The usual sounds of a London night were interrupted by sad, hanging notes coming from the other room. They came and left in long breaths, a melody of unfamiliar origin. John took a deep breath in, with his eyes still closed. Breath in, the smell of the lake and the lingering odor of an old cigarette. The open window let a breeze blow through, placing small goose bumps on John's skin.
The notes took a break, but for only so long before picking up again in a passionate tone, filling the empty air with music. They swirled in the air like steam off a boiling pot, wisped in and out of John's ears, painting images in his head. Though the music was beautiful and rather pleasant, it seemed as if something was off. Not the normal music that would occasionally fill the days and nights in John's small flat.
The blond haired man glanced at the digital clock on the nightstand near his bed. The red numbers glowed three in the morning. John sighed and began to get up and out of his plush bed. His long sleeved night shirt lay baggily on his chest, as he walked toward the origin of the melody.
John padded into the main room of the small flat. Cluttered with case notes and photos of dead corpses from the last investigation that they were working on. There were a couple of chairs, end tables piled with books and old empty cups of tea. As many lamps as there were in the small flat, only one of them was on. It let on a dull yellow glow throughout.
And there was the source of the blissful noise. Sherlock sat in his normal chair, stripped of his long dark coat and blue scarf that would lay around his neck when he was out. But now he was only sitting in a deep purple dress shirt and slacks. Typical Sherlock Holmes.
His violin was perched up under his chin; bow was held lightly in his hand and swayed back and forth about on the strings of the instrument. Its auburn wood shone bright with Sherlock's persistent cleaning and caring for the instrument. He seemed to love his violin more than any other object he owned.
But sitting there Sherlock just looked into the kitchen though not really looking at anything. He just stared into the nothingness thinking, deep in thought while swaying the bow. John had grown to love his playing, even late in the night when he was sleeping; it reminded him of good times and blissful childhood memories.
John cleared his throat letting Sherlock know he was in the room. The raven haired man never even batted an eye. John shifted on the balls of his feet, staring at Sherlock.
"Can't sleep?" John asked taking a few steps closer.
"No," Sherlock sighed closing his eyes in concentration, "Just bored."
John slightly chuckled and moved toward his chair that sat facing Sherlock.
"I'd rather have you be bored and playing the violin, than being bored and shooting holes in the wall."
Sherlock's face didn't change, it never did. Sherlock had no emotion ever, rarely smiling or laughing. He had this veil that kept his granite face from showing anything other than the hardworking man he's always been. It bothered John, not being able to read the face of the person he stayed in the same flat with.
"I'm sorry if I bothered you John," said Sherlock barely above a whisper, he released his violin and just held it in his hand.
"No," John shook his head, "It was lovely actually, I quite like it when you play. It's calming."
Sherlock sighed; it had been about a month since their last case. Nothing new in the small town and if anything had happened it was easily figured out. John had a job that kept him busy during the day, but Sherlock on the other hand had nothing much to do during the day, beside yelling at the TV and looking back at old notes.
"What were you thinking about?" Asked John. Sherlock looked at him and cocked his head to the side; confused.
"You seemed to be deep in thought; I was just wondering what were you thinking about?"
"Oh it was nothing, really," Sherlock said, still tightly holding on to the violin.
"I see," replied John confused. Sherlock never thought of nothing that's not what he did. He always thought about something no matter what it was.
Sherlock sighed once again and began to place his violin inside of its case before John stopped him.
"Wait," he said holding his hand out, "Can you keep playing, please?"
Sherlock held a puzzled look on his face, he frowned his brows.
"Sure John," Sherlock opened the case once again and pulled out the instrument but before he was able to strum a string John grabbed his hand and pulled Sherlock over to the couch that say on the other side of the flat's main room. John made a motion with his hand signaling Sherlock to sit down. The detective was quite confused but followed the order anyway and sat down. He began to strum the strings of the violin, his face contorting in concentration.
John sat next to him, on the other side. But after a few strums and minutes pass by John started to reach closer to the warmth of Sherlock's body. In the heat of the song Sherlock never noticed. It wasn't until John gently rested his temple on Sherlock's shoulder when he realized what his flatmate was trying to do. Sherlock tensed up for a moment but relaxed when the warmth of his body enveloped his own. Sherlock was calm and relaxed as his flatmate laid by his side and it wasn't until John's gentle snoring could be heard is when Sherlock stopped playing.
The detective gently placed the violin on the floor and rested his head on top of John's. His blond hair smelled of rain and shampoo. This made Sherlock smile. He lifted his head and kissed the top of John's head. He had no idea where this came from but he felt like it needed to happen. Sherlock nestled into John's hair once again and started to drift to sleep.
And for that small moment, Sherlock felt his heart melt.