Dance for the Undead
Notes: You know that time and place where I love to place Sherlock? Might have done it again. Realised I need to finish these so that I can move on. This follows Dinner, Dessert and Drinks. This is the second-to-last part.
Summary: It’s December 10 and Sherlock…Sherlock knows a place where you can dance.
-x-
As he approached, Sherlock took the time to notice that she was beautiful in her red gown. Irene did the same observation about him in his rented dinner jacket, but she always paid attention to how he looked.
The room was filled with music and people, not to mention the feeling of a real life fairy tale. It was hard to tell if the people in the Golden Hall were more intoxicated by the wine served at dinner or the surrealistic feeling the 18 million golden tiles on the walls created.
“Bond, James Bond, I presume,” Irene said when he bowed slightly, further blurring the line between reality and a late 19th century royal ball. Well, maybe this actually counted as a royal ball? Irene didn’t know and Sherlock didn’t care.
“Again with the spy movies?” Sherlock wondered as he got out his membership card.
“You should always wear a dinner jacket,” she commented, letting her eyes wander over him one more time before giving him the card back, “Rhododendron ponticum.”
“How did you figure it out?” Sherlock wondered as he put away the card. Why they continued with this charade was beyond Sherlock. Not to mention how confusing it was that he found it comforting to carry around a homemade membership card to the Undeads’ Club next to his picture of John.
She just smirked and brushed some imaginary dust off his shoulder, “This is quite extraordinary.”
“I said I knew a place,” he told her and allowed her to even correct his bowtie.
“I assumed that place was in London.”
Sherlock shrugged and held out his hand, “Dance with me, Ms Adler.”
Irene smiled and took his hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor. He placed a hand on her back - disappointingly, if you asked her, not inappropriately low - and she placed her hand on his shoulder, closing the distance between them.
He felt the scent of her perfume and she of his cologne, neither of them wore the same as they had when they’d first met in London. She didn’t care so much for his and he just noted that hers was more expensive than she could afford - a gift, then; business was going better he assumed.
“I don’t know the steps,” she admitted.
“It’s waltz,” Sherlock commented in a condescending manner and then rolled his eyes when he realised that she actually didn’t know the steps, “Good thing I lead.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, but followed him over the dance floor and for a moment, she actually felt like Cinderella.
“How can you not know waltz?” Sherlock wondered the second time she failed to follow his steps.
“I was raised in the late 20th century,” she explained, “How come you know it?”
Sherlock snorted, but a small smirk still managed to creep over his lips, “My parents believed they raised me in the late 19th century. I have a lot of unnecessary skills from my childhood that I haven’t been able to delete.”
“You poor thing.” She didn’t sound at all sympathetic and if she had, he’d probably have left her in the middle of the dance floor.
When the music stopped they let go of each other and it amused Sherlock that she actually curtsied; it didn’t really suit her, but she managed to make everything look elegant.
“I’m going to Boston the day after tomorrow,” he told her over the polite applauds everyone in the hall gave the musicians.
“Which one?”
He smirked and took her hand when the music started to play again. It annoyed her that he didn’t answer, but she forgot about that when he made a spin turn. It took all her concentration to just follow along and not step on his feet.
“It’s a bit unfair that I have to do this in heels - and backwards - when you’re the one who knows the steps,” she pointed out with a small laughter.
“Why would death be fair when life isn’t?”
He didn’t leave her time to answer before he turned her again and at the end of the night, both of them had smiled and laughed more than they’d ever done since they entered into the Undeads’ Club.
-x-
Lastly: Departure
Summary: It’s December 10 and Sherlock…Sherlock knows a place where you can dance.
-x-
As he approached, Sherlock took the time to notice that she was beautiful in her red gown. Irene did the same observation about him in his rented dinner jacket, but she always paid attention to how he looked.
The room was filled with music and people, not to mention the feeling of a real life fairy tale. It was hard to tell if the people in the Golden Hall were more intoxicated by the wine served at dinner or the surrealistic feeling the 18 million golden tiles on the walls created.
“Bond, James Bond, I presume,” Irene said when he bowed slightly, further blurring the line between reality and a late 19th century royal ball. Well, maybe this actually counted as a royal ball? Irene didn’t know and Sherlock didn’t care.
“Again with the spy movies?” Sherlock wondered as he got out his membership card.
“You should always wear a dinner jacket,” she commented, letting her eyes wander over him one more time before giving him the card back, “Rhododendron ponticum.”
“How did you figure it out?” Sherlock wondered as he put away the card. Why they continued with this charade was beyond Sherlock. Not to mention how confusing it was that he found it comforting to carry around a homemade membership card to the Undeads’ Club next to his picture of John.
She just smirked and brushed some imaginary dust off his shoulder, “This is quite extraordinary.”
“I said I knew a place,” he told her and allowed her to even correct his bowtie.
“I assumed that place was in London.”
Sherlock shrugged and held out his hand, “Dance with me, Ms Adler.”
Irene smiled and took his hand, letting him lead her to the dance floor. He placed a hand on her back - disappointingly, if you asked her, not inappropriately low - and she placed her hand on his shoulder, closing the distance between them.
He felt the scent of her perfume and she of his cologne, neither of them wore the same as they had when they’d first met in London. She didn’t care so much for his and he just noted that hers was more expensive than she could afford - a gift, then; business was going better he assumed.
“I don’t know the steps,” she admitted.
“It’s waltz,” Sherlock commented in a condescending manner and then rolled his eyes when he realised that she actually didn’t know the steps, “Good thing I lead.”
“Don’t get used to it,” she said, but followed him over the dance floor and for a moment, she actually felt like Cinderella.
“How can you not know waltz?” Sherlock wondered the second time she failed to follow his steps.
“I was raised in the late 20th century,” she explained, “How come you know it?”
Sherlock snorted, but a small smirk still managed to creep over his lips, “My parents believed they raised me in the late 19th century. I have a lot of unnecessary skills from my childhood that I haven’t been able to delete.”
“You poor thing.” She didn’t sound at all sympathetic and if she had, he’d probably have left her in the middle of the dance floor.
When the music stopped they let go of each other and it amused Sherlock that she actually curtsied; it didn’t really suit her, but she managed to make everything look elegant.
“I’m going to Boston the day after tomorrow,” he told her over the polite applauds everyone in the hall gave the musicians.
“Which one?”
He smirked and took her hand when the music started to play again. It annoyed her that he didn’t answer, but she forgot about that when he made a spin turn. It took all her concentration to just follow along and not step on his feet.
“It’s a bit unfair that I have to do this in heels - and backwards - when you’re the one who knows the steps,” she pointed out with a small laughter.
“Why would death be fair when life isn’t?”
He didn’t leave her time to answer before he turned her again and at the end of the night, both of them had smiled and laughed more than they’d ever done since they entered into the Undeads’ Club.
-x-
Lastly: Departure