First Dance: Waltz
A dance in which a couple moves in a regular series of three steps, in ¾ time with a strong accent on the first beat and a basic pattern of step – side step – close. The waltz is of quite ancient origins, predating the 1600s. If you are dancing this then you are most likely to be one or more of the following: a) upper class and wealthy; b) in love with your partner; or, c) making other people jealous.
Irina puts her hands onto Janine's shoulders and gently pulls them back away from Sherlock. "The frame is the most important part of a waltz. It's all about creating an elegant line. Separation of the two bodies at the top, close enough to touch at the bottom half. Otherwise, it won't work.
"Bend! Lean back. Let his arms extend. You are both tall enough to do justice to this."
The Russian-born professional dancer steps back to survey the effect, and Janine reads amusement in her partner's grey-green eyes. Then, she feels the woman's firm hand on the small of her back, shoving her hips forward. Startled, Janine is now much closer to Sherlock than she'd been at the wedding when they had briefly danced around the anteroom before John had arrived.
Irina is still not satisfied, and shoves Janine's back again. "Tilt your hips into his, tuck in your bum; your thighs have to touch, or you won't be able to feel him signalling the steps until it's too late."
Janine could see the result for herself in the studio's wall of mirrors.
The dance instructor behind her is frowning, now, as she reaches up and takes Janine's head and re-positions it so she is leaning back even more. "Your neck…needs to be like a swan. Graceful, elegant. You look over man's shoulder, not in eyes."
"But that's half the fun." She can't miss the opportunity to tease. "I'm learning this so I can meet my future husband."
Sherlock rolls his eyes.
This seems to perplex the Russian, but it does bring a laugh from the man who is standing beside the music machine. "Irina thinks of dancing as making war, not love."
Janine had been surprised to find Sherlock was not alone when she arrived at the dance studio. A couple were doing an amazing routine as she had peered around the door; at first, she assumed she'd got the wrong studio, until she heard Sherlock commenting: "Oh, now I understand — the whisk comes after the hesitation and reverse turn."
"Da." Next, there was a stream of what Janine guessed was Russian.
Her boss has contacts in Russia, with whom she has to arrange appointments for important telephone calls, but unlike him, she doesn't speak the language.
Upon spotting her, Sherlock introduced the dancers. "Irina and Masha are professional ballroom dancers. I thought you might benefit from seeing what it is supposed to look like. John and Mary's efforts at the wedding might have given you a false impression."
"Oh, Sherlock — I thought they looked sweet."
Sherlock gave her a rather tight smile. "For two people who had never danced before, a slow waltz sufficed. And I only did four short lessons with John; Mary was too busy. It's easier if at least one of the pair knows what they are doing."
Masha puts on a piece that Janine recognises: Norah Jones singing "Come Away with Me."
"Now, watch carefully."
Sherlock takes the Russian woman, blonde and willowy, in his arms, and the pair begin to dance.
The music isn't fast but the swirling turns, the footwork as Sherlock moves with Irina — it looks amazing, as if they are one being. At the corner of the room, Irina leans back, Sherlock's arms giving her all the balance she needs to extend her right leg high with a pointed toe, shaping an elegant pose at just the right point in the music. Sherlock moves around her elegantly and then they are off again, a pattern of turns, rising and falling in perfect time to the music.
Irina's form-fitting black trousers and top make Janine feel self-conscious. She isn't in the same league — a little too much Chardonnay and too little exercise has softened her edges, and she's wearing leggings under a rather baggy sweatshirt. Her only concession to glamour is the pair of strapped heels that Sherlock had insisted she buy. His text had been specific: heels must be one inch or more, not block, strapped across the top of the foot so they don't fall off. They are still in the box of the dance shoe shop she'd visited on her lunch hour today. Janine likes heels, but these can't compete with the black two-and-a-half-inch open-toed heels that Irina is dancing in as if she'd been born in them.
Masha is watching them, too, and Janine decides to flirt. "Doesn't it make you jealous to see your partner dancing with another man?"
