For the past four weeks since the events with Mycroft, Sherlock and Joan had been slowly rebuilding their fractured relationship. They had had many late-night discussions, where Joan found herself immersed in the company of a man who was slowly opening up to her more. Their was much they still needed to discuss, to understand, and to consider. But for the moment, they were quite content that their former relationship had been re-established. However, Joan still expressed a desire to move out. She had viewed a couple of apartments over the last few weeks, and had each of them more lonely and isolated than the last. She would battle with her feelings of confusion and dejection as she re-entered the brownstone, basking in the warmth and familiarity of the place, and of its inhabitant. She kept telling herself that it was natural to be nervous, to have reservations about moving out, but that it would happen. Eventually. But for now, she was content in the fact that she and Sherlock were fixing their friendship, re-establishing and re-writing the obstacles which they each faced. Joan told herself that, when their relationship was less fragile than it had been before, they would both be in a better position for her to move out. She almost believed her rationalisations, too.
Joan's apartment-hunting had also been temporarily stagnated due to the most recent case which she and Sherlock were working on. For the past week they had been working on uncovering the identity of an individual threatening the life of an eminent politician. Over the two weeks, two attempts had been made on the man's life, and further ones were feared. Therefore, Aaron McDean, the politician in question, had enlisted the help of the consulting detectives, whose reputation was well-known and respected. Although Sherlock had been reluctant to take the case, Joan and the NYPD had managed to ensure his help. On one particular evening, Sherlock and Joan were preparing for their latest task in relation to this event: they were to go undercover at a high-society fund-raiser, which the politician was attending. The event was in aid of one of McDean's charitable organisations, and was something which he was determined not to miss, regardless of the threat to his life. The help and protection of the NYPD had been enlisted, as had the assistance of Sherlock and Joan. Gregson had stated that, although they would not be expected to act as bodyguards for McDean, they may be able to identify potential threats to his safety which other officers might miss or overlook. Sherlock and Joan agreed to this, assuring the Captain that they would attend the event and keep an eye on the politician.
On the evening of the event, a well-dressed Sherlock Holmes was standing outside the closed door of Joan's room, and was conversing with her whilst she got ready, much to her consternation.
"I despite politicians" he stated, as he paced slowly outside her bedroom door, turning to face it when he spoke. "My disdain for them is only rivalled by my dislike of bankers." He continued in a low tone, shifting on the spot as he tapped his fingers impatiently on his thigh. "Watson? Are you quite ready?" He called through the door.
Inside the room, Joan sighed. She was sitting on her bed and securing the straps on her elegant black heels, before rising from the bed and walking over to the mirror. She was wearing a fitted black dress which came in at the waist, and floated out gracefully at her hips, accentuating her hour-glass figure. The dress had thin pieces of black, transparent fabric which rested delicately over her shoulders, hiding the straps which held the dress up. She wore an intricately-designed silver belt across her waist, which complemented her figure, and set off the outfit beautifully. Her hair was tied up in an equally intricate and elegant fashion, with her fringe framing her face. She was applying some lipstick and adjusting her earrings when she heard Sherlock's latest complaint through the door.
"If that's how you feel, why did you take the case?" she asked amiably, tilting her head to check her earrings, as she draped a matching silver and diamond necklace across her neck. "If you are so averse to politicians, and all they stand for, why allow yourself to be involved in his protection?"
"I am incredibly averse to politicians, Watson" he replied instantly, and she could hear him resume his pacing. "They acquire high levels of wealth and eminence for deception. They are nothing more than government-endorsed felons." Joan scoffed in amusement, shaking her head slowly as she rolled her eyes. "I know what you just did, Watson" Sherlock stated simply, causing Joan to look up towards her closed door. "That eye-roll was practically audible."
"You still haven't answered my question" she returned, as she reached towards her jewellery box for her diamond bracelet, and began to secure it to her wrist. "Why would you agree to take on the case if you feel so strongly about the person we are working for?" Joan secured the bracelet and moved towards her wardrobe, opening both doors and scanning the contents briefly. She reached towards the back and drew some of the hangers to the side, searching for her silver wrap. As she passed another hanger aside, her hand connected with a temporarily-forgotten garment of clothing, and she froze. It was the jacket she was wearing when she had been kidnapped two months ago. Joan's breath caught in her throat and she swallowed hard. She felt flushed all of a sudden, uncomfortably warm and slightly light-headed. She raised a slightly shaking arm to the hanger next to it and extracted her light grey wrap, securing it around herself as she closed the doors to the wardrobe and made her way slowly towards her bed.
