Before Reichenbach fall-
John Watson walked into 221B Baker Street to find his flat mate- Sherlock Holmes- playing a soothing melody on the violin. He was looking out the window, eyes closed, body swaying while Mrs. Hudson had her hands folded together, a huge smile on her face. Sherlock wrapped up his composition and Mrs. Hudson beamed and clapped. "That was wonderful Sherlock!" John, still standing in the doorway, said "Brilliant Sherlock, absolutely beautiful." And grinned in awe. Sherlock smiled and bowed. Mrs. Hudson shouted something about going shopping before leaving the flat, leaving the boys alone.
"Did you compose that?" John asked. "Yes," Sherlock responded, sipping the tea Mrs. Hudson left out for him before. "Brilliant," john said again. "You already said that." Sherlock noted. "Sorry," John said, not really sorry, and chuckled. Sherlock brightened up. "Wait here, I have something for you." He skipped out of the room. Sherlock Holmes skipping? The thought entertained John while Sherlock went bustling about in his room and returned with an odd looking shape held behind his back.
"Close your eyes and hold out your hands." He instructed. John did as he was told, waiting eagerly to see what Sherlock had for him. When he felt something moderately heavy placed in his hands, Sherlock said "Open your eyes." John did. In his hands was a large acoustic guitar. A guitar? "What's this for?" he asked, grinning at the odd gift and Sherlock's shy smile. "I, um, thought you might want to play music with me, or you could learn on your own, I thought it might help you if you get angry, or, um, stressed, or just help with, feelings, or something, and to say sorry for everything that I've done that has caused you pain or sorrow. Do you like it?"
In his head John was like I'm probably never going to use this, but Sherlock rarely gives gifts and his intentions were well-meant. "Sherlock it's beautiful." He wasn't lying, the smooth oak wood, the curvy shape, it even came with a soft strap of the colours of the England flag. Sherlock beamed, overly excited that John liked it. John set the guitar down, leaning against the wall and opened his arms. "Come here," he said to Sherlock, who gratefully went forward and embraced John in a delightful and warm hug. Sherlock breathed in the scent of John, rubbing his hands up and down Johns back. John's arms were wrapped around Sherlock's neck. John pulled away after a few seconds, leaving Sherlock slightly chilled after the warm embrace, but a warmth settled in his heart.
A blush reddened Sherlock's cheeks and he turned away, hopeful that John hadn't noticed. "Thank you," John said happily. "It was my pleasure," Sherlock replied. "Well, if you don't mind I'll be off to bed now, it's getting rather late and I've got work tomorrow." John said, yawning and stretching his arms above his head. "Goodnight John." Was his reply. John went to bed while Sherlock went to study a cell under his microscope. A gust of relief swept off his shoulders. John had liked the gift. Sherlock grinned and continued observing all night long, until tiredness took over and he sprawled on the couch in the early hours, falling asleep.
A few hours later, John woke, seeing Sherlock laying on the couch, looking peaceful. Life is good. He thought. He made Sherlock some toast and tea and set them on the side table near the couch for Sherlock when he woke, careful not to wake the sleeping man. He slipped on his coat and quietly sneaked out of the flat, smiling.
Sherlock was dead. He jumped off a roof. John would be angry if he weren't so shocked and overwhelmingly sad. He entered an irreparable state of grief. He didn't talk, he didn't flinch, he didn't leave his flat. He had nowhere else to stay but 221B, so that's where he remained. Mrs. Hudson filled the fridge for him, but mostly left him to his grieving. Surrounded by Sherlock's things did not help, but the guitar, now tucked away in John's closet kept creeping into his mind. John swiped away the thought, preferring to drink away his sorrows. Soon enough John ran out of liquor, and money, since he wasn't working. Without drinks, John's head pulled up thoughts of Sherlock, too many, too much happiness, gone, never to return. John wiped away a tear and stood up from his chair.
One year later, John was still grieving. Mrs. Hudson was still filling his fridge, and he had spoken few words. A couple to reassure his sister on the phone that he was okay, and a few to Mrs. Hudson, a simple thank you, for he was grateful and didn't want her to feel like she wasn't doing anything. John walked into Sherlock's room, wanting to see it before he closed that door forever. Upon looking he noticed a music stand in the corner, piles of written music littered the stand, dresser and floor. John put them in a neat pile and left them on the dresser, but then thought better of it and took them with him. John opened his closet, looking longingly at the gift. He picked it up by the neck, softly caressing the smooth wood. John knew nothing of the instrument, but decided he would try to learn, as a tribute to Sherlock's memory, to carry on his music if nothing else.
