Disclaimer: I don't own a thing, of course. A. N. Inspired by the lovely art by OhmsnWattson for the iampridelocked event on Tumblr. Enjoy!
New tune
If asked years before, when being woken at arse o'clock am by a violin was a too-common occurrence, John would have said that one violinist in 221B was more than enough, ta. Sure, the occasional night racket usually took him straight out of nightmares – there'd been no violins in Afghanistan...and not even cats being murdered, which he'd sworn was the theme of a few so-called compositions. But if there was one thing John should have known, it was never to consider something impossible unless scientifically proven. Especially in their home.
In fact, he should have noticed a pattern. Rather than keep his knowledge for himself, Sherlock had always wanted to share it. It wasn't a question of showing off, like his denigrators seemed to believe. Sherlock shared the results of his experiments on his blog. Encouraged him in a weirdly kind way to make some deductions beyond the medical field on cases. Sure, the blogger was still pants at it, but Sherlock had never used that excuse to humiliate him, or anyone else. Even while the detective pointed out that John had missed everything of importance – it was an objective observation, not a sneer (the one he felt like he deserved).
Sherlock had never offered a music lesson before, true. But if he had, John knew he would have just shaken his head. There had been that little bit of clarinet ages ago, which he'd never been particularly apt at. No, it hadn't been an allusion, back with Sarah. The double meaning wouldn't have been a lie, by the way, but why would have he wanted to mention that to her, who lacked the instrument to be interested in the matter?
Besides, violin was so posh. And posh was fine, more than fine for Sherlock, who wore it with the same effortlessness as any other costume, or more, because it fit him. John would have just made himself ridiculous if he'd tried.
Then things changed. Misconceptions were aired, which lead to, one February, Harry insisting he wore a Pharaoh costume at a Carnival party, "one last time". John had caved, and giggled with her while proudly presenting as the king of the Nile. Well, not anymore. As outlandish as it sounded, Sherlock asked nothing better than cheating on the Work with him, as often and as inventively as possible. And John had never been good at telling him no, even when he wasn't yearning for exactly the same. This time? He wasn't enough of a masochist not to jump at the chance of becoming his mad, fantastic, brilliant, gorgeous, amazing flatmate's boyfriend (for a start).
And sure, John's medium of choice was literature. That was how he sang the praises of the best man he's ever known to the whole world, bless internet. They even had fans in China, which never failed to surprise John when he was reminded of it. But then one day Sherlock grinned and presented him with a new composition that he had inspired, and he couldn't quite compute suddenly turning into a muse. Listening to it, awed and spellbound, lips tingling with the urge to kiss Sherlock senseless, his own work, no matter how popular, suddenly felt lousy. Words, no matter how carefully chosen, or how many thesauri he consulted, never seemed to convey what he'd have wanted to. Not to a T. And here Sherlock was, not saying a word, and John knew. He knew so much.
It kind of slipped out before his brain connected, the way things sometimes did (the way he didn't have to fear anymore). The last note had barely vanished, and he asked, "Would you teach me?" It surprised them both, himself most of all, because what was he thinking? He had the wrong hands – skilled in their own right, yes, but already calloused the wrong way, he'd bet, and just not...he didn't know what made Sherlock's perfect for playing, or so enchanting, and wasn't that the first of many problems?
If his boyfriend had laughed at him, or discouraged him in any of a dozen ways John was more than ready to talk himself out of it...it would have been normal, wouldn't it? Maybe that was why it didn't happen – could have never happened.
Instead, Sherlock's eyes glittered with enthusiasm, and he'd launched himself into the first of their lessons. Like always, his boyfriend's enthusiasm had proven contagious. It wasn't easy, by any sense of the word. But John had never asked for easy, anyway. What he wanted were Sherlock's hands on him, correcting the way he held the violin. He loved the cheering, because even if he'd butchered the simplest of pieces, he'd ruined it slightly less than last time. (Really, Sherlock would have made for a brilliant teacher if he wasn't likely to cause a riot by deducing the parents.)
When Sherlock had looked over some beginner's exercises online, he'd frowned and decided he could do better (not that John doubted it). After disappearing on him for a day and half, his boyfriend came back presenting him with a "Violin for dummies" penned by himself, and his blogger had been properly grateful, impressed and giggly. There were maybe a baker's dozen musicians Sherlock wouldn't consider dummies, he was pretty sure.
John was still a mess of a musician, yes. But he was enjoying one more thing together with his favourite person in the world. Maybe it'd take him a few decades before he could reciprocate with music of his own. Maybe it'd never happen. But never was a very long concept, and John had the best teacher and all their lives to perfect this.