"That was never an option, Watson" he called through the door, in a slightly lower tone than he had been using before. Joan placed some of her items into a small silver clutch bag, securing it shut, as she turned to face the door.
"Oh" she began, lifting the clutch and walking back towards the mirror. "And why was that?"
"Because of you" he said simply. Joan turned suddenly on the spot, flashing a confused stare towards the still-closed door. She was fairly certain that Sherlock had 'seen' that too. "You are a protector, Watson. It is what you do. You went from saving lives on the operating table to saving them in the field. You are drawn to work because of the puzzle and the intrigue, but mainly because of the people" he continued, speaking quickly yet and in a respectful tone. "I knew that you would not wish for a man's life to be at risk simply because I disapprove of his profession". Joan nodded to herself, smiling slightly as she slowly made her way towards the door. His words touched her heart. "Regardless of the fact that the man is an absolute-"
"Philanthropist?" Joan offered, opening the door wide and standing beneath the door-frame. Sherlock had not been facing the door, but was standing a few feet in front of it, his body at an angle, staring at the rooms to the right of Joan's own. At the sound of her voice, he turned mechanically, and stared at her for a few moments with incredible intensity. She was beautiful. He swallowed slowly, and his eyes widened as he cast an approving and admiring glance across her body. She noticed this, of course. She also noticed how his eyes widened and rose to meet her own as she took a step towards him. He felt his palms become warm and his heart beat slightly faster, and he blinked a couple of times to draw himself out of whatever trance he was under. As he opened his mouth to complement her, Joan spoke first. "Your tie is crooked" she stated simply, moving towards him and reaching up towards his neck. She acted quickly and deftly, fixing his tie within moments. He continued to look at her face as she worked, breathing in deeply as he realised their current closeness. He felt his body quiver slightly as her finger gently brushed his neck.
"Watson, you..." he began, in a tone which sounded more confident than he believed himself to be capable of at that particular moment. "You look wonderful."
Joan smiled warmly at him, bowing her head for a moment, before lifting her eyes to meet his own. "Thank you, Sherlock. You look rather wonderful yourself." Sherlock sighed slowly, before turning towards the stairs, and hooking his right arm towards her.
"Shall we?" he said in a mocking tone. Before he could move his arm back, Joan linked it with her own, and began to lead him down the steps.
"We shall." She said simply, staring in an amused manner at the slightly confused and bewildered expression on his face. They walked down the stairs, arm in arm. Despite the fact that Sherlock's gesture had been one which was intended on mocking the conventions and attitudes of the audience they would be meeting that night, Joan had held him to it. Sherlock's immediate reaction had been to sigh in mock-annoyance and defeat. But as they began to descend the steps, each of them realised that the gesture itself, whilst it had been intended to be mocking and artificial, was not. At least, not entirely. By the time they reached the bottom of the steps, and Sherlock had disengaged their arms to allow himself to be able to open the front door for Watson, they both realised how much comfort and satisfaction they had just experienced. It was almost as though their arms were meant to be entwined.
The journey to the location of the fund-raiser was brief and uneventful, with Sherlock scrolling through his phone and showing Joan pictures of the man they were protecting, as well as of the individual who had been seen following him on a couple of occasions.
"This is Bart DeSouza, Watson" Sherlock recapped, showing her a couple of graining images of the would-be attacker. "He was fired by McDean four months ago, and has recently lost his case in a tribunal for unfair dismissal. It would appear as though he is seeking revenge. And, based on past actions and attempts, he has no qualms about enacting said revenge in a public place." The taxi driver looked at Sherlock and Joan in the mirror, his eyes narrowing in confusion. He quickly decided better of it, and simply faced forward and continued to drive. He had no interest in getting mixed up in any of this.
"And Gregson thinks this guy could show up tonight?" Joan asked in a lower, more covert tone. "What would make him think that-"
"Because, Watson, the place is so very public" Sherlock stated simply, scrolling back to the main menu on his phone before placing it in his pocket. "And it is an event where McDean will be the centre of attention due to his philanthropy" Sherlock stated, pronouncing the final word with disdain.
"You don't approve of charity?"
"I don't approve of individuals creating charities solely for their own benefit and personal gain." He returned immediately, staring out of the window for a moment. "it is the height of hypocrisy, and represents yet notch in the chain of their many deceptions."
