Holmseverse collaboartion part 2
Two days later and Sherlock was standing in front of the sitting room window, peering down over the dark street. The next day would be (hopefully) eventful. Lestrade was keeping tabs on the remaining violinist as well as the bassists. They would catch the killer. John would be pleased. Sherlock would start waiting for the next case.
Violin in hand, Sherlock plucked at the strings idly, creating tunes and melodies from the rummage of thoughts pinging around inside his head. Waiting. The waiting was one of Sherlock's least favourite things. He sighed, frowning slightly at the reflected lamplight against the window. Soon.
John watched Sherlock from his chair. He had a habit of doing that, especially lately. The violin in his hands bespoke of his boredom and John desperately wanted him to either play something decent or put the damn thing down. Thankfully, John was a man of great patience and had acquired the ability, through much practice, to hold his peace.
The violin got him thinking though. Two days. Two days of pondering and waiting and going through the facts, and still he couldn’t think of a motivation. Why on earth would any of the bassists turn to murder? As far as their investigations went, there weren’t any obvious signs of tension or animosity between any members in the orchestra as a whole. It bothered him. He was usually pretty good at figuring out their suspects - not great, but good enough at it to be frustrated by this case’s ambiguity. Sherlock was the expert, so John was hoping he would shed some light on the situation eventually, though he had no idea how.
Time was short and John had grown accustomed to having everything figured out by now, of knowing what he was getting himself into. He wasn’t scared, but he was a little anxious about how many things were still up in the air. It was afternoon. The next murder would have to happen soon and yet there was still no word on any new red strings or suspicious activities. He’d asked Lestrade to keep them posted, but if something had happened it would be easy to get caught up in the moment and forget.
John was bored, and fidgety, so finally he turned to Sherlock and said, “You mind playing something else? I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
It took several moments for John's request to filter through Sherlock's attention. When it did register, he slid his gaze across the window glass to look over at the pale reflection sitting in the chair by the fireplace. "Stop fretting," he suggested. He plucked at the strings a little longer and then drew the bow across slowly. Sorting through the half jumble of music in his head, Sherlock settled on something soft and sighing, a bit sweeter than what he normally would play.
John sighed and settled back into his chair. He honestly loved it when Sherlock played actual music, and the lilting melody he was creating eased some of his tension; not all of it, but now he at least knew what the remaining weight in his chest was about.
John wouldn’t say he was in love, not even close.
Attracted though, God yes. He’d had time to think over the past few days, in the lull of excitement and adrenaline. He tried to work through some of his reactions the past few days, and could really only come to that conclusion. The weird, awkward warmth he kept feeling was probably the biggest factor in that theory. It wasn’t that he’d never gotten it from Sherlock before, but it was an infrequent occurrence and he had brushed it off as hormones. He was now fairly certain that he had been wrong.
“Sherlock, I - ” he cut himself off, horrified by his own traitorous mouth. He wasn’t even positive about his feelings yet! No way could he talk to Sherlock about it already! He glanced over to the couch, hoping that Sherlock’s violin had drowned out his mistake.
Sherlock finished the last few bars, but instead of looping back as he had been, he went back to plucking pizzicato at the strings. "What was that, John?" He calmly turned from the window, glancing over at his companion. He tried not to read the doctor's expression, a futile act on his part.
John considered for only a second whether or not to lie and hoped Sherlock hadn’t seen. “I - uh, I’m worried about the case. Isn’t it getting late?” God, he wanted to talk, but he didn’t want to say something foolish and regret it later. Though he’d never had a relationship with a man, he had always felt that he was open to having one, so his sexuality wasn’t the issue.
It was that this was Sherlock Holmes and nothing involving the man should be taken lightly. A relationship with him would mean more danger, probably more kidnapping, and another complicated layer to their already unusual life; he hadn’t had much time to figure out if the risk was worth the reward. Only in the last few days did he even accept that he had feelings for Sherlock, and he didn’t want to jump headfirst into something.
Except Sherlock usually made him want to do just that.
