Duet for Violin and Cello in C Major
"Sherlock, how is it we came to be flatmates?"
This question came from John at the most inopportune of moments when Sherlock was about to begin a timed trial of planting a battery-sized microphone in the leg of the table. He had his goggles and gloves on and had just laid the saw in the exact place he wanted it - not a millimeter off - and was preparing the timer function on his phone.
The question probably was inspired by the fact that John liked to eat bowls of museli for breakfast off said table. And wanted said table to be intact for the morning ritual tomorrow.
This was something that Sherlock had considered for about half a second before beginning the experiment, but he knew that if the table was tipsy after being disassembled and put back together (with bug successfully planted) John would end up shrugging and putting a book under whatever corner was making it unstable.
And again, it wasn't as if he wasn't planning on putting it back together again...that was rather the whole point, wasn't it? Hiding the device in such a way that no one would notice?
So Sherlock just half-smiled absently, pretending he hadn't heard, and focused on the leg of the table, preparing to begin sawing at it with all of the ferocity with which he would approach a piece by Sarasate on the violin.
(Because Sarasate was difficult and exciting, and feeling his fingers scratch it out filled him with almost as perfect a happiness as any he'd ever experienced.)
And he drew his arm back, the saw's teeth digging into the paint and uprooting it in flakes, like a plough over manicured green turf, revealing a nude scratch of wan pine underneath.
Then his eye noticed a scratch of very similar color and proportions on the inner side of the opposite corner's leg.
Dropping his tools, he examined this grandfatherly scratch and discovered, to a mix of delight and dismay, that his brother's technicians had attacked the table first.
Which didn't mean the experiment had no merit, not at all - in fact it made it much more relevant and interesting, plus he now had a model to follow from this anonymous expert at planting bugs - but it meant that he had to reevaluate the data first, and, thus distracted, he actually answered John. Which was unintended.
"What do you mean, how?"
"Like...I mean, was I the first one who asked you, Sherlock, or what?"
The question was an inane one, but for the sake of correctness, he pointed out:
"You didn't exactly get around to actually asking, now did you?"
John seemed thoughtful, stirring a spoon in his tea.
"No. I'll never forget that moment. 'Afghanistan or Iraq?' I was almost literally bowled over."
"Quite right," replied Sherlock, leaping up to get his magnifier from his coat-pocket. Said coat was flopped over John's chair, and John was half sitting on it.
"But you didn't answer what I just asked, Sherlock."
The detective grabbed the bottom hem of his coat and yanked fiercely, but John was purposefully being uncooperative and in fact was intentionally making the task harder by putting all of his weight on the coat. And jamming his legs under the opposite couch for extra leverage.
So Sherlock decided to answer. He leaned down and whispered rather close to John's ear.
"Because when I saw you, my balls almost fell off, I thought you so sexy, John."
This distracted John enough to forget the half-formed game of tug-of-war, and as he sat upright (startled) the coat slipped from underneath his posterior into Sherlock's waiting arms.
"You aren't serious," said John after a moment of vanity, where he seemed to be actually considering the idea that Sherlock had been madly attracted to him from the first moment they saw each other.
They'd been in a relationship for months, now, since Sherlock's surprising (but not-so-surprising, really) return from the dead.
(It was ridiculous to pretend that they weren't in love with each other, given how much each was majorly devastated by the years-long separation, after all.)
Since, John had been mostly open and receptive to Sherlock's ideas of intimate behavior, which was primarily experimental in nature (and therefore maddeningly inconsistent), but sometimes Sherlock thought his lover was a little slow on the uptake. Mostly because John still had trouble with the gay thing, probably.
And because he (John) frequently got far too sentimental.
"Of course not," said Sherlock coldly, turning out his pockets and finding that his magnifier hadn't been in them, after all. "Blast it. Do you mind?" he asked, motioning John to sit up so that he could look under the cushions.
