Eight hours working at the clinic felt longer than John thought it should.
It was one of those days where no one would co-operate. Patients young and old whined and fussed and cried, his technology failed, he was extra clumsy and things just didn't work. John was at wit's end by noon. He escaped to the break room and rubbed his face. Maybe a text or two from Sherlock would help brighten his day. He pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket and sent a text to his friend.
Hell, thy name is the medical clinic. Seems like this day will never end. –JW
John made himself a cup of tea and re-heated his lunch, but no response from Sherlock. This was odd, considering there was no case to work on lately, unless Lestrade called him after John left for the clinic…
What have you been up to today? –JW
Between annoying patients and loads of paperwork, he checked his phone, but alas, no response from Sherlock. Part of John wanted to fret from the thought that something was wrong. But then again, it was Sherlock. He was probably lost in thought or in the middle of an experiment and ignored the text alert.
Finally, finally two o'clock came and his shift was over. John didn't hesitate to throw on his jacket and take the first cab to pass by the clinic. He gave his address to the cabbie and let out a sigh as London streets whizzed past his window.
He was exceedingly curious as to what Sherlock was up to. Was there a new experiment to greet him in the fridge? A breakthrough realization about one of England's toughest mysteries? Or maybe another violin masterpiece was being composed this very minute? John grinned in anticipation as to what had been keeping Sherlock quiet the entire day.
John paid the cabbie and hauled himself out, his limbs tired after a long day of standing. He unlocked the front door and stepped inside where it was considerably warmer than outside. He greeted Mrs. Hudson and started to head upstairs. Under the sound of his tread on the old stairs, John heard the familiar sound of Sherlock's violin playing. A beautiful melody poured out from the space under the door. John smiled.
He pushed open the door slowly, being careful not to disturb the master at his work. But instead of the detective in his usual dressing gown playing by the window, he had an audience. Two men and a woman occupied the living room; lost deep in Sherlock's playing. He was looking extremely attractive in one of his expensive suits, and playing an unfamiliar piece with his usual perfection and grace. John became mesmerized watching him play with such fluidity and emotion that he stood in the doorway in awe.
With a swift flick of his bow, the piece finished and John crashed back into reality. The three strangers burst into applause. Sherlock did a quick bow and put his violin back into the case. "Ah, John. Good afternoon." He said in his usual baritone voice.
John smiled and shut the door behind him. "Afternoon, Sherlock. Who are your guests?"
Sherlock gestured to the trio, who were busy talking amongst themselves. "This is The Gateway, a local London band. They're in need of a violinist for a performance. I was just doing my audition."
Those were definitely words John would never expect to hear from Sherlock's mouth.
There was a man dressed in jeans and a button down shirt curled up in the single armchair who broke away from the group and was scribbling away furiously in a tiny moleskin notebook. The second man in a red vest, blue shirt, striped tie and tight black pants was whispering to the woman next to him who wore a little black dress, red shoes, a shiny skull necklace and matching jet black hair. The band—they must have all been in their young twenties—screamed artsy and classy alternative music.
John politely excused himself to the kitchen as the band mates all simultaneously nodded to each other. From the corner of his eye, John watched the girl walk up to Sherlock and shake his hand.
"Well, Mr. Holmes," she said, in a clear American accent, beaming up at the taller man. "I think you're just what we're looking for. Congratulations!"
Sherlock shook her hand and put on the fake smile and the politeness only used when he was acting. "Thank you, Hazel."
The girl –Hazel– twirled a lock of her glossy black hair and smiled, her bright red lipstick contrasting on her otherwise pale skin. The man she was talking to in the red vest shook hands with him also. "We were all very impressed with your playing. We'll email you the sheet music for the song we need you for. Talk to Vince if you need any help with it." He said. This man was definitely British.
"Will do, Tom."
Vince, the one with the notebook, shook hands last as the others were putting on their coats. "Practices are Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays and Saturdays in the restaurant lounge. I'll email you the address and times."
"Thank you, Vince."
After pleasantries were exchanged, the three were shown out. John walked back into the living room with two cups of tea, handing one to Sherlock, and they took their regular spots on their couches. Sherlock sighed as the overly-cheery character washed away from his face.
"So." John said, blowing on his drink. "A successful audition, then. Congratulations."
Sherlock took a long sip. "Very. But by the looks of it, they didn't have many other people to choose from."
"The Gateway. I've never heard of them before." John remarked.
"Well, they're an aspiring band who frequent cafes and lounges in the London area. They put out an ad recently for a violinist for a show in aforementioned restaurant lounge next month. They've written a song that features the violin to premiere that night."
John nodded. "Alright, let's get to the point. Which one's the murderer? My bets are on the girl who was flirting with you."
Sherlock smirked. "Ah, John, you know me all too well." A little bit of pride bubbled in John's stomach. Sherlock resumed. "I'm afraid Hazel isn't a murderer. She's just a regular woman whose biggest threat is sleeping around."
John rolled his eyes. "Carry on then, why did you really take the position?"
"A suspect in one of Lestrade's cases is a busboy at the lounge where we will be practicing and performing. I figured as they're cleaning up after lunch and preparing for the dinner crowd I can keep an observing eye on him while we rehearse."
