Quick A/N: First Sherlock fic! Whoo~ I saw this fanart of Sherlock playing the violin, all other characters have their backs turned. Except John looks over his shoulder at Sherlock. I was inspired by that picture. I'm not British, so I may get some terms wrong and feel free to point them out. Oh and one thing, search on youtube "A Moon Filled Sky" The Instrumental Version. Just keep an ear on the violin playing. Why, you ask? Cause it's what I imagined being played here. And for the sake of the fic, I'm just gonna pretend I didn't hear it from an anime. Enjoy!
It's been four months, six days, and fifty-six...no, make it fifty-eight seconds since Sherlock's death and John is staring at his ceiling in a new smaller apartment. He can't stay in his old flat anymore. It has too many memories. It's 3:26 AM and he can't sleep. He hasn't slept since...since before that day, that afternoon. And even if he could sleep, he didn't want to. To sleep is to dream and his has now lead to that day, that memory that haunts over him. To see blood, ruby red, flow out into the London sidewalk, and spread down a pale face. Icy gray eyes staring upwards at the sky, one's he has known to light up and have captivated him with the different shades he could count are now a dead stare. To see the sprawled out body of his friend, his best friend, and, in his dreams, never being able to go near the body because something is pulling him away from it.
No, no it was better to not dream. But to be laying on his bed, wide awake, John found it (and he grimaced at the only word that came to mind) boring. He reaches for the large headphones on his nightstand and the silver ipod. He places the headphones over his ears, muffling the air, and scrolled to playlist #19. He relaxed into the bed, hands folded over his stomach, and listened to the violin rendition of Ave Maria. John closes his eyes, finding respite behind the darkness of his eyelids. He wasn't usually a fan of classical music, but two weeks after Sherlock's death, John found that the only way to keep the nightmares at bay was music.
Especially music involving the violin being played. His psychiatrist says that, like his limp, it's in his mind and still in the grieving process without trying to put effort to move on. The music, she supposed, is how he copes, but it's an unhealthy fixation on Sherlock. John's stopped seeing her. He rubs his face, feeling that a cup of tea right now would be lovely. He gets off the bed, the bed creaking from the loss of large weight, and he puts on green slippers. His new place is small, the kitchen and the living area separated only by a table. The loo across his room has only a one person fitted shower and the toilet, reducing him to brush his teeth in the kitchen.
It wasn't much, but for the time being, it'll have to do. ...Oh who was he kidding? He missed being back at 221B. He missed the familiarity of home, the home he and Sherlock shared. But he can't go back. Too much memories, memories that are going to overwhelm him and he'll never recover. It doesn't take a session with a psychiatrist to know that. He pours the tea into his favorite mug, putting his ipod in his pajamas pocket, and then take the mug to the chair in the living area. He sits, listening to the song change and go into Rolf Lovland's "Secret Garden."
He takes a sip of the tea, enjoying it's aroma, and relaxes into the chair. He takes more sips, and closes his eyes as he listens. He's listened to it so many times, that he knows the violin's cue is not til thirty six seconds into the song. He imagines long, pale, nimble fingers holding the bow over the strings. John imagines a violin, gleamed with polish and care, on the shoulders of a man. This man's curls are gracefully still on top of the perched violin on his shoulder. The calm, but focused expression that plays music with precision and talent John will never know.
John sees Sherlock play the violin in every song he listens to. A private performance in his mind, music that doesn't sound like a cat's tail is being repeatedly stomped, and Sherlock...his friend alive. It brings him peace that sleep, tea, or time have yet done for him. He can vividly see Sherlock, pale blue borderline gray eyes behind pale eyelids and eyelashes on high, sharp cheekbones. Tailored, expensive clothes that hugged his body comfortably and stylishly. John allows a small smile to grow as he thinks of Sherlock playing his beloved violin. He can imagine himself back at the flat, Sherlock sitting across from John and playing while he enjoyed his tea. That is until he opens his eyes and sees that he's not at the flat and Sherlock isn't alive, but still very much dead.
Then he'd just finish his tea and wait for the sun to rise, still listening to music.
