I AM BACK WITH MORE JOHNLOCK.
well, subtly. xD This takes a more musical feel, so do PM me if you don't understand, I'll try to reply ASAP.
Felt incomplete, updated the next day with more observations of Sherlock and his Mind Palace. Fic to be renamed ASAP.
Cadences. IV, I.
He swiped the bow rhythmically over the strings, the E string trembling gently under his touch. He let out a soft sigh, turning to the sheets in front of him. A soft wind blew through the papers, making them rustle like the dead leaves buffeted in the wind.
The plagal cadence echoed through the small flat, seeping through the cracks in the walls, rattling the teacups in the slightest bit.
The chicken scratches sunk deep into the paper, the strong hand of each and every note as it verbalized the locked emotions of the man composing it. A box with a lock, golden and rusted, musty and covered in layers of cobwebs, shut away with the ebbing life force of himself as a human, as hatred and misunderstanding chipped away at the emotional being that he was born to be. The sky blue eyes clouded a clear slate grey, an oxymoron in itself as it pieced together the sky, overhung with clouds and the rain about to pelt the ground.
V. IV.
Simple, progressive cadences. The finishing touch in between and yet a continuing phrase, as he absorbs the emotion of the piece, sorting and storing it carefully in a box that never needed to be unlocked.
The box had remained strong, the deep plush green of it turning to a hollowed, gaunt shadow of a sickly puke color, but the insides had never been breached. The only difference was the lock, which grew as time went on, from a simple diary lock to a strong padlock, never to be opened. He had thrown the key away, into a quarry on the grounds of his Mind Palace.
The skeletons reached out to the key, rusting away at the bottom. With their bones, they cradled the key, carrying it in the currents created in the mist, created in the wind that blew over it.
It surfaced, before sinking deep again, drowning.
It breathed, merely for a second, then waves washed over it, denial and fear.
V7.
The jarring suspense of the five-seven, the annoyance of the man.
No, he told himself. Not now.
He frowned, tossing the sheets to the floor in a haste, shaking his head slowly as he sucked in a short, hasty breath. He needed the cocaine, the lethal mix of drugs as it shot up his veins, clearing his mind of such unnecessary emotion. Time to lock up the emotions again. And with an even stronger lock. Perhaps, he should travel to the Seine, to rid himself of such unprecedented ghosts, the ghosts of his past as it haunted him.
His blue-grey eyes gleamed with the touch of green, as he played pizzicato on the strings of the violin, plucking it gently and then settling it down neatly on the couch. The well worn wood of it and its varnish felt comfortable in his fingers, as he rubbed the corner of it, his mind already chiding him of the sentimental feeling he felt to the instrument and the music.
Strange then, he should feel such a thing. Hadn't his older brother proved the uselessness of such an element in him?
He was glad for his flatmate not being able to see this side of him. Emotions. Sentiment. Chemical defects of the losing side. A lack of logic. The mournful cadence echoed again, this time through his head. scolding him, shouting at him, like the sharp tails of each and every quaver as it stabbed through him. He glanced up at the clock, and counted softly. Three. Two. One.
Speak of the devil. The door clicked softly, and he resumed his lanky form on the sofa, picking up the book he had thrown on the floor, playing short, sharp bursts on the violin. His flatmate frowned.
"You haven't moved."
Sherlock merely wordlessly turned to his side to face the soft cloth of the sofa.
"Yes, how interesting, you still have the skill to state the obvious," he deadpanned in a gruff voice, as the lock shrunk once more. He turned, facing the doctor, who had decided on a woolen jumper bordering on grey and cream, and scanned him thoroughly.
"The milk?"
John huffed, opening his mouth to speak as he watched his insufferable flatmate, his body sprawled over the length of the sofa, blue eyes cold, detached and vaguely clinical.
"You didn't mention any milk."
"I texted you."
"Bugger it, Sherlock, I can't be expected to check my phone all the time when I'm out!"
"Well, you clearly could have a small tyrst with some random whore off the streets," he said, not missing a beat.
"Damn it, Sherlock, and no, I don't want to know how you knew."
Sherlock kept silent, steepling his hands in mock prayer as he returned to his Mind Palace, cataloguing the man in front of him again. Redhead, woman, presumably D or C cup, unmarried, pink nail polish, most likely I Lily Love You. Was this the type of woman John loved? No, judging by the string of his past girlfriends, this was probably another casual shag, another case of being sucked off willingly on the streets in a dark alley...
The John corner had been limited to the living room of 221B, replicated in full glory as the original had been. A simple, cardboard box by the side of the room, hardly interfering with Sherlock and his experiments. By last year, it had grown to a metal cupboard, but said man had been completely unconcerned. Until he found himself cataloguing every single move the man made, every outing and little piece of information. Feigned ignorance had grown into fondness, experiments on the pulse and neurotic responses of the good doctor had taken precedence over his violin playing at times.
Slowly but surely, the simple tune John Watson had been to him, the simple splashes of grey and green had turned into a symphony, much like a rainbow, glittering as it arced across the blue sky.
A light to his dark world.
The lock on his box of emotions rattled softly, as he rose to follow John out, to buy the milk.
Hee hee, I suck at the Mind Palace and coherence. ^^ Hope the update made it better.