Hello! This is my first Sherlock fic, as well as my first more-than-implied-sex fic, so go easy on me! Also, my first male/male fic. Leave me alone.
ANYWAY, any and all mistakes are my own. If you're interested in beta-ing/giving me ideas, go ahead and send me a message! I need all the help I can get.
Sorry if there's any terminology you don't understand! I've been a flutist for nearing six years now, very much NOT a clarinetist, so I've Googled pretty much everything I didn't (vaguely) know already. Also, I'm very-American-trying-to-sound-British, so forgive me on that front.
But, yeah! Strap in, this is going to be a long ride.
"It is of dire consequence that you do not fail, John. The fate of the constructional integrity of this very nation rests on your shoulders from hereon in. I expect no disappointment in the near future."
John blinked, curiously unphased, and immediately drew his eyebrows together in thought. "So, Mycroft, what you're saying is that… if I don't master an instrument that I haven't played since the bloody eighth grade… England as we know it is just going to cease to exist?"
Mycroft scoffed, tapping his umbrella in an almost mocking manner against the toe of his expensive shoes. "Hardly. If that were the case, don't you think I would consult with an actual professional? Do you think I'd take the time to sit here for a relaxing cuppa? No, no, this is hardly the greatest threat facing my person, let alone the country."
The order of importance he placed his problems were rather alarming, but John was nothing if not a curiously-incurious man. He cocked his head in a slight confusion. "'Hardly', you say? I don't understand. The 'constructional integrity of this very nation' is just something that we don't need to bat an eye at?"
The look Mycroft gave him, reminiscent of the far more severe expressions the man's younger brother had a liking to pulling on, was just shy of a roll of the eyes. That would cross the threshold of unprofessional, John mused with an internal eye-rolling of his own. "For the sake of your own mental well-being and several hours' worth of informing that you would bore tirelessly of past the ten-minute mark, let's just go with no, it isn't something we 'need to bat an eye at'."
John suddenly leaned forward in his chair, elbows braced precariously on his knees, and his eyes took on a taut stare. "Fine, all right, say that I take on this job proposal of yours. That I fit in, oh, just shy of thirty years of musical skill within a few weeks. That I become well adept enough at the clarinet to catch the eye of this shady composer of yours, that I gain access to this world-renowned concert hall and get you the information you so, so need. Why me? Why not hire a professional with that bottomless bank account of yours, or just get your previously mentioned 'insufferable brother' to learn the instrument instead? I'm sure he could master it within a day if there was something worthwhile for him on the other side."
Mycroft humphed, tapping his umbrella with considerably increased pace and strength from his barely-there perch on the arm of his (currently vacant) brother's chair. He was getting irritated, John could tell, both at the situation and John's own complaints. If Sherlock were here and not at Bart's, he'd be positively grinning.
"The reason I cannot ask Sherlock of this is because he's already taking on the case. At least, as of a half-hour ago, which is precisely the reason for my presence at your flat. For the next few days he'll be preparing for his audition to 'Le Conservatoire', for a courteous heads up of the musical nights to come. Purely for credential's sake, as you and I both know that he doesn't need to attend the school for orthodox means.
"But he won't be able to solve this one alone, for once. No offense." The man gave John a rather fickle smile at that, not apologetic in the slightest, and John nervously nodded on in a (not) forgiveness as well as urged him to continue on. He obliged. "While he will be joining the strings section, held high in an orchestra, there's many layers to this unfortunate issue. I'll inform you of more details if you choose to take the job, and I don't doubt that my brother will answer any questions with information he's already familiarized himself with. All in all, I'm in need of a woodwind player, preferably male and of distinguished age that opens a possibility of a faux background to emplace. So far, you are a worthy candidate despite your 'rusty' and pre-beginner mastery of the instrument, as explained for now:
"You are the only man - no, person - that my brother has agreed to working with on this case. He is in full confidence that you'll be able to overcome this small musical impasse, and rise with him into the ranks of the orchestra and gain the information we need. It's a somewhat difficult preparation with a simple completion, and with it I can assure you that I'll owe you a favour. Not many people have the privilege to say such a thing, John."
