One Last Dance
John's never had a patient quite as broken as Sherlock Homes. Or as ignorant of the fact that he is, indeed, broken.
He speaks rarely, and when he does it's this torrential flow of insults and hurt memories and sadness. He speaks like he doesn't know that he's broken yet, like he thinks he's fine, and superior to everyone else in the room.
Maybe he is. John doesn't know.
Maybe he's not as beautiful, and clever, and graceful as he believes. Maybe he isn't some kind of ethereal creature that John has had the honour of beholding. Maybe he's just broken. And useless. And alone.
John doesn't think so.
John thinks he's everything, broken man and all.
Sherlock's never done anything quite like dancing.
When he was there, wood springing under his feet, soft and warm and secure, he was happy. Sure. But he didn't know then that he'd give anything to be able to dance again. To have the pain of crushed toes, blisters, aching and biting all the fucking time. He didn't know he'd miss it like he misses breathing. But he does.
Sherlock forgets to breathe, sometimes.