Dammit...he was late. He limped as quickly as he could through the busy crowd, muttering colorful curses under his breath. John got his job at the clinic back and Sarah, the saint she is, had helped him get it. The only reason he was late was because his weary body finally took a moment's dream-less rest and he woke up to the sound of his neighbors having a loud row. He muttered a screw it and limped to the curve, holding his cane steady. He raised his arms and tried to hail a cab. But his arm stops half way and he stills. John hears something. It's a bit difficult over the crowd, all the talking, all the cars driving by, and the honking. So much sounds that are surrounding him, but this one...this one cuts through all the rest. Maybe because it's a sound he's heard so much lately that it's just something his ears would automatically pick up.
The low note of a violin. And the melody...John knows it. His stomach drops to his knees and he gulps down a lump. He forgets about work or Sarah for a moment and walks away from the curb. His walk is brisk and it picks up speed. John doesn't question why, but he starts to run where he thinks the music is coming from.
He follows it, his ears strained to keep up with the melody and track down the source. He bumps a few people along the way, some glare and some throw a curse, but he only gives them muttered half-felt apologies. The pain in his leg is just something he puts in the back of his mind and he pushes himself forward. Is this it? Is this the miracle that he'd ask and waited long ago?
'Please. Please be him.' he thinks. He's down the street and then he sees a figure and the glare of something shining at the end. He doesn't take a full dash, but his pace is quick. John stops at the corner of a building, the man holding a violin on his left shoulder. John's breathing hard now and his shoulders sag. It isn't him. This man is homeless, obvious by the state of his dirty and torn clothes. Instead of dark curls, there's bright ginger strands under a dingy gray-brown bowler hat. This man wasn't thin and lean like Sherlock, but rather plump, his stomach bulging out and round. The man's face is covered in bright stands of carrot orange hair, a beard with clumps of grim tangled about, and his eyes are hidden behind dark glasses. Plus, he smelled something awful, John's nose wrinkling.
'You're such a fool John. A naive, optimistic fool.' he thinks to himself with a head shake. He looks down at his feet, shame creeping onto him. Ashamed that he's missing work because of some foolish idea. Ashamed he's still holding onto the hope that a dead man is alive. Ashamed because even if he knows it's pointless, he'll still hope for one. He licks his lips, his throat dry from the run and the pain in his leg is suddenly felt. He should go, Sarah won't help him if he's sacked a second time. Music pulls him away from his thoughts, he looks up at the homeless violinist playing music to an uninterested crowd.
John is surprised to recognize the melody being played, "A Moon Filled Sky." The man is only playing the violin portion of it, in the song, it's usually accompanied by piano. There's also someone singing in the song, but it's in Japanese, and John listens to only the instrumental version. But he looked up the lyrics once, at least the ones for English translation. Lovers apart that are tied together in bond and love, memories that keep them alive, and a strong belief to see each other again one day. To be together forever.
Knowing this, John starts to hums along to it, filing in for the elegant soft piano playing. It takes him a while, but eventually syncs up, in a way, though John's voice is nothing close to how gentle the tune is to a piano or this man's great performance. John doesn't know if the man can hear his humming and if he does, he didn't acknowledge it. The crowd just passes by him, some bump into him, some give him strange looks, and some just ignore him and the violinist all together. But it didn't matter, all that mattered to John right now is the music he's listenting to, making along side this homeless man, and the warm sting of tears that wet his eyes.
The song ends, John's humming stops as well, some stray tears fall from his eyes and a re quickly dabbed away. The violinist puts the violin down, letting it hang by his side, and he bows, as though he gave a performance to royalty. The homeless man keeps his head down and John realizes what he's waiting for. He reaches for his pocket and takes out a few paper money to throw into the case. The homeless man raises himself and nods at John in thanks. John gives him a nod and smile, but the smile is strained.. He gulps down any and all his sadness and turns away, still having to go to work. John decides to walk instead of hailing a tag, it'd be best to give him a few more minutes to compose himself. He melds himself back into the crowd, his hands in his pockets, his hand gripping his cane.
The homeless violinist removes his sunglasses, icy gray eyes, shining, stare at John's back until he's gone around the corner. Sherlock removes his hat, the ginger wig attached to the hat lifts to reveal black curls and he unties the strings that held his beard. After putting his hat back in place, he stuffs the beard into his pocket, it was rather itchy, and puts the violin in the case. Sherlock picks up the case and heads toward an alley, whistling the tune he had just played for John.