FIC: Pas de Deux

[mithen]

Title: Pas de Deux
Pairing/Characters: John/Sherlock, Sherlock's parents
Rating: PG-13
Warnings/Spoilers: None
Fandom: BBC Sherlock
Summary: John comes home to find Sherlock ignoring the two clients sitting on the couch, and soon finds himself dealing with a plethora of Holmeses.
Word Count: 4800



"They were out of raspberry, so it's going to have to be strawb--oh, hello." John stood in the door to 221B, his bags of groceries still hoisted in the air, and took in the tableau before him.

A man and woman in formal evening dress sat on the couch, their posture ramrod-straight. The woman's hands were folded tidily in her lap, while the man's long fingers were drumming slightly on the arm of the couch.

Sherlock Holmes was in his blue dressing-gown, sitting sideways in his chair and using its arm as a backrest, bare feet dangling over the other arm, ignoring the clients entirely.

"Um, I'm sorry," stammered John, waving a burdened hand in Sherlock's direction and raising his eyebrows with an apologetic grimace.

The woman got to her feet and drifted toward John. She only came up to his shoulder, and her snow-white hair was swept into a bun, with a few loose tendrils framing a heart-shaped face etched with fine wrinkles. Her eyes were a gray so pale it was almost lilac, and when she smiled her face lit up as if from within. "You must be Dr. Watson," she said as John hastily put his groceries down, and clasped his hands in hers. Her voice sounded like fine porcelain painted with cabbage roses.

"Yes, uh. It's a pleasure to meet you," he said, waiting for someone to supply a name.

The man unfolded himself from the sofa and extended his hand to John. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Dr. Watson."

John shot another look at Sherlock, who was still sitting with his back toward them. Apparently no introductions, then. "Thank you, thank you. And you are here..."

He let the sentence trail off questioningly, raising his eyebrows, and the man clasped his hand warmly and said, "For Giselle, of course."

"Of course," John said, nodding as if he had any idea what was being discussed. The nod went on slightly too long for comfort, but he wasn't sure exactly what else to do. "Giselle."

At this point Sherlock apparently decided he'd had enough of pretending the room was empty, because he burst into a flurry of motion, leapt from the chair in what seemed to be all directions at once, and took John's elbow in that way that meant Come with me. Now. "Excuse us," he said without looking at the clients, and waltzed John into the kitchen.

"I'll--we'll be right back," John managed to say before he was abducted entirely.

"So?" Sherlock paced across the kitchen and back, his eyes darting toward the sitting room. He crossed his arms, his fingers drumming on his upper arms. "What do you think?"

He hadn't been living with Sherlock Holmes without picking up a few tricks. "They're wealthy, obviously. Old money, based on their clothing choices. The man is strict--his hair has a natural curl but he's got it slicked back so severely that you could hardly tell. And the smudge of black on his collar--hair dye, he's a bit vain and doesn't want to show his gray. The woman is somewhat old-fashioned--few women over fifty wear their hair long anymore. They've been married at least a few decades, based on the state of their wedding rings."

Sherlock's face was caught somewhere between "blank" and "dubious," but that was better than openly mocking, so John kept going. "I'd say she's got two children, with birthdays in January and September." He was fairly proud of that one. "You probably spotted it--that birthstone brooch. Far too tacky to be anything other than of sentimental value. I'd guess a gift from one of her children, when they were still too young to realize it didn't match what Mother usually wore. She obviously loves her children very much or she'd never wear something so chintzy. I can't figure out what exactly the case they're here about is, but I assume it has something to do with this 'Giselle' person."

"Case?" Sherlock's face crumpled into disbelief. "Why would my parents be hiring me for a case, John?"

"Your--" John sputtered, coughed, tried again, "--I thought your parents were dead!"

The low murmur of conversation from the sitting room stopped abruptly, and Sherlock shot him a disgusted look. "Why in the world would you think that?"

John bit back his chagrin. "Because you never mentioned them?" he hissed.

"Just because I don't feel the need to talk incessantly about my family doesn't mean they're dead," Sherlock retorted without lowering his voice.

"I don't talk incessantly about my family!"

