Title: Five Times John Asked Sherlock to Stop Playing the Violin, and One Time He Didn't
Time Frame: Who knows? But free of series 2 spoilers.
Author's Notes: Let's be honest, I'm always glad of an excuse to prattle on about musical stuff in fic.
Summary: See title.
The world at large was like a blitzkrieg of pop-up ads. Some of it interesting, most of it useless. Usually Sherlock was able to sift through it all, but sometimes there was too much information to handle, and he'd obsess over processing all of it just in case something useful was hidden away in there, driving himself slowly insane with the paranoia that everything meant something and he couldn't miss anything and . . .
Well, most of the time he snapped out of it once John got fed up and slammed a door or something.
Music was useful because it let him think within certain parameters, and he had control over what those parameters were. He liked that sense of choice, that artificial stability.
Classical music was preferable not because it was better (although it was), but because it was the most complex genre. Oh, not just the notes and the theory of it—the nuances of tone, color, context, history . . .
People liked to say that art was neither good nor bad, that it was subjective, but ‘subjective’ was a word used by those who were unable to properly argue their point. In any case they were wrong. Criteria did exist by which to measure art.
Mozart and Mahler were geniuses, and Bach and Stravinsky were innovators. Berlioz and Rimsky-Korsakov were the most adept when it came to color. Beethoven was the best all-around composer because he met the most criteria—tone, texture, theory, innovation, variety . . .
"I've told you time and time again," John says, appearing on the stairs soon after his words. "The ally cats aren't ever going to answer your mating calls. It hurts me to watch you carry on hoping like this . . . "
"Brahms," Sherlock says flatly. "This is Brahms."
But John's already escaped to the kitchen, shopping bags crinkling.
Sherlock shrugs and keeps playing, digging into a double stop perhaps more than is necessary.
Crinkle crinkle, go the shopping bags.
Sherlock's not in the mood for this. He takes it up the octave to distract from the noisiness, the reminder that other people do exist and are nearby and might potentially annoy him. He is quite content to stay in his efficiently barricaded musical world, thank you.
He saws out the virtuosic phrases, picking out pitches in relation to the orchestra thundering in his head. The syncopation was what made this movement so exciting, the little delay in the expected arrival, there. Very repetitive, melody-wise, but that only made the brief little cadenza moments even more delightfully showy in contrast.
"Helloo? Sherlock?" John's hand passes in front of Sherlock's face to get his attention. "I said, do you want some tea?"
Sherlock's fingers drum on the neck of the violin. Information is starting to close in as the echo of the orchestra fades. John smells like street and cigarettes— shaved yesterday—stressed out—it's almost 6 o'clock—tea's already boiling—bow needs rosin— "You are really very stereotypically English," Sherlock says at last. "Must you always assume that I wish to engage in frivolous pleasantries like ‘having a spot of tea’ or ‘saying please and thank you’?"
". . . Did you fancy some coffee instead?"
Sherlock sighs. "It is possible to drink both, you know. Tea is not a political affiliation."
John isn't so sure. "Right. So, two su—?"
"Please." Goes back to his violin. "And thanks."
When John reemerges with the tea Sherlock doesn't stop playing right away, got to resolve the leading tone from before, got to reach the tonic before he can possibly do something else. His eyes close to feel the resolution.
John clears his throat. "Brahms, you said?"
"Yes." Sherlock still hasn’t opened his eyes, busy listening to the final orchestra hits in his head.
Clears his throat again. "And does the grimacing help?"
"The grimacing helps." Sherlock lets out the breath he’d been holding, places the violin back in its case and paces around the living room wielding the bow.
"You never ask about my day," John says after a contemplative sip of tea. It's contemplative because he's now contemplating his scalded tongue.
"No . . . I rather prefer that to being badgered about it and having to slap on a cheery smile and lie."
"Most people find it therapeutic to vent," Sherlock points out. He eyes John. "You do understand that I'm not your wife."