He laughs — a big, throaty Russian laugh. "Irina is my dance partner. Nothing more. I wouldn't go anywhere near that one's bed — she'd eat me alive and spit out the bones. We make a great couple on the dance floor — but that's as far as I want to go."
She sizes up the tall, handsome Russian. "Professional dancer — is that a good livelihood?"
This time he looks more carefully to see if she is teasing. Then he shrugs. "Compared with no job in Russia, dancing here in London pays well. But it's a young man's game. The money is in getting work on a West End show or maybe cruise ship work. We have big audition in Southampton next week; the Aurora is looking for instructors. The TV show makes all the old women want to be a celebrity for a night. You are a useful example of the novices we will have to work with. Cruise ladies like a private lesson and pay well."
Janine's attention drifts back to Sherlock and the Russian. "I'll never be able to do that." Irina has done a complicated move, stepping elegantly first to one side of Sherlock, and then to the other, as he turns on his heel. She realises what looks odd: neither dancer is smiling. Both have a look of intense concentration instead. A series of complicated arm movements ends with Irina standing with her back to Sherlock, leaning into his arms just as the final bars of the music end.
Sherlock has obviously heard Janine's commentary. "Not at first, but you'll be surprised how easy it comes if you have patience with yourself and are willing to put the practice in."
He comes over to her and holds his arms up for her to take the proper position. "The basic waltz is simply three steps, one-two-three. If you listen to the music, you'll hear it. Count, if it helps." He steps in until their thighs touch. "Feel which of my legs is going to go forward, and step back on that leg." She feels his right leg start to move and as he steps forward, she naturally steps back on her left. "The key is to keep the same upper body position, and to follow my lead."
His hand is surprisingly warm. "Now step to the side." He gives her a firm steer with his shoulders, and then her right foot is moving without her having to think about it. "Now bring the left foot together to the right."
She does and starts to giggle.
He releases her, looking slightly confused. "How is that funny?"
"Not funny, fun."
Irina takes over. Sternly, she commands, "Stand behind me. Now we shadow dance. Match my feet; step back as I do." Janine does, mirroring the Russian's moves as she counts the basic beat.
Janine tries to imitate the steps as they reverse the entire length of the studio. Irina keeps counting, but then breaks off to bark, "Stop looking at feet!"
Janine tries to focus on Irina's feet instead of her own, counting under her breath.
The Russian stops but does not turn around, and snaps, "My feet, your feet — doesn't matter. Don't look down. Look up, look elegant." She strikes a pose: arm up, fingers splayed elegantly across the back of her head, radiant smile.
Janine thinks Irina looks like a ballerina. She mutters under her breath, "Woman, have you got eyes in the back of your head?"
Irina snorts. "Nyet — but I do know how to use the mirrors. Use them yourself, if helps to stop looking down." She extends a right arm to point at the mirror, and Janine sees herself. The contrast is more than a little painful. The Russian stands like a dancer — immaculate posture, poised on her toes, calf muscles taut.
She is elegance personified, and Janine sighs, staring at her own form in the mirror in dismay. "Maybe this isn't such a good idea. I'm not exactly graceful."
The two men have been talking quietly in the corner in Russian, but Sherlock breaks it off and comes over to her. "No one is graceful at the start. Too many things to keep track of — posture, where your head is, what your feet are doing. My first partner told me it was like dancing with a donkey. The two-legged ass was his nickname for me."
"He? You learned to dance with a guy?"
"I learned at school, an all-boys school. Everyone had to learn the woman's steps as well as the man's. Actually, it helped a lot. The older boys who had learned the basics could teach the younger ones, and it teaches you a lot about leading to have experienced being led. It's very hard to learn the way John and Mary did, both partners being beginners. Though Mary may well be a much better dancer than she pretended to be, because she didn't want to discourage John."
"How long did it take you to get from pantomime donkey to the twinkle-toes wheeling Irina around the floor like a pro?"
"I was at school for three years and learned ballroom dancing for one term per year. It beat football or rugby any day."
Irina interrupts. "Studio costs per hour. Talk later; dance now."
Masha smirks. "See what I mean? Irina takes lessons seriously, even with a beginner."
