Disclaimer: I own nothing in this marvelous universe; it all belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Moffat and Gatiss.
Author's Note: Well, I fell victim to that curse again—the curse of the plot bunnies ::winks::. Seriously, though, this little scene simply would not leave my head—and it will likely become part of a much larger series of scenes, all falling under the title of Intermezzo. Yes, the innate musician in me has decided to rear its head, after five years of lying dormant ::grins::.
These one-shots can all tie into the universe of my story The Long Road Home, which I hope to have finished relatively soon; they also, however, can stand alone. They're "outtakes," if you will, after Sherlock is recovered (or not so recovered) from his experience in TLRH. Please enjoy!
Rating: T (for language)
Summary: After Sherlock's return, doctor and detective adjust to fill the gaping holes left in absentia…(Intense Friendshipfic. Familyfic. Post-Reichenbach Fall.)
"Speech"
Personal Thoughts/Memories (Italics)
.:Intermezzo:.
By Sentimental Star
IOIOIOIOIOI
intermezzo: a short part of a musical composition that connects major sections of the work
IOIOIOIOIOI
As violin strings screeched in 221B, an indignant cry carried up the stairwell, "Sherlock, dear, I really don't think imitating a cat's caterwaul will make John come home any faster!"
Sherlock ignored Mrs. Hudson for the most part (she was too happy to have him back to really be angry about his atonal playing), but lowered his volume in deference to the woman who was more his mother than his own had been.
John would have diagnosed Sherlock's less-than-stellar playing as symptomatic of a chronic Sherlockian condition known as "BORED!"
However proficiently John diagnosed self-proclaimed sociopaths, his deduction would not have proven correct. For once, Sherlock had not succumbed to boredom (and he wouldn't for another few months, at the very least). Nor had he intended to be irritating in any way.
It's been three years, of course I would catch the bloody G# when I meant to hit the F. This is precisely why I don't want John to come home, yet!
He had taken to practicing his violin on the days that John took shifts at the A & E. More often than not, he ended up playing something that more closely resembled a shrilling mouse than actual music. Some days he marveled that Mrs. Hudson had not lost her patience with him entirely.
Certainly, it was all Sherlock could do not to give in to the disgust that so often consumed him at his inability to play even the simplest notes.
Granted, with every hour that passed, he relearned the familiarity he had once had with his Stradivarius, but still…he did not want John to hear him play until he knew it would sound as it had before the Fall.
Especially for this piece, that had been on constant repeat in his head ever since he'd learned the identity of the doctor Mycroft had employed to treat Sherlock's injuries and ailments during the Hiatus.
Composition is utterly useless without an instrument to play it on!
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock placed his bow to the strings one last time and, taking a deep breath, drew out the first few notes.
They played. At last.
Carefully, a tension in his shoulders that he dared not give voice to through his music, Sherlock played the next measure.
Better.
He sighed, and drew the bow across the strings again, teasing out the notes as his fingers danced across the violin's neck.
Not as good as I hoped it would be, he conceded some time later with a small wince, as he lowered his bow, but at least I played it through this time.
Still dissatisfied, the detective inhaled briefly through his nose and posed his fingers to play again.
A small noise came from the direction of the doorway to the flat.
Jerking his shoulders and narrowly avoiding a mimic of sharpened metal, Sherlock whirled around to face the entrance.
John Watson stood in their doorway, clinging white-knuckled to the wooden threshold.
Dismay stole briefly across Sherlock's features, before being pulled under an impassive mask.
"Problem?" he asked, would-be casually.
John simply shook his head wordlessly over and over. "You played," he whispered at last, "you played."
Sherlock raised an eyebrow, trying desperately to ignore the thick quality of his best friend's voice and the rapid pounding in his own chest. "Well observed, Jo-"
"I never thought—I never, ever thought—it's been three years, Sherlock!"
The detective glanced at John, took note of the moisture pooling in his eyes, and swallowed, abandoning any pretense of indifference. "I know," he whispered, voice cracking. "I-I'm rusty. I didn't want-"
John stumbled forward. "I don't give a flying fuck what you did or didn't want, you idiot! I don't bloody care if it's rusty. I don't bloody care if it's flawed. You played, you imbecile, you played. That's all I bloody care about!"
Quietly, carefully, Sherlock set aside his violin, easily catching the compact form as it staggered into his arms.
A moment later, John's muffled voice rose from his shoulder, "See, this is what I meant," Sherlock deliberately ignored the swiftly dampening fabric underneath the doctor's cheek. "When I said I wouldn't be able to control or predict my reactions, this is what I meant."
"Sentiment?" Sherlock ventured cautiously, tightening his grip around the doctor's shoulders.
John snorted thickly, "Of course it is, you git!" The older man's hands fisted in the back of Sherlock's suit, "What the hell else would it be?"
"Ah…I think I understand."
Another, rather more skeptical snort, "Do you?" John muttered, preparing to disengage himself from Sherlock's arms.
Instead of releasing him, the consulting detective's arms tightened. Against John's temple, he murmured, "If an aching void in your chest constitutes 'sentiment,' then yes, I do."
John's breathing hitched, "Sher—Sherlock?"
Sherlock sighed and, squeezing his eyes shut, pressed his forehead against John's cheek, "I think I missed you," he whispered.
Finale