Last one, I promise!

[mesmiranda]

Violin sonata in G minor, by Giuseppe Tartini
Unrequited Sherlock/Sebastian and pre-Sherlock/John, R (trigger warning for mention of suicide attempts), 2477 words.

When Sherlock Holmes was in his first year of university, he burrowed in a lot. He stacked up his books on the shelves of his dorm, laid out his chemistry equipment on his desk, and kept the door locked at all times. When people thumped rhythmically on the walls nearby, blasted loud music, smoked pot and cigarettes and ran screaming down the hallways, he kept his headphones on and concentrated on his work: measuring, calibrating, adding drops and taking temperatures. He folded himself up on his bed to read and refused to answer any knocks on the door.

Whenever he needed to practice his violin, he carried it out to the music studio across campus after hours. He kept his head down, avoiding contact, staying out of the way, until he unlocked the door and flicked on the lights and felt his shoulders come down from his ears.

The studio was always a bit cold and dusty, no matter what the time of year or day, but it had brilliant acoustics: sharp and clear as glass, ringing silver. He tuned up with the piano in the corner, stroking his bow across the strings like a familiar caress--a hug, a kiss on top the head, a nuzzle in the morning. Then he picked a piece at random and began to play.

He never performed for anyone and he made sure the building was deserted before he began to play. Sherlock would be the first to tell you that he didn't believe in a soul, same as a God or an afterlife, but something came out of him in those hours--something that shone so brightly it hurt, filling him with an unfamiliar warmth.

Afterwards he packed up and made sure the windows were shut, and turned the key in the lock and left for his dorm room. His steps echoed down an empty hallway, and the sound of the front door creaking open was loud in the silence.

--

"Should give yer a discount," said Mr. Andretti, slouching against the counter in the music store and waving his cigarette at the tall kid with the messy black hair, "yer always in 'ere."

"I don't need it," the kid said shortly, narrowing his eyes.

"Course you don't, you spend all yer money 'ere," Mr. Andretti chortled, in his wheezy whiskey-fog voice. "Give yer ten percent orf, yeah?"

"Why?" The kid stared back at him, hand hovering almost protectively over his stack of sheet music. Five sonatas today--two by Beethoven, one by Mozart, Sonata for Solo Violin by Bartók and Violin Concerto No. 1 in A minor, Opus 99, by Shostakovich--piled up neatly on top of each other.

"Thought you'd like it?" Mr. Andretti frowned, a bit blearily.

The kid kept staring. "Excuse me," he said finally, grabbing his things in a hurry and banging out the door. Mr. Andretti sighed and picked up his brown-stained mug, shuffled towards the ancient coffee maker bubbling in the back.

--

In his chemistry course, the teacher announced a surprise quiz and the class let out a collective moan. The boy sitting next to Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically at him, sagging helplessly in his chair, and Sherlock--startled--gave a small grin.

The next time they sat together, Sherlock carefully pushed his notes the boy's way across the table.

--

One night, near the winter break, Sherlock was alone in the music studio and he was very certain he'd locked the door beforehand, absolutely a hundred percent sure. So when he glanced by accident towards the door, and saw a man in a heavy trench coat and leather gloves poking his head inside from the doorway, the strings screeched jaggedly to a halt.

"Oh, sorry to interrupt," the man said quickly, holding up a hand apologetically. "I didn't mean--it's just that we have this room reserved and I was hoping to move some equipment in."

"Nobody ever reserves this room," Sherlock snapped, bow clutched tightly in one hand.

"I... talked to the receptionist downstairs and she said it was all right," the man insisted, slowly, both eyebrows raised. "I got a signed form from her--this is room 308, right?"

Damn it, damn it, damn it. Sherlock glowered and banged his violin back into its case, back turned to the man, and when he went for his coat the man was standing at his side. He hadn't heard him move--the coat should have rustled, the loafers should have tapped on the floor. Sherlock froze.

"You're not a bad player," the man said with the same affable smile, making a vague sawing motion with one hand. "I was listening a bit--you're pretty good." And then he shrugged, his eyes crinkling up at the corners, and chuckled warmly. "Not as good as me, I'm afraid, but pretty good."

"Your eyes don't have pupils," Sherlock said flatly.

