The next day, orchestra practice resumed again. During the off-season rehearsal only lasted a few hours a week, since there was no need for extensive training.
John awoke bright and early to find that coffee had already been made and Sherlock was already dressed and at the kitchen table. John froze in his tracks, still hesitant to even approach the man, but he mustered up enough soldier courage to step forward. Shirt still half-unbuttoned, he took the cup of coffee obviously meant for him and took a sip. Awful. He grimaced slightly, but when he looked up he saw Sherlock's expectant eyes and realized Sherlock had put way more effort into making that cup of coffee than was needed. John had the aching feeling that if he criticized the drink, Sherlock would turn into some sort of injured puppy. So he gave his best fake smile and said "thank you."
Sherlock pressed his lips together and John could already tell his lie had been seen through. Sherlock stood up in a huff. "Don't drink it if it's awful. I don't want you sick. Just dump it."
"No," John assured him. "No it's…it's good." He gave another experimental sip. Perhaps if he drank enough of it his tastebuds would become accustomed to the strange taste.
An awkward silence fell upon the room as John enjoyed himself with his morning news, perfectly aware that Sherlock was still standing there and watching him like a hawk.
At nine, John gathered his instrument and slipped on his shoes. It was a beautiful day outside, perfect for a walk to the theater. "Well," he said as he took his clarinet in hand. "I'm off to rehearsal. There's a bit of sandwich meat in the refrigerator if I'm not back in time for lunch."
"Wait," Sherlock called out. "I'm coming with you."
John gave him a quizzing look. "Sherlock, your part is done. You don't need to go."
"I want to," Sherlock told him. "To keep you company."
John was conflicted. On one hand he did rather enjoy having someone to talk to on the trip to and back from the conservatory. He found he could engage in intelligent conversations with Sherlock-good for keeping his aging brain stimulated and healthy. On the other hand, after yesterday's incident, John hardly even wanted to look the man in the eye, never mind chat with him. He knew Sherlock meant nothing by his actions, but the fact that it had happened lingered nonetheless. John was not a man to take advantage of.
But he caved in anyways. "All right," he sighed. "Hurry up then."
And so they walked side by side in silence, never once speaking of yesterday's incident. When John took a peek at Sherlock, he could practically see the violinist's apology written across his face. Sherlock rarely showed facial expressions unless he truly wanted them to be seen, and John could tell that his face was the closest thing to an apology John would get.
But what was Sherlock apologizing for, John wondered? For invading John's privacy? For the kiss itself? For deducing that John loved him?
John's eyebrows furrowed as he tried to stop thinking.
Needless to say, Lestrade was quite surprised when Sherlock showed up for rehearsal.
"Call me an observer," Sherlock told him. And of course nobody really argues with Sherlock Holmes, so an observer he was called.
Practice began with a new piece of music to sight read. John had been complimented on his sight reading skills on more than one occasion, so he had confidence in the piece, and yet he still worried, for sitting right there in the front row of the audience sat an internationally acclaimed violinist ready to jump out at any mistakes he heard.
To his surprise, Sherlock kept quiet all rehearsal. His face alternated from calm and expressionless to twisted and concentrated. Sometimes his eyes would close and sometimes they would be wide open. He sat with one leg crossed over the other and his arms folded across his chest. He kept still for the most part, but on occasion a finger or a toe would start tapping in time to Lestrade's conducting. Quite honestly, John had never seen Sherlock express so much in his face and body language.
More than once, John would look up from his music to find Sherlock's gaze directly towards him. Even from so far away, John could see the bright blaze of Sherlock's multi-colored eyes burn into John's mind. When he did look at John, Sherlock wore no emotion on his face whatsoever, so any chance John had of deciphering how Sherlock felt about his playing diminished in a heartbeat.
John played on, however, to the best he possibly could. His fingers ran nimbly across the keys of his clarinet and his breathing was kept under control, his eyes racing across page after page, scanning each individual note and executing it precisely.
"We'll stop here for today," Lestrade informed his orchestra. He then turned to Sherlock and the two of them exchanged handshakes. Afterwards, Sherlock's arms slinked back to their original crossed position.
When everyone started leaving, John packed his instrument quickly and walked briskly towards Sherlock until he was standing not a foot away from him. Their eyes met for a long time, but neither of them said a word. John found himself a bit disappointed. He didn't really know what he was expecting Sherlock to even say. Perhaps a "good job" or a "you played well." John could have even settled for a "you sucked, here's what you need to improve." But instead, Sherlock kept his mouth shut and his lips pressed together tightly.
The two of them just stood there staring at each other for the longest time, until Sherlock finally uncrossed his long legs and stood. When he did, John found he had to look up in order to meet Sherlock's gaze, and perhaps it was a metaphor for their careers. No matter what John did, he would always be inferior to the amazing Sherlock Holmes. The international phenomena. The violinist all violinists aspire to play like. And it wasn't like John minded too much-after all he didn't exactly want to be in the spotlight and Sherlock seemed like he just belonged there. He certainly deserved it.
It wasn't until halfway home that Sherlock spoke to John for the first time since that early morning.
"It's not fair," he suddenly remarked out of the blue.
"What isn't?" John asked.
"That Sally Donovan. She's an atrocious clarinetist."
John was taken aback. "How do you mean?"
"Well, she has no doubt a taste for technique, and she does make fewer mistakes than you-," John was perhaps a bit offended by that statement, but Sherlock continued on like he hadn't noticed. "But she has no feeling for the instrument. She plays in mezzopiano and mezzoforte with no in-between or beyond. She can't crescendo to save her life and quite honestly, she looks like she's in pain every time she touches her lips to her instrument."
John opened his mouth to say something, but decided against it. He contemplated Sherlock's insults, though. It's true, John hadn't heard much of a tone range from her instrument now that Sherlock had mentioned it.
Suddenly, Sherlock let out a short growl. "I told Lestrade to demote her years ago."
"Sherlock!" John cried out. "You didn't! Well no wonder she hates you so much!"
"I did," Sherlock defended himself. "I told him she had no business being first clarinet. He told me she was the best that orchestra had to offer and I told him if that was so, he should find some other clarinetist, and now he's got one and he still hesitates to strip her of her chair!"
"Who?" John asked, genuinely curious. "What do you mean Lestrade's got a better clarinetist? Who is it?"
Sherlock gave John a look like John was supposed to have known already. They stopped in their tracks and their eyes met for only the millionth time that day. Sherlock licked his bottom lip once and swallowed before he opened his mouth to whisper "you."
John was perplexed. "Me?" He asked, as if he were going deaf and perhaps had misheard Sherlock.
"Did I stutter?" Sherlock mocked him, his tone completely serious and his eyes narrowed.
"But you just said-,"
"I said you miss more notes than her," Sherlock interrupted him. "But that isn't all there is to playing an instrument. In terms of overall performance, you are in fact the better clarinetist."
John exhaled sharply and stumbled around his mind for the right words to say. Never before had he been quite insulted and complimented at the same time, especially by the likes of Sherlock. In fact, it was the first time since they had first met that Sherlock had ever mentioned John's playing, and now he was saying John was the best clarinetist of the orchestra?
"I can see it when you play," Sherlock continued. "That instrument is your life, is it not?"
"I…I'd rather die than lose it," John stuttered in agreement.
"Good," Sherlock replies. "Keep that mentality and success will follow soon thereafter."
John bit his lips a few times before he could muster out "thank you" followed by a "I think."