Disclaimer: Copyright for this incarnation of Sherlock Holmes at BBC and Messrs Moffat and Gatiss, no infringement intended
A/N: Using an idea from book!canon. Beta and brit-picking by witch_annie at LJ. Written after the first season of Sherlock, such a long time ago, but I think it still has its merits.
A Performance
John considered himself a very patient, very tolerant person. Else, he would probably have stormed out of their flat at 221B Baker Street a week after he moved in, the welcome thrill of danger be damned.
Whether it was body parts in the fridge or in even less desirable places, or bullet holes in the wall, or chemicals cluttering their kitchen table, or just Sherlock's usual eccentricities, he put up with it all and hardly ever complained. Or, if he did, it never lead to an argument, merely to a... heated discussion between adults. However, his patience had reached an end when he was robbed of his sleep for three nights in a row due to the infernal screeching of the violin from the sitting room below.
He had long given up on wondering when, if at all, Sherlock slept and even stopped worrying when the consulting detective kept on his task for days on end. It was just how Sherlock worked, and John was the last to complain. After all, his flatmate's deductions never ceased to amaze him, nor did the cases fail to give his life the thrill John seemed to seek. However, John was a normal man, a working man, with horribly early hours, and he could not risk his position by napping during consulting hours again. With Sherlock's attitude towards money, they would be broke in a month if he were to lose the job.
John kicked away his blanket in indignation and scrambled out of bed without bothering to switch on the lights. The violin did not cease its wailing as John stepped into the sitting room, which was plunged into darkness, only illuminated by the lights from the street. Sherlock stood by the window, for once in the position John had always associated with violin-playing, and was scraping his bow over the strings, eliciting a slow, mournful wail that made John's skin crawl.
He switched on the lights and the noise stopped immediately. Sherlock lowered the bow, but did not turn towards him. "Yes, John?"
"Have you any idea what time it is?"
"It's of no importance."
"Yes, it is! Yes! Listen, Sherlock, I don't mind your playing all day, if you have to, but I need to sleep! I am supposed to work tomorrow – today!"
"Lucky for you."
"So this is another of those 'I am bored' actions?"
"What would you have me do, John? You objected to my shooting the wall."
"Of course I did! Sherlock, I beg you, go to bed. I haven't slept properly for three days..."
At that, Sherlock turned, a mischievous smirk curling his mouth. "Indeed? You do look quite weary, John."
John ran a hand through his hair in frustration. "It is three in the morning!"
"I see. So you are implying my violin playing keeps you awake."
"If you call that horrendous wailing playing." John slumped down in his armchair.
Sherlock had lowered the violin and was looking down on the instrument thoughtfully. "Sarasate is not to your liking, is it?"
"Is that what it was? No, I don't think so."
"Well, I suppose I could play something else, then."
"Sherlock, if you could just stop playing altogether for tonight..."
"No. I need to play, and you need to sleep, so why shouldn't I try and put you to sleep with my music?"
"That's not going to work."
"It's a compromise. You were the one who told me the other day that if we were to share a flat, we would have to reach compromises. Storing my experiments in a separate cupboard for example..." Sherlock gestured with his bow towards the kitchen cupboard John had subsequently emptied for him and had then vowed to never open again.
"Yes. Yes, I remember."
"Well, would Vivaldi be acceptable, then?"
"Fine, Sherlock. I'll just go back to bed..."
"Oh, you are most welcome to the sofa. You don't look like you would want to mount the stairs again, and I don't need the lights."
John gave him a dubious look, but went to switch off the light nevertheless and settled down on the sofa, which was usually occupied by Sherlock's slender frame. From his position, he could observe Sherlock as the detective turned back towards the window, illuminated by the street lights, and raised his instrument to his chin again. The light, joyful tunes rising from the strings now were very different to those John had objected to, and before he could really comprehend what was happening, he had dropped off to sleep.