Chapter Three Second Dance: Foxtrot

The foxtrot is a smooth, progressive dance characterized by long, continuous flowing movements across the dance floor in 4/4 time with a mixture of quick and slow steps. In radio communication it is also a code word representing the letter F. In US army slang the phrase bravo foxtrot is a polite reference to the concept of 'Buddy fucker", i.e., someone who tends to give their friends the shit-end-of-the-stick, someone who abuses their colleagues for selfish reasons.

"Janine."

She jumps, her fingers slipping on the keyboard and gobbledegook appears on the screen.

"I wish you wouldn't creep up on me like that." As soon as the words are out, she knows she's made a mistake. Her boss has a thing about obedience and deference.

He looms from behind her chair, smirking. "Should I announce my presence more forcefully, A rúnsearc*?" Magnussen bends down to stroke a finger down her cheek, before giving it a flick that stings.

Janine lifts her hands from the keyboard, and puts them down in her lap, keeping her eyes averted from the malicious glint in his eyes. You want me to back down? Okay, I can do that. It's not like I have an alternative.

It's something that she's learned, a skill acquired over the two years she's been working for Magnussen. When she'd got the job offer, it had surprised her. She's good as a PA, but there were more qualified, more experienced candidates. The head-hunter had been delighted; a fat commission inspired her to talk up the job to the point where Janine accepted even before she'd met her future boss, who had been in Australia at the time. The salary was fantastic, the perks great, and working for one of the world's leading media moguls would look good on any future job application.

She'd realised her mistake when he'd returned and told her too much about herself that had never been on any CV. Her father had been a Provo, a high-ranking military figure in the Provisional IRA, who had been turned by the British Government. If the truth ever came out, he'd be murdered. Half of the money she's made in London is going into a savings account to buy her parents a new identity and a new life in Canada someday. Until then, she'll be at Magnussen's mercy. He gets off on it, bullying her into accepting the worst sort of abuse, because he knows she won't complain or resign. Tormenting her is part of the man's daily ritual.

"Have you heard from Mary Watson yet?"

Janine shifts her weight in the secretary's typing chair. "No. They're still on honeymoon."

Magnussen shakes his head slowly from side to side. "How many times have I told you not to lie to me?"

Damn.

He flicks her cheek again, this time with more ferocity. She can't stop the squeak of both pain and frustration that emerges from her mouth.

When she's swallowed her immediate instinct to smack him back —a career limiting move if there ever was one—she manages to say "Give me a break. She got back two days ago. She hasn't phoned." Her face is burning, from embarrassment at being caught in the lie as well as from the flicking finger.

"Better…but not good enough. Try phoning her. Get back in touch; the woman could prove useful to me."

"Why?! For all these months, you have never told me why. I've done everything you've asked of me. She's a receptionist nurse at a GP surgery, for God's sake. Why did you want me to befriend her?"

He laughs, but the smile that follows is predatory. "You are easily fooled. That one is no sweet little housewife. How are you getting on with the Consulting Detective these days?"

"He dances well; he's teaching me to dance."

"Are you seducing him yet? Come on, woman; this is what I told you to do."

Now it is Janine's turn to shake head. "He's not like that. Sweet, naïve, not really my type at all. He's not the sort of man who jumps into the sack on the first date."

"Make him into one then. I need you to make John Watson jealous."

"Why? What game are you playing?"

He chuckles. "Pawns don't demand to know the King's strategy. You do what you are told, or you pay the consequences. I want him besotted with you."

After two weeks of dance lessons, Janine knows this is unlikely to ever happen. She's come to appreciate Sherlock's gentlemanly treatment. "He's a good kisser," she volunteers, hoping this will get her boss off her case. Her assessment is based on a very small sample, starting with a goodnight peck on the cheek that first time in Covent Garden. She's advanced that into more meaningful kisses on the mouth, but has been taking the lead. She's doing the best she can, but Janine knows that if she overplays it, pushes too hard or throws herself at Sherlock, that will be the end of things.

"Have you got to his phone yet?"

"He keeps it locked. I don't know the password."

"Have you met his brother yet?"

