Chapter Text
Velvet: The next big thing?
By Simon Jones
April 19th, 1994
Here in Britain, the lead singer is known simply as Sherlock. The band, Velvet, is simply the next big thing. In fact, Velvet are already huge - their debut album just entered the British charts at No. 1.
Velvet "have it in them to be just about the most extraordinary, intelligent and potentially enormous guitar band this country has seen in a decade," according to Q magazine. Rolling Stone has cited them 'the best new band in Britain' on its November 3rd, 1993, cover - and all before Velvet have even released a single.
For once, the music almost lives up to the hype. Sex, drugs and angst make up Velvet's unique brand of rock 'n' roll. And it makes for a fascinating, almost addictive mixture. They are most often compared to the Smiths, the now-defunct British group whose lead singer Morrissey is already a fan. After attending a Velvet concert, he promptly incorporated one of the band's songs into his own set. Like the Smiths, sexual preferences are blurred in Velvet's lyrics. Comparisons to David Bowie's Ziggy Stardust days are also made. (In fact, we hear Sherlock is quite the modern-day Casanova. He’s been linked to various women and men, most recently Sally Donovan of the all-female punk group 3 Licks.)
But there are also echoes of other '70s icons such as T. Rex, Cockney Rebel and Mott The Hoople in the Velvet sound. Holmes and his four bandmates, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, Phillip Anderson, and Jim Moriarty have graced the magazine covers in Britain for the past 12 months.
Their first single, Ashes, was voted 1993 Single of the Year by Rolling Stone and New Musical Express. The second single, Kneel, won similar honours in Select magazine. Their third release, Nitrate, rocketed to the top of the independent single charts in Britain last month.
Readers of Melody Maker, after just two singles, voted Velvet Britain’s brightest hope, ranking them third among live acts and sixth in voting for best band.
April 1994
“John?” John Watson hears someone calling his name as he turns the corner to head down Middle Street. He’s strolling, really, more to cure boredom than serve a concrete purpose.
“John!”
He turns his head to see the jolly face of Mike Stamford, his old classmate from St. Barts.
“Mike. How are you?” John’s unprepared to run into an old friend, but considering his proximity to their old stomping ground, he should have known it was a possibility. He’s been back in London for nearly a month, but friendly faces are few and far between. He’s only a few feet away from Mike and uncertain if he’s in the right headspace to be social. Why should I feel nervous about seeing an old friend?
“Good. Fine! What about yourself?” Mike responds with a smile, “Last I heard, you were in Bosnia getting shot at. What brings you back to London?”
“I got shot,” John says, matter-of-factly. It’s true after all.
“Blimey. Ah, that’s terrible,” Mike slowly shakes his head, “ I’m sorry, John. So what are you up to now?”
“Well, I’ll look for a job, I suppose. Living in London on an army pension, it’s not… ideal.”
“How odd. I just ran into an old friend who was looking to fill a post. He needs a doctor, or rather, he knows some people who do.”
“Who’s this friend?” John asks, intrigued.
“Mycroft Holmes. He… It’s quite unconventional, actually. He’s looking for a doctor to look after a band that’s going on tour. Velvet, quite a big name!”
“Velvet? Never heard of them. Not a lot of time for pop music in Bosnia.”
Mike chuckles, “Well, look right here!” Mike points at the newsstand nearby. “That’s the lead singer!”
John follows Mike’s finger to the cover of Melody Maker. On the cover, there’s a strange-looking guy, unconventionally attractive in that way that’s trendy - heroin chic, as they say. Too thin. Looks like he’s trying a bit too hard to be cool.
“Hmm, why would a band need a doctor? Is that… a thing?” John supposes it must be. He can’t even imagine what the Rolling Stone’s doctor would have dealt with in their heyday.
“I’m not sure. Not really something I know much about. In fact, I’m teaching these days. At Barts. And yes, I’ve gotten fat!”
John smiles. “Mike, you’re not -”
“Not another word. I know I have!” Mike laughs cheerfully. “Nevertheless, you should talk to this bloke. It could be interesting, you know, financially speaking. I’ll give you his number.”
