Gustave came to him every day since he heard about the Jury. Mrs Hudson, wringing her hands, begged him to help her persuade Sherlock to eat something at least, but all they achieved was talking to him through the closed door of his atelier. If the few "noes" and "go aways" count as talking. Sherlock didn't leave his atelier, no one saw him for three days except Gustave who kept knocking, shouting, threatening, begging, but achieved nothing.

"Please Sherlock… my dear boy," Gustave whispered affectionately to the closed door, "you have to go out, sitting here will do you no good." Gustave's pleadings never provoked an answer.

Sherlock spent the following days lying sleepless and restless on his bed, his hands clasped under his chin, staring at the ceiling or into the light coming through the window, but mostly looking at the little painting, the one he was working on all night when he returned from LeBlancs'. He took it to bed with him, and squeezing the corners of the canvas with his shaking, stiff fingers, he stared at it musingly, fixing his eyes fixed on the painted figure.

On the fourth day, when Gustave came to him once again, Sherlock shouted an angry "Go away" the second he heard at the knock on the door. However, Gustave didn't give up easily.

"Sherlock, listen to me…" Gustave began, and hearing no answer he sighed and went on. "There is someone here with me… someone who wants to see you. Can you let us in?"

Sherlock suspiciously looked at the door, Gustave's voice indeed seemed different today, giving away a hint of excitement… why?

"Who?" Sherlock answered him, his voice hoarse and so quiet he wasn't even sure if the other man heard him.

"Monsieur Holmes," spoke the unfamiliar voice behind the door, "my name is Claude Monet. We met before in Moulin de la Galette."

Sherlock stood up from the bed and put away the portrait he was holding, floor cracking under his feet as he slowly approached the door. The suspicious look on his face was replaced by curiosity and he licked his dried lips, gazing at the door as if he wanted to pierce the impenetrable wood with his gaze.

Interesting – he thought – Gustave came here with Claude Monet… what for? And Monet of all people… why him?

Sherlock knew that Courbet never liked Monet: the dreamer, the painter of impressions and volatile moments, the lunatic with his head in the clouds, as he used to speak about him. And yet he brought him to Sherlock's atelier that day, and Sherlock couldn't figure out why. Something important, something new – he reached out and rested his hand on the door knob, too intrigued to resist.

Gustave came in first, as Sherlock's close friend he was often a guest to his atelier, so naturally he felt quite at home there. Looking at the younger man's pale face, hollow cheeks and shadowed eyes he frowned and walked across the room to the window, opening it wide. Only then Sherlock realized that the smell in the atelier must have been awful, after he sat there for three days straight. Monet came in after him, taking off his hat and nodding, looked around awkwardly until Sherlock pointed at a crooked chair to sit on.

Monet was wearing dark green jacket with brown patches on the elbows and he looked much like Gustave: bushy beard and eyebrows, kind face and wise eyes.

Gustave leaned against the windowsill, crossing his arms, but his look was gentle and the relief was clearly visible in his eyes. Sherlock sat heavily on a three-legged stool and, raising his eyebrows, gave them both a questioning look.

"Well?" he spoke finally when the three of them were settled in the atelier.

"Monsieur," Monet began, "I've heard that the Royal Academy's jury visited you this week." Sherlock nearly winced at these words, but said nothing, Monet continued then, "they paid me and many of my colleagues a visit as well, not more than two weeks ago."

"Yes, of course, that's obvious. They're the jury, we're the applicants, and the Salon will be taking place very soon. To the point." Sherlock was noticeably irritated by the subject of this conversation.

"My point is, they have rejected us all. I spoke to many, many of my friends, and their friends as well, and they have rejected an enormous amount of paintings." – Monet said squeezing his hat in his hands.

Sherlock frowned and gave Gustave an angry look. Is that supposed to console me? My failure should be less embarrassing for me because it happened to many others as well? I don't need pity – his thoughts clearly visible on his face.

"It became obvious to us that jury keeps rejecting almost everyone who's not a member of the Academy," Monet dragged Sherlock's attention back, "we decided to… protest."

"We?"

"The initiative came from Edouard Manet. He and another painter, Whistler, convinced us to write a letter to the emperor. I really didn't think we could achieve anything but then… Napoleon gave us an official permission to make our own exhibition."