"Mike? No. Sherl speaks to him on the phone and they argue a lot, but I've not met him."

"Do you know anything, A leanbh?"

His use of the Irish makes her flesh creep. She's not his child, but to protect her father, she will do what she has to do. "I know that when Sherlock is really pissed off at his brother, they speak some foreign language. I know that John Watson hasn't called since he got back. And there was no contact during the honeymoon either. Sherlock is ignoring him, or John is ignoring Sherlock; hard to say which."

"Tsk, tsk…that will not do, Miss Hawkins. Go, make contact. Push them back together. Make Watson jealous. Or you will have to deal with the consequences."

OoOoOoOoOo

"Slow, slow, quick, quick, Heel turn, slow, slow…"

The music is a classic: Ella Fitzgerald's "Blue Moon."

Irina and Masha have demonstrated the steps for Janine; now it is Sherlock's turn with Janine. The foxtrot seems to be flummoxing her more than usual. She's not the quickest learner—slow, slow is supposed to be followed by a noticeable increase in speed. Her heel turn needs to provide the pivot for their forward movement but she keeps making mistakes. Sherlock is trying to keep his impatience in check. As much as he likes having an excuse to dance, the lessons are beginning to eat into the time he has to insinuate himself into Janine's good graces.

"Nyet," Irina barks, as Janine comes out of the heel turn, stepping forward on her right foot, placed between Sherlock's two feet. "On outside! Start again."

Sherlock releases Janine from the hold position and they walk back to the side of the room. "It takes practice," he says, trying to keep his frustration from showing.

He eyes the clock on the studio wall, relieved that they only have another ten minutes. Time is not on his side. It's been sixteen days since the wedding, ten since Lady Smallwood's case had arrived on his doorstep. John should be home by now, but he's not texted to say so.

No matter. Sherlock can move forward on his own to recover Lord Smallwood's letters; in fact, it's best that he does. No reason to involve John lest that expose him yet again to whoever put him in the bonfire—a case which he still hasn't solved. At least he can make progress on the Smallwood case. After a glass or two of wine, Janine's been surprisingly forthcoming about her employer, for whom she has little affection.

"Then why do you stay?" he had asked last night over dinner at Angelo's. Angelo had wanted to know where John was, and on being told had returned with a candle and a sad smile. Janine had seemed to see the candle as some validation of her status, and chattered away happily about what a slave-driver Magnussen was.

"No pain, no gain" is her motto. Apparently, the man is a nightmare boss, but the pay is so attractive that Janine is willing to accept it. "Also, it's great on the CV. Surviving a boss like that means a lot in the job market. Another couple of years, another CEO job, and I will have saved enough to afford a place in town and one of my own in the country. Then I can find a husband and it's goodbye London; hello, married life."

Over dinner, he'd asked as many questions as he thought he could get away with, particularly about Magnussen's lifestyle and movements. While he picked at the antipasto plate, she'd dished the dirt. "Absolute workaholic. He's a machine: no wife, no girlfriend, no dating. His social calendar would stun most people, but I think he's only invited because people are scared not to invite him. Ascot, Henley, Wimbledon—best seats in the house, but he's only there to work the crowd and twist a few arms. Totally focussed, the man. It's tough when he lives upstairs from the office; expects me to show up any old time it suits him. He told me that pied-à-terre is French for 'foot on the ground', but I swear it means his foot on my neck."

He'd asked her about Magnussen's proper residence, and whether she'd been to Appledore.

"Lordy, the man's obsessive about that place. I've only been once. It's freaking enormous but he's got two, just two people there—a creepy Japanese guy with a grey ponytail who never says a word and then some woman who organises the cleaning and does the cooking when he's there, which isn't often, to be honest."

Casually, Sherlock asks "Did he show you the vaults under the house?"

She shakes her head. "Vaults? No, I didn't see anything like that."

Sherlock has seen the floorplans of the house, liberated from the architect's computer system a few days ago. His favourite hacker Jax, now at Imperial College studying cyber security, had delivered them. There is definitely a large basement storage area accessed by a stairway.

"The lower ground floor, where the pool is…" he offers to encourage her to try to remember.