“Ok, ta. Not sure if that’s really up my alley, but thanks,” John puts the number in his back pocket, bids farewell to Mike, and makes his way toward Barbican station.
Over the next few days, John doesn’t give the job prospect much thought - it’s ludicrous, after all. Then, on Thursday night as he’s taking off his jeans, he notices the small card in his back pocket.
“Oh, right,” He lets his mind wander. What would it be like to be a doctor for a band? What does that entail? He does need money, and he’ll have to find a job soon, but this is not what he had in mind. I suppose I’ve nothing to lose, giving the man a call? John clears his throat and picks up the phone without allowing himself to reflect too hard.
“Mycroft Holmes,” the voice on the line responds.
“Yes,” John coughs, “this is John Watson. Doctor John Watson. I’m friends with Mike Stamford.”
The line is silent and John adds, “He said you might be looking for a doctor?”
“Yes. Well, not for me, for my… client. As Mike may have explained, I manage a band that’s embarking on a European tour. We’ll need a doctor who’s available to follow them over the course of six weeks. Are you available?”
“Wait. Don’t you want to… I don’t know, ask me some questions or something? You don’t know anything about me, I could be -”
“I’ve already done my research, Doctor Watson,” Mycroft interrupts, “Mike told me about bumping into you, and I’ve already looked into your qualifications.”
“Okay. Well, all right then.”
“We’ll need to meet. Tomorrow,” Mycroft says with finality.
John pulls the phone away from his face, looking at the receiver in confusion. “I’m… I’m not even sure I’m interested, yet.”
“Well, you should be. I’m - we’re prepared to pay a lot of money.”
“I’m listening.”
“9 pm. There’s a little cafe by 221 Baker Street. See you then, John,” and with that, Mycroft hangs up, leaving John speechless, stood with the phone to his ear well after the other man hangs up. So I’m just going to meet a stranger at night, on a street I’ve never been to? This is mad.
John looks around at his sparse bedsit and says aloud, “Why the hell not?”
At 9 pm the following evening, John arrives at the café on Baker Street, called Speedy’s, apparently. There are no lights on inside, and he checks his watch against the hours on the door. At that moment, an ominous black limousine pulls up to the curb and the back window rolls down. There’s a rather fat man who appears to be in his early forties looking smugly out the window.
“Get in.”
“Mycroft Holmes?”
“Yes. Get in.”
“What? The cafe is closed. What are we doing?”
“Yes, I know, does it look like I frequent cafés?”
“I don’t think you want me to answer that.”
“Oh, do get in. Please. We’re not going anywhere. I just want to have a word before I take you to meet the band.”
John hesitates, looking around him. For what? Someone to save him or reassure him? The door opens, and against his better judgement, he gets in.
“Does this have to be so mysterious? We’re talking about an actual job, right? This is all above board?”
“Yes, but I just thought you should be well-informed before you meet my… client. What I’m looking for is a doctor who’s prepared for anything… or maybe nothing at all.”
“More mystery.”
“Yes, well. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how musicians are, particularly, those on the rise of fame. There are often bad decisions made, the kind that -”
“Drugs. Do you mean drugs? Why don’t you just come out and say it?”
“Not just drugs, Doctor Watson, though there’s sure to be some of that. Injuries, accidents, too much drinking, other types of bodily abuse, inadvisable… sexual contact. You would need to be prepared for anything. ”
“So worst-case scenario: I’d be dealing with STIs and overdoses. Best case scenario: I’d be handing out condoms to the band and maybe administering an IV drip in the case of a rough night out?”
Mycroft laughs, “You’ll be lucky indeed if the latter is the case, but as I said, you would need to be prepared for anything. Oh, and the bassist, Greg, is diabetic.”
John thinks about this for a moment. This could be intense, a wild ride, potentially.
“Okay. let's go meet them then.”
Mycroft uses his key to open the door to 221B, and just as they enter, an older woman walks out of the downstairs flat.
