John was glad there was currently no one sharing the hockey house with him; he had no idea how he would have explained his starry-eyed schoolgirl crush on a random British figure skater he’d happened to run into.
Sherlock spun and spun and spun. Eventually John stopped the pretense of skating and just leaned against the boards and watched him. He was all in black again. Of course he was. Sometimes he remembered to put the music back on, but most of the time he forgot all about it, concentrating on the spins in silence, the only sound his breathing—very regular, very rhythmic, and John wondered if he timed his spins by it—and the silver slicing of his skates on the ice.