"Clever!" John replied, amazed.
Sherlock took another long sip from his cup and admitted, "I've never played violin in front of an audience bigger than a dozen family members. It'll be an interesting experience."
John smiled warmly at him. "You're going to blow everyone away. You're a pro at this." Was that too much? Well, in love with his flatmate or not, Sherlock was definitely amazing at playing the violin.
The corners of Sherlock's mouth twitched upwards. He was clearly pleased.
John collected their mugs for them and deposited them in the dishwasher, and then joined Sherlock back in the living room. "I am genuinely curious, though. What did you deduce about the band members so far?"
Sherlock smiled madly and sat up in his chair, using wild hand motions and gestures to relay his thoughts. "Good question, John. They were very easy to decipher. Hazel, who plays the cello for the song, has a minimum wage job washing dishes at some dive of a restaurant. Her nails have been clipped short and her fingertips and nails are worn and soft from endless exposure to the water. Also, if she were dealing with food and sanitation, nail polish would be out of the question. And she is clearly one to co-ordinate her makeup and accessories, as you could obviously tell. Her thrift store clothes are disguised by her, erm, original fashion style. That's how I knew she had a low paying job at a lowly restaurant. She's independent, moved from New York to London when she was young to go to Uni, but dropped out after a year to pursue a musical career. My guess is she went for something sensible like medicine or law to please her parents who were obviously paying for her tuition. "
He took a deep breath and continued. "Tom and Vince live together, probably met in Uni and shared a love of music, forming a band soon after. Somewhere along the line they met Hazel, probably through a friend, and asked her to join. Tom came from a richer background, and works part time as a piano teacher. His clothes, as obscure as they are, are on the expensive side. His parents fund him with money to look presentable as a musician. He has a habit of tapping his fingers in the style of a piano player, but he's the singer of the band so it's either a pastime, but I overheard him saying he has another 'kid' after this meeting, so it'd only make sense that this kid was a client, and his subconscious piano tapping was him going over the song he was going to teach after. Vince, on the other hand, isn't the richest bloke but has enough to get by. He's the drummer, and he works long hours at a music store, and I can tell because his sleeves have creases from being rolled up, so he does lots of manual work. I actually didn't have to guess the rest because he gave me his mobile number on the cashier receipt from a local music store from his late shift."
John shook his head, laughing. "Wow. Amazing, as always."
Sherlock gave a satisfied smirk and lay back on the couch, fingers steepled under his chin.
"So now you're a part of a band and you have an undercover case to do. You'll be pretty busy for the next couple weeks, eh?" John chuckled.
"Indeed I will. Should be interesting."
For once, Sherlock was not bored. He had rehearsals almost every day for practically the whole day. And when he came back home, he was in a flurry writing down observations and arranging notes and talking to Lestrade. Sherlock wasn't one to sleep during cases, but John had come home sometimes to find the detective fast asleep on the couch, clutching sheet music or case notes. John lovingly put the papers away and covered his long limbs with a blanket before going to bed himself.
Sherlock had a little less than a month to learn a song and practice it with the others and perfect it, while also paying close attention to a possible murderer. He also had to stay on the band's good side for the undercover act to work smoothly, otherwise he'd lose track of the suspect and also screw up the band's long awaited performance. It was exhausting for him to be overly-cheery and polite to everyone. Often Sherlock would come home, exasperated after going through a whole day of not snapping at anyone. John would have given anything to be there and watch him try his hardest to not insult someone. Take today for example.
"Oh, for God's sakes!" Sherlock burst through the door in a huff. Steam was practically pouring out of his ears.
John looked up from his newspaper as Sherlock tossed his bags on the floor. "Are you alright?"
Sherlock sighed dramatically and collapsed on the couch, without bothering to take off his jacket or shoes. "Today was horrid. I want to punch everyone in the face."
"One of those days, huh?" John asked.
"Our whole rehearsal was useless. No one was paying attention; I could have spent my time doing other things. To start, Hazel spent the whole time trying to get me into her bedroom after the rehearsal."
"Your life is so rough."
"Vince needed to stop texting his girlfriend and focus on the music, which is what we're all here for. It doesn't even matter anyways- she's cheating on him. I read his texts when he wasn't looking. It's obvious."
"Sherlock, that's—"
"That's not all. Our suspect vanished before his shift was done and I faked the perfect 'my-flatmate-just-went-to-the-hospital-I-have-to-make-sure-he's-okay' act so I could leave early and follow the murderer, but Tom threw a fit and yelled at everyone to focus and glared at me for the rest of the practice."
Even in the hypothetical situation, John was flattered that Sherlock would rush to the hospital to see if he was alright. He felt his cheeks grow warmer.
"Well, this sort of thing happens to everyone." John gave him a sympathetic smile. "Do you want some tea?"
Sherlock sighed again and nodded, leaning forward to slip off his shoes.
John went into the kitchen to stick the kettle on. "But I know how you feel. Sarah was particularly grouchy today too. Boy troubles, I presume. Her new boyfriend's a dick."
"Are you jealous, John?"
"Not at all." John assured him. He was in love with someone else, after all.
