Sounds of an Artist
No warnings for this part. Part Eight
Sherlock’s POV
Time, Sherlock knew, was an entirely human concept; a tool to measure out the days in a year, the seconds in an hour, an aid to few and a hindrance to many. For each moment to be planned; captured and tamed to one’s own hand before it slipped away, lost and forgotten in the realm of non-memory, a vast and unreachable place. A friend too little during those stolen moments of joy and happiness; forever battling with the rise of the sun on a Monday morning to a job you hated, the family you wished you could do more for, had more time for, the rising threat of a midlife crisis when you realised just how much of this human invention had passed you by with seemingly nothing to show for it. One of mankind’s greatest creations; used every day and hated or loved, circumstantial, all of it, but something that now couldn’t be removed.
Sherlock himself had used it on many occasions when completing his investigations, the case of the Blind Banker being the scene of two prime examples. Firstly, allowing him to deduce when the numbers were painted which then led him to two things; who was around at that hour and who was meant to see it visually. The second had been his old friend, Seb Wilkes, when he’d travelled around the world twice and neglected to reset his watch to the correct date, to John’s avid interest and amusement once Sherlock had shared his musings. He didn’t think he’d had one case where a clock hadn’t proved useful, from finding out where a person had come from due to the residual rain on their coat down to the bombs Moriarty had strapped to his victims, their timers counting down the seconds to their demise had he failed to work out the puzzle pieces which had been left for him.
Now, nestled against John with his chin resting on the other man’s shoulder, time itself seemed to have stopped, unimportant, the slow tempo of the space surrounding him matching the purposefulness of John’s pencil as it finished the last few details on the drawing,
his drawing. The minute or the hour didn’t matter; he felt that they had all the time in the world in their grasp, existing just for them during their shared breaths, the feel of John close to him, John’s presence and calm adding to the peace that Sherlock could feel building inside of him.
Sherlock found that he didn’t want it to end, this quiet lull between storms, the first being his departure and the pain it had caused, the second the knowledge that John was hurting, the cause of which John had yet to divulge (although John’s behaviour just recently, coupled with the incriminating mark on his drawing, led Sherlock to only one conclusion, but he would be patient – he had a promise to keep).
His relationship with John had always been far from normal, Sherlock thought; dangerous and exciting, yes, but never that, never what other people could call a typical friendship. This though, this was new, different, but in a good way and John hadn’t given any signs that he thought otherwise.
At some point during the drawing, Sherlock had wrapped his arms around John’s upper body with his palms resting on John’s chest, an almost loose hug, and John hadn’t removed his hands in protest. Had merely shifted around to accommodate Sherlock’s arms so that they were underneath his own and flashed him a brief smile before returning to his drawing as though nothing were amiss, nothing at all strange about being hugged by his recently deceased flatmate. Sherlock had barely allowed himself to breathe when unconscious thought had prompted the move, worried that John would mistake any intention behind it, but John’s smile had removed any doubts and irrational fears, making Sherlock compress the man in his arms for a moment before relaxing the hold, content to observe as he was brought to life as surely as if John were his Creator, his divine intervention. In a way, he supposed that John had been, or at least they had prompted the start of life in each other. With John so recently returned from Afghanistan, having seen far too much trouble, injured and invalided, and himself rapidly losing any hope of finding someone who would be willing to flat-share with him because of his eccentricities, Sherlock could only conclude that on some level they were meant to meet. It had worked out too well for it to be anything else.
He’d never considered himself religious or fatalistic in any sense of the words, but his meeting with John had seemed too coincidental, too well-thought out, making Sherlock at least question the possibility that somehow their wavelengths were intertwined, that a bond like the one he shared with his brother had already been forged across space and time to lead him to the person who understood him and accepted him when all others had left and discarded him. When he’d been on the rooftop at Bart’s, the thought had pierced him that he was the one leaving now; he was the one who was jeopardising any happiness that he’d found in his short time with John, but that it was better than watching John die when he could have stopped it. His heart had spoken then, shouting across the distance with a passion and a ferocity that had stunned him. Above any preconceptions that he had had about how his life was to end, about his work or his livelihood which was in tatters, none of it had mattered when faced with the threat of a life without John, and Moriarty had known it. Had seen it, Sherlock’s heart, and used it to his full advantage, something that Sherlock could never have predicted happening to him until he met a certain Dr John Watson.
A life saver in every possible way and someone that Sherlock admired beyond the soldier risking his life for his country or the doctor treating sick patients even with the chance of there being a contagion. He knew deep down inside that well of untapped emotion that he’d locked away, he loved John.
