A/N Laaaa.
Thanks to Hummingbird1759, johnsarmylady, PassionandPromise, total-animal-lover, and Motaku1235
Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.
LXVII. Playing the Melody
Someone who knew Sherlock solely by his appearance, the attitude that he constantly projects to the public, would never imagine that he would want anything to do with such a delicate craft as music-making. It's so different from his other habits, the usual cold, mathematical functions of his mind, and, in John's opinion, at least, it brings a new sort of humanity to him. Sherlock's figure takes on a grace like no other when he lifts the slim, light form of his treasured violin, settles it lovingly on his shoulder and draws the bow across the strings in a graceful, haunting melody, a little bit different every time.
He never plays the same piece twice, or really any composition as it's written. Certainly he'll carry over the general tune, the overall feel, but he always alters the notes that he thinks to be imperfect, and usually results in a superior product. If only his spectacular mind wasn't already put to use by his day-to-day work, John can't help but think that Sherlock would have made an amazing professional musician, perhaps even some sort of prodigy.
The doctor can still remember, of course, the very first time that he heard his flatmate 'play' the instrument—after Baker Street's first bombing, with Mycroft sullenly twirling the handle of his umbrella in the opposite chair and the sunlight slanting through the paper barriers put up over the shattered windows. Sherlock wasn't really trying, at that point. Or perhaps he was trying—trying to get Mycroft out as fast as he could, which is why the noise he created then was rough and grating, painful on John's ears, planting a small desire to wrench the instrument from the detective's nimble fingers and send it flying out the window before any more painfully clashing notes could be drawn like screams from its strings.
But Sherlock is a better player than that, much better. His music is pleasant, even breathtaking on the occasion that it will reach one of its beautiful, massive crescendos, such a quick, epic orchestra that it's near-impossible to believe that it all came from one instrument, from one man.
And then, of course, there are the softer bits, the calm, twisting rhythms that come on the days when he doesn't eat or sleep, when he didn't so much as talk most of the time. A good deal of the months after Irene Adler's faked death were like that—slow, dull, and threaded together by that single tune, composed by Sherlock himself, that he would repeat over and over, to the point where it would get stuck in John's head for days on end—but he didn't complain, because it was a beautiful sound, one that never failed to stir something deep in his chest.
Everything about Sherlock is brilliant, of course—his deductions, his cleverness, his quick thinking, his ability with disguise, his physical strength and speed… but John is positive that the most Sherlock thing about him, the aspect that absolutely defines his character, must be the music.