"What's wrong with the date tonight?" Sherlock broke the silence in the sitting room.

John's head whipped up from gazing blankly at the computer and stopped chewing his lip to stare incredulously at Sherlock. He hadn't said a word about that.

"You know it's rude not to answer a question when someone asks."

"Who are you to be talking about rude Sherlock?" John asked. "And how on earth did you know that? Or," he added, seeing Sherlock about to retort with the usual, "observe that?"

"Simple; you have a new girlfriend who you've been texting all day and you've just finished reading one of her texts looking happy but disgruntled simultaneously. And by the amount you're worrying about the activity, it's tonight. I'm not stupid."

Sherlock did a quick mental log of John and then paid a visit to the short-term memory wing of the Mind Palace. Jacqueline, or maybe Jessica: tall and with a dancer's body, old-fashioned though, and walked with a posture that said ballroom. Then he remembered the interior of her car when she had picked up John two days ago; Sherlock had been on his way out and looked in through the window.

His mind was overtaken by the image of a bag on the backseat stuffed with clothes; visible at the top a ballroom dress, a pair of dancing tights and the tips of ballroom shoes, scruffed in a pattern analogous to a waltz. On the floor were shoes that she obviously used for the Tango, Quickstep and Sequence Dancing. They looked about the same age as the waltz shoes, but were less worn; she danced the waltz more often.

"Ah…she wants you to go dancing? Ballroom dancing? Her favourite dance is the waltz, you might want to ask her to dance that one with you."

"Yes, all spot on," John rolled his eyes.

"Finally!"

"Huh?" John was perplexed; was Sherlock happy that his flatmate was going to be spending tonight feeling completely uncomfortable and out of place?

"You've finally found yourself someone who isn't completely dull and who has some taste. It's a miracle. None of this going to a soppy movie or a trendy café business. Boring, dull, the lot of them. Taking you to ballroom dance, now that's a breath of fresh air. She also didn't seem quite as thick as all of your other past girlfriends. Well John, I hope you'll be very happy together."

John sighed deeply and stared at the phone in his tight grip, chewing his lip. He started to jab out a text, but then went back and deleted it. Finally, he resigned himself and started to accept the invitation.

"You're reluctant to go ballroom dancing."

"Well I can't dance! Let alone ballroom! What is she, crazy?"

"No, she's infatuated with you. Her mental state seemed quite stable when I met her."

"Well she's certainly not going to be infatuated with me after I make a complete idiot of myself tonight. This is ridiculous," he looked ruefully at the phone, a frown forming. "Why did I say I'd go? I can't go!"

John's phone vibrated, and he checked the text.

"She's really excited now," he stated flatly, eyelids lowered and shoulders drooped. "She typed..." he rotated the phone, and frowned, "I think that's an ecstatic face! A colon followed by a 'D'. Normal smiley face won't cut it I see."

Sherlock discarded his book on his black chair and extended his arm towards John when he reached his flatmate who sitting up at the computer desk.

"Er…" John was a bit confused, and Sherlock slumped his shoulders, throwing his head back in exasperation. If only everyone was as intelligent as Sherlock, he thought, or even a quarter as intelligent as he, the world would be a much better place. It really would be.

"Take my hand."

"For…any particular reason?"

"To get you up!" Sherlock grabbed John's wrist and pulled him forward to stumble out of the chair. As John sprawled over their furniture, his leg having been wound around the chair he was sat on before being yanked up, he disentangled himself and awkwardly stood, off-balance. Sherlock chuckled slightly while watching this clumsy display, standing straight up to annoy John.

"Well that's not a great start to the dancing."

"Yes, Sherlock, I realise that, thank you."

"I mean, you do a lot of that sort of pulling your partner in ballroom."

"Yes, I know."

"Not to mention spins and twirls and footwork –"

"And what was the point of splattering me across our living room, may I ask?"

With impeccable posture and straight back, Sherlock answered by lifting his hands up, the left to rest on John's right shoulder, and the right extended out to his side. As if Sherlock had just burnt him with a hot flame, John jumped back.

"John, you cannot learn waltzes in theory. It has to be done in practice."

"People will –"

"They can't talk if they don't see, and, bar Mycroft, who is spying on our every move?"

