Wednesday, December 9th


"I think I'm going mad," John said, his head falling to the table with a groan as soon as he walked in after class.

John could almost hear Bill rolling his eyes, noise of the club be damned. "Is this about Holmes again?" Taking John's silence for confirmation, he whistled low. Sally nudged him, then signaled for more drinks.

Bill tapped John's elbow, waiting to speak until he'd lifted his eyes. "You could always get a restraining order." John just snorted.

"He hasn't threatened me, or, or anything. He just..."

"Keeps showing up to all your classes, never says a word before swanning off, looks intimidating in a big coat?" Bill cut in dryly.

"He sounds like a right creepy bastard," Sally agreed, and gave a little shudder. "I used to have a boyfriend, works the electrics and such, we still keep in touch. And he tells me all these horror stories about him."

"Oh?" John inquired, suspended in the terrible place between intrigue and self-preservation, just before he took a running leap over the cliff. He sat up straighter. "What've you heard, then?" John's googling had taken him to pages and pages detailing Sherlock's rise to fame in the English National - which explained the kids in his class mooning over the man every time he showed up, very irritating - but there'd been an equal number claiming him something of a terror.

"He's good, real good. But he hasn't made any friends in the business," she said, "mostly because he's arrogant and rude ten ways from Sunday. Not a good way to move up the ranks, if you can't play well with others. I heard he even turned down the Royal Ballet because they apparently weren't good enough for him."

"No bloody way," said Bill, but she just nodded.

"That much of a charmer, eh?" John chuckled into his drink. Somehow, it didn't fit with what he'd seen. Holmes - Sherlock, he amended - had been a bit... intense in his focus, certainly, when he was adjusting John's form. A little eccentric in how he went about it, and more than pushy in the beginning. But as John listened to Sally's words, the thoughts of those lips quirking that strange smile or those eyes locked bright and fierce upon John's body in motion just wouldn't reconcile themselves.

She could very well be right. The internet articles could all be right. All this evidence against him, but again - something just didn't fit with the freak Sally was fleshing out.

Sally shrugged, looking over to Bill. "What do you think?"

But Bill was frowning, his eyes unfocused where they rested on the dancers under the pulsating, smoky lights of the club. Sally and John exchanged a glance. "Bill," Sally sing-songed at last, laying a hand over his arm.

"What?" he blinked, jerking back into the present, and then, "Oh. Sorry, I was just thinking... you're gonna laugh, mate, but I might've got tickets to one of his performances this week."

John kept a very firm grip on his glass and took a very collected sip. "What?"

Sally was already laughing, slouching back in her seat and grinning like she couldn't keep it off her face if she tried. "You've got tickets to the ballet? To see the man who's been stalking John like some sort of nutter?"

"Well, it is The Nutcracker."

John was beginning to wish he hadn't told them anything. But Sherlock dropping in and observing his classes for what had been almost two weeks straight, now, and not even saying a bloody word to John about it before he'd swoop off with Beth Lestrade, that great, unnecessary coat of his fanned out behind him - well, it wasn't the sort of thing to be weathered alone, strong-minded a man as he was.

Because there was the question no one had been able to answer yet, try as they might: Why?

Though he was laughing, Bill looked a bit as if he wished he hadn't said anything, either, going a bit yellow in the club's watery light. "Oh, come off it," he sighed at last. "It's Christmas, and lord knows it's not Christmas without a good Nutcracker. Besides, it's Julie who's got the tickets, not me."

"And some of us actually do like ballet," John reminded her. "Clara, me. Instructors, and all."

"Just don't forget you're a swinger at heart, John," Sally reminded him with a wink, and John had to laugh at that.

"Of course, how could I forget?"

But even he could sense the something-strained in his tone as he looked out at everyone moving in time to the easy jazz rhythms of the house, to the loud, desperate beats that seemed to shudder up his bloodstream. The Amber was one of their favorite haunts. So he supposed he should have expected it - that as he'd walked in that evening even haggard and off-balance as he was, almost all the heads had turned and begun their whispering. Every time John looked in another direction he had the sensation that they all were quickly looking away.

Isn't it sad, they would be saying. Isn't it sad, the wind-up doll finally breaking down.

John wasn't a swinger. He was barely a dancer, these days, and everyone knew it - and if he were being honest with himself it had started long before Clara was hurt.

Sally had her eye on the couple currently occupying the center of the dance floor. "You watching this?" she said, nodding at the two.

