Concertos and Blackmail, part 6
(Previous)
Part Six
The lobby of the concert hall is packed with important-looking people, leaving John feeling completely out-of-place and Sherlock looking (as always) in his element. When they’re asked for invitations, Sherlock produces a gilded envelope from an inside pocket, and when the usher requests another, Sherlock glares condescendingly down his nose and tilts his violin case. John suspects that it’s Sherlock’s frighteningly-honed intimidation techniques, rather than the instrument, that convince the man; he isn’t quite sure whether or not he approves. They’re let through the velvet rope, and Sherlock immediately takes John’s hand, threading their fingers together and leading him over to the bar. He takes a glass of champagne and sips from it, handing it to John. As the doctor drinks, Sherlock leans down to his ear.
“Do try to make this look realistic,” he murmurs. From the timbre of his voice, anyone would have guessed he was whispering dirty promises, and John almost blushes before realising the implication of Sherlock’s words. He’s about to protest, eyes wide, when Sherlock pulls away from his ear and seals their lips together.
For a split-second, John stiffens in shock, fighting the urge to push Sherlock away - then he remembers Sherlock’s words and forces himself to relax and enjoy the (admittedly quite pleasant) sensation of being kissed by Sherlock Holmes. He raises the champagne in his left hand, resting it back on the bar, and closes his eyes, bringing his free hand up to hold Sherlock’s neck. It feels strange, kissing someone so much taller than him - craning his neck and feeling a strong, thin-fingered hand sliding around his waist - but when Sherlock pushes a bit more forcefully against his mouth, he does what he always does with the consulting detective and relents, letting him in. He can hear a low murmur of gossip growing up around them, and feels the well-dressed young woman behind him stepping deftly away, her heels clicking rapidly in escape.
All of a sudden, the heat of Sherlock’s mouth is gone, and he almost turns and stalks off, his hand slipping from John’s waist. With an almost panicked motion, John tightens his grip on Sherlock’s neck, stopping him from running away.
“That’s not exactly realistic,” he breathes. Sherlock looks at him blankly for a moment before something in his expression softens in understanding. He raises his hand, trailing the back of one finger along John’s jaw. The movement - so painfully out-of-character for his friend - almost makes John burst into laughter; but he suppresses the urge, however ridiculous it is that he was just kissing Sherlock Holmes.
“Better,” he mutters, holding back a smirk and letting his hand fall to Sherlock’s shoulder. The entire ordeal is a lot easier than expected, though Sherlock’s starting to make him wonder how much experience he’s actually had with intimate moments like this. He taps his thumb against Sherlock’s lapel, gaining control of his face, then lets his hand drop, hiding a beatific smile behind their champagne. Sherlock grins once, a fleeting, somewhat fond expression, and turns away, sweeping off to the Stage Door and leaving John alone in a sea of not-so-surreptitious glances.
It is now that the nerves begin to take effect. John slinks away to stand to one side, trying to blend into the wall, and he can’t stop his eyes darting about, taking everything in. His hand isn’t shaking at all. No one approaches him, though, and it seems that Sherlock’s plan has worked perfectly: he has gained enough attention to be noticeable, but not so much as to have his presence questioned.
An announcement is made over the speakers informing the guests that the performance will commence in fifteen minutes. John sips at his champagne and pulls the ticket Sherlock gave him from an inside pocket, checking his seat number.
Door 4. Row C. Seat 14.
John is surprised to find himself so well seated: three rows back from the stage and just to the right of centre. He’s never been to a concert like this - neither he nor his parents were ever greatly interested in classical music, though Sherlock’s been endeavouring to change his opinion. He has no idea what to expect.
He’s just beginning to contemplate why he couldn’t have simply met Sherlock after the concert, when someone steps into the space before him, quite obviously intent on conversation. The woman is slightly younger than middle-age, smartly dressed, and John can’t help but be reminded of ‘Anthea’ in the way that she holds herself with confidence and purpose, comfortable in her position and in the presence of a BlackBerry. She is slightly taller than John in her heels, and her dark hair is half-pulled back, stylish but efficient.
