Listen to the rain fall
(Slowly, dripping)
Listen to the world spin
(Gently, turning)
Listen to a heart beat
(Steady, thumping)
Listen to my love
(For you)
Rainy days were perfect for Bach.
Sherlock rolled the arpeggiated Cello Suites through his hands, through his mind. He knew it sounded far better on rich velvet of the cello, but he couldn't stop playing, even as the violin made the smooth notes shrill and piercing. Sherlock relaxed as the grey of the flat was warmed by violin's harmony with the patter of rain.
If John were to play an instrument, John would play the cello, Sherlock mused. For, while Sherlock embodied the violin in all it's primadonna glory, John was grounded, secure, as the cello was to the floor by its end pin. While Sherlock followed the violin's screeching, insane, (crazy) dominance, John exuded the calm, mellow, rich tone of the cello. And the cello, like John, could never be underestimated. Power lay behind the smooth polished, modest exterior.
Sherlock could feel himself loosing control. He had surrounded himself by cold hard facts for a very long time. For he knew that love, any kind of love, was a distraction. John, Mrs. Hudson... Hell, even Mycroft. Distractions; all of them.
Sherlock only wanted to lose control in music. That's what music was for, to represent the human emotions that he had difficulty identifying and displaying. He let loose his disgustingly sappy feelings of love (really quite a weakness, he thinks) in Mahler. Lush streaming notes, smiling, sighing, pleading with the world. (Don't let them die, don't let them die. Not now, not ever.) Sherlock quickly banishes an image of a pale silent (dead) John that pops up rather shockingly, unbidden, unwanted.
Music was for letting out the rush of the thrill of a case and the intoxication of cocaine (he guilty thinks of John. No drugs, all clean, he tells himself). He contemplated the last case, recalling the breath-taking chase through London, John at his heels, their breath fogging the air. Sherlock felt his fingers unconsciously switch into the second movement of Shostakovich's eighth quartet, matching his memories, heart pumping, adrenaline racing, louder, louder, faster, gunshots, ambulances wailing, screaming, pounding, running- ! Silence.
The rain had stopped.
Sherlock untightened his bow, wiped the rosin off his violin, and packed it gently in its case. He resumed his position on the couch, hands in prayer position, eyes to the ceiling. He could not pretend that John's death would mean nothing. For once, he felt that maybe there was something worse than death. Being left behind. (Abandoned, his brain whispers.)
Sherlock squared his shoulders and breathed in.
He hadn't felt this strong of an urge for touch, for companionship, since his early childhood. It scared him more than Moriarty, more than any serial killer alive, for while they could be defeated with square precise logic of his (brilliant) mind, his emotions would never yield to a rational argument. As he pictured John's soft short hair, his laugh lines, his knarled scar, Sherlock worried that in his absence from the world of romantic love, he was mistaking a longing for friendship as the pining for a soul-mate. (Soul-mate, Sherlock laughs to himself. What utter rubbish was his mind becoming.)
It was friendship, he decided firmly, and closed his eyes.
If, by any chance, anyone is interested in the musical compositions mentioned, I have listed them below. If you are not, no worries! Skip this next section entirely!
J. S. Bach - The Prelude in Cello Suites No. 1 and Prelude in Cello Suite No. 2 (BVW 1007 and 1008)
(Though the Prelude in Cello Suite No. 1 is probably one of the most recognizable pieces of classical music, the 6 Cello Suites were not always so popular, languishing in obscurity for quite a bit and were considered to be only technical exercises, before being brought into popularity by Pablo Casals.)
G. Mahler - Adagietto from Symphony No. 5
(Reportedly Mahler's love song to his wife, Alma Schindler.)
D. Shostakovich - Allegro Molto in String Quartet No. 8
(Dedicated to the "victims of fascism and war", this incredibly dark piece was written in three days when Shostakovich viewed the devastation left by the bombing of Dresden. Allegedly somewhat a eulogy to himself, Shostakovich wrote his name into the piece with the four note motif D, S (E-flat), C, H (B-natural).)
Thank you very much for reading! Any questions, comments, concerns are always welcome! :)