A/N: Thank you RennFlight for beta-reading it. Helped me a lot :)
Just want you all to know - I'm not really sure if I should continue this story. I actually posted it after a long debate with my boyfriend about whether I should or shouldn't post it. So I'm posting it for testing - tell me what you think about it, and if many of you will actually be supportive, I will continue. Don't feel obliged to comment, but I will appreciate your response very much. Thank you.
* Thought I should note that I'm not sure yet if the two of them will evolve romantically or not, but I put it under the romance category anyway. Oh, and the rating will probably change as well. *
## 14/4 note: I've decided to make it a oneshot, since I can see it isn't working much.. ##
Just Until Your Shoulder Gets Better
John never thought he'd feel this way about the army.
He knew right from the beginning what would most likely happen to him if he survived the battlefield – tossed aside to social services with a pat on the head and maybe, if he was lucky, a medal.
But nothing ever could have prepared him for this. This emptiness. This uselessness.
He's had the same routine every week for the past 6 months – waking up, eating something, going to the gym, doing some grocery shopping, going to his weekly appointment with his therapist and back home to sleep a restless, nightmare-filled sleep.
It didn't make him feel even a bit better to know that he had received a Victoria Cross, though he knew that it was the highest military decoration, awarded for "valour in the face of the enemy." He didn't feel valiant.
His therapist insisted that he ought to feel proud.
"You're a war hero, John; you should focus on that, on the bright side," she said with a careful, calculated smile.
"I was just doing my job," he sighed, rubbing a hand across his tired eyes absent-mindedly. "Nothing special."
"You know that's not true, John. You had to be braver than others to get a VC." She looked him in the eyes, searching for self-pity in them.
John didn't want to tell her she won't find anything, because he didn't think any less of himself. He knew what he was worth; he just didn't think he deserved anything special for doing what he had signed up for, what he got paid to do.
"What do you think about learning to play an instrument?" The question was abrupt, out of nowhere. John snaps to attention, his drifting mind returning to the small room in which he sat.
"Umm... is – is that a suggestion?"
"Yes. I think that playing an instrument will help you to feel better, will help you adjust to civilian life. What do you think?" She looked a bit too hopeful, like she was tired of him. Which she probably was, and he didn't blame her.
"Sure. What did you have in mind?" At this point, he was merely grateful for the subject change, and was hoping she'd let him go soon.
"You can choose any instrument you want. It should be your choice. The most obvious ones will be the piano or the guitar…." and she talked on and on and just when he was about to doze-off, something she said caught his interest.
"… and then there are more unusual instruments, like the flute, the harp, the violin…"
His head snapped towards her.
He'd always wanted to play the violin.
As a kid, he used to watch this daily show for children with a young boy playing the violin to make all the animals in the forest happy, and it was so beautiful that he couldn't take his eyes off of the boy's fingers, wishing he was the one that was making this beautiful music.
He begged his parents to get him a tutor for years.
When he was about thirteen he stopped, probably because the other boys around him thought it "wasn't manly," and, if nothing else, John Watson had always been good at keeping his head down.
"I'd like to play the violin." John said, and noted how relieved she looked.
"That's great. You should go home and search the internet for an instructor, and tell me about that next week. Our session is over now, John, you can go. See you next week."
So John went home, browsed the internet and found a highly recommended violin tutor by the name Sherlock Holmes.
His resume was great; excellent even, but some children didn't like him because of his 'unusual methods.'
John laughed out loud when he read this. This man might scare little children, but he also might be exactly what John needed. Someone new.
So he called this Sherlock Holmes and set an appointment with his secretary for the next morning at 221B Baker Street.
All night long he thought about it. He was finally getting to make his old, childhood dream come true. He felt, for the first time, actually pleased with the results of his therapy sessions.
He couldn't wait.
Being the soldier he was, John was at the doorstep of 221B Baker Street at 8:30 sharp the next morning. He waited for the door to open, his face composed and completely clear of any sort of emotion, but his insides were aflutter with anticipation.
