Pirouettes - BalletLock

-summary-
john watson, 17, is the captain of the rugby team
sherlock holmes, 18, dances at the studio west of school
and, if you'd care to know, pirouettes are hard to do

---

“Can’t you wait to do that once we get to the studio?”

“We’re already running late.”

“That’s your own bloody fault for not having a ride!”

Molly turned her head to look up at John in the driver seat, but he was staring at the road. She puffed a breath and looked back down, continuing to pull her sneakers off. John was quiet for a beat, almost waiting for her to stop.

“Molly, don’t take your shoes off in my car! I’m already driving you to your stupid class-”

Molly snapped up in her seat. “John Watson, you do not call my pointe classes stupid!” she scolded, giving him a pointed look. He glanced over to meet her eyes before rolling his dramatically and taking a sharp left turn.

“Fine, whatever. I’ll drive you every Tuesday to these classes if you promise to keep your shoes on in my car.”

As he pulled up against the curb in front of the little dance studio, Molly sighed and shoved sneaker into her bag, jumping out of the car barefoot. “Thank you, John. I really appreciate you doing this for me.” She smiled at him, closing the door.

“Six o’clock?”

“Six o’clock.”

He smiled back at her.

He watched her prance across the concrete barefoot on her toes, opening the glass door and slipping inside. He pulled away from the studio, circling around a bit in the area. He took note of a little coffee shop a few blocks down and a corner store a little to the north. John figured he get familiar with a few places considering he would be taking and picking Molly up every Tuesday here for the rest of the year. No sense in driving all the way here, going all the way home and coming back again. He found a spot to park a little ways away and rummaged around in the duffle in his backseat, closing the door and honking the horn.

The streets weren’t cluttered in this part of town, so John walked towards the coffee shop down the middle of the sidewalk, hands in his letterman’s pockets. The little bell above the door jingled as he entered and he settled in with his textbooks for the next hour and a half.

---

“Damn it…” John cursed under his breath, hands skimming all of his pockets for the third time. He looked in his bag again, and again, but still didn’t see his cell anywhere. He must have left it at school then - God knows what class he left it in or who could’ve stolen it by now. He did a final once over before sighing, slamming his door, and starting to walk towards Molly’s studio. His original plan was to call her and tell her where he’d been waiting, but with this sudden turn of events, he ran his hand through his hair as his pace increased. Could he drive back down to the studio? Sure, but now he was already halfway there, feet carrying him at high speed. Molly would be waiting for him.

The sky was progressively dimming, and the little sign above the studio was lit lightly in soft blue. He pulled the door open and slipped inside and was immediately met with the smell of dust and old leather. The foyer to the studio had a few chairs and magazines strewn about, but it was almost instantly flooded with girls and boys alike in leotards, tights and other sorts of gear. They came pouring out of studios to the right and left deeper inside the business, bags over their shoulders. Chatter and gossip wafted through the air. John pushed himself against the window, trying to diminish his presence as much as possible. He’d never before felt out of place in his rugby uniform, let alone judged by it. He focussed on looking for Molly.

Most people cleared rather quickly, and John went cautiously poking into the studio directly in front of him. He pulled the door open a little wider and peeked in only to be met with soft conversation and a distant classical piece.

A girl pushed her way around him, muttering an excuse me as she grinned and greeted a friend already warming up in the studio. John stumbled, falling into the doorway a bit more.

He could now spot Molly, all the way across the room. She was talking to some girl with jet black hair tied into an impeccable bun. John wasn’t about to walk all the way across this room, nor was he going to call out to her. Instead, he leaned against the doorway, one foot tapping on the marley floor.

His eyes latched onto someone.

A boy was sitting on the floor carefully slipping off ballet flats. His hair was dark and curly, tight against his head. His skin was pale, almost pale enough to blend into his white tights. The black leotard he was wearing was long sleeved, covering every inch of his arms. And his face - it looked to be cut from marble. It wasn’t until he looked at his icy blue eyes that John noticed the boy was staring at him, his hands moving monotonously on their own.

John had never been so relieved to see an enthusiastic Molly walking towards him.

He turned and headed for the door before Molly even reached him, the door closing a second time as Molly met him on the sidewalk.

“Why didn’t you call?” Molly was already asking. John pulled his mind out of a boy-induced haze.

“Lost my phone. C’mon, this way.”

“Well if I’d known we’d be walking to your car, Id’ve changed my shoes. Just wait one sec.” Molly propped her feet on a little ledge sticking out from the window, starting to take off her ballet shoes. John crossed his arms and tapped his foot impatiently, making biting conversation with Molly as she slipped one shoe off and started on the next. The door to the studio opened once more and John almost got himself to look away. Almost.

The boy was tall, his legs toned and long. He was much taller than John was, his height mostly unproportional to his weight. The mop of curls on his head were unruly, almost hanging down into his eyes- ah, yes, right, his eyes. Those cool, calculating eyes that were always connected to his almost harshly, like they were reading him inside and out.

The boy never gave one glance to Molly, even as she continued to talk about this and that. He walked past them to his car, John assumed, his bag draped over one shoulder. John followed him with his eyes until he had to rotate his head to keep an eye on him, but by that point, the boy had stopped staring and left with a stiff, purposeful walk.

“And - John? John-”

Molly was standing now, ready to go, staring at him. Following his eyes. His mind shut down again and he looked at her, a calm facade overtaking him. “Yeah?” he answered.

“What were you starin’ at?” she asked, looking back and forth from him to their surroundings as if she was blind to the boy walking away down the street. She was looking for abnormalities, buildings on fire, things worth looking at.

Little did she know, that retreating figure in the distance was certainly worth looking at.

John drove Molly home in comfortable silence, punctuated by directions to Molly’s house now and again which were always followed by remarks such as, “I know where you bloody live, Molly.” As she moved to get out, she gave him an apologetic look.

“Same time next Tuesday?”

John sighed in mock resignation. “Same time.”

She grinned. He nodded. He thought of the girl with the jet black hair and perfectly swirled bun, and the smell of powder still hung in his nose. All he could see on his drive home were eyes made of glass, seeing his very soul.

He could foresee this becoming a problem.