II. Allegro

The Argument

"…Final assignments include a presentation and performance of a Sonata or Duo from the following list; you will be pairing off to complete the project. Bach Harpsichord and Violin Sonatas, any of the six…Yoonjin and Frank, why don't you take that. Mozart K 424, that's violin and viola…anyone? Excellent, Min-Sun and David. Brahms first Clarinet Sonata, Sally obviously, and- Christine, alright. Franck Sonata- "

"Sherlock and Molly started that piece and never finished it, I think they should do it," supplies John helpfully. Sherlock's head has snapped around so quickly you can hear his neck crack, eyes narrowing in disbelief and betrayal as John smirks behind his hand. Molly's eyes are round with horror, her mouth half ajar in an unheard protest.

"…Yes, that would be fine, Sherlock and Molly for the Franck Sonata…that leaves the viola and cello Duos, John and Mary that'll be you- Piazzolla La Calle 92 and the Hindemith Scherzo. Any questions..?" The remainder of the lecture is, none too sadly, lost to the records, as John sits smugly with his arms folded across his chest, Sherlock hissing at him with the venom of a snake, though it doesn't quite reach the fleeting look of anxiety in his eyes.

"…is there a problem, Sherlock? John?"

Sherlock clears his throat, straightens his jacket, flicks a nonexistent crumb from the edge of his sleeve. "Yes, there is. I would…prefer not to play with Molly, if it's just as well." he says, face blank except for the small furrow creasing his brow.

"I'm afraid not, it's all been settled in the book already. Alright, that's it for today, any other questions, see me in my office." says Ms. Fung briskly, collecting her papers into a neat folder and hurrying out before any of them have had much of a chance to move. In a hurry. Date tonight.

Molly follows suit, her lips pinched tightly together and her bag clutched to her breast, ponytail swinging wildly as she darts for the door.

"Nicely done, you giant git," comments John, eyeing Molly's hurried exit while packing up his own bag. "Oh, Mary- would you mind waiting a mo', so we can set up..?"

Mary flashes him a quick grin, "I'll be outside, yeah?" and leaves John with a little smile as she steps out of the classroom. Sherlock's eyes flick between the two of them, and he pushes a sigh out exasperatedly. "Oh for Christ's sake, you've only just dumped the other one- "

"No, no, we had a mutual- "

"It's never mutual, John. And why did you volunteer Molly? It's completely imbecilic, this need you have to push me at women, John- I've told you once if I've told you a hundred times, I only want the violin. I only need the violin. So stop this idiocy, or so help me- "

"What? What are you going to do, Sherlock, find another flat-mate that you can drag out of bed at 3 in the bloody morning to confirm that yes, that passage is in tune? I won't be doing that forever, even being your- your best mate, I won't, I can't, because- I'm 26, Sherlock, and one day I'll meet someone and I will move out, and- and you won't be alone, you'll never be alone, but I won't be there, always, all the time…" and John grinds to a halt, because the look on Sherlock's face is so perfectly dispassionate, and yet so vulnerable.

"I hope you'll be happy with her, then, John, whoever she is," Sherlock snaps, before sweeping from the classroom, back ramrod straight and tense with apprehension. John stares after him for a moment, before stuffing his notebook back into his bag and muttering, "One day, you'll thank me."

The classroom is left in its own blissful silence, for just a moment, before the next pack of hot-headed college students pack their way in.

MOLLY

New York City. It had become more of a home to me than London ever had been- but I suppose that came with the no-rules mentality that was a college student's first year. But never mind the overwhelming opportunity to do anything- I could take a two hour walk in Central Park, just five minutes from my dorm room. I could shell out fifteen dollars to stand through the entirety of The Magic Flute at the back of the Met. I could stare at a Rothko painting at the MoMa until the colors bled together into something new and fantastic, present every time I blinked my eyes. I could order take-away at 1 in the morning. I could smoke hookah in the Village. I even knew where I could get cocaine, if I felt so inclined. (Ironically, from a bassist on 125th St.).

