Prompt: Policeman's Ball, from SheWhoScrawls
A/N: This is my first attempt writing anything from Mary's POV, and I am still getting a feel for how she should sound.
It was spring in 1882, a mere few months after our marriage, when the maid brought me the day's post. As newlyweds, our post was often extraordinarily uninteresting, a fact which John seemed quite pleased about, and informed me was a result of six years of either being forced to wait to open his own post until Mr. Holmes determined it did not contain anything dangerous, or having it already opened before he got to it. My husband would simply smile and say that sometimes the boring minutiae of daily life were quite a rest after living with Mr. Holmes.
Today, however, a handsome envelope arrived, trimmed in gold, which I opened with interest. "Look," I said to John, seated by the fire with the newspaper. "We have been invited to the Scotland Yard's Annual Policeman's Ball." I was gratified to be invited, as John had not been involved in as many of Mr. Holmes's cases since our marriage, and those few were often private affairs in which the police were never involved.
"Oh, yes," John said with a smile. "Holmes and I are invited every year. I must say, it is an exercise in magnanimity on their part to keep us on the list." At my quizzical look, he explained, "Holmes detests the entire thing. He never ceases complaining from the moment the invitation arrives until we've arrived home."
"Really?" I asked. Mr. Holmes was, to me, a gentleman of the highest order, never any less than chivalrous and well-mannered, though John had told me of his more eccentric habits. "Why do you continue to go?"
"Well, because I enjoy it," John said, as if it was obvious. "And in the end, it is good business to keep in the Yard's relative good graces. They bring a lot of business his way, though he will never admit it." This sound financial attitude from my husband surprised me. He had happily handed over control of his finances to me, when I determined that he had no head for money and that I should be better able to keep us out of debt. I had no idea about Mr. Holmes's finances, but my impression was that he hardly seemed aware of such mundane details such as being paid for his work.
"Well, I for one am looking forward to it," I declared. I had never had the chance to attend a ball, as I had gone straight from boarding school into service as a governess, and had never been out in society much. "Do you think my grey gown will be appropriate?" I had only one nice dress, aside from my wedding gown, and it had already seen much use on outings to the theater.
"Holmes is the only one aside from myself who has seen you wear it," John said. "And he cares not a jot what people wear. If he could attend the ball in his dressing gown, I believe he would."
"I detest the Policeman's Ball," Mr. Holmes declared, about a month later, as he tugged at his dress collar in front of the mirror in our corridor. I had not seen him dressed so formally since our wedding, and he bore hardly a resemblance to the languid figure lying on the settee in his dressing gown my husband was more familiar with.
"You look very nice, Mary," John said, coming down the stairs in his own finery, ignoring Mr. Holmes's complaints. I blushed and thanked him; he had seen me in this same dress many times before, yet he complimented me as if it was brand new. Though I had added some flowers to my hair in an attempt to appear more in tune with the spring weather. He looked handsome himself, in his finest suit and a sharply polished black walking stick, due to the dampness outside. "Shall we go?" he asked.
"Let us get it over with," Mr. Holmes sighed, standing aside and opening the door of the cab for me as my husband gave me a hand up. He sighed impatiently, ignoring us until our arrival at the venue, though John was much too used to this to mind.
The Policeman's Ball was held in a small hall just outside the center of London. It did take me a moment to recognize those men I was familiar with, such as Detective Inspectors Lestrade and Gregson, unused to seeing them in finery. I knew that this would be considered a poor event by those out more in society; even Mrs. Forrester would likely had found much to be desired with the decorations, the food and the other ladies' gowns, yet to me, who had never attended a society event, it was a tad overwhelming. I realized how few people I knew and took John's arm, ostensibly to steady him (he was feeling the dampness already, I could tell, and was leaning on his stick rather heavily) but also to give myself a reason to remain with someone I knew.
"Oh, Dr. Watson!" My husband was hailed almost immediately by someone whom I did not know, and after introductions, was soon drawn into a discussion about some article in the Lancet.
"I am guessing that man is a police surgeon?" I whispered to Mr. Holmes, after we had stood around awkwardly for what felt like too long a time.
He nodded, though I caught a glimpse of approval in his keen eyes that I had deduced this myself. "Dr. Cooper," he said. "The man despises me. You see, I once proved him wrong about the death of a murder suspect. He declared it was poison when it was actually a very unique strain of malaria." He paused for a moment. "I suspect Watson would say that is not an appropriate subject of discussion for a ball."
I laughed aloud, and I saw a few people turn to look at us. "I am a soldier's daughter and a doctor's wife, Mr. Holmes. I have a stronger stomach than you might expect," I said. "Come, they look as if they will be occupied for a while." He appeared relieved to not have to stand around awkwardly waiting for John, which I had a guess was what he ordinarily did at this event. "You are not usually so reticent, Mr. Holmes," I said, noticing his eyes traveling around the room, searching for a distraction. Reclusive as he was, he had been the soul of charm at our wedding, and a frequent guest at our home since. He was also generous with the various tickets he had to concerts and other performances, and John and I had spent many a happy evening in a theatre, where Mr. Holmes's deductions about our fellow theatre-goers, delivered under his breath so that only John and I could hear him, were often more entertaining than the performance. "Would you not usually be deducing everyone here?" I asked teasingly.