The door swung open at last and revealed a tall, pale, young man, probably in his late 20's, with keen, clear gray eyes, and thick, curly black hair. The man had distinctive androgynous features, what with his perfectly shaped cupid-bow's lips, sharp cheekbones and slim figure.
"And you are?" This man asked, rather rudely in John's opinion.
"I'm John Watson." John said, without adding anything else. The man did only ask him for his name, didn't he?
"Oh." The man looked a bit surprised at first but then took a step back and motioned with his hand to the inside of the flat. "Come in."
John changed his posture in the blink of an eye, going from stilled, military position to a moving body in seconds.
John couldn't see the man's eyes igniting with interest. He didn't see the way the man's eyes immediately landed on John's injury; otherwise, John would have already begun to question him. As it was, John merely stepped inside, and admired the homey feel to the flat, which was unexpected to him considering the decidedly unwelcoming nature of its inhabitant.
"So, you wish to learn how to play the violin." This was a statement of fact.
"Yes."
"You do know it's hard work, don't you? It's demanding, it's tiresome, it requires concentration for hours on end. People usually start young, so a fully grown man will have to put up a bit of a fight."
John smiled at the irony. To put up a fight. Ha ha.
"I'm sure I'll manage. Thank you for telling me." He said politely, but sincerely.
"So, why did you choose to start playing the violin now?" Sherlock didn't sound interested much; it sounded as if he was saying that just to engage in a small-talk while putting the kettle on.
"I was a soldier for the last eighteen years. Figured I should do something with my life now that I'm not."
Shit, he thought, I shouldn't have told him any of that. And I don't know why I did.
"An invalided soldier?" Sherlock sounded suddenly interested.
"Not – not invalided… I'm a veteran. Just a veteran." This was still a sore spot for John – talking about the bullet hole in his shoulder.
Sherlock's eyes narrowed a bit, but he didn't comment.
"Okay. I take twenty quid for a forty five-minute lesson. You should get your own violin after a while, but for the first six months I can lend you one of mine." Sherlock opened the cabinet under the television, revealing a set of impressively well-kept violins, in all shapes and colours.
"Well, I think that's quite alright. When should we start?" John asked.
"Now, if you want. Or you can go home and consult your family; they might want to hear about the arrangement before it's settled." The last sounded like a record player, like he said it to every one of his students.
"That's fine, they wouldn't care." John replied softly, shrugging, and didn't even register Sherlock's odd look.
The lesson went smoothly – Sherlock was a surprisingly good teacher, despite everything people said about him.
He might be a rude, pouty prat, but he knew the job, and that was a quality John appreciated.
They went through the basics – Sherlock explained to him how to read the notes and played a nice, short piece for him.
John thought it was beautiful.
"Well then, this is it for today. Same next week?" Sherlock asked and looked at John, who wasn't listening.
John was trying to hold the violin.
He held it up to his chin with his left hand, and grunted in pain when he couldn't lift his elbow above shoulder-line.
Sherlock looked at him with an unreadable expression.
"I'm fine, it'll be okay." John was tired of receiving sympathetic looks.
"I never said you wouldn't; I'm just a bit concerned about next week. I was planning on introducing you to the violin, but now I think I'll have to come up with a different way to do it until your shoulder gets better." The cold logic behind Sherlock's words was comforting.
"It'll be okay," John repeated, more to himself than to Sherlock. He nodded at Sherlock, and their first lesson together was concluded.
When John got home and had practically nothing to do other than to think about the lesson, he caught himself thinking of this weird fellow, Sherlock Holmes.
After that day, John spent even more time at the gym than usual, trying to drown the feeling that he might not be able to play the violin after all in physical exhaustion.
He worked his arse off on the treadmill, running for hours and surprising everyone around him; doubled his regular series of push-ups every day; defeated all of his competitors in boxing and generally made himself feel better by reassuring himself that he was still capable of doing something, even if he couldn't do what he did best of all anymore.
