While John had often seen Sherlock fingering his violin, in the several months that he had been living there, he was yet to hear him play it. Sometimes asking Sherlock just to give him a little sample would sit along the edge of his teeth wanting to push its way through, but it was a question he never managed to ask. John had little to no musical prowess – they sang together in the army, but they were never tunes that required much effort or skill; you could shout them if you wanted and it would still be passable.
Sherlock did play his violin, but generally when John was out of the house. As little as he seems to care, Sherlock is aware that, at times, he can be rather difficult to live with – and he was amazed that John had been able to put up with him for so long. And as he was a rather vexing flatmate, Sherlock had decided to try his best to ensure that John was exposed to his more irritating habits gradually – this would hopefully ensure that Sherlock would never be left flatmate-less.
It was, then, a complete accident when John was exposed to some of the most stunning music he had ever been immersed in. Having figured out that he had managed to get through the front door unnoticed, he began to creep up the stairs, poking his head round the door to the living room.
Sherlock was oblivious (which isn't a state he finds himself in often); he was simply having a nice relaxing day – he showered; ate breakfast; and got half dressed before spotting his violin in the corner. The instrument had been a little neglected of late, and now that there was a slight lax in his practice, he was able to remember some of the more beautiful concerto's he had been enjoying more recently. Hair still dripping, he had started to play and became a little carried away, becoming completely immersed.
John often thought of Sherlock as taut – when they were chasing down culprits, or raking through evidence, or arguing over motives, Sherlock's face was always taut; his brows would furrow, his lips thin, and the intensity that shone in his eyes was enough to be almost frightening. But this man, before John now, this Sherlock, could not be more different than the investigative Sherlock; his body was languid and fluid, his movements soft and imagined. His beauty was heightened further from his own ignorance to it. As far as Sherlock was concerned, he might as well not even be there – the only thing that was important was the music.
"Now, this is something I wish you would do more."
You could see the shock ripple through Sherlock's body as he realized he had been observed; whirling around his eyes met with John's, a little hurt but rather, really, they were the picture of embarrassment, the blush dusting his cheeks only accentuating his pallid complexion.
John smiled, "sorry, I didn't think I would scare you that badly. Cup of tea?"
"Um... yes; yes, why not," Sherlock scratched the back of his head with his bow, suddenly very aware that he had neglected to put on a shirt, "I was just... yes."
Taking Sherlock unawares was such a rarity that John could not help but relish how sweet it tasted, whistling jovially as he prepared tea for the both of them. Whilst working, John noticed that a set of thin, long limbs appeared at the table, curled around one another whilst spidery fingers played nervously with thick black curls of hair. Sherlock was rarely shy – he didn't seem to know the meaning of the word normally, but in this instance he seemed reluctant to lift his head from the table, hiding in his own arms. It was as though his adult self had forgotten that he was six foot, in his awkwardness he'd elected to place his feet on the highest rung of the kitchen stool, shooting his knees up beyond his elbows.