Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (1/3)
anonymous
September 23 2010, 15:06:30 UTC
Oh my God, yes, this definitely needs filling!
Tremolo
John played the clarinet in school. The reason he didn’t boast about it was because he wasn’t particularly good. He’d gone through the routine because his parents made him, churning out set pieces to pass grade after grade but that eventually destroyed all enjoyment he had for the clarinet and it was eventually abandoned. And to be honest, although it produced beautiful notes, it was hardly a beautiful instrument to hold.
Now the violin…John wondered why his parents never made him play that instead. He had always admired the shape of a violin and the range of sounds it could produce. Somehow, it seemed to necessitate more skill. And his admiration increased when he met Sherlock Holmes. That’s probably why, in those moments when heard flatmate playing the violin, even if it was at three o’clock in the morning and he had work the next day, he usually didn’t complain. Sherlock was a tremendous violinist and for a man whose life was based on the rigid logic, he played lovingly, with emotion and soul crying out from the pieces. Often, John allowed the music to wash over him and lull him to sleep.
John himself was no music connoisseur but he could appreciate that Sherlock was interpreting the music in his own way; he could hear the rise and fall of volume, the accentuations and vibrato lingering on certain notes to draw out the melody and the increase and decrease in tempo. Amongst the scattered papers littering their apartment, John often came across score sheets with Sherlock’s notations at the side implying he put serious thought into his interpretations.
Sometimes, Sherlock played because he was frustrated, flashy bursts of classic Mozart and Haydn piercing the flat, reflecting exasperation. Other times, it was out of boredom and the melancholy but romantically deep notes of Faure, Mendelssohn and Rachmaninov obviously soothed him, flooding the room. Even John could make the connection that the type of piece and the composer reflected Sherlock’s mood at that moment. It was a fantastic indicator for when words failed and body signals were vague.
If John was present in the living room during these despondent periods, he couldn’t help but marvel at how Sherlock’s long nimble fingers danced with practised finesse up and down the strings increasing in tension and then relaxing. His hand held the bow languidly with gently grace and the instrument fitted perfectly under Sherlock’s chin, giving him fantastic poise and if anything, made him appear more prestigious. Sherlock was as elegant as the violin he held.
John knew his mind was descending into lewd thoughts when he imagined what transferable skills Sherlock had from playing the violin. Those wondeful fingers, the flexibility of his body, especially that sweeping curve of his arm as it ran backwards and forwards firing out rapidly a tremolo. It was best not to think about it, in fact. John knew he would reach a personal level of hell if he thought about it in a sexual way.
But he couldn’t help one day, when Sherlock was out gallivanting around London, picking up the Stradivarius and its bow, feeling the light, sleek varnished wood in his hands and marvelling at its intricate construction. It was like a piece of architecture: every angle, every cut, every individual piece from the bridge to the scroll had to be measured to the last detail to produce the perfect sound. The physics behind it was remarkable. This was craftsmanship at its very best. With one hand, he followed its lines, arching over the bout, dipping in at the waist and then filling out again. John didn’t think it was incorrect when he related it to tracing a woman’s figure.
Then, with obvious unease, he lifted it clumsily to mimic Sherlock’s posture, fitting his chin on the soft rest, pressing down on a random string and lifting the taut bow to glide it across. It probably didn’t help he was playing a right handed violin when he himself was left handed. Still, the sound it released was horrific, worthy of a b-rated slasher horror film soundtrack and he couldn’t help but wrinkle his face in disgust.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s low voice suddenly sounded, appearing behind him in that usual ghostly manner.
Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (2/3)
anonymous
September 23 2010, 15:07:44 UTC
In surprise, John almost dropped the violin but caught it in time and if he wasn’t mistaken, Sherlock’s eyes widened slightly in fright. He knew the violin was emotionally important to Sherlock but he had yet to uncover the detective’s intimate relationship with it. It obviously went beyond mere love of playing.
“Urm…I was trying…trying to pla….”
