Holy Shakespeare, animals and babies, you all went ape over this fic. Seriously, this has been the largest number of subscriptions and reviews I have received in so little a time. Of course, the demand that was made most was for a continuation, and so even though this was intended to be a oneshot, I'm more than happy to oblige.

Here we find our intrepid duo in the gypsies camp from Game of Shadows, compromised by circumstance and drink. Perhaps it's the surroundings or the late hour, but here they find themselves dancing once again, perhaps sharing something more than a waltz.

Oh, one last parting shot. There's a line of dialogue hidden below that's taken directly from a Broadway show; my current favorite. Anyone who can tell me the name of the show shall be awarded a garishly knitted scarf from Mary.

Please leave a review when you go. Curtain up!

It was the spring of 1901. Holmes was hot on the trail that Moriarty had left in his wake, dragging his reluctant partner along with him to France to hunt down a rouge gypsy revolutionary. Mary had been thrown out of a moving train, deposited in a river, and safely transported to Mycroft's home. She was undoubtedly bursting at the seams for information, feisty little thing that she was, and being subjected to his brother's various eccentricities probably wasn't helping her disposition.

Pity, Holmes thought, nursing his hedgehog stew and watching his partner barter with the gypsies on their own land, a very foolish thing to even attempt. She's really a very good girl, but of an excitable Welsh temperament…

He complemented their gypsy host on her atrociously inventive cooking, coming to terms with the fact that neither he or Watson were getting out of this camp any time tonight. Watson was doing his usual share of quiet blustering, going a little red in the face as he argued with the darkly beautiful woman who glared at him from her seat in the tent. After he had finally run out of protestations, Sim took pity on him and dragged him out of the tent by the hand and into the throng of gypsy partygoers outside.

"Whatever you do, don't let these gypsies make you drink," Holmes said "For God's sake don't dance. You know how you get when you dance."

Of course, he had said it with the devil's intent and cynic's sarcasm, knowing full and well what would happen when the band was struck up and wine was passed round. Outside, a Romany violin wailed out a sprightly jig.

So Holmes shimmied his shoulders a bit and finished his stew, smiling to himself. Tonight would be nothing if not interesting.

Half an hour later, the party had worked itself up to a rolling boil. Holmes had joined the festivities and was shooting whatever anyone put into his hand and dancing for a delighted crowd of gypsy children. He was attempting to teach them some sort of flamenco, it appeared. Watson was working very hard at completely obliterating any sobriety he had left while playing mahjong with an equally intoxicated fur trader. A raucous crowd looked on approvingly, thoroughly enjoying the entertainment the Englishman had brought to them, and Holmes noted that they had robbed him blind without him ever noticing. The detective also had no doubt that they would return at least half in the morning out of goodwill; they had actually taken a shine to his uppity companion.

The music suddenly shifted into a steady, rhythmic pattern, and everyone cheered and began to partner up. Apparently it was a local favorite. Watson was pulled up by a and urged into the dancing circle, and Holmes paused in his lesson to watch this with some amusement. The doctor laughed and protested them away, but he was in no state to deny himself a dance, truth be told.

Suddenly, Holmes received a sharp shove from behind as a gypsy child with long, swinging braids sent him headlong him into the dance. He slammed bodily into Watson, who, delusionaly merry with sleep deprivation and drink, swept him into an awkward, sped up waltz. The gypsy child clambered nimbly up a nearby tree to where her curly-headed friend sat, munching on a baguette. They grinned widely, giggling and chattering in their native Romany, and Holmes glared at the both of them.

"Dance with 'im, Londoner!" The one with braids cried, and Holmes rolled his eyes, unable to bite back a small smile. Then he surrendered himself fully to the dance, swinging and twirling his favorite doctor around the bonfire. Watson was a bit awkward, as always, but he followed well, strikingly blue eyes set alight by the flames and starlight. Holmes found that he couldn't stop smiling.

When they passed the tree again, the baguette-eating gypsy girl threw down a embroidered scarf to the pair, laughing as it fluttered onto Holmes's head. A passerby fastened the scarf round their right and left wrists, fastening one side of their bodies together. The music was slowing, and Holmes noticed with some amusement that all the dancers left around the bonfire were young sweethearts. They tied scarves round their wrist in a similar fashion, sinking into a slower, more intimate dance.

Watson wiggled his hand underneath the ties that bound.

"Wassat for?"

"I believe it's some sort of social ritual," Holmes replied, quite familiar with the custom, as it happened. "They call it the lover's dance."

Watson blinked groggily, some suspicion creeping through the haze of alcohol and adrenaline. "What do they mean lovers, hmm?"

"I thought the term was fairly self-explanatory, old boy," He muttered, voice suddenly so soft and moving at such a fast pace that it almost seemed embarrassed. "A pair of devoted souls who are intoxicated by the very presence of the other and can't stand to be apart for more than a moment."

"Very poetic," Watson noted, taken a bit aback.

