Day 7- seven violinists
On the seventh day of SuperWhoLock, the fandom gave to me; seven violinists , six weird symbols, fiiiiiiive aliiiieeen teeeexts, four locked phones, three food obsessions, two awesome rides, and our OTPs crying 'cause they're dead.
Sam and Dean had hitched a ride with the Doctor that day, so they arrived at the flat relatively early. They let themselves in, apparently the Doctor had a key. The sound of running water filled the air, the detective must be in the shower. They talked about idle things, about whimsical things like sassy tricksters and 15 New Yorks. Lestraud came up with Ms. Hudson and greeted them, but he could see this clearly was not his divis- area of expertise. John came out of the shower and said Sherlock was thinking.
It started off unnoticeable. It blended in with the ambient background noise of London. Slowly, though, it rose above the everyday hustle and bustle. It sounded like a one man symphony, if you can imagine that; full and resounding and with just the right amount of vibrato. John apologized for his antics and explained this was his way of thinking now that the cigarettes were hidden. They didn't mind though, and the Doctor expressed this with a thoughtful look on his face.
Dean was surprised, to say the least. He didn't know pretty boy played violin. He guesses he was just too busy arguing with him to ask. Sam, however, saw the violin the last time they were here and asked about it. How observative of you, Sammy. Sherlock was reaching the climaxing cadenza of his piece now. Time stood still. The sound was like a dream, it was like a memory. It was Christmas at Mummy's, it was Mycroft shutting up because he was stuffing his face full of cake. It was their not dates. It was Amy and Rory dancing in the TARDIS, it was watching Doctor Sexy M.D. with his brother after a long day.
And then you are reminded that not all memories are happy, just like sonatas are not upbeat. It was the people they'd lost, no elaboration needed. No elaboration is enough.
There are tears at his eyes. Whose eyes, I don't know. But I'd say your safest bet is all of them. None of them will admit it though, especially John, who always pretends that Sherlock's musical antics bother him. And now the refrain, the ritardando, the key change, and the fermata. Now it's hopes of red pants and blue scarves, and old friends, and angel wings. And then there is silence when Sherlock puts down the instrument and walks to the door. Just as there here was silence when the question was asked. Just as there will be no words spoken when a coat flaps down many stories, but only the Doctor knows that. Just as there will be no noise when they sleep for the last time, and even the Doctor doesn't know when that will be.
It was unnoticeable, but the floor creaks slightly. And Sherlock walks back to his violin and picks it up again.
I like this one.
I'm posting this at 25 minutes to midnight, so happy new years you guys! You survived, and that makes you fucking amazing! Wow!
To my future self, who might be reading this to get a sense of nostalgia. Keep on writing, girl, and I hope you aren't still single. You better not be single. Stay fabulous and remember; it gets better.
And to everyone out the reading this; thanks for reading! Hope you had a great year :)