"He swims, yeah. Every day, even here in London. Has a membership at the Carpathian club, buys a whole hour of the pool all to himself starting at 6.30 in the morning. It's sacrosanct; can't schedule meetings for then."

"Breakfast meetings?"

"Sometimes. But he's always flying in and out of London, and a lot of his meetings are in the corporate jet. His diary management and travel arrangements keep me busy, I tell ya. All hours of the night and day; he never thinks that I might be otherwise engaged."

Irina had told him that he needs to commiserate with Janine, make her feel that he's on her side, so he had tried to do so, putting on a sympathetic smile, "It must put a damper on your social life. Shame: a woman like you, who knows how to enjoy herself, you shouldn't be chained to her desk."

She'd smirked as Angelo delivered a plate of pasta amatriciana to her, and she poured more Chianti Classico into her wine glass. "First time I've been out to dinner since Mary's wedding. A girl could get used to this, Sherlock Holmes. You're making me reassess what I thought about you."

Had she been flirting? He's no judge of women's behaviour, but Janine's reaction and the good night kiss she'd taken from him when he'd poured her into the taxi somewhat the worse for having consumed the entire bottle, suggest that he is making headway. Irina's advice seems to be working. After their two dance lessons last week, dinner, wine, a kiss on the doorstep last night.

Tonight, after the lesson he will ask her back to Baker Street for coffee. He needs to quicken the pace. Perhaps he can get her to talk more about Magnussen's forward diary, and the security arrangements. He needs to know when he can break in and take a good look around for those letters.

He takes up position with Janine in hold, waiting for the music. As Ella sings Blue moon, you knew just what I was there for, he leads her into the first sequence. The lyric reminds him that he is here for the case, so he will have to be patient when she fluffs the footwork.

This time, Janine manages the half turn on her heels and her right foot steps out alongside his own right foot, allowing him to finish the turn, positioning her right hip into contact with his own as the next sequence of steps starts.

"Better. Again." Irina points to the starting point.

"Come in closer," he whispers, bringing his right thigh into contact with her left one. He can feel the tension in her body, so he gives a reassuring smile as he says "Relax; don't overthink it." When they come out of the heel turn as the singer continues You heard me saying a prayer for and then without further mishaps, he steers Janine through Someone I could really care for.

As they approach the corner, he starts to turn his shoulders; she misses the cue, so when he steps she is off balance, and loses the rhythm completely.

"DAMN. Sorry, I'm just useless."

"You're not useless. You're learning."

She smiles ruefully. "Maybe once in a blue moon, I won't make a mess of it."

He finds a patient smile from somewhere that manages to placate her, as they take up position again.

oOoOoOoOo

Quick, quick, slow, slow.

The choice of dance tonight had been appropriate; after the rush to get the most out of the hour with Irina and Masha, they stop at a tapas bar for a quick bite before he proposes coffee back at the flat. The reality is proving to be tedious. Service is abysmally slow, the music loud, the crowd noisy and annoying. When a glass of chilled Fino sherry eventually arrives with three small dishes of food he does not recognise, Sherlock tries to stifle his dismay.

Too late; she's seen it and is smiling at him. "Not a fan of Spanish cuisine then?"

Janine almost has to shout to be heard over the music and noise, leaning over their tiny table in such a way as to show off her cleavage. She's been playing with her hair, too, while they've been waiting. It seemed an odd thing to do, but Irina had explained that it was part of the flirting ritual that he needs to know. He's supposed to respond to it with a compliment, but is trying hard to find something that will sound genuine.

Not for the first time, he reflects that his own experience of sexual contact with men involved very little of this foreplay. His one and only experience of a real relationship gives him only a few pointers; he and Victor had been friends and flatmates first, which he does not have time for now. That makes him think of John, and he has to look down at the table for a moment, lost in regret that he had not made the best use of the time they'd had. While taking on Moriarty's network, the idea that there would be time to explore that possibility when he returned to London had kept him going through the darkest moments. The cruel joke had been on him; John had not waited but found a better choice, a woman able to deliver the normal life that Sherlock can only assume is his preference these days. Whatever he'd had with John—real and potential— was gone forever.

"Sherl? You look sad. You okay?"

