"How did Sherlock obtain invitations for us to attend… This?"
Watson patted Mary's hand where it was tucked upon his arm. His wife appeared calm and collected, but her tense grip spoke otherwise. "I'm not sure, to be honest. Holmes didn't say much when he gave them to me. I can only assume that they were a favor from some previous client or other. Or perhaps he enlisted Mycroft's assistance."
The ballroom was ornate: from the crystal glasses to the flawlessly arranged bouquets that adorned marble pedestals about the room. Everything was clean, plush, and elegantly styled. The couples that entered from the main hallway were invariably composed of celebrated gentlemen and ladies, suits fitted crisply and dresses flowing with the grace of flowers in a spring breeze. There was the murmur of genteel conversation and the occasional crescendo of orchestral motif to which a crowd revolved in dance.
In short, it was all like a dream. Watson had been touched – even slightly astounded – when Holmes had presented him with a modest envelope two weeks ago containing two invitations for "Mr. and Mrs. John Watson" to attend this remarkably exquisite – and terribly exclusive – ball.
Jaw having undoubtedly fallen, Watson had turned toward his friend for an explanation. Holmes, however, was nonchalantly perusing a collection of letters and made no sign of answering his friend's unspoken question.
Watson began to stutter in a mixture of confusion and gratitude. "Holmes, I… What on earth – I – Are these – "
"Your second wedding anniversary, dear fellow," Holmes replied absently, his attention fixed upon the correspondence in his hand.
Watson blinked. "Well. Well yes. It is coming up, however…"
Finally goaded by Watson's dumbfounded tone of voice, the detective looked up and smiled. "A gift, Watson. Simply a gift to you and your wife, that you may celebrate your wedding anniversary."
After another moment of that warm and reassuring smile, he turned to read his letters once more. Watson, however, could only stare, an emotion of astonished gratitude filling in his chest. "… Holmes," he murmured quietly. "Thank you. I don't know how to properly – "
"Think nothing of it, dear fellow." And with a calm wave of the hand, Holmes had dismissed the matter entirely.
Watson glanced at his wife and, noting that she still seemed a bit nervous by the grandeur and pomp of the society filtering in around them, he shook his arm, the one with which hers was entwined. She looked at her husband with the faintest frown of confusion.
"Mary, please do stop worrying and enjoy yourself."
Mary gave him a smile that had touches of the wry. Easier said than done. All the same, he felt her grip relax to the slightest degree. He discreetly tugged her arm again, playfully. "You look positively stunning, and for all of the glass and lilies and satin dresses, none look as radiant as you, my wife."
The wry smile turned into a pretty smirk, and Mary dropped her face to hide the pleased blush. After a moment, she looked up again and murmured accusingly, "Flatterer."
The first half hour passed pleasantly among the occasional introductions and glass of champagne before Watson finally turned his wife in the direction of the dance floor. Away from the demands of society and etiquette, the two were able to speak alone and enjoy the other's company. While the ball itself was a joy to participate in, both Mary and John felt most pleased when they were able to seize the solitude of a waltz.
Midway through the evening, when Watson and Mary stood to the side talking over yet more champagne, there came polite applause as the small orchestra's conductor turned and bowed.
The gentleman cleared his throat. "It has been a pleasure playing thus far this evening, and we are looking forward to still more – after a momentary break."
There was the expected murmur of theatrical disappointment from the audience to which the conductor, playing his part, smiled placating. "Only a brief break I assure you. However, in the meantime, we have a special treat."
Watson and Mary edged closer towards the orchestra in curiosity. The majority of occupants in the room were now attentively watching the conductor.
"This evening, an outside musician has requested to play a solo. When we learned the identity of the musician, our host and I eagerly accepted."
Milking the anticipation of the audience, the conductor stood silent for a moment before raising an arm. "This evening, playing a piece he wrote himself, may I present Mr. Sherlock Holmes on the violin."
There was excited applause from those that recognized the name and a few gasps of delight.
For Watson and Mary, as they spied the familiar tall, lean figure approaching the conductor with the Stradivarius tucked beneath his arm, there was shocked silence. From a mental distance, Watson observed his dearest friend shake hands warmly with the conductor and turn to bow to his gathered audience. He glanced at Mary, who in turn swiveled her shocked stare to meet her husband's.
They were pulled from their mystified reverie when the familiar baritone began a brief introduction.
"I would like to thank you for the courtesy of playing here this evening. This is dedicated to two individuals who, I should hope, know who they are." He smiled at the few chuckles that arose.
Without further prevarication, he lifted his violin to his chin and briefly adjusted two pegs. There was a breath of silence before he drew the bow along the taut strings, and the music began.
The melody began gently and instantly threw Watson into pleasant memories. As two cellos and a viola joined in the background to create a steady thrum of atmospheric chords, Holmes' violin, in that strange, wordlessly talkative way a well-played instrument has, began to sing of warmth and sunsets, of walks shared with Mary along a river's edge, or companionship and the surety of love.
Watson cursed the strange tightness in his throat and blurriness in his eyes. He was rescued by Mary's gentle pull on his arm. Several couples had started to dance and of course there was no way that they, the unspoken recipients of the song, wouldn't dance.
As Holmes continued, the Watsons took each other in their arms and waltzed. He wrote us a waltz, Watson's mind exulted in a daze. He gazed at his wife's delighted smile, and he realized his complete happiness. He wrote Mary and I our song.
Eventually, the violin joined the viola in a duet and, with his wife before him, Watson likened the music to their conversations. He remembered things they had said in the past. With the precision of the duet's accompanied notes and the synchronization of his and Mary's steps, he exulted in their closeness. Mary said nothing, but by the light in her eyes, he knew she was as deeply moved by Holmes gesture and composition as John was.
The couple spun and whirled with nary a concern for those around them until, at last, the violin's notes drifted off and the thing was finished. Holmes bowed and the room applauded. With attentions away, Watson stole a moment to kiss his wife.
The Watsons joined the applause. The conductor returned and thanked Holmes, saying something about "what a delight" and "magnificent to have heard"; John's attention, however, was fixed on his friend.
As he had expected, Holmes' gaze wandered until it met his own. Their eyes locked, and Watson nodded as a gesture of thanks. While he found this thank you insufficient, Holmes appeared to understand. The detective's gaze was soft and – for just a moment, for the benefit of the doctor's observation – open. Wordlessly, Holmes conveyed his congratulations on Watson and Mary's relationship.
He turned and left, the Stradivarius tucked safely beneath his arm. The evening ended with the completest feeling of contentment and, a week later, Mary sent her husband over to 221B with a gift of baked goods and a personal letter of thanks. For the Watsons, the evening would remain a glowing ember of happiness in the expanse of memories. Every so often they would return to it and cherish it.
And when the darkness came and John was left alone, it became a source of comfort. Amidst the cold of loss, it became a cornerstone of pleasant memory which no sorrow could overwhelm.