Graceful

Summary: Molly Hooper had been a dancer, once upon a time. She has just never been very graceful in front of Sherlock Holmes. Until now.

Disclaimer: Still Moftiss. Yeah, I know.

AN: So, hopefully it's still in time for the birthday of peetaholmes … This is me attempting adorable fluffy things. Also, all of this ballet stuff is partly from memory and partly from the Interwebz. Don't blame me for any inaccuracy. Merci!

Up until she was about twelve years old, her most likely career prospect was being a prima ballerina at the local ballet company. She took ballet classes three times a week, and practiced for several hours each day – because she was the best in all of her classes and she had that reputation to maintain because it was the first time that she had ever been the best at something. It had to mean that she was meant for more in ballet.

So she worked harder and harder, until her feet bled and her entire body ached.

Her teacher, madame Giselle, was very impressed with her, and her Mom and Dad liked to come to her recitals and watch her progress. Mom was always so proud of her graceful angel, and Dad took pictures and he smiled so often.

Things all changed when her Mom got sick. She was always at the hospital with Dad, and there was no time to drive her to classes all of the time, or to help her practice, or to watch her. Every single thing revolved around her Mom getting better.

And then she did not, and she did not even want to dance anymore, because the pain reminded her of her Mom, and she was out of shape anyway, and she was never going to make it as a dancer anyway. She started focusing on school after that, because she was good at that too and getting good grades kept teachers from talking to her about her story and her parents and other things she did not want to mention.

She still dances occasionally, but it is hardly ever anything related to ballet. Sometimes the girls take her out clubbing, or she gets an offer to go dancing from an old boyfriend – because she has been single for way too long. It has been a while.

He never noticed it before; at least, she does not think he noticed before. She still has the stupid habit of trying to do things en pointe when she is at home – just for shits and giggles – and she occasionally slips into the habit while at work. Since the morgue is not exactly the busiest part of Bart's, nobody has seen her do it. Until now, that is.

"You have not practiced ballet in a long time," Sherlock speaks, and she steps down.

"Yes," is all that she can say, because she does not want to say more than necessary.

He stares at her feet for a little while longer, no doubt picturing her with the typical shoes – the ones she still has a pair of at home. She only has them because she – she does not even know why she bought a new pair last year. She thinks that it might be the sentimental reasons, but also the remembrance of that proud feeling that she used to have when wearing a costume and dancing en pointe.

"Were you good at it," he is almost wondering out loud. "I think you would be, because your arches are perfectly shaped, and your stance is very professional. You were far beyond a mere plié and first position when you quit."

It is easier to turn away from him and to stare at the slabs instead, thinking about the bodies that are undoubtedly going to be coming in very soon – it has not been a very busy shift so far. She has not had anything to do except for finishing the paperwork she had not yet finished the day before. Sherlock's arrival is the most exciting thing to happen for all her shift – and he is in deducing mood, which will not end well.

"I was fourteen when I quit," she tells him, trying to continue working.

"Show me something," he orders, and she immediately balks at the mere idea.

"No," she answers, faking a scribble on some sheets of paper.

Her response was almost inaudible, because she still has problems refusing him anything – she is still too in love with him to even consider denying him these things that could help him. However, this is not an important thing, seeing as it is not for any kind of case. It should, in theory, be easier to deny him now.

It really is not easy, though. She will soon be persuaded to show him anyway.

"It could be useful for future cases, because a history in ballet often shows up in the bodies," Sherlock plays with her sense of justice. "It could solve a case."

Oh, there it is – he is playing on her guilt masterfully. Of course she would do absolutely everything to help people. If there is any way in which she can possibly save someone's life, she will do it, without any kind of concern for herself or even her dignity. And falling on her face while attempting an old ballet exercise will definitely damage her dignity.

She makes a makeshift barre out of a table that is close enough to the proper height, because a proper exercise starts at the barre. Shrugging off her white lab coat, she settles her left arm on the table and starts the simple plié exercises that made up the warm-up in her old classes; somehow she still remembers it. Demi plié, only halfway down, and grande plié, all the way down, releve, stretching back up as high as she can, and hold it – hold it, just a little bit longer. Tendu, and move from first position to second.

