Violin Lesson - BBC Sherlock fanfiction
Author's note: First BBC Sherlock fic I ever wrote. :D And I'm no good at titles >.>
Warnings -- mild Sherlock/John slash -waggly eyebrows-
The fantastinormous br0_harry drew some epic arts for this! Go look at it, it's byootiful! :DD
br0-harry.livejournal.com/547.html
Without further ado...
v v v
VIOLIN LESSON
* * * * * * *
The constant stream of words coming from the figure hunched in the chair across the room was starting to grate on John Watson's nerves.
Boredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredbored
"SHERLOCK!"
"Bored, John."
"Hmmm, I hadn't noticed."
Sherlock glared over at him.
"Entertain me."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Sherlock, believe it or not, I'm actually trying to work here..."
"I know where Mrs. Hudson hid your gun, John."
John passed a weary hand over his eyes and heaved a sigh.
"Sherlock..."
"And the bullets."
"Fine! Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"Entertain me."
"Well, how?"
Sherlock crossed his arms and cocked his head at John, as if to say 'I'm waiting.'
"What, do you want me to dance? Juggle? Crack jokes? I'm not well-versed in any of those areas, just so you know..."
"Talk to me."
"I am."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Really, John?"
"Well, what do you want me to say?! If you wanted someone intelligent to actually carry a conversation with you why don't you call your brother?"
Sherlock snorted in disgust and looked away, his arms still crossed.
"Forced conversation really isn't my forte, Sherlock, I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
Sherlock pressed steepled fingers to his lips and stared at John for a long minute, until John started shifting uncomfortably under the steely blue gaze, trying to ignore it and focus on the textbook sitting open in his lap. He had read the same sentence about 30 times and he still didn't know what it said when Sherlock spoke up.
"You played the clarinet in school." he said suddenly, and John looked up, brow furrowed.
"Yes, not well, but yes..."
"Ever think of taking it up again?"
"No, Sherlock, I can't say that I have. What's this about?"
"Small talk, John. Play along."
"Oh. Um."
"What about a different instrument? Say... the violin?"
"Oh, please."
"What?" Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap and stared at John inquiringly.
"Me, playing the violin?"
"Well why not?"
"Well, for starters, the tremor in my dominant hand could be a bit of an issue..."
"Nonsense," Sherlock said, standing up in one smooth motion and grabbing his violin case from under his armchair. John set his book aside hesitantly as Sherlock moved towards him, the clasps on the case clicking open under the detective's long fingers. "We took care of that a long time ago, John. You're just making excuses."
"Excuses? Sherlock, what--"
Sherlock pulled the doctor to his feet and turned him around so they were standing back to chest, raising the violin to rest against John's shoulder and nudging his head so the shorter man's chin rested on the instrument correctly.
They were pressed awfully close. John shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard.
"Stop squirming, John. Now you just..." Sherlock's left hand found John's and curled the tanned fingers around the neck of the violin, carefully arranging the digits to form a chord. The strings dug into John's un-calloused fingers uncomfortably, but the doctor found he suddenly didn't care. Sherlock was warm against his back and the flat was uncomfortably chilly, so the situation could be looked upon as an improvement.
The violin bow was pressed into his right hand, and then Sherlock's pale fingers were guiding his hand to draw the bow across the strings in one quick stroke...
A single crisp, ringing note rang out across the flat. John couldn't suppress a smile.
"Not so difficult, is it?" Sherlock's voice was right in his ear, making John shiver involuntarily.
"You do realize you're trying to teach a left-handed man to play the violin with his right, don't you?"
"Obviously. As a right-handed man, I would find it difficult to teach with the opposite hand since I'm accustomed to playing with my right, but since you've never picked up a violin in your life, it would be easier for you to learn ambidextrously that it would be for me to teach it..."
"Okay, Sherlock, I get the point."
Sherlock just smiled as he shifted John's fingers on the neck of the violin, guiding the bow back up to draw across the strings and coax a smooth, long note from the instrument.
"Aren't you going to tell me what notes I'm playing?" John asked, squinting hard at his left hand in what Sherlock realized was an attempt to memorize the finger position.
"Do you really want to bother with all the technical aspects, or do you want me to teach you to play something?"
John's eyes flicked over his shoulder to glance at Sherlock for a second, then he huffed a sigh.
"I don't have the time to learn to play the traditional way, I suppose..."
"Mmhmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, already busy shifting John's fingers over the frets.
* * * * * * *
An hour passed without them realizing it, and by that time John was playing the little melody Sherlock had shown him all by himself.
Sherlock stood in front of John, watching his form, his face, and his fingers as the doctor played the tiny melody without assistance, and when John dropped the violin to his side, Sherlock grinned.
"Congratulations, John, you can play the violin,"
John grinned back.
"Seems like a lot of work for just a few notes," he said, but the pride he felt at achieving even that was evident in his dark blue eyes.
"Nothing worth having comes easy, John," Sherlock said casually, retrieving his violin and carefully replacing it in its case.
John blinked at Sherlock's turned back, his mind catching the double entendre in the detective's comment. He watched Sherlock closely for any signs that he realized what he said wasn't entirely innocent, but the other man seemed oblivious.
"No, I suppose it doesn't," he mumbled after a minute, slumping into his armchair resignedly and reaching for the medical textbook still sitting on the side-table.
A pale hand reached it first, pinning it in place. John looked up.
"Are you determined to get me fired?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I do need to study at some point, Sherlock."
"It's only mid-afternoon, John, you have plenty of time for the boring and mundane later this evening."
John pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in frustration.
"What now, Sherlock."
"It was a double entendre."
"What?"
"Jesus, John, don't play stupid with me. I saw you hesitate."
John felt his cheeks flush slightly.
"Yes, well, um..." this was becoming uncomfortable alarmingly fast. John wanted to get up and run away but the soldier in him persevered, he felt cornered, trapped, embarrassed...
Until Sherlock leaned forward, and pressed his soft, heart-shaped lips to his.
It was simple, chaste, questioning, but cautious as it was it still left John hot around the collar.
When Sherlock pulled back to look down with an eyebrow raised, John gaped at him with wide eyes, missing the contact.
"More?"
"God yes,"
Hungrily John's hand wrapped around the back of the taller man's neck, pulling him down and crushing their lips together with abandon--
The front door of 221B slammed and footsteps sounded on the stairs.
When Lestrade burst into the flat, Sherlock and John were once again seated opposite from one another, Sherlock casually texting no one on his Blackberry and John scanning the open page of the medical textbook planted in his lap.
"You were brought up well," Sherlock said sarcastically, not looking up from typing.
"Sorry?"
"Knocking, Lestrade. It's the polite thing to do."
"Right, sorry, but I really don't have the time for--"
"There's always time for manners."
"Sherlock!"
John had to suppress a grin as Sherlock finally raised his head to look at the Detective Inspector with and expression of careless innocence.
"Mmm?"
"Do you remember the case I mentioned about the elderly woman and her grandson?"
"Fleetingly," Sherlock mumbled, disinterested, turning his focus once again to his phone.
"It's deeper than we thought,"
"Than YOU thought," Sherlock corrected, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade over his busily typing fingers.
"There's been three more robberies."
"Robberies. Dull."
"And three murders."
That caught Sherlock's attention. He perked up immediately.
"Really. Finally deciding to try something interesting for a change? The family jewels not enough anymore?"
"Well, we don't exactly have concrete evidence that it was them..."
"What makes you think it was, then?" Sherlock demanded, looking annoyed.
"The family jewels."
"Damn it, Lestrade, that could be anybody. People steal things. Is that really the only reason you burst so rudely--"
"No, Sherlock. The family jewels. The ones that had been stolen from other households. They were found at the scenes of the murders."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Lestrade bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet.
"Will you come?"
Sherlock glanced over at John, who had been discreetly watching the detective since the moment Lestrade had come into the picture.
"Who's on forensics?"
Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Take a wild guess, Sherlock. Look, I really need your help on this! Will you come?" Lestrade actually sounded desperate. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.
"Text me the address I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Thank you,"
The Detective Inspector's footsteps receded down the stairs and the front door slammed shut.
Sherlock fixed John with a stare. John stared back, determinedly fighting the urge to blink. It wasn't long before his eyes started watering.
"Yes, fine, alright, I'm coming with you," he snapped, slamming his textbook shut and dropping it back onto the side-table. Starting a staring match with Sherlock was like trying to stare down a sodding snake.
