For the King of Bohemia 3/4alex_caligariJune 7 2012, 18:47:26 UTC
A redheaded PC began. “I see a little silhouetto of a man.”
“Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” shouted back the rest of the table. Sherlock’s violin scurried them along, having forgotten the melancholy of earlier. His movements were faster and sharper, and careless without being carefree. Just as the table alternated the words, (“Galileo!” one side shouted; “Galileo!” the other side returned) so too did Sherlock and Dimmock, as if they had practised this for months.
Who knows, thought John, perhaps they did. If that wasn’t enough, the next voice to speak up nearly made him choke.
“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me,” Sally sang with a cocky grin. The Yarders shouted back on her behalf, and allowed her the role of desperate youth. “Will you let me go?”
The table traded vocal blows back and forth, and Sherlock and Dimmock kept up with them seamlessly, trading their own blows. Sherlock’s expression hadn’t changed, but he managed to look more animated than he had before. A slight flush had come into his face from the exertion and he looked absolutely delighted. He still hadn’t looked up from his violin.
John saw Sally elbow Anderson to join just in time for the crescendo. “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me!” The last word was cut short as Anderson suddenly realized he was doing an unexpected solo. He shrank back into his chair red-faced as everyone laughed good-naturedly.
The shrill lunacy of the violin switched to a growling recklessness. John got his third surprise of the night when Lestrade leaned forward and, looking far more predatory than John had ever seen him, took over. “So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye?” He grinned widely at the young DC, leering, while she giggled. She joined him, bringing the rest of the table with her for the last few lines. “Just gotta get right outta here!”
Sherlock sawed away on the strings, scratching out every bit of defiance in them. He softened as Dimmock took charge and climbed the keys back into something more wistful. It was the last part of the song, and afterwards whatever had happened to cause this strange performance would be lost, likely to never happen again. Sherlock looked up at John and cocked an eyebrow, half-questioning, half-challenging.
What the hell, thought John.
As Sherlock took the lead and danced through what-ifs and could-have-beens, John quietly sang along with the last lines. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the rest of the people, but he knew Sherlock could see him. The words were longing for a better life and bitter about not getting it, but for John it was more about accepting your fate and being okay with it. He met Sherlock’s eyes with a wry grin. “Nothing really matters to me.”
They continued playing, Sherlock pulling grief from the strings like taffy, and Dimmock slowing the notes like a dying heartbeat. Those who remembered it softly sang the last, barely heard line, “Any way the wind blows...” Sherlock drew out the last note for a long as possible, and when it finally died, he dropped his arms to his sides as if forgetting they were there.
“Scaramouche! Scaramouche!” shouted back the rest of the table. Sherlock’s violin scurried them along, having forgotten the melancholy of earlier. His movements were faster and sharper, and careless without being carefree. Just as the table alternated the words, (“Galileo!” one side shouted; “Galileo!” the other side returned) so too did Sherlock and Dimmock, as if they had practised this for months.
Who knows, thought John, perhaps they did. If that wasn’t enough, the next voice to speak up nearly made him choke.
“I’m just a poor boy, nobody loves me,” Sally sang with a cocky grin. The Yarders shouted back on her behalf, and allowed her the role of desperate youth. “Will you let me go?”
The table traded vocal blows back and forth, and Sherlock and Dimmock kept up with them seamlessly, trading their own blows. Sherlock’s expression hadn’t changed, but he managed to look more animated than he had before. A slight flush had come into his face from the exertion and he looked absolutely delighted. He still hadn’t looked up from his violin.
John saw Sally elbow Anderson to join just in time for the crescendo. “Beelzebub has a devil put aside for me, for me, for me!” The last word was cut short as Anderson suddenly realized he was doing an unexpected solo. He shrank back into his chair red-faced as everyone laughed good-naturedly.
The shrill lunacy of the violin switched to a growling recklessness. John got his third surprise of the night when Lestrade leaned forward and, looking far more predatory than John had ever seen him, took over. “So you think you can stop me and spit in my eye?” He grinned widely at the young DC, leering, while she giggled. She joined him, bringing the rest of the table with her for the last few lines. “Just gotta get right outta here!”
Sherlock sawed away on the strings, scratching out every bit of defiance in them. He softened as Dimmock took charge and climbed the keys back into something more wistful. It was the last part of the song, and afterwards whatever had happened to cause this strange performance would be lost, likely to never happen again. Sherlock looked up at John and cocked an eyebrow, half-questioning, half-challenging.
What the hell, thought John.
As Sherlock took the lead and danced through what-ifs and could-have-beens, John quietly sang along with the last lines. It wasn’t loud enough to be heard over the rest of the people, but he knew Sherlock could see him. The words were longing for a better life and bitter about not getting it, but for John it was more about accepting your fate and being okay with it. He met Sherlock’s eyes with a wry grin. “Nothing really matters to me.”
They continued playing, Sherlock pulling grief from the strings like taffy, and Dimmock slowing the notes like a dying heartbeat. Those who remembered it softly sang the last, barely heard line, “Any way the wind blows...” Sherlock drew out the last note for a long as possible, and when it finally died, he dropped his arms to his sides as if forgetting they were there.
Reply
Leave a comment