"Tomorrow he'll act," Sherlock murmured. He stooped for a moment to collect his case and set his violin and bow away. A soft, dry cloth was folded inside the case and he wiped down the body of the violin, as well as the strings. "Perhaps you should sleep." He couldn't keep a thin vein of disinterest out of the idea of sleep. Sherlock found it a pointless, focus-sapping task.
“Yeah, yes. That’s probably a good idea,” John said, moving to make a hasty retreat from the room. His damn heart though, that horrible pulling sensation, made him hesitate with his hand on the doorknob. This was a chance, perhaps the only chance he had to make his feelings known. If he ran away now - for all the good, logical reasons he had stockpiled - would he ever work up the guts to tell Sherlock? What he was doing was running away, and all of his logic was simply covering his fear. Well, John Watson wasn’t the type of man who was okay with that.
“Sherlock, what I meant to say earlier,” he swallowed, keeping his eyes on the handle; he didn’t want Sherlock reading his face just then. He couldn’t find the right words either. Saying something like “I like you” sounded juvenile, while “I have feelings for you” was vague and lacked conviction, and “I love you” was taking things too far. Tightening his grip, he set his mouth into a thin line of determination.
“I think I’m attracted to you,” he said, and deciding that still sounded vague, he clarified with, “romantically.”
"Do you." Sherlock closed the violin case with a soft 'click' of the buckles. He leisurely crossed the room, his hands slipped casually in the pockets of his trousers. He'd given John the perfect out, and the man had gone and surprised Sherlock by staying. Doctor Watson had far too much heart at the best of times. It was obvious and something that Sherlock witnessed on almost a daily basis. For him to find attraction in the consulting detective wasn't much of a leap.
Standing next to John, almost to the point of crowding him against the closed door, Sherlock peered down at him. "Facts, John. The rest is all just... clutter." He disliked wasting his time, even when it came to his blogger.
“Well, sorry I didn’t go through the Scientific Method,” he grumbled. John felt a little cornered, to be honest, but in a good way. It felt like he was on the brink of something waiting to be pushed over. He told himself to stop being defensive and evasive and just get on with it.
“Alright then, if you want it cut and dry, I’m attracted to you and would like to be in a relationship.” His face was set, expression hard and not the sort of look one would normally wear when confessing their affections.
Sherlock examined John for a moment, a slightly amused smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He reached over to tug at John's shirt collar and pull it even with the other side. He wondered what John saw when he looked at their interactions, what was too subtle for him to latch onto.
Leaning down, Sherlock brushed a kiss over John's mouth, his fingers curling beneath the other man's chin to hold him at an agreeable angle. Surprisingly pleasant. "We have a relationship, John."
John blinked for a moment, eyelashes skipping across Sherlock’s cheeks, surprised by how easily that went. “Oh - well, then.” He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “Now that that’s cleared up, I believe we were about to go to bed?” John thought about how that sounded for a second and tried very hard not to blush. He had a feeling he failed spectacularly. “Not, um, I mean, not like that though. Sleep, we were going to go to sleep.” He could feel his bravado slipping a bit and had to drop his gaze down to Sherlock’s chin.
With a small amount of mischief in his voice, Sherlock noted, "I don't sleep much, especially while on a case." It was something he'd said a long time ago, but had a lovely second meaning, now.
“You’ll just have to bring something to occupy yourself with, then,” John said, picking up the mischievous tone and running with it. He finally turned and left through the door, heading up the stairs grinning like a madman.
"Indeed," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He followed after John, smile lingering, his fingers twisting at the buttons to his shirt sleeves.
-
John moved slowly, quietly. It was dark inside the lobby and he planned to fully take advantage of that. There weren’t many hiding places since the hall was mostly empty, purposed for housing a large number of people milling about after a performance. It would be better once he was inside - there were at least chairs in the main concert hall that he could duck behind. It was about six in the evening then. Lestrade had texted roughly twenty minutes prior, rousing John from his sleep and causing his adrenaline to fly sky-high. He reached the door to the hall and checked to make sure Sherlock was still with him.
Sherlock had been shadowing John down the corridor, coat flaring out silent behind him as they moved. Lestrade and his men were pressing through the rest of the rooms at Barbican Centre. Sherlock and John had lost the officer accompanying them. The consulting detective wasn't certain when and ultimately didn't care. He was sure he was around somewhere. She was around somewhere. Or was it a he?
