A/N Umm… this kinda started as just a friendship fic but I continued it into feelings and whatnot. Nothing explicit. Anyways, I don't know anything about music, so I'm so, so, soooo sorry if I messed something up in here. Like always, I don't own Sherlock Holmes in any way, shape or form (besides the value drawing I did of Benedict Cumberbatch in French… long story) and I am not making any money off of this. Alli and Griff (and me) would love to hear your thoughts on this, or any other, story. Please, no spoilers, I've still only seen the first season and only vaguely know some details from the second. So, anyway, hope you enjoy!
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John doesn't know how to play the violin. He doesn't quite understand the subtle intricacies used in the making of music. He can't tell you who composed what or how a piece us supposed to make the audience feel.
But he can appreciate the beauty in it; he knows what he likes. He likes the smooth, graceful look of a well made violin. He likes the strong motion of a bow across strings. He likes the concentration of the violinist before the music pours out into the air.
John can't tell you what a crescendo is. He can't tell a half note from a quarter note and he has no idea how to read sheet music.
But he has ears. He can hear the sound and that's all that matters to him. He enjoys soft music, loud music, slow music, fast music, rising music, falling music. All of it.
But John hadn't known how much he enjoyed the violin… until he moved into 221b Baker Street and became roommates with an eccentric, sociopathic genius.
John loves to listen to Sherlock play. He loves how his usually disjointed, crazy friend can make something so smooth and melodious and beautiful.
However, John knows, Sherlock doesn't always play beautiful. For the whole first month of John living with Sherlock, he'd been subject to torturous, early morning violin recitals which sounded like Sherlock was simply plucking the strings (which, sometimes, he was). John was getting very aggravated (and sleep deprived) when he finally snapped. After the third straight night of being woken after only half an hour of sleep by the infernal screeching of Sherlock's violin, he stormed down the stairs to the sitting room, not stopping till he was directly in front of Sherlock's supine form on the couch.
"Would you PLEASE stop that!" John practically shouted over the noise. Sherlock looked up at him and raised a brow, but continued with his 'music.'
John fumed. "Why do you insist on banging about on that thing at all hours when you can't even play it?!" He collapsed into his chair, cradling his head in his hands.
Suddenly, the racket stopped. John looked up in surprise and found Sherlock, sitting now, studying him. His blue-grey eyes dark with an unfathomable depth and emotion which John couldn't decipher.
"Do you really think I can't play?" Sherlock asked.
John shifted under the hard gaze. "Well… you never play correctly. Your always screeching and twanging-"
Sherlock cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand, but John kept going. "-Which is not very conducive to sleep patterns (especially MINE) when you insist on doing it at 3 in the morning!"
John took a deep breath, preparing himself for the absolute worst Sherlock could do. Instead, he got something so unexpected, his eyes snapped open in surprise.
Sherlock was playing his violin. Actually playing it. John didn't recognize the tone but he was engrossed. The music rose and fell, dancing around the two men, creating a beautiful picture that only Sherlock could see, but which John could catch glimpses of.
Sherlock's eyes were still on John's, pulling him further, further into the music. For who-knows-how-long (to John, it could have been hours), they sat together, captured by the music until, quietly, it ended, setting them gently back into their sitting room.
John let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and Sherlock's mouth quirked up. "Good?" he asked, his voice soft and low in the quiet room.
John nodded, still stunned, and Sherlock smiled, raising bow once again and letting a soft, low lullaby flow from his violin.
John had no control over his body as his eyelids closed. His head slumped back, and John was asleep. Sherlock kept playing, letting John rest, until the sun rose.
*and this is where it leaves friendship*
Since then, Sherlock played, actually played, only when John was there. If he was out, Sherlock screeched and twanged once again, but he enjoyed the chaos less and les as he began to enjoy the look of pure awe and bliss on John's face more and more.
He became as entranced in John as John was in the music. The strange soldier who should've fit right into several boxes, psychosomatic limp in all, but didn't. Who surprised Sherlock (surprised Sherlock!) at every other turn.
Sherlock was having to change his views on some very important human functions he'd only scoffed at before… because now he was feeling things that he, as a self proclaimed sociopath, shouldn't. He still didn't understand all of them, probably never would, but they were there, in the back of his mind, whenever John was around. They made him, for the first time in his life, actually care about someone else. And THAT was the most confusing emotion of all.
John and Sherlock are working on a new case. Well, Sherlock is working on it and John is being dragged along for the ride. They're in the their sitting room, Sherlock playing the violin and thinking, and John reading his newspaper.
Sherlock sits absorbed in thought when John speaks up. "Sherlock? What did you figure out?"
Sherlock looks up in surprise, "Was I thinking aloud again? How did you know I'd solved the case?"
John smirks. "Do you mean you don't know how I know?" Sherlock glares at him and John laughs. "It's simple really: your violin. You never pay attention when your thinking over a case so you just let your hands do whatever. But when you figure something out, the music goes up. It kept… climbing I suppose, and then turned more… celebratory? So, I assumed it meant you'd figured out the case." John looks expectantly at Sherlock.