"The thing will be sponsored by the French government," Gustave joined the conversation, "and it'll take place 15 days after the official Salon."

"And you, monsieur, are invited to show your painting there," Monet concluded with a careful smile.

"So, all the rejected painters will show their works there, instead of the official Salon?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes. Salon des Refusés it will be called," Monet replied.

Sherlock stood up so abruptly that the three-legged stool tipped over onto the floor.

"Salon des what?!" he shouted at the elder man. "Who do you think I am?! I am not a reject! Was this your idea Gustave?" He turned to face his friend. "Did you think I'd show my painting at something called Salon des Refusés? I thought you knew me better."

"But Sherlock, this is a great opportunity to…" Gustave mumbled apologetically, putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, but the young man pushed it away.

"Opportunity to what? To label myself as a drop out from the Academy?!"

"Monsieur, it's…" Monet stood up and tried to explain himself, but Sherlock didn't let him finish.

"I don't want to hear any of this!" He waved his hand furiously in the direction of the door. After a moment of uncomfortable silence Monet bowed, ever so politely, and left. Gustave tried reasoning with Sherlock but the man shushed him with his hand and said, emphasizing every word: "My masterpiece will not join a club of rejects. Good day, Gustave."

When Sherlock was left alone in his atelier he closed his eyes shut and, facing the wall, kept hitting the bricks with his fist, trying to muffle the burning sensation in his chest and underneath his eyelids.

It couldn't have been more than fifteen minutes when he heard noises downstairs, and then footsteps in the hallway. He fisted his palm again and left the atelier, shouting while running down the stairs.

"I thought I explicitly told you to leave, Gusta-" but then he froze, seeing that the man at door wasn't Gustave.

"Hello," the man said in English, his smile shy but warm, "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"John." Sherlock stated the obvious as his mouth fell open.

"You left me a card." John reminded him, whilst Mrs Hudson offered to take his jacket and cane, but he politely shook his head.

"Yes, yes, of course." Sherlock regained his composure and invited him upstairs, helping him on first steps as John noticeably grimaced when he had to rest his weight on his left leg.

When they entered the atelier, John looked around with an amazed expression on his face.

"So, this is where you work?" John's eyes were bright and smiling.

Sherlock suddenly felt intimidated, remembering the sight of John's big, luxurious house that he briefly visited to leave his visit card there. But it only lasted a moment, as John added: "It's amazing".

Sherlock invited him to sit down, but John thanked him with a nod, as he was curiously walking around, looking at the paintings and sketches that were cluttering the room.

"Sorry it took me so long to visit you," John said again, "but I assumed you would be very busy as the Salon is soon."

"I was busy, that's true."

"So, did the jury see your painting already?" John asked casually. "How did it go?"

"Umm… yes. Good, it went… good," Sherlock lied quickly, but his voice broke a little as he saw John smiling.

"Great, congratulations then. That's fantastic," John looked at him warmly, and then added, "could I maybe see this masterpiece?"

"Not really, I'm sorry," Sherlock didn't really know what to say, how to explain himself.

"Ah, I understand. You don't want to reveal your great painting before the official exhibition It was worth a try, though."

"Let me show you something else I've been working on lately, I think you will like it." Sherlock quickly changed the subject, and reached for the portrait that kept him busy since the night after LeBlancs' dinner party.

John's eyes widened when he saw it, as it turned out to be his portrait. The resemblance was striking, on the portrait John was wearing a military uniform, his hand resting on a gun holster. His expression was serious and, one could say, even a bit sad, but also cold and distant. Frowning a little, he looked at something distant, something outside the canvas.

"It's as if… as if I'm looking into a mirror," John said, stunned, looking up at Sherlock who smirked, full of content.

"The portrait is yours, if you want to keep it," Sherlock said.

"Thank you. What an extraordinary gift, I'd love to have it," John looked back at the painting, "but if it stays with you, there is a chance that one day my face will be in Louvre, next to your other painting," he added with a soft laugh.

"Then you should definitely keep it," Sherlock looked away, but when John didn't answer, he explained dryly, "my painting will not be shown in Louvre. They rejected it."

"Oh…" John said quietly, "I'm… so very sorry."

"There is no need," Sherlock looked back at him with a fake smile, "but thank you."

"Will you… try again then?" John asked, didn't really knowing what to say.

