Fic: A Study in B Flat (1/5)
Title: A Study in B Flat (1/5)
Author: sorrel_forbes
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~1,800 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 One: Violin or Viola?] Part One: Violin or Viola?
John’s fingers prod dispassionately at thin white shoulders as he positions his stethoscope. The pattern of tightness and knotting is one he’s familiar with, and prompted by a flash of insight, he is able to identify the scent of lingering rosin dust. He hears his voice ask, “Violin, or viola?” before he even realises he’s thinking aloud. He hopes he hasn’t made his patient uncomfortable.
The man-Sherlock Holmes-snaps around on his stool, and pins him with a penetrating look. John can’t help but see the expected discolouration just under the left side of his chin. Unexpectedly, Sherlock doesn’t seem displeased, but John feels fidgety under the weight of his gaze.
“You didn’t know,” says Sherlock. “But you saw; or rather, you felt. Interesting.”
In the end he doesn’t answer John’s question. He just turns back around and lets him finish his examination as though the awkward interlude had never happened.
Later, when John has finished explaining his recommended treatment plan, and Sherlock has waved him off with an irritatingly indifferent air, John suddenly finds himself being addressed with renewed intensity.
“Dr Watson. John. I must see you again.”
“There’s not much point making another appointment now,” says John. “If your congestion hasn’t cleared up in a week or two you can call back later, but I think you’ll be fine.”
Sherlock hands him a business card as he leaves. “That’s not what I meant. 221B Baker Street, tomorrow, seven o’clock. Bring your clarinet.”
*
The next day, John consults the clock as he finally sees out his last patient. He’s not running too far behind for once, but he’s in no more hurry to head back to his dismal flat than he ever is.
He takes his mug into the break room as is his custom, and while he busies his hands with the practised motions of tea-making, he considers his patient from the previous day. The violinist (he supposes)-Sherlock Holmes-and his unexpected invitation. Command? No; invitation. And if he’s honest with himself, John wants to go. It’s a bit irregular, going to visit a patient socially, but not necessarily a problem. He can always pass him off to another doctor if he needs to. So. He’ll go. But in the meantime, he has at least an hour before he needs to head out. He sits back down at his desk with his cuppa, turns on the radio, and starts sorting through his personal emails.
His clarinet case sits innocuously in the corner of the room as if it didn’t signify that John had already made his decision long before he’d addressed any misgivings that he might have (should have) had.
*
John’s first impressions of 221B Baker Street are of chaos, disorder, and pages of a handwritten score Sellotaped together, precariously bridging the gap between two heavy-duty music stands.
Sherlock himself is seated in the corner of the room at a chipboard table loaded high with papers and other paraphernalia. He’s scribbling furiously, and addresses John without even pausing to look up at him.
“Get out your instrument,” he orders.
John wonders how he manages, with such an appalling manner, to be so charismatic.
He finds a relatively clear space on the floor and flicks open his case. Hesitates before reaching for a clarinet, guessing that the obvious choice is not necessarily a foregone conclusion when it comes to this man. He glances up at Sherlock to clarify: “B flat, then?”
“Obviously.”
Right. Obviously. Obviously.
He’s pieced it together in no time at all while sucking on a reed, and then in a flurry of movement, Sherlock has another score balancing on a second pair of stands, has produced a violin out of thin air, and has readied his bow.
His movements are dramatic and beautiful to watch, like an accomplished stage magician or a dancer. Then they play.
The piece is a series of variations on what John supposes is an original theme. It’s strikingly direct, but as they progress, the variations become more and more fiendishly difficult. John’s instincts guide him well, and he maintains his place, even though he’s sometimes obliged to sacrifice accuracy. The music is fast and complicated and exciting, and he can feel the pulse of his blood singing in his veins.
When they reach the end of the written score, Sherlock unexpectedly introduces another variation. John is thrown for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. He’s already been extemporising a bit to avoid getting left behind as it is, so it’s not a complete shock to the system.
They continue in that manner for a while, and John leads a development or two of his own as well. It’s not really the sort of collaboration he would have expected from a classical musician, but he’s having a good time... In fact, if modern classical music were like this more often, he might not have been so eager to give it up.
When they eventually finish with a final reprise of the original theme, they are both breathless; giddy with accomplishment and easy camaraderie. John takes his cue from Sherlock when he puts away his instrument, and he begins to clean up after himself as well.
Sherlock flops onto his sofa, eyes closed, and groans theatrically. “That was magnificent. You have no idea just how thoroughly it would have horrified my brother.”
