The Secrets Of The First Meeting-
Disclaimer: These characters and locations aren't mine. Not even close. I'm just having an affair with the characters and borrowing the locations. Oh and I borrowed Sherlock and Johns first meeting from the wonderful writers of BBC's Sherlock, a Study in Pink (with a few tweaks) so please don't let them get me.
The basis for this fic is what a friend once said to me "Music speaks to the soul within all of us; speaks more clearly and more honestly than words ever could. It says who we are, were, and will be- beautifully, simply and without fallacy or apology. Sometimes it's the lyrics that convey the emotion. Sometimes it's the melody. Either way, when a person plays or composes they are sharing a piece of themselves with the world, hoping to find the one person who can truly know them- who can truly understand. When a piece is heard, right down to a listener's soul, it's like a light being flicked on- it's knowing you aren't alone anymore. It's beautiful, powerful, and undeniably the most human and intimate anyone can ever do. Music is freedom."
CHAPTER ONE: JOHN IS SMART, AND SHERLOCK IS SHERLOCK
A man of obvious military background followed Mike Stanton into the St Barts lab, looking around at the morgue's lab equipment and comments, "Bit different from my day."
"You've no idea." Came the somewhat amused reply as Mike glanced in his direction. Sherlock took a moment to observe the newcomer, and seeing all he wished to see abruptly asked "Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine."
"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike sighed causing Sherlock to purse his lips, "I prefer to text." He responds tersely
Mike pats his jacket as though checking for the requested device, before shrugging, "Sorry, it's in my coat."
"Er, here…use mine." Came the calm and melodious voice of the stranger,
"Oh… thank you." and as Sherlock strode over to collect the phone he took another chance to observe him, more interested now, and as always, curious.
"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike interrupts looking between the two of them. Sherlock commits the name and face to a room in his mind palace already; he can discard the room and its information later if this meeting didn't turn out.
Sherlock can't resist testing this man, John, just a little. After all they were potentially to be flatmates "Afghanistan or Iraq?" He enquires softly, ignoring the silence that followed- and the stare from Mike- to glance into John's eyes and face to catch his reaction, which surprisingly is a raised eyebrow and an amused twitch of the lips and a light coming into his eyes. This man got more interesting already Sherlock mused. Why would he be amused and excited by a display of intelligence beyond the norm.
"Sorry?" John looked with interest and curiosity at this man, trying not to give the game away yet. After all where was the fun in telling the know it all you were smarter than him? Let him figure it out and wonder how you hid it later. Much more satisfying in the long run.
Sherlock Holmes was not a patient man and hated repeating himself, "Which was it? Afghanistan or Iraq?" Another twitch of the lips from John, and then "Afghanistan", just a whisper of a reply but Sherlock nodded once in acknowledgement before returning the phone.
"How do you feel about the violin?" John's eyes narrowed- Did this man know? - But he quickly dismissed the notion. Slowly he reached for Sherlock's hands aware that if he wasn't careful the man would startle. He inspected the fingers on both hands carefully after receiving a nod of assent. Satisfied with what he saw he looked up into the man's face and waited for the explanation. "I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometime I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."
John chuckled –of course the know it all would have reached his conclusion – "Who says anything about flatmates?" he cocked his head to the side, playing the part of clueless perfectly
"I did. Told Mike this morning I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is, just after lunch, with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." Sherlock watched John carefully, it was all an act. He was sure now. He just couldn't see the point of it but somehow this didn't irritate him. It was intriguing and he couldn't wait to be allowed to find out.
"How did you know about Afghanistan?" Smirking, because he knew John was honestly curious about his thought process, he evaded the question and instead said, "I've got my eye on a nice little place in central London, together we ought to be able to afford it. Shall we say tomorrow evening, seven o'clock? Sorry, got to dash, I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He slipped to the door.
John huffed and raised an eyebrow "Is that it?"
Sherlock's look over his shoulder said 'Is that what?'
"We've only just met, and we're going to go and look at a flat?"
"Problem?" Again with the battle of wit, John knew it was going to get old fast.
"We don't know a thing about each other, really. I don't know where we're meeting, Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock paused wondering where John had got his name from, before remembering it was written on his ID badge which was pinned to his coat. "I know you're an Army doctor, John Watson, and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. You've got a brother worried about you, but you won't go to him for help, because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife, and I know your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think? The address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon."
John glances sideways at Mike, seeing he is about to speak and smiles slyly. "Don't tell him yet, ok? Let him figure it out." Mike nodded on a shudder. Honestly, what was he thinking introducing the two smartest men in Britain and probably the world, with the intention that they live together? Mycroft was going to kill him.
