viii.
Listen.
John fell asleep that night to a cacophonic lullaby of wind and rain.
His room at the academy wasn't all that different from his one back home, but he could sense the cold stone around him and smell the strangeness of it. It crept into his nose and seeped into his brain, whispering not home not home not home in a ghostly tone. He wondered if there was some cosmic law of the universe that said he could never feel at ease in a place so much bigger and more important than him.
Moments before he drifted off, he flexed the fingers of his right hand and remembered the feel of a warm, too-skinny wrist. He remembered the breath that had fluttered against his ear and the deep voice that was more vibration than actual sound.
What he would truly never forget, however, was how Sherlock's face had looked when he'd gazed out over the sea. His bizarre features were drenched in gold, and his eyes had been alive with something John couldn't name, something like clarity and sadness, as if he were gazing far into the future and sensing how infinitesimal their place in it was.
John's heart had never beat so fast in his life.
ix.
Listen.
Sherlock didn't sleep at all that night. His room was located in the south wing, at the end of a long stretch of corridor, and frankly he preferred it that way. The teachers never bothered to trek down that far, and he could play his violin well into the night without anyone complaining. Truthfully, it was why they'd moved him down there in the first place, no matter what the official report said.
He was sat on his bed with the three cigarettes he'd managed to con out of a groundskeeper laid out in front of him. Acquiring them had taken a bit of doing (i.e. blackmailing), but it was well worth the effort. He had a three-cigarette problem to solve, and tonight was his favourite sort of night.
Sherlock grabbed the first cigarette and climbed up onto his desk, standing on his toes to reach the window carved high into the wall. It opened with a squeak like a startled mouse. The rain had petered out into a light drizzle, but there was still plenty of wind, whistling through the towers and rattling the glass precariously. Sherlock closed his eyes and spent a moment savouring the sheer chaos of it before lighting his cigarette with the book of matches he kept on the sill. The first drag was exquisite, a symphony of bitter and sweet that rolled over his tongue and into his lungs. He held his breath until the smoke burnt inside him before finally releasing it in a stream that was instantly sucked out the window. He took the next puff at a more normal pace and then settled into a rhythm, drawing it in and releasing it steadily.
He'd intended to let his mind wander for a bit, but his thoughts settled unerringly on a certain blond he'd not yet managed to riddle out. John Watson was an anomaly to say the least.
Sherlock Holmes did not have friends.
He did not give new students tours of the grounds, and he did not, did not, take them to his favourite place, let alone invite them to return.
Sherlock could just imagine the look on Mycroft's face if he'd seen him today, leading John by the wrist through the dark and watching the sunset with him. He'd tap that ridiculous umbrella of his against the ground and smile imperiously. A friend? You? Really, you must be joking.
His parents would be even worse. They'd want to know what John's connections were, what sort of family he came from. They'd be horrified if he told them the truth: that John was a lower-class boy of absolutely no political significance. Mummy's lips would curl down into a bright pink half-circle of displeasure, and Father would stand by the fireplace with his arms folded behind him, literally turning his back on his son until he decided to "be reasonable." Something dark inside of Sherlock twisted delightedly at the thought.
That same dark part of him had to admit their reaction wouldn't be unwarranted. His interest in John made little sense, even to him.
The only way in which John Watson was remarkable was that he was unremarkable in almost every way. Average height, average build and from what Sherlock had heard in class, slightly above-average talent for the clarinet. It was almost impressive how entirely unassuming he managed to be. There was no discernible reason why Sherlock was intrigued by him, but the feeling was there regardless.
Unbidden, a veritable slideshow of John's facial expressions drifted through his mind, from the cheeky wink he'd given him in class to the grin that touched his lips as they formed the word "Brilliant." Sherlock could usually tell what people were thinking just by looking at them, and whilst that was certainly true of John, the surprising part was that John was always thinking precisely what was on his face. There was no guile there, no attempt to hide his real feelings behind pleasantries or lies. He genuinely meant it when he called Sherlock amazing, or more commonly, a bloody bastard. Honesty was not something Sherlock was accustomed to, and he had to admit it was refreshing.
