Mingling had long since begun now that dinner had been eaten, and Sherlock and Y/N watched as John left their table and got absorbed by the mass of suits and summer dresses. The sun had begun setting, it's rich light matured to a deep orange and guests started moving towards the other end of the hall, signalling that the party had moved into its second half.
Y/N prefered the first half of wedding parties. The first half gave you one of two options: you could sit and eat the meal being served, or you could migrate to your neighbouring tables and chat.
However, the second half mainly meant one thing; dancing, which is something Y/N didn't want to do. Not because she didn't want to dance, but because she just didn't have anyone to dance with. At her friend's weddings, the ones that were in a relationship would select a few squares of the checked floor and tangle each other in a tight embrace, then begin swaying to whatever slow eighties love ballad the DJ had fished out of his overused wedding playlist. The single people who wanted to be in a relationship would nervously pick their way through the crowd, pairing up, then hold each other at arm's-length before making fake promises about calling each other once the party was over. That left the single people who didn't want to be with anyone, or who---like Y/N---had someone in mind so had zero interest in finding another partner.
"Do you want to be going now?" Y/N asked Sherlock when their conversation reached a natural lull. John had booked them a room each at the nearest hotel, a courtesy to all his guests for dragging them several hours drive out of London, and the quiet solitude was looking more and more appealing to Y/N as the evening went on. Well, she didn't want to be alone, but all the couples now making their way together to the dance floor, all this 'love in the air', was reminding her of the fact that she was, and she didn't like it.
Sherlock had leaned back in his chair some time ago, his lanky body curved lazily, his whole demeanour had shifted from weary to relaxed, but he tensed back up now at Y/N's suggestion. "Actually, would you mind staying a bit longer?" He scratched behind his neck, unruly curls engulfing his slim fingers. "I know I don't usually...like this sort of thing, but I'm actually having a nice time."
"Really?" Y/N couldn't help the note of disbelief that crept into her exclamation, and he fractionally inclined his shoulders.
"Mm. We don't have to, you can go if you want, I just thought that..."
She'd moved to get up, sure that her friend would eagerly follow, but now resumed her previous position, watching him curiously. "I don't mind staying if you want to."
"Thank you." He paused, eyes fixed on the couples moving from side to side under the drunkenly meandering mood lights. Their smooth flow of conversation had been interrupted and Y/N wondered what Sherlock hoped to spend the rest of the evening doing. Why did he even want to stay at all? If he wanted to continue talking they could do that on the way to the hotel.
As if in answer, still staring over her shoulder, Sherlock suddenly said, quietly: "Do you want to dance?"
Y/N was so surprised she just said stupidly: "What?"
"People are dancing. Over there. Do you want to join them? With me. Obviously." He was rambling.
Y/N had never heard him ramble before. "Are you asking me because you feel obligated to, seeing as you invited me here, or do you actually want to dance?"
"I want to. The music is nice and I've always liked dancing. I just never had anyone to do it with."
Not caring that it sounded cliche, Y/N couldn't help a beam light up her previously bored expression: "Well you do now." She stood up, holding a hand out for him to take then flushed, embarrassed at her own eagerness. Sherlock didn't seem to mind, though; his own lips were tweaked up into an inadvertent smile as he took her outstretched palm in a way that could only be described as bashfully.
...
Y/N let Sherlock lead her onto the dance floor, thankful for the low lighting cloaking her blushing cheeks in semi-darkness---and she was blushing. She was blushing at the prospect of dancing with her best friend in such an intimate way. She was blushing at the feeling of his hand clasping hers; her fingers curled perfectly into the spaces between Sherlock's long slender ones, his large palm fitting gently around Y/N's smaller one. She was blushing at the thought that in a few short moments she'd be standing so close to him that she would be able to feel his heartbeat.
And she was blushing at the fact that Sherlock Holmes likes to dance.