CHAPTER 2: WHEN I HEARD HIM PLAY PT 1
When John first hears Sherlock play the violin he is lying in bed at two in the morning being kept from sleep due to the oppressive heat that had settled over London. Not a breeze or gust of wind could be felt and it didn't look like the weather was going to improve any time soon. He froze and drew in a deep and heavy breath letting it settle in his chest before blowing it out in measured exhalations along with the melody and counting the rise and fall of the soft music. Smiling he matched his breathing to the measure of the music and let it sooth him as he memorised what was obviously an original composition. A private composition. He felt bad for intruding on the intimate moment but then shrugged it off, letting the emotion and feeling of what the music was saying wash over him in waves. John itched to pick up his violin or his guitar or any other instrument he could lay hand on and play in return, to respond to the loneliness of the piece, and had to shake off the sensation pulling from somewhere in his chest.
Instead he rose from the bed and silently padded into the lounge area of their flat-share and sat in silence, again matching his breaths to the music that Sherlock was playing. When the tune was finished Sherlock turned and met John's eyes. "Did you enjoy it?" he murmured.
John knew he was really asking 'Did you feel it? Do you see me?' and unable-unwilling- to break the spell and ruin the magic of the moment, he nodded and smiled softly. An answer to all the questions hanging in the air. They both sat there in their sweat pants and barefoot, enjoying the company and the passage of time- Just watching the sky get lighter through the window bay, their legs entwined as they sit with their backs to each end of the window seat.
After a few more minutes of contemplation and after making them both tea, John turns his eyes to the man sitting with his legs entwined with his own. "That piece was very you, Sherlock. I… Will you play it again? Or another perhaps?" Sherlock sips at the tea and watches a bit longer before reaching for his violin. He's playing a different tune this time. Rhapsody, John's mind supplied- but it could have easily been a lullaby. It's new and John wonders if he's composing as he goes along. He closes his eyes and allows himself fall into the colours and images as he enjoys the music and drifts gently into pleasant dreams.
**INTERVAL OF 6 MONTHS
John had been listening to Sherlock since he moved in. His voice-its cadence and volume and nuances, and his violin playing. He could pick out his mood from every inflection. He got lost in the beauty that was his flatmates, and now best friends' music. He studied and memorised every piece of music Sherlock played until he felt like he had written them and not the tall, thin man who knew everything and nothing all at once. And still Sherlock hadn't discovered his secret. Hadn't heard his playing. Hadn't seen the instruments and that made John feel smug. He had hidden his talent successfully from the other genius; the genius who didn't understand boundaries or privacy (John had had to tell him specifically on their first night in the flat together that his room was to be considered taboo without an invite or very good reason to be in there). Of course Mycroft raised eyebrow when he came over and found John playing Sherlock's composition one afternoon but that was a performance never repeated and was never spoken of again apart from an amused, knowing glance from the Holmes brother and a deadpan look from John. Mycroft did not need to butt himself into everything concerning Baker St. after all. He just liked to be nosey.
CHAPTER 3: WHEN I HEARD HIM PLAY PT 2
Sherlock had had a very trying day. He was sweaty, covered in dirt and grime and his wrist was very likely broken. He had been chasing a murderer through the back alleys for what seemed like hours, but had only been about twenty minutes, and now finally was home. John had of course been at the clinic when the call had come in and would have been home for a couple of hours by now. He was frankly just glad to be home and was looking forward to a hot shower, a cup of tea, maybe a little bit of dinner and falling into his lovely soft and welcoming bed for a few hours of blissful slumber.
As he came through the door he noticed a steaming mug of his favourite tea sitting on the counter and immediately leapt upon it, drinking thirstily. Now that he had relaxed a little he noticed the soft sounds drifting down the stairs and closed his eyes and listened to the melody contentedly, dimly registering it was one of his own. Once that thought seemed to settle in his mind there was the thought – had John recorded his playing at some point? –but then without a pause it changed to another of his compositions; the unfinished one he had been working on the last few nights. And it was finished. He could only reach one conclusion- someone was playing a violin upstairs!
Not wanting to startle whoever was playing but definitely wary. How was- whoever this was- playing his music? And perfectly. Like they had played it a million times.
Slowly and quietly he padded up the stairs and followed the sounds to their origins. He was standing outside John's room, and shocked, his jaw dropped. This was new, surprising and...wonderful. So many questions rose to the front of his mind and he hesitated pausing to consider whether he should enter Johns room or wait for him to emerge, also never having been in there out of respect, he wasn't sure he would be welcome. Shaking it off, because John could always ask him to leave if he wanted to, Sherlock gently he pushed the door open and peered through the gap. There sat John, instruments scattered around him, and his hair mussed his tanned face and posture looking both relaxed and frustrated at the same time. Sherlock stepped into the room and it wasn't until after the door was closed that he turned and met John's eyes.
