Marzipan Roses and Palm Blades of Sugar

Sherlock chose the right tune on the record and then walked over to John, who sat in his ordinary armchair.

"Would you care for a dance?" Sherlock asked and held out his hand. John just looked at him with a doubting face.

"Are you serious?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock just rolled his eyes and grabbed John's wrist to pull him out of the chair.

Reluctant he let himself being dragged from his comfortable position to one built on exercise. "Sherlock… I really do not want to dance with you, please let me go and I'll fetch Mrs Hudson instead."

Sherlock merely laughed at him and answered: "Oh, come on, we're getting old and this is my favourite composition by Chopin. Surely your manhood can stand one dance with me!"

By that comment, they had now reached a point where John almost burst in fury and panic. "Don't be ridiculous, it doesn't suit you and your massive intellect. The thing is… that I don't know how to dance".

Sherlock looked at him with tiny amused lines around his mouth.

"Well, then I'll teach you. It's not exactly bomb science" he said and let John's wrist go, to replay the almost finished tune. Sherlock was right. The piece of music really was beautiful. Melodic and happy, yet distinct and sad. It was a controllable paradox. It reminded him of Sherlock.

The consulting detective turned to his blogger again and took his left hand in his right. Then, he placed John's right hand on his own shoulder and took a firm grip around the other man's waist. "I will be leading, just follow my feet and you'll do alright" Sherlock said and took a deep step aside. John tried to catch up, but it was difficult in the beginning. First he just stumbled on Sherlock's feet but after a few minutes he got into the mood and he became light on foot. It, somehow, felt like he was flying.

They didn't just danced one dance.

Neither did they dance two.

Nor three.

Or four.

They didn't keep the count and time flied, just like their feet over the floor. Suddenly the record came to an end and John and Sherlock collapsed, desperately trying to catch some air. "That" John started, panting, "was amazing".

"You really think so?" Sherlock asked and rose on his elbows.

"Absolutely incredible".

Sherlock smiled lightly and wrinkled his eyebrows, "We've had this conversation before, haven't we?"

John couldn't resist laughing. The man before him was a pure copy of an otter, doing that face. "Yes, after your first deduction. In the cab, on our way to the Pink Lady, remember?"

Sherlock was just about to answer when steps came closer in the stairs. "Boys, would you like a cup of tea? I don't know what you've been up to this hour but you seem exhausted. Nothing refreshes you as a nice cup of British tea. I'll get us some, but please sit up!"

It was Mrs Hudson, the landlady and before they had the chance to answer, she was gone again. Slowly the two rose from the floor and sat down in each armchair instead, waiting for the tea.