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John laid wide awake in his bed, staring blankly at the ceiling above him. Hours had passed and he hadn't managed to fall asleep yet. Sherlock was still awake, judging by the noise coming from the kitchen. Dammit, Sherlock. It's the middle of the night. The faint rattling had been continuing for hours, John expected that it was just another experiment, but if he finds another eyeball in his coffeecup again he swears to put a lock on the cupboards in the kitchen. The noise stopped, and John could finally hear pacing footsteps. Maybe I'll finally be able to get some sleep then. He heard a door creak open and then close, the doorknob wobble against the loose screw connecting it to the door, some more steps, this time a bit dull, and then, complete silence. John let out a sigh and closed his eyes, pulling the covers up to his chin. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier as the seconds passed by, and he finally felt himself turn slumberous. He nestled his cheek against the pillow, curled his toes and let the sleep come.
John thought he was dreaming when he could hear the weak sound of paper sliding against paper, the sound of wood tapping against wood and lastly, a man clearing his throat. And then, a soft, harmonic sound, something so soft and cautious that it almost was impossible for him to hear. The melody slipped over him, it was warm and elegant, slow at first, but after a few notes it became louder, rapid. The tune deepened at a few parts, rose at other parts, and it sounded completely astonishing. It was as if the music surrounded John, crashed at his feet, flew up again and gathered in a cloud above his head, it was as if John was flying, but at the same time falling down an endless abyss. And as he was falling, he realized that he wasn't flying, falling, or even standing.
He opened his eyes with blood flooding underneath his skin, cheeks flushed, his pulse pounding. He quickly got up from his bed and found himself opening his door carefully, not wanting the music to stop. As if controlled by someone else, he mechanically moved his feet, his legs, his body, toward the music, tumbling around in the dark, moving slowly and noiselessly through the flat, until he stopped in front of a closed door. John was sure that he still was asleep, something so marvelous and out of this world could not exist here, in this flat, in London even. He was still dreaming, he was still somewhere else. But still, he could feel his own hand reach out for the doorknob, and with a swift but certain move the door opened soundlessly, giving John the possibility of peeking through the tight space and seeing the silhouette of a tall man, standing with his back turned sideways facing the door, holding a violin to his shoulder, tucked under his chin. Sharp cheekbones and curly dark hair, John stood there for a moment, dazed. He looked at the man with empty eyes, not really understanding what is going on. And then it strikes him as if someone had slapped his face, he was completely awake now, aware of where he was and what he was doing. He let out a shuddering breath, swallowed, forced himself to breath. Everything went blurry for a moment, and John had to lean against the wall to stop himself from falling. The music was hypnotizing him, making him dizzy, making him feel drunk by just hearing it. Sherlock is in the room next to him, playing the most grand thing that John has ever heard, it felt unnatural for John to even think about it, it was nearly impossible for someone to play this tune with just one violin, impossible to achieve this sound, impossible to bring about such a delirious feeling... And yet, there Sherlock stood, with his eyebrows furrowed in concentration, playing on that old violin of his.
John peeked through the space between the door and the wall again, and saw Sherlocks forearm sawing back and forth, his slim body seeming to blur into motion from his shoulder, his fingers were running along the edge of the violin, sliding up and down slightly, causing the pitch of the music to deepen. His whole body seemed to be moving in tune with the melody. It felt wrong for John to spy on Sherlock like this, but he couldn't think straight as he felt this heart race to keep up the pace with the music and heard his own blood thunder loudly in his ears.
He felt like he should do something, barge into the room, complain about his lack of sleep lately; but while hearing this music, John knew that he couldn't complain about the fact that he never gets any sleep anymore, or that Sherlock always was playing the violin in the most disturbing moments. While hearing this music, John felt obligated, John felt forced, by himself to not do anything that would stop it, or the lovely sound of it.
He leaned his head back against the wall with a sigh as he kept listening. He never wanted it to stop, not now, not later, not tomorrow – it would always be too soon.
As the last soaring notes began to reach higher and higher, John had to force himself to keep still, to keep quiet, to not waste this moment, and only when the last notes of the music had faded away and Sherlock had lowered his violin, John let out a gasp. He was stunned, John was sure that he'd never ever again would get a chance to hear something like that again. Both John and Sherlock stood completely still for a few moments, fully aware of each others presence on the opposite side of the wall.
“I hope you liked it.” Sherlock mumbled as he turned off the lights.