Chapter Summary: The first time that John hears Sherlock recite poetry. Prompt: Sound
Disclaimer: Everything belongs to Moffat, Gatiss & SACD.
A/N: Since this is the fiftieth chapter of this story I'd like to thank all of my readers. As a little present to all of us I decided to imagine Benedict Cumberbatch reciting Shakespeare's sonnet 29. I think it's rather fitting for our two favourite flatmates. Please note that this a direct follow up to chapter 28 'Cluedo'. FYI: this prompt came from oneword(dot)com.
It was late after dusk when Nicolette's parents were brought to St. Bart's. They were allowed a brief reunion with their daughter before they were taken away to be examined themselves, since their abductors had not exactly been gentle with them. They took the time to shake Sherlock's hand and thank him for his assistance in finding him and staying with their daughter in their absence.
Sherlock was pleasant enough towards the little girl's parents, he even complimented them on the intellect of their offspring. After they had been ushered out off the room he turned to Nicolette who was still sitting in her hospital bed.
"I think it's time for John and me to go home now and I'm almost certain it's past your bedtime as well." His voice was calm as he completely ignored the tears of joy that were still running down her cheeks.
"Please don't leave yet. I can't sleep without a bedtime story and mum and dad will be gone for at least another hour." She pleaded, her eyes still glimmering with wetness.
"You're eight years old and still need a bedtime story?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow but the little girl just nodded shyly. "Well, I don't know any stories and I'm sure you don't want to hear any of John's war stories. They're all rather unsuitable for children."
"It doesn't need to be a story. I just need something to listen to. You could even read out the hospital menu for all I care." She already hugged a little pillow tightly to her chest and lay down.
Sherlock smirked at her stubbornness and conceded. "That would be rather uninspired though, wouldn't it? How about I recite you a sonnet?"
"Go ahead." She said and snuggled herself into the blanket.
Sherlock sat down on the edge of the hospital bed while John sat down again on the chair that stood right next to it.
Sherlock breathed for calmly for a few seconds before he began to recite: "When, in disgrace with fortune and men's eyes, / I all alone beweep my outcast state/ And trouble deaf heaven with my bootless cries / And look upon myself and curse my fate,"
John had never heard Sherlock speak like this before. The sound of the detective's voice had long ago become familiar and he had learned to interpret the meanings in his friend's tone and choice of words. He had heard Sherlock, yell, whisper, hiss, admire, deduce, talk with disdain or great fondness, but never before had he heard him recite. The dark tenor of Sherlock's voice became softer than he had ever heard it before and the intensity of it gave him goose bumps.
John had never thought of himself as much of a poetry man, but now it felt like Sherlock's careful pronunciation of each word made the meaning of the lines as obvious as the stars' light on the night sky. The narrator's loneliness in the first quatrain shone like the polestar in the firmament.
Sherlock looked intently at the little girl before him when he continued. "Wishing me like to one more rich in hope, / Featured like him, like him with friends possess'd,/ Desiring this man's art and that man's scope, / With what I most enjoy contented least; "
John knew the feeling that the lines described. He had found himself numerous times wishing for somebody else's ability to hope, to be more like someone else. It was the most human thing to do.
A smile crept onto the face of the world's only consulting detective as he recited the next quatrain. "Yet in these thoughts myself almost despising, / Haply I think on thee, and then my state, / Like to the lark at break of day arising / From sullen earth, sings hymns at heaven's gate;"
Yes, there was someone out there, a friend on whom you could count. And as if Sherlock had been able to hear John's thoughts he turned his head and looked straight at his friend when reached the final couplet.
"For thy sweet love remember'd such wealth brings / That then I scorn to change my state with kings."
All of a sudden John had the suspicion that Sherlock had not chosen this sonnet for Nicolette, who had already fallen asleep, but for him. It was just like his best friend not to simply say such a thing but to put it in a more elegant, less direct form. Challenging him to figure it out. These words of loneliness that were replaced by the gratitude for a true friend were a perfect description of their relationship.