John couldn't help but wonder if this was another deception, another grandiose smoke screen to cover the real object of Sherlock's scheme. He had to assume it was, because the alternative was that this was a date.

The cab pulled up to the opera house. John glanced over to Sherlock on the other side of the back seat, but he was already out of the cab and waiting impatiently for John to do the same. He sighed and followed.

It was a minute to the show time, according to Sherlock. The title o the performance was something John had never heard of before and couldn't hope to pronounce. Sherlock was absolutely bouncing with excitement. Apparently the lead violinist was legendary.

An usher showed them to their seats. He looked annoyed that they had cut it so close, it was against theatre etiquette. Sherlock gave him a fake smile of gratitude to send him on his way.

"Sherlock," John said quietly.

"Hmm?"

"There's only one seat." He was right. Every other spot had already been taken. The sole empty space to be seen in the entire theatre was the third chair from the aisle, wedged between two pairs of couples.

"Problem?" Sherlock questioned. He was already motioning for the two blocking the way to get up so he could get by to claim the seat.

"Yes," John said. His eyebrow was doing the wrinkly thing that it did when John was closing the distance from confused to upset. "Yes, where do I sit? Did you only get one ticket?"

"They were expensive," Sherlock said defensively. "Now hurry or you'll miss the prologue." He patted one knee as an invitation.

John pinched the bridge of his nose. The people around him were staring, waiting for him to make a move. He huffed and stepped past the couple on the end to Sherlock, muttering an apology as he did.

There was an off moment when John found himself standing at Sherlock's armrest. Sherlock caught it, the perceptive git. If he had made up his mind to do it, John thought, he should get on with it. He perched himself on Sherlock's knee.

The curtain opened. The announcer behind it was greeted with applause. "That can't be comfortable," Sherlock's voice was covered by the new noise from everyone except John. He gulped. It really wasn't an ideal position, thanks to Sherlock's boney knees.

John felt an arm wrap around his middle and pull him back to be situated more on Sherlock's lap. "Better?" his new head rest breathed into his shoulder.

"Fractionally," John admitted, eyes glued to the stage. He wasn't really seeing the speaker, his attentions were on the hand that casually hadn't left his waist.

Surprisingly, no one around them seemed to mind their creative seating. Maybe it was because John was fairly short anyway? He wasn't blocking anyone's view.

The first act started with a timpani roll in the dark, like a thunderstorm breaking. Right when the swells of the music made John expect raindrops to defend from the ceiling, the center stage lights flickered on and flutes imitated calming bird calls. The protagonist stepped out and began a light, fast-tempo number that was mostly in another language. John felt Sherlock tap his toe along with the rhythm.

The next scene introduced the love interest on the arm of another man. The set was fantastically done, each aspect of it highlighted with the movements of the dancers.

A scene with lower lighting was meant for the lover's meeting in secret. They danced slowly among the willow trees. Everything swayed with the grace of the violin. John relaxed deeper into expanse of Sherlock's coat behind him. He didn't mind the fingers beside his on the arm rest twitching along with the piece, no doubt playing the notes right with the lead violinist.

The scene ended with a passionate kiss between the secret lovers. John was suddenly hyper aware of the shoulders behind him and the hints of air being exchanged at the base of his neck.

There was an especially long scene change. It the dark, the orchestra did a medley of the lover's theme and the opening tune. The tones were lovely and warm, like a lazy Sunday at home. It reminded him of the steam off of fresh tea, the muted glow of the tele over the top of the morning paper, Sherlock's scent and a hand to hold-

How long had they been holding hands?

It wasn't 'holding hands' in a traditional sense. Just a few overlapping fingers on the arm rest. Sherlock noticed John tense up when he finally looked to the contact. He frowned into John's neck.

The curtain reopened. It was the final scene of the act. The protagonist's love rival announced his engagement to the lovely lady he had secretly met in the willow clearing. It was hard to concentrate on the sung dialogue when Sherlock's hand kept edging away in retreat. John had to think of what to do, or if he should do anything at all.

Warm fingers gripped the digits that were creeping away. A smile whispered on John's neck and there was a slight tightening of pressure on his waist.

All too soon it was time for intermission. Both of them stood jerkily, their legs asleep.

"You were right," John admitted. "That violinist is spectacular."

"You're enjoying it?" Sherlock asked.

John hesitated, trying to assess if the performance was what he was asking about. "Definitely," he said.