As a aficionado of classical music and a violinist - albeit not a very good one - writing a fic based on Sherlock's fascination with music was both an obligation and a very great pleasure. It's up to you wether you listen to the pieces before or after or during the reading, although my advice would be to listen to them while you read. I do have to insist that you listen to them; without the music this fic isn't complete. All the pieces are easy to find on YouTube; I suggest you listen to Itzhak Perlman's performance of Tartini, which has to be 13 minutes long. Paganini's pieces are performed by Sherlock in the story, and the best performance you can find is by Alexander Markov, perhaps the first violinist since Paganini himself to do them enough justice. Also, the church where the concert is performed was originally supposed to be the St Pancras Old Church, but since I've never been there, the name isn't mentioned and I've taken a lot of liberties with the depiction of the interior. The phrase 'Musicalis personae' isn't correct in Latin; it's merely my own amateur adaptation of the 'Dramatis personae' phrase.
Finally, I am forced to warn you that this fic probably won't make much of an impression on you if you don't at least like classical music. As always, comments are my greatest joy.
Musicalis personae (in order of appearance):
Vivaldi's Summer and Winter
Handel's Sarabande
Tartini's Devil's Trill
Chopin's Nocturne
Schubert's Serenade
Paganini's Caprices No. 16, 1 and 4
There are subtle differences in Sherlock's moods, and John is strangely proud when he begins to understand them. Initially, he thought that in the time with no cases, only one mood existed, and that was disdain for the entire humanity.
But then, he learned to see the difference, to understand - at least to some extent - the process. First, there is merely general unpleasantness, then long hours of lethargy on the sofa that are spent staring at the ceiling. At last comes the restlessness which drives Sherlock off his sofa and on a whirlwind of various activities he tries to occupy his mind with. Chemicals are bubbling in the kitchen, the bathtub is occupied by a dozen of small water snakes, rude texts are sent to Lestrade every ten minutes, and John just stands in the middle of it, feeling rather like the eye of the storm. And then, a case comes up and off they go, and the cycle repeats itself.
(John knows it should be driving him around the bend; but it's actually comforting in a strangest sense. Sherlock is always unpredictable, but it is a predictable unpredictability. Slowly, it becomes a rhythm of John's life as well.)
And every time when chemicals and severed heads aren't distracting enough, Sherlock hunts down his violin. Getting rid of his jacket (or his dressing gown) and often of his shirt as well, he positions himself next to the window in their living room, and he plays.
Not just distorted notes and little lyrical pieces of sound; he saves that for the thinking times and for driving his brother away when Mycroft is particularly insistent. When it seems that his brain has started crawling out of his ears, he actually plays something that has a melody and a rhythm and is sometimes even familiar to John. Usually, those pieces are long and complex and blindingly brilliant, cascades of crystal-clear notes and grumbling, sensual respites that make hair on the back of John's neck stand up.
It doesn't really make sense to John until he asks Sherlock about it. The short, clipped answer is that fighting chaos with order is the most effective method. John has no hopes of understanding how Sherlock manages to find order in his fiery, racing music, but he supposes it's simply his friend's alternative of gardening or knitting or a round at the pub - whatever it is that normal people usually do to calm themselves down.
(It should bother him that he can no longer remember what exactly normal is.
It doesn't.)
In any case, John doesn't really care. The impromptu concerts are a cherished occurrence for him. Sherlock is usually so engrossed in his music that he doesn't even notice John, but after the first time John decides it is safer to watch from a distance. Sherlock often plays for two hours or more without any respite, the glowing notes faster and more frantic by minute, and he stops only when his sweat-dampened fingers begin to slip on the strings. Then he stands there, panting like he's just run a race, for a minute or even more with his head hung low, sweat glistening on his heaving chest and dark hair obscuring his face like a storm cloud. And once his breathing calms, he raises the bow and starts to play again, but this time something slow and tender and achingly sweet, and slowly, the sky clears and the sun shines down on his pale, wiry body.
And then he goes and has a shower.
