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“Alright, alright, no, start again.” John bounced slightly on his knees from where he knelt on the bed. Lips having mucked up the lyrics and wanting to start again, he ran his tongue over his lips and stilled again, fingers retaking their place over the frets on the neck of his guitar.
Standing next to the bed in front of all his sheet music strewn across the music stand, Sherlock sighed. He removed his bow from the strings of his violin with a sharp noise of protest from the instrument, dropping it from his chin. John winced in sympathy.
“Are you going to get it right this time?” Sherlock snipped sharply, but John’s eyes just glittered back at him, grey-blue and deep as oceans.
The young violinist’s gaze softened before he returned the instrument to his chin, his long pale fingers taking up their positions naturally on the fingerboard.
“Okay.” He murmured into the quiet of the room. John was unsure whether it was a question or simply a statement before the first notes of the piece rang out from Sherlock’s violin and a moment later it was John’s guitar joining.
Once over the chord he found difficult, John relaxed and counted himself in before he started singing, voice holding a sort of soft folk quality to it. He was not great at singing, always having been told his was an unusual voice. But just for the odd practice of his and his friend’s, using recent sheet music pulled and printed from the Internet, his voice was adequate enough to his own ears.
To Sherlock’s ears and eyes, singing with his guitar brought John to life. Even at times sat simply together like they were this afternoon. The violinist could pinpoint when the guitarist started to relax, around the eighth bar in the song, when his eyes closed and his wrist relaxed into the strum of his plectrum over the strings that stretched tight over the sound hole. Sherlock doubted John knew but his whole body seemed to move with the piece he was playing.
Sherlock watched, mind only half on the notes he himself was playing, as John’s fingers danced across frets, finding them easily and contorting to make sure the right ones were pressed down, to bring out the note John wanted. All the while his brow moved, too, in concentration, relaxing when the right notes sounded correct in certain places, especially where Sherlock knew John struggled to find the notes in this piece.
Sometimes it felt as if Sherlock knew the way John's body moved when he played better than his own.
The piece came to a close and John’s voice drifted out with the last few strums of the strings of his guitar before he was beaming at Sherlock, lyrics correct this time.
Sherlock’s answering smile was small and warm, one that only John ever really got to see. He placed his violin back in its case before collecting the music and a pencil from the stand and coming to sit next to John on the bed. The guitar was moved to the side to make room for Sherlock and John leaned in close to his friend.
“I think we could stand to change these parts an octave, to fit with the duet between our instruments,” Sherlock cleared his throat slightly and indicated where he meant on the stave in the piece, waiting for John’s nod before changing the notes with a pencil in his shaky hand. He gripped the pencil tighter, not trusting himself sat so close to his friend.
In honesty, Sherlock could no longer pinpoint the exact moment he had realised that he was falling hard for his best friend. He knew that it was some years ago now, and had known for a long time when it had hit him. But these days, with the two of them being closer than ever and spending more time together, Sherlock found that he had lost that singular moment. Every moment with John felt like his stomach was dropping.
John touched his hand to Sherlock's wrist, knowing he would bring him from the depths if his mind. "So I'm thinking if this piece is ready for the Spring Showcase in the department then we could perform it. It always helps to have the performance experience under your belt, right." The blond was hopeful, wanting to show the rest of the college Sherlock's undeniable talent. They had a small group of close friends, but the majority still held something against the genius. John bit his lip, watching for Sherlock's response.
Sherlock's eyes went from unfocused, to his wrist where tan fingers curled gently around the protruding bone of his own pale wrist, and up further, to where John's teeth bit into his own lip before finally resting on John's eyes. Despite sitting so close, the genius still could not decide whether those eyes were either blue or grey.
He nodded, not wanting to disappoint John. "If it's good enough." He murmured.
The bright answering smile was stored quickly into Sherlock's mind palace. "Perfectionist." John teased, rocking slightly from movement in his thighs.
Sherlock's eyes softened and dropped, his small warm smile returning. "You know me."
"Yeah... I do."
Looking up again Sherlock could see that John's gaze had also dropped. "I should get going." The blonde said softly. Sherlock nodded absently, eyes tracing the curve of John's mouth as his mind whirled again, wondering what it would taste like.
Before he could decipher what he was doing as not good, Sherlock leaned forwards into John more, drawn by his warmth, just as the guitarist rocked again. Sherlock's lips caught the corner of John's mouth, pressing into the chaste kiss gently. Startled, John jolted first, sharply exhaling through his nose, before moving to strengthen the connection, his nose pressing into Sherlock's cheek. Sherlock kept still, disbelief and wonder flooding his mind and he moved into the kiss ever so slightly. John pulled away abruptly, cheeks flushed.
Sherlock leaned back. Neither said anything. The house was quiet apart from their breathing.
