I've a feeling some of you lot will not be fond of this chapter...it's small in size, but I feel it's adequate.
I've another story in the works, I might post the first chapter tomorrow...well I've two, but only one of them is a Sherlock story (the other's my first Criminal Minds).
I apologize if I missed any mishaps...I was in a bit of a rush. Feel free to point 'em out. :)
"Your brother was always the one more incapable of showing his emotions than you, but he does care, in a way that's particular to him; you need to let him."
I smiled.
"You're the only person I think he actually fears."
She chuckled and ran her fingers through my hair. She turned and pressed a kiss to my forehead then untangled herself from me.
"I'll be back with some tea, that's gone cold, unless you want to be alone for now?"
"I think I'll play for a while. Thank you, Mrs. Hudson."
She nodded and got to her feet, taking the tray of cool tea with her as she departed down to her flat. I slowly climbed to my feet and moved to the window where my violin lay in its case. I pressed my forehead against the cool glass and let out a breath, fogging my view of the street below. Various couples in stages of relationships flowed effortlessly by, as if simply being with each other was the simplest of tasks—was it? I stepped back and reached for my Stradivarius and removed it gently from its case. I placed it on my shoulder, my fingertips on instinct tuning the instrument; then I played. My eyes closed on their own accord and I let everything I had pent up release through the music that echoed throughout my sitting room.
Sometime later when my fingers felt they needed a small reprieve, I realized I was no longer alone. No one was in the room but someone had been listening to me out in the hall—no, in the doorway. I only turned the barest of an inch, my peripheral vision confirming what I had known—hoped.
"John."
His slight intake of breath caused me to turn fully towards him, to take in his appearance. He thinned out, looks more worn and weary than before, but underneath it all, beneath the army doctor, there was John—John. I placed my violin down in its case and in an instant we were pulled to each other like magnets, however, opposing ones, stopping just a breath from each other, simply staring and sharing uneven breaths.
"Sherlock."
His eyes fluttered shut and I was at a loss. His nostrils flared; perhaps he was restraining himself—from what? Did he too feel this overwhelming notion to wrap me in his arms and never let go? Press his nose to the part of my body where neck and shoulder meet and simply inhale? To tangle his fingers within my curls and pull as tight as possible to know, to have proof, that I am just as real as he is? That I am right here before him?
I tentatively reached forward, my fingertips ghosting along his cheek, trailing down his jaw, my eyes following before they're lost in his own, freshly opened. Wide and expressing everything he knows I don't know how to portray. I feel his fingertips—calloused—dive beneath the collar of my button down. Pressing into my collarbone, dancing up to my neck before trailing up my jaw and then, then gloriously losing themselves in my curls. Fisting as much as he can, pulling me forward to rest my forehead against his and simply breathe and stare.