The Making Of A Primary Color
Chapter Four: "The Violinist"
A/N: Sorry for the delay, and a happy Halloween!
John didn't see Sherlock again for another two weeks, although the memory stayed very fresh in his mind. His mind kept drifting to the scent of his hair and cologne, his smile, his eyes. Him in general. But, of course, he didn't say all of it this out loud because he would look creepy if he appeared this smitten by a boy he barely knew. He at least relayed the message back to his bandmates that he'd seen him again and drove him home, which they commended him on.
Songwriting had been going quite well as of late, too. John and Greg often wrote cryptic lyrics that made the listener think, as they had agreed that made for the best songs. Neither of them liked a lot of songs with meanings that were too obvious, but ones that people took in many different ways. John would admit that he actually liked to go on those song meaning websites on his band's page and read what the comments were, even if they didn't quite get what he had been trying to convey when he wrote the lyrics. There were some interesting theories out there, he would give them that.
For example, some people believe that a song of theirs was a song about a member of another band who people also believed there to be drama with, even though there wasn't really. The guy didn't like them for some reason, yeah, but John would have never written a song about it. If he did write a song about a person he knew who was also famous, he made sure it was extra cryptic so people didn't figure it out. Well, so they didn't figure it out right away.
Except, for the song he was writing right now, John wasn't being too cryptic. Its current working title was "The Violinist", but that would probably change to something long and irrelevant to the meaning because it would be a cool lyric to put somewhere, but John didn't have anywhere else. He would know it was about him; he would have to. It wasn't, in fact, a sappy love song like the title suggested, but a way to express how he was feeling and to let out some of the emotions he was going through right now because they were certainly something. They were a mess, actually, those emotions.
It vaguely described Sherlock, but he would know because of the mannerisms John included in the descriptions. It was very him. Plus, there was going to be a violin part in it. John didn't know how to fit it in just yet, but it was a must for the song. They'd used orchestral instruments in songs before. Not many, but some. They blended better with their sound than one would think. John wondered if Sherlock would play the violin part for him. But that might lead to people talking about them on the Internet, and there were many ways that could go wrong.
Recently, though, Sherlock has stopped posting the violin videos and pictures. The last one posted was a video of him playing this song with a title as confusing and long as one of John's, except it was from, like, the 1700s, and that was a month ago. He also composed some, having posted a picture of several blank pieces of sheet music filled up with handwritten music notes and notes to himself in his loopy, spidery handwriting, and John wished he knew the violin well enough to hear it in his head as he read it.
John wouldn't be able to have an emotional song with no lyrics, and he never understood how a message can be delivered through something without words. He got that it was beautiful and often reflected on the composer's life at the time, but you won't find him crying over a Beethoven piece because it moved him. Maybe it made him look inelegant, but he needed lyrics if he was going to listen to a song and be emotional about it.
But the way Sherlock played was different. It wasn't the music, necessarily, but everything else combined with the music. When he played, realization hit John like a punch to the face every time.
That realization being that he liked this boy so much he couldn't stand it.
xxx
Sherlock walked to orchestra with Molly on his first day back from break. He wasn't looking forward to it, which was something he never thought he'd say about orchestra. But they all knew about the audition and the university. What they didn't know is that he didn't get in. And they were going to ask. And he'd have to tell. Everyone. At once.
The orchestra room fell silent as soon as Sherlock walked in and looked expectant and somewhat excited. Sherlock knew that Joseph (a double bass player) was planning a party at his house to celebrate. Beside him, Molly looked sympathetic and then turned her eyes to the rest of the class to try and warn them not to say anything at all, having told Molly over the weekend and ending up getting upset and embarrassing himself with the amount of emotion he'd been showing to people lately. That was something he saved for when he was alone.
Sherlock merely shook his head at them, seeing their smiles turn confused. "I didn't get in."
Several people gasped, even Elliot looking sensitive and supportive. He and Elliot had stopped communicating as much since they broke up, only talking when they were with other friends and if they had a class together. They didn't text (apart from the occasional What time do we need to be at the auditorium?) or hang out alone together or eat lunch together simply because it was awkward.
Their breakup had been a bit of a mutual thing, but was initiated by Elliot, who gave Sherlock the entire "It's not you, it's me" speech, and Sherlock hadn't yelled at him or cried or tried to argue with him. He just let it happen and moved on, just like he would do with this. Sherlock figured that if something didn't go his way, it just wasn't meant to be. There was no reason to fight for things that weren't meant to be.
