*Ahem* So...this. This...escalated into a lot more than I expected it to. I've been getting a lot of new favorites/follows recently (hello, new friends!) and decided I felt obligated to write something for you lovelies. Somewhere along the way I decided it needed to be Johnlock, and after searching through writing prompts on Tumblr I discovered one from Nano. It's from September 23 and states, "Write a story that involves music. Notes! Lyrics! Cellos! Miley Cyrus! Maybe the characters in your piece are in a band together. Or the story is set inside of a church organ. Maybe the prose itself is musical in an unexpected way. No matter what you write, make sure that music is involved." I've played violin for over ten years and simply adore Ravel's Boléro, and...well...they don't call it the ideal song to make love to for nothing. The Doctor Who episode referenced here is from season two of the new episodes, specifically the one called The Impossible Planet. A lot of the drilling discussion comes from actual quotes between my friend Ashlee and myself as we watched it. She reminded me of it when I was planning this story out and I couldn't resist. Though I am rating this M, there isn't anything super smutty (mostly, it just strongly hints at it through excessive use of innuendo), so never fear. Right then, onward and upward, and please let this not terrify my new people away. XD

Boléro

"Is that woman drilling to Ravel's Boléro?"

John sighed deeply, the sound conveying a long sufferance that came from extensive time spent around the world's only consulting detective. He quickly paused the DVD, halting the lilting cords of the flute mid-note. "Apparently? I don't know, Sherlock, it's what the producers chose for the episode. Maybe the ood find Ravel soothing."

Sherlock snorted, crossing his arms more firmly across his chest as he burrowed himself down into the couch's cushions. "I sincerely doubt the ood have an appreciation for early 1900s classical orchestral pieces, John."

Choosing to ignore his flatmate in favor of continuing his long awaited Who marathon, John merely rolled his eyes and continued the episode. They followed the rest of the viewing in relative silence, much to John's surprise yet pleasure. Typically Sherlock made it a point to chatter incessantly throughout whatever was playing on the telly, regardless of whether it was something John had seen before or not. Doctor Who in particular became one of the detective's favorites to monologue through, quickly explaining what new foe the Doctor and his companion would be facing that day and its various similarities to previous plot lines. Perhaps it was the fact that he'd seen this episode before, taking away the invaluable irritation factor that Sherlock coveted, but John wasn't complaining. Anything that kept the man quiet for more than five minutes was a Godsend.

Eventually the episode came to its climactic end, leaving John with every intention of moving onward with the second half of the two-part pairing. He was startled out of his program, however, by Sherlock's abrupt removal from the couch. The tall man strolled elegantly over to the window, swiftly snatching up his violin and flitting his long fingers over the strings, emitting a faint quartet of finely tuned cords. His bright eyes glinted dangerously as he gazed over at John, a slight smirk coming to his lips.

"So, John," he drawled, giving the curled end of his bow a weak tap against the couch's armrest. "How much…drilling…have you done to Boléro?"

Eyebrows raising slightly in bemusement, John shook his head. "You cannot possibly be referring to what I think you are referring to. Pop culture, Sherlock, really? That's what you've chosen to hold on to?"

His smirk widened as he stepped forward, effectively blocking the television from view. "10, 1979, directed by Blake Edwards. I enjoy Boléro. " Lifting the instrument to his chin in one smooth motion, Sherlock began to play, nearly soft enough at first for it to go unnoticed if one wasn't listening properly. He simply followed the repeated central melody, dancing over the notes in a much slower tempo than the one typically used. As he slid the bow across the strings, he began to slowly circle around the by now frozen John.

"Well?" the man demanded, his words unaffected by the violin sitting below his jaw. "Answer the question, John."

Gulping in a breath, John sat back against the cushions and considered it. "Well, if we're using 'drilling' for what I suspect you're thinking of…not much, particularly of late. I haven't been given the chance to, er, 'drill' in quite some time."

Sherlock chuckled, returning to the beginning of the melody's phrase, increasing his tempo and volume slightly. "That's rather an ideal euphemism, actually. Brilliant idea, John." He continued his steady journey around the couch, straight backed shoulders darting back and forth with the flow of music. "Though it is rather unfortunate, your little drill problem."

John's eyes had closed when Sherlock continued into his third repeat, the notes by now echoing almost forcefully through the flat from the pressure the detective put upon the strings. As a wayward slash of dark, curling hair fluttered downward across his forehead, Sherlock jerked his head up, pushing the piece aside in frustration as he came to stand before the immovable doctor. He approached the fourth run, having quickly realized that he would never reach the complete eighteen parts the piece usually required at the excessively increased rate of crescendo he'd taken, but found he couldn't possibly mind. Below him, John's mouth fell open slightly, a ghost of a grin at the corner of his lips as Sherlock demanded more from his instrument. He soon glided into the finale, letting out a soft gasp as he let his arms fall to his sides. John's gaze quickly met his, amused inquiry apparent in their depths.

"Care for some drilling?"

"Oh, hell yes."