"I didn't know you played the guitar."
John drew in a sharp breath of air when he heard Sherlock's bemused voice outside of his door.
"I thought you were gone."
Sherlock opened John's bedroom door carefully. His icy blue eyes bore into John's skin like daggers and suddenly John felt vulnerable and like he wasn't wearing nearly enough clothing. To be fair, he wasn't wearing much, sitting crosslegged on top of his bed with his little notebook before him in nothing but a pair of pajama pants.
"Well, I came back. Do you normally forego the shirt when you play?"
John looked down as if he was unaware of the lack of covering and then shivered under Sherlock's gaze.
"Um… Well it makes me feel close to it, when I can feel the wood against my skin. What are you doing?"
Sherlock had begun taking a few of his mile long strides towards John sitting on his bed. When he reached it he held out one hand.
"May I see it?"
"Um… Alright…" John handed it over
"It's an old model. Acoustic. I'd say you bought it back in high school to pick up girls, but you're obviously not comfortable playing in front of people, so it's more likely that it was a gift. Sentimental. Perhaps from your sister, more likely your parents. A guitar is quite expensive for a sibling of similar age to get you in high school. You had a few lessons so you know what you're doing, but you stopped going after a few. My guess would be that you ran out of time. School work and Uni and the army and all that. You've still got nylon strings on. You enjoy playing, which is why you still keep it and play on it, but you don't expect anything out of it, rock stardom or any of that because you don't play for anyone. You really enjoy playing on it, you even brought it to Afghanistan. Look how well worn the strings are. You play it all the time, but I've never heard you play it before so you must be very, very careful about not playing in other's presence," Sherlock then proceeded to flip the guitar over to look at the back where John had drawn the design of a heart with swirls of green vines branching out from it. "More sentiment. It could have been drawn by whomever gave it to you, but it wasn't drawn until well after it was new and you still go over it when the pen rubs off. Try using a more permanent marker."
"Spot on Sherlock," John said warily.
Sherlock handed the guitar back to John. They're fingers brushed lightly on the neck as John wrapped his fingers over the course strings.
"Could you play something for me?"
"I could, but I'm not sure I want to."
"Please John? I promise I'll be nice. I won't insult you at all."
John looked into those huge puppy eyes and just couldn't say no.
"Well alright, but I am most definitely not singing."
Sherlock smiled, amused and, sitting beside John, stayed silent, waiting for the music, staring at John expectantly.
John took a deep breath and began. He concentrated on his fingers, moving up and down the frets at first, sometimes slipping, stumbling on notes, but as he continued his fingers began to remember the path and the music became more fluid. The notes began to take him away and his eyes lightly shut, absorbed in the melody.
Sherlock's eyes were fixed on John's dancing fingers. Those on his left hand meandered up and down the frets like a stream, flowing naturally from one position to the next. Those on his right hand, closest to Sherlock, picked at the strings in a sweet progression like honey. John preferred not to use a pick so the notes were soft and warm in Sherlock's ears, seeping in through his skin, permeating every piece of him.
John finally stopped, the last note hanging sweetly in the air.
"That was beautiful," Sherlock breathed.
"You don't have to say that just because you promised to be nice. I know I'm a bit rubbish."
"No John. That was amazing. Can you teach me how to do that?"
"Well… I mean… I could… But it takes time and patience. You can't just play something like that right off the bat…"
"Right well just give me a chord or two right now."
John handed the guitar back to Sherlock, who strummed the strings tentatively, getting a feel for them. He wrapped his left hand around the neck so his fingers were resting on the first few frets, closest to John.
John leant in close, hovering over Sherlock's shoulder, peering over the neck at Sherlock's long, slender fingers.
"Well at least your fingers are nice and long. That's good for guitar, lets you reach the chords."
John placed his own fingers on top of Sherlock's, guiding them across the frets until their first three fingers were placed comfortably over the G chord. John pressed down on Sherlock's fingers slightly, pressing them into the nylon strings and forcing them down to press against the wooden neck.
Sherlock noted the warmth of John's hands, and the texture of his calloused fingertips, weathered by guitar strings and gun triggers. His steady breath ghosted across Sherlock's neck where he had positioned it, close to his face, peering over his shoulder at the guitar. As John's fingers pressed against Sherlock's, so did his body. He could feel John's rapid heartbeat, thumping in his bare chest, pressed up against his slender back.
"This is actually my favorite chord. G. It feels right to me, resonates in my bones. It sounds earthy and sweet like gentle summer sunlight and honey," John almost whispered into Sherlock's ear.
Sherlock ran his thumb down the strings and the chord echoed through the room. Sherlock hummed with the warmth of it, eyes closed. It was just as John described it, like sunlight and honey.
"John?" Sherlock's deep voice rumbled in his chest, as his eyes lightly fluttered open again.
"Yes?" John answered, fingers still pressed against Sherlock's.
"What was that song you played me?"
"It's a bit silly. You'll laugh."
"No I won't. What was it?"
"It was from a movie I like. Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince."
"What was it?"
"When Ginny Kissed Harry. That's the name of it. It was the one playing when they were up in the room of require—" John's voice died off just before the end.
Sherlock had turned his warm blue gaze towards him, their faces only centimeters apart. Both of them had stopped breathing for the moment. Their eyes fluttered closed, almost in unison and they leaned toward each other as if each had their own pull of gravity, drawing the other closer, until their lips melted together. They let them linger there for a long moment before the next touch of lips to lips and then again until the pair seemed to mold together, moving fluidly over each other's like a melody, increasing in speed with every touch.
John released Sherlock's fingers over the guitar neck to cup Sherlock's face in his hands, reaching around to the back of his neck to pull him closer. John's fingers danced across Sherlock's neck, kneading through his long black curls like he was playing music and Sherlock was the guitar.
Sherlock released the neck of the guitar to rest his slender fingers on John's hip. His right hand gingerly brushed the acoustic beside him and he turned his whole body towards John, pushing up closer and closer to his muscled chest, radiating a magnetic sort of heat. He wrapped his arms behind John, pulling him closer, feeling the smooth, hot skin across his back, playing his spine like frets.
John finally drew back for a breath, opening his emblazoned eyes to stare into Sherlock's wild expression. They remained frozen like that, panting, fighting for breath, music lingering in the air.