John, I'm Only Dancing [Chapter One]

 

John, I'm only dancing.mysteroo  

Summary:

A Work in Progress AU fic, inspired by Hallor and David Bowie records, in which Sherlock Holmes and Johnny 'Lazers' Watson meet five decades earlier, when platform shoes were fashionable and Glam Rock ruled the roost.

Notes:

Written for my bro Jon who was with me when we found the song to inspire this up amongst my Dad's collection of vinyl, and who helped me with ideas.(See the end of the work for more notes.)

 

The first time he had seen him on the dance floor, owning it, John had been blown away; he was all long limbs and wild movements, twisting in time to the rhythm of David Bowie and Roxy Music.

He had watched in awe from his seat at the bar, his eyes wide and his breath catching in his throat. Never had he seen someone dance so fluidly, the movements of their body coinciding with the beat; skin shining with a light sheen of sweat, curls of black hair sticking to his forehead, the green glitter about his eyes winking in the strobe lighting.

People had backed away to watch him, leaving him writhing almost obscenely in the spotlight, deep purple shirt clinging to his chest, before the music changed and the man pushed past the crowds, sliding into the seat beside John.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

The words had come out without meaning to, before he’d had a chance to think; the bass and synthesizers catching them in a wrought-iron grasp and drowning them out but, from the look that had passed over the man’s angular features, he’d heard anyway.

“I’ll have an Orgasm,” the man responded, fiddling boredly with the blue pendant hung around his neck. “On my back, thanks.” John’s cheeks had flushed red, his breathing stuttering until the man spoke again. “The drink, you imbecile. While I appreciate your interest, I consider myself married to the music.”

Nice going, Johnny, He had thought as he ordered their drinks - one Sex On The Beach for himself and a Screaming Orgasm with Bailey's, Amaretto, cream and Kahlúa for the stranger beside him. Really nice going.

There had been a brief silence whilst they waited, John playing absent-mindedly with the feather in his ear as he watched the flashing blue strobe lights dance across his companion's angular features. When the man spoke again, his voice was a low rumble.

"You're a bassist... You've calloused fingers from playing the strings, pressing them down and plucking them because you don't like to use the pick. You play left handed although you're ambidextrous.." At this, he reached out a hand and ran his fingertips lightly over the smooth scar tissue across John's shoulder, feeling out the grooves and bumps. "To hide this. You were injured during basic military training when you were shot accidentally, which meant you were sent home, although when you stand you still hold yourself in a military stance. Due to not completing your training, you never got your own dog tags so you wear your grandfather's, whose name you share... John Watson."

"The name's Lazers. Johnny Lazers," He'd replied in a Bond-style fashion, cocking a finger and thumb to replicate a gun, after he'd finished choking on his drink and gaping, open-mouthed in awe, at the man beside him, who was smirking.

"You were kicked out of your band by your sister... tonight, if I'm not mistaken, who replaced you with her new paramour. That's why you've rubbed off the face paint you had - you've got smudges on your face and on the heel of your right hand. You were due to play here tonight, weren't you?"

"Piss off."

"Touched a nerve, have I?" The man responded, his lips quirking up into a thin smile as he plucked a packet of tabacco from inside one of his platform shoes. "Sherlock Holmes, consulting songwriter. You smell of smoke and shattered dreams, so pass me your Rizlas, filters and a lighter, thanks," he said, already digging around in John's jacket pocket. He rolled it slowly, long fingers rubbing and twisting the tabacco into a cigarette until he was happy with it, after which he smirked, lit it and took a drag, blowing smoke into John's face.

"You need some face paint, Johnny boy. You look too plain. Take this and c'mere." Suddenly John was holding Sherlock's cigarette as fingers skittered across his face in time to the strobe lights, deft hands mapping it out; working out how best to decorate the tanned expanse of skin.
Dipping two fingers into the pot of face paint he pulled from the opposite shoe, Sherlock tilted John's face upwards, sweeping two streaks of the same green glitter adorning his own eyes down each of John's cheek before sliding from his stool.
Taking luxurious tokes from his cigarette he smiled as he walked away, John's eyes following him back to the dance floor.
"I'll see you around, Johnny Lazers," He called over his shoulder. "I've got things to be doing."
 

More Notes:

For those curious, the club this is set in is The Blitz Club, London.
The line about being married to the music comes from this, and the title of the fic and the chapter come from a Bowie song with the same name;