Chapter 3: Music to the Story in Your Eyes
Breakfast is finished, the dishes loaded into the dishwasher and they are seated together on the large sofa; Sherlock is lounging on his back with his head in John's lap while John is flipping through channels on the gargantuan television with one hand and carding through Sherlock's silky clean hair with the other. Sherlock has absolutely no interest in anything on the idiot box, so instead he watches John, his eyes half-closed against the relaxing touch of John's fingertips.
"Sherlock, where did you find that kitten?" Though he seems to be aimlessly flipping through about a zillion channels, each as equally boring as the previous, John's mind is anything but quiet right now. It took him a long time to adjust to a Sherlock who can sit still for any length of time without a case to occupy his mind. There is no doubt that when Sherlock returned six years ago, in some aspects he returned a different person, his mind more ordered; John thinks that perhaps he added new rooms to his Mind Palace, maybe even a courtyard for those dreaded down times.
What John doesn't know, however, is that there is an entire wing devoted to those heretofore hated things known to normal people as days off. Most of the rooms in that wing are decorated with photos and portraits of John: John fishing, John dropping water balloons from the roof of New Scotland Yard onto the heads of Donovan and Anderson; John riding a horse, a motorbike, Sherlock; and many, many more. They are not all happy pictures, though, including the snapshot of John's cycle of emotions that played on his face the day Sherlock reappeared: shock, anger, betrayal that became love, then lust…all within minutes.
Sherlock really wants to tell John the truth. He wants to tell him why he found the kitten, which is to say that he really wants to admit his attempt and epic failure in finding the arsonist; however, he doesn't want to hear the angry sound of John's voice when he thinks that Sherlock abandoned him. Without realizing that the television has been switched off and John's full attention is on him now, Sherlock comes back to icy blue eyes that lead a mind that has synthesized some of Sherlock's skills and used them against him. Again. John is getting entirely too good at this.
Sherlock holds up a hand to stop John from saying anything, which looks really funny from John's point of view which is looking down into Sherlock's face; most of the time, things are the other way around. He leans his head back against the soft material of the chocolate-brown couch and stares up at the cream-colored ceiling. He closes his eyes and sighs.
"I already know you went looking for the arsonist, Sherlock. Where else would you disappear to if you weren't with me while our home burned down into a pile of ash on the ground in front of my eyes?"
Sherlock knows that voice. That's the voice that tells him you-will-pay-for-this-later. He swallows the lump that has formed in his throat before answering. "Yes, I did, John. It hurts me as much as it hurts you to see what happened. But it happened and there was nothing to fix. So, yes, I did go around in order to see what I could find. Of course, that is the reason I do not ever take on arson cases: for the most part, the nature of the fire destroys any and all useable evidence." He looks up at John with an open expression, searching his eyes for that twinkle of pride that he is always gifted with when he's being particularly brilliant; even in John's irritation, it's still there. Sherlock takes that to mean that he should continue.
"Yes. I was walking around the side of the building where Speedy's used to stand and almost stepped on the creature. I started walking away when I heard a pathetic little mewl. I turned around just as the thunder crashed and I could see that it trembled." John can't help the way his heart melts when Sherlock gives him the big, green puppy-dog eyes. "What else should I have done, John? I couldn't just leave it there, all alone…"
Oh god, he even produces a tear. Well, John is done, bye-bye, last train going North tonight, see 'ya. "Sherlock, if this is all an act to get out of me forcing some type of menial housework on you for trying to chase down a perp when your home was going up in a blaze…." John waves the television remote like a pointer between them.
Sherlock cuts John off by grasping the back of his neck with one hand and gently but firmly pushes his head down by tugging at the short golden hairs at John's nape. Sherlock moves his own head forwards to capture John's mouth in a soft, undemanding kiss.
As always, life with Sherlock is an emotional roller-coaster, primarily due to Sherlock's inexhaustible curiosity about everything; though it took time, John would now admit out loud to almost anyone that he has quite enjoyed the ride that has no end in sight. Their kiss grows more heated and John has to admit that Sherlock is telling the truth. They push and pull against each other until John is holding himself up on his arms overtop of Sherlock's toned, half-naked body.
Things are just beginning to get interesting when there is the unmistakable sound of a throat clearing very close to them. John raises his head to see Mycroft dressed in another one of his immaculate suits standing in the doorway between the kitchen and sitting room. He is carrying a bright purple plastic cat carrier in one hand and a wooden violin case in the other. Looking down into Sherlock's quite needy expression, John thinks for a split second that perhaps they can just carry on when Sherlock turns his head and catches sight of the violin case. Even across the room, Mycroft can see the shift in Sherlock's jade green gaze as he zeroes in on the familiar instrument.