"John-"
"I better go."
The guitar was pulled from the bed and tight into John's body as he stood, grabbing the case and his bag and muttering a quick "See you Saturday,” before practically bolting from the room. Ever thoughtful John though, Sherlock noted that the blond was almost silent running down the stairs and out the door, politely clicking it shut.
Sherlock swore softly under his breath, stupid for giving in to himself.
On the bright side though, Sherlock's tongue touched at his own lips, he now knew what John tasted like.
***
Saturday night saw a small gathering of their friends at Greg's house. John had been one of the first to arrive, anything to get out his own house and stop playing what happened between he and Sherlock on repeat in his head. Steadily, the others had arrived: Molly, Sally, Irene and Mike. Around him the others were chatting with bottles of weak beer in their hands. John noted there was still no sign of Sherlock, but didn't know if this was good or bad.
Greg sat down heavily on the sofa next to John, pulling the hood of his jumper down from around his ears playfully. "What's up with you tonight?" He sat back and grinned at John before noticing his expression. "Jesus, what is it?"
"Is Sherlock meant to be coming?" John asked quickly, wanting to know how screwed he was for the evening.
"Ahh the other half of the package deal. He said he was going to."
John's cheeks pinked as a very different thought arose at the word package. He pulled his sleeves down over his wrists and half his hands, uncomfortable without his guitar around, which was stupid anyway. It was only Greg's house; he'd been here hundreds of times over the years.
The doorbell rang then, to a chorus of "Pizza!" from the group and Greg left to go answer it.
It wasn't that John was dreading Sherlock arriving... No, scratch that. John was dreading Sherlock arriving. When he did, and it was when not if, (Sherlock was a man of his word if he said he would attend) John would have pretend nothing had happened to keep the normalcy of the group. When in reality it was all he could think of.
Trying to work out why he hadn't pulled away faster when Sherlock had kissed him. Why he had, if anything, pressed closer. Like he wanted it, wanted Sherlock. Which was ridiculous, Sherlock didn't feel like that.
Unfortunately, luck was not on John's side today and instead of pizza arriving as they had hoped, it was Sherlock who walked through the door behind Greg when he returned. John winced internally and watched as Irene practically skipped over to the violinist, curling her arm around his and leading him over to her sofa. Irene had been trying to successfully seduce Sherlock for months now. As much as John knew the brunette, he had no idea if he had succumbed to her advances. She pressed a beer into his hands and a kiss to his cheek and John felt his stomach twist at the slight imprint her lipstick left. Felt twofold a second later when Sherlock's eyes found his across the room. They were green today. He doubted Sherlock had succumbed, if he had, he would not have kissed him, would he? John broke their gaze and shifted uneasy in his chair, telling himself that it wasn't jealousy that he felt. He pulled his hood up again. Knowing now why he hadn't pulled away.
***
Frankly, when Molly had asked if Sherlock was following her story as she did so frequently, a manifesting result of her insecure attachment style, and Sherlock had beamed, his face crinkling just that touch too much, it was safe to say he had not heard a word. But of course Molly didn't recognise that this wasn't his real smile, that he was lying through his teeth. Or, more aptly, his lips.
John would have recognised it though. And called him out on it. John. Automatically the violinist's eyes gravitated to John's form. It wasn't so much a face as a hood and jawline curled on one end of the sofa while Mike spoke animatedly to Greg and the hooded jawline. And lips. Sherlock could do nothing to draw his eyes from staring at John's mouth, knowing a little more of how it moves and tastes. As with Sherlock, he wanted to know it all.
Why was John being so avoidant of Sherlock? Surely they could talk this through, it wasn't as if they were children. He hadn't received a message from him these past couple of days, which was unusual given they texted each other every day. Once they had each ranked up colossal phone bills with messages to one another before unlimited text messages came as almost standard. Had Sherlock ruined everything with the one moment of his life he had acted unthinking to consequences? It almost hurt to remember how comfortable John had been with him just a few days previous. Easily singing and playing his guitar. Was his friend just too nervous to take what they clearly had further?
Sherlock's mind palace provided no answers in its limited capacity of knowledge in this area. He glanced around when Molly became distracted by Irene and caught John's eyes. The blond was humming and signing quietly to whatever song that was playing through the sound system. Sherlock recognised it as a popular favourite, but wasn't bothered with trivial pop unless he really liked it. He offered John a smile, not the uncomfortable fake almost grimace Molly had relieved, but it was small and private and one anyone rarely saw but John. The guitarist’s eyes seemed to melt before he looked away. Sherlock would have missed such a sign if it was not for how well he knew the other boy.
***
Sherlock left earlier than most and was up late that night, struck with inspiration on how to get across to John. After all, the blond had kissed him back, he was sure. So, under the cloak of darkness and the patter of rain against his window that night, Sherlock rewrote their duet for a guitar solo.
