So, here we are. Just a couple of notes: Mary Morstan was supposed to die; her death is even mentioned in the books and sooner or later it was bound to happen here too. Granted, originally it had nothing to do with the story and it was just background information, and yes, that was pretty…harsh and overall sad and depressing ("but then I suppose, that was rather the point") but hey, it gave me plenty of room to build a new story. Also, The Sign of Four gave me the idea of a note on a dead body but it has nothing to do with it. For once, this story is just a product of my wicked mind.
Sherlock climbs the stairs of 221B and once inside his flat drops the bag on the floor and throws the keys on the coffee table; he shrugs off his coat, closing the door behind him with a kick. The flat is cold and dark and Sherlock can see his breath fog with every exhale; he sighs and then flops down on the couch, drumming his fingers on the armrest with his eyes closed and his head leaned back. The pizzicato notes of Vivaldi's Winter suddenly rushing through his head urge him to stand up quickly and grab his violin. He places it under his chin and moves gracefully around the dark living room, lit only by the streetlights; he lets his left fingers linger on the strings for a second then starts moving the bow rapidly back and forth across them.
- John. Did I ever tell you about my love for Baroque composer?
The doctor is sitting on his chair, reading the newspaper; he doesn't look at his friend, standing in front of the window, hands in his pockets and eyes fixed on the street, where the snow is slowly falling down.
- No. Wonder how I lived this far without knowing.
- Yes, sarcasm, how original.
John lowers the paper and then folds it in half.
- Why the sudden confession?
- It's snowing.
- …wow, you really are the master of deduction! – John smiles.
With his back to John, the detective frowns and tilts his head to the side, his focus now shifted on two sets of footprints left in the snow.
Female. Depressed. Adopted a dog hoping to feel better. Loves him - no, her - but is not working.
- Again, original.
He turns toward John, who's staring at him with his eyebrows raised and his head rested on his left hand, waiting.
- I went to Venice when I was a teenager. I was obsessed with Vivaldi and I practically forced Mycroft to take me there. It was winter and it snowed. Have you ever seen Venice under the snow?
- What do you think?
- Well, you're missing out.
The memory of that day starts building in Sherlock's mind, welcomed by the smallest hint of a smile on his face.
###
It's two in the morning and John is walking down a street; it's late October and an unusual freezing weather is engulfing the city, opposite of the unusual warmth that was embracing San Francisco just a couple of days before. John is dragging his feet, staring in front of him with a blank expression; he's walking with inertia and without intent, like a SatNav he's got a destination in mind and he's moving accordingly.
It's been almost two hours, when suddenly his mind snaps back to reality and he realizes he's standing right outside 221B; he feels something in his hand and looks down: both stained with blood, one of them is holding a piece of paper. What now?
Keys, John.
As a faint voice in his head guides him, John slowly opens the door while a familiar melody overwhelms him: the sound of Sherlock's violin makes his head spin for a moment. He feels nauseous and holds a hand on his mouth.
Breathe.
John leans against the wall, inhaling and exhaling slowly.
Move.
He grips the handrail and takes a deep breath.
One leg after the other.
He swallows a gulp of air and curses his leg which feels like it's filled with lead.
You can do this.
One step at a time, John climbs the stairs but stops at the one that creaks, gritting his teeth and holding his breath, fearing it might alert Sherlock: it doesn't. Vivaldi's music is filling the house, the stairs, his ears. He reaches the door of the flat and twists the handle: the detective sees John's reflection in the window and stops playing, carefully putting away his precious instrument.
- Ah, John. Did I ever tell you about Vivaldi's birth? He was born in Venice, the 4th of March, 1678. That day an earthquake shook the city and -…why are you standing there? Turn the lights on, would you?
Silence falls around them and Sherlock senses that something is wrong.
- Is this your new way of scolding me for playing at "ungodly hours"? Because it's not working.
John shifts on his feet and for a moment his right hand moves under the light coming from the street.
- What is wrong with your hand?
The detective takes a couple of steps closer but stops halfway; he rushes back to turn on the lamp behind him and looks back to the doctor.
- John? – He whispers.
The doctor is still wearing that blank stare that makes Sherlock shiver with fear for a second; he runs up to him and takes his face in both hands.
- John? John, look at me, John?
The older man finally meets his friend's eyes and gapes at him; Sherlock looks down at his bloodied hands and starts to move his up and down John's body, inspecting for wounds and checking every bone.
- It's not your blood. John? John!
They stare at each other for a while without saying a word until Sherlock fills the room with a whisper.
- …Mary.
John slides down from his grip and falls on his knees, crying uncontrollably: he stares at his hands, her name on his lips, while Sherlock kneels beside him but doesn't really know what to do.
- John I…I'm so sorry John, I don't…know…what can I do?
The doctor's chest heaves with each breath, a stabbing pain inside his ribcage every time he inhales with his mouth.
- You have to steady your breathing, otherwise you'll go into…
John starts to feel dizzy and falls down.
- …hyperventilation.
Sherlock helps him on his back, bending his knees; he places one hand on his stomach, just below the ribs, and the other one on his chest.
- You have to do something for me, alright? Take a deep breath through your nose.
John stares at him, scared and angry at the same time but following Sherlock's instructions nevertheless until his breathing comes back to normal and a new wave of tears comes down his face.
- Tell me what happened, John.
Sherlock shifts on his knees to stare into his eyes; his right hand ghosts over his cheek, uncertain.
- John?
The doctor swallows and licks his chapped lips, his chest slightly moving up and down.
- There's…there's a message for you.
I need to ask you something, and I mean it, this time around I really need to know what you think. I know I said I'm not going to "slash it up" but I feel like I've crossed a line and it's too late to ignore it so I'm asking you: hint of slash or just close friendship? Keep in mind that if I do slash it up, this won't be an M rated fic and their relationship won't be the center of the story, but I feel like I've taken the path of the awkward silences and the slight touches and first kiss and stuff and I didn't realize it until now. Please, pretty please, let me know, I seriously need feedbacks for this.