"Aren't you? I suppose I ought to stop waiting on you to darn my socks, then." Sip sip. "How was your day?"
"Unproductive," Sherlock says, pokes at the curtains with his bow. "Pointless."
"Try not to kill yourself, will you? As much as I could do with automatic passing grades this term, your brother would possibly have me killed, as well."
"Mycroft would have you knighted for such a noble deed, I'm sure." Sherlock engages in some imperious tea sipping of his own, having actually waited long enough to avoided being scalded.
"Is it a concerto?"
Sherlock's already gone back to pacing. He pauses to sigh long-sufferingly and say, "Yes. Obviously . . ."
"I never claimed to be an expert," John defends. "Could've been a part from a symphony or something, you know. Hey—didn't Brahms write that awful nursery rhyme? Wossit?"
"'Guten Abend, gute Nacht', generally known as 'Brahm's Lullaby'. Yes. But the theme was also used to great effect in his second symphony, which is considerably less awful."
"So why do you like Brahms the best?"
Sherlock frowns. "I just called him awful, if you’ll remember."
"You play that tune from before often enough, and other things that sound like it. And you don't mark the music as much when you do."
Sherlock's lips conspire to smile so he talks: "Brahms is complex. He was a bit of a tortured soul, living in the shadow of Beethoven. Terribly preoccupied with perfection. I feel a certain kinship, I suppose."
John nods. "Because you’re also living in the shadow of Beethoven."
"Aren't we all?"
"Brahms is rather depressing, though, yes? I feel I've always found his songs rather depressing. Perhaps it's just due to your own tortured soul serving as the vessel."
Sherlock shrugs. "Russian music is often minor, but in the context of the culture it isn't meant to evoke sadness. East Asian music utilizes different scales entirely as the basis for—"
"Anyway," John says. "You did have all day to play . . ."
"Think," Sherlock corrects.
". . . So I don't suppose you'd consider refraining while I indulge in some crap telly? You know, without the ill-advised mating calls as background?" John is on edge for some reason. Trying not to actually yell at Sherlock to shut up.
Sherlock sips more tea, staring at him, then places his teacup pointedly on the newspaper John hasn’t read yet, secures his violin between chin and shoulder while rubbing rosin on the bow. "It's either this or you give me free rein of the microwave again."
The next time Sherlock resorts to his violin, he makes sure to play something other than Brahms, just to make John doubt that he'd made an accurate assessment.
"In a Tchaikovskian mood today?" John says by way of greeting, barely glances at him on his way to the kitchen.
How the . . . "You’re a lapsed clarinet player," Sherlock calls after him. "You don't count as a legitimate musician."
John doesn't respond, busy bustling around in the kitchen.
"It can't possibly be true that we need more food every day," Sherlock adds.
"Number one," comes a muffled John-ish voice. "Not every day—quite disappointed in your inaccuracy . . . Number two, you barely eat any of it, so really I don't know why you care . . ."
Sherlock itches to move, death grip on his violin as he stalks up to John in the kitchen. Jam, bread, milk, biscuits. "Are you in primary school?"
"Seems so, yeah."
"Exactly what is the point of buying your food one meal at a time rather than stocking up?"
Quick smile, there. "Well, when one lives with the great Sherlock Holmes, one is subject to his whims, not to mention the whims of London's criminals. Best not to buy anything with an expiration date if we end up on an impromptu holiday halfway across the globe."
"Logical," Sherlock admits after a pause. "Flawlessly logical."
"I am honored," Jones says sarcastically. His whole demeanor is tense. Something about the set of his shoulders, the angle his head's at, the sound of his voice.
"If you're considering venting to me about your day, please note that I don't intend to listen to word of it."
John frowns. "Wasn't planning on venting to you, no."
