SPOILER ALERT-Most of this ficlet is based on a scene from Season 3 episode 2, The Sign of Three. Do not read if you haven't seen TSOT. unless you don't care about spoilers.
DEDICATION This ficlet is dedicated to anyrei1 whose artwork inspired this story, Her work can be seen on her Tumblr site. Just Google anyrei/Tumblr
A/N Rizla is popular brand of cigarette papers in the UK, which can be used in the eponymous game. When playing Rizla, one writes the name of a famous person on the paper and sticks it to the forehead of the other person(s) without them seeing it. They have to guess who they are by asking questions. I only explain this because I had never heard the name Rizla before (My American roots are showing *blushing profusely*.)
In addition, this gave me an excuse to use one of my favorite words, eponymous.
The credit for the dialog from TSOT goes to Ariane DeVere, whose most excellent transcripts can be found on her eponymous website. (love that word)
Lover's Waltz
John was buzzed. Actually he was completely pissed. He was celebrating his stag night with his best friend, Sherlock Holmes, who was also pissed. John smiled fondly as Sherlock tried to play Rizla with the doctor. The name, which John had stuck to his best friend's forehead, was Sherlock Holmes. John snickered to himself at his clever choice of names.
The name Sherlock had stuck to John's head was Madonna. Sherlock was a bit confused because he really had no idea who Madonna was. Unless it was a Biblical reference, and that didn't make any sense, since the news article had something to do with popular culture…music or fashion?
Sherlock woozily pondered the clues about the Rizla stuck to his head. He tried to make a deduction based on answers he had gathered from his best friend John Watson. John would soon be marrying his bride, Mary Morstan, and everything would change between Sherlock and John, or so almost everyone promised.
Sherlock tried to concentrate on the game instead of the impending and painful change.
"Am I the current King of England?" asked Sherlock.
"Are you..?" John dissolved in laughter. "You know we don't have a king?"
"Don't we?" asked Sherlock vaguely.
"No," said John, chuckling with barely focused eyes.
"Your go," said Sherlock, leaning back in his chair.
John slid forward, and kept sliding almost out of his chair. He braced himself with one hand on Sherlock's knee. Both John and Sherlock looked at John's hand.
John pulled his hand away with a slightly embarrassed shrug and muttered, "I don't mind."
Sherlock waggled his fingers from around his glass and shrugged.
"Am I a woman?" asked John.
Sherlock looked at his blogger and then burst into laughter.
"What?" asked John innocently.
"Yes," said Sherlock, as he straightened himself in his chair.
"Am I pretty?" asked John. Then he pointed to the cigarette paper and added, "this."
John rested his weary and inebriated head on his fist.
"Beauty is a construct based entirely on childhood impressions, influences and role models," intoned Sherlock.
"Yeah, but am I a pretty lady?" blinking his big blue eyes at the consulting detective.
"I don't know who you are," admitted the detective, who had an international reputation. "I don't know who you're supposed to be."
"You picked the name!" protested the blogger, who did not feel that he had any reputation at all, international or otherwise.
Sherlock waved his hand dismissively at the rest of the room. "Ah, but I picked it at random from the papers."
John slumped into his chair, "You're not really getting the hang of this game, are you, Sherlock?"
"So I'm human, I'm not as tall as people think I am…" said Sherlock continuing with the game anyway.
"Okay," said John standing up and stumbling toward Sherlock's CD player. "This party needs music, Sh'lock."
John flipped the switch and the haunting sound of a violin solo rang out. John froze listening to the beautiful music.
"No, John. That's…that's for…" Sherlock couldn't finish his sentence. John stood with a sweet smile on his lips and a faraway gaze.
As he watched, John swayed gently in place.
"It's you," murmured John.
"Hmmm?" asked the consulting detective, just watching John dancing in place. He thought John looked very pretty, especially when he smiled.
"You! You're playing," insisted John with a grin, pointing at the CD player and then at the tall detective, "On here, this is a recording of you playing…your violin…" John's voice faded, and he gazed out the window again.
John remembered that he'd gone two years, thinking that he'd never his best friend play the violin again. Even now, the memory of the loss could haunt the blond doctor. His blue eyes filled with perennially unshed tears.
"John," Sherlock shuffled over. He couldn't stand to see that sad, faraway look on John's face.
"All right, all right, if the music's that bad, I'll turn it off," said Sherlock, with a smile struggling to stay on his face. Sherlock hoped that he could cheer his blogger up with a joke.
"If you try to turn that off," threatened John, his expressive face focusing on Sherlock. "I'll, I'll clock you one!"
John looked mock-belligerently at the beautiful man, who he could never touch. Still, Sherlock Holmes had come back from the dead, not for John Watson of course. John knew that Sherlock came back for that terrorist case. Still, at least John had his friend back. That was the important thing, right?
They stood together, and yet miles apart, surrounded and supported by the music.
"Is it a waltz?" said John finally. "I've been trying to learn to waltz."
Sherlock had to smile at his friend, "Yes, John. I am aware, because I was trying to teach you, with Mrs. Hudson, remember?'
"Oh yeah. Not very good at it," said John a bit sadly. "Not like you, you dance beautifully. I could watch you dance all day and all night." John bit his knuckle uncomfortably. Oh My GOD, thought John, on the verge of panic. I almost…I almost let The Secret out. John felt a bit sick suddenly.
