Until We Meet Each Other

Sherlock finished the pirouette with a heavy breath, practicing this routine was really making a number on his transport. He took a moment to stretch his sore muscles and got into position again. He had to get it perfect. Once the music started again he was off. Jumping and twirling across the room like his feet were made of air. This dance was a highly complicated one, but his instructor assured him that if someone was able to do it, it was him. His dedication and lack of passion for anything else in his life -besides science and crime- made him one of the best dancers in the city. Often performing for medium-sized halls and getting more offers to the National Ballet that any one could count, yet he sometimes felt sort of...lost.

Specially lately, he felt surprisingly lonely. He was always accustomed to being on his own, but now he often found himself longing for something he never had thought he needed before: companionship. He didn't really know why he felt like that. In all his 23 years of life he had never thought he would come to desire such a ridiculous thing. He often scoffed and rolled his eyes at the mere subject of sentiment, let alone romantic entanglements.

The very strange thing is that he had no real reason to feel like that. He had everything he could ever want. It was not that he was dissatisfied with the way his life had turned out, but he sometimes wished it had gone in another direction.

Maybe life couldn't be as boring as he believed it was, maybe he was the problem. The only lonely person that never really fit in to the city. Or perhaps, his life was just another number, another in a million of similar other lives. Either way, he didn't really know what he wanted, he just knew he wanted not to be on his own for it.

John was sitting at his usual table in the cafe. As a professional writer, he always preferred to write in a neutral place, where there would be other people but he wouldn't be bothered. This way he could really let his creativity flow. He would be lying if he said he hadn't decided to settle on this place as a regular because of the young man that always came in at the same hour.

Said man had high cheekbones, black curls and eyes that could inspire John to write a dozen novels about them. Too bad his genre was crime and not romance. The man came in everyday and stared longingly at the window for hours as he sipped at his black-two-sugars. John couldn't help but wonder why such a perfect man would ever look so tired. The writer longs to go over there, introduce himself and say something, but he can't imagine what he could possibly say in that situation. 'Hey, I have been staring at you the past few months and I couldn't help but notice how lonely and perfect you look, so could we maybe be alone together?' John groaned internally, bloody hell! Even in my head it sounds ridiculous he thought. He could never gather up the courage to do that, yet he still wondered how life could treat a person like him in any way that could warrant those sighs.

John thought that maybe that was the problem. Maybe that man was simply too much for the world to handle. The writer was unsure he could ever manage to keep up, he didn't want to be just another bloke that really doesn't understand. That's exactly the reason why he was still sitting on his usual table and not over there with him.

Turns out maybe it had been for the best. Since just a week after his deep pondering, John got an offer to adapt one of his crime novels into a movie, and he would have to move out of the city for an indefinite amount of time. He took it, of course; yet, he still felt a bit bad at knowing the man would probably never realise he was gone -not even knowing he was there in the first place- and would continue to come in, order coffee and stare at the window with an expression that could break millions of hearts.

The day the final boxes of his flat were sent and he would travel to his new destination, he decided to go to the cafe one last time, as a goodbye to the place that had provided him with a lot of inspiration for his books, copious amounts of great coffee and the best view the city ever had.

He entered and placed his order. The owner -Mike, a good fellow that knew him for how much time he spent there- asked him about the move and he told him that day was going to be his last, that he would not even need a table. Suddenly a presence was felt at his side. Like eyes burning at the back of his head. When he turned around there he was, the man he had stared at for days on end. Looking at him with an unreadable expression.

"You're leaving," He said, and John was so enamoured with his voice that he barely even registered the fact that the younger boy had clearly noticed him and was commenting on his departure.

"Oh-" The writer started. "Yeah, in a few minutes, actually." He said looking down at his watch, it never really occurred to him until later that they hadn't even exchanged names.

The man seemed to consider this and clutched tighter a pair of ballet slippers he had brought today. "Take me with you." He said. And John was taken aback by the simplicity in which the sentence was uttered. The vulnerability in those beautiful eyes, was a surprise too. IT had clearly taken a lot of courage to come over here and ask this.

"I don't know your name." He said lamely, commenting on the fact that it could be absurd just accepting. And somehow it didn't sound as outlandish as it should to the blonde. Maybe it was the sort of situation when you don't really have to know someone to just know them.

"Sherlock Holmes." The young man extended his hand and smiled faintly, a smile that John felt he could watch every day for the rest of his life.

"John Watson," He responded. Taking the offered hand and turning around to look at Mike who was just staring at the both of them in a mix of astonishment and delight. The world clearly approved. John grabbed the black coffee that was intended for Sherlock and looked at him. "Well," He started and raised an eyebrow. "Let's go." He said. And once the shock of him actually accepting to take him along wore off, the younger man just waved Mike goodbye and hurried up to catch up with him.

It honestly was the maddest thing he John had done, but accepting Sherlock was also the best decision he had ever made.

Author's note:I understand if you can't find another reason not to stay.

Inspired by Drugstore Perfume by Gerard Way.

If you liked it let me know why.