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“I’m going to kill you Sherlock!”
The screeching of the violin could almost be considered a new form of dub step, one that incorporated all the awful, awkward tones of ska and jazz and made them into the sound of a dying cat. It wouldn’t be so bad if Sherlock was playing at a reasonable hour, but somehow it always managed to be in the middle of the night after John had had a long day (or when John was drunk or hung-over) and therefore Sherlock decided to play into the wee hours of the morning.
John was suitably upset this time as he was both hung-over and sick. He’d had a shift at the surgery today and not for the first time he’d wished that case would come up so he could avoid it. Now he had a blinding headache, a roiling stomach and a stuffy nose. The pained noises that were produced by Sherlock’s violin made everything that much worse. So John rolled out of bed, waited a few seconds to see if he’d be stable enough to walk, and stomped down the stairs to confront his mad flatmate and friend.
“I swear to all that is holy Sherlock if you don’t stop this noise I am going to fuck-“
“Do shut up John, you’re complaints have been noted and are being given the consideration they deserve.”
Sherlock hadn’t even glanced up, and instead continued to torture the instrument in his hands. John scowled and opened his mouth to start a proper row when he noticed the scowl on his friend’s face. Normally the violin made Sherlock a bit mellower, and often it would give Sherlock the illusion of a serene and content expression. The violin was also used as a weapon to annoy others, and that gave Sherlock a kind of gleeful and mischievous feel. It was also used to calm his nerves, solve problems and take him out of his 'transport' and into his mind palace. However, the scowl on Sherlock’s face was something John had never seen before; or at least not whilst Sherlock was playing.
“Come off it you prat. What has your knickers in a knot anyway?”
John rubbed his sore forehead and moved into the kitchen to put on the kettle and grab himself some pain medication. It seemed to him as if this could be a long and painful extraction. However much his head hurt, and however pissed off at his mad flatmate he had been five minutes ago didn’t matter as much as Sherlock’s happiness- and dear god John couldn’t believe that is what he just thought. He bent over and banged his head hard on the kitchen counter. Dangerous thoughts to have in these parts.
“Nothing has my knickers in knot.” Sherlock sounded and, from the quick peek John had taken over his shoulder, looked mightily offended at that particular phrasing. John sighed and reached up to get the mugs, trying to think how to put the question more delicately for his sensitive friend. Though why he should care about sensitivity with him was beyond John. Especially when Sherlock continued to put the mugs on the highest shelf so he had to almost jump up the reach them, the bastard.
“I meant to say,” John huffed as he finally pulled down two of the mugs, “Why on earth are you not only torturing your violin but glaring at it as if it somehow wronged you?”
“…“
John heard the silence louder than any response Sherlock could have given, but decided making tea would come first. Issues later.
“Don’t get frustrated with me if you inane questions fail to achieve the response you wanted. Just because my violin is enamoured with you does not mean I have to be constantly inundated with your ridiculous disapproval at something that is hardly related to me at all.”
John took a second to process that as he brought the tea into the living room. He passed Sherlock his tea, made as correctly as his tiny little brain could allow (sometimes John seriously wondered why one earth they were friends), and sat down on his armchair.
“Hmm…” John sipped his tea and the headache eased that little bit. Then his eyes popped open to see his mad and crazy flatmate staring at him with an expression that John was tempted to call desperation. It was then he reviewed what Sherlock had said.
“O-kay,” John blinked, “Right then. Uh, so your violin is in love with me?” He hoped he’d focused on the right issue there, or that he hadn’t misunderstood completely. That happened far too frequently and being called an idiot was like a term of endearment from Sherlock, and John rather liked being the only idiot that Sherlock could stand to ever lo---. Right enough of that. No name calling would be preferable to him right now.
“Don’t be obvious John,” and that twisty, wishy-washy, fluttery feeling in John’s stomach clenched into an awful knot that didn’t make a lick of sense at all. He took a deep breath to calm himself and had some more tea. Sherlock was flapping around at this point, his violin left on his armchair. John almost missed what his mad friend said next.
“I don’t enjoy the anthropomorphic connotations of applying love to my inanimate violin. However, my violin does seem to be somewhat endeared to you.”
John’s knot disappeared as he translated: ‘Don’t call it love, but yeah it is.’
“Right okay,” John felt that feeling again.
Then there was silence. John had no idea where to go from here. Did he mention it? Leave it alone? Did he read into the fact that the anthropomorphisation of Sherlock’s violin could be his flatmate’s unique way of expressing or projecting his feelings of lo--. Dear lord. Thrice in one night.
“Okay, yeah. Got it. Uh,” John started talking, hoping it would distract him. “So that doesn’t explain why you are torturing it that way.”
Sherlock snorted. “Dear lord, has your vocabulary alongside with any knowledge of English’s grammar completely left your tiny little brain tonight.”
Deflecting. Sherlock wasn’t answering the question (not really a question though, more of a statement. He hated it when Sherlock was right). Sherlock was nervous; he was lashing out much more than usual. The flutter had now shifted to his whole body. John was nervous. He subconsciously knew what was about to happen (damn it he wasn’t gay!) but somehow it wasn’t as scary as he had thought it would be. John stood up, and walked over to his flatmate.
“Are you torturing it because it is favouring me?” John looked Sherlock in the eyes and saw his pupils dilate.
“Are you torturing it because it isn’t doing what you want it to anymore?” John reached out and grasped Sherlock by the wrist, with two fingers on Sherlock’s quickening pulse.
“Or is it because you were trying to test the waters, to see if I liked it back?”
Sherlock was wide eyed, stunned and speechless. Wordlessly he looked down at John’s hand covering his wrist. He looked back up and John raised his eyes to meet his. Then Sherlock tentatively placed his two fingers on John’s pulse, still maintaining eye contact.
“Sherlock,” John breathed his name, wanting his anti-social flatmate, who fancied himself to have sociopathic tendencies (but John saw it as more autistic than sociopathic), to finally see what was right under his nose for months.
“You weren’t gay,” Sherlock didn’t speak above a whisper. John could feel the fast pulse under his fingers and knew Sherlock would feel his.
“No.”
“I confess, I am not good at human behaviour.”
“Lucky for you, I am.”
“I took your pulse; your eyes are dilated.”
“I took yours first.”
“I--” and John finally closed the gap between them, pressing himself against Sherlock.
“I know,” And somehow John knew what he meant. The great detective, the virgin, was shy and unsure in only one aspect of his life. John had no doubt after this one moment Sherlock would again dominate everything, even in the bedroom (and dear lord did the thought of Sherlock holding a riding crop send a shiver down his spine?). But in this instant, John had to be the bold one. The one who instigated. The one who would speak up first or he would never get to experience anything more than friendship with this crazy, brilliant, mad man.
“Sherlock,” John was mesmerized by those alien eyes. Sherlock leaned into John a little more, and John tilted his face closer to his.
“I love you,” And John smirked “As well as your mad violin.” Then he closed the gap between their lips and kissed him.
When they pulled a part, an eternity later, John was in a daze. His stomach was settled, his headache gone. All he knew was bliss. Sherlock slowly leaned back from their embrace and studied John’s face for a second.
“I was furious that my violin only wanted to please you, but I find myself rather glad at this outcome John.”
John smiled beatifically and heard what Sherlock was really trying to say. That made it worth the while.