The tassels on the girl's dress flew left and right as they jumped, lifted, the cheers in the audience following her ascent. Her partner's strong arms levered her up and around his body, and the two of them didn't stop moving, their feet always kicking out strong and alive and perfectly in rhythm. They were smiling, laughing.

Bill turned away from John, the concern falling from his face, replaced with a quiet kind of admiration the longer he stared. "They're the new kids, yeah?"

She nodded. After a few minutes longer listening to the audience whoop above the jazzy brass of the music, she turned a mischievous eye back to Bill. "Want to come show them how the pros do it?" She gave a joking waggle of her eyebrows, and Bill snorted, already pulling himself up from the table with a muffled, "Hell yeah."

But he looked back quickly to John, and there was a quick fluttering of emotion across his face. Bill and Sally exchanged a look, and in that moment, John hated them. Which was unfair, and just made John hate himself, especially when Bill's eyes were still lingering on him with such concern.

"You wanna come watch, mate?" he asked. "Maybe a pretty girl will even give you a round."

But John only laughed again, this time feeling more like the sound had been kicked out of him. "No, I'll just - I'll keep us the table. Everyone's bound to want a drink after watching too much more of that."

With a final salute, Bill put his arm around Sally's waist, and the two of them ducked into the crowd. Moments later more cheering erupted, and if John smiled, it was honest, even if something in him still felt...

Partnerless, he decided. Not just in the sense of dance, but in the sense that some other half was absent, now. He'd been swung out into the empty space of the floor, and no hands were reaching out to pull him back.

God, and now he was waxing poetic. He stared into his pint and wondered idly if getting someone to buy him another was worth it, as the thumping bass distorted his reflection over and over again.


"Who's the prime minister?"

Sherlock didn't move from where he was stretched out on the couch, steepled hands beneath his chin. "Thinking," he deigned to murmur.

A large sigh echoed from the kitchen, followed by shuffling paper, then the sounds of small steps. Hmm, he thought the subtle message of 'go away' had regardless been clear. "I bet you just don't know," Beth taunted.

He allowed one narrow eye to open, and glared at her as he corrected, "I just don't care."

"You're useless, you know. Daddy always helps me with my homework, and he always knows the answers."

A - what was she, thirteen? Eleven? Regardless, a child had no reason for such smug superiority. Both eyes opened, as if the force of his glare unobstructed would be enough to quell her at last. She only shrugged. Shrugged at him.

He sat up on the couch, forking his hands through his hair. "No one always knows the answers."

"Daddy does."

He breathed out heavily through his nose. "Your father couldn't point out a good fouetté if it literally kicked him in the face."

She still looked skeptical. "He's your instructor."

He waved a hand. "Semantics."

"Is there anything you can do?" she sighed, falling into one of the empty armchairs across from the sofa.

"Point out a good fouetté," he rejoined, and, unexpectedly, that earned him a smile. His forehead creased, as he watched her sitting up taller in the chair, staring down at the hands in her lap, something grown meek and shy out of the teases of before. "What is it now?" he asked impatiently, and she took a deep breath.

"Is there anything you could teach me? For ballet?"

Oh. "I don't teach," he answered flatly.

The smile disappeared. "You taught Mr. John the other day."

John Watson. A good way to return to the problem at hand. He wet his lips. "John only needed pointers. It's different."

"Well, I don't see how," she said, voice hard, arms crossing in front of her chest. He was abruptly reminded of her father, and ran his hands through his hair again to dispel the image.

"Isn't there something - maths, don't you need help with maths? I can do maths," he tried instead. Music was a lot like maths. Counting rhythms, finding the right equation... and there was always the perfect, logical solution in the end. Both strove for some higher goal, something just beyond human comprehension in their mental realities.

Well. Most human comprehension.

But her reply was cut short when Lestrade's footsteps sounded upon the stairs. God, could he have been any longer, Sherlock wondered with a quick glance at his watch. Both he and Beth jumped to their feet as Lestrade walked through the door.

He raised an eyebrow. "...Interrupting something?"

"No," they both said at once. Beth sighed loudly and stalked back into the kitchen, leaving Sherlock to pounce on Lestrade.

"Did you get it? What does it say?" As Lestrade produced the file from his coat Sherlock nearly bowled him over in his excitement.

