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The skin at the base of his neck crawled. His stomach squirmed. Yet his fingers did not falter, nor did his bow quiver. His eyes, however, remained closed, despite the familiar chill of being watched making the rest of his body shiver. He knew who watched him: John. The listener of his melodies. His conductor of light.
Sherlock could hear John’s heavy breathing from where he stood across the room. It was not the stairs that left him breathless – it was an angry huff. He left his date in a rage, Sherlock mused. He dared a glance at John from the corner of his eye and saw his companion’s furrowed brow and clenched fist. There stood the soldier who had bad days, and this certainly was one: John seemed to like her when he left, but obviously he found something to dislike. It must have been a rather large something at that, for John had not dated anyone in a long while. Surely he needed the release?
Was it her tendency to latch on? To cling? Sherlock wondered, but he dismissed it. Normally one does not allow such attachment issues to leak out on the first date. Besides, when John had not seen another woman in so long, he would not have minded. As long as she played her part. She even paid, Sherlock noted. In John’s shaking hand was his wallet, and John did not pay cab fare if he paid for dinner. He would have liked that.
Sherlock closed his eyes again. His fingers slipped on the strings; his bow skipped over a note. He could feel himself getting distracted by John. His companion’s anger burned too hot and he shone too brightly to be ignored. So what if his date ended badly? Sherlock snapped. When he checked to see if John had noticed the skipped note, he found that the other man had barely moved. Had not even blinked. Only his hand moved, and it shook with . . . frustration. John was not simply angry – he was frustrated.
Anger you can fix, thought Sherlock. He noticed the whine of his violin rolling into a darker tone, a more violent shrill. There is more than one solution to anger. If one doesn’t work, another will, whether it be a yell, a slap, a ripped photograph. The hairs on his neck and arms stood on end. John’s eyes were still on him. His violin continued its transition from a calm blue to a violent red. Frustration, however, has a specific problem, he added, and thus a very specific solution. He peeked at John. His tired eyes were no longer on Sherlock’s face; instead, they watched his fingers as they darted across the strings, wielded the bow. And what might your problem be? Sherlock silently asked. His fingers relaxed; they knew they had an audience.
John, for once, seemed to understand the look. As always, however, he was slow. Deliberately slow. “Didn’t go well,” said he. He sauntered over to his chair, which was always in perfect view of Sherlock’s performances. Always by the window. “The date,” he clarified, as if it weren’t obvious. Sherlock continued playing. “It didn’t work out.”
Ah, thought Sherlock. Now we’re getting somewhere. John usually managed to satisfy his urges even if he decided the date did not go well. He would go, come home after a night, and then decide, “She was nice, though I wouldn’t call her again.” Judging by his still neat hair and unwrinkled clothes, Sherlock immediately knew: no such intimacy took place. Could it be sexual frustration, then?
The melody shifted on its own. Became softer. Silkier. Melted like chocolate.
“She just . . .,” John began. He looked away (the chills, however, lingered), and he played with a loose thread on his chair. “She just didn’t work out.” Sherlock hummed in understanding. John snapped his gaze to Sherlock with raised eyebrows. Sherlock averted his eyes in an instant. “Wasn’t my type,” John muttered.
Sherlock turned his back. What does it matter? he growled internally. John’s romantic issues were hardly ever of interest. The women he chose were dull, boring, plain. She didn’t work out? None of my concern. And yet . . .
“Why is that?” he found himself asking. John, however, remained silent. He was still fuming – his hands were still shaking when Sherlock snuck a peak – but he added shock to his features. Curiosity.
The melody remained smooth. And something else – Sherlock just could not name it yet.
And yet you’re interested, he told himself. Why? John had not dated a woman in months. This was to be the date that started his continuous rendezvous with various women and ended his periodical hiatus: a month would pass and Sherlock would not see a stranger woman within the walls of Baker Street, and then, like clockwork, John would bring one home, and then another, and he would smell of late night strolls and varying perfumes. But to not see John go on a date for months? And then come home having not fornicated, despite setting out to do so – with enthusiasm? The violin sang an unfamiliar tune all on its own; Sherlock’s fingers were pulled by puppet strings rather than muscles and tendons, and the thing pulling the strings was unknown. It’s your own fault, John, Sherlock thought as he snuck a glance at the man in question through the corner of his eye. Is it not?
John groaned and ran a hand over his face. “I don’t know, Sherlock,” he snapped in response to Sherlock’s vocalized question. He rested his elbows on his knees and cradled his face in his hands.
Sherlock’s fingers twitched. Is he – is he frustrated with me? he wondered. What could he have done? He said not a word against her (though there was plenty to say) and he tried socializing during a deliberately nonsocial time for him. (Time spent with the violin was time spent in voiceless silence). Why would John be frustrated with him on a night like this?
Sherlock opened his eyes. He found the mood that inspired his current tune: sensual. Fragilely so. His body realized before his mind had. Why did his thoughts have to be slower than his senses? Why did he have to deduce this?
“Sherlock,” John called in a whisper. Sherlock shut his eyes and turned his back again. His fingers continued playing their sensual tune, and no matter how hard his mind thought, Don’t, his fingers did not cease their dance. “Sherlock,” John called again, and it was not out of anger. It was soft. Sherlock could not help but oblige, and when he opened his eyes to John, he could not describe what he saw. It did not register on base level understanding. John looked bare; he looked stripped of a mask, but Sherlock had not realized he was wearing one. Was he? “She wasn’t . . .”
He had already said that she was not his type. There were only so many things he could have said thereafter. It did not take a mind such as Sherlock’s to deduce the end of that sentence.
Sherlock was having none of it.
He changed the tune immediately. He felt a cramp run along the muscles of his fingers that danced on the strings, and the hand that held the bow tensed. The shrill scream of the violin as he slashed his bow against the strings silenced John. He covered his ears. Sherlock grimaced in concentration as he attempted to kill the sensual tune. He forced his violin to absorb John’s frustration; his fingers drank in his anger.
John stood abruptly, and Sherlock stopped playing. His eyes met John’s. They were ablaze with anger once more, and his lips pursed in their familiar pout. Good, Sherlock thought. He did not want to see in John what he had seen before. It brought on too many questions. Too many wonderings.
“Never mind,” snarled John.
Without another word, John sulked to his room, leaving Sherlock alone with his violin once more. The sentence was left unfinished. The elephant left ignored.
Just as it should be, Sherlock thought. He lifted his bow to kiss the strings. The melody he played was quiet like the empty room in which he stood. Like the stare shared between him and John. Like the words they left unsaid.