Friday, December 11th


7:01

Traffic was bad. That was all. It'd only been a minute, there was no reason to worry.

7:02

Sherlock chewed impatiently at a hangnail. He darted another look at his watch.

7:03

This was ridiculous.

Sherlock almost considered calling the whole thing off right then and there. How did people do this? Lestrade had been the one to make all his contacts in the past, had pushed him and prodded him in the right directions. It'd hadn't looked difficult when he did it. But God, this was agonizing. People were agonizing. John was -

John was coming through the door, shaking a spray of raindrops out of his hair. Sherlock observed as he struggled with his coat zipper, surveyed the restaurant, warded off Angelo and finally, finally spotted Sherlock in the back.

Meeting his gaze, John smiled. Sherlock looked away as John approached, his eyes only moving upwards once more when John slid into the seat across from him.

"Hello," John said.

"You're -" Sherlock checked his watch again. "Four minutes late."

John was looking at him with raised eyebrows, the hint of a smile tucked into the lines of his face. But the arrival of Angelo, looming over them, spared John from answering for himself.

"Sherlock's friend," he said, voice warm and gruff as he settled a menu in front of John. "Why have we not been introduced, eh?"

"Um," John said slowly, gaze darting between them both. "New friend, actually."

"Ahh," he said, and Sherlock almost - almost - had time to prepare for the meaty hand clapping him on the back and giving him a good, solid shake. He was still stumbling a bit over John's words, truth be told, and Sherlock rarely ever stumbled. Was this going well? 'Friend' seemed good, if... unexpected.

But Angelo was still speaking, giving him a conspiratorial wink and squeezing those enormous fingers over Sherlock's shoulder. "But a good friend, mmm? Everything's free, on the house for you and for your date. I'll send Billy back around for your orders." And with that, he smiled beatifically at them both before waltzing away.

"I provide Angelo with a year-round supply of tickets to the ballet," Sherlock explained quickly, because John was giving him this look. "He is, somewhat surprisingly, a fan."

"Ah-huh," John replied slowly, and then looked down at his menu, apparently declining to comment further. Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. Was he - was he still smiling? Sherlock spared a quick glance for his own menu - there wasn't anything remotely humorous there, unless one counted the wine suggestions for that evening, but some things couldn't be helped.

Sherlock forced himself to sit in silence until Billy returned. Apparently, this was the proper thing to do when introducing someone to a new restaurant; Greg had told him so. He was to give him time to decide what to eat and then time to actually eat it as well. He'd also told him, verbatim, not to 'frighten him off with that creepy staring thing you do.'

He'd never much been one for following orders.

John was shifting under his gaze. He could tell John knew Sherlock was watching him, but he resolutely did not look up from his menu, even as his face began to, curiously, blush. The faint tinge like a patterning bloom, lighting up John's body from within. It was close to the same color, he noted, John flushed when he danced. Not quite, but close.

As Billy at last disappeared with their menus, John sat back, lacing his fingers on the table, and eyed Sherlock again. Sherlock relaxed. If anything, he should have been more keyed up, given the importance of everything he was about to say. The stakes were near impossibly high. But there was a readiness to John's body, and it overlaid some eagerness in his eyes that Sherlock knew very well, and Sherlock was still fairly certain he was going to say yes.

Sherlock could be very, very convincing.

"So. Your proposition," John started, his voice even.

Finally. Sherlock leaned across the table, laying his hands flat on its surface for fear they'd reach out to shake him closer. "You've been asked to the International Lindy Hop Competition in America."

John blinked. "How did you -?"

"You and Clara won the All-Star event in the European Championships three years in a row now. It's only logical that you're high up enough on their radar to be invited."

Nodding slowly, John folded his arms. "Alright, yeah. That's good, you're - you're right. But what does that have to do with anything? I obviously can't -" he broke off, shook his head in agitation, and leaned forward again. "Look, Sherlock. Clara's in hospital, I don't have a partner. Sorry to disappoint, but I'm not competing."