“What’s your name?” she asks kindly, as if asking a lost child if he knows where his mummy is.
“Watson,” John answers flatly. “John Watson.”
A minute frown appears between the woman’s eyebrows. “My name’s Surabhi,” she says without invitation. “I’m a part of the delegation for the royal family. The Queen will be here soon, you know,” she adds lightly, though her gaze implies that there is nothing at all light about this conversation.
“I did think that was the point of the evening.” His tone is conversational, but he seeks refuge behind his champagne when Surabhi frowns again.
“I’m sorry, but I’ve never heard of you,” she all but blurts, as if this fact is deeply unsettling. “Who are you?”
“John Watson,” he repeats, huffing a tiny laugh at the way she inclines her head in disapproval - she almost reminds him of Mycroft. “My… partner’s with the orchestra,” he adds.
“Yes, I saw that,” Surabhi replies, her gaze turning cryptic and assessing. There is silence for a moment, in which John contemplates the necessity of his presence at the concert and decides that he’s kind of enjoying himself anyway. He gives a short, close-mouthed smile in which he purposely hides a challenge.
Without another word, the woman turns and disappears into the crowd. John refuses to let himself sag with relief, taking another swig of champagne instead. A minute later, he is informed by insistent electronic chimes that the concert will commence in ten minutes, and he drains the last drops from his glass - no point in wasting free champagne, he figures - and sets off, craning his neck for directional signs. The hall is packed and the stage empty, the sound of shuffling feet filtering through the chatter of important people. John takes his seat between an old woman in pearls and a peach-coloured dress, and a weathered, middle-aged man in formal military uniform sporting a chestful of medals which look more pompous than honourable, and who leans over immediately after John sits down to strike up a conversation. It is short and stilted - the man is elated to meet a fellow soldier, but seems almost disappointed to learn that John spent more time in the Medical Corps than as part of an actual attacking force. When the man asks about any decorations he might have received, John replies that he’d rather not talk about it, and turns away.
Moments later, the orchestra files onto the stage and tunes, three efficient bursts of tonal cacophony silencing the audience. The conductor walks out and applause fills the hall as he shakes hands with the violinist at the front and mounts the podium. John murmurs along to God Save the Queen, then the audience settles and the concert begins. It is - at least to John’s untrained ear - very good. Sitting so close to the stage, the sound is dominated by the strings, and John realises why the royal family is seated in a box rather than the oft-coveted first row.
Now and then during the symphonies and movements of which John knows neither title nor composer, he recognises snatches of tunes that he’s heard Sherlock play before - here, a three-bar passage which was played almost non-stop for two days as Sherlock thought through a particularly masterful theft; there, a swift series of notes which he’s heard both slowed down and sped up, played when Sherlock is pleased, either with the quality of his pad siew or the outcome of a quick but challenging case. John’s mind begins to wander as he watches the swing of the violins’ bows. He remembers the times Sherlock has played - annoying Mycroft with a swing of harsh arpeggios; sawing his way across seemingly random notes as he vents his frustration during a stagnant investigation; playing John to sleep after they’ve both spent three days on little food and even less sleep, and his own body is defying his exhaustion. One memorable evening, they had both been sitting quietly together in the living room, absorbed in their own thoughts, when Sherlock had raised his bow and begun a series of improvised movements which left John feeling inexplicably contented.
All of a sudden, an hour has passed, and the conductor and orchestra are bowing as the audience applauds enthusiastically. During the interval, John resumes his position at the edge of the lobby, though this time without the distraction of champagne. He sees Surabhi hovering at the edge of the crowd milling about the royal party, and he’s almost certain he catches a glimpse of ‘Anthea’. He decides that it’s best not to think about why Mycroft’s assistant is here surveying either him or the royal family (or possibly both). Eventually, the harsh, artificial bell chimes once more to signal the second half, and John returns to his seat, ignoring the glances sent his way by the man on his right and graciously slipping out of small talk with the old woman to watch the stage. The placement of the orchestra has shifted slightly to accommodate a grand piano.
