John flops down bonelessly into his comfortably worn chair at Baker St. and runs a hand over his face.
"This wedding planning is driving me up the wall. It's all we've done the past weeks." He glances over at Sherlock, who sits across the room from him, making notes on various papers strewn about in front of him, assuredly all having to do with said wedding. "I'll be glad when it's all said and over with so we can get back to ordinary life. ALL of us." Another glance at his distracted friend (He's been so... odd lately.).
"Ordinary? Your life is hardly ordinary." He pauses, and adds with a hint of disgust which makes John smile, "And why would you want it to be?"
"Ordinary for us, I mean." Sherlock hums absently in response. John continues,
"Mary's been on me about picking a song for our dance. Not sure I like any of her suggestions, but I suppose I should just agree to one."
"Your dance?" Sherlock scratches a few more notes.
"Yes, our first dance as a married couple."
"Mm. No need."
Pause. "Of course there's a need. Its a thing. A thing that's done at weddings." (Oh no. Is this going to head into one of those lectures about all those inane conventions 'you people' (any opportunity to separate himself from the rest of us *boring* mortals) always insist on? Because I could really do without another one of those.)
"I mean there's no need for you to pick a song. I'm writing one for you. My 'gift'." (Oh.)
"You're writing...?"
"A waltz. I'll be playing it on my violin." He picks up a book and shuffles through its pages, searching for something. (I'm genuinely surprised at this. That's actually quite... that's very nice of Sherlock. I'm no expert, don't even much care for classical music to be honest, but he's a very talented violinist, at least when he isn't temperamentally abusing the instrument (and our ears). It was almost as if he put all the emotions he didn't permit himself to feel into his playing. The contrast between the coldness he projected and the warmth of his music... I hardly ever hear him playing now that we're living apart, and those years when he was de... stop it right there! he commands himself as painful images unwantonly flicker through his mind... Wait a moment-)
"A waltz?"
Sherlock drops the book and turns fully toward him, indignation coloring his features.
"Don't make that face."
"What face?" (Feigned innocence. Ha! Who are you trying to fool?)
"That face. The one you're making."
"I'm not making a face." *ahem* he clears his throat. "I think its a grand idea. Truly, it's very thoughtful of you."
"Then why are you making that face?" Sherlock narrows his eyes at him. He's zoomed in on him now, like a predator to his prey. (I refuse to be intimidated by this (Does that usually work for you? -S)).
"I'm not making a face." (forced smile)
John shifts uncomfortably. (This is stupid.)
"Its just that..."
"-?" A single eyebrow rises, gaze still sharply focused.
"I don't know how to dance a waltz, okay? And I'll have to do it in front of everyone I know!"
"How do you not know...?" Open disbelief apparent on his face. (Really? Reckon I go to a lot of balls, hmm, Sherlock? Attend a lot of galas?)
"It's a bit old-fashion..."
Sherlock crosses his arms and leans back in his seat. (Oooooh, that ridiculous, snooty face, sometimes I'd just like to knock-)
"Well they're not playing waltzes in the pubs, now are they?!"
"..."
"..." (2 can play that game)
But Sherlock is rising now and fast making his way around the desk to stand before a now disconcerted John.
"Wait a moment, what are you doing?"
"Get up, I'm going to teach you to dance. Properly." The tall (but not as tall as people think he is) consultant straightens himself up even more (Even more, because doesn't he always carry himself so stiffly? Except when he's moping about like an overgrown child.), tugging sharply at the front of his dressing gown. (Even in his pajamas (Not leaving the flat today. Couldn't be bothered to dress. -S), he's a snooty son of a-)
"You're what now?" John blinks up at him.
"Put your hand on my waist." (Oh for the love of-) He laughs, discomfited.
"Sherlock, there is no way..."
"I won't have you embarrassing Mary and I on the dance floor!" (And there's the whinging I've missed so much these past years.)
"Mary... and you?"
"Yes, Mary and I. Can't have you tripping her during your big dance, can I?! I'm your best man." He emphasizes the last part with dignity.
"Sherlock, I think you've been taking your best man duties a little too-"
"You're regretting asking me to be your best man?" The words are flat and rushed, and something twinges in John' chest, because for the briefest moment there was something akin to real fear in his, as a general rule, quite unfathomable friend's eyes. (Why would I...? Better stop this now.)
"That's not what I said! All I'm-"
"Good." He cuts John off and pulls him to his feet in one swift move. "Then put your hand on my waist and follow my count."
He, very reluctantly, hovers his hand some centimeters above Sherlock's waist, who rolls his eyes and forces the hand down firmly, grabs the other and...
"1, 2, 3... 1, 2, 3..." His brow lowers in puzzlement, as he tries to follow the steps. (When did Sherlock become such an expert dancer? Have I ever seen him dance? When would he have found a use for keeping all of this on his 'harddrive'?)
They turn, and freeze as Mrs. Hudson is then seen standing in the doorway to the flat with a tray and a grin on her face. She steps in, speaking hurriedly,
"I'll just leave your tea on the table, dears. Pretend I wasn't even here. Not meaning to interrupt-"
Sherlock tosses a small pastry from off the tray into his mouth. "Tea time already?"
"No, no, no, no. This is not-" John stammers.
"I'm not making any judgements. Live and let live, I always say." (Why do people ALWAYS-?)
Sherlock tuts and resumes dancing, pulling an unwitting John along with him. (On second thought, nope. No mystery there.)
"This is not what it looks like, Mrs. Hudson!" He shouts as she descends the stairs down to her own flat.
"Pay attention, John! 1, 2, 3..."
Fin