"That so?" Sherlock trilled, and this time flashed a quick grin when John tilted his head, still unaware. "But you need the money."

John's face went stony. "Who said anything about -"

"I did." Sherlock quickly went on, eyes boring into John's and parsing for his understanding. "John, it's not a difficult leap - you're employed only at teaching ballet, which Lestrade - Beth's father - assures me is not nearly as high-paying as people would expect. Competitive dancing was how you earned your living. Risky, but you were good, so it didn't matter."

Billy arrived back with their drinks. Sherlock watched the red wine spilling into the cradle of John's glass and stopped it for him, because John was still too busy staring at Sherlock with something between awe and anger. But John shook himself as the server walked away, resignation taking up a place on his twisted lips instead.

"I was good," he cut in, reaching for his glass. "'Was.' No matter how much I need the money, Sherlock... You reach a point where you, you know who you work well with. It'd just be. It'd just be too difficult, now. Everyone's got their somebody. My partner is injured and there's absolutely no one at my level willing to partner an old, wrung-out swinger like me."

"You can't be older than 35," Sherlock pointed out, earning himself a short, rueful grin. "And that's not true, there is someone willing to partner you."

"35 exactly." The smile disappeared. "But what do you mean? Who?"

Rather than puzzling out the difference between the hope and uncertainty warring in John's voice, Sherlock blew out a breath and allowed a word to fall out with it. "Me."

John sat back again. He opened his mouth. Stopped.

And then he laughed.

Laughed.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, his grip threatening to crush the wine glass in his hand. The longer John laughed, the more distressing it became. He'd said nothing funny. No, running back through their conversation, he felt the offer had been entirely reasonable. "What is it?" he was forced to ask, the words snapping out of his throat.

John was wiping tears from his eyes. Tears, of all things. Still choking around giggles, he fixed Sherlock with a sympathetic eye that set his teeth on edge. "Sherlock, have you ever danced swing a day in your life?"

Sherlock waved a hand like he was batting away John's question. "Irrelevant."

"No, no, very relevant," John said, sobering slightly. He rested his arms on the table again, head tilted to one side. "It's not like ballet."

"Obviously."

"What I mean is," John continued, rolling his eyes, "You can't just... know it, and I can't teach you everything in time for a competition. I'm, uh, I'm flattered, Sherlock, but there's a lot more to it than you seem to think."

"It can't be that difficult. All you do is jump around and lift and... whatever else it is you do."

"Yeah, see, that right there is exactly what I'm saying."

This was not going as planned. "John," Sherlock said, sharpening his tone. "You have to let me partner you."

"Why on earth - Sherlock, ballet is your thing, and I can always give you swing lessons on weekends or something if you're that -"

"No," he interrupted. "I need to partner you in the competition."

He could very nearly see John working to understand. But, as seemed the usual token of the human race, he finally shook his head and shrugged. Sherlock felt something in him lurch, lower and lower in his stomach.

"Okay, you've lost me. Why? Why is this so important to you?" John was refusing to look at him, and there was a slump to his shoulders that, strangely, strengthened Sherlock's resolve.

He sat taller. "Because I need you to partner me," he answered quietly. "A pas de deux, for my audition with the Paris Opera Ballet."

He saw John do a double take. His eyes swept up to Sherlock's, to a point just over Sherlock's shoulder, and then back down. And then, slowly, he just shook his head. "No."

Sherlock's mouth was dry, his fists clenched so hard at the edge of the table he could feel his own skin catching beneath his nails. With a gusty sigh of frustration, he leaned over the table, his voice infused with an earnest thrum that he could feel, in that moment, echoed in every cell of his body. "Come on, you were there. Your pirouette in class was one thing, and the... what we did was another. Both of them were good. But, John. We could be great. You sensed it, you had to have sensed it."

"And what if I did?" Heat slashed through John's voice. "It's still been years. That doesn't change. You need someone who actually knows what they're doing, who actually looks like a bloody danseur, alright? I'm flattered, but -"

"Stop being flattered," Sherlock snapped, his temper fraying at last. "Be eager. Be brave. You can't tell me you don't want to do it."