"I did not expect you to be this graceful," Sherlock breaks her concentration.

"This is quite simple still," she grins slightly, glad to be better at something than he is, just this once. "These are just simple warm up exercises that I used to do."

Some more tendu's and she feels ready for more. She raised her right leg, lifting it easily onto the table barre to stretch. It feels good to remember this, to contort her body into these familiar shapes.

If Sherlock were any other man, he would probably be extremely turned on by her apparent flexibility. She is somewhat happy that he is not leering at her while she is performing for him – but she also kind of wishes that he would at least look at her differently. She still wants to impress him so badly.

"Show me something else," Sherlock demands.

She looks around, trying to find the space for a more elaborate routine, and she simply does not see it. There is no room for her to do anything without her getting hurt.

"I can't," she has to tell him. "There is just no room."

"I will arrange something soon," he promises, and turns around.

He walks away so easily, while she is standing there like an absolute idiot.

Two months later

She got the text at the end of her shift, when she was tired and almost unable to keep on her feet for much longer. He needed her the next day. The address was included.

It is easy to find, this place he wants her to be at. The large building is much more dilapidated and remote than she would have liked, but she will arrive with a smile on her face just because he actually wants her around. That does not happen often.

There is a note in the office part of the building; it is addressed to her. Of course, it is written in Sherlock's hand, and explains what the plastic bag lying underneath it is for – the one she does not dare to peak in yet. Not before reading the note, at least.

It tells her that the bag has clothes for her that he wants her to wear, something that she finds a little weird and creepy before she realizes that it is merely a costume that is similar to one she has already worn once before, during a show.

He has provided her with pointe shoes and a beautiful outfit. The pointe shoes look to have been broken in slightly, and there is a pair of toe pads with them to spare her feet at least some of the pain. She is actually quite excited to wear them, for whatever purpose he has in mind – because even though all of the pain, she has missed this.

Apparently, he is actually planning to make her show him some more ballet moves – but that is not all. He is actually planning to join her for an attempt at a pas de deux for some reason. She considers his curiosity and quickly attributes this idea to that.

"Is he going to be in costume too," she questions, giggling softly.

With her fingers crossed, she rushes towards the nearest loo so that she can change into her costume. The shoes will come later, when she has seen what she is working with, stage-wise. Also, walking around in pointe shoes randomly makes her feel silly.

She rushes outside of the loo as soon as she is done, following the worn signs that tell her that this building used to be a real theatre once upon a time. There is a stage there, and she desperately wants to see it – she will get to perform on a real stage, and even though Sherlock will undoubtedly hurt her feelings several times over the course of the day, the sheer feeling of joy from dancing again might make up for it.

There is no time to look at herself in the loo, so when she catches a glimpse of herself in an ancient mirror she stops in her tracks and just stares. Here she is, wearing this beautiful costume made out of this thin fragile fabric that makes her seem positively ethereal. She looks like the angel her mom always thought she was.

"Sometimes I don't understand him at all," she mutters, rushing on to the stage.

She arrives at a stage that is not as dilapidated as she would have expected, and the lights are shining brightly. She does an experimental jeté on bare feet, muscles stretching pleasantly and finds that the stage can easily carry her weight without as much as a creak. A grin starts to spread.

The shoes are easy to get on her feet, and somehow they seem to fit her perfectly, without her so much as trying them on. Sherlock really is a fantastic observer if he can manage to get the exact measurements of her feet without ever even touching them.

The very second the beautiful ribbons are tied around her ankles; she is up on her feet and ready to dance. She tries a few easy pointe exercises to get warmed up, and it is surprisingly easy to do them in her new shoes – she assumes that these shoes are a gift, since they undoubtedly will not even fit anyone else. They are hers forever.

Another jeté, a pirouette, and a series of jumps and twirls that even madame Giselle would have been impressed with. She leaps again, feeling the most graceful that she has ever felt – not even before when she did this several times a week.

