Thursday, October 29th
(Three Months Earlier)
"John, I was just -! Oh, John, you didn't..." Clara began as John walked into the hospital room, brandishing the largest bouquet of flowers the shops had had to offer. "They're lovely, but you really didn't have to, I - "
John snorted. "Don't be ridiculous," he said, already arranging them on her small bedside table. "How about the next time I'm laid out with the kind of injury totals you've racked up, you can get me an even bigger one, hmm?"
Clara had her blushing face hidden in her hands. She peeked out ruefully from between her fingers. "Hopefully none too soon, my dear. Hurts like a fucking bitch, it does."
Shattered pelvis, torn achilles tendon, more breaks and fractures than could be numbered, they'd said... Christ, he wasn't surprised. "I'm sorry I haven't been here earlier," he said gently, to push those thoughts away.
"Oh, pfft." She gave a wave of her hands. "It's the first time I'm coherent enough - on painkillers, mind you - to hold a halfway decent conversation. The next time you see Bill, you should ask him what he and I talked about, because I have no idea."
John chuckled, relieved to find that the fall hadn't broken her good humor as well. A world without Clara's smiles was - well, there was a reason they won all their competitions, and it wasn't his good looks.
Pulling up a stool to the bedside, he urged her instead to relate the story behind her injuries.
"I heard about the accident," he started, settling down, "but of course at this point the gossips have you, what, slaying a bear on an out-of-control train in a mudslide and whatever else."
"God, I hope so," she said with a laugh of her own, "Much more exciting that way."
His forehead creased. "What did happen, though?"
Sighing, she detailed everything leading up to her landing in the hospital, and John nodded along, watching the graceful gestures of her hands, scabbed and bandaged as they were. Clara'd been camping with some of her office colleagues, hiking and only occasionally scaling some of the smaller peaks on her trip. It was supposed to have been fun. Team-building, that sort of thing. But the both of them knew all too well what a simple misstep, a single slip, could do, whether you were on the stage or in the mountains.
As John listened, though, he couldn't help but take in her various bruises and scrapes with a grim eye. It'd been a long time since he'd forsaken his dreams of med school to pursue the far more fickle, flirty dream of dance, but it didn't take much training to see that Clara's road to recovery would be a long one - and a painful one, too.
"John?" a voice prodded, and he looked up to see Clara gazing at him with a boundless gentleness. Her mouth softened. "I'm not dead, but with a look like that I might as well be." She bit her lip, the sweet flutter of her eyelashes casting dark shadows on already wan cheeks. "I probably know what you're thinking about."
He winced slightly, and with all the sympathy he could muster, asked, "What's recovery look like for you?"
She shot him another twisted smile. "At least you didn't ask if I was going to recover."
He shook his head, reaching out for her hand. "No one could stop you."
She squeezed his fingers tight. For a long while, she said nothing. And then, "They say..." Clara stopped, gave a snort, and tried again. "Dancers are made of sturdy stuff, you know that more than anyone. But it's going to be a long time, if I'm - if I ever get back to it." She turned her eyes up to him, fixing him with that sorrowful clear blue. "I certainly can't compete anytime soon."
John was already shaking his head. "No, no, don't -"
"I know what you're going to say, but it does affect you, John." She shook her head right back at him, limp blonde bob skewed about her face. "Money was tight before the last Strictly, and I know you were counting on this one..."
"Please don't blame -"
"I don't blame myself, it was an accident," she said firmly, sitting up a little straighter with a grimace. "We both know how that works. But it's rubbish luck for you, even if it is more rubbish luck for me. You can't deny that."
John found more resilience in her eyes than he could bear to look at, and tore his eyes away to look at his bouquet. Soft pinpricks of blue and ocher did wonders against the drab white walls, but it wasn't nearly enough. God, he needed more flowers. He was absolutely going to flood her room with flowers. "You are entirely too selfless for your own good, you know that?" he said, and kissed her hand.