"Did they give you a reason?" Joseph asked, incredulous. Sherlock was the best player of any instrument in the entire school, and it didn't exactly fill the others with much hope that he hadn't succeeded.
Sherlock began to answer, but their instructor, Mr. Sinclair, who'd been the one to recommend the university to Sherlock, threw him a sympathetic look (Sherlock was about sick of those), and told everyone to leave Sherlock alone and to get in their seats. Mr. Sinclair was a violinist himself, but had always wanted to teach instead of do it professionally, which Sherlock couldn't understand. He could never be patient enough to be any kind of teacher.
He was an older man with greying hair and small glasses on his shaved face, with a tall, praying mantis-like body and a slight limp from where he'd had knee problems when he was younger. Personally, Sherlock believed he was the best teacher he'd ever had. Teachers didn't usually like Sherlock or pay him much attention apart from when he mouthed off or made straight A's. But on the first day of orchestra, the first words he'd said to Sherlock were, "You don't get noticed very often, do you?" which had made Sherlock freeze and anticipate being lectured on his bad attitude.
He'd heard the rumors about how strict Sinclair was, which he soon learned from the kids who were also in orchestra came from kids who weren't in orchestra and making an arse of themselves in the hall or to one of the orchestra students, because they always came to him if they were being bullied because he took care of it once and for all. When Sherlock told him, "No," he'd told him how he knew he didn't trust people and always got the wrong idea about them, and he was right.
Sherlock quickly became one of his favorites, which no one was really jealous of. In fact, orchestra was the one class that Sherlock wasn't hated in. Even in science, which was his favorite and best class, the kids in there hated him and never wanted to work with him, despite having the highest grade in the class. All of his friends were in orchestra.
Even after Sherlock had taken a seat, he was still receiving stares and questions whispered to him if the person was close enough. He got out his violin and slowly took it out. For once, it was cold. He hadn't been playing over break like he usually did, and this was the first time since the day before the concert, which fell at the beginning of break. He had been wondering if it would hurt to play now or if he would still be any good because his inspiration was gone.
Across the room, Mr. Sinclair sighed, still hearing questioned being asked. "Sherlock, do you want to talk about it?" he announced.
Not really, but they would never rest if he did.
"I can answer a few questions if it means class will be smoother."
"Do you have any backup plans?" was the first one shouted at him from the back of the room, surprisingly from Elliot. Yes, they were on reasonably good terms, but Sherlock just didn't expect him to care about what happened to him after their breakup. He supposed he still cared about what happened to Elliot, too, like he'd probably cry if he died or something.
"Oh, yes. Several. In fact, I'm sure they will be much more easily obtained than a successful music career. Those are very hard to come by. But with a degree in chemistry, it'll be much easier to find a well-paying, stable job more quickly."
Yes, and then he could be just like everyone else. He definitely had a knack for science and could understand a concept in a matter of minutes after being introduced to it, and he did love chemistry, really. But it just couldn't compare to the violin. It would just have to be a hobby, something he did in his free time before confining himself to a dull life of domesticity and repetitiveness.
He wasn't sure if he wanted kids yet. He didn't know if he could handle the responsibility. But even before that, he would need a husband. Having someone else with him would at least make things a little less agonizing, to make things fun and keep things fresh. But Sherlock didn't come across boyfriends easily. He remembered a conversation he had with a violist, Laura, in which he mentioned (or whined about) how no guys liked him. I have met so many guys who have a crush on you, though, she'd said. Where are they, then? he'd responded. They think you're pretty; that doesn't mean you don't terrify them, she said.
Then came along John Watson who'd utterly fucked Sherlock's emotions. It was like having a crush on any band member, when you want to look up pictures of them and draw them and laugh at everything they say. Except you know them in person. It makes things awkward. Because having a real crush and a crush on someone famous feels like two different things, so when blended, it was something new and something confusing.
Of course, no one knew about John and him driving him home and kind of probably flirting. Not even Molly, who seemed to know everything that went on in Sherlock's life these days. This could draw some unwanted attention to himself, he knew. There would be girls on social media split half-and-half, one half in support of him, the other not liking him, all parts trying to learn more about him.
Then when they did find more about him and got to know him as a person, they would all hate him.
