A/N: Okay, um, wow. I have 200 reviews! 200! (And apparently 40 chapters, which is less an accomplishment and more of a proclamation of how I have too much time I have on my hands...) I don't know what to say to properly express my joy but, umm, thank you! Thank you so much, everyone! And an extra special thank you to I'llbeyourPatronus, my 200th reviewer and also the person who pointed out that I did, in fact, have 200 reviews. I don't know what I'm doing to deserve so much love from you guys, but I hope I keep doing it! Thank you, again, and enjoy this short little thing!
Word Count: 530
Pairing(s): John/Sherlock, Sherlock/violin
Warning(s): Near-worshiping love, John discrediting himself, Sherlock being severely unromantic in parts, slightly bizarre admiration of inanimate objects, talk of soul mates, vagueness. No real plot, as usual, just a vague drabble.
The Intimacy of Instruments
John is half asleep when he hears the violin start to play. He stirs, roused by the sound; a drowsy smile graces his lips. It's funny – although John has trained himself to sleep straight through the off-tune, agonized shrieks the violin all too often releases at the hands of his flat mate, John always crawls out of his dreams for the soft, lovely music that sometimes filters through the flat. Perhaps it's because he wants to hear them. To see them.
Watching Sherlock and the violin dance makes John wish he were a better writer. To capture the feeling – the true, human sway of the sight, to portray the mingling heart wrenching memory. That would be art. Blog worthy, at least. But John knows no words of his could properly capture Sherlock Holmes in all his depth and he wouldn't be doing the experience any favors attempting to do so. So he doesn't – he just sits and absorbs.
He likes to think that Sherlock is his soul mate. Perfect partners, meant to find one another no matter the circumstances. It's moments like this where he doubts it the most. How can Sherlock be his soul mate? His equal? Seeing him like this Sherlock seems so much more than him. He is a deity, an angel, perhaps a demon – something far more potent than anything Earth-bound. John feels graced to be even in his presence on these nights, not to mention to share love with him. What are the chances, he wonders. What did he do to deserve this? If anything, the violin is Sherlock's soul mate. As soon as it is in his arms, caressed gently to his shoulder and drawn over with the bow, it is clear. It pries Sherlock open and exposes his soul. Unadulterated, breath-taking, near torturous, and borne to all who care to look, to listen. And John does. He always does. Always will.
Eventually Sherlock puts the violin away. Sometimes it relaxes him and sometimes it excites him; the music sorts the whirlwind of thoughts that way, secures his sanity in some profound way. Anyway he smiles when he sees John is watching, and John smiles back. "Beautiful," he says. "I don't recognize it."
"That's because I only just composed it. Thank you." Sherlock slides his fingers over the bow almost lovingly before placing it beside the violin. Then, looking serious: "I'll title it Watson if it will please you enough to let me crawl into bed with you this late."
"And they say romance is dead." John chuckles and pulls Sherlock in for a kiss, chest flooding with eager warmth. "I love you," he whispers against his lips. He feels himself shiver, the last traces of the song rolling off of him. Sometimes he still can't believe he's there. That this isn't all in his head. Something so extraordinary in his arms, himself being so ordinary. Just a man, married to a living, breathing work of art. John buries his face into Sherlock's neck and breathes him in, assuring himself. Real. All real.
Sherlock pulls John closer. Traces his lips against John's forehead. Whispers, "I'm a lucky man, aren't I?"
Well, I've received 200 reviews and now I'm addicted.