I wrote this next song about a fisherman.

[onteamdyson]

Who: Kenzi and Sherlock
When: Late Wednesday night
Where: Sherlock's room whatever number that is
Summary: Kenzi is lonely. and bored. and then somehow she wants violin lessons.
Rating: R for potential swears?
Warnings: kenzi in general. Fights? Mean words. Underwear. Mud things.

Comments

[onteamdyson]

"OW! What the balls was that for, Fluffy?!" She grabbed her head, glaring and kicking out at his shin! What a dick. How is she even friends with him-- yep. There's the smirk. Theirs is a violent friendship of strangeness.

As usual, she took in every word he spoke and filed it away. Even when he was being a total dick, he was interesting. The way he said things, like he knew every single detail in the entire world. So much information, delivered with attitude. Kenzi had decided a long time ago that he was the person she wanted to be like when she grew up... only a bit more likable. Normal adult life was not an option. Especially not when you're one of the few humans living in the world of the fae.

She reached out, taking his hand in both of hers and running her fingers over the callouses, just where he'd said they'd be. "Has this ever come up in a case?! Do you just know it because it pertains to you?! Do you think it'd be weird if I just molested the hands of an entire orchestra for sick comparisons?"

Kenzi hadn't been this interested in something in a long time.

[couldbdangerous]

"I know because I've observed. Best to know something before one needs it and yes, it has been useful in the past. Every last bit of information one could possibly learn about another person which might help one to identify or track them is key. Le bon dieu est dans la détail, or however it goes." Sherlock gave a dismissive gesture of the hand, taking his back to finish rosining his bow.

"Observing oneself is just as useful as observing others provided one doesn't get too caught up in it, in any case. I am a rather magnificent specimen, admittedly--" he gave a flourish and a bow "--but I already know where I've been and what I've done and how it has marked me. Useful when starting out, perhaps, but not so useful later. One comes to rely on foreknowledge rather than learning to work backwards, much to one's detriment during a real case. Never theorise without data. Speculation is the bane of the empirical mind. That's why I hit you. Well, that and you're supremely irritating and it was wholly satisfying, but a rather crucial part of my aforementioned magnificence is an astounding ability to multitask. Now shut up."

He set the bow down and stretched his hands, knuckles crackling, before taking both it and the violin up again. He tucked the instrument under his chin, fingers settling neatly onto strings, back straight, long legs folded underneath him. Violins were curious things. They were played by friction and so as one went on, the playing warmed the strings. The instrument came alive. It hummed into one's bones, resonated in one's skull, and at times, when there was nothing but the instrument and the sound, it seemed to respond most beautifully to the player's slightest whim. Nothing else managed both sharp and plaintive in quite the same way. It was difficult to make any other instrument cry out in agony not so very long after having teased lullabies out of singing strings.

It was important, therefore, to play the thing properly. It couldn't be rushed. The best things with which to start, the best ways to warm the hands and the strings were simple and soft and sweet, light things, idle things, to lull the mind and allow one to sneak up on the bits that mattered.

So Sherlock set bow to strings and played a simple melody, mindless pretty thing. The very best way to start. Moon river, wider than a mile...