This City, with it's smelly stinking subway, with it's art, it's music and poetry and insanity, was my cultural playground. I embraced it. And, I'll admit, I was lost in it, for at least a semester.

Back where I left you, in my high school years- it had been a whirlwind of preparation for what felt like dozens of auditions- but was more like seven. It was preparing for a senior recital, preparing for the last orchestral concert of the year, the last chamber music concert of the year- and from this frenzy of activity, it was suddenly- over. The entirety of your recent existence, charging forward to be the best you can possibly be for ten minute auditions…I wouldn't call it exhausting, even though it is definitely also that. It is all-consuming. Every waking moment you tally the amount of practice time you can rack up in a day. Which piano room did I sign up for today? Was it the new Steinway, or that sad and semi-decrepit Schimmel off the hallway or, God forbid, the piece-of-shit Kawai upright that shouldn't ever grace a prep-school's presence?

I gathered my repertoire to myself, over the years- pieces by Bach, Beethoven, Schubert, Chopin, Liszt, Rachmaninoff, Prokofiev…the list could go on. I coaxed them all into existence, took pride in every one of them. My Senior year of high school, I did almost nothing but practice. Five hours was a good day, but not a great day- academic classes were an appalling waste of time, and I skipped as often as I could manage without failing. Breaks were in the form of ten-minute naps under the piano. Practice rooms were savagely guarded: I ate, drank and breathed the piano.

It was admirable, really- even I can admit that. But the silliest, most shameful, niggling tiny part of my brain always remembered him. So when I heard he had been admitted to Curtis, some little part of me went into overdrive. I had to go there. No matter it was the best music school in the world; no matter there were only three openings for piano next year- not only would I study with the best professors, he would be there.

Like I said: shameful. Stupid. So unbelievably ridiculous that I don't think I ever really admitted it to myself until much, much later. And anyway, was it really so terrible to strive for the best?

Obviously, it wasn't to be.

My audition wasn't bad, or anything- no, I didn't get into Curtis. I passed the pre-screening, but I didn't even make it to the second round. I sat on a bench in the lobby after the audition- which I thought had gone fairly well- next to an equally nervous, curly-haired girl, waiting for the results to be posted.

She made the next round. I didn't.

When I went to Juilliard in the fall, toting one suitcase of clothes and one of music, I met my roommate- and it was the same girl from the audition. Some small part of myself found a savage pleasure in her appearance- she didn't make it either.

I kept to myself, mostly, during those first few years in the City. My roommate, whose name was Chanah, became a good friend, and in our third year we rented a flat together in Brooklyn. I managed to find a cheap, lopsided little upright and we moved it in with us, with complaints only from the uptight writer next door. I'm meditating, she would say, can't you play later? Never mind that this was a near daily occurrence, most often in the middle of the afternoon. I might add that she used to call the police on us, and what can an officer do, when the source of the trouble is two nice girls that play the piano? She moved out eventually- and I'm quite convinced this was entirely our doing. We bought a pint of posh gelato and drank champagne the day she left, and took turns practicing increasingly bombastic music till even the delis refused to take our delivery orders.

I was a good pianist- am a good pianist. I worked hard, neglected most of my academic classes, struggled with keyboard skills, excelled at ear training. I won the Concerto Competition one year, with Bartok's 2nd- a surprise to more than just myself. I even had a boyfriend, for a short time- but I eventually realized that he was unequivocally boring- that his plan involved getting an orchestra position God knows where, and settling down to have a family. I wasn't interested: my life, I told myself, just couldn't be that boring.

Then he came.

REHEARSAL I

"Sherlock!" He was walking swiftly down the hall, his case at his hip, peering into practice room windows for an empty room with increasing frustration. He turned and waited as I hurried up to him. As always, his face was a carefully controlled mask as he looked down on me. I felt the whips of butterfly wings in my stomach as he said, "Yes?" And then I tried to squash all the butterflies, violently, because there was nothing more stupid than having a crush on Sherlock Holmes.