John shook his head, not in refusal but in a sort of thinking manner, jogging his brain into kicking up its speed. "What's the case? Has there been a murder? Two murders? Any semblance of a serial killer?"
Mycroft's dark eyes glinted in a near sinister manner, the closest the man could come to 'playful'. "You're wondering why my brother took the case."
"Well, from my end, it does seem rather… strange. Trouble within an orchestra? He's refused far more interesting cases with less than a thought. It all just seems, in his words alone, 'rather mundane'."
He shrugged with a careless nudge of his shoulder, sliding lightly from his perch and letting out an airy sigh. "I suppose you'll have to question my brother on that particular aspect, as I'm not at liberty to, at least directly, explain at the time being. So, I'll bid you farewell. Oh!" He added in what should have been a surprised tone, though instead it came out as flat and blandly conversational. He swiped something hidden from behind the chair opposite John, a vaguely familiar casing, and set it onto the table yielding Sherlock's different experiments and strange knick-knacks. John eyed it warily, certain of what it held, and looked back up to Mycroft.
"Text me with your answer, and make sure it reaches my person before the weekend. I despise waiting, as you should be aware. Do be brief with it." John listened for the receding footsteps and the brisk open and close of the front door. Assured that Mycroft was gone, he rolled onto his feet and tentatively grabbed the case, sinking down into the couch and settling it onto his lap.
The hard plastic was covered in firm black leather, a clean emblem branded into the perfect centre. He flipped open the brass latches in synchronic time, levering the top open slowly. Five pieces of polished blackwood, untouched silver keys, gleaming rings, smooth cork. An ornate reed guard nestled into the spare concave at the bottom of the case, along with an unopened box of expensive-looking reeds and a stick of cork grease. He could glimpse the swab and polishing cloth tucked underneath it all. He closed his eyes, inhaling the clean, oak smell of the clarinet and running his callused fingers along the velvet interior. Familiar.
He snapped open his eyes and let out a shaky breath, suddenly and oddly scared of the instrument before him. He swung the top closed, flipping both latches locked with his thumbs, and slid it off his knees onto the coffee table. He leaned back into the cushions, sighing out a quiet breath, and slid his eyes closed.
"Well. That was rather anticlimactic."
John started despite himself, insides jumping at the sudden voice drawling from the entryway. He shook it off and leaned back once more, a bit more casually than before.
"How was St. Bart's? Were you able to get the… erm…?"
"The trachea? No, there were none to spare, unfortunately. I made quite certain to let Molly know that I desperately needthem."
"Flirting or threatening?"
"A bit of both, really. Mainly the latter, but I'm starting to think that she likes that even more than the former. Odd girl."
John didn't comment on that and scratched at a spot at the base of his neck. "You just missed your brother, you know. Just by a minute or two."
He could practically feel Sherlock's face twist in disgust. "I know. I could smell his flowery perfume outside as well as sense the general unease of the flat that only follows his visits. Now," he stood on the other side of the coffee table, his eyes tracing over John's body and then pointedly to the closed case, "Play."
John let out a breathy, uncertain laugh. "I haven't played the clarinet in quite a while, Sherlock. Around thirty years, in fact. Though I was rather good at it during the time being, I can't just pick it up and proceed on to play extensive sonatas composed by Tchaikovsky or Bach and the works like you could."
Sherlock scoffed in return. "Your idealism of me is beginning to dangerously border on supernatural means. While clarinet is generally considered one of the more simpler of instruments in an orchestra, I couldn't simply just 'pick it up' and know all the different fingerings and embouchure and technical means." His eyes turned skeptical, as if he were appraising a dubious concern for the first time. "You do remember how to put it all together, in the very least? Should I hop down to the nearest bookstore and buy you a 'Clarinet for Dumm-'"
"All right, all right," John chuckled, previous disposition gone. "Point taken. I'll at least give it a shot. But not now, I'm hungry and it's nearing sunset and I've been stuck up in the flat all day. Angelo's?"
Sherlock didn't move for a short moment, thoughtfully-narrowed eyes darting between John's face and the clarinet, and then he hummed beneath his breath. "Fine. I'll want to hear you play before the night ends, though, to see exactly what I'll have to work with for the time being."
