So guys, I said there'd be more Sherlock. And there is. So there. Have at it. Tell me how good you tihnk it is. I don't know if i'm gonna continue this. So. I just wanted some input. Ok? Awesome.
Current Song: Video Games, by Lana del Ray
Current Thoughts: I. Need. To pee. 'Nuff said.
221 B Baker Street Orchestra
John should have known. He should have, but he didn't. That was the difference. And now, here he is and he can't just back out without taking a look around. His clarinet case gets a bit heavier as he hobbles his way into the orchestra hall with his cane leading the way, the seats like a sea that breaks around the stage that's rising from it. There are people there already, setting up, with stands littering the surface of the stage. He doesn't recognize anyone, and why would he? This was the most loved orchestra out of London. Who was he to recognize any of the famous faces that never graced his presence on the street?
And anyway, Harry had told him they were looking for a clarinet player, and a good one at that. She'd encouraged him to go check them out, but now that he's here, he doesn't really know if he belongs. In front of him is a stage full of instruments and people. He debates turning around when he hears an elderly, maternal voice ask, "And who might you be, darling?"
John turns around to find a short, thin older woman, probably in her mid-fifties. Her eyes are grey and squinty. She's smiling as she speaks and wringing her hands. She's got on pearl earrings and a pearl necklace and she's in a cream skirt suit. She seems pleasant enough.
"Uh, hello. I'm..." And now John holds his case and cane in the same hand as he extends his free one for her to shake. "John Watson. I was told by a very trusted source that uh...there was a need for a clarinet player of exceptional skill. So...I'm here. Although, if I can be a mite honest, I haven't the foggiest on where to go or who to speak to."
She shakes his hand and gives a tinkling laugh when she lets go. "Oh dearest, you'll be needing to speak with Mr. Holmes. He's just up there, in that office." And she points up a staircase and to the left where he can see a room and a light on. "Of course, you'll never get in no matter what Mr. Holmes says unless you are approved of by Mr. Holmes."
John stares in confusion for a moment before he says, "But... you just said his name twice."
"Oh no. I mean the other Mr. Holmes. His brother." And with that she walks away.
John stands oddly still as the woman makes her way and then he yells, "What's your name, again?"
She stops and turns shaking her head. "Silly me. How could I forget? Elizabeth Hudson."
John nods then says, "Thank you Mrs. Hudson."
"Your welcome John. Oh! And we are having tea at noon. If you don't stay for the orchestra, at least stay for a cuppa." And with that last parting invitation, she was off.
John sighs and turns back to the stage then the stairwell. She said he had to speak with Mr. Holmes, but he had to speak with the brother first. Well then, the stage it is. He eyes the stairs up distastefully and then sighs and starts to hobble up, the wood creaking in protest.
From what he's heard, knows and has seen, the 221B Baker Street Orchestra is a small orchestra made up of one member of most of the instrumental groups. Occasionally, they play with a larger, temporary company with its original musicians leading each section, but right now, John is sure that only the original members are present. They seem to be tuning their instruments and speaking amongst each other, comparing notes and sheets of music. Or at least most of them are.
There's one man who is definitely not quietly or civilly doing anything.
"Morons!" said man yells and several people around him jump. "That's not what we're doing today at all. Honestly, can you not understand a single thing we've gone over this week? You're all looking to perfect the beat and the pace and all that rubbish, but what you're supposed to be perfecting is the crescendo! Do you idiots even know what that means? It means being soft then LOUD. LIKE THIS!" He's yelling now.
The man is around six foot four with pale, piercing blue eyes and a mane of curly black hair. He's in white shirt sleeves and a navy blue vest with a blue scarf thrown haphazardly around his neck. His hands are long and pale, his arms strong and his shoulders broad. John can only guess at what he plays, but for a terrified moment, he just stands at the top of the stage stairs. People are shying away from him and neatening their areas, sitting down and being quiet. Mostly.