Through the slot in the hall door, Sherlock peered over the top of John's head, looking inside. On the stage, two figures were highlighted by one of the spotlights. Posture of the woman - bending away, tension through her shoulders and the way she gripped the chair; clearly distressed. The man looming over her had his hands loose at his sides, holding something. The pose was very hostile. The killer.
"John," Sherlock murmured, his words ruffling the other man's hair. "This way, quickly." He turned away to move down the hall and around the corner. The door on the orchestra level would lead them to the side stage door. Entering from the back would be loud, noisy. Very obvious and the distance was too great to cross quickly.
John followed Sherlock to a side hallway, stairs dipping down to the lower level, landing sloping towards where the stage would be. There was a door not too far, and it sounded like things were coming to a head; yelling, whimpering. John made his footfalls a quiet as possible without slowing his approach so he could listen in.
“...doit! My GOD you disgust me, you piece of shit! Why, whywhywhywhy - WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” There was a thud and a female voice cried out. John wanted to run, wanted to get there faster but he couldn’t give them away. He couldn’t hear anything more than the hum of the man mumbling something and John didn’t know if that was good or not. He got to the door, and thought he wanted to sprint through and end the situation right then, he didn’t want to do anything stupid; the war had taught him that a tactical plan was always better than a spontaneous one. He opened the door a crack so he could see and hear what was happening.
“You bitch. I hate you beyond what your tiny, simple mind could ever fathom. Do you know, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” The man was hunched over the girl, one hand on the back of the chair the girl was tied to, the other brandishing a knife. He spoke with calm, vicious clarity, much different from that raging hysterics he had been in before. He took a shaky breath. “You, you make my ears BLEED!!”
John jumped as the word echoed off the walls, screaming back at him over and over. He thought now would be a good time to move, before the man went on another tangent. He brought up his gun, flicking the safety off.
Sherlock eased the door open and slid a propping block from the other side into place. The echo of the killer's voice would be heard by any officers in the hall. With one glance to John, Sherlock moved into the hall and up the side stair by the curtain. The killer was monologuing. Sherlock sighed inwardly and pushed through the curtain. He leapt at the bassist, reaching to grab the knife.
The killer turned, knife arcing up and away from Sherlock’s grasp before coming back down toward Sherlock’s chest. John run up behind him to twist the man’s wrist before it the knife managed to connect. He dropped it, hand twitching and mouth open in a scream of both pain and outrage. John did his best to secure both of his arms behind his back. He was fighting back with the force of a man completely unhinged and it took all of John’s strength to not be knocked over by it. He screamed curses at the girl, whipping his head back and forth, spit flying.
John managed to get him to his knees and at that point, he calmed, just like he did before, quietly boiling with hatred. “You stole from me. You stole my days, my music, my love. You and your slut violin, sucking up the spotlight with your talentless, burlesque dance. You squeal and screech and I can’t stand it, I can’t fucking stand it, you deserve to die. You should have been born fingerless. You should have spared me your cruelty. You stole so much from me, stole so muchsomuchsomuch,” he mumbled continuously. He seemed stuck in a loop for a moment and John looked to Sherlock because honestly, he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.
Expressionless, Sherlock threw a solid punch at the man, making his head snap to the side. He went limp in John's grasp and Sherlock watched with faint displeasure. "There's your why, John. Unhinged jealousy."
Sherlock sent Lestrade a text - caught killer. Main stage, girl alive. As he pocketed his phone, he glanced over at the violinist, shocked and shaking in her seat. Third violin, Elizabeth Mason, still fairly new to the orchestra. Lucky to be alive. Sherlock found her pizzicato particularly striking, much improved since her debut, and hardly talentless.
Sherlock turned away without saying anything and focused on John. "Dinner?" He concluded. The villain was caught, and the victim saved. His blogger had a tendency towards regular meals, especially after an adrenaline rush, and Sherlock felt like a cup of tea.