"Good. I don't think I can face Anderson on my own without the outcome ultimately ending in disaster. The man's a massive tool,"
"If you're looking for an argument you're barking up the wrong tree," John said flatly, reaching for his coat where it hung beneath Sherlock's on the back of the door. He had just turned and started shrugging it onto his shoulders when he found himself suddenly pinned against the wall with surprising force.
Sherlock's phone beeped, the screen lighting up with the words "Incoming Message, DI Incompetent Moron".
"Lestrade's waiting," John said patiently, trying to keep his voice steady, which he was finding difficult with Sherlock's lips trailing down his exposed neck.
"Then let him wait," Sherlock murmured, his breath ghosting over John's tanned skin and causing the doctor to shiver.
"And pass up the opportunity to insult Scotland Yard's intelligence?"
"Tempting as that is, John, I can think of three other things I'd rather do with my time..."
"Leave it to you to provide an exact number," John gasped as Sherlock bit his neck in retaliation, wedging his hands in between their bodies and pushing the detective away.
"Not a smart move." Sherlock said, in what John could only think of as a growl. If it weren't for the taller man's blown pupils, John would have actually been scared at that tone of voice.
"Come on Sherlock, pull yourself together. We're leaving. Here, I'll get your phone--"
"Why are you pushing me away?"
John froze and turned back to the detective, a slow pirouette on his heels.
"I'm not. Just... not right now, okay? We've already been interrupted once,"
"What are you afraid of?"
It was a loaded question. John tried to side-step it.
"Nothing, Sherlock! I--"
"Don't want to be seen with me?"
"Goddamnit, Sherlock, I just don't like being walked in on during private moments like that, okay?"
"There's a lock on the door."
"LATER, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed heavily and walked up to John, gently taking his phone from John's loose grip.
"Will you come?" Sherlock asked, his low baritone voice rumbling deliciously.
"So you heard that one too."
Sherlock grinned.
"I was itching to blurt 'that's what she said'..."
John stood up on his tiptoes and pecked a kiss on Sherlock's lips.
"I will if you do,"
Sherlock hummed in approval and grabbed John's hand, leading him out the door and off on another adventure.
* * * * * * *
Warnings -- mild Sherlock/John slash -waggly eyebrows-
The fantastinormous br0_harry drew some epic arts for this! Go look at it, it's byootiful! :DD
br0-harry.livejournal.com/547.html
Without further ado...
v v v
VIOLIN LESSON
* * * * * * *
The constant stream of words coming from the figure hunched in the chair across the room was starting to grate on John Watson's nerves.
Boredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredboredbored
"SHERLOCK!"
"Bored, John."
"Hmmm, I hadn't noticed."
Sherlock glared over at him.
"Entertain me."
"What?"
"You heard me."
"Sherlock, believe it or not, I'm actually trying to work here..."
"I know where Mrs. Hudson hid your gun, John."
John passed a weary hand over his eyes and heaved a sigh.
"Sherlock..."
"And the bullets."
"Fine! Fine. What do you want me to do?"
"Entertain me."
"Well, how?"
Sherlock crossed his arms and cocked his head at John, as if to say 'I'm waiting.'
"What, do you want me to dance? Juggle? Crack jokes? I'm not well-versed in any of those areas, just so you know..."
"Talk to me."
"I am."
Sherlock rolled his eyes.
"Really, John?"
"Well, what do you want me to say?! If you wanted someone intelligent to actually carry a conversation with you why don't you call your brother?"
Sherlock snorted in disgust and looked away, his arms still crossed.
"Forced conversation really isn't my forte, Sherlock, I'm sorry I can't be of more help."
Sherlock pressed steepled fingers to his lips and stared at John for a long minute, until John started shifting uncomfortably under the steely blue gaze, trying to ignore it and focus on the textbook sitting open in his lap. He had read the same sentence about 30 times and he still didn't know what it said when Sherlock spoke up.
"You played the clarinet in school." he said suddenly, and John looked up, brow furrowed.
"Yes, not well, but yes..."
"Ever think of taking it up again?"
"No, Sherlock, I can't say that I have. What's this about?"
"Small talk, John. Play along."
"Oh. Um."
"What about a different instrument? Say... the violin?"
"Oh, please."
"What?" Sherlock dropped his hands into his lap and stared at John inquiringly.
"Me, playing the violin?"
"Well why not?"
"Well, for starters, the tremor in my dominant hand could be a bit of an issue..."
