Title: In The Arms of Rhythm
Characters: Sherlock, John
Summary: If he's to cage John in the parentheses of his arms like this and stay with him for the lifetime it took himself to become proficient, then so be it.
A spell of rest, and quiet breath, and cool
Heart, that sinks through fading colours deep
To the subaqueous stillness of the sea,
And floats forever in a moon-green pool,
Held in the arms of rhythm and of sleep.
– I Am in Need of Music, Elizabeth Bishop
.
It's cold outside.
Sherlock is standing with his back facing a window painted artfully with London evening frost, the lower bout of his Stradivarius tucked snugly in the crook between his chin and left shoulder. Three pages of handwritten violin score arranged on the musician's stand in front of him with exactly half a centimetre of space separating each individual page – not too far apart such that reading across the different sections will take much effort, and not too close for them to potentially overlap and block each other out. He sight-reads straight off paper, eyes unblinking and full of concentration as his fingers dance lightly on the neck of the violin, switching locations, shifting from note to note. Pressing the horsehair ribbon of his bow against the strings and gliding it across with utmost delicacy, Sherlock produces each note with near-surgical precision, his violin warbling out a spirited arrangement of 'O Holy Night' throughout 221B.
Out of the corner of his eye, he can see John sitting comfortably in his red armchair. The ex-army doctor has one leg over the other and he is reading a book that is nestled in his lap. Second-hand bookstore, evident from the faint creases where the yellowing pages were folded and trapped between each other, and outlines of dog-ears at the corners. Dried adhesive above the barcode on the back with just the tiniest flakes of fibrous residue stuck there, enough to be visible – remnants of a shoddily-removed price tag, thus a Christmas gift, likely given by a colleague at work. Sherlock had sneaked a look at the cover before he began to play, even though most books bore him dreadfully: The Lost World. Science fiction. Something about dinosaurs. Probably something dull, Sherlock had thought snidely, cleaning rosin off his bow with a cloth soaked in alcohol.
Unlike the novel, John is far from dull, however. Even now when he's caught in the middle of a piece, Sherlock can't stop himself from throwing him surreptitious glances between different movements, exploiting little pockets of time when he can afford to take his eyes off the sheet music to look over at John. John is fully relaxed as he turns the pages quietly, enjoying the pleasant warmth radiating from the fire crackling in the hearth. He is attired in candy cane striped toe socks, neat-fitting thermal pants and a cosy woollen jumper with a bubblegum-pink kitten stitched onto the front. (Definitely not a Christmas gift. Nobody else but John has a predilection for such garish winter wear.) Then to the left of the yarn kitten's face, a tiny smudge of dried jam dusted with breadcrumbs from when they (meaning John) had breakfast that morning. His eyes are soft and calm as he scans the pages unhurriedly. There's a genial smile ghosting across his face as though he's read something particularly amusing but doesn't want to share exactly what it is just yet, preferring to keep it to himself for the time being. Elbows on the armrests, his right hand holds the book in place and flattens over the pages gently as he reads, and he rests his cheek on the knuckles of his left hand. (Not good for orthodontic health.) Occasionally, he will reach for the mug of hot chocolate on the table next to him, lift it to his mouth and take a sip, leaving a brown moustache on his upper lip that he licks away shortly after setting the mug down again to pick up from where he stopped reading.
Sherlock finds that there is something interesting about scrutinising John in a state of rest and when he thinks that Sherlock isn't paying attention to him. All sorts of charming aesthetics come to light, like how he'll quirk a smile in Sherlock's direction when he's trilling out a song on his violin, perhaps to show admiration for his musical ability or just by virtue of the fact that he's Sherlock; he hasn't quite figured out which one yet, or if there is some other undetermined reason as to why he does that. (There's already an experiment in the planning stages to field-test that.) He watches Sherlock amiably, and at times John simply shuts his eyes to take in the melody, remaining in that state until the final note is strung; this is when Sherlock takes the opportunity to observe him with extra diligence, slowing the tempo and playing by muscle memory so he can enumerate John's deeper breaths when listening to an extended rendition of 'Silent Night' and note the little curling of his lip in a tiny smile when Sherlock finishes off 'Rudolf the Red-Nosed Reindeer' with a progressive scale and a flourish, mapping out John's physiological responses methodologically in his mind. (He reasons that it's patently scientific to do so; it could possibly be necessary information one day.)
Then there's also the music. His own music, to be specific. Where he'll normally choose discordant, scratchy sonatas on purpose to bother the hell out of Mycroft whenever he's obnoxious enough to visit unannounced ("Good God, Sherlock," he'd sniff disapprovingly. "Mummy didn't send you for lessons so you could make Mozart roll over in his grave.") and improvise uninspired, sprawling canons without much musical form for sheer length and occupation when he's thinking over a difficult case, composing and performing pieces for John seems to draw out a significant difference in his own abilities. He uses vibrato now in most of his recitals to add feeling, because he's noticed that John likes it. Amongst the different styles, John seems to respond a lot more positively to romantic music – Kreutzer's Étude #8 helped to expedite the end of a day-long silent treatment after the incident involving a brand new bottle of Domestos and the turkey baster (useful to remember). Once, Sherlock penned a five-page rhapsody on the spur of the moment, free-form and sprightly and bursting with embellishments and harmonics he wouldn't normally adulterate his work with, and after he was done playing that John had cheered and applauded heartily, commending Sherlock on another piece well-played.