Sherlock grins. Slowly, our of surprise, he grins. John had just broken out of yet another box and Sherlock made a mental note to stop putting him in boxes he'd just break again.
"So," John interrupts his thoughts, "who did it?"
"The brother," Sherlock states matter-of-factly as he pulls out his phone and quickly texts Lestrade.
"But he wasn't even in the country."
"No, that's just what he wanted us to think. There was an irregularity in his passport. The stamp said the 17th but the ink had dried less than it should have, which could have been explained away by it being quite damp this time of year. But on the 7, there's a slight twist on the edge, which wouldn't be there if the stamp was a standard issue used at that airport. Therefore, he forged it. But that only proves he was in the country at the time. But once we put that on the table, a lot of evidence that before wasn't explainable, suddenly becomes very crucial. The broken lock, the deliberately smashed flowers, the dog that was locked in the backyard. It all points to him so obviously." Sherlock's phone beeps and he falls silent as he quickly reads and replies to Lestrade.
A few minutes later, it beeps again. "Excellent. They've got him. He's even confessed." John hmms a little, returning to his paper and leaving Sherlock without anything to occupy his brilliant mind.
Sherlock fidgets. He's getting bored and no new experiments are popping into his head. Except… Sherlock's still holding his violin. Maybe…
Sherlock studies John once again, the man full of contradictions. Sherlock knows John enjoys his violin music, but what's his favorite? Sherlock could just ask of course, but where's the fun in that?
So Sherlock begins his new experiment. He plays softly, loudly, slowly, fastly. He plays all the classics first (Mozart, Bach etc) and notes John's reaction. He likes it, but more a 'wow you're really good' way and not a 'wow I love this music!' way. Sherlock switches to more modern compositions. Again, John likes it, a little more than the classics, but still, not his favorite.
Sherlock runs through his repertoire then goes through a series of tunes and melodies of different styles.
"It's not going to work you know," John says casually some time later as Sherlock plays through a rather haunting tune.
"What isn't going to work?" Sherlock asks absently.
"You. Trying to figure out what my favorite music is."
"Why on earth would I be doing that?"
John rolls his eyes. "Because A. You're bored and B. You actually want to know."
Sherlock elegantly shrugs his shoulders in acknowledgment. "But why wouldn't it work?"
This time, it's Johns turn to shrug. "Because I don't have a favorite. I like all of it-"
"You can't not have a favorite though. That's basic human nature."
John snorts. "Look who's telling people about basic human nature," he chuckles. "What's your favorite then Sherlock?" John actually looks interested.
"I am not a basic human," Sherlock sniffs indignantly.
John waits, one eyebrow raised, just looking at Sherlock before Sherlock finally sighs. "But if I was, then I suppose this would be my favorite.
It was… John doesn't even know how to describe how the music was. Wistful, his mind supplies, for something you never had at all. It was fast, then slow and lulling, then fast again but haunting, then happier.
John supposes this is how Sherlock's mind must be. Erratic and disjointed but fitting together into a beautiful cacophony pf intertwining rhythms. John never wants it to end, but, like all great things, it does. Slowly, lingeringly, it fades till the room is again quiet but for their breathing.
Sherlock peeks up at John through his hair and John is reminded of himself as a young boy waiting for a parent's approval of a report card or a present.
"I think you found my favorite after all," John murmurs quietly. Sherlock ducks his head, but John can still see his upturned lips.
Then Sherlock looks up at John, eyes bright and curious. John meets his gaze, his heart speeding up slightly. After a moment John stands abruptly, heading toward the kitchen. "Tea?" he calls back to Sherlock.
Except Sherlock is right behind him. He grabs John's arm and spins him to face him again. They're close, too close for propriety. John stares up at Sherlock nervously. Sherlock's eyes are bright, looking back at John's searching for something.
He finds it and something in his eyes solidifies. Slowly, almost but not quite awkwardly, he reaches a hand up and lightly cups John's cheek. John doesn't move and Sherlock tilts his head again, eyes boring into John's.
After a moment of stillness, Sherlock suddenly moves. He dips his head, his lips catching John's in a sweet, chaste kiss. John doesn't move for a second, his mind tries to process what's going on before his body says 'screw it!' and kisses back. John can feel Sherlock smile, which, with their lips still joined, sent very pleasant feelings down to John's gut.
Sherlock breaks the kiss, and John almost whimpers. Sherlock leans his forehead against John's, eyes bright and alight with something John can't identify but knows he wants to see again and again and again.
"You're my favorite, John," Sherlock whispers into the comfortable space between them.
John smiles and leans forward, crashing their lips together once again. "You're mine too," he murmurs into Sherlock's mouth a minute later. Sherlock pulls John a little closer, a littler tighter into him. They wrap themselves in their own music, the violin left forgotten, as they create a melody of their own. Their new favorites.
Fin
A/N So… How'd I do?