"No I'm just—you do realize that going around and telling me I'm stressed all the time makes me stressed? There is such a thing as adjusting to change, you know. And while I could be referring to civilian life or intermittent employment or perhaps some underlying PTSD, let's be honest, you're a much more . . . challenging reality to acclimate to. "
"I'm . . . well I'm flattered, really." And he does feel flattered, or at least accomplished—all Sherlock really wants is a reaction, something to look at and say, yes, I caused that. It wasn't Sherlock's fault that it was so very easy to get under John's skin.
To the hurt puppy look on John's face, Sherlock adds, "Perhaps you ought to go back to therapy."
John gapes a bit. "How did you know I—"
"Please." Sherlock is noticing too much about the torn open shopping bags, the things that have been moved around on the counter . . . He plucks out a melody from the Tchaikovsky, skipping vibrato and lazy on the tempo. That makes the kitchen a bit calmer, but still there's John being there and screaming little pieces of information with shoes, £10 note sticking out of his wallet, tired look in his ambiguous eyes . . .
". . . some Adderall," John is saying from the fridge, apparently having left sometime during Sherlock's reverie.
"Have you tried Adderall?" John repeats, stops organizing to face him. "I could write you a script. If it would shut you up on occasion, that is."
"Sure, that's how it starts. But then I'll be asking for new prescriptions on a daily basis, and become an addict, and you'll be oh-so-disapproving yet will continue to enable me because you’ll feel guilty or something irrational like that, and of course in the end you'll wind up lying to the police for me and going to prison."
John considers this, then shrugs and goes back to sorting the fridge. "You'd spring me."
"Of course. But then I'd be even more insufferable than usual until you supplied me with more drugs."
John nods. "You know, I'm strangely okay with this because it will in fact shut you up."
"Perhaps it might shut me up, but I still have this." And he continues playing where he'd left off, although watching John being domestic about the kitchen is somewhat calming, too, in a way—familiar and simple. Soon Sherlock tires of the actual music and concentrates instead on utterly ignoring the proper way to play one chord after another, which inspires a look of disgust from John that is truly priceless.
"Amateur orchestra," John suggests.
"No. Are you joking?"
"Go and inflict yourself on some unsuspecting part-time musicians for a change," he continues, warming to the notion.
"No, I . . . " Sherlock studies him. "I sincerely hope you don't believe you can change me."
John laughs. "Uh, no, thanks, I'll leave that endeavor to some other poor sod. Are you hovering still because you want some tea, as well?"
"What do you think?"
"All right, but just—just stand over there for—okay, no, not more directly in my path, Sherlock."
Sherlock turns on his heel and exits. "I shall await you in the parlor," he says haughtily.
"At it again, are we?" comes John's voice.
"You should be glad of the privilege of a private concert in the comfort of your own home."
"Comfort is a relative term," John mutters. "What are you playing, exactly?"
"The Sibelius." He doesn’t turn away from the window to face him, just plays the next line and ornaments it to a ridiculously flashy degree, imagines he can feel John's eyes widen. "It's one of the most difficult pieces in the repertoire," Sherlock drawls. "The premiere was botched a couple of times, various virtuosi all complaining that it was simply too difficult."
"Using music today?" John says, closer behind him.
Sherlock stops playing long enough to mark the manuscript. Murmurs, "My God you are getting good . . ."
"You don't usually use music, do you?" John's breath on his neck, now. Why so close? It's making him itch.
"Truly dazzling, your powers of deduction." Sherlock plays the bar he's just marked, then frowns and scribbles something out.
He can actually see John peering at the music stand, now. Distinctive nose, smell of aftershave, eyelashes gone blonde in pale sunlight. "What are you . . . right, so—Sibelius, is it?—is essentially an enormous doodle, at this point. Tell me, is there a purpose to defacing—"
". . ."
"No, no, sorry, you're right—'improving' is more accurate. Now, if you're quite finished?" Sherlock turns to face him properly and is stupidly surprised by his proximity. By the improbable warmth of his proximity. Distracting. Annoying . And who is ever actually this radiant, anyway?
