Mrs. Hudson was nervously tidying up her kitchen, sweeping quickly, and wiping off the counters. She was expectant of some company soon. She would look back at the door every few seconds, checking the clock then shaking her head.
Finally she heard an abrupt knock and almost jumped out of her skin. Catching her breath, she pulled open the door and greeted Greg Lestrade with a warm smile.
" Hello Mrs. Hudson! Nice to see you again. You called me about important business?"
" Oh yes! Dear, please come in."
She quietly shut the door behind them and gestured towards a chair in the kitchen.
" Please make yourself comfortable."
He smiled politely in return and settled in.
"Lovely flat."
" Would you like some tea dear?"
" Why not? Thanks."
She put on the kettle and sat across from him.
" So what's this about?"
" You know I love those boys like my own sons, and to see them unhappy..."
She stood up and fixed the two cups.
" I would just like some help giving them a little push."
" Push?"
" You know. You see them running about on a case. I see them in the flat, arguing one day and giggling the next. I just don't think they realize it yet."
" Are you suggesting that they..."
" I think they're head over heels for each other."
After this statement she started chuckling.
Greg looked mildly uncomfortable.
" I'm not exactly sure what you'd like me to do."
The kettle started to whistle, so Mrs. Hudson turned off the stove and poured the steaming fluid into their cups.
The kind, older woman smiled with a cheeky glint in her eyes.
" I have a plan."
...
Sherlock arrived back at the flat, after just solving a case. He was so happy he was practically jumping up and down.
He started running back up the stairs when Mrs. Hudson called out:
" Sherlock dear, Inspector Lestrade left a note for you. Oh you look so giddy!"
He walked back down and she handed him the note softly.
" He said it was important."
Sherlock looked into her face.
Blinking too quickly, looking in the other direction, hands shaking too quickly. She's lying.
But nevertheless he was curious as to what she would lie about.
" Thank you Mrs. Hudson."
He walked back up the steps and tore open the envelope as he did so.
Lestrade's handwriting, carefully written, as if planned before hand. Neat, precise. It looks like the final draft of multiple previous ones. But the paper is from her stock. They must have met while I was away. But why?
The note read:
I need you to come down to the London Ballroom Theatre. There's a dance tonight and I need you to do some undercover work for me. Mrs. Hudson mentioned that you are an exceptionally good dancer, so I figured you're the best man for the job. We got an anonymous note reading that there would be a suspected murder at the ball dance. Could you go and keep an eye on all of the guests? You need to dress up formally so you can fit in without suspicion. Head up there at 10:00 tonight. I decided to leave you a note in case you didn't have your phone on you. Thanks - Greg
Puzzled, he checked his phone and sure enough, the same message popped up.
It explained why it was on Mrs. Hudson's paper. And why it was neat and precise, he needed to make sure not to mess up the information he was giving him. They met up so he could ask her if he was a good dancer. But why did she look guilty?
No matter. He had a few hours before the event. He practiced his waltzes and pirouettes. She knew that he loved to dance, and he supposed, she was more observant than he perceived.
After two hours of practicing he found a tuxedo he wore undercover to a couple of Mycroft's events. It was very high class. He gelled up his curls a bit. He had to look presentable to this rich crowd. He had to move through with no questions asked.
He knew he looked quite handsome, because of the reactions he would get out of the people around him. He just had trouble seeing it.
Sherlock looked into the mirror and saw an abnormal face, sharp cheekbones, pale face and intense green eyes. He almost looked alien.
He swallowed. No sentiment. Work comes first.
He tried out his "winning" smile. This was the smile that got him whatever he wanted from women, information, keys, photographs. It had to be used in moderation.
Where was John?
His shift ended about an hour ago.
He left a note saying he was on a case at the table.
He walked out of the door and into the street.
London.
The bustling cars and cabs. The people all making their way, with meals to plan and money to make. The buildings, they seemed almost alive, breathing in the scent of roadside food trucks and illuminated streetlights, burning moths to their very death.
It was beautiful.
He caught a cab and rode over to the theatre.
It lacked people on the outside, entering. There were too many parking spaces empty.
Puzzling.
He entered into a large ballroom, his footsteps echoing. He looked and...
What?
It was John, dressed in a tuxedo also, staring at him.
" Sherlock, where is everyone?"
" Why are you here?"
" I got a text from Greg telling me to meet you here to help you investigate a possible murder while I was working. Oh, and I got some money in an envelope. The woman at the desk, Mary, gave it to me around 4:00. The cash for buying a tuxedo. I found one, put it on and just got here."
" Is that what he's calling himself these days?"
" That's his name." he exhaustively spoke.
" Never mind him. Why didn't he tell me I was working with you?"
" Where are the people? It's completely empty in here."
Suddenly, an intercom came on and the sound of a violin flowed into the room.
Wait. It was John's song.
Sherlock was composing a song for John, secretly.
He would never tell him that it was his, but he would always play it in his presence.
It was almost like a personal joke.
Someone must have recorded him playing it...
What was going on?
" Hey, isn't this one of your songs? You play it all the time when I'm around."
Sherlock blushed.
John became irritated.