When John witnesses one of Sherlock's performances for the first time, he feels frozen to his seat. He sits in his armchair, a forgotten book in his lap, and listens with rapt attention. He listens for an hour and a half, until his leg starts cramping up and his tea grows cold, and when Sherlock finally stops, John can barely utter some quick words of heartfelt praisebefore he's forced to escape upstairs and wank himself raw, biting down on his knuckles and timing his strokes to the soft music from downstairs.
His reaction is, mildly put, a surprise. John has been quite comfortably bisexual for most of his life, and he knows from the first moment that Sherlock is too beautiful (too brilliant too extraordinary burning too brightly) for John to be completely nonchalant about him. However, he is surprised it's the violin that finally gets a reaction out of him; but once he thinks about it, it makes sense. It is the only time Sherlock seems completely exposed to the outside world, a storm of emotions blazing bright and unrestrained, and it is mercilessly captivating. There is something miraculous and ... yes, almost hallowed about seeing Sherlock loose himself so thoroughly, casting aside all his masks and carefully thought-out personas until only himself remains, and that self is beautiful enough to seem almost inhuman.
Ruthlessly beautiful visual aside, John feels he is privy to something that is incredibly personal. He tells himself that Sherlock wouldn't do it in front of him if he wouldn't think favourably of him, and he does feel honoured to be able to witness it, but it soon proves to be too much for him. Since the first time, John has honed his self-control to perfection, but the violin concerts prove to be infallible in getting a reaction out of him. And so, John trains himself to migrate to the kitchen whenever Sherlock takes off his shirt and picks up his violin. He pretends to write his blog or read a newspaper, and watches Sherlock from afar. That way, he can't hear his breathing (short, harsh panting, occasionally even a quiet whimper) or see his face (cheeks flushed, lips parted and bitten, eyes closed in complete abandon) and that makes it bearable. He can still enjoy the music and he usually even manages to keep himself from getting hard until the end.
John knows he's playing a tricky game. If any other person took off half of their clothes in front of him and then played an instrument for two hours straight in a manner that was positively filthy, and repeated the whole process five times a month, John would have made his move ages ago. The problem in Sherlock's case is that the violin is the object of his affections, not John. Sherlock plays to calm down his mind, and it's John's problem if he finds it inappropriately arousing and blindingly beautiful. He certainly isn't going to risk the best friendship he ever had for the sake of his own disobedient libido.
(The true gist of the thing is that it isn't merely his libido that's disobedient. That would make it simple. But as long as John maintains that the problem is of purely physical nature, he can also maintain that he can get over it.
He can convince himself that the problem isn't going to last until his bones turn to dust.)
It has been eight days since the conclusion of their last case. Three days are the norm for Sherlock's good mood, one for the unpleasantness and two for lethargy. The sixth day is when the storm clouds usually start gathering.
But now a fourth day of still frustratingly clear skies is drawing to a close, and John is starting to worry. Sherlock's lying on the sofa in his pajamas, listlessly staring at the ceiling and refusing to speak to John. He won't even raise up to John's usual threat of binning his experiments.
"Why don't we go for a walk to the Bart's?" John makes the hundredth suggestion of the day, feeling irritatingly helpless. "I'm sure Molly will have a nice corpse for you. Perhaps someone with dextrocardia, hm?"
Sherlock doesn't even deign to blink.
John sighs and picks up his laptop in hopes of finding some inspiration. He loggs in and checks his emails. Sarah has sent him a link to an amusing video on YouTube, and when he sees the little red and black icon, he suddenly remembers a remarkable hour he has spent two weeks ago browsing videos with classical music, when Sherlock wasn't home, with his hand down his pants and speakers turned as loud as the button would go. For a moment, he contemplates the irony of discovering the erotic potential of classical music so late in his life; his helpless fascination that is swiftly turning into a fetish would have come in handy in his teenage years when pornography was hard to come by and even harder to hide from his family. In the next moment, he suddenly becomes aware that this is the inspiration he's looking for.