Another huff of air came from farther up the bed. "If you ever meet Fate, tell him I really didn't deserve this then, alright?"
The smile that took to his face was wavery, but genuine. "You least of all."
She raised her eyebrows and grinned back. "Then you'll be singing my praises when you hear about the offer I've got for you."
He must've looked skeptical, because she sighed and pulled her hand away to cross her arms. "Don't worry, it helps us both," she sniffed, somewhat defensive.
"I just wonder if you've spent more time recovering or plotting."
"You know me," she said sweetly, "I'm not happy unless I'm scheming. And I've already got a doctor, thank you very much."
John leaned back, hands up in faux surrender. "Alright, then, I get the point. What's going on up in your funny head?"
Absently, Clara reached over to stroke the long, golden petal of a daffodil, silent as something worked itself out behind her eyes. "Could be the PCA, but if I'm remembering correctly - you used to train ballet, yeah?" she said slowly, glancing over to him at last.
His eyes widened. It had been ages since John had even thought about ballet. "Yeah," he said eventually. "I moved on to swing, er, towards the end of university, I think? Before that, pretty much all I did in my free time was study ballet. No guarantee on whether I was good or not."
"But you did study it."
"Yes..." Now his eyes narrowed, and he tilted his head to look at her properly. "What are you getting at?"
Her hand dropped back to the bed. "I teach a class, part-time, in between all the office stuff - beginner's ballet. Or, obviously," she said with another grimace, and John didn't miss her gripping the small monitor for more pain meds, "taught a class. Funnily enough, it began as a favor for a friend looking to start up her own little studio gig. That doesn't mean much now if I can't teach, but if I recommend someone who can…" Her eyebrows arched, expectant.
"Oh." John nodded, then stopped. "Oh, god. You mean me?"
"Who else? And think about it, John: you need the money, I need an easy out. It's perfect, and there's no one I'd trust more."
"But I haven't done ballet in... god, that's nearly ten years, you realize?" he protested. But with a sinking feeling he noted the gleam in her pale eyes that meant Clara was about to get her way.
He'd have to be firm if he was to resist this. But as he opened his mouth to do just that, Clara rolled her eyes.
"It's not the fucking Royal Ballet. Do some stretches, a couple positions at the barre, that sort of thing. The parents basically want you to look after their kids while they're working through a phase. Come on," she wheedled. "You have to acknowledge that it's tempting."
If John were honest with himself, he did rather desperately need the money. Going from competition to competition had been risky enough as it was - Lindy purses weren't exactly spectacular. But because he and Clara were good, he'd lulled himself into complacency. And now here he was, his partner laid out for months, potentially years, with no way of fending for himself. Clara had danced for the fun of it; John danced to survive.
He could try searching for a new partner, but it wasn't easy to find someone who knew him as well as Clara did, either; Clara, who danced so freely and was so in tune with John whenever they stepped out onto the floor. Dancing with her was like... breathing. Easy. Natural.
And as much as John hated to admit it, he wasn't sure he wanted to try looking for a new partner. The kids flooding their ranks just made him feel old, these days. Sorting through people who had talent and people just wanting to brush John's could be draining.
More than that, it was the Invitationals that were looming. If John had to bow out on that - which the both of them most certainly did, now - they'd lose so much of their prominence, it'd be like starting back at square one. The pull of disappointment was thick in his gut, but he tried to push it away under a thick wave of guilt - at least he wasn't the one unable to even walk.
Regardless, when he looked back up at Clara's expectant face, he was resigned to what he had to do. "What about you?" he asked instead, under the lingering hands of guilt.
She settled back into her hospital bed like it was the most luxurious of king-size accoutrements. "Perks of getting injured on a company trip is that they'll pay for everything, and I even get to telework. Might even get a raise out of all this."
John smirked. "Lucky you." His shoulders dropped, and with a last, heaving sigh, he surrendered. "Alright, what would I need to do?"
