"Well? What do you think, boys? Will you be gracing us with your presence?" Lestrade's stupidly wide grin is betrayed by the resignation in his eyes.
In the background, Molly Hooper calls, "It's for a good cause!"
"I don't care about good causes," Sherlock says sourly.
"What he means is, Sherlock will of course play violin at the talent-show fundraiser," John smirks. He thinks it will be fantastic for the Yarders to see a more human version of Sherlock that is still monumentally more talented than the Met.
"I will do no such thing!" Sherlock cried indignantly.
"A word, Sherlock?" John tugs Sherlock aside. There is a nearly audible eye roll from the lanky detective, but he allows himself to be dragged away from a sniggering Donovan.
"Why do you want me to play so badly? I see no reason for me to waste my time with this ridiculous talent show. Phone Mycroft and tell him to donate if the cause means so much to you."
"Sherlock, that's not really the point. Yes, it's a good cause, but did you consider that I have a more personal reason why I might want you to play?"
"You enjoy when I wear a tux. Very well, I'll wear one back at the flat. Now—"
"No, Sherlock. You're going to do this. For me. Because it's important to me, and that's what people who… well that's what's done and I want you to do it. Really, Sherlock, it isn't much to ask. You already like showing off so much."
Sherlock is skeptical, and his eyes study John's face for a moment before a flash of mischief registers.
As the corner of his mouth curls up, John's mouth curves down into a frown. "What is that face for? I don't think I like that face…"
"John," Sherlock says steadily. "I will agree to play for this event on one condition."
"Oh?"
"You play with me. It's a duet or no performance from me."
"Come on, Sherlock. No one wants to hear my rubbish playing. They want to hear you. Just play a Bach partita or something."
"No, John. On this I shall stand firm. Either you play a duet with me, or I don't play at all."
"If I agree to play, you have to also play a solo piece."
"No. Two duets."
"Sherlock be reasonable."
"What for?" Sherlock locks eyes with John and knows that he's won.
Striding back to the Detective Inspector, Sherlock pastes on his best fake smile. "Good news, Lestrade! John and I have both agreed to play for your benefit… concert."
"John as well? Didn't know you played. Well, the more the merrier. Molly plays piano, maybe all three of you could—"
John and Sherlock interrupt with a forceful "No!" right away.
Shaking off the memory of their last ill-fated trio attempt, an impish glint appears in Sherlock's eyes. "Besides, I think she'd be much happier accompanying, say, a certain Detective Inspector's tenor?"
Sally scoffs. "You can't mean Greg. Can Dimmock sing?"
A faint blush creeps across Greg's neck and cheeks. "I can sing quite well, thanks very much, Sally," Lestrade says just above a whisper.
Molly seems oblivious to the awkwardness that has just passed, as she abandons her clipboard full of notes, bouncing over to where the others are all standing at the sign-up sheet on the bulletin board.
"What kind of things do you like to sing, then? I play all sorts of piano music; I'm sure we could find something to do together. I-If you'd like." Molly glances furtively at Sherlock, but John notes it seems to be more of a request for reassurance than anything.
"Yeah, that'd be, er, that'd be nice. If you'll give me a couple of minutes to clean up, we can go grab a coffee and pick out a song?"
John turns to gape at Sherlock. Consulting matchmaker Sherlock Holmes, he thinks to himself wryly.
But John's smirk is short lived as Sherlock swirls back to face him. "Don't think you're getting out of this, John. If I'm going down I'll take you with me," Sherlock menaces.
"We can both go down, but I think we should take turns," John giggles.
Blushing furiously but still managing to roll his eyes, Sherlock shoves John towards the door. "We're leaving, John."
Sherlock has already hailed a cab by the time John gets over his fit of laughter and catches Sherlock up.
Sherlock waits, door open, for John to slide in first. He gets in, settling himself in carefully, and gives their address to the driver.
"Are you quite pleased with yourself, then?" Sherlock mutters bitterly.
"Oh come on, Sherlock. Lighten up. It's not like anyone heard me."
"It was completely immature."
"Maybe, but it was still damn funny."
Arching an eyebrow, Sherlock commands, "Don't do it again."
"Or what?" John goads.
"Or-" Sherlock begins, and then launches himself at John's neck, kissing at first then biting, working a blossoming bruise onto the right side of John's throat.
"Like that, is it? And you did it on the right, too, so I can't blame my viola for it. Very clever, genius man."
John struggles but finally regains the upper hand, but manages only to move Sherlock's scarf out of the way before the cabbie pulls up to 221B.
Sherlock bolts out of the car, leaving John to pay (of course), and John tips the cabbie a little extra for having to put up with all that.
When John makes it upstairs, Sherlock has somehow already managed to have strewn sheet music positively everywhere.