This time, after the orchestra files in, the conductor is accompanied by Sherlock and an older, foreign-looking woman - the pianist - behind whose seat Sherlock takes his place, his spine imperiously straight. He tucks his violin beneath his chin and perfunctorily tests his bowing, then nods to the conductor, settling in his stance. In the stillness between the first rise and fall of bows, bells and batons, Sherlock catches John’s eye. There is stern confirmation in the glance, accompanied by the most infinitesimal of nods, and John knows that Sherlock has what they came for; all that’s left is to enjoy the second half.
And it certainly is enjoyable. A violin concerto: the music starts smoothly, Sherlock’s violin singing alone into the grand silence of the hall. It is happy, excited, the melody dancing off the strings - but there is something in the quality of the lone instrument, standing before an entire, silent orchestra, which sounds somehow thin; not lonely - not quite - but desolately, needlessly alone. After a short while, the pianist lifts her spidery hands, holding them above the keys for another few bars before pressing down, her own tune joining Sherlock’s with a kind of insidious innocence. It’s not long before the violin realises what’s happening and begins to resist, actively trying to circumvent a harmony - but then the orchestra comes in, bit by bit, and the melody begins to swell. The violin darts between the other instruments, every time coming to the fore and every time being blocked at the last by the piano’s insistent notes. Almost by accident, it seems, Sherlock falls into her harmony (quite literally falls back a step, as if staggering) - and, moments later, he soars. The notes of the leaders leap up to the ceiling, the orchestra following on their heels, and the music seems to burst. It is elated, now, racing and exhilarated, as the soloists lead it through a glorious climax. The music fills the hall, thrilling it with energy, bright and beaming and full, enough to send the blood singing before it slips, almost imperceptibly, into the denouement; gradual, but no less joyous in its calm. As the trumpeters put down their instruments and the horns build up a rich, warm undertone, supported by the bassoons, the soloists fall back into a contented harmony. John thinks he’s hardly ever heard Sherlock play so sweetly, and he wonders if his flatmate resents the necessity. Finally, the melody ends, the violin and piano resting as the strings and woodwinds bring the music to its close, fading out into a soft, clear, quiet note - and then into silence.
Sherlock and the pianist shift; the conductor turns a page. There is a flurry of coughs and sniffles as the audience gets them out of the way before the next movement.
They needn’t have bothered. The conductor sweeps up his baton, and the pianist draws a sharp breath, and it’s obvious that the next movement will be a harsher one. Indeed, the piano quickly brings the music rushing back in, leading the orchestra in a reeling crescendo. Sherlock raises his instrument to his shoulder, settling his chin in place, and John feels a thrill of anticipation, waiting for the violin to join the insistent swell of music.
He is sorely disappointed.
The violin’s first note is contrary and sharp, slashing through the frenzied harmonies of the rest of the orchestra. It strikes at the music with all the acidity of Sherlock’s cruel tongue, bow flashing between every fissure and pressing at the others’ weaknesses. In no time at all, the music is disintegrating, the orchestra breaking into factions: section against section, soloist against soloist, and every combination of the same. The hurrying, harrying tones fall apart, prompted by the violin’s interruptions: cutting off the horns by joining the strafing of the flutes, only to dart across and bolster the violas against the combined forces of the double basses and piano. It urges on first one group then the next, spurring the music into a frenetic turmoil, a dangerous mix which lurches occasionally into strained bouts of suspense before tumbling back into action. The music is thrown toward its climax, tripping over itself in its splintered rush, the soloists flitting between harmonies, always audible even over the rattle of cymbals and the blasts of the contrabassoon. As the violin pauses to breathe, the piano takes over, crashing against the entire strings section, bolstered by the oboes but hampered by the trombones’ insistent attacks. With the piano’s wild crescendos, the music races to its peak, the almighty culmination of all the violence that has come before. Sherlock raises his bow, and the entire audience seems to hold its breath for his contribution to the manic rise of the percussionists against the brass, when -
SCREECH!
