Not A Thing You Get To Choose

With The Music Appears The Man

All throughout dinner was a silent ordeal, Sherlock sat almost shamefully at his place at the table while Mycroft sliced their rolls in half with their old bread knife, dividing the tomatoes and rolls among the two of them and beginning to eat. In the absence of silence Sherlock's mind wandered back to John, thinking about that boy and feeling once more that ever present drumming in his heart, the ringing in his ears, the smile that threatened to emerge on his lips. Oh he didn't know what friendship was like, but if it was like this every time then he would surely seek out other boys to be friends with. It was a wondrous feeling, so amazing in fact that he hastened to avoid it for the time being, he couldn't be caught smiling in silence in his brother's presence. So Sherlock took to distracting himself, collecting the crumbs from where Mycroft had cut the bread and gathering them into a little pile, whistling for Merlin who was now perched on Sherlock's bedpost with his head in his wing. As if it knew what was waiting for it the bird took flight eagerly, flying towards the table and landing right before the pile of crumbs that Sherlock had collected for him.
"That's such a curious animal." Mycroft decided almost sternly, pulling his food as far as he could away from the bird as it hopped around and ate innocently. "It could have all sorts of diseases, it really shouldn't be seated on our table."
"He's fine, and if not I'll be happy to give him a bath." Sherlock teased.
"Well yes, if you could manage that would give me a bit more peace of mind." Mycroft agreed, evidently not noticing Sherlock's little joke.
"He seems to like me." Sherlock admitted with a grin.
"Oh does he buy you lunch as well?" Mycroft teased, making Sherlock frown unnoticed at him.
"I don't know why you're treating this as some sort of joke." Sherlock snapped.
"I'm not joking; I do think it's good for you to have a friend. I'm just nervous, that's all. You know how I worry about you Sherlock." Mycroft pointed out.
"Yes I know. I'll be fine Mycroft, I'll be fine." Sherlock assured with a smile.
"I can only pray that's true." Mycroft breathed, bowing his head almost mournfully as he finished off his dinner and rose to his feet. When Sherlock was finished with his dinner (and Merlin was done pecking at the remains) he stepped outside with his violin, feeling quite in the mood to play. Mycroft didn't let him play inside; claiming that the music was always too loud for him, and yet Sherlock knew he secretly enjoyed it through the walls. Outside in the back they had a little wooden bench, overlooking the small field on which their hut was built, filled in the spring with wondrous wildflowers flowers. Tonight the flowers were closed in the dying sunlight, however the colors were still noticeable in the orange horizon and they were beautiful enough to put a smile on his face. Merlin was out as well, flying about the field. Sherlock wasn't sure if the bird would return, and for a moment he direly wished it would, for it was a good companion to have about the house when John was absent. He had two friends now; it was an astounding number for a Holmes, especially since Mycroft had set the bar almost pathetically low. Sherlock set his violin on his shoulder and took a deep breath, thoughts of John Watson on his mind and gorgeous spells on his lips, joy in his head and the scent of wildflowers overwhelming him as he pressed the bow finally to the strings. Out came a beautiful note, the beginning of a beautiful song that would develop itself in his playing, he had never learned any formal pieces and yet he simply played what he saw fit, the music always flowed to accompany his mood. Tonight it was a beautiful melody, the musical equivalent to his heart dancing and lurching about his chest, the sound of the feeling the smile of John Watson gave him, the expression of delight itself, the chorus of their voices intermingling into one! The beautiful John Watson. And suddenly something sprung from the music, a blue figure, a small butterfly composed entirely of light, fluttering its wings in glee and getting carried around by the currents of the notes that were now tangible in the air. Sherlock watched them in astonishment, watching as from his bow strings the music notes erupted in an ever constant flow, sometimes sprouting more butterflies, sometimes birds, the notes and the creatures surrounding him and enveloping him in a soft blue light, a beautiful light. Merlin had returned and was flying about with the blue birds, interweaving throughout the streams of music notes and chirping along to the beautiful sound that was rushing from the instrument. And then suddenly Sherlock wasn't alone, suddenly there was a boy, a boy composed entirely of blue, a beautiful boy standing before him with a smile that was the meaning for all of this. Sherlock smiled at him, continuing his playing slower, more gently. The music began to become less of a dance and more of a serenade, and suddenly while Sherlock drew the bow across the instrument he stared at John Watson, longing in his eyes, desire in his heart... He was starting to see it now, clearer, suddenly whatever this was, it was making sense. Sherlock was becoming short of breath and yet the light figure was coming closer, the music was now so slow and so gentle that it was beginning to make the creatures still, the notes floated lazily off into the night sky to join the stars while the birds and the butterflies landed about the bushes and the grasses below. Merlin perched on the bench, the sole witness to John's blue likeness approaching Sherlock quietly, his steps making no mark on the grass as he drew closer, a soft smile on his face, his hair glowing gold despite his blue tint. Sherlock kept on playing, knowing that it was the music and his own feelings that were giving life to this magnificent scene. And as the music picked up John started closer, and suddenly he veered so close that Sherlock felt the need to lean back, except he didn't, he couldn't bring himself to. He didn't want to. The figure stepped in, its blue hand taking Sherlock's face so gently in its touch, he couldn't feel anything and yet he knew it was there, he knew that this music was displaying what he wanted, what he felt. It was being played quite literally from the heart. And then it grew slow again, and for a moment Sherlock's only movement was playing the violin, for even his lungs failed to inflate while those blue eyes were fixed on his. And then the blue tinted figure leaned in closer, and Sherlock could've sworn...he could've sworn! That he had felt John's lips as they were placed ever so gently on his own. With a screech of the violin the figures vanished, and Sherlock was left in the darkness, the darkness he had begun with, his violin falling ever so clammily from his trembling fingers with the memory and the distant feeling of John, of his coming closer. So was this what he wanted or was this all just...romanticized? Sherlock heaved in deep breaths, feeling as though he had been holding his breath for as long as the piece had been performed, nervous because he didn't know.