A/N: Yay thanks for all the responses everyone! I'm so overwhelmed. My exam has passed now, so I should be able to update a little easier! And I have a poll going! The answer may seem a little obvious to you, but please take part just to make a point ;) (It's attached to the top of my profile page)

Also, despite the great response, I'm a little peeved at the fact Fanfiction. net decided to undergo a revamp/crash on the evening of the day Chapter 4 updated. (Which I suspect nicked some of my reviews even though response was still great, I'm sure you other writers will understand). Damn me/it and my/its timing! I also think the one-shot About A Bike published on the same day suffered for it too – it's by ADashOfInsanity and is sweet and amusing so go check it out!

Okay, so onto the plotbunny! I finally decided (was persuaded – thanks to those who prompted!), despite the fact it's already been done (see my recommendation in Chapter 2), to do my own take on the Waltz Scene! (Because let's face it, who could resist?). So this is inspired by the 'Who taught you how to dance?' – 'You did' – i.e. my take on the time Sherlock taught John how to dance…

Plotbunny Six: Waltz Scene (pre-film)

John was worrying aloud over a ball Mary had persuaded him to attend the following week. Meanwhile Sherlock seemed to be trying to tell him something, but John was currently ignoring him.

"She kept dropping hints and I knew I just had to ask her –"

"– going on for at least five minutes now so it's clearly bothering you –"

"– so romantic, she said, but it's hardly going to be romantic if I can't dance –"

"– never personally saw the point of attending such social occasions myself, such a waste of time –"

"– this is important, I want to make a good impression on her –"

"– pointless social interaction, forced to hold polite conversation, not that I've ever tried –"

"– but what am I supposed to do if I can't dance? I don't know anyone who could teach me –"

"– people assume I don't know how to interact, of course, which always irks me. I'm a genius, Watson, of course I know how to talk to people, I can even waltz –"

"– don't know a single step and it's such short notice, I mean who can I ask, seriously –"

"– steps are almost insultingly simple, would take less than twenty minutes to teach even someone like you –"

" – ridiculous, I'm going to be standing there like an idiot, the man is meant to take the lead for crying out loud, and –" John cut himself off, Sherlock's words finally having sunk in at the back of his mind and made its way to conscious thought. He looked up at Sherlock, who was still pacing absently at the other end of the room, chewing his pipe and talking to himself.

"– potentially useful for distractions, hiding or disguise during a case but as for the more mundane purposes I have never really desired –"

"Holmes?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, falling quiet and raising an eyebrow for John to continue.

"Did you just say you know how to waltz?"

"Yes."

John stared at him incredulously. He blinked. "So you could teach me?"

Sherlock smiled. "I thought you'd never ask." He crossed the room in a few strides and then stopped in front of the chair where John was sitting and held a hand out. John rolled his eyes and took it, letting Sherlock haul him to his feet.

"So –" He stopped short, taken by surprise as Sherlock abruptly pulled him closer, adjusting his grip and placing his other hand on John's waist.

"Holmes, where are you putting your hand?"

Sherlock gave him a look that said Surely you don't need to ask me that? but on receiving no response to this unvoiced question he heaved a world-weary sigh and said, "Watson, as a medical man –"

"Yes I know it's my waist, Holmes," John interrupted in an equally exasperated tone, "What I meant was why is your hand on my waist?"

Then Sherlock gave him a look that said Why didn't you just say that in the first place and that is a stupid question anyway, and John responded with a look that told him he had missed yet another 'pointless' aspect of social tact. Sherlock frowned.

"I'm teaching you to waltz, Watson. It's true that to dance professionally my hand would be higher but I believe you will only be dancing casually with Mary, judging by –"

"Yes, yes. But can't you just, I don't know, demonstrate it –"

"– I am –"

"– so that I can copy?" John pulled his hand free and stepped away from Sherlock's hold. Sherlock frowned. John frowned back. "I'll need to know how to lead to dance with Mary – following your lead is hardly going to help me."

"You cannot expect to lead me when you do not know how to waltz in the first place, Watson."

"Then show me how to lead!"

"I was intending to." Sherlock resumed his previous position.

"Holmes!"

"Watson, unless you intend to dance with your eyes closed you will be perfectly able to observe my method for later replication. This is by far the easiest way to teach you. Now, shall we begin?" he asked, and then continued with his instruction before John could answer.

"Now as I step forwards step backwards with the foot opposite mine. Now to the side. And feet together. Now pick up your other foot and step forwards as I step backwards."

John sighed and followed a little awkwardly.

"And to the side again, and feet back together. And now we repeat."

They went over the process a few more times, dancing in a box-like pattern. As John focussed on the steps he slowly forgot about his unusually close proximity to Sherlock. They had never interacted physically like this before; the few times they had touched was generally just to alert to other to something or perhaps pull them out of harm's way. Or in John's case, on rare occasions, to punch the infuriating detective. At most it was a comforting hand on the other's shoulder, but nothing so intimate as this. Though why should this be intimate? Sherlock was only teaching him so that he would be able to dance with Mary next week.

After several minutes they progressed from the boxed sequence to more free movement around the room. This was somewhat hampered, however, by the sheer amount of clutter at 221B and also John's resistance to following Sherlock's lead.