“Mycroft!" She calls, worriedly "they’re rehearsing! Isn’t it lovely? You’re not here to disturb them? I know how your presence can -”
“Mrs Hudson, I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m just here with Velvet’s tour doctor, Doctor John Watson.”
“I’m not…" John clears his throat, "a pleasure to meet you,” John extends his hand to the kindly woman.
“Mrs Hudson. I’m Sherlock’s landlady,” she says and shakes the hand offered to her.
Mrs Hudson walks out with the full bin liner she had sat down, and John follows Mycroft up the stairs, “Who is Sherlock?”
Mycroft chuckles, “The band's singer. We don’t exactly… get on.”
As they step through the door, John notices that there are quite a lot of people there. It looks and sounds more like an intimate concert than a rehearsal. The band is mid-song - an upbeat pop tune - and the crowd applauds when the song ends. The lead singer, whom John immediately recognizes from Melody Maker, walks over to the two men. A slight sheen of sweat glosses his skin, a few damp unruly curls on his forehead.
“Mycroft,” the singer says with a sneer.
“Sherlock. This is Doctor John Watson. He’ll be accompanying you on tour.”
“I haven’t said…! ”
Sherlock looks John up and down appraisingly, “Bosnia or Croatia?”
“Sorry?”
“Bosnia or Croatia?”
“How did you...? Did Mycroft tell you?” John looks over to Mycroft.
“No. You’re a doctor looking for a job. The way you hold yourself and your short-cropped hair indicate military. Your socks, traditional Yugoslavian knit. So, Bosnia or Croatia?”
“Bosnia, actually” John stares at Sherlock with a furrowed brow.
“Doctor Watson, have a seat. Mycroft, weren’t you just... leaving?” Without waiting for Mycroft to answer, Sherlock pushes him through the door.
“Go on, Doctor Watson. Have a seat.”
“John. You can call me John. How did you know all that about me?”
“I observe and I make deductions.”
“Really? Mycroft didn’t brief you?”
“No,” Sherlock looks John square in the eyes.
“That’s... brilliant," a grin spreads across John's face.
Sherlock smiles, “No, I just know how to read people. Now, if you’ll have a seat. We’ve only one more song.”
John finds a spot on the floor amongst the small crowd. After a moment’s pause, the girl in the band starts on the piano, a deliberate melody, reminiscent of a tune he’d heard before - The Beatles? Seconds later, a wiry man on guitar joins in, then a small dark-haired drummer, beating more robustly than seems possible for his small frame. A silver-haired man in his late thirties joins in on bass, then Sherlock’s gravely, yet modulated voice:
Slip inside the eye of your mind
Don't you know you might find
A better place to play
Sherlock’s eyes are closed, and he’s nearly motionless, all his energy focused on the words coming out of his mouth.
You said that you'd never been
But all the things that you've seen
Will slowly fade away
John recognises something mournful in this tune, something that stirs up emotions attached to love affairs gone awry, and for him, the spoils of war.
So I start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head.
Step outside, summertime's in bloom
Every set of eyes in the room are fixed on Sherlock, John’s included. If he’s ever questioned whether music can truly be hypnotic…
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
You ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
The arrangement is simple, yet so powerful. John has to resist the urge to reach out and grab the hand of the pretty girl beside him. That would be too weird. Just as he decides against it, her hand joins his. He looks over and sees that tears are welling up in her eyes. She whispers, “Isn’t it just so…painful?”
And so Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, I heard you say
John’s realizes he’s staring at Sherlock’s mouth as he articulates each word, but he finds it impossible to divert his attention. The lyrics, the melody, his voice; it’s mesmerizing, almost too much. Surely he’s witnessing history, or at least the making of a future number one hit.
Take me to the place where you go
Where nobody knows if it's night or day
But please don't put your life in the hands
Of a Rock n Roll band
Who'll throw it all away
I'm gonna start a revolution from my bed
'Cause you said the brains I had went to my head
Suddenly, John’s gaze is returned. Sherlock’s eyes are on him, looking straight through to his soul.
