I wrote this while listening to Amazing by Aerosmith on loop, just thought you guys should know.
There was one moment that John remembered very clearly from before. Sherlock had been playing his violin a lot more than usual, and John thought it was because of the lack of cases. Though, since the first time they had found themselves tangled in each others arms, Sherlock had become a little more manageable in the lull between major crimes. He spent his time playing his violin, doing experiments, and finding ways to drive John crazy. He was determined to find every way to pleasure John, and when he wasn't drawing the doctor into bed, he had taken to composing violin pieces in between playing 'God Save The Queen' for hours on end.
He had been sitting on the couch, pretending to read the newspaper, actually watching Sherlock play his violin next to the window. It was entrancing to watch him play, focused on nothing but the instrument in his hands and the music pouring from it. Sherlock must've realized John was watching him, because he turned around and said, "Come here."
Confused, John stood up and walked over. Sherlock held out the violin. John just stared. "Well, take it."
John carefully wrapped his hand around the neck of the instrument. Sherlock set the bow down and stood behind John, guiding the violin so it rested on John's shoulder. He positioned John's hand over the neck, and helped him settle his chin on the rest. Keeping one hand over John's on the neck, he took the bow in his other hand, and gave it to John. With his arms wrapped around the shorter man from behind, and each hand covering John's on the bow and the violin, Sherlock leaned down so his lips were right next to John's ear. "Put your first finger there," he guided John's finger with his; "And the second one here." Satisfied, he lifted his and John's arm with the bow and placed it across the strings. "Put a small bit of pressure, there, and pull gently."
The first noise John produced was more screech than music, and he winced, but Sherlock's deep laugh in his ear calmed him. Sherlock was in a rare mood; he was happy. Without a word, he guided John's hands into position and pressed the hand holding the bow onto the violin. "Try again."
The second attempt was less like nails on a chalkboard and more like one would think of violin music. A few more tries, and they produced a clean note. John felt himself swell with pride, a huge grin breaking out over his face. He could feel Sherlock's arms tighten slightly around him. Guiding his fingers into another chord, Sherlock nudged John's bow arm slightly. John pulled the bow across the strings and a pure, clean sound came out. Sherlock pressed his lips just behind John's ear, and they spent the afternoon standing by the window, Sherlock teaching John to play the violin without a word.
It was a memory he had buried with all the rest. It hurt too much to remember. But today was a bad day. It had barely been six months, and every day was getting longer. John's limp was back full force, so were the suicidal thoughts that had occasionally plagued him after Afghanistan, but before Sherlock, only this time, they were back with a vengeance. He was hyperaware of the gun in the drawer. He wanted to be with Sherlock more than anything. Life had lost a vital attraction for him when Sherlock died. And work distracted him to a degree, but there were only so many hours he could spend at the hospital before Sarah forced him to go home and sleep, and it was the hours in between that drove him crazy. Sleep wasn't a big thing anymore, the bed felt so empty without Sherlock. He had slept alone for years, but never like this. Sleeping had lost its vitality. Everything had lost its vitality when Sherlock had leaned forward and let himself fall off that ledge. That was one of the thoughts that circled in his brain night after night. Why did Sherlock jump? And why did John see it coming? He knew Sherlock better than anymore, he of all people should've been clued into this.
It was two in the morning when he saw it. The violin, lying by the window, untouched since Sherlock died. He walked over and ran his finger over the wood, leaving a track in the dust that covered its surface. Something on the table beside the violin caught his eye; his name. His name on the top of a piece of sheet music.
Hands shaking, he picked the music up. It was the composition Sherlock had been working on before he died. John let his eyes skim over it, humming the notes under his breath without realizing what he was doing. In the months before he lost everything, John had learned to read basic music and play the violin without Sherlock's hands guiding his every move.
The piece was unfinished. There were a few blank measures at the end. Fighting the ache in his chest, John set the music on the stand and brushed the worst of the dust off the violin before picking it up and tucking it under his chin, the way Sherlock had taught him.
The first attempt at playing was mostly screeching, and John wanted to throw the bloody instrument against the wall and forget about that damned piece of music, but he couldn't. He walked away only to walk back a few minutes later and try again.
It took hours before he could play the piece through without messing up. By then, the sun had come up and he had to head to the hospital for his shift. But, he found that as he walked to work, as he saw patients, and even as he walked home, he couldn't get the piece out of his head. It was nagging at him, especially the lack of an ending. Playing it again that evening, he realized he needed to finish it. For Sherlock.
John Watson was not a composer. For weeks, he drove himself crazy trying to figure out how to end the piece. More than one night ended up with him punching the wall, getting piss drunk, and crying. But he made progress, one note at a time. Because he knew, somewhere deep inside him, that he would never be at peace with Sherlock's death, never be at peace with himself, until it was finished. And so he continued to play, to write, to scribble out notes and get frustrated, to yell at the violin, and to lean his head against the wall and sob when missing Sherlock got to be too much.
He noticed, in the back of his mind, that since finding the song, living was getting easier. He was sleeping more, and more restfully. There were less nightmares. He was allowing himself to laugh, to smile again. He as moving on, and sometimes the thought scared him so much that he had panic attacks that rivaled the ones he had right after Afghanistan. He was moving on, he was accepting and living a life without Sherlock, without the man he had fallen in love with. Without the man he had intended to spend the rest of his crazy life with. But, somehow, that was okay. It was okay to be happy again.
Just after four months of working on the ending of the piece, John got it. He had finally come up with a proper way of ending the song. He stood staring at the piece for almost an hour before he worked up the courage to lift the bow and play the song all the way through. His hands were shaking so badly, he wasn't sure he would even be able to make the notes come out clean. The first pull across the strings came out so pure, John almost broke down and cried right there. It was a sign, it had to be a sign. The song was finished, he was moving on. Everything was okay. Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he played the next note. And the next. He fell into the rhythm of the song, losing himself in the notes he was making. And when he finally played the last note, the final note of the song that he had worked so hard to finish, he felt like a giant weight had been lifted from his shoulders. He let the hand holding the bow fall to his side and let all the air out of his body in a shuddering breath. Tears were streaming freely down his face. And, in that moment, he swore he could feel long arms winding around him again, the ghost of lips against his ear, whispering, "I wouldn't have ended it any other way."