John finished tying his shoes back on and stood, carefully rolling up the sleeves of his thin jumper. He headed towards the door. "It's gross to play clarinet after eating, you know. The reed takes on a flavour after a while."
Sherlock couldn't mask his disgust. "Woodwinds. Vastly unsanitary, can deliver the strangest of noises, and they are such delicate things, easily broken in an annual manner. I only have the patience for flutes, but even they rust and tarnish alarmingly easily. Now, brass, don't even get me started-"
"- and I won't. Come on, you're paying."
Sherlock let John go ahead down the stairs and gave the instrument a last, withering look, grumbling under his breath, before turning on his heel and closing the door with a careless swing of the arm in afterthought.
...
"Play."
John watched Sherlock in the mirror, head peaking out of the curtain, inky hair dripping water in tendrils onto the floor as the shower still ran on. It was something they weren't afraid to do, use the bathroom at the same time, just as long as the lower regions were properly covered. John pulled the foamy toothbrush from his mouth, throwing a pointed eye against Sherlock's immodest reflection. "This is hardly the time."
A roll of pale, colourless eyes, and the curtain swung back closed. "Obviously. I'm just reminding you so that you don't wrongfully believe that I've forgotten, or anything of the sort."
John spat into the sink, running the water and revelling in the sharp gasp that sounded from the sudden change in temperature in the shower. "Because it's not that you've been giving your opinion over the technique styles of different instruments during dinner, nor arguing the difference between South African and Scottish music styling in the cab ride, nor musing aloud of the length of a French Horn the moment we stepped into the flat." He washed out his mouth, shutting off the tap and wiping off his lips on a spare towel. "I was almost at a danger of forgetting, but you bloody made sure that I didn't, so good job. Now, if you'll excuse me..."
"Wait!" Sherlock called, and in a moment his arm shot out through the opening beside the curtain, strong and pale and trailing droplets in twisting patterns. "Toothbrush and paste, if you please."
John watched the appendage for a firm moment, the long, slender fingers twitching in impatientience, and reluctantly obliged. He set the objects into Sherlock's hand, thumb brushing his knuckles to close them around what was proffered, and let go only to drop his hand onto the lever alongside the loo.
He flicked his wrist and ran from the bathroom, the yelps and curses that sounded from behind him acting like music to his ears.
...
When all was said and done and Sherlock emerged from the shower, skin a bit more sensitive from the shower's small bout of icy to scalding, he came out to see John inspecting a small box, ridiculously ornate for something made of cardboard and (presumably) containing flimsy chips of carved Arumdo domax and plastic.
Pulling his robe closer over his bare chest, clothed below in only pants in the midst of the summer that seeped barely-there into the flat, Sherlock padded over to his chair and curved it around, facing it to the couch and to John that was perched purposefully on the edge of the cushions, turning the plastic-wrapped rectangle around in his fingers. He settled into his seat in a similar fashion as John, elbows on his knees and fingers steepled firmly together.
Sherlock watched John turn and run his eyes down his frame, a small shiver raking down his spine from being the subject of his perusal, before watching a playful twist of distaste mar John's features.
"Close your legs, Sherlock, you're nearly flashing me."
Sherlock looked down to his lap, startled, before chuckling half-heartedly under his breath with a sarcastic flick of his eyes. "It's warmer than preferable, and I'm wearing pants. I'm not the only one here taking precautions for comfort."
It was true. John wore a thin gray shirt, tight against his biceps with a v-neck cut just past the hollow of his throat and bordering the curves of his collarbones. He wore boxers, longer than what he usually adorned, and Sherlock wasn't immune to the attractive view of calf muscles, slim and tanned with sparse golden hair that he was rarely able to see, even in the most familiar of circumstances. He trailed his eyes back up to the box, and watched him pick at the plastic wrapping with his thumbnail.
"Yeah, yeah," John replied, flipping the box to pick at another corner. "Just make sure I don't get a view of something I don't necessarily want to see."