The man never stopped smiling. "Do you mind if we have a bit of a wager, Sherlock? I think you're pretty good, on your violin. If you can impress me with your playing, I'll give you a present. If you don't..."

"If I don't?" It came out sharper than he meant to, but his voice was not afraid.

The man made a wry, clownish face, lifting his shoulders, his pale blue eyes never leaving Sherlock's. "Well?"

"All right," Sherlock said evenly, folding his arms, standing his ground and keeping his chin up. "You first."

The man bowed, touching his forehead, and then there was a violin in his hands and it was made of gold. It sat suspended in air, the colour and texture of sunlight streaming down from the clouds, gleaming softly with every motion the man made; the strings glared like the filaments of a light bulb. Sherlock felt his mouth go dry and his heart stand still, and the man lifted his bow and began to play.



At the end of the piece Sherlock came back to himself with a shudder like he was being jolted awake, into the room's silence. His throat was raw and his cheeks were wet and his eyes were burning, and there was no strength left in his arms or legs.

"Your turn," said the man calmly, lowering the violin from his chin and gesturing with his bow.

Sherlock couldn't move. He couldn't take a step without falling over. He was weak at the knees and woozy like he'd been drugged, he was shaking all over, he couldn't breathe for crying--

And something deep inside him rose up, and snapped his brain back into place like a dislocated shoulder being set. He took a deep breath, looking straight into the man's eyes the entire time, and picked up his own violin and played: Paganini's Caprice no. 24 in A minor.



"All right," the man said softly as Sherlock gasped for breath, his bow nearly falling from his hands and his legs nearly giving way. "All right, Sherlock. It's over. You win. Here you go."

When his vision cleared, when he was able to look up, the man was gone and the door was locked again, and a plain black violin case sat with its clasps shut on the piano bench.

--

Sherlock buried it away under his bed without opening it or touching it, and sat awake the entire night. In the morning he huddled into the wind as the snow blew, blistering his face and sweeping across the pavement in white streaks. Physics was miserable--he sat and listened numbly, hunched over his notebook--and calculus scraped across his mind like sandpaper, slow and monotonous.

In chemistry class, a steaming Styrofoam cup was pushed into his hand. "I saw you in Barnes's class, you look awful," said Sebastian on a whisper, wrinkling up his nose.

--

When Sherlock Holmes started his second year of university, he went out and celebrated with Sebastian and his friends, got drunk, deduced everybody in the pub, and started--and ended--a brawl. Sebastian kept his arm around his shoulders for the rest of the night, and Sherlock felt it for the rest of the week.

Mr. Andretti didn't bring up the discount again, but that Christmas Sherlock bought him a bottle of Glenlivet and left it with one of the clerks, ducking out of the store before he was caught. One night there was a fire alarm and he ended up standing on the lawn next to his dorm neighbours, and after that Rob stopped making so much noise with his girlfriend.

The man never reappeared in the music studio, no matter how often Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

At night he sat on his bed and finished his homework, taking notes, huddled over a book, and refused to listen to the music coming from under his bed.

--

Mycroft called regularly every Sunday; he never mentioned the golden fiddle.

"You're getting really thin," Sebastian told him with a frown, his eyes wandering over Sherlock, and Sherlock felt heat go up his neck and to the tips of his ears. "And you've got bags under your eyes--you been sleeping okay?"

"I don't need sleep anymore," Sherlock told him, dizzy and wanting to reach for Sebastian by his hips. "I'm listening."

"To what?"

--

He passed out in class once, then twice. The teacher advised him to take a sick day and he spent it lying on his bed, smiling at the ceiling, tapping his fingers in time to the rhythm.

--

He let Sebastian in, of course, because he recognized his knock. He was wobbling on his feet and breathing slow with exhaustion, but he almost had it, he was nearly there. "Hi, come on in, hi," he said brightly, holding the door open.

Sebastian was there, but Sebastian was staring at him in bewilderment. "Sherlock, what--look at you, your pupils--what the hell have you been taking?"

"Nothing!" Sherlock laughed--that was stupid, Sebastian was being silly, he couldn't see what was going on. "Come on, Seb, get in here. Let me show you."