"Stop telling me how I feel about this," John retorted, but this time, he failed to match Sherlock's anger. There was some lost element to him, some maddening thing in the empty way his hands were flexing on the tabletop. Seeking a partner, a purpose, perhaps? Sherlock was offering it all. John was his ticket, but Sherlock was John's as well. How could he not see it? What was Sherlock missing?

"You don't even know me, Sherlock," John said, quiet now, with his gaze fixed on something out the watery window. "And I don't know you at all."

Sherlock snorted. "You speak about dancing like it's something intimate."

John's face swiveled back to him. His lips quirked humorlessly. "Isn't it?"

For several seconds, they sat, and they stared. The ambient drone of the restaurant and its patrons washed over them, filled their silence where neither John nor Sherlock could find the words, though thousands of them - all useless, now - continued to tumble over themselves in Sherlock's head.

Billy came with their food. John stared down at his pasta and didn't look particularly enthused. Sherlock ignored his dish altogether, in favor of staring in alarm as John tapped the waiter on the shoulder and asked for a box.

"What are you doing?" he asked, though he had a feeling he knew.

John confirmed it, already pulling his coat back onto his lap in awkward, jerky movements. "I should go," he sighed.

"Why? Not what you were expecting?" There was a coldness there that Sherlock didn't try to contain.

John chuckled, a soft, wry sound. "To be honest, I didn't know what to expect." He rose.

"You weren't what I expected." Sherlock hadn't meant to blurt it out, but there it was. No taking it back now. He looked up, catching John's eyes in a rare moment of indigo vulnerability, something just as deep and sad as their color.

But the spark in their depths. That, that was what had led them here.

"Why," Sherlock asked, "Why would you have come out tonight, if dancing with me hadn't felt right?"

John was frozen in place. The last of the words in Sherlock's brain slipped out. "Please. Please, you're all - just think about it."

Defeated. He'd been defeated. And the worst of it was, he had no idea why. It had seemed so certain. John had been - interesting. More than interesting.

John was still unmoving at the side of the table, his presence a physical sensation, blocking out everything else. Like an eclipse, only his was the blackness caused by looking at the sun too long. Something blinding, and brilliant.

"If you're going to leave, you should leave," Sherlock growled at last. He turned his gaze pointedly to the rain-streaked window.

When he looked back, it was across the nameless faces of a Friday night out, and John was gone.


Not two steps out of the restaurant, and John was already regretting leaving Sherlock behind. But he couldn't go back now and admit he was wrong, not when he'd already worked so hard to stand by his convictions.

Dancing with Sherlock... At the moment John was marching through a freezing rain, splashing through puddles and tripping off the pavement. But he could still feel the grace of Sherlock's torso turning in his arms, the bend of his supple spine, the ghost-sensation of another's legs above his head as he looked down into impossible eyes and felt at once turned upside-down and balanced, at peace, like he almost never was.

The cold shock of another raindrop slipping under his collar jerked John back to the present, and he shifted roughly in his coat, only more angry for having had the thought.

Because Sherlock just wanted to make a deal. John had thought maybe they were becoming... friends? It sounded stupid even in his head, now, as he thought it.

More than that, and this sounded even worse - but he had years and age, aches and pains on him, that Sherlock would never understand. What he was asking was impossible. Swing was right out - lifting Clara when necessary had been easy; she'd always been petite and willing to go slow and easy with him.

Sherlock was the opposite. He was tall and demanding and dynamic. John had only seen the hard flint of his gaze in passing, but he had a feeling that the man danced like he lived, like he moved - purposefully, with bravado and with beauty.

And John. John did not. Imagining the two of them at a pas de deux was almost comical. They were so unevenly matched John was still trying to wrap his mind around the concept that Sherlock had even considered it.

But what Sally had said kept returning to him, just as ugly in his mind now as it was then. If Sherlock had made as few friends in the business as she said, then maybe it wasn't too far a stretch to think Sherlock was at the end of his rope, and a broken-down, short, stocky partner was just what he needed. And wouldn't Sherlock look comparatively good next to him, anyway, and wasn't that just what he'd want at such a grand audition...

