage one that would prompt arousal and not laughter. It had to be more than that.

All right. You think you've lost everything. You were stripped of each and every layer of yourself. Then I shall lay down each and every one of mine in front of you.

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oOo

Part 1/3

to be continued