John's ability to execute simultaneous concern with his brows, disapproval with his mouth, and amusement with his eyes is truly marvelous. Sherlock quite enjoys eliciting such an expression as often as possible. And if he can get John to laugh sometime thereafter, the way the whole desperate façade crumbles is always a treat. "Right, well, I'd appreciate it if you could keep it down, at least until—"
Sherlock just plays louder, and John laughs.
"Just eat it, come on." John is literally shoving a biscuit in his face.
Sherlock pushes him away. "Why do you keep . . . feeding me?"
"Trying to feed you," John says. "Well I dunno, because I don’t fancy paying for the flat myself? And just out of curiosity, do you eat, ever?"
Sherlock stares at him. John hesitantly edges the biscuit closer to him until Sherlock's plucked it from his hand. And deposited it crumblingly on the sofa.
John sighs in the background while Sherlock crosses the room to pick his violin up.
"Oh, rea—can you just not, today?"
Sherlock plays some nicely screechy harmonics in response, glares at the wallpaper, which is mocking him ornately.
"Listen, it's not." Sigh. "It's not that you're terrible. You aren’t terrible."
"Oh, thanks . . ."
"Shut up. It’s just a bit much. I need some peace and quiet, sometimes. I need to be able to shut the world off occasionally to keep from going completely insane."
Sherlock spins to glare at John, now, robe swooshing, then deliberately replaces the bow on the violin and plays what is possibly the most recognizable single phrase from Pagliacci with gusto.
Dramatic eyeroll from John, there. He won't look at Sherlock, plucks at his sleeve pointlessly and glances out the window like it holds all the answers. Says, softer, "Come on, Sherlock, I don't ask for much. I let you make IED's in the house."
"That was a nec—"
"I need no permission," Sherlock says. "Did I mention—"
New tactic: "You have been playing all day though, haven’t you. Aren't you quite through by now?" John's stood up to walk closer to him, as though that's supposed to be intimidating.
"Right. And how do you know that, exactly?" Sherlock doesn't mind that John's in his personal space, all weirdly warm and such—he's merely having trouble keeping up because he's been thinking musically, these last few hours.
"Your thing." Gestures at him. Too close for a gesture, really. "The thing on your neck from playing. That looks like a hickey."
"You’re—" John’s finger tracing lightly over the raw patch of skin. For a split second it’s as though the entire world and all of Sherlock’s thoughts collapse and focus on this miniscule, meaningless action. Sherlock shakes him off again, stalks over to the window to play uninterrupted.
"Yes, John, what is it?" Sherlock says at length. The man had been standing there, hands on hips, for a full three minutes.
"Must you always resort to violin-ce?"
Sherlock lets the air ring for a moment. "If you've at any point been inspired to embark on a career in standup, please believe me: no."
John's twitching now. Stressed around the eyes, the wrinkled, careless clothes. What is he so stressed out about, anyway? "Do you take requests?"
"Right, then." John licks his lips unconsciously, that blink and you'll miss it way he has. Of course it means something. Nervous? Self-conscious? Intrigued? Hard to say—it pops up at the most random times. He's doing it again, flash of tongue that draws the eye and it's got to mean something. "Just . . . keep it down, will you?"
Sherlock accompanies his defeated retreat with a slew of arpeggios. He wishes John would at least try to make him stop.
He plays on moodily until the music gets drowned by increasingly restless thoughts, puts the violin down this time before following after John into the kitchen.
"What could you possibly have to do that my playing would disrupt you? I should point out that I did ask you whether this would bother you, and you waived both that and my predilection for ceaseless talking by not responding so I can only presume that that was an ‘okay’ of sorts, and even if you never did definitively say it wouldn’t grate on your nerves as it apparently has been of late, it is nevertheless rather your fault for not doing so as I did ask, so really you have no argument, here. And, sorry, did I not mention?—I am not in fact going to stop speaking or playing or saying whatever I want considering that I don't actually cater to the whims of others, not ever, because I don't. Actually. Care."