“Well, for a start, your posture wouldn’t produce any good notes,” Sherlock interrupted, smirking and whipped off his coat and gloves before striding over to John purposefully. “You’re a military man; I thought you knew how to stand straight.”
And suddenly, bizarrely, John found himself being manoeuvred by Sherlock into the correct position. Warm fingers at his lower back forced his spine straighter, then pushed his shoulders down and his legs were kicked apart slightly. It was certainly more comfortable but John couldn’t help but shiver at having Sherlock physically manhandling him in this way. He never seemed to mind when Sherlock ordered him around.
Then Sherlock stepped up behind him and John sucked in a breath at their sudden close proximity. He could feel the comforting warmth of Sherlock’s thumping chest against his back and the heat of the taller man’s breath down his neck. And immediately, John felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable. He could only watch silently dumbstruck as Sherlock lifted John’s chin with absolute gentleness and place the violin in the correct position before releasing it. Then Sherlock moved John’s fingers, still clutching the neck so two of them rested on a string. Still, Sherlock didn’t remove his hand and the skin on skin contact had the added affect of raising John’s heart rate further. They were warm and soft from encasement in the leather glove with the odd calluses at the end which were indicative of playing the violin hours at a time without respite.
“This is middle C,” Sherlock said quietly, his low baritone voice silken in his ear. Then another arm snaked round his waist so he could grasp John’s left hand holding the bow. In this position, Sherlock was fully wrapped round him and it was too late for him now. In such an intimate position, there was no way John could command his body to keep itself at bay and not reveal the pleasure he received at being the object of Sherlock’s intellectual as well as physical attention. He revelled in it.
“Don’t hold the bow so tight,” Sherlock scolded, shaking the limb slightly. “You’re supposed to glide over the strings, not saw into them.” John smiled slightly at Sherlock’s unsympathetic teaching manner but relaxed his hand which was difficult when his flatmate’s warm and long fingers were still wrapped around his own self-diagnosed tubby ones.
With that Sherlock moved John’s hand like a puppet master so it slid over the strings, producing a beautiful note that sliced precisely through the air. “Good, but you can press down slightly harder, it won’t break,” Sherlock commented with some amused affection. He moved John across the strings again and encouraged him to sweep down with the bow. “E…and G. Now back down to E.” Sherlock helped but John, for the most part, tried to remember the positions Sherlock had placed his fingers. “And C. Now again.”
John did so, impressed with how quickly his fingers were adapting to the location of the notes on the strings and allowed himself a moment to indulge in the sensation of those beautifully defined notes and Sherlock surprisingly encouraging voice in his ear. For a full half an hour he stood there with Sherlock behind him, getting accustomed to the feel of the violin, the range of sounds he could play with the bow...Occasionally Sherlock lifted his elbows a little higher when his arms started to droop and pushed his head up. If anything, that distracted him further from his focus.
Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (3/3)
anonymous
September 23 2010, 15:08:25 UTC
He had to admit, he was learning fast. Playing the violin was as wonderful as listening to it. It was a wholly satisfying experience learning, clumsily as he was, such a delicately instrument. Perfectly logical in construction yet malleable when mastered, John understood why Sherlock adored it.
“Congratulations, you mastered arpeggios.”
John barely heard the praise, though. With closed eyes, he was struggling to contain himself and was certain Sherlock could hear his rapid heartbeat, could hear how his breaths were coming out low and shallow and how his palms were beginning to sweat slightly. He felt unbelievably uncomfortable yet didn’t wish to move from this pleasurable experience. The smoothness of the violin now felt too slippery in his hands and Sherlock was still pressed against him. His hands hadn’t moved from John’s own and if they didn’t soon, they were going to start shaking. For a moment he wished he could just lean back into that psuedo-embrace Sherlock was providing and be lost in a blanket of comfort. In an ideal world, that would happen.
