Author's note – Hi! Yet another fic prompt on my Sherlock tumblr.

This is important though: I initially wrote this as a oneshot, but I don't know, I kind of like it, and it feels incomplete, so please review and let me know if you would like me to continue and turn this into a multi chap!

I know virtually nothing about the time period, so please forgive any inconsistencies, etc.

1928

Scheme awhile, dream awhile / we're sure to find happiness ['I Can't Give You Anything But Love,' McHugh/Fields]

John Watson honestly doesn't know what he's doing here.

Michael Stamford passes by, giving him an encouraging sort of smile before whisking off a short-skirted woman with colored nails and waves of blond hair concealed beneath a cloche hat.

He really isn't entirely sure why he listened to Harriet's insistent pleas of 'please, Johnny, it's going to be positively ducky' and 'this blow could be good for you, all you've been doing is futzing around' and 'you might meet some real dolls.' Perhaps his concerns for her health and reputation – he does not much enjoy watching his sister being labeled as a vamp everywhere she goes – are to blame for his (potentially misplaced) compliance.

Speaking of, she's fifteen minutes late. He shouldn't worry, but he does. Hoping against hope that it's some communication error or a mix-up with transportation, he rocks back and forth on the balls of his feet and waits. A glass is suddenly pressed into his hand and, automatically, he takes a sip.

'You look like you could use this.'

An unfamiliar drawl. Unfamiliar. He contemplates spitting the drink out, then turns and finds himself face to face with a tall man. Dark curls, stunning eyes, unconcerned smirk.

'Sherlock Holmes.'

John shakes his hand warily. 'John Watson.'

A curt nod. The stranger is surveying the dance floor with an air of mild disinterest.

'So... what brings you here?'

'Curiosity, boredom, the usual culprits.' He waves his hand dismissively. Then, inclining his head politely at an attractive woman, who winks coyly, he comments, 'Charming.' A moment later, however, his gaze flickers back to the center of the club.

'I see. Are you a politician, or...?' It's a reasonable question, given Sherlock's fancy coat and aloof mien: he emanates class and wealth. John feels quite out of his element, unaccustomed as he is to interacting with such seemingly important people. To say that he leads a modest life would be a massive understatement.

For some reason, Sherlock finds this query amusing. 'No,' he says, smile playing at the corner of his lips. 'I am affiliated with one, though. Perhaps you've heard of him. Mycroft Holmes.'

'Ah.' John doesn't know the first thing about politics. 'Can't say as it rings a bell.'

'Lucky you.' Sherlock finishes his drink.

'That bad, is he?'

'Insufferable.' Pause. 'You have a sister.'

Good lord. 'What? How did you...?'

He gestured languidly with his glass. 'You're clearly not waiting for a girlfriend; if you were, you would be watching the couples on the dance floor as opposed to anxiously scanning the crowd. I witnessed your brief interaction with Stamford: friends, but not close. I've never seen you here before, and you would not be attending of your own accord. A male relative is more likely to suggest meeting at a bar or restaurant – this establishment primarily attracts women, couples, and those seeking relationships, yet you have shown no interest in dancing or interacting with others. Which implies that you are waiting for a female relative, probably a flapper. She's late. You're concerned.'

John sighs. Is he really that obvious? 'She was supposed to be here twenty minutes ago.'

'I wouldn't worry. You have a gentle and caring nature, making you irresistible to even the most hardened of humans. Your sister is unlikely to intentionally cause you distress.'

Irresistible? 'Er... thanks?'

'Merely an observation.' He falls silent again. John wonders why he hasn't left by now. Then, 'Ah, here she is.'

Relief pools in John's chest as his older sister pushes through the mobs of dancers and makes her way over.

'You look alike,' says Sherlock in an undertone, almost as if to himself. 'Similar gait, open face. Brown eyes.' He frowns. 'She's been consuming alcohol.'

Unnerving, to say the least. Conversation over. 'If you'll excuse me? Harriet!' She smiles and trips a little before reaching him. Shit. Sherlock is right.

'Isn't this the berries?' she preens, wrapping a hand around his elbow and smiling somewhat vapidly.

'Why were you late?'

She pouts. 'Don't get angry with me.' Whiff of brandy.

'It's a simple question.' Irritation bubbles up inside of him. Harriet is, and probably always will be, one of his only pressure points, his triggers. He very rarely loses his temper, and on such occasions she is very nearly always the source. Fear and anger travel in pairs.

'Why were you talking to Mr. Holmes?' she counters. 'He never talks to anybody.'

'I don't know.' He steers her firmly to a table and somewhat forcefully pushes her into a seat. 'He bought me a drink.'

Harriet gapes. 'What?'

'Why, is that surprising?' She's still gaping. 'He didn't technically buy it for me. It just... appeared. In my hand.' No response. 'Harry?'

'He's staring at you right now.'

John turns around. The big cheese – if he can qualify as such; despite his downplaying a connection to Mycroft, John is not convinced that he lacks as much power as he claims – is, indeed, looking in their general direction. They make eye contact, Sherlock unfazed by being caught, and John is the first to avert his gaze.

'Can you introduce us?' Harriet asks breathlessly. 'I'd love to –'

John snaps, 'Not a chance,' and when he impulsively looks back (why?), Sherlock is standing exactly where he left him.