"I don't know. I was invited to attend another exhibition, but I couldn't accept it."

"Why not?"

"Because it's a gathering of all other painters who were rejected from official Salon this year. They called it Salon des Refusés, can you imagine? Exhibition of the Rejects," Sherlock said sarcastically.

"So?"

"So, they want me to admit, that I am not good enough for the Royal Academy, and show my masterpiece at some second-chance, drop outs exhibition."

"I don't see it like that. Only because the Academy's jury didn't appreciate you, you shouldn't deprive people of your art. Will you let your painting, into which you put so much work, remain hidden from anyone but you? It doesn't deserve to be unseen."

"You haven't even seen it, how could you possibly tell?"

"Because I'm seeing this," John took his portrait from Sherlock's hands, "and this is just my silly face. How much better must be your other work, I can't even begin to imagine."

"Do you really think so?" Sherlock looked him in the eyes, softly and somehow shyly.

"Of course," John smiled at him and handed the portrait back to Sherlock, "So now, tell me more about this art of yours."

...

The evening found them sitting on the floor in the atelier, the portrait leaning against the chair in front of them. John's hand, holding a paintbrush, was covered with Sherlock's, and the painter was slowly leading both of their palms, carefully spreading the paint on the canvas.

"See?" Sherlock's voice so quiet, it was almost a whisper, "You can do it yourself. Finishing your own image, I guess this is a self-portrait now."

John chuckled, letting Sherlock's slender fingers tighten around his own, gripping the brush more firmly, and at the same time the movement of their palms became more gentle, the brush leaving only tiny spots of paint.

"That is amazing." John couldn't stop smiling. Sherlock looked away from the painting and stared at him, marveling how John's face brightened up.

"So, this is how you see me?" John asked suddenly, and looked back at Sherlock, they eyes met.

"What… what do you mean? This is how you look." Sherlock answered, puzzled.

"Well yes, but… you painted me, so you must've expressed your opinion about me in this image somehow," seeing that Sherlock still doesn't get it, John continued, "I think every artist puts a little bit of himself in his works. Especially when it comes to portraits, I don't believe there is such thing as an objective portrait. The painter shows how the person looks like, but also there is no way to avoid adding something… personal. How he feels about the model, what sort of a person the model is, you know… deep inside."

"But can you see it, John? Can you actually see it… I mean this… feelings, emotions one has towards another person?" Sherlock asked simply.

"No, you can't, but…"

"So it's irrelevant."

"But the day we met…" John said, confused, "you knew things about me, you said you saw them, like my military service, and my wound, and my marriage… plans. These are not things other people see, and yet you noticed."

"They see it, they just do not observe," Sherlock's voice a bit annoyed, "I explained it to you, how I figured out all those things. And all of it is, in fact, shown in your portrait."

Sherlock pointed to the painting in front of them, "Military service, not just the uniform but also your skin, tanned lightly from the Indian sun, and the way you look: your eyes have seen a lot of deaths, but you almost got used to it, so much death, it made you desensitized," Sherlock moved his finger from the painted eyes to the lips, and lower to point at the arm, "your right arm is resting on a gun holster but the left one is clenched, by your side, and you're trying to hide it behind your back, this is because of your wound. It's all here, those things are as visible as anything, people just have to learn how to look."

"You're such a pragmatic," John looked back at Sherlock.

"I will show you something," Sherlock stood up from the floor and crossed the room. From the wall that was all covered in raw sketches he picked one and came back to sit next to John, "Here," he handed him a sketch. It was a sheet of brown paper with a drawing made with charcoal and pencil, the lines very expressive, almost angry, as it was made in great hurry. The drawing depicted a male corpse, lying on its stomach, the neck twisted, the back ripped awfully by a dog. John could see every little detail, even though the drawing was clearly only a very raw sketch.

"You understand now?" Sherlock asked, "how I feel about his death… what sort of a man he used to be, if I knew him or not… that really doesn't matter."

John put the sketch away on and looked him in the eyes.

"But I thought that is the point," he said eventually, still gazing at Sherlock, "that artists, the gifted ones, the inspired ones, are able to show the most intimate emotions, hidden deep down, those about which we're too ashamed to speak aloud. You know, to look inside someone and drag his soul up to the daylight."