With a long, high shriek of sound, the violin cuts off everyone else. Silence descends; not the shuffling, awkward silence of the first break, the audience and instruments eager to be off again, no - this is something entirely different. The conductor hardly lowers his baton, and the audience is silent, spellbound with anticipation and dread. At the front of the stage, Sherlock stands, his muscles straining with impatience, almost trembling against the weight of the unfinished note. His bow is held aloft, waiting to fall. He holds his breath, and the entire hall holds it with him, orchestra and audience alike rapt and burning, urging him, begging him to go on.
With another almighty screech, he does, picking up the same note on which he’d left the last movement, piercing the silence of the hall.
The note stops; no one dares to breathe.
Again, the violin squeals, stuttering once, twice, then drawing out again, that same, mournful, agonising note.
The bow hovers in the air, and John almost thinks he can see Sherlock’s pulse racing in his throat.
A third time, the violin picks up the note, the strings shrieking up to the ceiling, frightened, breathless and alone. This time, it cracks, faltering and skittering down the scales in a rapid string of staccatos, snapping off on a low, broken tone. In the silence that follows, the piano attempts consolation, rumbling in agreement, just as mournful but not half as mad. The violin ignores it, rattling through the scales again in a wild, directionless frenzy. The piano resumes its cheerless melody, punctuated by Sherlock’s scattered notes, constantly interrupting any attempt at coherence. Finally, though, the cellos begin to moan and the woodwinds to lament, and the violin can no longer stop their return to song. Its rattled exhortations start to break, and the music turns to melancholy, low and mournful, led by the piano’s sorrowing tones. The strings take up a slow, soaring harmony, through which the solo violin tries to rejoin the chorus; its attempts, however, are for naught. Despite the violin’s emulations, its own cries are always at least half a step behind the rest, its grief out of sync with the other violins. The howling notes cannot keep pace, cannot hold for as long, and as the rest of the orchestra swells with mourning, the lone violin seems to fall further and further behind, breaking off at odd moments and coming in three bars behind, skipping ahead to catch up, then stuttering and stumbling into silence. The attempts to follow become increasingly haphazard, notes cutting off with anguished squeals and stumbling upswings, and as the violin approaches a climax all of its own, the orchestra dims, quieting and calming. The horns and lower strings begin to sob, long, low throbs of sound behind which the woodwinds hum a soft, morose melody. The piano leads them, simultaneously raising their grief and anchoring that of the violin, which surges and builds and shatters occasionally, no longer bothering with any semblance of concurrent distress. As the orchestra fades into a background thrumming, the piano’s melody deepens, swelling up, like unbidden tears, low and miserable and sounding something like pure sorrow.
And in between the notes, the violin screams.
For screaming is the only possible appropriation for the sounds that Sherlock creates. The violin comes to the fore, wailing and splintering, very occasionally screeching, and John wants to simultaneously memorise every note and clap his hands over his ears. It is torture given voice - broken and wretched, shrieking its way across the octaves and abandoning any pretence of lucidity. Sherlock’s eyes are shut, his feet planted firmly a shoulder’s width apart, long legs tense with the effort of holding himself in place. His arm swings with the bow, and while his head and neck must remain still to hold the violin, the muscles shudder beneath his skin, their tautness speaking perhaps even more clearly than if he were free to move. The orchestra fades into silence, and the piano soon follows, forsaking its harmony as a lost cause, and the violin is left alone; and where before the music spoke of rage and loss, now it sings only of agony. The violin darts along the scales, skipping notes and forgoing entire sections of arpeggios, alternating between furious, almost possessed staccatos and long, excruciating saws of sound. Its anguish builds to the high shrieks that began the movement, and when it finally hits that awful note, it can do nothing but break, the bow glancing off the strings. It tries again, a drawn-out scream, but cannot hold for long. Two more stuttered attempts at the call, the stillness behind them echoing with the violin’s pain; until, with one last, lingering pull, Sherlock manages to hold the note, dragging the bow towards his body and then pushing it away, throwing the music off with a final, impossible upswing. The last, squealing note hovers in the air: the silence rings with it - with grief and pain and the trembling hairs of Sherlock’s frayed, abused bow, held up as if in anticipation of a note that will never fall - and then he seems to collapse. The violin slips out from under his chin, and both arms fall to his sides. He looks exhausted, drawn and beaten, and he hasn’t yet opened his eyes. As the applause breaks out - hesitant at first, then fervent and deafening - Sherlock blinks, and John thinks he sees tears fall from his lashes. For a moment, he is blind to the world; then he comes to his senses, and his eyes seek out John, focusing on him with an unforeseen intensity as he bows. When he straightens, he has regained his composure, and he steps aside as the pianist rises. John doesn’t even look at her, focusing instead on the detached way in which Sherlock transfers his bow to his left hand and wipes beneath his eyes with base of his thumb, swallowing.