John dumped the rest of his pasta in the first roadside bin he came across. He was starting to feel ill.

Just as he was turning around, steeling himself for the tedious search for a cab, a car rolled up beside him, sleek and quiet as the voice that came out the open window. "John Hamish Watson, yes? Do please get in the car."

It was enough to make him stop walking, at least. He peered around, but the interior of the car was dark. This was the oddest line for a kidnapping.

"Don't make me order you."

That was better. John snorted. Wondering if he was actually the stupidest person alive, he stalked over to the window and looked in more closely. There was a man in a suit, looking down at his watch with a pained expression that looked vaguely familiar, but John was positive he'd never seen him before.

"Doesn't seem like such a good idea," John said reasonably. It brought the man's icy blue gaze up to meet his own. The face changed, shifting into some approximation of a smile. It sent a chill down John's spine, and with all his effort, he stood his ground.

"You could continue to stand out in the rain, if you prefer."

John noted that the ground he stood on was still very wet. "Do I die at the end of this or get dropped off at my flat?"

The man made a 'hmm' noise, and absolutely no other move to reassure him besides looking back down pointedly at the watch. John figured no one he knew had reason to order his murder. Sherlock might hold a grudge, now, but even that would be a little extreme for him. Though it did make him wonder -

"This is about Sherlock, isn't it?"

He didn't miss the flash of surprise on the man's face. John sighed. Of bloody course.

John sank into the seat opposite and the car began to pull back out into traffic. John was at least thankful for the warmth, but his eyes were still transfixed: this was by far the oddest thing that had happened to John in... possibly his life. Then again, he'd met Sherlock just a week ago, and that might forever take the cake.

"Do I amuse you, Mr. Watson?" Came the cool voice again, grating in his ears.

John cleared his throat. "No, sorry, just a... memory. I'm sorry, what exactly am I doing here?" he asked, folding his hands in his lap like an anchor.

"You're here to answer the question of what exactly you're doing with Sherlock Holmes."

"Could be wrong, but I don't think that's any of your business."

He got a look of pity in return. "On the contrary, it is every bit my business."

"How d'you mean?"

Those eyes narrowed. "We have a... difficult relationship. But I am concerned for him and his well-being, which - as you very well know - is where you come in."

John said nothing, pursing his lips instead and looking down at the floor. The man continued regardless, sighing into his next speech.

"It has come to my attention that he's asked you to take part in an audition of his, and you've refused."

John again chose silence rather than answering, but in his sweeping glance of John from toe to forehead, the man seemed to find confirmation. "I'd be willing to pay you a... meaningful sum of money to, ease your way, should you decide to do so."

John's head snapped up. He could feel a muscle jumping in his jaw. "Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"I meant, why? What do you or Sherlock get out of that?"

"Peace of mind," he answered smoothly, his voice gone oil-thick and sly.

John didn't even consider before he was shaking his head. "No. I can't - can't do it."

A thin eyebrow cocked itself in his direction. "Won't dance or don't want the money, because I can assure you the figure -"

"The latter, but both, yeah," John said firmly. Frustratingly, the windows had been darkened, and he had no idea where they were, or if there was any chance of his getting home after all. He clenched his teeth. "I'm not interested."

"Do you know that your shoulder injury was supposed to prevent you from dancing?"

Now John started. "What?" he clipped. The seeming non-sequitur was like a cold hand coming up around his throat. He kept his eyes very hard on the man's face, refusing to look down at his own hand.

"I have access to most of the CCTV in this system. Imagine, seeing Sherlock, dancing at," he grimaced in distaste, "Kitty's, with one of its nameless instructors."

"What the hell are you talking about?" Against the choking grip, his pulse was beginning to beat, hot and fast.

"You and your partner refrained from doing too many lifts. Ballroom allowed you to get away with it, though even jazz could be forgiving. But when you danced with Sherlock Holmes, none of it seemed to bother you. In fact, you seemed to... love it."

