Chapter Text
It was New Year’s Eve.
Sherlock Holmes was not fond of parties. In fact, the only reason he had been invited was because of his friendship with a detective who happened to be holding the party in the first place: Marcus Bell. It was something he wanted to hold annually, and it was the second of its kind. Apparently the first was good enough to warrant a second (in Bell’s mind, of course; Holmes had not remembered a momentous occasion to have happened to believe a second one needed to commence). So stood Holmes against a wall, enjoying his time as much as he could, away from the drugs, alcohol—whatever else was being passed around by the cesspool of detectives, and the random people invited, or merely crashed to enjoy a good time.
Nevertheless, if the people of the party wandered near him to strike conversation, he would not disappoint to chat. Most of the time, it was Holmes deciphering a drunk’s vocabulary and what they were actually trying to convey, and even if he rattled off something totally humiliating toward the person, said person usually laughed and called him a “good man.” The party was not without its perks, he thought. Otherwise, he stood against the wall with hands in his jacket pockets (he refused to take it off; he determined he would never see it again if someone took it away), watching people come and go. Even Watson had managed to make her way somewhere in the party. Perhaps she mingled with the Captain, or even Bell himself.
He didn’t really think about it. He kept his mind on other problems—perhaps a case detail would come to him, and he would think about that. Or maybe his mind strayed to the television before him, stuck on a channel with an obnoxiously dressed host who showed negative body language about the performance happening behind him. At that moment, his eyes were on the television, watching and listening to the host talk about the ball dropping in Times Square in however many moments it would be (it was hard to hear sometimes when drunks loudly yelled and cursed about a conversation had between friends).
Holmes never understood the appeal of Times Square and New Year’s. A crowd of people together in one place for a long period of time usually equated to disaster, and while, thankfully, it had never happened, even being around the few drunks at the detective’s party was enough to keep him satisfied—if such was the word for it—for the entire year before the next party, and he was sure there was to be another next year. Still, he did not understand the thrill of a ball merely dropping onto a building, and a song to be played. Why wait all that time in the cold when there could be a better way to use the time?
Still, he could not stop watching the crowd and its anticipation for the ball. He wondered what color it would change to—had it changed into a color in previous years? He wasn’t sure. He would have to look it up when the time was right, if he even really cared. It wasn’t until the host had announced that it was almost two minutes before the ball was going to drop when he felt a person next to him, an arm brushing his own. By their shoulder rubbing against his bicep, he figured them to be shorter. He looked down.
“Are you at least enjoying yourself, Holmes?” The person asked. They did not seem intoxicated, as they held a cup of water in their hand, and they were one of the few to approach with no slur to his speech.
“I would not define this as ‘enjoyment,’ Detective Bell,” he replied back. Bell shrugged.
“You seemed to enjoy some of the others talking to you,” Holmes almost missed his response, due to those around the television yelling about the ball dropping soon. Of course, sooner or later the ball would have to drop.
He leaned toward Bell—easier to talk if others refused to quiet. “Only because it was simple conversation.”
Bell just stared at him. “So not your kind of party.”
Sherlock blinked. “I suppose not.” Bell sighed. He had tried to get the guy out numerous times, to at least have him socialize and meet others, but all attempts seemed to be in vain. Still—and Bell looked back up at the mysterious man—he hadn’t left quite yet. That was something, right? Right, Bell thought, as he took another sip of his water. He would take that victory—
“Thirty seconds, ladies and gentlemen!” The host yelled. The countdown on the television ticked down. Sherlock watched the seconds continue to drop, the ball falling at an agonizingly slow rate. He didn’t notice the person next to him put down his drink, nor did he notice the detective start to move toward him. It wasn’t until he felt the slightest touch against his arm that he turned his head away from the festivities on the television.
The rest around him did not notice the gesture, but the detective held out a hand. Sherlock’s mind was scrambling for an answer, an answer that he could not find. “Fifteen seconds! We’re closing in now!” All he could do was raise his own hand to the other, to have his palm match the other. They said nothing in the few seconds left in the year, and Sherlock still did not understand the gesture he was accepting, but in those few seconds, all he knew was he was with the detective he grew fond of.
Neither heard the chants around them count down toward the new year. “Five!”
Their other hands rested on the others’ body, with Bell’s hand on Sherlock’s waist, and Sherlock’s on Bell’s shoulder.
“Four!”
Bell had no idea what he was doing, nor did Sherlock.
“Three!”
But Bell wished to let Sherlock have a good time, even if it were for a few seconds.
“Two!”
Sherlock found it all interesting.
“One!”
They heard the party cheering.
“Happy New Year!”
It was another year--with people in their lives, with each other in their lives. Another year of adventures, of mysteries, of whatever else would come. “Auld Lang Syne” started to play, and then Sherlock felt his feet start to slightly move. They merely swayed to the slow song, hearing people laugh, kiss, talk, whatever else. But his eyes never left the detective, never wished to look around at the others nearby. He wanted to ask why, wanted to know the detective’s motives for dancing with the man in the corner of the room, and why he was not with those excited to be there.
Bell did not have to say a word. Sherlock found he was content listening to the song, swaying with a man he grew fond of, with a man he found interesting.
Then, the song ended, the cheering started to dissipate, and, at first reluctantly, the men in their corner of the room separated.
Sherlock looked around the room; no one seemed to notice them. He looked back to the detective, who had a small smile on his face. He could not tell if he was doing the same thing, but the detective slapped his hand on Sherlock’s arm, which let him look at the contact.
“Happy New Year, Sherlock.”
Sherlock looked back to the detective. The small smile was still there. Then, the detective began to move around him, to say his thanks and goodbyes to those there. And, as he moved around Sherlock, Sherlock found it necessary to turn around and return the favor.
“Marcus,” he said. The detective turned. “The same should be said to you.”
The small smile grew.
Watson found Sherlock a short time later, recounting what she did during the party (mostly talked to the Captain and other officers from the precinct, and even danced with one of them at the end of the night). She asked him, “You didn’t stay in that corner the entire time, did you?”
He shrugged. “And if I did?”
“Have some fun, Sherlock,” she replied, obviously disappointed in his reply.
No one else knew, but he did. And he would keep the memory to himself. As they walked toward the Brownstone, back home, only one thought wrestled in his mind, a thought he welcomed:
Marcus Bell was an interesting man.