Lost in Music

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Tea, nice and hot. John sits back in his armchair, fluffing up the pillow, first. Sherlock stowed away in his room, probably not sleeping. He can't seem to close his eyes. 'A nice cup of warm, soothing tea will surely help!' John thought. He took a sip and placed his mug on the small table next to him.

He looked over to see Sherlock's violin. He thought of all of the times he'd played at parties. He thought of Sherlock playing songs at disturbing hours of the night and early morning. He liked it, it helped him to relax. John smiled when he remembered the time he played as Mycroft walked out. He giggled a bit.

He got up and walked over to its open case. He stared down at the beautiful instrument. "How does he do it? Make it so beautiful." John whispered to himself. The violin reminded him of Sherlock. Ever since he saw him-he looks like, if he were to be an inanimate object, an intricate violin. He never let go of that thought. It confirmed the beauty of Sherlock in his eyes.

Then, of course, he thought of all of the songs Sherlock had composed, and looked over at his messy, unorgnized music stand, full of papers with sprawled out notes. He walked over and searched through them, looking for one he'd composed-none. They were all by masterful classical music artists, none by Sherlock. To be fair, Sherlock was pretty good, but he's no Motzart.

He sat back down. He stared at his tea, and let his head fall back, hanging over the side of the chair. Sherlock walked in, unnoticed by John. He had been watching John from his bedroom door, not to be creepy, but because he was bored. He stepped and it made a squeak. John slowly, but rather quickly, looked up and the tall, slender, dark mass standing a couple feet before him.

"I just play, and it makes noise. I guess you interpret that noise as nice." Sherlcok spoke quickly, and concerned. Yes, concerned. "Oh. I see. What's wrong?" "I could show you." "Show me what?" "How I do it; make it so beautiful." "I...uh. If you want to." Sherlock, almost before he said it, leapt over to his violin, grabbing it along with his bow, and leapt, yet again, to his music stand.

The deep blue, early morning light that shone through the windows provided just enough light to play a song. He began, he glide-stepped over to John's chair, and played sitting on the arm. John sipped his tea and smiled at a some-what-happy Sherlock. Sherlock stood, finishing his ending note, and set it down on the couch.