Hey, everybody. I'm sorry for not posting sooner! My laptop was sick, so we had to get it better. I cannot begin to explain how excruciating that was. Hopefully everyone has had a good start to the year?
Sorry this chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but what happens next needs its own stage, I think. I'll get that one up ASAP, my lovelies!
The song in this chapter is called "Leaves on the Water" by Brian Crain. If you would like a link so you can listen to it while you read, I will be posting it in my bio. Happy reading! :D XOXOXO
Nearly five hours later, John was ready to beat Sherlock with his own violin bow. All the other contestants had left and they'd been practicing their piece of music for nearly two hours – which made it six hours total since they'd arrived at the Met – and John was sick and tired of Sherlock's constant stream of criticism.
Not only that, which in and of itself was bad enough (John hated the superior way Sherlock had of instructing him and offering 'helpful' advice) but John was annoyed by the fact that he and Sherlock hadshared a very meager lunch- so small that John didn't even want to call it a lunch, it'd been more of a snack. It'd only served to make him even hungrier and his growling, cramping stomach was causing some discomfort.
Moreover, John was terrified and worried by the looks that Dimitri kid had given Sherlock all during rehearsal. John knew exactly how Sherlock had felt the other night when he made his fear for John's safety come to light.
Because of all his worries and physical discomfort, John couldn't help trailing off or misplacing a note during their prolonged practice. Just when he was supposed to be reaching the crescendo of the piece, he'd start thinking about their time waiting on the other contestants to leave and remember the flirtatious looks that Sherlock had received. Sherlock, for the most part, had ignored the young man, but once he started ignoring this new suspect the detective treated John with indifference. John understood it was for his protection; if the suspect caught on that they were a couple – much less a couple on a case to bust said suspect – one of them could end up six feet under.
This realization made John stop for a moment. Why did Sherlock stop acting affectionately once he'd seen Dimitri? Did he think that the first suspect couldn't have been the killer? If so, why did he try talking to the young blonde man in the first place? John shook his head and was jarred back to reality by the abrasive shriek of disgruntled violin strings.
"John, focus!" Sherlock snapped, "We've got to get this right tonight."
John sighed and put his hands in his lap and counted to ten before looking up at his frustrated boyfriend.
"Sherlock. I know you want this to be perfect, but right now I am not in a way to be practicing the same piece over and over again. I'm tired. I'm hungry. And frankly very bored. It's been two hours, we've been playing the same piece over and over, again and again and I am ready to leave. Just…let's just take a break and when we get home we can practice some more after a decent meal, yeah?"
Sherlock considered this for barely a moment before replying, rolling his shoulders and his eyes as he placed his violin to the side.
"Fine. Take a break for a moment. We can leave once you've adjusted." Sherlock grumbled, letting his annoyance become even more apparent than it had been earlier.
John stood to walk to Sherlock, intent on wrapping him up in a conciliatory hug, but was left standing alone as Sherlock turned away from him and packed his violin before jumping off the stage onto the floor. John winced in sympathy for Sherlock's ankles, as it was a steep jump, but Sherlock seemed not to have felt the impact as he gracefully stalked to a corner of the auditorium on the front row and sat down, his knees drawn up to his chest in his usual pouty fashion.
John huffed and looked at the floor for a moment, gathering himself and trying to keep his anger, which was welling up quickly from all the worry and fatigue he was feeling, before walking back to the piano and putting his music together. If he wasn't careful his temper would burst through, he and Sherlock would fight, both of them would end up saying things they didn't mean and Sherlock would flounce away and work the case on his own…and that was the very last thing John needed at the moment.
Once every page was in its proper place – proper and slightly crumpled – John looked down at the keys – now smudged with his fingerprints – and breathed out slowly. A song came to mind, the music tinkling through his mind, half-forgotten, from long ago, and John felt the instant urge to play it. He glanced down at his stroppy love, who had closed his eyes and thrown his head back, shutting John out and retreating to his own mind. Sherlock would probably try to interrupt him, tell him that he was wasting precious time, but that didn't matter much anymore. Sherlock had already conveyed his frustration after snapping at John every bloody time they played. John needed a release after so much anxiety and frustration.
And the song seemed like a faraway dream calling to him, luring him enticingly, and John had to at least get a few bars in. He sat, still slightly uncomfortable with nothing bracing his back, and placed his fingers on the still warm keys and breathed out.
At the lack of noise of John getting his things together, Sherlock opened his eyes and looked up at John, startled to see that he was in position. Had John changed his mind about the break?
To Sherlock's acute disappointment, John started playing a completely different piece of music.
The first couple of bars were boring, pedestrian, and mediocre, and Sherlock would have waved the song off in a moment if he hadn't glanced at John's face – which was relaxed and open in a way it normally wasn't while he played – and noticed John playing with his eyes closed. Sherlock watched in silent awe as his love gently coaxed an elaborate melody out of the instrument, his fingers flying over the keys with determination and skill.
