A quiet melody filled the dormitory of Ravenclaw tower, violin strings trembling under the delicate bow held expertly by long, elegant fingers. The song was a new one, a soft lullaby composed on the spot for the situation, and the floating sensation of the notes matched the snow storm outside in a mesmerizing way. Sherlock stood in front of the large window, pulling on the strings gently, occasionally pacing a few steps in front of the glass. His tail following the music as a director would address his orchestra; the inky appendage dipped and swelled and danced, the unique beauty capturing John so tightly, he was lost in the music, never to be found again.
The song was starting to come to a close, and John was brought back from the watery depths of his friend's talent. "Do you like being an animagus?" He asked, pulling Sherlock's quilt tighter around his shoulders and suppressing a sneeze.
Sherlock turned around. "Why do you ask?"
"Cause you always have either a tail, or cat ears, or even claws when you need something opened." John shifted so that he was no longer cross-legged on the bed, but his knees were pulled close to his chest.
"Yeah, I do. It's useful and I guess it's just a part of who I am. It's especially nice in the winter, the fur is warm. And there's something oddly pleasant about the warmth of the fire on it." Sherlock nodded thoughtfully.
"But you only do it in front of me. No one else gets to see that." He pointed to beautiful tail tracing circles in the air.
"Well, cause I can't really be me around anyone else." Sherlock shrugged and placed the violin on the bed next to him. "How you feeling?"
"Like I'd been run through by a train." John fell back onto the pillows and groaned in frustration. He'd developed a very bad head cold, and Madam Pomfrey had prescribed him a strict diet of soup and bed rest. Sherlock had holed them up in his dorm, because his roommates were still home for the holidays, and John's had almost all come back. "You didn't have to give me your bed, you know."
"Well, my roommates would be angry if they came back and got sick because you'd been sleeping in their bed. And I don't get sick." He smiled and picked the violin back up, and began a new lulling composition.
John repositioned the quilt so it covered him completely and tried to fight the sleep that was starting to invade the edges of his mind. But the violin ultimately won, and John slipped into dreams fogged by sickness. When the new song ended, Sherlock turned back around and saw that John had finally fell asleep. Day had faded away quite some time ago, but John had been kept up by his cough. Sherlock yawned now; he hadn't been getting much sleep lately, his mind had been racing at top speeds and didn't want him to silence it for more than a few measly hours a night. He walked over to his bed to put the beautiful violin back into his case with the blue bow tied across the lid. The fire blazed and the quilt was thick, but John still shivered from the fever. Sherlock frowned, before an idea settled on his brain like the flurries dusting shadows across the floor in front of the window.
A large black panther jumped up onto the bed and curled itself up lazily on top of John's feet, stilling the shivers. He yawned forcefully, razor teeth reflecting the firelight, before following his friend into the dark.
