Work Text:
John chuckled.
The music stopped. “I had no idea you found Sarasate amusing,” Sherlock said acidly.
“You tell me it’s Sarasate, but all I hear is a Figaro mixtape.”
“Sarasate’s homage. To Rossini.” The look on Sherlock’s face showed exactly what he thought of the term ‘mixtape.’
John nodded. “A century-old tribute band. Musical fanfiction.”
“Musical what?” That look on Sherlock’s face made John grateful – for just a moment – that violin bows were not sharp enough to cause damage, considering the way his flatmate waved his around.
For answer, John turned his laptop around. “Look, Sherlock. Some of your admirers write stories about us. And NOT just porn,” he added to halt whatever was about to leave Sherlock’s mouth. “There’s a really cute one by a twelve-year-old girl about us rescuing Bluebell and using his light to escape from Moriarty in the sewers.”
“You have a strange definition of ‘cute.’” Sherlock busied himself with tuning his violin rather than deign to read the scrolled story. “Rubbish. A true artist does only original work.”
“Like paste together his favorite passages from Rossini’s ‘Figaro’.” John pursed his lips. “Or make collages out of photographs. Or create new characters for someone else’s stories, like Lancelot or Maid Marian. You’re quite right.”
When Sherlock loftily returned to his music instead of replying, John grinned. Beaten.