Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, but I love it like I do. Thank you for reading, and all the follows and reviews. More chapters are already written, and will be forthcoming shortly. Please enjoy!
Chapter Eight
"His Heart's in the Music"
No one was more pleased than John Watson in the two days after the Underground Bombing attempt and the arrest of Lord Moran. Or he would have been pleased if the response to his blog hadn't crashed his page, and then lead to a dozen or so reporters showing up at his place before the sun was even up. The story had only been up for a couple of hours and London was going insane. Social media erupted, and the #thegameisbackon almost wrecked Twitter too.
John let the curtains drop, ignoring the bulb flashes, and picked up his mobile. If he wasn't going to be getting any sleep, then he knew one detective who wasn't going to be getting any sleep either.
Sherlock hung up the phone, and lay in bed, thoroughly disgruntled and having a bad morning-no, bad PRE-DAWN morning!- .
John had, in predictable fashion, posted their first case back together on his blog. And the response from social media had been as explosive as the case- every pun intended. John had called to warn him that the media was going crazy, and were swarming his place, and the neighbors were having a fit.
"Sorry mate, Mary and I are escaping to your place, be there soon." John had said before clicking the call over. Sherlock had been so out of it he hadn't even been able to listen correctly. He usually slept like the dead after a case was completed, and he figured he'd been out like a light since sometime early afternoon yesterday. Groaning and mumbling under his breath about incorrigible doctors and their penchant for blogging overly dramatic versions of events, Sherlock slowly dragged his tired and sore body out of bed. Barely managing to remain on his feet, he loudly stumbled down the hall to the front room. Attempting to make his eyes work, he went to the window, and squinted down to the street below.
"JOHN! Bloody hell!" Sherlock cursed, hardly caring there was no one around to hear. He rolled his eyes at the herd of milling reporters practically camped on his front stoop. Sherlock stomped all the way over to the flat's door, yelling "Mrs. Hudson, time to wake up! We're under siege, company incoming!"
Knowing he'd shouted loud enough to wake the dead, Sherlock made his way back down the hall and stormed into his bathroom. John had his key- Sherlock wasn't waiting on them to show up.
Sherlock was hiding, unashamedly so. In fact, he figured he was being fairly blatant about it. Too many cheery souls in his flat, drinking champagne and being talkative. Their laughter echoed off the halls down to his room, and he reached out and closed the door to his room halfway. Tossing aside the deerstalker cap he'd donned for the press, Sherlock threw off his jackets and reached for his robe. It was the new tan one Mrs Hudson had gotten him, the one he thought made him look washed out but she said made him look distinguished.
He and John had stood outside Baker Street just minutes before, shoulder to shoulder. Knowing the press wouldn't leave unless they got something from them, Sherlock let John sway him into making a statement and taking some questions. John had been quite eager, and Sherlock caved easily after seeing how badly John wanted him to do it.
The reporters had been predictably stupid, as well as their questions. So very boring. "How did you know Lord Moran was the one behind the bombing attempt?", to "Is that the same hat?" and "Where have you been the last two years?" were practically asked on repeat. Sherlock had given the barest of answers to the first, a short "yes" to the second, and utterly ignored the third. John handled his questions well, a big smile never leaving his face. He even took the time to reply to the most banal of questions, while Sherlock just stood there and smirked.
It wasn't until the last question that Sherlock was caught unprepared. He really shouldn't have been, as someone was bound to ask. "Did Dr Watson know you were alive- have you been in communication the whole time you were presumed dead?" That was the question that silenced the whole crowd, as lenses flashed and cameras zoomed in on their faces, waiting on the answer. Sherlock had turned to John, one eyebrow raised in query - this one was for John, if he wanted it. John had looked slightly pained, then a polite mask wiped his features clean.
"Sherlock did what was necessary to stop a madman. England is safer with Moriarty and his organization gone." His calm non-answer drew groans from the reporters. "Thank you all for you time, and I will have a chance later to answer more questions on my blog. Thank you."
Sherlock was mildly impressed with John's handling of the media, though he was a little disappointed he didn't have a chance to be too outrageous. No sound bites played ad infinitum on Crimewatch tonight then. Plenty of hat shots though. John should enjoy that.