"Give us a minute, alright?" he responded, sliding smoothly over to take Sherlock's previous spot on the couch. He sank into the cushions with a lengthy groan. Sherlock stepped over the table and sat down on top of it, knees jittering with excitement as Lestrade took interminable ages to sit back up and hand him John Watson's history, bound up neat and pretty in its dull, drab casing.

Much the same as John Watson himself.

"You were right," Lestrade said at last, as Sherlock flicked through the papers. CV, articles. More rubbish, some of it useful.

"Surprise, surprise," Sherlock said, distracted, just as his eyes fell to an old photograph. It was blurred, and there were many heads in this class of John's past, but towards the back right was a form that was solid and steady and precise, all while some beautiful ease floated his arms and legs into a strong, elevated fifth position.

"You were right," repeated Lestrade, his eyeroll bleeding into his tone, "about his training from before. He's Cecchetti, though, don't know if you -"

"Obviously," Sherlock breathed, and passed the photograph over. He pointed John out before returning to the rest of the file. "You can see the attention to anatomy. Every movement is..." Sherlock's eyes fell to another photograph, and this time, he stopped completely.

Lestrade was nodding along, but he looked up when Sherlock's voice faded into silence. "Sherlock?" he prompted.

Sherlock gave a start. He whipped the photograph around. "You did not," he said, voice stiff, "mention this."

This picture was newer, grainy for having been cut out of a newspaper but in no way obscuring the subject. It was John, and he was dancing - but not ballet. Not even close.

Lestrade scratched at the back of his neck. "Yeah, that's the other thing. He's a swinger. And not in your, er, relationship sort of way, either."

The same purity of movement was there, but it was all strung out. There was an obscene amount of... looseness, to what John was doing, as he swung his partner away. She, in turn, was graceful, but her poise had devolved into some lively, unpostured movement and she was laughing, laughing of all things. While performing. And John... John was, too, some joy broad on his face and broad in his dancing feet. He traced the thread of it down from John's wrinkled eyes, to his waistcoat, to the supple bend of his knees.

Lestrade, apparently done with waiting, prodded, "Is that going to be a problem?"

Sherlock snapped the folder shut in one hand. "It shouldn't be. He's teaching a ballet class now, after all, isn't he?"

"I think it might be as a favor to his partner," Lestrade nodded. "The one in the photo used to be Beth's teacher. But frankly, I'm more worried about the shoulder injury from '99, if we're being honest."

Sherlock shrugged, getting to his feet and looking down at Lestrade. "Regardless. He had some..." His eyes flitted quickly away. "Nevermind."

"'Some?'" Lestrade echoed, a glimmer, the trace of laughter, in his dark eyes.

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "It doesn't matter. Trust my judgement on this, he's the one."

"Are you ever going to tell me why him?" he asked, calling after Sherlock as he moved to slip the file into his bookcase. "Why this washed-up, old, potentially shoulder-favoring dancer who's teaching in some dive and never made it as one of the greats? I could probably have wheedled Irene into coming back from the states, so really, Sherlock. You've got to understand why I... wonder."

There was a suggestion curled there, sitting casual on his tongue, and Sherlock's spine went stiff as he recognized it. "It's not like that," he said, shortly, and stepped away from the books.

"I didn't say it was like anything." Lestrade had gotten up, and was crossing the room towards Sherlock. "You just have to understand, people are beginning to wonder why the great Sherlock Holmes is coming to all these classes at Kitty's, for godsakes. Not even touching on the fact that they're classes full of small children, and, well, you can see I've had to field some rather interesting inquiries this week."

"Let them talk," Sherlock muttered, and turned around, only to find Lestrade blocking his path. His shoulders were set at a determined angle, his head tilted, and he peered at Sherlock with something like concern.

"You said, awhile back, that this choice affects me just as much as it does you. And you know I hate to admit it, but you're right. I have to know I can trust you and trust him, trust this John Watson of yours. And you're not giving me much to go on."

Sherlock heard the unspoken question, just as he always had and always would: what do you see that I don't?

Almost without thought, Sherlock's leg lifted. His toe, foot carefully arched above it, slipped over the wooden floor. The shiver at its cold touch was forgotten in his concentration, and his other foot sunk soft along the hard ground. His arms, as if pulled by the puppet strings of greater masters, rose to second position.