Step outside 'cause summertime's in bloom
Stand up beside the fireplace
Take that look from off your face
'Cause you ain't ever gonna burn my heart out
So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as she's walking on by
My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger I heard you say
John finally looks away and withdraws his hand from the girl’s. Damn this song. Damn this. It’s too much for him after a month of sensory deprivation. John feels his eyes get misty. No, no, no, Watson. You’re not going to cry over a bloody song!
So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
Her soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, I heard you say
So Sally can wait, she knows it's too late as we're walking on by
My soul slides away, but don't look back in anger, don't look back in anger, I heard you say
‘Least not today
Total silence. Half the audience is staring at Sherlock, the rest looking around at each other, eyes wide.
“That was bloody brilliant!” The embarrassing exclamation is out of John’s mouth before he even realizes it.
His words seemed to break the trance; cheering, applause. The girl next to him whistles enthusiastically. It’s not just me, then. Good. Thank God.
Sherlock smiles at the small crowd and walks away, out of sight. The rest of the band put away their instruments and disappear to talk to their friends. People begin to shuffle around. The girl leans over, “Well, that was amazing!”
Suddenly there’s a hand on John’s shoulder. He looks up to see Sherlock.
“Sherlock, that was…brilliant.”
“So you said,” Sherlock smirks.
“I did. That was…” John clears his throat, “embarrassing.”
“Oh, I don’t mind. Shall we go discuss business?”
John takes Sherlock’s extended hand which leverages him up to his feet. He wants to kick himself for feeling special to have this man’s attention on him. John Watson does not get starstruck, even if that was the most amazing performance I’ve ever seen. He follows Sherlock into the kitchen.
“John. Thank you for coming. To be honest, I wasn’t very keen on the idea of having a doctor accompany us on tour, but Mycroft insists. And, well, if that’s going to happen, I think you would be acceptable.”
“Acceptable, well that’s...”
“I mean, I would like it very much. You being an army doctor. I’m sure you’re prepared for the worst - not that I expect any violent mishaps on this tour. Maybe some minor injuries. Jim does like an occasional row. And of course, your being a fan can only be a bonus.”
“Fan? Well, I suppose -”
“Honestly, I don’t know what Mycroft has told you, but it will likely be an uncomplicated job. We’re all very healthy. I mean, Greg is ancient and if he continues drinking the way does with his diabetes, there might be a bit of a problem. But the rest of us? Fit. As. Fiddles.”
“Well, I’ll have to think about it,” he says seriously. This isn’t a decision to be made in haste.
“That’s fine. Enjoy the party,” Sherlock looks between the girl and John and winks before he abruptly walks away.
“Right,” This could turn out to be the most eventful night John has had in a while. In fact, it already has been.
“So, I’ve never seen you here before,” the girl from earlier says to John, who’s leaning up against the fridge in the cramped kitchen of 221B. John imagines Sherlock could surely afford something a little more spacious with his rising fame. Maybe the advances haven't yet come through?
“No. No, first time.”
“So how do you know Sherlock?”
“Erm, I don’t really,” John opens the fridge and grabs a Stella, “Want one?”
“I’ve got a rum and coke, thanks.”
“Right. So, what’s your name?”
“Sarah,” She says with…coyness? “Fancy a fag?”
“Oh, I don’t…,” John suddenly realises he could be missing an opportunity, “Sure. Sure. Yes! Dying for one.” John looks at Sarah’s face and smiles. She’s quite pretty, even if the piercings and moody makeup are not what he’s used to. This could be an interesting turn of events. Yes, why not?
“Come on, then,” Sarah walks through the kitchen and out the front door.
“Where are we going?”
“The roof.”
There’s a small ladder in the hallway that leads to a landing with a small door. Sarah pushes out, and suddenly they’re looking out over the London skyline.
“Gorgeous,” John says, looking up.
“Thank you,” Sarah says, snickering.
