A/N: I know I've been away longer than ever. Hopefully I'm back now. Small piece to help ease me back in. -csf
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I shut the front door and turn towards those familiar 17 steps. I know them as the back of my hand; each scratch, stain, dent and bullet hole. Their familiarity comforts me. A standstill in the time flow, a constancy of home, the anticipation of adventure – for nothing is ever predictable and boring around my best friend, the incredible detective of Baker Street.
I'm methodically undoing the warm layers of winter clothes – jacket, scarf, gloves – as the first music chords drift downstairs.
Not one of Sherlock's hauntingly beautiful violin sessions, no. This is a full band playing, and my shy musician friend only plays alone in the discrete solitude of his home. His compositions a barometer of his inner tempests brewing, signifying the a difficult case's opacity, a jagged edged moral conundrum, the scintillating elation of a post-case success or the downward spirals of lead grey ennui.
When Sherlock plays he's an open book; its pages written in complex cyphers I can only try to scratch its surface. Sherlock's moods should come with a dictionary for close friend's interpretation. I do my best, and have identified patterns, hints, that my friend would never admit to. Yet, his most daringly beautiful melodies I have yet to find their inspiring muse or reverie.
So close and yet I am missing the key, I can't unlock the mystery that lies within.
Oddly enough, today the music is popular culture, mass produced and broadcasted. An oldie, in one of its many incarnations. Some songs seem to last forever.
Feels strange to hear commercial music within the walls of Baker Street. I think my flatmate has begun to turn me into a music snob.
Did I study for my anatomy exam when a new cover of this music was a commercial hit? Possibly. The lyrics lay at the tip of my tongue.
Sherlock must have turned on the radio, I gather, belatedly wondering does he have a radio? Or has he, almighty deities above forbid, found an online streaming platform? Hopefully not. Sherlock's addictive personality would generate an ironclad algorithm of three songs on repeat.
Whatever it is, the sound is good and vibrant, I could have sworn I knew this song's title. On the tip of my tongue...
Divested of enough outdoor layers that I can climb the steps, I do so slowly, savouring each step. I miss Baker Street even though I've retaken the room upstairs and Sherlock is my welcoming flatmate. I'll always think of 221B as an extension of Sherlock's erratic but exciting personality, more than my own.
'Hurry up, John!' I hear from the first floor, and I smile at the impatient summon. There's undisguised warmth in it, and it shatters the ingrained memories of years as a med student sharing rooms in cold flats and returning at the rnd of the day on the holiday periods to empty flats with the lights turned off and no one there to notice my return. Yes, that's exactly where I find the music in my past. It really was on the tip of my tongue, and on my eyes adjusting to the dusk, and my cold knuckles regaining feeling. Pins and needles.
I wonder why I never got a cat. A cat would have noticed my return. It might just not have cared.
I climbed the last few steps, two at a time. Who am I trying to kid? I'm home now.
When I reach the landing, I see through the door left ajar, where the music comes from. Three musicians in tailcoats and shiny shoes, each carrying a guitar, a trumpet and a trombone. They look like Sherlock kidnapped them out of some ball or other formal function. Honestly, I wouldn't put it past him.
'You have company', I say, taking advantage of a lull in the live music. Pins and needles over my knuckles and I rub my cold hands together.
The trombone player shuffles the pages on Sherlock's music stand. The detective holds still an elegant hand, holding my best pen, twirls it in the air like a maestro conducting an orchestra, and, reclaiming enough silence in 221B, he restarts the song, welcoming my full attention.
From my armchair behind the musical trio, Mrs H sips a quiet cup of tea, her shoulders draped by some fringed shawl, reminding me of The Roaring Twenties. A memento from her youth? Gosh no, that was 100 years ago now.
I still look around the flat for the Prohibition style Gin distillery and the armed mobsters checking their guns at the door. Sherlock is a sucker for themed party.
'Don't be silly, John', my friend interrupts my thoughts. 'I handcuffed any non-musician intruders, and Lestrade has taken them into custody long before you arrived. Mrs H has proven to be an invaluable landlady, as usual.'
I scoff. 'Don't fib, mate!'
The detective's blue-green eyes soften, as he sees he couldn't put that lie past me. Sometimes he still tries. He's afraid I'll get bored if he's not interesting enough to keep me around. Bloody silly notion, if you ask me.
'Clients?' I ask of the politely waiting musicians. 'Oi, no smoke breaks!' I snap after a second look. The guitar player pockets his cigarettes grudgingly.