Of all things, Sherlock smiled, somewhat helplessly. "He listened," he said, simply. "He didn't have to, and even then," his calf, supple and straight, rounded behind him, "there was a potential there that, despite his age, his looks, the swing and his everything - when he danced, it was…"

Sherlock looked down his arms, seeing instead the careful length of John's bones, firm and steady. Humerus, ulna, radius; what would he have learned by the skeleton under his skin? Looking down, it was John's sharp feet, phalanges to metatarsals and the rest running smoothly toward tibia and fibula, with the ligaments and tendons piecing him together into one long, beautiful line. Dance, humming throughout the interconnected oneness of his body.

It was because Sherlock had wondered. What that was like.

"What dancing should be," he finished.

As one, his hands and feet fell away, and he straightened.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Well."

Sherlock hummed.

"Wow," said Beth.

They turned to look at her, and she shrugged. "I'd trust him, Dad."

Knowing that, if it had been a battle in the first place, he would have lost, Lestrade rolled his eyes skyward. "Heaven help me, I knew you would." He settled his gaze back on his daughter with a grin. "And how was class today, with Mr. Creepy here looking in?"

"I am not creepy," Sherlock scoffed, following them into his kitchen.

Later, as Lestrade was readying himself and Beth for the drive home, he turned to Sherlock. Pulling his arms through his coat sleeves, he asked, "And what if he says no?"

Sherlock hadn't thought about that, but then, he hadn't needed to. "He won't," he said, a confidence in his tone that was enough to lift Lestrade's eyebrows to his hairline. But when Sherlock didn't back down, he just sighed again.

"Alright. Will you ask him by Friday, then?" When Sherlock hesitated, the eyebrows shot back up. "Sherlock, you've been studying the man for two weeks now. If you wait any longer, your choreography's going to have to be very simple and very clever."

"Oh, I've got it all already," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "He'll just need to - what?"

Because Lestrade had snorted, rocking back on his heels. At Sherlock's narrow-eyed accusation, he looked up, mouth quirking at the corners. "If this guy is as good as you say, I wonder just how willing he's going to be to have you dictate everything he does. I think...ah, well." He threw his hands up, making to leave down the stairs.

"What?" Sherlock asked. He reached out and grabbed Lestrade's arm. "What?" he repeated, looking at him very hard. Lestrade was always giving him unnecessary advice. To not follow through...

"I just think he might surprise you, is all." Gently, he pried Sherlock's hand away, and added, "Often, things like this don't come entirely free."

"Dad!" Beth appeared at the bottom of the stairs, face set in impatient lines. "The cab's been here for ages."

"Coming, sweetheart," he said, and continued down the stairs, giving Sherlock a lazy wave goodbye.

Sherlock shook himself, realizing he'd been staring after Lestrade for far longer than was necessary when the door slammed shut. He then promptly dismissed those words, because it'd become something of a habit to ignore whatever Lestrade was saying - teacher or not.

He would ask John tomorrow. He would not worry about what John might ask in return. He tucked his hands in his pockets and retreated back into the empty room. For a moment, just a moment, he imagined John filling it. He imagined John dancing in that space and filling it with energy until it threatened to -

He blinked. Odd. Like uneasy smoke, he waved the visions away, and moved to retreat to his room. But not before he crept to the bookshelf, retrieved the file, and took one last look at John in his swinger's garb, that strange curve of a smile filling his face with a joy that was all mystery to Sherlock. Ballet was poise and elegance and concentrated smiles, if anything. Not... not this.

He had no idea how long he stood, peering into the photo, wondering if the opportunity to dance with Sherlock Holmes would be enough to put that same smile on John Watson's lips.

Abruptly, he tucked the file under his arm, whirling around and reaching for the laptop discarded on his armchair. Perhaps Lestrade was right. Perhaps he needed some sort of, of - leverage, yes. Because they would be great, and Sherlock just had to make John see it, too. And he was willing to do anything to prove it.

Anything, Sherlock thought, looking down again at the photo, at the man and his dance and his arms spread wide. Anything at all.


Thursday, December 10th


When John walked into class his usual half hour early on Friday, there was a by-now familiar shape warming up at the barre.

"Oh, god," John murmured, letting his bag slip from his shoulder by the door.

The dark head turned, Sherlock's keen eyes fixing on John's over his shoulder, gone blue in their amusement. "Not quite," he said smoothly, his knees bending in tandem with his voice as he went through all the typical motions: plié in the first position, the second, and so on; his left hand gripped the bar with his right in a bras bas, moving upward as he worked. "Join me?" his voice rumbled eventually, the same humor spun thick in his tone.