The pianist bows, followed by the conductor, who then motions for Sherlock to bow once more. A round of handshakes is exchanged between the soloists, concertmaster and conductor. All the while, applause fills the space left by the music, punctuated by the occasional whistle or shout of appreciation. The orchestra rises and bows, and Sherlock, the pianist, and the conductor exit then reappear, and the entire bowing sequence begins over - Sherlock, pianist, conductor; orchestra, section by section - strings, woodwinds, brass. By the time the percussionists are standing, John’s hands have grown numb from clapping, and through the harpist’s bow, he wants little more than to leave and see Sherlock up close.
Once more, the soloists and conductor exit and re-enter, and bow, followed by the orchestra, followed by their final walk from the stage as the house lights swell into life. Sherlock exchanges one final glance with John as he sweeps off, and John stands and shuffles down the row. He doesn’t spare any attention for the lobby as he hurries through, ignoring the probably-important elbows between which he shoulders in his bid for the exit and the Stage Door.
Sherlock is already waiting for him. He’s still in his tails, and is just zipping up his violin case as John approaches. Before he can utter a word, Sherlock hefts his violin in one hand and grips John’s upper arm with the other, steering him away from the Stage Door and out onto the wet street. His hand doesn’t leave John’s arm as he scans the traffic for a cab, and though his face is as blank as ever, his eyes still seem a little wet, and his hand on John’s arm is unnervingly tight. For a moment, John wants to snap and tug his arm out of Sherlock’s painful grasp, annoyed and confused at the treatment - but it doesn’t take him long to piece it together.
John glances once at Sherlock’s face, at the hand on his arm, then turns resolutely to face the traffic. Not looking away from the street, he brings his left hand up, covering Sherlock’s fingers with his palm. Sherlock’s hand tightens into a claw, and his breath stutters through an exhale.
It’s the music, John concludes; music that pushed Sherlock beyond words and logic and into the emotions that he so despises.
Keeping his expression neutral, John taps one blunt fingertip against Sherlock’s thumb and drops his hand, his fingers flexing just once at his side. Sherlock’s grip relaxes, loses its intensity, and he lowers his gaze to one side, not quite looking at where his hand still rests on John’s arm. With another breath, the last of the tension in his face and shoulders smoothes itself out, and he blinks away the lingering moisture in his eyes. His hand slips from John’s arm, and the doctor nods once, glancing up at Sherlock for half a moment before clearing his throat and pursing his lips as he looks off to the side.
“No use lingering here,” says Sherlock brusquely. His voice is hoarse. Without looking at John, he stalks into a gap in the traffic, his strides long and swift.
John heaves a fortifying breath and jogs to catch up.
(Next)
[Note: For anyone wishing to ask about or discuss the concerto and its Real Life musical influences, I've made a post dedicated to the (absurdly long) topic over here. Your questions will likely be answered there, and there's a whole host of links to lovely music for your listening pleasure.]