John barely managed to be roused for his final fittings that afternoon. Despite how tired he'd been, he laid awake in bed for a long time. Funny how that night he could sleep anywhere but in a comfortable bed. He allowed himself to be poked, moved, dressed and undressed and accidentally stuck with pins without complaint. He wouldn't look in the mirror or give an opinion on the clothing, which annoyed his high-strung tailor to no end.
When finally the torture of fashion was concluded, John dressed and went downstairs. He ended up in the library, learning from one of the many footmen that no one else was at home. Lord Sherrinford was away for the day as usual and Harry had apparently found somewhere else to be as well. John wondered idly if he'd gone to beg of Clara's parents again. Certainly his situation was quite immediately about to improve. John's wedding was in two days.
John left his book; he couldn't concentrate anyway. The library had an impressive collection of medical texts, books on plants and the sciences. Normally John would have been utterly lusting after those tomes, breath-taken and overwhelmed with the need to open each one and luxuriate inside. Today he felt like a bit of flotsam in the surf, buffeted around the huge empty house with no real direction or purpose. The long, empty hallways, dark from closed doors and lack of life, stretched on forever and twisted into nothingness.
John growled and pushed to his feet. The servants didn't seem at all surprised when he called for his coat and said he was going for a walk.
London at least had more life to it, especially once he'd gone further than the posh streets of Mayfair where a few ladies he'd tipped his hat to barely acknowledged his gesture once they'd seen a loose thread on his coat or the battered cane in his hand. He wondered idly where Baker or Bow Streets were in relation to him now, at which he might find Sherlock, and whether the few pence in his pocket would get him anywhere at all.
A bit of conversation with a grocer's boy let him know that the Bow Street Magistrate's Court wasn't too terribly far so John decided to walk. The exercise would do his leg good, after all, and the day was somewhat pleasant. Hopefully his spare change would get him a good way back towards the Sherrinford house if he didn't find Sherlock.
By the time he'd found the Bow Street offices, John was tired. Still, he asked after Lestrade and was taken straight to a small room cluttered with papers, a disgruntled Lestrade, and Sherlock.
"John! You're finally here!"
"Finally? I wasn't aware you were expecting me."
Lestrade very kindly gestured to a comfortable leather chair wedged in the corner and sent a young lad loitering in the hall for some tea.
"Where else would you be? Mycroft spends his days running England from his club and you aren't speaking to your brother."
"Just so. Have you been here all day?"
Lestrade snorted. "Had sorted through a stack of missing persons before I even made it in this morning."
"Sherlock, haven't you slept at all?"
"Sleep is a waste of time!"
"Nonsense, Sherlock. We can only function at our peak with proper amounts of rest."
"Perhaps that is true of the mundane population, John, but I simply don't need it. Look at how much I've accomplished while you spent your day sleeping."
"You've accomplished making quite a mess, Sherlock," John retorted with a half-smile. "And I'll have you know that I also had hours of bloody fittings this afternoon, and I walked here from your brother's house."
Sherlock gave a miniscule, "Hmph," in return and continued peering at the two pieces of paper spread flat on Lestrade's desk. A moment later, he jumped up and held each sheet against the window to observe the watermark.
"What are you looking at?"
When Sherlock didn't answer, Lestrade did. He handed John a cup of tea as he did so.
"Two letters were addressed to Sherlock, in care of Bow Street, mentioning the hands and now the feet."
"Letters?" John knew his voice sounded a bit weak, so he cleared his throat as if he felt a little froggy. "What do they say?"
"Here," Sherlock strode around the desk and handed John the papers. "Do have a look and tell me what you think."
John took the first and examined the two short lines on the page.
Five little hands, waving hello.
Do they tell you what you want to know?
"When did you get this?"
"Shortly after we found the hands."
"Was this letter why you left Essex in such a rush?"
Sherlock confirmed this with a nod. "If I had been told about the hands in the first place, I never would have left London." He was clearly still a bit bitter about his brother's intervention.
The second letter was also a mere two lines, written in the same careful, perfect script.
Care to waltz? Shall we meet?
My tribute to you: four left feet.
"It's going to be a rather clumsy dance; all left feet, yah?"
"John, this is hardly the time for levity," Sherlock scolded, but the corners of his eyes were lifted, like he was schooling his mouth very carefully not to smile. "Now, tell me, what do you see?"
"I see a madman leading you on a merry dance."
"John, at least try."
John sighed and looked again at the letters.
"Waltz leads with the left foot. He offered you his hand, he's leading in the dance."
"Hmm, go on, get to something useful."
"Well, the waltz is a rather intimate dance, Sherlock."
"Is it?"
"Don't you know it?"
"Not important." Sherlock paused a moment. "What if it is? Show me." Sherlock stood from where he'd leaned against the edge of Lestrade's desk.
"Show you?" John glanced at Lestrade and the man shrugged, moving into the doorway so he was out of the way. Papers still littered the open floor space, but there would be room enough for a simple demonstration.
"Yes, John. It may be vitally important!"
John sighed and pushed himself out of the chair. He removed his greatcoat and laid it across his seat.
"I expect I'll be total rubbish, what with my leg and all."
"We don't need to careen across a ballroom. Just show me the steps."
"Very well. The most popular, the French waltz, begins with a promenade, like so." John stood next to Sherlock, hip-to-hip, facing the opposite direction, and put his arm across Sherlock's waist. He pulled Sherlock's right arm across his in return. "Sometimes, the posture is different." John shifted so that he faced Sherlock, arm one arm still around his back, their free arms joined at the hand. He guided Sherlock into position, tucked in very close to him.
John made the mistake of demonstrating the eye contact common in the dance. He forgot that he'd been about to mention the difference between the French waltz and the German waltz, and which steps and positions were common to each. His mind went blank except for the tall, striking man in his arms.
Sherlock pulled back to see what John's feet were doing. They were still.
"Aside from the close positioning, this doesn't seem like a very scandalous dance," Sherlock stated.
"That's because you're not dancing with a woman," Lestrade offered. "A vigorous dance leads to a heaving bosom."
John flushed and pulled away. Of course Sherlock wasn't affected.
"Is that all?" Sherlock asked.
"No, no," he coughed falsely, trying to gather time and his mind together. "There are usually two other parts before the final pirouette. They would step like so."
John demonstrated, Sherlock's attention now on his feet. He was not fluent with the steps any longer, but he managed to go through the proper movements. "The dance would progress to faster movements in the third part of the dance, moving in a circle."
"How do you know all that?" Lestrade asked. John's blush deepened with the knowledge that both men were watching him quite markedly.
"Officers were expected to be sociable."
"I don't believe the specifics of the dance will be of any use," Sherlock said suddenly, returning to the chair he'd commandeered behind Lestrade's desk. He set his elbows upon his knees and steepled his fingers in front of his lips.
Gratefully, John sank back into the chair in the corner.
Sherlock began to list, in his fashion, everything he knew about the waltz. He could name composers, pieces of music, tempo, that Countess de Lieven introduced the waltz at Almack's two years prior, much to the chagrin of the other Patronesses most likely. The last little bit of social trivia was startling, but whether he was mumbling to himself or expected John and Lestrade to take note was unclear.
"So I take it there will be no waltzing at your wedding? Pity, that."
Both Sherlock and John glared at a laughing Lestrade.