Senza Catene
Title: Senza Catene
Author: MadLori
Length: 6500
Genre: Crackfic: The Musical!
Pairing: Sherlock/John (first contact)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Sherlock sings opera. Lemme say that again: Sherlock sings OPERA. Embedded musical numbers. Also fluff and schmoop.
Summary: Sherlock has a secret hobby. One night John follows him to find out what his flat mate is up to and gets the surprise of his life.
Author’s Notes: So there I am, minding my own business. It’s a Friday workday, and on the iPod I am listening to the cheesetastic adult-contemporary pop-opera stylings of earnest vocal ensemble Amici Forever (hey, I’m only human and I’m a sucker for that stuff, so don’t be hatin’). I think of a recent conversation about the mellifluous magnificence of the Cumbervoice and musings about whether Benedict sings. The predictable result is CRACKFIC. Don’t say you have not been warned.
Oh, also features Sherlock/John getting-together in which all the important realistic stuff is totally and completely glossed over in favor of schmoop. Yeah, I see what I did there.
John Watson didn’t like to advertise it, but he knew things that Sherlock didn’t know. Aside from the nature of the solar system and Cheryl Cole’s immediate career plans, that is.
He knew how it felt to be shot. He knew a hundred ways that sand could chafe you into madness. He knew how it felt to watch your only sibling almost die, and he knew how to coax a grieving family member into revealing important information.
And he knew that sewn into the hemline of Sherlock’s trench coat was a very small tracking device. He knew this because he’d put it there.
Because of this, he also knew that Sherlock had a secret hobby. He didn’t know what it was. But he knew that twice a week Sherlock went to one of three locations, stayed for two hours, and left. He masked these visits to Mystery Location by flanking them on either side with official business or just meanderings around London, but John had picked up on the pattern. It had begun with checks of his location when he didn’t know where Sherlock had gone, just to be sure that he wasn’t at the bottom of the Thames, and it hadn’t taken long to spot these two-hour rendezvous.
Compounding his curiosity was the fact that all three of the locations he visited were small churches. The rotation varied, but it was always one of the three. Two hours was a long time to spend in a church even for a religious person, especially when the timing didn’t coincide with a service, and Sherlock was decidedly not religious.
It was only a matter of time before John’s curiosity got the better of him.
Sherlock left in the afternoon, claiming an experiment that needed tending, no need to tag along, it’ll be dreadfully dull. All right, fine. John went to his computer and tracked him. He could tell by the direction Sherlock went which of the three churches was on the rotation for tonight, so he went outside and hailed a cab so he could beat him there.
When he arrived, the place was deserted. It was a cozy little church, a neighborhood Anglican. He went inside and found a good lookout post inside a closet, and he waited. If his observations were correct, Sherlock ought to show around six pm.
At five thirty, two men arrived, one fair-haired, one dark. The fair-haired man had a large case that obviously contained a keyboard. They were smiling and chatting with each other. They were about Sherlock’s age and both handsome. John watched them go into the sanctuary. He slipped out of his closet and crept up the stairs to the lofted choir balcony, which would afford him a view but let him remain hidden.
He watched one of the men set up the keyboard. The other disappeared into a side door and came back with three music stands, which he lined up across the expanse of empty space at the front of the church. He disappeared again.
It’s a rehearsal. They’re musicians.
Sherlock’s a musician. Could he be part of an ensemble of some kind? Why wouldn’t he have told me?
The thought of Sherlock performing with a group was absurd. Honestly, the thought of Sherlock doing anything in a group was a bit absurd. He didn’t exactly work and play well with others. He couldn’t get it out of him that he’d ever played the violin with an orchestra or a quartet or anything. Frankly, he couldn’t picture it.
A black woman with long braids arrived next, petite and fashionably dressed. “Cheers, Rob,” she said to the fair-haired chap.
They exchanged a cheek-kiss. “All right, Fiona?”
“All right. Where’s Dan?”
“In the back. You got the laptop?”
“Anne has it. She just texted me, she’ll be along directly.”
So…that was at least four people who’d be joining Sherlock here. The one Fiona had called Dan emerged carrying two more music stands, which he lined up with the other two. Fiona stashed her coat and went into the back herself, coming out with stools that she placed behind the music stands. “Anybody heard from Sherlock?” Rob asked.
“No. Should we have?”
Rob shrugged. “Until he walks through the door I’m always afraid he’ll have gotten himself stabbed to death and we’ll have to troll the streets asking random men if they can hit an E2.”
John’s jaw dropped. But it ought to have been obvious. The music stands with stools. Nobody had an instrument except for the keyboard.
These people were singers.
“I can hit a D2, you know,” came a familiar, deep voice.
Dan smiled. “You hit it once. I daresay none of us has ever recovered.”
Sherlock emerged into the aisle and strode to the front, shucking his coat as he went. John shrank further back into the shadows, too stunned to retreat now. Fiona was putting sheet music on her music stand, second from the left. John heard the door open again and a blond woman came hurrying in, a laptop bag over her shoulder. “Sorry, sorry,” she was saying. “Hi, Sherlock,” she said, tossing him a flirty smile.
“Evening, Anne,” he said, mildly.
“Can we get going?” Rob said, looking at his watch. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”
John saw the two women exchange an eyeroll. Rob seemed to be in charge around here. John was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Sherlock was apparently part of a…a…vocal group of some kind. He had never heard Sherlock sing. Not even in the shower. Even so, it wasn’t a difficult extrapolation to make. His speaking voice was enthralling, to say the least. Harry teased him that if the whole “consulting detective” thing didn’t pan out, he could make a fortune recording audiobooks of love poetry and sonnets.
The five people now gathered were arranging themselves in a semicircle. “Everyone warmed up?” Rob asked. Vague nods and assents. Sherlock was on the far right, which John assumed meant he had the lowest vocal part. Baritone? His knowledge of the terminology was rusty. He sat forward a bit, anticipation filling him. His amazement was leaving him and now he just desperately wanted to hear what Sherlock sounded like. What sort of singing did these people do? Was it that poppy a cappella stuff? He couldn’t imagine Sherlock bopping along singing “Cecilia” in five-part harmony while clapping. Such a thing might require him to - you know, smile.
“Let’s start with the Handel,” Rob said.
Groans all around. “Must we sing this pompous monstrosity?” Sherlock grumbled.
“Yes, we must, it’s been requested and they’re paying us rather a lot of money, so if they want to hear bloody ‘Zadok the Priest,’ then we’re going to bloody well sing it.”
“Can’t we save it for the end of rehearsal?” Anne asked. She was on the far left, likely the soprano of the group. “It’s murder on the throat and you know it.”
Rob sighed. “All right, we’ll save it. What do you want to start with, since we’re all being divas tonight, apparently?”
“Let’s sing Senza,” Fiona said, clapping her hands. Anne grinned and nodded.
Sherlock groaned. “I will register my usual objection to this entire travesty.”
“Yes, yes, we know, your rarefied tastes can’t abide this bastardization.”
“It’s - pandering. Popular music dressed in opera garb.” He shuddered.
“But you sing it so beautifully, Sherlock,” Anne said, giving him an exaggerated eyelash-batting face that was clearly not meant to be serious. Sherlock snorted, although it didn’t have much contempt behind it. John sensed that Sherlock actually liked Anne, as much as he liked anybody.
“People like it,” Rob said. “We can’t stand up here and sing selections from Il Forza del Destino and expect anybody to show up.”
“And what is wrong with Destino?”
“Not a thing. But we have to mix it up a little. We’re going to do the Pearl Fishers like you wanted, aren’t we?”
Sherlock didn’t look appeased. John’s anticipation was growing. These people weren’t pop singers, or jazz singers. They were opera singers. Could Sherlock sing like that? Great God, he’d had no idea. He didn’t know much about opera, but he knew that the ability to sing it was non-trivial and was a skill that had to be learned over time. When had Sherlock acquired this skill?
“All right, then,” Rob said. “Senza first.” Reshuffling of sheet music, although everyone was standing pretty well away from their music stands. Didn’t seem like they’d be doing much reading. They probably had the piece memorized.
Rob turned around to the laptop, which had been hooked to the keyboard. A few clicks and recorded orchestral accompaniment filled the sanctuary. John had an idea why they rehearsed here - the acoustics were quite amazing. He realized that everyone had been speaking in normal tones and he could hear every word from way up here in the choir loft.
Dan sang first after the introduction. He was incredible. A warm tenor, his voice filled the whole space and curled around the words. John frowned - wait, he knew this song. It hit him on the next phrase. It was “Unchained Melody,” arranged and translated into Italian. Popular music dressed in opera garb, Sherlock had sneered. John thought it sounded rather beautiful.