John made an attempt to stand up, but ended up sliding off the chair with a bump (his tea sloshing a bit onto his shirt) because Sherlock was already tipping the seat-cushion forward.
"Ow!" he said, unabashedly overreacting like a mother trying to teach her infant that, for instance, biting somebody's finger was bad. "That wasn't nice, Sherlock!"
"Ugh," said Sherlock, replacing the cushion without cleaning up the debris underneath. He'd found nothing but some loose change (enough to buy one coffee, probably), a somewhat crumpled cigarette (he'd secretly retrieve it later), a pocket-sized-bottle of scented hand sanitizer (a client's?), ample amounts of crisp crumbs (John's) and the felt cloth he used for polishing his violin (stained by something orange).
So he waved his hands in the air as if to send sonar vibrations into the atmosphere to find the thing. "Blast!" he repeated. "Where is it?"
"Where's what?"
"My magnifier, obviously."
"Oh." John got back up and sat in the chair again, picking up the pillows that had fallen on the floor (alongside him) and thumping them smooth. "You should have said so. I think you left it in the bedroom." He then sipped his tea.
"...Right."
Moving too quickly to show his embarrassment at having forgot the hour spent examining John's scalp post-coitus, Sherlock dashed into his bedroom, retrieved the magnifier from its hiding-place within the mess of blankets, and leaped back into the living room, over the overturned table, to resume his procedure.
He knelt at the scratch left by his brother's specialist and carefully eyed it, trying to discern from which angle the expert had approached with the saw. Wondering if his way had been better.
But John, bless his dull little mind, was still hung up on his question.
"So, what was it, then? Was it just because I was the first person who applied? Was it because you actually thought Stamford was a decent...matchmaker? Or was it because I was me? Or what?"
"Why do you persist?" Sherlock replied without looking up. (The installer of Mycroft's microphone had been very rushed, though had also left the distinguished marks of a craftsman, and it was very interesting to see what aspects of detail had been neglected in the hurry.) "Honestly, does it mean that much to you?"
John was disgruntled. "...A bit, Sherlock, it matters a bit."
"Well, it shouldn't."
This made John frown. "What have I said about shoulds, Sherlock?"
"That they invalidate a person's feelings." The detective didn't like where the conversation was going; he knew all the lessons by heart, but that didn't mean he felt like they were important.
"Exactly. So how do you think I'm feeling right now."
"Invalidated. Obviously."
John closed his eyes and drew in a frustrated breath; Sherlock didn't need to look to know that he was about to get a stern reprimand.
So he chose not to look, instead focusing on the wood in front of him, narrating very loudly in his brain to avoid losing concentration by being distracted by John's loaded words.
He kept against the grain of the wood, which prevented it from splintering, I see, but also went at it from a 45 degree angle, he must have had significant upper arm strength - given lack of marks on the edge, he must have had it on his knee, like so...
But John didn't say anything, and didn't say anything, and didn't say anything.
...and from this position his arm would have had to have been extended in this manner...capable only by a man with significant upper arm strength, given the pressure on the saw. I wonder if he might have worked in custom cabinetry...or hand-carving wooden toys or something...
And then he heard a rustling as John brushed off crumbs and drops of tea from the front of his sweater, a clink as he put his mug on the floor, and stood. And began to walk away.
And Sherlock knew he'd done something wrong.
"John, where are you going?" he asked, and actually bothered to look up to see.
His lover looked miserable and bitter, but not like he was planning on going somewhere significant, though he kept his eyes trained straight ahead, not looking at Sherlock.
"The loo, you wanker."
"Mhm."
Sherlock tried to make eye contact and press his lips into a forced smile, but did not manage these tasks in time to communicate an apology before John shut the door.
John typically only had one bowel movement a day, in the morning. So the length of time that he spent in the bathroom that afternoon - twenty minutes - must have been either due to early symptoms of prostate cancer (less probable) or because he just needed some time alone to think about whatever it was that Sherlock had done (more probable, but in some ways less preferable).
