"Keep your chin up," says he, and it would be so easy to just pull the other close, closer, closest than he's ever let anyone be.
"Stop staring at your feet," says he, and it would be so easy to just hold those eyes -not sea, not sky, not any color but blue, the blue- in his own and let them speak what his lips will not.
"It's okay," says he, and it is so easy to feel the pain on his foot. The other apologizes, but he always says it's okay. It's more than okay. He caused the doctor pain and he's getting some back. It's fair.
"One, two, three; one, two, three," says he, easily counting the tempo and the moments that he can still hold the soldier in his arms and pretend, just pretend.
"And now the dip, like I taught you," says he, letting himself go, at ease and trusting that the other won't drop him, because his blogger would never, ever let him down.
And John Watson laughs, easily marveled at the fact that he's done it, he's actually done it, he learnt to dance before his wedding and he won't make an arse of himself on the dance floor. He looks a bit surprised, perhaps, that the brilliant detective is also a brilliant dance partner, but mostly his eyes are glazed over by the giddy look of a man who thinks life has finally become nice and easy and looks forward to it.
"Thanks," says he, and Sherlock Holmes doesn't say anything. He can't. It's just too difficult.
