All my stories have been translated from German to English. Since English is not my native language, translation errors may occur. But I hope that they are not too serious. If you notice any, feel free to tell me.
Have fun!
xXx
It was late at night and Watson had recently been trapped in a deep and sound sleep until suddenly the sounds of a violin entered his consciousness. Grumbling, he opened his eyes and tried to ignore the sounds at first, but that was easier said than done. The music was simply far too loud to be easily ignored. Sherlock! Thought the doctor angrily and with a heavy heart he pushed the blanket aside. He put one of his bare feet down on the cold wooden floor to let the next one follow. Annoyed, he went down the stairs to make it clear to Sherlock that he should keep his hands off that damn violin at such an ungodly hour!
John had finally arrived in the living area and was about to begin an expletive triad, and had even raised his finger in warning when he paused. Sherlock was standing at the window with his back to him, still playing his violin. He had on his obligatory blue sleep robe, while a dim light surrounded him. For whatever reason, there were only a few candles lit, which, in combination with the crackling fireplace, gave this situation a romantic and mysterious tension.
And right at that moment, Sherlock had an effect on John that he had never had before. He suddenly felt immensely attracted to the consulting Detective. His pulse quickened and the words literally stuck in his throat. He just couldn't help but stand there and watch him. He could only watch and listen to the music he had cursed so much just moments ago. It gave him goosebumps and never before had the music Sherlock played touched him so much.
John did not know how long he had stood there, but at some point Sherlock stopped playing and lowered the violin along with the bow. Although the room was now dead silent and only the crackling of the fireplace could now be heard, the melody that had just filled the room was still ringing in John's ears.
"John, aren't you supposed to be upstairs sleeping?", Sherlock snapped the addressed man out of his thoughts as he turned around. John had to clear his throat before he managed to speak a single word. His pulse seemed to be slowly returning to normal, but there was still something unrhythmic about his heartbeat.
"I couldn't sleep. Or actually, I was already asleep. Your violin woke me up," the doctor explained himself and dared to take a few steps towards Sherlock. He had also taken a few towards him and so, had moved a little away from the window.
" I am sorry, I didn't mean to deprive you of your sleep" - For the first time John had the feeling that the detective's apology was meant seriously. He had looked at him frankly and when you lived under the same roof with Sherlock for so long, you slowly learned to read people as well. The man's demeanor toward him showed him that he was truly sorry, but also , that he was thinking about something that weighed heavily on his mind.
"What were you thinking about?" asked John, then, propping himself up on the back of the armchair that stood pretty much in the middle of the room. Sherlock himself had not stirred. He preferred to look at the musical instrument in his hands. Briefly, John felt he might be out of place. The detective gave the impression that he would much rather continue playing than let John question him. It would be nothing new if John was right in his suspicions. After all, there were days when Sherlock really didn't exchange a single word with him. If it wasn't about a case, he wasn't really the chatty type.
"I was thinking about how effective it would be to shoot the wall right now. But I know what Mrs. Hudson thinks of me playing with a gun in the middle of the night."-"I'm not too fond of it either," John muttered to himself, and yet he was a bit offended that Sherlock probably had no regard for what John thought of it. As if he would put up with anything!
"And what has the wall done to you now that you want to shoot it again?" - Watson knew that if Sherlock was already resorting to such means, something was up. Either he was bored because once again he didn't have a case, or he was worrying about something and getting nowhere. But to be honest, this happened less often than boredom. When was this man ever not bored?
"The wall didn't do anything," Sherlock sighed, dropping heavily into the chair. - "Watson, it's quite rare that I ask you for advice - it's well known that you're an idiot just like everyone else, unlike me - but I have a little dilemma that I think only you can help me with" - How flattering, John thought to himself, but largely ignored the idiot comment and waited for Sherlock to continue speaking.
"It's about- feelings" - Oh! Sherlock and feelings? Now that was new territory for the detective. Which was probably why Sherlock was at a loss. As far as that went, this man was an iron maiden. An emotional virgin. Had he ever felt anything at all? - Funny, John had never asked himself that question before.
"Well, let's give it a shot," John realized his awkward choice of words and hoped Sherlock wouldn't reach for his gun. The latter, however, seemed to ignore this "pun" and continued speaking.
"I've had this funny feeling for some time now" - Sherlock stopped again and seemed to be searching for the right words. - "I feel kind of oppressed. Not haunted-oppressed, or dangerously-oppressed. It's more of a- It feels like something's missing. Like I've forgotten something very important. But I can't find it in my mind palace. Sometimes I get nervous for no reason and I think my pulse and heartbeat speed up. Only at night I can calm down. That is why I am awake all night. It's the only time I have peace from this feeling" - Waiting, Sherlock looked at his colleague. He now put all his hopes in his friend's knowledge of human nature. Surely he could help him. He was good at all this emotional stuff, after all.
Unfortunately, John knew as little about it as Sherlock did. He tried to figure out what these feelings meant, but couldn't really put them into context. Sherlock seemed to sense his not knowing, because he snorted and got up from his chair.
"Wonderful! You have just as much of a clue as Googel!" he exclaimed angrily, throwing his hands in the air. - "You Googled this?" - "Of course I googled that. These busybodies want everyone to believe they know everything. Scammers!" - Okay, this was clearly getting way too crazy now. John shook his head and took a few steps toward Sherlock. He was sorry he couldn't give him any the one time he needed his help. It was hard to define feelings clearly, but how could he explain it to Sherlock in an understandable way? It was impossible.