There's a trumpet player, a bit shorter than the angry man, and he walks up to him with a smarmy smile. "Oh, Sherlock. You terrify me so."
Sherlock, as he is now called, gazes sharply at him. "Moriarty. I thought I told you never to come back here again."
"You did," Moriarty replies flippantly and with this smirk that frightens John for a moment. "But your brother needed me so he called me back."
Sherlock crowds Moriarty. "You should consider it an honor that such a mediocre player such as yourself was asked to come and play in my orchestra-"
"Mycroft's orchestra, you mean. Really Sherlock. You take too much credit for your brother's work."
Before Sherlock can snap back, Moriarty is sauntering back to his seat near the other brass players. Sherlock is left to glare at him.
And then, John drops his cane.
It was an accident, obviously, but it gets Sherlock's attention and then that hawk-like gaze is on him, scoping him out, sizing him up. He swallows as Sherlock leans over and picks up his cane, handing it back to him.
"And just who might you be?" he's asked.
John swallows and answers, "Dr. John Watson."
Sherlock looks surprised. "Really?" he asks. "You're a doctor and you play the..." He stares at John's face for a minute, then his eyes flick to John's hands, wrists, his mouth – and at that, John feels an unfamiliar heat sear through him. "The clarinet. And the...cane... Recently from Afghanistan, are you?" Sherlock's eyes go wide at the same moment John's do. "You were shot in the shoulder, which is why you're holding it so stiffly, but then why the cane...must be some psychological thing," Sherlock mutters, still rambling. "Which means, if you've been shot in the shoulder, you can't play as well as you used or at least think you can't so..." He gives John a sharp look. "Why the hell are you even here?"
John blinks then says, "Hell, you got all that from hearing I'm a doctor? Blimey, that's...fantastic."
There are groans behind him as the other musicians realize that John just complemented Sherlock and he might have a swelled head all the more for it. Sherlock just smiles a crooked, lopsided smile and says, "Sherlock Holmes. You're at my service."
John might've asked what he meant by that until he heard the last name. Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. And that obnoxious Moriarty guy had said that despite Sherlock kicking him out his brother had asked him back. Oh God. Sherlock was the brother. Sherlock was the composer's brother.
"You're the brother?" John asked. "You're brother is the composer for this orchestra?"
Sherlock makes a face and then it lapses into a blank stare. "Well...yes. There's that. Why?"
"I was told I had to meet your specifications before I even went to the other Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock's face goes petulant in an instance and he looks over the stage into the empty seats and yells, "Mrs. Hudson! Stop telling everyone the secrets to my system!" He turns back to John and looks a bit sulky. "Well since you know now, let's see what you've got."
John stands a moment. "Pardon?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Really John. I have higher hopes for you than the rest of this lot. Play us a piece. Or two. Or three. Just... play."
John is shocked and says, "Right now?"
Sherlock looks genuinely sorry as he turns away and then John drops the cane, opens his case standing up, quickly puts together his clarinet letting the case drop down to the floor, and plays the scale. Sherlock stops and from where John can't see him, there's a smile tugging up the corners of his mouth.
He turns around and the smile is gone. "Show me what you can do. Impress me. Prove to me that just because you're a crippled and scarred man, it doesn't mean you can't play like the Heavens are falling down on you."
"You don't even believe in Heaven, Sherlock," and John recognizes the voice of Moriarty.
Sherlock just waves a hand. "That may be so, James," and Moriarty grunts in distaste, "but John here does, don't you John?" He doesn't even let Watson nod. He just comes very close to John's face, looks him in the eyes, leans into his ear and whispers in an almost sensual way, "Show me."
John may have just gotten hard.
He swallows as Sherlock steps away and inclines his head, indicating that John has the stage, quite literally. The other musicians are all waiting on him, and some of them even look surprised. Did this not happen to them? Was he an exception? Was he...different?
John doesn't really know, nor does he care. All he sees are those piercing, knife-like eyes on him and then he's closing his eyes and playing. It's a soft tune at first, an introduction, and then he stops to gather himself for the rest of it.
