Friday, May 28th

John turned around from the bar. Raised his eyebrows. "Excuse me?"

The kid - he couldn't have been more than twenty, his face still spotted and his eyes still round and innocent, especially now where they were situated on John - looked away. Red shot along the sides of his face. "I mean, well, the lads and I - we were just wondering. If it really is you."

John was spared from answering by the bloke on his right, who leaned around John to answer. And who, as far as John could recall, was a complete and total stranger.

"It's him alright, sonny. Just last week he and his partner were doing that New Orleans step right over there by the stage. Wouldn't have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes," he said, inclining his glass, a bit of foam sloshing over the side.

"Ta," John said evenly, and returned his gaze to the kid. The kid, who was now wearing an enormous grin.

"Christ, it's John Watson!" he crowed. "You're a legend, mate! The way you came from behind at Internationals - and I must've watched that slide-in a hundred, no, a thousand times on Youtube."

The bartender had set down John's drinks and, catching John's glance, rolled his eyes before strolling away to help the next customer. John smirked down at the bar. "Well, thanks very much," he said again. He moved to gather up the glasses, but stopped at the hand on his arm.

Spots was looking at him, pleading and admiring all at once. "But is it true?"

John blinked. "Oh, um - sorry, is what true?"

He lowered his voice to a whisper. "You're not finished competing, are you?"

Ah. John turned back to his drinks. He began to balance them precariously in his arms, taking a moment to collect his words. "'Fraid it's true. Gotta move over for all you young dancers, you know how it is."

For never having met John before in his life, the news seemed to trouble him. "But you're the best! Why would you ever want to stop?"

This gave John pause. He'd been toying with the top for so long, making a name for himself one small competition after another. And up until after D.C. he'd never heard it said so plainly. Not from anyone who wasn't Sherlock, anyway: You're the best. And then suddenly it was everywhere, whispering throughout the competition world in the wildfire way rumors were wont to do.

John was a star.

So why did he stop? He thought of Sherlock, dancing alone on the steadfast belief that John would come to join him. Of the way, when the floor had erupted in cheers with the announcement of their names, winners of the championships, Sherlock had just squeezed his hand like he'd known something all along - something John had forgotten.

And he thought of just last week, in the little Baker Street flat above the studio with the windows open and the morning streaming in, the little shine of gold cresting over Sherlock's dark hair while his fingers drummed a rhythm on the breakfast table. How Sherlock, feeling his gaze, had looked up to catch it. Smiled like a secret, well-kept and well-loved.

The memory was enough to make him smile, too. "Because we're the best," he said quietly, fondly, and with a last polite smile finally broke away from the bar.

"Mr. Watson!" The call caused him to turn back, doing his best not to sigh heavily. "It would have been an honor, competing with the likes of you." On an impulse, it seemed, the kid stuffed his hand into his pocket and withdrew a wad of cash, hoisting it above his head in acknowledgment before laying it down on the bar.

John opened his mouth. Closed it again. "Thank you," he said, and meant it. And then he resumed making his way back through the crowd.

"Free drinks," John announced, coming back up to the table. He couldn't stop his little smug sigh when he added, "Again."

"Christ, does it ever end with you?" Bill groused, nevertheless reaching out an eager hand. "It's been months."

"Do you use magic or do you just exude some kind of 'Buy me drinks, I'm famous' aura?" Julie mused.

"Well, if you're all going to complain," he said, turning around with beer in hand, and they all immediately protested. John chuckled before rationing everything out, finally taking his own seat. "It'll all die down eventually," he said, and fervently hoped it was true. "Besides, it's about a million times worse when Sherlock's here. You should see them all fawning over him."

"We have," Sally grimaced. "Speaking of which, where is Mr. Ballet today?"

John looked down at his watch. "Should be here soon, rehearsals ended a while ago for him."

"And Lestrade?" asked Clara.

Next to her, Julie grinned slyly. "I hear his new student's giving him a bit of trouble. Mini-Sherlock, they say."

John snorted. He didn't know how Beth would feel about that nickname, but she'd eagerly filled Sherlock's missing timeslot, and while Lestrade had been wary at first there was no denying the pride in his voice every time he talked about their upcoming performances, Beth's improvement - once, late on a weekend when it'd been just John and him at the quieting bar, Lestrade had taken out a photo of Molly.