The rest of the hour passes surprisingly quickly. Janine has to do her three steps backwards the length of the studio half a dozen more times, after which she practices with both Masha and Sherlock.
Irina insists on that: "Important not to get too used to one partner, especially if you want to dance with lots of different men. Sasha says that is why you want to learn, to meet men."
For a moment, Janine is flummoxed. She looks at the big Russian to ask, "Who's Sasha?"
He shakes his head. "Not me, I'm Masha. She means Holmes."
"Ooh — does she have a thing for him?"
The blond man takes her in his arms and starts to count one-two-three as he steers her about the floor. "Nyet. He helped her. Sad story — she was sixteen, lied to by agent in Ekaterinburg who said come to UK to dance. She ended up in bad business. Holmes broke the sex trafficking network, and the girls—well, he knew people who could help."
Janine watches the blonde woman execute a complicated side-step and pose, as Sherlock elegantly leans over her to give her back the support she needs to extend the position.
To Masha, she says, "Sounds like he's a bit of a knight in shining armour, then."
oOo
Using Janine to get at her boss comes easily to Sherlock. After all, that's what a sociopath does — manipulates people. He's worked hard on cultivating the people skills that one expects from such a personality disorder; it's one of his best disguises ever. The two years as Lars Sigurson had been one extended exercise of using social skills to wiggle his way into situations where he could hobble Moriarty's network. Some of that needed the Norwegian to be charming to both women and men, so Sherlock had adopted the roles needed without thinking much about it. Hiding in plain sight by being someone else? He's been doing that since he was a child. It doesn't change one iota of who he is, just makes it harder for others to notice his neuroatypicality.
The wedding had been interesting in that Janine liked flirting with him, but she apparently believed he wasn't 'that sort,' whatever that means. Mary must have warned her. At first, he was grateful that she wasn't pursuing him. Social occasions are hard enough; trying to evade the clutches of a young woman interested in sex would have forced him into a defensive rudeness which could have had consequences for the wedding.
Mary had taken him aside one time when the three of them had only just started planning the event. She'd sent John down to Mrs Hudson's, to get some indication of whether she'd be bringing Mister Chatterjee, or not. As soon as he was gone, Mary had said quietly, "I know John has been telling you about what being best man involves, but I need to give you a heads up on something I doubt he will have mentioned: the bridesmaids, and the maid of honour."
Sherlock had shrugged. "Women who form part of your entourage. I understand. I can handle that."
She smiled at him. "No, you can't. You haven't the faintest idea. The church service is one thing, and all those books and websites you've been looking at talk about speeches and behaviour at the reception. But the party after is whole different thing. You are not, by definition, a party animal."
He'd frowned at her, appalled by the idea. "Are you saying I have to be?"
Mary had just laughed. "John and I want you to be there. You can't just...skulk off into the dark. That means traditionally, you need to dance with the Maid of Honour."
"Who is she, then, this 'chosen one' of your friends?"
"Janine Hawkins. I haven't known her for all that long, but I like her; she's a useful contact. It's important to me that you help her have a good time. That means not ignoring her. Can you do that for me?"
He'd thought about it. "I suppose."
"She won't bite, Sherlock. I'll tell her to not try to drag you into bed." She watched as his eyes widened in alarm. "Janine's in a hurry. That body clock of hers wants babies and a husband to provide for them. Makes her a little predatory when a good-looking, unattached man walks in."
He had made no effort to hide his alarm.
"So try not to make a scene. I don't want to have to rescue her from the ladies' room after you've let fly one of your deductive counter-attacks. It's my wedding, and I don't want to spend it trying to deal with someone else's drama."
He'd been relieved when Janine turned out to be someone to whom he didn't have to be horrible. There had been more than enough dramas at the wedding to keep him occupied.
oOoOoOoOo
Watching her stumble about, trying to mirror Irina's steps backwards, Sherlock's memory stutters sideways, conjuring an old image: John, trying to do the same steps, following him as they moved from the living room into the kitchen and then down the hall towards his bedroom. Since the hallway has no mirrors, Sherlock had been forced to rely on the sound of John's shoes on the wooden floorboards to estimate how far off his attempts were. In some ways, it had been a relief that way; it had been much harder to avoid looking at John while they danced in hold. The more he had looked, the more it had been difficult to control the emotional turmoil that had been with him ever since he'd left Hartswood Manor*. He knows he's depressed, and he knows why.
