Another piece about our beloved violinist, but this time, he has an audience.
[Insert Disclaimer] Have fun reading, leave a review if you are moved to do so!
"It is cruel, you know, that music should be so beautiful, it has the beauty of loneliness of pain; of strength and freedom. The beauty of disappointment and never-satisfied love. The cruel beauty of nature and everlasting beauty of monotony."
- Benjamin Britten
John couldn't sleep- Sherlock was playing his violin.
Looking at the alarm clock, he discovered that it was 1:37. Wonderful.
Since he was definitely not sleeping, he might as well listen, John thought, and so he did to the music that rang out from the living room.
It was tortured, utterly anguished.
It was beautiful, and yet reminded him of a creature silently wailing out of intolerable pain.
It travelled slowly, languidly, between notes and pitches.
It climbed higher and higher, creating a pinnacle of emotion, and it seemed as if more than one man was playing, as if it were many playing the same melody, making the sound all-encompassing.
Somehow, it created a feeling of innocence and vulnerability about the man playing it.
And then it became quiet, low, and pensive.
John, who was by now sitting up, listened even more carefully just to be able to hear the music which was almost silent.
All of a sudden, the tempo quickened, and the music started ascended higher, faster, and became stronger. The notes bounced and the music developed an optimistic feel, until it fell once more. Once more it became quiet and so completely sad, terrible in its beauty for it was the beauty of something that was in agony.
And then came the silence.
It began just as it had ended, climbing up and then collapsing down to the point of aching sentimentality and illogically beautiful misery.
John sat for what could have been a minute or what could have been an hour, and realized that this was Sherlock's confession to his own higher power; it was his concession before emotion and before the pain that comes along with it. This was Sherlock's heart in shreds and his soul bared before the world.
He stood up and quietly walking out to get some tea; his wish to sleep had dissipated and his thoughts were getting too important to contemplate over the lack of tea.
Sherlock was standing and smoking a cigarette by the window, the cold air of which had already permeated the room. He didn't look at John, instead he looked out of the window at the crescent moon that shone on through the clouds that covered the entire sky; he kept smoking and held the elegant bow in his hand.
It was over. The darkness and tobacco smoke encompassed everything tonight.
Sorry about that angst, not sorry enough to stop. Remember, any suggestions or thoughts that you had while reading, or after, are always appreciated!
Until next time.