"What the bloody hell are you doing?" John exclaims. "They're in file boxes for a reason, Sherlock! So you can file through them! Not rip them out and toss them any which way you like!"
"I know what piece we're going to play, John! I have to find it, you'll need to begin practicing right away so it's performance-ready on time." Sherlock continues to rifle through the sheet music.
John decides his best bet is to ignore Sherlock, make himself a cup of tea, and maybe update his blog. Who knows, perhaps he can drum up some extra charity from his readers.
As John proof reads his blog entry, Sherlock erupts from a pile of papers with a small bound volume in both hands. He gazes at it reverently.
"This one. Go get your viola. You're awful at double stops and this has quite a few of them. Accidentals everywhere. You'll need to practice constantly. But it's the perfect piece."
"Thanks for the ringing endorsement, Sherlock. I suppose you already know your part perfectly, then? And what are we playing that's so perfect?"
"Robert Fuchs' 12 Duets for Violin and Viola. I think the 10th piece should work nicely. I've actually… I've never played it. It was given to me as a graduation gift from university, but by then my previous duet partner wasn't talking to me and I had no one to play it with."
A warm smile blooms across John's face. Sherlock's inadvertent reminder that John was the only one he trusted to play with was enough to repress the joke forming in John's head. He'd save it for later.
"How about I go shake some of the sight-reading cobwebs out, and then we'll run through it together?"
"Yes, fine," Sherlock says. He's already slunk off to his room, rummaging around for something else now.
Shaking his head, John heads upstairs to his room with the sheet music. As he fits his shoulder rest to his instrument, he hears music wafting from downstairs.
But it wasn't Sherlock playing. Cocking his head, John realises the music is coming from a record player. Double stops singing out between the crackles and pops make John open the music in front of him. He's only missed a few measures, so he scans the page and follows along.
Sherlock was right, as always; this piece is breath-taking. Mournful, harmonically complex, and hinting just enough at hope as to not be too depressing, John closes his eyes and lets the music fill his nose, his lungs, his entire body.
When the piece draws to a close, John picks up his viola, brushes through a couple of the nastier looking measures, and then packs everything rather quickly to head downstairs. Sherlock is about to restart the record. John softly places his viola down on the coffee table, and then steps over to where Sherlock has installed the phonograph.
Sherlock's eyes are closed as the opening chords fill their sitting room again, and John wraps his arms around Sherlock's waist, pressing his mouth to Sherlock's shoulder blades without really kissing him. They sway back and forth gently, in wider movements when the piece crescendos and smaller as it fades quietly. When the final chord comes to an end, neither man breathes. Everything is still inside 221B, not a sound save for the crackling of the record.
They stand this way for several more minutes, until all of their muscles seem to have relaxed. Sherlock picks up John's hand from its place on the detective's waist, and kisses his knuckles.
"Would you like to..?"
Go to bed together? Play the piece? Run away to Sweden?
"Yes," John breathes quietly, yes to anything you say, Sherlock. Thank you for opening up to me so much.
But John cannot say this; he is worried that Sherlock will mock him for such sentimentality. He can't hold it against Sherlock that he doesn't like to express such 'meaningless drivel', but deep down, John hopes that Sherlock feels it just as John does.
With another quick squeeze, John lets go of Sherlock, waiting to follow Sherlock's lead. Sherlock turns around, and looks into John's face, eyes wet and aquamarine.
"Sherlock?" John says tenderly.
Sherlock puts his index finger under John's chin, tilting his face up. John stretches up on tip toes and Sherlock meets him with a long, slow kiss. John could melt.
Pulling back from the kiss, Sherlock brushes John's cheek in the sweetest gesture John has ever seen, so unlike Sherlock and yet so fitting for this moment.
"Let's give it a go, then," Sherlock says, some of the vulnerability fading from his features.
John nods his head and picks up his viola. Sherlock counts them off and they pull their instruments up to their chins.
###
"I do hope you're not planning matching outfits for us or something," Sherlock whines.
"What gave you that impression? I just think we should look... coordinated."
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Just don't wear any jumpers. A button-up and those grey trousers will do for you."
"And you'll be wearing what?"
Sherlock smoothes his hands over his silk shirt. "Please, John. I'll be wearing what I always wear; I see no reason to dress up and I'm always much better dressed than you."
"I thought you liked my jumpers," John pouts.
"I like taking your jumpers off of you," Sherlock suggests, and swaggers forward to press a wet kiss to John's lips.
John's hands slide over Sherlock's back as the detective's find John's hips, tugging at the hem of his oatmeal jumper.
Sherlock quirks his mouth into a smile, making John giggle as they try to continue the kiss. Finally wrestling the jumper off of John's torso, Sherlock breaks the kiss to take it over his violist's head.
