A/N: When I checked my e-mail this morning and got notifications about people adding this to their alerts and reviewing, I was making the ugliest whale noises. So, I dedicate those noises to you all, wonderful readers. :P But really, it was quite the pleasant surprise!
Again, I don't own anything but "The Cellist"-you'll find out what her name is eventually. Also, if anyone wants to point out and be my Brit Picker, that'd be cool. Any and all suggestions are welcome and appreciated. 3
Just a reminder, I suggest listening to any of the songs I mention in here. They're all quite lovely and the cello is the most BEAUTIFUL instrument ever. :3
That night, in lieu of the situation, Sherlock brought out his computer and sat it down on the desk. He opened an internet tab to play a recording of "Bach's Cello Suite No. 1, Menuet I and II", playing at the loudest the computer speakers would allow.
John tried to protest but Sherlock only waved him away.
"No. An experiment."
And with that, Sherlock sat back down in his plush leather chair. One hand rested silently on the arm while the other came to rest against his cheek, a finger or two brushing absently over his lips and nose.
Deep down, he hoped that whoever had been playing the cello could hear his speakers.
Why?
To annoy them? To…distract them as much as they had he?
He wasn't quite sure exactly but, nevertheless, it didn't stop him from doing it.
The next morning, Sherlock woke up feeling quite refreshed. He knew he'd receive a call from Lestrade—he hadn't yet, but he knew it was coming—so he'd finally be relieved from his boredom.
He also had yet to hear any cello playing, which was, perhaps, more of a slight victory than he'd like to admit.
However, that night, it continued.
And the next night.
And the next.
The next.
And
The
Next
Night
After
That.
IT INFURIATED SHERLOCK, though he didn't show it much.
Every night he checked the clock and this mysterious cellist began playing sometime after eight, usually eight thirty.
They must have a forgiving landowner and neighbors if they all allow that much noise late at night—much like himself.
Now that was an interesting idea.
Was this...this—The Cellist—anything like him?
Of course not intellectually but Sherlock had never really compared himself to those he tried to observe and calculate.
He knew The Cellist lived on the third floor, had a strong liking for Bach (currently playing Bach's Cello Suite, No 2. Prelude), stuck to a performing schedule and played at night, and had forgiving neighbors.
He had no idea if there was any meaning to these similarities or not; however, Sherlock knew he had no sort of concentration and it angered him even more.
He is Sherlock Holmes for Christ's sake. It's his job to concentrate. In an irate jump, Sherlock got up from his chair once more to shove his head out the window and yelled, "SHUT UUUUP."
The Cellist stopped and Sherlock inwardly smiled in victory. However, on the outside he was as sour as a pickle.
John looked up from his computer screen with a raised eyebrow to say, "Are you always this sore of a loser?"
"A sore loser?"
"Yes. Someone's better than you and it makes you angry."
Sherlock let out a deep laugh. "They're not better than me. It's simply a little bit of Bach. Anyone can play that, really."
John didn't try to put up an argument, knowing that he'd loose anyways so he focused back on his computer screen.
The next night, John had waved Sherlock goodbye—he was going out for a while—and Sherlock pulled up a chair close to the window. He leaned forward and crossed his legs and waited. The clock started to go past eight thirty and close to eight thirty-five. Almost eight forty. Almost nine.
Now Sherlock was frustrated and confused again.
The Cellist had stuck to this schedule for the better of two weeks and now has decided to stop?
The only thing he could think of doing was picking up his own instrument. He placed it under his chin and grasped the metal end of the bow. With an inward sigh, one of his favorite Bach pieces came to mind.
As a tribute, a salute.
The bow hairs rested on the strings and he began with Bach's Violin Partida No. 2, Ciaccona.
The piece ended nearly twenty minutes later.
Sherlock grasped the neck of the instrument and brought it down to his side.
There was no sound of The Cellist.
He would not admit that this disappointed him, just a little.
A few mornings later, Sherlock would wake up to a faint baritone melody knocking at his bedroom window. Usually, he was a heavy sleeper but this got him up and out from under the sheets.
His clock read seven thirty.
He pulled on his dressing gown and ran towards the living room and shoved open one window. He, once more, stuck his head out the window, to listen.
It was obvious the sound was still coming from the third floor. The Cellist had moved their sitting position, though, as the sound came from farther within the building, rather than close to a window.
Sherlock frowned.
Then from the street a black car had pulled up and honked loudly.
The Cellist abruptly halted—a small squeak emitted from the rosin-covered strings.
Sherlock gripped the window ledge and began to count. This is when The Cellist would be finally revealed!
One second. Two seconds. Three Seconds….Ten seconds….Fifteen seconds.
From ground level, a hooded figure came running out, biting into an apple, and ducked into the car.
"Aha! I'm so close!"
"I thought you didn't have any cases right now?" John came in, walking towards the kitchen to fetch a cuppa coffee. He rubbed sleep from his eyes.
"The Cellist!"
"You've gave them a name?"
"What—yes."
"Ohhh-kay." John came back out with a large mug in hand and leaned against the desk. "Well. I know you want to tell me. Go on then."
"How long do you think it takes to lock a door?"
John gave him a questioning look and Sherlock urged him on by raising his eyebrows higher.
"Um..Maybe a few seconds?"
"Yes. The Cellist took almost twenty seconds to get down here. They locked the door, which tells me they are alone. No need to lock the door when someone is already home. Before they came down, they had been playing their cello and when their ride arrived, they immediately honked their horn, not bothering to wait."
"So they were in a hurry?"
"Yes, and they were eating an apple on their way out. No time for a sit down to eat."
"Alright. So?"
"So, they were running late for work. They wore an apron and trainers, built for comfort. Need to when you're on your feet all day."
"They're a waiter, then?"
"Most likely. Having a work schedule week by week, that'd explain their playing schedule…"
"Sherlock, why don't you just go over there and introduce yourself."
"No, that's stupid." Sherlock sank back into his chair and back into silence.
"Right, my mistake." John drank from his coffee.
A/N2: I know Bach is hard. It's hard BUT I FREAKIN LOVE IT TO PIECES.