The band didn't hesitate to book all the rehearsal time they could get at the restaurant lounge. Sherlock was out of the flat for longer than John worked at the clinic. He came home to the empty flat almost every day. At first it was nice, but he craved Sherlock's company after a long day at work. But by the time his friend returned home with his violin case in hand, he was busy relaying case information to Lestrade or went straight to his bedroom to sleep. A part of John secretly wanted things to return to normal, where Sherlock would bounce on him like a puppy and beg to be entertained after John returned home from work.
"How's the case going?" John asked over a bowl of homemade spaghetti one evening.
Sherlock, who had been running his fingers through his hair while looking through some papers across from him, answered: "Well, it's looking like he might have murdered our victim, but I don't feel confident in confirming it. I need to get closer but I have hardly any time anymore."
John frowned. "How's the song coming along?"
Sherlock sighed. He stuffed the papers back in the folder and pulled out his phone. "Very well, actually. It was an easy piece to learn, but it's interesting to play with other people and other instruments. We still need more practice as a group but we can pull together just in time for the gig."
He sounds so professional, John thought to himself in admiration for him. It wasn't long before Sherlock was yawning more and more frequently and finally, like almost every night, he was off to bed earlier and earlier. John sat alone and watched telly, something they usually did together while laughing at all the crap shows on there. Finally John flicked it off and retired to his room, too, and read before falling asleep.
Wake up, go to work, come home, eat, sleep. John's life had become so plain and civilian he was half expecting his limp to come back anytime. He was envious that Sherlock had a case to work on. Unfortunately, under the circumstances, it was hard for John to help him on this one. He wasn't present for the investigating or crime scene research and it would be hard to try and help otherwise with Sherlock's complicated schedule and John's extra shifts at work.
One particularly nice afternoon, John had decided to walk home from work. He took his time walking through the busy city streets. Once he was home, John decided he was going to have a nice cup of tea and finally get around to reading his new book. He wasn't expecting to walk into the flat to find Sherlock holding a bag of frozen corn to his face.
"Sherlock! What the hell happened to you?" John exclaimed. He tugged off his jacket and walked up to the detective, who was grinning like a mad man. Whatever had happened had happened recently, because he was still catching his breath, and the adrenaline was still evident in his bright eyes.
"We caught him." Sherlock grinned. He allowed John to remove the bag from his face to reveal and nasty bruise and a small cut on his cheek.
"So your bloke was the murderer then?" John clarified, lightly touching his cheek. Yep, it was going to swell soon. He quickly exchanged the bag of corn for a medical ice pack.
"Oh, John, it was absolutely riveting. I wish you could have been there to—ACK!" He yelped at the sudden sting of the frozen ice pack on his bare cheek.
John chuckled. "Sorry. We want to keep the swelling down." He sat Sherlock down on the couch and went to make them some tea. "Tell me all about it, then."
Sherlock didn't hesitate. "Well, our suspect, Kyle, has been involved in some suspicious activity recently. I managed to talk to one of his co-workers and she said that he'd been acting very odd lately, taking lots of breaks and making tons of phone calls. We had been extra productive in our rehearsal today, so when I asked if I could leave early, Tom was fine with it. I managed to pack up and leave just as Kyle left to make another phone call. I followed him outside where he hid himself in the alley beside the restaurant. I eavesdropped, of course. Turns out he was blackmailing the murder victim's sister to be his alibi. I recorded the conversation on my phone and sent it to Lestrade. All I need then was proof that he was wearing the stolen ring—ah, thank you, John." He accepted the cup of tea and took a sip.
John sat in the couch across from him and took a sip too. "Continue."
"So to get physical proof of that he had this particular cut diamond ring, I stopped him in the alleyway, shouted a couple things, got him all riled up. He definitely had the ring, but on his right hand. I had noticed that he was right handed when he was working. So, instead of getting the ring off of his finger and in my possession, I got him mad enough so he punched me. His ring gave the perfect cut on my cheek, the perfect physical evidence of the diamond and its cut. Unfortunately after I regained myself, he wasn't done yet. He was still angry that I overheard his plan, so he chased me through the streets of London. I managed to guide him to the scene where Lestrade and his team were currently working at and, minutes later, he was arrested for the murder of Lacy Blackmore." He leaned back on the couch, satisfied with himself.
Clutching his steaming cup of tea, John stared in awe. "You are absolutely brilliant!" he exclaimed, ignoring the modest shrug from Sherlock. "Not in a million years would I ever think of getting the ring mark on my face.…wow. That's amazing. "As embarrassing as he was making himself sound, John couldn't help it. Sherlock was a genius, and John was overwhelmed with pride and admiration for him.
Sherlock smiled, genuinely smiled, at John. "It would have been fun if you were there. I had to sit around a lot while paperwork was being done and it would have been nice to have you around to talk to."
John's cheeks warmed again. "Your rehearsals and investigations have been taking up so much time. We hardly talk anymore."
Sherlock nodded. "Yes. But rehearsals are winding down and this case is finally over with. It's a huge load off of my shoulders."
"That's a relief. You've looked exhausted lately."
"I know. It's taken up a lot of energy."
The two sat in silence, simultaneously drinking tea and thinking.
