On Holiday
Vacation getaway. Like, dragging Sherlock off to relax, and he actually enjoys it. Not that he'd let on, of course, but John would know. Prompt by anyawen.Friday night there would be salsa dancing and John, while not possessing two left feet, did not in fact believe that hips were supposed to move like that by themselves let alone to the accompaniment of choreographed steps. He'd enjoyed the sand and sun on the Spanish beaches and the siestas spent spooned under a fan in their holiday abode. He'd taken very well to the food and the late-night parties and had to hand it to the Spanish for making very beautiful women. Everything about the holiday abroad had been a well-earned and necessary reprieve--excepting, of course, the salsa dancing which would be unavoidable to the last. Because Sherlock, even if he didn't say so, wanted to do it, and in the end that was more than enough reason for John.
They'd seen the flyer on the notice board while returning to the beach after a nap and another bottle of wine. It was a touristy thing, one of those cultural draws meant to pull in the Americans with itineraries and cash; Salsa dancing taught by beautiful instructors who would undoubtedly place their hands on their students' bodies to guide their hips with professional flirtation that would throw jealousy into the passion of the dance. It was miles away from John's idea of a relaxing holiday. It required obnoxiously repetitious counting, a lot of looking down while being told to look up, and the irritating question of which one of them would learn to lead. But Sherlock had stood still long enough to read the whole flyer, standing back a few paces from John who had glimpsed and continued, having now to wait for his partner to rejoin him. It was as close to saying he'd like to do it as words would ever be. So of course they had to do it now. Sherlock was interested. Hell, the man had probably even hypothetically picked out the exact clothing he would wear.
It wasn't as though Sherlock hadn't been enjoying their holiday. He was bored with the sun and a little annoyed with how everything simply closed down in the middle of the day. He was used to a certain amount of hustle that simply did not exist in their sleepy get-away. There was an adjustment period, a precursor to actual enjoyment and relaxation, but he wasn't constantly complaining about the heat, the sun, or the noise in the middle of the night. Not constantly. He still melted into John's arms in bed even if it was warm and sunny outside. He just needed a little more coaxing to really loosen up, and watching John look like an absolute tit trying to dance was almost certain to do the job.
"Do you want to wait for dinner until after the dance class?" John asked, lips pressing against the curls along Sherlock's neck as he continued to rest his head on the pillow post-siesta.
Sherlock's stillness meant the gears were turning, connections quietly being made. "The Salsa lessons at the resort hall?" he asked, his specificity its own admission.
John nodded, scooting closer till his cheek rested beside his ear. "I was thinking after your feet have been sufficiently squished under my soles, we'd have a nice supper on a balcony somewhere that you can deduce to have the finest paella."
The detective's chuckle was felt like a rumble under John's hand as it remained still wrapped around his chest.