*That Particular Kind of Dancing*

Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Genre: Humor (ficlet, gen)
Rating: K+
Setting: Season 3-ish (post-wedding)
Pairings: Sherlock&John
Preface:
This is a silly little ficlet I wrote in response to something that happened at ShutoCon 2014, namely my attempting to play Dance Central while dressed in my Sherlock cosplay, which was… epically fail… I am not good at dancing… but pretty funny. Certain individuals were stuck with the mental image of Sherlock dancing as badly as I did and requested that it occur in ficlet form. So here it is.
Disclaimer: I own neither "Sherlock" nor Sherlock. This story is re-posted from my tumblr site and was originally written in 2014.

"John," he said, "you go in there, find the tall man with the blond friend and bring him out. I'll wait across the street."

"Sherlock," John said, exasperated. "Why should I go in? I don't even know what he looks like! You're the one who saw him in that alley."

"That's easy," his friend said, counting off on his fingers. "About six eight, curly dark hair, mole under his left ear. Probably left handed–this is a drinking establishment, so that actually does help–about three hundred pounds. Weight lifter, I should say."

"Three hundred… Sherlock, stop it. Why can't you go in there?"

Sherlock looked surprised. "John, surely a soldier like yourself isn't afraid of a weight lifter…"

"Sherlock, no. Just, no. I'm not. But I am not going in there until you tell me why you can't." He pointed at the neon sign. "Is it because," he said, "this place is a gay bar?"

"Don't be ridiculous, John. Only on Tuesdays and Thursdays."

"Which this is," John cut in.

"And besides, you're married, so no one would ever think we were a couple."

John rolled his eyes. "Then you're coming in with me. Now." He grabbed Sherlock by the coat sleeve and pulled him toward the club door.

"But, John, there'll be music… and… dancing… we'll be noticed, John!"

"Come on!" John dragged him through the door, handing the appropriate amount of money to the man at the door, and dived into the mass of bodies, pulling Sherlock with. The lighting was dim, save for the brightly colored strobe lights, and the music was at a pounding intensity. Sherlock had to shout in John's ear to get his attention. "This was a terrible idea, John!" he bawled. "One of us might have gone unnoticed, but it's practically guaranteed the man will notice both of us and make his escape!"

"So dance!" John yelled. He was already moving in rhythm to the pulsating bass.

Sherlock stood stock still and practically got bowled over by several dancers in passing. "What?"

He could only tell what John had said based on how his lips moved. He was now too far away to hear, and Sherlock was isolated by a sea of moving bodies. "I don't know how, John!"

It was useless to argue. If he couldn't hear John, then John couldn't hear him. He tried an experimental waggle of one arm. From across the distance that separated them, John gave an encouraging smile.

By the time John had scanned the room and worked his way back to Sherlock, the consulting detective was making a reasonably enthusiastic attempt to bob and shimmy with the music, which was earning him friendly if somewhat amused stares from the patrons around him. "Sherlock," John wheezed as he kept the pace, "where did you learn to dance the chicken?"

The detective narrowly avoided elbowing a neighbor. "I'm making it up. How do you know how to gyrate like that?"

"I like to take a girl to a club on occasion."

"I hope, given your current matrimonial situation, you mean your wife," Sherlock said, a lanky arm out for emphasis as he weaved.

John's face reddened. "Of course I did. Can we get out of here?"

Sherlock pointed across the room without dropping a beat. "He's over there. I was waiting for you to come back so you wouldn't miss the interesting part of the case."

Nearly getting beat up by a three hundred pound weight lifter was not actually on John's list of interesting things to do, but somehow when Sherlock dived suddenly into the crowd and came up by the outside door clinging to said man, John had the presence of mind to subdue him before he did any serious damage to either of them. A call to Lestrade got him taken off their hands, and John found himself huffing from exertion in the alley behind the club, while Sherlock stood, hands in his pockets, nearly as unruffled as ever.

"Sherlock."

"Yes, John?" The consulting detective snapped back from whatever he was thinking of.

"You know how to dance. I saw you dance at my wedding."

Sherlock smiled coolly. "That was formal dancing. Mycroft and I both had instruction in formal dance as children. Our mother thought it was 'cultured'".

"Oh. Well. You weren't too bad in there."

"Yes, I was," Sherlock laughed. "John, I was properly terrible." He looked up at the building from which the sounds of bass could still be heard emanating. "In fact," he said, inclining his head as if to make a great concession, "From now on, John, you have my permission to take charge in any case that requires that particular kind of dancing."

*******finis***************