Holmes waved it away with his free hand. "It's only the wine. You don't mind me stealing this dance, doctor?" He continued, his voice suddenly biting and intuitive. "Or does it injure your Victorian sense of propriety?"

"Oh, shut up Holmes," Watson slurred, firm with his erratic friend as ever. "We're a long way from London. Don't disturb me now, I can see the answers…Till this evening is this morning, life is fine."

"Fine," Holmes smiled, pulling his companion closer. "Quite right."

So they swayed by the light of the fire and the kiss of the moon, Watson near enough to Holmes to lay his chin on the other man's shoulder, and they danced a lovers dance, much to the delight of the gypsy girls in the trees.

After the last strains of wailing violin and slinky tambourine and faded away, the crowd cheered, and all the couples kissed, then threw their scarves into the air. Neither man noticed; they were content in the warmth of one another's arms. But Holmes' came crashing back into reality when acrorns started hitting him in the head. He looked up, and he pair of gypsy girls cackled with glee.

"Oi, Londoner! Kiss 'im! Come on, kiss 'im!"

Watson looked up, scowling petulantly at the girls. "Holmes, what are they-?"

But he was quickly cut off by the fact that Holmes had dipped his head and pressed his lips against Watson's own. They only touched for a moment, electric as it was, but it gave Holmes enough time to wriggle his wrist out of the scarf, throw it into the air, and nod towards Watson's pocket.

"They've stolen your purse, old boy. Better see to that."

Watson, stunned as he was, glanced down at his pockets, but by the time he looked up to demand an explanation for Holmes's frankly appalling behavior, the man had disappeared into the crowd. Watson spied him a few moments later dancing with a gypsy girl on the other side of the encampment, perfectly at home with all the steps memorized. An eager young thing that spoke no English took hold of Watson's hand, gave him a drink off her flask, and pulled him back into the whirling mass of dancers.

The rest of the night was a blur.

The next morning Watson woke in a swirl of heavy quilts and gypsy scarves with a splitting headache. Holmes was already up, sitting serenely cross-legged on the floor of the tent and sipping a distinguished cup of tea.

"Holmes?" Watson slurred, lifting his head a few inches off the blankets. Holmes pushed it back into a nearby rabbit pelt and sighed.

"You'll be having a hangover now, and it doesn't take a man like me to see it. Best not to talk, old friend."

Watson disobeyed of course, rolling onto his back with an agonized groan. He dimly noticed that he had somehow managed to loose a shoe and his waistcoat between the bonfire outside and his bed in Sim's tent.

"Holmes, what the hell happened last night?"

"I dragged your sleeping form into the tent and dropped you unceremoniously on Sim's floor, which she was generous enough to lend to our cause. Before that…You drank. Excessively. Gambled. Poorly. And danced…well, it was damn good entertainment, if in a pitying sort of sad way."

"Oh yeah," The blonde man murmured, dragging a hand across his stubble. Than he shot up a little too suddenly, hair sticking up at unnatural angles, eyes wide. "Holmes, we-" Then the hangover hit. "Oh God…"

The detective was at his friends side in an instant, shoving the cup of tea in his hands and cradling his head in a hand.

"Drink."

"But I-"

"Do as I say, Watson."

The man grudgingly obeyed, drinking deeply before sputtering in disgust.

"It's alcohol!"

Holmes raised a dark eyebrow, raking his free hand through his disheveled hair. "Well obviously. What do you use to cut through the morning after fog?"
"Holmes, let's be serious for a moment," Watson muttered, setting down the hot concoction of whiskey and God-know-what-else and sitting up a little straighter. He sighed heavily, face scrunched up in pain and embarrassment.

"Last night, you and I…Well, we danced, old boy, and then you-"

Holmes was suddenly on his feet, tucking in his unsalvageably wrinkled shirt and pacing the room swiftly. "Sharpness of memory does not fail you even in your weakened state, dearest Watson, I find that trait invaluable."

"Holmes, please-"

"I was merely entertaining local custom in a foreign place," The detective continued, not missing a beat as he snapped on his suspenders and snatched up Watson's waistcoat off the floor. "To decline doing so would be rude and inhospitable, we need these people to know that we are friends-"

"But you kissed me," Watson said. Slowly, firmly. Holmes paused, fingers fumbling on the tiny buttons of the waistcoat.

"So I did. Did you find it…Objectionable?"

Watson opened his mouth to speak, then thought better of it and hauled himself up off the floor. He ached all over, except for his lips, which still carried some sort of phantom tingle.

"That's my waistcoat, you know."

Holmes smirked knowingly. "I thought we agreed it was too small for you. Come now." He tossed a floppy hat to the discombobulated man, snapping a festive gypsy scarf around his own neck. "Dress up nice and pretty now, darling, our gypsy friends know a man who can sneak us into Moriarty's camp."

Then he slipped out the tent flap, whistling a Romany tune. Watson smirked, a little of his hangover evaporating as he followed the other man out into the crisp morning. Oh, Holmes.

Reviews, my lovelies?