"Show me what?" Sebastian's voice was sharp with fear now.
"What I've been working on," Sherlock said patiently, rolling his eyes and grabbing his arm. "It's a violin sonata. It doesn't have sheet music, but a man taught it to me a while ago and I've almost got it, I'm so close--here, you listen and you tell me what you think, I need another opinion--"

"You never play for anybody." Sebastian stumbled inside, tugged along by Sherlock's grip, his own hands clenching into fists. "Sherlock, we have to talk."

"This is different." Sherlock rounded on him, and his smile reached up to his ears. "This is so much better than anything I've ever done. It's so--I can't even--I'll play it for you. I'll play it and you'll have to love me back, and then I'll play it for everyone in the world. You sit there in the chair and watch."

"Sherlock, stop it."

"Watch me!" Sherlock flung himself to the ground, scrabbling for the violin under his bed and producing it, tucking it under his chin. It glimmered in the light of the desk lamp, the strings burning bright, and he lifted his bow triumphantly and began to play.

No, no no, not that. Not there. Not right. It wasn't that song, he wasn't remembering it right, but--just one more time, if he could just play for a minute longer he'd get it--

Sebastian was shaking him, trying to hit him, shouting into his face. Sherlock kept sawing away at nothing, at the empty air in his hands, until Sebastian knocked him out and laid him on the bed and found campus security.

--

They observed him for a while after that, but Sherlock sat very quietly and answered all their questions correctly and they didn't end up committing him. Mycroft made noises about assigning a roommate. Sherlock threatened to drop out of school and disappear altogether.

Sebastian refused to look at him or go near him again. Cocaine didn't bring the song into focus, any more than fasting or not sleeping did, but he kept doggedly at it. He spent more and more time in the music studio, staying late into the night and sneaking out, skipping classes without a second thought--like they were doing him any good, anyways, and this was far more important. More important than anything.

--

In the end two things saved him: Carl Powers, and Mycroft's trip to France.

When the police turned him away from the case Mycroft grabbed him, dragged him out onto the plane and into the countryside, supposedly to visit their relatives. In reality, he rented a villa close by and began the detoxification process.

There was a lot of howling, some blood, some broken bones, a lot of broken furniture and glass. Sherlock damned Mycroft to hell, swore to tear him to pieces, hoped he died screaming in agony. He spent hours shaking uncontrollably and hid away from everybody he met. He tried to escape fourteen times. He tried to commit suicide twice.

And at the very end, on a gray cloudy morning when the wind was picking up, Mycroft sat down to breakfast and faced Sherlock across the table. "Is the song still playing?" he asked his brother.

"No," said Sherlock very softly, his face drained white and his shoulders slumped forward. "No, it's not."

--

The golden violin stayed up beneath his bed at 221B, the plain black case dusted off regularly, the clasps shut.

One night John had been listening to him play on the Stradivarius, lying on the couch with his head propped up on a pillow and a book opened flat on his stomach, and shifted restlessly. "That's Brahms, right?" he said aloud.

"Sonata no. 3 in D minor, yes," Sherlock said, pleased, "the second movement."

John nodded, looking thoughtful. "The one you played late last night," he said finally.

Sherlock's bow paused in the air. "Yes?"

"It's yours, isn't it? Your own work." When he made himself look over, John was smiling at the ceiling. "And the one you played last Wednesday when you thought Mrs. Hudson and I were out. I think I recognize your style."

There was a tightness in his chest he couldn't identify or dislodge. "I'm not a very good composer."

"Bollocks, it was brilliant. I like your stuff, it's--" John gestured with his hands, frowning as he tried to explain. "It's expressive. You can feel every emotion in it, you know instantly, it's--it's vivid. It's really good."

The tightness locked up his throat, sealing it shut, and Sherlock swallowed. Sebastian was right--he never performed for anybody. Lifting his bow again, he lowered his head and began to play: no title, no opus number. He never wrote down his own pieces.



Yesterday, upon the stair
Sherlock/John that never really got said, R for a couple of swears, 1009 words.


Sherlock steps back from them all, and picks up the woman's jacket to tuck it under his arm. He ducks under the crime scene tape and leaves without a single word.

"Fucking wanker," Donovan yells after him, very clearly and very loudly, so the entire block can hear.

"Leave it, Sally," Lestrade says in a low monotone. His face is still drawn and wet as he gets up from the curb, and he looks about ten years older. "Please just leave it alone."

