Hiya my fellow fans~ This is my first fan fiction so please read and review, I would love some constructive criticism if I messed something up!
Disclaimer: Sherlock belongs to Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss
The first few times I had woken up in the middle of the night to Sherlock playing his violin had made me want to scream. It was a reasonable response, I supposed, after all I was exhausted from being dragged halfway across town, I wasn't as young as I used to be, and despite how thrilling it was chasing down the criminals Sherlock found with that brilliant mind of his, I was still tired at the end of the day and I wanted to sleep. In fact after it happening four times in one week I had walked, well stormed really, to ask the dark haired man if he could play at a halfway decent time like everyone else on the planet. But I don't think I had expected him to look so . . . peaceful.
Sherlock's mind was caught on some conundrum or another, and he was standing so perfectly still, caught in the light from the street post outside the window, his eyes were closed, dark lashes brushing against high cheekbones. Oh it was beautiful, I still remember being caught off guard with how easily he was playing what should have been a complicated piece to anyone else, but of course this was Sherlock, and I shouldn't have expected anything less of him. His arms and hands were the only thing that moved in the darkened room and they caressed the instrument, there was no other word for it. It was different from everything else he did, he preferred speed, almost aggressively so, and being able to finish things at the pace his mind worked pleased him to no end. But when he played his violin, it was slow, careful, and almost referent.
I watched that night from the doorway as he played piece after piece, all from memory, and I couldn't help but allow my awe for him to grow. This was a Sherlock that the rest of the world would never know, and I left before he opened his eyes hours later, content to let his peaceful secret stay that way in his mind.
Months followed and I found myself waiting for the nights that music would drift into my room. I occasionally watched but I never told him I was there, and would even find myself making a scathing comment during the day about his playing that I never meant. He would give me that little side glance, so smug and knowing that I would be forced to wonder if maybe he wasn't quite so unaware of my silent presence as I had thought.
When I didn't watch I would lay in bed and listen, allowing the music to sooth me, it eased my stress and the night after the bomb incident at the pool his violin had been my saving grace. It flowed around me and calmed my shaking nerves, and when I finally fell asleep that night I dreamt of pale elegant fingers and soft music, instead of the nightmares of Moriarty I had been expecting.
But now it is silent in our flat, as it had been for far too long. No experiments in the fridge, no quite offers of coffee in the mornings, and especially no violin music. I hadn't slept in several days now, when I tried all I could see in my dreams was Sherlock's coat fluttering in the wind, then red, so much red that it made me choke, and his dark hair, stained and pressing against the hard pavement. I didn't want to sleep ever again, truthfully I didn't want to do much of anything anymore. I just wanted to wake up and hear that music again, I wanted to jump out of bed and just watch him, watch him be peaceful and alive.
I needed to reassure myself that his de- No, I couldn't say that yet, couldn't even allow myself to think it. Because that would make it real, and I don't think I would be able to survive much longer if it became real to me. If it was real then it would mean no Sherlock, no more brilliant quirky Sherlock who couldn't even remember our solar system and was so gentle with his violin you would have thought it was a baby. So I won't acknowledge it because that isn't a world I want to live in, because a world without Sherlock is cold, and silent in a way that suffocates me.