His eyes, which had been glittering in John's direction beneath the heavy darkness of the car, shifted to his phone. He smirked as the car rolled to a stop, and then, he leaned forward across the car with a smile that strayed into both the sinister and triumphant.

"You're not going to peacefully accept a retirement from this world, Mr. Watson. You simply miss dancing too much for that already."

The door beside them opened, bringing with it the rushing sounds of a downpour. But outside through the curtains of rain were the stairs rising up to John's flat, and looking around, this was his drab, grey street, these were his dull, nice-enough neighbors - he'd been brought home after all. Still reeling, he let himself be directed out by the woman simultaneously holding an umbrella, the door, and a mobile on which she was texting fiercely.

Still under the protection offered by the umbrella, he turned around. The man was still looking at him, hawk-like and intent. John opened his mouth, but the man spoke first.

"Time," he said carefully, "to choose a side."

"What sides?"

He lifted his chin. "They're choices. They both belong to you."

Then he motioned for the woman to shut the door. She did, then looked expectantly at John. Confused, he looked to her, then to the door, then back to the woman. "Oh," he said. "Right." With a sharp inhale, he steeled himself, then dashed out into the rain and up his slippery steps, huddled into his coat.

Fumbling with his key, he cursed, the water falling into his eyes making it almost impossible to see, let alone find the hole for the ruddy thing. At last, though, it clicked, and John swung inside.

Staring back behind him, the car had disappeared entirely.

The door shut softly, and for a moment, John just stood with his hand still on the knob, dripping a circle about his feet and gazing out the tiny window at the wet, wet world beyond. He was beginning to shiver, the chill from the rain on his skin beginning to absorb, settling down into his bones. But he suspected many of the tiny tremors he suppressed had absolutely nothing to do with cold. Nevertheless, he was ready to go in search of a shower and a blanket and a quiet evening by the fire.

But as his hand fell from the door, he knew there was something he had to do first. He dug his mobile out of his pocket, gripping it tight for a long, hesitated second. And then he straightened his spine, punched in a number, and waited.

He suddenly felt dizzy. Like he was about to jump off a roof, no way of knowing if he'd survive the fall.

Or spinning out onto that dance floor, with the glimmer of hope that he might be caught and pulled back in.

"Hi, Bill? Yeah, it's me. I was wondering... do you have any extra tickets to that Nutcracker performance you mentioned?"


Saturday, December 12th


John had been a bit surprised to find the performance was Saturday, but was relieved to hear it anyway. If - if this really worked out, like he... wondered (not hoped, he reprimanded himself, but very casually wondered), then maybe there'd be enough time to explain things to Sherlock.

Just maybe, if he were very lucky and Sherlock felt particularly forgiving.

John didn't think about any of this as he exited the cab in front of the London Coliseum. It'd been awhile since he'd been to a performance here, but it was just as impressive as ever. Against the pallor of the wintry sky, the warm yellow stones rose untimid and powerful to the globe at their apex, lit with a brilliant grandeur for the evening. He was still squinting up at it when he heard a familiar voice calling his name.

Bill and Julie were strolling up along the pavement, and Bill gave a friendly wave as they drew closer. The three of them huddled together just before the entrance, backs toward the biting wind.

"Colder than Thatcher's tits out here," Julie chattered amiably through her teeth.

Bill rolled his eyes, looking ever the long-suffering partner. "Julie" he replied, "You're at the opera, going to see a ballet, that you partially own, in ye grande olde city of London. Thatcher and you probably would have gone out for drinks."

"She would've thought I was an immigrant not worthy of her precious time."

"Yeah, an immigrant from Liverpool."

"Hello, John," she said, ignoring her boyfriend. She was wrapped in scarves up to her eyes, but he could see her smile in them, elegant and sharp as ever. "Glad you could join us, it's been ages."

"My pleasure. Thanks for rustling up an extra ticket."

She waved him off, tutting. "Administration does have its perks."