John blinks at him. "You're just, ha, you're just not a nice person, are you." He sounds bitter. Disappointed? Stop licking your lips. Stop licking your lips.
"I'm really not, thank goodness. Nice people are either faking it or actually stupid enough to believe they're happy."
". . . So you're depressed."
"Everyone is," Sherlock says dismissively.
"Right," John says, licks his lips again. Sherlock still doesn't know why.
"Oh for God's sake will you just stop doing—!" John is looking at him like he's finally lost it. "Never mind," Sherlock concludes with as much dignity as he can muster. He nods to himself, makes his exit.
Sherlock waits until the end of the piece to acknowledge him, sighs and tosses his bow carelessly at the violin case. He's honestly annoyed by the intrusion—Beethoven had nearly succeeded in quieting his mind. "That was the third movement, all right? No need to whine . . ."
"Can I make a request?" Sherlock's startled from his brooding match with the floor by the abruptly flautando tone to John's voice, eerie and disarmingly soft. Little half-smile on John's face once Sherlock's looked up. "Play Brahms."
"I am not Siri."
"Oh, but how you wish you were," John says, then feigns shock. "Do you not have it memorized?"
Of course Sherlock doesn't have it memorized—that would be ridiculous, pointless. He simply listened and actually thought about it and figured out the notes. This wasn't a challenging concept.
Sherlock starts playing the second movement, strong intervals that vibrate moods all through him—melancholy, optimism, fragility. Strange how he could be so commanded by this, simple feelings that slow the frantic information of the world. Has to close his eyes for a moment.
When he opens them he catches the tail-end of John's smile before he waltzes off into the kitchen. Sherlock is immediately suspicious. His bow screeches to a rather painful halt at the frog before he follows him.
"Didn't mean to interrupt," John says once Sherlock's caught up with him. "Carry on. It's nice." He hasn't even got shopping bags, today, disappears past Sherlock and into the hall instead. Why hasn’t he asked him to stop?
Sherlock follows, again. Finds him in his room and sitting on the bed, humming what he must think is the theme.
"Wrong," Sherlock states from the doorway.
John jumps, then frowns. "Are you the Pied Piper, then?" he asks, indicating the violin tucked under Sherlock's arm. "Or rather the Sociopathic Fiddler, luring the local children away to make brilliant deductions while remaining coolly emotionless?"
"Just tell me what's going on with all this." Sherlock gestures at John in general. "I'll find out anyway," he adds daringly.
Something sparks in John's eyes. "And yet you haven't. Fascinating . . . "
"You are aware that I don't always have an ulterior motive? That I am not in fact you?"
Sherlock rocks back on his heels, glances around. "Rather sparse in here," he remarks.
"Clean. You mean clean." John squints at him. "Is there a reason you're stalking me?"
"I could ask you the same thing." John just waits. "Bloody—why didn’t you whine at me to stop playing?"
John shrugs. "You tenderly serenaded me, soothed my very soul . . ."
"And yet you've made a point of letting me know exactly how much you despise my playing every time I pick up the damn thing."
"And yet you always continue playing. Bit of a sadist, aren't you?"
Sherlock rolls his eyes. "I'm not a sadist. I'm just interested to see how much you'll actually put up with."
"Well I think that should be obvious," Sherlock says. "Testing your loyalty."
John eyes him for a moment. Then, "Oh, God. You're not joking, are you."
"Such paltry fare is far beneath me."
John goes from affronted to amused so quickly. Sherlock doesn't understand how he's able to do that. Most people can’t move past being affronted by him, at all.
In fact there are a number of things Sherlock can't quite figure how about John. John's eye color, for example, is a frequent point of contention—the irises can never seem to make up their mind. It was as though all the potential eye colors had lobbied for the job but had given up somewhere along the way and just decided to form one great super party of ambiguous hue.
