Fic: A Study in B Flat (3/5)
Title: A Study in B Flat (3/5)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~2,000 of 8,500 words
Notes: Beta-read and cheer-led by the inimitable dulcemia. Thank you also to swissmarg for a second read through. Any remaining awkwardness is all my own.
Summary: In which Sherlock is a violinist and consulting composer who writes the pieces his clients are too dim to ask for, and John is an ex-army doctor and handy amateur clarinettist. Together they make music.
A story containing deductive inferences, music for adrenaline junkies, and the development of an unforeseen relationship.
[Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing]
Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing
John seethes at the metronome. He’s set it down to semi-quavers, and is struggling to nail Sherlock’s fantastically convoluted rhythms. John’s own rhythms, Sherlock has reminded him often enough, but the thing is that John’s timing, when it comes down to hemi-demi-semi-fucking quintuplet notes and the like, is pretty much unique to any given moment.
He’s not an anarchist. He sees the need for an established beat; for a sturdy framework on which to build; for structure, in a word. But how utterly boring when everything to the last eye blink is preordained by that structure. It’s why he quit the army: in the end, even the contingencies were too pre-scripted for John. Because John is intuitive. He likes to feel a situation; to register its quality subconsciously. He does his best work when he’s free to depart from systematic deliberation. If he lets ideas and information brew in his mind, he sees overarching pictures pieced together without quite understanding how they got there, but they are usually very good pictures.
So while he will admit that structure is... OK, necessary, he reads emotion and intent better than he reads musical notation. It’s why he likes jazz. It’s why he has so much sympathy for Sherlock’s extreme lack of conventionality. It’s also why he is just about ready to throw plates at the wall, because the music that must have felt completely natural to play when he was mucking around with Sherlock at some point in the past is no longer the music of the moment. The notes on the page are a constricting form of emotional micromanagement. It’s just as well that Sherlock has intended for him to improvise the cadenzas as he pleases; the demanding solos are by far the least of his worries.
John takes a leaf out of Sherlock’s own book when he sees his flatmate coming into the room, and vents his frustration with a graceless ear-shattering squawk.
“Sherlock!” he demands. “We’re going out. You’re going to tell me why I need to play this piece, and then, if I believe you, you’re going to tell me how.”
They take their coats and go.
*
In the end, the why that John believes is that it will make his friend happy (not that Sherlock says so, in as many words), and the how is with more practice. Sherlock does admit that he’s created rather more stress for John than he’d intended, but maintains that he is eminently capable of playing very well indeed if he chooses to go ahead with the engagement.
Now John is practising with renewed intent. He’s shelved the metronome for a time, and has been listening to Sherlock’s recordings. He’s identified sources for a lot of the difficult passages, and re-imagines himself playing them. He doesn’t exactly recreate lost moments or bygone emotions, but he remembers, and it helps. He begins to really believe that he can do justice to Sherlock’s expectations.
He’ll be quite happy to go back to his thoroughly amateur tootling when it’s all over, though.
*
It’s a strange feeling being the centre of attention; one that John’s never sought out, and one that he’d actually prefer to avoid where possible. He’s never seen the point of being singled out just because people put more weight on his talents than others’; the inequality of it makes him acutely uncomfortable.
Right now, however-playing under the heated glare of the spotlight-ignoring the intense and impersonal scrutiny of an invisible crowd is just one challenge among many as he rides on the tremendous, unsteady wave of his success at nailing each and every passage with aplomb. Every passing moment adds to the thrill of pulling off a potentially flawless endeavour, but also makes the prospect of erring all the more terrifying. He briefly remembers back to the first time he played with Sherlock-he’s buoyed by the same adrenaline and excitement now as he had been then-but he dismisses the reminiscence quickly; all his attention is required in the present moment.
As the conductor leads the orchestra into the final major chord-a Picardy third-John’s spirit soars elatedly from the wonder of having contributed to such an amazing creation, with a lightness that comes from having the pressure of performance lifted from him. He’s so keyed up that he doesn’t really register the audience's applause, even as he goes through the motions of acknowledging it. His exit back into the wings, the unremarkable business of packing away his things; everything’s pretty much performed on automatic pilot while his mind buzzes gleefully, until he’s standing beside Sherlock at the reception, holding a flute of fizzing champagne.
