A/N: Just a relatively short fic to get me back in the writing zone! Only a few chapters! I hope you enjoy reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it, and leave a review at the end, positive, negatives, constructive crit, your opinions, I love them all!
Summary: Sherlock suspects John is hiding something. One day, a very cryptic Mycroft gives him a ticket to see the infamously elusive Masked Pianist perform. All is not as it seems...
The Masked Pianist
De dum de dum de de dum, dum dum.
John was tapping out a very rhythmic and precise melody onto the battered kitchen countertop as he waited for the kettle to boil. He seemed half asleep, with heavy lidded eyelids and lethargic, groggy movements, but his eyes told a different story. They crackled and sparked as if on fire, as they always did when basking in puddles of adrenalin in the aftermath of a particularly thrilling case.
Sherlock observed all of this through half-lidded eyes as he pretended to doze awkwardly on the couch. He once again convinced himself that he had not been faking sleep on the couch for several nights for the sole purpose of observing John in the grind of his early morning routine.
He snorted superiorly to reassure himself.
What an absurd notion! Why would *I* want to watch something so mundane?
'Keep telling yourself that Sherlock. It's really working for you.' The skull smirked arrogantly from across his perch on the mantelpiece.
'I thought I told you to shut up! Stop talking to me!
Silence.
Anyway, I have John to talk to now... I'll let Mrs Hudson take you. She needs the company more than I do.'
'No, no, don't! Her cats lick me! Don't send me back! I'll be good now, I promise!'
Sherlock smirked triumphantly.
As expected, the thunk of a tea mug connecting with the coffee table resounded in his ears a few seconds later.
"Alright Sherlock, you can quit feigning sleep now. There's toast here if you want any. Which you probably won't. Ah well, it's your funeral. C'mon, get up."
Sherlock opened his eyes innocently, straightening up, and tugging at his dressing gown.
"You were tapping out a very interesting rhythm on the countertop. It is familiar."
John spluttered on his tea, flushing a light pink.
"Oh, that," He spluttered. "Nothing. Jeesh Sherlock, you're more paranoid that I first suspected. What do you think I was doing, communicating with Morse code? He chuckled feebly, gulping down his tea.
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. The eyebrow.
He would find out what John was hiding, whatever it took.
John cringed at the secretive smile plastered across Sherlock's face. He was in trouble.
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