A/N: I really have no idea where I got this idea from. I guess it's because I listen to music when I write and do homework, and I've always wanted to do an AU. So here it is. It will be Sherlolly, eventually, I promise! I plan for this to be around 15 chapters, but it might be a bit shorter or longer than that.

My wonderful Sherlockian friend Allison will be the beta for this story. Thanks, girl!

…

"Quit being an ass, Sherlock!"

"It's none of your business, John!"

"It is too! I'm trying to help you out here, and you're just ignoring me! You can't continue on as solo act! You need to diversify yourself, stand out from the crowd!"

"I'm doing just fine! I can do this! I've made it this far already, I can keep going!"

Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were having quite the little domestic. Their frustrated voices rang out in the small flat in London, also known as 221B Baker Street. The fight had resulted in John standing up, trying to appear taller than his roommate, who was sitting down, and leaning forward out of his chair. It was quite the fight, they hadn't argued like this for ages.

Sherlock was now standing up, towering over the 5'6" man standing opposite him. John gritted his teeth, now having to look up. "I hate it when you do that!" he growled indignantly. "You just do that to make me feel short!"

"Do what?" Sherlock smirked innocently down at his friend. "I have no idea what you could possibly be talking about."

"Arg… Quit changing the subject!"

"I'm still not listening."

"SHERLOCK! FOR GOD'S SAKE, JUST DO THIS! JUST THIS ONCE, FOR ME, FOR YOU FOR YOUR CAREER!"

"Why should I come and check out an artist I have zero interest in working with?"

"You haven't even met her, Sherlock! I've seen a few of her shows, and she's fantastic! You and her would go excellent together! I promise, Sherlock, when have I ever led you the wrong way?"

"There was that one time where you drove us to the wrong stage, when the one we were supposed to be at was on the other side of London. And that time when you forgot to buy the plane tickets, and we can't forget about the time with the tuning fork-"

"Alright, yeah, I make mistakes. But this is different. Just trust me."

"Why yes, I should always listen to yo-"

Sherlock was cut off by a sharp glare from John. John was a former army captain, and he could dole out some serous glares. Sherlock wasn't one to shy away from them, but this glare clearly said 'I will get out my handgun and shoot you and your bloody smug face off if you don't agree with me and I will not miss.'

Sherlock wavered under the glare. John was serious.

"Sherlock," John started, calm but firm "We are going to see her show, and I don't care if I have to drag you out of the flat, throw you into the cab, and pull you by the ear into the venue, we are going. Is that clear?"

Sherlock threw himself back down onto the couch, grumbling. It was clear who had won this fight. He muttered out a small, barely audible "Fine."

John smiled to himself, pleased with his win. "We have to head out at 7, the show starts at 8."

Sherlock merely dismissed him with wave, indicated he heard him. He picked some sheet music up that he was working on and carried it to the stand, which was set out by the window. He grabbed his bow, rubbed some rosin on it, and picked up his violin. Resting his chin on the chinrest, he flipped to the first page, and began to play.

A beautiful sound of music drifted through the flat and out onto the street below.

Sherlock Holmes was a musician. He was part of the many, many musicians in the underground music scene of London. The type of music ranged from guitar players to 5-piece rock bands to crooning girls to classical players who sang in chords and not words.

However, the problem with being in the underground music scene was not having record deals. At least 98% of them didn't. And with record deals comes money.

Not being having a deal didn't really affect Sherlock since he came from plenty of money. His family had quite the pile.

Sherlock was in it because he loved music. He loved hearing the notes he made drift out, filling the space with sound, drowning out everything. He'd been playing ever since he was young, and has been getting better ever since.

Sherlock's weakness, however, is his pride. He likes hearing the sound of his own music, and not anyone else's.

And that's where we stand today.

Their recent argument was over just the same subject. John, his best friend, flatmate, and manager was trying to convince him to start working with others. Sherlock might be indifferent to a record deal, but John certainly wasn't.

They had started this fight years ago, but John kept bringing up and Sherlock kept dropping the subject for years. John tries to get Sherlock to come see a show or two, to scout out a potential partner in music. He frequently did not win these fights, and when he did, Sherlock would try his best to weasel his way out of them. One time, he faked pneumonia. Another time, he jumped out of a window and ran down the street. The best time, in Sherlock's opinion, was when he offered to go get milk from the Tesco's.

John certainly wouldn't forget that one.

Out of 200 shows John wanted Sherlock to see, they only made it to about 10. And Sherlock was only impressed with one of them, who signed a record deal a bit later.

She was an international superstar now.

Sherlock had now come to the end of his 36-page score. There were lyrics, too, but one cannot sing while playing the violin. He had been playing for hours, and the time had flown by. That's what happens when you lose yourself in music.

He glanced at the clock. It was around 6:55 PM. They would have to leave in a few minutes.

He placed his violin back in its case as he heard John coming down the stairs.

"Let's go, Sherlock," John hollered. "I hope you're still here."

Sherlock wordlessly went to pick up his coat and scarf. As John entered the room, Sherlock was putting on his scarf carefully and turning his coat collar up.

A look of relief flashed over John's face. "You're still here. Thank God."

Sherlock smirked, waited for John to get his own coat on, and walked after John down the stairs and out the door.

The wind outside was biting, seeing as it was the middle of winter. John hailed a cab, and Sherlock slid into the car, John following shortly after. He told the cabbie the location of the venue, and the taxi started off.

Sherlock stared out the window, hoping that this would all end soon.

…

A/N: Thanks for reading! If you want to contact me, my tumblr URL is sort-of-not-psychotic.