“The sound of the violin has that affect over me too,” Sherlock simply murmured and John released a sigh which he couldn't determine if it was one of relief or disappointment that Sherlock hadn’t interpreted it any other way. Frankly, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stomach the embarrassment and was thankful Sherlock couldn’t see the expression of contentment on his face. “It’s the only thing beyond my control that I allow to take hold of me.”
And with that obviously personal confession, Sherlock finally released him and took the violin and bow from him. Silently, he disappeared into his bedroom leaving John standing in the living room trying to calm his body, thrumming with arousal. Throughout the whole 'lesson' Sherlock had been unable to notice the intimacy of it.
“Next time, we’ll try scales,” came Sherlock’s muffled voice from within his room, sounding proud. "I'll have have you playing Bach concertos in no time!"
And it pained John to think how this could be the only way with which he could indulge in any kind of physical contact with Sherlock. He was no martyr. Apparently, though, he was a masochist. Because if it meant having Sherlock that close to him again, where he could feel every muscle in the man’s body behind him and the breath on the back of his neck making his hair standing on end; where he could touch that delicate skin; where he could close his eyes and hear Sherlock’s voice along with the notes float over him…he would be prepared to suffer the consequences. For him, that would be enough.
Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (3/3)catgirlpoisonSeptember 23 2010, 22:14:55 UTC
I love this. Maybe because I too was forced to play clarinet when I was kid when I really wanted to play the violin or cello. Now that I'm older I play the guitar with hopes of taking up the cello. Their so beautiful.
Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (3/3)oscarwilde666September 24 2010, 19:10:16 UTC
This was really a lovely fic :) very sensuous and nice... Can I pick at one thing though? Being a violinist? Middle C being taught to be a beginner would most likely be in 1st position, in which case it would be 3rd finger on the G string :)
Sorry, I'm obliged to do this when i see fics involving violins! Other than that it was great :)
Re: Sherlock teaches John the Violin (3/3)
anonymous
September 25 2010, 10:59:15 UTC
Author here, thanks very much for your comment! And for the added finger placement knowledge! I'm a pianist, not a violinist so the practical side of playing the violin isn't really my strong suit. But I'm planning on uploading the fic to my writing journal and bbc Sherlock comms so will amend it to add that. Thanks!
Prompter may never leave her bunk again...kytherSeptember 25 2010, 20:49:23 UTC
*prints out fic, gets into bunk* THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU!!! Awesome. And his legs were kicked apart slightly. For some reason, OMG THE HOTNESS *fans* And Tremolo; even the name is hot.
My violin teacher called C5 (i.e. 2 fingers on A) middle C, because on a violin in first position it kind of is more central than Middle-C-on-the-piano. Maybe it depends?
Oh, and Anon? You get so much love for mentioning the left-handedness. Although pianists do have it worse - bloody Mozart with his third-and-fourth-finger trills on your non-dominant hand...
Tremolo
John played the clarinet in school. The reason he didn’t boast about it was because he wasn’t particularly good. He’d gone through the routine because his parents made him, churning out set pieces to pass grade after grade but that eventually destroyed all enjoyment he had for the clarinet and it was eventually abandoned. And to be honest, although it produced beautiful notes, it was hardly a beautiful instrument to hold.
Now the violin…John wondered why his parents never made him play that instead. He had always admired the shape of a violin and the range of sounds it could produce. Somehow, it seemed to necessitate more skill. And his admiration increased when he met Sherlock Holmes. That’s probably why, in those moments when heard flatmate playing the violin, even if it was at three o’clock in the morning and he had work the next day, he usually didn’t complain. Sherlock was a tremendous violinist and for a man whose life was based on the rigid logic, he played lovingly, with emotion and soul crying out from the pieces. Often, John allowed the music to wash over him and lull him to sleep.
John himself was no music connoisseur but he could appreciate that Sherlock was interpreting the music in his own way; he could hear the rise and fall of volume, the accentuations and vibrato lingering on certain notes to draw out the melody and the increase and decrease in tempo. Amongst the scattered papers littering their apartment, John often came across score sheets with Sherlock’s notations at the side implying he put serious thought into his interpretations.
