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John Watson's running the Hampstead Loop at 3am when he hears music.
At first he thinks he's imagining things. His mind tends to play tricks in the long dark hours before dawn, especially in the long dark hours when he's just come off a dream of sand and blood in Khandahar. But the sort of auditory games John's mind gets up to when he's outrunning flashbacks generally have more to do with artillery fire and the screams of the dying than Tchaikovsky.
John slows from a sprint to a jog, lungs burning as he inhales and exhales great gasps of frigid Autumn air. He'd assumed he was the only one around for a mile in either direction; the middle part of the Loop, the rough wooded bit, isn't exactly well lit and even midday the path's gone a bit dangerous with seasonal debris. John doesn't mind running a crooked, slippery leaf-strewn path in the dead of night. He's steadier on his feet than most. He's been running the Loop regularly since early September and not lost his footing once in the three weeks since.
But maybe he's finally lost his mind because John can still hear strains of Tchaikovsky over the pounding of his heart. Puzzled, he jogs in place. The runner's head lamp he wears over the beanie Harry knit and sent with him on his most recent tour (because the desert can get bloody cold at night and he'd apparently complained once too often about freezing his ears off) illuminates ground and trees in roughly a five foot radius, depending on which way John swings his head. In ever direction, tonight, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling wariness because it's just not what a bloke expects, violin music at 3AM quite literally in the middle of nowhere.
"Hello?"
He doesn't shout, but he knows how to make himself heard when the occasion calls for it. The trees bounce the sound of his voice back and forth, breaking the word into syllables. There's no reply, no pause in the music.
Bloody creepy, John thinks. Although it's a lovely little solo, nicely played. He supposes if one was going to blast his iPod off in the middle of the woods just before dawn, one could pick far worse music.
Still, bloody creepy.
John Watson never gets lost anymore. He knows exactly where he is in his run, knows there's a park bench and street lamp just up the hill. He hasn't seen the bench used once since he's been home, possibly because the lamp's been badly vandalized, the lens smashed, wires pulled out in handfuls and left to hang against the post. John recalls that the bench is, in daylight hours, an excellent vantage point from which to watch the lower half of the Loop; just high enough up the hill to look out over treetops and onto the winding tarmac below.
John stops running in place. He reaches around himself with his left arm and unclips the vial of defense spray he keeps hooked to the zip of his Camelback. He palms the vial, then drags the lamp off his head with his other hand. The light's easier to aim if it's in his grasp like a torch and besides, the thing's professional grade and heavy enough to do blunt force damage if need be.
Then he readjusts his shoulders under his pack and tracks the music up the hill.
***
John was right about the bench, wrong about the iPod. The bench has been commandeered, but the music - no longer Tchaikovsky - isn't a recorded track at all. It's live, an honest to fuck solitary performance played by a slender, spike-haired bloke with too many rings in his ears and an actual violin in hand. The kid's standing on the bench beneath the broken lamp, bowing away with the manic intensity that takes a person when he's had too much caffeine or too little sleep.
He scowls when John's light catches him in the face and blinks rapidly against the glare, but he doesn't stop playing. Not a kid after all, John realizes. Although the violinist still retains the gangliness of youth he's probably older than most of the fresh-faced lads in John's regiment.
"Twenty-two," the bloke says above the sound of his violin. He's quieted the strings, switched to something soft and ethereal, one note blurring into the next, like background music on the telly or the rush of a distant river.
"What?" John says.
The violinist smiles. It's not a sincere smile, just a petulant one-sided curve of a really rather lovely mouth, and it definitely doesn't reach his grey eyes. Still bowing lazily, he tilts his chin. "You were wondering. I'm an adult, perfectly within my rights to be out alone at this time of the morning, and certainly not in need of rescuing." He blinks again, rapidly. "Move the torch, will you? It's blinding."
"Oh. Sorry." John points the headlamp down and to the side. There's still enough light left to pick out the general outlines of the bloke on the bench, but now most of the white beam is focused safely on the tarmac. The violinist puts a stop to his mini concert, lets his bow and the violin hang from his hands at his side, regards John with his head cocked.
"Dog tags," he murmurs, so low John almost doesn't catch the observation. "Interesting." He's got a voice far too deep for his slender form. He hops from the bench. Even on the ground he's tall, taller than John by a good bit, but some of that may be the heels of his leather boots, sharp and pointy as one of Harry's expensive red-soled stilettos. The violinist works the boots much better than Harry works the stilettos. Harry wobbles. The violinist slinks.