Wednesday, November 25th
As soon as the curtain closed to signal the end of rehearsal, Sherlock was tearing off the idiotic mask and storming backstage, his gaze locking in on a familiar dark head and narrowing even further.
"What the hell were you doing?" he hissed, jerking Anderson around to face him.
"Excuse me?" he replied, his simpering voice dripping a smug sarcasm that heated Sherlock's blood to boiling.
"We talked about the lighting. How am I supposed to dance if I can't bloody see, or are you too much of a -"
"Sherlock!" At the sharp cry, Sherlock whirled, and there was Greg Lestrade, his arms crossed and a worn expression sitting tired on his face.
Sherlock gritted his teeth and straightened, contempt still ugly on his face as he muttered, "We're not finished," and stalked off to follow his instructor.
The whispers behind them faded the closer they got to the dressing rooms. When they were entirely gone from his hearing, Sherlock couldn't help but growl, "He should be fired on the spot. I could have been killed."
"Isn't that what practice is for?"
"Oh, good, so there can be witnesses when he actually manages to kill me properly."
"A ballet is no place for incompetence," Lestrade agreed smoothly, nodding along. Sherlock shot him another of his narrow-eyed looks. Lestrade sighed. "Oh, come off it, Sherlock, stop being so melodramatic."
Sherlock had to snort at that. "I'm a danseur, melodramatic is what we do." He stepped back as Lestrade opened the door to the dressing room, gratified to find the others were mysteriously absent. Probably still chattering about on the stage. And if it happened to be because they wanted to avoid him, well, he couldn't complain.
He settled into one of the many empty vanities, peering into the dusty mirror. His makeup had suffered the usual long streaks of sweat, his naturally pale skin peeking through, while his curls were frizzing about his face in attempted escape from their tightly gelled confines. His lip curled in disgust, and he reached for one of the tough bottles of remover with thankful hands. God, what a horrific performance.
Massaging moisturizer into his hands, he tuned back in to what Lestrade was saying. "...and if it wasn't an accident, well, then, a bit of jibing never hurt anyone."
"It's unprofessional."
"Since when have you cared about professionalism?" Lestrade shot back, and then sighed, the fight almost visibly leaving him as his hands came up to massage his temples. Sherlock frowned, pausing in clearing his face to watch Lestrade pull himself back together. "I'm sorry, just..." Lestrade shifted awkwardly, and Sherlock narrowed his eyes further. "You're already on thin ice, and, well…" He was clearly working himself up to something, avoiding Sherlock's gaze while his arms crossed and uncrossed themselves, crossed and uncrossed.
Sherlock sat back, the realization striking him hard. "Victor fell through, didn't he."
Lestrade's silence was enough of an answer, even if it hadn't needed to be a question. Sherlock tossed the flannel back on the counter. "What was his excuse?" he asked, a little more bite to the words than he'd intended.
"Does it even matter?" he answered wearily. He strode over to put his hands on the back of Sherlock's chair, meeting his eyes in the mirror with a helpless shrug. "At this rate, no one in or out of company will partner you."
"They're not good enough anyway," Sherlock said with a sniff.
"Despite your damn near impossibly high standards," his trainer replied with characteristic, gentle honesty, "Victor would have been good enough, but your reputation is scaring everyone off - good or bad. The audition is in six weeks, Sherlock. Six weeks." His bloodshot eyes were dark-rimmed when he looked up and sighed. "What in God's bloody name is your plan, because I sure as hell don't have one."
Sherlock tapped his fingers against his chin. In all honesty, he hadn't thought Victor... would refuse. They'd danced together in university and Victor had sung his praises time and again, that the loveliest pas de deux he'd ever danced was his class audition with Sherlock. But then, that was before. Well.
He focused his thoughts somewhat viciously to the task at hand: an invitation to audition, in six weeks' time, with the Ballet de l'Opéra de Paris. To star with the Paris Opera Ballet. God, a chance to get out of this place and finally be recognized - he could almost taste it, sweet as the salty tang of sweat after a performance where he'd spent himself for his art. This was his moment.
