unfinished duet

Holmes realizes ten minutes after leaving the apartment that he has forgotten his hat. While this usually only a minor concern, easily brushed aside, today it seems like an intolerable oversight, and so it is that he finds himself back at 221B. It should have been simple: walk into the sitting room, rummage through the clutter until the missing item is found (or, were that to fail, borrow one of Watson's) and leave again.

Instead he stops as he reaches the sitting room, head tilting in puzzlement as what sounds suspiciously like someone drawing sounds from his violin. He cannot help the irritation that bubbles in him at the thought; he has always been territorial when it comes to possessions, and the violin is sacred. It is unthinkable that any hands but his should ever touch it.

Or so he thinks, before he peers into the room and is forced to reconsider his stance on the subject. For there sits Watson, facing away from the door, fingers plucking at the strings and looking determined, and Holmes is too busy wondering what on earth Watson is thinking to hold onto his anger.

Then Watson stands, and for an instant Holmes is distracted by the way the motion ever so briefly pulls his shirt taut over his shoulders, hints at the shifting muscles and the surprisingly soft skin underneath. Watson's subsequent tucking of the violin under his chin in a rather accurate imitation of Holmes' stance when he actually bothers to stand up to play. It is, of course, not perfect: Holmes is quick to notice the hesitancy in the positioning of fingers on the strings, the subtle discomfort as Watson shifts to avoid putting to much weight on his bad leg. All in all, it is a commendable effort.

Holmes cringes instinctively as the bow starts moving, knowing all too well the horrifying discordances that can happen with an inexperienced player, then stops himself mid-wince, blinking, because while the sounds Watson is drawing out of the instrument are not quite harmonious, they are most certainly not the horrid screeches he expected.

He looks again, and feels like slapping himself for being an idiot when he notices what he should have seen from the beginning: this is not the first time Watson's tried his hand at the violin. The bow moves in firm, though hesitant, strokes, and the fingers on the board are only off by a few millimetres. Holmes tries not to be delighted by the way Watson's brows are furrowed in concentration as he tries to replicate by ear and memory one of the less complicated tunes Holmes likes to play, and fails miserably.

If he is honest with himself, there is also something incredibly appealing about the way Watson's arm follows the bow's slow motions, the arch of his wrists at the violin's neck. The tilt of his head exposes a tantalizing portion of his neck, and Holmes can no longer resist.

Silently he steps into the room. Watson still hasn't noticed his presence, too focused on the violin, and Holmes takes full advantage of the fact to creep behind the man and press himself against him, chin tucked over his shoulder and hands reaching for his. Watson startles against him, bow jerking in his hand and scraping against a string in a most unpleasant way, but does not react further. Holmes is secretly disappointed, but does not show it. He nips at the base of Watson's jaw, playful. "How long have you been practicing?"

Watson chuckles, a low, lazy sound that curls delightfully in Holmes' ears. "I wondered how long it would take you to notice," he says. Then, just as Holmes starts to grow impatient, "Two months."

Quick calculations: in the past couple months he has not been out of the house alone more than half a dozen times, and never more than for more than three hours, except for that one time he'd gone boxing and cracked a rib or two. Watson cannot have practiced all that much in that time. That he has at all makes Holmes extremely intrigued, and the images that drift unbidden in his mind, of Watson taking the violin up for the first time, reverent and not a little curious, blue eyes certainly sharp with focus, make him hot under the collar.

Then Holmes realizes that Watson is still, no longer playing. This, he decides, will not do. Shifting a little, he lays his right hand on Watson's own, gently nudging his fingers into a more correct position and guiding them, and the bow, into resuming. Watson catches on instantly, and agreeably consents to being led through the motions. Holmes' left hand snakes on the other side to the fingerboard, prods those thin surgeon's fingers into their proper place, and he admires it all from where he stands, moulded against Watson's back and not-so-secretly revelling in the heat that seeps through the thin layers of fabric between them.

"Why?" he asks, and Watson's smile is, from this point of view, crooked but still brilliant.

"To better understand you," comes the answer, and he is surprised at how much it affects him. He does not show it, of course, but he hums against Watson's skin, and does not fail to notice how, slowly, haltingly, but surely, the violin starts to accompany his voice.


Prompt: WATSON HAS BEEN SECRETLY PLAYING HOLMES' VIOLIN WHILE HE'S OUT BECAUSE HE'S TRYING TO LEARN HOW TO PLAY.

HOLMES COMES HOME EARLY/UNEXPECTEDLY ONE DAY TO FIND WATSON PLAYING HIS VIOLIN AND ITS LIKE HIS TWO LOVES COMING TOGETHER AND HE'S NEVER BEEN SO TURNED ON BEFORE IN HIS LIFE.