"We need to, um, schedule our rehearsal, I thought maybe Thursday- "

"Why not now?" he asked, his eyes pinning me with their intensity. I froze.

"Now?"

"Yes, now, obviously- have you got anything better to do, right now?"

"Well, um, I suppose not, but I'd really rather practice a bit more- "

But he was off already, scanning the corridor for a free room. I hurried after him, bag bouncing at my hip.

"Sherlock, I'll play horribly! And since we decided to focus on the second movement- you know it's the hardest for the piano- "

He smirked at me over his shoulder, and I felt the unfamiliar sensation of rage beginning to make itself known in my belly. I stopped and glared at him, pulling at the strap of my bag where my hair had gotten caught.

"If you think this is a joke- "

"Nonsense. Ah, here's a room, in we go," and he stood against the door frame, gesturing at me to hurry up. I sighed and entered reluctantly, sitting at the piano while he hoisted his case onto the piano's top and proceeded to take out his instrument. I looked at the poor piano, a battered old Steinway that had scratches more akin to claw-marks over every note on the keyboard. How some people rail away at the instrument, as if it had given them a personal offense- enough to scratch away the very wood with their nails- well, I will never know.

I gave the keys a swift wipe-down with one of the sani-wipes I carry with me at all times, and looked up to see Sherlock staring at me, his mouth twisted in amusement. "What?" I asked irritably, rubbing at some of the marks on the keys. "On an average day, at least ten people will touch this piano. Twenty, if we're lucky. And then they practice, and sweat, all over the keys. And if that's not disgusting enough, think about the half of those people who don't wash their hands after using the toilet- or worse, after holding the poles on the subway. And then- "

"I think I've rather gotten the picture," he interrupted. "On with it, let's play."

And with folded lips, ripe with annoyance, I plunked the music open and began to run through those tongue-twister arpeggios, at a speed I knew I couldn't keep up. But, you see, it was a dare: every line I played, my irritation grew ten-fold. Who did he think he was, after all these years, still the complete arse-hole that I'd left behind? And why couldn't I say a single word to stand up for myself? It was pathetic, and I pounded at the keys, playing much louder than the marking warranted. I glared at him over the top of the music, where he stood waiting for his entrance with one eyebrow raised. And that slim eyebrow, raised in the most perfect of arches, absolutely infuriated me: I dared him to enter my frenzy of notes, the whirlpool of my rising anger.

And he did. Somehow, I hadn't expected him to; had hoped he would stop me and shout at the ridiculous tempo and dynamic- but no. There he was, matching me, note for note, with his own brand of icy fury leveling to my passion, jumping on his entrances as if he couldn't bear for me to have another phrase to myself.

We quieted for a moment, as the music presented itself in my questions, his responses- plaintive and anguished, and I thought, just for a moment, that If this were a performance, it might not be half bad…But then he ruined it, like he always, always does. He seized his next prolonged entrance, full of flicking fingers and sixteenth notes, and took off, staring at me the whole while, as if to emphasize his complete superiority in playing, the way his hands flew across the strings, up and down, while I worked myself into a sweating frenzy with most of the notes slipping into the cracks. And he just looked at me.

I couldn't stand it- the knowledge that he didn't want me- not even for a bloody assignment- it all came crashing down into cluster chords of fists and elbows on the poor, spent piano. I screamed in frustration, banging my shin against the bench as I stood abruptly, my fingers grabbing at the first thing they came into contact with- and I watched my score sail through the air towards his head. He dodged it nimbly, and his eyes darkened as he whirled to protect his instrument. "Why don't you want to play with me!" I shrieked at him, and his expression turned to marble. "What have I ever done- you know what, sod it. Fuck you, Sherlock."

And then I had to go scoot around him and the piano, to collect my fallen music in the corner of the room while he stood and watched me silently, arms still wrapped protectively around his violin. I scrambled from the room in humiliation.