"Mycroft will talk."

"He wouldn't."

"Mrs Hudson or Lestrade could walk in –"

"Do you want to be falling over yourself tonight, or do you want to dazzle the dancers around you with your incredible mastery of the ballroom floor?"

John stepped slowly over, and gingerly raised his hands, but not placing them anywhere. This was possibly the most awkward thing he'd ever done, but he desperately wanted to make Jacq happy, and if this was what it would take, then this was what he would do. Sherlock again placed his hand on John's shoulder, and grasped John's left with his right.

"You're the leader, because you will be tonight. So your right hand goes around my waist."

John looked at him stonily, not cooperating.

"Really, and you call me the child!" Sherlock huffed, unceremoniously yanking John's right hand and settled it on his waist. "Let your hand relax John. You're going to snap a tendon if you freeze your fingers so much."

Letting the tension seep out of his muscles, John tried to ignore how very wrong this felt. Sherlock, completely unfazed, continued with the lesson.

"Wait," John interrupted, just realising something. "You ballroom dance?"

"Danced, in the past tense."

"But, you can? You went to lessons? And – and danced and everything? And went in competitions? You danced with partners?" John sniggered.

"How do you think I'm doing this if I didn't? Really, John, you're being very puerile."

"Don't worry, carry on," John chortled.

"I don't see how it's so funny…" Sherlock's perplexed gaze searched his flatmate and, at the moment, dancing partner. He didn't understand humanity sometimes; being so enslaved to emotions must be very difficult: indecision, awkwardness, inappropriate hilarity. Sherlock felt sorry for them sometimes, everyone who couldn't control their feelings.

Sherlock made John take his shoes off after his feet had been stepped on twenty-three too many times; John was constantly misjudging his steps Sherlock's feet were taking the brunt of the clumsiness. But as the two stepped and spun through the sitting room, John started to coordinate himself and began to not shrink away from the turns and contact. Sherlock smiled encouragingly at him, and then suddenly removed his hands, still gripping John's wrist, spreading distance between the two. John floundered; he'd lost his support and he had no idea why the room around him was spinning, before he was caught again in Sherlock's grasp.

"And now you spin me," Sherlock moved into position and waited for John to orientate himself.

The first attempt was disastrous, and John almost broke his arm by twisting it the wrong way. He went to apply ice while Sherlock tutted impatiently. The second attempt was just as bad – though no muscles were strained, John didn't catch Sherlock as he spun back and the Dancer Extraordinaire ended up landing on his bottom with a muffled "oomph!", hair falling into his startled eyes. John stopped giggling the moment he'd joined Sherlock on the carpet after a well-placed swipe.

Sherlock smiled cheekily as he and John heaved themselves up to perfect the twirl.

"When did you learn to dance?" John asked curiously.

"I had lessons for a few years in childhood. My parents enjoyed that sort of thing."

John could imagine that being the case, and snorted as a mental image of a young Sherlock in coattails popped into his mind. It made his mouth stretch into a wide grin; curly black hair falling into the eyes of a flushed-face little boy, dressed as if from two centuries earlier, performing these same steps on a sweeping stage. It was as cute as those funny cat videos John liked to secretly watch. Though, since Sherlock had announced it on his blog, not such a secret guilty pleasure anymore, John reflected ruefully.

For hours the two perfected the waltz, and others, until outside rain began to patter down.

On the other side of London, a certain British Government Official sat at his computer screen, shaking with laughter. Mycroft couldn't resist playing a dramatic soundtrack along to the video and drumming the table along with the steps. He wondered if Sherlock had ever smashed all those trophies for ballroom dancing like he threatened to when teased. Mycroft knew that he probably had them somewhere still. Maybe even polished them.

Once the dancers had flopped onto the couch, exhausted, Mycroft stopped the recording and saved the file to his computer permanently. This would cheer him up sometime after a bad day at the office. He had no world conflicts to solve right at this moment, and the meeting with the Russian Prime Minister was still an hour away, so Mycroft's eyes strayed back to the surveillance camera screen. John had left to prepare himself for the date that night, and Sherlock had resumed his book. As if on cue, Sherlock glanced up to the camera and winked to his brother. Mycroft whipped out his phone.

Still got it in you. M.