But if no one would partner him for the audition, that would be something of a moot point.
"Have you talked to Mike yet?" Lestrade hesitated, and Sherlock saw his chance. "He's got to know someone, all those contacts. Talk to him, talk to him right now."
"Sherlock, I can't just -" he looked at his watch, turning it out to face Sherlock. "Have you seen the time?"
"Considering you just showed me, yes." By now he was more than immune to the look of exasperation Lestrade threw at him. "If we find someone tonight, we can get them tomorrow, and then finally begin. You said it yourself, we're running out of time, and don't pretend this doesn't affect your career as much as it affects mine."
For a long moment, Lestrade just stared at him. Then he hung his head, the picture of defeat, and Sherlock smiled in satisfaction.
"But you'll have to pick up Beth."
A frown shoved the smile off his face. "What?"
His instructor was already making his way toward the door, a lazy swagger to his step as he tossed a look at his student over his shoulder. Sherlock almost - almost - admired his ability to nail the combination of 'exhausted' and 'smug' so effectively.
"I'll do your sodding dirty work, but Beth's practice ends in half an hour. Take her back to your flat and I'll meet you there once I have something to discuss."
"She hates me," Sherlock groaned, throwing an arm up to his face. He heard a long huff of air behind him.
"She's obsessed with you, you git, it's why I couldn't keep her away from this stupid ballet business in the first place."
Sherlock, playing moodily with one of the tassels on that utterly ridiculous mask, paused. "What, it doesn't run in the family?"
"I'll text you the details," Lestrade said with a wave of his phone instead, before sauntering back out of the dressing room, not even bothering to close the door - a move Sherlock felt was calculated on his part and unnecessarily cruel.
He slipped out of his flats and padded over to the open doorway, closing it pointedly before leaning back against the firm press of the wood. He could practically feel the cooling of his muscles, the steam of their unwinding, as he allowed himself a second to relax. A private peace. Once, a long time ago, it seemed, he'd felt that way on stage.
In the mirror, his pale face stared back expressionlessly until Sherlock finally looked away.
His phone buzzed as Sherlock was packing up the last of his things. The address in hand, he twined his scarf about his neck and set out to play chauffeur and babysitter. Hopefully Lestrade would come back with good news by the end of the night, and this would all be worth it.
He wanted nothing more than this. The pursuit of perfection, the devastating beauty of ballet - it had called to Sherlock from the lanky leaps of his youth and beckoned him into its graceful futures. He'd never once refused the call. Unless one counted that bit where he'd turned down The Royal Opera, but that was different. Besides, the National English Ballet had quickly followed. But he'd stagnated there, too, and for far too long.
But now... oh, now. Étoile with the Paris Opera. Dancing as the finest of the world. Fiercely, Sherlock knew, he could not allow this to slip away.
He came back to himself with a start, shaking his head. With a last glance around the empty room, he shut off the lights, and with his duffel bag over his shoulder walked out of the ballet house, his spindly, dark figure enveloped into the frozen arms of wintry evening.
Sitting cross-legged on the floor with his students, prepared for some of the nice, cool-down chatting he'd made a staple of their few lessons together, John Watson found himself very unprepared for all this.
He furrowed his eyebrows, and some of the girls giggled. "You want me to do... what?"
"Show us a pirouette!" prodded Rachel, sitting up straighter in her magenta-pink leotard. The other eleven and twelve-year olds nodded along in varying degrees of enthusiasm.
"I think it's a little advanced for you all just yet, sorry," he tried as gently as possible, but another of his students shook his head impatiently, dark eyes exasperated at John's silliness.
"No, she means you do it."
John coughed, tugging at the neckline of his t-shirt. "Why me?"
They giggled as one, a rather scary move he was just getting used to, four classes in. "You're the teacher! Shows us the cool stuff, or don't you know how?" said Beth Lestrade, crossing her arms.