"I was hoping you'd go... deeper," Sherlock says, and yes, there's disappointment, but also intrigue in his voice and John hears the scrape of a chair as he assumes Sherlock sits and waits it out.
And then John starts to play. To actually play. It's part of a big piece and he knows that the music was not even intended for the clarinet, not at all, but he's adapting it anyway. He's good at that, taking music designed for other instruments and belting them out on his clarinet. He used to do it as a kid with Harry. It was a game of sorts; while all the trouble was going on downstairs, she'd name a song and he'd have to play it on his clarinet in less than ten minutes.
It seems his childhood skill is paying off.
Currently, the music that is filtering through the bell of his clarinet is from Vivaldi's Four Seasons Symphony. He's playing the beginning of the Winter segment when he hears a trumpet, flute, saxophone, bass, and cello pick up on the other parts as well, accompanying him. Yes, some of the parts they are playing aren't meant for their respective instrument; hell, John is playing the accompanying violin part to the violin solo. Which gets him thinking as they get to that part if the orchestra even has a-
The violin solo is scratched out with such intensity, such emotion, that John has to open his eyes, losing his place for a moment but trusting that the rest of them will be able to carry on without him. And he blanches. Sherlock's eyes are closed, his brow furrowed and in his long, pale hands is a violin, neatly tucked under his chin. But he's hunched over now, and he's playing in the spurts of the solos as they are meant to be played.
"Keep playing dearie," John hears and looks over the edge of the stage to see Mrs. Hudson standing by a table that has tea pots and cups and platters of biscuits set up on it. "He's always this way when he's playing something he likes."
So John stares a moment longer and then closes his eyes and picks up on the violin solo accompaniment with his clarinet. Not perfect mind you, but it fits and Sherlock hammers away at that poor, albeit lucky, violin, filling the hall with its screeches and shrill cries of beauty and horror. It sounds like Winter itself has taken a break and visited the hall for a cup of tea as well.
They are only halfway through the symphony, John still standing with his leg aching, when a loud voice bellows above the din, "And what have we here?"
Sherlock's violin screeches to halt, messy and loud and John thinks he heard a twinge of a string. Sherlock is looking down, where Mrs. Hudson was and still is, John sees, as he also turns, his clarinet dropping from his lips. But Mrs. Hudson is no longer alone.
Beside her is a tall, thin man in a charcoal suit and a pencil-thin mustache. He has his hands folded behind his back and there is a full cup of tea already next to his hip on the table. The orchestra, if the tiny group of people can be called that, stops, albeit a bit more cleanly and without anything breaking or screeching.
When John turns to look at Sherlock, the man has a large smile on his face. Honestly, it's quite terrifying. "Mycroft!" Sherlock exclaims, loping past John, only to stop when he sees John's posture. He rolls his eyes and lifts a finger up to Mycroft telling him to wait a moment, Mycroft lifting a dubious eyebrow, and drags John over to the chair he had just vacated. "Moron. You should have said something," he mutters to John as the soldier sits with a sigh of relief and a creaking of joints and nods gratefully.
Sherlock walks back over the edge of the stage where Mycroft is and says, "Where was I?" He doesn't wait for a response because then he points at John and says, "Can I keep him?"
"Hey!" John exclaims. "I'm not a pet."
"Of course not John, I'm terribly sorry. What I meant to say was, can we keep him?" John rolls his eyes. Like that was any better. "We needed a clarinet and even though he's crippled he can definitely hold his own, no doubt. I insist he stays Mycroft. Give him a private audition for all I care, you're just not allowed to throw him out, unlike that trash," and now Sherlock points to Moriarty who rolls his eyes, "whom I insisted you should, but whatever." He seems to compose himself and then glances to John and says, "I like him. He's actually a competent player, unlike some of them."