"Well?" Sherlock asked suddenly.
"Hm?"
"You always ask me about two things before the night is done, usually during little pieces of silence. You always ask about the case, and the band. And we've already been over the case." Sherlock tossed the warm ice pack on the coffee table.
"Oh. Right. Sorry. I should just check your face again first." John put the ice pack in the freezer again and sat on the couch next to Sherlock. He lightly pressed his thumb on the now-green patch of his cheek. "By tomorrow this'll be an awful shade of purple. Good luck explaining this to people. Looks like you've been in a domestic fight."
At least they had iced down his cheek enough that it wouldn't swell anymore. Sherlock watched intently as John kept his hand on his cheek; his thumb gently brushing across the tiny cut mark from the ring. John looked at Sherlock- his cheekbones, his nose, his lips, his chin. All so up close and all so perfect.
He felt Sherlock's mouth move under his touch as he swallowed. John realized he was probably making him uncomfortable, so he quickly drew back his hand and looked away, embarrassed. "How's the song coming along then?" he asked quickly.
Sherlock's face remained even, as it had before. "Very well. I am absolutely blown away; it is truly an amazing piece of work. The Gateway is such an under-appreciated band. Human flaws aside, they truly are masters at their work." Sherlock beamed with pride as he continued to praise the band. John smiled in amusement at how passionate he was being, the embarrassment of earlier washing away and they were laughing and talking like old times.
Minus all the extra case work and one less day a week of band practice, John found him and Sherlock talking more over dinner and occasionally catching a program on the telly. The familiar sight of coming home to Sherlock lounging on the couch after work was becoming more and more frequent.
But even then, John was genuinely curious about what Sherlock did at these band practices. He hardly talked about the song they were working on ("Spoilers, John. I don't want to give it all away."), nor the actual rehearsals. So during a particularly boring soap opera one evening, John asked him.
"What do you mean, what do we do?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows furrowing quizzically.
"I mean, what happens at the rehearsals? Do you even talk to the other members? How do things work?"
"Oh." Sherlock paused for a moment, gathering his thoughts. "Well, every Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday I leave after you go to work. The restaurant is within walking distance, so I walk there with my violin. I head straight to the lounge where the others are setting up. We get hooked up to the sound equipment now, because we're done learning the actual song. We're allowed to use the space until the start of the dinner hour, because that's when the restaurant gets filled and other bands perform. We run through the song a dozen times, stopping every once and a while to correct or improve on some things, and there's not much to do after that because we know everything, so we leave earlier than we did before. The three of them are good friends so they joke around together a lot; pull little pranks on each other, that sort of thing. They're kind enough to include me, too." A little smile crept up on his face, and John couldn't help but smile, too. It's a wonderful feeling, knowing that you have people who like you and your presence. John was genuinely glad Sherlock could experience that too.
Speaking of the band members, John felt like an outsider sometimes. He had only briefly seen the three of them on the day of Sherlock's little 'audition', but even then he had left to the kitchen. Sherlock would come home some days with stories about the trio. On one of John's days off, he watched Sherlock leave for rehearsal and then come back twenty minutes later, with an all-too familiar smirk on his face.
"Back so soon? What happened?" John asked from his laptop.
"Well remember how I told you Vince's girlfriend was cheating on him?" he replied, a devilish grin forming.
"After you read his text messages? Yes, I remember."
"Well, he finally found out today. There was a pregnancy scare, he had a mental breakdown, and Tom and Hazel called off rehearsal for today so they could help Vince calm down. Oh, it was delightful."
"Sherlock!"
"Not good?"
"No!" John cried, shutting his laptop. "Poor bloke! Did you at least stop by to see if he was okay? If he needed anything?"
"Of course not. I hardly know him." Sherlock replied, hanging his coat up on the hook.
"You already know his life story. You even told me." John sighed. "At least ring him, alright? It's the right thing to do, and it makes you look like a good person."
"But John—"
"Sherlock."
"Fine." He grumbled. He pulled out his phone from his coat pocket and trudged into the bedroom.
John could hear Sherlock's muffled words from the closed door, but it was hard to hear exactly what he was saying. Approximately ten minutes later, Sherlock came out, with a scowl on his face. He went straight to the coat hook and started pulling on his jacket.
"Well?"
"I'm going to go get Vince a card or a fruit basket or something and then visit him." He grumbled.
"Christ, Sherlock!" John buried his face in his hands. "You don't get someone a card after their relationship is obliterated. Just go have a comforting visit."
Sherlock let out a dramatic sigh as he slipped on his shoes.
"And be polite, yeah? He's fragile, and apparently emotionally unstable. Don't make yourself sound like an arse."
"Goodbye, John." Sherlock called, annoyed, as he left the flat.
John wasn't quite sure what happened that afternoon at Vince's house with the other band members, but something changed for the better. After that, Sherlock had gotten coffee after rehearsals with the bunch or went out to lunch with one of them. Sometimes when John and Sherlock were having a night in, one of them would call him up for a chat and Sherlock would give him that little wave that said, Sorry, this'll take a bit, go ahead and play the movie without me.
