A/N: Okay, this is going to be a collection of drabbles/oneshots vased on headcanons and/or prompts that I get! Since writing Johnlock is the ones thing I enjoy most and can do for days on end without having to think all that hard on what to type, I'm gonna write as much as I can. I hope to get prompts and whatnot from you! please? This one is based on a headcanon on tumblr that Sherlock learned to play as a child. If you want to listen to the song, go to youtube, and search up "bliss rob costlow" and it should be the first one. It's a beautiful composition and is great to listen to with reading!
"What are we doing here?" John said, having enough of the raven-haired man not answering him and freezing in the doorway of the musty room. Sherlock had no choice but to turn and humour the doctor, seeing as he obviously wasn't going to move again until he got an answer. "We're on an investigation, obviously! I'm looking for things, any things." He said, trailing off, his eyes averting to a nearby wall, as he spotted a small detail, John rolled his eyes as Sherlock walked past him like a ghost, striding to the wall to examine it closely. John wandered into the other room on the right, opposite to the direction of Sherlock. He spotted something in the middle of the room, near a large window, almost the height of the wall and just as wide.
"Sherly, come look. Tell me what you make of this." He called to the other room over his shoulder. Sherlock strode into the room, taking an alarming short amount of time, due to his long strides, partially due to the irritation, "What have I told you about calling me that?" He said down in annoyance. "Yeah, yeah. Look." Said John, pointing over to the while billowy shape. Sherlock's brow creased, and he slowly walked over, he stalked a circle around the object, running a hand over it in his way. Once he was back to where he started, he stopped.
He grabbed a fistful of the cloth that was draped dustily over it, and with one swift, strong, elegant seep of his arms, he had completely exposed it. The black, glossy finish reflected the murky light flawlessly, it was a grand piano. Sherlock had known that since he first laid eyes on it, the general shape was enough, and the slight light filtering through the sheet that only he would notice had proven to him it's form. He gingerly pressed a few keys absently, and suddenly realised that he recognised the melody. He took the few steps over to the pianist stool, flicking his coat back before setting upon it.
He sat with perfect posture, his hands lightly brushing over the keys as if contemplating whether to play or not. They automatically fell into chord position, and before he knew it, he had played the first four bars. He paused for a moment, just the right amount to fit the timing, then played the same part again. He thought back to when he first learned this progression; he was a child at the time, and had quickly adapted to the ways of a pianist, the impeccable discipline and coordination, the composure and concentration.
Growing up he would hear the melody in his head often, he felt as though it spoke his emotions, or rather his two only ones, the ones he hadn't been able to completely shut off from. He called them emotions but they really weren't, they were his two most prominent, almost phases, of his daily life. The slower parts of the song, when the tempo lowered and an octave was dropped, he thought of as the lower times, when he resorted to cocaine, smoking, and other destructive methods. When he couldn't help but feel the depression slowly slither and weed it's way into the corners of his mind.
The faster paced sections, the higher stung tempo and the light delicate keys of the sixth and seventh octaves, coagulating beautifully with the third and second, were for when he was more tightly bound. His mind would race a thousand years ahead of pace and he couldn't keep up with his own thoughts. Light-years seemingly passing in mere milliseconds, and before he knew it, he hadn't slept in over a week and hadn't eaten in even longer. This was the way he had interpreted it back then.
He reached the hook, the bridge. He closed his eyes as his fingers tranced across the keys expertly, and he could feel the deeper bass-like notes and quavers, semiquavers and rests on his fingertips like tattoos and print, and see them in his mind like a film. He found himself rethinking his standing point.
Another section, with a drawn out slowness. Now instead of depression and drugs, starving and general ill health, he thought of John. Of the times they spent together just alone. They would be cuddled up in his double bed in the early hours of the morning, or on the floor by the fire, late in the evening. The times when all was quiet, but he wasn't his dangerous bored. He wasn't bored, because he was happy. There needed no words to be spoken, they could just feel what the other was saying or thinking. He would toy with John's hand, lacing his own with it, and feeling the gentle warmth and softness brushing against his own pale skin. Pulling him closer for warmth and comfort, his very being seeming to fill Sherlock with love and comfort.
Another bridge, another furiously fast and multifarious chord progression. His hands now moved with record timing not to keep up, but guide the descant into tangible sound instead of a strand of memories and ideas. Decisively and elegantly pressing the keys so fast his fingers tingled and were almost a blur. Again not thinking of racing thoughts and insanity, or accidental bodily harm, but again of John. The more adventurous times they spent together. When they would be on the run from someone, or more commonly chasing down a suspected murderer. He knew that at any moment they could be killed, and it wasn't so much his own harm that would cause him any hesitation, but John's. He loved the thrill of the chase, the game; he loved it with his Doctor Watson. How they would simply nod at each other with a knowing look and immediately have a plan, a rather cunning and smart, complicated and genius plan together.
The thunderously gentle song came to a close, and he opened his eyes slowly, looking down at his hands hovering ghostly over the ivory and obsidian keys. He was almost frozen, with a smile gracing his lips, thinking through his shock over his dramatic change of outlook. John saw what was going on inside his labyrinthian mind palace and walked over to put a hand on the younger's shoulder. "I didn't know you could play, why didn't you tell me?" He asked, to receive a revelation for an answer. "Only for you." Sherlock said quietly, looking up at John with a smile, and taking hold of the hand on his shoulder.