[Fic] - Hungarian Dance No. 1
Hungarian Dance No. 1
It couldn’t have been a very long time after their initial mad chase around London looking for the elusive poisoning cabbie that John Watson began to question whether or not it was a good idea to move in with Sherlock Holmes.
There was no doubting the man was brilliant. A genius, really. If detectives had their own religion, it would be deduction and Sherlock Holmes would be a god.* Well, he certainly had an ego large enough for such a weighty role.
The man was as maddening and (at times) insufferable as he was clever. There had been almost no cases since the cab driver, and Sherlock’s “hobbies” were starting to drive him around the bend. Patient as he was, there was only so much John could tolerate.
He never bought milk, never cleaned the kitchen or tidied up the flat, leaving such ‘mundane’ and ‘pedestrian’ matters for more mundane and pedestrian people. He wouldn’t eat or sleep for days when on a case, and was hardly better when there was none. There were the experiments, of course, though the eyeballs in the microwave had mercifully vanished.
This was all well, and John could forgive most of these oddities, but his flatmate’s Stradivarius was another thing entirely.
The violin itself was a thing of beauty; meticulously polished and cared for, and expertly tuned. It had a most impressive range and quite a wonderful, colourful voice. Or at least, it would if Sherlock actually played something that even vaguely resembled music.
Sherlock played the Stradivarius at the most inconvenient of times, when the madman was trying to think, or to viciously fend off the clouds of ennui that would shroud him between cases. Played may be a bit too kind of a description for the horrible noises he would make. He would screech and scratch aimless, tuneless notes. They no doubt must have made sense to him in his wonderfully odd brain, but to John’s ears it was no more than cat wails and screeching chalkboards.
When asked if he had ever performed, the detective would shrug off his flatmate’s questions, directing the conversation firmly in another direction flawlessly. John had no doubt that Sherlock was a good violinist if he put his mind to it, but this all remained speculation.
Naturally, when Sherlock got a text that pulled him out of his dreadful boredom, John was more than a little relieved. He was slightly surprised to learn that it was not Lestrade that texted (or if it was, Sherlock wasn’t saying anything) and Sherlock made to leave regardless.
Rising to his feet to get dressed, Sherlock told him that he was going out, and to not wait up for him before disappearing into his room to change, before re-emerging in a slim-fitting suit (Armani, by the looks of it) and a bustle of movement, Sherlock swept out of the door and hailed a cab. He never noticed the case the taller man held in his hand.
John wasn’t particularly worried by this sudden departure. His flatmate was prone to sudden flights of fancy or investigation, and could return anytime between midnight and noon the following day. Seeing this as an opportunity to finally unwind, he made himself some tea, grabbed a few chocolate digestives, and sat himself down on the chesterfield.
The doctor flicked lazily through a few channels, watching some for no more than a few seconds, while he would pause at another for ten minutes at most. There was a frustrating lack of anything interesting on the tube, and it was only nine on a Friday night! John felt his mood darken as he realized just how tired and lazy and old he felt right then. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a case, for something right now...
He paused when he found a classical music performance. They were playing Brahms (a secret favourite of John’s), and he figured it was as good a music as any to fall asleep to. After all, there was no Sherlock to interrupt his dreams this night. John relaxed into the chesterfield quite comfortably, the sound of the Violin Concerto in D major doing wonders to release the tension that had grown in his shoulders and back. He felt thoroughly boneless and complacent (really, that first violinist was superb!) when the piece ended, and his eyelids began to drift to a close.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you have probably noticed, our usual first violinist isn’t here with us tonight. We are joined, on rather short notice, by this fine young gentleman here. I present to you, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s eyes snapped open in an instant and he immediately righted himself. Had he heard right?
There was no doubt about it. There, in the same suit and he had left their apartment in not an hour ago, was Sherlock. Sherlock playing first violin first violin for the London Symphony Orchestra, bold as brass. The camera zoomed in on the detective as a spotlight shone down on him.
The man stood gracefully from his chair, bowing slightly at the polite round of applause. The spotlight lit up the topmost strands of his hair with warm fire as he tucked the Stradivarius lovingly beneath his chin. A spotlight shone on the pianist that would serve as accompaniment for the solo, and another (less enthusiastic) round of applause was given.
