Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. Modern interpretation of Sherlock (BBC) envisioned by Mark Gatiss and Steven Moffat.
A/N: Title adopted from a line in the TS Eliot poem "The Love Song of J Alfred Prufrock."
Beneath the Music from a Farther Room:
Tristesse
(n.) a state of melancholy, sadness.
John had been leaving very early in the morning for several weeks. He never said a word when he left. Sherlock thought this very odd, as John was always the conscientious flatmate, letting him know if he was going out—though he did not always say where or for how long. Especially if he were cross. John had difficulty forming sentences when he was cross.
If Sherlock were in the living areas when John left, which he usually was, he would walk right past. He never even acknowledged the other man, as if he were in some kind of hypnotic daze. Not too far from reality, Sherlock observed. John did not function at full capacity when having just woken up... Well, to be honest, he didn't function at full capacity all of the time—Sherlock thought amusedly. His idiot John.
When John left, Sherlock would observe him. He wasn't hasty or nervous about leaving. Even bleary-eyed from sleep, John could rush half-dressed out the door on Sherlock's heels. This was different.
He calmly shouldered his jacket on and stepped through the door as if no one else were there, like his time was his own. Sherlock never admitted that this idea bothered him. John's time was Sherlock's time, or so had become the regular. Sherlock had become so accustomed to John's following him from crime scene to investigative journey that the echo of the other man's footsteps had become expected. If ever Sherlock walked anywhere on his own, he felt the oddly unbalanced feeling he equated to vertigo.
One morning when John came down the short stairs from his bedroom to don his jacket and step out of the flat at 4:30, Sherlock did not hesitate from stalking his flatmate. He quietly followed, hardly making a sound with his own steps. John's hikers covered most of the noise his own custom leather short boots made on the cobbles of this area of London.
Until today, Sherlock had been occupied by some experiment or other that distracted him thoroughly enough he could not abandon it to follow. Thankfully, the cabbage had molded quite nicely...
He stopped short when John entered a building ahead. Sherlock could not for the life of him imagine why John would voluntarily frequent the conservatory.
New girlfriend? He mused, equally displeased by that idea as he had been about John having his own time.
Sherlock paced outside the building for almost fifteen minutes before giving in to his curiosity. Dammit, John. He cursed as he opened the door cautiously.
Despite the time of day, the building was unlocked. Not as if that would have been a problem for him either, but it was more convenient. He was greeted by a dark-haired man in a gray suit. It was tailored, but not expensively.
"May I direct you?" A woman in short heels and a fitting, satin, violet-blue dress came toward him from the stairs. He watched her as her eyes traveled his frame, posture, and lingered on his fingers. "Practice room?"
Sherlock could hear muted chords of music from somewhere on the second floor.
Sherlock thought about lying to her, and even considered taking her offer of his own room to play. He could already hear the sound of the violin filling the space around him, unhindered by his clutter. He imagined the acoustics of the walls reflecting the tones and melodies back to him as an embrace. An unrestrained, uninterrupted, personal touch of his soul with the strings of his beloved... But his violin was back at the flat.
Besides, he thought. What was the point of following John if he didn't get his answers?
"I came with a friend." Sherlock whispered, "John-"
"Oh, certainly." She said, excitement making her eyes bright. "He said you might be stopping in. This way, please."
Sherlock nearly coughed his surprise. John? Suspecting he would follow? Well, perhaps. John wasn't stupid. But, had he actually noticed him yards behind, following cautiously?
She lead him up the stairs, giving no conversation. She was in reverence of the music, content in her own silence. She took him past a large glass window which overlooked a thriving greenhouse. At the second door on the left of the immaculate hallway, she stopped. It was the room where the music Sherlock had heard before was coming from.
Sherlock's lips quirked at the music. Piano. He had known that of course, but didn't think about it until this moment. Standing outside this room in bewilderment, he allowed his mind to assess its worth. It was a lovely sound. He had heard combinations of piano accompaniment before. It was quite a compliment to the stringed instruments, like his violin. Personally, though, he preferred each in their singularity.
