Music is what brought together the souls and hearts of those that mattered. For two men in one flat, it brought them together through the good and bad, the lovely and the dreadful. One had known the other played violin, but that other did not know the one was so articulate when it came to the composers of pieces he played. But the other would play for the one, no matter the cost.
It did not matter the time of day or what had been going on during that time. If John asked Sherlock to play the violin, he would place the violin underneath his chin and play whatever piece would come to mind. Nothing would disturb the two in 221B Baker Street. No mortal or ghostly thing would come between the music the two would share. Only the two in their own world would dive into the heart of Holst, Bach, Beethoven, Debussy, and more. If someone ever came across the two, the music would not be played; it would simply end on the last note of the measure they interrupted.
Usually, John would ask for something melancholy, something to stir the strings of the heart, and Sherlock would never let him down. Sherlock would put everything he could into the piece of music, everything he ever dreamed of putting into a sheet of music that held no value for some musicians. And John would always be pleased. The ending would be the same: John would sit across from Sherlock, eyes closed, smiling, whispering a 'thank you' underneath his breath.
During runs in the night, John would remark how he wished Sherlock would have a travelling violin with him wherever they went. Sherlock would reply how ridiculous the notion was, but understood the meaning behind the words. John would be silenced with fear, and music was his remedy. So Sherlock would hum something, anything, just tiny bits of music that would enter his ears. And John would hum along, carrying on with the investigation like nothing was out of the ordinary.
It did not matter the situation. Even with John on the ground, gasping for something, anything, he would call to Sherlock to hum something beautiful. "Beethoven," he whispered. Sherlock's musical library scanned for the perfect piece, coming across "Ode to Joy", the sixth symphony, everything he could hum he would. John stopped struggling with the problems in the world and listened to the vibrations from Sherlock's deep voice echo through the air. He would not say thank you, he could not. He was fast asleep before he could say anything.
Sherlock never refused a request. Not even at the early hours of the morning. The cries were getting worse and worse during the night, John calling out for something to ease the pain, to ease the troubles. But there was nothing more they could give him. They were doing all they could, and nothing was working. Sherlock sat by the bedside, calling out to John to ask him what he wanted. "Sherlock," John whispered. Sherlock would sit in the chair, waiting on his words, wanting to catch them when they fell. "Sherlock," he repeated.
"John," replied Sherlock. John turned his head toward him, reaching out for something to hold onto. Sherlock would hold out his hand, feeling the clammy fingers grasp his bony ones. The grip was strong, so strong that Sherlock believed he would break the bones. But he would show no signs of pain.
"Please, play something," Sherlock looked up at the others around, knowing full well that their world would be jeopardized. But Sherlock could never let him down. Even at the time of the request, he could not. Sherlock put the joined hands on his throat and closed his eyes. What would he play? Vivaldi? He was John's favorite composer. "Anything, Sherlock..." John's grip started to fade. Sherlock scanned his library, choosing the right piece of music to play. Which one, though? "I don't..."
Sherlock decided. He started to hum the first notes of Vivaldi's "Summer", a classic for John. The notes would seamlessly fall through the air, hanging by different threads of time. Suddenly, John stopped complaining, leaning into the music being played by Sherlock, the music that vibrated through the two bodies conjoined. Sherlock would not pay attention to the others around, those that entered their world uninvited. He would just play the piece for his partner crying for help.
