Chapter 4
Sherlock slid in the door of 221b, silent as a ghost. All the lights were off except in John's room. The occasional thump and stumble informed Sherlock that John was changing. He would be finished in approximately 2 minutes, and would promptly go to prepare a beverage.
That gave him plenty of time.
Settling himself on the leather swing chair by the desk, Sherlock turned to face the door, and pointedly so that the back faced John's bedroom.
Now all he had to do was wait.
2 minutes later, John turned on the light.
"Hello John." John jumped two feet in the air and yelled in surprise.
Sherlock swung to face John, long legs crossed. Holding up the face mask with one finger through the eye socket, Sherlock let it dangle in the air for a few seconds.
"I believe, John, that this is yours?"
John froze. He seemed tempted to run away for a moment, indecision creeping into his features. Then he bowed his head, and let out a heavy sigh of a defeated man. Looking up at the detective, John's eyes were an amalgamation of emotion so complex that Sherlock could not decipher it.
"Yes. Yes, it's mine."
"I think you have some explaining to do, John."
John remained silent. Walking over to Sherlock, he gently took the mask from his hand, and brushing it tenderly, placed it down on the coffee table.
Walking over to the kitchen, he reached on his tiptoes to fetch two blue mugs from the cupboard. A small stretch of tanned stomach was exposed as his jumper lifted up.
'Sherlock, you dirty pervert!' The skull stage whispered from his hideout in the bin.
Sherlock arched an eyebrow.
"Tea?"
"The usual."
A few minutes later, John handed him a steaming mug of black tea. The doctor plonked himself down on the sofa, cradling his steaming mug.
"The Masked Pianist? Surely something more original would have been in order?"
"It fitted." John laughed bitterly.
"Why the anonymity?"
"Fame entails a lot of things which, frankly, I wasn't ready for. The mask was the perfect solution. I could perform to the public and maintain my normal life, as it were."
"And?"
"Well, assassination and kidnapping was always a worry. Using me to get to you. You know, the usual."
Now for the hardest question.
"Why – why didn't you inform me of the truth behind your late night jaunts? Do you not trust me to keep a secret?"
John looked up suddenly from his cup of tea.
"Of course I trust you Sherlock – with my life. It's just – well you deduced everything about me in the first few seconds after we met. I'm surprised you didn't figure it out before. Living with the world's only consulting detective, it was nice to have one secret that you hadn't deduced. Not a secret anymore, I suppose."
"Who else knows?"
"Mycroft, and know you."
Sherlock bristled. "You told Mycroft?"
John looked away. "Let's just say politely threatened me."
"How long have you been playing?"
"Since I was five years old. Stopped when I was in the Army, started again a three months after 'The Blind Banker'. I hadn't been making much money when I performed as a student, only performing at small venues with disapproving crowds. After Mycroft found out, he gave me my big break, whatever you want to call it. Gave me a new mask, got me in contact with some big names. I've been performing like you saw me tonight for a month now. I owe your brother a lot, my whole career, in fact."
That hurt. God damn John Watson, but it did.
"I see." Sherlock sniffed righteously. John gave him a perceptive look, tilting his head to the right. He scoffed.
"Sherlock, you don't actually think I prefer Mycroft over you, do you? I may owe him, but I still think he's a conniving nosey parker!"
Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John gasped in exasperation. "Really, Sherlock."
Sherlock nodded, satisfied. Taking a deep breath, he said very quickly, "I thought your performance tonight was capable." John's face cracked into a wide grin. "Is that a compliment Sherlock? Why, I think I must be dreaming?" He spoke this with an air of sarcastic amusement, but kindly. John became serious as he next spoke, "I'm forgiven then?"
"Almost," was the only reply.
"So you don't mind if I continue playing?" John asked.
Sherlock smirked. "Hardly my decision to make, is it?"
John beamed. Sherlock smirked.
Writing this, I just realised how implausible it was that Sherlock had not realised that John used to play the piano. He can identify so much about a person from their tie etc etc, but I suppose because John hasn't played since he joined the Army, he would have gotten scars and tan on his hands. I don't know. Oh god, what have I created? A Sherlock that can't deduce? The smell of OOC is in the air. Ah well, I hope you enjoyed the chapter none the less. Only the epilogue to go now! Please review and make me feel better!