Bit of a Stretch

[jackofknaves]

Title: Bit of a Stretch
Author: tripatch
Rating: G
Pairing: Gen
Summary: Kinkmeme prompt, "Someone recommends John try yoga. Sherlock is the teacher."
Author's Notes: I don't even know. Forgive me.



It was physical therapy, he reminded himself. As a doctor, he fully understood the benefits of yoga: his therapist said that he would benefit from the meditation and the doctor who worked on his leg said that the stretching would be gentle and help to rebuild muscle and flexibility.

It didn't help him feel like any less of a ponce standing in loose-fitting trousers, no shoes, and holding a mat in front of him like a security blanket. A woman next to him dressed in an outfit no doubt deliberated over for hours smiled sympathetically, doing something with her leg that frankly looked painful and reminded him of contortionist acts at the circus. He looked around, noticing with some discomfort that he was the only man in the group. He tried to remind himself that it was a modern age, that manly men did things like yoga and pilates and competitive flower arranging all the time. Right.

He glanced at the clock. The instructor was now ten minutes late.

Speak of the devil, the door opened and a lanky young man walked in, looking somehow effortlessly stylish in his own yoga outfit with a coat over it. If John had tried to wear something like that, he would have been mistaken for a vagrant. The instructor's cheekbones were something out of a fashion magazine--in fact, the entire man looked like he had stepped off a runway, all long limbs and slanted eyes. The only thing that didn't belong to the pages of Vogue was the mass of unruly hair on top his head. John suddenly understood why the class was all women.

"Hello, class," the man said with a surprisingly deep voice. He shrugged off the jacket and draped it over a stool at the front of the studio before unrolling his mat and dropping it on the floor. "My name is Sherlock Holmes, I'll be your instructor. This is a beginner's class, so we'll begin with some easy asanas. First, we'll stretch to loosen our limbs. Just watch me first, then feel free to join in when you feel ready."

John watched the man gracefully raise his left leg and tuck it behind his right knee. He took a deep breath, letting it out through his nose, before intertwining his arms and holding them in front of his chest like he was praying.

Around him, the women were copying the movements with careless ease.

Casting a glance at his cane, next to his duffel bag, John felt a sinking feeling that this had all been a very, very bad idea.


Over the weeks, John had noticed that Sherlock seemed to stare out the window more than he paid attention to his class, much to the dismay of the women in it. One in particular, a sweet girl named Molly, seemed particularly devastated. Most of the women had given up wearing make-up, a few had dropped out, and still others began showing up in grungy sweats and old jumpers, but Molly persisted with fresh lipstick and mascara that inevitably ran in streaks below her eyes at the end of class. He almost felt sorry for her.

Almost.

"No, no, John," Sherlock corrected him, rushing over. He put his hands on John's hips, holding him steady and subtly pushing him into the right position. "You're supposed to bend more."

The only thing Sherlock apparently cared more about than the window across the street was endlessly chastising John for his inability to hold downward dog and outright refusal to even try the plough after one disastrous and altogether embarrassing attempt.

"Here, watch me," Sherlock said, leaning forward and giving John a gander at his disgustingly pert backside. The material of his trousers stretched enticingly and John had to shake himself and remind himself to stop staring. Several of the women were giving him looks varying from sympathetic to jealous.

"Do you get it now?"

"Yes," John croaked.

"Well, that's it for now, I'm afraid," Sherlock said. There was a collective sigh of disappointment as he straightened, which he either didn't hear or ignored. "I'll see you next Wednesday. Remember to meditate!"

The pupils gathered their gear and prepared to leave, but Sherlock put a hand on John's shoulder as he walked to the door.

"Why are you here?" he asked bluntly.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock waved a hand. "I'm well aware why most of my class is here, but you're not gay as far as I can see and you clearly aren't one of those granola-bar types, so why are you taking this?"

John debated telling him the truth, but Sherlock beat him to it.

"I assume your therapist had something to do with this?" he nodded toward John's cane.

"How did you know--" John began, bewildered.

"It's obvious that there is no reason for you to have physical therapy for your leg. Whenever I correct you, your competitive nature comes out and you do the positions flawlessly. Only when you're angry, however, which leads me to believe that your limp is psychosomatic."

"That's..." John didn't know whether to be offended or awed. "That's brilliant."

"Really?" Sherlock looked pleased with himself. "Would you like to get some coffee?"

"I'm not--"

"Yes, we've established you're not gay," Sherlock said dryly. "Nor am I, as it happens, even though I am teaching a yoga class."

"I didn't mean to imply that," John sighed. "Oh, never mind. Yes. I would love some coffee."

Sherlock lit up. For such a handsome man, he spent very little time with any of his students out of class, and John had never once spotted him talking to the other people who worked in the building. It was as if there were a shield around him, keeping others away. He felt oddly privileged to be let into the small circle surrounding the man.


Sherlock led him to the building across the street, a small museum of naval history. To the right of the doors was a small cafe. John could smell the bitter scent of coffee brewing, overlaid by the musty aroma of old books that all museums seemed to have.

They ordered their coffees from a friendly barista before sitting in the small chairs overlooking the exhibits. A few parents wandered past, obviously more interested than their progeny in the plaques and small models of ships behind glass panes. John hid his smile behind his cup as one young lad had to be physically hauled by his mother to the next display.

A question had been niggling at the back of his mind, and he finally voiced it. "How did you know I had a therapist?"

Sherlock, whose eyes had not stopped scanning the room since they sat, glanced at John with an expression of vague surprise, as if he had forgotten he was sitting beside him.

"War veteran with a psychosomatic limp? How could you not have one," Sherlock snorted dismissively.

"War--all right, how did you know I was in the army?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently and John suddenly felt very dim. "Your haircut is still dreadfully clipped and you unconsciously stand at attention whenever I enter the room. Combined with your injury, it was a simple leap to guess you were military and had recently been in combat. Though I will admit seeing you in a yoga class made me second-guess that assumption originally."

John lifted his hand to his hair in an aborted move, dropping it by his side when he realised what he was doing. "Oh. Where did you learn to do that?"

Sherlock waved his hand dismissively. "I observe, which most people seem fully incapable of doing, as they're all idiots."

"Present company excluded?" John said with a wry smile.

"No, very much included," said Sherlock, as if surprised that John would assume otherwise. "Try not to take it personally."

"Duly noted," John said. He wasn't sure whether to be stunned, offended, or appreciate the man's bluntness.

They sat in silence for a while, sipping their coffee leisurely, when Sherlock suddenly straightened in his seat. Instinctively, John's eyes scanned the crowd, looking for the reason behind his companion's sudden interest. "What is it?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Do you see that man standing by the display of the Charlotte Dundas?"

John surreptitiously glanced around. "The one with the olive coat?"

"Yes."

"What about him?"

He turned to face John, his eyes lighting up. "John Watson, how would you like to catch a thief?"

Barely considering it, John bared his teeth in an eager grin. "I would love to."

A short while later, after the mess had been cleaned up, the museum officials appeased, and Sherlock had finished crowing with delight at telling John the entire story, John leaned back in a chair and let out a chuff of laughter.

"So this entire time you were posing as a yoga instructor? You were undercover?"

"Yes," Sherlock said smugly. "I needed to see how he smuggled the relics out of the museum. I thought that it might be through the window, but wasn't certain. It was easy enough to convince the people of my credentials."

"Brilliant. Absolutely brilliant."

Self-satisfied, Sherlock leaned in the chair next to him. "John, you are utterly wasted as a yoga student and I happen to be in need of an assistant. Are you interested?"

"Sherlock, I do believe this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship," John said with a smile.