Sometimes, Sherlock played because he was frustrated, flashy bursts of classic Mozart and Haydn piercing the flat, reflecting exasperation. Other times, it was out of boredom and the melancholy but romantically deep notes of Faure, Mendelssohn and Rachmaninov obviously soothed him, flooding the room. Even John could make the connection that the type of piece and the composer reflected Sherlock’s mood at that moment. It was a fantastic indicator for when words failed and body signals were vague.
If John was present in the living room during these despondent periods, he couldn’t help but marvel at how Sherlock’s long nimble fingers danced with practised finesse up and down the strings increasing in tension and then relaxing. His hand held the bow languidly with gently grace and the instrument fitted perfectly under Sherlock’s chin, giving him fantastic poise and if anything, made him appear more prestigious. Sherlock was as elegant as the violin he held.
John knew his mind was descending into lewd thoughts when he imagined what transferable skills Sherlock had from playing the violin. Those wondeful fingers, the flexibility of his body, especially that sweeping curve of his arm as it ran backwards and forwards firing out rapidly a tremolo. It was best not to think about it, in fact. John knew he would reach a personal level of hell if he thought about it in a sexual way.
But he couldn’t help one day, when Sherlock was out gallivanting around London, picking up the Stradivarius and its bow, feeling the light, sleek varnished wood in his hands and marvelling at its intricate construction. It was like a piece of architecture: every angle, every cut, every individual piece from the bridge to the scroll had to be measured to the last detail to produce the perfect sound. The physics behind it was remarkable. This was craftsmanship at its very best. With one hand, he followed its lines, arching over the bout, dipping in at the waist and then filling out again. John didn’t think it was incorrect when he related it to tracing a woman’s figure.
Then, with obvious unease, he lifted it clumsily to mimic Sherlock’s posture, fitting his chin on the soft rest, pressing down on a random string and lifting the taut bow to glide it across. It probably didn’t help he was playing a right handed violin when he himself was left handed. Still, the sound it released was horrific, worthy of a b-rated slasher horror film soundtrack and he couldn’t help but wrinkle his face in disgust.
“What are you doing?” Sherlock’s low voice suddenly sounded, appearing behind him in that usual ghostly manner.
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“Urm…I was trying…trying to pla….”
“Well, for a start, your posture wouldn’t produce any good notes,” Sherlock interrupted, smirking and whipped off his coat and gloves before striding over to John purposefully. “You’re a military man; I thought you knew how to stand straight.”
And suddenly, bizarrely, John found himself being manoeuvred by Sherlock into the correct position. Warm fingers at his lower back forced his spine straighter, then pushed his shoulders down and his legs were kicked apart slightly. It was certainly more comfortable but John couldn’t help but shiver at having Sherlock physically manhandling him in this way. He never seemed to mind when Sherlock ordered him around.
Then Sherlock stepped up behind him and John sucked in a breath at their sudden close proximity. He could feel the comforting warmth of Sherlock’s thumping chest against his back and the heat of the taller man’s breath down his neck. And immediately, John felt claustrophobic and uncomfortable. He could only watch silently dumbstruck as Sherlock lifted John’s chin with absolute gentleness and place the violin in the correct position before releasing it. Then Sherlock moved John’s fingers, still clutching the neck so two of them rested on a string. Still, Sherlock didn’t remove his hand and the skin on skin contact had the added affect of raising John’s heart rate further. They were warm and soft from encasement in the leather glove with the odd calluses at the end which were indicative of playing the violin hours at a time without respite.
“This is middle C,” Sherlock said quietly, his low baritone voice silken in his ear. Then another arm snaked round his waist so he could grasp John’s left hand holding the bow. In this position, Sherlock was fully wrapped round him and it was too late for him now. In such an intimate position, there was no way John could command his body to keep itself at bay and not reveal the pleasure he received at being the object of Sherlock’s intellectual as well as physical attention. He revelled in it.