"Now, give us a minute," John retorted, sliding to his knees. "If it's pirouettes you want, it's pirouettes you'll get." He tried not to look too pleased at the collective cheer, and tried equally hard to ignore the curious glances of the mothers and fathers keeping a close eye from the viewing glasses.
He'd taught four times in total since Clara's offer two weeks ago, and though there was the initial unease that came at missing 'Miss Clara' and being taught by an old man instead, the kids had warmed up to him rather more quickly than he'd anticipated - not that he was complaining.
More than that, John found himself relaxing into ballet as well, and even more than that, enjoying himself. As he taught them the basics of pliés and port de bras, positions of arms and feet and the carriage of spines, his anatomy lessons came flooding back, mixed inextricably with the ways he'd been taught. Swing made him loose, free - but ballet brought back a poise and rigidity that left him feeling strong.
He'd forgotten how much he'd missed this.
Moving into position, he relaxed, releasing a breath and letting his shoulders fall into their old, easy alignment.
He extended his arms, a healthy second position. His right leg pointed out at a slender angle. Another breath. The right leg rotated back as the arms moved in, and...
"Stop."
If John hadn't worked so much on his balance back in the day, he definitely would have fallen over in surprise at the deep, unexpected baritone ordering him into stillness. John's eyes leapt over to the door, where a man was standing, coat askew and duffel bag hanging heavy at his side. He glanced nervously at his students; god, he hadn't even heard the man come in, and none of the parents had even...
"Who are you?" he asked carefully, moving to a more protective stance and keeping a determined eye on the bag.
He didn't miss the flicker of amusement in the man's cool gaze. "Sherlock Holmes." John flicked quickly back through his memory, trying to remember if any of his kids had that last name. From the excited whispering behind him, they certainly seemed to know who he was, but none of them were being very forthcoming.
"How can I help you, Mr. Holmes?" he asked instead, consciously maintaining the warning in his tone but allowing himself to relax just slightly. There didn't seem to be any threat, not with the way he was standing, anyway, but one could never be too careful. "Class doesn't end for another two minutes."
"Oh, I know," said Mr. Holmes, laying his duffle bag down - as John was pleased to note - very, very carefully. And then - as John was now surprised to note - he shrugged off his coat and tossed it over the barre. "But I came in a bit early because I think, actually, it's you who needs my help."
At this point, surprise didn't begin to cover it. John arched an eyebrow. "Oh, really?"
Completely missing the challenge, Mr. Holmes nodded with an emphatic "Yes," and came over to John, almost uncomfortably close. John held his ground, but swallowed, eyelids flitting down.
The man rolled his eyes and, if anything, stepped closer. "Arms out," he instructed.
"What are you doing?" John asked quietly, an aside from the watchful eyes of his students - and, hopefully, their parents.
"Helping," he repeated, sounding terse, but nonetheless dropping to mimic John's tone. "Your positioning is obscene."
John stopped himself from gaping at the offense. "Excuse me, but I haven't -"
Mr. Holmes ignored everything John was saying in favor of grasping his arms and forcibly pulling them into the second. He rotated his wrists, his elbows, curving his arms to something more free than what John had been doing before. He was about to protest when... Oh, that was. That was interesting.
That voice made a curious hum in his ear, left hand stroking back up John's arm to push between his shoulder-blades. Automatically, John straightened. The man circled, now tapping at John's leg. John repeated the extended pose of before, but Mr. Holmes made a tsk'ing noise and pushed it wider. "Now back," he said, and this time, John followed smoothly.
Mr. Holmes stepped away, but John hardly noticed, coiled as he was, readied for what had been asked of him. "And..." The breath was interminable, the simple word to follow enough to push him over the edge. "...Release."
And John was in motion. Smoothly, easily, he propelled himself into the next move, his foot arching high over the even spread of his weight, as his other leg came in tight for the spin. He fixed his eyes on the wall and turned, turned, turned; turned until he felt the spring winding down and allowed himself to unfurl back into the new, stretched position, his arms fanning graceful and strong as he came, at last, to a stop. One leg firmly on the ground, the other balanced behind him, John stopped.
