Sunday, 15th January, 2012
John
John woke up with a start. It took him a minute to figure out where he was. My new apartment, he thought groggily. He'd had a long day and he'd fallen asleep on the couch without realising it. The telly was still on, the remains of his dinner still on the table. He sat up and rubbed his eyes. He was reaching for the remote when he heard it…the soft strains of the violin.
Someone was playing the violin next door…He turned off the telly and sat back to listen. There was some Schubert and Mendelssohn and a good deal of Bach. The violinist next door…John had concluded by now, that it was a man, though why, he couldn't possibly tell you…seemed rather fond of Bach.
He's very, very good, thought John as he listened. There was a certain incandescent quality to the music…the violinist wasn't just playing the written score, he was illuminating it, finding hidden meanings and allusions…John felt himself drawn into the music so completely that there was nothing else in that moment...
He realised with some surprise that he had tears in his eyes…it really was that beautiful. It also made him nostalgic, took him back to his childhood and the violin that he had loved so much. It had been a big part of his life then. But with med school and then the army…he'd let it go. He'd packed it up when he left to join the army and that was it.
He snapped out of his thoughts when he realised that his neighbour had moved on to something entirely different. It was a slow, haunting melody…that went back and forth, like the composer was searching for something and not quite finding it. It stopped abruptly and the violinist went back a few bars and played them again, having altered a couple of notes and then he stopped again.
John heard a frustrated sigh and realised that this was an original composition. It seemed that his neighbour had worked it out up to one point and then he couldn't go on, he didn't know how to go on. But he kept trying and he kept getting stuck. And judging from the noises next door (the walls really were thin…Mrs Hudson hadn't been kidding about that) he was getting really angry.
He started as something crashed against the wall in front of him, glass, by the sound of it…he had an inexplicable urge to go next door and talk to the guy and try to get him to calm down. Then he glanced at the clock and realised with a start that it was 5:30 in the morning.
He listened for a little while longer. Things had quietened down next door…so John took himself to bed, his head and heart full of the music that he'd been treated to and a good bit of curiosity about the man next door.
Sherlock
San Francisco was not much better than New York had been. He'd gone up on stage and given a performance…it was a very good performance, but he knew that it was far from his best. His best came when he was so involved in the music that he saw nothing in front of him. But now he saw and heard every distracting thing.
He played with his hands, not his heart. His heart it seemed was tired and bored. Getting up on that stage had become a chore. He got through that performance somehow, waiting all the while for it to be over. So he could get off that stage, get on a plane and go home.
He'd been travelling all over America and Canada for the last three months. He would have been the first to admit that they were both beautiful countries. But he missed London and home. He was, for the first time in his life, acutely homesick. He was also tired of being a celebrity.
He wanted to go home and disappear for a couple of months. He'd made Lestrade promise that this time there would be no dinners, no socialising and no delays. He wanted to go straight to the airport after he was done.
So 3:30 on Saturday afternoon and he was home. He greeted Mrs Hudson warmly, heard that a new tenant had moved in next door, accepted her offer of a late lunch and walked into his apartment. Sherlock loved his apartment. It was the only place that said 'home' to him.
He'd been here since he was eighteen, ten years ago now, and for all his fame and money he'd never wanted to live anywhere else. He was really a very simple man. He was uncomfortable with opulence, which was odd considering that he had grown up in a wealthy family and was quite rich himself.
He put away his bags, took a long shower, had the generous lunch that Mrs Hudson brought up for him and fell into bed. He hadn't been sleeping or eating properly for months now. So the combination of being at home, in his own bed, the long shower and the lovely lunch just did him in.
It was past three in the morning when he woke up. He felt rested and at ease. So he did his favourite thing in the world. He picked up his violin and played...all his favourite pieces, mostly Bach. It was exhilarating. So he decided to pick up a piece that he'd been working on for a while.
He played some of it and it seemed to be going well, but he got stuck. He went back and tried again and got stuck again. He rewrote some of it…it didn't help. He sighed in frustration and because he'd never learnt to give up when he was down, he tried again and again.
The music remained stubbornly unresponsive to his attempts to control it. He lost his temper and picked up the vase on the coffee table and flung it at the wall. Then he sat down and hung his head. He hadn't been able to compose for the last six months and it was driving him crazy.