John suspects he might, actually. It’s been years since he and Harry came out to their parents (“Harry’s gay, I’m bisexual and, by the way, I’d rather play jazz than classical”) and his dad is still wondering where he went wrong, having failed to instil within him a love of Mozart.
He hovers for a moment, observing Sherlock’s prone form, but having gauged the measure of his host’s social skills (as close to none as makes no odds), he resolves to look after himself, studiously ignoring any potential awkwardness. He picks his way through to the kitchen, calling out as he goes.
“Tea?”
“Black, two sugars, please. It’s in the pantry.”
John finds teabags in the pantry, clothes pegs in the sugar bowl, and sugar-finally-in the pantry by the tea. The milk in the fridge is out of date, so John makes his black as well.
“Not a conventional pair of instruments, violin and clarinet,” he remarks, as he sets down Sherlock’s tea on the coffee table. “Did you compose for them specifically?”
Sherlock just looks at him. John supposes he means that of course he wrote specifically for those instruments, and obviously he did it on account of inviting John to play with him. The apposite contrast in tonal quality should have made that evident, John - I had thought that you might not be quite such a complete idiot as everyone else, but you disappoint me after all.
“I looked you up on the internet, you know,” says John: “custom compositions to suit your clients’ needs, even if they’re not clever enough to ask for the right thing themselves. How can you know? And why would anyone commission anything if you won’t write what they ask for?”
“I knew what you needed,” Sherlock returns. “I knew you’d keep up.”
That’s flattering, John supposes, and not too far off the mark. “But how did you even know I played? You saw my thumb callus? Might not have meant clarinet. And even then, I might not have been any good.”
“Don’t you see?” asks Sherlock. “You deduced my own instrument easily enough.”
“I didn’t, in the end,” John feels compelled to point out. “And the shortlist was pretty obvious, given what I saw.”
“All of it was obvious, given what I saw. That’s it, you know: people always look, but they don’t see. You don’t even see when you look at yourself:
“Medical Corps mug in your office, military haircut, uniform tan.” Sherlock grasps John’s hand, pushes up his sleeve, and holds up the arm for John to inspect. “I knew straight off that you’d been army.
“You know about the thumb callus.” He runs his own thumb confirmingly over John’s before releasing his hand.
“Established through frequent, prolonged irritation. You must have kept playing on tour, so army band. Clarinet or oboe? Oboes can't be tuned, so tuner on your desk says clarinet.
“No, don’t look like that. Joke; you also left a case of reeds. Why are they on your desk? You went to rehearsal for a small ensemble-invited by a colleague-left your things behind, and had them returned to you at work because you didn’t join the group. Classical, yes?"
John nods, and Sherlock continues: “You’ve exposure to classical musicians, going by your deductions about me; classically trained to start with, but you’re ignorant of the current scene, or you’d’ve known about me from the start. Digital radio on your desk betrays your preference: it’s set to Jazz FM.
“Bit of a shot in the dark assuming you could play as well as I hoped, but you seemed less stupid than most. Good breadth of experience, and your interest in jazz was suggestive of decent improvisation.”
“Amazing!” thinks John. Though he can see-from the slightly upturned corners of Sherlock’s mouth-that he’s done his thinking aloud thing again.
“I’m looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock says incongruously. Then, more to the point, he explains: “And you hate your flat. You don’t keep much personal detritus at the clinic-your army service showing, no doubt-but your radio and your mug-in the office, not the tea room-say you don’t like going home. You use them when you stay back late, not when you’re at lunch or seeing patients, and you do it often enough to be prepared.
“If it’s a shitty flat, you can’t afford better without a flatmate, or you would have moved. If you hate the company, you need a different flatmate. Either you don’t actually know anyone-unlikely-or you’re difficult to live with-probable. I’ve found that music can be a sticking point, but I’m sure we could tolerate that in each other. Are you interested?”
John hesitates. He thinks of his professional scruples, and observes wryly that he will definitely be passing Sherlock off to a different doctor. On the other hand, he really does hate his flat, and Sherlock has so far been the complete opposite of boring.
“Oh, come on!” cries Sherlock. “I see no problem. You’re not my doctor; you told me I wouldn’t need a follow-up. And we have an independent musical acquaintance now, anyway.”
John laughs. “You’re really something else,” he says. “All right. All right, I’ll think about it. But I hope you were planning on clearing out some of this mess. I don’t think I’d even fit into your flat at the moment.”