"Drinks, see, I told you," Bill muttered, and she very nonchalantly stepped on his foot. John tried to hide his smile. He, much the same as everyone else in their acquaintance, was just waiting for the wedding invitations at this point - though, John thought privately, they were far more the eloping sort, and he was more waiting for a notice from South America or some such destination than anything else.

Lifting up on the balls of her feet to kiss his nose in mock apology, Julie then linked her other arm through John's. "Onwards, my loves," she said, and together they marched through the doors. Though John's heart was beating fast with anxiety at all the night might promise, the close warmth of his friends and the promise of laughter rising in his throat were balms that he sank into with grateful steps.

Once they were settled in their seats, John, biting his lip, attempted to hold back every question he was dying to ask about Sherlock. But Julie again turned her sly eyes on him over the side of her program.

"So," she said slowly, "William tells me Holmes has taken a bit of a shine to you."

John reddened, wondering if he was really that transparent. "Well, er. Yes. So it would seem."

She tilted her head, absently pulling her black hair over the opposite shoulder, continuing to run her hands through its subtle gloss as she regarded him with something between curiosity and trepidation. "I'm usually in an office, but the few times I've been down to see rehearsals, well. He's an excellent dancer, couldn't really ask for anything better."

"But?" John could sense it coming, and she smirked, almost wistfully.

"But we won't be able to hang on to him for long."

"Oh." This, John had not prepared himself for. "What are you -"

"He's too brilliant. We keep relegating him to smaller solo parts because he doesn't... hmm, how should I put this?"

"Doesn't play well with others?" John tried, thinking back to Sally's words from the other night.

She pursed her lips. "Well, not just that. Everyone's always tense around him. He's demanding, sometimes too much." Her smile, when she turned it on him, was troubled. "He's good - he's like an explosion on that stage sometimes. But all that precision, all that bombast, it - it tends to lack a certain... feeling, perhaps."

Sherlock's rib cage under his hands had shuddered with breath, as his arms had lifted in the heights of some foreign ecstasy and dropped to the earth like harbingers of despair, as his legs had painted circles on the floor and his mouth twisted with the effort of it. John had a hard time believing her, and sure enough, she threw up her hands in mock exasperation.

"But what do I know? I'm a paperwork-and-meetings person; the dancing is your thing. You can judge for yourself."

"Thank you," John said anyway. It gave him something to think about. His heart, which had calmed in the waiting, with the quiet bustle of patrons filing in around them, began to pick up its pace yet again. He forced himself to breathe and, unclenching his hands from around his program, dedicated himself to reading every word, even the boring bits about investor acknowledgements.

The lights gave a purposeful flicker, and the last stragglers through the door scurried for their seats. John sat back in his chair, and at last his thoughts began to meld back into one, nervous drone.

The curtain rose as the auditorium went dark.

John found himself recalling the story with ease. Everyone had done at least one Nutcracker as a ballet kid, and some of the details that had been lost with time rose up again in his memory. Clara, dancing in her white nightgown, arguing with her mischievous brother, unwrapping the nutcracker from her Uncle Drosselmeyer with joy lighting her face. The tree, rising in a grand, imposing spiral up towards the ceiling as the strings played a desperate melody, fading into the sinister tones of the Mouse King and his army.

He watched, and slowly, in the delight of watching dancers who were truly gifted and trained by some of the highest standards in Europe, the real purpose behind his anxiety faded away.

The Sugar Plum Fairy looked enchanting in her white and purple ensemble, swathes of cloth draped artfully about her slim shoulders. The pas de deux between her and her Cavalier tugged at John's mind, but it wasn't until the Arabian dance that he was brought back to himself with a shock.

Sherlock stood, a fifth position, his chest bare and his legs covered in a flowing, sumptuous cloth that shifted through oranges to deep, dark reds. Before the music began, he stood, the mask that obscured the top half of his face turning him regal and proud and mysterious all at once.

