John Watson stumbled into the men's changing room and slid into a chair. It had been a marathon ten-hour dance practice today, in preparation for the upcoming premiere of some new, mysterious work by a new, mysterious composer.
It'll probably be uninteresting or dull, thought John, and all this hard work, all the late nights of extra practice with Madame Giry just to get by, they will all be unnecessary and "unimportant" because no one will come to see this new opera. It's about a cuckolded old man! How many hundreds of times has that motive been repeated? There is the cuckold, the young pretty wife, the handsome young lover, etc., etc. Variations on a theme.
He sighed, watching the other five male dancers file in silently. Well, at least there's a great ballet and nice music, or so it seems from the rehearsal piano. I shouldn't be depressed- I'm living my dream as a ballet dancer at the National Acadamy of Music, in Paris, and the people here are good, and….
"John Hamish Watson!" The strident tones of Madame Giry cut into John's thoughts and roughly shook him out of his daydreams.
"What is wrong with you today? Your mind is off floating on a cloud while your feet are somewhere taking a rest on a beach! You weren't paying attention to anything you were doing!"
John knew she was right- he had often felt that his mind and his feet were in different places, especially today. Because today was the anniversary of….
His father's….
No, he wouldn't think of it. He'd put it off until tonight, when he would have nightmares about it and cry and scream silently into his thin pillow, biting his knuckles to stop the sound. And then he'd finally fall back asleep, simply to repeat the process. But not now. He wouldn't.
Right now, he'd focus on Madame Giry's voice and her honest, harsh, truthful reprimands.
"Come with me, John," she commanded, pointing towards the hallway. He miserably followed her outside and shook his head when she asked him if anything was wrong.
"Well then, more lessons tonight it is. Meet me onstage at 6:00. Is that clear? And in the meantime, get some rest, John. You are looking rather pale and tired."
He agreed to do so, simply to get her to leave. She couldn't know that if he went to sleep, it would get worse, because when he slept, he dreamed.
My authoress notes: So this is my first story, and I'm definitely going to need help. I'm guessing ten hours is a long time? Maybe it's not that long for a ballet practice, but if it's not, just substitute an appropriate number in your head. Bear with me, please! This is going to be awesome- Sherlock + POTO.