John ducked his head, hiding his flush, but nonetheless found his feet stepping closer. "How did you get in?" he made himself ask, though as he aligned himself behind Sherlock at the barre, he knew his curiosity had won out over any common sense.

Besides, Sherlock was already blowing out a breath, letting John's question roll down his elevated arm in an easy slide. "Do you really have to ask?"

The point being valid, John didn't answer, instead joining Sherlock now in his tendus - their right feet stroking forward and returning to the first position, again, again. As Sherlock switched to fifth by the metronome likely ticking in his head, he found himself mirroring exactly Sherlock's body, focusing in on himself at the same time as he waited for Sherlock's cues.

He'd almost forgotten this. How much concentration it took, but also how good it felt to not be working always alone. The pleasure of success in matching someone moment by moment.

He shook his head at himself, allowing his alignment to shift as he smirked at the floor. Almost as if sensing the change, Sherlock tilted his head back. "What?" he asked, not for a second pausing in his seamless movements.

"Just wondering when you're going to let me know what the hell this is all about," John replied easily. They'd moved on into rond de jambe, now, feet painting semicircles on the ground as Sherlock dictated the rise of their arms: up, out, circling forward to ascend in a dreamy wave, rotating back, and down. The glide of it sent a thrill throughout John's body, his arms tingling as they completed each set.

Sherlock rotated at the bar, facing John, and John did the same until his back was to Sherlock. Presumably to work the left side, but John knew when he was being watched. He lifted his head and began to cycle back through. Pliés, left leg extended en devant, breathe...

For long minutes, neither of them spoke. Their warm up had no musical accompaniment, either, just the steady rhythm of his own breath and Sherlock's at his back, just the creaking of the wooden floor, the constant motion of their bodies as they strengthened, hardened, readied themselves for the dance.

Well, John thought idly, though his steps didn't falter. Sherlock, perhaps, readied himself to dance. John readied himself to go through the same thing all over again with his students. There wasn't much of an opportunity for anything too fancy with a group of nine and ten year olds in this sort of setting, and at this point John couldn't recall if that was a disappointment or a relief.

"Do you know," Sherlock said, his low voice floating John down out of his head, "that your left shoulder is much stiffer than your right?"

John had no trouble imagining Sherlock watching the movements of his back as he rounded through his positions, and was glad, again, that he couldn't see his face. But before he could reply, Sherlock sighed heavily.

"Don't be so pedestrian; it's not a criticism. You move remarkably... well, considering."

"Um," John stalled, regaining his balance in both figurative and literal ways, "thank you?"

"Mmm," Sherlock hummed, returning briefly to silence. "Does that affect your swing career?"

Now John faltered. He turned back to Sherlock, both hands gripping the barre. Sherlock stopped as well, looking at John's suspicious face with something like wary surprise. "Prat," John said, but without much feeling. He'd sort of acclimated to the stalker thing by now. "You looked me up. You know all about the infection."

Sherlock gave an off-hand shrug. "I assumed you looked me up as well. It was only fair," he pointed out.

The full-length mirror lining the opposite wall reflected John's exasperated face back to him. "What do you want, Sherlock?" he asked, his eyes catching on the clock. His students would start arriving soon. Unless Sherlock was planning on giving some sort of practical demonstration, which had really not been anywhere on John's radar, he didn't see any reason for the getup or Sherlock's appearance or... any of this, at all.

Then again, he hadn't seen reason in any of Sherlock's appearances, but there he'd been anyway. The thought caused him to look at Sherlock with just a little more intrigue.

Sherlock's eyes seemed to sharpen. "First, I'd like you to answer my question." He waited, expectant.

John had to reel back through their conversation. "Oh." On whether or not he could swing. "Well, you just admitted you'd looked me up, so. You know we're at the top."

Sherlock huffed impatiently. "Statistics are useless. I've seen your name on the charts, yes, but haven't seen you work. Do you even lift?"

John snorted. "Really? That's the joke you're going for?" But Sherlock looked entirely serious, and John lifted his eyebrows, blowing out a breath himself. Okay, then. Play it his way. "Yes, I lift; I'm a swinger and a Jack at that, so I sort of have to."

"You are left-handed, yes? So how does your shoulder stand it?" Sherlock questioned, and his fingers twitched at his side, looking as if they were restraining themselves from reaching out to touch. Good, his words on permission from their last conversation had stuck, then.

