dies inside

i wrote this chapter at like midnight and i don't think it's any good x""D

okay well i'm in london right now and YES I KNOW OMG I'M DYING BECAUSE LONDON ENGLAND AND

yyyeah xD so i won't be able to update as much as i wanted to, that's actually the reason why this story didn't get done by christmas so sorry about that! x_x;;

i might not be able to update again until after the trip and this chapter sucks, but i'm going to try and make things more complicated with the fifth suspect. ;A;

hope you enjoy!

"Only two suspects left?" Joan asked Sherlock. Sherlock started to answer when his phone buzzed. He whipped it out.

Gregson:

Had a nice chat. Sent him on his way. Gave him coffee like you said. Hows it going?

Sherlock quickly tapped something out in reply.

Me:

good. going fine, dnt txt again.

He could practically hear Gregson huffing on the other end.

"Just Gregson," he said to Joan, deleting both texts and putting the phone back in his pocket. "He said that third suspect is innocent."

"Well, then," Joan said, putting her hands in the air.

"We're heading home," said Sherlock. Joan, probably worn out, didn't complain as Sherlock called a taxi. They rode back to the brownstone in a companionable silence.

"I'm turning in," announced Joan at 9:30, pausing at the foot of the steps to address Sherlock. "I hope you don't stay up too late."

"I won't," said Sherlock placidly, pretending to be flipping through some old case files. From behind the papers, he heard Joan's footsteps tripping up the stairs, and then the sound of her door opening and closing.

As soon as Joan was gone, Sherlock leapt to his feet and pulled out a plastic shopping bag from behind the couch. He pulled out two clothes hangers from it, enjoying the rustle of the plastic coverings.

"Lovely," he murmured, admiring the purchases. A clean-cut black suit for himself, and for Joan, a cream-colored dress with a form-fitting cut and a modest neckline. The bottom of the skirt would come to about halfway down her calves, and there was a floating sort of pink scarf to go along as well. Sherlock had chosen something he thought she might like, based on her normal clothing choices, but he found himself nervous now that he looked at it.

Well, at any rate, she'll look beautiful in it either way, he thought, and half the people at this party will have terrible taste anyways. Reassured by this thought, he put the clothes back in the bag.

December 21

Sherlock kept Joan busy all day, practicing escaping handcuffs and other things.

"But don't we need to be working on that important case?" she complained, wriggling her hands around in a vain attempt to keep her dignity while handcuffed.

"Tonight," Sherlock told her, thinking of the fake party invitations in an envelope in his room.

When Joan saw them, she was stunned.

"Sherlock—a Christmas dance party?" she stammered, surprisingly flustered as she held the thick card.

"Suspect four's mother will be there," he explained, pulling the shopping bag from behind his back and presenting it to her. "We'll have to pose as a posh couple, to fit in with all the other posh couples, you see." He rather enjoyed the look of shock on her face as she produced the sleek cream dress.

"Sherlock—this is—how much did this cost?" she exclaimed, half-disapproving.

"That doesn't matter," he said briskly. "You should try it on; we might have to return it if it doesn't fit you, and we've got to get to the party on time."

The look she threw him was shyer than he had expected.

"The dress is lovely," she said quietly, putting it back in the bag. "But… Sherlock, are you sure you don't want to do this part… by yourself?"

He was surprised.

"What makes you say that?" he asked, inwardly anxious.

"It's nothing," said Joan, looking uncomfortable.

"Is it because you don't want me as a partner?" asked Sherlock, hurt. Joan shook her head immediately.

"No!" she said, her knuckles white against the strings of the shopping bag.

"Watson, I can't dance by myself." said Sherlock coolly.

"And I can't dance at all!" burst out Joan.

The two were silent, gazing at each other for a second. Joan ducked her head, hiding behind her curtain of sleek black hair.

"Watson, why didn't you tell me?" asked Sherlock in a gentler voice, confused. Is she that upset with just such a little thing? Joan shook her head slightly, looking up at him.

"You'll be fine by yourself, right?" she asked, instead of answering his question. Sherlock hesitated for the merest fraction of a second. The whole point was to have her along…

"Absolutely not," he said firmly, reaching out and taking her hand. "How could you ever suggest that I would be fine at all, without you to assist me?" His tone was light, jesting; she rolled her eyes at him, but didn't shake her hand free.

"Now you're going to try and teach me how, aren't you," she guessed.

"It's easier than single stick," Sherlock joked, and was gratified to see a smile creep onto her face. He took her other hand and slowly guided her into the first position of the simple waltz.

"There's no music," said Joan.

"You don't need music," Sherlock told her. "Just a partner is enough."

They waltzed slowly around the room, Joan slightly clumsy, Sherlock guiding her around stray pieces of paper and old files. She felt light and delicate in his arms, like a butterfly.

"See, you're doing fine," he said, smiling at her. She stepped on his foot.

"Sorry!"

"Never mind," Sherlock said, smiling and closing his eyes for a second. Despite her lack of experience, Joan was picking up the steps quite well.

"I think I'm getting it," she announced after a while.

"Good," he said encouragingly.

Neither of them showed any indication of wanting to stop, so Sherlock kept leading Joan into new dances, tapping out the imaginary rhythm with his foot. They swung around in a circle and Sherlock spun Joan around in a pirouette, catching her as she stumbled and almost fell.

"I feel ridiculous," she said, her eyes laughing up at him. He held her for a few lingering moments before setting her on her feet.

"You don't look ridiculous," he assured her, making a sweeping bow. She rolled her eyes, the corners of her mouth twitching up, and then glanced at her watch.

"Oh, we're going to be late for the party," she said in surprise. Sherlock looked at the clock on the wall. Where had the time gone?

"Do you feel ready to dance?" he asked her.