John smiles. The air is cool, humid, and not quite clean. It’s so distinctly springtime London. He’s missed the vibrant, dirty city. It’s quite disorienting. He had known there was a whole world was missing out on; people and places that he didn’t even know existed, but not for a moment did he think he’d be in the thick of it tonight. The possibility of getting to know someone in this strange, exciting world was invigorating; a stark contrast to the trivialities he had recently suffered through. He was chuffed, and maybe even a bit drunk. Sitting down next to Sarah, he takes the lit Dunhill from her fingers.
“So what are you doing here?”
John chuckles, “I don’t know. I really, really don’t know. How about you?”
Sarah takes a slow drag from the fag, “Friends with Molly, and the rest of the band, I suppose. Molly’s the pianist. But she plays every instrument you can imagine.”
“Well, I’ll be honest with you. I’m here as the potential tour doctor for the band. Their manager would like me to accompany them on tour.”
“Mycroft? Scary, isn’t he? So, you’re a doctor. Well, I suppose that could be a good idea, you know, considering Sherlock’s latest…issues. Actually, maybe you don’t know?”
“Issues?” John asks nervously.
Sarah looks hesitant to say anymore. After a moment, she sighs, “Well, he’s seeing this girl called Sally, and they get into all sorts of trouble together. He’s even been arrested.”
“Arrested for what?” John asks with a bit of alarm.
“Just public intoxication.”
“Oh, that’s all, is it?” John doesn’t see how the "just" was appropriate.
“Yeah, well, she’s absolutely mad. She’s in a band herself. Punk Rock, and she makes sure they live up to the name. She’s even given Sherlock a bloody lip because she thought he was flirting with Molly. She’s always strung out and sometimes he goes along for the ride. She’ll be the death of him if he’s not careful.”
“Right,” John is having serious second thoughts about the job offer. Light substance abuse and diabetic episodes are one thing, crazy girlfriends and getting arrested for public intoxication are quite another.
They sit in silence for a few minutes.
“Fancy a snog?”
“Definitely,” John laughs incredulously, then leans in, letting their lips meet. This is nice. Some human contact. Oh, how he had missed being close like this with another person.
After a few minutes of slightly drunken snogging, John is keen to take it a bit further. They’re alone after all, and what’s this night for if not forgetting his mundane existence? John reaches for Sarah’s denim jacket but stops with a start when a frightened-looking bloke bursts through the door.
“Sherlock won’t wake up!” There’s a look of sheer terror on his pale face.
“What?! What do you mean?” John, feeling quite confused at the moment, eventually breaks away from Sarah.
“He won’t wake up! Sally showed up and they went to the bedroom. A few minutes later, she came out shouting that Sherlock had blacked out. No one knows what to do. Sally won’t let us call an ambulance. I heard you talking to Sherlock earlier - you’re a doctor, right?”
“Well, yes...but we should definitely call an ambulance!” John scrambles to his feet.
“Just come look at him, will you? Please!”
John swiftly follows him back downstairs to the flat, Sarah trailing behind him.
“Where is he?” John suddenly feels calm and in control, the soldier in him taking over.
“In here!” The young man points to the bedroom where Sherlock is sprawled out on the floor, with the bassist crouching over him, slapping his face repeatedly, calling his name. John takes a quick look around and notices a woman huddled in the corner.
“Who are you?” The silver-haired bassist asks, looking up at John.
“John Watson. Let me take a look. I’m a doctor," John says flatly, "What did he take?”
“I don’t know! Sally?” Greg shouts and looks toward the woman crouched in the corner.
“I don’t know, Greg,” She looks in another world, staring straight ahead, glassy-eyed and emotionless. She has obviously taken her fair share of whatever was going around.
“I need to know what he took if I’m going to help him! Sally, tell me what he’s taken,” John says, trying to keep his voice calm, adrenaline levels rising.
“Rohypnol,” Sally mutters and looks away.
“Jesus! Ok, give me space. How much did he have? Anything else?”
“I don’t know,” Sally said evenly, almost distractedly. “Just beer, I think.”
“Sherlock?” John was on his knees, checking Sherlock’s vital signs. His skin was cool and moist to the touch, his breathing slow and laboured. Checking his pulse...slow and erratic.