Lestrade burst in through the main hall doors before John could respond, at least three officers in two. "What part," he said, coming down the side aisle towards the stage, "Of 'let us take him down' don't you two understand?" He climbed the side stairs and approached Sherlock and John, grudgingly nodding his approval at seeing the violinist alive. Two of the officers took the bassist from John, cuffing his hands immediately.
"Honestly." Lestrade shifted his shoulders under his jacket, holstering his gun when the murderer was completely cuffed. Then, at length, "You all right?"
Sherlock spared John a small smile, not bothering to answer the question. The answer was too obvious to waste time replying to.
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, straightening himself after the struggle. He glanced up to see their suspect starting to stir again, the change in hands apparently rousing him from his daze. “You might want to sedate him, though, he fights hard.”
John rotated his left shoulder, feeling stiff from strain. The bastard thrashed around like a fish and his old wound wasn’t too fond of that. He smiled over at Sherlock and remembered how lovely dinner had sounded. The killer was caught, the lovely lady was safe, and neither of them had eaten. He turned pleasantly to Lestrade. “You mind if we go? This one’s not eaten again and I don’t want him collapsing on me.” He bobbed his head in Sherlock’s direction in an offhanded kind of way.
Sherlock looked miffed at being blamed for the supposed hunger, and Lestrade didn't give him the opportunity to start off about it. "I need statements," he said, and waved at the sour expression that Sherlock immediately made. "Just give them and you can go. Donovan's outside." Lestrade turned away to go over to the victim, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
Once they were gone, John’s smile turned back to Sherlock. The dim lighting cast shadows from all the right places and John thought he was looking rather gorgeous so he leaned in, dropping a quick kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, careless and happy. He pulled back, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Good job, mate. You feel like Chinese or Indian tonight?”
Sherlock paused and turned to lean in after John, chasing his lips. After a slightly longer (proper) kiss, Sherlock moved back, half-smiling. "The usual cook at Mao's has the night off. You'll like the curry better." Turning away, Sherlock went to hail down a taxi, pulling his scarf tighter against the cool breeze. He didn't bother looking to see if John had followed him. Sherlock knew he would be a mere few steps behind.
end.
Violin in hand, Sherlock plucked at the strings idly, creating tunes and melodies from the rummage of thoughts pinging around inside his head. Waiting. The waiting was one of Sherlock's least favourite things. He sighed, frowning slightly at the reflected lamplight against the window. Soon.
John watched Sherlock from his chair. He had a habit of doing that, especially lately. The violin in his hands bespoke of his boredom and John desperately wanted him to either play something decent or put the damn thing down. Thankfully, John was a man of great patience and had acquired the ability, through much practice, to hold his peace.
The violin got him thinking though. Two days. Two days of pondering and waiting and going through the facts, and still he couldn’t think of a motivation. Why on earth would any of the bassists turn to murder? As far as their investigations went, there weren’t any obvious signs of tension or animosity between any members in the orchestra as a whole. It bothered him. He was usually pretty good at figuring out their suspects - not great, but good enough at it to be frustrated by this case’s ambiguity. Sherlock was the expert, so John was hoping he would shed some light on the situation eventually, though he had no idea how.
Time was short and John had grown accustomed to having everything figured out by now, of knowing what he was getting himself into. He wasn’t scared, but he was a little anxious about how many things were still up in the air. It was afternoon. The next murder would have to happen soon and yet there was still no word on any new red strings or suspicious activities. He’d asked Lestrade to keep them posted, but if something had happened it would be easy to get caught up in the moment and forget.
John was bored, and fidgety, so finally he turned to Sherlock and said, “You mind playing something else? I’ve got a bit of a headache.”
It took several moments for John's request to filter through Sherlock's attention. When it did register, he slid his gaze across the window glass to look over at the pale reflection sitting in the chair by the fireplace. "Stop fretting," he suggested. He plucked at the strings a little longer and then drew the bow across slowly. Sorting through the half jumble of music in his head, Sherlock settled on something soft and sighing, a bit sweeter than what he normally would play.
John sighed and settled back into his chair. He honestly loved it when Sherlock played actual music, and the lilting melody he was creating eased some of his tension; not all of it, but now he at least knew what the remaining weight in his chest was about.