Of course John wasn't jealous. Sherlock wasn't his own property, after all. And it was nice that he was finally making friends, even if he was acting extra nice and friendly and not at all like himself. As far as John knew, Sherlock came across as a regular bloke who didn't solve crimes and deduce people's life story by looking at their shoes. So what if John was the one hanging around at home night after night while Sherlock was out being social, instead of the other way around? It was fine. John was fine. It was all fine.
A week later, John was going through the fridge, avoiding the toes in the cherry Jell-O (he made a mental note to never eat Jell-O again) looking for some lunch. He pulled out some leftover Chinese food. Just as he was closing the door, it caught his eye. Looking closer on the yellow calendar they kept on the fridge door, he saw a little note in one of the squares in Sherlock's familiar scrawl. Plain and seemingly unimportant, Sherlock had written, Performance- 8 p.m. He had non-chalantly written it as simple as, Dentist Appointment. John slowly smiled. He understood.
Sherlock never used the calendar. John had always liked to keep his dates organized, whether it was a medical conference, dinner with family, or a certain movie playing on the telly. Sherlock had never written anything down on it; it was probably only John who used the calendar. Until now, that is.
As John stuck some of the leftover take out in the microwave, he couldn't help but feel a little bit of joy bubbling inside of him. Sherlock seldom talked about the song he was going to play, let alone the performance date. He never showed any signs of excitement or nervousness towards performing in front of a crowd in a busy restaurant lounge on a Friday night. He acted like it was a just another duty he had to fulfill, just the remnant of his undercover job. But as even Sherlock had said before, John knew him well. Sherlock wouldn't be one to invite John to the concert or enthuse about it. It was a pride thing. But this little note, the little scribble in that Friday square was like a silent invitation. 'It's there, come if you want. But you don't have to. It's not a big deal'. John smiled. Of course he was going to go.
The date of the long awaited performance was approaching. The band was confident in their playing, so they cut rehearsals down to one day a week. This gave Sherlock and John more free time together. In fact, they had finished two small cases in the meantime. No one at the Scotland Yard asked about Sherlock's further involvement with the band; they all assumed it was done and over with. John hummed happily to himself at the crime scene. Next Friday, it's next Friiiidaaaaayyyy! He kept it like a little secret in his pocket; like a ticket to Sherlock's good side.
A week before the big performance, Sherlock shut himself in his room, practicing the song in secret. From the stovetop where John was cooking, he could hear just the slightest bits of muffled playing, but it was obvious Sherlock wanted to keep as much of it a secret as he could. There had been no further discussion on whether or not John was coming to the performance, nor had John gotten the opportunity to drop any hints.
The day before the big performance, the band members were going out for dinner as a bit of a reward after their final dress rehearsal. Sherlock was getting ready to leave. John was catching up on his emails at the table.
"John?"
"Yeah?"
"You can come along to dinner if you want."
This struck John as surprising. It was very out of character, but also rather sweet at the same time. "But it's your band's dress rehearsal dinner. I don't want to intrude." He replied with a chuckle.
"Oh. Okay."
"Thanks for inviting me, though." John was sure to smile a little bigger and wish him a fun time as he left to make up for it. He didn't want to disappoint Sherlock, but he knew he was going to stick out like a sore thumb there and feel awkward. Best to stay at home, then.
While Sherlock was probably laughing with his new friends over an expensive meal and a glass of nice wine, John sat quietly, eating a pathetic meal and watching crap telly. Part of him regretted passing up the invitation. Thankfully the performance was tomorrow night and then this would all be over with, and things would return to normal. Hopefully.
He had been reading a novel and lost track of time. It was almost midnight when he heard a very loud Sherlock come up the stairs and burst through the door. John put down his book and was surprised to find a very drunk and very giggly Hazel at his hip, the two of them trying to catch their breath after the trek up the stairs together.
A stab of angry jealousy shot through John. He locked eyes with Sherlock and raised an eyebrow. Sherlock gave him a lopsided smile and, with a firm arm around Hazel's waist, guided her over to a chair and popped her down. He fetched her a glass of water and then disappeared to his room briefly. Hazel, who was piss drunk, wouldn't stop giggling. She had a (very short) red dress on and was holding her tall high heels. Her usual mane of jet black hair had been curled and was now on the messy side.
John kept a disapproving eye on her until Sherlock returned, moments later, stuffing something into his pocket. He went back to Hazel and spoke softly. "Alright, Hazel, give me your keys…"
Hazel was more fixated on grabbing Sherlock's shirt collar and pulling him down closer, her eyes focused on his mouth. Sherlock allowed her, because he could easily slip his hand into her handbag beside her and pull out her car keys. He stood back up and offered his hand to Hazel to help her stand properly. She stumbled around and finally clung to Sherlock as they started to leave.
"I'm just going to drive Hazel back home. I'll talk to you later." Sherlock called to John, an apologetic smile on his face. He slipped his arm firmly around Hazel's waist again as he helped her down the stairs to go retrieve her car from the restaurant they were at, which was within walking distance from 221b.
