The LeBlancs' residence was located on Rue Cardinale in a district of Saint-Germain-des-Prés. Monsieur LeBlanc hired a famous Italian architect and lavished money on making his mansion look just splendid. The stucco on a façade, smooth and pale yellow in colour, was contrasting with white fluted pilasters and sculpted festoons, wide windows were framed with gypsum cupids, and two slender caryatids were carrying the front tympanum. John's carriage drove through the gate and slowly made its way along the gravely alley with rows of cherry trees growing on both sides. It was a warm, windless afternoon, the air was heavy with the smell of cherry blossoms, few clouds were drifting lazily in the sky, starting to get a pinkish shade as the sun descended.

John quickly got out of the carriage when the coachman parked it before the entrance. He was wearing dark gray trousers, with legs tucked into high, black officer boots. Matching gray vest, with white shirt and black, double-breasted dandy jacket gave him a look of casual elegance.
"Captain Watson, I presume?" The doorman appeared in front of him on a perron as John was walking up the few steps leading to the front door. "Everybody's waiting for you, sir."
"Yes, sorry," John showed his invitation to the man, "I'm a bit late, unfortunately."
"Right this way, sir," the doorman indicated him a way through the hall, "to the dining-room."

John walked through the long, wide hall where a soft, red carpet muffled his footsteps and the knocking of his cane. He could hear low voices and gentle music coming from the dining-room, lovely, placid melody played on the violin. He nodded at the butler who was standing by the dining-room door, and the man let John in, opening the door quietly so no one noticed John entering.

In the middle of the room there was a great, long table, surrounded by light-wooden chairs upholstered with purple silk. The table was covered with a snow-white cloth, and the tableware was porcelain, also white, with a pattern of little purple blossoms. Silver, shining cutlery matched several massive, silver candlesticks, and the whole composition was additionally decorated with pink, red and purple tulips, arranged in Chinese vases.

Everyone's eyes were fixed on the man who was playing the violin, John looked at him as well when walking in. He was tall and pale, with dark and curly, a little messy hair, wearing black tail-coat which only emphasized how thin he was. With his eyes shut, he was drawing the bow across the strings of the violin with his slender, gentle fingers. Everyone in the room was enchanted with his music, and so was John. It was breathtaking to look at this slim figure, lazily swinging to the rhythm, so focused and completely dedicated to the melody he was playing.

When he finished the crowd burst into applause, and the man bowed slightly, then opened his eyes and caught John's look. It only lasted few seconds because the butler, who was just waiting for the music to stop, announced loudly John's arrival.

"Captain John Watson," the butler shouted, and guests' eyes moved from the musician to John, still standing awkwardly by the door.
"Oh, Jean! You came!" lady Sarah stood up from her chair and walked towards him with a wide smile. She was wearing a blue silk dress with laced roses and white frills. A diamond necklace and heavy diamond earrings were sparkling obtrusively in contrast to her soft, delicate skin. John bowed and kissed her hand.
"Lady Sarah," he greeted her, "I apologize for being late," he said looking around the room as if addressing the whole gathering, "but on my way here my horse lost a shoe on a cobble."
"It's all right Captain Watson. Monsieur Holmes was entertaining us with his delightful music," lady Sarah's mother said politely.
"So I heard," John looked again at the tall, dark-haired man, who was now sitting at the opposite end of the table, narrowing his eyes and scanning John's figure with a slight smirk.

"It's good to see you again, young man," monsieur LeBlanc, a dumpy man with big nose and big moustache, said loudly and cheerfully when John sat next to lady Sarah at the table. "Good that you could make it, we were just about to start dinner but Sarah insisted we should wait for you, she said you promised her personally that you'll be here today."

John looked at lady Sarah who was blushing, and he felt his throat clenching. Fortunately he didn't have to say anything because monsieur LeBlanc shouted at servants to start serving the dishes. Footmen dressed in black liveries with purple sashes began to bring in the meals. There were stuffed oysters with cranberry sauce, guinea-fowls stuffed with baked apples, crab cakes, bouillon, stewed lamb, eggs Florentine, roasted goose with plums, and then John lost count because monsieur LeBlanc talked to him again.

