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Sherlock sprawled himself across the couch. "John, I want my violin."
John wasn't actually in the room, but Sherlock didn't feel like getting up to find him. "John! I want my violin!" he shouted.
"Why the hell can't it wait?" John yelled back from the bathroom. So John was taking a shower. Maybe the urge to go back to the warm shower would get Sherlock what he wanted.
"I feel the need to compose. If I don't get the instrument, all the music will be gone." Sherlock heard John sigh loudly. "I'll play it for you when I'm done. I promise."
Sherlock didn't expect John to come out of the bathroom wearing nothing but a towel around his waist. "Is that a proper motivator, darling?" John asked. His arms were folded, but Sherlock could see how muscular he was, and the scar on his shoulder was fully visible. John looked good, really good, in fact, so good that Sherlock had to grab onto the couch cushions to keep himself from falling off.
"Yes." Sherlock couldn't say much more than that. John looked him over. The detective was obviously shaken, and John let a mischievous grin spread over his face as he realized why.
"Well, I don't think it is," John said, moving closer to sit on the couch next to him.
Sherlock was getting pretty caught up in all of this. He just wanted his violin earlier, he didn't know that John would do this. He mentally cursed. He just had to get himself into it. "I assure you," Sherlock replied, voice becoming hoarser, "my playing is unrivaled by most, including my brother."
John laid down so that they were touching all down one side. He was enjoying this very much. "Are you sure about that?" Sherlock shivered. God, why did John have to get so close? He resisted the urge to smell the cinnamon shampoo from John's shower.
"Of course," Sherlock tried to scoff, but it came out as more of a stutter. John leaned in and kissed him hard, shutting down any other things he could have said. He knew John was a good kisser, but this was bordering on amazing. His hands came up to pull John on top of him, then to run over the doctor's exposed back. John had his fingers tugging through Sherlock's hair and his mouth explored the detective's.
When the two finally pulled apart, both were breathing heavily, and John's towel had slipped down just barely. "I didn't have that in mind when I yelled for you," Sherlock said, taking mental notes of John's body on his.
"I could tell," John answered, a smirk dusting his features. He stood up. "Now, I need to get dressed. If you want your violin, you should grab it now. The music will be gone if you don't." Sherlock tried to disguise how fast he left the flat to find it.
John laughed as he headed back to the bedroom. That was fun. He loved kissing Sherlock, it was one of the real perks to being his 'boyfriend'. John knew that once Sherlock was okay, he'd leave, and this whole thing would be over, but John still enjoyed spending time with him. Especially teasing him. It was also nice to kiss someone after all this time. His last girlfriend had been...months? A year? Whatever, it was better with Sherlock anyway. Sherlock was different.
Sherlock paced in the sitting room, violin case in hand. He never thought John would make the relationship so real. The kisses and the touching and how on earth did that man do it? Sherlock didn't think it would get this far. He meant the experiment to be temporary, until John got tired of him, but that hadn't happened. John stayed.
Once John came back out of the shared bedroom he found Sherlock standing facing the windows, violin in hand, bow in the other. As soon as Sherlock heard the other man's footsteps, he began to play. John immediately stopped in his tracks.
The melody was gorgeous, soaring and ecstatically happy at first. It was like someone finding love and holding onto every moment of it. However, the song twisted into something darker, like fear and paranoia. It consumed the melody until that was all you could hear. The music rose louder and louder until a soft sound of falling. Sherlock knew it was called a glissando, but John didn't. The music started again, a sad, broken tune that wove its way through the sitting room. Notes traveled in an up-and-down of heartbreak. Eventually, John couldn't take any more. He went over and wrapped his arms around Sherlock from behind, laying his head on Sherlock's back.
The song rose a bit higher to a more hopeful tone, the notes winding about their heads like birds, and when the music rose even higher, John felt he could taste it. With a final crescendo, the melody faded out. Sherlock didn't turn around, didn't put his violin down. "Is it good?" he asked shyly, if that was even possible for him.
"Sherlock." John gently touched his lips to the top of Sherlock's spine. "Why didn't you tell me about that?"
"I forgot about it."
"I won't." The two swayed back and forth slightly, neither willing to move from the incredibly comforting position.
After a while, no one knew how long, Sherlock said, "You know, when I wrote the first part of that, I was thinking when I died, it was pointless to include the years on my gravestone that I didn't know him. It made perfect sense, since I hadn't been really living while he wasn't there."
He stared at the dark, marble-looking surface in front of him. There wasn't an epitaph, and John knew no one would have been able to think of one, least of all him. "One more miracle, for me. Please...don't...don't be dead. Can you please do that for me?"
The grave marker gave no indication that John had said anything. The scenery didn't budge. John jerked his head up and left the cemetery, not sure where he was going.
Alright, that was not good right now. "Has your opinion changed?" John asked quietly, ignoring what had just happened, whatever it had been.
Sherlock put his violin down on the small table next to him, and turned in John's arms. He looked John straight in the eyes, entrancing him with his ever-changing orbs. "No. But now that you're here, the numbers on the inscription have been going up every day."
John sighed. "I'm glad. I want you to be alive as long as you can." He buried his head in Sherlock's shoulder, breathing him in. "The song was beautiful."
The two men stayed there, completely occupied, for about ten more minutes, until the sound of clomping feet echoed from the stairwell. Harry barged in not long after they heard it, cursing and huffing, several bags of groceries arranged on her wrists and hands. "What have you blokes been doing while I was gone?" she asked.
"Nothing really," John replied coolly.