Sherlock had turned back to his violin, setting it down on his shoulder and already resting his chin on it. Looking John in the eye, who replied.
"Name me a song," he said suddenly, and averted his eyes again, closing his eyelids and trying to put his fingers in a good position on the strings.
"What?"-"Name me a song, John! My head just went blank" - Stunned, John was still looking at the man with the violin. Who would have thought that Sherlock would ever be seen in a moment of complete cluelessness. After all, his mind was usually running on fumes.
"Bertholdy. A Song without Words, No.1" - How John came up with this piece, of all things, was a mystery to himself. He himself had no idea about classical music, but he once had a girlfriend who was totally crazy about it. And somehow this song had stayed in his memory. It was a very beautiful song and John was sure that it would suit Holmes.
"You do realize that this is a piano piece and I play the violin?" - An amused smile crept onto the Detective's face. Of course, it was no problem for him to play it on the violin, and John had rightly assumed that he knew this piece, yet he couldn't resist teasing the doctor a bit.
But they had lived together far too long for John to let something like that upset him. He knew Sherlock had almost every piece of classical music in his head, all in his mind palace. John was almost sure Sherlock even had his own palace for the compositions. They were important to him and therefore it was easy for him to keep them, unlike the solar system.
They were both silent, Sherlock recalled the notes and then began to play. Never before had his ears heard such beautiful sounds. Sherlock was a natural, there was no denying that. And even though John often cursed his music for keeping him awake at night, John found it beautiful.
Watson closed his eyes briefly to enjoy the music, but opened them again a few seconds later. He wanted to watch Sherlock. He wanted to see his slender fingers touching the strings, the other gently gliding the bow over them. Sherlock himself kept his eyes closed, letting his own music envelop him, playing with a feeling he had never played with before. He wanted this piece to be flawless. Even more than flawless, he wanted it to be perfect.
They remained like that for a few minutes until the piece finally came to an end and the sounds of the violin slowly faded away.
"Beautiful," was all John could say to that. He was still caught up in the moment and didn't want to ruin it by talking too much. But Sherlock didn't seem to agree.
"Just beautiful? Come on, that was fantastic!" - Arrogant jerk. But what had John expected? That was just the way Sherlock was, and the way he liked him.
"Okay, it was fantastic," John laughed, and could see Holmes laughing as well.
"I wish I had some special talent, too. I always wanted to learn an instrument, but somehow I never did. I don't know why" - "Then I'll teach you" - "What?" - Had John heard wrong now? Probably not, because Sherlock just held out his hand to indicate that he should come to him. Without knowing what John was getting into, he put his hand in the detective's and simply trusted him. Just as he always did.
"Now take the violin in your left hand and rest it on your shoulder" - Sherlock handed him his beloved violin and waited for John to do what he told him. Again, he had blind faith in Sherlock and propped the violin on his shoulder.
"Now put your chin on the chinrest and take the bow in your right hand" - "But I have no idea how to guide such a bow" - Many times John had witnessed failed attempts to play a violin. Often, the result was simply shrill and painful sounds that gave one tinnitus. He, too, would probably produce such sounds.
"Let me worry about that," was the answer Watson received, and he simply did as he was told. He got into what he thought was the right position and waited for the detective's next instruction.
Suddenly John felt something pressing against his back. It could only be Sherlock, who had just moved close behind him and was now placing his hands on the doctor's. First he brought his fingers of his left hand into the right position and then brought his right hand to the violin. John stiffened and even forgot to breathe for a short time. For Sherlock, of course, it was easy to reach around John and thus guide his arms. After all, he was a whole head taller than his friend. And then he started.
Sherlock guided his hand back a little and then stroked the strings of the violin with his bow gauzily and almost imperceptibly. For the first time, John realized that a lot of sensitivity was needed to play such an instrument properly. Sherlock's movements were gentle and almost unassuming. He did not play a distinct melody. He merely held John's left hand fingers on some strings and let his right hand do the rest. He first gave John a feel for the instrument they held together. He stroked the strings in different strengths, sometimes shorter, sometimes longer, so that they produced something like a melody, even if always in the same pitch.
A few millimeters the legs of the detective moved closer to John. He pressed himself more firmly against his friend until they were touching all over his body, lengthwise. John could feel the hot breath of the taller man on the back of his neck, a shiver ran down his body and his heart began to race. Sherlock, for his part, was gently tickled by John's hair on his face. And then there was that feeling again. It was the same as always, and yet somehow very different. This time it felt better, more pleasant.
He leaned forward a little until his lips were close to Watson's ear. The doctor's blood rushed in those same ears. He became nervous, but none of these sensations made the music stop. They continued to play the violin while Sherlock took deep breaths.
"I think I know what it is now" - Those few words were enough to make John understand. That was all he needed to realize that Sherlock could now finally define the feeling he had had for ages. However, he didn't dare ask what conclusion the consulting Detective had now come to. He much preferred to enjoy the closeness of the man and let himself be guided entirely by him and the music.
And quite hidden in one of the shadows, not far from them, an old lady was watching them, who had come for the same reason as John Watson himself. Mrs. Hudson had come sneaking up the stairs to give Sherlock a final warning before she would finally confiscate his violin, as she had done with his skull. But when she saw what was going on between the two men, she decided that she would probably endure being kept awake by the sounds of a violin for this evening. After all, it was a melody full of romantic feelings that was creeping through the house here and made the residents fall asleep with a smile after all.
09.01.2014