Sherlock was looking at John, partly amused, but he didn't manage to say anything to that as John suddenly added: "Like your music."

"My music?" Sherlock asked, confused.

"Yes, you know that melody you were playing at LeBlancs'. I felt all those things when you were playing. Whoever composed that, must've felt something very strong couldn't find another way to express it but through music. That's the gift artists have."

"I composed it."

"Really? Then… what did you feel when you were playing it for a very first time?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answered, and that was the truth, "nothing special, I suppose."

"I won't believe that," John smirked while Sherlock stood up and took his violin from the other corner of a room.

He walked to the window and look at the roofs of Paris, dark and cold, as they were too high for streetlamps to reach them with their golden light, only cold starlight was sliding across them. Somewhere out there – he thought looking at the city – is Louvre, the only thing I've ever dreamt of. What is left for me now? Placing the violin under his chin, he slid the bow across the strings of his instrument, and melody drifted through the opened window, the very same melody he played the other night at LeBlancs'. John stood up slowly and came to stand next to him, he didn't look at Sherlock, just gazed upon the stars and listened. It was the saddest and yet the most beautiful melody he had ever heard, peaceful, as if it was about the lingering memory of sadness already reconciled. When Sherlock finished, it felt as if the city just held its breath for a second and silence fell.

"I was late that day," John murmured under his breath, still gazing through the window.

"Hm?" Sherlock muttered.

"I was late for dinner and I entered the room while you were already playing. If I had arrived even five minutes later I wouldn't have heard you play. Your wonderful music would be missing from my life, even though I wouldn't know about it, something would be missing anyway. Don't do that with your painting, don't let it be unnoticed just because someone didn't appreciate it, you have another chance now."

They looked at each other, they eyes met, and none of them said anything else. Again they were standing under the stars, silent, and again it didn't feel odd at all. But this time they were standing much closer, the space between them smaller than a single step. John could smell Sherlock's scent and he smelled like resin, paint, and candle wax, like wood and old paper, like smoke from the chimney and lamp oil, and underneath it all, like Sherlock. John caught himself closing his eyes for a second too long and inhaling the scent. Sherlock's lips parted as he looked down at John's chest, rising and falling with long, deep breaths.

"And I don't believe that you felt nothing when you wrote that music," John breathed, his voice so low it didn't even disturb the comfortable silence between them.

"I really don't know," Sherlock gasped softly, and again it was the truth.

"I must go, it's late," John had to force himself to speak these words, they barely came through his lips, as he really wanted to stay.

"All right," Sherlock nodded, but it didn't feel all right at all.

They parted awkwardly, leaving their spot by the window. John straightened his waistcoat and jacket whilst Sherlock put away his violin.

"No need to see me off to the door. I'll find my way, I took enough of your time anyway," John smiled at him, and after a moment of hesitation, he reached out with his hand.

"Please, your visit was a pleasure," Sherlock's surprisingly soft hand held John's.

"Thank you. I hope I will see you again soon."

"You're always welcome here."

"As you are in my place."

John prolonged the hold of their hands but eventually he slipped his palm away and slowly left the room, however, without looking back. Sherlock heard his footsteps on the stairs, and then turned around to look out of the window. He saw John get into a carriage. He could swear John looked up at him but then the carriage drove away, and he couldn't tell for sure. Looking away, he glanced at his empty atelier, and his gaze fell on a John's portrait. He approached it slowly, his eyes fixed on the figure's painted eyes, and he smiled involuntarily.

The next day, right before noon, a messenger came to Claude Monet's atelier and brought him Sherlock's card. When Monet opened it there was ashort handwritten message:

I will gladly accept your invitation

to exhibit my painting at Salon des Refusés.

~ SH

* Claude Monet, painter, founder of impressionist movement.
** Moulin de la Galette, a windmill in Montmartre, sort of a restaurant-meeting place thing.
*** Edouard Manet, painter; James Whistler, painter
**** Salon des Refuses, Exhibition of Rejects (it actually took place for the first time in 1863, it was exactly how i explained it in this story, so it's a historical fact, except that it wasn't called Salon des Refuses back then, the name was given to it much later, that detail i changed in this story)

okaaay, guys, i hope you liked it.
see you next week and remember to dress up all fancy cause next week we're going to the exhibition, Sherlock's big day finally!

love you, x.