Fic: A Study in B Flat (5/5)
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~1,000 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: 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 Five: I Don't Have Friends]
Part Five: I Don't Have Friends
John can hear the rise and fall of conversation in the sitting room while he putters quietly over breakfast in the kitchen. Sherlock’s getting loud and indignant while Sally snipes and Lestrade demands that he explain his deductions.
“Of course it’s not the boy’s father! Did you even look at the turn-ups on his jeans? I don’t suppose anyone’s thought of looking at the uncle’s tailoring business... the real mystery is how the Yard ever manages to solve a case-there’s ample evidence here in one photo from the paper, and I can’t imagine what you’re all ignoring every day at crime scenes. You’re all as dull as daytime telly.”
Lestrade groans; there’s frustration mixed in with appreciation as he asks, “Ever think of throwing over the music for a career at the Yard?”
“Boring!” declaims Sherlock. “All rules, routine and paperwork. My brain would rot.”
The sound of pages being turned during a lull in the conversation is loud enough for John to hear over the sizzle of bacon, and then Sherlock’s talking again.
“Anyway; listen to this:
Not yet two years old, the Docklands Sinfonia has drawn much critical acclaim as an emergent force in the world of classical music. It was joined last Friday by guest soloist John Watson for the world premiere of Sherlock Holmes’s clarinet concerto in B Flat Minor-The Homecoming-a work that was written especially for the orchestra’s partnership with this soloist, who is a dear friend of the composer.
Initially a student of London’s Royal College of Music, Watson decided early on in his career to focus on his interest in jazz, only to disappear from the musical scene altogether not long afterwards. It would seem that music lovers have Holmes to thank not only for his latest composition-by turns poignant and rousing-but also for the opportunity to witness Watson’s magnificent performance...”
“He’s not really your friend, you know,” says Sally impatiently. “Not just because the papers say he is. Some of them even say you’re lovers. You can’t believe everything you hear.”
John wonders why Sherlock even puts up with her. Surely Greg would be an adequate contact on his own; as a DI he’s more likely to have useful information than his sergeant anyway. Thankfully it’s not long before he hears the door shut firmly behind them-not quite a slam, but forceful enough to be satisfying.
When the bacon’s done, he brings out two plates of a full English, and calls out to Sherlock.
“Grub’s up.”
Sherlock hesitates slightly, as though he knows that John has more to say, and is just waiting for him to get it over with.
So John does. “I know you thought it was stupid, but I’m glad you told them about Jeffries. Have you sent her a proper refusal yet?”
Sherlock huffs impatiently, but hands over his phone, which is opened to the message archive.
Well played, but no joy -SH
I stand by my refusal -SH
Be a chum and reconsider -Exx
No -SH
You need to lighten up -Exx
It’s not quite the last of it, John knows: they still have to get rid of the ridiculous piano, and he’s still sleeping on a roll-out mattress-but it’s a good step in the right direction.
“You heard what they said,” observes Sherlock in a neutral tone. “It’s true, I suppose... I’ve never been a good friend. Too obsessive-look at the stress I’ve put you through. I don’t even know how to have proper friends like you do.”
John is shocked that Sherlock’s openly admitting vulnerability. It’s perhaps the surest sign he really does care about John, if not about anyone else.
“Of course I don’t have friends,” replies John easily. “Can you imagine? I have one really good friend, and that’s you. I swear, if I had any more it’d completely wear me out. There’s no point listening to what Sally says; you know you can’t believe everything you hear.”
Sherlock gives in to a small smile at that, and sits down to join him for breakfast.
*
“I didn’t hate it, you know,” John says, apropos of Sherlock sulking on the sofa later that afternoon. Sherlock doesn’t even blink an eyelid.
There are several piles of papers stacked on John’s armchair, which he could quite easily move, but instead he manhandles Sherlock’s bare feet out of the way so he can sit down beside him.
“You know you’re brilliant,” says John.
Sherlock just kicks his legs back out so they extend over John’s lap.
“And you know I love your music.”
He pokes at the feet resting on his legs, but Sherlock won’t be moved. Giving in, he begins to knead at one of them a bit distractedly. The activity keeps him from thinking too closely about the sentiment in what he’s saying. What he’s not saying, actually, because it’s all rather awkward, but what he thinks Sherlock needs to hear.
He squeezes his fingers around Sherlock’s impossibly high arch. “You’re important. To me. You are a good friend; I hope we’ll be together for a long time.” John flounders; that was possibly more revealing than he’d intended.
“I mean, I know you said you’re married to your art, but... No. Sorry. Sorry. I’ll just...”
John’s face has grown warm. He can’t bear to look Sherlock in the eye, because he knows he’s been stupid. Instead, he gets up to go and walk off his embarrassment, resolutely placing Sherlock’s feet back on the sofa.
But Sherlock snaps up from his languid sprawl with astonishing speed. His thin arm snakes out to grasp John’s wrist.
“Pay no mind to it, John; for years the work was all I had. I could be persuaded to change my mind.”
And this time, Sherlock’s drawing John towards him physically. Closer and closer and closer: impossibly close. His lips are warm. Sherlock’s body leaning into him is warm. They fit together beautifully, and John feels like he’s finally found home.