"Sir--"

"Go get those squad cars cleared out for the coroner, will you?" Lestrade turns to her and she can see his features working--struggling. She grips his shoulder tight as she goes, her fists clenching at her side as she flattens her lips into a thin line. Anderson screws his fingertips into the corners of his eyes and winces hard.

John stands behind them all and watches, he is ink dissolving into water, he is a sheet being blown by the wind, he is cold air and nothing more. Everything is transparent and nothing can be touched. When he opens his mouth to scream there is not a sound, not a single sound.

This is 5:42 a.m. and the start of one of the longest days.

--

Back at the flat Sherlock lays out his chemistry equipment on the table, rolling up his shirtsleeves and taking a dropper in hand. He dips into one of the test tubes lined up snugly in their rack, hovers over the woman's jacket and carefully squeezes out a drop before picking up the magnifying glass to look closer.

"Look at me, look at me, you bastard--" John's face is contorted, almost distorted beyond anything human.

He notes down the results in a steady hand, without taking his eyes off the evidence, and bends down closer over his work. His face hasn't changed since five o'clock this morning.

"Goddammit--turn around and look at my face! I'm here! Look at me!"

His experiment concluded, Sherlock tidies everything away and goes to the kitchen for some tea.

Behind him something tips over on the table with a loud thunk, rolling across the surface. Sherlock doesn't look back, but the corners of his mouth pull in opposite directions.

--

He doesn't take Lestrade's calls. He doesn't speak to Mycroft when the man barges in past Mrs. Hudson. He doesn't talk to anyone.

This suits him quite well. Perfectly, in fact. He's never been happier.

The flat is so cold these days and Sherlock can't help but smile every time he comes inside. John rages noiselessly at him and screams uselessly at the ceiling. He takes out his violin and plays: long, measured, complicated Baroque sonatas with flourishes and trills and arpeggios.

He always locks his violin into its case after he's done and slides it away. Those nights, he stays awake to hear the sound of a violin screeching, long notes played very badly, the bow sawing angrily at the strings.

His fingers are swollen and blistered; they tingle down to the tips at the noise. He laughs and laughs to hear it, and it's the strangest laugh in the world.

--

A door slams sharply, across the room, just as he's carefully tipping a beaker over.

He leaves out a spare mug of tea, always full to the brim.

John paces from wall to wall and watches himself fade to nothingness in the sunlight from the window. He holds out his hands and aches to feel its warmth. His face gapes wide but there are no tears, there is nothing.

He's forgotten what it's like to limp.

He knows Mycroft is thinking about sectioning him. He'll kill him first before he leaves these rooms.

He never opens a window anymore.

John tries running his hands over himself and touching his hair, his arms, his knees, he tries to remember Harry's phone number and the last meal he ate

The tap turns on by itself in the kitchen, when he's sitting down and reading a book. He shuts his eyes and smiles widely as he listens to the steady noise, the gurgle and splosh and hiss.

--

"Sherlock, please. Please look at me."

"All the witnesses have testified to Jane Kinley being the murderer, but the evidence points towards her sister, which seems to suggest--"

--

No unusual phenomena for the past two days.

Sherlock smashes John's favourite mug on the floor. The pieces lie there as he steps around them gingerly, refusing to let them be disturbed.

--

Four days. Five days.

"Look at me," John pleads quietly, "Sherlock, let me go."

He rubs his fingers over where the track marks along his arm would be, thoughtfully. There are still needles stored away upstairs.

--

"It's been a week," Sherlock tells him. "A week. What are you playing at?"



"John, stop it," he sighs, shaking his head, "I know you're there, you can't hide from me. You're mine now. You understand that? You're here, you belong to me, you're a part of me. So speak up."



"John."



"John, do something."



"No," panic is slamming into his chest, over and over, he can't breathe, "stop this right now. Stop it. I know you're there. You have to be there. You've been following me ever since you died and you won't let go, you won't leave me alone--I won't let you leave me, do you understand? You're here. You are here. Do something."



There is a noise. Sherlock turns.

John is standing by the couch with his hands behind his back, at attention. His face is set in that rueful patient expression and his eyes are searching Sherlock's.

"You never looked at me when I died," he says quietly. Evenly, without blame.

"John?"

"I have to go now."

"No--"

"Sherlock. It's all fine."

When Mycroft escorts the men from the hospital upstairs and shows them inside, Sherlock doesn't resist.