There are groans at Sherlock's abuse, but nothing more, which tells John that it happens a lot. Mycroft looks at him with his steely gray eyes and its somehow worse than Sherlock staring him down. And Mycroft is on the ground below him. Fancy that.
"What's your name, sir?" he asks.
"His name is John Watson, just returned from Afghanistan. Bit of a gimpy, but nothing to do with the physical, just up here in the noggin." Sherlock taps his temple. "But we can get rid of that. Remember that one therapist mother sent me to when I was ten? She was pretty good. Competent. Actually had a brain and used it. I think she can help him." And with that, Sherlock throws a nod over his shoulder at John.
Mycroft sighs like he's used to it and ignores Sherlock. He lifts an eyebrow at John and John gets the hint that he's supposed to disregard everything Sherlock just said and answer. "Uh, yeah. John Watson, MD. Uh, did just get back from the Afghan War." He waves a bit then lifts his clarinet. "I play the clarinet.'
"And you started the whole 'Four Seasons' jumble a few minutes ago did you?" Mycroft asks.
John nods, albeit a bit sheepishly. He points to Sherlock. "He asked me to play something. I memorized it back at uni, so, I thought, hey why not? Something classical for a change." He shrugs. "I like Vivaldi."
"See?" Sherlock says. "And he likes Vivaldi." He turns to John. "Really John, you make those crazy Christian types seem viable that there really is a God and he's sent you to me so I that I have someone I can actually play with." He stops when he realizes that earlier, he confirmed John was one of those Christian types and amends, "Sorry about that."
John actually knows what he's talking about and grunts half-heartedly. "Don't be. If I even went to mass anymore, I still don't think I'd've been insulted."
Sherlock smiles with one side of his mouth. "Lost your way, have you?"
John rolls his eyes. "No. More like ran away from the flock in terror. Best thing I've ever done."
Sherlock, oblivious to the strange looks everyone is giving him, as he usually is, asks with a wrinkle to his brow, "And why is that?"
John licks his lips and looks away as he says quietly, "No point being in a religion that condemns you, is there?"
Sherlock blinks but then nods slowly. "No. I suppose not. That's mainly why I don't bother. That," Sherlock emphasizes, turning back to the small crowd of musicians, "and the fact that there's not enough proof, not enough cold, hard evidence. Unlike what I have for this group. Cold, hard evidence that you all are incompetent and boring."
"Sherlock, enough," Mycroft barks from his place on the ground. Sherlock blinks at him, as if to show him that that accomplished absolutely nothing, then rolls his eyes and turns back to the group.
He claps and says, "Alright, alright you lot. Go have your tea and biscuits or whatever." He waves them off and the people make there way to the little buffet Mrs. Hudson has set up for them. Sherlock takes John by the arm before he can even get out of the chair and yanks him up. "You get to talk to my brother before anything else. C'mon then."
John is led down the stairs, Sherlock going slowly, hyperaware of John's limp. Sherlock had been right when he had deduced that it was a psychological thing; nothing had actually happened to the leg to get it like that, but John had a limp nonetheless.
They reach Mycroft who has moved off to the side and Sherlock let's go of his arm. "Mycroft, John. John Watson, this is Mycroft Holmes. Our composer." His eyes twinkle like it's some sort of joke.
Mycroft just gives Sherlock a look that says he's not impressed and extends a hand. "Good day, Mr. Watson-"
"Dr. Watson," Sherlock corrects.
Mycroft shoots him another look that says 'shut the fuck up before I make you' and then smiles apologetically at John. "Oh yes, I'm sorry. Do forgive me. Dr. Watson."
"It's no trouble at all, really." John says.
"Nonsense," Sherlock intervenes once more. "You have a title. You mind as well use it." He gets that sulky look again and mutters, "I wish I had a title..."
"Sherlock," Mycroft snaps and the younger man looks at him in boredom. "Go. Away," he says calmly then adds a very polite, "Please," to the end.
