After two weeks had passed, John could hear the difference in his own voice. There was a real change in him, simply from being with Sherlock. He could hit higher notes with more accuracy and more confidence, he could hold notes longer without cracking, he could have more freedom and therefore more lightness, more fun with his singing. And he hadn't seen Sherlock once in those two long weeks. If someone had told him a fortnight ago that a mysterious voice that claimed to be from his dead father would improve his voice and make him laugh, make him warm inside, make him feel, well, happy and at home as he hadn't in a while, he would have- not laughed, but more likely smiled sadly and said he couldn't feel that way anymore.
Really, the companionship and warmth he felt when he worked with Sherlock were worth ten times the singing lessons and were his main reason for showing up promptly at six every day, not that he would ever tell him that. Once, when John was feeling a little under the weather and had been coughing and feeling tired all day, he walked onstage to find a mug of his favorite tea (Earl Grey, nigh on impossible to find in Paris and bloody- no, he was French now, extremely- expensive when you could) steaming centerstage. It was prepared just the way John liked it- little milk, one sugar, tea bag left in for a bit longer than absolutely necessary. Sherlock kept quiet while John sat cross-legged on the stage and quietly sipped the drink with a feeling like nostalgia (without the sadness) or of returning to his bed after a long day of dance (without the painful muscles), and neither really mentioned it after that. (John's cold cleared right up after that.)
And John could write, if not a novel, then at least an essay on what being a consulting detective meant.
And yet he still had neither seen Sherlock nor the impact of his work until one day when he got to see both. He walked into the auditorium, a story on the tip of his tongue to tell to Sherlock that James, who danced next to him in a few scenes, had told him about a chorus girl and a society boy (a Vicomte, no less!) determined to marry her because of some incident about a scarf. He looked up to Box 5, where sometimes he would see a small light like a pipe that showed Sherlock was there and in a pliant, yielding, polite mood. That mood was one of his favorites, even if Sherlock seemed a bit removed, as if half of his brain was focusing on something else, because John could ask anything he wanted and Sherlock would answer. It had almost become a game between them: John would come in with a ridiculous question, either about life or about trivia within the opera house, and Sherlock would pretend to think for a moment before shooting out the correct answer with an almost bored cadence (but John knew he wasn't bored; how he knew he couldn't tell you, he just knew). No light today, sadly. John sighed and began unpacking his music.
"Sherlock!" he called. "I heard a great new song I'd like to look at, if that's alright with you!"
"No need to yell," came a voice off to his left. "I'm right here, John."
John flew away from the curtains and landed in a defensive crouch, only vaguely reliving the painful recollection of memories of his father teaching him that. His heart was beating double-time, although from the fright or from the normally baritone voice that pitched down on his name (his Christian name!), drawing it into an almost-three-syllable word, sending shivers down his spine, and- no. Those thoughts are wrong. Stop. He remembered his father and Leonardo and what had happened in America and, with an effort, tore his mind away from dark, mysterious figures and square jaws and broad shoulders and tugged it back to the present.
Sherlock was speaking. John had the distinct impression (one he'd had many times before) that Sherlock could read minds. "I have a client coming at 7:15. Yes, this is where I meet them and talk to them. I would like you to stay here and see how my work suits you. In other words, would you like to assist me on this case?"
John's mouth dropped open. When he found the necessary connections in his brain to close it, he immediately opened it again to spew out a string of speech, mostly concerning how he would be honored to do so.
"Well, then, John Watson," (that voice, shivers again, no, stop it John, it's quite literally illegal to want that) "I suppose it's time for us to shake hands on this and formally form a partnership."
John watched with rapt attention as the curtains parted and a tall, masked (Masked? Only on one side of his face? Why?), trim, handsome man strode out. Only a hint of hesitation just before exiting the shadows betrayed any nervousness (or maybe that was just John's wishful, romantic thinking) as he walked towards John with the express (and expressed) purpose of meeting him, touching him (NO), shaking his hand like the partners they were (better).
His grip was firm, his hands were warm, and his fingers were long and muscular from years of playing the violin. John let his gaze wander along Sherlock's body (NO) about Sherlock's person in search of information (yes) that would help him understand this mysterious man. Only after about a minute had passed of him simply staring in awe at Sherlock's lithe form, his unconventional but surprisingly unobtrusive dark purple shirt, his black double-breasted cloak (A cloak? Indoors?), his dark suit, his highly polished black shoes, did he realize that they were still holding hands. He quickly pulled his hand away with a huff of breath and looked away awkwardly. Much easier to concentrate when not looking directly at him.