‘I love him, as one loves another, whom one simply cannot do without.’ The revelation hadn’t floored him as he’d once thought it would; if he could jump off a building and fake his death for someone, it certainly went a long way to prove that he had feelings for that person, cared about them at least, and was definitely invested in their future, with or without him, whatever was necessary. It didn’t stop him from hoping that ‘necessary’ meant a life they shared, not a life spent apart, and the signs so far were good. He’d never been a person to count his chickens, but the expression was apt in this case. He didn’t need to know how many birds he would have at the end of it, this respite from the pain and the grief; the fact that there were eggs at all was enough for now.
Like all good things, the moment couldn’t last, John’s body shifting as he put the drawing out in front of the both of them and displayed it as a completed work. Sherlock was spellbound, one hand reaching out reverently to touch the piece, tracing over his hair, his face, his hands, their depiction so much more than pencils and paper because this was how John saw him, not the man he perceived himself to be. When he spoke, it was a near whisper, like if he spoke too loudly it would shatter whatever was between them. “It’s not quite finished, John.”
John didn’t react the way Sherlock expected him to, with anger and question; he just smiled and turned his head to look at Sherlock. “Was there something I missed?” Also just as quiet, laced with humour.
“No, not at all,” he replied. “Just needs a little something extra.” He motioned for the pencil and the pad, using John’s assistance to get into a sitting position on the sofa before going to a clear bit on the page, the lighter side of his pillow in this case where the light had touched it. In a steady hand, he wrote down a short sentence in small, elegant script and passed back the pad, watching as John read the words first before speaking them aloud.
“‘Peace is when time doesn’t matter as it passes by,’” John said, the words a soft murmur on his tongue. “That’s … it’s beautiful, Sherlock. Did you think of this?”
Sherlock shook his head, smiling at John’s surprise. “I too am also inspired by some of the things that normal people say, John. This was once said by a lady called Maria Schell, an Austrian actress during the early nineteen-fifties. She starred alongside Gary Cooper and Marlon Brando during the highlights of her career and I believe that this quote of hers is rather apt, wouldn’t you say?”
John nodded as though committing the details of the actress to memory before looking down at the drawing and smiling broadly, his eyes afire when he looked at Sherlock again. “Yes, I agree completely. This is just what it needed.”
Sherlock honestly couldn’t say what had inspired him to finish the drawing with that particular quote. Well, that wasn’t strictly true; he knew what had inspired him, the atmosphere of the living room still subdued, a stillness permeating the air around them even with the fact that they were now speaking to each other. Everything felt relaxed, his body, his mind, and he knew even without his deductions that John was feeling the same. It was something that they had created together but he still hadn’t been sure how well the quote would be received. He was, technically, marring another artist’s work with his own impression of the piece in question, but, when he thought about it, John had said that he wanted them to finish the drawing together. Sherlock had merely made his own mark, claiming a part of it for his own, just as he believed John had intended him to by allowing him to watch it being finished in the first place.
He had no idea what the time was and for once he didn’t care. That was at the forefront of his mind and what had made him think of the quote originally. When he was much younger, and his mother had been on speaking terms with him, she had told him the quote once whilst they were watching ‘The Hanging Tree’. His mother had been obsessed with tales of adventure and grandeur and ‘The Hanging Tree’ was one such film that allowed her those illusions due to Maria Schell’s performance. The quote had come out of nowhere and he’d disregarded it, too obsessed with observing people and things that it was parked to one side and almost forgotten about. As he’d gotten older, and his life had become a bit more dangerous, he found himself wondering at that concept that people called peace, which to him had meant boring.
Yet now it was different. He really didn’t care what was going on outside the flat; it could have been as interesting as another one of Moriarty’s puzzles or as dull as Mycroft’s endless attempts to turn him into something useful for the British Government. It wouldn’t have mattered. Above all else, Sherlock had wanted to put that across to John without sounding too sentimental; there was something to be said about contributing to a man’s art, something solid and meaningful, rather than just saying the words and hoping that they made sense. Too many variables and this was a moment that he couldn’t be allowed to tarnish by fumbling up what it was he wanted to say, and he knew John would find it more significant this way than if he had just spoken the words aloud.
Now John had proof of how Sherlock felt and that was important.