Before Joan could respond, the taxi pulled up outside the location of the event, which was clearly in full swing. Joan glanced out the window and admired the busy scene. There were well-dressed people walking confidently towards the entrance, handing their keys to waiting valets. As it was the late evening on a winter's night, the building surrounded by a veil of darkness, with the artificial light from large Chinese lanterns illuminating the scene. The lanterns had been arranged in two straight lines, one either side of a long carpet leading to the entrance. As Joan smiled appreciatively at the scene, her view was suddenly blocked by a familiar black tie and waistcoat. She turned immediately to the side, noted Sherlock's absence, and turned once more to the face the window. In this time, Sherlock had opened the door of the taxi and was offering her his hand, which she accepted, as he helped her out of the taxi, passing some cash to the driver as he did so.
Joan stood by his side for a moment, as they both stared admiringly at the sight before them. Joan suddenly felt very conscious of herself: her dress, her make-up, her demeanour. Although she had worn an outfit which she felt comfortable in, and which she believed was appropriate for the occasion, she could not help but feel very out of place.
"You have nothing to fear, Watson" Sherlock said simply, causing Joan to turn her head towards him as he spoke. "You outshine everyone in this building. Of that I assure you." Sherlock sounded calm and confident, and his gaze did not leave the building in front of him as he spoke to Joan. She smiled appreciatively, grateful for not only his kind words, but for the fact that he seemed to pick up on her discomfort. "Are you ready?" he asked kindly, turning to face her. She nodded in response, and was about to begin to walk forward, when the familiar sight of his extended arm greeted her. She looked up at him mechanically, a small grin playing on her lips.
Sherlock sighed in feigned annoyance as Joan did not even attempt to hide her amusement, accepting his arm instantly. "I thought you didn't approve of this" she asked in a low yet respectful tone. "Adhering to the conventions of the political and social elite."
"I do not, my dear Watson" he replied, as he adjusted his arm slightly and took a few steps forward. "But, on this particular occasion, such sacrifices are necessary." She smiled warmly at him, and they each relaxed markedly, as they made their way confidently towards the building.
The large ballroom was filled with the sound of classical music and engaging conversations. The room was large, boasting a grand and open floor-space and a high ceiling. Several crystal chandeliers were hanging from the ceiling, and rare and expensive artwork was looming imposingly upon the walls. In the centre of the room was a large area where a few people were dancing, right in front of an impressively decorated platform at the back wall, which held a large table and several microphones, which were currently being checked over by well-dressed members of staff. All around the room were tables decorating in expensive white cloths, recently-upholstered chairs, and glassware which probably cost more than the salaries of all the protective officers combined. Sherlock observed this with mild annoyance, and could feel his irritability rising with the artificial and grandiose nature of the event. He guessed that the majority of the guests here this evening did not even know what the charity itself was in aid of, musing that they probably only came to get their faces in the society sections of the tabloids, and be hailed as philanthropic heroes and heroines.
As they stepped inside this large room, they were immediately approached by one of the protection officers, who was posing as a waiter. He appeared to be well-dressed and impassive, and approached Sherlock and Joan with a large silver tray which held a selection of expensive appetisers.
"Mr Holmes, Miss Watson" he greeted in a low tone, bowing his head slightly and extending the tray. "McDean is at the corner table at the far left, towards the podium" he stated simply, as he tilted the tray around, pretending to show the most recent guests the array of potential foods. "He is sitting alone, his wife is at a table with some female friends. We've had no sign of DeSouza as of yet."
"Excellent, Bradley" Sherlock stated, removing his arm from Joan's and reaching out towards the tray, childishly grabbing a handful of salmon appetisers before walking brazenly forward. Officer Bradley sighed and rolled his eyes, before nodding politely at Joan's brief apology. She thanked him sincerely, before walking quickly towards Sherlock, who was standing a few feet ahead of her.
"Can you not behave like an adult for five-"
"Appetiser?" he asked, speaking with a mouthful of salmon and crackers, as he offered her one of the tasty treats which were laying crumbled in his hand.
She sighed, briefly surveying the room as she spoke. "Thanks, I'll pass." With that, Sherlock dropped the food pointedly on the floor, causing Joan to look up at him, wide-eyed and remonstrative, which she realised only amused him more. "Why don't you go and get us some drinks?" she asked tiredly, indicating towards the bar with her clutch bag. "I'll be sitting right here." Sherlock nodded politely, removing a few crumbs from the corner of his mouth, before strutting towards the bar. Joan watched him for a few moments, before sitting down at an empty table, and allowing her scarf to fall from her shoulders, revealing her back. At this moment, Sherlock cast a glance back in her direction, and found himself staring at her profile, admiring her beauty once more. He was so enraptured by her presence, her beauty and her wonder, that the well-spoken man behind the bar had to ask him for his order three times, before Sherlock turned towards him to speak.