I was already on the street, heading towards Columbus Circle at a pace that sharply reminded my legs it had been ages since I'd visited the gym, when my phone chirped in my pocket. I ignored it. Into the subway, running to catch a train just as it's doors were closing, and I slumped into an empty seat next to a woman in need of a good shower. The phone chirped again; I pulled it slowly from my pocket, suddenly exhausted from my outburst.

Next rehearsal at my flat. Mycroft has a 7 ft German Steinway, I trust you'll enjoy it. Thursday, 7:00.

SH

I stared, and read it again. I felt the slightest quirk of a smile touch my lips.

JOHN

Living with Sherlock Holmes has been nothing else but an experiment in patience. I say this in all truthfulness, with a certain amount of annoyance, aggravation, complete frustration and indignation- and of course, a dash of affection and- all right, admiration. We have been living in this flat for the better part of five years, after Sherlock was 'asked' never to return to the dormitories again. It is in this spirit that I dash up the stairs one Friday afternoon, only to find the Holmes brothers at the ritual that is Tea.

AN INTERLUDE

"It has come to my attention that you intend to have a rehearsal involving the use of my piano. Is this true?" Mycroft sits, cross-legged, in an over-stuffed armchair, the thin line of his lips betraying no expression other than mild curiosity.

"Of course it's true, and you already knew the answer. So the question remains, does it bother you, hm? Perhaps you'd rather we use a decrepit practice-room instrument when we've a perfectly good one at hand?"

Sherlock stretches his hands behind his head, stretching out on the sofa and glancing at John as he enters the room. "Pass me my mobile, John. Coat pocket."

"What was that, Sherlock? Would I fancy a cuppa? Why yes, I would, as a matter of fact. Oh look, and it's still hot, how kind of you to think of me. Here's your phone, you git," John grumbles, tossing the phone to Sherlock, who only barely catches it, before collapsing onto the sofa himself. Mycroft smirks at him over the rim of his cup.

"As I was saying, the piano, Sherlock? And who is the pianist in question?"

"That would be the lovely Miss Hooper," says John, in a passable imitation of Mycroft's prim posturing, and pours himself a cup of tea.

"Yes, quite," snaps Sherlock. "Thursday at 7. You've got Composer's Orchestra during that time anyway, and I'm quite certain Moya's atrocity for tuba and orchestral accompaniment- what was it called? Ah, yes, Memorex, that's an inspired title, by the way - will keep you occupied for far longer than necessary."

"D'you think that's the medication he's on, Memorex? Going for an auto-biographical take?" John chimes in, blowing at his tea as the steam rises from the top of his mug.

"Don't be absurd, he's just using an edgy- that's the word they're using now, isn't it?- name to keep people from forgetting it and, oh look, there we've all remembered it. And anyway he's got a not-so-hidden stash of valium for the just-in-case-jitters. Molly doesn't bang, Mycroft, you've nothing to fear for your precious piano, she's perfectly capable- "

"I'm aware that she plays adequately- "

"More than adequately- "

"I am simply not comfortable.."

"For God's sake Mycroft, leave it!" and he's up and out of his chair quicker than you can snap your fingers; the stairs quiver and creak, and the strains of Paganini hit their ears a moment later.

"This is very good tea," says John, chocolate biscuit crumbs spilling down his jumper.

REHEARSAL II

She takes a breath and hits the buzzer, toying nervously with the fraying adjustment straps of her backpack. Three seconds…four pass by, and the door buzzes back at her, waiting to be opened. Two flights of stairs up, and she lifts her hand to knock before the door is flung open. She steps back, surprised, as Sherlock fills the doorway and pushes past her down the stairs.

"Oh, um, we're not…rehearsing, then?"

"Of course we are, downstairs," he calls over his shoulder, already at the first landing. She hurries after him into the flat, down the hall, and stops short at the sight of the piano.