They had reached the dance floor, Sherlock taking Y/N to an empty spot where the music wasn't as loud, and turning to her, offering her an uncharacteristically shy smile. Y/N gave him an answering grin, her joy and exhilaration manifesting obviously all over her face. She'd wanted to touch Sherlock for a long time, but now that the opportunity was presenting itself, she found she was---quite literally---unable to make the first move. Her whole body---brain included---seemed to just be frozen, shocked like a deer in the headlights.
Sherlock noticed her hesitancy, because of course he did, and must have mistook it for not knowing what she was doing because he took her other hand in his and guided it to his shoulder. "Just follow my lead," he said quietly, stepping closer to Y/N, getting into a position to do so. His gravelly voice grated against some part of her, soothing her and yet also managing to awaken something she'd rarely felt. 'It's amazing', Y/N pondered 'how he manages to touch parts of me I never even knew existed, without actually touching me at all.'
Sherlock kept a couple of inches between their bodies respectfully as he started to guide them around their own tiny patch of floor, his hand placed delicately and unintrusively on her shoulder blade.
"You're good at that," Y/N complimented as they glided in a smooth circle, referring to his unexpected grace on the dance floor. Actually, it wasn't unexpected. Y/N had long since learnt to expect everything from this man. He sculpted his mind, his knowledge and expertise like an artist moulds clay, tweaking, adding and removing, never fully satisfied. His brain is a project that he will never see as finished, not until he has mastered every skill he ever dreamed he'd have, was aware of every piece of information he deemed he'd want.
Sherlock didn't reply, just smiled down at her, the lights casting shadows below his cheekbones, lighting his hair from behind like a halo about his head. Usually, he avoids prolonged eye contact; whether because it makes him uncomfortable or because he'd rather know what was going on around him, Y/N didn't know. Right now, though, neither of those things appeared to be on his mind. He was fondly gazing straight down into Y/N's eyes and the effect was breathtaking. Not only because his irises are exceedingly beautiful up close, not only because his pupils---now wide in the low light---appeared to swallow her whole, but mainly because Y/N knew she currently held every last drop of his attention. And it felt amazing. It felt like he could see straight through her skull to her brain, down into her soul, and he was analysing it, memorising every little detail and committing it to memory.
After a few more sweeping circles, Y/N felt Sherlock's hand at her shoulder slide down tentatively to the swell of her hip. "Is this okay?" His expression was trained on her face, hurriedly searching for any signs of discomfort.
Obviously he found none.
"It's wonderful." She was holding their friendship in her mind, now, turning it over, inspecting it. Was it strong enough to risk what she wanted to say? Or would it shatter with awkwardness into pieces, fixable but doomed to be forever slightly misshapen?
Y/N decided it was strong enough. More than strong enough. "You can hold me closer, if you want," she said, so quietly she was surprised he even managed to hear her over David Bowie's Absolute Beginners. He'd tensed, she could feel it through his suit, and she wondered with horror whether she'd made a mistake.
But then she felt his tummy bump into hers as he moved up against her, her head finding the haven of his broad chest, and he slackened as she rested some of her weight against him. He supported it, supported her, sturdy and unflinching, his chin finding rest on the top of her head. Y/N felt him sigh deeply like a man who'd just come home from weeks on the road.
At first, it had felt awkward, odd, being so close to her secret crush. She'd tried not to pay attention to his lithe body, so solid compared to her own softness. She'd tried not to imagine what lay beneath the fabric of his clothes; perfect alabaster skin like porcelain, all muscles and bones and moles like constellations strewn across an inverted night sky.
She didn't need to try anymore. Where before she'd been like a school girl nestled against her crush, she was now a woman in the arms of a man. A woman with a man in her arms. There was a sense of balance between the two, a unison, an unspoken bond. Not a word travelled between them, just a strange, silent sense of connection. His body excited things within her, of course it did, she was only human, but she could ignore it simply because she didn't want to make him uncomfortable. Bringing any kind of harm to him was the last thing she wanted to do, she decided with a feeling of maturity. So she would dance with him as his friend, and ask for nothing more.