"John, let me up." He says in a voice that seems way too controlled for the hardness and heat that John can feel against his belly.
"Sherlock, you already are." John deadpans straight to his lover's face and then ruins the whole thing with giggles. He wonders when it became funny that Mycroft could simply appear in any room without a warning like a phantom. Maybe John's brain just accepted it as normal after being around the Holmes brothers for so long.
Sherlock tries to give him a nasty glare but it goes to hell when he is taken for a ride on the sound of John's laughter and chuckles himself. The change of direction works and John swings off of Sherlock and onto his feet just as quickly as he would have as a teenager getting caught necking on the couch.
Sherlock is silently thankful for the few seconds it took to calm down so as not to embarrass himself in front of his brother; well, not much more than normal, anyway. None of it matters, though, as he eyes the antique case in his brother's hand. He holds one hand out towards Mycroft and Mycroft simply hands him the case without further discussion. He knows better than to attempt to keep Sherlock from the things he wants, let alone needs, and right now there are two things that his brother needs: John and his violin, or at least a reasonable stand-in for the instrument. They all learned a few years ago that there is absolutely no replacement for the solid little army doctor.
Mycroft bends slightly at the waist to gently deposit the cat carrier onto the floor. He pushes the hasps to release the door and John reaches in to pull out a now clean, bright orange and white ball of fluffy fur. The kitten yawns and opens her golden eyes. Once again, John is completely undone by a pair of spectacularly colored irises in a beautifully put-together face. John thanks Mycroft and carries the kitten into the kitchen to give her a small meal and bowl of water.
Sherlock's hawk eyes follow as John leaves the room, his guard down enough that his brother can read everything he is thinking quite plainly across his face. If he could just admit it to himself that it makes his heart sing to see his little brother so happy then maybe he would be able to reach out for that elusive emotion himself. He cannot, though, there is just too much at stake.
Finally satisfied that John is settled and does not need him, Sherlock turns his attention to the wooden case on lap and he opens it reverently, first touching it gently with his fingertips. Tucked inside the black velvet is a magnificent violin, a rare instrument, only one of seven of its kind in the world. However, Sherlock knows this particular instrument intimately, though this is the first time he has held it in his hands since before he moved to Baker Street. His lets his head droop, soft raven curls falling forward to cover his face, hoping it is enough to hide the way he is really feeling about the loss of his favorite instrument.
"Grandmother's violin, Mycroft?" The utter disdain Sherlock interjects into his words to cover up his deep sentiment throws Mycroft off balance for just a moment until Sherlock looks up at him. The beyond-thrilled look in those overly shiny bottle green eyes is enough gratitude. Mycroft actually fights the urge to walk over and pat his little brother on the head as he had done so long ago when he takes in that that shine only means one thing: tears. Instead he offers Sherlock a stiff little tilt of the head; he doesn't even bother to make it a nod, really; then turns on his heel and leaves the flat. It only occurs to Sherlock after Mycroft has vanished that there was absolutely no sound of the jangling of keys about his person. He makes a little grunt in acknowledgement of his brother's sneaky ways, not too much, though; he will never give in to overindulging the cake-loving politician, even when he is good to them. Sherlock smiles inwardly, proud that he covered up his moment of weakness around his brother.
Even so, this time, he has to admit that Mycroft has done well by himself and John both. Without asking for anything in return, he has offered them shelter and even seen to the little details of daily life; giving Sherlock back his music is a gift that is above and beyond, possibly even by John's standards. Sherlock flexes his fingers and begins the time-honored procedure of tuning the violin.
A few minutes later there is a knock on the door that is answered by John. Sherlock is only vaguely aware that one of Mycroft's many assistants has arrived with new clothing for the both of them. Sherlock moves from playing the scales into a full-fledged concerto. John leans against the sturdy oak door frame between the kitchen and the sitting room, just watching and listening. Much as Sherlock had done to John a little while ago, his eyes carefully track Sherlock's movements as he paces the room, swaying, bending at the waist and stepping with each stroke of the bow, bare toes tipping lightly across the plush carpet to keep time with his playing. He listens to the familiar sounds of Sherlock using music to speak for him; John knows that he is hearing the melodies of his lover's soul, at once both melancholy and joyous, a story of their time together: past, present, and future. The violin is already leaving pinkish pressure marks against the milky white of Sherlock's bare shoulder. John's eyes slip closed on the picture before him as he leans against the frame letting each and every single note cleanse the darkness from his own heart.