John, who had been sitting there and witnessed the whole thing before his eyes, blinked. What the hell had just happened? Why did he bring home a drunk girl who was previously accused of sleeping around? What had happened before that? Why did Sherlock, of all people, volunteer to be the designated driver for her? What about the other two blokes? And oh God, what did Sherlock discreetly get from his room and slip into his pocket? John's mind loomed and settled for the worst possible conclusion. He fell face first into the couch cushion and let out a groan.
The next morning, a grumpy John ate some toast before a shift at the clinic. Sherlock, yawning, shuffled out of his room in his pyjamas and his blue dressing gown. He poured himself a cup of coffee.
"Good morning, John."
"Good morning." He replied flatly.
Sherlock yawned again and joined him at the table. "You went to bed before I came back. I was only gone ten minutes."
A little bit of relief washed over John. Ten minutes clearly eliminated the conclusions John had come to. "Did you have fun last night?"
Sherlock nodded. "Not my cup of tea, but it was still enjoyable. I'm not used to dining with a loud group of people."
John bobbed his head. "And Hazel?" he asked lightly.
John could feel Sherlock's eyes searching through him. Of course. He had probably already determined what John had been worried about. He didn't hesitate to answer.
"All three of them got absolutely wasted last night. I was the only one who didn't drink glass after glass of alcohol, so I got Hazel's car keys and drove her home. Oh, I hope you don't mind, but I gave her our last bottle of aspirin for her hangover."
Aspirin. It was aspirin, not…what John was thinking. Oh, thank God. John felt like jumping for joy and dancing around the flat and giving Sherlock a big kiss for being so noble and loyal. Instead, he smiled at him and said, "Well, that was awfully nice of you, Sherlock. Good job."
He could have sworn he saw Sherlock's eyes light up.
John was late for work that day. He ran inside the clinic, twenty minutes into his shift. "Oh, come on, John. You don't even have a full day of work today and you showed up late." Sarah wailed.
"Sorry. Got caught up with things at the flat," he smiled quickly, washing his hands and rushing into his office.
Despite starting late, Sarah let him go home without making up for the extra time. She had seen that day's date marked specially on his work calendar and circled twice. She understood.
By the time John walked into the flat, he could feel the anxiousness in the air. It was four o'clock now; Sherlock had to be out of the door at six to go set up for the performance at eight. John walked in through the front door. "Sherlock?" he called out.
"In here," came his muffled response.
John followed the voice into Sherlock's bedroom where he was tuning his violin. John leaned up against the door frame, watching him do it expertly by ear.
"Getting ready for tonight?" John asked.
"Yes," Sherlock replied. He then put his violin away and started fiddling with the bow, putting rosin on it.
"Are you nervous?"
"Mm, not really."
He stood there for a bit, watching Sherlock gracefully clean the bow and tweak his violin. John left later to start to cook, hoping he could persuade Sherlock to eat something. It was nearly five o'clock when John had prepared a decent plate of chicken and corn.
"Sherlock! C'mon and eat." He called out. Sherlock, who had been mysteriously absent for an hour, trotted out from his bedroom, looking around absentmindedly. He joined John at the table, staring off into space.
"You okay?" John asked.
Sherlock's head sprung up. He blinked a couple times. "Oh, sorry. I was just lost in thought. Thanks for the dinner, John."
John smiled at him, but was rather taken aback at the unusual politeness. Ah well. It was nice.
Sherlock didn't need persuading to eat. They made small talk during the meal, but Sherlock's thoughts were definitely somewhere else. He's probably anxious for his performance soon, John concluded.
Sherlock idly helped clean up, but then disappeared off to his room again to get ready. As John did the dishes, he watched Sherlock scramble around the flat, grabbing last minute things and getting ready.
It was 5:45 when John lowered his newspaper to watch Sherlock frantically rush into the living room, in the middle of quickly buttoning up a white dress shirt.
"Have you seen my phone?" Sherlock asked, his fingers working quickly over the buttons. John's eyes flicked between his eyes and his pale chest.
"On the mantle," he answered, shifting his newspaper.
Sherlock grabbed the phone and slipped it into his trouser pocket before disappearing into his room again. John went back to reading his newspaper before he was interrupted again.
"John!" Sherlock ran into the room again. He was hopping on one foot as he slipped a black sock on the other. He now wore a white dress shirt, a thin black tie, and smooth black trousers. In the simplest attire ever, Sherlock managed to look extremely sexy. John caught himself staring again.
"Yes, Sherlock?" John replied, finding amusement in Sherlock's pre-show jitters.
"Where's my wallet?"
"It should be on your dresser, where you always keep it." John glanced at his watch. "You'd better hurry, you're going to be late…"
Sherlock dashed back into the living room minutes later, shuffling through tattered sheet music, before tossing it on the table. He put a suit jacket on and his coat overtop, and then slipped on his shoes. He took a deep breath and adjusted his clothing one last time in the mirror. Sherlock tipped his head at John, and left with his head held high.
John reached for his phone on the table. Sherlock? –JW
Yes, John? –SH
Your violin? –JW
It had taken Sherlock a couple seconds to turn around and run back into 221b, before being greeted by John with the case. He gladly took it from him.
"Thank you, John."
"Sherlock?"
"Yes?"
John handed him his blue scarf, which had also been forgotten, and draped it around his neck, tying it the usual way. "You'll be fine. Don't worry."