It is a curious thing that musicians can rarely afford beautiful instruments for themselves. Given the cost of a quality piano (a new Concert Grand Steinway goes for something like $80,000), how on Earth can a musician ever hope to own one for themselves? Although, Molly supposes, it must be much worse for string players. She runs her hand along the length of the piano. It is a lovely and cared for instrument, she can see; with no dust whispering across the soundboard or the initials of students painted onto the metal casings. No, it is all shining long lines and crisp, clean action. She drags her nails gently along the strings, enjoying the glow of sound that shimmers up.

"Do you like it?" he says. She turns, smiling to him. He's watching her with those cat-eyes, and she shivers slightly.

"It's wonderful," she admits, shrugging her backpack off and sitting at the bench. The keys are immaculate, the action brisk, and she sets off in a Chopin etude to awaken her fingers.

They go through the motions, again, of warming up, the tuning and tweaking of stands and pegs and knobs. The room is charged with a mixture of nervousness and apprehension, as they both barely dare to look at each other from the corners of eyes.

"Why did you say you don't want to play with me?" she asks suddenly,

He sighs out through his nose. That again, she'll never let it go. "Because I work alone. And because John has a ridiculous notion that I need someone- a girl someone- in my life. Other than him. Because he is obviously a girl and wants nothing more to do with my advances."

He says it so quickly, so convincingly, that is all she can do to squeak out a barely audible "Oh- oh, alright, well- " before he's back with one quirked eyebrow and, "That's sarcasm. I trust you are familiar with it."

He's raised himself from his seat and stands close to the piano, gesturing with his bow at the music. "Shall we play, then?"

She smiles at him, then, a timid thing that seems to reach forth and lift the corners of his mouth as well. The arpeggios begin to pour out of her fingers, and she can see him watching her, always watching her, with eyes that dart between her face and hands. And when he brings his bow down onto the strings in that first, fierce phrase, the unity of spirit is apparent again, somehow- like it was all those years ago. She shivers with the memory, and for all of a minute, it is easy. The one-ness, the pleasant quiver she feels running up her spine- it's not romance, not the type of mushy stuff that gets thrown up on the television for no particular reason; it's not the sudden electric thrill of partners for life, or a be my soulmate! spelled out in so many notes- no. It's truth, in the most honest form that human beings are capable of giving one other: music. And the music is an angry truth, a hurt and stunted blossom of persistent hope.

She doesn't look at him. She doesn't have to look at him, and she feels it as he does, when the music melds with their fingers and in the air and in the tiniest hollows of their bodies and beings. It is a peculiar sort of joy, the type that hurts a bit, to connect with the person that you just might love in this way. He moves, she moves. And she realizes the comfort that is most beautiful about music: when you ask a question to the cosmos, it is answered. So she thinks, Maybe, and lets the anger lose it's potency, allows it to be pushed to the side, just a little, and answers him with hope.

And she feels his reaction, immediately: like the instruments have been thrust slightly off balance, and suddenly they are milliseconds apart, instead of one sound. She looks at him then, and his eyes are cool, shuttered, vacant in the face of the music.

The movement is finished in a wash of cold that is far, far worse than the graceless heat of anger.

THE CLASS

She's bitten her nails down to the quick, and now they hurt. Every time she draws her thumb across the tortured pad of a finger, a little shock of pain travels up through her fingertips. She gnaws on them anyway, all through Min-Sun and David's Mozart, through the harpsichord and violin Sonata. She's trying to stop herself from looking sideways at Sherlock every thirty seconds, and settles on every few minutes instead, but it's not doing any good- he's slouched in his chair, violin lain casually in the crook of his arm, the rosined bow leaving marks across his lap. She starts, as the applause crackles through the room, and joins half-heartedly, feeling her stomach starting to tighten with nerves. It's not like she's never performed before, she reasons, it's just always nerve-wracking to play in front of her peers. And then there's…him…that stuck-up sod, whose pale face shows only traces of boredom.

