Set at the beginning of ep 24 (ish)At the beginning of their talk. Slight canon divergence
Dark mahogany wood which was carved so meticulously, polished to perfection, one could fondly gaze at their reflection upon the glossy surface. A velvety red stool to accompany it's beauty, which squeaked rather than scraped against the creaky wooden floors. Sherlock didn't care much for the instrument, passing by it as he hurried up the stairs, diligently dodging the areas that groaned since he'd memorized them all by this point. He'd occasionally walk his fingers down the creamy keys, the different pitches of notes echoing throughout the first floor. They never sounded quite right when he played them, and Sherlock supposed he would stick with the violin, growing disinterested with the piano after a while.
Mrs. Hudson explained that it had been delivered as a gift from a former guest who'd rented a room from her for a few months prior. She had insisted that it was no trouble, that paying monthly rent had been enough, however the guest insisted.
This resulted in the large melodic instrument being hauled into 221b, sitting prettily on display in the corner of the first floor. It complimented the red patterned carpet which lay underneath it, and added a cozier feeling to the foyer.
John knew a few songs, claimed he'd been forced into lessons in his youth, though he was a bit clumsy and out of practice. It was quite entertaining to see him fumble with the pedals as he tried to recall the rest of whatever piece he was playing.
Mrs. Hudson glanced at the piano as if it was a foreign type of species, completely unaccustomed to where to place her fingers or which pedal to put pressure on. This resulted in a few songs from John every month or two, while the rest of the time it collected dust.
Sherlock's fingers twitch impatiently against his thigh, the aching desire to drown himself in the scent of nicotine becoming progressively more difficult to ignore. He leaned back against his velvety maroon chair, though it didn't feel as comfortable as it normally would. Not under the weight of the current circumstances, Sherlock couldn't allow himself to falter or let his guard down even for a second. His mind instead focused on the repeating tick of the grandfather clock on the opposite side of the room, his eyes screwed shut as he counted each interval. His teeth clenched together as blunt fingernails dug into his thigh, running through different possibilities and outcomes, which one to choose. It was all so overwhelming, though he had to be right about this. Out of everything he was right about, this mattered above all else.
The door clicked.
His eyes opened slowly as he allowed his body to release the tension it was holding on to. He didn't glance at the door, not when the golden knob turned with little hesitance, he didn't need to. The door opened and shut quickly, gentle footsteps padded their way in and made sure to maintain distance.
He stood, hands slipping into the deep pockets of his slacks on impulse as his eyes met scarlet.
"You were certain I'd be here."
It was a statement, not a question.
"That's why you came, isn't it?" Sherlock raised an eyebrow quizzically.
Liam's pale lips upturned gently. For a man who was consistently capable of presenting a carnivorous smile, Sherlock was rare to be on the receiving end. Though he supposed, those smiles were for the Lord of Crime's prey. The man who stood before him was simply Liam, whose gentle smiles conveyed a thousand words.
"Quite right," Long gloved fingers removed the cap from atop silky blonde hair, though it didn't shine as it normally did in the dim lighting of Sherlock's flat. "I have a favor to ask of you."