Abruptly, he closes his laptop and stands up. "I'm going for some milk and biscuits, and I think we're out of toilet paper," he says, looking for his keys. "You need anything?"
As expected, Sherlock ignores him completely.
John nods and grabbs his jacket. "You are welcome to do anything weird while I'm gone," he says over his shoulder, tying up his shoes. "Bye!"
Once he's walking down the street, John opens his phone and diales a number that had mysteriously found itself in his phone's directory very soon after he'd met Sherlock.
"John, this is such a pleasure." Even through the speakers, Mycroft's voice manages to be honeyed and absurdly smooth. "Is there anything I can do for you?"
"Hello, Mycroft," John answers, completely unfazed. Sherlock's brother is unnerving, there's no doubt about that, but John is quickly growing immune to him. "I was wondering if you could do me a favour."
John returns an hour later, shopping in one hand and a plain white envelope in the other. "I'm back," he calls.
He isn't surprised when there isn't any response.
Rolling his eyes, he dropps the bags on one of the miraculously unoccupied kitchen chairs and walks into the living room.
"Alright, Sherlock, I think that will be enough for now. Get up." He throws the envelope on Sherlock's chest. "There's a concert in an old church behind King's Cross. Vivaldi, Handel, Tartini, and Chopin and Schubert for the dessert. Get dressed, we're leaving in half an hour."
Sherlock slowly opens his eyes and blinks at the envelope. "You got these from Mycroft."
"Of course I did. I'm not exactly an expert in classical music, as I'm sure you know. Now get up, I doubt you can't enjoy the music just because your blasted brother helped me get the tickets." John marches out of the room, then pokes his head around the corner. "If you aren't up and getting ready in ten minutes, I'll drag you to the bathroom and shove you under a cold shower. Don't make me."
The combined effect of the threat and the promise of the music has put Sherlock into motion at last. He has showered, shaved, hidden his limbs into layers of expensive clothing and is now sitting next to John with an expression of a man who has been greatly wronged; but at least he looks like he has a pulse once again, and John thinks that's a remarkable improvement.
The concert is a small, private affair, and John is still surprised that according to Mycroft Sherlock actually prefers such small performances instead of the great music halls with one-hundred-men orchestras. The great old church is like a cold cave full of shadows and silvery stabs of moonlight and the small side chapel where the concert is held is the lone warm bubble of golden candlelight - a beating heart in a body that is long dead and cold. The audience is sparse, merely a dozen persons including Sherlock and John, and so are the musicians: a quartet of two violinists, a violist and a cellist, solemn angels clad in black. The instruments in their hands seem alive in the candlelight, glowing warmly.
Everyone is silent. The musicians are wordlessly tuning their instruments. Sherlock's sitting stiffly in his chair, somehow making it look like a throne, still wrapped in his coat and scarf, gloved hands tucked deep into his pockets. John sighs, starting to wonder why this seemed like such a wonderful idea at the time.
Fortunately, this is when the first violinist, a lean woman with the face of a hawk, raises her instrument and gives a firm nod to her colleagues, and the first tentative, soft chords raise their fair heads. John sneaks a look at Sherlock and sees how his face slightly warms up in the light of music. The effect seems to be instantaneous.
A good idea after all, John decides, facing forward again.
John never really listened to classical music before Sherlock gave him a reason, and he's aware that he will always lack the professional education, but Sherlock has taught him well enough how to enjoy it. He soon finds out that his idea wasn't merely good, but downright spectacular. The musicians are obviously very good, and five minutes of bright trills of Summer are enough for Sherlock to slightly flush and lean forward, finally alive again, hands folded underneath his chin. John pulls his chair slightly to the side and then settles back, enjoying a combined view of his increasingly animated friend and the musicians.
Then on comes Winter with its trembling silvery notes that sing of snow and silence, and Sherlock takes off his coat and gloves, eyes alight with candlelight and music. Slowly, John feels his own cheeks flush. The effect music has on his friend isn't as severe as it is when he plays it himself, but the glow it bestowed upon him now is just as bright.
