ShErLoCk oNeSiEs

Satin (Part One)

Yo world

Ballet!lock it is

Or is it Dance!lock

We will never know

But this is a little longer than my other ones

Alright go be free kids

-- -- -- -- -- -- -- --

Sherlock

One, two, three. One, two, three.

Hands around her waist. One, two - and lift, and back down. Two, three.

Three fouettes, three pirouettes and FREEZE -

Head up, smile -

And back, two, three, one, two, three.

C major on the piano. Low bow. Point. Take her hand and sashay off the stage.

And Sherlock always got the applause he deserved. Even if it was just practice.

When people asked what the Holmes' youngest son did in his free time, they usually ended the conversation soundlessly, sealing it with a pair of wide eyes and lips pursed in disapproval.

Because how dare a handsome, intelligent young man take up something like ballet?

Sherlock tended to actively swerve past profanity where he could help it, but there were a few choice words he'd refrained from using when the last family - the Walters, wasn't it? - had asked his mother why she'd let her son prance around in tights for the better part of his day.

Turned out, he wouldn't have the chance to get back at them - Violet Holmes had promptly sent them home without so much as a 'Thank you for coming, Martha, Thomas, it was a pleasure.' Nor did she express a great desire to have them over again. At all. Ever.

Well, Sherlock's mother was several things, but a liar was not one of them.

Out of his seventeen relatively boring years, Sherlock had been dancing for eleven. He'd taken to the dance floor immediately, the soles of his slender feet light and quick and graceful, practically sculpted to a perfect pointe. Within a year, there was satin on his feet, black lustre racing up to his shins.

And here he was, top of his class, subject of envy of the boys (though there were hardly any) and subject of interest to the girls. The girls were singularly the worst part about dancing, they were like leeches if they got assigned to him. Of course, barely any of them made par, except Irene - she was decent when it came to ballet. Brilliant, actually.

And she was smart, too. And pretty, and curvy, and dangerous.

Would've been Sherlock's first candidate for a "romantic entanglement", but he had one qualm about...well, to put it bluntly, sex.

He didn't feel things like that. A smirk or a wink or a bite of a lip from Irene Adler or Everly Thompson would've been enough to send any sane man swooning; Sherlock had seen all of them, and had returned to his bar exercises, shaking his head in mild disgust.

He sighed to himself as he undid his ballet shoes, sitting on the floor by the mirror. Every day was the same.

John

"Mum," John tried for the millionth time, exasperation creeping into his tone.

"John," his mother shot back, slinging a towel across her right shoulder and pinning him with a chastising glare. "That was not a request. I'm not giving you an option. It's Harriet's first performance, and you have to be there because we can't."