“Ok, Sherlock. Let’s get up. Help me out here!” John says, looking to Greg. “We need to try to walk him about.”
The two hoist Sherlock up, but he’s dead weight.
“Ok, we’re going to need to get him to the shower,” They drag Sherlock into the bathroom, and John notices that the party has come to a stand-still. Everyone is watching. The upbeat, energetic music making the scene almost surreal.
“Take his legs,” John grabs Sherlock under the arms, while Greg lifts his bottom half into the tub. John turns on the cold tap quickly. Sally watches from the doorway, silent.
“Sherlock? Sherlock, are you with us?” No response.
“SHERLOCK!” Greg shouts, then slaps him twice, quite forcefully, on the cheek. Sherlock is still unresponsive.
“Get some ice,” John demands.
“What?” Greg looks at him, confused.
“Get me some bloody ice!”
John slaps Sherlock this time, feeling quite sober now, and Greg walks in with a bowl of ice soon after.
“Ok, listen to me, Sally. I need you to unzip his trousers and put all the ice down his pants.”
“What?!”
“Just do it! Please! Make sure the ice makes direct contact with his testicles.”
Sally gives John an uncertain look, then unbuttons and unzips Sherlock’s jeans.
“Dump the ice in his pants. Now!”
Sally hesitantly does as she’s told, and John leans over the pale, limp man in the tub. “Sherlock?” He slaps him harder this time. “Sherlock!”
Abruptly, Sherlock makes an indistinct “Hmph” sound.
“Sherlock?” Then another slap. With that, Sherlock slightly opens his heavy lids to reveal dull, pale eyes.
“Ok, ok. Good. Get up, Sherlock,” The sound of relief is evident in John’s voice. “Greg! Now, let’s walk him.”
John on one side, Greg on the other, they lift Sherlock out of the tub. He’s able to stand, but only barely.
“Here we go,” John says as he takes the first step forward.
A couple of hours have gone by and John, Greg, and Molly have managed to keep Sherlock awake. John had pleaded with Sally to stay, but she insisted on leaving with some friends and the remaining bandmates, shrugging and saying “This happens all the time, he’ll be good as new in the morning.”
Greg and Molly are sitting on either side of Sherlock’s bed, John on the chair opposite.
“What were you thinking?!” Greg breaks the silence they had been sitting in. “You know, Sherlock, I’ve always thought you were the smartest guy I knew. I’m not so sure anymore.”
“Oh, don’t be so dramatic, Greg,” Sherlock scoffs.
“Dramatic! As though overdosing on Rohypnol isn’t dramatic at all!” Molly shouts shrilly.
“Really, I’m fine now. And I’m not touching that stuff ever again. Promise.”
“What about all the other stuff?” asks Greg.
“None of it. Not the hard stuff.”
“You better not, Sherlock! We’ve got a lot riding on this tour. Don’t go around acting like we’ve already got it in the bag, because we haven’t!” Greg says, exasperated.
“You better start practising in that case, Greg,” Sherlock smirks.
“Piss off. Obviously you’re back to your normal, insufferable self. I’m gone,” Greg gets up to leave. Molly leans over and kisses Sherlock on the cheek before she catches up. John follows her out of the room to the front door.
“John, thank you. Thank God you were here. I know he doesn’t think it’s a big deal, but I happen to think it was,” sighs Greg, obviously exhausted.
“What’s this all about? Does this really happen often?”
“When she’s around,” Molly says scornfully, eyes narrowed.
“Right.” John looks back toward Sherlock’s room.
“Yeah...truth be told, none of us really like her, Sally. She’s ruining him. He’s always dabbled a bit, but when she’s around, he’s out of control. They’re always fighting. Either that or they’re full-on manic energy. I don’t understand what he sees in her,” Greg shakes his head.
“Drugs?”
“That’s likely part of it. They enable each other,” Greg responds.
“I’ve never seen him this far gone. I feel quilty about introducing them. Sally's a mate from Uni ,” Molly mutters.
Greg gives Molly a sympathetic nod, grabs his coat, then pauses, “Ok then. You leaving too, John?”
