Ok, this will probably just be drabbles with no link between them. Some will probably be slash, maybe some Kid!lock. Exciting stuff, I know. I take requests, prompts, whatever. But please review if you enjoyed it and tell me if I got the anatomy of the violin all wrong, as I only play piano and despise musical theory. I am in complete confidence that some mean person just made it purposely difficult for us to memorise and understand, because, like one consulting detective we all know and love, they were bored. Oh God, I'm rambling. Just please R&R if you like it!
(And incase you didn't know, Sherlock is completely the work of Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss and Co. Sherlock Holmes is all down to Arthur Conan Doyle, so actually we all have him to thank)
John stumbled over the threshold of 221B, the iconic rustle of the Tesco shopping bags - heavy in his rough calloused hands - echoing somewhat around the sparsely furnished hallway. It had been a long and strenuous day. Having to apologise profusely to Mrs Hudson on behalf of Sherlock (who had been too busy sulking in his room to even entertain the idea of performing this exhausting task himself) after Sherlock had shouted at her for attempting to rearrange one of his various human patellae and again reassuring her that she was an ignoramus had really taken it out of John, so he had tried to escape the confinement of 221B - not to mention Sherlock's undisguised and tedious silent treatment – by picking up a second carton of milk from the local Tesco's, after the first had been the victim of Sherlock's merciless anger the previous day (after having no luck whatsoever with the case they were currently working on) and had subsequently ended up open on the kitchen floor. Unfortunately, it rains one in every three days in the UK, so John was currently standing on the doormat of 221B Baker Street, sopping wet and the shopping threatening to slip out of his hands onto the floor, shamelessly ready for one steaming mug of tea and two thick slices of toast, brown with a thick layer of butter and a thin one of strawberry jam. It really wasn't much to ask.
He was immediately greeted, though, by the smooth, flowing sound of (John guessed) one of Chopin's valses, coming inevitably from upstairs, where he knew the bitter - yet beautiful - song to currently be playing on his flatmate's beloved violin, John picturing the owner of said violin gliding with unavoidable grace and rhythm across the wooden floorboards along with the piece. A symphony of creaking sounds above him proved John's suspicions to be undoubtedly correct.
This was to be expected, really. One of Sherlock's favourite pastimes, especially after a long hard day of sulking and pacing infuriatingly round the flat, was to play his violin. So John sighed to himself, and then proceeded up the stairs to where he knew Sherlock to be playing.
Sure enough, the consulting detective stood, his eyes closed, allowing himself to be momentarily carried away by the music, his arm only really dancing, fleeting, across the strings, contributing effective ornaments here and there, the other wrist adding a pleasant wavering sound as the piece finally ended. His thin, grey silk dressing gown had been billowing about him as he paraded around the room. This usually would have made Sherlock seem small and meek, but it gave him the air of complete grandeur and almost royalty, verging on precocious really, John decided. But whatever opinion John possessed of the great Sherlock Holmes, the clever detective in the funny hat, even 'the virgin', he really could not deny that Sherlock was an outstanding violinist.
As if reading his very thoughts (John wouldn't put it past him), Sherlock promptly turned around and stated with what was most likely the most snobbiest tone ever thought into creation, his voice dripping - no, his voice a cascading waterfall of undisguised sarcasm -
'Really John, the gormless expression that is currently plastered across your face does give you the air of a rather shocked codfish, or some other meaningless creature. So if you'd kindly like to tell me in whatever variant of the English language you deem fit how incredible, spectacular or amazing that was and be done with it, it would be much appreciated.'
He added a very sceptical smirk for good measure as John proceeded to begin to clench and unclench his fists, mentally count to ten and finally make his way to the kitchen for his tea and toast.