John wouldn’t say he was in love, not even close.
Attracted though, God yes. He’d had time to think over the past few days, in the lull of excitement and adrenaline. He tried to work through some of his reactions the past few days, and could really only come to that conclusion. The weird, awkward warmth he kept feeling was probably the biggest factor in that theory. It wasn’t that he’d never gotten it from Sherlock before, but it was an infrequent occurrence and he had brushed it off as hormones. He was now fairly certain that he had been wrong.
“Sherlock, I - ” he cut himself off, horrified by his own traitorous mouth. He wasn’t even positive about his feelings yet! No way could he talk to Sherlock about it already! He glanced over to the couch, hoping that Sherlock’s violin had drowned out his mistake.
Sherlock finished the last few bars, but instead of looping back as he had been, he went back to plucking pizzicato at the strings. "What was that, John?" He calmly turned from the window, glancing over at his companion. He tried not to read the doctor's expression, a futile act on his part.
John considered for only a second whether or not to lie and hoped Sherlock hadn’t seen. “I - uh, I’m worried about the case. Isn’t it getting late?” God, he wanted to talk, but he didn’t want to say something foolish and regret it later. Though he’d never had a relationship with a man, he had always felt that he was open to having one, so his sexuality wasn’t the issue.
It was that this was Sherlock Holmes and nothing involving the man should be taken lightly. A relationship with him would mean more danger, probably more kidnapping, and another complicated layer to their already unusual life; he hadn’t had much time to figure out if the risk was worth the reward. Only in the last few days did he even accept that he had feelings for Sherlock, and he didn’t want to jump headfirst into something.
Except Sherlock usually made him want to do just that.
"Tomorrow he'll act," Sherlock murmured. He stooped for a moment to collect his case and set his violin and bow away. A soft, dry cloth was folded inside the case and he wiped down the body of the violin, as well as the strings. "Perhaps you should sleep." He couldn't keep a thin vein of disinterest out of the idea of sleep. Sherlock found it a pointless, focus-sapping task.
“Yeah, yes. That’s probably a good idea,” John said, moving to make a hasty retreat from the room. His damn heart though, that horrible pulling sensation, made him hesitate with his hand on the doorknob. This was a chance, perhaps the only chance he had to make his feelings known. If he ran away now - for all the good, logical reasons he had stockpiled - would he ever work up the guts to tell Sherlock? What he was doing was running away, and all of his logic was simply covering his fear. Well, John Watson wasn’t the type of man who was okay with that.
“Sherlock, what I meant to say earlier,” he swallowed, keeping his eyes on the handle; he didn’t want Sherlock reading his face just then. He couldn’t find the right words either. Saying something like “I like you” sounded juvenile, while “I have feelings for you” was vague and lacked conviction, and “I love you” was taking things too far. Tightening his grip, he set his mouth into a thin line of determination.
“I think I’m attracted to you,” he said, and deciding that still sounded vague, he clarified with, “romantically.”
"Do you." Sherlock closed the violin case with a soft 'click' of the buckles. He leisurely crossed the room, his hands slipped casually in the pockets of his trousers. He'd given John the perfect out, and the man had gone and surprised Sherlock by staying. Doctor Watson had far too much heart at the best of times. It was obvious and something that Sherlock witnessed on almost a daily basis. For him to find attraction in the consulting detective wasn't much of a leap.
Standing next to John, almost to the point of crowding him against the closed door, Sherlock peered down at him. "Facts, John. The rest is all just... clutter." He disliked wasting his time, even when it came to his blogger.
“Well, sorry I didn’t go through the Scientific Method,” he grumbled. John felt a little cornered, to be honest, but in a good way. It felt like he was on the brink of something waiting to be pushed over. He told himself to stop being defensive and evasive and just get on with it.
“Alright then, if you want it cut and dry, I’m attracted to you and would like to be in a relationship.” His face was set, expression hard and not the sort of look one would normally wear when confessing their affections.
Sherlock examined John for a moment, a slightly amused smile curling at the corner of his mouth. He reached over to tug at John's shirt collar and pull it even with the other side. He wondered what John saw when he looked at their interactions, what was too subtle for him to latch onto.
