As always after a particularly long case, John was barely functional by the time they got back to the flat. Sherlock was still enjoying the high of having won - despite the two hours of paperwork back at the Yard and the fact that he'd been up for three days straight, he still felt like if he sat down he might very well explode from all the energy built up inside him. John staggered to the sofa - the nearest flat surface from the door - and flung himself down face-first. Sherlock paced.
He wanted to do something - go out for Chinese, start a new experiment, go for a walk - but it was 3 AM and even the most dubious Chinese restaurants weren't open past one o'clock. The walk was possible, but . . .
Sherlock eyed John surreptitiously in between circuits of the living room. John was here. He could have gone home to Mary, to his own bed, but somehow they'd both ended up in the cab back to Baker street and it looked like John was planning to kip for at least a few hours on Sherlock's couch. The knowledge settled comfortably in Sherlock's midsection, low and warm. He wants to be here. With me. It was likely that the lateness of the hour and John's inherent dislike of being a bother to his wife were at play too, of course, but Sherlock was willing to take what he could get.
Experiment was out too, then. Perhaps . . .
Sherlock went to the writing desk and retrieved his violin. John never seemed to mind the violin much, even at night, unless Sherlock was being purposely cacophonous. Seemed to welcome it sometimes, even, especially when his nightmares were plaguing him. Sherlock tuned up quickly and positioned himself near the window, his favorite place to play, before slipping into the first notes of his favorite play-John-to-sleep song.
"Mmm - Mendelssohn Lied ohne Worte number seven in E-flat major," John mumbled groggily. "I always loved when you played that one."
Sherlock managed not to fumble, but only barely. He cast about for an appropriate response, but all that came out was, "You can tell them apart?"
"Yeah." John yawned into the Union Jack pillow. "I mean, been a while, but you played it enough. 'S pretty."
"Oh." Sherlock closed his mouth and concentrated on playing pretty for the rest of the song. He was tempted to launch into something more lively, but he opted for a slow Tchaikovsky instead.
"Violin concerto in D major, opus 35," John said between yawns. "You played that for me over and over again that time I was sick, do you remember? I assumed you'd want to go be elsewhere and leave me to my whinging and sniffling, but you pretty much locked yourself in your room and played your violin for hours. I couldn't focus my eyes enough to read or watch telly, so I spent most of my time just listening to you. It was nice."
Sherlock did remember, very well. They'd only been living together for a few months at that point, still feeling each other out around the edges, and John had come down with something that had him too congested to breathe and too sore to move for nearly a week. He'd been bloody miserable, and Sherlock had been struck with the painful realization that he had absolutely no idea what to do to help. The violin seemed relatively minor, given the circumstances, but neither of them had said anything about it at the time and then a rather exciting case had landed in their laps right after John started feeling better so they never said anything about it later, either. The one takeaway was that the violin soothed John when his sleep was restless - knowledge Sherlock used frequently from then on. Although John had never shown the slightest interest in the names of the pieces before . . .
"Since when have you known what the songs were called?" The question came out a bit more snappish than Sherlock had intended, but John just closed his eyes again and shrugged.
"Since you died," he said simply.
Oh. "I . . . didn't know."
John cracked open one eyelid, taking in Sherlock's stunned expression. Something must have resonated, because he struggled up to a sitting position and rested his elbows on his knees. "You were gone," he muttered, scrubbing his palms over his face. "You were gone and I thought you were dead and it was . . . I had a bad time of it there, for a while. A long while."
Sherlock just stood there, throat working but nothing coming out.
"The violin was . . ." John laughed, a not-at-all humorous huff of air. "It always helped me sleep. Before. I didn't know what songs you'd played for me after my nightmares, and Mycroft had your violin and any sheet music you might have had sitting around, so I just started . . . searching. Listening to things. All the solo violin pieces I could find, listening for anything that sounded familiar."
"That must have been thousands of pieces."
John shrugged. "I had time. You were gone."
There was nothing Sherlock could say to that.
"Anyway, it was . . . it gave me something to do. And I learned a lot."
"My favorite pieces."
"Yes." John cocked his head, looked up at Sherlock with a sad little smile. "I should have known you'd favor Sarasate. Did you know he composed his own music because he thought none of the existing violin repertoire was good enough for him? Explains why I couldn't find everything I remember you playing. You wrote your own too, I assume."
Sherlock dipped his head in acknowledgement. "It's less about talent and more about helping me think," he admitted.
"Right, because 'Fuck Off, Mycroft' is such an intellectual piece."
"It achieved its purpose."
"And the others?" John's eyes stayed on Sherlock's face, but he stretched himself back out on the sofa and interlaced his fingers behind his head. "Play me the one you always used to do when you thought I was already asleep?"
The . . . Sherlock stilled. "I don't know what you're-"
"Yes you do," John interrupted, already closing his eyes. "It's the gorgeous one with the long trills and that swooping melody line. It's my favorite and I spent months trying to find it again and never did, so I assume it was something you composed yourself. What's it called?"
Denial wouldn't do any good. Sherlock took a deep breath. "It was - I just called it 'For John.'"
"Mmm - like I said, my favorite. You know me so well." John smiled even as his whole body relaxed, one step closer to slumber. "Play it for me, Sherlock. It's been so long. Please?"
When it came down to it, Sherlock was unable to deny John anything the man really wanted. Even if that thing brought back a whole host of emotions Sherlock had spent the last few years trying very hard to push back down. He's here. He wants to be here. With me.
Sherlock set his bow to the strings and played.