Sherlock was just standing there. Anne and Fiona were singing now, too. They were just as good as Dan. These people weren’t just amateur opera hobbyists, they were professionals and obviously well-trained. How on earth had Sherlock gotten involved in this?
Everyone was singing but Sherlock. Come on, dammit! Doesn’t he get to sing? It was lovely, and the rest of the group were amazing, but he wanted to hear Sherlock.
Then, he did.
[AN: Amici Forever’s recording of “Senza Catene” (Unchained Melody). Sherlock comes in around 1:45.]
(alternate download link in case of embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772587-e96)
The song’s bridge came up, and suddenly Sherlock was singing alone. He opened his mouth and out of that thin chest came - a voice. A voice. A deep, rich gorgeous voice full of power and vibrato and perfectly rolled r’s. John was glad he was sitting on the floor because his knees went a bit loose.
Oh, dear Lord.
The rest of the group joined in and they finished the song together. John barely noticed. Now that he’d heard him, all he could hear was Sherlock. The notes echoed in the church as the recorded orchestra stopped playing. John had to restrain himself from applauding. Rob was writing notes on his sheet music. “Anne, you’re still a hair early on that entrance. Dan, watch that high note in the last verse, you’re going sharp.” Everyone was nodding, making their own notes, Sherlock included. “Other than that, that one’s sounding good. Let’s shelve it until we have the orchestra, right?”
“I want to hear the Pearl Fishers. Lot of talk, not much walk,” Fiona said, crossing her arms and cocking an eyebrow.
“We don’t have time for that now, it’s not on the Poppy Day program. We should be focusing on that.”
“I want to hear it, too!” Anne said. “That duet kills me every time.”
“I haven’t even worked up an arrangement!” Rob protested.
“Surely Sherlock and Dan can just sing it for us. Give us a little preview. We don’t all have to jump right on,” Fiona said. “You know it, don’t you, Dan?”
“Yeah, I know it.” He looked over at Sherlock. “You up for it, Sherlock?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, as if it were incomprehensible that he’d be anything but.
“The score recording’s on the laptop.”
Rob sighed. “Well, since we’re obviously not going to get anything done until you get your way, go ahead.”
The women sat on their stools while Dan and Sherlock moved to the middle of the semicircle. No one needed sheet music for this, it seemed. John had no idea who the Pearl Fishers were or what he was about to hear, except that it was obviously a duet for two men.
Rob started the recording of the orchestral accompaniment. Dan took his cue and began.
John wasn’t prepared for what he heard. He had never been much for opera, or classical music in general. He’d grown to appreciate some of Sherlock’s violin playing, when he could be persuaded to stop chicken-scratching and play some actual music, but opera was unknown territory, barring those few popular pieces that one heard in film trailers or in cartoons. This - this was something new to him. He could see why the others had been so keen to hear it.
It was beautiful. No, it was powerful. No, it was both. It reached into his chest and squeezed. It was full of longing, although he didn’t know what Dan and Sherlock were supposed to be longing for. They traded phrases back and forth until the phrasing built them to a harmony that made John’s breath hitch. He listened, captivated, until they climbed to a long sustained note, the orchestra going silent behind them. He saw Anne take a breath and her hand went to her chest. They finished off the piece and the recording stopped. Dan grinned widely; Sherlock just gave a slight, satisfied nod.
[AN: This is a recording of legendary tenor Jussi Bjorling and baritone David Merrill. The duet commonly referred to as the Pearl Fishers Duet, probably the most famous tenor/baritone duet in opera canon, is widely regarded as one of the most beautiful pieces in opera. Properly titled ‘Au fond du temple saint,’ it is from Bizet’s opera Les Pecheurs de Perles (The Pearl Fishers). This recording is very old (Jussi Bjorling died in 1960) but it still considered the best rendition of this piece. Amici Forever did record this piece on the same album from which the other tracks embedded here are drawn, but it’s reorchestrated for five parts and I just wanted the duet here.]
(embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772617-4c9)
“God, you guys,” Fiona said. “I love that piece, but damn.”
“How are we going to arrange that for five parts?” Anne said. “I’d feel like an intruder.”
“I’ll manage,” Rob said. He didn’t seem affected by the performance they’d just heard, which seemed impossible. Both the women were obviously moved. John himself was stunned.
I would like to barge down there right now, drag him home and make him sing for me. For days, maybe.
“That was really good, you two,” Rob was saying now, apparently aware that he was being a little grouchy. “That piece will bring the house down when we’re ready to debut it. But right now we’ve got to firm up the program for this Poppy Day concert. So let’s do the soldier song, that one needs the most work.”
Sherlock put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I think we should scrap it.”
“We can’t scrap it! It was written specifically for us, specifically for this concert!”
“I think it’s a great piece,” Dan said, going back to his music stand. “I love that orchestral score.”
“It’s not the score. It’s these…lyrics. That score was never meant to be lyricized,” Sherlock said.
“All right, so the lyrics are a bit…”
“Inane?” Sherlock snapped.
“I was going to say, ‘on the nose.’ But they’re heartfelt and honestly meant. Good God, Sherlock! Can’t you at least get behind the sentiment of honoring war dead on Poppy Day?”
“A phony holiday engineered to allow us to assuage guilt that we’ve sent people to die in our stead during meaningless conflicts that arise from trivial disagreements.”
“Yeah, we’ve all heard it. Look, you start and end this piece. You’ve got to sell this. Maybe you’re just not that good of an actor.” John smirked. However long Sherlock had been part of this group, it was long enough for Rob to have an idea how to manipulate him.
Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. “I’m an excellent actor.”
John could vouch for this. He’d seen him pull off some truly astonishing performances while investigating crimes. He was less confident that he could pull off a performance when that’s all it was. A performance.
“Where do you get off judging people’s feelings about Poppy Day?” Fiona said, her brows drawn together. “I have a brother in Iraq. My grandfather died in World War II!”
Rob shook his head. “Don’t bother, Fiona. His sort don’t usually line up for service. He’s never had anybody he cares about in danger.”
“My sort? What sort is that, precisely? That is an ignorant assumption, not to mention a wrong one,” Sherlock snapped.
“Oh really?” Rob said, crossing his arms. “Astonish us.”
Incredibly, Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he hadn’t been planning on getting dragged into this disagreement. John wondered where he’d been going with it. “It - doesn’t matter,” he said, quietly. “Let’s just rehearse the song. I’m perfectly capable of setting aside my dislike for the piece and performing it convincingly.”
“No, Sherlock, what were you going to say?” Anne said. She looked concerned. “Did you lose someone?” she asked, shooting Rob a oh, you really stepped in it glance.
“No,” Sherlock said. “I…” His fingers restlessly fiddled with his sheet music. “I could have.”
“You could have?”
Sherlock sighed. “John is a veteran.”
“John, your flatmate? I thought he was a doctor,” Dan said, frowning.
“He is. He was an Army doctor. He was badly wounded in Afghanistan and invalided home. That’s when we met. And what if he had been killed, instead of wounded? I’d never have…” He trailed off. “Well. It isn’t something I enjoy contemplating.”
“Of course you don’t,” Fiona said, her voice gentle again. She was looking at Sherlock with that expression that women tended to get when they were cooing over what an adorable couple he and Sherlock were. Denying it was hardly worth the trouble anymore, so John usually just let it go.
To his surprise, Sherlock took up John’s usual line. “As I’ve said - repeatedly - John and I are just friends, Fiona.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. I just know I’d love to have a chap talk about me the way you talk about John.”
“You do get rather soft about the edges when you mention him, mate,” Dan said, giving Sherlock a very Holmesian eyebrow-raise.
John was flummoxed. Sherlock talked about him to these people? In a…fond sort of way? It was reassuring and troubling at the same time. It had always been hard to know where he stood with Sherlock. Of late it had been getting harder and harder, not just to figure out where he stood, but where either of them did.
“Can we get on with this ridiculous piece of claptrap, please?” Sherlock said, rattling his sheet music.
“All right, all right,” Rob said. He started the recorded accompaniment.
The score sounded vaguely familiar but John couldn’t place it. Sherlock started off. The lyrics were in English. John didn’t see anything so terrible about them, but Sherlock did have rather high standards. He could see Rob’s point. Sherlock wasn’t giving a very convincing rendition.
Rob stopped the playback. “That isn’t going to cut it, Sherlock.”
“Haranguing me about my flatmate just before I’m supposed to sing earnestly about the honored war dead isn’t the best way to elicit the appropriate mood.”