He looked up, just as Mr. Holmes did the same. "Kids," he said evenly, not breaking the stranger's gaze, "you did a wonderful job today. Dismissed." Boys and girls alike released a collective breath and scattered backwards, some of them giving John a smattering of applause, others staying stock-still and wide-eyed.
Realizing, belatedly, that he was still holding the position, John allowed his arms to fall and pulled himself to a proper stand. Then he stuck out his hand. "John Watson, and yes, this time I give you permission to touch, Mr. Holmes."
His eyes did the odd, flickery thing again, this time with just a slight twitch at the corner of his lips, and then he took John's hand in his own. "Sherlock, please. And you needed the assistance."
"Mmm, perhaps not in front of my class."
"Please," Sherlock said, stepping back with a snort. He turned, John moving to follow as he spoke. "They expect everyone to want pointers from me."
"Yeah, sorry, I was wondering - are you... one of the kids'...?" Helplessly uncertain of how to phrase it, he looked to Sherlock, who took a moment to realize what he was saying.
"What? Oh, no, god, no. Beth Lestrade's father asked me to pick her up. She can confirm I am who I say I am and some other such nonsense." It was then Sherlock stopped, in the middle of retrieving his coat. "You really have no idea who I am, do you?"
"Not in the slightest," John agreed. He looked around, looked back to Sherlock. "Should I?"
Rather than the smirks of before, John saw the beginnings of a strange delight on that face, a surprised chuckle huffing its way from Sherlock's lips. He surprised himself in smiling back - a little tentative, yes, but there was something in the glitter of those sharp eyes that was impossible not to return.
Interrupting their silence came the clearing of a small throat, and the both of them looked down to find Beth, looking expectant with her thin eyebrows raised.
"Hello, Beth," John said, when neither of them showed any signs of speaking first. "Good lesson today."
She nodded, still quiet, and John looked to Sherlock for help. Beth usually wasn't anything like this. It was all this stranger, this Sherlock's, fault, he reasoned. Whoever he was, he'd flabbergasted the sense out of them all - John himself probably very much included, he thought wryly. Some back portion of his brain started clicking to work. He hadn't seen him in any films recently, he didn't think, and John did a lot of telly. But still someone famous, perhaps?
"Oh, right." Sherlock said, sounding halfway to bored as his voice cut through John's wonderings. "What did you eat for breakfast this morning?"
"The kettle was dirty so we had no tea. And yourself?" Beth replied, startling the hell out of John.
"Caviar, of course." And then Beth relaxed, allowing the big, honest grin that sat upon her face for so much of class to return. John looked between the two of them, utterly at a loss, before it clicked, just as Sherlock shot him a quick look and said, "Part of her father's…agreement. She verifies I'm not here to kidnap her -"
"And he checks I haven't been possessed by aliens or something," she laughed. "Hello, Sherlock."
"Hello, Beth," he returned easily. "Let's go." With not so much as a goodbye, he began to move for the door.
"Wait!" she called. With a huff, he turned back, and John found himself looking between them with that same uncertainty. "Wait, let me get my coat back from the closet." She pushed her bag into Sherlock's arms and, ignoring his grimace, skipped off to the cloakroom.
Staring after her, John remarked slowly, "'Aliens?'"
Sherlock sighed as if existence was particularly troublesome in that moment. "Lestrade says one can never be too careful. You should see him with her, it's rather sickening."
"Well, I think it's rather sweet. Codes and everything." Hoping to learn a bit more in the final seconds he had with this man, this Sherlock - especially on a second chance - he cleared his throat and said, "Sweet of you, too, to look after her like this."
Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "Her father and I have an arrangement." At John's lingering look, he relented. "He's my instructor, handles my performances. Sometimes it keeps him late."
