Sherlock: *lying face down on his bed* I can’t believe I said “Neat”, John. “Neat.” Nobody says neat anymore! It’s the goddamn 21st century! It’s not neat to say neat, but I said it anyway because I’m a huge loser!
John: *idly turns book page* Hey, don’t beat yourself up. Everyone gets nervous sometimes. Remember what happened when Mary confessed to me?
Sherlock: Umm, didn’t you thank her?
John: *closes magazine to stare into the distance* I thanked her.
The first time he heard that song, Sherlock thought he had found Heaven.
It was a quiet winter morning of the year 1986 —Christmas’ morning, in fact—, and Mycroft was babbling about something he had read on the newspaper. The newspaper! How could someone as well-read and educated like his brother be interested in what those journalists had to say about the world? Why did he even care about the rest of the world? It was absurd. With the intention of ignoring Mycroft better, Sherlock turned on the radio that sat on his mother’s countertop, and tuned a station that only transmitted classical music. But the last musical chords of Tchaikovsky’s ‘Swan Lake’ that resonated in the kitchen barely covered Mycroft’s words.
Sherlock grumbled, and when he rose his hand to change the radio station, a new melody began to play, filling the warm air of his’ parent’s house. Surprised, Sherlock discovered that he wasn’t able to recognise the melody: his young ears had never heard that before. So he closed his eyes, letting the beautiful melody slide into his mind and conquer it.
The musical notes started to draw graceful silhouettes in the black canvas his head was. The figures danced slowly, jumping randomly, dying and resurrecting over and over again. All of the sudden, the melody started an amazing crescendo, and the figures developed wings and rose from the ground. They looked like angels flying towards a wide, blue sky. And in the deeps of the sky, the Gates of Heaven were open to receive those graceful creatures.
Of course that he, the boy who would latter become the Great Detective, had never believed in such absurd things like Heaven or God… But that day, the first time he listened to Vivaldi’s composition, ‘Summer’, he felt something so powerful growing inside his chest, something amazing, something that he couldn’t explain nor understand if there really wasn’t a Superior Creature responsible of it.
Thirty one years had passed since that warm, glorious morning, when Sherlock placed his violin between his shoulder and his chin, closed his eyes, and played the first Cs of the song that had bewitched his soul.
It started slowly, like a whisper, as if the violin was shy and didn’t want to share the notes. But then, things changed. The melody turned more shrill, powerful, and started to rise, like those angels who flew to the Gates of Heaven. The notes ascended in ethereal circles, and then they fell… they let themselves fall from the highs, because that’s what they were supposed to do.
Sherlock opened his eyes carefully, not knowing what he would find behind this eyelids.
The Woman looked fascinated, her blue eyes wide open and her cherry lips slightly parted.
He closed his eyes again, as the bow slid upon the violin’s strings.
Sherlock’s song resurrected from it’s ashes, the angels resembling to phoenixes now. It grew wilder, burning everything in it’s path. Burning Sherlock’s hands, his chin, his shoulder, starting a massive fire inside his chest. It didn’t matter how many times the melody forced Sherlock to lower the intensity of the notes, the angels kept dancing around him majestically. Nothing could stop them now… Nothing except from the end of the song, which was inevitable. But the angels had reached the Gates of Heaven by then, and none of them fell to the ground.
When Sherlock opened his eyes, he saw Irene sitting in front of him, burning. Maybe one angel had never rose from the ground, after all.
His whole life, Sherlock had been convinced that there wasn’t in all Earth a masterpiece comparable to ’Summer’, but the last few years something new had been growing inside his old soul, and he couldn’t bring himself to ignore it. He had tried, though. Of course he had. But one night he came to the wise conclusion that a man like him could never compete with a goddess like Irene Adler. And while not even in his wildest dreams would he had imagined he would end up dedicating that song to another human being, there he was. And there she was. And she was Heaven.
Side note: I am so happy about the song I was given, so I hope I made a little justice to it with this fic! Tho, you know, maybe this was a little ambitious for someone who has english as her second language, but when I started listening to that amazing song I couldn’t help it. So, you know, if you find any horrible mistake in my writing, please tell us, so we can fix it!
Hey, a prompt for you! :) 99. “Do you wish things happened differently?” From the Prompt List 51-100. Happy writing!
Thank you so much for the Prompt, Dear! I hope you like it!