Sherlock is pleased in a whole different way, soaking up praise and admiration for his own brilliance, and John's besides. John's rarely seen him so delighted as when in receipt of intelligent compliments. In the end, it's unfortunate that there's not more of it. And, for that matter, it's also unfortunate that there's not more to Sherlock's ability to read a social situation than his inclination to decide very quickly whether or not it interests him. He snubs a reporter whom he deems too lacking in intelligence to be granted an interview: “Would you believe, John, that he referred to the concerto as a 'song'!” and shamelessly manipulates a young dancer into presenting him to her grandfather-a talented choreographer-who will “no doubt be wanting to write a ballet for her soon given her innate expressiveness, impeccable line, and imminent promotion to principal dancer with the Royal Ballet”. (Since John's sure that the arrangement will actually be beneficial for all concerned, he doesn't remark on Sherlock's horribly false grin or his contrived air of bonhomie as he negotiates the commission of some original ballet music.)
He is admittedly very gracious and sincere in his refusal to collaborate with an erstwhile accompanist, despite the fellow's odd idea that he and Sherlock have some sort of spiritual bond grown from the music they've previously played together.
"Transcendent, yes," concedes Sherlock, "but now thoroughly in the past. These days I'm investigating new and different possibilities with John."
And finally, based on previous experience, John's not surprised at his immediate onset of sulkiness when they're confronted by Mycroft. To be honest, the man's urbane politeness also makes John feel tight around the collar.
"Dr Watson. A well-played performance." John inclines his head cautiously in answer to Mycroft's gesture.
"Mycroft."
"And Sherlock. You will of course remember Mr James, our piano tutor from when we were younger."
Sherlock's attention is clearly elsewhere, but a short, sharp jab from John's elbow brings him back to the here and now.
"Of course," he says without quite engaging, though he does shake Mr James's proffered hand.
"It's a pleasure to see one of my most promising students doing so well," says Mr James. "Though I'm sure you'll permit me some disappointment that you haven't kept up with my subject." He shares some superior and commiserating eye-contact with Mycroft. “Do consider me if you decide to return to your roots."
Sherlock considers him speculatively for a moment and nods, before announcing his more immediate intentions. "It's about time we thought of leaving, actually, though it's been as pleasant as it ever is. Mycroft. Mr James."
Of course it’s not as easy as simply walking out of the function room if one has any sense of protocol, which means that while Sherlock stalks out directly, it takes somewhat longer for John to join him outside. It’s late and bitterly cold by the time he does, and although he had ridden dizzily on the high of the successful performance for several hours, he is by now feeling ready to keel over, preferably right into his bed. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s usual taxi-hailing prowess seems to have deserted him. As a result, John is actually relieved when he observes the near-silent approach of Mycroft’s black car. He tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve, intending to accept the implicit offer, but Sherlock never does make life easy.
“Bloody Mycroft,” he says, and races off in the opposite direction. John is too muddled with drowsiness to let go of his coat, and is dragged along after him. Mycroft’s driver executes a smooth turn and follows.
John marvels at Sherlock’s confident sense of direction as he leads them racing through alleyways, parks and one-way streets, coat tails flapping behind them. John’s clarinet case bangs into his shin with every stride, but immersed in the moment he barely notices. The two of them quickly lose their pursuer, but John soon realises the car isn’t going to stay shaken for long. It follows, they lose it, and then it turns up again, disingenuously idling as they round another corner. It’s just as well that John catches his second wind, because they end up running the whole way back to Baker Street.
When they arrive, they slam the door shut behind them and collapse giggling against the wall.
“That,” wheezes John, “has got to be the most ridiculous thing Mycroft’s ever done.”
Sherlock looks as though he is about to make a particularly scathing reply, but there is a knock on the door before he actually says anything. John sees no harm in going to open it, and is not surprised to note the black car parked out on the street.
The man at the door says, “Telegram,” hands over a folded sheet of paper, and returns to the car. It drives away.
John catches Sherlock’s eye, and they are once again overcome with giggles.
“I didn’t even know that telegrams still even existed!” says John.
He opens it shortly afterwards while brewing tea in their preferred mugs, and then waits for his brain to catch up to his eyes. It doesn’t happen: he can’t make sense of the message at all.
YOUR K9 BLOWS STOP CONSIDER PIANO ABOVE
The tea’s not done yet, and Sherlock’s flopped himself down on the sofa, so John hollers out from the kitchen. “Sherlock,” he calls, watching through the glass doors. “Sherlock! I think you’ll want to have a look at this yourself.”