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
Author: sorrel_forbes
Pairing: John/Sherlock
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Just a bit of swearing
Word Count: ~1,800 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 One: Violin or Viola?] Part One: Violin or Viola?
John’s fingers prod dispassionately at thin white shoulders as he positions his stethoscope. The pattern of tightness and knotting is one he’s familiar with, and prompted by a flash of insight, he is able to identify the scent of lingering rosin dust. He hears his voice ask, “Violin, or viola?” before he even realises he’s thinking aloud. He hopes he hasn’t made his patient uncomfortable.
The man-Sherlock Holmes-snaps around on his stool, and pins him with a penetrating look. John can’t help but see the expected discolouration just under the left side of his chin. Unexpectedly, Sherlock doesn’t seem displeased, but John feels fidgety under the weight of his gaze.
“You didn’t know,” says Sherlock. “But you saw; or rather, you felt. Interesting.”
In the end he doesn’t answer John’s question. He just turns back around and lets him finish his examination as though the awkward interlude had never happened.
Later, when John has finished explaining his recommended treatment plan, and Sherlock has waved him off with an irritatingly indifferent air, John suddenly finds himself being addressed with renewed intensity.
“Dr Watson. John. I must see you again.”
“There’s not much point making another appointment now,” says John. “If your congestion hasn’t cleared up in a week or two you can call back later, but I think you’ll be fine.”
Sherlock hands him a business card as he leaves. “That’s not what I meant. 221B Baker Street, tomorrow, seven o’clock. Bring your clarinet.”
*
The next day, John consults the clock as he finally sees out his last patient. He’s not running too far behind for once, but he’s in no more hurry to head back to his dismal flat than he ever is.
He takes his mug into the break room as is his custom, and while he busies his hands with the practised motions of tea-making, he considers his patient from the previous day. The violinist (he supposes)-Sherlock Holmes-and his unexpected invitation. Command? No; invitation. And if he’s honest with himself, John wants to go. It’s a bit irregular, going to visit a patient socially, but not necessarily a problem. He can always pass him off to another doctor if he needs to. So. He’ll go. But in the meantime, he has at least an hour before he needs to head out. He sits back down at his desk with his cuppa, turns on the radio, and starts sorting through his personal emails.
His clarinet case sits innocuously in the corner of the room as if it didn’t signify that John had already made his decision long before he’d addressed any misgivings that he might have (should have) had.
*
John’s first impressions of 221B Baker Street are of chaos, disorder, and pages of a handwritten score Sellotaped together, precariously bridging the gap between two heavy-duty music stands.
Sherlock himself is seated in the corner of the room at a chipboard table loaded high with papers and other paraphernalia. He’s scribbling furiously, and addresses John without even pausing to look up at him.
“Get out your instrument,” he orders.
John wonders how he manages, with such an appalling manner, to be so charismatic.
He finds a relatively clear space on the floor and flicks open his case. Hesitates before reaching for a clarinet, guessing that the obvious choice is not necessarily a foregone conclusion when it comes to this man. He glances up at Sherlock to clarify: “B flat, then?”
“Obviously.”
Right. Obviously. Obviously.
He’s pieced it together in no time at all while sucking on a reed, and then in a flurry of movement, Sherlock has another score balancing on a second pair of stands, has produced a violin out of thin air, and has readied his bow.
His movements are dramatic and beautiful to watch, like an accomplished stage magician or a dancer. Then they play.
The piece is a series of variations on what John supposes is an original theme. It’s strikingly direct, but as they progress, the variations become more and more fiendishly difficult. John’s instincts guide him well, and he maintains his place, even though he’s sometimes obliged to sacrifice accuracy. The music is fast and complicated and exciting, and he can feel the pulse of his blood singing in his veins.
When they reach the end of the written score, Sherlock unexpectedly introduces another variation. John is thrown for a moment, but he recovers quickly enough. He’s already been extemporising a bit to avoid getting left behind as it is, so it’s not a complete shock to the system.
They continue in that manner for a while, and John leads a development or two of his own as well. It’s not really the sort of collaboration he would have expected from a classical musician, but he’s having a good time... In fact, if modern classical music were like this more often, he might not have been so eager to give it up.
When they eventually finish with a final reprise of the original theme, they are both breathless; giddy with accomplishment and easy camaraderie. John takes his cue from Sherlock when he puts away his instrument, and he begins to clean up after himself as well.
Sherlock flops onto his sofa, eyes closed, and groans theatrically. “That was magnificent. You have no idea just how thoroughly it would have horrified my brother.”