John considers for a moment, “No, I would feel better if I stayed a little while. You know, just to make sure he’s all right.”
“John, I appreciate it, but you don’t have to. You barely know him. I’ll stay if you think he needs company.”
“Yes, well. I’ll stay a while anyway. If only for my peace of mind. I'm a doctor, remember?”
“Okay,” Greg sighs. “Take care, John. And thanks again for…well, you know.” He waves his hand toward Sherlock's bedroom.
“Yes, thank you,” Molly smiles gratefully, giving John a warm hug.
“It’s…fine,” John forces a smile and watches the two musicians walk down the stairs.
So here I am, alone with a mad junkie in his flat.
John walks back to the bedroom, “Sherlock? How are you feeling?”
“Fine. Thank you, John,” Sherlock slowly sips the water Greg had brought him earlier, “As much as it pains me to say, maybe my brother has a point. Maybe we do need a tour doctor.”
“Brother? Mycroft? Mycroft is your brother?”
Sherlock adopts a slight frown, “Hmmm, yes. Unfortunately.”
“I see. That explains his concern,” It’s making a bit more sense to John now. “You know, you wouldn’t need a doctor if you didn’t use this shite.”
“But I do - I mean I have - from time to time. This was the last time, though! I hope it will be, anyway. I can’t always trust myself. The urge is overwhelming sometimes.”
“It might help to identify your triggers and avoid them.”
“Well, that shouldn’t be a problem. I’ve only a few, one of which Mycroft will ensure will not distract me during the tour.”
“Sally?”
Sherlock doesn’t answer. Instead, he says, “You seemed to be having fun before the...incident,” Sherlock gestures flippantly toward the bedroom door with his hand.
“Yeah, well, you put a bit of a damper on everything, didn’t you?”
Sherlock sits motionless, looking down at his hands.
“Will you walk around a bit? I could make some tea. I want to make sure you’re all right before I leave.”
“I’m fine. You can go.” After a moment’s pause, realising John means business, Sherlock stands up, still a bit shaky, and walks across the bedroom. He opens a violin case and takes out the instrument carefully.
“You play the violin?”
“Yes,” He picks up the bow and immediately starts playing a beautiful, albeit melancholy tune.
John sits back down. Like the earlier song that had nearly moved John to tears, this melody is dark and powerful - perhaps even darker. No, this is definitely darker, devoid of any hint of hope the band’s previous pop song had provided.
He watches Sherlock intently, his nimble fingers moving on the strings as though the violin is an extension of his body rather than an independent instrument. He wonders if the music is an expression of some deep sadness within the man himself.
The tune continues, and John’s hopes for some sort of redeeming happy ending. His hopes are dashed. The song comes to a close with mournful abandonment.
“That was…”
“Depressing? It’s the theme from Schindler’s List.”
“Beautiful.”
A half-smile quickly passes Sherlock’s lips.
“Right, then. You’re full of surprises. First an overdose, now a concerto,” John smirks.
“It’s not a concerto, just a sonata.”
“Just a sonata. Well, it was nice,” John clears his throat and looks away.
“Thank you. As you can see, I’m quite all right. I plan to play for a few hours before attempting sleep.”
John nods, quite reassured that Sherlock will be okay. He walks out of the room to retrieve his jacket.
“John?”
John turns back around to the man now standing a few feet away, looking into his eyes as though searching for the right words to say. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
“It was my… ethical responsibility.”
“Still.”
John extends his hand to Sherlock. “Take care of yourself?” Sherlock’s hand is warm and dry, his handshake firm. John notices his long, delicate fingers and the calluses from violin playing.
John drops Sherlock’s hand and grabs his coat, putting it on as he walks down the stairs, out the door, and back onto the streets on London. When he reaches the Melcombe Street intersection a couple of minutes later, there’s an unexpected emotion he’s suddenly aware of. Excitement? Exhilaration? That’s definitely inappropriate considering someone nearly died. He continues walking, hoping to find a cab.
God help him, but he feels alive.