"Tell me, young man, how's your father? Is he in good health?" LeBlanc inquired, gesturing with a fork in his hand.
"Yes… yes, thank you, he is well. I just received a letter from him last week," John tried to make his voice sound steady but he failed as lady Sarah was endearing herself to him, putting bits of every meal on his plate.
"Then when you'll be replying please give him our regards."
"I've already sent him a letter… yesterday to be precise. But I wrote him about my… acquaintance… with your daughter, so I believe there will be an opportunity to pass him your regards in the next letter," John barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes when lady Sarah giggled after he said that.

The rest of the dinner looked more or less in the same way: LeBlancs were throwing questions at him, about his father's businesses and investment plans, occasionally dropping something personal to pretend they're actually interested in him, not in his money, and lady Sarah was blushing, giggling and ostentatiously fluttering her eyelashes, leaning forward to him, whispering something in his ear and taking hold of his hand, while fingers of his other hand were clenching on his cane. They couldn't possibly be more obvious, John felt as if he was trapped in a farce.

John sighed with relief when the dinner was over and all the guests passed to the ballroom, the orchestra started to play waltz and a few couples began to dance. Colourful dresses were whirling around, music and laughs filled the air, flickering candle-lights made shadows dance on the walls. John and lady Sarah sat on a low sofa, looking at the dancing crowd, they were holding hands, or rather lady Sarah was holding John's hand, sighing out loud.

"So… who is this man who played violin today?" John asked, trying to drag Sarah's attention from the fact that he was obviously not going to dance with her.
"Oh, it's this… artist," lady Sarah said, waving her hand dismissively.
"A musician, yes, I assumed that much. But he's not with the orchestra, he's a guest, I thought it interesting that your father invited him," John smiled bitterly but tried to cover it with a tone of his voice.
"He's a painter actually. Oh, and Englishman like you, by the way. Violin is just his hobby," lady Sarah was obviously bored with the subject.
"Just a hobby? He plays excellent. Are his paintings as good as his music?"
"I have no idea, I've never seen any. I don't really like him, to be honest."
"Why not?"
"He's just… he has this weird manner, he acts as if he's better than everyone else, and he's excessively straightforward, that's what papa says… but for me he's just rude and obscene. Although his name means a lot in the business world, according to what papa says, so we have to keep inviting him everywhere. Oh, there he goes, I can introduce you if you like, you'll see for yourself," she said indifferently, and John nodded, so they got up from the sofa and walked towards the man.

"Monsieur Holmes," lady Sarah curtseyed with a fake smile and Holmes answered her with the same artificial grin, "this is Captain Jean Watson, a friend of mine, and Jean," she turned to John, " this is Monsieur Sherlock Holmes."
"Nice to meet you," John smiled and reached out with his hand.
"Likewise," Sherlock shook his hand and once again scanned him from head to toes, narrowing his eyes.
"I'm sure you gentlemen will be having a lot of things to talk about, it's always nice to meet a compatriot in a foreign land," and the moment lady Sarah said that, someone joined them.

"Excuse me," said the stranger, a tall, handsome man with sandy hair "Lady Sarah, will you do me this honour and agree to dance with me?"
"Oh… I'm sorry, but I'm here with Captain Watson." lady Sarah answered, clearly disappointed.
"Please, don't care about me," John said quickly, "I can't dance, but there is no need for you to give up the amusement, my lady."
"Are you sure, Jean?"
"Of course, please, go dance. It'll be a great pleasure for me to see you having a good time."
Lady Sarah didn't even try to hide her excitement as she and the stranger instantly walked away. John and Sherlock looked at each other.