His solution to the impending loss of John to married life with all its tedious domesticity had been to throw himself into planning the wedding with an obsessive attention to detail that pushed emotions into the background. The flurry of his own case work, the series of mysteries with links to Mycroft and Georgia — neither had really helped to deal with his sense of loss and impending doom.
The drug use both helps and hinders his efforts. Without it, he would never have made the connections that linked Mycroft and the Mystery Man for years. It had come at a cost, though; using stimulants means he needs chemical means to handle coming down.
Depressing as it is, Sherlock knows he has to keep away from John. Whoever it was who had put John into the bonfire has not relented; the pygmy's blowpipe and dart had been another attempt. He'd crushed Moriarty's network trying to protect John, but it hadn't stopped the threats on his life. He's spent hours, days, in his Mind Palace trying to suss out who or what the threat is, but no answers have yet emerged.
In desperation, he's had to resort to chemical stimulation. The cocaine helps his thought processes enough for him to start linking things to Mycroft and whatever the hell was going on in Georgia, but the brainwork is knackering. The answer is there—so close he can almost touch it, hovering on the edge of his conscious mind. Infuriatingly difficult to pin down, yet his intuition is telling him that there is a link to Lady Smallwood's case. He doesn't know how or why, but it's there, somewhere. Her husband's indiscreet letters are going to lead to something more.
To get to that more, he's been using cocaine work on the evidence board in his Mind Palace. So long as he can delay his come-down, he can spend his evenings with Janine, dancing and trying to get her to trust him enough to let him into Magnussen's office and flat.
When they part tonight, he will vanish to a convenient bolt hole with enough heroin to sleep off the cocaine. It's his routine these days. When he wakes up and returns to Baker Street, the cycle will start all over again. As he watches Janine following Irina, Sherlock is confident that he can fit the dancing in. It's a known fact that dancing releases endorphins, and right now he can do with all of the natural chemistry help he can get.
oOoOoOoOo
After the hour is up, Janine says she is hot and sweaty, and goes to the studio's locker room for a quick shower.
Waiting in the foyer, Sherlock takes the opportunity to talk to Masha and Irina, who is determined to get an answer to the obvious question he's been dodging.
"Who is she? Why do you waste time teaching beginner? If you want a good dance partner, let me introduce you to some of my friends. They won't step all over you."
"It's for a case."
"Oh!" Irina's surprise is followed by a breathless, "Does she know that?"
"Of course not."
Masha looks a bit stern. "Be careful, my friend. Unattached women make a habit of falling in love with the man who teaches them to dance."
Irina laughs at her dance partner's suggestion. "Not him; Sasha is not her type."
The thought disturbs Sherlock. He needs to learn more about Janine's boss, gain access to his office. That means keeping Janine not just entertained but intrigued enough to let her guard down, so that he can retrieve Lord Smallwood's letters. As useless as he is at this romance game, he's certain he can get Janine to reveal more if he can keep up the disguise.
"So, what is her type? How do I get her to like me?" He asks in a tone carefully schooled to sound casual.
"For the case, yes? You need this?"
He nods.
"Right. Lessons for beginner. Once she goes, you, Masha and I drink vodka and we teach you how to act like you love a woman."
"Спасибо.*"
Author's Notes:
"Spasibo" = thank you very much
* For those of you who are struggling to identify the Mystery Man, S&ILS, the Georgians, the reasons for Sherlock's depression and whatever else seems to be going on with Mycroft that means he isn't around, head off to my stories in the Magpies series: Two for Joy, Three For a Girl and Four For a Boy. Or you can just ignore all that and take my word for it—Sherlock is really, really stressed out as well as strung out on drugs right now, with normally snooping Big Brother not around to interfere.