The piece was a slightly moody one, beginning with low, bittersweet tones that crept higher, the bow now humming over two strings. The tempo sped up to a dance, first pleasingly energetic, and then slightly manic. Up and down, up and down, round and round the music went with the bow. Sherlock’s head was bent low, his dark curls partially obscuring his pale face.
It was not until the reprise at the very end that John got to see Sherlock’s face. He was shocked to find that the detective’s brows were smooth for the first time in days, the shadows on his face temporarily lifted. He seemed...peaceful.
The fire dimmed in his hair and the shadows alighted once more on his face once the brief piece twirled to an end, and John found himself missing that rare glimpse of tranquility on the man’s face.
He stayed up to watch the rest of the programme, and did his very best to stay up to wait for his prodigious flatmate to return. Sleep, however, can be very stealthy when it wants to be, and John was out before he would even turn off the telly.
When Sherlock returned, he was surprised to find John still downstairs. He had expected the ex-Army medic to have made his way to bed a long time ago, taking this rare opportunity to catch up on his rest. The detective gently rested the Stradivarius just outside of his bedroom door before making his way to the living room.
He was slightly amused to find the good doctor fast asleep, slumped in a slightly awkward position against the armrest, telly still on. His lips twitched in a tiny smile before he draped a blanket across the man he was beginning to consider a friend.
He noticed that John had the channel on to the classical music station, and felt an odd, fluttering warmth in his chest. Had John waited up all night watching? Had he seen him on stage? His questions were answered in short order. Of course he had! This is ridiculous, asking questions he already knew the answers to.
Had John...enjoyed listening to him play? Did he even like this type of music?
Setting this new train of thought aside, Sherlock shuffled over to his room to get some much needed rest as well. Perhaps, he thought, if John wants, I can play a little bit of Brahms for him. Or maybe Mendelssohn. Or Vivaldi. Indeed, he was looking forward to discovering John’s taste in music.
This thought made Sherlock pause. He was not used to playing in front of people he actually knew. Crowds and acquaintances were one thing, but he had certainly never played any proper music for Lestrade or (Heaven forbid) Mycroft.
But the thought of John, his friend John listening to him play, actually enjoying it from time to time didn’t bother him. John may actually compliment him, genuinely compliment him, instead of being envious or bitter. Well, that would just have to be another experiment, now won’t it?
It couldn’t have been a very long time after their initial mad chase around London looking for the elusive poisoning cabbie that John Watson began to question whether or not it was a good idea to move in with Sherlock Holmes.
There was no doubting the man was brilliant. A genius, really. If detectives had their own religion, it would be deduction and Sherlock Holmes would be a god.* Well, he certainly had an ego large enough for such a weighty role.
The man was as maddening and (at times) insufferable as he was clever. There had been almost no cases since the cab driver, and Sherlock’s “hobbies” were starting to drive him around the bend. Patient as he was, there was only so much John could tolerate.
He never bought milk, never cleaned the kitchen or tidied up the flat, leaving such ‘mundane’ and ‘pedestrian’ matters for more mundane and pedestrian people. He wouldn’t eat or sleep for days when on a case, and was hardly better when there was none. There were the experiments, of course, though the eyeballs in the microwave had mercifully vanished.
This was all well, and John could forgive most of these oddities, but his flatmate’s Stradivarius was another thing entirely.
The violin itself was a thing of beauty; meticulously polished and cared for, and expertly tuned. It had a most impressive range and quite a wonderful, colourful voice. Or at least, it would if Sherlock actually played something that even vaguely resembled music.
Sherlock played the Stradivarius at the most inconvenient of times, when the madman was trying to think, or to viciously fend off the clouds of ennui that would shroud him between cases. Played may be a bit too kind of a description for the horrible noises he would make. He would screech and scratch aimless, tuneless notes. They no doubt must have made sense to him in his wonderfully odd brain, but to John’s ears it was no more than cat wails and screeching chalkboards.
When asked if he had ever performed, the detective would shrug off his flatmate’s questions, directing the conversation firmly in another direction flawlessly. John had no doubt that Sherlock was a good violinist if he put his mind to it, but this all remained speculation.
Naturally, when Sherlock got a text that pulled him out of his dreadful boredom, John was more than a little relieved. He was slightly surprised to learn that it was not Lestrade that texted (or if it was, Sherlock wasn’t saying anything) and Sherlock made to leave regardless.
