John walked into the living room with a cup of tea, intent on relaxing in front of the television. Sherlock was off doing something somewhere with Molly—he'd yelled words about 'an experiment' before dashing through the door, coattails flying and gloved hands adjusting the royal blue scarf around his neck. He'd left a few hours ago, and knowing Sherlock, he wouldn't be back until the dark hours of the morning.
John leaned down and set his cup on the table. His eye caught a shaft of golden light from the setting sun curling around the dark honey-colored edge of Sherlock's violin, resting on the chair near the window. He straightened, staring at the instrument for a moment. Sherlock usually put it away in its case when he wasn't using it. It was a Stradivarius, and though John knew very little about the violin in general, he did know that a Stradivarius was horribly rare and expensive—the last one sold at auction had gone for over four million quid or something insane like that. He wondered why Sherlock had left it out. He wasn't prone to forgetting things, and it seemed odd to leave such a work of art in a sunny window. As messy as Sherlock was around the flat, he was conscientious to a fault with his instrument.
John went over to the chair and picked it up, holding it by the edges of the neck the way he'd seen Sherlock hold it. He stared at the violin for a moment, having never noticed the tiny patterned detail of the natural wood as it curved up and around, forming the small body. The neck coiled gracefully up into the scroll, the wood there a slightly different color. It felt nice in his hand, balanced and even. One hardly had to be an expert to see and feel that this was a fine instrument. John loved when Sherlock played. He'd curl up on the armchair or sofa with a book or his laptop and mug of coffee, trying not to smile too broadly when Sherlock would pad into the sitting room in his dressing gown and put the violin to his chin and invite the most beautiful melodies into the room, playing until the air was saturated with colorful notes. John always thanked Sherlock for playing, and sometimes Sherlock even said "you're welcome" instead of giving John a disinterested grunt of acknowledgement.
The door burst open downstairs. John stood there, listening to quick footsteps on the stairs come bounding closer and closer until the door of their flat exploded open. John looked over at Sherlock, standing stone-still in the doorway.
"Hi." John said. He looked down at the violin still in his hand where he was gripping it, taking care not to touch the strings. "I was putting it away—you left it on the chair and the sun was on it. I thought it might be best if it was...away." It occurred to John for the first time that Sherlock could be upset with him for touching his things. After all, it was expensive. Priceless really.
Sherlock narrowed his eyes, assessing John: Jeans and a jumper—comfortable, casual. Most likely not going out on a date. Cup of steaming tea—one cup for one person, John was alone—on the table. He hadn't been in the room very long as the cup was still full. Left hand delicately holding violin combined with guilty and surprised facial expression (eyes wide, eyebrows slightly pinched, change in heart rate and breathing pattern when the door was thrust open)—John was touching something that belonged to his flatmate and was unsure of how said flatmate would react.
John steeled himself. This wasn't just something—this wasn't a pipette on the kitchen table or an index finger decaying in the butter dish, this was Sherlock's violin. John remembered how once Sherlock had nearly taken Mycroft's head off for picking it up off the armchair so he could sit down. And when Lestrade and his team had come to the flat for one their "drugs busts" when Sherlock had been once again withholding evidence on a police investigation, Anderson had touched the instrument case while rifling through a shelf of papers, sending Sherlock whirling off reams of insults about Anderson's clumsiness, lack of intelligence, and general physical appearance.
John was pretty sure Anderson had been trying very hard not to cry by the end.
John winced, wondering why in hell he had decided to touch the damn thing at all—sunlight or not.
Sherlock stepped into the room. He closed the door and slid off his gloves and coat and scarf, hanging them neatly. John watched Sherlock glance over him, his blue eyes lingering on the violin still held in John's hand, which was now beginning to sweat as John fortified himself for the barrage of cutting words surely heading his way.
Instead, Sherlock walked over to him and, lifting the violin, he tucked it up against John's left collar bone.
"Put your other hand here." Sherlock adjusted John's hand until it was in the correct position on the neck. Sherlock handed John the bow. "Hold it like this…" Sherlock gently maneuvered John's fingers around the frog. "Put your thumb at the join right here on the wood…" John did. "Even though you're left-handed," Sherlock said, "most people play in this position. Do you have a good grip on it?" Sherlock asked, nodding at the bow.
"I think so." John said, still not sure that Sherlock wouldn't yell at him.
"Try it." Sherlock said. John put the bow to the first string.
"Like this?"
Sherlock nodded once. John pushed the bow over the string…and a dry squeaking screech wailed into the room. Both men winced.
"Hm…try this." Sherlock again adjusted John's fingers. "Don't press so hard, John. You're not grinding a shoe into a spider, you're creating something." Sherlock said dryly. "It doesn't take much to make a note." John tried again. This time, the resulting noise was more harmonious. For thirty minutes they stood there, John scratching out notes, each one less painful than the one before it. Sherlock stood in front of him, instructing John with a patience and gentleness surprising coming from someone so….Sherlock-y.
John was amazed to hear the creaky little scale he managed to produce.
"You're a natural, John." Sherlock said. The side of his mouth went up in a grin.
John handed the violin to Sherlock, pleased that the genius detective had praised his "skill" instead of shattering his ego and self-esteem all over the carpet. John felt a warm glow inside as he realized how differently Sherlock had reacted to him touching the violin as opposed to his brother or Anderson. John ducked his head to hide the expression on his face and rubbed his left wrist, unused to first position.
"It takes some getting used to." Sherlock placed the violin on his own shoulder and played a quick Bach piece. John watched with a slight smile on his face as the notes spilled harmoniously into the room as if erasing the squeaky dissonance he had made.
"I took lessons as a boy." John said when Sherlock finished.
"The violin?"
"No. The clarinet at school. It was enjoyable, but I lost interest."
Sherlock put the violin lovingly away in it's case before sliding it under the armchair, out of the way. Sherlock's phone chimed in his coat and he pulled it out of the pocket, flipping it open.
"Lestrade. Body washed up in the Thames. Interested?" Sherlock sent a quick reply back and slid into his long coat.
In response, John grabbed his coat off the rack and followed his flatmate out the door and into the dusky London evening.
End.
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