And then the music played, and he transformed. Dancing bare-bellied and sinuous, his partner in her deep blue fabrics ought to have been the focus, but it was Sherlock's movements that caught the eye. Every deliberate step was as tempting as it was unattainable, his flexible movements as he wove in and out of step with the ballerina at his side at once seductive and coolly aloof.

He felt a shoulder nudge against his side, and looking down, he saw Julie staring at him innocently. He shook himself, still too enraptured to even be embarrassed – that, that was what dancing was about. This was how it was supposed to look. Sherlock, dancing on that stage, was the epitome of what they all worked for, day in and day out. And he made it look effortless.

Their seats were close enough, though, that he could see Sherlock's face, and that was where he could begin to see Julie's point.

For all the fine, uninhibited movements of his body, that face was set and unpleasant, darting glares every so often at his partner. And as the dance wore on, it began to bleed into his steps, an unseen irritation buzzing around his frame. John had seen dancers click before. This wasn't it.

John blinked, and it was over, Sherlock and the woman disappearing from the stage to a gust of applause. He clapped along with the rest, but shot Julie a confused look. She was bent in conversation with Bill, apparently not having noticed anything. Returning his eyes to the stage, he wondered if perhaps he'd imagined the uncertainty.

What he hadn't imagined, though. There was no way he could have made up the grace and agility with which Sherlock moved, that pinpricking sensation of wrongness or not. His bad was just about everyone else's unattainable. With a pang, he realized it just confirmed for him everything he'd suspected – and now, everything he'd lost or hoped to gain back.

Now John sat on jittery nerves for the rest of the performance, entirely unable to focus even as the performance was winding down at last. His program ended up crumpled in his hands, his eyes still on the stage but his mind far away, hoping Sherlock hadn't left yet and wondering just what he'd say when John turned back up at his door, seeking a second chance.

It felt like hours or seconds before Julie was tugging him upwards and the lights in the house were coming back on, people rising to cheer on the dancers. Julie stood up on tiptoe to whisper in his ear. "Backstage is through that corridor, third door on the right."

"Thank you," he said, surprised, but then, Julie did tend to have an eerie knack for these things.

Bill caught him by the arm. "Don't do anything stupid, mate." His eyebrows were right up near his orange hairline, blue eyes even lighter with concern, but he gave John's hand a good shake and pushed him out the aisle.

John dodged the exiting patrons, slipping between chattery old women and young men looking uncomfortable in suits alike, squeezing out apologies as he went. It seemed half of London had come for the show.

The other half, it seemed, were in it. Even in the corridor Julie had pointed out, the girls from the lower ballet school were gathered in the hallway, white tutus like snowdrifts as John struggled through to the door just in his sights, and hundreds of others in clouds of stage make-up were heading out in the opposite direction, glaring at John as he moved against the natural stream of people. But then, those were dancers for you.

He had finally laid his hands on the door, grating out a sigh of relief, when it jerked away under his hands.

"Well, that's a funny coincidence if I ever saw one."

Serious face, warm eyes, burnished silver hair anxiously mussed. He looked familiar, but… "Greg, Greg Lestrade," the man added, offering John a hand and tugging him inside the door. "My daughter dances in your class."

"Right, sorry, sorry, nice to, er, see you again."

Lestrade snorted, not even making an effort to sound half-convinced as he guided John easily through the crowds still moving past them. "I actually know you better through my, um, client."

"Sherlock?" John felt something in his stomach do a funny little leap, and he swallowed around it.

Greg nodded before shooting him an exasperated look. "He's currently brooding because you broke his heart, or something."

"I'm assuming you want me to fix that," John said, with little humor. He and Greg sidestepped a pair of giggling children with their mouse-heads still teetering on their shoulders.

Greg spared them a quick grin, then darted his eyes to John before looking quickly away. He sighed. "I'm actually assuming that's why you're here in the first place. But yes, if it makes you feel better."

John laughed, but before he could say anything, Greg stopped him, pulling over to the side. His face had gone serious, but still warm and just a bit... sad. John didn't even have time be surprised before Greg was saying, his voice low and clear, "You are Sherlock's last chance. But he believes you can do it. And, Mr. Watson, all he needs… all he needs is someone who believes he can do it, too."

