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Fic: Concerto
Mar. 18th, 2012 07:20 pmTitle: Concerto
Characters: John and Sherlock
Prompt: Three years after the Fall, John comes home to the sound of violin playing.
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
John struggles with the door to 221B Baker street around the shopping he's decided to do all at once. He balances the milk on his hip, turns the handle and pushes, then gets a better grip on the milk before going inside. He kicks the door closed, wincing as pain shoot up his leg. Psychosomatic limp. And after three years, he'd thought he'd gotten rid of that particular mourning symptom. He shuffles some parcels around and puts a foot on the bottom stair, and then he hears it.
Music. Soft, slow music drifting down the stairs. It was quiet when he left so he takes the stairs carefully, ignoring the fact that his heart has leapt into his throat and his stomach is doing barrel rolls. Violin music, and John can almost picture the hands he refuses to believe are playing it. Because there's no way it can be what is heart is telling him it is. There's no way that a tall, thin curly-haired someone is waiting in the flat, playing the bloody violin like nothing's happened.
He has to set some things down to open the door properly (and not get knocked over backwards if this is, as a tiny part of John's brain is shouting it must be, a home invasion of some sort. He grasps the door knob, turns it slowly, pushes the door forward. And promptly drops all of the groceries.
Because, like a dream or possibly a hallucination, Sherlock is standing there in the front room, playing the violin like he'd never left. John opens and closes his mouth a few times, but what are you supposed to say to the best friend you saw die but is now here, looking no worse for the wear?
“Ah, John,” greets Sherlock cheerfully. “I hope you've brought milk. We appear to be out.” He sets the violin down on the sofa, then walks over and picks up some of the bags John's dropped. “Don't just stand there, we've got things to do!”
All John can do is stare. He fish-mouths for another minute and then finally manages, “You were dead.”
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “I got better.” He carries a couple of bags to the kitchen, and then returns.
John suddenly comes to all of his senses, his astonishment replaced with different emotions. “You let me believe you were dead for three years!” he shouts. He gestures wildly in front of himself, at a loss. “You bastard! I was a wreck!”
Sherlock's expression turns serious now. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. He moves toward John at the same time John moves toward him, and they sort of meet in the middle, arms knocking against arms. Sherlock looks down and then John envelopes him in a hug.
“You idiot,” John says quietly into Sherlock's shoulder. “Don't do that again.”
Sherlock pulls back and rests his forehead against John's. “Lie to you?”
“Die,” answers John somberly. Sherlock touches a soft hand to the side of John's face, and finally, for what seems like the first time in three years, John smiles and pulls Sherlock into another hug.
Characters: John and Sherlock
Prompt: Three years after the Fall, John comes home to the sound of violin playing.
Warnings: None
Rating: PG
John struggles with the door to 221B Baker street around the shopping he's decided to do all at once. He balances the milk on his hip, turns the handle and pushes, then gets a better grip on the milk before going inside. He kicks the door closed, wincing as pain shoot up his leg. Psychosomatic limp. And after three years, he'd thought he'd gotten rid of that particular mourning symptom. He shuffles some parcels around and puts a foot on the bottom stair, and then he hears it.
Music. Soft, slow music drifting down the stairs. It was quiet when he left so he takes the stairs carefully, ignoring the fact that his heart has leapt into his throat and his stomach is doing barrel rolls. Violin music, and John can almost picture the hands he refuses to believe are playing it. Because there's no way it can be what is heart is telling him it is. There's no way that a tall, thin curly-haired someone is waiting in the flat, playing the bloody violin like nothing's happened.
He has to set some things down to open the door properly (and not get knocked over backwards if this is, as a tiny part of John's brain is shouting it must be, a home invasion of some sort. He grasps the door knob, turns it slowly, pushes the door forward. And promptly drops all of the groceries.
Because, like a dream or possibly a hallucination, Sherlock is standing there in the front room, playing the violin like he'd never left. John opens and closes his mouth a few times, but what are you supposed to say to the best friend you saw die but is now here, looking no worse for the wear?
“Ah, John,” greets Sherlock cheerfully. “I hope you've brought milk. We appear to be out.” He sets the violin down on the sofa, then walks over and picks up some of the bags John's dropped. “Don't just stand there, we've got things to do!”
All John can do is stare. He fish-mouths for another minute and then finally manages, “You were dead.”
Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. “I got better.” He carries a couple of bags to the kitchen, and then returns.
John suddenly comes to all of his senses, his astonishment replaced with different emotions. “You let me believe you were dead for three years!” he shouts. He gestures wildly in front of himself, at a loss. “You bastard! I was a wreck!”
Sherlock's expression turns serious now. “I'm sorry,” he says quietly. He moves toward John at the same time John moves toward him, and they sort of meet in the middle, arms knocking against arms. Sherlock looks down and then John envelopes him in a hug.
“You idiot,” John says quietly into Sherlock's shoulder. “Don't do that again.”
Sherlock pulls back and rests his forehead against John's. “Lie to you?”
“Die,” answers John somberly. Sherlock touches a soft hand to the side of John's face, and finally, for what seems like the first time in three years, John smiles and pulls Sherlock into another hug.