"Relax, Watson," Sherlock instructed. "Back straight, eyes up. Feel the rhythm – wait, I'll put on some music." He released his hold on John and spun away, locating the gramophone behind a stack of books and repositioned it on the desk before finally settling on a record and placing the needle on. Eventually he walked back over to where John was standing.

"Shall we?"

Sherlock moved to reinitiate the contact but John beat him to it, placing his hand on Sherlock's waist and giving him a stern look. Sherlock noted it and acquiesced quietly, assuming the woman's position. There then followed a very awkward attempt at waltzing as Sherlock still continued to try and lead and John both tried to keep in step with him whilst almost compulsively attempting to lead himself.

"Watson, this would be a lot easier if you just let me lead," Sherlock informed him.

John remained stubborn. With a sigh Sherlock relented and let him lead completely, which was disastrous as John still didn't really know what he was doing. John shuffled awkwardly at one point and sent Sherlock stumbling off into one of his precariously set up experiments, upsetting several of the bottles and vials. Sherlock gave him a look that was about as I told you so as it could get, followed by an eyebrow raise of Should I lead now? John gave him a disgruntled look, resuming the male position once more regardless, but this time he allowed the pressure of Sherlock's hands to guide him.

"One two three, one two three," Sherlock counted, but just as John was about to settle back into it he noticed something.

"Holmes, one of those liquids you spilt is burning a hole through your jacket," he noted, alarmed.

"You're meant to be looking at my face or where we're going, Watson, not my elbow. Have you learnt nothing?"

"It's going to burn through into your skin!"

"One of my favourite experimental acids," Sherlock commented dryly. "You'd better finish learning quickly then."

"Holmes –"

"Not an issue, Watson." He continued to waltz and John felt obliged to ignore it, assuming that Sherlock would protest if it did cause him any pain.

The noise from the disruption, however, had awakened a previously sleeping Gladstone, who was now semi-circling them both curiously as if trying to work out what his master was doing. John sensed the danger in his peripheral vision.

"I'm going to trip over him if he isn't careful," he muttered.

"Would you like me to sedate him?" Sherlock offered, far too cheerily. "I was thinking of trying –"

"No."

Sherlock looked put out. They continued dancing, re-finding their rhythm in the music, but somewhat inevitably a few seconds later John's concern became reality. They executed a half turn and just as John tried to take a step sideways his calf met with a sudden hulk of dog. He overbalanced immediately, and as the offended dog tried to get out of the way it only managed to get in Sherlock's, sending them both tumbling inelegantly to the floor. From where they both ended up on their backs they exchanged quick glances of Saw that one coming and Should've let me sedate him and That wouldn't have been humane, Holmes, let's just –

"I should have landed on top of you," Sherlock pointed out noncommittally.

"What?"

"If you are to treat me as taking the woman's role you should have shielded me from the fall. As an act of chivalry, if you will. We can try again, if you like, the aim is to try and turn –"

"No, Holmes," John broke in sharply, his voice tinged with disbelief as he moved to stand up again. Sherlock was also struggling to his feet. But before John was fully upright either fate or Sherlock conspired against him, as the still-present Gladstone shot out from nowhere and rammed heartily into the back of his legs. Feeling himself falling again John grabbed for Sherlock's arm automatically, but only succeeded in pulling Sherlock over on top of him. They landed awkwardly entangled, John suspecting back bruising but Sherlock quite comfortable on top of him.

"Much better," Sherlock commented. "I also believe that such a mistake lends itself to a rather romantically opportunistic faux pas, if you were so inclined," he added, his face barely a finger's width from John's own.

"That was not my intention," John gritted back, pushing him off brusquely and standing up a little more cautiously this time. Sherlock practically sprang to his feet. John glared at him.

"I was rather hoping that you'd stop me falling over, rather than land on top of me."

Sherlock brushed himself off nonchalantly. "There's only so much gravity one can defy, Watson," he answered easily, moving briefly towards the gramophone to set the record back to the beginning. "Incidentally, you broke my fall remarkably well." Sherlock paused. "So – shall we continue?"

A rather disgruntled Gladstone was ushered out of the room for the temporary care of Mrs Hudson, and then, despite it all, John once more took hold of Sherlock's hand and waist to dance.

After the practice they'd had it only took perhaps half a minute for John to find his stride, and then he was almost surprised by how easy it was. Not just timing it to the music or performing the steps, but the way that despite the oddness of the situation Sherlock's rough hand fit perfectly naturally into his own. He didn't feel awkward or self-conscious and was somewhat amused by a suppressed flamboyance he detected in Sherlock's movements. At some point there was a subtle transition; no longer was he simply following Sherlock's guidance or mirroring Sherlock's steps – he felt the music and he led, Sherlock allowing him to dictate the direction as they moved in tandem. Near the end he gave Sherlock a comical twirl and they laughed, finally slowing as the music came to a close. They let go and Sherlock gave a short bow and John laughed some more and then turned to the invisible audience and bowed himself. He regarded Sherlock speculatively.

"So how did you learn to dance?" he asked.

Sherlock gave him a small smile. "I have attended occasions in which people dance, and I have observed. It was no great mental leap to work out how to dance myself."

John momentarily pursed his lips, sensing there might be more to it, but simply said, "Thank you for teaching me, Holmes."

"No problem my dear fellow." Then Sherlock frowned. "But, Watson –?" He looked down to where the previously spilt acid had now burnt a clean hole through the sleeve of his jacket. "My elbow itches."