Leaning down, Sherlock brushed a kiss over John's mouth, his fingers curling beneath the other man's chin to hold him at an agreeable angle. Surprisingly pleasant. "We have a relationship, John."
John blinked for a moment, eyelashes skipping across Sherlock’s cheeks, surprised by how easily that went. “Oh - well, then.” He cleared his throat and looked Sherlock straight in the eye. “Now that that’s cleared up, I believe we were about to go to bed?” John thought about how that sounded for a second and tried very hard not to blush. He had a feeling he failed spectacularly. “Not, um, I mean, not like that though. Sleep, we were going to go to sleep.” He could feel his bravado slipping a bit and had to drop his gaze down to Sherlock’s chin.
With a small amount of mischief in his voice, Sherlock noted, "I don't sleep much, especially while on a case." It was something he'd said a long time ago, but had a lovely second meaning, now.
“You’ll just have to bring something to occupy yourself with, then,” John said, picking up the mischievous tone and running with it. He finally turned and left through the door, heading up the stairs grinning like a madman.
"Indeed," Sherlock said, mostly to himself. He followed after John, smile lingering, his fingers twisting at the buttons to his shirt sleeves.
-
John moved slowly, quietly. It was dark inside the lobby and he planned to fully take advantage of that. There weren’t many hiding places since the hall was mostly empty, purposed for housing a large number of people milling about after a performance. It would be better once he was inside - there were at least chairs in the main concert hall that he could duck behind. It was about six in the evening then. Lestrade had texted roughly twenty minutes prior, rousing John from his sleep and causing his adrenaline to fly sky-high. He reached the door to the hall and checked to make sure Sherlock was still with him.
Sherlock had been shadowing John down the corridor, coat flaring out silent behind him as they moved. Lestrade and his men were pressing through the rest of the rooms at Barbican Centre. Sherlock and John had lost the officer accompanying them. The consulting detective wasn't certain when and ultimately didn't care. He was sure he was around somewhere. She was around somewhere. Or was it a he?
Through the slot in the hall door, Sherlock peered over the top of John's head, looking inside. On the stage, two figures were highlighted by one of the spotlights. Posture of the woman - bending away, tension through her shoulders and the way she gripped the chair; clearly distressed. The man looming over her had his hands loose at his sides, holding something. The pose was very hostile. The killer.
"John," Sherlock murmured, his words ruffling the other man's hair. "This way, quickly." He turned away to move down the hall and around the corner. The door on the orchestra level would lead them to the side stage door. Entering from the back would be loud, noisy. Very obvious and the distance was too great to cross quickly.
John followed Sherlock to a side hallway, stairs dipping down to the lower level, landing sloping towards where the stage would be. There was a door not too far, and it sounded like things were coming to a head; yelling, whimpering. John made his footfalls a quiet as possible without slowing his approach so he could listen in.
“...doit! My GOD you disgust me, you piece of shit! Why, whywhywhywhy - WHY ARE YOU HERE?!” There was a thud and a female voice cried out. John wanted to run, wanted to get there faster but he couldn’t give them away. He couldn’t hear anything more than the hum of the man mumbling something and John didn’t know if that was good or not. He got to the door, and thought he wanted to sprint through and end the situation right then, he didn’t want to do anything stupid; the war had taught him that a tactical plan was always better than a spontaneous one. He opened the door a crack so he could see and hear what was happening.
“You bitch. I hate you beyond what your tiny, simple mind could ever fathom. Do you know, do you have any idea what you’ve done to me?” The man was hunched over the girl, one hand on the back of the chair the girl was tied to, the other brandishing a knife. He spoke with calm, vicious clarity, much different from that raging hysterics he had been in before. He took a shaky breath. “You, you make my ears BLEED!!”
John jumped as the word echoed off the walls, screaming back at him over and over. He thought now would be a good time to move, before the man went on another tangent. He brought up his gun, flicking the safety off.
Sherlock eased the door open and slid a propping block from the other side into place. The echo of the killer's voice would be heard by any officers in the hall. With one glance to John, Sherlock moved into the hall and up the side stair by the curtain. The killer was monologuing. Sherlock sighed inwardly and pushed through the curtain. He leapt at the bassist, reaching to grab the knife.