Sherlock realised with a start that his cigarette had burnt down to the filter. He ground it out and shivered as a blast of icy night air nearly slammed his window closed.
He had a feeling it was going to take more than three cigarettes to solve the mystery of John Watson.
x.
Listen.
Neither of them could pinpoint precisely when it happened.
It started with polite nods in the corridor and the occasional exchanged word. Then one of them showed up where the other ate lunch, and soon it seemed only logical that Sherlock should tutor John to help him catch up in their music theory class. Before either of them even realised it, it became expected for them to be together. Normal. Routine. Ordinary. If there was an assignment, they were partners. If Sherlock got into a fight (an alarmingly frequent occurrence) John was right there with him, his lip bloody and his eyes glinting dangerously.
Their relationship was nowhere near perfect, of course. By befriending Sherlock, John had managed to isolate himself from the entirety of the student body, and part of him resented the other boy for that. Sometimes Sherlock looked at John and could see with startling clarity how easy it would be for him to get bored.
For now, however, they were both content to walk the corridors of the academy together, shoulder to shoulder, and ignore the distant storm clouds looming on the horizon.
xi.
Listen.
The first time John heard Sherlock play, he knew he was done for.
They were in class—a month after John had arrived at the academy—and they were practicing a new piece that would be performed at the spring recital. Sherlock had won the violin solo in the private auditions, and from the grumblings of the other students, John assumed this was a regular occurrence. Sherlock was about to perform it in front of the class for the first time, and despite their apparent dislike for him, the other students were practically buzzing with excitement.
John watched with muted interest as Sherlock rosined his bow, his hand flicking almost lazily along the taut horse hair. He was wearing his usual suit jacket and perfectly-tailored trousers, but he'd opted for a white silk dress shirt, giving his appearance a more formal air. His Stradivarius violin looked as if he'd spent half the night polishing it; the dark-stained wood gleamed cheerfully from its position on his lap. Sherlock flipped it over a moment later to attach his navy shoulder rest to the body, completing his pre-performance preparations.
At their professor's beckoning, Sherlock rose to his feet, took his place behind the stand set at the front of the stage and placed his bow delicately against gleaming strings.
The first few notes were soft, pianissimo, almost tremulous as Sherlock drew them deftly from the instrument. They lingered in the air, and he layered sound gently into them, coaxing the melody together. John craned his neck to the side, eager for a glimpse of the sheet music, but Sherlock's body was blocking it. He slid effortlessly through a complex array of grace notes and just as subtly flowed into a decrescendo that had John leaning forward in his seat. Sherlock's back was ramrod straight, but he moved with every stroke of the bow, swaying with the notes, rolling with their nuances as if they were the ebb and flow of the sea. The music evoked an image of the sun just rising over a peaceful scene: a meadow with a river gurgling nearby and small butter-yellow moths flitting in the air.
John didn't even notice the crescendo until it was upon him, Sherlock built it so gradually. The melody rang in the air, strong and pure, flooding into every corner of the auditorium. The scene in John's head abruptly changed to one of a hunt: dogs tearing through the peaceful meadow in pursuit of a rabbit, scattering dirt as their paws gouged the earth. John could feel the music vibrating deep within his chest; he couldn't shake the thought that Sherlock was playing him every bit as much as his violin.
Suddenly the tempo shifted, accelerando, and Sherlock fingers danced down the fingerboard in a practiced blur. John couldn't see his face, but he knew his eyes were closed, the whole of his brilliant mind focussed on wringing music from metal and wood. If the notes had a physical form, they would be spinning vertiginously through the air, wrapping around Sherlock's swaying form only to rocket up to the atmosphere and laugh at the sound barrier. John had never heard anything so sweetly beautiful before, but what truly struck him was Sherlock's lissome form, outlined in white from the stage lights, dancing even as he stood in place.