The next piece is Sarabande, and Sherlock takes off his scarf and leans back in his chair, head tipped back, eyes closed, quiet bliss covering his face like a golden veil. John, who has at last given up all pretense of not staring at his flatmate like a besotted fool, watches him with helpless fascination and feels his heart shudder in time with the broad, triumphant strokes of scarlet sound. He has been catastrophically wrong: this was the worst idea he's ever had. Sherlock isn't busy with his violin this time, and the brilliant man is bound to notice John's feverish gaze.
Then at last comes the brightest jewel of the evening, the piece which the Devil himself had written, if the legend is to be believed, and the hawklike woman steps forward. She throws back her proud dark head, raising her bow; and under the caress of her fingers, her violin gives off its first heartbreaking sigh.
And beside John, Sherlock glows like a thousand candles, staring at the fluttering veils of sound with his piercing eyes, his lips parted and almost panting, and every now and then, his eyelids flutter closed and then lift again as if the pleasure is too great to bear. John watches with breathless wonder how the trembling hands of golden music have their way with his friend's soul and flesh, and all the while music escalates, becoming more and more demanding in its brilliance; longing sighs turn into cries of passion, thrilling notes into frantic trembling of lust; until at last, its last cry of ecstasy is flung into the following silence.
Sherlock gasps for breath with an almost inaudible whimper and turns to John. His face might as well have been skinned, so clear are the emotions painted across his cheeks in brilliant shades of blue and gold. Before he even has time to think, John is leaning forward, sliding a trembling hand around his neck (hot, damp with sweat, skin silky like pure poison) and kissing his still parted lips.
And Sherlock slowly exhales into his mouth, and his fingers grip John's wrist, and he kisses him back. John can taste music behind his teeth, little stars of unbearable sweetness. His head is swimming. He doesn't remember wanting anything more than thisthisthisyesmore in all his life.
They part in the midst of a surprisingly loud applause, staring at each other, Sherlock's hand still around John's wrist. For a heartbeat, neither moves, and then John grips Sherlock's hand and settles their intertwined fingers on his thigh. He forces himself to remove his gaze from Sherlock's face, but he can feel the mad grin stretching his face.
The first violinist steps back into her place and the quartet finishes the concert with the last two pieces which blend into each other seamlessly, their aching, sweet sorrow a cool hand upon the feverish flesh of John's heart. Sherlock's eyes are closed in something that looks like absolute rapture. His long fingers are firmly holding on to John's.
John closes his eyes as well, sitting in the swirls of golden light and blueish shadows, and feels the barriers of his body melt away. His soul is stretching out and becoming the great, echoing cave around them, full of shadows and dark creatures hiding in the corners; but in the middle of it all, there is his heart, a glowing sphere of golden mists, polished sound and sighing notes with a slender figure of a violinist, black and white, swaying in time to his music.
"Thank you, John," says Sherlock simply in the dusk of their living room, but he won't look at John, disappearing to his room like a quiet dark shadow.
Suddenly alone and in the dark, John silently climbs the stairs to his lonely bedroom. He locks the door and lies down still dressed, and licks his lips. Sherlock.
Hours later, when it's almost dawn, John brings himself off, gasping like a dying man, not even caring if Sherlock can hear, let him hear let him let him know everything I cannot stand it anymore, and when he licks his dry lips for the hundredth time, the taste is still there.
There isn't any music for the next three days.
John feels his flesh slowly being boiled away in the hot mud of lust and longing.
Sherlock is a whirlwind around their flat and won't even look at him.
On the evening of the third day, Sherlock lays his fingers on the neck of his violin and John stops dead in his tracks. He can feel the familiar gaze upon him like a shadow of a touch.
"Would you like me to play for you?" Sherlock is staring at him, motionless, eyes an endless abyss of silvery light.
John's heart stumbles and stutters. "Yes," he whispers. "Please."
Wordlessly, Sherlock nods and reaches for the edge of his T-shirt.