Joan sat at the table for a few moments, running her fingers along her bag, and opening it briefly to glance at her phone. There was something very strange about this night, very surreal. He word which Sherlock had used repeatedly, 'artificial', had struck her. She understood what he meant, and did not entirely disagree with him, but his use of the term made her realise something else, too. Something which confused her deeply. It was how she felt, earlier in the evening, when she accepted Sherlock's arm, and he had escorted her down the stairs. She knew that he had initially meant the gesture to be one of mocking insincerity, but it had certainly not felt as such. Instead, it felt comfortable, reassuring, and wonderful. Certainly not artificial. Not in the least. As she allowed herself to ponder this perplexing issue, she was drawn from her thoughts by the sound of movement behind her, as Sherlock placed a champagne flute in front of her.
"What are... is that alcohol?" she asked incredulously, watching as he sipped from a similar glass. "Sherlock, what are you-"
"Relax, Watson" he mumbled, drawing the glass away from his lips. "It is mineral water. I ordered it for both of us, but requested it to be served in these glasses, it is less conspicuous." Joan nodded in understanding, before taking a cautious sip from her own glass. "I assure you, it is ethanol free." Joan laughed lightly, before turning towards him and seeing a warm and playful expression dancing
in his eyes. Sherlock returned her smile, and took up the seat next to her. They remained at their table, engrossed in their own conversation and observances, as they continued to watch the man who they were protecting. The evening itself was fairly uneventful in terms of their task, with just a couple of waiters and the man's slightly-tipsy wife approaching him. But an hour or so later, something changed.
The politician was approached by a well-dressed man in a tailored suit, who he did not appear to recognise at once. But a few moments later, his eyes widened, and he shifted uncomfortably in his seat. His visitor raised a hand, before walking around the table and sitting by his side. Sherlock and Joan's view of their charge was obscured by the new man's back, and they addressed the issue immediately.
"is that DeSouza?" asked Watson, tilting her head towards Sherlock as she spoke, her hair brushing against his cheek.
"It is hard to judge from here" he returned in a low voice, his gaze not leaving the scene ahead of him. "But the man's height, weight and hair colour are consistent with DeSouza." Before Joan had a chance to speak, Sherlock rose from his seat, and began to adjust his waistcoat. She watched him with confusion for a moment, and he continued to look towards the other table as he spoke. "We need to move closer to them." He stated firmly, removing his hands from his waistcoat, and extending one to the still-seated Watson. His eyes were wide and warm, and his expression was one of kindness and adoration, which Joan assumed he had adopted for whatever he was planning on doing next. "May I have this dance?"
Joan understood. The best way to ensure McDean's safety was to survey him covertly, but they needed to be closer to him. She turned away from the table and looked up towards Sherlock, whose eyes were glistening with anticipation. She smiled up at him, placing her own hand in his, and entwining their fingers. Sherlock hesitated for a moment, before returning her grasp, and gently leading her towards the dance floor.
The music playing was soft and gentle, and had attracted many other patrons to the expertly-polished dance floor. As they reached the centre of this space, Joan turned on the spot to face Sherlock, and they simply stared at one another for a moment. "Do you know the Waltz, Watson?" he asked quietly, as he raised their linked hands towards his chest, and drew her towards him with his right. The movement took her breath away, and she could feel his warmth emanating from his body. It occurred to her that she had never been so close to him before. His right hand was resting on her lower back, which he used to draw her closer to him, before adjusting their clasped hands slightly. Joan looked up to Sherlock with a mixture of curiosity and concern, which a small smile from his instantly abated, as they both glided elegantly across the room. Despite the fact that they were surrounded by over two hundred people, one of whom they were there to protect from physical danger, for a short period of time Sherlock and Joan felt as though they were the only two people in the room. They danced like this for a few moments, with Sherlock twirling Joan around in his arms occasionally, before drawing him back tightly to his chest. She could feel the comforting beat of his heart, which was becoming much more rapid and strong, as it beat against her own chest.
"I don't know this dance" she whispered breathlessly, as she turned to face the table at which the increasingly-agitated politician was sitting.