“What do you want? A goddamned parade? Think about your mate, then. Think about him getting blown to bits in Afghanistan and having people sing him moving tributes on Poppy Day.”
Rob tossed this off casually, then looked up to find the other four all staring at him. “Good God, Rob,” Dan muttered. “That’s bleeding cold.”
“What? He’s said worse to us!”
“I have been accused of heartlessness many times,” Sherlock said, biting off the words, “but are you actually telling me to imagine the horrible death of the man I love to get a performance out of me?”
Anne and Fiona exchanged a triumphant look. John barely heard Rob’s reply.
The man I love.
John had to hang on to the wall by his side to keep from tipping over. Down below, there was some apologizing and some indignation going on and then Rob was starting up the accompaniment again.
Then Sherlock was singing, and it was different this time. There was something behind it now. John watched raptly as the rest of the group joined in. The song seemed to be about war dead, and there were some platitudes, and something about the world being free someday. He wasn’t really paying attention. He was watching Sherlock’s face.
[AN: This piece is the amazing Michael Kamen orchestral score to the miniseries “Band of Brothers,” with lyrics added. The lyrics are, as Sherlock says, a bit Velveeta. Still a nice piece, though.]
(embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772611-869)
As Rob had said, Sherlock had to sing both the opening and closing phrases of the song. He did so beautifully, to John’s uneducated ears. The accompaniment stopped. Everyone was quiet. Sherlock turned his back and John saw him put his hands to his eyes.
Christ, I can’t take this. John slipped over to the staircase and hurried down, coming into the back of the sanctuary just as Rob spoke again.
“That was really good, Sherlock,” he said, sounding a little ashamed.
“Were you thinking of…” Fiona began.
“How could I not be?” Sherlock snapped, turning back around. “It’s like telling someone not to think of a pink elephant. So there you go, Rob. I hope you’re happy.”
John knew a good cue when one fell into his lap. “I don’t know about him, but I am,” he said, stepping into the aisle.
Everyone stared. John only had eyes for Sherlock, who was standing there wide-eyed with astonishment, an expression John had seen on his face but rarely.
“Uh, this is a closed rehearsal, mate,” Rob said.
“John!” Sherlock said. “What are you doing here?”
John saw the others gaping at him now as well, realizing who he was. “I followed you.”
“How long have you been listening?” Sherlock asked, flushing a little, probably thinking back to what he’d said.
“Since the beginning,” John said, swallowing hard. “You’re - you’re amazing.”
Sherlock didn’t seem to hear this last. He hurriedly stepped down from behind his music stand and strode up the aisle to meet him halfway. He stopped a few feet shy of him, obviously knocked off his composure by John’s sudden appearance. “John, I - I don’t know why you’re here or what you may have heard, but when I said…I didn’t mean…”
“No. Stop. Don’t say you didn’t mean it.”
There it was again, that look of astonishment. John was peripherally aware of the others watching, but it was amazing how much he did not care. Sherlock blinked and dropped his gaze. “John,” he said, the name nearly lost in a half-choke of uncertainty. Hearing Sherlock so unsure of himself and what was going to happen next broke something inside John’s heart, but it felt good to feel it crumble - it had just been in the way.
He took a step closer and put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, lifting it so he could see his eyes again. “Please don’t tell me you didn’t mean it.”
Those pale eyes searched John’s face. “I meant it,” Sherlock said.
John smiled. “Good.” He drew Sherlock’s face down to his own and kissed him. He didn’t think about it, he didn’t wonder what the hell he was doing, he just did it because he couldn’t do otherwise. Sherlock went still for a moment, then kissed back. John felt Sherlock’s hand come up and cup his neck, his other arm winding around John’s waist and pulling him closer.
It seemed to go on forever, even though it was really only a few seconds. Sherlock pulled back and they just looked at each other for a moment. John laughed softly. “You all right?”
“I may never recover from the shock, but otherwise yes,” Sherlock murmured, a half-smile on his face. He leaned in and kissed him again, quickly.
“Can I, uh…meet your friends?” John asked.
Sherlock straightened up like he was just remembering where they were. John glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder; the other four were standing in a group, acting like they were conferring over their sheet music but really just trying to look like they weren’t all surreptitiously watching them. “If you must,” Sherlock said, faux-stern. He turned and led John up the aisle toward the front, one arm around his back. He cleared his throat and the others immediately turned around, all smiles. “Well, I suppose introductions are all but moot at this point, but - this is Dr. John Watson, my…flatmate,” he said, stumbling a bit over that last word. They waved and said a smattering of hellos. “John, this is Anne, Fiona, Rob and Dan.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said.
“So nice to finally meet you,” Fiona said. “We were starting to wonder if perhaps you weren’t Sherlock’s imaginary friend.”
“And I could have sworn he said you were just friends,” Anne added, winking.
“Well - we were,” John said, feeling a bit giddy.
“When did that all change?”
“Gosh. That’s hard to say.” He looked up at Sherlock. “How long has it been, then?”
Sherlock looked thoughtful but his eyes were twinkling. “If I had to guess, I’d say about ninety seconds.”
Fiona’s jaw dropped. “You mean - just now - did we just see you two…?”
“An historic moment, I’m sure,” Sherlock said dryly, but his arm about John’s back tightened a hair. John grinned, his own arm going about Sherlock’s waist, basking in the freedom to indulge the impulse to touch the man that he’d resisted a hundred times over the course of their friendship.
Rob harrumphed a bit. “I hate to spoil the mood, I mean this is all very nice and so on, but we are in the middle of a rehearsal.”
“Oh piss off, Rob,” Fiona said. “The man’s just had a major life event.”
“No, it’s fine,” John said. “I’m intruding.”
“Yes, you are,” Sherlock said, close to his ear, his deep voice rumbling through John’s skull. Somehow those innocuous words carried several layers of distracting implications.
“I should go.” He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay and listen. But he didn’t wish to throw Sherlock off his game or disrupt the group.
“You’re welcome to stay and listen if you like,” Rob said. “Most of our various partners have sat in from time to time. We usually go round the pub for a bite after rehearsal. Sherlock never comes along, but perhaps you can persuade him to make an exception.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever persuaded him to do anything,” John joked. He looked up at Sherlock. “You go on. I’ll just sit here till you’re done, I won’t make a sound. We can, uh - talk afterwards.”
Sherlock nodded. “All right, then.” The corners of his mouth curled in a slow smile. “Be a bit difficult to concentrate on Handel now,” he murmured.
“You’ll manage.”
Sherlock kissed John’s temple, then stepped away and went back to the group, resuming his place at the far right. John slipped into a pew about halfway back and Rob carried on with the rehearsal.
John sat and listened as they worked on the soldier song for a time, making what sounded to him like infinitesimal adjustments until Rob was satisfied. They moved on to other selections, most of which seemed well rehearsed. John watched Sherlock, rapt. His concern about concentration had been groundless, of course - the man had a near-supernatural ability to focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else. At one point, though, while the women were going over a difficult passage together, Sherlock glanced down at him and smiled, a bit shyly. That unschooled expression, like a schoolboy stealing a glance at his crush, made John grin from ear to ear, and he had to hold himself back from charging up there and dragging Sherlock home. A curl of anticipation was unfurling in his belly, butterflies filling his midsection at the thought that later, he’d get to kiss Sherlock again, and perhaps do some other things with - and to - him, things he’d spent a good deal of time trying not to think about.
Think about them now, John. Think all you like. So John Watson sat there in the church and went right ahead and thought about them, and the minutes flew by.
“All right, then,” Rob finally said, as it was getting on close to eight o’clock. “Handel.” More groans. John wondered what this Handel piece was that they were all dreading.
The minute the accompaniment began, he recognized it. It was the coronation song. And it quickly became clear why they’d all been dreading it. It seemed to require them all to belt out long, sustained notes that sounded like a lot of effort. They had to stop at one point when Dan faltered and lost it, then Sherlock missed a cue, then Anne’s voice broke on a high note. Tea was drunk from thermal carafes, lozenges appeared. John watched them all buckle down, even Sherlock. For all his bluster and nonchalance, it was clear that Sherlock wanted to perform the piece correctly as much as the others did, which didn’t surprise John. No matter what Sherlock did, he wanted to do it perfectly, and demonstrate that he had superior skills.
After twenty minutes’ work, they got through it, then again with more confidence. Rob gave a satisfied nod, and everyone relaxed. “All right, then. Next Tuesday. We’ll have two more rehearsals then we’ve got the dress with the orchestra.”