And Sherlock had decided too quickly that the table experiment could wait - his stomach was getting progressively queasy as he wondered what on earth John was upset about.
So he finished cataloguing the procedure of his brother's technician (five seconds), moved said table back to a position appropriate for John to eat muesli off of it (one minute) tried to practice violin (seven minutes), fought the urge to dig the cigarette from under the cushion (six minutes, because John would smell it), and then relented to the urge and rescued the thing.
Then he searched for a lighter (three minutes, and he didn't find it - he used the stove) and allowed himself three minutes of tranquility, leaning out the kitchen window and turning on the range hood, his ears perked so that when John got out of the bathroom, he could dash the thing in a cup of water and hope his lover would be none the wiser.
"Good try, Sherlock."
Damn, he hadn't heard the bathroom door over the roar of the hood. He dropped the fag hastily onto the cement sidewalk below and closed the window abruptly.
John turned off the stove (it had been left burning) and the dragon above it (so loud!) and looked directly at Sherlock, who was leaning nonchalantly against the counter.
"What did I do, John?" he asked, at first trying to sound casual, but already he was craving another cigarette and his hand was shaking.
Of course his nervousness had nothing to do with having been kept in suspense for such a long while.
He didn't care that much. Not at all.
John just sighed. "Nothing more than what you usually do, Sherlock."
Clearly depressed but also not forthcoming with what was bothering him, John sat down at the table (since returned to its proper place, upright) and put his head in his hands.
This was a cue that Sherlock recognized as one that meant John wanted to say what was on his mind, but only if Sherlock made a point to act interested.
Which was difficult most of the time, except not at the present, because John was looking rather out of sorts.
So, with deliberate motions, Sherlock grabbed himself a chair and straddled it, backwards, folding his arms across the back of it and trying not to look grumpy himself.
"Explain."
It was all he could manage to say.
John shrugged. It was obviously something pithy, because it wasn't coming out easy. He was just staring blankly at the linoleum.
Sherlock sighed. "John, please."
And this elicited no more significant a response, though a returning sigh on John's part was added for the effect of greater exaggeration.
Greater measures were called for, it seemed, so Sherlock stood up, moved his chair to the opposite side of the table with a deft hand, and sat (backwards again) next to his lover closely, their thighs touching.
"Come on."
He leaned his elbow against the back of his chair to get a better look at John's face. It didn't look like John had been crying, not quite, but there was redness at his temples which suggested he'd been rubbing them fiercely with his fingers in exasperation.
Sherlock, in an attempt to be a little more normal than usual, extended a hand and flicked the underside of John's chin.
"Cheer up, tell me what I've done wrong."
There was more pleading in those words than he wanted to hear, but oh well, what was done was done.
It was the magic ask me three times trick made a little bit more convincing by adding a fourth prerequisite question.
John could only resist so long before giving in, and for that Sherlock was thankful. He wasn't dealing with a Mycroft...or their father...when he was dealing with John. (Their sorts never explained, never forgave.)
And John communicated his forgiveness with a sudden, rushed embrace.
"I hate you," he said simply, ironically, and it was all Sherlock could do not to laugh.
He managed to contain himself by swallowing a couple of times.
Maybe he was actually resisting tears?
(No, of course not, don't be an idiot.)
"Really, what did I do?" asked Sherlock, genuine in his attempt to understand.
"Nothing! You...you didn't do anything. It's me."
"It's you...what?"
"Just..." John squinted his eyes shut tight (Sherlock could feel it in the facial muscles that were pressed against his neck). "...I'm expecting too much, is all. I can't expect you to change."
This fatalism was characteristic of John's more melancholy moods, and it made something in Sherlock's physiology ache to hear it.
Plus, it made him want to prove John wrong.
"Try me," said Sherlock with a voice of impervious steel.
This made John laugh weakly.