"It's... it's not like ballet. I'm not holding anyone up for days on end, it's usually a much quicker... thing." John abruptly shook his head. "Sorry, where is this going?"

His voice had taken on a hard edge, and by the flash in Sherlock's eyes, it had been noted. Almost before John could blink, Sherlock was striding toward the center of the room, beckoning for John to follow.

He did, if with wary steps. Sherlock turned, and when John stopped, they were facing each other, squared and intent. "I want you to try lifting me," Sherlock said, and raised his arms.

Now John smirked. "Excuse me?"

Above his head, Sherlock's hands did a fluttery, dismissive gesture. "You heard me," he said, in a lazy drawl that set John's teeth on edge. Bossy twat.

"Yes, but after everything I just said -"

"I just want you to try." Sherlock tilted his head. "Is that so much to ask?"

John folded his arms across his chest. Sherlock kept his comically high above his head, looking anywhere but at John.

Sherlock sighed. John blew out a breath.

The clock on the wall ticked, ticked, ticked.

The smile that stretched Sherlock's face when John's hands settled at his waist was maddening. "Do people ever tell you that you're really, really irritating?" John remarked, his fingers flexing against the soft plush of Sherlock's t-shirt.

"Always," Sherlock said, and then, "Now, what I want you to - oh!" John had sidestepped around Sherlock, and now behind him, leaned forward to press his chest along his back and murmur in his ear.

"As the one with the old injury, I think I'll dictate how we do this?" It wasn't really a question, and so Sherlock didn't really feel the need to answer - a fact for which John was grateful, since he was currently focusing on what, exactly, was the best way to do this. God, did he even remember pas de deux? Or did the fact that they were both men throw everything out the window as it was?

Christ, Sherlock was really bloody tall, wasn't he?

"Alright," he decided, "can you - "

"Arabesque?"

"Please." Sherlock's leg rose behind him, up in a fluted arc towards the ceiling. One of his arms stretched before him, the other lengthened out behind. He was at once taut as bowstring and completely relaxed, almost - bored-looking, even. There was something remarkable to it, John had to admit. The effortlessness of his figure was everything ballet should be. What he was doing dancing with John, then. Well.

He shook himself back to the task at hand. John considered, and then, slowly, slid his right arm around Sherlock's waist, while his other hand wrapped beneath Sherlock's raised thigh, all of his fingers spreading wide. Sherlock's back arched, a recognition of what was coming.

"Ready? One, two..." John's flattened palms pressed, his arms lifted, and Sherlock's other leg left the ground, pointed back at his body in a triangle beneath him. His arms remained in their steady, straight line.

"Alright?" Sherlock questioned.

"Yes," John breathed. This wasn't particularly difficult, as lifts went.

"Try walking. Just a circle, it won't kill you."

"This feels ridiculous," John commented as they completed their circuit, Sherlock still balanced in his arms.

"It is. Boring, too. Want to try something more fun?" And then Sherlock was dipping low in his arms. Fishing, John remembered it was called. He scrambled to stay in balance with Sherlock as the man's long fingers swept the ground and rose again. Moving with the natural momentum, John hauled him upwards, and then Sherlock's legs were kicking out, pinwheeling back to the floor.

John's hands slipped naturally away, but Sherlock caught them smoothly and John found his hands again on Sherlock's hips "Two side-steps and a lift," Sherlock said over his shoulder, panting slightly, and then they were off. Like parallel lines, they moved. Their feet struck out, a skip, and then John hoisted Sherlock into the air, Sherlock's legs stretching out briefly before John returned him to the earth.

He turned Sherlock to face him. "Dip," countered John, and Sherlock did, though as he lowered himself he shot John a smirk.

"This isn't ballet."

John lifted an eyebrow. "Could be."

For a moment, Sherlock stared at him, something inscrutable on his face. Then, slowly, he took breath, and kicked his legs up above John's back. He could feel them as they spread in a perfect, pointed V. Sherlock's arm trailed along the ground, pulling upwards as John returned the rest of him to standing.

"Come on, we can do better than that." Sherlock's feet touched the ground again, and the both of them dropped their positions. Sherlock looked down into John's face, some childish glee catching John off-guard as the full force of it hit him. Despite Sherlock's words, he was... having fun. Doing this. With John.

John was about to say something, but the low creak of the door had them both whipping around. Beth marched in, Rachel tiptoeing behind her. Both girls stopped short at the sight of Sherlock and John, standing together in the center of the room.

