Hey everyone. This story kind of attacked me today, forcing me to type it up as fast as I could. I don't own Sherlock.
Doctor John Watson went about his daily business. He left work, promising Sarah a trip out to lunch the following day and made his way to the grocery. He picked up the few things he needed and walked over to the automated cashier. As usual, the machine disagreed with him, but he fought back and left with all of his items. He took a cab home to his flat at 221B Baker Street, wondering what he would find in the fridge today; maybe some toes or a lung. You never knew what to expect with a flat mate like Sherlock Holmes. Mrs. Hudson passed him on her way out the door.
"Good bye, dear. I'm off to the neighbors for a night off. You make sure Sherlock leaves this house standing. And clear the stairs off, please? I'm your landlady dear. I'm not your housekeeper."
Watson grunted a reply, not really listening beyond leaving the house standing. He made his way upstairs, expecting a foul odor or sounds of explosions to greet him and was pleasantly surprised to find neither. He pushed open the door to the kitchen, planning on dumping the groceries in their appropriate places. But that's not what happened. Instead, he was stopped fast by a beautiful sound. The most beautiful sound he had ever heard. He turned to his right and saw Sherlock Holmes sitting on the couch, eyes closed, smoothly pulling his bow over the strings of his violin. While it was not unusual to find the consulting detective plucking at the strings or playing some mindless tune or simple song, this was different. This song was not the kind that Sherlock consistently referred to as pointless and shallow with no meaning. This song was filled with emotion.
The unique sound of the violin reminded John of the many adventures he had had since meeting Sherlock. First, there was a slow, melancholy portion, reminding him of the time he had been mistaken for his flat mate. The fear flowed through the music, but came to an end as an unusual combination of notes took their place, bringing with them the image of a pool deck and relief at having survived Moriarty's first attack. A curious portion of the music swelled, bringing up the memory of meeting Sherlock Holmes for the first time, and after hearing his new flat mate's explanation for knowing all about him and being able to tell the detective he was wrong, a once in a lifetime opportunity. A series of quick notes sped up John's heart rate, bringing to mind that first chase, leaping across the rooftops of London, trying to head off a cab. Slowing, the song took on a dark tone that could only be associated with James Moriarty and the obsession that had grown in Sherlock with finding this dangerous man. The music grew higher in pitch and tempo as thoughts of the many nights of sharing desperate theories crossed his mind. A lighthearted sound filled the air next, and he could not help but think of the many times Sherlock had tried to explain his reasoning to the police only to laugh at their blank faces. Subtly, the music slowed, giving it a more tense feeling. It reminded him of that careful shot he had taken to stop Sherlock from being a murderer's next victim. There was even a portion of the music that reminded John of his first night with Sarah, light and beautiful and almost apologetic, as though Sherlock were trying to put his thoughts of that night into his music. Then the song took a melancholy tone once more and John could not help but think of the victims the two of them had not been able to save. Every shift or subtle change in the violin's tempo, pitch, or sound brought a new memory with it. It calmed John down, reminding him that sometimes you just need to sit back and just be.
Sherlock, too, seemed completely at ease, possibly for the first time since John had met him: eyelids fluttering and elegant fingers flowing fluidly across the bow and strings. After a few long minutes, the consulting detective allowed the sounds to trail away, leaning back against the couch, so still he seem to be asleep. Watson was disappointed to hear the end of the music and stood watching his friend. Sherlock's face was completely relaxed, his hands still, his chest rising and falling with easy breathing. Watson wasn't sure if anyone, Lestraude, Anderson or Donovan especially, would recognized the man before them to be the same man who chased criminals without a thought and enjoyed outsmarting policemen on a regular basis. No, John thought, he was too calm, with no wrinkle in his brow, no harsh analysis in those piercing eyes. No one was supposed to see this side of Sherlock Holmes, the vulnerable, content part of him.
"Well?" asked a familiar voice. John was pulled out of his reverie by the voice of his friend who, to all intents and purposes, appeared to be asleep.
"Well what?" John asked, finally turning to put away the groceries.
"What did you think?" The man still had not moved, his eyes still closed.
"About the song?" No response. "It was magnificent. I've never heard anything like it," he said, matter-of-factly. There was no reason to feed his friend's unnaturally large ego any more than necessary. "What is it?"
"Nothing yet. I only wrote it an hour ago."
John turned to look at him with scrunched eyebrows, but Sherlock still looked as though he was asleep. "You wrote that? I didn't know you wrote music."
"You didn't know that I WRITE music, John. Present tense. And of course I write music," Sherlock replied, still not moving. "Where else would I find music that was even halfway decent for me to play?"
John poured himself a cup of tea, smiling and shaking his head at his flat mate's narcissism. "Knowing you, nothing else would work. But Sherlock?" He only got a raised eyebrow in reply. "That was brilliant."
The smallest of smiles flitted across Sherlock Holmes' lips before he truly did go to sleep. John smiled at him and pulled a blanket over the detective's thin shoulders. Sitting down in his favorite chair, he sipped his tea, pulled a newspaper out, and went about his daily business.
So… What do you think? You should tell me. You know, with that little button just below these words. Please?
Aralana