.
"Just close your eyes.
The sun is going down.
You'll be alright.
No one can hurt you now.
Come morning light,
you and I'll be safe and sound."
Sherlock drums out the beat of a melody swirling in his head on the tabletop, narrowing his eyes slightly. If he wasn't in this horrible press conference- he was incognito in blue jeans and his hood flipped up on his sweatshirt- he would be writing down these notes. These are good. These are John.
He hadn't thought about writing a song for John- he wrote one for The Woman, mostly unconsciously- but it had become an all encompassing thought now. Not necessarily a song for John, but a song of John.
Lots of deep notes, runs. An energetic, breathless bridge and a longing chorus. Apologetic, almost, Sherlock supposes, and wishing for better days.
Promises of tea and cases and chases and Cluedo spread over the expanse of countless notes. An apology and a question all in one: accept me back? without the sentiment of needing to speak.
Sherlock doesn't have his violin with him, but that doesn't stop him from visualising the notes. He's a musician in his spare time and he doesn't stop composing. Besides, it's better than these idiots barking up the wrong tree about a case that he'd solved two weeks ago. He isn't sure why he's here at this conference, actually...
Oh, that's a thought. Peace. Peace after the chaos of the entire song, much like what had happened back at Barts. This was a very sentimental piece. Strangely sentimental. He supposed that John would like it, not that he'll ever play it for John, but it's too sentimental for his taste. Still, it doesn't deter him. The music flows within and he is but a slave to its grasp.
It's morning. Seven forty-five. John takes a twenty minute shower on a normal day. He then shaves and brushes his teeth. It annoys Sherlock because that's not how he does it. John leaves the bathroom and goes to the kitchen. He checks the fridge, selects breakfast. Usually eggs, or bacon, or sausage links, or even just jam on a piece of toast. Once in awhile, it's a full-English. Depends on the mood. Runs the tap, rinses out the kettle, clicks the kettle on. Tea leaves into the pot. Sitting room, newspaper, telly, and then blog.
Sherlock's usually awake. If he's not, he's up soon thereafter from the noise of the water running through the pipes. Brushes his teeth first- can't stand morning mouth- shaves, and then showers. Joins John in the sitting room (if he's not working) with a cuppa and appears to ignore the news.
Normal day.
Sherlock sighs quietly under his breath as the police officer in the front of the room drones on and on. He'd much rather be sitting in Baker Street or even in his rented flat here in Paris with a violin, trying to get this melody down onto paper. It's not that he can't remember it... He just... would rather have the finality of having it written, just in case. It's good. It's very good. He can't deny a masterpiece when it's born, albeit if it's a temperamental tune.
Yes, John is definitely deep tones on the music scale. Rich and poignant.
Sherlock sighs.
He owes John a serious apology and he hopes that he won't take it too badly when he finally makes it back.
Song: Safe and Sound by Taylor Swift ft The Civil Wars.
Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock or the song.
You miss the smallest things when you can't be with them.
Guess what? Guess. THREE days until the premiere. Three. We are officially below 100 hours until The Empty Hearse airs (and that's straight up until the hour of the premiere). Yes.