Regardless of what John might think, Sherlock really wasn't likable. It takes special people to be able to put up with him, and that supply was very limited. It was easy to fall in love with his talent or looks, but not so much with his personality, and that was important. It was also terrifying. He didn't want to get married to a man who only fell in love with him because of said talent and looks and then hate him otherwise. Someone did once mention to him how he'd be a good trophy husband.
But the thing about John is that Sherlock isn't even sure if it's silly to even be considering these things. He doesn't know whether John really likes him or if he's just looking into things too much and over-analyzing everything he says to him. For all he knew, this could just be what John was like, kind and accommodating to everyone, even if he secretly thinks they're a terrible person and is trying to kill them with kindness before he actually kills them by asphyxiation or multiple stab wounds.
Sherlock was an over-thinker more than anything else he was—and he was a lot of things—and he thought it was a good thing, even if everyone else said his tendencies were unhealthy and potentially dangerous to him. His entire life was a series of 'what if's'.
As it turns out, his playing is still fine. He'd also been worried that now that he knows he's not quite as good as he initially thought, he might hear how he actually sounds and it would be awful. But his playing is the same as it has always been, just lacking the heart it once had, since he's now not thinking about how what he's doing right now is what he's going to be doing for the rest of his life.
Oddly enough, he still doesn't feel like he's doing it in chemistry class, either.
It's not until he gets home that his day takes a turn for the better. Today hasn't been horrible, but it wasn't necessarily good, either. It was one that was in between, one that didn't matter. Until it's five in the afternoon and Sherlock receives a message on Twitter from someone telling him to call them, with a phone number attached. Someone whose name might be John and someone who might have a check mark in a blue cloud telling him that it's real.
He gets his phone and lays back on his bed, listening to the rings and counting them, hoping he doesn't embarrass himself further on this phone conversation. Maybe he sent it to the wrong person. It was an easy mistake. Or maybe someone else had sent it from John's account to mess with him because they knew how much John hated Sherlock.
On the third ring, someone picked up.
"Sherlock?"
"Yes. Hello, John."
"Oh, so you got my message. Was it too creepy? I didn't want to say anything like 'we need to talk' and give you a panic attack."
Sherlock smiled at the ceiling and wondered if his parents could hear him talking on the phone and ask who he was talking to. They knew he texted his three or four friends all day, but a phone call meant either something very good or something very bad.
"No, it wasn't too creepy, although I am confused as to why you would want me to call you when we haven't spoken in two weeks."
"Well, Mr. I-don't-want-to-be-a-professional-violinist, I have a question," John said, and Sherlock sat up in bed, interested. "And I'm sorry I haven't spoken to you sooner."
"Go on."
"There's a song on the new album with a violin part, and I need someone to play it."
Did he hear that correctly? John actually wanted him when there were thousands of more experienced, older violinists who had been doing this their whole life, people who'd been accepted into music schools? This was just a favoritism thing, like picking your best friend for a school project even though you know they're failing the class and have no idea what's going on in class.
"Me? Why?"
"Because you're amazing, and I've got my heart set on you."
Sherlock's heart rate spiked at that sentence, even if John didn't mean it like that. Just hearing him say it sent him reeling. He was definitely in trouble here. And he thinks he might like it.
"What kind of song is it?"
"You've heard us before. You're not really sure what genre to lump it under, but somewhere along the lines of pop-punk-alternative-indie-80s-rock-2005-Myspace music."
"Sounds about right. What I'm asking is what is the song about?"
There is a pause so long that Sherlock asks if John is still there, if his phone died or lost a signal, but he clears his throat and answers anyway.
"Well, I think it's a love song. Sometimes even I don't know what I'm writing about," John says with a nervous little laugh at the end, and Sherlock doesn't know what he's nervous about, but a million theories run through his mind, and none of them are correct, but he doesn't know it because John is staring at the lyrics as they speak, and the whole thing screams Sherlock. The song title should be changed to Sherlock, followed by his name repeated 1,000 times instead of actual lyrics; that's how much this song is about Sherlock.
Sherlock takes a deep breath before saying, "I'll think about it," and John can respect that. He's been piecing a theory together himself and is beginning to believe that his bad mood when they first met was because of something that happened that had to do with the violin.
"All right," John says, and then begins an hour-long, normal conversation with Sherlock that two normal friends would have. Two normal friends who have known each other for years. Two normal friends who want to be more than friends. Two not-so-normal friends who are bound to end up with each other.
