Sherlock Holmes, better known by his stage name Angel is about to step out on stage and perform for the fifth time this holiday season but the gig has been booked since July. In fact he is completely booked this month, he always is, for December. That is when he brings out his special performance.
Two days ago Sherlock received a phone call from his old mentor. It was an unexpected but pleasant surprise.
"When's your next show?" she asked after they had caught up a bit.
"Saturday night at Pussy in Boots, why do you want to come? I can get you in." Sherlock offered eagerly. He was dying to see Irene again, they had let too much time pass.
"I'd love to darling but I'm working that night, however there is someone I would like to see one of your shows." She explained.
"A new student?" he asked with no attempt at hiding the note of jealously that crept into his voice.
"Maybe." She said coly and he nearly boiled over with rage.
"Fine, I'll tell George I'm expecting someone, give him your name. So this new protégée, does she have potential?" Sherlock asked, genuinely interested.
"Of course darling, I wouldn't have agreed to teach him if he didn't."
After they exchanged a few more pleasantries they said their good-byes and hung up.
The elves currently on stage are nowhere near his caliber of opening act, but it was the best this shoddy club had to offer. The manager, some clout named Dimmock, was no Gregory Lestrade and his girls would never pass one of Irene's rigorous performance tests. They had some looks but no rhythm and their voices were pitchy at best. The dim crowd clapped politely every time they finished a set but there were no cat calls or wolf whistles.
Sherlock smiled cruelly, 'drunken sods' he thought bitterly. His grand performance would be utterly wasted on the fools. At long last the girls had finished murdering Slade and Dimmock called him to come out on stage.
Sherlock teases the crowd by reveling himself slowly and picks a target just like Irene taught him to.
"It's easier to dance for just one person, than many." Her voice floats back to him, "pick a person and do the show just for them."
It was something that stuck with him, after all these years. It made sense, felt right. Sherlock looked up and spotted a table full of Military men who were clearly home on leave for the holidays, how nice. Sherlock picked the one who looked the most uncomfortable. He was seated furthest from the stage and looked as though he would rather be anywhere else. Perfect.
Sherlock moved his body the way he had taught it to and was pleased when he didn't slip up. With a flourish he finished, winking at his target. The man was practically squirming to get out of his chair. Sherlock always managed to pick the straightest man in the room. Oh well. The crowd exploded into applause and Sherlock bowed low and graceful. Suddenly he couldn't wait to get off the stage, the lights were too warm, the room beyond too dark. He couldn't breathe. He needed a fag.
Relaxing against the damp brick, breathing in the smoke, Sherlock finally felt himself again. He hadn't bothered to change just threw his long Belstaff coat on over his show piece. His jacket had somehow become his security blanket. The cool air brushing against him bringing its own peace and calm. He's just thinking how he should pay Irene a visit when his thoughts are interrupted by a rowdy group approaching his secluded alley.
"What did you think of the show, eh Johnny? Those girls were something else" said a gruff faceless voice.
"Yeah but they were nothing compared to the bloke" inserted another voice "he could move."
'Well at least someone knew a good performance when they saw one,' Sherlock thought.
"Yeah, yeah he was good wasn't he" a slightly shyer voice spoke up. Sherlock could practically hear the man's cheeks redden from here. It was almost enough to make Sherlock blush by proxy, almost.
"What's that, three continents Watson fancy's a bloke?" came the first voice.
"No, I mean, I wouldn't say fancy. That's a bit like saying you fancy a film star, it doesn't mean anything." The Watson fellow was trying to save face a failing, his heart wasn't in the argument.
Their voices drifted off as they passed Sherlock's hiding spot and when he thought it was safe poked his head out to watch the group walk off. It was the Military group, Sherlock was sure of it. Idly he wondered which of the men had taken a shine to him, not that it mattered. If Sherlock had to guess though, he would have put his money on the shorter figure that was now slowly trailing behind the rest of the group. The man appeared to be limping.
Sherlock never did call Irene but that was okay because two months later she called him.
"Irene it's the tenth already, what if I had had a gig?" Sherlock was in near panic.
"But you don't. Can you just come do it for me, please?" she begged. It was four days to Valentine's Day the date of John's big debut and Lou-Lou had gone and twisted his ankle. Irene could have killed him. There was no one to take his place. Only one other person in all of England knew that routine and Irene was right in thinking he wouldn't do it.
"Please?" she crooned again.
"What if, what if I don't remember the moves? We have no time to practice it together." Irene knew Sherlock was being reasonable but he was also being a complete dunce.
"It's okay if you mess up, we're back up not centre."
"And that is supposed to make me feel better?"
"Is that a yes?" Irene was beyond desperate. She had promised John this, couldn't take it away from him now. They were so close.
"Yes fine, I'll be there." Sherlock conceded, he knew Irene would never stop bugging him, and never forgive him if he had said no.
Stalking over to his calendar he marked it in with red pen, Funny Girls.
It would be the first time in years he had visited the place where he got his start.
Well time to start practicing.
"Where have all the good men gone, and where are all the gods…"