Let's get some fic up in here, shall we?
For thegameison_sh. I'd go and check out the winners first, if I were you; Team Mycroft's very own irisbleufic took a well-deserved first, but all the other entries were fabulous, by and large.
--
Sherlock’s grand début took place when he was twelve years old, in a hall which has since decayed, with an orchestra which has since disbanded. But then and there, they glittered.
“Dodici?” said the conductor, whose hand folded around Sherlock’s like a warm, gelatinous glove. “Che maraviglia.”
“We’re all terribly proud.” Mrs. Holmes inspected the delicate watch on her delicate wrist, and let her fingers ghost over her son’s shoulder. He could smell nothing but her perfume, and the faint odor of rosin. Before him, the plump conductor, whose mouth and eyes were smiling.
“Could you tell me,” the man asked, leaning down ever so slightly, “why you chose Prokofiev? An old man’s curiosity. Most…”
Sherlock shrugged, and folded his teeth over his lip. If he’d had his druthers, he wouldn’t be playing at all.
“Ahl I see! But you are not most, eh? You like a challenge, you want to stand out?” The conductor laughed warmly. Sherlock noted the light scuff marks on his shoes-walker-and the spatulate fingertips-pianist-and the accent-Piedmont. Finally comfortable in this state of all knowing, Sherlock allowed himself to smile and tip his head downwards.
“Doesn’t everyone, maestro?”
The night of the concert, Mycroft found him in the dressing room, elbow deep in warm water, fingers turning spongy.
“Come in.”
“They’ve just finished the Paganini.” The room was silent, save for an occasional rippling of water. Sherlock’s violin sat patiently on the couch. “Are you ready?”
Sherlock’s reply was to slide a little lower in his seat, and narrow his eyes.
“Play to the scroll-don’t move so much-”
“Get back to your seat,” Sherlock said. He pulled his arms from the tub, dripping water all over his trousers, and stood, reaching for his jacket.
“Couldn’t possibly. A humongous thing of a woman is blocking my row.”
“Tell her to move.”
“Common courtesy prevails.” Mycroft took his pocketwatch out, made a grand show of checking the time, and replaced it with a sniff. “Two minutes.”
“I’m aware.” Sherlock straightened his jacket with a few economical tugs of the collar, and wiped his hands on the scratchy fabric of the couch. His hair was uncharacteristically tidy and his eyes unusually still.
Mycroft held back a start, opting to tilt his head subtly to one side and murmur, “Ah, you aren’t nervous are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” Sherlock said, all too quickly, before lifting his violin to his chin and gesturing towards the little upright in the corner of the room. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“This is quite surprising. Surely you enjoy being the center of attention.”
There was silence, until Mycroft heaved a sigh and stepped to the piano, depressing middle A.
Sherlock dragged his bow across the string, lips pursed into a rigid line.
The orchestra-one hundred piece, gargantuan, a golden monster-smiled at him as he stepped on stage, the neck of his violin crushed beneath his fingers. He bowed with wide eyes, head beginning to throb.
White oak, it screamed, as he stared at the wood beneath his feet. And then, Sleeping with each other when his eyes swept over the frontmost two cellists. Then to his left, the violinists, Stradivarius; Vuillame; factory-made; third chair down with grippe; shoes scuffed; smoker; drinker; dying; pregnant; newlywed-
“Breathe,” the conductor murmured, arms raised, expression worried.
Sherlock’s breath came in great, shuddering gasps. He stared out the audience as he lifted his instrument to his chin, the white noise within his skull shrieking, overriding the music. Here, this, this, analyze, analyze, comprehend.
The maestro was growing antsy; low murmurings came from the crowd. All Sherlock heard, however, was the dull roar churning behind his eyeballs.
He let the bow fall from his hand with a clatter, before charging from the stage.
“I did tell you.”
She hadn’t told him anything of the sort, but Sherlock didn’t care. He was curled in the backseat of the car with his violin case resting on his knees, watching the lights go by as his cheeks burned.
There’d been a drawn-out apology on stage, and some breaking-of-things in the dressing room. Mycroft had rescued the violin bow from destruction, thank goodness. He fiddled with it in the car, pulling the loose horsehairs off.
“It happens,” he murmured.
“It shouldn’t.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll learn.”
“And you’ll teach me?” Sherlock sneered.