"You have been, Sherlock. And that's what's the most frustrating thing about it. You have been trying. I don't need to tell you how the things you say make me feel, not anymore. You know."
This was old news. "Yes, go on."
Then there was the exasperation so bitter that it almost signaled the advent of tears.
"...But despite the fact that you know, Sherlock, you don't act any different!"
Part of Sherlock wanted to ask John: Are you, Doctor John Hamish Watson, seriously this worked up over something so stupid?
But at the same time, Sherlock had to acknowledge that John had an exceptionally good point.
He knew the habits. He knew the lines. He knew what was going on.
He just didn't care enough to try and maximize the things he said and did that made John feel happier and minimize the things he said and did that made John feel less happy.
And why?
It was just easier for him to do what came naturally. To not try.
Because not trying was something he was remarkably good at doing. Whatever didn't suit him, whatever was inconvenient, whatever was boring - he didn't care, and he didn't do it. Even when he knew it'd be good for him.
You're a selfish prick.
But those were John's words, come to think of it. It wasn't as if John was a total victim. He was more than capable of dishing it out.
And hadn't he started off this conversation with the words, "I hate you"?
What about his feelings?
Sherlock began to make this observation.
"John," he said, his tone condescending.
But all of a sudden he realized what he was doing, and so he repeated, more softly, "John." More kindly. Trying to be compassionate.
And then he decided he'd really try.
"You know, I'd met several potential flatmates before you."
He felt John's body grow absolutely still, barely breathing, lending all of his ears.
It was what he liked most about John, perhaps - John would listen to him, with rapt attention, never judging.
They'd talked about this already. They felt love towards each other. Love of all things!
It still made Sherlock smile to remember the fact. And pale at the idea that he might lose it.
"Several flatmates," repeated Sherlock, just for the sake of saying it. "I tried the classifieds and got scores of applicants, most of whom had really irritating traits, such as nailbiting, chronic indigestion, and the like-"
"-Wait, so if I had chronic indigestion, you'd have passed me up?" asked John, but Sherlock just replied by strengthening his hold and laying a breathy, impulsive kiss on John's neck.
"In fact," Sherlock continued, "I hadn't run across anyone who I considered remotely interesting. Inevitably everyone was boring. Even students. The only ones I got to communicate with me were international students who had no interest in adventure at all. Literature, and international relations, whatever that is." He snorted.
John chuckled softly, too.
"I will admit," Sherlock continued, "I was about to settle on one of these very dull people before you came 'round. A friend of Molly's - a desperately unattractive chronic overeater who worked in medical computer programming and promised to lock herself in her room and never come out except to eat."
"That's not very nice," said John.
"It's all true," said Sherlock, "and she was actually very blunt about it."
"I'm sure," replied his blogger with a wry smile that Sherlock could feel against his shoulder.
Something made him realize anew that they'd been beginning to slip down an unfortunate slippery slope in their relationship, and he tightened his embrace with fervor.
Having time to reflect on the past, on what might have been, made him remember how much he really fancied John.
"But then...I'd been complaining to Stamford, and saying not very complimentary things about Molly's friend, since he tends to be like you, John...Stamford listens...and then lo and behold, I forget about our conversation entirely, and then right that afternoon he shows up again, and I'm reminded both how very foolish sentimental people are - he clearly went out of his way to bring you up to me, he was on his way to a dinner date with his mistress-"
"-Stamford? Mistress? Really?"
"It was obvious, John. The cufflinks he was wearing. The fact that we initially ran into each other at a florist's - not an anniversary, wanting to order an unnecessarily expensive bouquet, fiddling with his-."
"-Wait, you were at a florist's?"
"Oh. Yes. It was a crime scene at the moment I was there."
"And you..." John raised his head, his curiosity piqued, and looked Sherlock in the eye. "...Stamford...I'm missing something here."
Sherlock smirked. He had been waiting to tell this juicy story for quite a while, since it was apparent that Stamford had not enlightened John himself.
