Author's Note: For a long time now, I've been intrigued by John's treatment of Sherlock in the interim between Irene's 'death' and reappearance, and his reaction to the Woman when she does return. I have never read it as the protest of a jealous boyfriend, but rather, the reaction of a man who cannot and will not allow the hurting of his friend to go unanswered.
This will be a two- or three-part story, more likely the latter. Thank you for taking a look, and enjoy. :)
Tell Him
Part I
When the first strains of the violin drifted up the stairwell to the third floor, John knew there was something wrong.
He sat up slowly, using his elbows to prop himself up against the pillow, staring through the semi-darkness towards the door of his room. He'd left it partially ajar, as he knew he had to, and he didn't need to occasional incoming text from Mycroft to remind him of that—though they came anyway.
John was used to hearing his flatmate play at all hours; Sherlock's thought processes did not regulate themselves by night and day, and the violin helped him to concentrate. He pretended to be stubbornly uncaring about the fact that the music might just bother someone at one or two in the morning, but John had become wise enough to know that wasn't precisely the case; almost unfailingly, Sherlock would find a few moments the following day to regale the flat with one of John's favourite pieces—and coming from Sherlock Holmes, that was an eloquent apology.
But this, John thought, as he sat up a little straighter and shifted the sheets out from under his arm, this was not the usual Chopin or Bach that came in the early hours of the morning. There was something different here.
Sherlock retained a repertoire of music—classical, for the most part—that he knew perfectly and intimately, and it was one of these that was most often to be found reverberating around the second-floor flat at what John had termed 'the ungodly hours'. And though the music might be unwelcome, the sound itself was always smooth, mastered, and unhalting in its execution. Indifferent to the other occupants of the building, it carried on.
It was not such a sound that John was hearing now.
Instead, he was listening to a lone, poignant melody, and one that never seemed able to continue on for more than a few seconds before breaking abruptly into silence. There would come a pause, during which John almost didn't want to breathe, and only after an agonisingly long wait would the violin take up again—and more often than not, it would merely repeat, again and again, with minor variations in tune or tempo, as though both the instrument and its handler had reached some obstacle and couldn't, or wouldn't, go any further.
For a long while, John remained still, attention caught and held fast by the notes wafting uncertainly—so terribly uncertainly—from the sitting room below. In some ways, he hated himself for listening, because in all his time as Sherlock's flatmate he had never heard something so personal and yes, emotional, coming from the old violin. He had learned to recognise the smallest variations in his friend's speech and gesture, and yet this baffled him, not because he didn't understand where it was coming from, but because it was present at all.
He was listening to the sound of heartbreak, and even he was amazed that it could manifest itself so recognisably under the hands of Sherlock Holmes.
He was honest enough with himself to admit that he didn't understand the precise position that Irene Adler held in Sherlock's mind. She did not seem to be an object of desire—at least not in the usual sense, because Sherlock just didn't think that way. And yet, John was dead certain that his friend was intrigued, even captivated, by this very extraordinary woman, on a level that was far removed from notions of romantic attachment. She had, in some way, met him on a playing field that too often he occupied by himself, and she had challenged him, and he relished that, after his own fashion.
But whether it was love or something very different didn't really matter; what did was that her death had done something to Sherlock, had gotten to his mind and his heart in a way that nothing, to John's knowledge, ever had before. And that was very, very hard to listen to.
Briefly, John considered going downstairs, but dismissed the idea after another moment of thought. What would it accomplish? Sherlock would not be talkative tonight, and at any rate, he was loathe to disturb one of the few emotional outlets that the detective allowed himself. No, he would do more harm than good if he approached his friend now.
So, with a long, soft sigh, the doctor let himself sink back against his pillow. He turned over, but remained awake for a long time, trying to pretend that he couldn't hear the violin's aching struggle one floor below.
To be continued! As always, your thoughts are appreciated.