Necessarily. Sherlock smirked at that, flittering his eyes wrily away from the man across from him, his eyelashes catching on the damp fringe that hung limply against his forehead.
When the wrapping was torn off and carelessly littered onto the coffee table did Sherlock glance back, watching him flip open the slim box and dump out the contents.
It was alike a condom roll of reeds, the chips nestled in plastic that were slightly serrated for easy removal. There were ten in all, and John tore off the first one with precise, surgical fingers. He slid out the reed, holding it up to inspect it properly, and then promptly stuck it in his mouth.
Sherlock furrowed his brow. "Doesn't that go on the actual instrument?"
John set him with a light glare, obviously playful with a steely, almost smug air, and he rolled it to the corner of his mouth to talk. "You have to wet it before lining it up, that I remember. I don't know why exactly, it's something to do with having the ability to shape or buzz better, I'd reckon." The 'ess' sound had a heavy edge to it so that he wouldn't damage the delicate chip between his teeth. His jaw, stubbled and tense with care, was set against the thin piece of wood.
It was... satisfying to watch, Sherlock noted. John and anything that drew attention to his jaw was an aesthetically pleasing combination.
Sherlock changed his expression into something posh and arrogant, masking the former interest that might've become apparent to John's keen eyes. "Disgusting, reeds are."
"Oh, don't start up that again," John groaned, beginning to put the clarinet together with surprising ease for someone who hadn't played in several years. When it was all surely aligned, he took the reed, running a finger along both sides to dry it, and slid it carefully under the metal ligature that covered the mouthpiece, straightening it out and twisting the rods carefully to keep it in place. "There. Relatively simple so far, if I can remember where to put my bloody fingers."
Sherlock watched all of this carefully and analytically for future reference, as instruments other than his own area of expertice weren't formerly a concern of his. Until now. Now, he decidedly had an interest.
He watched John align his fingers along the dainty and extensive layout of the keys, only having trouble with a couple of them. When he was content with his hands, only then did he lick his lips, wetting them before sliding the clarinet, reed-down, into his mouth.
Sherlock's fingers decided to dig into the armrest of his chair at the sight, his control breaking, on their own accord.
John took a deep breath, glancing up to Sherlock, oblivious to his internal struggling, and pursued his lips around the mouthpiece.
SQUWACK!
All was silent for a moment, and then Sherlock was wiping at his eyes, which were red and swimming with awe and unshed tears. "What a gentle and beautiful instrument."
"Oh shut it, you berk," John exclaimed, but he was laughing. He set his lips to the mouthpiece once again, only this time he played a solid, woody note. He blipped the note by fingering a sequence of random unidentifiable sounds, something woodwinds tended to do for whatever reason, and he pulled it from his face. "Still a good sound. I was first chair in my day, though while the rest of the class was playing Ode to Joy, I was still on Mary had a Little Lamb. But I sounded damn good at it."
Sherlock lifted a bemused eyebrow, settling back into his chair. "How were you ever made first chair?"
John shrugged, noodling his fingers into impromptu key clicks once again. "Having a good sound is like a facade, I would say. It would take me a good time to learn something the others would perfect in a day or two, but when I got it, I was practically the poster child."
Sherlock smirked. "You're saying that as if you were playing with professionals at aged thirteen, John."
"Twelve, actually. I had jumped a grade in primary school."
Sherlock blinked at that. Small details, so unimportant in the bigger picture that is John Watson, still fascinated him to no end. He stored that little tidbit away, and watched John finger through what was, judging by the subtle changes in each fingering, the chromatic scale.
John noticed his curious scrutiny and, in an example of another one of John's completely rubbish deducing moments, motioned the clarinet over the coffee table. "Would you like to give it a go?"
Sherlock seemed simultaneously appalled and appeased at the question. Germs, but John's germs. The former won out, and his face scrunched up in disgust. "That's hardly the most sanitary idea you've had."
John's face remained the same, eyes focused and lips twitching. "Yeah, well, it wasn't meant to be." The clarinet was still held out to Sherlock, pristine and virtually untouched with its finish. "You know I've brushed, and I would know if my saliva was harbouring some sort of life-threatening disease. I want you play it, is all."