"Did I say you did? I mean, most people do, it's quite annoying, but--"

"--Sherlock?" The woman--oh God, Mrs. Holmes--sounded faintly apologetic. "I do hate to interrupt, but what about Giselle?"

"Giselle," Sherlock said, as other people might say "smallpox." (John had heard Sherlock say "smallpox," and he said it as other people might say "Chocolate? For me?") "Right." With a touch between John's shoulderblades he steered him back to the sitting room. "The cab should be here any minute now. You'd better get changed." A quick pivot, and he was gone to his own room.

"Changed?" Usually when Sherlock-related events seemed to be spiralling so completely out of control, John was in some kind of mortal peril. Instead, Mrs. Holmes was patting his arm and smiling up at him.

"You can't go to the ballet like that, Dr. Watson."

"The ballet?"

"Giselle!" Mr. Holmes frowned at him as if he was concerned that his son's flatmate was tragically dim. "We come to London every year for the Royal Ballet, of course."

"Sherlock didn't tell me about any of this," John stammered.

"Oh, I'm sure he mentioned it," Mrs. Holmes murmured like a turtledove. "Now just run along and change."

John found himself ineffably wafted up to his room, where he found--of course--a tuxedo laid across his bed. "Probably mentioned it while I wasn't around," he grumbled. "I should just chuck it down the stairs at them all."

But he remembered Mrs. Holmes' luminous smile--how had he not realized who she was with that smile, so like the rare heartfelt smile of his detective--and sighed, pulling off his jumper.

The real difficulty was that he had no idea what Sherlock had told his parents about him. It seemed altogether possible that he had described John as his flatmate. It was just slightly possible he had told them John was a friend. John supposed there was a chance he had referred to John as his boyfriend, although that seemed unlikely.

Most terrifyingly, considering it was Sherlock, John wasn't absolutely certain that he hadn't casually mentioned that while John's hand jobs could still use some work, his blowjob technique was unparallelled.

So many things remained alarmingly uncertain when dealing with Sherlock Holmes, John reflected glumly.

Fifteen minutes later he clomped down the stairs once more to find Mrs. Holmes adjusting Sherlock's bow tie while Sherlock gazed at the ceiling with a martyred look on his face. "There," she said, patting the bow. "You look marvelous, dear." She turned to see John. "And you look...properly attired," she said politely.

"Well, that's good," said John with a grin, unable to take offense at such an oddly-worded insult. "It wouldn't do to go to the ballet naked, would it?"

"--Mother," groaned Sherlock as if he were interrupting her. John blinked.

"Your mother can tell the story if she wants to," said Mr. Holmes. He seemed to take pity on glimpsing John's confused face. "Sherlock hates it when his mother mentions it."

"I'm sure Dr. Watson already knows all about it," said Mrs. Holmes.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Why in God's name would I have told him about it?"

"Perhaps Mycroft did?"

"Not if he valued his life," muttered Sherlock.

"I'm sorry?" said John. He was beginning to suspect that he was going to remain several steps behind the Holmes family at all times. He should be used to it by now, but adding more Holmeses was only making things more bewildering.

"Oh, when Sherlock was six--"

"--Here's our cab," Sherlock said, looking out the window. He took his mother by the arm and began to usher her down the stairs.

"--he decided that clothing was illogical," he mother continued, looking back over her shoulder at John as they descended. "Are you sure he hasn't told you about this?"

"Quite sure," said John, stifling an evil grin at the look on Sherlock's face.

"Well, he refused to wear anything at all around the house for perhaps six months. We did manage to convince him that when he went to school he had to wear something, but even that was a struggle."

"--Cab, cab, the cab is here," Sherlock caroled, striding forward and opening the door for his mother. "Yes, let's go, everybody in."

"Oh, do sit next to me, Dr. Watson," Mrs. Holmes said, patting the seat next to her. John slid in by her and Sherlock sat next to him, leaving the front seat to Mr. Holmes. "Anyway--"

John felt Sherlock smother a sigh next to him.