With a smile and a pat on the shoulder, Sherlock was ushered back out and he made his way down to the restaurant. John finished his newspaper and then puttered around the house until 8 o'clock approached. He stopped for a moment and realized he didn't make it clear that he was attending the concert. Ah well. It'll be a nice surprise.
John knew that the restaurant lounge was casual but on the classier side. He put a nice shirt on, and then combed his hair and washed up. He locked up the flat and left, enjoying the nice walk to the restaurant. He'd never been in the restaurant, or the lounge, but he'd been past it many times. There was a small fee to pay at the door, but soon John was in and finding a seat.
The restaurant lounge, called the Velvet Lounge, was a large room in the back of the fancy restaurant. There was a bar taking up the back of the room, with tables and chairs scattered throughout, all facing the moderately sized stage. Tonight there was a banner with The Gateway on it, in fancy lettering. There was a microphone set up at the front of the stage, a drum set behind it, and a cello propped up on the other side, with amps set up behind.
The room was filling up quickly, mainly with couples or small groups of young adults with clearly a more alternative taste in music. John, who was once again alone, felt embarrassed at the lack of accompaniment with him. He found an empty two-seated table in the corner of the room which was also right by the stage. Perfect. By the looks of it, Sherlock would stand on his side of the stage.
Every once and awhile, the occasional sound person stepped out from behind the curtains and fiddled with an amp or some wires, and then disappeared again. John played solitaire on his phone to pass the time.
Finally, around eight o'clock, the lights dimmed and a spotlight was turned onto the stage. The audience fell quiet. Promptly, the quartet walked onstage. It was led by Tom (Or was it Vince?), then Hazel, then whichever the second bloke was, and then Sherlock. The audience gave an enthusiastic welcome, completed by a girl shouting, "I LOVE YOU TOM!". They were more popular than John thought.
They all took their places onstage. Tom (he waved to the girl who shouted his name) took a spot on a barstool by the microphone, Vince behind the drums, Hazel with her cello, and Sherlock, whose violin had been resting on a stereo the whole time. The members all wore black pants (with the exception of Hazel, who wore a black skirt), un-tucked white dress shirts/blouses (it was a surprising look on Sherlock, who normally kept everything neat and tucked in), and thin black neckties (except for Hazel, who wore a thick black necklace). Sherlock looked ridiculously good. John once more couldn't help staring.
"Hey there," Tom said into the microphone, his voice smooth and relaxed. "We're The Gateway. Thanks for coming to our show."
The audience responded with more applause. "I hope you all enjoy yourselves tonight. I'm Tom, this is my buddy Vince, the lovely Hazel, and a new face here. This is our friend who kindly stepped in to play the violin for us, Sherlock Holmes."
There was a kind applause for Sherlock, who saluted everyone casually with his violin bow. He looked drop dead gorgeous as it was, but then he gave that wonderful smile to the crowd…
John was sure to clap extra hard when they called Sherlock's name. He hoped Sherlock could find him in the crowd, if only he'd look just a bit more to the right…!
"Tonight," Tom continued. "We debut frankly one of the best pieces we've ever written." He paused for the applause. "So, without further ado, we present to you our little Bittersweet Symphony!"
The crowd cheered even harder. The band did their last minute adjusting. Sherlock fiddled with the microphone to stand higher, and then turned behind him to fetch his violin. When he turned back, John caught his eye and gave him a thumbs up. Sherlock's face melted into a huge smile of relief that lasted long after he straightened up and aligned himself with the microphone in front of him.
The crowd fell silent. Sherlock nodded to Hazel. Hazel nodded to Vince. Vince nodded to Tom, who counted them in by tapping on the side of the stool. "One, two, onetwothreefour…"
It all started with the low looming of the cello in the back. Sherlock joined in very quietly on the violin, playing an elegant melody which repeated itself over and over, slowly becoming louder. Soon they played at full volume when Vince joined in with the drums.
"Cause it's a bittersweet symphony this life…"
Tom sang evenly and smoothly to the relaxed melody being repeated over and over in the background.
"Trying to make ends meet, you're a slave to money, and then you die…
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet, yeah…"
As the chorus was sung, the melody hit full blast.
"No change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change
But I'm here in my mind
I am here in my mind
But I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mind
No, no, no, no, no, no.…"
A shiver ran down John's spine. This was easily one of the best songs he's ever heard. The haunting violin melody playing in the back fit well with the jazzy sounds of the background instruments. Tom had a unique voice; one that shouldn't work, but it did, and it sounded amazing. The members played with serious and composed expressions on their faces, which not only looked professional, but suited the overall tone of the song. And Sherlock; oh God. This was completely different than all the times he's played at home. He stood straight and composed as usual, but this time he looked truly relaxed, and enveloped in the song. He played with fluidity and grace, looking peaceful with his eyes closed, and so, so handsome. Sherlock needed to be in the spotlight more often.
After a second verse, they relapsed into chorus again. This time, Vince sang a harmony nicely which accompanied the overall melody nicely. The song fell into a steady rhythm of organized grace and multiple different tunes going on.