Rising to his feet to get dressed, Sherlock told him that he was going out, and to not wait up for him before disappearing into his room to change, before re-emerging in a slim-fitting suit (Armani, by the looks of it) and a bustle of movement, Sherlock swept out of the door and hailed a cab. He never noticed the case the taller man held in his hand.
John wasn’t particularly worried by this sudden departure. His flatmate was prone to sudden flights of fancy or investigation, and could return anytime between midnight and noon the following day. Seeing this as an opportunity to finally unwind, he made himself some tea, grabbed a few chocolate digestives, and sat himself down on the chesterfield.
The doctor flicked lazily through a few channels, watching some for no more than a few seconds, while he would pause at another for ten minutes at most. There was a frustrating lack of anything interesting on the tube, and it was only nine on a Friday night! John felt his mood darken as he realized just how tired and lazy and old he felt right then. Oh what I wouldn’t give for a case, for something right now...
He paused when he found a classical music performance. They were playing Brahms (a secret favourite of John’s), and he figured it was as good a music as any to fall asleep to. After all, there was no Sherlock to interrupt his dreams this night. John relaxed into the chesterfield quite comfortably, the sound of the Violin Concerto in D major doing wonders to release the tension that had grown in his shoulders and back. He felt thoroughly boneless and complacent (really, that first violinist was superb!) when the piece ended, and his eyelids began to drift to a close.
“Ladies and gentlemen, as you have probably noticed, our usual first violinist isn’t here with us tonight. We are joined, on rather short notice, by this fine young gentleman here. I present to you, Sherlock Holmes.” John’s eyes snapped open in an instant and he immediately righted himself. Had he heard right?
There was no doubt about it. There, in the same suit and he had left their apartment in not an hour ago, was Sherlock. Sherlock playing first violin first violin for the London Symphony Orchestra, bold as brass. The camera zoomed in on the detective as a spotlight shone down on him.
The man stood gracefully from his chair, bowing slightly at the polite round of applause. The spotlight lit up the topmost strands of his hair with warm fire as he tucked the Stradivarius lovingly beneath his chin. A spotlight shone on the pianist that would serve as accompaniment for the solo, and another (less enthusiastic) round of applause was given.
The piece was a slightly moody one, beginning with low, bittersweet tones that crept higher, the bow now humming over two strings. The tempo sped up to a dance, first pleasingly energetic, and then slightly manic. Up and down, up and down, round and round the music went with the bow. Sherlock’s head was bent low, his dark curls partially obscuring his pale face.
It was not until the reprise at the very end that John got to see Sherlock’s face. He was shocked to find that the detective’s brows were smooth for the first time in days, the shadows on his face temporarily lifted. He seemed...peaceful.
The fire dimmed in his hair and the shadows alighted once more on his face once the brief piece twirled to an end, and John found himself missing that rare glimpse of tranquility on the man’s face.
He stayed up to watch the rest of the programme, and did his very best to stay up to wait for his prodigious flatmate to return. Sleep, however, can be very stealthy when it wants to be, and John was out before he would even turn off the telly.
When Sherlock returned, he was surprised to find John still downstairs. He had expected the ex-Army medic to have made his way to bed a long time ago, taking this rare opportunity to catch up on his rest. The detective gently rested the Stradivarius just outside of his bedroom door before making his way to the living room.
He was slightly amused to find the good doctor fast asleep, slumped in a slightly awkward position against the armrest, telly still on. His lips twitched in a tiny smile before he draped a blanket across the man he was beginning to consider a friend.
He noticed that John had the channel on to the classical music station, and felt an odd, fluttering warmth in his chest. Had John waited up all night watching? Had he seen him on stage? His questions were answered in short order. Of course he had! This is ridiculous, asking questions he already knew the answers to.
Had John...enjoyed listening to him play? Did he even like this type of music?
Setting this new train of thought aside, Sherlock shuffled over to his room to get some much needed rest as well. Perhaps, he thought, if John wants, I can play a little bit of Brahms for him. Or maybe Mendelssohn. Or Vivaldi. Indeed, he was looking forward to discovering John’s taste in music.
This thought made Sherlock pause. He was not used to playing in front of people he actually knew. Crowds and acquaintances were one thing, but he had certainly never played any proper music for Lestrade or (Heaven forbid) Mycroft.
But the thought of John, his friend John listening to him play, actually enjoying it from time to time didn’t bother him. John may actually compliment him, genuinely compliment him, instead of being envious or bitter. Well, that would just have to be another experiment, now won’t it?