It had been a slow day.
No cases. No calls. Nothing. The sound of pouring rain served as the background noise, the faintest scent of cigarette smoke lingered in the air at 221b, which, fortunately for Sherlock, was unbeknownst to John.
The usual slow day. Boring. But of course, and Sherlock would never in his life admit it, it was also just the tiniest bit cozy. The world being pelted by the relentless rain as Sherlock lay on the couch in a comfortably messy flat, violin at his side, protected from the storm by a mere few inches of wood, concrete, and Victorian wallpaper. It was almost enough to make him feel sentimental.
Almost.
John was at work, of course. Probably. Sherlock wasn't sure. Yes, he was at work. Dr. Watson, saving lives, the usual rubbish.
Ah, but the feeling of being alone! That was the best. Alone, Sherlock knew better than anyone, does not necessarily mean loneliness. And Sherlock loved being alone.
But being with John...it was just like being alone, except with company. It was aloneness to an entirely new and much more satisfactory level.
Sherlock did not see how that was logical, but he knew it was true. He just knew.
He wondered how. How could he believe something illogical to be true, based on no facts or evidence? What caused this instinct, this gut feeling that apparently was much more effective than analytical thinking?
Hmm.
He plucked his violin and made an off-tune twang.
Powerful questions.
Yes, it was certainly a slow day. Absolutely nothing to do.
Nothing to do, nowhere to go-o...
Hmm.
Take me to the airport, put me on a plane, hurry hurry hurry, before I go insane...
He closed his eyes and searched.
Ah. I Wanna be Sedated, The Ramones, early California punk rock scene, circa 1978.
He sighed. Boring. Useless. He must remember to delete that information later.
What else is there? Anything, any snippets of information he should get around to deleting? Might as well take the time to declutter his hard drive.
Mercury, Venus, Earth, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn...
Oh, for the love of god. Delete. Stupid, stupid, absolutely stupid, why did he even have that?
He sighed and wondered blithely for a moment whether he should just have another smoke. Or perhaps something even stronger.
No. John would find out. He sighed.
One, two, three...
Hmm.
One two three and one two three...
He pursed his lips at the seemingly random thought that had emerged from the depths of his mind.
Forward and right, backwards and left, forward and right, backwards and left-
OH! Waltz. Of course. Obviously.
Hmm. Potentially useful. Shouldn't delete it.
He closed his eyes and placed his fingertips together, the dim light casting sharp shadows across his face. Pallor mortis, Molly had described him once. And lying serenely on the sofa, he really did seem as peaceful as the dead.
He tried to envision the steps to the waltz. How was it again? He blinked, frustrated. His mind was blank. Where is it? The memory, where is it?
Perhaps he had tried to delete it once before. Maybe that's why he couldn't remember.
He opened one eye. A quick refresher could remind him...
Nobody was home. John at work, Mrs. Hudson is out...
Quickly.
Sherlock stood up from the couch. The man leads, of course. He put his right hand around an imaginary waist, his left hand clasped an imaginary hand.
Forward and to the right, wasn't it?
He stepped towards the sofa and to the right with both feet.
No, no, no. Not like that. Hmm.
He said sorry to his imaginary dance partner and flashed an imaginary apologetic look, before straightening his imaginary bow tie and taking a sip of his imaginary champagne.
Sherlock was very glad no one was home. He was behaving absolutely ridiculously.
Alright, alright, stop it. Focus. Forward and to the right...
Oh! Forward with the left foot, then forward and to the right with the other foot...
He gracefully moved accordingly, counting one, two, three.
Both feet together. Then the right foot back and the other foot back and to the left...the complete opposite.
One, two, three...there. He repeated the box step in the middle of the floor several times, finishing it off by spinning his imaginary dance partner.
He paused for a moment, smiling very slightly. No, don't do it, you'll look like an idiot...
He took a bow to his imaginary audience, and found himself laughing.
John did, too.
Sherlock whirled around.
John leaned on the wall in the hallway, giggling. "What..." He paused to catch his breath. "What are you doing, Sherlock?"
Sherlock quickly stood up straight, changing his face to the usual disinterested look, tainted only by the slightest and barely perceptible amount of embarrassment.
"Nothing."
John covered his mouth, attempting to conceal a new eruption of giggles.
"Alright." Sherlock seethed through gritted teeth. "That's enough."
John breathed in deeply, the laughter dying. He looked at Sherlock with an amused expression. "You know...I didn't know you could waltz. Or, well, dance at all."
"Hm." Sherlock grunted before plopping on the couch with his violin. "Do you know how to waltz?" he asked blithely, sighing.
Bored again. Dull again. Nothing again. Pretend again. Be a high functioning sociopath again.
Don't be obvious. How is the waltz even useful information?
Of course it isn't. I should have just deleted it again. Completely ridiculous, everything I just did was completely ridiculous.
"Nah, I never learned how to waltz. Wish I did, but..." John shrugged. He sat in his armchair, opening the newspaper.
"Would you like me to teach you?"
What?
"Hmm?" John looked up, confused.
Oh, hell.
"You heard me." Eyes lilted, lips pursed, voice rapid and monotonous…no hint of anything even slightly resembling sentiment. Good. He kept himself in check.
John blinked.
He had smelled the cigarette smoke in the air when he came home.
He wasn't stupid. He had refrained from confronting Sherlock about it. He knew that Sherlock had done worse, that he could do worse. It wasn't something to bring up now. Not when Sherlock was bored and volatile and unpredictable. Boundless energy, boundless intelligence...it can be very dangerous if it has nowhere to go.
Maybe. I mean, right now it's much more irritating than dangerous.
The waltz. John thought of tuxedos and ballrooms and chandeliers and Sherlock's waist.
"I'll lead first." Sherlock stood up. "Then you."
John stared at him blankly for a moment, before a switch came on and he found himself on his feet.
Sherlock put his right hand around John's waist, his left hand clasped John's right. Man leads.
Didn't necessarily say which man, of course.
John felt the hand on his waist, and searched for discomfort. He should be feeling uncomfortable. Where was it, then? It was not there, it didn't exist...because John searched and searched and could only find intrigue and excitement and anticipation and...
Trust.
He looked up at Sherlock's face. Sharp angles, pallor mortis, piercing eyes...he wondered what went on underneath it. For someone to want cases and cigarettes and cocaine and all manner of intellectual stimulation despite the obvious fact that he'd still be utterly bored out of his mind if he did have all that...and then to turn around one day and start waltzing alone in the middle of his flat?
A mad man lived at 221b.
Well, no. More like mad men.
"Follow my steps."
Sherlock's fingers tightened as they moved. John felt it, and he sensed safety.
"When I step forward, you step back, and vice versa. Fairly simple."
John smirked. "Very informative."
"Oh, shut up. It should be obvious enough."
He stepped back and to the left. John followed, stumbling.
Sherlock caught him and yanked him upright, smiling smugly. "Your gracefulness is impressive, John."
"Shut up."
Raindrops glittered red on the windows as a car drove by. Neither of them noticed. They only saw blue. Two different shades and two different sets of eyes, but the same blue nonetheless.
"A waltz has a triple beat. Count one, two, three. It'll help."
John did. And this time, he didn't stumble.
"Switch. You lead now."
It stopped raining later. The thunder and lightning ceased, the sky cleared to reveal a dark night and a moon, and the smell of stale cigarette smoke faded reluctantly, forgotten. The world was quiet.
Neither of them noticed. They danced and they stumbled and they laughed and they smirked and they noticed nothing, absolutely nothing, but each other.