Note: Yeah, I know… I said I was done writing about Sherlock and Sian; I guess I'm not quite as done with them as I thought I was, if they keep dominating my thoughts like this. I thought of this little one-shot during a long car ride, when my parents were discussing what a distinct sound 80's music has. This one-shot takes place during my first story—right after chapter eleven, where Sian baby-sits her nieces.
Sian was making barbequed chicken for dinner that night. She purposefully didn't ask Sherlock to help her in the kitchen, because since the Knife Incident, Sherlock had subsequently dropped a china plate on the floor after tripping on the rug, knocked over a bottle of vinegar all over the counter and floor, and inexplicably acquired a splinter in his hand from handling a wooden spoon.
For such a brilliant detective, Sherlock was unusually accident-prone in the kitchen. It just wasn't even worth asking him to help anymore.
So Sian was preparing dinner while Sherlock sat at the kitchen table, watching her work. Sian was still a little tensed up from the whole Chelsea-thing the other day. She sighed.
Sherlock glanced up. He, too, could tell that she was still not quite herself, but he wasn't sure what to say to her.
He watched as Sian made her way across the kitchen, going through the motions automatically, like it was second nature. Which it was, Sherlock supposed. He never realized what a luxury it was to have Mrs. Hudson take care of the household troubles like that.
Sian paused for only a split-second after she put the chicken in the oven, but she was soon back in motion again—only to make her way over to the stereo and flip on the radio.
Sherlock's head spun around as soon as he heard the strange music. He narrowed his brows and glanced at Sian, but she just smiled as the familiar chords filled the previously-silent kitchen.
"What on earth are you listening to?" Sherlock demanded. All of the other music that Sian had ever forced him to listen to had sounded strange enough, but this was even more bizarre. How could this music even begin to feel relaxing?
But Sian just grinned. "Eighties music," she said happily.
"And you enjoy this music?" he asked tactfully.
"Well, duh," Sian said incredulously. "This is my childhood right here—this was all the rage twenty years ago."
"Ah," Sherlock started to say, but the syllable hung on his lips when he saw Sian begin to move in a strange way—she was wiggling her hips, bobbing her head, and waving her arms above her head.
"Do I even want to know what you're doing?" Sherlock asked exasperatedly.
"What does it look like?" Sian asked over her shoulder, continuing with the strange movements.
"Well, the only thing that comes to mind would be some sort of rain-bringing ritual that many indigenous jungle-dwellers would employ in a primitive culture, such as the Zulus or the Bora…."
Sian had stopped her mad hopping during Sherlock's dialogue. Sherlock couldn't quite read the expression on her face, but he knew it was somewhere between bemused and amused.
"I was dancing, Sherlock," she said. "True, I know I wasn't quite like Footloose, but come on."
"That's how you danced?" Sherlock asked, raising his brows.
"Well, yeah." She shrugged. "It was the eighties, after all. What do you expect?"
"Well, I am from the eighties too, and I can assure that we can dance quite proficiently."
"What? Oh, right. You mean the 1880's."
"You think you can dance better than me, huh?" Sian asked, crossing her arms.
"I don't think I can, ma'am," Sherlock said knowingly, also crossing his arms. "I know I can."
"Prove it," Sian said, smirking slightly. She knew that she was acting a bit like a seven-year-old, but, well, sometimes it was fun to act like a seven-year-old.
"Very well," Sherlock agreed automatically. He happily turned off the radio, shutting out the ridiculous nonsense that the singer was spewing. What in God's name was a Wang Chung, anyway?
But it wasn't until Sherlock walked up to Sian that he realized just what he had gotten himself into; he was going to dance. With Sian.
"Uh," Sherlock said intelligently, wiping his suddenly-sweaty palms on the front of his trousers. Sian waited expectantly.
"Aren't you going to dance?" she asked.
"Yes," Sherlock rushed to say. "It's just that, well, I'll need you to be my partner." Sherlock willed himself to stop sounding so nervous and to start sounding superior. "Since, as you may or may not know, all proper dances require two, um, dancers."
"Okay," Sian said slowly, suddenly realizing what this all entailed.
"Well," Sherlock began, taking one of Sian's hands in his own. "The most popular dance currently would be the waltz."
"The waltz," Sian repeated. "I've heard of it, but I've never danced it."
"It's quite simple, really," Sherlock said, tentatively placing his other hand on Sian's waist. His hand spasmed as one of his fingers accidentally brushed against Sian's skin, in between the tiny gap where her shirt didn't quite touch the top of her slacks. He quickly shook his hand out before replacing it firmly against her shirt. He continued with his dancing lesson.
"Now, the waltz is done always in steps of three. Follow my lead—one, two, three, one, two, three."
And they began to dance there in Sian's kitchen. Sian felt a little dizzy, but she didn't think it was from the dancing. She wondered why her hands were tingling from contact with Sherlock. She had tugged on his arms plenty of times before, but somehow the incessant feel of his hand in her hand, and his shoulder beneath her other hand, made her shiver.
Sherlock wasn't faring much better. He hoped desperately that Sian couldn't tell how nervous this all made him. Not that he could even understand why he was so nervous—why should he? Sian was just a friend, and they were just dancing because of a silly pretend-argument they had had.
"I'm going to spin you now," Sherlock said. Sian nodded, and twirled under Sherlock's gentle guidance.
Sherlock stopped suddenly.
"What's wrong?" Sian asked, her hand still entwined in his.
"I think your chicken's done," Sherlock said. Only then did Sian notice the burning smell permeating from her oven.
"Oh, no!" she cried, breaking free from Sherlock and rushing over to the oven. She threw the door open, and coughed when the black smoke rushed out. She grabbed an oven mitt and yanked the chicken out.
"Ah!" Sian groaned, dismayed. "I burnt the chicken!" She chewed her lip and glanced over at Sherlock. "Are you opposed to having your chicken Cajun-style?"
"Yeah, same here." Sian groaned again. "Well, should we order pizza or Chinese?"
As he watched as Sian flipped furiously through the phone book, his mind stubbornly thought back to a few moments ago. He wondered if he'd ever be able to look at her again without recalling the time that they danced.