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
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~1,000 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: 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 Five: I Don't Have Friends]
Part Five: I Don't Have Friends
John can hear the rise and fall of conversation in the sitting room while he putters quietly over breakfast in the kitchen. Sherlock’s getting loud and indignant while Sally snipes and Lestrade demands that he explain his deductions.
“Of course it’s not the boy’s father! Did you even look at the turn-ups on his jeans? I don’t suppose anyone’s thought of looking at the uncle’s tailoring business... the real mystery is how the Yard ever manages to solve a case-there’s ample evidence here in one photo from the paper, and I can’t imagine what you’re all ignoring every day at crime scenes. You’re all as dull as daytime telly.”
Lestrade groans; there’s frustration mixed in with appreciation as he asks, “Ever think of throwing over the music for a career at the Yard?”
“Boring!” declaims Sherlock. “All rules, routine and paperwork. My brain would rot.”
The sound of pages being turned during a lull in the conversation is loud enough for John to hear over the sizzle of bacon, and then Sherlock’s talking again.
“Anyway; listen to this:
Not yet two years old, the Docklands Sinfonia has drawn much critical acclaim as an emergent force in the world of classical music. It was joined last Friday by guest soloist John Watson for the world premiere of Sherlock Holmes’s clarinet concerto in B Flat Minor-The Homecoming-a work that was written especially for the orchestra’s partnership with this soloist, who is a dear friend of the composer.
Initially a student of London’s Royal College of Music, Watson decided early on in his career to focus on his interest in jazz, only to disappear from the musical scene altogether not long afterwards. It would seem that music lovers have Holmes to thank not only for his latest composition-by turns poignant and rousing-but also for the opportunity to witness Watson’s magnificent performance...”
“He’s not really your friend, you know,” says Sally impatiently. “Not just because the papers say he is. Some of them even say you’re lovers. You can’t believe everything you hear.”
John wonders why Sherlock even puts up with her. Surely Greg would be an adequate contact on his own; as a DI he’s more likely to have useful information than his sergeant anyway. Thankfully it’s not long before he hears the door shut firmly behind them-not quite a slam, but forceful enough to be satisfying.
When the bacon’s done, he brings out two plates of a full English, and calls out to Sherlock.
“Grub’s up.”
Sherlock hesitates slightly, as though he knows that John has more to say, and is just waiting for him to get it over with.
So John does. “I know you thought it was stupid, but I’m glad you told them about Jeffries. Have you sent her a proper refusal yet?”
Sherlock huffs impatiently, but hands over his phone, which is opened to the message archive.
Well played, but no joy -SH
I stand by my refusal -SH
Be a chum and reconsider -Exx
No -SH
You need to lighten up -Exx
It’s not quite the last of it, John knows: they still have to get rid of the ridiculous piano, and he’s still sleeping on a roll-out mattress-but it’s a good step in the right direction.
“You heard what they said,” observes Sherlock in a neutral tone. “It’s true, I suppose... I’ve never been a good friend. Too obsessive-look at the stress I’ve put you through. I don’t even know how to have proper friends like you do.”
John is shocked that Sherlock’s openly admitting vulnerability. It’s perhaps the surest sign he really does care about John, if not about anyone else.
“Of course I don’t have friends,” replies John easily. “Can you imagine? I have one really good friend, and that’s you. I swear, if I had any more it’d completely wear me out. There’s no point listening to what Sally says; you know you can’t believe everything you hear.”
Sherlock gives in to a small smile at that, and sits down to join him for breakfast.
*
“I didn’t hate it, you know,” John says, apropos of Sherlock sulking on the sofa later that afternoon. Sherlock doesn’t even blink an eyelid.
There are several piles of papers stacked on John’s armchair, which he could quite easily move, but instead he manhandles Sherlock’s bare feet out of the way so he can sit down beside him.
“You know you’re brilliant,” says John.
Sherlock just kicks his legs back out so they extend over John’s lap.
“And you know I love your music.”
He pokes at the feet resting on his legs, but Sherlock won’t be moved. Giving in, he begins to knead at one of them a bit distractedly. The activity keeps him from thinking too closely about the sentiment in what he’s saying. What he’s not saying, actually, because it’s all rather awkward, but what he thinks Sherlock needs to hear.
He squeezes his fingers around Sherlock’s impossibly high arch. “You’re important. To me. You are a good friend; I hope we’ll be together for a long time.” John flounders; that was possibly more revealing than he’d intended.
“I mean, I know you said you’re married to your art, but... No. Sorry. Sorry. I’ll just...”
John’s face has grown warm. He can’t bear to look Sherlock in the eye, because he knows he’s been stupid. Instead, he gets up to go and walk off his embarrassment, resolutely placing Sherlock’s feet back on the sofa.
But Sherlock snaps up from his languid sprawl with astonishing speed. His thin arm snakes out to grasp John’s wrist.
“Pay no mind to it, John; for years the work was all I had. I could be persuaded to change my mind.”
And this time, Sherlock’s drawing John towards him physically. Closer and closer and closer: impossibly close. His lips are warm. Sherlock’s body leaning into him is warm. They fit together beautifully, and John feels like he’s finally found home.
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