(NOTES: I, of course, don't have any claim to the BBC Sherlock world, and am entirely enamored by its every detail, as provided by the many amazing Artists involved in its creation. All credit to them, and to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. I never in my life dreamed Sherlock Holmes could capture my imagination so! But I'm so very glad he has.

I suppose now is finally the time to mention this: that I agree with Stephen Moffatt regarding Sherlock's non-expression of emotion. It was a quote I read recently (wish I could recall where, as I'd like to add it here); summed up, he said that it's not that Sherlock doesn't feel, it's quite the opposite. He feels deeply, which is why he works so hard to eliminate feelings as the distraction they would be. I see a very deep heart beating inside this brilliant man, but one that's known its share of scars-being misjudged, being misinterpreted, being misunderstood-and misunderstanding the nuances of human emotion. The perpetual outsider, who chooses to remain dispassionate as much as an armor of sorts against these things taking their toll, as to allow his mind to function at highest efficiency. And I want so badly for Someone to give him what he's been missing; I know there are characters in the series that do and have, to varying degrees, but since I'm a Hopeless Romantic, I had to give it a whirl myself. Utterly self-indulgent, I know, but how I've been loving writing it!

If you have read any of my past fictions, you know that Tessa DeMauro is an American actress making a quiet living on the London stage. Not a "star" by any means, just one of the lucky few able to earn her daily bread doing what she loves best. That she has found a place in the life of the enigmatic & compelling Sherlock Holmes is a constant marvel to her. Please treat with her patiently, Kind Reader, as she means only the best entering this already established world.)

As Sherlock waited for Tessa in his usual place near the stage door, he noticed that the actors and technicians leaving the theatre in small groups seemed to be discussing something in extremely animated tones. He caught bits and pieces of conversation as they passed, and from what he heard he determined that the run of Twelfth Night had been extended. He quickly realized that Tessa would be delighted, and decided to let her tell him herself, rather than act the show-off that had already figured it out.

A few minutes later, Tessa came through the door, laughing with two women he recognized as part of the Ensemble. She looked for him at once, shot him a glowing smile, and turned back to her friends. They were telling her she just had to come out now, everyone would be there, the champagne was already on ice. She glanced at him again, and Sherlock heard her reply "Yes, I'll do my best." before parting company from them.

Tessa walked over to him, beaming with the good news, face flushed with happy colour. She immediately threw her arms around him, kissing his cheek sloppily. "Wonderful news, Sherlock," she exclaimed, still holding him tight. He loosened her embrace enough to see her face, "Really?" he asked, in as surprised a tone as he could command, "And just what is it?"

Her smile was irrepressible, as she went on to tell him "We've been held over for twelve more performances. I can't begin to describe how thrilled I am!" She hugged him even closer than the first. "You understand what this means?"

Sherlock was honestly perplexed, as the whole thing seemed fairly obvious. She read as much on his face, and so explained, "It means I don't have to say goodbye to Viola, just yet. It means I get to play her three more times than I'd expected." Tessa's face was earnest and excited, and she was clearly hoping he would grasp how important this was to her.

"Of course," he answered quickly, covering his brief fumble, "I should have realized that myself." Sherlock recalled a recent conversation; she had seemed somewhat maudlin one evening, and when he inquired why, she'd told him she was dreading the "inevitable letting go" that was fast approaching. Tessa had even warned him she might be sad and maybe a little weepy for a bit after the show closed, but that it was perfectly normal and he wouldn't need to be concerned. She'd told him it was all part of the process, especially when one was very connected to a particular role, or even to one's castmates. That she had forewarned him made it evident she was looking for future emotional support in the matter; it didn't seem prudent to tell her at the time that he was surely the wrong man for the job. This delay gave him a welcome period of grace from that concern.

Seeing Sherlock did understand the significance of the moment, Tessa went on happily, "So, most of the cast and crew are stepping out to celebrate; champagne, the works." She was watching him keenly, "And I know you usually don't go for such things, but I thought, perhaps," she hesitated here, for this was the crux of the conversation, "I was hoping that you could make an exception and join me?" Tessa's expression was almost completely sincere, with only a bit of dramatization added to tip the balance in favor of the answer she was seeking.

Her eyes were wide with her plea, and Sherlock felt she'd backed him into a corner. How could he decline? Tessa looked so elated and hopeful; he couldn't see himself playing the villain, saying "no". Yet he couldn't give in too easily, else she would think he'd become an easy mark for her pretty little schemes. Sherlock gritted his teeth a bit, "Really, Tessa? Is it truly necessary for me to come along?" He arched his brow with the air of one wishing to rise above.

Tessa slid both arms around his waist, looking up at him, daring him to deny her request. "You beautiful man, you—you wouldn't force me to go alone now, would you?" She batted her lashes at him, pursing her lips in a mock pout.

Sherlock gave a loud, put-upon sigh, "Very well, then…" and then she was kissing him with zest and oh-so-very publically, which he usually took great care to avoid. When the kiss broke, he cleared his throat, telling her in a confidential tone, "On condition, though."

Tessa gave him a sidelong look, asking him tentatively, "Yes?"

He chucked her gently under her chin, "First, there will be none of that in front of your friends and associates." Tessa opened her mouth to object, but he continued, "Next, we will not be whiling the night away there. Two glasses of champagne for you, my dear, and then its home we go."

She tried to look exasperated, but Sherlock could tell she was satisfied with the terms he offered. "I suppose I can make do with that," she answered with a sigh, "but you have to play nice with my friends a bit." She rolled her eyes, chuckling, "or at least allow me an introduction or two. If they hadn't seen you lurking at the stage door several times, they'd think you were a figment of my imagination."

That, of course, was how Sherlock had hoped to keep things. With as little fuss and bother as possible. As he'd succeeded in keeping his closest friend in the dark about this…this?-he smiled fondly, remembering the night he'd told Tessa that this was a "courtship"—he saw no reason to bring any others into the pleasant little bubble of distraction he was managing with her. And as much as he might rue it later, he knew that quiet balance was about to change.

"Well then, let's get this over with, shall we?" He held out his arm to her, and Tessa took him by his upper arm, pressing against him in the way she knew damned well he found hard to resist. Her kiss upon his cheek was all innocence, however, to conform to their agreement.

"This way," she told him merrily, "it's not far at all."

(to be continued)