"'Cause it's a bittersweet symphony, this life
Trying to make ends meet
Trying to find some money then you die
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
You know the one that takes you to the places
where all the veins meet yeah…"
The next part surprised John immensely. In one swift movement, Sherlock turned gracefully to meet an odd angle, where he turned sideways, so that his head was over his left shoulder that he kept the violin on, facing the microphone. While continuing to play, he started to sing alongside with Tom.
Oh man, could Sherlock sing.
He was no Freddie Mercury, but his voice was deep and smooth as it was normally when he talked, so it shouldn't be surprising to find that his singing voice was the vocal equivalent of pouring rich melted chocolate. It was like musical porn, even if he was just nicely echoing the lead singer.
"You know I can't change, I can't change
I can't change, I can't change
But I'm here in my mind
I am here in my mind
And I'm a million different people
from one day to the next
I can't change my mind
No, no, no, no, no.
I can't change my mind
no, no, no, no, no,
I can't change
Can't change my body,
no, no, no."
Now, Tom was still singing a steady chorus, while Sherlock and Vince sang two different parts in the background. With three melodies being sung with nice male voices and the steady melody repeating in the back, it somehow turned into a beautiful mess of music.
I'll take you down the only road I've ever been down
Been down.
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
Ever been down
That you've ever been down
That you've ever been down…."
And on the last word, Tom held the last note until his voice faded away, along with the violin and cello and crash of the cymbal; faded away into a deep silence that filled the whole room. Bows and drumsticks were dropped down. Tom's hands fell away from the microphone.
Suddenly everyone in the room (even John) was on their feet, clapping and cheering. Tom laughed, Hazel and Vince high-fived each other, and Sherlock looked back at John and smiled.
Who knows how long the standing ovation lasted? Could have been minutes, could have been a half an hour. But everyone could silently agree that was the most beautiful thing to grace their ears, ever.
After the long ovation, everyone settled down again. Tom thanked everyone, and they continued the show. The rest of their songs were on the same instruments (with the exception of Hazel, who switched to bass guitar and took turns to sing), also dark and whimsical and the lyrics were rather philosophical. Sherlock surprisingly played with them for the rest of the set. The songs didn't originally have violin in them, it was obvious, but the additional instrument added more elegance and grace to the songs.
Their performance lasted another hour or two, but the time flew by quickly. John lost himself in Tom's soothing vocals, the meaningful lyrics, and of course, Sherlock's mesmerizing playing. John was surprised (and a little disappointed) when Tom finally announced the end of the show. The audience, who were as blown away as John was, groaned in response. There was a sudden outburst from the back of the room. "ENCORE!"
Someone closer up joined in, too. "PLAY AGAIN! PLAY AGAIN!"
Soon everyone was cheering and hollering and shouting, "ENCORE! PLAY BITTERSWEET AGAIN!"
The band laughed, but the crowd was serious. Finally Tom agreed. He nodded to Vince. Vince nodded to Hazel. Hazel nodded to Sherlock, and he raised his bow and started to play the opening melody again.
John sat at a table by the stage door, waiting for Sherlock. He watched a euphoric crowd of people leave the lounge, buzzing with excitement at the remarkable show. John made a mental note to check out The Gateway's album. Turns out they recorded Bittersweet Symphony with Sherlock's playing, and it would be featured on the next CD.
John whipped his head around as Sherlock walked out, his coat and scarf draped over his arm, and carrying his violin case.
"Oi," John called him over.
Sherlock spotted him and smiled, and then came over to join him. He set his things on the third chair. "Hello, John."
John beamed at his friend. "Words cannot express how amazing that show was. Bravo!"
"Thank you," Sherlock chuckled, and John could have sworn he saw him blush a little. "To be honest, I wasn't sure if you'd show up or not."
"Of course I'd come and see you. I'm surprised you thought otherwise."
Sherlock laughed nervously. "You're right. I'm guessing you saw my note, then?"
"Yeah," John nodded. "Though you could have just asked me to come like a regular person."
"In case you haven't noticed, John, I'm not a regular person."
They looked at each other and erupted into laughter.
"I can't stress how wonderful the song was, though. I am seriously blown away." John remarked afterward.
Sherlock propped his elbows on the table. "I was too. Bittersweet Symphony is an absolutely marvellous piece of work."
John nodded in agreement. "I didn't know you were going to play in the other songs, too."
"It was a last minute decision. They let me stay on and play along afterwards. It was mostly improvised."
John shook his head in disbelief. "Amazing. Absolutely amazing."
Once the big crowd of people had finally filtered out, Sherlock and John put on their coats and left, too. Outside on the streets, it was dark and chilly. The sidewalks were lit up by the street lamps. The two dodged throngs of drunken partyers before they crossed the street, and made their way back to 221b. They fell into a rhythmic pace and walked on in a companionable silence.
"So, is this the end of your musical career, or will you give up crime scenes and dead bodies to join the band fulltime?" John asked.
Sherlock looked at him with a mocked expression of shock. "I'd nevergive this up. I'm always content with a life full of crime scenes, dead people, and my army doctor."
The two looked at each other and smiled. Sherlock slipped his hand into John's as they made their way back to Baker Street.
Fin.
Full song credit goes to The Verve/The Rolling Stones.