"Two very different people," he'd said, slipping his thumb over the well-worn edges. He'd laughed. "Their own people, that's for sure."

John had nodded in agreement just from what he knew of Beth, watching the light go soft in his eyes.

"But, for a time. My dancing girls." He'd stared at it a few moments longer before shoving it back into his wallet, and then they'd moved on to talk about the match and Sherlock's training and a host of other things, but John hadn't forgotten the expression where it had sat on Lestrade's face. Like he'd found peace.

Shaking his head of the memory, John coughed, taking a sip to clear his throat and his head both. "He's probably on his way, too. I think they go late on Fridays."

For a moment, they all drank in silence. Around them, the night was just getting started, creeping in alongside the accountants, architects, doctors and journalists and teachers who blew through the doors with a heavy week on their shoulders. To shed your coat at The Amber was to shed the week and your skin both - here, they were all whoever they wanted to be, and all of them were here to dance under the watchful glow of dirty yellow lamplight, the smoky haze, the stirring jazz as it began to curl through the bar.

Sally seemed to sense it first. "Well, in the meanwhile," she said, stepping back from her chair. She flashed a predatory grin. "Any of you tossers on for a challenge?"

"A bit obviously not, but I'll be damned if I don't come watch." Clara struggled up from her seat, Sally helping get the crutches situated beneath her arms before, together, they set off for the social floor. Recovery had been slow for her, but she talked more and more every day about getting back into the scene. Watching the slow but firm shift of her bones as she rose to her feet, it was obvious that it wouldn't be long now.

Better still, Kitty had happily agreed to take them both on as teachers whenever Clara was healed again, and in a way John thought it was fitting - not partners, not ever again, but always dancing together. She caught his eye and smiled, impish as ever, just before disappearing into the crowd.

They made no moves to leave yet, but he knew Julie and Bill would be next. Leaning back in their chairs, they watched, whispering every once in a while to one another across the table, pointing out the moves of one couple, sniggering at those of another. Smiling crookedly, John risked a glance down at their intertwined hands while they were distracted. He sighed. Still no rings. At this rate, he and Sherlock would be there before they ever got around to it.

John's eyes rose, sweeping the room from floor to doors, and stopped.

At the bar, a long, lean familiar shape was lounging between the barstools, his back - still in his class attire, John noted - curved sinuous and casually disinterested beneath messy, twisting curls. At his side, a drink. Fingers drumming. In his other hand, a cigarette half-gone. Like he'd been waiting.

John rolled his eyes, but the smile that tugged at his lips was genuine. Maybe they'd beat Julie and Bill to the floor as well. "Excuse me," he said, slipping away without bothering to wait for their response.

He insinuated himself beside the man at the bar. He felt the comfortable press of the bones and muscle he'd come to know so well, and finally looked up at the side of that pale, smirking face.

"What's a high hattin' fella like yourself doin' in a sad joint like this, Jack?" he drawled.

The grooves at the corners of Sherlock's mouth deepened. He set down his drink, fixing John with an amused, wary eye, silver as a cat in the dark.

"What else do the rest of you saps come here to do," Sherlock said, releasing a breath of smoke.

John made a face. "Those'll kill you."

"Killjoy." He nonetheless extinguished it, flicking the remnants into an ashtray. "And here I was hoping you'd butt me," he said, looking at John from under his eyelashes.

"Maybe if you're lucky," John said, a hand coming up to rest on the hip digging into his side. Smoothly, Sherlock turned to face him, leaning down.

"Cash or check?" he murmured, and John answered him with a kiss, feeling the upward press of that infectious grin against his own. It was, he reflected, just enough to make the taste of tobacco worth it.

"You're getting good at that, you know," John remarked, dropping the accent. It'd been terrible anyway, but Sherlock didn't seem to mind, leaning just far enough away to tilt his head and look down at John, quietly assessing.

"I'm a hummer at this, John. I'm Ducky. Groovy."

"Sherlock -"

"A blip."

"Sher -"

"The bee's knees."

"Sherlock," he groaned, but he was laughing, Sherlock with the high flush of mischief arching over his cheekbones as he chuckled along. "I knew getting you into the lingo was a bad idea."