“I hardly think so.” Sherlock demonstrates his lack of enthusiasm by leaving his face smooshed into the armrest. “Mycroft’s not worth the waste of time. Just throw it out.”
“Is it worth your time if it’s a death threat disguised as a cryptic crossword clue?” asks John. “Talk about upsetting Mummy.” Disturbingly, Sherlock actually seems pleased at the prospect. “That is new,” he says, sitting up when John comes through with
their drinks. “Hand it over then.”
John hands it over, and sits down in his chair.
Sherlock peruses the telegram intently.
“It’s not from Mycroft,” he says eventually. “He’d never be so vulgar, even if he did succumb to the nostalgic kitsch of obsolete technology. And speaking of kitsch, John, I need you to go and fetch me the Mozart juvenilia. I put it in your room.”
“Is it really a death threat? Jesus. You should tell those friends of yours from the Yard.”
“You know I have a better chance of figuring it out than they do, John. The Mozart, if you please.”
John heads for the stairs, and mourns his share of the rapidly disappearing tenancy deposit as he sees Sherlock skewer the telegram to the wall with a knife.
*
“How is this even my life,” mutters John when he realises it’s only mildly surprising, and not outrageously unthinkable (as it jolly well should be), that his bed has been replaced with a battered-looking upright piano. A piano stool has also been ever so generously provided.
Well. If unexpected circumstances have all of a sudden caused a sharp drop in his willingness to continue playing along with Sherlock’s caprice, is there anyone who’d blame him? He stumps back down the stairs, tells Sherlock to go and have a look for himself, and then locks himself in Sherlock’s room and climbs into his bed. He tells himself he doesn’t feel bad about it, because it’s almost certainly all Sherlock’s fault in the first place. Case in point: Sherlock is tinkering relentlessly and unmusically upstairs.
Very unmusically. The piano clearly hasn’t been tuned since its delivery, and John wouldn’t be surprised to hear that its relocation had begun with a good, hard shove out the third floor window of its previous location.
Part One: Violin or Viola?
Part Two: I Don't Eat When I'm Playing
Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing
Part Four: Not a Very Nice Piano
Part Five: I Don't Have Friends
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~2,000 of 8,500 words
Notes: Beta-read and cheer-led by the inimitable dulcemia. Thank you also to swissmarg for a second read through. Any remaining awkwardness is all my own.
Summary: In which Sherlock is a violinist and consulting composer who writes the pieces his clients are too dim to ask for, and John is an ex-army doctor and handy amateur clarinettist. Together they make music.
A story containing deductive inferences, music for adrenaline junkies, and the development of an unforeseen relationship.
[Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing]
Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing
John seethes at the metronome. He’s set it down to semi-quavers, and is struggling to nail Sherlock’s fantastically convoluted rhythms. John’s own rhythms, Sherlock has reminded him often enough, but the thing is that John’s timing, when it comes down to hemi-demi-semi-fucking quintuplet notes and the like, is pretty much unique to any given moment.
He’s not an anarchist. He sees the need for an established beat; for a sturdy framework on which to build; for structure, in a word. But how utterly boring when everything to the last eye blink is preordained by that structure. It’s why he quit the army: in the end, even the contingencies were too pre-scripted for John. Because John is intuitive. He likes to feel a situation; to register its quality subconsciously. He does his best work when he’s free to depart from systematic deliberation. If he lets ideas and information brew in his mind, he sees overarching pictures pieced together without quite understanding how they got there, but they are usually very good pictures.
So while he will admit that structure is... OK, necessary, he reads emotion and intent better than he reads musical notation. It’s why he likes jazz. It’s why he has so much sympathy for Sherlock’s extreme lack of conventionality. It’s also why he is just about ready to throw plates at the wall, because the music that must have felt completely natural to play when he was mucking around with Sherlock at some point in the past is no longer the music of the moment. The notes on the page are a constricting form of emotional micromanagement. It’s just as well that Sherlock has intended for him to improvise the cadenzas as he pleases; the demanding solos are by far the least of his worries.
John takes a leaf out of Sherlock’s own book when he sees his flatmate coming into the room, and vents his frustration with a graceless ear-shattering squawk.
“Sherlock!” he demands. “We’re going out. You’re going to tell me why I need to play this piece, and then, if I believe you, you’re going to tell me how.”
They take their coats and go.