Everyone began packing up their music and putting the music stands away. “You and your friend coming round the pub then, Sherlock?” Dan asked, smirking.
John was of two minds about that. On the one hand, he very much wanted to hear about how Sherlock had gotten involved in all this. But he also wanted very much to get the man alone. “I’ll leave that up to John,” Sherlock was saying.
“How about it, John?” Fiona said. “Fancy a pint?”
Curiosity won out. “All right.”
They walked to a pub a few blocks away. Everything seemed different to John. Just walking next to Sherlock, the air practically vibrated with the newness. I kissed Sherlock. Kissed. Thought about it. Never did it. Have now done it. It was brilliant. I can’t wait to do it again.
Sherlock loves me. Said as much. But for how long? And why didn’t he ever say? How long would it have taken if I hadn’t followed him tonight?
And how the BLOODY HELL did he end up in a group of opera singers? Despite the personal significance of all the other questions, it was this last one that intrigued him the most at the moment, mostly because whatever it was between him and Sherlock would be worked out, and already it felt like it had been inevitable.
The pub was quiet, with a smattering of patrons. The six of them huddled around a table in the back, John accepting a pint while Sherlock declined. As soon as they’d taken their seats, John felt Sherlock’s hand on his leg, resting comfortably on his thigh as if this were its designated spot, and damn if that’s not how it felt. He met Sherlock’s eyes, and there it was again, that shy half-smile that was fast becoming his favorite expression to see on Sherlock’s face.
“So we’ve been mighty curious about you, John,” Anne said, coming to the table with a basket of chips. “I imagine you’ve been so about us.”
“I didn’t know you existed,” John said. “I’d no idea Sherlock did - this.”
Everyone’s eyes widened, and Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat. “What?” Dan said. “You didn’t know?” He swiveled to stare at Sherlock. “You didn’t tell your best mate that you were performing? What are you, embarrassed?”
“Certainly not,” Sherlock said, gruff. “I planned to tell him.”
“When?” John asked. “And how long has this been going on, anyway?”
“Sherlock’s been with us for a year and a half,” Rob said.
Now it was John’s turn to stare. “You’ve been doing this since before I met you?”
“Indeed.”
“I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t tell me,” John said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice.
“It wasn’t that. It was just something I didn’t care to share.”
“I can’t imagine why. If I could sing like that, I’d never shut up about it!”
Sherlock thought for a moment. “I dislike cluttering my life with - irrelevancies. This is one that I’ve allowed myself to keep.”
Rob grunted. “Thanks for describing my profession as an irrelevancy, Sherlock.”
“It isn’t so to you. You’ve dedicated your life to music. There was a time that I considered doing the same. My choice not to do so need not imply disapproval of your choice,” Sherlock said.
“You thought about being a musician?” John asked, fascinated.
“I grew up playing the violin. My mother forced it on myself and Mycroft. I took to it, he did not. Eventually I studied voice as well, and into University. For a time, the study of music and performance satisfied my desire for a rational approach to human emotional expression.”
Anne laughed. “That’s the strangest description of music I’ve ever heard.”
“In the end I simply developed other interests that took precedence. But I never abandoned music entirely. It simply became an alternative to my other pursuits.”
“I met Sherlock just when we were getting the group off the ground,” Rob said. “We’d lost our original baritone when he took a job in the States, at the Met. I was having a devil of a time finding a replacement when Sherlock here fell into my lap.”
Sherlock shook his head, bemused. “Rob lived next door to a woman whose murder I was helping Lestrade investigate.”
“The police were asking me questions about her,” Rob said. “When in storms this person in a long, black coat and just takes over. He starts barking questions at me, and all I could think was, jackpot.”
“Jackpot?” John said.
“I could tell that he’d been professionally trained as a vocalist by the way he breathed and spoke. And as mercenary as it sounds, for the marketability of the group I needed someone who met certain - outward criteria, shall we say.”
“He needed someone hot,” Fiona said, sotto voce, leaning close on John’s other side.
“So here comes this chap who looks like one of those avant-garde fashion models and speaks like he’s ready to burst into Largo al factotum any moment. I confess I forgot all about my poor dead neighbor.”
“Took me rather by surprise,” Sherlock said. “I’m asking him if his neighbor ever owned cats, and the first thing he said to me was, ‘Can you hit an E2?’ I was so surprised, all I could do was tell him that yes, I could.”
John laughed. “Ah, it all becomes clear.”
“It does?” Rob said, frowning.
“You did to him what he does to everyone, Rob. You deduced something about him from an observation and then blindsided him with it. It’s probably the only thing you could have said that would have gotten him interested.”
“He’s quite right,” Sherlock said. “I was intrigued enough to accept Rob’s invitation for an audition.”
“He blew me away, all of us,” Rob said, to general nods of assent. “He was out of practice, but I knew I could have him back to singing form in short order.” He smirked. “His voice slotted in so well with the rest of us that we offered him the spot, even though by then we’d figured out what a bloody irritating wanker he was,” he said, dropping a wink.
“I gotta say, I’m - I’m astonished,” John said. “I wish I’d known.” He curled his fingers around Sherlock’s, who squeezed them back.
“Well, you know now,” Fiona said. She grabbed Rob’s arm. “We should sing something for John at the Poppy Day concert. We can fit in one more number. He’s a veteran.”
“Oh, no, that isn’t…” John began.
“What’d you have in mind?” Rob asked.
“Do you have a favorite piece, John?” Anne asked.
“Um…I’m not sure I…”
“Yes, he does,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure all of you already know it.” He cleared his throat, then sang the first line in a quiet, unobtrusive tone. Dan nodded, smiling, and joined him for the second line.
John sat there with chills going up his spine as the five of them fell into unrehearsed yet perfect harmony, gentle and decidedly non-operatic, barely drawing attention from the other pub patrons.
You’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
This was his favorite song. He had no idea how Sherlock knew that. He’d barely realized it himself.
Even as quiet as they were being, by the time they had sung through the song, everyone in the pub was watching, entranced by the soft beauty of the song and the voices rendering it. When they stopped, everyone applauded.
John could only watch Sherlock’s face, their interlaced fingers resting on his leg, and know that he’d been let in on something precious.
[AN: The King’s Singers, another group I considered as a model for the group Sherlock sings with, performing “Loch Lomond.”]
(embed!Fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14785381-245)
They left the pub after about an hour, amid promises for John to attend the upcoming concert and teases leveled at him and Sherlock about their night’s planned activities, the thought of which were giving John butterflies again.
A block away from the pub, John stopped and turned to face his silent companion. “I followed you. I’m sorry if I barged in and made you reveal this before you were ready.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m glad you did. I didn’t keep it secret because I didn’t wish for you to know. It’s been more out of habit than anything else of late, I think.”
“You really are amazing at it,” John said. “It’s quite - sexy,” he said, blushing a bit.
“I’m quite at a loss to predict what you might or might not find sexy,” Sherlock said, smirking.
“Well, here’s the rough guide: if you’re doing it, it’s sexy.” John had to laugh at himself. “Listen to me. I’m making quite a fool of myself.”
Sherlock’s eyes went a bit more intense. “How long, John?”
John didn’t need to ask for clarification. “I don’t know if I’m able to say. Since I met you? Since tonight? Both at once?” He grinned. “All I know is that I’m very keen to sit in the front row at your concert with everyone else’s significant other and be the proud boyfriend.”
Sherlock reached out and straightened John’s jacket, pulling his scarf a bit closer around his neck. “John Watson,” he said, like he was just enjoying saying his name, his voice gruff. “You…” He harrumphed, drawing his dignity around him.
“Me, what?”
“You, I adore.” He drew John close and kissed him, taking his time about it. John gripped Sherlock’s lapels and kissed back. “And now I should very much like to take you home and kiss you a great deal.”
“I may let you. But only if you’ll sing for me some more.”
Sherlock grinned, and they started off down the pavement again, their fingers lacing together. “I’ve always found the rigor and precision of vocal performance rewarding. The use of such an organic, subjective instrument to achieve a particular frequency and tone is difficult and worth study. I discovered something new about it this evening, however, thanks to you.”
“What’s that?”
“It becomes quite a different experience when one has somebody to sing to.”
Author: MadLori
Length: 6500
Genre: Crackfic: The Musical!
Pairing: Sherlock/John (first contact)
Rating: PG
Warnings: Sherlock sings opera. Lemme say that again: Sherlock sings OPERA. Embedded musical numbers. Also fluff and schmoop.
Summary: Sherlock has a secret hobby. One night John follows him to find out what his flat mate is up to and gets the surprise of his life.