"My name is John, actually," John smiled awkwardly, switching to English.
"Ah, and you're also from London, judging by your accent," Sherlock's voice was deep and low, he sounded very self-confident, and it was a statement more than a question.
"Yes, yes I am. So, if you're from London, too… do you mean to tell me that you're actually from the Holmes family?"
"Unfortunately," Sherlock smirked, and seeing John's confusion, explained, "my father wished completely different life for me. My older brother, Mycroft, fulfilled his wishes, he's focused on his career, he works with the government, just like our father used to. I became an artist… you can imagine they were not too happy about that."
"I understand…" John was clearly upset.
"Oh, I have no doubts you do."
"Sorry, what?"
"You yourself are trying to fulfill your father's expectations. It was obviously his idea to send you to Paris so you could find yourself a wife among French aristocracy, he hoped some noble family will be tempted by your money and good name, because obviously, with your wound from India, it's hard to find a woman willing to marry you," Sherlock said these words fast and without any hesitation.
"How… how did you know all of that?" John asked, stunned.
"I didn't know, I saw. First of all you were introduced to me as Captain Watson, so a military officer. You're limping, using a cane and your left arm is trembling from time to time, so it's obvious you were wounded. You're too young so clearly you weren't in an Afghan war, and also you're rubbing your shoulder, quite hard, so the wound is not fresh but it's not old enough to stop hurting, I would say four to six years. There was the Indian Rebellion six years ago, I assumed you must have been wounded there. Also I heard how monsieur LeBlanc asked about your father's businesses, he's clearly more interested in your money, so the rest of this story was quite easy to figure. But you shouldn't be so hard on yourself, your leg can still be working just fine so you don't have to look for a wife like this."
"Oh my God, that was fantastic," John's eyes widened, "absolutely brilliant."
"Really?" Sherlock asked, a bit surprised.
"Of course, that was amazing, you were right about everything… but… what did you say about my leg?"
"As I said, you're rubbing your shoulder and your hand is trembling, so that must be the spot that you were wounded. There is no way you have another wound in your leg because you don't ask for a chair when you're standing, just as if you have forgotten about it. So my assumption is that it is a trauma but physically you're fine."
"Again, that is just amazing."

John couldn't stop grinning and it made Sherlock smile as well, but it was not this little smirk he had before, it was a warm and honest smile. "But what about you, you're not dancing?" added John after a longer pause.
"No."
"I don't think you'd have a trouble with finding a partner," John pointed in the direction of three young ladies who stood on the opposite side of the ballroom, looking at them, whispering to each other and laughing, "If you'd ask one of them I bet they'd be more than thrilled."
"Hmm, not really my area," Sherlock looked at the ladies with this superior manner which lady Sarah meant when she described him to John.
"Is that so?"
"Yes. I consider myself married to my work."
"Oh, yes, lady Sarah said you're a painter. I must say that's impressive, because when I heard you playing I was convinced you're a musician."
"Music is just a hobby. Painting is what really matters to me."
"Are you as good painter as you are violinist?"
"Better, I think. But I believe you should judge it by yourself."
"I'd love to see some of your works, where could I…" – but John didn't finish as lady Sarah appeared next to them and interrupted.

"Jean, I'm tired of dancing, can you join me in a dining-room for a glass of champagne?"
"Umm… yes of course," John wasn't exactly happy that he can't finish his conversation with Sherlock, but he couldn't refuse to obey, "I'll see you around, mister Holmes."

Sherlock only nodded and after a moment he was left alone in the ballroom. Rolling his eyes as he noticed the giggling ladies again, he disappeared in the crowd to avoid them.

It took John couple of hours to relieve himself of lady Sarah's company. She was introducing him to all of her friends, John found them boring and shallow, and it was truly wearying to make small talk with them. When lady Sarah was asked for a dance again, John assured her that he doesn't mind, and the moment she walked away with another man, he left the dining-room and sank into the crowd.

He was hoping he could find Sherlock and finish their conversation, the man seemed very interesting to him and John didn't think of him as rude at all, his fascinating observation talent and peculiar way in which he was talking about his art were definitely appealing. However the ballroom was very crowded, and John didn't have any luck in finding Sherlock, soon he felt tired of the hot and stuffy atmosphere.

He quickly passed to the next room, from where a wide glass door was leading to the terrace. Only a few guests were sitting in that room, lounging on sofas and ottomans, drinking wine, talking lazily and enjoying the fresh air coming from the open glass door.

John went out to the terrace, the wave of cool, fresh air pleasantly hit his nostrils. It was already dark outside, stars were shining, and a pale moonlight rested on the trees and bushes in a garden, giving leaves and flowers a silver tint, crickets were chirping in a grass. The terrace was poorly illuminated, only the light coming through the glass door from the inside and a few candles, already half-burned, protected it from disappearing into the night. It took a longer moment before John realized he was not alone, there was another man, leaning against the balustrade, his figure barely visible in the dark.