John didn't need to be a mind-reader to know in that moment, Sherlock was alone in his own private universe. He and his violin were all that mattered, the two of them forming a single entity with a single consciousness. Sherlock needed nothing, no one, but the glide of his bow and the crooning beauty of the music he crafted as carefully as if he were cutting the notes from diamond.
The final harmony—a two-toned whole note played on the A and D strings simultaneously—lingered in John's mind long after Sherlock had stilled, his bow arm hanging limply by his side.
Deafening silence followed the performance. Every individual in the theatre seemed completely frozen in place. No one dared to so much as breathe.
Until John Watson climbed to his feet and began to applaud.
xii.
Listen.
There had never been any shortage of praise in Sherlock's life. He'd taken up the violin at three years of age and had been met with nothing but trophies and standing ovations since. But this, this was something new.
Sherlock lowered his violin and turned slowly about, brow furrowed in confusion. His in-class performances usually garnered jealous murmurs and begrudging congratulations. Who the bloody hell was applauding?
His gaze landed unerringly on John Watson, his blond head sticking out of the woodwinds section like a lighthouse beacon. Sherlock felt something electric crackle down his spine the moment their eyes locked. Heat flooded into his cheeks, and to his absolute horror, he realised he was blushing. He tried to turn away, but John's eyes rooted him to the spot, intensely blue even from a distance, open like two windows leading straight into his brain. Sherlock could see everything John was feeling: admiration, awe and most frighteningly of all, pride. John was proud of him. Sherlock had never been the subject of someone's pride before, not even his parents. To them, he was a wind-up toy they could parade about at parties.
Sherlock felt his heart clench in his chest with an emotion he'd assumed he'd never feel. In that moment, he was struck by a single, indisputable truth.
John Watson was going to ruin him.
xiii.
Listen.
John was lying in bed that night—staring up at the ceiling with his arms folded beneath his head—when he heard an odd rustling sound. Curious, he propped himself up on his elbows and glanced down. There was a piece of folded white paper on the floor, presumably one that had been slid beneath his door. He heaved himself out of bed, picked it up and carefully opened it.
Text me. -SH
The handwriting was a jumble of spikes and loops, impatiently scrawled across the page by a large hand. A series of numbers, which John recognised as a phone number, were under the cryptic message. Without hesitation, John tugged his mobile out of the pocket of his jeans and typed a quick text.
Sherlock?
His phone vibrated not thirty seconds later.
Very good, John. Your observational skills may be salvageable yet. Meet me at the front gate in ten minutes. Bring your clarinet. -SH
John sighed and looked out his window. Rain lashed against it.
Are you barmy? It's pissing outside.
You needn't be so dramatic. Just do it. -SH
John was about to mail back and ask why Sherlock felt compelled to sign his texts when they both clearly knew who he was, but he just couldn't be arsed. It was undoubtedly one of Sherlock's thousands of inexplicable quirks. John located his socks, trainers and the most water-resistant coat he owned and dressed quickly, grabbing his clarinet case and hurrying out the door as soon as he was finished. Whatever Sherlock had in mind was probably mad and dangerous and stupid, and John could already feel the excitement buzzing in his veins.
By some miracle, he managed to make it out a back door and to the stone archway without encountering an administrator. It was indeed raining outside but not so heavily that John couldn't see where he was going. A dark figure was waiting for him just inside the wrought-iron gate. Sherlock was wearing a long, dramatic black coat that John had never seen before, and his unruly curls were plastered to his brow. He looked strangely vulnerable, like a kitten trapped outside during a storm, even as his near-omniscient gaze assessed John from head to toe. His violin case rested on the ground by his side, carefully manoeuvred to avoid the mud.
"What the hell are we doing out here, Sherlock?" John asked, shielding his eyes from the rain as he looked up at the taller teen.
"I want to show you something," Sherlock replied, shouting slightly over the roar of wind, rain and sea. "Follow me."