After two months of endless practice and learning from YouTube videos, John could now successfully play all the chords, notes and melodies, plus translate violin notes to guitar. John inhaled deeply. Surprisingly, music had saved him. It had become his coping mechanism, his emotional discharge, his reason for living at the moment. Another month and John could play half of Sherlock's compositions by memory. His personal favourite was a rather emotional piece, for it started as a gentle breeze, strumming lightly, mellow notes which slowly led into a crescendo and then it was angry and fierce. Strumming passionately, followed by ferocious low notes. Fierce led to soft again, soft brush of fingers on strings, concluding the melody with a final strum. It brought tears to his eyes just thinking about it. He felt it portrayed his life story without words.
His childhood, not bad, building up slowly with the fights, protecting his sister. Then the drinking and the war. Sherlock was the tie, Sherlock helped John calm down his life yet make it more exciting than it had ever been. Sometimes Sherlock played his violin with John's guitar, in his head of course. Although not real, the music was beautiful and they harmonized perfectly. A month later and all pieces were memorized. Every day John practiced, repeating the melodies, both angry and soft, happy and sad. John wasn't aware, but Mrs. Hudson often listened to him play through the door, clutching a hand to her heart, sometimes tears in her eyes. It was a shame they never could play together, it would be truly beautiful, she thought.
John was healing, slowly, but the hole in his heart would never be filled. John sat on the curb, playing Sherlock's music, which earned him a bit of money. He never spoke outside, just played, which was enough. He ignored the girls that tried to flirt with him, unlike the old John in every way. He never played his favorite though. That was his, his and Sherlock's although Sherlock may never know. It was theirs.
A couple months later, John sat in his chair in the living room. The acoustic had a few scratches now, but John didn't care. It fit perfectly on his knees, his arms resumed the position they had acquired more often than not the past months. John ran his hands up and down the familiar neck, tuning by ear the instrument. By know he could play his song with his eyes closed. Without much thought, he began to play.
Sherlock had been on a mission in Russia and such other places. He had to disable his enemy's network or they would be in danger. Him and John and Mrs. Hudson. It was nearly two years later that he returned to London, clean shaven, some torture scars on his back that had faded slightly, lonely. He first went to his brother's house. Mycroft greeted him, aware of the fake death and recent return.
"John?" Sherlock asked. Not a 'hello' or 'I missed you' or 'good to be back,' just 'John'. Sherlock dreaded the response, Mycroft looked down at his shoes. "He's at 221b," Mycroft said, neither upbeat nor sorrowful. Sherlock nodded and turned to leave. "Wait," Mycroft said, head bouncing up. Mycroft exited the room and returned with Sherlock's violin and bow. Sherlock took it, confused but curious. Mycroft exhaled. Sherlock nodded once again and left the house, catching a cab to his former flat. Mrs. Hudson was out, should be home in a few minutes, Sherlock deduced.
Just now the emotions started rushing back, how he missed home, and John, he'd been so lonely, and he wasn't sure if John would accept him back. Breathe in, out. Sherlock opened the door with the key under the mat and replaced it, silently walking in and shutting the door behind him. He could hear a faint melody coming from upstairs. Immediately recognizing it, Sherlock readied his violin, walking up the stairs and through the door, he played.
John's guitar and Sherlock's violin harmonized, creating the most beautiful piece either man had heard. John had his eyes closed, hearing Sherlock's violin in his head he smiled. Sherlock in his mind hadn't visited for a while, and John was worried he disappeared. The melody finished softly, and John opened his eyes. Sherlock was standing by the window. No, that's impossible. John started swaying, the guitar harmfully falling onto the carpet. Eyes wide, John said quietly, "Are you real?" Sherlock pressed his mouth into a small smile. He nodded. John looked down, tears springing from his eyes. "No, no, you're dead, I have to stop, leave me alone." He looked up. Sherlock stepped toward him but John sprung back. "Stay back." "John! I'm real, I'm here,"
John started to realize the truth. "Oh." Was all he said. Sherlock approached cautiously, John didn't move, tears still running down his cheeks. Sherlock wiped them away with his thumb, John responded to the touch, bringing his hand up to cover Sherlock's. "You are real." John still struggling to comprehend. "Yes, and I'm sorry, I'm so sorry John, my actions were inexcusable and it was wrong." A tear slid down his own cheek and John wiped it away, caressing Sherlock's face while doing so.
John let go of Sherlock and exhaled. Sherlock stood to the side, understanding. He picked up John's guitar and handed it to him, clutching his own instrument. John silently slipped the strap over his head and began to play a soft tune. Sherlock, upon recognizing, joined in. Mrs. Hudson walked in the room and covered her mouth. Tears springing her eyes as her boys played, both had their eyes closed, harmonizing beautifully together. This was what life was supposed to be, she thought. She held her hand over her heart as the melody progressed, listening to the men play, speaking words more meaningful than could ever be spoken. The song ended with a strum and a final note from the violin. All three smiled to themselves, this was what each of them had been missing, and now their lives were whole again. Life was good.