"Molly and Sherlock, you're up," says Ms. Fung as the applause dies down, and before she knows it she's in front of the class, seated at the piano bench, trying desperately to breathe in slowly through her nose, out through her mouth, in through her nose…

He stalks to the front of the classroom, adjusting the stand to a height meant to emphasize that he's only got a stand because it's a requirement of chamber music, and not because he hasn't got it memorized. He peers over at Molly, who is clearly attempting to stifle her nerves, and suppresses a flash of irritation. He clears his throat pointedly, one sharp eyebrow raised at her, and with a whoosh of breath, Molly lets her fingers begin to play.

It's much too slow. And weak. Such weak playing! He sees that she feels it, and has her nose wrinkled in irritation, struggling to master the adrenaline and unsteadiness in her fingers. And so, obviously, in an attempt to pull things along -it is chamber music, after all, he gets just as much a say as she does- he barrels in, pushing the tempo forward. Each entrance comes in quick succession, the sound of the rich G string cutting through the piano's texture- but he's also cutting her off, stepping on her notes in an effort to push her forward. He smirks to himself, knowing that they must sound terrible, and looks sidelong at Molly, her fingers flailing every which way.

Is he smirking?! Does he think this is funny, because it bloody well is not and…ohh, the bastard wants to play fast, does he? Alright then, Sherlock Holmes, two can play at this game..

He's out of tune. Oh, good God, and there goes that slide. He hates the fact that he's beginning to lose control, because he never loses control- but the fact remains that he simply couldn't be bothered to practice this since the last rehearsal, and no, he is not over-confident, thank you very much.

What the hell is she doing? Oh, faster, is it? Lucky for you, Miss Hooper, I have significantly less notes.

He misses a whole passage. His fingers fall of the fingerboard with a horrible squeak and plucking sound, and as he dives for the next high note, the hair of his bow gets caught on the bridge. He sighs loudly, ploughing through, and chances a glance at John.

John is determinedly studying his nails. There is a tick in his jaw.

Oh my God, he's playing worse than me. He's playing worse, it's a complete sodding nightmare, but at least I'll have this to hang over his head for the rest of his life- completely NOT my fault. FUCK you, Sherlock, FUCK YOU.

Her hands are beginning to lock, and her heart pounds in her chest. Never, never has she ever given a performance as bad as this. She thinks, in the part of her brain that is above the red panic, that if this is the most humiliating point of her life, then at least it'll be over and done with soon and she can console herself with a pint of Ben and Jerry's when she gets home.

When her left hand spasms, she slams it onto a cluster of black notes.

Ohgodohgodohgodohgod… I will never spare another glance for you, Sherlock, never, ever again…

His bow skips as her cluster chord crashes into his ears. He can see John jump in his seat slightly, and it is then that he decides, Sod this.

They have reached the coda: animato poco a poco. He slams on the gas, as it were- fingers flying recklessly over the assaulting arpeggios, bow bouncing madly over the strings. He takes his eyes off his fingers, and looks at her, a wild grin spreading across his face. I can play FAST, it says.

She glares back at him for that one moment, and then looks down at her fingers, desperately racing to catch up. It's just one disaster after another, and she seems to be watching her hands move as if on autopilot, and it's in a moment of wonder, where she has completely lost Sherlock in his madness and stolidly reaches towards the ending- that she realizes he has finished. He has finished the movement, and here she is playing like an idiot. Her hands falter, and she looks at him.

I WIN! His face says, I win, I got there first, and you were measures and measures and MEASURES behind.

There is silence in the classroom.

Nothing for it, she decides grimly, and bangs out one last, massive D Major chord, before getting up quickly and walking out of the room.

ELSEWHERE

"That was..spectacularly bad," John says, as they tramp through the streets the cold wind slicing through their coats and biting at their cheeks.

Sherlock is silent, his face white and unmoving.

"You ought to apologize to Molly…"

He wheels, stopping to face his friend, the ever-present cello case bobbing alongside.

"Not good?"

A sigh, deep and exhausted, blows out through John's lips. "No, Sherlock. Not good."

In the aftermath, as Sherlock sniffs at his final grades for the semester, he is not at all surprised at the ripe little D that graces their joint project.