Mr. Holmes sighed, turning his sharp gaze on me. His boredom was palpable. "There is little to deduce when one already knows all the attendees," he said. He pointed out one woman to me. "That is Gregson's wife. You see she has recently given birth, and that she really wanted a girl but has had another boy. Next to her is Mrs. Lestrade. The two are fast friends, though I'm sure their husbands are unhappy about this, as they cannot stand each other." Indeed, Lestrade and Gregson were at opposite ends of the room, with entirely different groups of people, yet they periodically shot each other dark looks, as well as looking askance at their happily chatting wives.
"Forgive me, I was rather caught up," John said, arriving at last. "Come, let us find our table."
"I hope they have not seated us with the Police Commissioner this year," Mr. Holmes grumbled.
"That was supposed to be an honor," John reminded him gently. We made our way through the tables, occasionally stopping to talk to someone either John or Mr. Holmes knew. A few of the officers introduced their wives to me, and while everyone was very pleasant and friendly, they appeared to all know one another already, and I found myself unsure of how to get myself included. Perhaps I should have had better luck if I was not already known to be connected with Mr. Holmes, whose poor opinions of their husbands' abilities were well known to all.
Our table was in the center of the room (with no sign of the Commissioner in sight) and we took our seats earlier than many others, who were still milling about. John was immediately hailed by some other fellow who Mr. Holmes described as Lieutenant Backes, a young beat officer who was rather in awe of him. After he had excused himself to talk to the young man for what seemed an exorbitant amount of time, I amused myself in observing the rest of the attendees. I saw many of the officers in attendance eyeing Mr. Holmes in apparently worry as they passed us, no doubt due to his naturally intimidating nature, which was successfully keeping all but those officers who knew him well from approaching us. I did hear, however, more than one mutter under their breaths as they passed about "amateurs" and "charlatans," and I glanced at Mr. Holmes to see if he would take offense.
He read my unasked question in my expression and smiled. "It is of no consequence to me what they think of me. I have proved them each wrong on many an occasion and they all know it. No doubt they shall come running when they find themselves at a loss, regardless of what they say here." He did seem to take particular enjoyment in the idea of showing them up in the future, and I stifled a giggle in my napkin.
John had finally returned, muttering an apology, when the music began. The dance floor was soon full of couples. My foot began tapping in spite of itself, and I saw Mr. Holmes almost unconsciously nodding in time to the music. "Good, he approves," John whispered to me. "Two years ago the players were off-key and he did not stop telling everyone who would listen about it all night." I laughed, and John gave his friend a knowing look.
As the couples whirled around the room, I found myself counting along with the steps, and I caught a brief look between Mr. Holmes and my husband, before Mr. Holmes stood up and held out his hand to me. In complete surprise, I took it, and he led me to the dance floor. "How did you know I wanted to dance?" I asked.
"Your foot," he answered. "It was tapping in perfect time to the music."
"I learned at boarding school, and I enjoyed my lessons very much," I said. "Though I've had little chance to use them since." There was no call for dancing when taking charge of two children under the age of six, and I had all but given it up after our wedding. John had informed me that while his leg did not normally trouble him except in damp weather, and that even the steady pattern of running after Mr. Holmes presented no problem to him, the balance and rhythm of dancing while leading a partner was now beyond his capabilities. He had said this cheerfully, saying that he had never been a great dancer to begin with. Accordingly, we had ensured that our wedding dance was slow and deliberate, and had not danced together since. "I had no idea you could dance, Mr. Holmes," I said.
"It is part of every gentry boy's education," he said, and I confess I had momentarily forgotten that Mr. Holmes's family were landed, though not very highly ranked. "I have found it helpful," he continued, "Not only in developing a sense of rhythm and timing that is most useful for a musician, but a surprising number of cases require one to go undercover at a society event."
"So you must therefore know how to dance," I finished. He was really quite good, I thought. Though we had not danced together before (he had refused the traditional dance he was owed as best man, so that it would not appear odd that my husband and I danced together only once at our own wedding), he led me through the steps effortlessly and never once stepped on my toes. I saw a few of the Yarders give us odd looks, and I suspected this was the first time Mr. Holmes had ever led any woman out on the dance floor at the Policeman's Ball.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes," I said, when the dance was finished. "I enjoyed that very much."
"As did I, Mrs. Watson," Mr. Holmes said, sweeping a bow that seemed to take everyone by surprise, for a few people suddenly burst into applause, and I realized they had been watching the whole time.
"I doubt they had any idea you were so graceful," I said to him. "Though it really is no surprise."
"It should not be," he answered. "They have each watched me balance on roofs and scale up buildings by the gutter, and they all know of my interest in music. It is not truly that difficult to deduce that I am capable of executing a competent waltz." He gave me a look that said all he needed to about his opinion of Scotland Yard, and I was still laughing when he led me back to our table.