A/N: Not an orignal idea, by any stretch, but it's the execution that makes anything worthwhile, right?
The blonde paused, midway to dropping her trousers; it was the violin that'd stopped her. "Is he really going to do that all night?" she asked. "Again?"
She was talking about the violin, of course. John sighed. Sherlock. Again. Yes.
"I thought you said he'd be out."
"I thought he would be," John said. "We had an agreement."
The blonde hitched her head toward the bedroom door. "He doesn't seem like an agreeable type," she accused, still clutching her waistband around her hips. No hints of lace underneath; not a hint of anything at all. If the trousers never came all the way down, it would be Sherlock's fault.
"No. No, he doesn't," John muttered. "I can...go talk to him?"
It was the wrong thing to say. If anything, those trousers were creeping higher.
"Wait," John said. "We can drown him out. Can't we?" His efforts were met with a blank stare. "I promise, next time he'll be out." More staring. "Or we'll go to your flat."
"And you won't complain about the cats?"
John licked his lips. "I won't. Why would I? Five cats- that's not so many."
"John-"
"I promise."
That did it. And he was right: nothing at all underneath.
Sherlock played for the duration: his crescendos irritatingly well-timed and his climax moreso, just like the last time. Just like every time, really, that John had dared to bring a girl home.
John had tried a hundred different ways to put Sherlock off, but to no avail. Invariably, the violin chimed in at the moment his pants came off, and vibrated along with his every nerve until it was over. Until he was over.
And no matter how promising the date, no matter how tolerant she'd been of Sherlock's interference thus far, not one of John's women lasted more than two nights with Sherlock's loving accompaniment.
Then there came a dateless Thursday night when John stumbled up the stairs alone, into his room, sprawled onto his bed and stared up at the ceiling and finally decided fuck it, unzipping his trousers and slipping a hand down his pants and goddamn it, the violin again. The violin again. How could he know?
John launched off the mattress in a hazy rage and staggered out to find his flatmate tucked up in his leather perch with the offending instrument. Of course, he wasn't playing it now: now that John was interrupted, now that John was here.
"How...how much attention," John said, with careful yet failing annunciation, tongue dessicated by gin, "can a single person need?"
Sherlock turned away from the window, robe turning out like peacock feathers. "Whatever do you mean, John?"
"I know what you're up to," John growled. "And it's pathetic."
"Pathetic?"
"Yes, pathetic. Childish. Immature."
"What is it that you think I'm doing?" Sherlock asked.
"You know what you're doing. I know what you're doing. By this point, I think even Mrs. Hudson knows what you're doing." John rolled his shoulders over his black mood. "And, frankly, I think it's a little-"
"A little what?" Sherlock dared.
"-a little rude, Sherlock. Indecent."
"If you mean to construe this particular Scarlatti as somehow perverse, I would be interested to see what you think of my Britten."
"Sherlock," John said. And Sherlock stopped, long enough for John to lock eyes with him. "The way you've been acting, one might think you're interested in more than just the Scarlatti."
Sherlock's eyes went to slits beneath the eaves of his forehead, and his retort didn't come in time to reach John before John's bedroom door slammed.
For a week afterward, there was no violin. None at all. John brought two women home and proved only that his inability to secure a third date was not entirely due to Sherlock's musical interference.
On the Saturday following, John sat in his reading chair, resigning himself to the futility of his romantic pursuits over three beers (and counting), watching Sherlock's coat slide over his shoulders, turned-up collar and all.
"Where're you going," John muttered, though he didn't expect an answer.
"Out," Sherlock said, tossing a scarf around his neck.
"That's my scarf, you know."
"Yes, I know. It's much warmer than mine."
"Right." The television was not serving John well; it was loud and bright but not interesting. Not nearly as interesting as Sherlock was, even preparing to leave. "See you later."
"Much," Sherlock said.
Without the distraction of Sherlock, the television wasn't enough to sustain John; it was turned off in minutes, leaving John bereft. He pushed out of his chair, shuffled up the stairs, found his way to bed but not to sleep: to rest the thing in his head that wouldn't.
The ceiling seemed lower the longer he stared up at it.
There was a curse on his life, maybe on any life, where it intersected with Sherlock's.
The violin.
John woke to the violin.
It wasn't even light yet.
John wanted to be furious, but lost his hold on it in the time it took him to descend the stairs. "Sherlock," he sighed, expecting the bow to fall from the strings, expecting that smart mouth to open in its owner's defense. It didn't.
"John," Sherlock said, not missing a note, "I've been thinking."
"Have you."
"Not now with the sarcasm. I have a point to make."
"Forgive me," John said, "if I can't quite get excited."
"Scarlatti," Sherlock said.
"Come again?"
"Scarlatti. Don't tell me you've already forgotten; it would make this effort seem terribly foolish on my part." Sherlock shot a concerned look in John's direction.
"Yeah, all right, Sherlock," John mumbled, scrubbing his hair askew, "what's your point, though?"
"You said one might think I were-"
"I did say that, yes. Might not have been the nicest thing to say."
"Fair, though," Sherlock continued. "Fair, because my actions haven't been clear. I've muddied the issue."
"What issue," John said.
"Association," Sherlock said.
"Association?"
"Association, John, yes. When training an animal, any reward must be immediate and specific-"
"An animal."
"-any animal, John, don't take offense - and it's clear to me now that I've been one and not the other. Not specific. How could I have been, when there were two animals?"
"Two. Animals."
"Yes, two, you and the interchangeable 'she'."
"Insulting. I'm insulted, if you care."
"You shouldn't be; it's only analogy." Sherlock finally pulled the bow from the strings. "The point is that you couldn't know, couldn't possibly, not when I've been playing to you both all this time - well, except the last."
"Know what?"
"Don't make me regret all the attention I've been pouring over you," Sherlock said. "Surely you must see, by now, what I'm getting at." He bent close to John, the reflective stripes of his cheekbones glowing in the dark. "The Scarlatti is just the means." Sherlock waited, mouth slightly open, concentrating on John as if to do the thinking forhim.
"Jesus Christ, Sherlock," John said, "do you ever slee-" but the p was caught up in Sherlock's lips, lush and quick, the bridge of the violin pinching John's collarbone, and everything was surprising, everything was a shock, and then Sherlock pulled away with the same concentrated expression and John exhaled, hard. "Jesus Christ, Sherlock," he wavered.
"The music is mere words," Sherlock intoned. "You must listen for their meaning."