This is in response to one of the lovely prompts I received today! It blossomed into what I hope will be an entertaining story for you! (and I undoubtedly will be using many of the other prompts—they're just too good to waste). This takes place just a little before series 2:)

Enjoy!

VVVVV

Only a Dance

Alydia Rackham

"No."

Sherlock frowned into his microscope, then glanced slightly up and to the right at his flatmate. John swiped the newspaper off the kitchen table and flapped it open loudly, hiding his face.

"That was a rather vehement answer," Sherlock remarked.

"Whelp, it's the only answer you're gonna get," John said through the paper. Sherlock sat up straighter, his frown deepening.

"It's only a party."

"It's a ball," John slapped the paper shut, folded it and looked straight back at Sherlock, raising his eyebrows. Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"A party with longer dresses."

"There is dancing, Sherlock," John pointed out. Sherlock sighed, and leaned his face back into the microscope, letting the bright circles of light consume his vision.

"Yes, there is usually dancing at a ball."

"Yes, and I'll not be going dancing with a man."

"So take a woman," Sherlock suggested.

"Oh yes? Who?" John snapped, tossing the paper down on the table and folding his arms. "You've managed to scare every single one of them off."

Sherlock smirked.

"And what would you be doing all the while, hm? If I could get a date?" John went on. "Skulking around corners, looking entirely suspicious and anti-social? You yourself said that this gentleman's peculiar penchant has to be found out by talking to his friends. And that doesn't mean grabbing them by their shirt collars or breaking into the upstairs apartments. You have to be polite, engaging—normal. And at this sort of thing, it helps if you have a pretty lady with you, not some guy."

"Pretty ladies don't help anything," Sherlock muttered. "They only distract."

"Distract who?" John countered. "The other people, or you?"

Sherlock looked up at him without moving his head.

"You really oughtn't wear such a violent-patterned sweater. It hurts my eyes and doesn't do you any good, either."

John huffed and searched the heavens.

"I'm not going with you unless we both have dates. But I've got no prospects, and the chances of our digging up even one girl who would be willing to spend an evening with you…" He sighed, and shook his head. "And if we can only get one girl between us, then she'll have to go with you, since you seem to know what you're looking for and you won't tell me—"

"You are making this much more complicated than it is," Sherlock cut in, focusing the microscope. "This is not a social engagement, it is a robbery investigation, and as usual I would appreciate your assistance in the process."

John's mouth tightened—Sherlock saw it out of the corner of his vision—and his flatmate went up on his toes for an instant. Then, he turned and walked stiffly into the sitting room. Sherlock returned his attention to his specimen. Studied it for several minutes, pulled back and turned to scribble a few notes on an already-full piece of notebook paper, then pulled out a clean slide to start anew.

"Here," John came marching back into the kitchen, shoving Sherlock's own phone at him.

"What, I'm busy," Sherlock set the slide down on the table with a click.

"No, you're not," John pushed the phone at his face. "It's ringing."

"Ringing who—?" Sherlock couldn't help but take hold of the phone—it was an inch away from his ear, anyhow. The phone at the other end rang once. Sherlock looked at John sharply.

"What are you doing?" he hissed.

"Assisting," John answered. Sherlock opened his mouth to retort—

"Hello?"

A light, slightly surprised feminine voice spoke into his ear.

His face cleared. He sat up straight.

"Molly."

"Sherlock!" she cried. "Um…Hi! What…Is everything okay? Do you need something at the lab?"

"No, not at the moment," Sherlock faked a half smile whilst sending a withering glare at John. John just lifted his chin and folded his arms again. Sherlock narrowed his eyes to slits.

"Well, I…Um…What's going on?"

Sherlock ground his teeth. But there was nothing for it now. John had laid a perfect trap.

"I'm working on a case," he began. "Involving a certain billionaire Alfred Tombs and his two sons, Adam and Wilson. Alfred Tombs is very ill and isn't expected to live more than a few months, and so he has already begun dividing his wealth between his sons. Each son will receive—and has already received—an obscene amount of money, as well as several pieces of valuable property. Enough to make any reasonable man completely satisfied. However, a certain gold bracelet was willed to Adam by their deceased mother—it is not as beautiful or monetarily valuable as the jewelry given to Wilson—but it is the only piece that was specifically set aside for Adam, and apparently the old lady stated that under no circumstances should Wilson receive it. Recently, it was stolen. At the moment, Wilson Tombs seems to be the most likely suspect. One angle we've considered is that the bracelet is a key to a larger treasure, hidden somewhere. Another, which we wish to explore this evening at Wilson's thirtieth birthday party, is that Wilson Tombs has taken the bracelet simply because he must possess that which he simply cannot have. An unlikely angle, to be certain, but interesting nonetheless, and one that I am not willing to exclude."

Molly hesitated. Took a breath.

"So…"

Sherlock drew a deep breath. Locked his jaw. Glowered poisonously at John—who just gave him a look.

Sherlock shut his eyes. And resigned himself.

"What I mean to say, is…" He paused. Gripped the phone a bit tighter. "Molly…Would you do me the honor of attending a ball with me this evening?"

Silence answered him.

Sherlock's eyes opened. He frowned hard.

Still silence.

Inexplicably, his stomach tightened.

Then, she laughed.

"I…Of course. Yes. Thank you." She laughed again, sounding breathless. "I…What time will you pick me up?"

"Pick you up?" Sherlock repeated.

John's eyes flashed, and he stepped toward him.

"You've got to pick her up, Sherlock," he muttered tightly. "It's a date—"

"Half seven, that should be sufficient," Sherlock said quickly. "Have you got something appropriate to wear? If you haven't, it'll be useless—you must look as though you belong there, rather than at a hospital."

John groaned and slapped a hand to his face. Sherlock looked up at him, thrown.

"What on earth is the matter with you?" he demanded, keeping his voice low. John closed his eyes and shook his head.

"You're hopeless…"

"Yes, I think I've got something," Molly answered him. "Wait…Will you be bringing me a corsage or anything to wear?"

"A corsage?" Sherlock repeated her again.

"A cor…Yes, for heaven's sake, yes," John said, planting his hands on the other side of the table and giving Sherlock a severe glance.

"Yes," Sherlock said into the phone.

"All right," Molly said—he could hear her smile. "I'll see you at…half seven, then. Thank you."

"Goodbye," Sherlock said, and hung up. The breath he let out shook for some reason. "I don't know which was more harrowing," he muttered, setting his phone down carefully. "Talking to her or being browbeaten by you."

"What are you so afraid of?" John stood up, looked at him sideways, then headed toward the parlor. "It's only a dance."

To be continued…

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