"Oh, god." Beth was the first to break the silence. "Again?"

"Hello, Beth, Rachel," John said, hoping he wasn't as red as he felt. He stole a glance at Sherlock, who just smirked at him before waltzing over to his things, still scattered haphazardly about the barre. He looked back at his students. "I'll be with you in a minute, girls." He nodded, then trotted back off after Sherlock.

He leaned against the barre as Sherlock rifled through his pack on the floor. "I would have said yes," he commented, idly.

"To dinner? Excellent. Tomorrow at 7, then."

The smile fell from John's face. "What? No, no. To more... lifts practice, I mean." Dinner? Where did that even come from? Not that John wasn't flattered, or fighting down a very embarrassing blush, but... what?

Sherlock didn't bother to look up, sighing in victory when he found his shoes, and still not meeting John's eyes as he began to pry his flats off and slip the others on. "That's what I want to discuss with you at dinner. And not just lifts." Now Sherlock did pause, his fingers hovering over the laces. "I have a proposition for you, and obviously, no time to discuss it now. So, please."

He lifted his chin towards John, finally looking at him. Those eyes were a different color, now, some sort of green-silver, wide and open and pleading, and oh, dammit.

"Does that work on everyone?"

Sherlock didn't pretend cluelessness. "Is it working on you?"

John sighed. "Yes."

Sherlock smirk widened into a full-on grin, deep grooves of delight carved against his cheeks. "Then yes. But not everyone impresses me," he finished, unfolding from the ground and taking his bag with him. Now that he'd changed out of his flats, he was even taller. John nearly had to crane his neck up to keep eye contact, close as they were.

"Do I impress you?"

In the midst of shrugging the strap over his head, Sherlock paused again. "Come to dinner and find out."

John found himself laughing, and after a moment, Sherlock joined in, some surprised but honest chuckle rumbling from his throat. Mindful of his waiting students, John finally got himself under control enough to ask, "Where?"

"Angelo's. 7 o'clock," he said, and moved off toward the door, lifting his hand in farewell.

John stared after him. Sherlock, even just walking across the floor, was a picture of elegance. Even when he wasn't dancing, he glided. But dancing with him, short as it had been... it felt just a bit like he'd taken flight, too.

And now John had the distinct feeling he'd passed some test. What it was, though, and what Sherlock's proposition was all about... he supposed he'd have to find out tomorrow.

"See you," he called, softly, not anywhere near loud enough to be heard.

But Sherlock nonetheless turned, caught his eye, and winked, before he disappeared and allowed the door to swing shut behind him.

John wondered how he was to teach a dance class when he was so abruptly dizzy. But, turning, he shook it off best he could. All the better to avoid the knowing stares being tossed in his direction, by parents and their children alike.

"Alright," he called at last, moving back into the room and rubbing his hands together, as if that would be enough to erase the feeling of Sherlock's hips beneath his fingers. "I want to see you stretching!"

Tomorrow, he thought again, as they moved into their positions. Tomorrow, Angelo's, at 7.

He had no idea what to expect.

John had never been more ready for anything in his life.


The Nutcracker - Tchaikovsky's two-act ballet about a young girl who receives a Nutcracker doll from her mysterious uncle at a Christmas party and dreams about their adventures
fouetté - a 'whipping movement' in which the body turns in the direction of the working leg as it passed in front of behind of the supporting leg
Cecchetti Method - an Italian ballet technique notable for its attention to anatomy and rigidity within the confines of classical ballet. Sherlock, by contrast, is of the Russian Vaganova Method, which is known for incorporating the whole body in every movement for more expressive range.
The Positions - first, second, third, fourth, and fifth are the positions used by the majority of ballet schools, though some additional positions exist. They are a means of placement for feet and arms in their ready positions.
bras bas - the 'attention' position of the arms in ballet, where they hang loosely curved with the back edge of the hand resting at the thighs
tendu - a warm-up movement in which the foot and leg point in a specific direction without leaving the floor
rond de jambe - the leg extends in a certain direction and creates half-circles with the point foot on the floor, returning to the first position to repeat
en devant - in the forward position
Jack - the leader in a partnered swing dance
pas de deux - literally 'step of two,' this refers to partnered dance in ballet
arabesque - the body is supported on one leg with the other held straight behind
fishing - the 'fish dive' in ballet, named for its appearance, where the lifted partner starts in arabesque and is levered to the floor as the supporting knee bends