60 days. In our rhythm (Sherlock/John)
One, two, three. One, two, three.
Life spins in the rhythm of the waltz, in which you move senselessly on the machine in a circle, not having the opportunity to get out of the waltzing pairs. He dances with himself. His movements are strange and insecure, clumsy and inappropriate as if he is stepping on someone's feet.
John never knew how to dance. Not his. At school, his sister tried to teach him this, but soon she admitted that her brother's bear squeezed his legs, and gave it up.
During the war, he waltzed with Death, taking her away from wounded people like a doctor, saving them in the slaughterhouse for someone else's power.
But because of this John Watson got out of the common rhythm. On one hand, clutching the partner's waist, and on the other hand, you get used to the other rhythm, sharp and clear as a shot and an order. But in a peaceful life, everything is different, and it was impossible to rearrange John - a clear score did not leave his head, even in his sleep, continuing to sentence:
One, two, three. One, two, three.
- John, you're absolutely talentless," Sherlock sniffs at him, once again mocking his roommate's attempts to learn to dance. Reception at Mycroft obliged both men to know the etiquette and the rules of good tone in such a high society, and they will have to dance a hundred percent. But Watson, knowing about his inability, decided to train in advance, taking a mop as a partner. Unfortunately, even she was dissatisfied with her partner, which John clearly felt, however strange it may sound. So Sherlock decided to look at the efforts of others and did not miss the opportunity to ridicule and show their superiority.
- How good it is for you: you don't think and don't hear, - Sherlock rolled his eyes arrogantly, watching Watson lose his rhythm once again. He was never a musician and never intended to become one. And in general, if it wasn't for the smug Holmes, or rather both, John would never have done it.
- Yes, Sherlock, you're perfect in everything, as always, - Watson sniffed, though it was clear from the strange expression of his interlocutor's face, that he didn't understand sarcasm and subtle mockery in other words. As if to insult the child and feelings approximately the same - a nasty feeling on the soul of his own insignificance due to self-affirmation at the expense of a stupid baby. The fact that Sherlock is no longer a baby, somehow not calmed down.
John again, in a military way, straightened his back and squeezed mops in his hands. He began to walk, assuming that he was trying to dance, although from the outside it was like tormenting a wooden soldier.
- At this rate, Mycroft will embarrass you," Sherlock sighed indifferently as he jumped out of the chair, where he watched other people's efforts for an hour. Holmes pulled the unfortunate mop out of other people's hands and, until Watson understood what was going on, grabbed his wide palm and put his hand on his waist.
- Everything should be easier," Sherlock gently said, looking cold in other people's eyes, hypnotizing, without the possibility of dropping the grey magic. And he began to lead.
As from the first meeting.
It was Sherlock who taught John not to pay attention to someone else's dance, following the same rhythm that he is accustomed to - fast and sharp, with unexpected attacks and turns. Only in this way can a former soldier live, embracing again the image of Death, who came to him in the form of a tall, skinny young man with bottomless silver eyes, whirls of black hair, a cold smile.
Then Sherlock began to lead the lost John in the dance of life, and now he has regained the responsibility for someone else's steps.
One, two, three. One, two, three.
Haven't we lost track of the pace again?
No, we're set on our own, just for the two of us.
And one, two, three.