Work Text:
‘I play the Violin at odd hours’
Well as the worst part of living with Sherlock Holmes went it wasn’t bad. Compared to head in the fridge, drug raids and the general danger of imminent death the sounds of Sherlock’s Stradivarius weren’t much of a hardship.
The first time he heard him really play was several weeks after moving into Baker Street, until then he’d plucked angrily at it, fiddled with it, used it to ignore Mycroft and Mrs Hudson when it was convenient but it seemed that despite the initial warning he was almost shy to play it in earshot of John.
It was an average evening by the new standards John was using, the day before had been spent wrapping up an interesting –but not taxing case of smuggling and today a refreshingly dull day at the surgery. Now in the evening while John tapped slowly at his blog trying his best to sound intelligent enough to pass muster with Sherlock while his flatmate, not in the post case fugue that John had previously seen from this minor diversion was busying himself with some complex experiment in the kitchen. John had managed to glean that Bart’s had temporarily grown weary of his experimentation and it’s unwanted results, apparently a few first year students had inadvertently opened the freezer door onto one of his more gruesome projects. So now it was John who was treated to such delights, he was considering calling in a few favours to get Sherlock reinstated in the lab, it wouldn’t stop the experiments in the kitchen but it might take a few of the more potent ones away from his spaghetti Bolognese.
Growing weary of his blog, failing to finish the entry but instead firing off an email to Harry and a few of the army buddies he still kept in sporadic contact with. ‘That one is cheating on his wife’ Sherlock had commented over his shoulder en route from retrieving a book from his room.
‘Thank you! It’s bad enough you read my emails when I’m not at the computer never mind when I haven’t finished writing them!’
He didn’t need to look at Sherlock to see the satisfied smirk. John rolled his eyes, it wasn’t as if he had anything interesting for Sherlock to read, or that there was anything he probably didn’t already know. Snapping the lid of the computer shut, not bothering to lock or password protect it he got up.
‘I’m off to bed.’ He announced.
‘Good night’ Sherlock offered actually glancing up at John from the vials of chemicals in front of him. John eyed the concoction suspiciously.
‘Do me a favour? Put that to bed at a reasonable hour, I don’t want Mrs Hudson running up here at 2am again because she thinks you’ve blown up the kitchen.’
Sherlock made a face that was neither a rejection of the suggestion or an acceptance. ‘Fine’ he conceded after a moment, ‘I’ll find something else to occupy my evening.’
‘Try sleep’ John muttered as he turned to the stairs, knowing without staying for the answer what Sherlock’s response was;
‘Boring’ he muttered into his vials.
An hour later John was beginning to drift off after becoming engrossed in the book he’d stolen from Sherlock’s vast collection-a nineteenth century French mystery that was entertaining and had a detective who was eerily familiar. His eyes were dropping and sleep crept in as he became aware of a sound, a noise from bellow-not a noise that suggested danger or at the very least explosion, but something he realised he’d heard little of since moving in-music. He assumed it was a CD as his brain first tuned in; Sherlock despised the radio with the ‘imbecilic commentary’ interrupting the music. A slow gentle sound was making its way up the stairs, like a lullaby quiet but not mournful. It was vaguely familiar but not easy to identify. It was though enough to make him sit up in bed put down the book and listen. The piece ended and he heard footsteps and a soft twang of a string being pulled and he realised it wasn’t a recording; it was Sherlock.
He didn’t know why he was shocked, the man was brilliant at everything well, reasoned John, remembering the Solar system and several conversations around elections time that were frankly disturbing, anything he put his enormous mind to. A few more squeaks of tuning accompanied by soft footfalls came from bellow before the music began again, this time John immediately recognised the piece; Mozart an upbeat piece infectiously energetic a lot like Sherlock when he was working John smiled, wondering if he played as he worked, leaping around unable to keep still. He longed to go down to watch him play, but he sensed at the first sign of an audience Sherlock would stop. This was a test more of himself perhaps than John, though John wasn’t sure whey it suddenly mattered to the man who rejected all social graces despite reading them so accurately.
John lay back and listened as Mozart gave way to a steady Braham’s piece, an almost march like quality to its tone, steadfast strong baseline but with delicate snatches of lightness. John loved music, all kinds something his mother had imbued in him from a young age but he never had grasped the technicalities or the language of it thinking of it as he did now in a translation of life experience. The piece was a contrast to the manic frankly Sherlockian exuberance and energy of the first, it was it’s antithesis, grounded. He could be imagining it, he considered, that his imagination had run away from him but perhaps there was something beneath the choices. The piece ended on a familiar note and John realised he knew both from his mother’s records as a child, both were pieces he knew and loved, this whatever other deductions he was attempting to make was not a coincidence. John smiled in the darkness to himself.