"Are you sufficiently warmed up," Sherlock's deep baritone sounds out, startling her.

"Are you," she tries to tease, as she notices him – his outfit in particular.

He is wearing a tight pair of leggings and the tight shirt that most male dancers wear – and she very much approves of how he looks when wearing this. Every single part of his body is accentuated, and she flushes at the thought of having him close to her.

"I warmed up before you got here," he is moving towards her, climbing onto the stage with a graceful ease that almost makes her envious of him.

"I assume you want to work on partnering," she has run with the idea of their dance.

They are standing opposite each other, and she has to admit that she is staring him down to see if he will even be able to dance such a complicated dance with her – she doubts that he has a past in ballet, like her. She hopes he will not let her fall.

"I have practiced extensively since you first showed me," he starts to stretch and she has to hide her blush. "I had a dance tutor for the last two months. I am not a bad dancer."

He has been practicing ballet for two months to do this with her? She is trying really hard not to read anything into this, but a big gesture like this surely means that he at least likes and appreciates her. She holds that thought close.

"What have you learned so far," she attempts to be all business.

"I have become proficient at several different lifts," he does not sound humble in this, because of course he is perfect at absolutely everything. "Do you want to try it?"

A part of her really does want to just jump in his arms and let him toss her into the air until she is perfectly positioned. The other part of her is cautious – the part that has gotten her feelings hurt by him so many times before – and does not really trust him and his supposed ballet skills enough to let him attempt to catch her.

She is very much in love with him, but she is not sure if she trusts him.

"We are going to do some simple trust exercises first," she announces, both to get a bit of her own back and to feel safe doing these complicated things with him. "Just to make sure you know exactly where to hold me, and so that I know you'll catch me."

This is the right thing to do, she knows that. But there is still a pang in her heart when he tries to mask the hurt on his face after her comment. She knows that she is not merely being callous; she is just concerned for their safety. There have been several times when she had been allowed to watch the older ballet classes where the partners were not properly in sync and someone got seriously hurt. That cannot happen here.

"Of course I will catch you," he is extremely affronted.

"We have to get used to one another," she tries to explain, interested with his sudden interest in sentiment and his own feelings. "It is custom among dancers to start with these simple exercises to prevent injuries. I have seen it go wrong."

She flinches in remembrance of what she has seen; broken bones and sprains that have stopped people from dancing, sometimes permanently. Even though she knows that dancing is not really a part of her life anymore, she still does not want to be stopped from it by a stupid mistake. She wants to continue to at least be able to do this.

"Alright then," he acquiesces all of a sudden.

"We can start with some basic trust falls and work our way up," she holds out a hand as a peace offering, knowing that he is still weary of physical contact.

When he takes it, she is actually stunned. He probably knows just how surprised she is, because he knows everything, but she still tries to hide it because she believes that this could potentially be hurtful to him. She is just silly like that.

"Ready," she says as she stands in front of him, feeling his presence behind her.

She lets herself fall without a second thought, because she knows that he either catches her or she goes home and never dances for and with him again. He knows that he has to catch her for this to continue, so she drops.

And she lands in strong arms that have somehow managed to deduce exactly how and where to catch her. Of course he would deduce even this. She should have known and expected this. Still, the feeling of being in his arms, of being held by him, is distracting enough to her to keep her from thinking about things too much.

"Good," he says as he puts her safely back onto her feet.

"We can attempt a simple lift," she offers, butterflies in her stomach.

Really, she does not even know what she is doing exactly. When it comes to dancing, surely she is the more experienced and certain one. But when being near him, she feels like a teenage girl who has never talked to a boy in her entire life.

"Fish," Sherlock says, and she immediately knows what he means.

It is a relatively simple lift, but she has not ever attempted it before, even though she technically knows exactly what to do. She also really has to trust in him. She wants to trust him so badly, so she will try this and hope that they will not fail.

Later, as she is lifted up high above herself, she realizes that while he often cuts her down, he also has this power to lift her up high above.

She has never felt so graceful.