Mycroft dipped his head slowly, and brought himself to smile. “You will come into your own,” he said, leaving it at that.
--
Sherlock’s grand début took place when he was twelve years old, in a hall which has since decayed, with an orchestra which has since disbanded. But then and there, they glittered.
“Dodici?” said the conductor, whose hand folded around Sherlock’s like a warm, gelatinous glove. “Che maraviglia.”
“We’re all terribly proud.” Mrs. Holmes inspected the delicate watch on her delicate wrist, and let her fingers ghost over her son’s shoulder. He could smell nothing but her perfume, and the faint odor of rosin. Before him, the plump conductor, whose mouth and eyes were smiling.
“Could you tell me,” the man asked, leaning down ever so slightly, “why you chose Prokofiev? An old man’s curiosity. Most…”
Sherlock shrugged, and folded his teeth over his lip. If he’d had his druthers, he wouldn’t be playing at all.
“Ahl I see! But you are not most, eh? You like a challenge, you want to stand out?” The conductor laughed warmly. Sherlock noted the light scuff marks on his shoes-walker-and the spatulate fingertips-pianist-and the accent-Piedmont. Finally comfortable in this state of all knowing, Sherlock allowed himself to smile and tip his head downwards.
“Doesn’t everyone, maestro?”
The night of the concert, Mycroft found him in the dressing room, elbow deep in warm water, fingers turning spongy.
“Come in.”
“They’ve just finished the Paganini.” The room was silent, save for an occasional rippling of water. Sherlock’s violin sat patiently on the couch. “Are you ready?”
Sherlock’s reply was to slide a little lower in his seat, and narrow his eyes.
“Play to the scroll-don’t move so much-”
“Get back to your seat,” Sherlock said. He pulled his arms from the tub, dripping water all over his trousers, and stood, reaching for his jacket.
“Couldn’t possibly. A humongous thing of a woman is blocking my row.”
“Tell her to move.”
“Common courtesy prevails.” Mycroft took his pocketwatch out, made a grand show of checking the time, and replaced it with a sniff. “Two minutes.”
“I’m aware.” Sherlock straightened his jacket with a few economical tugs of the collar, and wiped his hands on the scratchy fabric of the couch. His hair was uncharacteristically tidy and his eyes unusually still.
Mycroft held back a start, opting to tilt his head subtly to one side and murmur, “Ah, you aren’t nervous are you?”
“Of course I’m not,” Sherlock said, all too quickly, before lifting his violin to his chin and gesturing towards the little upright in the corner of the room. “If you wouldn’t mind.”
“This is quite surprising. Surely you enjoy being the center of attention.”
There was silence, until Mycroft heaved a sigh and stepped to the piano, depressing middle A.
Sherlock dragged his bow across the string, lips pursed into a rigid line.
The orchestra-one hundred piece, gargantuan, a golden monster-smiled at him as he stepped on stage, the neck of his violin crushed beneath his fingers. He bowed with wide eyes, head beginning to throb.
White oak, it screamed, as he stared at the wood beneath his feet. And then, Sleeping with each other when his eyes swept over the frontmost two cellists. Then to his left, the violinists, Stradivarius; Vuillame; factory-made; third chair down with grippe; shoes scuffed; smoker; drinker; dying; pregnant; newlywed-
“Breathe,” the conductor murmured, arms raised, expression worried.
Sherlock’s breath came in great, shuddering gasps. He stared out the audience as he lifted his instrument to his chin, the white noise within his skull shrieking, overriding the music. Here, this, this, analyze, analyze, comprehend.
The maestro was growing antsy; low murmurings came from the crowd. All Sherlock heard, however, was the dull roar churning behind his eyeballs.
He let the bow fall from his hand with a clatter, before charging from the stage.
“I did tell you.”
She hadn’t told him anything of the sort, but Sherlock didn’t care. He was curled in the backseat of the car with his violin case resting on his knees, watching the lights go by as his cheeks burned.
There’d been a drawn-out apology on stage, and some breaking-of-things in the dressing room. Mycroft had rescued the violin bow from destruction, thank goodness. He fiddled with it in the car, pulling the loose horsehairs off.
“It happens,” he murmured.
“It shouldn’t.”
“Perhaps one day you’ll learn.”
“And you’ll teach me?” Sherlock sneered.
Mycroft dipped his head slowly, and brought himself to smile. “You will come into your own,” he said, leaving it at that.