Rather than going to get a pen, the same as he’d done with the other pictures, John took the pencil back from Sherlock and signed and dated the drawing before resting the pad on the coffee table in front of them and sitting beside him on the sofa. Sherlock drew his legs up, giving John more room, and regarded him over the tops of his knees. The silence that fell between them didn’t feel awkward in the slightest and Sherlock had the feeling that neither of them wanted to break it. This understanding of each other had been gone for too long and, now that some semblance of it had returned, they didn’t want to do or say anything that would scare it off. Sherlock thought it important to note, however, that there wasn’t any tension, any strain.
Over and over since his return, John kept on surprising him with his general attitude, with his behaviour towards him; the thought had crossed Sherlock’s mind more than once that John really should have hit him by now, illness or not, but it still hadn’t happened and he now wondered if it ever would. On top of that, John still hadn’t shown any sign that there was anything he wanted to say to Sherlock about the Fall, about how it made him feel afterwards or his sudden reappearance. If anything, John had acted like nothing had happened at all, which made Sherlock pause and reflect on it.
Repression of memories wasn’t something that he’d ever done personally; every memory he could recall was stored away, an experience for any future events that may require its retrieval. It had helped him to work past the more stressful areas of his life; he hadn’t shied away from his addiction and the consequences concerning Mycroft’s revival of him when he’d almost died, instead using it and allowing it to make him stronger.
John, on the other hand, had had too much experience with repressing his own memory, his dreams haunted by the war and by being shot. He wasn’t sure that his fall was ranked as being as traumatic as John’s very close brush with death but the annoying part was that he couldn’t be sure.
Sherlock had to keep reminding himself that he’d not been back two days yet and last night he’d not been coherent enough to hear whether or not John was having a nightmare. Before, in the other life, he would have been awake either thoughtfully composing or finishing off an experiment when John’s night terrors would reach down to him from John’s bedroom, often a single shout, and just once the sound of John falling out of his bed with a muted curse, resulting in him limping about the flat the next morning as he got ready for work. It had been an unspoken truce between them that the incident was never mentioned, but Sherlock hadn’t forgotten it.
No matter how much he wished it were otherwise, Sherlock knew he would just have to wait and be watchful of his companion.
When the evening arrived, the sun having set just before four o’clock*, Sherlock was still seated on the sofa and distracting himself by watching John make something to eat in the kitchen, although Sherlock had requested that it wasn’t anything that would smell too strong just in case it made him heave again. His illness had subsided for the most part; he’d stopped vomiting at around three o’clock that afternoon and since then had been steadily getting through the water/sugar/salt concoction that John made him each time he ran out. His body still ached and his head throbbed on occasion but he certainly felt a lot better than he had that morning and John was insistent that he was on the road to recovery.
John came back to the living room and sat in his own chair, leaving Sherlock the sofa, balancing his plate of scrambled eggs on toast on his lap before beginning to tuck in. One mouthful, two, before John spoke. “Mrs Hudson has been away on holiday this week, just in case you didn’t know. She’ll be back tomorrow around mid-morning.”
Sherlock tried to stifle a groan and failed. “Oh joy,” he mumbled. “There isn’t a chance that you’ll make her wait until I’m better, is there?”
John smiled. “No, it’s not that. It’s more that she just lets herself in now and I’ve got in the habit of letting her. If I start changing my tune she’ll know something’s up.”
“Well, we can’t have that, can we?” Sherlock slid a hand over his eyes, sighing loudly. “I doubt that she’ll take the news as well as you did.” He lifted his hand and turned his head to look at John. “Fifty pounds; double or nothing that she faints. In the living room.”
The knife and fork made a small clatter as they were put onto the plate, John finishing his meal before responding. “You’re on.” His eyes gleamed. “Another double or nothing if she faints in the first five seconds.”
Sherlock nodded his agreement at the terms, his own eyes also shining with amusement at the expense of his favourite land-lady.
‘How can I feel sorry for her when it’s just too good to pass up? You don’t die and rise from the dead every day.’ John got up to put his plate and cutlery in the kitchen, Sherlock watching, fascinated, as the other man went about his daily routine which had barely changed when it came to the essentials. Everything was washed up and put away, the click of the kettle being put on reminding Sherlock of his craving for tea, the way John had made it for him, and now sorely missed. With things as they were it was another need that would have to wait but the end was in sight at least.
He picked up his own glass from the coffee table and took another sip of the water, eyes on John as the tea was made and brought back to the living room, the smell of it enough to set Sherlock’s taste-buds aflame with want. John settled again into his own chair, sipping his tea and making himself comfortable with a shift and the crossing of his ankles. His eyes kept straying to Sherlock though, as though he wanted to say something and couldn’t figure out a way to say it, whatever it was that was making him uncomfortable. It wasn’t that Sherlock wasn’t used to it, people feeling that way around him, and John always told him if he was having that effect, but it was odd that John didn’t just come out with it the way he would have done previously. Yet he didn’t interrupt, didn’t start working out what it was because it didn’t feel like it was necessary.