“Don’t hold the bow so tight,” Sherlock scolded, shaking the limb slightly. “You’re supposed to glide over the strings, not saw into them.” John smiled slightly at Sherlock’s unsympathetic teaching manner but relaxed his hand which was difficult when his flatmate’s warm and long fingers were still wrapped around his own self-diagnosed tubby ones.
With that Sherlock moved John’s hand like a puppet master so it slid over the strings, producing a beautiful note that sliced precisely through the air. “Good, but you can press down slightly harder, it won’t break,” Sherlock commented with some amused affection. He moved John across the strings again and encouraged him to sweep down with the bow. “E…and G. Now back down to E.” Sherlock helped but John, for the most part, tried to remember the positions Sherlock had placed his fingers. “And C. Now again.”
John did so, impressed with how quickly his fingers were adapting to the location of the notes on the strings and allowed himself a moment to indulge in the sensation of those beautifully defined notes and Sherlock surprisingly encouraging voice in his ear. For a full half an hour he stood there with Sherlock behind him, getting accustomed to the feel of the violin, the range of sounds he could play with the bow...Occasionally Sherlock lifted his elbows a little higher when his arms started to droop and pushed his head up. If anything, that distracted him further from his focus.
Reply
“Congratulations, you mastered arpeggios.”
John barely heard the praise, though. With closed eyes, he was struggling to contain himself and was certain Sherlock could hear his rapid heartbeat, could hear how his breaths were coming out low and shallow and how his palms were beginning to sweat slightly. He felt unbelievably uncomfortable yet didn’t wish to move from this pleasurable experience. The smoothness of the violin now felt too slippery in his hands and Sherlock was still pressed against him. His hands hadn’t moved from John’s own and if they didn’t soon, they were going to start shaking. For a moment he wished he could just lean back into that psuedo-embrace Sherlock was providing and be lost in a blanket of comfort. In an ideal world, that would happen.
“The sound of the violin has that affect over me too,” Sherlock simply murmured and John released a sigh which he couldn't determine if it was one of relief or disappointment that Sherlock hadn’t interpreted it any other way. Frankly, he probably wouldn’t have been able to stomach the embarrassment and was thankful Sherlock couldn’t see the expression of contentment on his face. “It’s the only thing beyond my control that I allow to take hold of me.”
And with that obviously personal confession, Sherlock finally released him and took the violin and bow from him. Silently, he disappeared into his bedroom leaving John standing in the living room trying to calm his body, thrumming with arousal. Throughout the whole 'lesson' Sherlock had been unable to notice the intimacy of it.
“Next time, we’ll try scales,” came Sherlock’s muffled voice from within his room, sounding proud. "I'll have have you playing Bach concertos in no time!"
And it pained John to think how this could be the only way with which he could indulge in any kind of physical contact with Sherlock. He was no martyr. Apparently, though, he was a masochist. Because if it meant having Sherlock that close to him again, where he could feel every muscle in the man’s body behind him and the breath on the back of his neck making his hair standing on end; where he could touch that delicate skin; where he could close his eyes and hear Sherlock’s voice along with the notes float over him…he would be prepared to suffer the consequences. For him, that would be enough.
END
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Sorry, I'm obliged to do this when i see fics involving violins! Other than that it was great :)
Reply
But I'm planning on uploading the fic to my writing journal and bbc Sherlock comms so will amend it to add that. Thanks!
Reply
And his legs were kicked apart slightly. For some reason, OMG THE HOTNESS *fans* And Tremolo; even the name is hot.
My violin teacher called C5 (i.e. 2 fingers on A) middle C, because on a violin in first position it kind of is more central than Middle-C-on-the-piano. Maybe it depends?
Oh, and Anon? You get so much love for mentioning the left-handedness. Although pianists do have it worse - bloody Mozart with his third-and-fourth-finger trills on your non-dominant hand...
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