Does it matter? What really matters when everything you had is gone?
Sherlock cast down the violin in disgust. He can't play, not with all this noise, the noise that surrounds and consumes and distracts from the point. He almost feels like crying but no, he hasn't cried in over ten years. He doesn't really know what crying feels like anymore, and he's not eager to relearn the pain.
If only they'd be quiet for once, he could play. If only he could block them out. But he can't. He notices everything, every detail and every sound, louder and more painful than one person should be forced to handle.
Sherlock's hands ached. They always ached now, cramped and difficult to move. He sat heavily in his chair, which easily cradled the long shape of his fragile body. The overwhelming sense of failure threatened to break him, but no, not this time. Never again.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, and let the ocean of his mind drown him.
John. A simple name for a simple face, with a simple job and a not-so-simple past. Tired eyes and a limping gait. Someone who knew more than he let on, who was slow to judge, yet quick to trust.
Not noticing the unmoving man in the chair. Running his fingertips lightly over the ivory keys of the piano, which have collected more than their fair share of dust in the years since they were last touched. Keying a quiet tune.
The shifting of leather from the chair as the man straightened himself out, towering over John. He slowly stretched out his fingers as John sat at the piano and began to play an easily recognizable tune; "Für Elise". Sherlock knew this one. He never forgot a song.
His anger ebbs as the simple melody fills him. It had been so long since someone had played a piece so…perfectly. Normally, Sherlock wouldn't describe anything as perfect, as nothing truly is. But it was no longer just notes on paper. No, it was swirling sound and golden beauty, and played with such emotion and starlight, but it's cold and warm and bittersweet and tired. And it was beautiful.
Sherlock gently lifted his violin, so as not to disturb the man at the piano. He held the bow to the strings and tugged out the first few measures. Instantly, he noticed that the man had ceased to play. Sherlock longed for the wonderful music again.
He stopped, looking down at the blond man sitting at the piano. His eyes were like ice and storm clouds, with just the right amount of sunshine. A tiny crinkle at the corner of his mouth. Tired.
"You know the piece." John said. It was not a question. No, Sherlock knew the piece. That much was clear. There would be no point in asking when the proof was right in front of him in the form of a storm, taking shape and sweeping through the pages of notes.
"Of course." Sherlock replied, his voice rasping slightly. John, with nothing more to say, continued to stare into the deep galaxy of the pale man's eyes. His gaze was well met.
Sherlock was the first to look away, propping his violin up against the leg of the armchair.
"John." The blond man said suddenly. "My name is John Watson." Sherlock hesitated in looking over at him, for fear of being again trapped by the mystery that is John Watson.
"The name's Sherlock Holmes." Sherlock murmured. "Why are you here?" John looked down, flexing his fingers.
"I needed to practice." He said. Sherlock made certain he didn't respond, already having figured what he needs to know about the man. He rushed to put the instrument back in its case, and to leave. "Not to be nosy, but where are you off to?"
"Home." Sherlock replied curtly, sweeping for the door.
"See you again?" John asked, his voice trailing off as he realizes he said it aloud. "I mean…."
Sherlock stopped, turning to look at him, and John was once more captivated by those eyes. One short nod, and he was gone. Just like a shadow.
Or maybe a memory.