"--I can still remember his little announcement to me," Mrs. Holmes remarked as the cab pulled away from the kerb. "He said to me, 'Mother, clothing exists to protect us from the elements, and as there are no elements inside, I don't see the purpose.'"

"Gave Cook conniptions," Mr. Holmes said from the front seat.

"I thought he was adorable," Mrs. Holmes said fondly, "Running around with his little dangly--"

"Mother!" Sherlock's voice was anguished, the universally human tone of children dealing with exasperating mothers. He pinched the bridge of his nose and exhaled loudly, composing himself. "Why don't you tell John about your Graphium stresemanni?"

Mrs. Holmes clapped her hands together and bounced slightly. "Oh, yes! I just came back from--"

"--I do hope you have photos of little Sherlock," John said, then stifled a yelp as long fingers pinched his side.

"Oh, of course I do, I'll have to--"

"--Graphium stresemanni?" Sherlock repeated firmly.

"Oh my, yes, I have my purple-spotted swallowtail at last," Mrs. Holmes said, smiling at John in beatific triumph.

It turned out that Sherlock's mother was an avid collector of butterflies, and was just back from a trip to an Indonesian island to capture a rare specimen she had always wanted. "Such a perfect example, such exquisite patterning, the purples and the blacks in such splendid contrast--I do believe it rivals my Ornithoptera aesacus, the prize of my collection."

"My favorite was always the Morpho peleides," Sherlock said.

"Oh, the blue morpho," his mother said rapturously. "Such a transcendent, iridescent blue. Quite heavenly."

"The caterpillars of Morpho peleides are sometimes cannibalistic," Sherlock observed, looking out the cab window. "And the adult butterflies will drink the body fluids of animal corpses."

"Oh Sherlock," his mother said, and reached across John to swat him affectionately on the arm. "My ghoulish little boy." She beamed at John. "He always comes up with the most fascinating things, doesn't he?"

Sherlock looked straight ahead, but there was a spot of color on the cheek John could see and he was almost smiling.

"Yes," said John, looking at him. "Yes, he does."

The cab pulled up in front of the Royal Opera House and Sherlock leaped from the cab; John followed him and turned to help Mrs. Holmes from the car.

As Sherlock's parents collected their tickets, John found himself alone for a moment with Sherlock--well, relatively alone, as they were still surrounded by throngs of people, of course. John glanced at where Sherlock was fussing with his cufflinks and tried to figure out how to get a direct answer about how much his parents knew about their relationship, but didn't have a chance to say anything before Sherlock said in a low voice, "I'm so sorry about my mother, she's always like this."

John blinked. "She seems a nice enough person. I don't mind if she goes on about butterflies a bit."

"Not the butterflies." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I mean with the touching."

"The--what?"

"She's always getting into people's personal space and pawing at them. Mycroft and I have begged her to restrain herself, but I'm afraid you're rather getting the brunt of it tonight."

John rummaged back through his memories of the evening. "I...hadn't noticed."

"Well, I suppose with your more phlegmatic and placid disposition--" Sherlock broke off with a bright smile as his parents approached them again, and they were off to their seats.

Sherlock veered him a quick glance and tiny gesture to enter the aisle after his parents, and John found himself sitting between Mrs. Holmes on the left and Sherlock on the right.

The first notes of the ballet began and he still didn't know if Mrs. Holmes was aware that he and Sherlock were more than friends. Or even if they were friends at all.

The ballet was good--or so John assumed, based on Mrs. Holmes's reactions. Mostly it seemed quite a lot of dancing. The ethereal peasant girl Giselle fell in love with the nobleman-in-disguise Albrecht, despite the warnings of the jealous Hilarion. When Hilarion found Albrecht's horn and sword and revealed to the company that Giselle's lover was a duke--and already engaged to a princess--Giselle went fetchingly mad and died gracefully in Albrecht's remorseful arms. The curtain fell to thunderous applause (John heard an exasperated sigh to his right), and the lights came up for the intermission.

"Oh Sherlock," said Mrs. Holmes, "Don't you--"

"--No," said Sherlock. "I do not."

"Don't take that tone with your mother, young man," Mr. Holmes said warningly, and Sherlock shot him a rather sulky look.