He has to avoid cringing at how she is mangling his name; it's something he's detested all his life. He plasters on a bright smile and reaches for one of the scripts that Masha and Irina had suggested. "Not easy to have a conversation here, and that's a shame because I enjoy talking to you."

He pokes at the tentacled sliver of pale octopus encased in some sort of brown sauce before giving up. One bite is enough to convince him that the texture is utterly revolting. Putting his fork down Sherlock smiles and shakes his head. "I prefer to spend time with you, without all this distraction." He has to say this loudly enough to be herd, which earns him a glare of two from the occupants of the tables on either side of them.

Sherlock has been reading internet sites on courting techniques. Janine has to be convinced that he is someone to be trusted, someone for whom she feels enough attraction that it will be worth taking a risk for, even if she might be fired if her role in helping him is discovered. Irina and Masha's advice had been handy, but he needs to keep Janine focused on him for a little while longer without actually having to end up in a bedroom. He's a good actor but he knows that his transport will fail him, once he is naked. He's never been aroused by a woman, and it will kill Janine's interest, as she has made clear.

Somehow, he has to spin this out, build up enough affection that she will allow him into Magnussen's office when the man is out. Not easy to accomplish, because Janine seems to be frightened of her boss in a way that she is not admitting to him. Is the man is somehow blackmailing her, too? Or is he a lecherous boss? Lady Smallwood had been clearly distressed by him: "Loathsome creature, pawing me with his sweaty hands," she had told him when she sat, shaking with anger in the flat.

If Janine has been subjected to similar abuse of power and inappropriate sexual advances, then Sherlock must handle her with gentlemanly decorum. That suits his preferred modus operandi in any case.

oOoOoOoOo

He thumbs the switch on the kettle down, and opens the cupboard that now houses the coffee and the cafetiere. John had always been willing to use instant coffee so kept it next to the kettle, but Sherlock prefers proper coffee even if it takes more time. The ritual of grinding the beans gives him time to settle his nerves. Having managed to get Janine into the flat, he has to struggle to stay in character. 221b has always been his sanctuary, where he does not have to be anything other than what he is, so pretending here gives him a moment of acute discomfort.

It's all well and good, the likes of Irina and Masha giving him girlfriend advice, but it had been theory. Practice is something else, and when it comes to women, he's had very little of that. From observing others, he knows what is expected of him— the easy familiarity between men and women who are more than friends, crossing the barriers to the touching, the physical closeness—but none of that comes naturally to him. Even if he wasn't…what he is…the only real attraction he has ever felt is towards men.

Not that he can't fake everything except the act of physical consummation. As he pours the boiling water into the cafetiere, Sherlock takes some comfort from the fact that he has been a master of disguise for most of his life. Starting with his mother patiently teaching him social scripts when he was seven, Sherlock has learned how to expend the energy needed to act a role, to blend in, to do what is necessary for a case. On one level, he takes real pride in his ability to "pass" as more or less normal. On a deeper level, he hates the very fact of having to do so. Masking is exhausting. Stifling everything he is costs him immense mental energy and leaves him limp afterwards, needing to retreat from the world and re-establish himself as who and what he really is.

But needs must, when the truth would be too painful. Janine would run screaming if she knew what he is really like. Mycroft knows and John has more than an inkling. This, though…this requires a whole different level of disguise from anything he's done before. Seducing a woman is going to take a BAFTA-winning performance; the thought makes him draw a deep breath, trying to rein in his anxieties.

It hasn't been easy. Ever since the Watson wedding, Sherlock has been burning the candle at both ends. He works all day in his Mind Palace, using his mental evidence board to go through for the hundredth time all the tiny pieces that join up to a massive, decades-long conspiracy headed by an unknown person; he's mentally exhausted when it comes time to work on the Smallwood case. With Janine's job, that has to happen in the evenings, just when he'd prefer to be comatose on the leather sofa.

Get a grip. As he pushes the plunger in the cafetiere, Sherlock chastises himself. He's faced more than his share of murderers and psychopaths; talked his way into and out of trouble; destroyed one of the world's most dangerous criminal networks; survived battles requiring hyperbolic intelligence and physical exertion. Acting fascinated by a woman, and enticing her into trusting him, cannot be any harder.