"Stop," John warns, holding up his left hand, letting the can of defense spray show between his fingers. "Love your music, mate, but I'm not in the mood for any trouble."
Those grey eyes glint in reflected torchlight as the bloke regards John and the defense spray. "No trouble," he asserts, shrugging. He's close enough now John can see he's wearing leather pants so tight they might be painted on and a mesh crop top that would leave absolutely nothing to imagination in the daylight. In fact, John's pretty sure he sees the shine of a nipple ring beneath mesh and he has to swallow the sudden, unexpected rush of saliva across his tongue.
Fuck, he thinks, and bites his lip to keep his mind from wandering. Jame's'll kill me. He shifts to ease the surprising and unwelcome weight of lust pooling in his belly.
"If you like the music," the violinist says, all innocence. "Leave a tip."
He gestures with his bow and John sees the violin case open on the bench, the color of the velvet lining obscured by night.
"I'm on a run," John says, amused in spite himself. The bloke's got nerve. "Not stupid, not carrying a wallet on the Loop this time of morning."
"Five pound note in the zip pocket of your shorts," the violinist says, bland. "For emergencies. Give it over."
John lets his brows bounce upward. "You robbing me?"
"Of course not. Don't be stupid. I'm only hurrying things along. Avoiding the part where you ask if I need help and I say no and you ask what I'm doing out alone at this hour and I lie about wanting a walk and fresh air and you try to pass me your sister's card - she's a social worker, I don't need one, I'm not homeless or destitute, I'm bored - which you also always carry with you in case of emergencies. I don't need the card. I don't need the fiver, either, but you'll only go home feeling guilty unless you do something helpful, you're the care-taking sort. So drop the note in the case and be on your way."
John knows his mouth is hanging open. He shuts it with a snap and swings the headlamp back up again. The violinist winces and squints. John looks him over again, head to toe, but he's not familiar, not at all, and not the sort John would forget once meeting.
"I don't know you," he decides. "But you know Harriet?"
"No," the violinist snaps back. He's raised his bowing hand to block the light. "I try to stay away from self-important community organizers with an ax to grind, depressive leanings, and a dangerous addiction to vodka. Sorry about your mum, by the way. Four weeks leave must be a welcome break, but I understand it's never easy to lose a parent, even one you haven't spoke to for half a decade."
"Jesus. Jesus Christ." John lets the light drop again. His heart's pounding in a way that reminds him unpleasantly of caravans in the desert and mine sweepers in the heat. "How did - who the hell are you?"
"Shezza," the violinist rumbles, wriggling in his leather pants, maybe in embarrassment, maybe in impatience. Then he sighs. "Sorry," he repeats, and this time he sounds like he means it. "That was one deduction further than I actually meant to say out loud. Didn't meant to frighten you."
"I'm not - " John shakes his head. "Never mind." He's not frightened, of course not, but he can't stay still in the dark any longer. He wrestles the five pound note from the zip pocket on the back of his shorts and holds it out. "Here. This has got to be the weirdest fucking mugging ever."
Shezza hesitates, then tucks his bow under one arm and takes the note from John's hand. Their knuckles brush. Shezza's are cold as ice.
"Not a mugging," he says, but he tucks the note into the waistband of his leather pants. "You'll sleep better for it, John Watson. Trust me. I'm never wrong."
John snorts and shakes his head, then turns and runs on up the hill, waiting until the bench is well behind before he stops and snugs the headlamp back over his beanie, clips the defense spray back on his pack. His heart's still pounding, and not from the run. He feels rather like he'd stumbled upon Baba Yaga in the forest and managed to escape intact.
Obviously the bloke picked John's name off his tags, although he'd have to have eyes like a bloody hawk in the dark. Still, that's easy enough to explain away. But the rest of it? Bit too much like witchcraft for John's taste. Still, without a doubt the most interesting thing to happen to him since he'd been sent home to bury his Mom. A good story.
Yeah, a good story. He can't wait to tell the guys, and James. James would laugh and then pick it apart, destroying the magic: "You must have met him sometime before, Johnny. People just don't guess important things like that. It's impossible."
John snorts again, imagining James' doubtful expression. He stretches beneath the dark sky, briefly glad for his health and his energy and the possibilities of his future. Two day's leave left, but that's fine. He's ready to get back, back to the desert, back where everything makes sense and the only mysteries are the mundane sort.
Maybe, he decides as he lopes on toward home, maybe he'll just keep the story of Shezza to himself after after all.
Some magic tricks are just too fantastic to be picked apart.