" Is something going on that I don't know about?!"
" I'm asking the same question. You are not the only one in the dark."
They walked closer to each other.
" Were we...set up?"
" It seems that way."
The song repeated itself.
" Why? I don't understand."
Sherlock looked at John more closely.
Someone must have given him a great sum of money for that tuxedo. He looked...good. Really good.
He blushed again.
" Sherlock, why are you blushing?"
Suddenly it all came together.
Why Mrs. Hudson looked so guilty.
Why there was no one there.
Why they were in tuxedos.
Why their song was on repeat on the intercom.
He snapped out of it.
"OH!"
" OF COURSE!"
He started laughing and John screamed:
" WHAT?!"
" They want us to dance!"
" They want us to dance?"
" Yes, of course. It's so obvious!"
He ran to the doors and pulled hard. The doors had locked behind them.
" We're locked in."
" What the hell is going on?"
Sherlock strode over to John quickly until they were about a foot away from each other. He spoke softly.
" In order to leave we have to dance."
" Who would care? Who would care this much?"
He slowly slid his arm around John's waist.
" Why this song?"
Sherlock took John's hand with his free one.
" Because this is your song."
He looked quite shocked.
He was suddenly aware of the hand at the small of his back. The other, grasping his. And turned a bit pink.
John gulped.
" We start in a few moments, right from the beginning. Let me lead."
He nodded.
Then, out of nowhere, Sherlock swooped them off into the waltz, with John, stumbling along. He was an astounding dancer. He was in complete awe.
He looked gorgeous in the tux, like an angel. His curls were all done up, and his eyes...
Sherlock noticed John's pupils dilated and smirked a bit.
He spun the smaller man around and dipped him low and he couldn't breath he was so shocked.
" I had no idea you could dance so well Sherlock!"
" I have acquired many talents necessary to my work."
John rolled his eyes and Sherlock grinned.
He was surprised at himself for smiling so much in one night.
Their waltz echoed across the large empty ballroom, the beautiful crystal chandelier glimmered and sparkled.
They could have danced forever, but the end of the song came and they hesitantly separated.
It didn't repeat any longer, so the room was filled with pure silence.
Sherlock looked to the ground.
" John...I"
There was a loud click, interrupting his speech.
The glass doors slid open automatically, they were free to leave.
" Yes?"
" It's...it's no matter."
He turned and started walking away.
" No."
He froze in his steps and turned his face.
" What were you going to say?"
Now he fully faced John.
" It wasn't important."
Sherlock started walking away again and John grabbed his sleeve and stopped him.
They were facing each other.
" Sherlock I'm tired of this! I need to know!"
Sherlock sternly looked at him.
" I just wanted to say, you looked lovely tonight." His voice softened on the word lovely.
He bit his lip and looked down.
" I told you, it was... foolish."
" No it...it isn't. I feel the same way."
" Oh...good. You should, a tuxedo suits you well."
" No! I meant you look attractive too."
" Oh."
He was silent for a few moments.
" Thank you."
" You probably get it a lot."
" Somewhat. Their opinions don't matter."
" Does mine?"
" Of course it does. It always has."
" Has it?"
" Always."
Sherlock looked away, and his eyes flickered back to John, who was smiling faintly.
" I thought you never cared."
" Well, I suppose you were wrong."
John shook his head, tears in his eyes.
" Why didn't you tell me?"
" How could I?" His voice choked.
He was looking into his eyes and couldn't deny it now.
He couldn't imagine spending his life without him there.
He would be nothing.
" Sherlock...you're so beautiful..."
A tear dribbled down his face and he smiled weakly.
Sherlock leaned downwards slightly.
He didn't know what he was doing.
Closer.
What was he doing?
Closer.
Sentiment is a chemical defect!
Closer.
John is a pressure point.
Closer.
If you do this they'll take him away.
- Well if I don't I'll never get to taste the lips of the man I'm fighting for.
And that was it.
Everything inside of his head collapsed and all he could feel was the collide of their lips, the lips he wanted to feel so badly, for years.
And god, John was kissing him back.
The shorter man wrapped his hand through his hair, pulling him closer.
John was so warm...so warm.
So lovely.
John was his.
All his.
He stroked a hand through his soft, blond hair.
There were voices in his head, screaming, telling him to stop.
John Watson would destroy his life.
Wrong.
John Watson made life worth living.
They finally separated and caught their breath.
" Sherlock...I...I lo-"
" Stop."
He looked hurt.
" Why?"
Sherlock looked to the ground.
" I'm not good. I'm not good for you, good enough. I... I don't want you to expect...I...I don't want you to get in too deep and then realize you don't want me anymore."
John smiled his John Watson smile.
The kind that lit up his world when he was looming in the dark, drugged and depressed.
" I don't think I could ever leave you, even if I tried. I couldn't, I can't. If I got tired of you I would have left years ago. Now shut up and let me love you."
Sherlock smiled as they kissed again, he never imagined being close to someone could feel this good.
" Now I don't know about you, but I wanted to keep dancing."
The consulting detective smiled.
" As did I."
They danced into eternity, even in the depth of complete silence.