Author's note: Hey, I know I've been on a pretty long haitus, but I'm back now! I have many stories clogging space on my laptop, so I decided it was time for me to return. I wrote this particular one whilst listening to some sad violin music, curtisy of youtube.
I apologize for any spelling/grammar mistakes on this, because I have neither a spell check, nor a beta. If you see any, please inform me.
Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock Holmes, then I would be filthy rich, and they would be an outed gay couple. That made-out alot.
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Sherlock Holmes played the violin.
He played it when he needed to think. When he needed to express. When he needed to say something that wouldn't be spoken, however hard he tried.
He played the violin.
John Watson listened to it's music.
He listened to his friend's frustration, his confusion, his victory; all being said through the sound of his violin.
Yet, when Sherlock needed to say something, to tell him something, he would play the violin, and John would only hear a pretty melody.
John would hear, but not listen; see but not observe.
And so, when John told Sherlock he was to be wed, that he would be leaving him for a woman, Sherlock tried to tell him. He tried to say how much John meant to him; how much he needed John in his life. He tried to scream it, but nothing came out.
So, he played his violin.
He composed. He wrote out all the confusion, the betrayal, the desperation he was feeling on a staff. In music.
He wanted John to hear it, needed John to realize, but he didn't. He simply smiled, and went to write in his blog. He didn't hear Sherlock's pleads.
Then came the day of his wedding. Sherlock was the best man. He hated it. He wanted to tell John how much he loathed today; how much he didn't want John to be married, didn't want to lose his best friend. His only friend.
He wanted to scream it. He wanted to stand up, and scream that John couldn't marry the annoying gold-digger, because he was his. John was his.
But he wasn't. And he didn't.
Instead, he played the violin.
He stood up on the stage, and played. He was composing again, but no one could tell through the confident flow of his music. He wasn't thinking about what he was playing, he just played.
He looked out at the crowd. He made eye contact with John. He looked so obliviously happy. It twisted Sherlock's heart into a tight knot.
If only John had listened that day. If only he had heard Sherlock's cries. He would've realized that he had always been with the one who would love him forever, who would grow old with him.
But he didn't. Instead, all he heard was a beautiful melody.
He didn't hear what Sherlock was trying to say, trying to express, trying to give him.
He didn't hear Sherlock's heart, played out only for him, through his violin.