It has to be some kind of mistake, John thinks with a strange kind of serenity, when he watches Sherlock strip, holding his eyes with a mercilessly knowing gaze. The shirt goes first, pulled over his head with a quick move - just like pulling off a gauze stuck to an open wound - and then the wrinkled flannel bottoms, sliding down his wiry legs and kicked out of the way.
And then, there isn't anything at all to take off anymore and John can see everything. He's looking into the finally uncovered abyss of scars and bones and black disembodied hands lurking in the corners and endless white skin, and Sherlock's thoughts painted over its canvass, swirls of blue shadows and blindingly white lights among them. Slightly hysterical, John wonders if it's possible to have a heart attack from this. It certainly doesn't seem like it has been created with regard for the hearts of the mere mortals.
Sherlock doesn't still for a moment; the second his bottoms hit the floor, he's picking up his violin and throwing himself into a piece that's so complex and furiously fast John cannot even attempt to understand it or follow it. He can only sit back, feeling more helpless than ever, and let it wash over him. Dimly, he wonders if that's how the inside of Sherlock's head is like.
John can't be certain, but it seems there are more pieces than one that Sherlock is playing, blended together effortlessly, and screaming notes become a weeping lament in one moment, a joyous laughter in the next and then a high song of brilliant light, scales climbing up and down with alarming speed and the sounds wrap themselves around John's heart until it becomes difficult to breathe and completely impossible to string together a coherent thought. John is reduced to trembling in time with the music, his body taut and vibrating under the strokes of sound like he is one the strings of Sherlock's violin.
As for Sherlock himself, he seems beyond any thought of stopping. Body tight as a wire, wrapped in golden flames of his music, he plays like a man possessed, eyes closed in utter abandon, and John suddenly knows there is no going back anymore; Sherlock has flayed himself open and given everything he has into this cry of madness and passion and anguish, and nothing will ever be the same anymore. This music is blood and bones of Sherlock's soul, and John has never seen anything more perfect.
It may be that hours have passed before Sherlock's song spends itself in one last shivering cry of shining, burning passion, and the white left hand falls limply to his side.
John collapses in his chair with a moaning gasp, his heart trembling and whimpering in his heaving chest. Sherlock is staring at him across the room, sweaty and breathless and flushed and gloriously hard and with eyes gleaming like blades of blue diamond, and he is the brightest thing John has ever seen, bright enough to make his eyes water, brilliant like the stars on the night sky of the desert.
"Please," John says, wretched, wanting, aching with it. "Sherlock ..."
Some distant part of him amusedly notes that he's never seen Sherlock stumble before, but then Sherlock's on him like a feral animal, wrapping his pale limbs around John's body and kissing him like all of the world is falling to pieces around them. A pair of trembling, rosin-scented hands is clawing his trousers open; John moans brokenly and gropes blindly between Sherlock's legs. The shocked, high-pitched whimper that answers his feverish fingers slides over his nerves like high notes of a violin. Sherlock is pressing shaky, open-mouthed kisses over his panting mouth and grasping his cock with sweaty fingers, sharp-edged body writhing in John's arms and it's glorious and not enough at the same time.
With a desperate growl, he shoves Sherlock flat on his back on the carpet and covers his body with his own, taking them both in his hand, and presses his mouth to Sherlock just in time to drink down another pleading sound tearing out of his throat. His other hand is a brutal fist in Sherlock's hair, and Sherlock's greedy fingers are leaving bruises along his hips, pulling him in and in and in until finally, it becomes impossible to go higher, and Sherlock is gasping for breath like a man dying, a feverish prayer of JohnyesloveJohnyesyesyes dancing between their mouths, and John bites his lip until he tastes blood and shoves them both over the edge.
And afterwards, when the sweat on their bodies has cooled and John has two of Sherlock's fingers in his mouth, tasting rosin and pale golden sweat of the violin and himself on them, Sherlock lays the fingers of his right hand on John's thigh, and finds invisible strings there, and starts playing once again.
fin.