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At first John thought he was dreaming it. After all, it wasn’t very often that one heard the sounds of fiddle playing at 3 in the morning. Well, in 221B, it was quite often the violin was playing, but it was usually it was classical or lyrical melodies (or out of tune screeching done to annoy Mycroft).
But no, it was fiddle playing, as if there was some distinction between a violin and a fiddle. John got up with a groan. He supposed it had been a while since he last told Sherlock to keep his playing at an acceptable volume level when it was time for normal humans to be sleeping. With a yawn, John made his way from the bedroom to the living room to check on Sherlock.
Now John had known Sherlock for quite some time, so he had come tool believe that nothing Sherlock did could surprise him anymore.
But seeing Sherlock leaping from the couch to the coffee table to... well, any surface that could accommodate him, all while deep in the throes of playing the chaotic melody.
Well, that was new.
It wasn’t very often that John got to see Sherlock so deeply involved with something that wasn’t a case or one of his Frankenstein experiments (not that John would ever tell Sherlock that was what he called them), but apparently playing the violin and dancing about the flat was one of those rare activites.
Sherlock was standing on the couch when he finished the song, pulling his bow across the strings of the final chord with great flourish. The sound still echoed in John’s ears even as the music faded and the only sound in the flat was Sherlock’s heavy breathing.
Finally, John couldn’t simply watch Sherlock anymore, “Feeling better then?” he asked, curious.
The genius opened his eyes slowly, turning to face John (still perched on the couch, no less), “I take it you’ve been listening for quite some time?”
“Long enough to see you prancing about the flat.” John nodded, “Nice playing, by the way. I just hope you didn’t wake Mrs. Hudson.”
“She likes the sound.” Sherlock replied, setting his violin down, “ “You can’t have dark thoughts while listening to a good fiddle” she once said.”
The doctor blinked, “So you’re playing fiddler in the middle of the night…for Mrs. Hudson?”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. Then again, he really didn’t need to. It was more of a rhetorical question than anything else.
“I take it this has something to do with Florida?”
“Not exactly my story to tell.”
“Never stopped you before.” John smiled, but accepted Sherlock’s discretion, “And I thought the Devil went down the Georgia, not Florida.” He joked lightly.
Sherlock shrugged, “Perhaps, but as the Americans say, Florida is where Americans go to die.”
John shook his head, “This conversation got very morbid.” He chuckled, “Coming back to bed then?”
“I think I’ll play one more.” Sherlock nodded, “Mrs. Hudson is making tea, she could use the noise.”
John could hear it now, the whistling of the kettle downstairs. He smiled softly, sitting in his chair, “Play on then, Master Fiddler.”