Written whilst listening to this beautiful piece of music by Gabriel Yared for the Cold Mountain Soundtrack:
.com/watch?v=S_mRlcRT-n8&p=E60F2AC7745AC1B7&playnext=1&index=16
At about a 1:31, I always get shivers. I tried to translate that feeling into words. Sorry if I failed – I wrote this in about forty-five minutes. I just wanted to prove I could write something like this that quickly.
I haven't forgotten about my other fics that are in progress. I am simply a lazy procrastinator, and writers block strikes like never before. I'm trying to break it.
I also became more interested in canon!Holmes and canon!Watson, and then I got completely drawn off topic by the BBC's 'Sherlock' minseries, as you can tell by this fics sorting. But it could really be read as any version...
But I will try to do something about the atrocious, neglected state of my FF account, I promise. And this time I mean it.
Ahem.
Please read on.
If the violin held the melody, then the double-bass held the bass-line, obviously.
It made scientific sense. Higher pitches carried further naturally – they were more piercing; therefore, the violin was more suited to playing them than the humble and oft forgotten double-bass.
It didn't, however, mean that the deep instrument had no part to play.
A high, piercing melody resonating from the dance of the bow on strings sounds lovely, yes, but also cold and...empty. There could be more there – there is something missing.
The violin, whilst carrying its lovely melody and attracting attention, does become a boring act after a while. No variation. Boring. Dull. Mundane. No matter the piece, it remains merely one thread in what could be a tapestry of musical colour; one tree in what could be a forest of musical landscape.
The introduction of a bass-line – a grounding, steadying double-bass, for instance, would change that fact.
It would add another dimension of sound. In the stead of the lovely, but lonely, two dimensional landscape the lone violinist could spin the image of, there is now the undercurrent; the deep, resonating, fixating mix of shrill strains with deep rumbles. The musical landscape is all of a sudden multifaceted, entrancing the listener like never before.
Such a theory is the most apt of several explanations that could describe human emotions.
Sherlock knows... he has felt them.
He has felt them so strongly, he has known what it is like to be unable to breath from the mere feeling.
Sherlock was never a group player – he was always too erratic and individual for any orchestra or ensembles' standards. But he has heard what the result of such group playing is, and he yearns to be able to create that in an audience.
Raw emotion, fresh and debilitating as it gets.
It wasn't until John Watson came along that he thought he could.
For if Sherlock Holmes is the erratic, individual melody that demands the audiences' attention, then John Watson is the grounding, reassuring, supporting, steadying bass-line.
Either could exist without the other – but together, they make a song that could take them to the very gates of heaven itself.
That song has no apt name. The most beautiful word you can think of that rolls off your tongue like liquid silver would sound clumsy when you attempt to label that song with it.
But until it can be named, the label "love" will do.
The musical landscape is one of beauty – it tells you of mountains, shrouded in mist; your feet planted on the very peak, the music, like a warm breeze, blowing at your back, giving you the feeling that it is beneath your wings, ready to carry you higher still.
The musical dimension is one of so many facets it is impossible to count them all – the clearest, clean cut diamond, with a single beam of sunlight shining through and lighting up the facets with colours you didn't dream existed.
The musical tapestry is one of such detail that the most meticulous, hard-working, talented rug-maker cannot even vaguely hope to create something to compare with such beauty.
There are thousands of languages spoken in the world today.
One of them; the one everyone's heart can speak, is called music.
And music is the only language in which Sherlock will ever be able to describe his feelings for John Watson and the harmony he makes with him.
Argh! The cheesiness... it's absolutely KILLING ME! And I refuse to fix it! BECAUSE I CAN'T! *Throws self in corner and cries*
Please tell me what to do.
Also review and flame me for disappearing for several months. I don't mind if you cyber whip me. I deserve it.