"So, I suppose we're partners now, huh?" John said, then cursed himself silently for both stating the obvious, something Sherlock hated, and for allowing his mind to expand the word "partners" into a string of (illegal!) images in his mind. He glanced back, met Sherlock's eyes (a deep blue, very intelligent of course), flinched away, continued talking hurriedly.
"So what do I contribute? And when do we start?" Another stupid question! He'd explicitly told me when we start- at 7:15! "And, er, are we going to have our lesson?" John tried very hard not to let his voice end on a plaintive uptick but his vocal cords got the best of him.
Oh well, Sherlock probably already knows I like our lessons a lot.
Sherlock blinked, breaking the penetrating and assessing gaze that had been focused intently on John alone. Then he smiled. "You contribute an extra brain, some firepower, and legitimacy." John scoffed. "Yes, even you, a ballet dancer with little-to-no social standing, are more obviously morally implacable than I am, and that is visible even to those who don't have my mind. Clients see me and immediately think I am hiding something, and though they are technically correct because of my mask, I'd prefer them to not have the vague impression that I am plotting nefarious doings or am a bit of a scam."
"-But surely, when they hear you speak, when they hear you deduce, how can they doubt your legitimacy?"
"Watson, sometimes they take one look and decide I'm not worth the trouble of digging up a long-dead mystery that has been plaguing them. They usually come back after they realize there's no one else, but by then whatever it was that turned their mind back on to the problem is gone and I have less of a chance of solving the case. Sometimes I just don't allow them to see me- I'll speak from Box 5 and advise them. I still have to convince them to trust me, but it can be less of a hassle than them actually seeing me. Back to you- we start after we have our lesson. Which means we start the lesson now."
John's mind stuttered at the knowledge that he was allowed to see Sherlock, that Sherlock trusted him enough to let him meet him face to face, that Sherlock was secure in the knowledge that he wouldn't suspect him of "nefarious doings" upon sight. He stammered an acceptance and put his music on the stand. Suddenly, a warm hand was at the small of his back and another was placed on his right shoulder, causing him to start up and away.
"There. That's more like the correct posture. Your posture, John, is a very strange thing- when you're tired, it's abominable; when you're stressed it's perfect. You know, Piangi doesn't just stand incredibly straight because he's insecure about his height, he stands that way because it's easier to hit high notes like that. I thought a physical demonstration might help you remember the right way better than you remember my saying 'Stand up straight' 15 times so far."
John blushed guiltily, both at Sherlock's words and from the heat of his hand so close to- No. With a massive amount of self-control, he riveted his mind to the sheet music in front of him. When Sherlock's hands were removed to play the starting note, John immediately felt cold. He unconsciously slumped a bit and as if in response Sherlock huffed and put them back, his left hand little lower this time. It stayed there for the entire lesson. John also noticed that Sherlock inched closer and closer, finally ending up with his chin lightly resting on the top of John's head. (God, he's tall.) There was, of course, a good reason for each of the points of contact- Sherlock's hands reinforced John's posture, and how else could Sherlock see the music in front of John if he didn't put his chin on John's head? Somehow, these reasons seemed pretty flimsy to John.
These three points of heat sustained John through a rather punishing lesson, as John hadn't had time to practice lately because of extra-long dance practices in preparation for the gala for the managers' retirement. It was coming up in four weeks, and Sherlock almost seemed to be preparing John for it. John couldn't fathom why he needed to practice Piangi's part more than the other songs, but he could only assume that Sherlock had his own reasons.
He finished with Una Furtiva Lagrima, and when that was over Sherlock moved away from John (reluctantly? No, it couldn't be) and said "I do believe that it is 7:00. Our client-" (John smiled internally at the use of 'our') "will be here any minute, likely thinking that by arriving 15 minutes early he is being polite, when he is in reality cutting into our valuable lesson time," Sherlock scoffed.
John frowned. He'd been brought up to believe that if you weren't 5 minutes early, you were late. Yes, 15 minutes could be a bit much, but still…
"Watson?" Sherlock queried, almost gently. "What is it? Human interaction is so complicated, and when I'm not on my guard I'm constantly making some awfully rude error. I've been told it was polite to arrive early, but I have also been to cultures where a more relaxed way of life is preferred and it is de rigoeur to arrive 15 minutes late. I say, why not arrive on time? Stop all this complicated social nonsense. I always arrive precisely when I say I will and I am continually disappointed when others don't have the same respect for my time."
John opened his mouth to explain that by arriving earlier, the assumption was that you were showing respect by getting the business concluded earlier and then leaving 15 minutes earlier. He shut it. He thought about it, and found that it was a ridiculous argument to be having, because no matter who was right, the man would be coming in about a minute anyway. He sighed and got back to packing away his music.