"Yes, and why is that precisely?"
A grin, almost wicked, flashed on John's face. "To see if you can."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, challenging, and grabbed the clarinet with as much care as he could... well, care to give. He looked down to the keys, and in a moment of sheer horror, he realised that he didn't pay attention to where John had put his fingers. He picked the most probable one he could, and put his index finger atop it. Which resulted in a chuckle from the man across from him.
Bollocks.
"John, could you... assist me?"
John could have argued Sherlock into using the word 'help', and Sherlock knew John knew that, but he only shook his head in (heavily assumed) fondness and padded around the table. He knelt down and aligned the clarinet properly before dealing with Sherlock's fingers.
Sherlock watched John, watched him furrow his brows as he remembered where to place which fingers where while not using instinct, watched his eyelashes flutter as he accessed his recent memory, watch him wet his mouth in slight concentration. He was close, closer than normal, his face hovering slightly below Sherlock's to look down the horn at an angle.
When the fingers were properly placed and he glanced up to show Sherlock the proper lip placement on the mouthpiece, John was unphased at the proximity. Maybe a bit too unphased. His breathing was halted, his limbs steady with rigidity, and his eyes determined to stay on Sherlock's lips for entirely the wrong reason, and John knew that.
Sherlock resisted the urge to narrow his eyes. Interesting.
"Open your mouth," John breathed, nudging the mouthpiece closer. Sherlock obliged, and when it was all settled, Sherlock dared to run his tongue along the reed. It had a light mint taste to it, above the near-overwhelmingly wood flavour.
And it was already damp. Obviously. He wished it had more of a John-like flavour, but he'd suffice. For now.
John was blushing rather dramatically, deep against his cheeks and red at the tips of his ears. He quickly arranged Sherlock's fingers into a note, assumedly the one that acted as base for all winds and brass (a concert F), and backed away.
His face even dared to become encouraging, past the previous embarrassment. Sherlock gave him a withering look, and then took a deep breath and arranged his lips around the reed. When he made a sound, he ripped it from his mouth, a surprised and scrunched-up expression adorning his face.
"You never told me it would attempt to numb my lower lip, John!"
John tilted his head, bemused. "You never asked."
Sherlock rolled his eyes, careful to keep his fingers pressed into the sequence. "Yes, because that was the first and foremost question on my mind, John."
John shrugged. Sherlock scowled and arranged his mouth once again. John went wide-eyed when Sherlock made a decent sound.
"Vibrato! Christ, Sherlock, how did you get perfect vibrato on your first try?"
"Second try," Sherlock corrected, pleasure blossoming through him from John's praise, and then cocked his head in the way he knew John liked. "Am I not supposed to have vibrato?"
"No, that's not… It's just… It took me a while to learn vibrato. It's a bit difficult with single-reeds, and you immediately play it. A natural, really."
Sherlock didn't reply to the compliment, tilting his mouth into a lopsided smile. "You speak as though you played for years, rather than a singular one."
John didn't miss a beat. "Like I said. Poster child."
There was an expectant silence, and then John stood, reaching over and snatching the clarinet from Sherlock's hands. "Enough of that. It's getting late, and I'm scheduled to be doing surgery tomorrow." He took the clarinet apart quickly, opening up a small, ornate case and slipping the reed inside. He set the case onto the table beside him and stood, rolling around his joints and popping them in comfortable stretches. He looked at Sherlock sideways, and licked his lips. "Though I know you won't heed my words, do try and get some sleep. If anything, for my sake. There's audition music on the violin that I know you feel as though you desperately need to work on, but practice only after I've left for work, all right?"
Sherlock watched him for a long moment, eyes narrowed thoughtfully, before agreeing and standing alongside him. "Yes, yes, I suppose I haven't slept in a few days. I need to keep my mind sharp for practising to take any effect on me, anyway."
John nodded something light and firm, but Sherlock could feel the approval John expelled, and wanted to keep it at all costs. Sherlock tilted his lips, not quite yet a smile but not too neutral either, and spun on his heel to his bedroom.
He heard a chuckle sound somewhere behind him, along with the shuffle of feet, and the lights vanished with a click.
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