Sherlock Holmes was not a sentimental person, at least that was what he had always told himself, but when he realized that Molly Hooper, his best friend, besides John Watson of course, had moved on without him – he somehow felt something that was close to what sentimental people would call sadness. Of course, he knew that it was only reasonable that she just continued to live her life. Who was he to tell her what to do? He truly wanted her to be happy. Yes, Molly Hooper did deserve the world, well to be true, she deserved the entire universe. The things that she had done for him, to him; yes, he was not ashamed to say that she had turned him into a better man. When he spotted the ring on her finger after their day of crime-solving together, Sherlock had had that weird feeling in his chest. Of course, he ignored it, because Sherlock Holmes was not a sentimental person.
Sometimes, Molly Hooper wished she could be more hardhearted, to ignore the feeling in her guts but when she saw Sherlock Holmes leave the wedding of his two best friends Mary and John Watson early – she could not help but to follow him.
“What are you doing, Sherlock?” she hurried after him in her stilettos.
Sherlock stopped and turned around to look at her, a brow furrowed. “What do you mean, Molly?”
Molly sighed and took of her shoes, carefully placing them on the grass next to the small road that lead to the festivities, before approaching him. Her feet hurt with every hasty step she took. The night was warm, a slight breeze was blowing around their faces as she stopped in front of him.
“Tell me what is wrong. Why are you leaving?” Molly was concerned, although she did not want to be. Inside, there was this lovely, slightly foolish, man waiting for her, a man she was calling her fiance and she should have been there with him, having fun and dancing until the morning broke. But she was here; outside with a man she should not even worry about anymore.
“Go back inside, Molly.” he said, eyes lying on her coldly before turning around on his heels, continuing his way towards the Cab that was already waiting for him.
Molly had enough. She reached out forward, taking his hand in hers, drawing him back. “You are not leaving, Sherlock Holmes. You should be ashamed of yourself! Your best friends are celebrating the best day of their lives and you plan to leave them on their own? They care about you, Sherlock, - I care about you.” her eyes locked with his and for a moment there was flicker of confusion in his gaze.
Sherlock remained silent, his eyes glued to the stony ground underneath their feet. He inhaled deeply before finally responding to her:
“Molly, I know exactly how important this day is for the two of them and do not assume that I am not feeling unwell to be leaving this early, it is just-” he paused for a moment to fish a cigarette out of his coat pocket, lightning it with a quick movement.
“- it is just that those festivities make me realize how alone I actually am.”
Molly was dumbfounded. The only time she had seen him so vulnerable was when he had asked her to help him fake his death. She let out a shaky breath and watched him for a moment as he stared up to the night sky.
“You are never alone, Sherlock, never. You have your brother, John and Mary, of course, Mrs Hudson, Greg and me.”
He had finished his cigarette and tossed it to the ground, grinding it under his heel. He swallowed thickly.
“Tom is waiting for you, is he not?” Sherlock massaged his temples, seemingly annoyed by the situation.
“What if I do not care?” her voice was low. If she was honest with herself, she did not care what Tom was doing right now, he could be snogging Janine and Molly would probably thank him to finally have found a reason to break their engagement, without hurting his feelings.
He seemed surprised by her answer. The silence that had settled between them was broken by the sound of a car horn.
“Seems like I have to go.” he said and a short smile danced around his lips.
Molly watched him walking down the road, popping up the collar of his coat. Oh, she hoped that the tiny voice in her head, telling her what to do, would shut up for once as she inhaled deeply, bracing herself for the pain that was to follow.
“Do you wish things happened differently?” he asked, carefully tucking a loose stand of hair behind her ear.
She sighed, snuggling closer to his chest. “Well, it would have been nicer if I had not been engaged.”
Sherlock scoffed, letting his fingers circle over her back, enjoying the feeling of her soft skin underneath his fingertips. “I think Tom will be handling it well. To be honest, I think he knew.”
“Of course he did. Damn, I do not deserve him. He is way too good for me.”
“He does not deserve you, Molly Hooper. You are way too clever for him.” Sherlock pressed a short kiss to the top of her head, nestling his nose in her hair, laughing lowly.
“Why are you laughing, Mister Holmes?” Molly asked and shifted in his arms to look up at him.
“Your hair does smell really nice, Miss Hooper. And it tickles.” he said with a boyish grin on his lips.
She returned his smile and leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against his cheek.
“We are going to hell for this, are we not?”
Molly nodded thoughtfully. “Probably yeah. But I do not care as long as I get to be with you and hopefully not to wear stilettos.”
Sherlock Holmes was not a sentimental person, at least that was what he had always told himself, but when he realized that he was holding Molly Hooper in his arms, laughing at her terrible humor – he could not help feeling something that sentimental people would describe as happiness.
Unbeta-ed if you find any mistakes please tell me!