"Well, this is unexpected." Sherlock was amused, and he admitted grudgingly, impressed. "Can you play all of these?" He asked
John cocked his head and with just a hint of the smile replied "Bring me any of them. I'll show you."
Sherlock bent and retrieved the guitar and laughed as John's eyes lit up. "How did I not know? I mean I knew something was odd, but this is the last thing I suspected. "
John grinned, a delighted and mischievous grin, and pointed to a picture frame on the wall- old school results from long ago, proudly displayed. Sherlock's jaw once again hit the floor and excitement bubbled up inside him, along with affection and laughter. So this was the person who held all those records he had tried so hard and failed to surpass academically. He spun and eyed this man before him with renewed interest. Swiftly he handed him the guitar and John strummed confidently, and hummed before softly singing along to the hypnotising sounds his deft fingers produced from the instrument. Then with only a beats warning, the song changed cadence. Sherlock savoured the bitter-sweet taste of it on his tongue.
"I call that one Sherlock and John." John smiled when he was done and Sherlock felt that the silence that now surrounded them was the most unwelcome and rude thing sound he had ever heard. In that moment he wanted John to keep on playing. Play forever. And he wanted to play too.
CHAPTER 4: WHAT I KNOW NOW/ EVERYTHING HAS CHANGED
**TAKES PLACE 18 MONTHS AFTER THEIR FIRST MEETING
John was a just a little bit annoyed that Sherlock had caught him out about his musical talents before he had prepared and was completely ready, but it was ok; because the secret compositions he was working on were still a secret. Now they were now finished and all he had to do was write the bridge piece that would allow the two to flow together. Then he could play and the rest would be up to Sherlock. Either way there would be no going back. Everything would be changed…Forever.
For the truth was over the last eighteen months of studying and learning Sherlock, he had somewhere along the line fallen hard for the man- Eccentricities and all. He had had his stages of denial and his identity crisis over his sexuality but that was all long since passed. All he knew now was a bone deep aching longing for the gorgeous man with jet black curls and eyes that weren't blue or green or some strange mix but both at once. He wanted to touch and taste and all he could think every time he laid eyes on him was 'MINE'. And so he had come up with this plan. To say what he couldn't find the words to say.
Truthfully, he got butterflies (or was that rampaging elephants?) in his stomach when he thought of the other man knowing how he felt; not that he was a coward or scared- he was John Watson for christ sake! Its just that trusting someone with you heart, not to break it, was always a big deal. He had suspected for a while now that his feelings were returned, but it was still a big risk. John sighed and smiled bravely -this could cost him everything. He knew that but he could no longer continue with their arrangement as it was in the face of his developing feelings. Still smiling, John snuggled into his covers and fell into a sleep with dreams of pale skin and dark curls and a sinful voice whispering to him. He would wait for the perfect opportunity and he would play. He would play for Sherlock and Sherlock would see him. He had to.
**ONE WEEK LATER
Sherlock lay in bed and listened entranced to the strong and steady stream of sounds coming from Johns' room. Without being conscious of it he was whimpering and the sound startled him. Realising that the music was a question, and answer and a prayer all mixed in with hope and desire, soaring and flying and then falling and dipping before sliding into a soft and slow whisper, gentle as a lullaby, Sherlock couldn't remain in his bed for another second. He jumped up and pulled at his hair, trying to think what he could- should,-do. And then his eyes lighted on his violin and it all seemed so simple. If John was playing for him, he would play back. So he waited until the music was finished, and needing to dispel the profound, loud and wrong silence that followed, he raised his bow and drew it across the strings, making a sound close to a wail. It was a plea. It was begging, and panting he followed it up with a moan from the instrument before a sigh sounded from upstairs. Then seamlessly and without pause he played until there wasn't anything left because it had all been said and was hanging in the air, clinging like honey and just as sweet with promises.
Suddenly, it seemed foolish to him not to look on the face of this man who knew him, loved him and wanted him when there was nothing stoping him; So he flew to John in his room and dropping his violin on the desk he strode and pulled Johns' face desperately into his own. The kiss-this first kiss- is the sweetest thing either has tasted and is enough and not enough at the same time, seeming to last for an instant and an eternity in their minds.
"John." Sherlock's intense eyes bored into his partners. He uttered this sound again quieter and then louder, with untold reverence.
"Sherlock. Oh god yes!" Was the breathed reply. And that was just right; Just enough.
Eyes on fire they both stepped back to play again- this time together; Sherlock and John, John and Sherlock, just as it was supposed to be. Finally.
They both knew now and everything had changed. It was so much better now. The music they made together perfect in its imperfections and unique in its simplicity.
AN: As always Reviews are pretty little presents that I would love to receive. Thanks for reading and hey... if you want some of the in-between bits I can add them as further chapters. But you have to ask for it.