Sherlock picked the hat back up from the bed, smoothing out the bow on top. Every time he wore the damned thing people went crazy. Some even screamed. He had no idea why. John loved it though, chuckling every time he saw a picture of Sherlock wearing it. For that alone he kept it.
The noise level in the front room of his flat rose, and Sherlock knew he should be out there with them. The company had been tolerable until the knock-off fiancé had shown up, then it just got weirder. All the people he knew he could call his "friends" were out there, enjoying each other's company. They were not just celebrating the closing of the case, but Mary and John's engagement as well. Sherlock had noticed the ring instantly, as Mary made breakfast from the groceries they'd grabbed on the way over. Sherlock had snagged a cup of tea, and seen the unopened bottles of champagne in the bags left on the table. Obvious, really. He'd shook John's hand, and kissed Mary on the cheek in congratulations. He was certain neither had noticed the flinch he tried his damnedest to hide. Mrs Hudson had joined the party, going on and on about dresses and the perfect place to have the reception. John must have spread the word, because Lestrade had shown up after breakfast, and Molly and her fiancé just before the interview.
"Hey, you okay? You've been standing there for awhile just staring at that hat." John asked, having managed to sneak down the hall and into his room without Sherlock noticing. He stood just past the door, letting it fall back to its original position. John looked happy, content. At least Sherlock assumed he was, asking him to deduce someone's emotional state was always a hit and miss. But he figured John was, what with all the smiling and laughing. And that smile he had on his face at the moment made something lift in Sherlock's chest at the sight.
"Marvelous, John. Just wondering how long it would take to dissolve this ear hat in stomach bile," he replied.
"Right- just not when I'm around, okay?" John laughed, stepping closer to Sherlock. "The girls were talking about going out for lunch. Something or other about dresses. I bowed out, and Tom's off too. Lestrade has plans. It's just us, if you're up for the company."
"Tom?" He couldn't think, John was shutting down his brain being so close. Act natural, he won't notice if you act natural...
"Molly's boyfriend? Your doppelgänger? I'm taking that as a yes by the way. Let me just send the others off. Be right back." With that he turned and quickly slipped out of the bedroom. Suddenly there seemed to be more air in the room. Sherlock could hear him ushering people out, with Lestrade and Molly yelling their goodbyes to him down the hallway. Those two knew him well enough to figure why he was hiding out, and weren't at all upset by it. He waited until there was nothing but silence, and then sighed in relief. Throwing the ear hat over his shoulder, he cautiously walked down the hall towards the front room.
John was digging through the drawers in the kitchen, looking for take out menus. Sherlock paused, eyeing the doctor curiously while his back was turned. The entire morning (aside from the very serious moment on the stairs), John had been all smiles. At first Sherlock had thought it was because of Mary and the ring thing, but John's smile had changed from "thanks for your congratulations" to a smile far more intense, and only at Sherlock. Every time Sherlock had been looking at John (which was a lot, he hadn't seen the man for almost two years, he can be forgiven for staring at his doctor), and John caught him, John's smile would alter slightly, and the look in his eyes made Sherlock shiver. John had always been able to get a reaction from Sherlock, whether he knew it or not. Always. Sherlock was just very good at hiding it, even from himself. So his morning was spent watching John smile that smile at him. When he wasn't dodging happy people who made him want to find another roof to jump from, that is. John hadn't stop smiling all morning, and it was making Sherlock jumpy.
I can hardly understand my own emotions most of the time, how can I interpret someone else's reliably? Sherlock lamented internally, watching the way John's shoulders moved under his cardigan. Shaking himself out of his reverie, Sherlock turned and walked into the front room.
Trying to decipher John Watson's moods and emotional motives were both incredibly easy, and yet incredibly hard, all at the same time. Years on in their relationship, and Sherlock still couldn't fathom the depths of the doctor's heart. For instance, John's insistence he go out on date during a case, and then getting upset with Sherlock because he went too! John went on a date during a case, what did he expect? Sherlock was still stumped by that one. Though the good doctor's dating days were over, if the ring on Mary's finger was anything to go by. Sherlock knew he'd interrupted the first time John tried to propose with his poorly chosen "TADA!" moment as the waiter. Oops. Sherlock felt torn; he wanted John to be happy, and if Mary made John happy, then Sherlock was happy for them. Or so he kept telling himself. He found Mary to be the least objectionable of all the women John had dated over the years. She handled herself well in a crisis, and didn't make John choose between Sherlock/cases and herself. At least not yet. And the biggest deciding factor in her favor was that she accepted Sherlock, wholeheartedly. There had been no hesitation on her part, no fear or judgment. Almost as if she accustomed to people like himself, or even that she'd seen worse.
