2:45 am.
Sherlock padded through the sitting room of the flat, pacing around the coffee table to cope with having to wait. The entire atmosphere of 221B Baker Street was quiet and serene, one which prepped the detective for his night of relaxation. He needed only to ensure that his flat mate was truly asleep before he began his adventure into a creatively relaxed state of mind.
Just a little longer.
The dark haired young man tiptoed toward the bedroom and pressed his ear against the door. John’s muffled snoring indicated that he’d been asleep for quite some time, and that it would be hours before he’d wake up. A smile spread across Sherlock’s face as he made his way back toward the sitting room and positioned himself at the front door to the flat. He made sure to turn the brassy knob slowly to keep it from making too much noise as he opened the door. The flight of stairs before him, though shadowy and dark, seemed like a heavenly stairway to the young man perched at the top of them.
Sherlock took a deep breath, allowing his lungs to fill with air before he made a slow, quiet descent down the stairs. The shadows of the halls made Sherlock a little uneasy, but he pressed on in anticipation of his blissful escape.
3:00 am.
The door to 221C appeared long abandoned and unwanted. Sherlock did a fine job of keeping the dilapidated façade up to date in his own mind. He thrust a slender hand into his pocket and withdrew a dingy handkerchief, tucking his fingers within the folds of it. He wrapped his hand around the doorknob and forced the door open with a hard thrust.
Stuffy air greeted Sherlock, and he took a deep breath in. He searched blindly for a light switch, and when he finally found it, the light flickered on. Once inside the room, Sherlock softly closed the door behind him.
“Finally, all alone to my passion.” He mumbled, standing in the center of the room.
He removed his shoes quickly, discarding them just after. In the corner of the room sat a cardboard box where the young detective kept an oversized t-shirt and a pair of shorts. He changed quickly into his alternate outfit and beamed. The room, though really small, became a large, open floor on which Sherlock could display his work. He stepped to the center of the room and began to dance.
It was not disorganized club dancing. He did not partake in some sort of tapping upon the floor. Sherlock Holmes graced the quiet room with a ballet. His feet merely whispered along the faded wood floor as he began to pour his frustrations into slow, perfect movements. The deep, meaningful motions that the youthful violinist made carried him across the room and back once more. He allowed himself to become fully absorbed in his own world of nothing but dance.
As his performance to a phantom audience drew to an end, Sherlock expected everything to be silent, just as it had been every other night. Instead, the unmistakable sound of applause filled the room, causing the performer to turn toward the entrance to his escape. The door was wide open.
“What a brilliant performance, Sherlock!” a sleepy John yawned.
Sherlock’s jaw dropped. “You weren’t supposed to see any of that.” He stammered.
The detective’s companion smiled and shuffled toward the dark haired man, hugging him tightly. The taller man was surprised with John’s hug, and for a moment, he did not react. Then, slowly, he returned the embrace.
“By the way, Sherlock, you’re a wonderful dancer.”
