"Dance with me."

John took a knock from his pint and tried to pretend he hadn't heard. In fact, he went as far as pretending he was somewhere else entirely.

When he looked into the mirror behind the bar, he was disappointed to find it hadn't worked. Dancers still shimmied to songs twenty years out of date. Garish neon pink flamingos still leered down from the walls. All around him, men still chatted each other up, hoping to make a love, or at least a lust, connection.

This was the third time in the last half hour someone had asked him to dance, and his patience was growing thin. Sherlock said it was vital they meet, but John had the feeling he was going to be stood up.

"No thanks," he replied without bothering to look at the man who was crowding close against him. "I'm supposed to be meeting a friend."

"Then you shouldn't keep him waiting," whispered a much deeper and familiar voice from so close to his ear John could feel the other man's lips move.

A cautioning hand pressing into his shoulder kept John from spinning on his barstool and launching into an angry tirade. He glanced up, intent on giving Sherlock at least a non-verbal piece of his mind, and his jaw dropped. Numb with surprise, John let himself be led onto the dance floor.

Sherlock had adopted a disguise. He'd gone all out, bleaching his hair pale blond and then styling its unruly waves it so it lay sculpted perfectly against his scalp. The little blue shades were an obvious affectation, but they suited the rest of his ridiculous ensemble, from the brocade waistcoat to the tight bottle green velvet trousers, matching jacket, and ankle high black boots.

The retro music was easy to dance to which was a relief because John still felt more than a little bit in shock. He backed into another dancer, mouthed an apology, and decided, 'what the hell'. He had no idea what had brought them to the club, but he trusted Sherlock and knew they wouldn't be there without a good reason. He got into the beat and in on the act, taking Sherlock's hand and dipping backwards, before pulling his friend into a twirl that ended up with them pressed close just as one tune ended and a much slower, more romantic one, began.

John expected the charade to end at that point, for Sherlock to guide them off the dance floor and explain, but he stayed where he was. They stumbled over one another's feet in a silent war over who should lead, but as in most things, Sherlock won, and John fell into step.

Although he was still completely in the dark as to what was going on, John played the part of a could be lover, resting his head against Sherlock's shoulder and swaying in time to the music, hoping he would be brought up to speed before before things got too strange. For all he knew this was only the first port of call.

Visions of sex clubs danced luridly in his head, and he wondered how they would fake their way through if Sherlock insisted they stay on the trail. John decided he was letting his imagination get the better of him. Sherlock could be single minded in his pursuit of an interesting case, but he seldom crossed into uncomfortable territory without at least some warning.

Unless of course he'd missed a clue, nagged a voice at the back of his brain.

John told himself to relax. Very deliberately he dismissed his worries and focused on the music. Sherlock, for all his uncouth ways, was a good dancer, and even if he was used to leading, it felt natural to let Sherlock dip, and twirl, and rock him in his arms. He rubbed his cheek against the soft fabric of Sherlock's jacket and wondered where it had come from, and if he would be forced to start filling his own wardrobe with odd costumes.

When Sherlock's curiosity was truly aroused he liked to be in the the thick of it. He wanted the data derived from his own observations and it was impossible to tail a person of interest if some tabloid rat was pressing for an interview. Sherlock adapted. In the last weeks, John had come home to find his flatmate stripping away the guise of an aged cleaner, a homeless vagrant, and a parish priest. Only yesterday, he'd been quizzing Mrs Hudson on the fitting of bras. John could only imagine what that was leading to.

Just for a moment, Sherlock lost the beat. John glanced up and noticed although Sherlock's expression was still set in foppish lines, his eyes behind the ridiculous glasses were bright with excitement. Something had caught his attention.

"Yes!" Sherlock hissed triumphantly. He spun John and pulled him close against his chest. "See the man pinning the gardenia on the other man?" He didn't shout over the music, but he pitched his voice for John's ears alone. "The one in the cravat?" John dipped his head, nodding with being obvious. "He's just marked him for death!" Sherlock sounded positively ecstatic.

Excitement made Sherlock's fingers tremble as he grabbed John's hand and dragged him off of the dance floor and then out of the club entirely. He didn't let go until they were nearly to the end of the street.

"What was that about?" John asked.

Sherlock ignored him. He had his mobile out and was typing madly. "Got you!" he crowed as he tucked the phone back into his jacket pocket. "The man offering the gardenia was an assassin with old fashioned sensibilities," Sherlock finally explained. "He likes to look his victims in the face before cutting them down."

"You mean we just walked away from a murder?" John spun on his heel, intent on returning to the club. Sherlock's grip was vice-like against his arm.

"Not yet, John." A taxi rolled down the street. Sherlock hailed it. "He likes to get a feel for what makes them tick," Sherlock continued as if he hadn't been interrupted. "Then, at a new time and place, somewhere he feels is uniquely apropos, he strikes. I've given Lastrade the details. He can deal with the boring bits."

The taxi pulled to the kerb. Sherlock had a word with the driver and accepted a familiar looking top coat which he draped over his shoulders before getting in. Bemused, John got in after him and watched as the blond hair was peeled way and Sherlock fluffed his own dark curls back into their usual haphazard style.

John was positively itching to get more information, but Sherlock had reclined against the seat and disappeared into his head. Maddeningly he would likely stay silent until they pulled up in front of the restaurant where he'd instructed the driver to take them for dinner.

With a sigh, John got out his notepad and turned to a fresh page. Pen poised, he wondered if his readers would prefer "The Gardenia Matter" or "Marked for Death" when he wrote the case up for the blog.