Part Five - So You Think You Won't Dance?

From: Misha Collins
Date: Tuesday, November 22nd, 2011

Hey guys,

I would have liked to send this reminder about the rules earlier. The good news - you are doing great! We've been getting submissions by the boat load. The not-so good news is when we sent out the 6000 Reminding-of-the-Rules emails, the servers crashed. We are simply too big for the Internet thingy.

We are now resending the messages very carefully, treating each message as if it were a tiny, wounded, fledgling bird. Before sending each batch, we are whispering words of encouragement to the messages and saying silent prayers. Hopefully this gentle, coaxing approach will help them reach you. As a backup, I have also been on the phone with a carrier pigeon supplier this morning.

So, the Rules. When we say we want a picture of you wearing a banana costume and committing Banannibalism in front of a rhinoceros, we do not mean you wearing a banana peel on your head eating a banana split in front of a poster of said animal. We mean a living, breathing, stinking rhinoceros.

Thanks for following the Rules of the Hunt, and carry on!

Drink the Kool-aid, it's delicious.

Misha Collins

When John came down for breakfast on Tuesday, he was mildly surprised to see a gangling, ill-dressed fifty year old man with a largish dog of indeterminate breed on a frayed piece of string in the front room. John blinked, but the mirage didn't shift. Two pairs of soulful brown eyes watched him.

"Um. Hullo?" he asked.

The man shifted back slightly at this, and the dog's mouth gaped, tongue lolling. John watched both carefully, but nothing was forthcoming. "...Sherlock?" John called. "Do we have... visitors?"

Voices and footsteps on the stairs heralded the arrival of his boyfriend and Mrs. Hudson. Their landlady had a tan bundle, and Sherlock had a carrier bag overflowing with clothing. "John!" said Sherlock. "You're awake! Perfect, you can take the photo."

John shook his head to clear it. "Oh. This is from challenge one oh six? A dog dressed in a beige trench coat, white shirt, grey suit, and blue tie?"

"Yes, do keep up! I couldn't find Baskerville and George in their usual haunt, I only caught them down in Fleet street this morning. Here, take this." Sherlock passed over the carrier bag and took the bundle of clothing from Mrs. Hudson. "Now, if you don't mind..." Sherlock seemed to be addressing the dog, who tilted an ear at him, eyebrows lifted. John gave up having a rational conversation before tea as a lost cause and looked helplessly at Mrs. Hudson, who was smiling. She patted his arm.

"I'll get you a cuppa, dear. Won't be a tick."

The wispy haired man watched Sherlock intently as he unrolled the bundle which consisted of a tan overcoat, suit, shirt and blue tie. Sherlock coaxed the dog into standing. He deftly folded up the trouser legs and lifted hind paws into them. A white shirt was pulled into place, sleeves draping over the forepaws extravagantly.

John cleared his throat and tried to smooth down his sleep-rumpled hair. There was no reason to feel out of place in his sleepwear in his own flat, despite having a homeless man, his be-suited dog and his boyfriend doing inexplicably odd things at eight am. "Um. Mr. Baskerville. Would you care for some tea as well?"

The homeless man looked at Sherlock beseechingly. Sherlock looked over his shoulder. "George. His name is George. George, meet Doctor Watson." John blinked.

"Oh. Then this is..." He gestured at the dog, who grinned at him.

"Baskerville." George spoke in a raspy but cultured accent.

John manfully tried to take this in. Really, it was early for this. "Baskerville?"

George nodded his wispy head. "We live behiund a publishing house. It's quite nice and warm." John wrinkled his brow, but Sherlock came to the rescue.

"Baskerville is a beautiful font, George, just like your dog. Isn't that right, John?" Sherlock looked back over a shoulder at him in mischief. John smiled, and the homeless man looked pleased.

"Absolutely."

In short order, Baskerville the hound was dressed and posed with dignity on the leather sofa, sunlight lighting his brown fur, blue tie artfully askew. John took the photo, grinned at Sherlock in congratulations on another task done and passed out mugs of tea from the tray Mrs. Hudson brought up. Baskerville lapped up some water placed in front of him from a clean beaker.

Mrs. Hudson was enjoying herself. "Oh, Sherlock. This has been quite fun! Thank you for including me on the Hunt, I'd been looking for a use for that old suit of Mr. Hudson's." She wrinkled her nose slightly at the memory of her late unlamented spouse.. "It looks better on the dog than it ever did on him, really. Now, what was it you needed me to do next?" Sherlock pulled her into the kitchen and began muttering low-voiced instructions to her.