Sometimes, though, John's eyes were definitely blue or definitely gray, and it was a lovely shock to notice the distinction.
Other things, too—simple unimportant things that hold his attention. The way John sputters when exasperated, the inefficient way he types, his regrettable jumpers, the way he walks, the way he shrugs everything off, the way he shrugs in general—shoulders, neck, spot where his hair scrunches against his collar. The way he licks his lips at the most random times. The way he says Sherlock's name.
. . . Ohhh. Stupid. Stupid not to have deduced this before.
". . . if you were to play Elgar, or—"
"Please. What has Elgar ever really given us other than those atrocious Pomp and Circumstance marches? Stop that."
"I'm not doing anything. You stop that. Why are you sitting so close?"
"Stop squirming," Sherlock says, pushes the violin out of the way and pulls John closer by the front of his shirt.
"No no. No. What's going on?"
"Oh, you're a smart lad, John. You'll figure it out."
"I'm . . . not gay," John mutters, but leans ever closer at Sherlock's urging.
"It's fine," Sherlock says innocently. "It's all fine," he adds.
Hushed, John says, "Shut up . . ." Closer and closer.
Sherlock stares, which is something he's quite adept at. He stares and stares, and keeps on staring once John's got a fistful of his shirt, and doesn't stop staring at all after that until John's close enough to kiss him, and then does kiss him, and the grateful way that John's eyes close at the touch of lips is too indecipherable, or maybe there are simply too many possibilities to ever decipher, and so Sherlock has to close his eyes as well.
There's a plaintive twang.
Sherlock catches the violin just in time, but before he's had time to be properly indignant John is laughing and taking the instrument from him, sets it somewhere unimportant and resumes the kiss.
Sherlock it is not about to admit that John excels at something where Sherlock has limited, albeit perfectly satisfactory, experience. But there's no denying that John knows what he's doing, brushing his mouth against Sherlock's with tantalizingly limited pressure, sucking lightly on Sherlock's upper lip in a way that is somehow coy and blatantly sexual at once. And the easy way he tilts his head to deepen the kiss is equally impressive . . . and hot and real and wanton-tasting . . .
Yes, all right, Sherlock likes John when he’s in his element. His confidence is always rather riveting, and Sherlock isn’t opposed to being on the receiving end of it in this particular instance. John's hand gripping his hair somewhat mercilessly, John's mouth demanding a response, the length of John's body fast against Sherlock's, impatient and much too warm.
And while this is all well and dizzyingly good, Sherlock is curious—he gives an almighty shove that results in John falling back on the mattress with a sort of squawk which Sherlock subsequently swallows with the next all-encompassing kiss. And then the squawk's become a moan, then a low growl accompanied by John's hips bucking impatiently against Sherlock's. Sherlock has to pull away for a moment to catch his breath.
John's panting too. "Okay okay, just to be sure—this isn’t some twisted form of 'research', is it?"
Sherlock sighs, irritated. "I can’t even want you without it being a social experiment?"
If expressions could tap their feet, John’s would be.
Sherlock kisses him again to avoid a row.
For someone who is so staunchly not actually gay, John certainly is speedy in flipping them and getting Sherlock out of his trousers. Breathtaking enthusiasm with which he kisses his way down Sherlock's chest over silk, lands on the floor and shoves Sherlock's legs apart rather forcefully once he's got his pants out of the way, too.
Sherlock opens his mouth, compelled to describe the way his hammering pulse is blanking his brain out at the moment, 'Fuck' or 'Yes' or something, but finds that he is bafflingly speechless.
When John licks up the underside of Sherlock’s cock in an amazingly lascivious manner before taking it into his mouth Sherlock does say something, although it comes out as more of a squeak, and John laughs, and then that feels insanely good. And then John’s sucking in earnest, but the pressure isn’t quite enough and the way the random dart of John’s tongue promises but doesn’t deliver is so bloody addictive . . .
