Title: Blue Danube
Author: Garonne
Note: inspired by a little scene in A Game of Shadows. No spoilers, though.
.. .. .. ..
I found myself creeping around the deserted corridors of an abandoned warehouse at midnight, completely bewildered as to Holmes' reason for being there. I had held his tools while he picked the lock on the main gate and now I followed him obediently through the dark, dusty interior. The cavernous relic of an industrial failure was far from being as silent as the grave, however: the strains of a mazurka from the adjacent music-hall could be clearly heard and the Thames lapped at the back wall.
Holmes penetrated deeper into the building, his path illuminated by an oil lamp. I began to fall behind, hampered by the leg pain that had troubled me since my recent return from Afghanistan. When I finally caught up with him, he was standing in the centre of a large room almost devoid of contents, and was looking about him with a satisfied air.
"This will suit our purpose perfectly," he cried as I arrived.
By the light of the moon, I watched as he produced a small hearth-brush and began to sweep aside the rubble, creating a large clean circle of concrete in the centre of the room.
I stood to one side, my gaze held as always by this fascinating, unpredictable man, who filled my days with adventure and excitement - and also my nights, in the previous few weeks. At times I could scarcely believe my own life, despite my constant recording of it.
Finally Holmes straightened, his task complete. He stood with his head to one side, apparently listening to the music, which was clearly audible in this part of the warehouse. It changed to a waltz and he came to stand before me.
"Give me your hand, Watson," he commanded, holding out his left.
Obediently I followed suit and he clucked his tongue in impatience.
"Your right hand."
I held it out and the next thing I knew, I had his hand in mine, my other hand on his shoulder and his right arm around my waist.
In this intimate waltz hold, scourge of a thousand chaperones, scarcely two inches separated our bodies. Holmes bent his head to murmur in my ear. "Ready, old chap?"
"Holmes, what the devil - "
"I'm practising," he said, correcting the position of my hand on his shoulder. "The demands of a certain case require me to pass for a consummate dancer."
"But my leg - "
He cut me off with a kiss. I was taken aback. It was the first time we had shared the gesture in such circumstances, without undercurrents of seduction or flirtation. I had become accustomed to a neat division between our restrained, comradely relations by day and our intense but wordless encounters under cover of darkness. The unexpected display of affection was not unwelcome, however and my face broke involuntarily into a smile.
He smiled back and then, as the music reached the start of a bar, he tightened his grip and we began. After some initial confusion arising from our common instinct to start on the left foot, we picked up speed. The pressure of his hands and his closeness distracted me and I had to concentrate hard on the placement of my feet. I am sorry to admit that Holmes' toes suffered to some degree, but in my medical opinion not enough for us to stop.
Holmes surprised me by the fluidity of his steps. I had always known him to be musical, and for months now I had been discreetly admiring the grace of his everyday movements, but my wildest imaginings had never included him dancing, let alone dancing with me.
I drew my head back an inch in order to look him in the eye. "It's you who has the advantage of leading, I see."
He regarded me guilelessly. "But of course, dear Watson. I am practising in order to dance with a female."
"How convenient for you," I muttered, though in fact it was surprisingly easy to follow, now that I was growing accustomed to the steps.
"We can change places in a moment, if you prefer. Though I must say you're managing rather well back to front."
"That's right, flatter me," I said, hiding a grin.
He adjusted his arm around my waist, drawing me closer to him. The music took us and we flew around the grubby, echoing, moonlit room, moving as one, indifferent to the clouds of dust we raised.
After some time Holmes leant in closer to murmur in my ear. "Watson."
"Yes?"
"You're not limping."
He was right. I had been whirling around the room for at least twenty minutes without a single twinge in my leg. I stopped short, dropping his hand.
"Are you suggesting it's all in my head?"
Holmes looked at me levelly, in silence.
I stood motionless, my head whirling. It was true that as another, more objective doctor, I should have declared my leg to be completely healed many months previously. As the patient, however, I could only respond that what I felt was perfectly, genuinely painful.
I looked down at my leg, still light-headed, scarcely able to believe that the lack of pain could be more than the temporary respite I was granted from time to time. Holmes' face was half-visible in the moonlight and his lips twitched in the suggestion of a smile. Gushing thanks hovered on the tip of my tongue, but before I could open my mouth to utter a remark that would have displeased him by its sentimentality, he seized me again and spun me around in time to the polonaise that had just begun.
"You don't have to dance for a case, do you?" I murmured in his ear.
He did not answer, but whirled me more forcefully through the shadows.
.. .. .. ..
So, the psychosomatic limp idea does in fact come from another version of Sherlock Holmes... But Watson's limp in Guy Ritchie's films has always seemed a bit dodgy to me, given the suspicious ease with which he runs about at times ;) For those who are interested, I wasn't actually imagining the Blue Danube for this, but rather the waltz from Tchaikovsky's Sleeping Beauty. That wouldn't have made such a good title, though...