John swallowed again, tamping down on the sudden tightness that had replaced the flips in his belly. But he nodded, looking Lestrade directly in the eye as he replied, strong and gentle all at once, "I do."


As one of the last performances of the season, everyone was eager to get out and snatch whatever little breaks they could before the holidays truly began. Sherlock didn't have to wait long for the dressing rooms to empty. But by then, he was slipping into his seat, finally giving in to the trembling of his legs. Bloodshot eyes, matted hair, paler still beneath his makeup. The thought slipped into his mind that he might have needed more sleep. And perhaps he should have eaten.

All thoughts, though, were interrupted with the knock on the door.

"Go away," Sherlock groaned, allowing his head to fall into his hands.

"Someone's here to see you," came Greg's voice. Sherlock didn't bother getting up.

"Well done, they've seen me. Now show whomever someone may be out."

A new voice: "This is going better than expected."

Sherlock froze. Then his head jerked upwards again to find eyes locked on his own, eyes that were very blue and very deep and very much like an ocean, and Sherlock wondered if he might have fallen in, because all of a sudden it was very difficult to breathe.

"What where you expecting?" The words must have slipped out on a rush of water, for Sherlock certainly hadn't willed them. The cracked as they met the air, and John winced in sympathy. With memory.

Sherlock saw John dart his eyes over to Greg, who gave him a little nod before showing himself out. When the door had closed, John took one small, slow step forward, at the same time as he inhaled one heavy breath. Heavy, heavy with what, with meaning, import, weighted by sentiment or...

"You told me to think about it."

Sherlock's hands drummed a flurrying rhythm on the table. "Think about what? Hadn't you already decided?" He punctuated the last words with a rap of his knuckles on the tabletop, then clenched his hands into fists in his lap, dropping his eyes from John's steady gaze when it became too much to bear.

Looking into something bottomless was a terror. John's eyes were just those terrible seas. How deeply it went, and deeper still as John looked at him with something upwelled soft and light. "I made a mistake."

Sherlock said nothing. In the blurry corners of his peripheral vision, John's reflection started closer.

Crossing the room on soft feet, he said in a voice just as quiet, "Your performance tonight..."

"Strained. Inelegant. I was too conscious of the -"

"No, no, it wasn't. Sherlock, your dancing..." he sighed impatiently, almost at himself, stopping just beside Sherlock's chair and crossing his arms. "Your dancing," he tried again, more slowly, "reminds me of why I ever chose to do this in the first place."

That pulled a snort from Sherlock. "Oh, John Watson," he laughed softly. "Have you no idea - "

He'd looked up, catching John staring straight back.

"I was wrong," John said finally. "And I don't want anything more to regret."

Sherlock rose gradually, glacially. When he at last turned around, he nearly towered over John. But this was when those eyes wavered back upwards, open and raw, but something there. Undefined. Inexplicable.

John was so much bigger than he seemed.

"I'm not saying... Look, I still have. I have lots, some, reservations. Fears. I'm still old and injured and -"

"John," Sherlock growled.

"Right, sorry." He took a deep breath. "I'd like to try this thing. With you. If you still want to do it with me."

Sherlock stepped closer. "Could be dangerous," he murmured, eyes fast on John's face. One last chance for John, to either defend or prove that what he felt.

"Dancing? Dangerous?" There was a thin note of skepticism in his voice.

"No." Sherlock's lips quirked upwards. "Dancing with Sherlock Holmes. That's dangerous."

And then a smile bloomed across John's face, spreading beautiful and infectious into the wrinkles around his eyes and the dawning light inside them. "So I've been told." But he held fast.

Sherlock felt something unidentifiable surge within him at the sight. What it was, he had no idea, and wasn't that a first - but he was looking forward to finding out just what it was, and finding it out with John at his side.

He matched John's grin, toothy and sharp and alive, as the excitement began to take root. "Then let's get started."