He tightened his grip along Sherlock's arms, and Sherlock shifted back down in response. "Why don't you just knock me a kiss with that pretty mouth, baby?" John whispered in his ear, dissolving into giggles when Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

"Bank's closed." His hand dropped to John's and squeezed. "How about a dance instead?"

"Thought you'd never ask."

Clara was propped on a table beside the floor, watching Sally take a few turns with a stranger, laughing and clapping along. On the opposite side, the kid who'd approached John earlier was doing some sort of lively solo to the hoots and laughter of his friends. Behind the dancers, sprawled over the stage, the band was just starting up - a warm-up growing steadily into easy riffs, careful improvisations, the members behind pianos and drums and trumpets all nodding along, sinking into their own rhythm.

"That kid asked me why we'd quit," he said as they made their way over.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. And then, abruptly, he stopped, turning back to John. The playfulness of before still lurked in his eyes, as precious and rare as it always was, but now it was cast in a careful scrutiny.

"I told him it was because we're the best. Not the best at what we do, but I mean -" he gripped Sherlock's hand tighter. "Us. You have the ballet and there's not time for us to compete, but you're the only one I'd ever want to dance with. You know that, right?"

"And you're happy with that?" Sherlock's eyes were questioning, roving over John's face. John would never call him vulnerable, and after so many false starts and mistakes they were comfortable with each other again, comfortable like they'd never even been before. But there were moments when he wondered if Sherlock still felt he had to atone for something.

That was the past. But this - this was their present, and their future.

John smiled, bringing up his hand to brush his lips over Sherlock's knuckles. "We are the best thing that has happened to me, and I couldn't be happier."

Sherlock swallowed, struck into silence. "After we dance," he tried at last, "I think I'm going to want to take you home."

"I think that can be arranged," John murmured, leaning in, and Sherlock met him in the middle.

When John began to feel the eyes of others on him, he pulled back breathlessly. For a moment, he simply stared, no words necessary, and Sherlock stared back. Sherlock's eyes were bright, his lips red, and his arms were still fast around John.

A partner's hands, always in his own, enough to pull them both together.

"Race you to the floor!" he teased, at last stepping out of his embrace and setting into a run. He heard Sherlock's surprised laughter just before he began to follow.

Following as he always had and as they knew he always would, as he whirled once more into the warm and perfect circle of John's arms under the cheering of the crowd, the floor solid and ready beneath their feet as they set off into the dance, held close, the both of them relentlessly together. Partners in every sense of the word.

- f i n

Acknowledgements:

First of all, to Alyssa. I was absolutely terrible about getting things to you on time, but when I did your feedback was so incredibly invaluable (and even then you were always so extraordinarily willing to help!). As a dancer I admire you for your knowledge and your incredible athleticism, as a friend I admire you for so much more. Your dedication and love have enriched my life more than you can possibly know, and I'm so happy this fic brought me closer to you.

And to Hannah - where do I even begin with you? Critical and compassionate eye, light of my whole life: so much of this story is a direct result of your brilliance. Thank you for chopping my dramatic bits, my ellipses... heh ;) But more than for what you take out, I thank you for what you bring into this whole process. You're the voice of reason when I need it, a conscious when I don't even realize I do, and above all you speak to the poetry in me in ways I doubt anyone else ever will. May our partnership continue for many a happy year to come. I am so blessed to know you!

Next, to Kelley, who - gosh - I just owe you everything. If not for a drawing, if not for you, I never would have begun one of the most crazy-heady-brilliant journeys of my life. You're the reason I started writing again, attempted another multichap; you're the reason I went to a swing dance lesson and had one of the best nights of my life! You're the reason for so many friendships that have happened as a result of this fic, including our own. My darling, so many thanks go out to your talent, so many more go out to your love. Thank you, a thousand times, thank you - both for what you bring to the fandom and what you've so graciously brought to me.

Lastly, a round of thanks to every single one of you who has reviewed or favorited or left comments or just been reading quietly along - it means so much more than the world to me that you've enjoyed this story, and now that the writing of it is done it belongs so much to you. Thank you, thank you, thank you - for your encouragement and your love.

I'm over on tumblr as wntrs if you ever want to keep chatting or are looking for updates on new fic projects. But for now, we say goodbye to this one. Thank you again for sharing in this incredible journey - I can't wait to see what new ones the future holds for us all.

Until then,

- anchors