Author’s Notes: So there I am, minding my own business. It’s a Friday workday, and on the iPod I am listening to the cheesetastic adult-contemporary pop-opera stylings of earnest vocal ensemble Amici Forever (hey, I’m only human and I’m a sucker for that stuff, so don’t be hatin’). I think of a recent conversation about the mellifluous magnificence of the Cumbervoice and musings about whether Benedict sings. The predictable result is CRACKFIC. Don’t say you have not been warned.
Oh, also features Sherlock/John getting-together in which all the important realistic stuff is totally and completely glossed over in favor of schmoop. Yeah, I see what I did there.
John Watson didn’t like to advertise it, but he knew things that Sherlock didn’t know. Aside from the nature of the solar system and Cheryl Cole’s immediate career plans, that is.
He knew how it felt to be shot. He knew a hundred ways that sand could chafe you into madness. He knew how it felt to watch your only sibling almost die, and he knew how to coax a grieving family member into revealing important information.
And he knew that sewn into the hemline of Sherlock’s trench coat was a very small tracking device. He knew this because he’d put it there.
Because of this, he also knew that Sherlock had a secret hobby. He didn’t know what it was. But he knew that twice a week Sherlock went to one of three locations, stayed for two hours, and left. He masked these visits to Mystery Location by flanking them on either side with official business or just meanderings around London, but John had picked up on the pattern. It had begun with checks of his location when he didn’t know where Sherlock had gone, just to be sure that he wasn’t at the bottom of the Thames, and it hadn’t taken long to spot these two-hour rendezvous.
Compounding his curiosity was the fact that all three of the locations he visited were small churches. The rotation varied, but it was always one of the three. Two hours was a long time to spend in a church even for a religious person, especially when the timing didn’t coincide with a service, and Sherlock was decidedly not religious.
It was only a matter of time before John’s curiosity got the better of him.
Sherlock left in the afternoon, claiming an experiment that needed tending, no need to tag along, it’ll be dreadfully dull. All right, fine. John went to his computer and tracked him. He could tell by the direction Sherlock went which of the three churches was on the rotation for tonight, so he went outside and hailed a cab so he could beat him there.
When he arrived, the place was deserted. It was a cozy little church, a neighborhood Anglican. He went inside and found a good lookout post inside a closet, and he waited. If his observations were correct, Sherlock ought to show around six pm.
At five thirty, two men arrived, one fair-haired, one dark. The fair-haired man had a large case that obviously contained a keyboard. They were smiling and chatting with each other. They were about Sherlock’s age and both handsome. John watched them go into the sanctuary. He slipped out of his closet and crept up the stairs to the lofted choir balcony, which would afford him a view but let him remain hidden.
He watched one of the men set up the keyboard. The other disappeared into a side door and came back with three music stands, which he lined up across the expanse of empty space at the front of the church. He disappeared again.
It’s a rehearsal. They’re musicians.
Sherlock’s a musician. Could he be part of an ensemble of some kind? Why wouldn’t he have told me?
The thought of Sherlock performing with a group was absurd. Honestly, the thought of Sherlock doing anything in a group was a bit absurd. He didn’t exactly work and play well with others. He couldn’t get it out of him that he’d ever played the violin with an orchestra or a quartet or anything. Frankly, he couldn’t picture it.
A black woman with long braids arrived next, petite and fashionably dressed. “Cheers, Rob,” she said to the fair-haired chap.
They exchanged a cheek-kiss. “All right, Fiona?”
“All right. Where’s Dan?”
“In the back. You got the laptop?”
“Anne has it. She just texted me, she’ll be along directly.”
So…that was at least four people who’d be joining Sherlock here. The one Fiona had called Dan emerged carrying two more music stands, which he lined up with the other two. Fiona stashed her coat and went into the back herself, coming out with stools that she placed behind the music stands. “Anybody heard from Sherlock?” Rob asked.
“No. Should we have?”
Rob shrugged. “Until he walks through the door I’m always afraid he’ll have gotten himself stabbed to death and we’ll have to troll the streets asking random men if they can hit an E2.”
John’s jaw dropped. But it ought to have been obvious. The music stands with stools. Nobody had an instrument except for the keyboard.
These people were singers.
“I can hit a D2, you know,” came a familiar, deep voice.
Dan smiled. “You hit it once. I daresay none of us has ever recovered.”
Sherlock emerged into the aisle and strode to the front, shucking his coat as he went. John shrank further back into the shadows, too stunned to retreat now. Fiona was putting sheet music on her music stand, second from the left. John heard the door open again and a blond woman came hurrying in, a laptop bag over her shoulder. “Sorry, sorry,” she was saying. “Hi, Sherlock,” she said, tossing him a flirty smile.
“Evening, Anne,” he said, mildly.
“Can we get going?” Rob said, looking at his watch. “We’ve got a lot of ground to cover tonight.”
John saw the two women exchange an eyeroll. Rob seemed to be in charge around here. John was still trying to wrap his brain around the fact that Sherlock was apparently part of a…a…vocal group of some kind. He had never heard Sherlock sing. Not even in the shower. Even so, it wasn’t a difficult extrapolation to make. His speaking voice was enthralling, to say the least. Harry teased him that if the whole “consulting detective” thing didn’t pan out, he could make a fortune recording audiobooks of love poetry and sonnets.
The five people now gathered were arranging themselves in a semicircle. “Everyone warmed up?” Rob asked. Vague nods and assents. Sherlock was on the far right, which John assumed meant he had the lowest vocal part. Baritone? His knowledge of the terminology was rusty. He sat forward a bit, anticipation filling him. His amazement was leaving him and now he just desperately wanted to hear what Sherlock sounded like. What sort of singing did these people do? Was it that poppy a cappella stuff? He couldn’t imagine Sherlock bopping along singing “Cecilia” in five-part harmony while clapping. Such a thing might require him to - you know, smile.
“Let’s start with the Handel,” Rob said.
Groans all around. “Must we sing this pompous monstrosity?” Sherlock grumbled.
“Yes, we must, it’s been requested and they’re paying us rather a lot of money, so if they want to hear bloody ‘Zadok the Priest,’ then we’re going to bloody well sing it.”
“Can’t we save it for the end of rehearsal?” Anne asked. She was on the far left, likely the soprano of the group. “It’s murder on the throat and you know it.”
Rob sighed. “All right, we’ll save it. What do you want to start with, since we’re all being divas tonight, apparently?”
“Let’s sing Senza,” Fiona said, clapping her hands. Anne grinned and nodded.
Sherlock groaned. “I will register my usual objection to this entire travesty.”
“Yes, yes, we know, your rarefied tastes can’t abide this bastardization.”
“It’s - pandering. Popular music dressed in opera garb.” He shuddered.
“But you sing it so beautifully, Sherlock,” Anne said, giving him an exaggerated eyelash-batting face that was clearly not meant to be serious. Sherlock snorted, although it didn’t have much contempt behind it. John sensed that Sherlock actually liked Anne, as much as he liked anybody.
“People like it,” Rob said. “We can’t stand up here and sing selections from Il Forza del Destino and expect anybody to show up.”
“And what is wrong with Destino?”
“Not a thing. But we have to mix it up a little. We’re going to do the Pearl Fishers like you wanted, aren’t we?”
Sherlock didn’t look appeased. John’s anticipation was growing. These people weren’t pop singers, or jazz singers. They were opera singers. Could Sherlock sing like that? Great God, he’d had no idea. He didn’t know much about opera, but he knew that the ability to sing it was non-trivial and was a skill that had to be learned over time. When had Sherlock acquired this skill?
“All right, then,” Rob said. “Senza first.” Reshuffling of sheet music, although everyone was standing pretty well away from their music stands. Didn’t seem like they’d be doing much reading. They probably had the piece memorized.
Rob turned around to the laptop, which had been hooked to the keyboard. A few clicks and recorded orchestral accompaniment filled the sanctuary. John had an idea why they rehearsed here - the acoustics were quite amazing. He realized that everyone had been speaking in normal tones and he could hear every word from way up here in the choir loft.
Dan sang first after the introduction. He was incredible. A warm tenor, his voice filled the whole space and curled around the words. John frowned - wait, he knew this song. It hit him on the next phrase. It was “Unchained Melody,” arranged and translated into Italian. Popular music dressed in opera garb, Sherlock had sneered. John thought it sounded rather beautiful.
Sherlock was just standing there. Anne and Fiona were singing now, too. They were just as good as Dan. These people weren’t just amateur opera hobbyists, they were professionals and obviously well-trained. How on earth had Sherlock gotten involved in this?