But Sherlock smiled at the praise. He loved when John praised him. John's praise meant more to him than the rest of the world's praise combined.
Sherlock began waltzing around the room his arms held out as if he held someone in close to him. He swayed and turned; his natural grace seemed untouched by the many drinks in his system.
John watched mesmerized, hungry and longing. Sherlock was an otherworldly being, ethereal and not for the likes of plain, old John Watson. That's what John always told himself when the desire snuck out of its cave. Tonight... tonight was the last night, the last chance for the beast to watch its soul then it would be locked away forever. Because, he, John H. Watson was promised to Mary, even though the whole idea of getting married had started while Sherlock was still dead. But a promise was a promise, and Mary was kind, honest and lovely, and that was that
The CD ended. The two men stared at one another. John's desire was not going away as ordered. He should probably go home. Or upstairs to his old room or out, anywhere but here.
Instead, John said, "show me." He hit the replay button and the music gently entered the room again. "Sherlock, show me how to waltz?"
Without conscious thought, John walked forward, his arms open and his blue eyes locked on Sherlock's.
Sherlock was drowning in those pools of blue. He took his blond blogger into his arms, feeling John's sturdy strength and his comforting warmth. Sherlock picked up his right foot. "The count is one, two, three, one, two, three and... begin.
He kept his verdigris eyes on John's, and led him around the room. Softly counting one, two, three, one, two, three…
John turned his head and looked down at his feet. He felt clumsy. His left fist clutched Sherlock's jacket, and his right hand held Sherlock's hand. His hand burned in Sherlock's grasp.
Sherlock took his right hand and tilted John's face up.
"Look at me, and stop thinking so much. Let your feet feel the music," said the detective so softly. "Just follow my lead, like always." He smiled his special smile at John.
As they passed the windows, Sherlock shut the curtains one by one, blocking the rest of the world from this dream, his dream come true.
"Thank you," said John softly, a shy half-smile on his face. "Thank you for closing the curtains." He didn't want anyone watching them either.
Sherlock smiled down and wondered why he had never thought to dance with John before. They fit together like a lock and key. And now John was beginning to glide with Sherlock, his steps following Sherlock's, like always.
The player was set to replay and the waltz, which Sherlock had composed for his best friend and friend's bride, continued.
The detective's long arm wrapped snuggly around John's waist, and pulled him just a bit closer. If this was the one time that he got hold John in his arms, then let it be close. Let him feel John's chest up against his. Let him feel John's breath on his face. Let him imagine John's lips on his.
John kept his eyes on Sherlock. That was his final instruction that horrible day. That was the rule now. Keep my eyes on, Sherlock. Keep my eyes on his face, so I can remember it. This. I can remember this, instead of the fall.
And they stepped, two-three, stepped two three together, in perfect synchrony. John melted into the taller man's arms and glided back and forth across the room. It was like a dream.
Sherlock allowed his cheek to rest briefly on John's head. John's hair was as soft as he had imagined it. It smelled of beer and the cigarette smoke from their pub-crawl, and it also smelled of tea and musk, which was pure John.
A whole new room was opened in Sherlock's mind palace for this dance. This one moment when John Watson was truly his.
John let his head rest, for just a moment, on Sherlock's broad shoulder. John slowly learned the melody and hummed in bleary bliss, as the detective's arm tightened just a bit.
John wished his pounding heart would stop. He wished his heart would stop beating now, so that this dance would last forever. Forever. Him and Sherlock forever…
"I think I heard Mrs. Hudson," said Sherlock, turning his head.
John pulled back a little and he looked down so that Sherlock wouldn't see his sadness and ineffable longing.
They turned around and around, and then Sherlock gracefully danced his partner back to his chair, tipping him into it. Sherlock quickly turned the volume down very low. He put the cigarette paper, which had his name on it, back on his forehead and sat down. He glanced at John, who was leaning on his fist and studiously not looking at Sherlock.
"Ooh-ooh," called Mrs. Hudson, knocking and opening the door, "Client!" she said.
"Hallo," said John, who was proud that his voice didn't break.
"Hallo," said Sherlock waving at the young woman wearing a nurse's outfit with a dark cardigan on top.
"Which on of you is Sherlock Holmes?" the nurse asked.
Fixing a fabricated smile on his face, John raised his hand to point to the Rizla on the detective's head, which read Sherlock Holmes.
Sherlock smiled broadly and refrained from grabbing John's hand. He carefully stowed all the sentiment and this evening's memories in the newly opened room of his mind palace. Then he concentrated on the case. Well, he concentrated as much as he could under the influence of alcohol and...the memory of dancing.
A/N I've considered an epilogue. However, both of my epilogues require John to break his troth with Mary and that is a) unpopular b) puts John in a bad light (even though it was Mofftis who put John there in the first place) and c) this did seem to end in the right spot.
My thanks to everyone who reads this, and I would appreciate reviews because they make me happy :D
Plus you could let me know if I should just leave well enough alone or whether I should try epiloging. (AHA! Another new word by sendai…or did someone come up with this before me?)
Disclaimer-I do not own the rights to Sherlock.