Once more unto the breach… "How do you take your coffee?"

"Black, no sugar. I'm sweet enough."

With his back to her, she can't see him rolling his eyes. Sherlock fills two mugs, puts two teaspoons of sugar in his own and delivers the coffee to the little Indian table beside John's chair, taking his own seat opposite. If it feels odd to see her in John's chair, at least it hurts less than seeing it empty.

As she sips, Janine's gaze is flitting about the room. "Well, this is… a bachelor pad, for sure."

Cautiously, he responds, "Well, I am not married or living with anyone, so I suppose the description is appropriate, but are you are giving a different meaning to the phrase?" He hates this sort of guessing game. Is she being flirtatious or judgmental? It's like walking through a minefield. If he says something wrong, she will get annoyed and leave.

Janine smiles in a way that seems to be barely supressing laughter. "The décor is a riot. Like a Victorian on LSD." She points to the wall behind the sofa. "Three different wallpaper designs on the walls in this room, and the furniture is the most amazing collection of cast-offs. Absolutely nothing matches. Then add in the chipped and worn paint, scuffed-to-hell-and-gone bare floorboards, and the clutter and general debris everywhere. How does it not give you a headache?"

He looks around in bewilderment. "I know this room. I know every item in it, every inch of space is indelibly imprinted on my mind. Every item has meaning to me. When I was away from London, this is what I remembered." He's absolutely not going to tell her that the memory was what he had clung to like a life-line, hoping that he would live long enough to come back to 221b. Or admit that when he had returned, it was missing the one thing he'd missed the most: John.

She grimaces. "It lacks a woman's touch."

"Mrs Hudson would take offence at that. The furnishings were here before I moved in. The clutter, as you call it, is mine, I admit. Since no one lives here but me, I see no problem."

Her look is calculating. "I'm having trouble here, so help me out. Mary told me to leave you alone; that you were not the sort to head into bed with a bridesmaid. Yet you've taken me dancing and out for a meal twice and I am now in your sitting room, drinking a late-night coffee." Mischievously, she leans forward and asks, "What are your intentions, Sherlock Holmes?"

The word intentions reminds him of the film that John had forced him to watch. ("Surely you've heard of Jane Austen? Pride & Prejudice? You are English, aren't you? Sit down because you have to know this stuff. It's more important than the solar system.") He realises that Janine is actually asking whether this is heading to friendship or sex. He stifles panic and decides it is time to deflect her libido.

"You told me that you're an old-fashioned girl. I'm old-fashioned when it comes to courtship. I prefer not to rush things. Friendship is a process of getting to know each other. It's obvious by now that I enjoy spending time with you, isn't it?"

Encouraged by her nodding, Sherlock continues, "Friends to lovers, isn't that the thing these days? Tonight the coffee is not a prelude to me dragging you off into my bedroom to have sex. But who knows what the future might bring?" Irina had told him that building anticipation is an important part of courtship.

Janine cocks her head as if sceptical, and he panics inside. Has he just blown the whole thing. Has she worked out that he's faking this?

Then she smiles. "You don't do this often, do you."

It's not a question. " No. Not for years."

"So, why now?"

He tries out what he hopes is a thoughtful expression. "Maybe John and Mary have shown me that being alone isn't my only option."

"Why me?"

He's looked for ways of scripting this so that it sounds plausible. "Because we have already met; we have a mutual interest in dancing, and it seems sensible to build on that. I can't say that I meet many potential girlfriends at crime scenes, given that most of the attractive candidates are either dead or the murderer."

To his relief, she laughs. "Yeah, I can't see you at a singles night. And as for policewomen… it would be a bit like a busman's holiday."

She raises her coffee cup in a mock toast. "Here's to something different."

Notes: *Pronounced uh ROON-shark: Literally means "secret love" — a very passionate way of saying "beloved." "A leanbh" (uh LAN-uv): literally means "my child."

**In my universe, Sherlock's relationship with Victor Trevor happens at university (in line with ACD canon) For the story check out Extricate, and then The Ex.