"He was briefly in custody until I convinced Lestrade that the man had no involvement in the smuggling ring for which the florist's shop was a front. Just an oblivious customer who didn't notice the flowers in the window were half dead. To be fair, the way he yelped when-"
"-I've heard enough, Sherlock, go back to your point."
"Oh. Well, my point was, I was reminded both of how foolish sentimental people are, as I said, and also of how surprisingly thoughtful sentimental people could be. And the moment I saw him come in with you, I thought it'd be...nice to..."
He hadn't realized, actually, what he was saying in that sentence until now, and he was shocked at the layers that went into this thought process he'd had so long ago.
Layers that included emotion, of all things!
"Nice to what?"
John knew never to let a good, vulnerable moment go to waste, Sherlock recognized ruefully, but he was fully committed to finish the sentence now, since the predicate meant that the thing he was going to say was obvious, in retrospect.
"...Nice to...have a foolish, surprisingly thoughtful sentimental person in my life. And you seemed like the type."
John seemed wholly incredulous. "Really?"
"Maybe." Sherlock closed his eyes. "I think that might have actually been it."
"Really." John seemed strangely touched by this expression, and in response pecked Sherlock squarely on the lips. "I'm...impressed," he said, though it was obvious that this was his opinion by the look on his face.
"Well, at the time I would have said it was because you were an army doctor and it looked like you wouldn't mind patching me up pro bono after a hard day chasing criminals."
John's expression was softly curious, particularly at the firm, bashful smile on Sherlock's face.
"If that was all, why did you ask me to come with you that first night?"
That was something that Sherlock had thought about a lot since, and the only answer he had was one that really made him sound like he was just a big ball of sappyness.
"Well," he said avoidantly, "you were waylaid by Mycroft."
"Uhuh, but you didn't know it at the time," said John, and Sherlock grimaced at the dashing of his hope that John would have forgotten that little detail. "So what was it, then?"
"Well, your medical opinion, I knew it could be useful."
"Mhm."
It was clear that John expected something more than that, and, truth be told, Sherlock realized his syntax left that implication open.
"And I knew that your limp was psychosomatic. And that something that would bring something of your 'old self' back again, whatever you felt it was, would help you...forget."
"So you're telling me that it was almost exclusively for my own benefit." John was amused, and not believing that this was the final solution. "Sherlock Holmes, secret humanitarian."
"I'm not a humanitarian?" asked Sherlock, too seriously for John to take seriously, it seemed, because John began laughing, taking it to be a joke until he realized that Sherlock was looking at him with a really, John look in his eyes.
"Well, not on the face of it," said John, appreciating that he'd been a bit out of turn.
"We can argue about that later, if you like," said Sherlock, relenting a little. John did perceive him to be selfish, after all, and sometimes that might arguably be true, but Sherlock really felt like since he spent all his time solving other peoples' problems, how could he not be a humanitarian?
He knew what John would say to that - you do it because you're BORED!
He also knew he could argue with John for hours about it.
But not now. Things were a little raw at the moment.
Later, when they could both enjoy the argument.
"So, was there anything else?" asked John, "because so far I remain unconvinced."
So was I, Sherlock acknowledged to himself, even John knows that my motives weren't totally arbitrary. Nor entirely rational.
"Well, John, I won't say that it was because I was desperately attracted to you or something, because that would not be accurate. I first became attracted to you a month after I had left England. I was in the Sahara Desert, and I realized that the camel I was riding was...the same color as one of your favorite old jumpers. And I will leave it at that."
John burst out laughing again. At least he was long out of his melancholy mood at this point, regaled by Sherlock's narrative. (If you could call it a narrative.)
"So in any case," Sherlock continued, the words taking longer and longer to come from his mouth, "I was...when I first saw you, I did see you, of course. And I saw where you'd been and what you were and it was relatively easy to put you into a box in my mind and catalogue certain associations and whatnot."