He didn’t have long to question whether he was supposed to deduce deeper meaning from this impromptu concert-or indeed how impromptu it was, as another piece started and answered his questions while raising more. Sherlock began to tease out an unfamiliar work, slower, not sad exactly but relaxed perhaps reflective even. It was totally unfamiliar, contemporary his limited musical knowledge told him whatever it was it was truly beautiful. John listened and his mind heard not sadness but perhaps loneliness and long low notes eked out bellow, then as the piece built to a swell of emotion there was a plateau, a contented moment of piece before as the final notes rang out, a question in music another kind of aching yearning. And then silence. In the absence of the music John chided himself for reading too much into it, it was late he was tired; Sherlock was merely practising his violin as he had threatened. At least, John mused it wasn’t likely to explode.
As much as he tried however the aching question of that final piece inhabited his dreams that night.
The next morning unusually Sherlock was up before John- unusual for a day when he appeared to have actually gone to be d. Becoming a student of observation himself John took in Sherlock wearing his silk robe over pyjamas creased in the front by sleep-, his ruffled hair yet unwashed and his usual styled ‘mess’ was flattened on the left from sleep, and pointing in every possible direction on the right. The fact that he was sitting eating a bowl of cereal with his black three sugars coffee indicated a concession to normal eating and sleeping habits that occurred between cases and bouts of depression or boredom. Such moments were still rare to John and he found it at once refreshing but also a little unnerving. A yawn as John walked in raised an amused smile from John, completing the picture and suggestion that Sherlock was in fact human after all.
‘Morning’ John said brightly
‘Good morning’ Sherlock said lifting his eyes from the paper
‘There’s coffee’ he commented his eyes still on John as he moved to the kitchen
‘Ta’ John called back trying and failing to conceal his surprise and excitement, domesticity was far below Sherlock’s primarily concerns in life so any concessions were always surprising and always welcome, though often used as a diversion. John shot a glance back to the living room.
‘I didn’t break anything’ Sherlock said as usual in reply to a question John hadn’t verbalised.
‘I didn’t say a word’ he said needlessly, bringing his coffee and cereal to sit opposite Sherlock, he took the main section of the newspaper from under the pile Sherlock had created. Sherlock was perusing the culture section of the Saturday paper intently clearly regarding current affairs as irrelevant for today. They ate in silence for a few moments before Sherlock deliberately laid down his paper and looked at John.
‘You’re fond of Mozart’ he said
John was taken aback, a quiz about last night’s music, ‘Well, yes I suppose’ he tried to read his flatmate’s face, slight frown of concentration was knitting his brow.
‘Good’ Sherlock concluded, nodding ‘There is a concert tonight. Can Sarah spare you for an evening?’
‘I fear Sarah may have permanently spared me’
‘I suspected as much, felt it rude to say anything’
John snorted.
‘So you’ll come?’ Sherlock asked with a deepening of his frown, an anxious note to his voice
‘Of course’ John smiled
‘Good’ Sherlock mused running a hand through his hair, not succeeding in tidying it. ‘Good’
He returned to reading the paper and John noticed the cover, ‘Wait is it that concert-the Centenary Gala concert at Covent Garden?’
Sherlock continued reading.
‘Obviously’
‘But it’s been sold out for months. It was on BBC news yesterday.’
‘Was it?’ Sherlock took a lazy sip of his coffee, ‘Mycroft owes me several favours.’ He allowed himself a small smirk of satisfaction.
‘Anything to do with his credit card bill that you stole?’
‘Intercepted.’ He corrected ‘ Possibly.’ He defiantly smirked this time. ‘Anyway you’ll need to wear your good suit. The grey not the black. And a tie.’
John nodded, not bothering to question Sherlock’s knowledge of a suit he wasn’t even sure he’d unpacked yet never mind worn.
It was thanks to Mycroft’s influence and a new navy silk tie that somehow appeared on his bed after he showered and shaved, that John found himself slightly uncomfortably stuffed into his old suit that was a little tighter than he recalled. Sherlock had ushered him into a taxi a long time before it was really necessary to leave, pacing the flat for a good ten minutes while he waited for John to be ready. John always on military time had already allowed pleanty of time and they arrived a full forty five minutes before the performance was due to start.
John had never been to Covent Garden before, not the actual Opera house, he’d marvelled at a distance at it, had vaguely entertained taking dates there before balking at the prices. Inside was as grand and opulent as he’d expected, he had expected to feel out of place-what business did an army doctor have in a place like this? But with Sherlock striding confidently at his side as if he’d been coming there all his life-which John reasoned he probably had- he felt a part of it. It was like when Sherlock took him to crime scenes, he evoked a natural authority that nobody really questioned wherever he went and as long as John was at his side nothing seemed to faze him.