John suspects he might, actually. It’s been years since he and Harry came out to their parents (“Harry’s gay, I’m bisexual and, by the way, I’d rather play jazz than classical”) and his dad is still wondering where he went wrong, having failed to instil within him a love of Mozart.
He hovers for a moment, observing Sherlock’s prone form, but having gauged the measure of his host’s social skills (as close to none as makes no odds), he resolves to look after himself, studiously ignoring any potential awkwardness. He picks his way through to the kitchen, calling out as he goes.
“Tea?”
“Black, two sugars, please. It’s in the pantry.”
John finds teabags in the pantry, clothes pegs in the sugar bowl, and sugar-finally-in the pantry by the tea. The milk in the fridge is out of date, so John makes his black as well.
“Not a conventional pair of instruments, violin and clarinet,” he remarks, as he sets down Sherlock’s tea on the coffee table. “Did you compose for them specifically?”
Sherlock just looks at him. John supposes he means that of course he wrote specifically for those instruments, and obviously he did it on account of inviting John to play with him. The apposite contrast in tonal quality should have made that evident, John - I had thought that you might not be quite such a complete idiot as everyone else, but you disappoint me after all.
“I looked you up on the internet, you know,” says John: “custom compositions to suit your clients’ needs, even if they’re not clever enough to ask for the right thing themselves. How can you know? And why would anyone commission anything if you won’t write what they ask for?”
“I knew what you needed,” Sherlock returns. “I knew you’d keep up.”
That’s flattering, John supposes, and not too far off the mark. “But how did you even know I played? You saw my thumb callus? Might not have meant clarinet. And even then, I might not have been any good.”
“Don’t you see?” asks Sherlock. “You deduced my own instrument easily enough.”
“I didn’t, in the end,” John feels compelled to point out. “And the shortlist was pretty obvious, given what I saw.”
“All of it was obvious, given what I saw. That’s it, you know: people always look, but they don’t see. You don’t even see when you look at yourself:
“Medical Corps mug in your office, military haircut, uniform tan.” Sherlock grasps John’s hand, pushes up his sleeve, and holds up the arm for John to inspect. “I knew straight off that you’d been army.
“You know about the thumb callus.” He runs his own thumb confirmingly over John’s before releasing his hand.
“Established through frequent, prolonged irritation. You must have kept playing on tour, so army band. Clarinet or oboe? Oboes can't be tuned, so tuner on your desk says clarinet.
“No, don’t look like that. Joke; you also left a case of reeds. Why are they on your desk? You went to rehearsal for a small ensemble-invited by a colleague-left your things behind, and had them returned to you at work because you didn’t join the group. Classical, yes?"
John nods, and Sherlock continues: “You’ve exposure to classical musicians, going by your deductions about me; classically trained to start with, but you’re ignorant of the current scene, or you’d’ve known about me from the start. Digital radio on your desk betrays your preference: it’s set to Jazz FM.
“Bit of a shot in the dark assuming you could play as well as I hoped, but you seemed less stupid than most. Good breadth of experience, and your interest in jazz was suggestive of decent improvisation.”
“Amazing!” thinks John. Though he can see-from the slightly upturned corners of Sherlock’s mouth-that he’s done his thinking aloud thing again.
“I’m looking for a flatmate,” Sherlock says incongruously. Then, more to the point, he explains: “And you hate your flat. You don’t keep much personal detritus at the clinic-your army service showing, no doubt-but your radio and your mug-in the office, not the tea room-say you don’t like going home. You use them when you stay back late, not when you’re at lunch or seeing patients, and you do it often enough to be prepared.
“If it’s a shitty flat, you can’t afford better without a flatmate, or you would have moved. If you hate the company, you need a different flatmate. Either you don’t actually know anyone-unlikely-or you’re difficult to live with-probable. I’ve found that music can be a sticking point, but I’m sure we could tolerate that in each other. Are you interested?”
John hesitates. He thinks of his professional scruples, and observes wryly that he will definitely be passing Sherlock off to a different doctor. On the other hand, he really does hate his flat, and Sherlock has so far been the complete opposite of boring.
“Oh, come on!” cries Sherlock. “I see no problem. You’re not my doctor; you told me I wouldn’t need a follow-up. And we have an independent musical acquaintance now, anyway.”
John laughs. “You’re really something else,” he says. “All right. All right, I’ll think about it. But I hope you were planning on clearing out some of this mess. I don’t think I’d even fit into your flat at the moment.”
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