He picked up his violin and swept off, his coat billowing theatrically behind him. John rolled his eyes but hurried to follow. To his surprise, Sherlock headed towards the seashore. There was nothing there but rocks and a spit of land that eventually rose into the cliff their school was built upon. John had never bothered to check it out before. Sherlock seemed to think it was interesting, however; he walked purposefully towards it without so much as glancing behind him to see if John was still there. The sea was a grey, stormy beast, rearing up only to smack itself against the rocks in sprays of brilliant white.
When they reached the sand, John's shoes sunk immediately into it, leaving behind footprints that filled with water. He was about to protest when Sherlock waved a hand in the air, indicating something thirty metres to their right. All John could see was an odd swatch of black in the cliff wall, but Sherlock made straight for it, gesturing to John over his shoulder. As they approached, the black patch seemed to shift, confusing John until he realised he was looking at something with depth. John's eyes widened. It was a cave.
"You're always showing me the most amazing places," John said as they approached.
"What?" Sherlock shouted over the rain.
John cupped his free hand around his mouth and leant up towards Sherlock's ear. "I said this is amazing!"
John couldn't see Sherlock's eyes in the dark, but he could feel him studying him. "Just wait until we get inside."
They scrambled up the rocks with Sherlock leading the way and John doing his best to follow. Sherlock had clearly done this enough times to know precisely where to step, and his longer legs gave him an even greater advantage. It was all John could do to keep his grip on his clarinet as he scrabbled for purchase on the wet rock.
They made it to the entrance and ducked inside. The difference was instantaneous. The raging storm lowered to a dull roar, melding with the occasional clap of waves hitting the shore. John set his clarinet down and peered into the dark. The cave was wide but not particularly deep, forming a near-perfect bowl shape, as if a giant had scooped out a handful of the cliff. It smelt of salt and earth, with just a hint of something metallic. The walls glistened with moisture, and the air was cool and still. John whistled appreciatively; the sound echoed back at him.
"I discovered this last year," Sherlock said, his deep voice rumbling beautifully as it reverberated against the walls. "Its shape lends it natural acoustics. I come here when I want to practice without fear of being disturbed. I believe not even the administration knows this is here." As he spoke, he slipped his coat off his shoulders and began rolling up his sleeves. His light blue button down was soaked through and clung to his pale skin. Every dip of muscle and smooth pane of flesh was clearly visible, including two round, dusky nipples.
John felt his ears grow hot and quickly looked away. "You seem to have a talent for finding places to be alone."
Sherlock's eyes were unreadable as they studied him. "I've not been alone since I met you."
John forced himself not to fidget and asked, "So, what are we doing here?"
"I'm glad you asked. We're going to play a duet."
"We've not got any sheet music."
Sherlock crouched down and opened his violin case, removing his bow and bringing his instrument to his chin. "We don't need it. This is going to be an experiment of sorts."
"Like those mould samples you keep under your bed? I think I'll pass."
Sherlock smiled softly. "Not quite. I just want to test something. How long have you been playing the clarinet?"
"Er, 'bout ten years now. I started in primary school."
"And how would you rate your skill level?"
John's face grew hot. "Look, I know I don't have your talent. Hell, no one at this school does, but if this is some attempt to shove it in my f—"
"Please, John." Sherlock's face was soft. "Just answer the question."
John clenched his jaw but answered, "I'd say I'm a bit above average. Not the best but certainly not the worst. It's why I came here. To learn from the best."
Sherlock nodded. "I know you're suspicious, but I'm asking you to trust me. Will you play with me?"
John couldn't be certain, but he thought there was an edge of something in Sherlock's voice, almost like pleading. He sighed and began unpacking his clarinet. He could pretend to resist all he liked, but they both knew he would always eventually do what Sherlock wanted. "Right then. What role am I playing in this experiment of yours?"
"Simply listen to what I play and then jump in whenever it feels right. Take as much or as little time as you need."