Everyone was singing but Sherlock. Come on, dammit! Doesn’t he get to sing? It was lovely, and the rest of the group were amazing, but he wanted to hear Sherlock.
Then, he did.
[AN: Amici Forever’s recording of “Senza Catene” (Unchained Melody). Sherlock comes in around 1:45.]
(alternate download link in case of embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772587-e96)
The song’s bridge came up, and suddenly Sherlock was singing alone. He opened his mouth and out of that thin chest came - a voice. A voice. A deep, rich gorgeous voice full of power and vibrato and perfectly rolled r’s. John was glad he was sitting on the floor because his knees went a bit loose.
Oh, dear Lord.
The rest of the group joined in and they finished the song together. John barely noticed. Now that he’d heard him, all he could hear was Sherlock. The notes echoed in the church as the recorded orchestra stopped playing. John had to restrain himself from applauding. Rob was writing notes on his sheet music. “Anne, you’re still a hair early on that entrance. Dan, watch that high note in the last verse, you’re going sharp.” Everyone was nodding, making their own notes, Sherlock included. “Other than that, that one’s sounding good. Let’s shelve it until we have the orchestra, right?”
“I want to hear the Pearl Fishers. Lot of talk, not much walk,” Fiona said, crossing her arms and cocking an eyebrow.
“We don’t have time for that now, it’s not on the Poppy Day program. We should be focusing on that.”
“I want to hear it, too!” Anne said. “That duet kills me every time.”
“I haven’t even worked up an arrangement!” Rob protested.
“Surely Sherlock and Dan can just sing it for us. Give us a little preview. We don’t all have to jump right on,” Fiona said. “You know it, don’t you, Dan?”
“Yeah, I know it.” He looked over at Sherlock. “You up for it, Sherlock?”
“Of course,” Sherlock said, as if it were incomprehensible that he’d be anything but.
“The score recording’s on the laptop.”
Rob sighed. “Well, since we’re obviously not going to get anything done until you get your way, go ahead.”
The women sat on their stools while Dan and Sherlock moved to the middle of the semicircle. No one needed sheet music for this, it seemed. John had no idea who the Pearl Fishers were or what he was about to hear, except that it was obviously a duet for two men.
Rob started the recording of the orchestral accompaniment. Dan took his cue and began.
John wasn’t prepared for what he heard. He had never been much for opera, or classical music in general. He’d grown to appreciate some of Sherlock’s violin playing, when he could be persuaded to stop chicken-scratching and play some actual music, but opera was unknown territory, barring those few popular pieces that one heard in film trailers or in cartoons. This - this was something new to him. He could see why the others had been so keen to hear it.
It was beautiful. No, it was powerful. No, it was both. It reached into his chest and squeezed. It was full of longing, although he didn’t know what Dan and Sherlock were supposed to be longing for. They traded phrases back and forth until the phrasing built them to a harmony that made John’s breath hitch. He listened, captivated, until they climbed to a long sustained note, the orchestra going silent behind them. He saw Anne take a breath and her hand went to her chest. They finished off the piece and the recording stopped. Dan grinned widely; Sherlock just gave a slight, satisfied nod.
[AN: This is a recording of legendary tenor Jussi Bjorling and baritone David Merrill. The duet commonly referred to as the Pearl Fishers Duet, probably the most famous tenor/baritone duet in opera canon, is widely regarded as one of the most beautiful pieces in opera. Properly titled ‘Au fond du temple saint,’ it is from Bizet’s opera Les Pecheurs de Perles (The Pearl Fishers). This recording is very old (Jussi Bjorling died in 1960) but it still considered the best rendition of this piece. Amici Forever did record this piece on the same album from which the other tracks embedded here are drawn, but it’s reorchestrated for five parts and I just wanted the duet here.]
(embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772617-4c9)
“God, you guys,” Fiona said. “I love that piece, but damn.”
“How are we going to arrange that for five parts?” Anne said. “I’d feel like an intruder.”
“I’ll manage,” Rob said. He didn’t seem affected by the performance they’d just heard, which seemed impossible. Both the women were obviously moved. John himself was stunned.
I would like to barge down there right now, drag him home and make him sing for me. For days, maybe.
“That was really good, you two,” Rob was saying now, apparently aware that he was being a little grouchy. “That piece will bring the house down when we’re ready to debut it. But right now we’ve got to firm up the program for this Poppy Day concert. So let’s do the soldier song, that one needs the most work.”
Sherlock put his hands on his hips and shook his head. “I think we should scrap it.”
“We can’t scrap it! It was written specifically for us, specifically for this concert!”
“I think it’s a great piece,” Dan said, going back to his music stand. “I love that orchestral score.”
“It’s not the score. It’s these…lyrics. That score was never meant to be lyricized,” Sherlock said.
“All right, so the lyrics are a bit…”
“Inane?” Sherlock snapped.
“I was going to say, ‘on the nose.’ But they’re heartfelt and honestly meant. Good God, Sherlock! Can’t you at least get behind the sentiment of honoring war dead on Poppy Day?”
“A phony holiday engineered to allow us to assuage guilt that we’ve sent people to die in our stead during meaningless conflicts that arise from trivial disagreements.”
“Yeah, we’ve all heard it. Look, you start and end this piece. You’ve got to sell this. Maybe you’re just not that good of an actor.” John smirked. However long Sherlock had been part of this group, it was long enough for Rob to have an idea how to manipulate him.
Sherlock stuck his nose in the air. “I’m an excellent actor.”
John could vouch for this. He’d seen him pull off some truly astonishing performances while investigating crimes. He was less confident that he could pull off a performance when that’s all it was. A performance.
“Where do you get off judging people’s feelings about Poppy Day?” Fiona said, her brows drawn together. “I have a brother in Iraq. My grandfather died in World War II!”
Rob shook his head. “Don’t bother, Fiona. His sort don’t usually line up for service. He’s never had anybody he cares about in danger.”
“My sort? What sort is that, precisely? That is an ignorant assumption, not to mention a wrong one,” Sherlock snapped.
“Oh really?” Rob said, crossing his arms. “Astonish us.”
Incredibly, Sherlock looked a bit uncomfortable, as if he hadn’t been planning on getting dragged into this disagreement. John wondered where he’d been going with it. “It - doesn’t matter,” he said, quietly. “Let’s just rehearse the song. I’m perfectly capable of setting aside my dislike for the piece and performing it convincingly.”
“No, Sherlock, what were you going to say?” Anne said. She looked concerned. “Did you lose someone?” she asked, shooting Rob a oh, you really stepped in it glance.
“No,” Sherlock said. “I…” His fingers restlessly fiddled with his sheet music. “I could have.”
“You could have?”
Sherlock sighed. “John is a veteran.”
“John, your flatmate? I thought he was a doctor,” Dan said, frowning.
“He is. He was an Army doctor. He was badly wounded in Afghanistan and invalided home. That’s when we met. And what if he had been killed, instead of wounded? I’d never have…” He trailed off. “Well. It isn’t something I enjoy contemplating.”
“Of course you don’t,” Fiona said, her voice gentle again. She was looking at Sherlock with that expression that women tended to get when they were cooing over what an adorable couple he and Sherlock were. Denying it was hardly worth the trouble anymore, so John usually just let it go.
To his surprise, Sherlock took up John’s usual line. “As I’ve said - repeatedly - John and I are just friends, Fiona.”
“Sure. Whatever you say. I just know I’d love to have a chap talk about me the way you talk about John.”
“You do get rather soft about the edges when you mention him, mate,” Dan said, giving Sherlock a very Holmesian eyebrow-raise.
John was flummoxed. Sherlock talked about him to these people? In a…fond sort of way? It was reassuring and troubling at the same time. It had always been hard to know where he stood with Sherlock. Of late it had been getting harder and harder, not just to figure out where he stood, but where either of them did.
“Can we get on with this ridiculous piece of claptrap, please?” Sherlock said, rattling his sheet music.
“All right, all right,” Rob said. He started the recorded accompaniment.
The score sounded vaguely familiar but John couldn’t place it. Sherlock started off. The lyrics were in English. John didn’t see anything so terrible about them, but Sherlock did have rather high standards. He could see Rob’s point. Sherlock wasn’t giving a very convincing rendition.
Rob stopped the playback. “That isn’t going to cut it, Sherlock.”
“Haranguing me about my flatmate just before I’m supposed to sing earnestly about the honored war dead isn’t the best way to elicit the appropriate mood.”
“What do you want? A goddamned parade? Think about your mate, then. Think about him getting blown to bits in Afghanistan and having people sing him moving tributes on Poppy Day.”