"Now, let's see about finding you a suitable shirt. I rather like you in burgundy, I think," Sherlock muses.
He rifles through John's wardrobe until he finds a deep red button up shirt, and then yanks out a pair of grey trousers and tosses both to John.
"Put these on," Sherlock instructs. "I've an experiment to tend to briefly and then we'll be off." He swirls out of the room.
John sighs, but begins pulling on the shirt Sherlock has selected. When he's checked himself in the mirror, he turns down the stairs to meet Sherlock in the sitting room.
"See?" Sherlock says with a smirk, "you look much nicer without that bulky jumper."
John purses his lips. "Enough with the jumper hate," he scolds.
"You can put them back on later; if we're going to perform at this insufferable thing, I want to show you off," Sherlock says in a low voice, "to everyone."
"You what?"
"I want them to see you as I do," Sherlock whispers. "It's infuriating that I can't...you really shouldn't be as interesting as you are, and yet there is something so wonderful, so perfect about how average you are."
"Thank you, I think?"
Sherlock leans down to press a kiss to John's hair. "Ready to go?"
John pulls Sherlock back down for a proper kiss, but realising that it was time to leave, pulls away after only a moment.
Sherlock pouts and tries to recapture John's mouth in the kiss. "We don't have to go, you know," he tries to say casually. It comes out pleadingly.
"What, all that practicing for nothing?" John straightens Sherlock's shirt, then rests his hands on the detective's chest. "Besides, I thought you wanted to show me off."
"Hmm, yes I suppose I do. Well let's get to it then, shall we?"
Grabbing their instruments and making sure the music is tucked safely in the outside pocket of John's case, the two descend the steps down back street.
Sherlock hails a cab for them, and they climb in, hands linked, instruments on their laps, and sit in contented silence on the ride to the yard. It seems strange to have their instruments with them going to the police station, but when they arrive, they see that a few others have brought instruments, books, and Sherlock notes that it seems Anderson fancies himself a magician.
"Afternoon, gentlemen," Lestrade offers with a broad smile. "Glad you could make it. We're using my office for personal effects, if you'd like to unpack and leave your cases in there. We'll be starting in a few minutes. Thought it might be nice if you boys finished the show, so you'll be last."
Lestrade hands them both a program, listing the eleven acts the Yard has managed to scrape together: A desk clerk reciting a poem, a few officers singing a barber-shop style medley, a clarinet trio ("Sure to be insufferable," complains Sherlock), Anderson attempting magic tricks, a juggling act, Dimmock has some sort of wretched stand-up comedy routine planned, Sergeant Donovan whistling?, some poor sap under the impression he can break-dance, an Irish step dancer, Lestrade and Molly's piano/singing duo, and finally John and Sherlock's duet.
The boys tune their instruments, and obediently take their seats, though Sherlock insists upon sulking in the back row. The clarinet trio was awful as expected, but when Anderson takes the stage with a deck of cards and a handful of red foam balls, Sherlock smirks and leans into John's ear to whisper, "I daresay that this will possibly make this entire event worth it."
With a great deal of tacky showmanship and 'disappearing ball' tricks, Anderson promises "one final act," presumably before he is booed off the make-shift stage. He then tries to make a scarf vanish, and then pull it out of a shirt sleeve. Sherlock all but guffaws while the rest of the audience manages polite applause.
There is a fairly good turnout for the event, much to everyone's delight. Except of course, Sherlock, who really couldn't care how many people turned up.
Sally Donovan actually had an interesting act, whistling O mio babbino caro, from a Puccini opera. John thinks to himself that maybe now, Sherlock will be marginally nicer to Sally, given her apparent interest in opera music.
The two dance acts, if they could be called that, were disastrous, but both John and Sherlock sit up a little a straighter as a small electric piano is wheeled out, and Lestrade and Molly take to the stage. They both look like school children, how much they blush in each other's presence, which John finds endearing and Sherlock claims is 'revoltingly dull' (even though he was the one who suggested their [musical] union. With a short piano intro, Greg began to sing Danny Boy; though Sherlock mutters that the song choice is pedestrian, he cannot deny that the pair does it well. Lestrade's voice is warm and clear, and Molly's playing, while she stumbles over a few notes, compliments him well.
They receive a heartfelt round of applause, during which Sherlock squeezes John's hand quickly, and the two stand up. Officer Evans jogged back to the microphone to introduce John and Sherlock as the final act while the two men set their music stands and quietly check to see if their strings are still in tune.
Satisfied, Evans returns to his seat, and the two men bring their instruments to their shoulders. John realises he is shaking like a leaf; it's been quite a while since he's played for an audience, especially people he knows and not just strangers at his uni recitals.
