Generations's (Spin Off/ Book FOUR)

All About Us

Sherlock:

"Take my hand." I whispered softly to my Sarah Jane, and I pulled her to stand, before spinning her, supporting her as she stumbled, not letting her fall down. I lead her slowly in a simple waltz as we prepared for my brothers annual ball, that he'd decided this year I was to attend with Sarah Jane, and I kept trying to teach her to dance. It was safe to say she inherited her father's dance moves, from his previous regeneration. 

The determination and concentration in her face was so beautiful, her gloved hands perfectly fitting into mine, either by accident or design of this strange soul mates principle I had inadvertently become a part of by meeting Sarah Jane. I hated her having to wear gloves all the time, being afraid to touch skin without them, but I knew that it was better to be safe than be sorry, even when it came to me.

"You lead, SJ." I whispered, brushing my lips briefly against hers, before letting her take over. "Doesn't matter if you step on my feet, just show me how much you already know how to dance."

She did as I said, clumsily trying to lead me in a two step that looked like she was trying to avoid stepping on slugs in a garden, not that either of us had any interest in owning a garden, to much else going on. Sarah Jane thought too much of her mother when we were at John and Mary's, she refused to get one. She stepped on my feet a few times with her soft, small bare ones, the toenails changing colours as she focussed, her Sarani side most prominent in her feet, but she was so light and delicate that it didn't matter. She could stamp on my feet and I probably wouldn't feel much.

"I can't do this. I don't even want to go to this stupid ball, Sherlock." SJ muttered after a moment, trying to pull away, her gloved hands almost pulling out of mine, but I quickly tightened my own around her wrists, not letting her manage it. "Sherlock... Baby..."

Smiling softly, I traced my own leather gloved hand over her high, perfect cheekbone, her perfect skin soft and supple, even through my gloves. "SJ, my brother will not let you bow out, and unless you're dying in hospital, there's no way to pull a sicky, whatever that actually is." I wasn't sure, never needed to pull one, though John had done it a million times after an all nighter on a case. "So, we have finally found something that you can't do. Dance."

"I can run, I can jump, do complex balances and gymnastics across a tightrope over a small chasm, which I've done! I can do anything apart from this and it sucks." My partner pouted, her bottom lip sticking out temptingly, and I laughed a little as John came up the stairs. Looking ridiculous "Hey, what the hell are you wearing, Hodgepig?" Yorkshire for Hedgehog, not entirely sure what it was supposed to mean, as John was human, not a small animal who unfortunately often met it's demise in a bonfire... Never mind. "Seriously, you look ridiculous, what is that, late 1800's, American Civil War style? 1864 by the look of it." 

I was rather confused about that myself, and he did look stupid, incredibly stupid, but then I saw the small invite in his hand, my brothers neat, perfect handwriting laminated across the front. "I was invited as well, Sarah Jane. And there is a slight dilemma, I'm afraid. It's period. You got the theme in one, too. American Civil War."

It took a moment for Sarah Jane to realise what this mean, until Mary, cursing like mad, managed to make it to the top of the stairs also, wearing a large Victorian dress, barely fitting through the doorways. "No. Not a chance in hell, I can't have that much skin showing! Sherlock, one person touches my bare skin and then the game is up, I'll have a seizure, and Mycroft will check my pulse to find out I have two hearts."

That was true, she couldn't. Sarah Jane had such a sensitivity to other people's thoughts and memories, that just one touch when either one of them wasn't guarded, when she wasn't expecting it, could send her brain's electrical impulses into overdrive, causing a seizure. I'd watched several of them, and it was not a pretty sight, it terrified me that with how in control she was, how little control she could suddenly have. My brother had always been curious about why a girl as stunning and beautiful as my Sarah Jane wore nothing but leggings, a vest top and long sleeved cardigans, when other girls her age wore skimpy, revealing tea towels. Mycroft was especially confused over her constant use of gloves.