Rob tossed this off casually, then looked up to find the other four all staring at him. “Good God, Rob,” Dan muttered. “That’s bleeding cold.”
“What? He’s said worse to us!”
“I have been accused of heartlessness many times,” Sherlock said, biting off the words, “but are you actually telling me to imagine the horrible death of the man I love to get a performance out of me?”
Anne and Fiona exchanged a triumphant look. John barely heard Rob’s reply.
The man I love.
John had to hang on to the wall by his side to keep from tipping over. Down below, there was some apologizing and some indignation going on and then Rob was starting up the accompaniment again.
Then Sherlock was singing, and it was different this time. There was something behind it now. John watched raptly as the rest of the group joined in. The song seemed to be about war dead, and there were some platitudes, and something about the world being free someday. He wasn’t really paying attention. He was watching Sherlock’s face.
[AN: This piece is the amazing Michael Kamen orchestral score to the miniseries “Band of Brothers,” with lyrics added. The lyrics are, as Sherlock says, a bit Velveeta. Still a nice piece, though.]
(embed!fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14772611-869)
As Rob had said, Sherlock had to sing both the opening and closing phrases of the song. He did so beautifully, to John’s uneducated ears. The accompaniment stopped. Everyone was quiet. Sherlock turned his back and John saw him put his hands to his eyes.
Christ, I can’t take this. John slipped over to the staircase and hurried down, coming into the back of the sanctuary just as Rob spoke again.
“That was really good, Sherlock,” he said, sounding a little ashamed.
“Were you thinking of…” Fiona began.
“How could I not be?” Sherlock snapped, turning back around. “It’s like telling someone not to think of a pink elephant. So there you go, Rob. I hope you’re happy.”
John knew a good cue when one fell into his lap. “I don’t know about him, but I am,” he said, stepping into the aisle.
Everyone stared. John only had eyes for Sherlock, who was standing there wide-eyed with astonishment, an expression John had seen on his face but rarely.
“Uh, this is a closed rehearsal, mate,” Rob said.
“John!” Sherlock said. “What are you doing here?”
John saw the others gaping at him now as well, realizing who he was. “I followed you.”
“How long have you been listening?” Sherlock asked, flushing a little, probably thinking back to what he’d said.
“Since the beginning,” John said, swallowing hard. “You’re - you’re amazing.”
Sherlock didn’t seem to hear this last. He hurriedly stepped down from behind his music stand and strode up the aisle to meet him halfway. He stopped a few feet shy of him, obviously knocked off his composure by John’s sudden appearance. “John, I - I don’t know why you’re here or what you may have heard, but when I said…I didn’t mean…”
“No. Stop. Don’t say you didn’t mean it.”
There it was again, that look of astonishment. John was peripherally aware of the others watching, but it was amazing how much he did not care. Sherlock blinked and dropped his gaze. “John,” he said, the name nearly lost in a half-choke of uncertainty. Hearing Sherlock so unsure of himself and what was going to happen next broke something inside John’s heart, but it felt good to feel it crumble - it had just been in the way.
He took a step closer and put his hands on either side of Sherlock’s head, lifting it so he could see his eyes again. “Please don’t tell me you didn’t mean it.”
Those pale eyes searched John’s face. “I meant it,” Sherlock said.
John smiled. “Good.” He drew Sherlock’s face down to his own and kissed him. He didn’t think about it, he didn’t wonder what the hell he was doing, he just did it because he couldn’t do otherwise. Sherlock went still for a moment, then kissed back. John felt Sherlock’s hand come up and cup his neck, his other arm winding around John’s waist and pulling him closer.
It seemed to go on forever, even though it was really only a few seconds. Sherlock pulled back and they just looked at each other for a moment. John laughed softly. “You all right?”
“I may never recover from the shock, but otherwise yes,” Sherlock murmured, a half-smile on his face. He leaned in and kissed him again, quickly.
“Can I, uh…meet your friends?” John asked.
Sherlock straightened up like he was just remembering where they were. John glanced over Sherlock’s shoulder; the other four were standing in a group, acting like they were conferring over their sheet music but really just trying to look like they weren’t all surreptitiously watching them. “If you must,” Sherlock said, faux-stern. He turned and led John up the aisle toward the front, one arm around his back. He cleared his throat and the others immediately turned around, all smiles. “Well, I suppose introductions are all but moot at this point, but - this is Dr. John Watson, my…flatmate,” he said, stumbling a bit over that last word. They waved and said a smattering of hellos. “John, this is Anne, Fiona, Rob and Dan.”
“Nice to meet you,” John said.
“So nice to finally meet you,” Fiona said. “We were starting to wonder if perhaps you weren’t Sherlock’s imaginary friend.”
“And I could have sworn he said you were just friends,” Anne added, winking.
“Well - we were,” John said, feeling a bit giddy.
“When did that all change?”
“Gosh. That’s hard to say.” He looked up at Sherlock. “How long has it been, then?”
Sherlock looked thoughtful but his eyes were twinkling. “If I had to guess, I’d say about ninety seconds.”
Fiona’s jaw dropped. “You mean - just now - did we just see you two…?”
“An historic moment, I’m sure,” Sherlock said dryly, but his arm about John’s back tightened a hair. John grinned, his own arm going about Sherlock’s waist, basking in the freedom to indulge the impulse to touch the man that he’d resisted a hundred times over the course of their friendship.
Rob harrumphed a bit. “I hate to spoil the mood, I mean this is all very nice and so on, but we are in the middle of a rehearsal.”
“Oh piss off, Rob,” Fiona said. “The man’s just had a major life event.”
“No, it’s fine,” John said. “I’m intruding.”
“Yes, you are,” Sherlock said, close to his ear, his deep voice rumbling through John’s skull. Somehow those innocuous words carried several layers of distracting implications.
“I should go.” He didn’t want to go. He wanted to stay and listen. But he didn’t wish to throw Sherlock off his game or disrupt the group.
“You’re welcome to stay and listen if you like,” Rob said. “Most of our various partners have sat in from time to time. We usually go round the pub for a bite after rehearsal. Sherlock never comes along, but perhaps you can persuade him to make an exception.”
“I don’t think I’ve ever persuaded him to do anything,” John joked. He looked up at Sherlock. “You go on. I’ll just sit here till you’re done, I won’t make a sound. We can, uh - talk afterwards.”
Sherlock nodded. “All right, then.” The corners of his mouth curled in a slow smile. “Be a bit difficult to concentrate on Handel now,” he murmured.
“You’ll manage.”
Sherlock kissed John’s temple, then stepped away and went back to the group, resuming his place at the far right. John slipped into a pew about halfway back and Rob carried on with the rehearsal.
John sat and listened as they worked on the soldier song for a time, making what sounded to him like infinitesimal adjustments until Rob was satisfied. They moved on to other selections, most of which seemed well rehearsed. John watched Sherlock, rapt. His concern about concentration had been groundless, of course - the man had a near-supernatural ability to focus on one thing to the exclusion of all else. At one point, though, while the women were going over a difficult passage together, Sherlock glanced down at him and smiled, a bit shyly. That unschooled expression, like a schoolboy stealing a glance at his crush, made John grin from ear to ear, and he had to hold himself back from charging up there and dragging Sherlock home. A curl of anticipation was unfurling in his belly, butterflies filling his midsection at the thought that later, he’d get to kiss Sherlock again, and perhaps do some other things with - and to - him, things he’d spent a good deal of time trying not to think about.
Think about them now, John. Think all you like. So John Watson sat there in the church and went right ahead and thought about them, and the minutes flew by.
“All right, then,” Rob finally said, as it was getting on close to eight o’clock. “Handel.” More groans. John wondered what this Handel piece was that they were all dreading.
The minute the accompaniment began, he recognized it. It was the coronation song. And it quickly became clear why they’d all been dreading it. It seemed to require them all to belt out long, sustained notes that sounded like a lot of effort. They had to stop at one point when Dan faltered and lost it, then Sherlock missed a cue, then Anne’s voice broke on a high note. Tea was drunk from thermal carafes, lozenges appeared. John watched them all buckle down, even Sherlock. For all his bluster and nonchalance, it was clear that Sherlock wanted to perform the piece correctly as much as the others did, which didn’t surprise John. No matter what Sherlock did, he wanted to do it perfectly, and demonstrate that he had superior skills.
After twenty minutes’ work, they got through it, then again with more confidence. Rob gave a satisfied nod, and everyone relaxed. “All right, then. Next Tuesday. We’ll have two more rehearsals then we’ve got the dress with the orchestra.”