*
In the end, the why that John believes is that it will make his friend happy (not that Sherlock says so, in as many words), and the how is with more practice. Sherlock does admit that he’s created rather more stress for John than he’d intended, but maintains that he is eminently capable of playing very well indeed if he chooses to go ahead with the engagement.
Now John is practising with renewed intent. He’s shelved the metronome for a time, and has been listening to Sherlock’s recordings. He’s identified sources for a lot of the difficult passages, and re-imagines himself playing them. He doesn’t exactly recreate lost moments or bygone emotions, but he remembers, and it helps. He begins to really believe that he can do justice to Sherlock’s expectations.
He’ll be quite happy to go back to his thoroughly amateur tootling when it’s all over, though.
*
It’s a strange feeling being the centre of attention; one that John’s never sought out, and one that he’d actually prefer to avoid where possible. He’s never seen the point of being singled out just because people put more weight on his talents than others’; the inequality of it makes him acutely uncomfortable.
Right now, however-playing under the heated glare of the spotlight-ignoring the intense and impersonal scrutiny of an invisible crowd is just one challenge among many as he rides on the tremendous, unsteady wave of his success at nailing each and every passage with aplomb. Every passing moment adds to the thrill of pulling off a potentially flawless endeavour, but also makes the prospect of erring all the more terrifying. He briefly remembers back to the first time he played with Sherlock-he’s buoyed by the same adrenaline and excitement now as he had been then-but he dismisses the reminiscence quickly; all his attention is required in the present moment.
As the conductor leads the orchestra into the final major chord-a Picardy third-John’s spirit soars elatedly from the wonder of having contributed to such an amazing creation, with a lightness that comes from having the pressure of performance lifted from him. He’s so keyed up that he doesn’t really register the audience's applause, even as he goes through the motions of acknowledging it. His exit back into the wings, the unremarkable business of packing away his things; everything’s pretty much performed on automatic pilot while his mind buzzes gleefully, until he’s standing beside Sherlock at the reception, holding a flute of fizzing champagne.
Sherlock is pleased in a whole different way, soaking up praise and admiration for his own brilliance, and John's besides. John's rarely seen him so delighted as when in receipt of intelligent compliments. In the end, it's unfortunate that there's not more of it. And, for that matter, it's also unfortunate that there's not more to Sherlock's ability to read a social situation than his inclination to decide very quickly whether or not it interests him. He snubs a reporter whom he deems too lacking in intelligence to be granted an interview: “Would you believe, John, that he referred to the concerto as a 'song'!” and shamelessly manipulates a young dancer into presenting him to her grandfather-a talented choreographer-who will “no doubt be wanting to write a ballet for her soon given her innate expressiveness, impeccable line, and imminent promotion to principal dancer with the Royal Ballet”. (Since John's sure that the arrangement will actually be beneficial for all concerned, he doesn't remark on Sherlock's horribly false grin or his contrived air of bonhomie as he negotiates the commission of some original ballet music.)
He is admittedly very gracious and sincere in his refusal to collaborate with an erstwhile accompanist, despite the fellow's odd idea that he and Sherlock have some sort of spiritual bond grown from the music they've previously played together.
"Transcendent, yes," concedes Sherlock, "but now thoroughly in the past. These days I'm investigating new and different possibilities with John."
And finally, based on previous experience, John's not surprised at his immediate onset of sulkiness when they're confronted by Mycroft. To be honest, the man's urbane politeness also makes John feel tight around the collar.
"Dr Watson. A well-played performance." John inclines his head cautiously in answer to Mycroft's gesture.
"Mycroft."
"And Sherlock. You will of course remember Mr James, our piano tutor from when we were younger."
Sherlock's attention is clearly elsewhere, but a short, sharp jab from John's elbow brings him back to the here and now.
"Of course," he says without quite engaging, though he does shake Mr James's proffered hand.
"It's a pleasure to see one of my most promising students doing so well," says Mr James. "Though I'm sure you'll permit me some disappointment that you haven't kept up with my subject." He shares some superior and commiserating eye-contact with Mycroft. “Do consider me if you decide to return to your roots."
Sherlock considers him speculatively for a moment and nods, before announcing his more immediate intentions. "It's about time we thought of leaving, actually, though it's been as pleasant as it ever is. Mycroft. Mr James."