Ah. A dancer, then. As John had expected, what with the critiques to his form. Speaking of which... "Thank you, by the way. Poor timing, but, um. The help with the technique, it was definitely. Appreciated." He kept getting sidetracked by the unreadability of those battleship eyes, dammit. He tried again, just a simple, "Thank you."
Sherlock looked about to say something, bollocks if John could tell, but either way the chance was lost when Beth came sprinting back.
"Did it get lost in the back of the closet?"
"What, like Narnia?" At Sherlock's blank look, she shook her head, taking back her pack and slipping it over her coat. "Nevermind, let's go. Thank you again, Mr. John. See you next class!"
"Don't forget to practice those positions," he reminded, and then turned his eyes up to Sherlock. Well. It'd been something interesting, at least. "Goodnight, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "Goodnight, Mr. Watson." And then Beth took his hand, and they began to leave. But just as they hit the door, Sherlock whirled back around. John, guilty to be caught looking, stared quickly down to the polished wood floor, but Sherlock's next words made his head shoot back up.
"Your form was already good. A little work on that shoulder, and, well. I'd like to see you at your best."
And in the blink of an eye, Sherlock had disappeared, the door swinging on hollow, creaking hinges in his wake. John had no idea how long he stared after that tall, elegant form, only that eventually his remaining students started to giggle.
"Oi, you," he said, regaining his composure. "No giggling in my ballet school." He made one of his faces again and they splintered into high-pitched squeals of laughter, asking for more. John was happy to pass the time waiting for their parents to pick them up in this way, but all the while, his mind was far away, chasing after the charming man in the dangerous coat.
And wondering how it had been the most exciting thing to happen to him in the world of dance in the whole of his career.
Wondering, as he couldn't deny - how long it would be until he saw Sherlock Holmes again.
As soon as Sherlock had paid the driver and given him the address to his flat in Montague Street, he settled back and prepared to stare out over London as it passed. But he found, more than usual, his mind could not stop in its frenzied racings, and this time something beyond excitement stirred in every atom of his nerve-endings. Something sparking and deep, something quick and forceful as a train run off the tracks. The exhaustion of the performance and the stress of the looming audition were background noise in the presence of this, thrust so delightfully, joyously into the foreground: an idea.
And John Watson figured at its center.
"John - Mr. John isn't your regular teacher, is he?" Sherlock asked, looking over at Beth in the seat beside him. She shook her dark head.
"Miss Clara had an accident, and he had to take over. But he's nice." She shrugged. "Knows a lot."
Debateable, but at the same time, the potential simmering there was almost too much to bear. Something new. Hie hands curled into fists on his lap. "How many times a week do you have class, Beth?"
"Wednesdays and Thursdays. Same time." She turned curious eyes up to him, lit odd and moon-bright by the passing streetlamps overhead. "Why?"
For a long while, Sherlock didn't answer, returning to gaze out over the inky depths of the Thames. And then he replied, "Why not?"
Because exactly that: why not? It was everything they would object to in their prima donna ways, in their dreadful traditions. It was every risk, placing it on the shoulders of a man who couldn't even properly align his own. But the glint of something more, some implacable flint in those dark eyes, the suggestion of a poise and precision unrivaled in so unassuming a figure - yes, yes. Why not?
Beth just rolled her eyes and returned to staring out her own window, familiar enough by now with Sherlock's moods to just sit back and allow this one to pass. They spent the rest of the ride home in silence, gazing out upon the city night.
Strictly - one of the many categories of swing dance often performed at competitions, the Strictly allows couples to compete together through various levels to randomly selected music with no prechoreographed steps allowed.
Lindy Hop - one form of the jazz branch of swing dance, originating in America but finding a broad fanbase all across the globe
Étoile - the highest rank of a dancer at the Paris Opera Ballet
pirouette - a full, controlled turn on the front of one foot
port de bras - carriage of the arms; often it is used as a warm-up for traveling between the various positions
The Royal Ballet, The English National Ballet, The Paris Opera Ballet - premiere dance companies in Europe