Sherlock expertly checked their coats into the cloakroom and seemingly retrieved their tickets in one swoop. He was followed by an usher keen to show them to their seats. They were escorted up a grand staircase and quickly ushered into a private box clearly laid out for a full on hospitality reception, or on closer inspection, a romantic evening for two.
‘Well this is...’John searched for an appropriate adjective ‘Nice?’
‘Mycroft’s idea of a little joke’ Sherlock smiled ‘still is a shame to waste such quality champagne.’ He inspected the bottle, and John took a moment to observe his flatmate-a pastime that had yet to cease being fascinating. Sherlock following his instructions to John appeared to be dressed in his best suit-saying something given his usual standard of attire. A very good quality black suit, a dark grey shirt and matching tie John marvelled at how clothes seemed to wrap themselves perfectly around Sherlock and look like they were made for him in contrast to John’s make do attitude. His normally unruly hair seemed to have been tamed momentarily and his usual, again immaculate shoes had been replaced by dress shoes that looked like they cost more than John’s first car.
With a smirk and a flourish Sherlock pulled out a chair and gestured for John to sit, John narrowed his eyes at his companion and obeyed the silent command. As he sat he muttered
‘He’s here too isn’t he’
‘Oh yes’ Sherlock replied ‘May as well give him some entertainment’
Sherlock pushed John’s chair in leaning a little closer than normal before pulling out his own and edging it a little closer to John’s than necessary. He pulled the champagne from the ice bucket;
‘Champagne John?’ he asked, the glint still in his eye.
‘Don’t mind if I do’ John replied trying to hide his own amusement.
Sherlock popped the cork with a flourish and filled two glasses, handing one to John he raised an eyebrow. ‘Now what shall we drink to?’
‘Childish feuds?’ John suggested dryly.
‘Who said anything about a feud?’ Sherlock asked
‘No, this is you having fun isn’t it?’ John said unable to suppress his grin,
Sherlock’s mirthful glee dropped for a moment and his face became serious, then questioning ‘Yes’ he said softly, as if the answer puzzled him.
‘Sherlock?’ John asked
He shook his head causing his arm to move and champagne to spill, instinctively John reached out to stop further spillage and caught Sherlock’s hand instead of the glass. For a moment they froze, John looked at his hand covering Sherlock’s then at the floor, quickly letting go.
‘Enough of a show for Mycroft?’ he asked, suddenly inexplicably embarrassed.
‘Quite.’ Sherlock wiped his hand with the table cloth, for a moment there was silence. John fiddled with his glass, looking down at the table cloth.
‘Music.’ He said suddenly
‘What?’ Sherlock asked, sounding as if he hadn’t really heard.
John picked up his glass again, refocused. ‘A toast, to music’ he caught Sherlock’s gaze and smiled. Sherlock returned the smile, reaching all parts of his face eyes crinkled with delight.
‘Indeed’ he said raising his glass to John’s ‘To music’
Before either of them could say anything more, before John reasoned he made a mess of this-whatever this was, he wasn’t quite sure, and before Mycroft could make any more inferences, intended or otherwise the lights dimmed and the music began.
John had forgotten just how much he enjoyed classical music, and just how familiar he was with much of the programme. He smiled to himself and thanked his mother’s tireless efforts to instil some culture into Harry and him as children, years listening to the Proms on the radio and attending the local Philharmonic Orchestra’s Christmas concert had furnished John with a good working knowledge of music if not the technical ability. More than that he found himself as he sipped perhaps a little too much champagne more than a little liking for the genre. Of course, he reasoned glancing over at Sherlock, leaning forward intense concentration on his face he was going to get a further education and if last night’s concert was an indication, a greater love of music.
As the lights came up for the interval a light came on in Sherlock and he was as he was in the midst of a case exuberantly manic, talking about the music the first violin the cello the conductor and a hundred things John could barely keep track of and probably wouldn’t understand if he could. All the while he was drinking the champagne and eating from the table of food that had magically appeared in their box pausing only to swallow and insist John try whatever it was he was currently eating, or to allow John a ‘yes’ or ‘indeed’ of agreement to his latest declaration of wonder at the performance. John just smiled and enjoyed the monologue, a second performance as it was but certainly not secondary. Just as the bell sounded for the second act Sherlock finally paused and drew breath, fixing John in his gaze he became serious again.
‘You are enjoying this?’ he furrowed his brow
John chuckled at the implication of which show he might be enjoying, ‘Yes, very much so’
Sherlock frowned, confused.
‘Yes. Sorry Sherlock. Yes very much so.’ his voice dropped a little on the last phrase and he frowned himself.
‘Good’ Sherlock nodded taking his seat again, ‘Good.’