He's revised his position since then, choosing not to hold a bias against musical ornaments, but not to say that he doesn't continue to think of them as needlessly superfluous.
In the middle of a bar on the last page, Sherlock chances another peek at John and is nearly thrown off rhythm before he averts his gaze quickly and restores his attention to his instrument. He has to resort to making a split-second adjustment with his bow, crushing one note into an acciacatura to continue on with the carol uninterrupted. Unseen by Sherlock, John has slipped a bookmark into the novel, which lies cover-up next to his drink on the table, putting reading on hold in favour of watching Sherlock perform.
F, A, High C.
Don't look at John.
F, D, Middle C. Maintain arco technique and tonality.
Don't look at John.
E, E, E, G. Tie note. Crescendo.
Try not to look at John.
G, F sharp, E, B.
Really, really try not to look at John.
G, A, B, High C, B, E. Hands start to quiver.
No data for watching when John's watching. May as well remedy problem now for more accurate results.
On a successive pair of dotted minims where he doesn't have to change the positioning of his fingers much to further the melody, Sherlock swings his body around in a small arc to throw a glimpse in John's direction. John is now leaning forward on the edge of his seat with both feet planted on the floor and his colourful toes tapping on the carpet. John's breaths are slow and deep, the way they are when he's absorbed in one of Sherlock's instrumentals. The kitten on his jumper is strikingly conspicuous in the orange light undulating over John's chest, rising as he breathes. His hands are clasped together between his knees and his elbows rest on his thighs. His head is canted to one side as if to contemplate and deconstruct a lopsided painting hanging in a museum. John blinks slowly and meaningfully, an appreciative grin spreading across his face as he locks eyes with Sherlock in the second that he turns to gaze at John.
A small flare of panic burns in Sherlock's stomach as he turns away to resume his starting position – he feels a thin layer of sweat glazing his palms, which doesn't happen often to him, and almost by reflex he starts to count the many variables that could intrude into the dynamics of his ongoing Christmas recital and diminish it in quality, like how and when at any time the bow will glide rebelliously off a tangent and clatter ominously to the floor, whether he's written the notes in the correct sequence and if he can recognise if they aren't, or if his violin will spontaneously shift out of tune – barring probability, it is not impossible; theoretically, low temperatures can do that – and then the performance, his performance which has to be unquestionably perfect because now he's performing for John, will be ruined and that absolutely cannot happen, not ever and most definitely not now.
B, High C, High D, High C, and he stretches out the last High C of the entire composition, accentuating the full resonance of the note until he tosses in a glissando on impulse and leaps a whole octave for style and totality. Sherlock turns to face John, who is clapping enthusiastically, and sinks into a low bow.
"Bravo, Sherlock!" John exclaims.
Sherlock looks up, a smile pulling at the corner of his mouth. "Thank you," he says, standing up straight. He didn't foul up, at least not too badly, and John hadn't noticed the little mishap with Sherlock's fudged observation and the note he had to truncate quickly to make up for that lapse in judgement. John looks impressed enough for Sherlock to deem the solo a success, but just barely. He knows that he could've done a lot better.
"That was brilliant, simply brilliant," John says, reclining backwards in his chair to drink more hot chocolate. Watching him closely, Sherlock thinks about telling John to refrain from licking the surplus off his lip and let Sherlock do it for him instead. Too late. What a waste. "How long did you take to learn that one?"
Sherlock suppresses the pleased smirk he's always tempted to give whenever John employs one of his many compliments. "I didn't learn it. I wrote it this afternoon, and I wanted to test how it sounded only just now."
John's eyes widen in amazement. "You're telling me," he says slowly, "that was your first attempt at playing it?"
"I thought that was rather obvious from the beginning. I needed to have sheet music."
"Blimey." John runs a hand over his tidily cropped hair. "That's…incredible, Sherlock."
Sherlock likes these little default compliments – they're far from trifling, coming from John, because he knows that John truly means them. Approval from anyone else would often be scathing or sarcastic or plainly insincere or any permutation of the three, not that he cares too badly, anyway. He brandishes his bow loftily, pretending not to be flattered. "Hardly incredible. Anyone with basic hand-eye coordination and decent motor functions could do it without much difficulty. Even you."
"You think so?"
Sherlock pauses for a moment, looking at John inquisitively, and then he holds out his Stradivarius and bow.
John's eyebrows arch, his forehead creasing, and he responds with an incredulous stare, gaping wordlessly until he's sure that he isn't seeing things. "You're serious?"
Sherlock can understand his surprise – as far as John knows, he's never extended the chance to touch his violin to anyone. To be frank, he really dislikes the idea of anyone else laying their hands on his violin, but just this once he's willing to make an exception for John. He nods once and gestures again with the instrument, going for an impatient look. "Dead serious," he monotones.
