Work Text:
John had been listening to the whining sweetness of each note from the kitchen for over an hour.
He'd stopped typing at least two hours ago, but his laptop was still open. The blue and white Word doc was still up and the cursor blinking. Originally, he had come down to put a pot on, but the symphony in the living room had begun and he hadn't wanted to interrupt. And now that wasn't even a thought to consider anymore.
The violin. Sherlock was playing again.
Moonlight dripped from the window. Soft, silver drips of it came into the room, falling into the rime of Sherlock's eyes. John could see him in there, just a bit. His suit still on-- one of the nicer tailored ones. His eyelashes, long, like the row of black buttons on his jacket. His skin, the same shade of pale as his shirt.
The sharpness of his face is astoundingly clear. He keeps moving, aborted step here, half-stop there. The music is sailingsailingsailing and then he stops playing. His head is pointed down. The curtaining of his eyelashes draws more shadows, more curvature to his cheek. The roundness of the buttons gleaming on his jacket is irregularly perfect and uniform.
The only real softness is in his mouth.
It's a briefly jarring thought because John hadn't expected to think it, but it's true. Despite the words it issues forth to decimate the populace of London, Sherlock does have a beautiful mouth. It's a dry, sort of sweet pink-- all cupid's bow for a top and a thin bottom. It is a mouth that is nearly absurd on the man, but it works.
It is a strange balance.
John doesn't dwell on it. He continues staring, though. At the man, the violin, and the mouth-- a curious, little triad.
Sherlock does not stand there forever. He begins to play again, although it is softer. More delicate. It is a springing, flowery caprice that he slowly steps to. Forward, away away. Forward, a half-turn, away away. Forward, away away...
He waltzes, playing all the way, to his bedroom. The door shuts softly behind him. Sherlock continues to play.
John sits there for a long, long while. He doesn't type for the rest of the night.