Sherlock had risen from his crouching position and was stood near the mouth of the cave, facing John. Soft, grey light filtered around him, making him look even more ethereal than usual. He gave John a final, unreadable look before raising his bow to the strings and beginning to play.
The sound was low and deep—earthy—filling the cave like a rockslide. John watched Sherlock's hand make the peculiar shaking movement of a finger vibrato, giving the notes a wavering quality. John was instantly entranced. Sherlock's eyes slid closed, and he seemed to melt into the music, swaying slowly. The sound rose and fell with the motion of his body; John realised with a barely-suppressed start that Sherlock was matching the rhythm of the crashing waves outside. Sherlock was playing the part of the cave: the earth that seemed so unmovable, yet the waves carried bits of it away every time they touched. He was the endless flow of nature, the forces that inevitably shaped the land around them.
John raised his clarinet and brought the mouthpiece to his lips unthinkingly, and then he was playing.
John couldn't have named the notes if he'd tried, and yet he knew precisely what to do. His brain was operating on autopilot, layering a melody on top of Sherlock's that danced daintily with his, a ballerina's feet just barely kissing a stage. Where Sherlock was strong and steady, John was light and teasing, a flirtation played in the octave above Sherlock's. He was the life that languished in the sun above the crust of the Earth, brief as a candle flicker and every bit as bright. Their notes fused together to form a single entity, a story told from two different perspectives simultaneously, punctuated by the roar of air and sea.
John felt the moment when Sherlock's world opened to include him, when it was no longer just his violin and him. In John's head, he could see them joining together, interlacing like the melody they'd concocted, a harmony of minds and souls. John hadn't realised how lonely he'd been—removed from his family and the only home he'd ever known—until Sherlock let him in. He felt like his lungs were expanding in his chest, like the soft light filtering into the cage was seeping into him and pushing all the darkness out. Above all else, he felt Sherlock. He could sense a kindred loneliness in him, could feel his great mind and how that greatness separated him from his peers.
There had been moments when John had been on the receiving end of Sherlock's scathing brilliance, and he'd wondered if there wasn't something terrible lurking beneath those pale eyes. John knew, however, in that moment that only a soul as bittersweet and damaged as Sherlock's could produce such a beautiful melody.
Their song gently drew to a close, the final notes ringing in the air before sweeping out across the sea.
Slowly, Sherlock lowered his violin until it hung limply by his side. He looked lost, like he had no idea what to do now. John realised he was breathing hard, his blood buzzing in his ears. He felt like his thoughts were birds darting around in the cage that was his skull, refusing to be still.
"John," Sherlock said, his voice only barely loud enough to be heard. "That was . . . amazing. Perfect. Incredible. God, and you said you were a bit above average. I had no idea—" He cut off abruptly and stared at the ground, his lips pressed into a thin line.
The distance between them was suddenly unbearable. John put his clarinet down on the bare rock and stepped forward. Sherlock didn't seem to notice his approach until they were inches away. His head snapped up, and his blue-grey eyes skittered across John's face. He was trying to deduce him, trying to read what he would do next.
John knew he wouldn't be able to, because John himself didn't know.
He moved as if his body were not his own, reaching up to cup Sherlock's face in both his hands. Sherlock opened his mouth to say something, but John shook his head frantically. The moment stretched between them like a gossamer thread; the slightest ill step could snap it. Sherlock's skin was feverish to the touch, his eyes wild and his cheeks flushed. There was a mad impulse building in John's body, but he didn't dare put a name to it. He brushed his thumbs along Sherlock's insane cheekbones, almost expecting the sharp edges to cut him. His eyes darted from unruly black curls to full lips and back again. Christ, but Sherlock was beautiful. John's whole body ached, and it could only be soothed one way.
"Sherlock," he breathed. "Please don't be angry with me for this."
He stretched his neck up until their faces were level and then gently, so very gently, brought their lips together.
The first touch was a spark in darkness, startling them both. John tried to pull away, but Sherlock fisted a hand in his jumper and drew him closer.