When his eyes adjusted a bit John recognized it was Sherlock, so he joined him by the balustrade but said nothing. They were standing like this, in silence, for several minutes, and it was not uncomfortable at all. On the contrary, John felt that he's finally having a good time at this unfortunate party. It was quiet, calm and peaceful and, as a matter of fact, it should be utterly boring, but it felt just right.

"Beautiful, isn't it?," Sherlock asked breaking the silence as he was looking at the starry night.
"It is," John looked up as well.
"Did you escape lady Sarah's piteous advances?" Sherlock's voice changed, became more sharp.
"I hope so," John answered and after a longer pause they both laughed. "We are just awful," John added, trying to stop giggling, "we shouldn't say that."
"And yet, you're still laughing," Sherlock smiled the way he did before, warmly and honestly, and that smile made John feel a little bit too warm in his chest, so he quickly changed the subject.

"I was looking for you actually. Lady Sarah interrupted our conversation before, and you didn't tell me where I could see your paintings?"
"I am afraid the answer is: nowhere, so far. I wasn't painting much lately because I am focused on one, bigger piece. However, I hope you will have an opportunity to see it in Louvre, on the upcoming Salon."
"Really? That's amazing, I'd love to see your work, and Louvre! My God, that's truly admirable."
"Please, feel invited to come and see it, I would like to hear your opinion."
"I don't really know anything about art," John laughed again, "but I'm surely going to be there, it's a big deal to have one's painting hanging in Louvre, I'll be glad to congratulate you personally and see your piece."

Sherlock didn't say anything for that but his eyes were smiling and John couldn't stop looking into them. They seemed grey and cold in the dim candlelight, but John could swear that before, when he and Sherlock were talking inside, they were blue-green.

And again it felt right to just stand there in silence on this empty, dark terrace with millions of stars shining above their heads. John didn't know why his fingers were clenching on a cane again, because his shoulder didn't hurt in that moment, and Sherlock didn't know why he was getting goose bumps, because the evening was warm and there was no wind. But it all felt good, so oddly good and right, as if they were waiting their whole lives to meet at this terrace.

"Jean, here you are!" lady Sarah's voice that earlier sounded so melodic to John was now croaky and annoying, tearing apart the silence he shared with Sherlock, making the night instantly colder and stars faded, "I've been looking for you everywhere, the party will be soon ending and you haven't yet met my dear friend, countess de Montalia."
"I will join you in a moment, my lady," John didn't have to mask the grimace that appeared on his face because he was still standing in the shadows, and lady Sarah couldn't see it. "Excuse me, mister Holmes. It seems I have to go, it was a pleasure meeting you and I enjoyed our conversation greatly."
"Likewise," answered Sherlock politely but with reserve, although John managed to catch a twinkle in his eyes when they shook their hands.

They didn't speak for the rest of the evening. Sometime later, when John was leaving, only few guests were still in the residence, so he was sure Sherlock had already left.

John felt a huge relief when his carriage drove through the gate to the streets, and he left all those people with their fake smiles behind. Driving along the boulevard de Saint-Germain, he looked through the small window, up at the stars, and imagined being on the dark terrace again. Such thoughts seemed odd to him, but they also felt too good not to linger on them a bit.

He came back home and slowly went upstairs, thinking about what Sherlock said about his limp, he tried to walk without a cane for the last few steps but he didn't make it. He felt really tired, and started to get a bit of a headache, so he asked Jacques to help him undress right away, wanting to go to sleep.

While he and his butler were in the bedroom, the other man suddenly said: "Sir, I apologize, but I forgot. Someone left you a visit card this evening."
"A visit card? Well, all right, please bring it when we'll be finished here," John didn't really pay much attention to that, and he momentarily forgot about this, so he was almost surprised when later Jacques came to his room with a visit card placed on a little silver tray.
"Ah, yes, thank you, Jacques," John took the card. "You can go now, goodnight."
"Goodnight, sir," said Jacques, disappearing behind the closed door.

John looked at the card and it turned out to be Sherlock's. Elegant, black letters said Sherlock Holmes and when John opened it there was an address of his atelier and a sentence added below, in handwriting: Please, call me Sherlock.


i hope you like it so far :)

friendly reminder: i'm updating once a week, every Tuesday, and the whole thing will have 11 chapters.

see you next week then, i hope :)