Sherlock lifts his hips up into it as much as possible, constantly thwarted by the firm hands on his thighs—John sucks harder as if to make up for it, harder and better and too much, then vague and hot with his tongue swirling followed by a lovely long spell of taking him deep. Eventually pulls off Sherlock's cock, gasping for breath, then mouths up and down his length, obscene wet sounds and flashes of skillful tongue. Licks his lips and lets Sherlock’s cock slide into his mouth again, mm-ing.
"Ah fff . . . " And John glances up at him, eyes so dark with lust. " . . . uck. Fuck."
Laughs around Sherlock’s cock and resumes his task, bobbing up and down gradually faster, alternating between purposeful sucking and using his hand to pump the base while focusing on the head, tongue laving over flesh visibly, dipping into the slit and making Sherlock curse some more.
It feels both interminable and all too soon that Sherlock’s hovering on the precipice of release, groping at sheets and failing entirely to maintain a semblance of control. John senses his urgency and bobs faster, even lets Sherlock go enough to fuck his mouth, too, and Sherlock is transfixed by the sight of his cock disappearing past John’s lips, the roar of sensation and the almost, almost feel of an unfinished musical thought, beautiful dissonant torment.
Sherlock is too out of breath, too out of his mind to gasp a warning but John isn’t fazed, swallows a good deal of Sherlock’s come as aching waves of pleasure overwhelm him. John pulls off of Sherlock’s cock with a pop and when Sherlock opens his eyes (when had he closed them?) he’s standing and wiping his mouth, eyes watery but fixed on him.
Sherlock fights the haze of languidness that’s settled in his brain and pulls John down onto the bed with him, stops John’s nervous chuckle with a kiss. Restless hands flitting from Sherlock’s shoulders to his hips to running obsessively up and down his arms.
Sherlock makes quick work of John’s inexplicable trousers, takes hold of his cock while John hyperventilates at him. Has to push John onto his back and lay on his side to do this better, getting a leg over one of John’s and kissing his neck lazily, smears precome over the head of his cock before he starts to stroke—the startled flutter of John’s eyes, the brief orgasmic way they roll back for a moment, and God Sherlock could analyze this for hours . . .
Sherlock moves his hand over John’s cock in a straightforward way he thinks John will appreciate. He certainly seems to, twisting the sheets up in his hands, hips bucking uncontrollably and muttering enticing things like "God yes . . ." and Sherlock’s name. Sherlock increases the pressure and John’s head strains back, protruding tendon in his neck and sweat at his temple.
And then he stops thrusting altogether, grabs Sherlock’s arm with eyes shut and mouth hanging open temptingly so that Sherlock has to kiss him, drinks in John’s long, stuttering groan as he comes.
"You wanted to see how much I'd put up with, as well," Sherlock says long moments later, still trying to wade through a fog of fizzling sensation.
"What are you on about?" John asks distantly. He is essentially asleep, half-naked and rumpled and draped over Sherlock unapologetically.
"Telling me to stop playing because it annoyed me. You were testing me, too."
"Know this for certain, do you?"
"That’s not a denial."
John shrugs, his whole warm body jostling Sherlock’s. "I'm just a mystery wrapped in an enigma." Burrows his face into the space between Sherlock’s shoulder and the sheets, clearly over the conversation.
After a minute: "I'm the enigma in this scenario?"
"'Course," John mumbles.
After another few minutes: "Oh fine." John shifts around enough to look at him. His hair is utterly wrecked. "Listen, it turns me on."
"It . . ."
"You. Playing." John gestures in vain. "Violin."
"You get so . . . into it. And you're brilliant, of course. Makes it quite difficult to keep from jumping you in the middle of a song with Mrs. Hudson pottering about in the kitchen."
"Hm." Sherlock feels rather smug. "Piece," he adds.
"You mean a piece, not a song."
John sighs. "God you are such a toss—mmf."
Sherlock finds that kissing John is a wonderfully effective way of shutting him up.