Harry rolled her eyes. "Alright, if you want to be cryptic about it." She paused. "Can either of you help with the bags?" Much to the surprise of the siblings, Sherlock was the first to get to her. Sherlock took three bags and strode into the kitchen. He began to put things in the cupboards absentmindedly. John noticed that although the detective hadn't spent much time in the flat, eating at least, he knew exactly where everything went.
Of course, Sherlock did know where everything went, so he found it pointless to ask John and pretend he didn't.
"Harry, did you have any luck finding Clara?" John asked, having decided not to think about his boyfriend and the way his back curved as he reached up to put some biscuits in a high place.
"Obviously, she didn't." Sherlock didn't look at them as he said it.
"How do you know?" Harry asked indignantly.
"Your gait, your insistence we help you with the bags, not one, but three bottles of beer, the lines in your face. Shall I go on?" Harry huffed and dropped the other bags, heading down the stairs to plead pity from Mrs. Hudson, Sherlock assumed. John let out a small breath and picked up half of the remaining groceries, setting them on the counter next to where Sherlock had finished storing the food.
"How did you know?" John turned to Sherlock.
"I just explained it," he replied exasperatedly.
John shook his head. "No, not that. I meant how did you know where the items went."
Sherlock gave John a glance-over. He nodded approvingly. John wouldn't know that Sherlock couldn't tell him. "You know I'm quite observant."
John had a suspicion that Sherlock wasn't telling the truth, contrary to what the genius thought. Sherlock always got a tiny line dented into his forehead when he lied. But why would he lie about something like that? It confused John, and he furrowed his brow, thinking. Sherlock saw that, and kissed him gently on the spot. He wasn't used to being able to kiss John whenever he wanted, so it still felt a little bit awkward.
John smiled when he saw Sherlock's eyes closed as the other man pressed his lips to his forehead. The white lie was easily forgiven. John didn't want to lose the detective over something as stupid as the cupboards.
When Sherlock pulled away, he noticed the grin on John's face, and knew whatever was bothering him had passed. He sighed. "How about we put the rest of this away, darling?" John ran a finger over Sherlock's jaw. "Then we can curl up on the couch and I can tell you a story."
"What kind of story?"
John tilted Sherlock's chin forward to lightly kiss him. "A story about the Empire and the Rebels, and a galaxy far, far away."
Sherlock smirked. "I am aware this is an attempt to introduce me to pop culture."
"This is the best part of pop culture," John said. "You should know it."
"I don't know many things that do not benefit me, such as the solar system."
John's mouth fell open. "How is it possible that the great Sherlock Holmes has no knowledge of the cosmos?"
"It has been beneficial to know exactly once, and I solved the case in ten seconds without that information." Sherlock's face shut down slightly with the memory of that particular case.
"Ten..."
"Oh my God, it's a child," John said. The man in front of him had his hands twisted painfully through his hair.
"Nine..."
"I know what it is, I can see it." The other man paced restlessly.
"Eight..."
"Any time now, that little girl on the other end of the phone is going to be blown to bits!" John shouted.
"Six..."
"Jesus, the numbers are moving faster."
"Shut up, I need time to think!"
"You don't have time!"
"Three..."
"Go!"
"One..." The girl's voice was choked with tears.
"The Supernova!" the other man shouted into the speakerphone.
John shuddered. That was an ugly feeling, knowing that he was so close, but everything was out of his hands. "Are you okay?" Sherlock asked worriedly.
"Yes, darling." John rearranged himself to hold Sherlock to him. He needed a hug right about then. "Instead of my earlier plan, I'm going to tell you who and what all the constellations are."
"What do you mean 'who'?" Sherlock quirked an eyebrow.
"There might be more people in the sky than animals, at least in the Greek versions of the stories. But since those are the ones that are the most well-known, I'll tell them."
Sherlock looked at John fondly. How had John managed to wrap him around his little finger? "That sounds lovely." He paused. "As long as you hold me the whole time."
John smirked again. "And you used to call yourself a high-functioning sociopath."
Sherlock noted the words 'used to'. It was true; he hadn't thought of himself as a sociopath since...a long time ago. And he was finding he didn't miss the term. Everything made more sense without the explanation of sociopathic tendencies. Sociopaths didn't understand nor want to be a part of human interaction, but Sherlock did. Too much, and too painfully, he understood it and wanted it. Damn.
"Yes, I did." Sherlock walked over to sit back on the couch. John followed, and soon, they both were wrapped in each other's warmth.
"Now, would you like to hear the one about Orion, or Andromeda?"
"Andromeda."
"Well, then I'll have to start with Poseidon and Medusa and Perseus then. Are you sure you want to hear it now?"
"I would listen to anything you say," Sherlock answered. "Start from the beginning."
Sherlock's dream bolted through his consciousness like the cocaine once had. The sky was barely light, the ground too far and the consequences too bleak. A voice taunted him from behind, the high voice of someone that wanted him dead. Yet, all this registered later. What he was thinking about was another voice, deeper, more calm and more welcome, but cutting in that one instant.
"You machine."
Sherlock winced, shutting his eyes. This was all for a purpose. Soon, everything would be back to normal. Of course, Sherlock had always been very good at lying to himself when his brother didn't come home for nights on end, and when the cocaine wasn't enough, and when he'd been called Freak again.
He will forgive me. This one lie should have been as easy to swallow as all the others, but it wasn't.
It will be alright. The distance covered up the tears, and he drowned in them while he still could. He held his mobile in front of him, tapping the number that had been called and texted to countless times. It began to ring. I'm sorry.
"Yes? Sherlock, where are you?"
"Get out of the cab and look up. I'm closer than you think."
The man on the ground did as Sherlock asked. "What the hell are you doing up there?" Sherlock knew then that what he replied would have to be lies as well. I can't tell you.
So, there's that. Read and review!