To his therapist he just said that he felt he was getting better every day, even if he really didn't feel that way at all.
On his way to his second violin lesson, he registered women looking at him with hungry eyes and smirked bitterly to himself.
If you only knew what I look like with my clothes off you'd run away and never look back.
He reached Sherlock's house (again, at 8:30 sharp) and knocked.
Sherlock opened the door much more quickly than last time, in what felt like seconds, dressed in a blue, silky-looking dressing gown, white T-shirt underneath and smart-looking trousers.
"Come in."
After being in the army for half of his life, John couldn't shake off his habit of looking around and noting every single thing that wasn't in place from the last time he was there. Books that had been neatly shelved previously were scattered in stacks around a modern and uncomfortable looking black armchair.
His phone rang.
"Just a second, sorry," John murmured at Sherlock and turned his back to him, answering his phone.
"Harry, what do you want?" He hissed at his sister.
"Can't I call my little brother every now and then without needing anything?"
"You can, but you never do. Listen, I'm a bit busy right now, can we talk late – "
"You? Busy?" She laughed, "You're out of work, how can you be busy?"
John felt a sudden lump in his throat.
Even my own sister?
"I might be out of work now, but at least I could hold a steady job for the last eighteen years. You, on the other hand, only destroyed everything I ever built for you. You're useless."
His tone was calm, but his words were harsher than ever. Even as he spoke, he felt he was over the line, but this had been building up their whole lives.
"I was never useless!" She was grasping at straws.
"Even an idiot could see you were throwing yourself onto alcohol every night, Harry – The scratches on your phone's charger hole? You'll never see a drunk without them. Your red eyes when I came to visit you on my military vacations? Not hard to do the math." John's voice had never been thicker.
"Shut the fuck up, you bloody arse-hole!"
"Goodbye, Harry."
He closed his phone and turned around to look at Sherlock's surprised eyes.
"Sorry 'bout that. My sister's a git." John felt a pang of guilt – he did love Harry, he really did, but she frustrated him so much at times – but he suppressed it.
"It's fine. I have a brother." Sherlock answered, a wry smile playing on his lips.
"Well then, should we start?" John changed the subject, trying to fight the awkwardness he suddenly felt.
"Yes. Today I wanted to introduce you to the violin, but from what I gathered at our last encounter, you won't be able to hold the violin on your own for a while. So, I've decided I'm going to help you," Sherlock said and reached out for a violin, positioning himself.
"Hold the bow straight, fingers slightly curled, like a lion's paw."
John did as instructed, feeling a furious blush creeping up his neck and ears. He didn't like feeling helpless. In need of assistance.
"Now come and stand behind me. Put your arm around me," John blushed even darker when Sherlock positioned him and pulled his right arm around his own body, resting the bow against the strings.
"I'll hold it up and you'll play. At least until your shoulder heals."
"You keep saying "your shoulder"; how can you be so sure it's my shoulder? I never told you." John asked.
"It's pretty obvious, John, really – you keep scratching your shoulder, as if trying to relieve an aching pain. It's common knowledge that a bullet hole can be a bit tender for weeks and even months. Sure, it could've been just a recent scratch or any other ordinary itch, but you didn't seem bothered like most people tend to be when suffering a mosquito bite for example; no, you were protective when you felt it. Like you're ashamed of it. A veteran, recently back from a military service, itching in the shoulder, protectiveness – not so hard to do the math." Sherlock explained, smirking a bit when John noticed that his tutor had used John's words from a few minutes ago.
"I… that was brilliant." John couldn't but point-out.
"You really think so?" Sherlock looked surprised. John wondered if he ever got praised like that in his life.
Something told him that he didn't, even if it really didn't make sense – the man was a genius.
"Yes. It was extraordinary. It was quite extraordinary."
"It's not what people usually say." A statement.
"What do they usually say?"
"Piss off."
John laughed a bit at that.
Sherlock smiled.
And that's where it all begun.