“How are you feeling now?” John asked him suddenly; it wasn’t what he wanted to say, Sherlock knew it, but he felt that the question was going to lead to something else.
“Feeling much better now,” he answered, curious. “Why do you ask?”
To John’s credit, he didn’t hold back. “I was wondering, you know, if you felt up to it later, whether you would be able to play some music … the way you used to.”
Sherlock’s eyes strayed to his violin that was still propped up against his chair, memories of fingers dancing over the strings and whole nights spent coaxing melodies from the instrument flickering through his mind quicker than he could pin them. He hadn’t been able to take his violin with him when he left; John would have noticed something like that going missing so he’d been forced to leave it behind, making do with another violin that he’d found in a skip, the strings gone and the wood covered with mould. Replacing the strings had been easy and the work on the wood had taken the most time to repair but by the end of his solitude he had been able to play a small amount of decent Bach on the thing to some degree before it gave in completely.
His fingers twitched against his thighs, itching to feel the familiar weight of his violin in his hands, already mimicking the notes he’d need to play some of his favourite pieces. He also knew that it would be easier if he was standing though, able to move with the music, and he knew he wasn’t strong enough just yet. The influenza was mostly to blame for that, but he knew it was also down to stupidity on his part as well.
‘Should have taken better care of myself and I didn’t.’ John didn’t allow him to reprimand himself too much though, already seeing the naked yearning on Sherlock’s face. “Only when you’re feeling better though, ok? It’s been a long time and if I know you, which I do by the way, you’ll want to savour it.”
Sherlock grinned at John, absolutely
loving this, the banter between them that had brought him to tears at its loss when he left. He’d never been one to second guess himself, but it felt that he had to keep constantly reminding himself that he’d done was the right thing to do.
‘I did the right thing. I can’t believe anything else.’ The remainder of the evening was spent in front of the telly, some abominable excuse for a detective show that Sherlock worked out within the first two minutes after seeing the crime scene. “Well it’s obviously the gardener!” had been hurled at the screen numerous times to the obliviousness of the characters in it and John’s incessant giggling hadn’t helped one iota. Sherlock had accused John of putting the show on just to get a reaction out of him and the other man had freely admitted it, saying, “if the day comes when you can’t work a TV show you’ll know that it’s time to retire.”
Sherlock had glared at John for
that little remark, but not too harshly.
Nightfall, the time for sleep, and Sherlock was very pleased that John didn’t have to carry him to his room this time; admittedly he had needed assistance getting to his room by having one arm slung around John’s shoulders, but Sherlock had been persistent in getting himself back to working order, even if his legs shook so badly that they’d had to stop once till he could get them back under control.
The pad with his drawing on had been clasped in Sherlock’s free hand; he’d almost pleaded with John to let him take it with him in case the answer was no, but John hadn’t questioned it and just asked him to put it to one side before he went to sleep lest he rolled on it in the night and ruined it, which Sherlock had readily agreed to.
He didn’t ask if John was going to be getting into bed with him; the signs were all there that John was planning on staying up a little more to finish tidying up the flat before retiring to his own room. John had claimed that Sherlock needed the rest; that he would be able to do that better on his own and Sherlock hadn’t pressured him into doing otherwise. As far as they were concerned he was back now and that was all that mattered. Things could go back to normal.
Sleep had come quickly, the exact moment when he dropped off a mystery, but he’d also trained himself to be a light sleeper, he’d had to in order to keep himself alive, so when a loud sob echoed from the room above his own Sherlock was wide awake. He’d been sleeping on his side, curled around his pillow, the same way as in his drawing, and he rolled onto his back, eyes on the ceiling as more sounds came from John’s bedroom. John obviously didn’t realise how thin the walls or ceilings were when it came to sound, and they weren’t as loud as the first one that had woken him but the noise was unmistakable. The rhythmic, choked sounds of John in pain, coughing when he ran out of breath before making a high, keening noise, the pain trapping the sob in John’s throat and forcing it into another form before it began all over again.
Sherlock kept his breathing low so it didn’t override the sounds, lowering his eyes away from the ceiling as his own throat clenched around the lump that had formed there, and slowly he began to doubt that, if this was the cost, maybe what he’d done hadn’t been the right thing to do at all.
To be continued