If John is to be taken from me, let it be by someone like her. I can stand it if he loves her, loves her enough not to come back to me. I lost him two years ago, and she saved him. I left him broken, and Mary helped him heal. And he loves her for it. Sherlock walked over to his chair, and snagged his violin up from the chair. Looking for the bow, he spotted it hiding under a newspaper with the headline "Hat Detective Returns". UGH, what a dreadfully idiotic headline! At least he couldn't see the hat picture with the fold in the way.
"Food's all set, it should be here soon," John said, coming in from the kitchen and clicking off his mobile. He dropped himself into his chair, and looked at Sherlock expectantly. "Going to play, then?"
Sherlock nodded absently, his fingers automatically tuning the strings. He spared a quick glance at John, who was smiling at him again. He felt a small twitch of his own lips in return, and he flipped the bow end over twice before catching it in a casual, smooth motion.
"Well, don't tell anybody this or I'll kill you for real, but I've missed listening to you. Whenever I'd hear something on the radio or TV that sounded like something you'd play I'd always change the channel. Glad that's over now," he said casually, like he'd just stated he liked tea.
Sherlock's heart jumped, then settled into a slightly faster pace. He turned fully to John, settled on the arm of his chair, and thought for a moment. There was one song he knew from his childhood, one of the first he'd learned to play by heart. He brought the violin to his chin, the bow to the strings. Sherlock collected his thoughts, opened the door in his mind palace to the room that held his music, and began to play. The world fell away, and Sherlock let the music embrace him, along with the company he kept.
John knew the song well, an old Irish ballad about a young soldier going off to war. It was a song about love, pain, and the promise of death in the end. About life going on afterwards, no matter how badly broken one's heart may be. John was absurdly touched by Sherlock's choice, and he pondered the man as he played. His eyes had almost completely closed, a glitter of gem stone brilliance peeking through his lashes. John was content to be still, and listen.
Does he know how much of himself he reveals while he plays? The world may see him one way, but if it was to see him play, I know a lot of opinions would change. His emotions, his fears, his thoughts are bared before his audience, with every note. If Sherlock ever needs help explaining his emotions, I know to give him his violin!
Years ago, before the Fall, while they stilled lived together, Sherlock would play for hours. Many times he'd forgo speaking entirely for the violin instead. He would claim it was to help him think, to process cases. John knew it was more than that. It may help the detective solve a case, but it worked because it gave him an emotional outlet. Everything he repressed was released into the music. As his emotions calmed, Sherlock was able to think for more clearly. And with clarity, came insight.
Sherlock had reached the chorus, his body moving slightly with the melody of the song. His form was perfect, and he moved with an unconscious grace. His eyes were fully shut, face relaxed and peaceful. The sun had shifted in the sky, and a slight halo lit Sherlock from behind. John held his breath, afraid to move, to spoil the image. To see Sherlock like this was a rarity; it never happened often that he was content to play for the joy of the music, at peace with his place in the world.
John was flooded with gratitude, thankful that he could have this moment. Sherlock was truly home, and they were together again at last. As Sherlock played, John felt like the music was washing over him, into him. It went to all the broken places left in his heart; no matter that he had forgiven Sherlock and welcomed him back into his life, his heart was still damaged in so many places. John was helpless to the music as it played with his heartstrings. Sherlock was healing his hurts with each note, each elegant pull of the bow across the strings. When he forgave Sherlock on the train he had felt a weight lift from him, like the lessening of a burden he didn't know he was carrying. Now he was awash with emotion, as the music lifted him from the pain of the last two years. It conjured in him that awesome emotion he still couldn't name, the one he'd felt while Sherlock cried into his chest the other morning. This unnameable, powerful force of nature overwhelmed him, and John was lost to the music, and the man creating the miracle he was experiencing.