Sherlock looks like he's about to protest but then he sees John's conflicted face and sighs dramatically. "Oh all right." He turns to face John and grabs him by the shoulders. "Whatever you do, do not let him kick you out." And then he let's go and walks away, muttering to himself about sound decibels and glass.
"Uh..." John says before Mycroft saves him.
"Excuse my brother. He's a bit...overzealous. His mind functions on a different level than the rest of us. He's a mite difficult to deal with."
"No, no. Don't worry. I find him...refreshing," John says as honestly as he can.
Mycroft scrutinizes him for a moment then his eyes widen. "By Jove, you're serious, aren't you?" John nods, a bit ruffled. "Well, it's just as well. He needs someone who can handle him when I or Mrs. Hudson is not around to do it for them."
John frowned. "Well, that Moriarty chap seemed to be able to-"
Mycroft groaned. "No, definitely not. Not Moriarty. If you left those two alone in the room, I don't know who would come out on top. At least you know Sherlock has a heart buried somewhere beneath all the layers of brick, cold concrete and bad character. Moriarty, for a fact, does not have a heart nor the reasons to use one or the want of experience. He's worse than Sherlock if you get down to it."
"Then why is he still around?" John asks, feeling a bit bold since the man was coming down to their level anyways.
Mycroft lifts an eyebrow. "Because he can play a damn good trumpet, and a loud one at that. The last person we had on that brass was as quiet as a mouse and Sherlock put him out without consulting me." He sniffs. "It's just as well; the man wasn't very good anyway, but back then, when we were just starting, we were a bit...desperate you might say."
"Wait," John says, "we?"
Mycroft gives a bark of a laugh. "Didn't you wonder why he thought calling me a composer was a joke? Sherlock and I started the orchestra together. The truth is, he composes most of the pieces. I run...the background of it." He seems to be purposefully vague on his job, so John doesn't pry, just nods. Mycroft seems to notice that he was catching on but knew better than to ask. "I must say, I see what Sherlock likes in you Dr. Watson." He gives a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. "I think you'd be a fine addition to the orchestra. As you can see, we don't function the way a normal company would, but then, I think you already assumed that, yes?"
John nods, only because he wants to be honest and he's actually getting a job. "Yeah. I figured."
Mycroft chuckles again. "Yes you did." He claps. "Right then. You may talk to Sherlock, he'll be giving you a run on things, what you have to practice, purchase and when our practices are. Tell me Doctor, where is your current place of residence?"
John feels his face color and for some reason, the look on Mycroft's face suggests that he already somehow knows the answer to that and that was the real reason he was asking. So, John replies carefully, "At the moment, in a hotel room right near Trafalgar Square. Not that great, not that close, but..." He shrugs. "Why? Does it matter?"
Mycroft smiles. "Speak with Mrs. Hudson. I think she's renting out a flat."
John starts. "Really? Well, thank you then. I'll ask. If we're through here...?"
Mycroft nods his head. "Oh, by all means." He's still smiling, and its reaching his eyes now, so John gets an uncomfortable feeling as he walks away toward the tea table. Right before he gets close to the crowd, Mycroft calls, "Oh, Watson!"
John turns around. Mycroft hasn't moved. "Yes?"
"How do you feel about...oh, let's say, having a flat-mate?" Mycroft's lips are stuck in that smarmy smile.
John swallows and furrows his brow. "As long as they're reasonable, I don't see anything wrong with having one."
Mycroft nods. "Interesting," he seems to murmur. Then he nods to John. "Very well. Don't forget to mention that to Mrs. Hudson." And then he's turning on his heel and disappearing down the hall.
So, uh, you guys like it? Yeah? I hope so. Just... know that this is a slash fic and if you don't like it, then don't read it. *shrugs* i know people are like, duh, why would we read it if we don't like it? But, hey, *hands raised in surrender* some people don't like things but read them regardless then complain.
I mean, say whhhhaaaattt? Yeah, peeps, that what i said. but, oh wellssssss. *smiles*
But anyways. I really hope you guys like it tho!