"You're doing beautiful, Watson, I assure you" he stated gently, his breath warm on her ear. She tilted her head slightly towards him, closing her eyes as she subconsciously pressed her own cheek onto his, which caused him to draw her closer to him. She could hear his breathing increase slightly, and opened her eyes briefly to glance up at him, only to notice how wide his eyes were, and how dilated his pupils had become. Joan turned slowly to the side, closing her eyes once more as he carried her across the room. She felt as though she were weightless, as though she had no physical form. Sherlock was leading her confidently across the ballroom, her feet occasionally touching the ground, and yet she felt as though she was in the middle of a dream. Everything seemed so surreal, so unfamiliar. And yet so very, very right. She was only drawn from her pleasurable musings by the sound of Sherlock's voice, who whispered to her urgently.
"We are approaching his table, Watson" he began, causing her to open her eyes and turn towards him, as he dipped her slightly and then lifted her up to face him. His hands were resting on her waist, and he slowly moved his right arm across her once more, before clasping his left hand tightly with her right. "I will turn you towards him, alright? Now, we haven't much time, so please, pay particular attention to anything that seems-" he paused for a moment, his wide eyes softening slightly as he drew her closer to him, and their hearts continued to beat in unison, "out of the ordinary". Joan nodded in understanding, believing the power of speech to have completely eluded her at this particular moment in time. She allowed Sherlock to turn her slowly and elegantly towards the table, and she extended her arm and smiled to greet the two faces who stared curiously back at her, one in fear, one in mild annoyance. She surveyed the table briefly, before finding herself being pulled back to Sherlock's side once more, as he pressed his face gently against her own. She was vaguely aware of the sounds of polite clapping and comments coming from nearby tables, by individuals who had been watching Sherlock and Joan's beautiful dance, and admiring the passion and the sincerity of each move. But both dancers were oblivious to this, and were once more completely engaged with the matter at hand.
"Anything, Watson?" he asked in a voice which she did not recognise, but which was slightly breathless.
"Yeah, he..." she paused, breathing in deeply as she turned to whisper directly into his ear. He could feel her gentle inhalations, and leaned closer to her, relaxing completely into her comfort. "McDean looks panicked, and the guy with him looks like DeSouza" she began, her voice adopting a much more confident and familiar air. "And there's something else" she began hesitantly, tilting her head slightly to glance back towards their table, before speaking again. "I think DeSouza is pressing something against McDean's leg under the table." Joan felt Sherlock nod into her shoulder, before he slowly drew his hand lower down her back, unclasped their linked hands, and placed one hand on the base of her neck, dipping her gently to the ground, before drawing her up once more to a louder and much more noticeable sound of applause. They both stared at each other for a moment, eyes wide and senses heightened, as they began to feel their bodies quiver with anticipation. The urgency of the situation demanded immediate action, which drew them both from their thoughts.
"We need to see what is happening" Sherlock began confidently, as he clasped their hands together once more, placing his right hand on her lower back in the now-familiar position. "If I lower you, do you... would you feel able to look under the table and see what is going on?" He asked gently, drawing her face close to hers once more, causing them both to feel light-headed and slightly flushed. "The table-cloth only covers a couple of inches, you should be able to examine what is occurring underneath" Sherlock paused for a moment, considering his previous words. Joan nodded against his cheek immediately, before whispering "yes" in a breathless manner. Sherlock nodded in response, before drawing her as close to him as he was able to, causing both of their hearts to race and their breathing to increase. "Hold on" he spoke gently, pulling her towards him once more. He slowly lowered his hand down her back and towards her side. She could feel his fingers slowly travelling down the material covering her leg, before he placed an open-palmed hand upon her thigh. "May I, Watson?" he asked breathlessly, as she pressed herself against him.
"Mm-hm" she murmured breathlessly, raising her leg slightly, as he ran his hand gently down her thigh and towards her calf, drawing her leg to his hips. Joan reacted immediately, pushing herself off the ground with her left leg, and wrapping her right calf across Sherlock's upper thigh, as he ran his free hand up her back to the base of her neck, pulling her leg closer to him, and dipping her gently towards the ground. The hall was filled with sounds of approval and clear impression, as well as some clapping, as Joan was spun elegantly and professionally around the floor a couple of times, before being drawn once more into her partner's arms. She exhaled shakily, running her right arm up his back and gripping his shoulder to support herself. Sherlock reacted immediately, using both hands to draw her close to him, and dancing with her gently for a few moments until she was able to speak. He was grateful for this brief pause because, at that precise moment in time, he did not believe himself capable of speech. "Knife" she whispered breathlessly. "He's got a knife."