"I still have some pictures of Sherlock as Albrecht," Mrs. Holmes said over Sherlock's aggrieved noises. "I'll share them with you sometime, Dr. Watson."

"I'm--" John had to stop and swallow a disbelieving giggle, "I'm sorry, Sherlock as Albrecht? Are you saying that Sherlock did ballet?"

"Brilliant deduction, John," muttered Sherlock, gazing fixedly into the distance. "I can tell you're really getting the hang of my Method."

"Oh yes, he took lessons for five or six years. He had such a natural build for it, and such technical skill."

"The technical aspects were an interesting challenge," Sherlock said with the air of one making a shameful confession. "The self-control and concentration required were...sometimes soothing."

"But ballet is about more than technical skill," Mrs. Holmes said, her voice singsong as if the words were not her own. "A dancer needs to be able to connect with his partner, there needs to be passion and empathy, the ability to express yearning and remorse and...well, all that." She sniffed. "Or so his teachers said, I never quite understood their problem. I think Sherlock could have been a masterful dancer if he'd stayed with it."

"The boy could have mastered just about anything if he had simply stuck with one thing instead of dabbling," Mr. Holmes said. He peered across his wife and John at his son. "Wasting his time and talents with all this flitting and frittering about London."

"Hey," John said as Sherlock opened his mouth, "We found a kidnapped child and stopped a serial rapist this month while you were off in Indonesia chasing butterflies. So just lay off."

Graying eyebrows shot up, and Mr. Holmes laughed, a short bark. "Well!" He looked at Sherlock. "Your friend's got some spunk in him, doesn't he?"

"From time to time," murmured Sherlock, and John shot him a murderous glance.

"You're a scrappy little fellow," Mr. Holmes said. "What do you--"

"--He is at least usually punctual, unlike some people I could name," Sherlock said. "You nearly missed the train to London again, didn't you? Working on repairing one of your music boxes and you lost track of time as usual. It's easy enough to tell," he went on, tossing his head slightly. "The spacing of the fresh scratches on the back of your hand indicates the keys of a music box cylinder. The bit of varnish under your fingernails. And Mother has a hole in her stocking from that nail that sticks up a bit on the floor of your repair room--she'd only go there if you were so close to missing the train that she had to remind you. You'd left her waiting in the entryway once again, and she finally took her shoes off and hurried back to find you without putting her slippers on." He shot John a sly and triumphant look. "He always talks constantly about the importance of punctuality, but then he always makes us wait while he works on his latest project."

"Sigur!" Mrs. Holmes looked outraged. "How could you!"

"Now, Violet--"

But Mrs. Holmes was not to be placated. "You and your silly games--I didn't complain when you put varnish under your fingernails, and I bit my tongue when you deliberately scratched yourself, but to rip my stockings without telling me--" She twisted her leg to glare down at the run creeping up the back of her calf. "All to score points on your own son, I swear you're such a child sometimes."

"Father," said Sherlock, "I've told you, the method doesn't work with such perverse behavior."

Mr. Holmes crossed his arms, his face arranging into rather familiar sulky lines. "Well, aren't you supposed to be catching just the kind of people who would do things like that?"

Sherlock opened his mouth, then closed it again. John remembered a carefully-chosen pair of pants and well-manicured hands and grimaced.

"Do you know what's most funny?" Mrs. Holmes said to John, pointedly ignoring both her husband and son. "He was working so hard at creating his little swarm of red herrings that he was almost late for the train and I did have to go fetch him, the ridiculous man."

John couldn't help it: his snort of laughter made the person in front of him turn around and glare, which launched him into helpless giggles. Mrs. Holmes was laughing too, a much more genteel little giggle behind her hand; and after a moment bother Sherlock and his father joined in.

John was still struggling to get himself under control when the lights went down again. As the curtain rose, he felt Sherlock grip his knee and stage-whisper, "We can't giggle at the ballet!" Which didn't help matters at all, but the second act did start with John in a notably better mood (especially since Sherlock left his hand on his knee).