The killer turned, knife arcing up and away from Sherlock’s grasp before coming back down toward Sherlock’s chest. John run up behind him to twist the man’s wrist before it the knife managed to connect. He dropped it, hand twitching and mouth open in a scream of both pain and outrage. John did his best to secure both of his arms behind his back. He was fighting back with the force of a man completely unhinged and it took all of John’s strength to not be knocked over by it. He screamed curses at the girl, whipping his head back and forth, spit flying.
John managed to get him to his knees and at that point, he calmed, just like he did before, quietly boiling with hatred. “You stole from me. You stole my days, my music, my love. You and your slut violin, sucking up the spotlight with your talentless, burlesque dance. You squeal and screech and I can’t stand it, I can’t fucking stand it, you deserve to die. You should have been born fingerless. You should have spared me your cruelty. You stole so much from me, stole so muchsomuchsomuch,” he mumbled continuously. He seemed stuck in a loop for a moment and John looked to Sherlock because honestly, he had no idea what he was supposed to do now.
Expressionless, Sherlock threw a solid punch at the man, making his head snap to the side. He went limp in John's grasp and Sherlock watched with faint displeasure. "There's your why, John. Unhinged jealousy."
Sherlock sent Lestrade a text - caught killer. Main stage, girl alive. As he pocketed his phone, he glanced over at the violinist, shocked and shaking in her seat. Third violin, Elizabeth Mason, still fairly new to the orchestra. Lucky to be alive. Sherlock found her pizzicato particularly striking, much improved since her debut, and hardly talentless.
Sherlock turned away without saying anything and focused on John. "Dinner?" He concluded. The villain was caught, and the victim saved. His blogger had a tendency towards regular meals, especially after an adrenaline rush, and Sherlock felt like a cup of tea.
Lestrade burst in through the main hall doors before John could respond, at least three officers in two. "What part," he said, coming down the side aisle towards the stage, "Of 'let us take him down' don't you two understand?" He climbed the side stairs and approached Sherlock and John, grudgingly nodding his approval at seeing the violinist alive. Two of the officers took the bassist from John, cuffing his hands immediately.
"Honestly." Lestrade shifted his shoulders under his jacket, holstering his gun when the murderer was completely cuffed. Then, at length, "You all right?"
Sherlock spared John a small smile, not bothering to answer the question. The answer was too obvious to waste time replying to.
“Yeah, thanks,” John said, straightening himself after the struggle. He glanced up to see their suspect starting to stir again, the change in hands apparently rousing him from his daze. “You might want to sedate him, though, he fights hard.”
John rotated his left shoulder, feeling stiff from strain. The bastard thrashed around like a fish and his old wound wasn’t too fond of that. He smiled over at Sherlock and remembered how lovely dinner had sounded. The killer was caught, the lovely lady was safe, and neither of them had eaten. He turned pleasantly to Lestrade. “You mind if we go? This one’s not eaten again and I don’t want him collapsing on me.” He bobbed his head in Sherlock’s direction in an offhanded kind of way.
Sherlock looked miffed at being blamed for the supposed hunger, and Lestrade didn't give him the opportunity to start off about it. "I need statements," he said, and waved at the sour expression that Sherlock immediately made. "Just give them and you can go. Donovan's outside." Lestrade turned away to go over to the victim, leaving John and Sherlock alone.
Once they were gone, John’s smile turned back to Sherlock. The dim lighting cast shadows from all the right places and John thought he was looking rather gorgeous so he leaned in, dropping a quick kiss onto Sherlock’s lips, careless and happy. He pulled back, clapping a hand onto his shoulder. “Good job, mate. You feel like Chinese or Indian tonight?”
Sherlock paused and turned to lean in after John, chasing his lips. After a slightly longer (proper) kiss, Sherlock moved back, half-smiling. "The usual cook at Mao's has the night off. You'll like the curry better." Turning away, Sherlock went to hail down a taxi, pulling his scarf tighter against the cool breeze. He didn't bother looking to see if John had followed him. Sherlock knew he would be a mere few steps behind.
end.