But when Sherlock's eyes lock onto his, the nerves quiet down, and John forgets the audience as his world shifts focus to Sherlock and the music and nothing else.
As they soar through the oscillating harmonies and pass through rhythms a together, John feels the energy pulsing through his veins. Sherlock never looks at his music; eyes always fixed on John, he is more expressive, more open than John has ever heard his playing. John finds that he has the music memorised, too, and it feels more natural to just close his eyes and feel Sherlock's lead.
Sherlock has closed his eyes, too, and they have moved closer on the stage. Not a breathe moves in the audience, transfixed by the perfect synchrony and just how attuned John and Sherlock are.
Lestrade muses that it really oughtn't to surprise him that in music, they would be every bit as coordinated and complimentary. Sherlock is still the more talented of the two, but John makes up for it with raw passion and emotion that seeps from his instrument and across the room.
When the final, gentle note sounds, no one even breathes. Finally, John and Sherlock both open their eyes simultaneously, and slowly let their bow arms drop. Lestrade and Molly tentatively start a quiet clap, and when the others join in it becomes enthusiastic and wild.
John and Sherlock, though, are still locked away in their own private world. Without thinking, Sherlock steps forward. John mirrors his movement, and together they meet in a deep, languid kiss. A few gasps and hollers flew at them, and coming back to reality, John sheepishly pulled away.
Sherlock, unperturbed as always, drew him back to him, kissing him once more amongst wolf-whistles and what Sherlock would later describe as the most stunning expression of stupidity ever to cross Anderson's face.
##
After the fundraiser was cleaned up and the drawers counted, the team finds that they had raised about a thousand pounds. Considering their meagre showcase, Lestrade is thrilled with the results. He invites everyone out to drinks, and somehow, he and John convince Sherlock to join them.
"Great show, everyone!" Greg calls out, raising a glass. A chorus of "cheers" followed, and then Molly appeared at Greg's side. The Detective Inspector instantly snaked an arm around her waist. Though she seemed surprised, she also appeared quite pleased with the situation.
"I didn't know you could sing so well, Greg!" John teased. "Course I didn't know that Molly even played piano, so I guess lots of hidden talents in your team, eh?"
"Except," interrupts Sherlock, "for Dimmock and Anderson. Though Anderson I expected from the start would be an utter disappointment."
Lestrade chuckles. "Dimmock wasn't so bad; I do have to agree with you on Anderson, though. A monkey could see through his 'disappearing' acts."
Molly pipes up. "John, we didn't know you were so talented, either."
Taking a sip of his beer, John smiles politely. "I'm really not. Sherlock's the talent; I'm just the back up to make him sound good."
"Nonsense," Sherlock rumbles. Everyone is surprised. He looks incredulous as he continues, "Without an even balance, that piece is awful. It can't be a one-violin show, nor can it be too viola driven. It is the careful juxtaposition and blend of the two voices that creates such a divine harmony."
The table is quiet, and John looks at Sherlock with such amazement that Sherlock adds in a lower voice, "I couldn't have done that without you."
"Thank you, Sherlock," John says quietly, and leans forward to kiss Sherlock's cheek. "That was... thank you."
"It's the truth, John."
"It's still nice to hear it once in a while."
Lestrade and Molly have moved closer again, as Lestrade wraps an arm around her and she snuggles in closer.
"Well I'm glad the evening went so well," John tries, "but those nerves got me. Think I'll head home."
Sherlock jumps up and grabs his coat, as if John leaving without him were the most foolish notion in the world.
Sherlock offers a curt nod as a goodbye to Lestrade and Molly, and John offers a handshake to Lestrade and a brief squeeze of Molly's shoulder as he wishes them a happy evening.
Stepping outside into the cool night air, Sherlock hails a cab as effortlessly as always, and they clamber into the back seat while Sherlock gives their address.
"Well I guess the Yard knows about us, yeah?" John tries to chuckle but it sounds fake to his own ears. There is a long silence.
"John," Sherlock says simply.
"Sherlock," John replies in the same manner. A few more minutes tick by.
"Thank you for doing this with me," Sherlock says finally, though his discomfort is almost tangible.
"You do remember it was my idea for you to play in this silly thing, right?"
"But I was the one to suggest a duet. So thank you for going along with it."
"When do I not?" Teases John.
"Your conformity to my needs and demands is ... flattering."
The cab pulls up to their flat. Suddenly, Sherlock leans forward, kisses John's lips quickly, and says so quietly John isn't quite sure if he really says it: "I love you." And the detective flies out of the cab and bounds up the stairs.
It's not their first 'I love you,' but the phrase is still so new and intimate that John freezes for a moment. The cabbie snaps him out of it when he asks for John to pay. Taking the bills out of his wallet, he hands them to the driver, and walks on clouds all the way up to 221B.