Of course it’s not as easy as simply walking out of the function room if one has any sense of protocol, which means that while Sherlock stalks out directly, it takes somewhat longer for John to join him outside. It’s late and bitterly cold by the time he does, and although he had ridden dizzily on the high of the successful performance for several hours, he is by now feeling ready to keel over, preferably right into his bed. Unfortunately, Sherlock’s usual taxi-hailing prowess seems to have deserted him. As a result, John is actually relieved when he observes the near-silent approach of Mycroft’s black car. He tugs on Sherlock’s sleeve, intending to accept the implicit offer, but Sherlock never does make life easy.
“Bloody Mycroft,” he says, and races off in the opposite direction. John is too muddled with drowsiness to let go of his coat, and is dragged along after him. Mycroft’s driver executes a smooth turn and follows.
John marvels at Sherlock’s confident sense of direction as he leads them racing through alleyways, parks and one-way streets, coat tails flapping behind them. John’s clarinet case bangs into his shin with every stride, but immersed in the moment he barely notices. The two of them quickly lose their pursuer, but John soon realises the car isn’t going to stay shaken for long. It follows, they lose it, and then it turns up again, disingenuously idling as they round another corner. It’s just as well that John catches his second wind, because they end up running the whole way back to Baker Street.
When they arrive, they slam the door shut behind them and collapse giggling against the wall.
“That,” wheezes John, “has got to be the most ridiculous thing Mycroft’s ever done.”
Sherlock looks as though he is about to make a particularly scathing reply, but there is a knock on the door before he actually says anything. John sees no harm in going to open it, and is not surprised to note the black car parked out on the street.
The man at the door says, “Telegram,” hands over a folded sheet of paper, and returns to the car. It drives away.
John catches Sherlock’s eye, and they are once again overcome with giggles.
“I didn’t even know that telegrams still even existed!” says John.
He opens it shortly afterwards while brewing tea in their preferred mugs, and then waits for his brain to catch up to his eyes. It doesn’t happen: he can’t make sense of the message at all.
YOUR K9 BLOWS STOP CONSIDER PIANO ABOVE
The tea’s not done yet, and Sherlock’s flopped himself down on the sofa, so John hollers out from the kitchen. “Sherlock,” he calls, watching through the glass doors. “Sherlock! I think you’ll want to have a look at this yourself.”
“I hardly think so.” Sherlock demonstrates his lack of enthusiasm by leaving his face smooshed into the armrest. “Mycroft’s not worth the waste of time. Just throw it out.”
“Is it worth your time if it’s a death threat disguised as a cryptic crossword clue?” asks John. “Talk about upsetting Mummy.” Disturbingly, Sherlock actually seems pleased at the prospect. “That is new,” he says, sitting up when John comes through with
their drinks. “Hand it over then.”
John hands it over, and sits down in his chair.
Sherlock peruses the telegram intently.
“It’s not from Mycroft,” he says eventually. “He’d never be so vulgar, even if he did succumb to the nostalgic kitsch of obsolete technology. And speaking of kitsch, John, I need you to go and fetch me the Mozart juvenilia. I put it in your room.”
“Is it really a death threat? Jesus. You should tell those friends of yours from the Yard.”
“You know I have a better chance of figuring it out than they do, John. The Mozart, if you please.”
John heads for the stairs, and mourns his share of the rapidly disappearing tenancy deposit as he sees Sherlock skewer the telegram to the wall with a knife.
*
“How is this even my life,” mutters John when he realises it’s only mildly surprising, and not outrageously unthinkable (as it jolly well should be), that his bed has been replaced with a battered-looking upright piano. A piano stool has also been ever so generously provided.
Well. If unexpected circumstances have all of a sudden caused a sharp drop in his willingness to continue playing along with Sherlock’s caprice, is there anyone who’d blame him? He stumps back down the stairs, tells Sherlock to go and have a look for himself, and then locks himself in Sherlock’s room and climbs into his bed. He tells himself he doesn’t feel bad about it, because it’s almost certainly all Sherlock’s fault in the first place. Case in point: Sherlock is tinkering relentlessly and unmusically upstairs.
Very unmusically. The piano clearly hasn’t been tuned since its delivery, and John wouldn’t be surprised to hear that its relocation had begun with a good, hard shove out the third floor window of its previous location.
Part One: Violin or Viola?
Part Two: I Don't Eat When I'm Playing
Part Three: The Most Ridiculous Thing
Part Four: Not a Very Nice Piano
Part Five: I Don't Have Friends