John sat on the coffee table and smiled at George. "So. What kind of dog is Baskerville?" They both looked at the dog, who was industriously licking himself, leaving a wet patch on the crotch of the suit trousers. George looked dubious.

"Hard to say, really. Mr. Holmes? You seem to know a lot... what's your opinion?"

Sherlock poked his head in. "What? Baskerville? Oh, he's a.. he is a..." He narrowed his eyes. "He's brown." He grabbed the carrier bag and ducked back in to whisper one last thing to a giggling Mrs. Hudson. John shrugged at George. Sherlock bounded back in and grabbed the camera from John. "All right, Mrs. Hudson."

John's mouth dropped open as their landlady emerged from the kitchen with a large handlebar moustache in dark brown. She went directly to the gaping George, bobbed a little curtsy and proffered the carrier bag of clothing. "Mr. George. I would appreciate it, if you would accept these clothes. I've had them for ages, and I think you and and Baskerville might get better use from them. Also, if Baskerville would like to keep the suit?" She smiled as the dumbfounded George took the carrier bad, stared into it and smiled back. Baskerville thumped his tail several times, and Sherlock took the picture.

John clapped appreciatively. "Nicely done. What number was that, Sherlock?"

"Number thirty nine. Purge your closet and get a photo of yourself handing your old clothes to a homeless person directly, while wearing a fake moustache. Only thirteen points, but I thought I'd kill two birds with one stone." Sherlock looked smug. "I know it doesn't count for the five that you set me, John, but now that Anderson is on our team..." his voice trailed off and he scowled.

"I know. You must beat him, and show yourself the better Hunter," John sighed. "God, Sherlock. Just don't burn down any buildings in your quest, please? Well. As we are having a party at 221B Baker street this morning, there's another challenge you could knock off." John quite fancied this one.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his trouser pockets and looked at him. John grinned. "Number one hundred fifty."

"My favourite dance moves? John, I don't think -"

"Oh, come one, Sherlock. Don't tell me you never took formal dance lessons at some point in your posh upbringing! What's your favourite? Go on, tell us," John needled. Mrs. Hudson had hidden her smile behind her tea mug.

Sherlock set his lips mulishly. "Shan't."

"I like the tango," said a hoarse voice. They all looked at George, who shrank suddenly from the attention. "Well, I do. Every bit. Used to do Argentinian style - my parada and sacada are quite good. Quite enjoy the gancho* move." His left eyelid quivered in what almost a wink.

Mrs. Hudson chirped in excitement. "Oh, yes! I would love to see that, Mr. George!"

Sherlock looked relieved. "Perfect. Mrs. Hudson, can you -"

"No," interrupted John. He was feeling quite devilish, what with unexpected events before breakfast. "Her hip."

"Then, you will, John -?"

"My leg," said John sadly.

"Oh, your leg, is it?" shouted Sherlock. "Your leg! It only plays up when you are trying to get out of something, John!" He wasn't actually angry, only resigned. "Fine. Fine! Pull up the music on YouTube or something. Mrs. Hudson, here - the video mode on the camera is just here. George, if you would?" He held a hand out to the skinny man and pulled him up from John's chair. Mrs. Hudson and John hurried to push the chairs and table back, clearing a space. John even rolled back the rug to reveal the wooden floors. Baskerville sat in regal splendour and watched the proceedings with open-mouthed interest.

Sherlock lifted his arms, but George shook his head at him. "Young man, as I have at least fifteen years on you and you are such a shrinking violet, I will lead. Not you." John hastily clapped a hand over his mouth, but Mrs. Hudson didn't restrain her laugh at the look on Sherlock's face. The dancers took up their positions, and John pressed play on 'Por una cabeza.'

It was hardly fair, mused John, as the unlikely pair swayed and turned about their living room. It should have looked ridiculous - the gangly homeless man, the beautifully suited consulting detective dancing while an approving mongrel looked on. But Sherlock made it look so easy. He looked at the clock on his computer. All right, they had a minute of video. He motioned to his landlady, who dimpled and laid down the camera. Walking over, he tapped George on the shoulder.

"Mind if I cut in?" George stepped away and Mrs. Hudson stepped into his arms. John grinned at his lover, who had a crooked smile. "Shall I lead?"

"Oh, if you must," sighed the detective dramatically, and John pulled him in close, pressing a quick kiss at the corner of his flat-mate's jaw. They danced, and Baskerville thumped his tail before turning around several times and settling down with sigh.

*parada - the leader puts their foot against the follower's, so they move together

sacada - one dancer displaces the other's foot by stepping into their space

gancho - sexy move where one hooks one's leg around one's partner's leg or body