Soft, tinkling melodic string notes tip toed their way into the living room, where John was dozing. He had fallen asleep in front of the TV again, papers stacked high around him; write ups for the case they had finished. He had been dreaming fitfully of racing through London's darkened streets, slipping on the cobblestones, past shop fronts, past restaurants from which a soft, tinkling music could be heard. As he whirled round a gloomy corner – following a black trench coat as it whipped into the shadows, he came to the realisation that the music was still there.
A fluctuating melody pulled across strings that persisted in fluttering at the back of his head. Coming to, he lifted his head drowsily. The TV flickered soundlessly; perhaps he had leant on the remote- perhaps he never had the sound up. The music was drifting from the direction of Sherlock's bed room, and it appeared to have been plucked delicately from the heart if a violin. Shifting his weight to his feet, John shook his head to clear it and shuffled over to Sherlock's door, one hand on the wall. The door was ajar, as was often his flat mate's habit, caused by the need to quickly access any technology in the house, and also to allow his voice to carry through to John, in such dire circumstances as the need of a pen.
Leaning his sleep stuffed head against the cool wall; John peered through the gap to watch Sherlock play. He was not expecting what he saw. Gone were the impatient tweaking of the strings and the sometimes vicious plucking, he wasn't striking the violin with short sharp stabs of the bow or creating a discordant mess.
Instead his tall frame stood rocked with the music he was creating, his head was bowed, on unruly curl tumbling deliciously onto his pale forehead. It trembled as he took increasingly erratic steps that matched the increasing tempo, and his back arched into graceful curves thrown into half light by the street lamps outside the window. The purple shirt he was wearing was wrinkled and stretched sinfully tight as he contorted to fit the melody. His eyes were shut tight, and his teeth bared as the violin began to mourn louder. His bottom lip became pink and swollen as he bit it in concentration; thin, nimble fingers contorting into a smooth vibrato that sent shivers down John's spine.
With his head bent to the violin, neck curved and poised like that of a swan, he had not noticed John. As John gripped the door jamb to steady himself from the onslaught of emotion that filled his belly, the music slowed. Sherlock's arm stopped its swoops and lines, and settled into an unhurried, measured drawing of the bow. Painfully sweet notes caused him to throw back his head, and release a long, wistful sigh. Everything about the way he held himself, moved in time, leant into the tune and immersed himself into what he was playing triggered something in John. It plucked like a musician at every fibre in his body, calling them to be just as taut as the player.
John opened his eyes to find that he was trembling, and the music had stopped. When he looked up, startling icy blue eyes were looking at him. Sherlock was breathing erratically after his efforts, and the glorious instrument hung at his sides, the curves of the highly polished wood echoing the curvature of his hip as he leant al his weight on it, the bow resting on his shoulder as he contemplated John; causing him to blink.
"Did you like it?"