Chapter Text
When the phrase 'I play the violin at 4 AM' was uttered in the midst of a list peculiar things about his new -then potential - flatmate, John Watson didn't quite know what to expect. After learning about the murders and the police and the experiments he'd been expecting nightly bouts of screeching agony not unlike singing cats produced from an unwilling instrument, or maybe haunting or monotonous tunes as the man hunted his thoughts. He was not expecting this.
Not in a million years was he expecting this.
In the middle of his vision of whirling sand and dry air and the smell of blood the sound of gunshots he was interrupted by something lighter, something sweeter, something lingering at the edge of his consciousness that called him, luring him through the desert, away from the gore and blood and bodies, to a darker place, a place that somehow felt safer, more secure than the brightness of the blistering sun.
He opened his eyes to the darkness of the room, oddly calm though bathed in cold sweat, and it took his brain a moment to realise the something was still there, in the form of a string of notes produced on a well-handled instrument. It was something light, something calming, something a bit like spring morning sunrays shining through a green forest. It was the first time he woke from a dream calmly since he'd gotten back to London, but now that he'd focussed on the music he was awake and felt clammy from all the sweat. Checking the clock, he concluded it was late enough in the night to be considered morning, so he slipped out of bed, into a pair of pyjama bottoms, and down the stairs.
The music stopped the moment the top stair creaked. When he reached the bottom, he saw Sherlock standing at the sink, rinsing out two mugs. It was odd, seeing the slender man in baggy pyjamas and a dressing gown, curls ruffled up messily from lying down at least for a little while, doing such simple household tasks.
"Tea?" The detective asked, already taking out a bag for himself. John nodded and yawned.
"Shower, first. " He closed the bathroom door behind him and shed his clothes, rinsing quickly under lukewarm water to wash the sweat off his body before redressing and moving back to the living area, towelling his hair.
"On the counter." Sherlock was in his chair, a mug of tea steaming on a table close by, his violin and a cleaning cloth in hand. John took a detour to fetch his own tea and sat down in his own chair.
He sipped and scraped his throat. "You... you play nice at 4 AM."
A smile played around Sherlock's lips. He placed the violin down and started cleaning the bow, stroking up and down slowly. "Did I wake you?"
"Yeah, I..." John took another sip to conceal his embarrassed pause. Sherlock could probably read the dreams off his face. "I don't mind."
Sherlock nodded thoughtfully. "Tell me when you do."
John felt his eyebrows go up. It was unlike his flatmate to care about how anything he did affected others, even John.
"I will." He sipped his tea. "What were you playing?"
"Waltz of the flowers." There was a strange twinkle in the detective's eyes.
"It was... it was nice." He sipped his tea and they sat in companionable silence for a while.
John jerked awake due to the sound of the TV moments later. Sun was now streaming through the window, and a blanket was tucked loosely around his shoulders. Sherlock was pacing the room, fully clothed in his suit. John rubbed his eyes and blinked at the man.
"New case?" He asked. His voice made the detective turn sharply to him.
"John! Finally. Lestrade called. Locked-room mystery, at least a seven. Get dressed, quickly."
John jumped up, the blanket falling to the floor. "On my way." On the stairs, though, he stopped.
"You waited for me to wake up?"
"Hurry!"