John wakes with his nose pressed into of the crook of his arm. With a slow groan he stretches, the stiffness in his back and neck giving with a pop. The darkness has been washed through with the muddy amber of the street light. The distant lull of traffic falls at the window pane. A scratch and pull of a melody wires up through the floorboards. Sherlock must be awake.
The notes tug and sail. John has never really been one for classical music, more of a sixties soul man if he was forced to choose. But there is something about Sherlock when he plays the violin, something so… solitary. It makes John hold his breath in his mouth, unable to draw it in or breathe it out.
Still cottony with sleep, John lets his feet find the floor. Without really being conscious of doing so, he tiptoes down the stairs, his fingernails catching in the wallpaper.
The doorway frames Sherlock. The living room is dark, lit only by the sodium light coming through the open curtains, and a slow flicker from the grate. A beading of the evening's raindrops still cling to the glass, their pattern pressed across the pale skin of Sherlock's face, hands, and the lean planes of his chest between the open silk of his dressing gown.
The notes spark and fall from Sherlock, so much honey and rust. John presses his face to the doorframe, feeling the bite of the wood against his cheek. Sherlock dips and sways a little as he moves the bow, his whole body caught in the spell. John squints, tries, but he cannot tell whether Sherlock's eyes are open or closed.
The space between them feels tender. John's mind is swimming, following Sherlock like a siren, not sure where they're going, but lost in the vastness of a million brilliant pinpricks in the black. The timesomeness of everyday shifts and rolls somewhere far beneath his feet, and he feels himself in the cold clear air. Sherlock, fierce and far as starlight, seems to move the air around him, making John fancy that he sees him dancing even as he stands still.
A long note dissolves soft into silence. John falls untroubled, waiting to catch the next note, but it never comes. The sudden pressure of his feet on the floorboards surprises him. Sherlock's eyes flash in the darkness, bright as a cat's.
"Sorry, John," he says, his voice catching in his throat like this is the first time he has spoken in days. The silence feels as flat as felt.
"Tea?" asks John.
"Mm-hmm."
John pushes away from the door and walks into the kitchen, switching on the light.