"Nonsense," Sherlock said, standing up in one smooth motion and grabbing his violin case from under his armchair. John set his book aside hesitantly as Sherlock moved towards him, the clasps on the case clicking open under the detective's long fingers. "We took care of that a long time ago, John. You're just making excuses."
"Excuses? Sherlock, what--"
Sherlock pulled the doctor to his feet and turned him around so they were standing back to chest, raising the violin to rest against John's shoulder and nudging his head so the shorter man's chin rested on the instrument correctly.
They were pressed awfully close. John shifted uncomfortably, swallowing hard.
"Stop squirming, John. Now you just..." Sherlock's left hand found John's and curled the tanned fingers around the neck of the violin, carefully arranging the digits to form a chord. The strings dug into John's un-calloused fingers uncomfortably, but the doctor found he suddenly didn't care. Sherlock was warm against his back and the flat was uncomfortably chilly, so the situation could be looked upon as an improvement.
The violin bow was pressed into his right hand, and then Sherlock's pale fingers were guiding his hand to draw the bow across the strings in one quick stroke...
A single crisp, ringing note rang out across the flat. John couldn't suppress a smile.
"Not so difficult, is it?" Sherlock's voice was right in his ear, making John shiver involuntarily.
"You do realize you're trying to teach a left-handed man to play the violin with his right, don't you?"
"Obviously. As a right-handed man, I would find it difficult to teach with the opposite hand since I'm accustomed to playing with my right, but since you've never picked up a violin in your life, it would be easier for you to learn ambidextrously that it would be for me to teach it..."
"Okay, Sherlock, I get the point."
Sherlock just smiled as he shifted John's fingers on the neck of the violin, guiding the bow back up to draw across the strings and coax a smooth, long note from the instrument.
"Aren't you going to tell me what notes I'm playing?" John asked, squinting hard at his left hand in what Sherlock realized was an attempt to memorize the finger position.
"Do you really want to bother with all the technical aspects, or do you want me to teach you to play something?"
John's eyes flicked over his shoulder to glance at Sherlock for a second, then he huffed a sigh.
"I don't have the time to learn to play the traditional way, I suppose..."
"Mmhmm," Sherlock hummed in agreement, already busy shifting John's fingers over the frets.
* * * * * * *
An hour passed without them realizing it, and by that time John was playing the little melody Sherlock had shown him all by himself.
Sherlock stood in front of John, watching his form, his face, and his fingers as the doctor played the tiny melody without assistance, and when John dropped the violin to his side, Sherlock grinned.
"Congratulations, John, you can play the violin,"
John grinned back.
"Seems like a lot of work for just a few notes," he said, but the pride he felt at achieving even that was evident in his dark blue eyes.
"Nothing worth having comes easy, John," Sherlock said casually, retrieving his violin and carefully replacing it in its case.
John blinked at Sherlock's turned back, his mind catching the double entendre in the detective's comment. He watched Sherlock closely for any signs that he realized what he said wasn't entirely innocent, but the other man seemed oblivious.
"No, I suppose it doesn't," he mumbled after a minute, slumping into his armchair resignedly and reaching for the medical textbook still sitting on the side-table.
A pale hand reached it first, pinning it in place. John looked up.
"Are you determined to get me fired?"
"I'm sorry?"
"I do need to study at some point, Sherlock."
"It's only mid-afternoon, John, you have plenty of time for the boring and mundane later this evening."
John pinched the bridge of his nose, his eyes closed in frustration.
"What now, Sherlock."
"It was a double entendre."
"What?"
"Jesus, John, don't play stupid with me. I saw you hesitate."
John felt his cheeks flush slightly.
"Yes, well, um..." this was becoming uncomfortable alarmingly fast. John wanted to get up and run away but the soldier in him persevered, he felt cornered, trapped, embarrassed...
Until Sherlock leaned forward, and pressed his soft, heart-shaped lips to his.
It was simple, chaste, questioning, but cautious as it was it still left John hot around the collar.
When Sherlock pulled back to look down with an eyebrow raised, John gaped at him with wide eyes, missing the contact.
"More?"
"God yes,"
Hungrily John's hand wrapped around the back of the taller man's neck, pulling him down and crushing their lips together with abandon--
The front door of 221B slammed and footsteps sounded on the stairs.
When Lestrade burst into the flat, Sherlock and John were once again seated opposite from one another, Sherlock casually texting no one on his Blackberry and John scanning the open page of the medical textbook planted in his lap.
