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Sounds from the party drift through the bedroom door and into my ears.
I loathe parties, John always insists on throwing them. Luckily John only invited a few people, we don’t have many friends. Well I don’t have many friends. But John had invited the few people I mildly tolerated, Mrs. Hudson, of course (can’t have a party without your landlady), Lestrade (Sally came along with him), Molly Hooper, and for an unknown reason John invited Mycroft. Dreadfully boring party, there was wine and confetti, the moment the clock struck 12:00 I made my escape, whispering to John that I would be in the bedroom.
I shut my eyes, focusing on the notes inside my head. I lift the violin to my jawline, placing the bow against the tight strings. I feel the vibrations of the music keeping my eyes shut. This is John’s song, it cannot be second rate. It must be perfect.
Hinges squeak as John opens the bedroom door. There is no other sound. Keep concentrating, I will myself, it’s only John. But that is the problem. It is John. This song I am playing, it is for him. It is his song.
There is still no sound from the doorway.
“This is your song John.” I tell him, my voice sounds like raging thunder. The third floorboard from the door squeaks, he has taken a step closer. I keep my eyes closed. Force myself to keep playing, using all of my strength not to drop my precious instrument right then and kiss him on the mouth, hard. “I wrote it for you.” I say, keeping my voice deep, melodic.
I stand, towering, my eyes shut firm. I know if I look at him I will forget my composition. Forget his song. I can’t let that happen. I step forward, one long step. I hear him moving, a clumsy step closer to me. I hear the sound of him shuffling again. I feel the heat radiating from his body. Lord how my stomach is churning.
I can feel his eyes penetrating me.
“It isn’t proper to stare John.” My breath washes over him, I feel him shudder slightly, unknowingly.
I stop playing; I have come to the end of John’s song. I tuck the composition neatly away into John’s file in my palace.
I set my violin down onto the bed.
John is breathing heavily. Wait, that’s me, I am the one breathing unevenly. Or maybe, I realize it is both of us, we suck in unsteady gasps of air.
I speak one last time, once more requiring my voice to sound like a rolling storm.
“Happy New Year John Watson.” I tell him. Then I slowly lean down and press my lips against his, only for a moment.