"John," he breathed against his lips. "John."
And then they were kissing, open-mouthed and hot, like they wanted to devour each other. John made a muffled mmph sound as Sherlock yanked them hard together. They were both still dripping with rainwater, but the heat from their bodies quickly seeped through their wet clothes. John heard a distant clatter of wood and realised Sherlock had dropped his violin. Moments later, long fingers raked through his hair, sending shivers down his spine. He felt a tongue flick against his bottom lip and moaned, darting his own out to meet it. It wasn't until his back hit cold stone that he realised Sherlock was moving forward, pinning him to the wall of the cave. It felt like Sherlock's hands were everywhere, clawing down his back and shoving up his jumper and smoothing over his hot skin.
"Sherlock," John muttered against his insistent lips, "Sherlock, God, please."
The other teen growled, honest-to-God growled, and pressed their hips together. John felt a sharp jolt of arousal when he realised Sherlock was hard, his prick pressing insistently against his belly (fucking hell, Sherlock was tall), and his own was rapidly filling with blood.
Sherlock kissed him like he was memorising the taste of him, like he wanted to touch every inch of him and map out every contour of his mouth. John quickly found himself melting under the attention, his whole body burning. He felt like he was floating, his brain was so flooded with euphoria and need.
"Sherlock," John whispered again, "you're amazing. So brilliant and beautiful, and God, I want to be with you so much."
Sherlock shivered against him, and in a burst of impulse, John shoved a hand between them and pressed the heel of his palm against Sherlock's clothed erection.
Sherlock tore his mouth away and made a noise that was half pleasure and half surprise. John started to kiss him again, but before he could, Sherlock shoved him back. John hit the wall of the cave, temporarily stunned. He shook his head as if to clear it and looked up at Sherlock. He was breathing heavily, the buttons on his too-tight shirt straining as he inhaled. His lips were kiss-bruised to a dark red colour that made his skin look even fairer, like blood spilt in snow. What caught John's attention, however, was how absolutely horrified he looked.
"I'm sorry," Sherlock said. "I truly am."
John had never before heard a human voice sound so much like breaking glass.
In a blur, Sherlock packed up his violin, grabbed his coat and swept out the entrance of the cave, all without so much as a glance behind him.
John watched him go, his back pressed to cool stone. For a long moment, he was too shocked to think.
When his brain finally rebooted, a single thought drifted to him as if through a fog: his first kiss with a boy had been in a cave by the sea, and it had tasted like the rain.
xiv.
Listen.
Sherlock lay tangled in his sheets that night with a fist wrapped around himself and John's name on his lips. Pleasure seared into him as he remembered how John's mouth had tasted, the way his tongue had felt as it slid wetly against his, the feel of his hot prick, hard and insistent, through his jeans. Sherlock's fist worked quickly as his mind lingered over every detail of the way John felt. His body had been so warm beneath Sherlock's hands, with so much firm muscle for him to grip onto. He'd wanted nothing more than to strip away every barrier between them and catalogue everything about John, down to the last freckle. His normally golden hair had been darkened with water, and his jumper had been pasted to him like a second skin, emphasising his broad shoulders and narrow waist. Good God, John Watson was attractive, and he seemed to have absolutely no idea. Sherlock could still feel the ghost of his lips on his, the rasp of stubble as their skin dragged together, the jolt of aching pleasure that had surged into him when John had put his hands between Sherlock's legs—
Sherlock came with a cry. Hot liquid split over his fist and onto his stomach. The aftershocks made him spasm, and he slowed his hand before sensitivity kicked in and turned pleasure to pain.
Sherlock's final waking thought, after he cleaned himself up and climbed back into bed, was the look on John's face when he left.
There had been plenty of confusion there, and hurt as well, but what had stood out most clearly to Sherlock was the fact that John, as he leant against the wall and watched him with those unfathomably deep blue eyes, did not look surprised in the least.