'Oh, my brother sent them. They got paid for the full hour, so I kept them for you,' Sherlock answers dispassionately.
I glance at the trio again. 'Why would you brother send you something short of an orchestra?'
'Why else? He wishes for me to take up his case. He knew musicians would amuse you, John.'
I smirk. Sherlock speaks in deflections when an emotion threatens to come by him.
'No, wait, it's your case, not mine.'
'And your amusement amuses me, John.'
I blink rapidly, taking that one in. Sherlock immediately turns to the outsiders and dismisses them with a lofty gesture. 'The London Concert Hall will be missing you terribly. You may go. John keeps some emergency money in the vase on the landing. You may regard it as a tip.'
Cheers, mate, very generous of me.
The three musicians bow respectfully and move out in a single file. Sherlock still yells after them: 'Leave John's vase, though! He likes crappy old things!'
I don't know if they heard Sherlock. They are playing their jingle as they descend the stairs and leave through the front door. Some New Orleans jive now.
'That was wonderful, Sherlock!' Mrs Hudson praises with a sharp hug after that. She too leaves under my careful watch.
Giving him the space to have a word with me, I notice. Reading landladies is so much easier than sharp cheeked detectives.
I keep my shoulders straight and hands behind my back; parade's rest. Sherlock correctly interprets this as my "we need to talk" stance.
He flops on his chair in an artistic disarray and watches me under heavy eyelids. 'John...' he says my name as if waiting for the floodgates will open.
They trickle instead.
'Mycroft sent you a case, then.'
'Already said so. Next.'
I take to pacing the room. From the sofa Sherlock watches me fully raptured by my unexpectedness.
'Care to explain the case and the musical connexion?'
'The case is located in an one hundred years old hotel with a reputation for murdering its guests.'
Bad management. 'Right up your alley, then... A hotel?'
'Closed down now. Certainly "The Broom and The Bloom" was advertised as a hotel, although the bloom was an illusion to bloomers. Ladies' undergarments, John. It was a barely concealed brothel.'
For the sake of propriety, I raise my hand to keep his tale short. 'I see. So why now?'
'After a hundred years, there's been a new death at "The Broom and The Bloom".'
'The place still stands. I'm surprised.'
'No heirs, the property reverted to the King. The King doesn't want it, nor did the Queen before him. Lost between two stretches of motorways. No developer took real interest either. It remained a fossil of an era gone by. The Roaring Twenties.'
That explains the music, I guess. There's always a meaning to music around Sherlock. I suppose he asked for it specifically, to get his blogger in the right writing mood.
'So who has gone in and died?'
Sherlock stretches to grab his violin bow and the tin of rosin from the coffee table.
'Microsoft has plans for a witness protection house,' Sherlock notes, as he spreads a thin layer of rosin on the fine hairs. 'Hard to access, easy to ignore.'
'He sent one of his men to check the place out.' Easy deduction.
'And he never came back. Mycroft isn't happy. He wants me to find out whether it's death by accident - or death by hotel. I'm rather hoping for the latter.'
I let myself fall on my armchair, a bit unnerved. Only now I notice that the fire roars in the hearth beside my chair. Sherlock's doing.
My hands have warmed up, the room is full of Sherlock's alive presence.
No need for that cat, I've got Sherlock now.
And Sherlock is honestly veritably cat-like at times. For once, he does not easily show emotions or affection. But if you can read Sherlock's gestures of kind attention, the way he keeps a watchful eye on this former army doctor, or how he checks in with our landlady often (and capitalises on the biscuits), then you start reading the secrets Sherlock keeps from us.
'So Mycroft sends his baby brother to a death trap house?'
'Christmas gift come early.' Sherlock grins enthusiastically.
I groan.
'Well, if you're going to need me to keep your safe. Is it far? Do I need to pack overnight bags?'
Sherlock grins ever more.
Finally he eases up and places his beloved violin under his chin, angles the bow and allows the strings to reverberate in a jolly jingle. I chuckle under my breath.
Sherlock's musical language is as unique as he is, but once in a while it's as genuine and honest as the smile that hovers just above those taunt strings.
This evening I learn that the fast string plucks and quick bow swings over the violin strings signify joy and acceptance. The warm music intermingles with the emotion in the air, permeating into every stich in the curtains, infiltrating into the worn out fivers in the rug, swirling in smoky patterns above the fire flickering in the mantle.
I decide Mycroft, the case and packing can wait. This is where I want to be right now. And judging by the warmth sound coming from the cherry toned wood instrument, Sherlock feels the same. For now. Soon we'll go on another mad adventure.
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