John laughs nervously and rubs his chin. "Me? Come on, Sherlock. The last instrument I played was a clarinet in secondary school. That's not even in the same league."
"You've faced terrorist cells in Afghanistan but you're scared of a piece of varnished wood and horse hair?" Sherlock replies testily. "You'll learn. I'll teach you."
John stays seated for a few seconds, considering Sherlock's offer. Pursing his lips, he rises to his feet uncertainly and walks towards Sherlock to take the violin and the bow from him.
"You've seen me play; hold it the way I do."
John nods, attempting to mimic Sherlock's playing stance. He fumbles around with getting the violin in position and looks at Sherlock for assistance. "I'm left-handed, does that make a –"
"No."
"Ah." He places his jaw on the chinrest and grips the neck firmly, holding down on the strings with his fingers. Sherlock shakes his head and moves behind John to rectify his posture.
"Keep your back and your left wrist straight, not like that. And make sure you don't raise your shoulders while playing, or else you'll strain yourself without even knowing it," Sherlock instructs, making the appropriate corrections by prodding him into place. John is shorter than Sherlock by almost a head and his body is pliable beneath Sherlock's hands; it's like advising a child, someone so small and new and completely reliant on him for direction. His trust in Sherlock is astonishing, to say the least. He doesn't move on his own accord, doesn't brace against being smoothened over and put into stances like a model being shaped out of clay, instead choosing to wait patiently for adjustment from Sherlock before settling adequately on the proper stance with an unsure chuckle.
"God, I'm rubbish at this," he quips jokingly, licking his lips and plonking the bow onto the violin strings with a soft thud. Sherlock disagrees privately; John is already poised to begin playing, and all he needs is a bit of physical guidance from here on out for the notes to manifest. Sherlock's left hand shifts over John's arm to cover his hand, and he supports John's bow hand by the upper arm with his right.
"Finger positions," he breathes in John's ear, manipulating John's left hand such that his own hand fits over it like an exoskeleton, making John's fingers his to move. They're close to each other to the point where their clothes are touching lightly. Lean on me right now and I will play for you until you are sleeping, John. From this angle, Sherlock thinks that it should be easy for John to look back at him and notice the red mark on his neck, a souvenir from years of playing the violin. He wonders how long he'll have to teach John before he gets one of his own to match his. If he's to cage John in the parentheses of his arms like this and stay with him for the lifetime it took himself to become proficient, then so be it. He pressures the willing fingers beneath his onto the strings to prime the violin for the first note. "This is E," Sherlock says simply, nudging at John's elbow to skate the horsehair across the strings, and the note pulses softly from the heart of the instrument.
John breaks into a surprised smile. "That was…very nice," he says. He glances backwards at Sherlock. "Didn't really expect for anything to happen on my first try."
"Why didn't you?" Sherlock asks sulkily. "I'm teaching you, after all."
John sighs and rolls his eyes affectionately, but he doesn't say anything in reply.
They continue this for an hour – Sherlock works John's fingers into the corresponding places on the violin such that they slowly play the first passage of 'O Holy Night', ending with dear saviour's birth, over the course of a few minutes, and they start over until John can go through the passage reasonably well without too much prompting from Sherlock. John keeps his gaze trained on their superimposed fingers, intrigued by the music that he makes with Sherlock's help. Sherlock's hands remain where they are on John as he directs John's playing, all the while filled with an inexplicable fascination that this is happening, coupled with the piston-like thump of his own strong pulse in his ears.
"You're doing very well, John," Sherlock murmurs into his hair, pulling back on John's right arm such as to slide the bow in the opposite direction, sustaining the tied note.
"A compliment? From you? Now I know it's definitely Christmas." John laughs brightly, rotating his body slightly to look back and up at Sherlock.
Eyes, blue meeting blue at an inclination. The middle C fades as the bow halts its movement and strings cease vibrating, the result of an arm stilled. The sweet scent of borrowed breath, gifted to each other on a winter night, not under a tree but over a string instrument (no way else to do it). Infinitely many things to communicate but only one thing is truly important to get across this furious silence stretched between them. Words are useless, detail is power. Can John see? Has he learned how to see? See the way Sherlock's eyes see only him in a world of a million see-throughs and the echo of his not-quite-nonexistent heart translating its many beats into impromptu violin lessons on the edge of Christmas, clutching at any fathomable reason to get close to him, to hold him, to touch him. See that it's meant to be from his name, For John Hamish Watson, pencilled at the top of the score and engraved upon every note proffering O Night Divine. Please, let him see, Sherlock thinks desperately. Please.
Sherlock holds his breath, and finally, he obtains his answer.
He sees that John sees.
The violin dips below John's shoulder and the instrument hangs limply in his grasp as Sherlock presses his lips to John's, and without hesitation John pushes upwards, returning the kiss with fierce, ardent passion as if to whisper his soul into Sherlock's mouth – the two of them an Escheresque silhouette melding into itself, folding like an optical illusion in the rippling firelight.
.