He took a deep breath. John needed - deserved - to hear this. It was long past due, Sherlock realized, and maybe it would prove, telling him, that Sherlock could change.
Could learn to respond appropriately to the knowledge he acquired.
To respect John's feelings and emotions and all that rot.
"Now, I'm only telling you this to prove a point," said Sherlock slowly, trying to delay the inevitable.
"I can tell," said John, and there was a depth of understanding in his voice that made Sherlock uncomfortable.
An understanding that felt so deep that it made him want to deny it and run away.
But he'd done a lot of that in the early months of their more intimate relationship, and it was time for him to finally grow up, at least a little bit.
He was tired of being scolded for not caring.
"So, the reason I thought you should come out with me," said Sherlock, his voice getting lower, actually becoming a whisper.
He repeated himself, to steady himself.
"The reason I thought you should come with me was because..."
He inhaled, waited ten seconds, and exhaled through his nose.
And then he pressed his lips against John's ear to whisper, in a terribly low voice that contained so much rawness, sorrow, and pain that he dared not speak louder. Dared not keep his eyes open as he said it.
"...I saw someone who was just as lonely as I was."
They let this hang in the air a moment, Sherlock breathing heavily into John's ear for about a minute before he opened his eyes and leaned back to evaluate John's face.
John didn't look surprised, just somewhat struck dumb for a response.
That didn't matter. Sherlock was embarrassed to have said anything at all and would have preferred to forget the incident.
But that's what people do, when they're in love. They say foolish things. And confess their failings.
He hoped John took the expression with the proper brevity.
(John did.)
"...That's a good reason, Sherlock," said John, his voice low and thick. "Very good."
At the same time, Sherlock could almost hear his friend screaming lonely? You admitted to yourself that you were lonely?
To which Sherlock did reply, after all, because he couldn't help but show off the fact that he knew things.
"And yes," he responded with gentleness, "I had reached a point in my life where I did think of myself as...alone. And not in a good way."
Though, from here on out, he was going to make an effort to be more sensitive about it - showing he knew was different than showing off that he knew.
At least, John thought so.
And Sherlock was taking John's word on faith.
"Though, I always did say that I'd have not lived half my life had I not spent most of it alone," Sherlock went on, feeling like now he'd stepped into the spiny underbrush and couldn't get out, despite his machete.
Emotions were prickly business. "So I suppose you might have inspired that change in me, John Watson."
Saying nothing, John just took Sherlock's hand and began to massage it gently.
"Thank you for telling me this," he said, his voice soft and respectful. "I know it's hard for you."
And there he was, saved from the spiny underbrush, a little scratched but none the worse for wear, especially now that the doctor would melt the wounds away with tenderness.
"Difficult, yes. But also necessary."
"Necessary how?" asked John, and Sherlock didn't feel like answering that question, so he avoided replying by swallowing harshly and pressing his lips against John's in a vociferous kiss.
The way John's eyes were dancing, though, when they finally pulled away, made him wonder if the kiss wasn't an answer in itself.
N.B.: The part about "I'd have not lived half my life had I not spent most of it alone" is from holmeswriter's The Beekeeper's Diary, which is a marvelous story.
Now, to other business.
I have found in the past that asking for reviews tends to garner more reviews than not asking. It's not strange if you think about it. But I do hate to ask for reviews because I believe that if I ask, half of the beauty of the review system - which, in its pristine state, is largely based on spontaneity - will disappear.
So first, a humongous thank-you to the people who regularly read and review, on both my stories and others'. You are so, so appreciated. You all get snogging-with-Sherlock time.
I'm not going to ask for reviews for myself or this story, per se. I'm just going to request that you wonderful people who have invested the time and effort to create an account on this website, to read stories posted here, and to collect stories in your favorites ... just make good use of the review system too, please.
That is all. Hope you enjoyed this little piece.