Baker Street Boys

8

*I still feel like i want to be as genius as Sherlock where i can be cool and genius n at the same time being rude 24/7.
In that way human will stay away from me and i can found my own Jawn who accepted me for who i am.(yes keep dreaming luke)

*have a good day sweetheart. ;)

Schubert Quintet in C, D 956. John recognized the song almost immediately, he had gathered some knowledge thanks to Sherlock, so he could recognize almost every Chopin, Rossini, Bach and other's compositions. That night it was undoubtedly Frank Schubert, it was one of John's favourites. Still, he didn't like it that time. He would have hate anything at 3 a.m. Why? Because he was a normal person. Sherlock wasn't, there was no doubt of this, but his obliviousness never stopped bothering him anyway. Regardless of his love for the detective, he could still feel, see and hear. So he was indeed annoyed when he couldn't sleep because of his beloved Sherlock and his strange habit of waking up in the middle of the night to play the violin. "Why doesn't he just go for a snack or something?" Watson groaned, sluggishly while stumbling toward the door. "Masturbate in the middle of the night, I don't care. Just something quiet!" Sherlock was right, he was always grumpy when he was tired.

"What is your problem?" The svelte and delicate figure placed in front of the window turned around. Sherlock looked like something you only see in your best dreams, always unreachable and perfect. Disheveled, black curls, some covering his eyes and pale face that seemed almost silver thanks to the moonlight seeping from the window. Needs a haircut John made a mental note.

That eyebrow, that bloody eyebrow was raised once again, in a silent mock. "Do I look like someone who has a problem?" John sighed, frustrated. The effect of Sherlock's beauty (John would never admit he thought about it like this) was rapidly overshadowed by his arrogance. "You really don't want me to answer that." Someone had to put that genius in his place (he also wouldn't admit he called him a genius) and, in his opinion, he did a pretty good job. The taller man left the violin on the table and John thought he had won. "What do you need, John?" A hint of disgruntlement hidden in his words. "To sleep, which I've heard is quite necessary for living." The bitterness in his words did nothing to Sherlock, he didn't even flinch. "Then, sleep." It took all of John's patience and counting to ten five times not to lunge at him. "I would, if some idiot wasn't making noise in my apartment." Since when had the living room always felt so tense? John wondered. "Maybe you should throw out that idiot, if he bothers you so much." Words as sharp as a sword, but, as unbelievable as it sounded, much more painful. "Maybe I should." No, that's not what he meant to say. He didn't want Sherlock far from him, his bed, yes, that's where he wanted him.

Turning around, picking up his mess, not even a peek in his direction, not a good sign. "Sherlock..." Nothing. "Sher?" Not even a glance. "Love?" A loud exhale, but just that.

Enough. Three steps and Sherlock finally looked at him. "I'm leaving." And God if those words didn't make John's heart break! But he somehow managed to control himself and say without stuttering. "No, you are not." A curious look is what he had been expecting, but he had never been so disappointed in his life as in that moment, the only thing he got from Sherlock being a blank expression. Don't cry John, just don't. A kiss, kisses always worked. He pressed his lips against Sherlock's, not getting a response, he didn't even pull back, just stood there like a statue. Don't cry, John. Oh, what did I just say! A single tear crossed his face until it reached his cheek, then a white and fine thumb wiped it. John's gaze fixed on Sherlock's face, which was only inches from his now. His lower lip was trembling and there was something in his eyes that he could only read as guilt. "I'm sorry." His voice cracked, and that, mixed with his rueful appearance got John. Sherlock pulled him close in an embrace and he rested his head on the crook of his neck. "I'm sorry, love." The taller man repeated over and over, even though John had already forgiven him.

And no, Sherlock didn't stop playing in the middle of the night. Although, that doesn't mean nothing changed. He got an audience. It was composed by just one person. But he didn't care if just a pair of ears enjoyed his music, because those ears belonged to John, the most important person in his life. And John was the best public, he never interrupted, just sat there, worshipping the love of his life and his mad ideas.