Sherlock despised dancing. And it wasn't just a 'the thought of it is repelling, so I'll say I hate it'. No, his mother had signed him up for dance lessons when he was young and forced him to go. He never understood why Mycroft didn't have to go, but it didn't matter, because in the end he was forced to hold onto sticky girls who'd step on his feet. The eight weeks ended and Sherlock was still angry at his mother for forcing him to go, but he had a basic understanding of dance, which he couldn't deny came in handy on some cases.
But that was one kind of dancing. That was formal ballroom dancing, with steps and rules and places to put your arms. Then there was the awful dancing teenagers these days did, shaking their bodies in some vague rhythm, not even to the beat.
There was dancing that wasn't even dancing, more like an intricately planned series of steps two people took around each other, like what Moriarty had planned for Sherlock.
"I like to watch you dance." That was what he'd said, through that poor old woman. Moriarty was in on the dancing too, Sherlock suspected he liked it, taking a leading position, forcing Sherlock to step this way and that, contorting him to fit his means.
But none of those was the dancing Sherlock was experiencing now. This dancing was different, unsteady, like the world was no longer spinning the usual way at the usual rate, just jumping about through space however it wished. It was dancing he couldn't control, no moves to follow, no steps to learn. It wasn't just him that was dancing unsteadily, no there were spots dancing in front of his eyes. They were actually amusing, making Sherlock want to giggle, and perhaps reach out and touch them if he wasn't so busy trying to keep his balance and stay on his feet.
And then there was John. John was in on the dance too, but it wasn't fair because he knew the moves, the steps, knew how the world was going to spin and turn before it did. And there he was, looking anxiously at Sherlock, opening his mouth, but nothing was coming out. Or maybe there was, and Sherlock just couldn't hear it over this awful music.
And Sherlock wanted to complain, because John wasn't the one who should know the steps, he hadn't been forced to take dance classes (or maybe he had, Sherlock made a note to look into that), and Sherlock was the better dancer, so it wasn't fair he was the one to be stumbling.
Not stumbling anymore, he corrected himself, but the world had tipped on its axis, and he was peering at everything sideways. But then John was sideways too, and it didn't make sense for him to be sideways along with everything else, so perhaps he was the one who was sideways.
Which was funny. Not funny in a way that would make anyone laugh, but funny in an unusual way. Funny in a way Sherlock liked his cases.
And those awful spots just kept dancing in front of his eyes, making him dizzy and blocking out any hopes he had of being able to see what was going on. Which would have been abundantly useful, given that he couldn't recall at all what was going on.
He was just sure it wasn't supposed to be dancing.
And yet, here he was.
So he gave in, allowed the spots to continue their frolic, allowed his mind to sway into the music, and disappeared completely into the awful rhythm that surrounded him.