***
John was up late that Sunday morning, having lain in indulgently. He hadn't been awake that long when Harry strolled in, careless in her remembering to knock.
"You know, one day," John started, conversationally, used to the intrusion, "You're going to walk in and see something you wish you hadn't." He rolled over, tucking his covers over himself again.
"Eugh, that's a unfortunate thought of my little brother." Harry sounded far too awake for the time on the clock face. "Post." She announced, dropping the letter on his legs and wandering out again, leaving his bedroom door wide open.
With a huff, John pulled himself from his pit to push the door shut, and pick up the letter. It was addressed simply, without a stamp, with just J. Watson in Sherlock's elegant script. John frowned, running his tongue over his lips and opened the seal. Why was Sherlock writing to him? Knowing the eccentric way of the violinist John's mind unhelpfully supplied that it was probably an agreement of Friendship Termination. He could almost see the page. ‘Mr Watson, thank you for the pleasant times but commencing from our shared lip contact any past, present and future friendship is hereby terminated...' John shook his head, knowing that reading the letter from Sherlock should be done quickly and without hesitation. He ripped off the plaster and unfolded the page. Only, it wasn't a letter. It was sheet music. With the broken words of lyrics accompanying chords. At the top, Sherlock had written 'For your guitar - what I cannot speak.'
Moments later, guitar in hand and door clicked firmly shut in about as locked as he would get it in this house, John's fingers found the familiar first chords of their duet, octaves down for just a guitar.
“I'm remembering you singing and bringing you to life,
It's raining out the window and today it looks like night.
You haven't written to me in a week I'm wondering why that is,
Are you too nervous to be lovers, friendships ruined with just one kiss.
But your sweatshirt says it all with the hood over your face,
I can't keep staring at your mouth without wondering how it tastes.
I'm with another, she's asleep, I'm wide awake,
And she tried to win my heart, but it's taken time.
I know the shape of your hands because I watch them when you talk,
And I know the shape of your body 'cause I watch it when you walk.
And I want to know it all but I'm giving you the lead,
So go on, go on and take it, don't fake it.
I'd love to look into your face without your eyes turning away,
Last night I watched you sing because I have to try.
And I walked home in the rain because I cannot lie.”
The strings cut into the palm of his hand as John stopped the vibrating of the last note from ringing out. He swallowed and re-read over the words Sherlock had obviously carefully crafted. They were still best friends, they always had been. Sherlock was just letting him make the decision if they could be more. John pushed his guitar from his chest and instead lay it flat over his knee, plucking gently at the strings one by one. And for an indeterminable amount of time he sat quietly and thought. Then, he pulled out a pencil and paper.
***
Can I come round? JW
Sherlock blinked at the message, surprised John wanted to talk face to face. He smiled, and replied.
Of course. SH
John had always surprised him, it was one thing of many he loved.
***
John was on his doorstep within the hour, guitar case slung on his back. He grinned brightly when Sherlock opened the door, before it dropped to become something warmer and somehow more intimate. "Hey."
Sherlock stepped back to let him in, "Hello John."
John stepped inside, and Sherlock spotted the envelope in his hand. But before he could mutter some excuse of sentimentality John cut in. "Shut up. I've brought my reply." He pushed past and made his way upstairs to Sherlock's room as if it were his own house.
When Sherlock made it to him room behind John, nerves twisting in his stomach, John was already sat cross-legged on the bed, his guitar out. Sitting in much the same position as he had the night they kissed. He played a chord, fiddled with the tuning and his plectrum and nodded for Sherlock to sit.
Without the embellishment that Sherlock would have added, John simply started with a couple of chords, shooting Sherlock a glance when he threatened to interrupt. In truth John was psyching himself up, then he cleared his throat and began to sing. His reply was much the same as Sherlock's confession, a rework of their duet and the adaption of some choice words.
“I know the shape of your hands because I watch them when you talk,
And I know the shape of your body 'cause I watch it when you walk.
And I want to know it all but I'm giving you the lead,
So go on, go on and take it, don't fake it.
Don't second-guess your feelings you were right from the start,
And I notice she's your lover, but she's nowhere near your heart.
This city is for strangers, like the sky is for the stars,
But I think it's very dangerous if we do not take what’s ours.”
John silenced the final chord and bit into his bottom lip before looking up at Sherlock. The violinist exhaled heavily, in what John later assumed to be disbelief, and was silent for once. Both their faces cracked into beaming smiles at each other. John pushed aside his guitar and they sat in the moment for a few seconds, each of their lyrics resonating in the other's mind before they both moved, leaning in together to seal their lips with the gentleness of a caress.
So go on, go on and take it, don't fake it.