His thoughts jarred. If John was on the other side of that door sitting quietly and listening to another person play that song... His stomach churned.
Sentiment, he chided himself. Foolish.
They stood for a moment more. She seemed to be waiting for the right moment of the music to interrupt.
Sherlock twisted his hands behind his back. He swallowed. What would he find?
Finally, she turned the door knob and crept the door open. The hinges were silent, obviously well oiled. A requisite in this place, Sherlock mused. He imagined the offense of squeaky hinges and cringed. She stepped aside, discreetly permitting Sherlock to enter the room.
John was seated at the bench.
Sherlock couldn't move. He had never expected John could play. John did seem to like surprising him, though. He probably enjoyed seeing such a human expression on his face: the initial blinking disbelief, the raised eyebrows, the stillness of his lips... the careful control of his heart-rate—keeping the color from rising in his cheeks, belaying his embarrassment.
The door to the room was still open. The woman had disappeared from behind him, leaving Sherlock to enter as he chose. Soon John would hear the change in the acoustics of the room, possibly interrupting the flow of music.
He stepped through the door, catching the knob in his fingers. He closed the portal, separating the music, John and himself from the rest of the world.
When the door latch caught, the music stopped. Sherlock couldn't tell if it had been due to the close of the piece John had been playing or if he had heard the metal scraping against the closure.
John remained at the keys, his posture unchanged. He took a breath, and Sherlock thought he would turn around and confront him for invading his privacy. After all, John always complained when Sherlock "shared" John's things.
But he didn't. Sherlock watched from where he stood, not daring to step closer. John's fingers traced the keys silently, as if willing the piano to speak its next notes to him. He inhaled and pressed a chilling chord. Sherlock knew immediately what he had chosen to play.
He leaned back, his head and shoulders resting against the door, letting the music surround him. He closed his eyes, and for the first time in his life, Sherlock let his mind drift without thought.
The chaos of notes spoke so much of John. Everything he felt. Everything he lived. His innermost being escaped through those keystrokes. It was so intimate, Sherlock wondered if he should be allowed to exist in the same space as such a personal expression.
He stayed, content to hear the lilting movements of the discordant and melodic notes. It was a very complicated piece. Sherlock was amazed. There was no sheet music before him. John kept every note in his head.
The concerto had originally been composed for more instruments than the solitary piano. Naturally, there were gaps in the music where the orchestra would have picked up, but John didn't seem to mind the silence. And Sherlock wasn't about to complain.
Though Sherlock found himself evaluating John's skill, he could not find fault. John may not be at a caliber for concert performance, but he knew the notes and the wealth of feeling meant to be carried through the piece.
Sherlock listened carefully. There was something...off...about how he played. Timing. As if he had been out of practice for a while.
Years, he reminded himself, the war. John had been away for years, fighting for queen and country. And so, for weeks, John had been training himself, assuaging his soul with the music he knew.
There was no clock in the room, but as the minutes progressed, Sherlock witnessed the first tendrils of sunlight peaking through the curtains on the opposite side of the room. John was still playing, unaffected by the changing light.
Finally, when Sherlock could bear no more, he quietly opened the door and excused himself without a word.
He made his way back to the foyer, nodded to the attendant and the hostess, and slipped into the rising fog of the London morning.
Once back in the flat, Sherlock lifted his violin beneath his chin and stared out the window. He had a song like that, one that defined him. One that he hadn't shared with anyone. One he would share with John.
A/N: What do you think? Please do let me know.
A/N: Before you ask, John does not play Chopin's "Tristesse" (Etude Op. 10, No. 3), except perhaps in warm-up. I like the definition, and felt it appropriate for the mood I was in while writing. I left out actually naming his chosen concerto because I had two conflicting ideas...they may come up again in the future. For now, this is a one-shot.