The second act featured the Wilis, ghosts of women who had died of heartbreak, driving Hilarion to dance to exhaustion in vengeance for Giselle. After throwing him in the lake to drown, they turned their wrath on Albrecht, forcing him to dance as well. Thanks to Mrs. Holmes, now for every jeté or plié John could only imagine a younger Sherlock on the stage, all long legs and streamlined (and tight) tights. He couldn't seem to decide if the image was ludicrous or sexy, but by the end of Albrecht's grand pas de deux with Giselle's spirit he had concluded that Sherlock was capable of being both simultaneously. The ghost of Giselle appealed to the Wilis, saving Albrecht with the purity of her love, and the curtain closed on Albrecht kneeling alone on the stage, lost in numinous remorse.

John tried to imagine Sherlock emoting that level of awestruck wonder and almost snorted out loud, but he applauded politely as the curtain calls were made.

"Are we not getting a cab?" he asked as they walked out into the night and everyone but him made a right turn down the street.

"But we always get gelato after the ballet," Mrs. Holmes said as if explaining to a child.

"I'm not a mind-reader, you know," John grumbled, but hurried to catch up to Sherlock, who was striding along. He took Sherlock's sleeve just in time to navigate him away from a stroller, then dodged right to avoid Sherlock's lurch.

"There's no pattern," he said in a low voice to Sherlock, who was staring down at the pavement. "Just walk straight."

"I don't understand why they use different colored paving stones if there's no pattern," Sherlock said peevishly. "See, it goes light-dark-dark light-dark-dark, but then it's dark again--why?" He skipped over the darker piece of pavement, turning to glare back at it as though it had personally offended him.

"It's just pavement," said John, matching his strides. When Sherlock didn't have a case to focus on he tended to get snarled up in trying to figure out patterns where there were none. John had gotten good by now at guessing where Sherlock was going to bob to and adjust accordingly.

"It's annoying."

"We're losing your folks," John said. "Hold up." Sherlock's pace slowed somewhat. "Did you like the ballet?" John asked back over his shoulder to Mrs. Holmes.

"Oh, very much," she said, and began to analyze the performance, but John found the conversation back on the topic of butterflies fairly soon somehow. As she expounded on her preferred handmade killing jar and the superiority of potassium cyanide over ethyl acetate as a killing agent, John tried to keep pace with Sherlock. It was...exasperating, walking with other people. When it was just the two of them, they seemed able to move along without problems, without obstacles, quick and easy and light. When you added other people to the mix suddenly everything became limping and awkward, and Sherlock kept tripping over fire hydrants and small dogs as they tried to integrate his parents into the conversation. Eventually Sherlock started explaining which of the ballet troupe was dating whom and how he knew, ignoring his parents and charging ahead with his hands waving about. John shot an apologetic look back at his parents, who smiled with some amusement, and picked up his pace to stay by Sherlock's side and listen to his unified theory of tulle placement and toe shoe wear patterns.

And so they came to the gelato shop, where Mr. Holmes immediately ordered a pistachio, a dark chocolate sorbet, and an orange cream--"Father," Sherlock huffed, "You know I haven't eaten their orange cream since they changed the recipe. I've had the coffee and chocolate chip for the last twenty years, I'd think you'd remember by now. You might try observing something beyond your precious music boxes."

"Good grief," sighed Mr. Holmes. "Are you going to threaten to run off and become a pirate again because I didn't remember your favorite ice cream?"

"I did not--"

"Boys." Mrs. Holmes didn't raise her voice, but they both fell silent. There was an unfamiliar expression on Sherlock's face, mirrored in his father's--John would have called it "sheepish" if his mind could have wrapped around the idea of a sheepish Sherlock. "You haven't even asked Dr. Watson what flavor he'd like."

"Stracchiatella," said Sherlock. "He usually would order the dulce de leche but tonight he's in the mood for something with a little chocolate in it."

John shrugged and smiled a little as Mrs. Holmes looked at him. "He's right."

"Stracchiatella it is, then," said Mr. Holmes. "So what did you think of Giselle?" he asked John as he handed him his cone and they stepped back out into the warm summer evening.

"It's a stupid story," Sherlock said between quick, fastidious licks of his cone. Mr. Holmes started to say something, but Sherlock spoke over him: "The real hero, of course, is Hilarion."