"Maybe," she said, her mouth quirking up into a definite smile. She turned and picked up the shopping bag before heading upstairs.

As soon as Sherlock saw Joan in the cream-colored dress, he knew he had made the right decision.

"You look stunning," he complimented her casually, waiting for her at the door with her coat.

She took it from him and nodded, accepting the compliment quietly, and then gestured in approval of his suit. "Very dapper."

"Shall we?" he said, offering his arm. She rolled her eyes again, but she also smiled again as he led her out into the street, where night was gradually falling.

The two of them climbed into a taxi and Joan showed the invitation to the driver. As they drove through the streets, Joan looked thoughtfully out the window, while Sherlock pretended to be lost in thought about the case and planned out the next part of his plan.

When the taxi halted outside the large building, Sherlock paid the driver and climbed out of the car, waiting for Joan to emerge as well so they could look the part of the dance couple. He led her like a gentleman to the door, where they could hear music and laughter seeping from the dance floor.

"Ready?" he asked lightly, his hand on the handle.

"As I'll ever be," she joked, holding his arm.

They entered into the already-busy room, which was huge, with a high, elegant ceiling and which was lined with long tables loaded with rather fanciful-looking dishes and sweets. Holly and Christmas wreaths were hung all around, as well as impressively tall Christmas trees, one in each corner of the room. Glitter practically floated through the air, and the combination of dim lighting and small, golden candles gave the whole room a warm holiday feel.

There were several couples on the dance floor already, as well as people standing around talking quietly to each other and sipping out of delicate wineglasses.

"Hungry?" inquired Sherlock. Joan shook her head no. "Then let's get to finding Mrs. Whitson."

The two of them danced delicately through the crowd, and Joan only stepped on Sherlock's feet twice. In their expensive outfits, nobody gave them a second glance, and they were able to find their way to Mrs. Whitson without much trouble. Sherlock couldn't help wishing that the old lady had made herself a little bit more difficult to find; he had been enjoying twirling Joan, who was really an excellent dance partner for having begun to learn that evening, through the elegant settings.

As soon as "Mrs. Whitson" saw Sherlock, she excused herself from the group of matronly ladies she had been exchanging gossip with and hurried over to them.

"Why, Sherlock!" she piped in her quavering voice. "It's been so very long, my dear boy! I had no idea you were invited." Sherlock hugged her carefully, whispering "so far so good" into her ear. The lady smiled and then turned to Joan. "Who's this? Your girlfriend?"

"Apprentice and partner," broke in Joan. "We work together. I'm Joan Watson."

"Mrs. Whitson" surveyed Joan and Sherlock standing together dubiously, as if she didn't really believe Joan's words, but to Sherlock's relief she didn't push it.

"Nice to meet you, dear," she said, extending a friendly hand.

"And same to you," said Joan politely, shaking it. Mrs. Whitson turned to Sherlock, the very picture of grandmotherly fussiness.

"Now, Sherlock dear, I know you wouldn't have searched me out if you didn't want to ask me something," she said. "So spit it out."

"Now, Mrs. Whitson," Sherlock said, pretending to be hurt. "It's not like that at all. I mean, we do have a few questions, but I'm sure your company leaves nothing to be desired as well."

"Thought so," cackled Mrs. Whitson, beaming at Joan. "So what is it, dearie?"

"Do you happen to know if your son, Leonard Whitson, was possibly…" Joan hesitated, probably not wanting to hurt the feelings of this frail old lady; Sherlock wanted to laugh. "…involved in a theft of important information from a NYPD base on December 19th?"

"Oh, my!" Mrs. Whitson was the very picture of shock. "December 19th? Wasn't that just a few days ago? No, my Leonard was at home all day, honey. There's no way he possibly could have…"

"Are you sure he didn't go anywhere near…?" Joan asked cautiously.

Mrs. Whitson leaned in.

"Well, you know, he's unemployed," she stage-whispered in Joan's ear. "He spent the whole day in the kitchen looking up job ads—and saying the most unwholesome things about his last boss, too!" She gave a very realistic shudder and patted Joan on the shoulder.

"So you're sure he was home all day?" confirmed Joan.

"Positive," trilled Mrs. Whitson.

"Wonderful," broke in Sherlock, clapping his hands together. "Hopefully we haven't inconvenienced you too much, Mrs. Whitson! Someone from the NYPD will probably be dropping by your flat later, just to check on everything you said."

"Lovely people, those police folk," cried Mrs. Whitson cheerfully. "Now, run along now, you two lovebirds. The night's young yet!"

Before either of them could say anything else, the old lady had disappeared back into the crowd.

"So it wasn't him, either," said Joan, shrugging and looking at Sherlock.

"It doesn't seem likely," said Sherlock.

"Then… it must have been the fifth suspect," said Joan. "Only one left, huh? And what if he didn't do it, either?"

"Then we're in a bit of a strange spot," admitted Sherlock. But the thing is that I already know that the fifth suspect is the one who did it. "Process of elimination, though, quite straightforward."

"And what about the third suspect?" continued Joan. "The way he was acting was pretty suspicious. Are you sure Gregson didn't find out anything more about him?"

"They're holding him in the police base right now," replied Sherlock. "He'll probably stay there until the real culprit's found."

Joan frowned.

"Yeah, but I still want to know why he handcuffed us," she said, her eyes a bit more sharp than Sherlock felt comfortable with. Maybe I didn't think this through well enough.

"Oh, lighten up, Watson," he said. "It's too late to do anything more on the case, anyways; the fifth suspect's a train ride away. Are you feeling up to a bit more dancing?"

She gave him a radiant smile, although he could tell that one part of her brain was still puzzling over the case.

"I thought you would never ask," she quipped, taking his hands. He let her lead the dance this time.