"You were brought up well," Sherlock said sarcastically, not looking up from typing.
"Sorry?"
"Knocking, Lestrade. It's the polite thing to do."
"Right, sorry, but I really don't have the time for--"
"There's always time for manners."
"Sherlock!"
John had to suppress a grin as Sherlock finally raised his head to look at the Detective Inspector with and expression of careless innocence.
"Mmm?"
"Do you remember the case I mentioned about the elderly woman and her grandson?"
"Fleetingly," Sherlock mumbled, disinterested, turning his focus once again to his phone.
"It's deeper than we thought,"
"Than YOU thought," Sherlock corrected, narrowing his eyes at Lestrade over his busily typing fingers.
"There's been three more robberies."
"Robberies. Dull."
"And three murders."
That caught Sherlock's attention. He perked up immediately.
"Really. Finally deciding to try something interesting for a change? The family jewels not enough anymore?"
"Well, we don't exactly have concrete evidence that it was them..."
"What makes you think it was, then?" Sherlock demanded, looking annoyed.
"The family jewels."
"Damn it, Lestrade, that could be anybody. People steal things. Is that really the only reason you burst so rudely--"
"No, Sherlock. The family jewels. The ones that had been stolen from other households. They were found at the scenes of the murders."
Sherlock wrinkled his nose. Lestrade bounced impatiently on the balls of his feet.
"Will you come?"
Sherlock glanced over at John, who had been discreetly watching the detective since the moment Lestrade had come into the picture.
"Who's on forensics?"
Lestrade let out a long-suffering sigh.
"Take a wild guess, Sherlock. Look, I really need your help on this! Will you come?" Lestrade actually sounded desperate. John raised his eyebrows at Sherlock.
"Text me the address I'll be there as soon as I can."
"Thank you,"
The Detective Inspector's footsteps receded down the stairs and the front door slammed shut.
Sherlock fixed John with a stare. John stared back, determinedly fighting the urge to blink. It wasn't long before his eyes started watering.
"Yes, fine, alright, I'm coming with you," he snapped, slamming his textbook shut and dropping it back onto the side-table. Starting a staring match with Sherlock was like trying to stare down a sodding snake.
"Good. I don't think I can face Anderson on my own without the outcome ultimately ending in disaster. The man's a massive tool,"
"If you're looking for an argument you're barking up the wrong tree," John said flatly, reaching for his coat where it hung beneath Sherlock's on the back of the door. He had just turned and started shrugging it onto his shoulders when he found himself suddenly pinned against the wall with surprising force.
Sherlock's phone beeped, the screen lighting up with the words "Incoming Message, DI Incompetent Moron".
"Lestrade's waiting," John said patiently, trying to keep his voice steady, which he was finding difficult with Sherlock's lips trailing down his exposed neck.
"Then let him wait," Sherlock murmured, his breath ghosting over John's tanned skin and causing the doctor to shiver.
"And pass up the opportunity to insult Scotland Yard's intelligence?"
"Tempting as that is, John, I can think of three other things I'd rather do with my time..."
"Leave it to you to provide an exact number," John gasped as Sherlock bit his neck in retaliation, wedging his hands in between their bodies and pushing the detective away.
"Not a smart move." Sherlock said, in what John could only think of as a growl. If it weren't for the taller man's blown pupils, John would have actually been scared at that tone of voice.
"Come on Sherlock, pull yourself together. We're leaving. Here, I'll get your phone--"
"Why are you pushing me away?"
John froze and turned back to the detective, a slow pirouette on his heels.
"I'm not. Just... not right now, okay? We've already been interrupted once,"
"What are you afraid of?"
It was a loaded question. John tried to side-step it.
"Nothing, Sherlock! I--"
"Don't want to be seen with me?"
"Goddamnit, Sherlock, I just don't like being walked in on during private moments like that, okay?"
"There's a lock on the door."
"LATER, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed heavily and walked up to John, gently taking his phone from John's loose grip.
"Will you come?" Sherlock asked, his low baritone voice rumbling deliciously.
"So you heard that one too."
Sherlock grinned.
"I was itching to blurt 'that's what she said'..."
John stood up on his tiptoes and pecked a kiss on Sherlock's lips.
"I will if you do,"
Sherlock hummed in approval and grabbed John's hand, leading him out the door and off on another adventure.
* * * * * * *