The detective was almost disappointed that the song seemed over before John launched into the rest of the music which faded in and out hauntingly, leaving the listener hanging onto every note, savoring it as if it would be the last, always relieved when there was more. It was as if John was weaving something magical in the silent, dusty, depressingly bare concert hall and he held Sherlock enraptured.
The music was beautiful.
It reminded Sherlock of rain in autumn, the pitter patter of drops on the ground.
He listened closely to the repeating bass scales and was taken to Regent's Park with John at his side. The progression of the melody made him want to reach out and lace his fingers with John's as he imagined them walking through the park, looking up to see a sprinkle begin to dampen the ground and the crunchy leaves beneath their feet.
Soon, they hurry under a gazebo to shield themselves from the rain, and Sherlock wraps one arm around John and holds his other hand, and they dance. Their music is the sound of melodic rain and leaves falling as they keep each other always warm. Sherlock and John kiss one another's faces and fade out everything but each other and the bewitching rainfall.
Sherlock opened his eyes and watched John's smile slowly creep onto his face.
John sighed and smiled in relaxation as he executed the piece. He remembered this song. It was one he thought of to help himself calm down in his most recent times of trouble. He'd looked up the music one night while he was waiting to be deployed to Afghanistan and was instantly hooked.
John loved everything about the song and had wanted so desperately to play it. This was the singular, secret song he'd decided not to avoid playing because of Jacob. This piece was his distractor – and a very good one at that. Even in Afghanistan in times of trouble, he would find himself humming the tune. John had gotten the opportunity to play it a couple of times in private before he'd left, twice when he came back, and once when he was on a case.
This case to be precise.
Sherlock listened closely to the music as it reached its crescendo and was slammed with a realization: this was the song he'd caught John playing in Nora Rank's home.
He'd not asked John about it and had tried and failed to discover what piece of music John had been playing that day. The case had distracted him from finding out the truth and now, Sherlock continued to listen to John in amazement as his blogger continued playing, progressing past the part he'd stopped at before, and continuing to the end.
When John's song finished, and the echo of the keys had stopped, John opened his eyes and looked down and over to Sherlock, finding him absolutely dumbstruck. With a warm smile, John gathered his music and walked down the curved steps to his love.
Sherlock stood and looked at his blogger in confusion and awe.
"What song was that?" he asked.
John smiled, "It's called 'Leaves on the Water' by Brian Crain. Um…did you like it?"
Sherlock blinked a couple of times, as if the question was asked in an alien language. Of course he liked it. It was beautiful, breath-taking, and so utterly John. Sherlock could only nod in response.
John shuffled his feet, unsure and obviously feeling exposed, and Sherlock knew he had to say something; something to reassure John and let him know how utterly fantastic he was.
"You were…you are magnificent. Truly extraordinary." Sherlock mumbled, not really sure of what else to say – he was never good with this sort of thing. The brilliant John Watson had done it again; he'd surprised Sherlock Holmes.
John smiled and, stepping closer, put his hand on Sherlock's lower back, "Good. Now let's get home. I'm starving and I'd like to get practicing over with and actually have time to sleep."
Sherlock nodded and the pair walked briskly out of the auditorium, glad to be out of there for a change.
In the dark of an overly extravagant library, a young man watched the screen of a laptop intently. He smiled at the black and white grains of CCTV footage and sipped at the tumbler of whisky loosely held in his fingers. After seeing what he'd needed to see, he closed the screen and licked his lips, imagining the things he would do to that tall drink of water once the pipsqueak was out of the way.
Delicious.
The young man stood and placed the mostly drunk whisky on a silver platter that was held by an elderly butler, tall and ramrod stiff in his movements. The younger man chuckled and stretched his arms above his head.
"Pekings, draw up a hot bath, will you? I'm positively aching from practice today."
"Yes, Master Schmit. Salts or oils?"
The young man barely pondered the question before shrugging and replying in a nonchalant "both".
"An excellent decision, Master Schmit."
Once Dimitri was out of the room, Pekings exhaled and slouched only the faintest bit; relieved to be able to breathe once more without fear that one toenail out of line would set off the temperamental brat with the overly powerful father.
By the time Dimitri was soaking in his bath, in a large marble bathroom with gold leaf lined mahogany wood furniture, the aristocrat was finished contemplating how he would kill that little blonde doctor.
Oh, it'd be wonderful to watch him bleed out.
All over the stage floor.
He'd hire one of his best snipers for the job.
Dimitri reached over to a gold dish sitting on the side of the bath and picked up his mobile and punched a speed-dial number.
"Hello, my darling." He greeted silkily into the phone, "I have a job for you. … Mr. Markovic, how do you feel about music? ... Excellent. … And short, blonde army doctors? … Perfect."