Everyone began packing up their music and putting the music stands away. “You and your friend coming round the pub then, Sherlock?” Dan asked, smirking.
John was of two minds about that. On the one hand, he very much wanted to hear about how Sherlock had gotten involved in all this. But he also wanted very much to get the man alone. “I’ll leave that up to John,” Sherlock was saying.
“How about it, John?” Fiona said. “Fancy a pint?”
Curiosity won out. “All right.”
They walked to a pub a few blocks away. Everything seemed different to John. Just walking next to Sherlock, the air practically vibrated with the newness. I kissed Sherlock. Kissed. Thought about it. Never did it. Have now done it. It was brilliant. I can’t wait to do it again.
Sherlock loves me. Said as much. But for how long? And why didn’t he ever say? How long would it have taken if I hadn’t followed him tonight?
And how the BLOODY HELL did he end up in a group of opera singers? Despite the personal significance of all the other questions, it was this last one that intrigued him the most at the moment, mostly because whatever it was between him and Sherlock would be worked out, and already it felt like it had been inevitable.
The pub was quiet, with a smattering of patrons. The six of them huddled around a table in the back, John accepting a pint while Sherlock declined. As soon as they’d taken their seats, John felt Sherlock’s hand on his leg, resting comfortably on his thigh as if this were its designated spot, and damn if that’s not how it felt. He met Sherlock’s eyes, and there it was again, that shy half-smile that was fast becoming his favorite expression to see on Sherlock’s face.
“So we’ve been mighty curious about you, John,” Anne said, coming to the table with a basket of chips. “I imagine you’ve been so about us.”
“I didn’t know you existed,” John said. “I’d no idea Sherlock did - this.”
Everyone’s eyes widened, and Sherlock shifted a bit uncomfortably in his seat. “What?” Dan said. “You didn’t know?” He swiveled to stare at Sherlock. “You didn’t tell your best mate that you were performing? What are you, embarrassed?”
“Certainly not,” Sherlock said, gruff. “I planned to tell him.”
“When?” John asked. “And how long has this been going on, anyway?”
“Sherlock’s been with us for a year and a half,” Rob said.
Now it was John’s turn to stare. “You’ve been doing this since before I met you?”
“Indeed.”
“I don’t know why you thought you couldn’t tell me,” John said, trying to keep the hurt from his voice.
“It wasn’t that. It was just something I didn’t care to share.”
“I can’t imagine why. If I could sing like that, I’d never shut up about it!”
Sherlock thought for a moment. “I dislike cluttering my life with - irrelevancies. This is one that I’ve allowed myself to keep.”
Rob grunted. “Thanks for describing my profession as an irrelevancy, Sherlock.”
“It isn’t so to you. You’ve dedicated your life to music. There was a time that I considered doing the same. My choice not to do so need not imply disapproval of your choice,” Sherlock said.
“You thought about being a musician?” John asked, fascinated.
“I grew up playing the violin. My mother forced it on myself and Mycroft. I took to it, he did not. Eventually I studied voice as well, and into University. For a time, the study of music and performance satisfied my desire for a rational approach to human emotional expression.”
Anne laughed. “That’s the strangest description of music I’ve ever heard.”
“In the end I simply developed other interests that took precedence. But I never abandoned music entirely. It simply became an alternative to my other pursuits.”
“I met Sherlock just when we were getting the group off the ground,” Rob said. “We’d lost our original baritone when he took a job in the States, at the Met. I was having a devil of a time finding a replacement when Sherlock here fell into my lap.”
Sherlock shook his head, bemused. “Rob lived next door to a woman whose murder I was helping Lestrade investigate.”
“The police were asking me questions about her,” Rob said. “When in storms this person in a long, black coat and just takes over. He starts barking questions at me, and all I could think was, jackpot.”
“Jackpot?” John said.
“I could tell that he’d been professionally trained as a vocalist by the way he breathed and spoke. And as mercenary as it sounds, for the marketability of the group I needed someone who met certain - outward criteria, shall we say.”
“He needed someone hot,” Fiona said, sotto voce, leaning close on John’s other side.
“So here comes this chap who looks like one of those avant-garde fashion models and speaks like he’s ready to burst into Largo al factotum any moment. I confess I forgot all about my poor dead neighbor.”
“Took me rather by surprise,” Sherlock said. “I’m asking him if his neighbor ever owned cats, and the first thing he said to me was, ‘Can you hit an E2?’ I was so surprised, all I could do was tell him that yes, I could.”
John laughed. “Ah, it all becomes clear.”
“It does?” Rob said, frowning.
“You did to him what he does to everyone, Rob. You deduced something about him from an observation and then blindsided him with it. It’s probably the only thing you could have said that would have gotten him interested.”
“He’s quite right,” Sherlock said. “I was intrigued enough to accept Rob’s invitation for an audition.”
“He blew me away, all of us,” Rob said, to general nods of assent. “He was out of practice, but I knew I could have him back to singing form in short order.” He smirked. “His voice slotted in so well with the rest of us that we offered him the spot, even though by then we’d figured out what a bloody irritating wanker he was,” he said, dropping a wink.
“I gotta say, I’m - I’m astonished,” John said. “I wish I’d known.” He curled his fingers around Sherlock’s, who squeezed them back.
“Well, you know now,” Fiona said. She grabbed Rob’s arm. “We should sing something for John at the Poppy Day concert. We can fit in one more number. He’s a veteran.”
“Oh, no, that isn’t…” John began.
“What’d you have in mind?” Rob asked.
“Do you have a favorite piece, John?” Anne asked.
“Um…I’m not sure I…”
“Yes, he does,” Sherlock said. “I’m sure all of you already know it.” He cleared his throat, then sang the first line in a quiet, unobtrusive tone. Dan nodded, smiling, and joined him for the second line.
John sat there with chills going up his spine as the five of them fell into unrehearsed yet perfect harmony, gentle and decidedly non-operatic, barely drawing attention from the other pub patrons.
You’ll take the high road and I’ll take the low
And I’ll be in Scotland afore ye
But me and my true love will never meet again
On the bonnie, bonnie banks of Loch Lomond.
This was his favorite song. He had no idea how Sherlock knew that. He’d barely realized it himself.
Even as quiet as they were being, by the time they had sung through the song, everyone in the pub was watching, entranced by the soft beauty of the song and the voices rendering it. When they stopped, everyone applauded.
John could only watch Sherlock’s face, their interlaced fingers resting on his leg, and know that he’d been let in on something precious.
[AN: The King’s Singers, another group I considered as a model for the group Sherlock sings with, performing “Loch Lomond.”]
(embed!Fail: http://www.divshare.com/download/14785381-245)
They left the pub after about an hour, amid promises for John to attend the upcoming concert and teases leveled at him and Sherlock about their night’s planned activities, the thought of which were giving John butterflies again.
A block away from the pub, John stopped and turned to face his silent companion. “I followed you. I’m sorry if I barged in and made you reveal this before you were ready.”
Sherlock shook his head. “I’m glad you did. I didn’t keep it secret because I didn’t wish for you to know. It’s been more out of habit than anything else of late, I think.”
“You really are amazing at it,” John said. “It’s quite - sexy,” he said, blushing a bit.
“I’m quite at a loss to predict what you might or might not find sexy,” Sherlock said, smirking.
“Well, here’s the rough guide: if you’re doing it, it’s sexy.” John had to laugh at himself. “Listen to me. I’m making quite a fool of myself.”
Sherlock’s eyes went a bit more intense. “How long, John?”
John didn’t need to ask for clarification. “I don’t know if I’m able to say. Since I met you? Since tonight? Both at once?” He grinned. “All I know is that I’m very keen to sit in the front row at your concert with everyone else’s significant other and be the proud boyfriend.”
Sherlock reached out and straightened John’s jacket, pulling his scarf a bit closer around his neck. “John Watson,” he said, like he was just enjoying saying his name, his voice gruff. “You…” He harrumphed, drawing his dignity around him.
“Me, what?”
“You, I adore.” He drew John close and kissed him, taking his time about it. John gripped Sherlock’s lapels and kissed back. “And now I should very much like to take you home and kiss you a great deal.”
“I may let you. But only if you’ll sing for me some more.”
Sherlock grinned, and they started off down the pavement again, their fingers lacing together. “I’ve always found the rigor and precision of vocal performance rewarding. The use of such an organic, subjective instrument to achieve a particular frequency and tone is difficult and worth study. I discovered something new about it this evening, however, thanks to you.”
“What’s that?”
“It becomes quite a different experience when one has somebody to sing to.”