Sherlock nodded immediately, and both he and Joan found themselves instantly sobered at this startling revelation. Joan felt one of his hands leave her back, and leaned closer to him slightly, for fear that she would fall. She certainly did not feel steady on her feet.
"What are you doing?" she asked, in a quiet voice which was almost her own.
"I have given the signal to Captain Gregson" Sherlock responded, placing his hand on her lower back and drawing her closer to him. "He is upstairs on one of the balconies. He can-"
"There's no time" Joan spoke confidently, pushing her head slowly towards his own, and whispering softly in his ear. "Spin me again." Sherlock's eyes widened and his pupils became fully dilated. His heart beat faster as his mouth dried, and his palms became slightly clammy. He swallowed briefly, before tilting his own head slightly to meet Joan's own.
"Watson, are you quite-"
"Hurry" she whispered urgently, as the dancers reached the table in question. Slowly, and with great care, Sherlock repeated the movement of a few moments ago. Due to the immediacy of the threat, Sherlock and Joan were able to find themselves being much more able and controlled. Joan leaned in towards the table as Sherlock dipped her, extending her arms outwards, and reaching for the shining item in the hands of the unsuspecting man at the seat. She grabbed at the knife, her fingers wrapping themselves around the blade, as she pulled it from the startled man's grasp. Sherlock drew her towards him immediately, with such intensity and force that she felt as though all the breath had disappeared from her body. As he did so, a swarm of police officers emerged from a door behind the table, and rushed at the fleeing man, apprehending him immediately, before the politician was led from the room by Captain Gregson, who nodded appreciatively towards Sherlock and Joan. Sherlock nodded in response, but Joan did not. Her whole body was pressed against Sherlock's own, and he held her there for several moments, each of them remaining quite still. Sherlock had one arm wrapped protectively across her back, and the other holding her head steadily in place, where it was resting by his shoulder. Sherlock's lips were resting near her face, occasionally brushing her forehead, and causing Joan to sigh contently. Their hearts were beating in unison once more, with such passion and intensity that Joan questioned whether it were possibly for her chest to burst.
At this thought, Joan found herself feeling instantly sobered by the pain which was emanating from her right hand. She pushed herself gently away from Sherlock, who released her regretfully, placing both of his hands on her back to support her. Joan dropped the knife from her grasp, allowing it to fall to the ground, where it was instantly picked up by a passing officer. Sherlock found his attention drawn to the sound, and then to the hand which dropped it. His eyes widened and his pupils constricted, the sight before him sobering him instantly.
"Watson" he stated urgently, reaching into his dinner jacket and extracting an expensive silk handkerchief, which he deftly wrapped across her bleeding hand. He acted quickly, but with such skill and gentleness that took Joan's breath away, and she found herself experiencing that strange floating sensation once more. She looked at her hand, which was now wrapped in the makeshift-bandage. It was quite unnecessary, she judged. The injury was quite minor, and the bleeding had already stopped.
"I'm fine" she stated breathlessly, glancing from her hand to his face. Sherlock watched her with wide-eyes, concern and adoration etched into his features. He placed both of his hands over her own, minding the spot where she had the small laceration, before slowly releasing her hand.
"Watson, I-" he began, his eyes not leaving her own. Neither of them were sure of what had just happened. It was inexplicable, an enigma. But what could not be denied was that something had happened, they had both realised it, felt it, lived it. And they stared at each other now, in complete and utter bewilderment, the remnants of their recent experience dancing in their eyes. "I... I believe that we have accomplished our task." His voice still sounded shaky and rather breathless, as did her own. But Joan was instantly sobered by his statement, and she looked up at him with concern and confusion. Before she could speak, Sherlock nodded politely towards her, before turning from her and walking towards the exit, where a number of frightened guests had also fled to. Joan remained on the spot for a moment, staring after Sherlock in a confused and troubled manner. She pursed her lips together, nodding as she tried to control her breathing, before making her way slowly towards her table and gathering her things. As she wrapped her scarf around herself, she considered the events of the last few minutes, which seemed to her almost like a dream. She breathed in shakily and cleared her throat, before picking up her clutch bag and walking towards the exit, where Sherlock was standing patiently. Joan walked slowly towards him, forcing herself to appear confident and unaffected, as she came within close proximity of him. She felt her whole body quiver in his presence, with a mixture of fear and anticipation. He seemed to sense her presence without looking at her, and continued to walk forward slowly with her, his arms pressed against his side. As Joan and Sherlock reached the doorway, she turned back briefly, casting a melancholy glance towards the dance floor, before following him down the stone steps.