"What, the ars--I mean, the jerk who gave away Albrecht's secret and broke Giselle's heart?" John said.

"Exactly. Consider," Sherlock said, waving his coffee gelato, his voice sharpening into familiar staccato. "Albrecht was already engaged. He had no intention of leaving his fiancée. Giselle's so-called love for him was based on nothing but deception. Hilarion observes the clues--most likely his uncalloused hands, the different cut of his clothing, his overly-refined mannerisms--and concludes correctly that the duke is toying with Giselle's affections. He goes out and obtains conclusive proof for his hypothesis and brings the truth to light." Scowling, Sherlock took a vicious bite of his gelato. "And what does he get for his devotion to the truth? Thrown in a lake by a pack of murderous Tinkerbelles."

"The poor girl does die of grief," his mother pointed out.

"I should think the blame for that could be better placed with the dishonest and untrue duke than the person who tried to warn her," Sherlock said. "But no, Albrecht is sorry, he is wrung with theatrical remorse, and so of course he gets away with what is practically murder because he musters up some tears and a sad face." Sherlock kicked savagely at a bit of paper on the pavement. "It's not fair."

Mrs. Holmes looked at John. "Actually, I think he's got a point," said John.

"Of course I do," muttered Sherlock, polishing off his cone in three quick bites. "Now, I believe we'll walk you to the station and see you off here. I see that you'll be off to Switzerland in a few days and I know how Mother needs time to pack." He glanced at his father. "On the hunt for another music box?"

"Oh yes," said Mr. Holmes. "I'm nearly done repairing the last one so I thought I'd better find a new project. Took me eight months," he said to John. "When I'm done you two should come up and see it."

"Hm," said Sherlock. "Maybe."

"Did your parents travel like this when you were a child?" John asked Sherlock. "You must have seen a lot of the world."

"No," Sherlock said, "I was usually at school. And when I wasn't, I could take care of myself. Mycroft would check in on me until I was old enough to be on my own, maybe ten or so."

"So...you were alone in the house for so long?"

"It wasn't like I was a baby, John," Sherlock said. "And there was still Cook and the rest, I was hardly all alone. I always found it rather restful, actually."

John had a sudden image of a solemn-eyed, small Sherlock wandering through dark halls lined with butterflies, the sound of a music box playing somewhere, and shivered.

Mrs. Holmes quickened her pace slightly until she was nearly caught up with John; he slowed to match her smaller strides, stifling a twinge as he fell away from Sherlock's side. "I'm afraid Sherlock and his brother didn't have the most orthodox upbringing, Dr. Watson," she murmured. "I wonder sometimes if they didn't grow up just a trifle--well--odd."

John looked down at her abstracted frown as she watched her son, as if she were pondering some rare iridescent butterfly. The tacky little birthstone pin glinted from her silk collar. He cleared his throat. "I've always found orthodox to be overrated, myself."

She looked up at him and smiled. "What a lovely thing to say, my dear boy." John bobbed awkwardly in the luminescence of her approval and understood for the first time why Mycroft and Sherlock would be so horrified at the idea of upsetting this woman.

At the station, Sherlock shook hands with his father and mother; John followed suit. As Sherlock and his father began to discuss train schedules, Mrs. Holmes turned to John and said, "It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Watson."

"John. You can call me John," he said awkwardly.

She patted him on the arm, a moth-light touch. "John, then. And I just wanted you to know that I'm so pleased that Sherlock has started dancing again."

"Dance? I--I'm afraid you're mistaken, he doesn't dance."

The discussion of train schedules had developed into a full-scale argument on an entirely different topic between Sherlock and his father. Sherlock glanced at John out of the corner of his eye, the quick darting look that meant come over here and back me up on this, and John moved to be at his side before he realized he was doing it.

"Really?" said Mrs. Holmes as Sherlock reached out to gather him into the conversation, the arc of his arm aligned with the curve of John's shoulders, not touching but always in sync. "That's strange."

John caught a glimpse of her smile, puzzled and fond.

"Because I've never seen him dance so beautifully."