‘He’s like music,’ Sherlock once tries to explain, ineptly. ‘Like the melody and the harmony and the…’ and he stutters to a halt.
Mycroft just smiles, because he understands. Mycroft may seek refuge in silence rather than sound, but they’re far too alike for that to make any difference. ‘Tell him,’ he advises. ‘Tell him you’ve found your music.’
The words are hard to find, though, and Sherlock scrunches himself up in the chair beside the bed, just looking at the sleeping, world-weary man who’s become his song. Whose voice wraps around him as the tumbling notes of his violin do, a blanket against the harshness of the world, a caring shield until all is fine again. Whose sharp retorts pull his thoughts in order, whose gentle fingers comb through his hair untangling the knots and snags of his thoughts at the same time, who allows him to think clearly.
There again, he’s never really explained his violin either, those notes that curl into his brain, hold him and remind him and keep him safe and sane. Help him see clearly, help him cope.
He’d be bereft without his music. He’d be bereft without Greg Lestrade.
So he takes Greg’s hand and tells him, tells him everything. It’s awkward, bitty, but awkwardness does not preclude love, and bittiness can be beautiful too. And as he explains, he idly traces minims and quavers and semi-quavers on the back of Greg’s hand. A love song, one from the depths of his soul.
It’s then that Greg wakes to the quiet music of Sherlock’s hesitant words, the sound of a well-loved tone, and he can’t help but revel in the comfort of Sherlock’s voice as Sherlock has taken comfort in his. Sherlock’s tune will always play in his heart, and Sherlock knows Greg will be the tune his heart will never forget. So he leans down and whispers that into Greg’s ear before exhaustion takes him again.
Greg looks a little less world-weary. Sherlock retrieves his violin and plays him to sleep.