The front door bangs against the wall sending a shuttering of wood and wallpaper toward the stairs. John barely stops from flinching and, if not for the heavy downpour outside, he'd continue to stand there for a moment wondering if this is how the rest of his life is going to be.
As it is, John barely stops a flinch and catches the door as it swings back toward him. He steps inside, careful to stay on the carpet before taking off his hat, coat, gloves, and placing his umbrella in the canister.
He thinks perhaps that this shedding of his outer layers would relieve him of weight but instead it's like his protection is off. John leans against the banister for support. Tension filters down from his shoulders settling in his stomach and legs. The old throbbing in his knee flares and he reaches down to rub it. Mrs. Hudson is nowhere to be heard so John takes a minute to breath at the bottom of the stairs. Tries to let the days wearies slink off of him before he enters the flat.
The silence is broken by the sound of the violin. The sound is almost foreign it's been so long since Sherlock played anything like this. The melody sweeps down the stairs, sweet and slow, leaving a breath caught in his chest. John slumps further into the banister and wonders if somehow a spell has been cast on him.
He's always known Sherlock was a genius; known it more than most how his mind is a web of knowledge and quick deductions. But the common assumption is that Sherlock is book smart only. His kind of knowledge is impersonal and data driven. His kind of mind is scientific without room for emotion, connection.
The key changes in the song allowing a lower octave of notes to seep into the harmony. It caresses something in the back of his mind.
This is further proof that most people don't know Sherlock.
He is not limited to the binary. Sherlock may not let everyone see this side of him but it doesn't mean it's not real. He's an artist. There is a depth to his compositions, in his deductions, an emotion that Sherlock can weave. It's compacted, released in his music in a way he doesn't know how to impart with elsewise. Sherlock uses the language of music to his whim; to say everything he doesn't know how to say out loud.
It's pining and melancholy. The minor key signature settles into his chest, stinging and soothing all at once. John wants to race up the stairs. What would happen if he barges into the study? What kind of facial expression would Sherlock be wearing? Would his eyes be open or closed?
John wants to see behind the angles. He wants to perform his own experiment and peel back the layers of Sherlock until he can see his raw and exposed center. And John knows he could answer with his own vulnerabilities if such a thing were to happen.
John doesn't move despite the rush of adrenaline. He stays standing there, at the base of the stair long after the last note fades from the air.
Who is the song for?
He wishes he could thank them for inspiring Sherlock so.
Thank you for reading!