The masquerade gala was held in one of the fanciest hotels in New York City. A prestigious orchestra all the way from Russia was playing on the stage of lacquered wood and red curtains. A magnificent chandelier hung from the high ceiling. Stoic waiters and waitresses walked the expanse of the room, silver platters of hors d'oeuvres held aloft in their hands. Gentle music drifted through the large ballroom of ladies in sweeping gowns and gentlemen in tuxedos. The music, albeit being peaceful, was also very loud. Especially since the dance floor was so close to the stage and its hidden speakers.
To Joan, it actually sounded quite threatening. Her heart thumped loudly and her clammy hands sweat underneath the silk gloves Sherlock gave her to wear. He had managed to conjure them from the attic of the brownstone along with a dusty lavender gown and matching lilac mask. Joan couldn't deduce why he had a dress in his attic. Was it Irene's? Or his mother's? Either way it was going to have to do. None of her dresses were nearly as expensive enough for an evening such as this.
Joan's black heels clicked against the sleek marble floor. The sound may have been lost throughout the large room filled with classical music and chatting couples, but to Joan they thundered in her ears and matched the roar of her frightened heart. She didn't fit in here. She was out of her element.
The heels of Sherlock's shoes clacked too, yet he seemed much calmer in the way he held Joan's waist while they danced and looked around nonchalantly.
But when he turned his head and looked at Joan through the eyeholes in his white mask Joan knew that inside he wasn't as calm as he appeared. Something behind his keen eyes, something inside him was roiling.
How did she get herself into this mess? She didn't know how to slow dance. Every so often her feet stumbled on her long skirt of taffeta and chiffon and Sherlock would have to catch her and hold her steady, and act as if nothing had happened, as though they were just another rich couple. Sherlock played quite the part though, walking Joan around with her arm in his and sipping wine, chatting to the servants and men as if he belonged there. And once Joan thought about it, he did kind of belong. He spent his childhood in luxury, living in a mansion in the countryside of England and going to an expensive boarding school, though Sherlock might not have thought of it as "luxury". Sherlock was different than the others. He was definitely different.
But on a passing glance she wouldn't have been able to tell. She grudgingly admitted that he did seem handsome in a tuxedo. And when Joan walked down the stairs of the brownstone in the purple gown with her hair up in a bun, what did Sherlock mean when he said, "My! Watson, I must say you don't look unattractive tonight. I'm sure Clyde would agree."?
It was as if they were actually going on a date of sorts…but they weren't.
Sherlock drew Joan closer to him as they danced and leant his head down to hers. "Relax. You will only draw attention to us by being nervous." His warm breath tickled her ear and she shuddered.
"I'm not nervous."
"You may say one thing but your body language tells a whole other story. You hand is clenching my shoulder and hand very tightly and not only are you stumbling every so often but you keep glancing around to see if we're being watched."
Joan relaxed her grip. He was right. She shouldn't be nervous.
"I take it you never went to a ball such as this before."
"Of course not. The closest I've been to was my high school prom."
"Ah yes. Where sweaty teens rub against each other in there baggy trousers and mini dresses that might as well be chemises. Well Watson I must say you didn't miss anything admirable. Father used to take me to balls such as these often when I was little to show me off like some type of handbag or new puppy." He made a retching sound.
But Joan wasn't listening. She looked around the room at the ladies adorned in jewels and the elderly men talking boisterously, trying to observe, trying to see what Sherlock saw. "Where is he?"
"Moriarty? Ah yes, I also noticed that he doesn't seem to be here at this party…that is to say that he hasn't arrived yet. I overheard the gentlemen at your five o'clock talking about a man arriving within the hour. It seems they were talking about M. In the meantime we're going to have to formulate a plan of what to do once he gets here."
Joan stumbled in her black heels again. Fortunately Sherlock caught her around the waist once more and rightened her. They continued dancing to the lull of the music. Actually, Sherlock was more of the one dancing while Joan just allowed herself to be led along. He even spun her around once and proceeded to dip her gracefully.
She had to admit; for once it was actually nice having Sherlock there to calm her thumping frightened heart.
"As I was finely explaining my father used to take me to galas such as these. As a result he hired me an instructor in the practice of ballroom dancing. Not my favorite hobby but I must say, there are times when a detective is required to go undercover. In these times it is nice to know and understand the art of dancing. You must observe the environment around you so that you can better mirror the-"
"Sherlock!"
"Hm?"
Joan moved her arm around Sherlock's neck and leaned closer towards his sharp eyes and the stubble that lined his jaw. "Look to your right," she whispered anxiously.
He pursed his lips and did so. Joan noticed that this time his grip tightened in hers as he muttered venomously, "M."