John smiled as the lights went down, a little perplexed that his enjoyment should be so important to someone who all too often showed no regard for the feelings of other. He ignored the voice that suggested he was an exception, or asked why but he was pleased nonetheless. Putting confusion aside John settled in to enjoy the second act, casting occasional glances to his side fascinated by the look of total absorption and child like fascination that returned to Sherlock’s face. As the music of the second half became more dramatic his face contorted a ghost of the emotions conjured by the music bellow chasing across his face in the half light.
As the music swelled to its grand finale John cast a glance at his companion. In the dark his pale skin was more illuminated than John’s own and from their privileged position the stage lights cast just enough light to see clearly. Quite clearly in the dark John saw the tears streaming down Sherlock’s face. John watched fascinated for a minute as the music rose to a swell around him. It was unnerving and exhilarating at the same time to see him so exposed, so undone. Suddenly he understood, he understood what Sherlock was trying to show him and just what it meant. Music allowed him something the rest of the time wasn’t truly possible, what his great mind wouldn’t allow-it set free his emotions.
‘It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate it’ John muttered to himself.
John watched fascinated as Sherlock’s eyes filled with emotion and his breath rise and fall with the music tears still streaming down his face. As the music swelled to the final note he seemed to hold his breath exhaling a breath that shuddered his whole body as though the music left his body with another shudder that reverberated though his entire body.
Sherlock leaped to his feet with carefree abandon his cheeks still wet as fresh tears spring to his eye John smiled, a surge in his own chest at this display from his friend, the joy etched across his face so different to his normal demeanour. He was compelled to stand himself and step forward in the box applauding behind Sherlock who was clapping with almost wild abandon oblivious it seemed to the stream of tears that still flowed freely down his cheeks.
John dug into his suit pocked and pulled a handkerchief from his pocked and touched Sherlock’s hand with it. Without looking behind he curled his long fingers around the small piece of material and took it from John. As the orchestra rose to bow he lifted it to his face and wiped away the tears. As the conductor stood to take a final bow John saw his hand clench around the blue material still in his hand as a wave of emotion threatened to spill over again.
The lights came up and for a moment Sherlock kept his head bowed, discreetly he wiped at his eyes one last time with the handkerchief and cast a furtive glance over at John offering his handkerchief back.
‘Keep it’ John said ‘For the next time.’
Sherlock smiled and nodded taking a long moment to carefully fold the handkerchief and place it in his inside jacket pocket. ‘Thank you’ he said, John wasn’t entirely sure whether for the handkerchief or something else.
‘Shall we?’ Sherlock gestured to the exit John nodded and led the way. In the crowded lobby Sherlock left John to retrieve their coats and he turned on his phone, why he wasn’t sure as the most likely person to call or text was about ten yards away impatiently waiting behind ladies quibbling over their furs. His phone buzzed softly moments after being turned on and John looked at the screen.
‘He is human after all’ John rolled his eyes at the signature ‘MH’ and pocked his phone as Sherlock arrived. Sherlock cast him a questioning look.
‘Your brother wanted to know if we enjoyed’
Sherlock shrugged into his coat holding out John’s slightly less smart dress coat.
‘So it seems’ he said holding out his own phone so that John could read the text he’d obviously retrieved in the queue.
‘Dry your eyes little brother, you always were soft for Wolfgang.’
And Sherlock’s typically acerbic reply;
‘Just because I have the mental capacity to appreciate you oaf.’
John smiled at just how childish their brotherly feud could become. Sherlock returned his smirk, ‘Mycroft was always jealous my musical ability, the only thing he couldn’t compete with.’
They turned and followed the crowds out of the theatre and through the crowds of tourists still milling around at Covent Garden. John took the opportunity;
‘Well it is quite impressive’ he said ‘I mean from what I heard last night.’ He glanced sideways at Sherlock who continued looking straight ahead, John looked away and felt Sherlock’s eyes immediately fall on him.
‘What I mean is’ he continued to his shoes, that had as usual fallen in step with Sherlock’s despite the difference in their stride, ‘Well it’s not something you need to list as a worst point for potential flatmates.’
‘Am I likely to be looking for a new flatmate any time soon?’
It was laced with sarcasm but there was a vulnerable undertone John detected
‘No.’ John stopped forcing Sherlock to halt too, ‘No’ he repeated more forcefully. Sherlock looked at him holding his gaze for a long moment, clear eyes boring into his own as if assessing, debating.
‘Good’ he concluded striding towards the road. ‘Shall we walk? It’s a pleasant evening?’
‘Yes.’ John agreed, ‘Yes it is’ falling into step beside him again.
That evening when John was in bed Sherlock began to play again. After a few moments John recognised the piece from that night’s concert, a happy piece filled with hope and joy. John smiled as he fell asleep, human after all indeed.